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Full text of "Beeton's great book of poetry: from Caedmon and King Alfred's Boethius to Browning and Tennyson. Also, a separate selection of American poems ... with sketches of the history of the poetry of our country, and biographical notices of the poets"

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BEETON'S 

GREAT  BOOK  OF  POETRY: 


FROM 


C^DMON    AND   KING   ALFRED'S    BOETHIUS 
TO    BROWNING   AND   TENNYSON. 


ALSO, 


A  SEPARATE  SELECTION  OF  AMERICAN  POEMS, 

CONTAINING  NEARLV 

TWO   THOUSAND   OF  THE  BEST  PIECES  IN  THE 
ENGLISH  LANGUAGE; 

WITH   SKETCHES   OF  THE 

HISTORY  OF  THE  POETRY  OF  OUR  COUNTRY, 

AND 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES   OF  THE   POETS. 


Edited  by  S.  O.  BEETON. 


LONDON: 

WARD,   LOCK,  &  TYLER,  WARWICK   HOUSE, 

PATERNOSTER  ROW. 


PREFACE. 


THE  intention  of  the  Projector  of  the  present  Book  of  Poetry  was  to  collect 
and  publish  as  many  poems,  or  parts  of  poems,  as  could  be  comprised  within 
one  large  and  handsome,  but  not  unwieldy  Volume.  Beginning  with  the  earliest 
known  efforts  in  verse  of  English  writers,  the  line  of  our  Poets  was  to  be  traced 
from  the  very  Fathers  of  English  Poetry,  through  all  the  Periods  of  its  greatness 
or  decadence,  to  the  Modern  Masters  of  the  Divine  Art. 

To  compile  a  work  of  the  scope  and  magnitude  of  this  collection  has  not 
been  an  easy  task.  More  than  thrice  the  number  of  years  have  been  spent  in 
completing  the  volume  than  was  reckoned  would  be  necessary  in  the  original 
calculation  of  time.  One  of  the  chief  assistants  in  the  work,  who  looked  upon 
his  labours  for  this  compilation  as  a  delight  and  joy,  has  passed  away  from  this 
world  within  the  past  twelve  months,  without  seeing  the  consummation  of  an 
undertaking  which  he  ably  helped  and  longed  to  see  brought  to  a  conclusion. 

In  the  selection  and  rejection  of  poems,  difficulties  have  occuiTed  inseparable 
from  the  presence  of  a  multitude  of  candidates.  It  was  impossible  to  pass  all  as 
being  able  to  obtain  a  place,  although  it  was  felt  that  many  were  omitted  which 
were  worthy  of  admittance,  although  not  destined  to  the  better  fortune  of  those 
ultimately  selected. 

The  Earlier  Poems  have  been  carefully  compared  with  the  best  originals  to 
which  access  was  possible  ;  the  reading  of  various  versions  has  been  collated,  and, 
where  differences  arose,  the  criticisms  of  our  first  literary  guides  have  been 
searched,  and  their  judgments  consulted  before  a  decision  was  taken.  Since  the 
first  portion  of  the  volume  was  printed,  certain  discoveries  have  been  announced 
concerning  English  Poetry  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  which  we  have,  unfor- 
tunately, been  unable  to  take  a*dvantage  of. 

If  it  was  difficult  to  deal  with  the  enormous  amount  of  English  verse  written 
up  to  the  end  of  the  last  century,  the  task  became  infinitely  harder  as  our  own 
times  were  approached.  The  rights  of  property  in  the  works  of  the  living  and 
dead  had  to  be  respected,  and  the  law  of  copyright  considered.  In  all  cases 
where  we  discovered  the  existence  of  these  rights,  application  was  made  to  the 
poet  or  his  representatives  for  permission  to  print  the  desired  quotations.  In 
nearly  every  instance  the  permission  was  kindly  granted  ;  and  we  specially  have 
to  thank  Mr.  Strahan  for  his  very  generous  reply  to  our  requests ;  also  Messrs. 
Macmillan  and  Messrs.  Moxon,  besides  many  other  publishers,  for  their  courtesy, 
as  well  as  Messrs.  Wame  &  Co. 

It  is,  nevei'theless,  necessary,  in  our  view  of  the  duty  we  owe  to  the  interests 
of  literature  and  to  the  sentiments  of  authors  in  connection  with  the  laws  of 
copyright,  to  refer  to  communications  which  passed  between  us  and  two  firms  oi 
publishers.  In  the  one  instance,  IMessrs.  Longman  claimed  to  be  in  the  possession 
of  the  copyright  of  the  poem  of  Ivry,  or  the  War  of  the  League,  written  by  Lord 
Macaulay,  and  first  published  in  Charles  Knight's  "  Quarterly  Magazine."  We 
believed,  upon  good  grounds  as  we  thought,  that  the  copyright  of  this  piece  had 


i       069 


PKEFACE. 


expired  for  some  years^  and  so  stated  our  belief  to  Messrs.  Longman.  They, 
however,  insisted  they  were  right,  and  demanded  that  the  electrotype  plates 
containing  that  particular  poem  should  be  destroyed.  Still  believing  that  we 
were  correct,  we  made  further  search,  and  proved  to  Messrs.  Longman  that  they 
were  claiming  a  right  which  had  expired  four  or  five  years.  If,  however,  they 
had  been  never  so  right,  we  contend  that  to  refuse  permission  for  the  insertion 
in  such  a  collection  as  our  own,  of  a  poem  by  an  author  of  the  rank  of  Lord 
Macaulay,  is,  at  the  least,  a  churlish  piece  of  business,  and  unworthy  of  a  house 
whose  name  stands  so  high  in  the  estimation  of  its  contemporaries.  ♦  Surely,  the 
possession  of  Lord  Macaulay's  copyrights  for  the  legal  term  of  forty-two  years 
should  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  most  extortionate.  But  here  we  see  Messrs. 
Longman  straining  to  assert  their  rights  long  after  they  had  lapsed,  and  when 
Lord  Macaulay's  copyright  had  ceased  to  be  individual  property — to  become,  as 
the  Legislature  intended,  the  property  of  the  nation. 

In  the  other  instance,  Messrs.  Bell  and  Daldy  refused  to  permit  the  insertion 
of  any  poems  by  Miss  Procter.  That  charming  poetess,  to  our  great  regret,  is 
absent  from  these  pages  ;  and  wrongly,  indeed,  did  they  read  her  wishes  who  is 
now  no  more,  when,  after  several  applications  on  our  part  (even  when  we  asked 
for  one  little  poem,  so  that  she  should  not  be  entirely  unrepresented  here),  they 
still  adhered  to  their  very  ungenerous  resolution. 

It  becomes,  indeed,  a  matter  for  the  public  to  find  fault  with,  when  extreme 
rights,  such  as  we  have  referred  to,  are  extremely  insisted  on.  There  would  be  no 
collection  of  modern  prose,  or  poetry,  possible,  if  firms  who  happen  to  be  in  the 
possession  of  the  valuable  works  of  deceased  authors,  to  whom  there  is  no  appeal 
for  assistance  against  the  selfishness  of  the  copyright-holders,  should  all  declare 
their  unwillingness  to  abate  a  jot  of  their  pretensions  even  in  behalf  of  the  public 
welfare.  This  kind  of  procedure,  also,  becomes  more  reprehensible  when  such 
houses  as  we  have  named,  who  ought  to  be  foremost  in  liberality,  are  the  trans- 
gressors. The  eminent  men  and  women  whose  works  they  print,  would  consider 
that  their  j^ublishers  were  ill  doing  their  duty  to  authors  and  to  literature,  if  they 
were  systematically  to  refuse  to  compilers  a  reasonable  use  for  popular  advantage 
of  their  writings. 

A  word  remains  to  say  about  the  arrangement  of  this  volume.  Biographical 
notices  of  nearly  all  the  Poets  whose  works  are  quoted  precede  the  poems  of  each 
Period.  Prefixed  to  each  Period  is  a  brief  sketch  of  its  Poetry.  Every  Poem 
has  the  name  of  the  Author  at  its  foot,  with  the  iJate  of  his  Birth  and  Death.  As 
nearly  as  jDossible  the  Chronological  sequence  of  the  poems  has  been  maintained. 
Lastly,  the  American  Poets  are  represented  in  the  final  sheets  of  the  volume,  with 
as  much  of  their  biography  as  we  have  been  able  to  discover. 

Many  errors  of  omission  and  commission  will  be  found  in  our  Book  of  Poetry. 
We  shall  feel  exceedingly  obliged  by  critics  and  correspondents  pointing  out  these 
blunders,  so  that  we  may  correct  them  i^  future  editions.  But  we  sincerely 
believe  that,  with  all  its  faults,  this  Volume  stands,  in  regard  to  quantity  and 
quality,  high  above  any  existing  Selections  yet  made  from  the  inestimable  stores 
of  our  glorious  English  Poetic  Literature. 

S.  0.  BEETOK 

Patci-nostei'  Roiv,  1870. 


INDEX. 


Names  of  the  Poets,  with  the  Periods  in  which  thet 

Flourished 

Names  of  the  Poets,  with  Numbers  of  Poems... 
Names  of  the  Poets,  with  the  Titles  of  Poems 

Alphabetical  List  of  the  Poems 

First  Lines  of  the  Poems      

Biographies  of  American  Poets 

Names  of  American  Poets,  with  Numbers  of  Poems 
Names  of  American  Poets,  avith  the  Titles  of  Poems  . 

Titles  of  American  Poems     

First  Lines  of  American  Poems 


vu 
xi 

XV 

XXXV 

xlix 
Ixvii 
Ixvii 
Ixvii 
Ixix 
Ixx 


NAMES    OF   THE    POETS, 


WITH  THE 


PERIODS   IN   WHICH   THEY   FLOURISHED. 


VERIUD 

Addison,  Joseph v 

Aird,  Thomas   vii 

Akenside,  Mark    vi 

Alexander,  William iii 

Alford,    the    Very    Eev. 

Henry vii 

Alfred  the  Great i 

Alison,  Richard    iii 

Ancrum,  Earl  of  iii 

Anstey,  Christopher   vi 

Armstrong',  John vi 

Arnold,  Matthew vii 

Atherstone,  Edwin  vii 

Aytoun,  William vii 

B. 


Bailey,  P.  J vii 

Baillie,  Joanna vii 

Bampfylde,  John vi 

Barbauld,  Anna  Letitia  ...  vii 

Barbour,  John i 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne  vi 

Barnfield,  Richard  iii 

Barton,  Bernard vii 

Baxter,  Richard  ,  iv 

Bayly,  Thomas  Haynes  ...  vii 

Beattie,  James vi 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  ...  iii 

Beckf  ord,  William  vii 

Behn,  Mrs.  Aphra  iv 

Belchier,  Dabridgecourt...  iii 

Bennett,  William  Cox    ...  vii 

Bishop,  Samuel    vi 

Blacklock,  Thomas vi 

Blackmore,  Sir  Richard  ...  v 

Blackstone,  Sir  William...  vi 

Blair,  Robert    vi 

Blake,  William vii 

Blamire,  Miss  Susanna  ...  vii 

Blind  Harry ii 

Bloomfield,  Robert vii 

Booth,  Barton v 

Boswell,  Sir  Alexander  ...  vii 

Bourd,  Andrew    ii 

Bowles,  William  Lisle vii 

Breton,  Nicholas iii 

Brome,  Alexander  iii 

Brown,  Thomas    iv 

Browne,  William iii 

Browning,  Elizabeth  vii 


PKKIOl) 

BrowTiing,  Robert   vii 

Bruce,  Michael vi 

Bums,  Robert  vii 

Burton,  Robert    iii 

Butler,  Samuel iv 

Byrom,  John vi 

Byron,       Lord       George 

Gordon   vii 

Brunne,  Robert  de i 

Buckinghamshire,      John 

Sheffield,  Duke  of   iv 


Caedmon i 

Campbell,  Thomas  vii 

Canning,  George vii 

Carew,  Thomas    iii 

Carey,  Henry    vi 

Can-ington,  N.  T vii 

Cartwright,  William   iii 

Chalkhill,  John    iii 

Chamberlayne,  William...  iv 

Chapman,  George   iii 

Chatterton,  Thomas   vi 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey   i 

Chettle,  Henry iii 

Churchill,  Charles   vi 

Cibber,  Colley vi 

Clare,  John  vii 

Cleveland,  John  iii 

Cockburn,  Mrs vi 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  vii 

Coleridge,  Hartley vii 

Collins,  William  vi 

Constable,  Henry    iii 

Cook,  Eliza    vii 

Corbet,  Richard   iii 

Cotton,  Charles iv 

Cotton,  Nathaniel    vi 

Cowley,  Abraham    iv 

Cowper,  William vii 

Crabbe,  George vii 

Crashaw,  Richard iii 

Crawford,  Robert vi 

Crawfurd,  William  vi 

Croker,  Right  Hon.  John 

Wilson    vii 

Croly,  George  vii 

Crowne,  John   iv 

Cunningham,  Allan vii 

Cunningham,  John vi 


D. 


Dale,  Rev.  Thomas vii 

Daniel,  Samuel iii 

Darwin,  Dr.  Erasmus vii 

Davenant,  Sir  William   ...  iii 

Davies,  Sir  John  iii 

Davison,  Francis iii 

Dekker,  Thomas  iii 

Denham,  Sir  John  iv 

Dibdin,  Charles    vii 

Digby,  George  iv 

Dobell,  Sydney  (Yendys)  vii 

Doddridge,  Philip    vi 

Dodsley,  Robert   vi 

Donne,  John,  D.D iii 

Dorset,  Earl  of iv 

Douglas,  Gawain ii 

Dowland,  John iii 

Drayton,  Michael iii 

Drummond,  William  iii 

Dryden,  John  iv 

Dunbar,  William ii 

Dyer,  John   yi 


E. 

Edwards,  Richard    ii 

Elliott,  Ebenezer vii 

Elliot,  Sir  Gilbert vi 

Elliot,  Miss  Jane vi 

Etherege,  Sir  George iv 


F. 


Fairfax,  Edward,  B.D.  ...  iii 

Falconer,  William   vi 

Fanshawe,  Sir  Richard  ...  iii 

Farquhar,  George    v 

Fawkes,  Francis vi 

Fenton,  Elijah v 

Fergusson,  Robert  , vi 

Field,  Nathaniel  iii 

Fitzgeffrey,  Charles iii 

Flatman,  Thomas iv 

Fletcher,  Giles iii 

Fletcher,  Phineas    iii 

Ford,  John   iii 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS,  WITH 


FERIOn 

PERIOD 

PEEIOD 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel 

vi 

Mos3,  Thomas  

vi 

Jones,  Ernest   

vii 

Motherwell,  William  

vu 

G. 

Jones,  Sir  William  

vi 

iii 

Jonson,  Ren  

Gall,  Richard    

via 

N. 

Garth,  Sir  Samuel   

V 

K. 

Nabbes,  Thomas  

iii 

iii 

Gay,  John 

V 

Robert    

iii 

Gifford,  William  

vii 

Keats,  John  

Vll 

Niccols,  Richard  

HI 

Gilfillan,  Robert  

vii 

Keble,  John 

Vll 

NicoU,  Robert 

Vll 

Gloucester,  Robert  of 

1 

Ken,  Bishop  

V 

Norton,     Hon.     Caroline 

Glover,  Richard   

VI 

iii 

King,  Dr.  Henry 

Kingsley,  Rev.  Charles  ... 

iii 
vii 

Elizabeth  Sarah  

vii 

Godolphin,  Sidney  

Nugent,  Earl 

vi 

Goffe,  Thomas 

iii 

Kingsley,  Henry 

Vll 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 

vi 

Knowles,  Herbert    

vii 

Gould,  Robert  

iv 

Knox,  William 

vii 

0. 

Gower,  John 

1 

Grahame,  James 

vii 

Granger,  Dr.  James    

vi 

L. 

Oldys,  William 

vi 

Grant,  Mrs 

vn 

Oldmixon,  John   

V 

Granville,  George 

V 

vi 

Laidlaw,William 

vii 

Opie,  Mrs.  AmeKa   

Otway,  Thomas 

▼11 

Gray,  Thomas  

TifiTYiH     r^hnrlAC! 

IV 

Green,  Matthew  

V 

■cii 

Overbury,  Sir  Thomas    ... 

111 

Greville,  Fulke 

iii 

Landor,  Walter  Savage ... 
Langhorne,  John 

vii 
vi 

Oxford,   Earl  of,   Edward 
Vere    

iii 

H. 

Langlande,  Robert  

1 

Lee,  Nathaniel 

iv 

P. 

Lewis,  Matthew  Gregory  . 

vii 

Habington,  William 

Hall,  Joseph,  D.D 

Hall,  John 

in 
iii 

Leyden,  John   

Lillo,  George 

Lloyd,  Robert  

Lockhart,  John  Gibson 

Vll 
V 

Pamell,  Thomas  

V 

iii 

VI 

vii 

Patmore,  Coventry 

vii 

HamUton,  William  

VI 

Lodge,  Thomas 

Logan,  John 

Lovelace,  Richard 

Peele,  George   

m 

Harrington,  John    

m 

• 

Penrose,  Thomas 

VI 

Harrington,  Sir  John 

in 

iii 

Percy,  Bishop  

VI 

Hart,  Joseph 

Haughton,  William 

vi 

Lydgate,  John 

Lyly,  John 

Lyndsay,  Sir  David 

Philips,  Ambrose.  .. 

V 

iii 

11 

Philips,  John    

iv 

Hayley,  William  

vii 
vi 
vii 

ii 
vi 

Philips,  Katherine  

PoUok,  Robert 

Pomfret,  John 

i^ 

Headley,  Henry  

Heber,  Bishop  

Lyttelton,  George,  Lord... 

W 
iv 

Hemans,  Felicia   

vii 

Pope,  Alexander 

V 

Henrysone,  Robert 

ii 

M 

Pope,  Dr.  Walter    

ir 

Herbert,  George  

ni 

Praed    Winthrop     Maek- 

Hen-ick,  Robert   

iii 

worth 

vii 

Hervey,  T.  K 

vii 

Macaulay,  Lord    

vii 

Pringle,  Thomas 

vii 

Heywood,  John    

iii 

Mackay,  Charles  

vii 

Prior,  Matthew 

V 

Hey  wood,  Thomas  

iii 

MacNeill,  Hector 

vii 

Procter,  Bryan  WaUer  ... 

vu 

Hill,  Aaron    

VI 

Macpherson,  Jam«s 

vi 

Hislop,  James  

Vll 

Maitland,  Sir  Richard 

iii 

Q. 

Hogg,  James 

vii 

Mallett,  David  

vi 

Hood,  Thomas 

Vii 

Marlowe,  Christopher 

iii 

Houghton,  Lord  

vii 
ii 

Marston,  John 

Marvell,  Andrew 

iii 
iv 

Quarles,  Francis  » , 

if 

Howard,  Henry    

Quarles,  John 

iv 

Howitt,  William  and  Mary 

vii 

Mhsoii,  William    

vi 

Hume,  Alexander 

iii 

Massey,  G«rald 

vii 

Hunnis,  William  

ii 
vii 

Massinger,  Phillip   

iii 

vii 

R 

Hunt,  James  Henry  Leigh 

Mathias,  Thomas  James... 

Hunter,  Mrs 

Vll 

May,  Thomas    

iii 

Mayne,  John 

vii 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter 

m 

Merrick,  James 

vi 

Ramsay,  Allan 

Randolph,  Thomas  

T 

I. 

Mickle,  William  JuKua  ... 

vi 

iii 

Middleton,  Thomas 

Milman,  Henry  Hart  ...... 

m 
vii 

Robert  of  Gloucester  

i 

Ingeland,  Thomas   

iv 

Robert?,     William     Hay- 
ward    

Moir,  David  Macbeth 

vii 

vi 

Montgomery,  Alexander  . 

iii 

Rochester,  Eaa-1  of 

iv 

J. 

Montgomery,  James   

vii 

Roirers,  Samuel    

vii 

Montgomery,  Robert 

Vll 

RoUe,  Richard 

i 

Moore,  Edward 

VI 

Roscommon,  Eari  of   

IV 

Jago,  Richard  

vi 

Moore,  Sir  John  Henry  ... 

vi 

Ross,  Alexander  

vi 

James  I. ,  King  of  Scotland 

ii 
iii 

Moore,  Thomas    

More,  Henry 

vii 
iv 

V 

James  VI..  King 

Russell,  Thomas   

vi 

SackvUle,  Thomas    iii 

Sandys,  George iii 

Savage,  Richard   vi 

Scot,  Alexander   iii 

Scott,  John    vi 

Scott,  Sir  Walter vii 

Sedley,  Sir  Charles  iv 

Seward,  Miss  Anna vii 

Sewell,  Dr.  George v 

Shad  well,  Thomas    iv 

Shakspere,  William iii 

Sheffield,  John,    Duke  of 

Buckinghamshire iv 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe vii 

Shenstone,  William vi 

Shirley,  James iii 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip    iii 

Skelton,  John   ii 

S  mart,  Christopher vi 

Smith,  Alexander vii 

Smith,  Mrs.  Charlotte    ...  vii 

Smith,  Horace vii 

Smith,  James    vii 

Smollett,  Tobias  vi 

Somerville,  William v 

Sotheby,  William vii 

Southeme,  Thomas v 

Southey,  Robert  vii 

South  ey,  Mrs vii 

Southwell,  Robert   iii 

Spencer,  the   Hon.    Wil- 
liam R vii 

Spenser,  Edmund iii 

Stanley,  Thomas iv 

Stepney,  George  iv 


PEEIOB 

still,  John iii 

Stirling,  Earl  of    iii 

Storer,  Thomas iii 

Suckling,  Sir  John  iii 

Swain,  Charles vii 

Swift,  Jonathan   v 

Sylvester,  Joshua iii 


T. 


Tannahiil,  Robert    vii 

Tate,  Nahum    v 

Taylor,  Bishop  Jeremy  ...  iv 

Tennant,  William    vii 

Tennyson,  Alfred vii 

Thompson,  Edward vi 

Thomson,  James  vi 

Thrale,  Mrs vi 

Tickell,  Thomas  v 

Tighe,  Mrs vii 

Toplady,  Augustus vi 

Trench,  Archbishop vii 

Tusser,  Thomas    ii 


U. 

Udall,  Nicholas... 

V. 


W. 

Waller,  Edmund  '  iv 

Walsh,  William iv 

Ward,  Edward v 

Warner,  William iii 

Warton,  Joseph   vi 

Warton,  Thomas _..^     vi 

Wastall,  Simon iii 

Watson,  Thomas iii 

Watts,  Alaric  A vii 

Watts,  Isaac ^    vi 

Webster,  John *    iii 

Wesley,  Charles    vi 

Wesley,  John    vi 

West,  Gilbert    vi 

White,  H.  Kirke vii 

Whitehead,  Paul vi 

Whitehead,  William   •  vi 

Wiflfen,  J.  H 'vii 

Wilde,  Dr iii 

Wilson,  Alexander  vii 

Wilson,  Professor  John  ...  vii 

Winchelsea,  Anne,  Coun-  • 

tess  of '  V 

Wither,  George    '  iii 

Wolcot,  John    vii 

Wolfe,  Charles vii 

Wordsworth,  William vii 

Wotton,  Sir  Heory iii 

Wyat,  Sir  Thomas  ii 

Wycherley,  William   iv 

Wyntoun,  Andrew  ii 


Vanbrugh,  Sir  John   v  I  Yendys,  Sydney  (Dobell)      vu 

Vaughao,  Hem*y iv  ;  Young,  Edward    vi 


NAMES    OF   THE   POETS. 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

A  damson,  John 743 

Addison,  Joseph    763-770 

Akenside 901-903 

Alford,  Dean  1726-173G 

Alfred,  King 5-12 

Alison,  Richard 48H 

Allingham,  William 1838 

Ancrura,  Eai-1  of 395 

Anonymous,  94,  95,  510-539, 
709-711,  712-733,  735-736, 
738-739,  742,  744-746,   1814 

Anstey,  Christopher  102") 

Armstrong,  John  924-927 

Arnold,  Edwin   1757, 1758 

Arnold,  Matthew  ...  1759-1761 

Ayres,  Philip 707,708 

Ayton,  Sir  Robert 839 

Aytomi,  W.  E 1662-1663 


Bailey,  Philip  J 1672 

Baillie,  Joanna   1470-1473 

Bampfylde,  John  ...  1007-1010 
Barbauld,  AnnaL....  1104-1110 

Barbour,  John    32-35 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne  1047 

Bamtield,  Richard 121 

Barton,  Bernard 1 453-1459 

Baxter,  Richard  570 

Bayly,  T.  Haynes  ...  1500-1502 

Beattie 988-993 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 21 2-220 

Beckford,  W 1519 

Behn,  Aphra  704,705 

Belchiei-,  Dabridgecourt...     445 

Bennett,  W.  C 1764-1778 

Bishop,  Samuel 1002-1006 

Blacklock,  Thomas    ...  975-978 

liJlaekmore .' 787 

Bl  ackstone,  Su-  William ...     936 

Blair,  Robert 842-849 

Blamire,  Susanna  ...  1102, 1103 

Blind  Harry   46,47 

Bloomfield,  Robert...  1123-1128 

Boethius 9-12 

Bonar,  Horatius 1779,1780 

Booth,  Barton    836 

Boswell,  Sir  A 1609-1611 

Board,  Andrew SO 

Bowles,  W.  L 1238-1271 


KO  OF  POBM. 

Breton,  Nicholas    116-118 

Bi-istol,  Lord 571 

Brome,  Alexander 381-383 

Brooke,  Lord  154-157 

Brown,  Frances 1781-1784 

Brown,  Thomas    679 

Browne,  William    285-291 

Browning,  Mrs 1558-1561 

Browning,  liobert...  1785-1788 

Bruce,  Michael  959-961 

Brunne,  Robert  de 14,15 

Brydgos,SirEgerton,  1520, 1521 

Buchanan,  R 1835 

Buckinghamshire,  Duke  of    681 

Burns,  Robert    1575-1592 

Burton,  Robert 487 

Butler,  Samuel...  637-645,  734, 
741 

Byrom,  John 1056,  1057 

Byron,  Lord    1337-1358 


Cffldmon 1-4 

Campbell,  Thomas...  1297-1312 
Canning,  George   ...  1144-1146 

Carew,  Thomas 258-270 

Carey,  Henry   1035 

Carrington,  N.  T.  ...  1613-1518 
Cartwright,  William...  337-339, 
482,  483 

Chalkhill,  John 333-336 

Chamberlayne,  William,  579-584 

Chapman,  George    485 

Chatterton,  Thomas ...  940-944 

Chaucer    19-28 

Chottle 433,434 

Churchill 952-958 

Cibber,  Colley 1033 

Clare,  John 1405-1413 

Cleveland,  John...  377,378,  740 

Clough,  A.  H 1836,1837 

Cockbum,  Mrs 1049 

Coleridge 1503-1512 

Coleridge,  Hartley...  1569-1574 

Collins,  William 887-892 

Constable,  Henry 164 

Cook,  Eliza 1720-1725 

Corbet,  Bishop  251-253 

Cotton,  Charles 646-649 

Cotton,  Nathaniel    1024 


MO.  OF  POBK. 

Cowley,  Abraham 540-554 

Cowper 1077-1088 

Crabbe,  Geoi-ge 1173-1179 

Crashaw,  Richard  297-301 

Ci-awfurd,  William...  1028-1030 

Croly,  George 1538-1551 

Crowne,  John 695-699 

Cunningham,  Allan...  1617-1627 
Cunningham,  John...  1022,1023 
Cunningham,  Thomas 1648 


D. 


Daniel,  Samuel 135-140 

Darwin,  Erasmus  ...  1092-1098 
Davenant,  Sir  William,  372-374 

Da  vies.  Sir  John 221-226 

Davison,  Francis    498-500 

Dekker,  T 432-438 

Denham,  Sir  John 576-578 

Dibdin,  Charles 1136-1140 

Dickens,  Charles 1818 

Dobell,  Sydney 1671 

Doddridge  1058-1063 

Dodsley,  Robert 1000,1001 

Dommett,  Alfred 1792 

Donne,  John   227-236 

Dorset,  Earl  of. 680 

Dorset,  Thomas  Sackville, 

Earl  of 96-98 

Douglas,  Gawain  66,  67 

Dowland,  John 497 

Drayton,  Michael  141-147 

Drummond,  William...  361-366 

Dryden,  John 658-665 

Dunbar,  William 51-55 

Dyer,  John    880 


E. 


Edwards,  Richard 91,92 

Elliot,  Sir  Gilbert    1051 

Elliot,  Miss  Jane 1048 

Elliott,  Ebenezer   ...  1552-1557 

Erskine,  Ralph 711 

Etherege,  Sir  George...  701-703 

F. 

Fairfax,  Edward 148-149 

Falconer,  William 945-949 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS. 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Fanshawe,  Sir  Richard  368-371 

Fawkes,  Francis  1014 

Fenton,  Elijah    834 

Fergusson,  Robert...  1052-1055 

Field,  Nathaniel     488 

Fitzgeffrey,  Charles  ...  492,  493 

Flatman,  Thomas  672-675 

Fletcher,  Giles    310-313 

Fletcher,  Phineas  314-315 

Ford,  John 45&-459 

Frere,J.  H 1294-1296 

Fulke    Grevile,     Lord 
Brooke 154-157 


G. 


GaU,  Richard 1603,1604 

Garth,  Samuel    786 

Gascoigne,  George 101-106 

Gawain  Douglas 56,57 

Gay,  John    792-805 

Gemmet.T.  M 1813 

Giflford,  William 1141-1143 

Gilfillan,  Robert 1646,1647 

Gloucester,  Robert  of 13 

Glover,  Richard 997-999 

Godolphin,  Sidney  481 

Gofife,  Thomas    467,  468 

Goldsmith  916-920 

Gould,  Robert    684,  685 

Gower,  John 29-31 

Gi-ahame,  James    ...  1156-1164 

Granger,  Dr 1015 

Grant,  Mrs 1119,1120 

Gray 907-912 

Green,  Matthew 815,816 

Greene,  Robert  419-427 

Greet,  J 1815 

Greville,  Mra 987 


H. 


Habergham,   Mrs.    Fleet- 
wood      671 

Habington,  WiUiam ...  316-328 

Hall,  Bishop   248-250 

Hall,  John 375 

Hamilton,  William   ...  881-883 

Harrington,  John   99,100 

Harrington,  Sir  John     150-153 

Hart 1075,1076 

Haughton    433,434 

Hayley,  William    ...  1089-1091 

Headley,  Henry  1041 

Heber,  Bishop   1377-1382 

Hemans,  Mrs 1436-1452 

Heorysone,  Robert   48-50 

Herbert,  George 302-309 

Herrick,  Robert 340-351 

Hervey,  T.  K 1525-1529 

Hey  wood,  John    400,  401 

Heywood,  Thomas 469-476 

Hill,  Aaron   1031 

Hislop,  James  ...  1652 

Hogg,  James 1612-1616 

Hood,  Thomas   1484-1499 

Hook,  N 706 

Houghton,  Lord 1717-1719 

Hewitt,  Mary 1653-1660 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Howitt,  William 1661 

Hume,  Alexander 391-393 

Hume,  Mary  C 1817 

Hunnis,  William 93 

Hunt,  Leigh   1397-1404 

Hunter,  Mrs 1112-1115 


Ingeland,  Thomas   397 

Ingelow,  Jean   1832 

Ingram,  J.  K 1793 


J. 


Jago,  Richard  985 

James  I.  of  Scotland 41-43 

James  VL,  King 394 

Johnson,  Samuel   884-886 

Jones,  Emest  1794 

Jones,  Sir  W 1011-1013 

Jonson,  Ben 237-247 


K. 


Keats,  John    1824,1825 

Keble,  John 1795-1798 

Ken,  Bishop 819-821 

King  Alfred 5-8 

King,  Bishop 254-256 

Kingsley,  Charles  ...  1799, 1800 

Knowles,  Herbert   1383 

Knox,  William   1474-1477 

L. 


Laidlaw,  William 1649 

Lamb,  Charles    1228-1234 

Lafidon,  L.  E 1460-1469 

Landor,  W.S 1272-1277 

Langford,  J.  A 1816 

Langhome,  Dr 930-935 

Lanadowne,  George  Gran- 
ville, Lord 837 

Lee,  Nathaniel  692-694 

Lewis,  M.  G 1313 

Leyden,  John 1129-1135 

Lillo,  George 831 

Lloyd,  Pvobert    950,  951 

Lockhart,  J.  G 1522-1524 

Lodge,  Thomas   428-431 

Logan,  John    962-964 

Loker,  T 1810 

Longlande,  Robert    17,18 

Lovelace,  Richard 352-3.57 

Lydgate,  John    36-40 

LylyJohn    404-408 

Lyndsay,  Sir  David  58-62 

Lyttelton,  Lord 904-906 

Lytton,  Lord 1828 

Lytton,  Robert  1829,  1830 


M. 


Macaulay 1565-1668 


NO  OV  POBM. 

Macdonald,  George 1831 

Mackay,  Charles 1737-1742 

Macneill,  Hector    ...  1595-1597 

Macpherson,  James 939 

Maitland,  Sir  Richard 388 

IVIallet,  David 897-900 

Marlow,  Christopher 113 

Marston,  John 466 

Marvell,  Andrew    633-636 

Mason  913-915 

Massey,  Gerald  1745-1756 

Massinger,  Philip  463-465 

May,  Thomas   367 

Mayne,  John  1605-1608 

Meredith,  George 1744 

Merrick,  James 1016,1017 

Mickle  928,929 

Middleton,  Thomas  ...  450-455 

Milman,  H.H 1664-1670 

Milton,  John  603-632 

Moir,  D.  M 1534-1537 

Montgomery,  Alexander,    389, 

390 
Montgomery,  James,  1384-1394 
Montgomery,  Robert,  1481-1483 

Moore,  Edward 1034 

Moore,  Sir  John  H.  ...  983,984 

Moore,  Thomas  1278-1293 

More,  Henry  572-575 

Morris,  William 1839,  1840 

Moss,  Thomas  1027 

Motherwell 1631-1641 

Moultrie.  John 1801 


N. 


Nabbes,  Thomas 376 

Nash,  Thomas    439-444 

Niccols,  Richard  { 496 

Nicholson,  William 1650 

Nicoll,  Robert    1642-1645 

Norton,  Hon.  Mrs...  1710-1716 
Nugent,  Earl 1044 


O. 


Oldmixon,  John  838 

Oldys,  William 1021 

Opie,  Mrs 1116-1118 

Otway,  Thomas 687-691 

Ouseley,  Thomas  J.  1811,  1812 
Overbury,  Sir  Thomas  ...  495 
Oxford,  Edward,  Earl  of. . .    494 


Parnell,  Thomas 808-814 

Peele,  George 409-418 

Penrose,  Thomas  981,982 

Percy,  Dr.  Thomas   ...  937,  938 

Philips,  Ambrose  788-791 

Philips,  John    ^^^ 

Philips,  Katherine 384,  385 

Pollok,  Robert   1430-1435 

Pomfret,  John 677,  678 

Pope,  Alexander 776-783 

Pope,  Dr.  Walter 686 


NO.  OF  POBM. 

Praed,W.  M 1709 

Pringle,  Thomas 1478-1480 

Prior,  Matthew 747-762 

Procter,  B.W 1673-1696 


Q. 


Quarles,  Francis,  292-296,  737 
Quarles,  John  676 


n 


E. 


Ealeigh,  Sir  Walter  ...  114, 115 

Ramsay,  Allan   824-826 

Randolph,  Thomas 358-360 

Rands,  W.  B 1826,  1827 

Redford,John    403 

Robert  de  Brunne 14,15 

Robert  of  Gloucester    13 

Roberts,  W.  H 979,  980 

Rochester,  Earl  of 654-657 

Rogers,  Samuel 1180-1188 

RoUe,  Richard 16 

Roscommon,  Earl  of  ...  650-653 
Rosetti,     Dante     Gabriel 

1841-1843 

Ross,  Alexander 1045, 1046 

Rowe,  Nicholas 828-830 

Russell,  Thomas 1042,  1043 


S. 


Sandys,  George 477--480 

Savage,  Richard 840,  841 

Scot,  Alexander 386,387 

Scott,  John 1018-1020 

Scott,  Sir  W 1314-1336 

Sedley,  Sir  Charles   ...  667-670 

Seward,  Anna  1111 

Sewell,  Dr.  George 832 

Shadwell,  Thomas   700 

Shakspere,  William  ...  165-211 

Shaw,  Cuthbert    1036 

Shelley,  Percy  B.  ...  1359-1376 

Shenstone    893-896 

Shirley,  James,  379,  380, 460-462 


so.   OF   POEM. 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip    107 

Skelton,  John  63 

Skinner,  John  1050 

Smart,  Christopher   ...  994-996 

Smith,  Alexander    1743 

Smith,  Charlotte    ...  1099-1101 

Smith,  Horace    1418-1420 

Smith,  James   1417 

Smith,  J.  &  H 1414-1416 

Smollett,  Tobias 921-923 

Somerville,  William  ...  806,»807 
Sotheby,  William  ...  1235-1237 

Southeme,  Thomas 827 

Southey,  Caroline...  1530-1533 

Southey,  Robert 1213-1227 

Southwell,  Robert 108-112 

Spencer,  Peter    1807-1809 

Spencer,  Hon.  W.  R.  1395-1396 

Spenser,  Edmund  124-134 

Stanley,  Thomas    565-569 

Stepney,  George  682 

Sterline,  Earl  of   489 

Still,  Bishop  402 

Stirling,  Earl  of   396 

Storer,  Thomas 490,  491 

S  .ickling,  Sir  John 329-332 

Surrey,  Howard,  Earl  of.  64-71 

S  wain,  Charles    1 697-1 702 

Swift,  Jonathan 771-775 

Swinburne,  Algernon 

Charles 1833,  1834 

Sylvester,  Joshua 119,120 


Tannahill,  Robert  ...  1598-1602 

Tate,  Nahum 822,  823 

Taylor,  Jeremy    555 

Tennant,  William  ...  1628-1630 
Tennyson,  Alfred  ...  1703-1708 
Tennyson,  Frederick,  1804-1806 
Thackeray,  W.  M....  1762,  1763 
Thompson,  Edward    1038-1040 

Thomson,  James    864-879 

Thrale,  Mrs 1026 

Tickell,  Thomas 784,  785 

Tighe,  Mary   1121,1122 

Toplady,  A 1072-1074 

Train,  Joseph   1651 

Trench,  Richard  C.  1802, 1803 
Tusser,  Thomas 81-90 


NO.  OP  POEM, 


U. 


Udall,  Nicholas 398,399 

Uncertain    502-509 


V. 


Vanbrugh,  Sir  John    833 

Vaughan,  Henry    556-564 

Vere,  Aubrey  de    ...  1789-1791 


W. 


Waller;  Edmund    585-602 

Walsh,  William    683 

Ward,  Edward 835 

Warner,  William 484 

Warton,  Joseph   974 

Warton,  Thomas   965-973 

Wastell,  Simon 501 

Watson,  Thomas    122-123 

Watts,  Dr 850-854 

Webster,  John   446-449 

Wesley,  Charles 1064-1066 

Wesley,  John 1067-1071 

West,  Gilbert  1032 

White,  H.  Kirke    ...  1165-1172 

Whitehead,  Paul 1037 

Whitehead,  W 986 

Wilde,  Dr 257 

Wilson,  A 1593,1594 

Wilson,  John 1421-1429 

Wilson,  R 432 

Winchelsea,  Anne,  Coun- 
tess of  817,818 

Wither,  George 271-284 

Wolcot,  Dr 1147-1155 

Wolfe,  Charles   1562-1564 

Wordsworth,  William,1189-1212 
Wotton.  Sir  Henry   ...  158-163 

Wyat,  SirThomas  72-79 

Wyntoun,  Andrew 44,  45 

Y. 

Young,  Edward 855-863 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND  TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


VO.  OF  POBM. 

ADAMSON,  JOHN. 

The  Cavalier's  Farewell  to  his  Mistress    743 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH. 

A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day  763 

An  Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day  764 

A  Letter  from  Italy  765 

An  Ode     766 

A  Hymn  767 

An  Ode     768 

A  Hymn  769 

Paraphrase  on  Psalm  xxiii 770 

AKENSIDE,  MARK. 

Tendencies  of  the  Soul  towards  the 

Infinite 901 

Taste 902 

An  Epistle  to  Curio   903 

ALFORD,  DEAN. 

A  Remembrance    1726 

The  Past  ...-. 1727 

One  Summer's  Night 1728 

Morning  and  Evening  1729 

The  Cross    1730 

Gentlest  Girl  1731 

England  1732 

There  is  an  Ancient  Man 1733 

The  Father  and  Child  1734 

Autumn   1735 

My  own  dear  Country 1736 

ALFRED,  KING. 

The  Soul  in  Despair  5 

Nothing  on  Earth  Permanent 6 

The  Only  Rest    7 

The  Happy  Man    8 

ALISON,  RICHARD. 

There  is  a  Garden  in  her  Face  486 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM. 

The  Emigrant's  Adieu  to  Ballyshannon  1838 


ANCRUM,  EARL  OF. 
Solitary  Life    


395 


ANONYMOUS. 

The  Sailing  of  Beowulf 9 

An  Old  Man's  SoiTow   10 

Good  Night 11 

Summer  is  i-cumen  in   12 

The  Nut-brown  Maid    94    I 


KO.  OF  POEM. 

King  Arthur's  Death    95 

Robin  Goodfellow 510 

The  Old  and  Young  Courtier 511 

Time's  Alteration 512 

Loyalty  confined    513 

Adam  Bell  514 

The  Birth  of  Robin  Hood 515 

A  Tale  of  Ptobin  Hood 516 

Robin  Hood  and  Allan-a-Dale    517 

Robin    Hood  rescuing  the  Widow's 

three  Sons   518 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 519 

Robin  Hood  and  the  Curtal  Friar 520 

How  Robin  Hood  lends  a  Poor  Knight 

Four  Hundred  Pounds 521 

The  Knight  releases  his  Lands  and  suc- 
cours a  Yeoman 522 

Little  John  in  the  Service  of  the  Sheriff 

of  Nottingham   523 

Robin  Hood  reimburses  himself  of  his 

Loan 524 

Robin  Hood' s  Death  and  Burial 525 

Patient  Grissell 526 

The  Twa  Sisters  o'  Binnorie    527 

The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot   528 

King  John  and  the  Abbot  of  Canter- 
bury    529 

Edom  o'  Gordon 530 

Thomas  the  Rhymer 531 

The  Water  o'  Wearie's  Well  532 

Lord  Beichan 533 

Love  will  find  out  the  way  534 

The  Childe  of  Elle 535 

King  Edward  IV.  and  the  Tanner  of 

Tamworth    '. 536 

The  Heir  of  Linne     537 

The  Spanish  Lady's  Love 538 

The  Lass  of  Lochroyan    539 

The  Young  Man's  Wish   709 

The  Midnight  Messenger 710 

Smoking  spiritualized  711 

The  Catholick 712 

The  Three  Knights  713 

The  Blind  Beggar  of  Bednall  Green  714 

Lord  Delaware   715 

The  Golden  Glove 716 

King  James  I.  and  the  Tinkler  717 

The  Keach  i'  the  Creel 718 

Sir  John  Barleycorn 719 

The  Nobleman's  Generous  Kindness  720 
The  Brave  Earl  Brand  and  the  King 

of  England's  Daughter 721 

The  Jovial  Hunter  of  Bromsgi'ove 722 

b 


NAMES   OF  THE  POETS  AND 


NO.  OF  POEK. 

Lady  Alice  723 

The  Useful  Plow 7'2i 

The  Farmer's  Boy 725 

The  Mow 726 

The  Hitchin  May-day  Song .727 

The  Hayraakers'  Song 728 

The  Garden  Gate   729 

The  New-mown  Hay 730 

Begone  Dull  Care  731 

When  the  King  comes  Home  in  peace 

again 732 

I  love  my  King  and  Country  well 733 

The  New  Litany    735 

The  Old  Protestant's  Litany  736 

The  Cameronian  Cat 738 

I  thank  you  twice 739 

Prattle  your  Pleasure  under  the  Rose  742 

The  Cobbler  and  the  Vicar  of  Bray  ...  744 
A  Country  Song  intituled  the  Eestora- 

tion   745 

The  Loyal  Soldier 746 

Time's  Song 1814 

ANSTEY,  CHRISTOPHER. 

A  Public  Breakfast   1025 

ARMSTRONG,  JOHN. 

Choice  of  a  Rural  Situation  and  De- 
scription of  the  Ague    924 

Recommendation  of  a  High  Situation 
on  the  Sea-coast     '. 925 

Angling    926 

Pestilence  of  the  15th  Century  927 

ARNOLD,  EDWIN. 

Almond  Blossom    1757 

Woman's  Voice 1758 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW. 

Urania 1759 

Philomela 1760 

Euphrosyne 1761 

AYRES,  PHILIP. 

To  the  Nightingale   707 

On  the  Sight  of  his  Mistress's  House    708 

AYTON,  SIR  ROBERT. 

The  Church  EuHder 839 

AYTOUN,  W.  E. 

Massacre  of  the  Macphersons 1662 

The  Burial  March  of  Dundee 1663 


BAILEY,  P.  J. 
Love 


1672 


BAILLIE,  JOANNA. 

Address  to  Miss  Agnes  Baillie    1470 

The  Black  Cock 1471 

The  New  Year's  Gift    1472 

The  Kitten 1473 

BAMPFYLDE,  JOHN. 

Sonnets    1007,  1008,  1009, 1010 

BARBAULD,  ANNA  L. 

Ode  to  Spring 1104 

To  a  Lady,  with  some  painted  Flowers  1105 
Hymn  to  Content 1106 


irO.  OF  POBM. 

Washing-day  1107 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous 1108 

Come  unto  Me 1109 

Praise  to  God 1110 

BARBOUR,  JOHN. 

Apostrophe  to  Freedom  32 

Character  of  Sir  James  of  Douglas   ...  33 

Death  of  Sir  Henry  de  Bohun 34 

The  Battle  of  By  land's  Path  35 

BARNARD,  LADY  ANNE. 

Auld  Robin  Gray  1047 

BARNFIELD,  RICHARD. 

Address  to  the  Nightingale 121 

BARTON,  BERNARD. 

Power  and  Gentleness  1453 

To  the  Evening  Primrose 1454 

There  be  those  1465 

Not  ours  the  Vows    1456 

Stanzas  on  the  Sea 1457 

The  Solitary  Tomb   1458 

Bishop  Hubert 1459 

BAXTER,  RICHARD. 

The  Valediction 570 

BAYLY,  T.  H. 

To  his  Wife 1500 

Think  not  of  the  Future  1501 

0  where  do  Fairies  hide  their  Heads     1502 

BEATTIE. 

Opening  of  the  Minstrel  988 

Morning  Landscape  989 

*     Life  and  Immortality   990 

Retirement 991 

The  Hermit 992 

Ode  to  Peace  993 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

Plighting  Troth 212 

Nature  and  Love    213 

Csesar's  Lamentation  over  Pompey's 

Head 214 

Melancholy 215 

Song 216 

The  Power  of  Love    217 

To  Sleep  218 

From  Rollo 219 

Song  to  Pan    220 

BECKFORD,  W. 

Prayer  1519 

BEHN,  APHRA. 

Songs  704,  705 

BELCHIER,  DABRIDGECOURT. 

The  Confession  445 

BENNETT,  W.  C. 

Invocation  to  Rain  in  Summer   1764 

To  a  Cricket    1765 

Baby  May    1766 

Baby's  Shoes  1767 

The  Worn  Wedding-ring     1768 

Wedding  Words     1769 

Mother  and  Son 1770 

To  a  Lady  I  know,  aged  One 1771 

Cradle  Song    1772 


TITLES   OF  THE   POEMS. 


KO.  OF  POKM. 

ToW.  G.  B 1773 

The  Queen   1774 

Sketches  from  a  Painter's  Studio  1775 

From  India 1776 

The  Boat-race    1777 

The  Wife's  Appeal 1778 

BISHOP,  SAMUEL. 

To  Mrs.  Bishop 1002,1003 

Epigrams 1004,  1005,  1006 

BLACKLOCK,  THOMAS. 

Flowers 975 

Terrors  of  a  Guilty  Conscience   976 

Ode  to  Aurora 977 

The  Author's  Picture    978 

BLACKMORE. 

Creation *...    787 

BLACKSTONE,  SIR  WILLIAM. 

A  Lawyer's  Farewell  to  his  Muse  936 

BLAIR,  ROBERT. 

The  Grave   842 

Friendship  843 

The  Miser    844 

Unprepared  for  Death 845 

Death    846 

The  Grave    847 

The  Death  of  a  Good  Man  848 

The  Resurrection 849 

BLAMIRE,  SUSANNA. 

The  Nabob 1102 

What  ails  this  Heart  o'  mine 1103 

BLIND  HARRY. 

Adventure  of  Wallace  while  Fishing 

in  Irvine  Water 46 

The  Death  of  Wallace  47 

BLOOMFIELD,  ROBERT. 

The  Farmer's  Life 1123 

Banquet  of  an  English  Squire 1124 

The  Soldier's  Home  1125 

TohisWife     1126 

Song  for  a  Highland  Drover  returning 

from  England 1127 

Lines  addressed  to  my  Children 1128 

BOETHIUS. 

The  Soul  in  Despair 5 

Nothing  on  Earth  permanent 6 

The  only  Rest 7 

The  Happy  Man 8 

BONAR,  HORATIUS. 

A  Little  While    1779 

All  Well  1780 

BOOTH,  BARTON. 

Song 836 

BOSWELL,  SIR  A. 

Jenny  dang  the  Weaver 1609 

Jenny's  Bawbee 1610 

Good  Night  and  Joy  be  wi'  ye  a'  1611 

BOURD,  ANDREW. 

Characteristic  of  an  Englishman   80 


NO.  OP  POBM. 

BOWLES,  W.  L. 

To  Time  1238 

Hope 1239 

The  Greenwich  Pensioners 1240 

The  Greenwood 1241 

Come  to  these  Scenes  of  Peace  1242 

On  the  Funeral  of  Charles  I.  ...TTTT.—    1243 

At  Oxford,  1786     1244 

Written  at  Ty nemouth     1245 

At  Bamborough  Castle 1246 

To  the  River  Wensbeck   1247 

To  the  River  Tweed 1248 

Sonnet 1249 

On  leaving  a  Village  in  Scotland    1250 

Sonnet 1251 

On  a  Distant  View  of  England  1252 

To  the  River  Cherwell 1253 

Sonnet 1254 

April,  1793  1255 

Netley  Abbey 1256 

May,  1793    1257 

On  Revisiting  Oxford   1258 

On  the  Death  of   the  Rev.  William 

Benwell    1259 

On  Reviewing  the  foregoing    1260 

Path  of  Life    1261 

Sunrise 1262 

Summer's  Evening 1263 

Spring.— Cuckoo    1264 

Sheep-fold 1265 

Primrose 1266 

Bird's  Nest 1267 

Winter.  ~  Redbreast 1268 

Butterfly  and  Bee 1269 

Glowworm   1270 

Starlight  Frost 1271 

BRETON,  NICHOLAS. 

Farewell  to  Town  116 

A  Pastoral  of  Phillis  and  Coridon 117 

A  Sweet  Pastoral 118 

BRISTOL,  LORD. 
■   Song 571 

BROME,  ALEXANDER. 

The  Resolve    381 

The  Mad  Lover  382 

To  a  Coy  Lady  383 

BROOKE.  FULKE  GREVILE,  LORD. 

Constitutional  Limitation  of  Despotism  154 

Imagination 155 

OfChurch    156 

Reality  of  a  True  Religion  157 

BROWN,  FRANCES. 

If  that  were  true  ! 1781 

Is  it  come? 1782 

Oh  !  the  pleasant  Days  of  Old  ! 1783 

Losses  1784 

BROWN,  THOMAS. 

Song 679 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM. 

Morning  285 

Evening   286 

A  Night  Scene   287 

Night    288 

Songs 289,  290 

Address  to  his  Native  Soil  291 

^2 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND 


NO.  or  POBM. 

BROWNING,  MRS. 

Cowper's  Grave 1558 

The  Child  and  the  Watcher    1559 

Bertha  in  the  Lano   1560 

The  Sleep    1561 

BROWNING,  ROBERT. 

One  Way  of  Love 1785 

In  a  Year 1786 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister  1787 

The  Lost  Leader    1788 

BRUCE,  MICHAEL. 

A  Rural  Scene    959 

Happiness  of  a  Country  Life  960 

Elegy    961 

BRUNNE,  ROBERT  DE. 

The  Interview  of  Vortigem  withRowen      14 
Praise  of  Good  Women    15 

BRYDGES,  SIR  EGERTON. 

Echo  and  Silence    1520 

To  Autumn 1521 

BUCHANAN,  R. 

Iris,  the  Rainbow 1835 

BUCKINGHAMSHIRE,  DUKE  OF. 

Homer  and  Virgil 681 

BURNS,  ROBERT. 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy    1575 

Ae  Fond  Kiss 1576 

My  Bonnie  Mary   1577 

Mary  Morison 1578 

Bruce's  Address 1579 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 1580 

Auld  Lang  Syne 1581 

Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes 1582 

Of  a' the  Airts  the  Wind  can  blaw    ...  1583 

A  Red,  Red  Rose   1584 

Bonnie  Leslie 1585 

Highland  Mary  1586 

To  Mary  in  Heaven  1587 

My  Wife's  a  Winsome  Wee  Thing    ...  1588 

John  Anderson   1589 

Here's  a  Health  to  them  that's  awa  ...  1590 

TamO'Shanter   1591 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  1692 

BURTON,  ROBERT. 

Abstract  of  Melancholy    487 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL. 

Accomplishments  of  Hudibras    637 

Religion  of  Hudibras    638 

Personal  Appearance  of  Hudibras     . . .  639 
Hudibras  commencing  Battle  with  the 

Rabble 640 

Vicarious  Justice  641 

Hudibras  consulting  the  Lawyer   642 

The  Elephant  in  tlie  Moon 643 

Miscellaneous  Thoughts   644 

To  his  Mistress  645 

The  Tub  Preacher 734 

The  Roundhead 741 

BYROM,  JOHN. 

Careless  Content    1056 

A  Pastoral   1057 


NO.  OV  POBJI. 

BYRON,  LORD. 

To  Thomas  Moore 1337 

Maid  of  Athens 1338 

The  Girl  of  Cadiz  1339 

Stanzas  for  Music 1340 

The  Dream  1341 

When  we  two  parted     1342 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib 1343 

Song  of  the  Greek  Poet    1344 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  1345 

The  Gladiator     1346 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean 1347 

Description  of  Haidee  1348 

Haidee    visits  the  shipwrecked  Don 

Juan 1349 

Haidee  and  Juan  at  the  Feast    1350 

The  Death  of  Haidee    1351 

All  for  Love 1352 

She  walks  in  Beauty     1353 

Elegy  on  Thyrza    1354 

Youth  and  Age  1355 

Vision  of  Belshazzar 1356 

To  Belshazzar 1357 

The  Night  before  the  Battle  of  Waterloo  1358 


C. 


CiEDMON. 

The  First  Day 

The  Fall  of  the  Rebel  Angels 

Satan's  Speech    

The  Temptation  of  Eve    


CAMPBELL,  THOMAS. 

Hope  Triumphant  in  Death 

Domestic  Love    

Maternal  Care 

Battle  of   Wyoming   and    Death    of 

Gertrude  

To  the  Evening  Star 

Song 

Lochiel's  Warning 

Hohenlinden    

Ye  Mariners  of  England 

Battle  of  the  Baltic   

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter  

The  Soldier's  Dream 

Hallowed  Ground  

The  Parrot  

Napoleon  and  the  Sailor  

Adelgitha    


1297 
1298 
1299 

1300 
1301 
1302 
1303 
1304 
1305 
1306 
1307 
1308 
1309 
1310 
1311 
1312 


CANNING,  GEORGE. 

The    Friend    of    Humanity  and    the 

Knife-grinder 1144 

Song  by  Rogero  in  "The  Rovers" 1145 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  his  Eldest  Son  .  1146 

CAREW,  THOMAS. 

Songs   258,  259,  260,  262,  263 

The  Compliment    261 

Disdain  returned    264 

On  Mr.  W.  Montague's  Return  from 

Travel   265 

Persuasions  to  Love 266 

Approach  of  Spring  267 

Epitaph  on  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  .  268 

ToSaxham  269 

The  Primrose 270 

CAREY,  HENRY. 

Sally  in  our  Alley  1035 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.  OP  POBM. 

CARRINGTON,  N.  T. 

The  Comtnencement of  ''Dartmoor"..,  1513 

Dartmoor 1514 

The  Pixies  of  Devon 1515 

England's  Landscape 1516 

Bird,  Bee,  and  Butterfly  1517 

Love  and  Nature 1518 

CART  WRIGHT,  WILLIAM. 

A  Valediction 337 

ToChloe  338 

Love's  Darts    339 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  Bevil  Grenville  ...  482 

Love's  Darts    483 

CHALKHILL,  JOHN. 

Description  of  the  Priestess  of  Diana  333 
The  Image  of  Jealousy  in  the  Chapel 

of  Diana  334 

The  Witches'  Cave 335 

The  Votaress  of  Diana 336 

CHAMBERLAYNE,  WILLIAM. 

A  Summer  Morning  579 

Virgin  Purity 580 

Argalia  condemned  on  False  Evidence  581 
The  Father  of    Pharonnida  discovers 

her  Attachment  to  Argalia  582 

Argalia  taken  Prisoner  by  the  Turks...  583 

The  Death  of  Janusa  and  Ammurat ...  684 

CHAPMAN,  GEORGE. 

Sonnet 485 

CHATTERTON,  THOMAS. 

Morning   940 

Spring  941 

The  Prophecy  942 

Bristow  Tragedy 943 

The  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella 944 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY. 

The  Canterbury  Tales— The  Prologue  19 

The  Squiere's  Tale 20 

The  Cuckow  and  the  Nightingale  21 

To  his  Empty  Purse 22 

The  House  of  Fame  23 

Mercy    24 

Introduction  to  the  "  Flower  and  the 

Leaf" 25 

The  Duplicity  of  Women 26 

Praise  of  Women  27 

T  he  Last  Verses  of  Chaucer   28 

CHETTLE. 

Sweet  Content    433 

Lullaby 434 

CHURCHILL. 

Remorse  952 

Smollett    953 

Hogarth   954 

On  the  Poverty  of  Poets 955 

Character  of  a  Fribble 956 

Characters  of    Quin,    Tom    Sheridan, 

and  Garrick 957 

From  the  Prophecy  of  Famine   958 

GIBBER,  COLLEY. 

The  Blind  Boy    1033 

CLARE,  JOHN. 

To  the  Glowworm  1405 


NO.  OP  POEM. 

From  "the  Fate  of  Amy"  1406 

What  is  Life    1407 

Summer  Morning  1408 

The  Primrose 1409 

The  Thrush's  Nest 1410 

First  Love's  Recollections    1411 

Dawningsof  Genius 1412 

Scenes  and  Musings  of  the  Pedant 

Poet  1413 

CLEVELAND,  JOHN. 

His  Hatred  of  the  Scots  377 

On  Phillis  walking  before  Sunrise 378 

The  Puritan 740 

CLOUGH,  A.  H. 

Incitement  to  Perseverance 1 836 

To  a  Sleeping  Child  1837 

COCKBURN,  MRS. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  1049 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY. 

Sonnet 1569 

On  Shakespere   1570 

Sonnets  to  a  Friend  1571 

To  certain  Golden  Fishes 1572 

Song 1573 

November 1574 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  T. 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 1503 

Hymns  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of 

Chamouni    1504 

Love 1505 

The  Nightingale 1506 

Frost  at  Midnight 1507 

Song 1508 

KublaKhan 1509 

Severed  Friendship   1510 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant    1511 

Answers  to  a  Child's  Question    1512 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM. 

Ode  to  Pity 887 

Ode  888 

Ode  to  Evening 880 

To  the  Passions 892 

Dir^e  in  Cymbeline  891 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson   899 

CONSTABLE,  HENRY. 

Sonnet 164 

COOK,  ELIZA. 

The  Old  Arm-chair    1720 

The  Land  of  my  Birth 1721 

The  Old  Farm-gate    1722 

The  Loved  One  was  not  there    1723 

The  Old  Water-mill 1724 

A  Home  in  the  Heart 1725 

CORBET,  BISHOP. 

To  his  Son,  Vincent  Corbet 251 

Journeyinto  France 252 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies 253 

COTTON,  CHARLES. 

The  New  Year 646 

Invitation  to  Isaak  Walton 647 

The  Retirement 648 

A  Voyage  to  Ireland  in  burlesque 649 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND 


jro.  OF  POEM, 

COTTON,  NATHANIEL. 

The  Fireside 1024 

OOWLEY,  ABEAHAM. 

Of  Myself 540 

The  Chronicle 541 

Anacreontics 542 

Against  Hope 543 

For  Hope 544 

Claudian's  Old  Man  of  Verona 545 

The  Wish 546 

From  the  Hymn  to  Light 547 

From  the  Pindaric  Odes 548 

The  Complaint 549 

From  Friendship  in  Absence  650 

The  Waiting  Maid 551 

Honour 552 

Of  Solitude 553 

Epitaph  on  a  Living  Author 554 

COWPER. 

The  Character  of  Chatham 1077 

The  Greenland  Missionaries 1078 

Rural  Sounds 1079 

Conversation 1080 

On  the  Receipt  of  his  Mother's  Picture  1081 

To  Maiy  (Mrs.  Unwin) 1082 

English  Liberty 1083 

The  Winter  Evening 1084 

Winter  Evening  in  the  Country 1085 

Opening  of  the  Second  Book  ot  **  The 

Task"  1086 

John  Gilpin 1087 

Epistle  to  Joseph  Hill  1088 

CRABBE,  GEORGE. 

The  Parish  Workhouse  and  Apothecary  1173 

Isaac  Ashf ord,  a  Noble  Peasant 1174 

Phoebe  Dawson  1175 

An  English  Fen — Gipsies 1170 

The  Dying  Sailor 1177 

Reflections 1178 

The  Wife's  Funeral  1179 

CRASHAW,  RICHARD. 

Sospetto  d'Herode,  Lib.  T 297 

Hymn  to  the  Name  of  Jesus 298 

Sudden  Change 299 

Music's  Duel 300 

Markxii.  17 301 

CRAWFURD,  WILLIAM. 

The  Bush  aboon  Traquair 1028 

Tweedside 1029 

On  Mrs.  A.  H.  at  a  Concert 1030 

CROLY,  GEORGE. 

Pericles  and  Aspasia 1538 

The  French  Army  in  Russia 1539 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Lady. 1540 

Come,  Evening  Gale  !    1541 

The  Painter 1542 

Rebellion 1543 

A  Lowering  Eve 1544 

A  CalmEve 1545 

Satan 1546 

The  Poet's  Hour 1547 

Noon _...  1548 

Notre  Dame 1549 

Jacob 1550 

The  Angel  of  the  World  1651 


KO.  OF  POBM. 

CROWNE,  JOHN. 

Wishes  for  Obscurity 695 

Passions 696 

Love  in  Women 697 

Inconstancy  of  the  Multitude 698 

Warriors 699 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN. 

Hame,  Hame,  Hame 1617 

My  Nanie,  O 1618 

The  Young  Maxwell 1619 

Fragment 1620 

She's  gane  to  dwell  in  Heaven 1621 

The  Poet's  Bridal-day  Song 1622 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea 1623 

The  Town  Child  and  Country  Child....  1624 
Thou  hast  vow'd  by  thy  Faith,  my 

Jeanie 1625 

Gentle  Hugh  Herries 1626 

The  Sun  rises  bright  in  France 1627 

CUNNINGHAM,  JOHN. 

May  Eve 1022 

Content 1023 

CUNNINGHAM,  THOMAS. 

The  Hills  o'  Gallowa' 1684 


D. 


DANIEL,  SAMUEL. 

Early  Love  135 

The  Introduction  of  Foreign  Vices  de- 
precated     136 

Richard  II 137 

An  Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumber- 
land      138 

The  Nobility  exhorted  to  the  Patronage 

of  Learning 139 

Sonnets 140 

DARWIN,  ERASJIUS. 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib's  Army  ...  1092 
The  Belgian  Lovers  and  the  Plague  ...  1093 
Death  of  Eliza  at  the  Battle  of  Mmden  1094 

Philanthropy— Mr.  Howard    1095 

Persuasion  to  Mothers  to  suckle  their 

own  Children 1096 

SongtoMay ..  1097 

Song  to  Echo 1098 

DAVENANT,  SIR  W. 

Gondibert    372 

Song 373 

To  the  Queen 374 

DAVIES,  SIR  JOHN. 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Learning 221 

That  the  Soul  is  more  than  a  perfection 

or  reflection  of  the  sense 222 

That  the  Soul  is  more  than  the  tem- 
perature of  the  humours  of  the  body    223 
In  what  manner  the  Soul  is  united  to 

Body 224 

The  Immortality  of  the  Soul  225 

An  Appeal  to  the  Heart  226 

DAVISON,  FRANCIS. 

Psalm  XXX 498 

Psalm  xxiii 499 

Psalm  xiii 500 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


wo.  OF  POEM. 

DEKKER,  T.  &  WILSON  R. 

The  Summer's  Queen 432 

DEKKER,  CHETTLE,  &  HAUGHTOX. 

Sweet  Content 433 

LuUaby 434 

DEKKER,  T. 

Virtue  and  Vice 435 

Patience   436 

A  Contrast  between  Female  Honour 

and  Shame  437 

A  Description  of  a  Lady  by  her  Lover  438 

DENHAM,  SIR  JOHN. 

Cooper's  Hill  576 

On  the  Earl  of  Strafford's  Trial  and 

Death    577 

Song  to  Morpheus 578 

DIBDIN.  CHARLES. 

The  Tar  for  all  Weathers    1136 

Sir  Sidney  Smith 1137 

Love  and  Glory 1138 

Nongtongpaw 1139 

Tom  Bowling  1140 

DICKENS,  CHARLES. 

The  Ivy  Green   1818 

DOBELL,  SYDNEY. 

How's  my  Boy? 1671 

DODDRIDGE. 

The  Gospel  1058 

Evening  Hymn   1059 

To-morrow,  Lord,  is  Thine 1060 

On  Recovery  from  Sickness 1 061 

Preparing  to  meet  God 1062 

A  Christmas  Hymn   1063 

DODSLEY,  ROBERT. 

The  Parting  Kiss    1000 

Song  1001 

DOMMETT,  ALFRED. 

A  Christmas  Hymn  1792 

DONNE,  JOHN. 

Address  to  Bishop  Valentine  227 

A  Hymn  to  the  Father 228 

A  Hymn  to  Christ 229 

The  Will  230 

Valediction 231 

Song 232 

The  Break  of  Day 233 

The  Dream  234 

Sonnets 235 

Ode   236 

DORSET,  EARL  OF. 

Song 680 

DORSET,  THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  EARL  OF. 
The  Induction    to  the  Complaint  of 

Henry,  Duke  of  Buckingham    96 

AllegoricalPersonagesdescribedinHell  97 
Henry,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  in  the 

Infernal  Regions 98 

DOUGLAS,  GAWAIN. 

The  Shipwreck  of  the  Caravel  of  Grace  50 
Morning  in  May 57 


DOWLAND,  JOHN. 
Sleep 


BO.  OF  POEM. 

497 


DRAYTON,  MICHAEL. 

Mortimer,  Earl  of  March,  and  the  Queen 
surprised  by  Edward  HI.  in  Notting- 
ham Castle  .^^...^  141 

Description   of    Morning,  Birds,  and 

Hunting  the  Deer 142 

The  Ballad  of  Agincourt 143 

David  and  Goliah 144 

To  his  Coy  Love  145 

Ballad  of  Dowsabel 146 

Sonnet 147 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM. 

To  a  Nightingale 361 

To  his  Lute      362 

Spring  363 

Think  on  thy  Hume  364 

John  the  Baptist 365 

The  Praise  of  a  Solitary  Life  366 

DRYDEN,  JOHN. 

Reason 658 

Palamon  and  Arcite  ;  or,  the  Knight's 

Tale  659 

Mac-Flecknoe 660 

Alexander's  Feast 661 

Character  of  Shaftesbury 662 

Character  of  Villiers,  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham    663 

Theodore  and  Honoria 664 

Enjoyment  of  the  Present  Hour  re- 
commended   665 

DUNBAR,  W^ILLIAM. 

The  Merle  and  Nightingale 51 

The  Vanity  of  Earthly  Things    52 

No  Treasure  without  Gladness 53 

Of  Discretion  in  Giving    54 

Of  Discretion  in  Taking  55 

DYER,  JOHN. 

Grongar  Hill 880 


£. 


EDWARDS,  RICHARD. 

Amantium  irie  Amoris  Redintegratio 

est 91 

The  Lover  requesteth  some  Friendly 

Comfort,  affirming  his  Constancy....       92 

ELLIOTT,  EBENEZER. 

To  the  Bramble  Flower 1552 

The  Excursion 1553 

Pictures  of  Native  Genius 1554 

Ajiostrophe  to  Futurity 1  o55 

A  Poet's  Epitaph 1556 

A  Poet's  Prayer 1557 

ELLIOT,  SIR  GILBERT. 

Amynta 1051 

ELLIOT,  JANE. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest 1048 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND 


ETHEREGE,  SIR  GEORGE. 


BO.  OF  POKM. 


701,  702, 703 


FAIRFAX,  EDWARD. 

Description  of  Armida  and  her  En- 
chanted Girdle   148 

Rinaldo  at  Mount  Olivet,  and  the  En- 
chanted Wood    149 

FALCONER,  WILLIAM. 

Character  of  the  Ship's  Officers 945 

The  Ship  departing  from  the  Haven...  946 

Distress  .of  the  Vessel  947 

Council  of  the  Officers 948 

The  Vessel  going  to  Pieces 949 

FANSHAWE,  SIR  RICHARD. 

The  Spring 368 

A  Rose 369 

The  Saint's  Encouragement    370 

A  Rich  Fool    371 

FAWKES,  FRANCIS.. 

The  Brown  Jug 1014 

FENTON,  ELIJAH. 

An  Ode  to  the  Right  Hon.  John  Lord 

Gower  834 

FERGUSSON,  ROBERT. 

Braid  Claith    1052 

The  Farmer's  Ingle  1053 

To  the  Tron  Kirk  Bell 1054 

A  Sunday  in  Edinburgh  1055 

FIELD,  NATHANIEL. 

Song 488 

FITZGEFFREY,  CHARLES. 

Sir  Francis  Drake 492 

To  Posterity   493 

FLATMAN,  THOMAS. 

For  Thoughts 672 

Dying   673 

The  Thought  of  Death 674 

An  Evening  Hymn    675 

FLETCHER.  GILES, 

The  Rainbow  310 

The  Sources  of  Vain  Delights 311 

A  Hymn  312 

The  Demand  of  Justice    313 

FLETCHER,  PHINEAS. 

Happiness  of  the  Shepherd's  Life 314 

Instability  of  Human  Greatness    315 

FORD,  JOHN. 

The  Real  and  the.  Ideal    456 

Summer  Sports '  457 

Beauty  beyond  the  Reach  of  Art  ......  458 

Bridal  Song 459 

PRERE,  J.  H. 

Mr.  Murray's  Proposal 1294 

The  Giants  and  the  Abbey 1295 

War  Song  on  the  Victory  of  Brunnen- 

burg 1296 


^'o.  OF  POBJi. 


G. 


GALL,  RICHARD. 

My  only  Jo  and  Dearie  0    1603 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire 1604 

GARTH,  SAMUEL. 

The  Dispensary 786 

GASCOIGNE,  GEORGE. 

The  Arraignment  of  a  Lover  101 

Swiftness  of  Time 102 

The  Vanity  of  the  Beautiful   103 

Good  Morrow 104 

Good  Night 105 

DeProfundis  106 

GAY,  JOHN. 

The  Monkey  who  had  seen  the  World  792 
The  Painter  who  pleased  Nobody  and 

Everybody  793 

The  Lion  and  the  Cub  794 

The  Old  Hen  and  the  Cock 795 

The  Goat  without  a  Beard  796 

The  Sick  Man  and  the  Angel 797 

The  Fox  at  the  Point  of  Death  798 

The  Council  of  Horses 799 

The  Poet  and  the  Rose     800 

The  Hare  and  many  Friends  801 

S  weet  William's  Farewell    802 

A  Ballad 803 

The  Country  Ballad-singer  804 

Walking  the  Streets  of  London 805 

GEMMET,  T.  M. 

Ye're  a'  the  Warl'  to  me,  Lassie  ! 1813 

GIFFORD,  WILLIAM. 

The  Grave  of  Anna   -. 1141 

Greenwich  Hill  1142 

To  a  Tuft  of  Early  Violets  1143 

GILFILLAN,  ROBERT. 

In  the  Days  o'  Langsyne 1646 

The  Exile's  Song    1647 

GLOUCESTER,  ROBERT  OF. 

The  Muster  for  the  First  Crusade 13 

GLOVER,  RICHARD. 

A  Night  Scene    997 

The  Armies  at  Salamis 998 

Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost   999 

GODOLPHIN,  SIDNEY. 

Love 481 

GOFFE.  THOMAS. 

The  Madness  of  Orestes 467 

Love  without  Return 468 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER. 

Edwin  and  Angelina 916 

Retaliation  917 

The  Traveller 918 

The  Deserted  Village   919 

The  Haunch  of  Venison  920 

GOULD,  ROBERT. 

Songs  684,685 

GOWER,  JOHN. 

The  Tale  of  the  Coffers  or  Caskets 29 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


VO.  OF  POBM. 

Rosiphele's  Vision  of  Ladies   30 

The  Envious  Man  and  the  Miser   31 

GRAHAME,  JAMES. 

Scotland  1156 

A  Spring  Sabbath  Walk 1157 

A  Summer  Sabbath  Walk   1158 

An  Autumn  Sabbath  Walk 1159 

A  Winter  Sabbath  Walk 1160 

The  Burial  of  the  Righteous  1161 

A  Scottish  Country  Wedding 1162 

The  Impressed  Sailor  Boy  1163 

To  My  Son 1164 

GRANGER,  DR. 

Ode  to  Solitude  1015 

GRANT,  MRS. 

As  a  Sprig  of  Heath A19 

The  Highland  Poor  1120 

GRAY. 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton 

College 907 

Hymn  to  Adversity  908 

The  Bard 909 

Elegy  \mitten  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard    910 

Ode  on  the  Spring 911 

On  Vicissitude    912 

GREEN,  MATTHEW. 

Contentment  815 

The  Seeker 816 

GREENE,  ROBERT. 

Beauty  Suing  for  Love 419 

Samela 420 

Content 421 

Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child 422 

The  Shepherd  and  his  Wife 423 

A  Roundelay 424 

Philomela's  Ode 425 

Jealousy 426 

Dorastus  on  Fawnia 427 

GREET,  T. 

Household  Treasures 1815 

GREVILLE,  MRS. 

Prayer  for  Indifference 987 


H. 


HABERGHAM,  MRS.  FLEETWOOD. 

The  Seeds  of  Love 671 

HABINGTON,  WILLIAM. 

To  Roses  in  the  Bosom  of  Castara 31 6 

To  Castara 317,  318 

A  Dialogue  between  Hope  and  Fear...  319 

To  the  Spring 320 

To  Seymors 321 

Description  of  Castara 322 

To  Castara 323 

To  my  Noblest  Friend,  I.  C,  Esq 324 

Nomine  Labia  mea  aperies 325 

Paucitatem    Dierum   meorum  nuncia 

mihi 326 

Et  exaltavit  Humiles 327 

Cupio  dissolvi 328 


NO.  OF  f  OEIC. 

HALL,  BISHOP. 

The  Requirements  of  a  Tutor 248 

Portrait  of  a  Poor  Gallant 249 

Discontent  of  Men  with  their  Condition  250 

HALL,  JOHN. 

The  Morning  Star ^  375 

HAMILTON,  WILLIAI^I. 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow 881 

Songs 882,  883 

HARRINGTON,  JOHN. 

Sonnet  made  on  Isabella  Markham 99 

Verses    on     a    most     Stony-hearted 
Maiden 100 

HARRINGTON,  SIR  JOHN. 

Of  Treason 150 

Of  Fortune 151 

Of  Wx-iters  who  Carp  at  other  Men's 

Books 152 

Of  a  Precise  Tailor 153 

HART. 

Come,  Holy  Spirit,  come 1075 

Be  Wise  to  run  thy  Race 1076 

HAUGHTON. 

Sweet  Content    433 

Lullaby 434 

HAYLEY,  WILLIAM. 

Tribute  to  a  Mother  on  her  Death 1089 

Inscription  on  the  Tomb  of  Cowper  ...  1090 
On  the  Tomb  of  Mrs.  Unwin 1091 

HEADLEY,  HENRY. 

From  his  "  Invocation  to  Melancholy  "  1041 

HEBER,  BISHOP. 

Passage  of  the  Red  Sea 1377 

From  Bishop  Heber's  Journal 1378 

An  Evening  Walk  in  Bengal 1379 

Epiphany 1380 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  Grave 1381 

Spring 1382 

HEMANS,  MRS. 

The  Homes  of  England    1436 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep 1437 

The  Voice  of  Spring 1438 

The  Graves  of  a  Household 1439 

Marguerite  of  France    1440 

Bring  Flowers     1441 

Casablanca  1442 

The  Hour  of  Prayer 1443 

Passing  Away 1444 

The  Better  Land    1445 

A  Father  reading  the  Bible 1446 

To  a  Family  Bible 1447 

The  Child's  First  Grief. 1448 

Willow  Song   1449 

The  Wandering  Wind  1450 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  in 

New  England 1451 

The  Adopted  Child   1452 

HENRYSONE,  ROBERT. 

Robene  and  Makyne 48 

Dinner  given  by  the  Town  Mouse  to 

theCountry  Mouse 49 

The  Garment  of  Good  Ladies 50 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND 


KO.  07  posai. 
HERBERT,  GEORGE. 

Sunday 302 

Virtue  „ 303 

The  Flower 304 

The  Odour  305 

Complaining   306 

Easter  307 

The  Call  308 

Man  309 

HERRICK,  ROBERT. 

The  Kiss,  a  Dialogue    340 

To  Blossoms    341 

To  Daffodils    342 

Song 343 

To  Meadows    344 

The  Country  Life  345 

To    Primroses    filled    with    Morning 

Dew  346 

Julia 347 

Cherry  Ripe 348 

A  Thanksgiving  for  his  House 349 

To  Find  God 350 

To  Corinna  to  go  a-May ing 351 

HERVEY,  T.  K. 

The  Convict  Ship 1525 

Dry  up  thy  Tears,  Love  -1526 

I  am  All  Alone 1527 

At  his  Sister's  Grave 1528 

Parting 1529 

HEYWOOD,  JOHN. 

Idleness 400 

Be  Merry,  Friends 401 

HEYWOOD,  THOMAS. 

The  Death-bell 469 

What  is  Lova 470 

Go,  Pretty  Birds    471 

Diana's  Nymphs 472 

The  Lark 473 

Shepherd's  Song 474 

Shipwreck  by  Drink 475 

Search  after  God 476 

HILL,  AARON. 

Verses  written  when  alone  in  an  Inn 
at  Southampton 1031 

HISLOP,  JAMES. 

The  Cameronian*s  Dream 1652 

HOGG,  JAMES. 

When  the  Kye  comes  Hame   1612 

The  Skylark 1613 

The  Moon  was  a-waning  1614 

Kilmeny 1615 

To  the  Comet  of  1811    1616 

HOOD,  THOMAS. 

Town  and  Country 1484 

Song ;;;;;;;;;  1435 

A  Parental  Ode  to  my  Son I486 

Flowers 1487 

Autumn *  1438 

To  a  Child  embracing  his  Mother 1489 

To  my  Daughter  on  her  Birthday 1490 

I  Remember,  I  Remember 1491 

Fair  Ines 1492 

Ruth 1493 

The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram 1494 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs I495 


NO.  or  FOSM. 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt 1496 

The  Death-bed 1497 

The  Water  Lady 1498 

Song 1499 

HOOK,  N. 

From  a  Poem  entitled  Amanda 706 

HOUGHTON,  LORD. 

The  Brookside 1717 

The  Men  of  Old 1718 

The  Long  Ago 1719 

HOWITT,  MARY. 

Mountain  Children 1653 

The  Fairies  of  the  Caldonlow 1654 

The  Monkey 1655 

Little  Streams 1656 

The  Broom  Flower 1657 

Summer  Woods. 1658 

Little  Children 1659 

Cornfields 1660 

HOWITT,  WILLIAM. 

The  Departure  of  the  Swallow 1661 

HUME,  ALEXANDER. 

Early  Dawn 391 

The  Noon-tide  of  a  Summer's  Day 392 

Evening 393 

HUME,  MARY  C. 

Render  to  Csesar  tne  things  which  are 
Csesar's 1817 

HUMPHREYS,  DAVID. 

Western  Emigration 1847 

HUNNIS,  WILLIAM. 

The  Love  that  is  requited  with  Dis- 
dain       93 

HUNT,  LEIGH. 

On  the  Birth  of  the  Princess  Royal 1397 

To  T.  L.  H.,  six  years  old   1398 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 1399 

Chorus  of  Flowers 1400 

The  Nun 1401 

AbouBen  Adhem 1402 

Jaffar 1403 

Mahmoud 1404 

HUNTER,  MRS. 

Songs 1112,  1113 

To  my  Daughter,  on  being  separated 

from  her  on  her  Marriage 1114 

The  Lot  of  Thousands 1115 


INGELAND,  THOMAS. 

My  Fantasy  will  never  turn... 397 

INGELOW,  JEAN. 

Requiescat  in  Pace ! 1832 

INGRAM,  J.  K. 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead 1793 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


JXO,  OV  F0Z3I. 


J. 


JAGO,  EICHAED. 

Labour  and  Genius 985 

JAMES  I.  OF  SCOTLAND. 

Spring  ...., 41 

James  bewails  his  Captivity 42 

♦Tames  first  sees  the  Lady  Jane 43 

JAMES  VI.,  KING. 

Ane  schort  Poeme  of  Tyme 394 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL. 

London 884 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 885 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Robert  Levett....  886 

JONES,  ERNEST. 

Moonrise  1794 

JONES,  SIR  W. 

An  Ode  in  Imitation  of  AIcjbus 1011 

A  Persian  Song  of  Hafiz  1012 

Tetrastic 1013 

JONSON,  BEN. 

To  the  Holy  Trinity „  237 

Cupid 238 

Song  of  Hesperus  239 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford « 240 

Song 241 

Song  to  Celia 242 

A  Nymph's  Passion  243 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke  244 

A  Celebration  of  Charis 245 

A  Hymn  to  God  the  Father 246 

Advice  to  a  Reckless  Youth 247 


K. 


KEATS,  JOHN. 

From  "Endymion" 1819 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  ,. 1820 

True  Beauty  in  Women   1821 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 1822 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  1823 

Sonnet 1824 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci  1825 

KEBLE,  JOHN. 

April 1795 

The  Elder  Scripture 1796 

St.  Peter's  Day  1797 

Is  this  a  time  to  Plant  and  Build  1 1798 

KEN,  BISHOP. 

MomingHymn  819 

Evening  Hymn 820 

Midnight  Hymn 821 

KING  ALFRED. 

The  Soul  in  Despair 5 

Nothing  on  Earth  permanent 6 

The  only  Rest 7 

The  Happy  Man 8 

KING,  BISHOP. 

Song 254 

Sic  Vita 255 

Life 256 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES. 

0,  Mary,  go  and  call  the  Cattle  home.  1799 
The  Fishermen 1800 

KNOWLES,  HERBERT. 

Lines  written  in  the  Churchyai'd  of 
Richmond,  Yorkshire    .,^.  j1383 

KNOX,  WILLIAM. 

Opening  of  the  Songs  of  Zion 1474 

Dirge  of  Rachel 1475 

A  Virtuous  Woman  1476 

Conclusion  of  the  "  Songs  of  Israel "...  1477 


L. 


LAIDLAW,  WILLIAM. 

Lucy's  Flittin* 1C49 

LAMB,  CHARLES. 

To  Hester 1228 

A  Farewell  to  Tobacco 1229 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 1230 

On  an  Infant  Dying  as  soon  as  Bom...  1231 

The  Christening 1232 

The  Gipsy's  Malison 1233 

Childhood 1234 

LANDON,  L.  E. 

From  the  Improvisatrice 1460 

Crescentius 1461 

The  Shepherd  Boy 1462 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood 1463 

Night  at  Sea 1464 

The  Awakening  of  Endymion 1465 

Hannibal's  Oath 1466 

The  Grasp  of  the  Dead 1467 

The  Troubadour 1468 

Last  Vei-ses  of  L.  E.  L 1469 

LANDOR,  W.  S. 

The  Maid's  Lament 1272 

The  Brier 1273 

Children 1274 

Iphigenia  and  Agamemnon 1 275 

To  Macaulay 1276 

The  One  Gray  Hair 1277 

LANGFORD,  J.  A. 

To  the  First  Cuckoo  of  the  Year 1816 

LANGHORE,  DR. 

Coun  try  J  ustices  and  theii*  Duties 930 

Gipsies 931 

An  Appeal  for  the  Industrious  Poor ...  932 

Mercy  should  have  mitigated  Justice..  933 

A  Farewell  to  the  Valley  of  Irwan 934 

Owen  of  Carron 935 

LANSDOWNE,  GEO.  GRANVILLE,  LORD. 
Song 837 

LEE,  NATHANIEL. 

Speech 692 

Love 693 

Self-murder 694 

LEWIS,  M.  G. 

Alonzo    the    Brave    and     the     Fair 
Imogine 1313 


NAMES  OP  THE  POETS  AND 


NO.  OP  POEM. 

LEYDEN,  JOHN. 

Dying  ia  a  Foreign  Land 1129 

Sonnet  on  Sabbath  Morn 1130 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin 1131 

The  Mermaid 1132 

To  lanthe 1133 

Ode  to  the  Evening  Star 1134 

Scotland 1135 

lilLLO,  GEORGE. 

From  Fatal  Curiosity 831 

LLOYD,  ROBERT. 

The  Miseries  of  a  Poet's  Life 950 

Wretchedness  of  a  School  Usher 951 

LOCKHART^  J.  G. 

Bernardo  and  Alphbnso   1522 

Zara's  Ear-rings 1523 

The  Excommunication  of  the  Cid 152-i 

LODGE,  THOMAS. 

Beauty 428 

Rosalind's  Madrigal 429 

Ro?ader's  Sonetto  430 

Another 431 

LOGAN,  JOHN. 

To  theCuckoo 962 

Written  on  a  Visit  to  the  Country  in 

Autumn 963 

Complaint  of  Nature 964 

LOKER,  T. 

Many,  many  Years  ago  1810 

LONGLANDE,  ROBERT. 

Mercy  and  Truth 17 

Covetousness 18 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD. 

Song 352 

ToLucasta 353,354 

To  Althea 355 

Song 356 

A  Loose  Saraband 357 

LYDGATE,  JOHN. 

Canace 36 

From  "  The  London  Lackpenny  " 37 

A  Sylvan  Retreat 38 

TheGolden  Age 39 

God's  Providence 40 

LYLY,  JOHN. 

Cupid  andCampaspe 404 

The  Song  of  Birds 405 

Complaint  against  Love 406 

Apollo's  Song  of  Daphne 407 

Song  to  Apollo  408 

LYNDSAY,  SIR  DAVID. 

Grievances  of  a  Scottish  Peasant  of  the 

16th  Century  £3 

The  Exactions  and  Delay  of  the  Law...       59 

Description  of  Squy re  M  eldrum 60 

Meldrum's  Duel  with  the  English  Cham- 
pion Talbart 61 

Christ  Coming  to  Judgment 62 

LYTTELTON,  LORD. 

The  Progress  of  Love 904 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ayscough 905 


KO.  OF  POBM. 

To  the   Memory  of  the   First  Lady 
Lyttelton 906 

LYTTON,  LORD. 

The  Secret  Way 1828 

LYTTON,  ROBERT. 

The  Apple  of  Life 1829 

lipilogue  1880 


M. 


MACAULAY,  LORD. 

The  War  of  the  League    1565 

Naseby 1567 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE. 

The  Owl  and  the  Bell    1831 

MACKAY,  CHARLES. 

The  Parting  of  Lovers 1737 

The  Child  and  the  Mourners  1738 

Under  the  Holly  Bough   1739 

What  might  be  Done 1740 

The  Good  Time  Coming  1741 

The  Sailor's  Wife  1742 

MACNEILL,  HECTOR. 

The  Ale-house    1595 

The  Husband's  Return 1596 

Mary  of  Castle-Cary 1597 

MACPHERSON,  JAMES. 

The  Cave 939 

MAITLAND,  SIR  RICHARD. 

The  Town  Ladies  388 

MALLET,  DAVID. 

William  and  Margaret 897 

Edwin  and  Emma  898 

Song 899 

A  Funeral  Hymn   900 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER. 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love  .     113 

MARSTON,  JOHN. 

A  Scholar  and  his  Dog 46$ 

MARVELL,  ANDREW. 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden  633 

The  Emigrants  in  Bermudas    634 

Young  Love 635 

The  Nymph  Complaining  for  the  Death 

of  her  Fawn 636 

MASON.  913 

An  Ode  from  Caractacus  914 

Ode  to  Memory  915 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason 

MASSEY,  GERALD. 

The  Men  of  Forty-eight  1745 

No  Jewell'd  Beauty  is  my  Love 1746 

A  Poor  Man's  Wife  1747 

Kisses    1748 

Sweet  and  Twenty 1749 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.   OF  POKM. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  my  Love  1750 

Old  England    1751 

England  goes  to  Battle 1752 

There's  no  Dearth  of  Kindness  1753 

To  a  Beloved  One  1754 

A  Wail  1755 

Oh,  lay  thy  Hand  in  mine.  Dear  !  1756 

MASSINGER,  PHILIP. 

Welcome  to  the  Forest's  Queen 463 

The  Sweets  of  Beauty  464 

Death    465 

MAY,  THOMAS. 

The  Death  of  Rosamond  367 

MAYNE,  JOHN. 

Logan  Braes    1605 

Helen  of  Kirkconnel 1606 

To  the  River  Nith  1607 

Mustering  of  the  Trades  to  Shoot  for 
the  Siller  Gun 1608 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE. 

Love  in  the  Valley 1744 

MERRICK,  JAMES. 

The  Chameleon  1016 

The  Wish 1017 

MICKLK 

CumnorHall   928 

The  Mariner's  Wife  929 

MIDDLETON,  THOMAS. 

The  Three  States  of  Woman    450 

What  Love  is  like  451 

Happiness  of  Married  Life   452 

Devotion  to  Love    453 

Indignation  at  the  Sale  of  a  Wife's 

Honour 454 

Law   455 

MILMAN,  H.  H. 

Summons  of  the  Destroying  Angel  to 

the  City  of  Babylon  1664 

The  Fair  Recluse    1665 

The  Day  of  Judgment  1666 

Bridal  Song 1667 

Hymn   1668 

Brother,  thou  art  gone 1669 

Chorus 1670 

MILTON,  JOHN. 

L'Allegro 603 

II  Penseroso 604 

Lycidas 605 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity 606 

Praise  of  Chastity 607 

The  Lady's  Song  in  Comus 608 

The  Spirit's  Epilogue  in  Comus 609 

On  May  Morning    610 

Sonnet  to  the  Nightingale    611 

Sonnet  on  Age  of  Twenty-three 612 

Sonnet  on  his  Blindness   613 

Sonnet  on  his  Deceased  Wife  614 

Sonnet  on  the  late  Massacre  in  Pied- 
mont    615 

Samson  bewailing  his  Blindness  and 

Captivity 616 

Tran^^lation  of  Horace  617 

Athens 618 


NO.  OF  rOEM. 

The  Invocation  and  Introduction  to 

Paradise  Lost 619 

Satan's  Address  to  the  Sun 620 

Assembling  of  the  Fallen  Angels  621 

Satan  meets  Sin  and  Death 622 

Address  to  Light   623 

The  Angelic  Worship    624 

Paradise   .....TT....-  625 

Adam  and  Eve    626 

Eve's  Recollections 627 

Morning  in  Paradise 628 

Evening  in  Paradise 629 

The  Messiah    630 

Temperance 631 

Expulsion  from  Paradise 632 

MOIR,  D.  M. 

CasaWappy    1534 

Langsyne 1535 

The  Unknown  Grave 1536 

Hymn   1537 

MONTGOMERY,  ALEXANDER. 

The  Cherry  and  the  Slae 389 

Night  is  nigh  gone    390 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES. 

Night    1384 

The  Grave   1385 

Aspirations  of  Youth    1386 

The  Common  Lot  1387 

Prayer  1388 

Home    1389 

A  Mother's  Love    1390 

ToaDaisy  1391 

The  Reign  of  Christ  on  Earth 1392 

The  Stranger  and  his  Friend  1393 

The  Field  of  the  World    1394 

MONTGOMERY,  ROBERT. 

The  Stan-y  Heavens  1481 

Picture  of  War  1482 

Lost  Feelings  1183 

MOORE,  EDWARD. 

The  Happy  Marriage 1034 

MOORE,  SIR  JOHN  H. 

L' Amour  Timide 983 

Song 984 

MOORE,  THOMAS. 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer 1278 

Wreathe  the  Bowl 1279 

Fill  the  Bumper  fair 1280 

And  doth  not  a  Meeting  like  this  1281 

Friend  of  my  Soul 1282 

Go  where  Gloiy  waits  thee  ! 1283 

Fly  to  the  Desert   .' 1284 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's 

Halls 1285 

Song 1286 

0!  Breathe  not  his  Name   1287 

Those  Evening  Bells 1288 

Arranmore  1289 

Miriam's  Song    1290 

Echoes 1291 

The  Light  of  other  Days 1292 

The  Journey  Onwards  1293 

MORE,  HENRY. 

The  Philosopher's  Devotion 572 

Charity  and  Humility   573 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND 


ifo.  OF  fobm:. 

The  Soul  and  the  Body 574 

The  Pre-existence  of  the  Soul    575 

MOERIS,  WILLIAM. 

From  '*The  Loves  of  Guarun"  ...1839,  1840 

MOSS,  THOMAS. 

The  Beggar 1027 

MOTHERWELL. 

Jeanie  Morrison 1631 

Sword  Chant  of  Thoretein  Raudi  1632 

They    come !     the     Merry    Summer 

Months 1633 

The  Water,  the  Water 1634 

The  Midnight  Wind 1635 

The  Cavalier's  Song  1636 

The    Bloom    hath    fled    thy    Cheek, 

Mary 1637 

My  Held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie 1638 

The  Covenanter's  Battle  Chant 1639 

When  I  beneath  the   cold  red  earth 

am  sleeping 1640 

Song  of  the  Danish  Sea-king 1641 

MOULTRIE,  JOHN. 

The  Three  Sons 1801 


N. 

NABBES,  THOMAS. 

Song  by  Love  to  Physander  and  Bel- 
lanima  S76 

NASH,  THOMAS. 

Spring 439 

The  Decay  of  Summer 440 

The  Coming  of  Winter 441 

Approaching  Death 442 

Contentment 443 

Despair  of  a  Poor  Scholar 444 

NICCOLS,  RICHARD. 

Robert,   Duke    of  Normandy,   previ- 
ously to  his  eyes  being  put  out 496 

NICHOLSON,  WILLIAM. 

The  Brownie  of  Blednoch 1650 

NICOLL,  ROBERT. 

Thou^ts  of  Heaven 1642 

We  are  Brethren  a' 1643 

Wild  Flowers 1644 

Death.... ^ '  1645 

NORTON,  HON.  MRS. 

Picture  of  Twilight 1710 

The  Mother's  Heart ......*  1711 

To  Ferdinand  Seymour 1712 

We  have  been  Friends  together.........  1713 

Allan  Percy I714 

Love  not I715 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Ride 17I6 

NUGENT,  EARL. 

Ode  to  Mankind IO44 


OLDMIXON,  JOHN. 
Sons: 


838 


iO.  OF  rOEM. 

OLDYS,  WILLIAM. 

Song 1021 

OPIE,  MRS.  AMELIA. 

The  Orphan  Boy's  Tale 1116 

A  Lament 1117 

Song 1118 

OTWAY,  THOMAS. 

A  Blessing  687 

Parting 688 

Picture  of  a  Witch 689 

Song 690 

Description  of  Morning 691 

OUSELEY,  T.  J. 

The  Angel  of  the  Flowers 1811 

The  Seasons  of  Life 1812 

OVERBURY,  SIR  THOMAS. 

The  Wife ,.    495 

OXFORD,  EDWARD,  EARL  OF. 

Fancy  and  Desire 494 


PARNELL,  TH0^L4.S. 

A  Fairy  Tale 808 

The  Hermit 809 

Hymn  to  Contentment 810 

Song 811 

Morning  Hymn 812 

Noontide  Hymn 813 

Evening  Hymn 814 

PEELE,  GEORGE. 

-lEnone's  Complaint 409 

The  Song  of  the  enamoured  Shepherd.  410 

The  Aged  Man-at-Arms 411 

England 412 

Joab's  Description  of  David 413 

Joab's  Address  to  David  on  Death  ot' 

Absalom 414 

King  David , 415 

Bethsabe  bathing  416 

Bethsabe's  Address  to  the  Zephyr 417 

David  enamoured  of  Bethsabe. 418 

PENROSE,  THOMAS. 

The  Helmets 981 

The  Field  of  Battle 982 

PERCY,  DR.  THOMAS. 

O  Nanny,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  me 937 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray 938 

PHILIPS,  AMBROSE. 

A  Fragment  of  Sappho 788 

Epistle  to  the  Earl  of  Dorset 789 

The  First  Pastoral 790 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney 791 

PHILIPS,  JOHN. 

The  Splendid  Shilling 6Q& 

PHILIPS,  KATHERINE. 

The  Inquiry 384 

A  Friend 385 

POLLOK,  ROBERT. 

Thus  stood  his  Mind  1430 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Hell  1431 

A  Scene  of  Early  Love 1432 

The  Death  of  the  Young  Mother 1 433 

Friendship 1434 

Happiness 1435 

POMFRET,  JOHN. 

Custom 677 

The  Wish 678 

POPE,  ALEXANDER. 

The  Messiah 770 

Satire 777 

To  a  Lady 778 

The  Man  of  Ross 779 

The  Toilet 780 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul 781 

The  Quiet  Life 782 

Moonlight 783 

POPE,  DR.  WALTER. 

The  Old  Man's  Wish 68G 

PRAED,  W.  M. 

Twenty-eight  and  Twenty-nine 1709 

PRINGLE,  THOMAS. 

Afar  in  the  Desert 1478 

The  Lion  and  the  Giraffe 1479 

The  Emigrant's  Farewell 1480 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW. 

An  Ode 747 

A  Song 748 

The  despairing  Shepherd 749 

The  Lady's  Looking-glass 750 

Cupid  and  Ganymede 751 

Cupid  mistaken 752 

Mercury  and  Cnpid 753 

The  Garland 754 

Henry  and  Emma 755 

The  Thief  and  the  Cordelier 756 

Protogenes  and  Apelles 757 

Abra'sLove  for  Solomon 758 

Epitaph,  Extempore 759 

For  my  Own  Monument  760 

An  Epitaph 761 

On  Bishop    Atterbury's  burying  the 

Duke  of  Buckingham 762 

PROCTER,  B.  W. 

Address  to  the  Ocean 1673 

Marcelia 1674 

Night 1675 

The  Sleeping  Figure  of  Modena 1676 

An  Invocation  to  Birds 1677 

To  the  Snowdrop Itj78 

Song  of  Wood  Nymphs 1679 

The  Blood  Horse 1680 

The  Sea 1681 

The  Stormy  Petrel    1682 

The  Sea  in  Calm 1683 

The  Hunter's  Song 1684 

The  Owl 1685 

A  Song  for  the  Seasons 1686 

The  Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife 1687 

Softly  woo  away  her  Breath 1688 

The  Mother's  last  Song 1689 

Peace!  what  do  tears  avail  ?    1690 

A  Bridal  Dirge 1691 

Hermione     * 1692 

A  Poet's  Thought 1693 

A  Petition  to  Time 1694 


KG.  OF  POEM. 

Sit  down,  sad  Soul 1695 

Life  1696 


Q. 


QUARLES,  FRANCIS. 

What  is  Lite 292 

The  Vanity  of  the  World 293 

Faith 294 

Delight  in  God  only 295 

Song 296 

Hey,  then,  up  go  we 737 

QUARLES,  JOHN. 

Hymn  to  the  Almighty 676 


R. 


RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER. 

The  Nymph's  Reply 114 

The  Country's  Recreations 115 

RAMSAY,  ALLAN. 

Song 824 

The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor  ...  825 

Ode  from  Horace   826 

RANDOLPH,  THOMAS. 

To  a  Lady  admuring  Herself  in  a  Look- 
ing-glass      358 

From  the  Muse's  Looking-glass 359 

To  my  Picture    360 

RANDS,  W.  B. 

Lilliput  Levee 1826 

Baby 1827 

REDFORD,  JOHN 

Song  of  Honest  Recreation 403 

ROBERTS,  W.  H. 

Belshazzar  and  Daniel 979 

The  Jews'  Return  to  Jerusalem 980 

ROCHESTER,  EARL  OF. 

Song 654 

Constancy  655 

Song 656 

Song 657 

ROGERS,  SAMUEL. 

From  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memoiy "    ...  1180 

From  "  Human  Life  "  1181 

From  the  "  Voyage  of  Columbus"    ...  1182 

Genevra    1183 

The  Sleeping  Beauty 1184 

A  Wish 1185 

An  Italian  Song 1186 

To  the  Butterfly 1187 

On  a  Tear 1188 

ROLLE,  RICHARD. 

What  is  Heaven  ?  16 

ROSCOMMON,  EARL  OP 

Against  False  Pride  650 

An  Author  should  be  sincei'e  651 

A  Quack  652 

On  the  Day  of  Judgment 653 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND 


IfO.  OF  POBM, 

ROSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL. 

The  Blessed  Daraozel    1841 

The  Portrait    1842 

Newborn  Death 1843 

ROSS,  ALEXANDER. 

Woo'd  and  Married  and  a'  1045 

Mary's  Dream 1046 

ROWE,  NICHOLAS. 

Colin's  Complaint  828 

The  Contented  Shepherd 829 

Song. 830 

RUSSELL,  THOMAS. 

Sonnet  to  Valclusa 1042 

Sonnet,   supposed   to  be  written  at 
Lemnos  1043 


S. 


SANDYS,  GEORGE. 

A  Thanksgiving 477 

Psalm  xlii 478 

Psalm  Ixviii 479 

Chorus  of  Jewish  Women ,  480 

SAVAGE,  RICHARD. 

Remorse  840 

The  Wanderer 841 

SCOT,  ALEXANDER. 

To  his  Heart 386 

Rondel  of  Love 387 

SCOTT,  JOHN. 

The  Tempestuous  Evening 1018 

Ode  on  hearing  the  Di-um    1019 

Ode  on  Privateering 1020 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER. 

Description  of  Melrose  Abbey 1314 

Love  of  Country 1315 

Death  of  Marmion 1316 

Young  Lochinvar 1317 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 1318 

Songs... 1319, 1320 

Border  Ballad 1321 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 1322 

Coronach 1323 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maiden 1324 

Cadyow  Castle    1325 

The  Outlaw r. 1326 

A  Serenade 1327 

Where  shall  the  Lover  rest  1328 

The  Maid  of  Neidpath 1329 

The  Pride  of  Youth 1330 

Rosabelle 1331 

Hunting  Soug 1332 

The  Palmer 1333 

The  Wild  Huntsman 1334 

Christmas 1335 

Hymn  for  the  Dead  1336 

SEDLEY,  SIR  CHARLES. 

To  a  very  Young  Lady 667 

Song 668 

Cosmelia's  Charms 669 

Song 670 

SEWARD,  ANNA. 

The  Anniversary 1111 


NO.   OP  POEM,. 

SEWELL,  DR.  GEORGE. 

Verses 832 

SHADWELL,  THOMAS. 

Inconstancy  of  Love 700 

SHAKSPERE,  WILLIAM. 

Mercy  165 

Night 166 

Night  and  Music 167 

Grief  that  cannot  be  comforted 168 

Flowers 169 

Richard  the  Second's  Lament 170 

Soliloquy  of  Richard  the   Second  in 

Prison  171 

Hetspur's  Defence 172 

Rumour 173 

Sleep 174 

Henry    the    Fourth's    Expostulation 

with  his  Son 175 

The  Answer  of  the  Lord  Chief  Jus- 
tice to  Henry  V 176 

The  King's  Answer 177 

Henry  the  Fifth's  Address  to  his  Sol- 
diers before  Harfieur 178 

Henry  the  Fifth's  Address   at  Agin- 

court 179 

Henry  the    Fifth's  Soliloquy  on  the 

Battle-field  180 

Gloster's  Soliloquy 181 

Wolsey  on  his  Fall 182 

Cranmer's  Prophecy  of  Queen  EUza- 

beth  183 

Hamlet's  Soliloquy  on  Death 184 

Macbeth  before  murdering  the  King. . .  185 

Cassius  to  Brutus 186 

Mark  Antony's  Oration  on  the  Body 

of  Csesar 187 

Cleopatra 188 

Life 189 

Appearances 190 

The  Uses  of  Adversity 191 

A  Meditative  Fool 192 

The  World  a  Stage  193 

Adversity 194 

Beauty 195 

Ceremony 196 

Friends  falling  off  197 

Gold 198 

Insanity 199 

Self-inspection 200 

Love 201 

England 202 

Order  and  Obedience 203 

Proper  use  of  Talents 204 

Take  the  beam  out  of  thine  own  eye  205 

The  Voice  of  the  Dying 206 

A  Good  Conscience    207 

Good  Name 208 

Ariel's  Song 209 

The  Fairy  to  Puck     210 

Amiens'  Song 211 

SHAW,  CUTHBERT. 

From  "A  Monody  to  the  Memory  of 

his  Wife" 1036 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  B. 

Opening  of  Queen  Mab 1359 

The  Cloud 1360 

To  a  Skylark  1361 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air 1362 

I  fear  thy  kisses  1363 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.  OF   POBM. 

Love's  Philosophy 1364 

To  the  Night  1365 

The  Flight  of  Love 1366 

One  Word  is  too  often  prof  aned 1367 

Invocation 1368 

Stanzas    written    in   Dejection    near 

Naples 1369 

Ozymandias  of  Egypt  1370 

To  a  Lady,  with  a  Guitar 1371 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 1372 

Autumn 1373 

The  Widow  Bird 1374 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 1 375 

Mutability 1376 

SHENSTONE. 

The  Schoolmistress 893 

A  Pastoral  Ballad 894 

Ode  to  Memory 895 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley. 896 

SHIRLEY,  JAMES. 

Upon  his  Mistress  sad 379 

Echo  and  Narcissus  380 

Shepherd  and  Shepherdesses 460 

The  Common  Doom    461 

The  Equality  of  the  Grave  462 

SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP. 

Sonnets 107 

SKELTON,  JOHN. 

To  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey 63 

SKINNER,  JOHN. 

Tullochgorum 1050 

8MART,  CHRISTOPHER. 

Songto  David 994 

From  aTx-ip  to  Cambridge 995 

Ode 996 

SMITH,  ALEXANDER. 

Lady  Barbara 1743 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE. 

On  the  Departure  of  the  Nightingale  1099 

Written  at  the  Close  of  Spring  1100 

Recollections  of  English  Scenery  1101 

SMITH,  HORACE. 

Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni's 

Exhibition 1418 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers   1419 

On  the  Death  of  George  III 1420 

SMITH,  JAMES. 

The  Upas  in  Marylebone-lane     1417 

SMITH,  JAMES  AND  HORACE. 

The  Theatre 1414 

The  Baby's  D€but 1415 

A  Tale  of  Drury-lane    1416 

SMOLLETT,  TOBIAS. 

Ode  to  Independence 921 

Ode  to  Leven  Water 922 

The  Tears  of  Scotland 923 

SOMERVILLE,  WILLIAM. 

Description  of  a  Hare-hunt     806 

Praise  of  a  Country  Life 807 


NO.   OF   POEM. 

SOTHEBY,  WILLIAM. 

StafiFa    1235 

Approach    of   Saul  and    his    Guards 

against  the  Philistines 1236 

Song  of  the  Virgins  celebrating  the 

Victory 1237 


SOUTHERNE,  THOMAS. 
Song 


827 


SOUTHEY,  CAROLINE. 

Autumn  Flowers 1530 

The  Pauper's  Deathbed   1531 

The  Last  Journey 1532 

Mariner's  Hymn 1533 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT. 

The  Widowed  Mother 1213 

A  Moonlight  Scene 1214 

The  Holly-tree 1215 

The  Alderman's  Funeral 1216 

Love 1217 

The  Miser's  Mansion 1218 

After  Blenheim  ; 1219 

The  Scholar 1220 

Youth  and  Age 1221 

The  Complaints  of  the  Poor 1222 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts 1223 

The  Inchcape  Rock  1224 

Bishop  Hatto 1225 

Mary  the  Maid  of  the  Inn 1223        i 

St.  Romuald 1227 

SOUTHWELL,  ROBERT. 

Love's  Servile  Lot 108 

Look  Home 109 

Times  go  by  turns  110 

The  Image  of  Death Ill 

Scorn  not  the  least  112 

SPENCER,  PETER. 

Lines  to  Fanny  1807 

Sent  with  a  Rose  to  Rose 1808 

A  Thought  among  the  Roses 1809 

SPENCER,  HON.  W.  R. 

Beth  G61ert 1395 

Wife,  Children,  and  Friends 1396 

SPENSER,  EDMUND. 

Una  and  the  Redcross  Knight 124 

Una  followed  by  the  Lion 125 

The  Sqnire  and  the  Dove 126 

Fable  of  the  Oak  and  the  Briar 127 

From  the  Epithalamion   128 

The  House  of  Riches 129 

The  Ministry  of  Angels    130       j 

Prince  Arthur's  Address  to  Night 131 

The  Garden  of  Adonis 132 

The  Bower  of  Bliss 133 

Sonnets 134 

STANLEY,  THOMAS. 

The  Tomb 565 

Celia  Singing 566 

Speaking  and  Kissing 567 

La  Belle  Confidante 568 

Note  to  Moschus 669 


STEPNEY,  GEORGE. 
To  the  Evening  Star. 


682 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND 


NO.   OF   POEM. 

STERLINE,    EARL    OF,    WILLIAM 
ALEXANDER. 

Sonnets    489 

STILL,  BISHOP. 

Drinking  Son^j 402 

STIRLING,  EARL  OF. 

Sonnet 396 

STORER,  THOMAS. 

Wolsey's  Ambition 490 

Wolsey's  Vision 491 

SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN. 

Song 329 

A  Ballad  upon  a  Wedding. 330 

Constancy 331 

Song 332 

SURREY,  HOWARD,  EARL  OF. 

Imprisoned  in  Windsor,  he  recounteth 

his  Pleasure  there  passed 64 

No  Age  Content  with  his  Own  Estate.  QJ) 

The  Means  to  attain  Happy  Life QQ 

Description  of  Spring 67 

How  each  Thing,  save  the  Lover,  in 

Spring  re viveth  to  Pleasure 68 

Description  and  Praise  of  his  Loue, 

Geraldine   69 

A  Vow  to  Loue 70 

A  Lover's  Complaint 71 

SWAIN,  C. 

The  Death  of  the  Warrior-king 1697 

The  Voice  of  the  Morning  1698 

The  Mother's  Hand 1699 

TheOrphanBoy 1700 

Sabbath  Chimes 1701 

Love's  History 1702 

SWIFT,  JONATHAN. 

Morning   "771 

Description  of  a  City  Shower  772 

Baucis  and  Philemon 773 

Verses  on  his  own  Death 774 

The  Grand  Question  debated 775 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES. 

The  Sea    1833 

Meleager  Dying    1834 

SYLVESTER,  JOSHUA. 

The  Soul's  Errand 119 

To  Religion 120 


TANNAHILL,  ROBERT. 

The  Braes  o'  Balquhither 1598 

The  Braes  o'  Gleniffer 1599 

The  Flower  o'  Dumblane 1600 

The  Midges  dance  aboon  the  Bum  ....  1601 
Gloomy  Winter's  now  awa' 1602 

TATE,  NAHUM. 

The  Birth  of  Christ 822 

From  Psalm  civ 823 

TAYLOR,  BISHOP  JEREMY. 

Of  Heaven 555 


KO.   OF   PftEM. 

TENNANT,  WILLIAM. 

From  Anster  Fair 1628 

The  Heroine  of  Anster  Fair..... 1629 

Description  of  the  Comers  to  the  Fair  1630 

TENNYSON,  A. 

Song  of  the  Brook 1703 

The  Reconciliation 1704 

The  Widow  and  Child 1705 

From  In  Memoriam 1706 

Lady  Clare 1707 

Dora 1708 

TENNYSON,  FREDERICK. 

First  of  March 1804 

The  Bridal 1805 

The  Blackbird 1806 

THACKERAY,  W.  M. 

The  Age  of  Wisdom 1762 

Damages  Two  Hundred  Pounds 1763 

THOMPSON,  EDWARD. 

The  Sailor's  Farewell 1038 

Songs 1039,  1040 

THOMSON,  JAMES. 

Showers  in  Spring 864 

Birds  Pairing  in  Spring 865 

Domestic  Happiness 866 

Musidora 867 

A  Summer  Morning 868 

A  Summer  Evening 869 

Lavinia 870 

The  Hai-vest  Storm 871 

Autumn  Evening  Scene 872 

A  Winter  Landscape 873 

A  Hymn 874 

From  the  Bard's  Song  in  the  Castle  of 

Indolence 875 

Ode 876 

Hymn  on  Solitude 877 

The  Happy  Man 878 

Rule  Britannia 879 

THRALE,  MRS. 

The  Three  Warnings 1026 

TICKELL,  THOMAS. 

Colin  and  Lucy 784 

To  the  Earl  of  Warwick  on  the  Death 
of  Addison 785 

TIGHE,  MARY. 

The  Marriage  of  Cupid  and  Psyche ....  1121 
The  Lily 1122 

TOPLADY,  A. 

Love  Divine,  all  love  excelling 1072 

Deathless  Principle,  arise 1 073 

Rock  of  Ages  cleft  for  me 1074 

TRAIN,  JOSEPH. 

Song 1651 

TRENCH,  R.  C. 

Harmosan 1802 

Be  Patient 1803 

TUSSER,  THOMAS. 

An    Introduction     to     the    Book    of 
Husbandry 81 


TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.   OF   POESI. 

A  Preface  to  the  Buyer  of  his  Book  on 

Husbandry 82 

The  Ladder  to  Thrift 83 

Directions    for    Cultivating    a    Hop- 
garden   84 

Housewifery  Phj'sic 85 

Good  Husbandly  Lessons S6 

The  Winds 87 

A  Christmas  Carol 88 

Posies  for  thine  own  Bed-chamber 89 

Principal  Points  of  Keligion 90 


U. 


UDALL,  NICHOLAS. 

The  Work-girl's  Song  398 

The  Minion  Wife 399 

UNCERTAIN. 

Sadne^^s 502 

The  Soul's  Errand 503 

Content 504 

The  Woodman's  Walk 505 

Canzonet 506 

The  Oxford  Riddle 507 

Ambitio  Feminini  Generis  508 

Nee  Sutor  ultra  509 


V. 


VANERUGH,  SIR  JOHN. 

Fable,  related  by  a  Beau  to  ^sop 833 

VAUGHAN,  HENRY. 

Early  Rising  and  Prayer 556 

The  Feast 5.57 

The  Bee 558 

Peace 559 

They  are  all  gone 560 

The  Timber 561 

The  Rainbow  562 

The  Wreath 563 

The  Retreat 564 

VERE,  AUBREY  DE. 

Early  Friendship 1789 

Song 1790 

Sonnet 1791 


W. 


WALLER,  EDMUND. 

On  a  Girdle 585 

'On  Love 586 

A  Panegyric  to  the  Lord  Protector. ....  587 

At  Penshurst f, 588 

The  Bud 589 

Say,  lovely  Dream 690 

Go,  lovely  Rose 591 

Old  Age  and  Death 592 

To  Amoret "  593 

To  Phyllis ;;  594 

Of  the  Queen 595 

On  my  Lady  Sydney's  Picture .'  596 

On  my  Lady  Isabella  playing  the  Lute  597 

To  a  Lady 598 

Love's  Farewell 599 


NO.    OP   POEM. 

On  Loving  at  First  Sight 600 

The  Self-banished 601 

The  Night-piece "602 

WALSH,  WILLIAM. 

Song C83 

WARD,  EDWARD. 

Song 835 

WARNER,  WILLIAM. 

Tale  of  Argeutile  and  Curan 484 

WARTON.  JOSEPH. 

To  Fancy  974 

WARTON,  THOMAS. 

The  Hamlet 965 

On  Revisiting  the  River  Loddon 966 

Written  on  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Dugdale's 

Monasticon 967 

Sonnet 968 

Inscription  in  a  Hermitage 969 

The  Suicide 970 

Ode  sent  to  a  Friend  on  his  leaving  a 

Favourite  Village 971 

A  Panegyric  on  Oxford  Ale 972 

The  Progress  of  Discontent 973 

WASTELL,  SIMON. 

Man's  Mortality 501 

WATSON,  THOMAS. 

The  Nymphs  to  their  May  Queen 122 

Sonnet '. 123 

W^ATTS,  DR. 

The  Rose 850 

A  Summer  Evening  851 

Few  Happy  Matches 852 

The  Day  of  Judgment 853 

God  known  only  to  Himself    854 

WEBSTER,  JOHN. 

A  Dirge 446 

The  Madman's  Song 447 

The  Preparation  for  Execution 448 

Death 449 

WESLEY,  CHARLES. 

Come,  0  thou  Traveller    1064 

Weary  of  Wandering 1065 

Jesu,  Lover  of  my  Soul 1066 

WESLEY,  JOHN. 

From  Tersteege 1067 

From  the  German 1063 

From  Count  Zuizendorf    1069 

From  Scheffler 1070 

From  the  German 1071 

WEST,  GILBERT. 

Allegorical  Desci'iption  of  Vertu    1032 

WHITE,  H.  KIRKE, 

To  an  Early  Primrose 1165 

Sonnet 1166 

The  St*r  of  Bethlehem 1167 

A  Hymn  for  Family  Worship 1168 

TheChristiad 1169 

The  Shipwrecked  Solitary's  Song 1170 

From  Clifton  Grove 1171 

Hymn 1172 

C2 


NAMES  OF  THE  POETS  AND  TITLES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.   OF   POEM. 

WHITEHEAD,  PAUL. 

Hunting  Song 10-j7 

WHITEHEAD,  W. 

Variety 986 

WILDE,  DR.                              ^  _.  .       . 
A  Complaint  of  a  Learned  Divine  m 
Puritan  Times 257 

WILSON.  A. 

A  VilUge  Scold  surprising  her  Hus- 
band in  an  Alehouse 1593 

Aruular'sStory    1594 

WILSON,  JOHN. 

To  a  Sleeping  Child  1421 

The  Sabbath  Day  1422 

Lines    written    in    a    lonely   Burial- 
ground  in  the  Highlands 1423 

The  Midnight  Ocean 1424 

The  Evening  Cloud 1425 

Plague  Scenes 1426 

Address  to  a  Wild  Deer   1427 

Mary 1428 

The  Widowed  Mother  1429 

WILSON,  R. 

The  Summer's  Queen    432 

WINCHELSEA,  ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF. 

A  Nocturnal  Reverie , 817 

Life's  Progress 818 

WITHER,  GEORGE. 

Christmas    271 

Sonnet  upon  a  Stolen  Kiss 272 

The  Companionship  of  the  Muse 273 

A  Prisoner's  Lay 274 

From  "A  Dirge"  275 

To  a  Brother  Poet 276 

The  just  Indignation  of  the  oppressed  277 
A  persecuted  Poet's   Address    to  his 

King.. 278 

My  Heavenly  Father   and  his  erring 

Child 279 

Against  hired  Flatterers 280 

The  1 48th  Psalm  paraphrased 281 

The  Ford  of  Arle  282 

The  sequestered  Retirement  of  Bent- 
worth 283 

Prayer  for  Seasonable  Weather 284 

WOLCOT,  DR. 

The  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas  1147 

Dr.  Johnson's  Style  1148 

Advice  to  Landscape  Painters 1149 

The  Apple  Dumplings  and  a  King 1150 

Whitbread's  Brewery  visited  by  their 

Majesties 1151 

Lord  Gregory 1152 

May-Day ',[\\  1153 

Epigram  on  Sleep 1154 

To  my  Candle , 1155 

WOLFE,  CHARLES. 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 1562 

The  Death  of  Mary , 1563 

Song 1564 


NO.   OF   POEM. 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM. 

London,  1802 1189 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us  ......:. .  1190 

On  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge  1191 

Lines 1192 

Lucy 1193 

A  Portrait 1194 

Tinteru  Abbey 1195 

To  a  Highland  Girl 1196 

An  Old  Man's  Reflections 1197 

Ode 1198 

Yarrow  Visited 1199 

To  a  Distant  Friend  1200 

Tothe  Skylark 1201 

To  the  Cuckoo 1202 

Composed  at  Neidpath  Castle 1203 

Upon  Westminster  Bridge  1204 

Admonition  to  a  Traveller 1205 

The  Reaper 1206 

The  Daffodils 1207 

To  the  Daisy 1208 

By  the  Sea  1209 

To  Sleep  1210 

Written  in  Early  Spring 1211 

The  two  April  Mornings 1212 

WOTTON,  SIR  HENRY. 

To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohe- 
mia    158 

A  Farewell  to  the  Vanities  of  the  World  1 59 

The  Good  Man   160 

A  Meditation 161 

On  the  sudden  Restraint  of  the  Earl 

Somerset,  then  falling  from  favour, . .  162 

In  praise  of  Angling 163 

WYAT,  SIR  THOMAS. 

The  Lover  complaineth  of  the  Un- 
kindness  of  his  Love 72 

The  Lover's  Lute  cannot  be  blamed, 
though  it  sing  of  his  Lady's  Un- 
kindness 73 

The  re-cured  Lover  exulteth  in  his 
Freedom  and  voweth  to  remain 
Free  until  Death 74 

That  Pleasure  is  mixed  with  every 
Pain  75 

A  Description  of  such  a  one  as  he 
would  love 76 

An  earnest  Suit  to  his  unkind  Mis- 
tress not  to  forsake  liim   77 

To  his  Mistress  78 

He  lamenteth  that  he  had  ever 
Cause  to  doubt  his  Lady's  Faith 79 

WYNTOUN,  ANDREW. 

The  Return  of  David  II.  from  Cap- 
tivity        44 

Interview  of  St.  Serf  with  Sathanas  ...      45 


Y. 


YOUNG,  EDWARD. 

Night 855 

On  Life,  Death,  and  Immortality 856 

Thoughts  on  Time 857 

Procrastination 858 

The  Emptiness  of  Riches 859 

The  Love  of  Praise 860 

The  Astronomical  Lady 861 

The  Languid  Lady 862 

The  Swearer 863 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

A  Ballad 803 

A  Ballad  upoa  a  Wedding  330 

A  Blessing  687 

ABHdalDirge 1691 

A  Calm  Eve ]545 

A  Celebration  of  Charis 245 

A  Christmas  Carol 88 

A  Christmas  Hymn .....  1063 

A  Christmas  Hymn 1792 

A  Contrast  between  Female  Honour  and 

Shame 437 

A  Country  Song,  intituled  the  Restoration     745 

A  Description  of  a  Lady  by  her  Lover 438 

A  Description  of  such  a  One  as  he  would 

love  76 

A  Dialogue  between  Hope  and  Fear 319 

A  Dirge    446 

AFaiiyTale  808 

A  Farewell  to  the  Vanities  of  the  World...     159 

A  Farewell  to  the  Valley  of  Irwan  934 

A  Farewell  to  Tobacco 1229 

A  Father  reading  the  Bible 1446 

A  Fragment  of  Sappho 788 

A  Friend 385 

A  Funeral  Hymn  900 

A  Good  Conscience  207 

A  Home  in  the  Heai't  1725 

A  Hymn  312 

A  Hymn  767 

A  Hymn  769 

A  Hymn 874 

A  Hvmn  1172 

A  Hymn  to  Christ 229 

A  Hymn  to  the  Father 228 

A  Lament    1117 

A  Lawyer's  Farewell  to  his  Muse 936 

A  Letter  from  Italy 765 

A  Little  While 1779 

A  Loose  Saraband 357 

A  Lover's  Complaint 71 

A  Lowering  Eve 1544 

A  Meditation 161 

A  Meditative  Fool •....     192 

A  Moonlight  Scene    1214 

A  Mother's  Love 1390 

A  Night  Scene    287 

A  Night  Scene   997 

A  Nocturnal  Reverie 817 

A  Nymph's  Passion  243 

A  Panegyric  on  Oxford  Ale 972 

A  Panegyric  to  the  Lord  Protector  587 

A  Parental  Ode  to  my  Son,   aged  three 

years  and  five  months 1486 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

A  Pastoral 1057 

A  Pastoral  Ballad 894 

A  Pastoral  of  Phillis  and  Condon 117 

A  Pedlar's  Story  1594 

A  Persecuted  Poet's  Address  to  his  King..     278 

A  Persian  Song  of  Hafiz   1012 

A  Petition  to  Time 1694 

A  Poet's  Epitaph  1556 

A  Poet's  Prayer 1557 

A  Poet's  Thought 1693 

A  Poor  Man's  Wife 1747 

A  Portrait 1194 

A  Preface  to  the  Buyer  of  his  Book  on 

Husbandry  82 

A  Prisoner's  Lay 274 

A  Public  Breakfast   1025 

A  Quack  652 

A  Red  Red  Rose 1584 

A  Remembrance 1726 

A  RichFool 371 

A  Rose 369 

A  Roundelay  424 

ARural  Scene 959 

A  Scene  of  Early  Life 1432 

A  Scholar  and  his  Dog 466 

A  Scottish  Country  Wedding 1162 

A  Serenade 1327 

A  Song  for  the  Seasons 1686 

A  Spring  Sabbath  Walk  1157 

A  Summer  Evening  851 

A  Summer  Evening  869 

A  Summer  Morning  579 

A  Summer  Morning  868 

A  Summer  Sabbath  Walk    1158 

A  Sunday  in  Edinburgh 1055 

A  Sweet  Pastoral 118 

A  Sylvan  Retreat  38 

A  Tale  of  Drury  Lane 1416 

A  Tale  of  Robin  Hood 516 

A  Thanksgiving 477 

A  Thanksgiving  for  his  House   349 

A  Thought  among  the  Roses 1809 

A  Valediction ^ 337 

A  Village  Scold  surprising  her  Husband  in 

an  Alehouse 1593 

A  Virtuous  Woman 1476 

A  VowtoLoue 70 

A  Voyage  to  Ireland  in  Burlesque 649 

A  Wail 1755 

A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea   1623 

A  Winter  Landscape 873 

A  Winter  Sabbath  Walk 1160 

A  V7ish 1185 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


NO.  OF  rOEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 1402 

Abra's  Love  for  Solomon 758 

Abstract  of  Melancholy 487 

Accomplishments  of  Hudibras 637 

Adam  and  Eve 626 

Adam  Bell  514 

Address  to  a  Wild  Deer 1427 

Address  to  Bishop  Valentine 227 

Address  to  his  Native  Soil  291 

Address  to  Light 623 

Address  to   Miss  Agnes    Baillie    on  her 

Birthday 1470 

Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni's  Exhi- 
bition     1418 

Address  to  the  Nightingale 121 

Address  to  the  Ocean 1673 

Adelgitha 1312 

Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost   999 

Admonition  to  a  Traveller  1205 

Adventure  of  Wallace  while    Fishing  in 

Irvine  Water  46 

Adversity 194 

Advice  to  a  Keckless  Youth    247 

Advice  to  Landscape  Painters   1149 

Ae  Fond  Kiss 1576 

Afar  in  the  Desert  1478 

After  Blenheim  1219 

Against  False  Pride -  650 

Against  Hired  Flatterers 280 

Against  Hope 543 

Alexander's  Feast 661 

All  for  Love 1352 

All  WeU 1780 

Allan  Percy 1714 

Allegorical  Description  of  Vertu 1032 

Allegorical  Personages  described  in  Hell...       97 

Almond  Blossom 1757 

Alonzo  the  Brave  and  the  Fair  Imogene  ...  1313 
Amantium  Irse  Amoris  Redintegratio  est,.       91 

Ambitio  Feminini  Generis 508 

Amiens'  Song 211 

Amy  nta 1051 

An  A  ppeal  for  the  Industrious  Poor 932 

An  Appeal  to  the  Heart  226 

An  Author  should  be  sincere 651 

An  Autumn  Sabbath  Walk  1159 

An  Earnest  Suit  to  his  unkind  Mistress  not 

to  forsake  him 77 

An  English  Fen— Gipsies  1176 

An  Epistle  to  Curio 903 

An  Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumberland    138 

An  Epitaph 761 

An  Evening  Hymn 675 

An  Evening  Walk  in  Bengal  1379 

An  Introduction  to  the  Book  of  Husbandry      81 

An  Invocation  to  Birds 1677 

An  Italian  Song 1186 

An  Ode 747 

An  Ode 766 

An  Ode    768 

An  Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day 764 

An  Ode  from  Caractacus 913 

An  Ode  in  imitation  of  Alcseus 1011 

An  Old  Man's  Reflections    1197 

An  Old  Man's  Sorrow   10 

Anacreontics  542 

And  doth  not  a  Meeting  like  this 1281 

Ane  Schort  Poeme  of  Tyme   394 

Angling    926 

Another   431 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question 1512 

Apollo's  Song  of  Daphne 407 

Apostrophe  to  Freedom   32 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Apostrophe  to  Futurity   1555 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean 1347 

Appearances 190 

Approach  of  Saul  and  his  Guards  against 

the  Philistines    1236 

Approach  of  Spring 267 

Approaching  Death  442 

April,  1793  1255 

April 1795 

Argalia  condemned  on  False  Evidence 581 

Argalia  taken  Prisoner  by  the  Turks    583 

Ariel's  Song    209 

Arranmore  1289 

Aspirations  of  Youth   1386 

A ssembling  of  the  Fallen  Angels 621 

At  Bamborough  Castle 1246 

At  his  Sister's  Grave    1528 

At  O-xford,  1786 1244 

At  Penshurst 588 

Athens 61S 

Auld  Lang  Syne 1581 

Auld  Robin  Gray 1047 

Autumn 1373 

Autumn 1488 

Autumn 1735 

Autumn  Evening  Scene 872 

Autumn  Flowers 1530 


B. 


Baby 1827 

Baby  May    1766 

Baby's  Shoes  17()7 

Ballad  of  Dowsabel  146 

Banquet  of  an  English  Squire    1124 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 1306 

Battle  of  Wyoming  and  Death  of  Gertrude  1300 

Baucis  and  Philemon    773 

Be  Patient  1803 

Be  Merry,  Friends     401 

Be  Wise  to  Run  thy  Race   1076 

Beauty 195 

Beauty 42a 

Beauty  beyond  the  reach  of  Art    458 

Beauty  Suing  for  Love 419« 

Begone,  Dull  Care 731 

Belshazzar  and  Daniel  979" 

Bernardo  and  Alphonso    1522 

Bertha  in  the  Lane    1560 

Beth  G61ert,  or  the  Grave  of  the  Grey- 
hound    1395 

Bethsabe  Bathing 416 

Bethsabe's  Address  to  the  Zej)hyi'    417 

Bird,  Bee,  and  Butterfly 1517 

Bird's-nest  1267 

Birds  Pairing  in  Spring   865- 

Bishop  Hatto 1225 

Bishop  Hubert 1459 

Bloom  hath  fled  thy  cheek,  Mary 1639' 

Bonnie  Leslie 1585 

Border  Ballad 1321 

Braid  Claith    1052 

Bridal  Song 459 

Bridal  Song 1667 

Bring  Flowers 1441 

Bristow   Tragedy,    or    the   Death   of    Sir 

Charles  Bawdin 943 

Brother,  thou  art  gone 1669- 

Bruce's  Address 1579 

Butterfly  and  Bee 1269 

By  the  Sea  ' 1209 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


C.      • 

yo.  OF  POBM. 

Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes 1582 

Cadyow  Castle 1325 

Caesar's  Lamentation  over  Pompey's  Head    21-1 
Canace,    condemned    to    death    by    her 
father,    yEolus,    sends    to    her    g-uilty 
brother,  Macareus,   the  last  testimony 

of  her  unhappy  passion ^36 

Canzonet 506 

Careless  Content 1056 

Casa  Wappy 1534 

Casablanca  1442 

Cassius  to  Brutus 186 

Celia  Singing 566 

Ceremony 196 

Characterof  a  Fribble 956 

Character  of  Shaftesbury 662 

Characterof  Sir  James,  of  Douglas 33 

Character  of  the  Ship's  Officers 945 

Character  of  Villiers,   Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham      663 

Characters  of  Quin,   Tom  Sheridan,  and 

Giirrick 957 

Characteristic  of  an  Englishman 80 

Charity  and  Humility 573 

Cherry  Hipe 348 

Childhood 1234 

Children 1274 

Choice  of  a  Rural  Situation  and  Descrip- 
tion of  the  Ague 924 

Chorus 1670 

Chorus  of  Flowers 1400 

Chorus  of  Jewish  Women 480 

Christ  coming  to  Judgment 62 

Christmas    271 

Christmas 1335 

Claudian's  Old  Man  of  Verona  ; 545 

Cleopatra 188 

Colin  and  Lucy 784 

Colin's  Complaint  828 

Come,  Evening  Gale  ! 1541 

Con;o,  Holy  Spirit,  come 1075 

Come,  O  Thou  Traveller 1064 

Come  to  these  Scenes  of  Peace 1242 

Come  unto  Me  1109 

Commencement  of  "  Dartmoor  "  1513 

Complaining 306 

Complaint  against  Love 406 

Complaint  of  a  Learned  Divine  in  Puritan 

Times  257 

Complaint  of  Nature 964 

Composed  at   Neidpath  Castle,  the  pro- 
perty of  Lord  Queeusberr„v,  1803  1203 

Conclusion  of  the  Sougs  of  Israel 1477 

Constancy  331 

Constancy  655 

Constitutional  Limitation  of  Despotism  ...     154 

Content 421 

Content 504 

Content,  a  Pastoral   1023 

Contented  Shepherd 829 

Contentment  443 

Contentment 815 

Coopers  Hill 576 

Cornfields    1660 

Coronach 1323 

Cosmelia's  Charms 669 

Council  of  the  Officers 948 

Count  Zinzondorf 1069 

Country  Justices  and  their  Duties 930 


yo.  or  roEsr. 
Country  Song,  intituled  the  Restoration  ...     745 

Covetousness  18 

Cowper's  Grave 1558 

Cradle  Song 1772 

Cranmer's  Prophecy  of  Queen  Elizabeth...     183 

Creation  787 

Crescentius 1461 

CumnorHall  '.7:...^r^_,     928 

Cupid 238 

Cupid  and  Campaspe  404 

Cupid  and  Ganymede 751 

Cupid  Mistaken 752 

Cupio  dissolvi 328 

Custom 677' 


Damages  Two  Hundred  Pounds 1763 

Dartmoor 1514 

David  and  Goliah  144 

David  enamoured  of  Bethsabe    418 

Dawnings  of  Genius 1412" 

Day  of  Judgment  853 

DeProfundis  106 

Death   449 

Death   465 

Death   846 

Death   1645 

Death  of  Eliza,  at  the  Battle  of  Minden  ...  1094 

Death  of  Marmion 1316 

Death  of  Sir  Henry  de  Bohun    34 

Deathless  Principle,  arise  ! 1073 

Delight  in  God  only 295 

Description  and  Praise  of  his  Loue  G^raldine      69 

Description  of  a  City  Shower 772 

Description  of  a  Hare-hunt 806 

Description  of  Armida  and  her  Enchanted 

Girdle  148 

Description  of  Castara 322 

Description  of  the  Comers  to  the  Fair 1630 

Description  of  Haidee 1348 

Description  of  Melrose  Abbey 1314 

Description  of  Morning    691 

Description  of  Morning  Birds  and  Hunting 

the  Deer 142 

Description  of  Spring  67 

Description  of  Squyre  Meldrum 60 

Description  of  the  Priestess  of  Diana 333 

Despair  of  a  Poor  Scholar    444 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib 1343 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib's  Army 1092 

Devotion  to  Love  453 

Diana's  Nymphs 472 

Dinner  given  by  the  Town  Mouse  to  the 

Country  Mouse  49 

Directions  for  Cultivating  a  Hop  Garden...       84 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline  891 

Dirge  of  Rachel 1475 

Discontent  of  Men  with  their  Condition  ...     250 

Disdain  Returned 264 

Distress  of  the  Vessel  947 

Dr.  Johnson's  Style  1148 

Domestic  Happiness 866 

Domestic  Love   1298 

Dora 1708 

Dorastus  on  Fawnia 427 

Drinking  Song    402 

Dry  up  thy  Tears,  Love   1526 

Dying   673 

Dying  in  a  Foreign  Land 1129 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


E. 

yo.  OP  roEM. 

Early  Dawn , 391 

Early  Friendship    1789 

Early  Love  135 

Early  Eising  and  Prayer 556 

Easter  307 

Echo  and  Narcissus  380 

Echo  and  Silence   1520 

Echoes 1291 

Edom  O'Gordon 530 

Edwin  and  Angelina 916 

Edwin  and  Emma 898 

Elegy    961 

Elegy  on  Thyrza    1354 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Chxu-chyard  ...     910 

England  202 

England   412 

England  1732 

England  goes  to  Battle 1752 

England's  Landscape    1516 

English  Liberty 1083 

Enjoyment  of  the  Present  Hour  recom- 
mended        665 

Epigram  1004 

Epigram  , ;,  1005 

Epigi-am  1006 

Epigram  on  Sleep 1154 

Epilogue 1830 

Epiphany 1380 

Epistle  to  Joseph  Hill  1088 

Epistle  to  the  Earl  of  Dorset  789 

Epitaph,  Extempore 759 

Epitaph  on  a  Living  Author  554 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant    1511 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason  915 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke 244 

Epitaph  on  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  268 

Etexaltavit  Humiles 327 

Euphrosyne 1761 

Eve's  Recollections    627 

Evening   286 

Evening   393 

Evening  Hymn  814 

Evening  Hymn  820 

Evening  Hymn  1059 

Evening  in  Paradise 629 

Excommunication  of  the  Cid  1524 

Expulsion  from  Paradise 632 


F. 


Fable  of  the  Oak  and  the  Briar 127 

Fable  related  by  a  Beau  to  ^sop 833 

Fair  Ines 1492 

Faith '.'...'.  294 

Fall  of  the  Rebel  Angels 2 

Fancy  and  Desire 494 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire 1604 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies 253 

Farewell  to  Town  116 

Fatal  Curiosity 831 

Few  Happy  Matches ,[.,  852 

Fill  the  Bumper  Fair 1280 

First  Love's  Recollections   141] 

First  of  March 1804 

Flowers 1(39 

Flowers 975 

Flowers [  1487 

Fly  to  the  Desert 1284 


NO.  OF  FOBM. 

For  Hope 544 

For  my  own  Monument 760 

For  Thoughts 672 

Fragment 1620 

I   Friend  of  my  Soul 1282 

}  Friends  falling  off 197 

Friendship  843 

Friendship  1434 

From  "ADirge"  275 

From  a  "  Monody  to  the  Memory  of  his 

Wife" 1036 

From  a  Poem  entitled  * '  Amanda  " 706 

From  a  Trip  to  Cambridge,  or  the  Grateful 

Fair 995 

From  "  Anster  Fair" 1628 

From  Bishop  Heber's  Journal 1378 

From  Clifton  Grove  1171 

From  ''  Conversation" 1080 

From  "Count  Zinzendorf" 1069 

From  "Endymion"  1819 

From  "  Friendship  in  Absence  " 550 

From  his  "  Invocation  to  Melancholy"  ....  1041 

From  "  Human  Life  "   1181 

From  "In  Memoriam"    1706 

From  India 1776 

From  "Lilliput Levee"  1826 

From"Rollo"    219 

From  "  Scheffler  " 1070 

From  "Tersteege"  , 1067 

From  the  Bard's  Song  in  the  "Castle  of 

Indolence"  ..  , 875 

From  the  "  Blessed  Damozel " 1841 

From  the  Epithalamion 128 

From  the  "Fate  of  Amy"  1406 

From  the  German 1068 

From  the  German 1071 

From  the  "  Hymn  to  Light " 547 

From  the  "  Improvisatore  "    1400 

From  the  "  London  Lackpennv  "  37 

From  the  "Loves  of  Gudrun"  1839,  1840 

From  the  ' '  Muses'  Looking-glass  "   359 

From  the  Pindaric  Odes  548 

From  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory  "  1180 

From  the  "Portrait"  1842 

From  the  "Prophecy  of  Famine" 958 

From  the  ' '  Voyage  of  Columbus  "    1 182 

Frost  at  Midnight 1507 


G. 


Garment  of  Good  Ladies ''50 

Gentle  Hugh  Herries 1626 

GentlestGirl  1731 

Ginevra    1183 

Gipsies 931 

Gloomy  Winter's  now  awa' 1602 

Gloster's  Soliloquy  181 

Glow-worm 1270 

Go,  lovely  Ro.se  !    591 

Go,  pretty  Birds  !  471 

Go,  where  Glory  waits  Thee   1283 

God  known  only  to  Himself 854 

God's  Providence  40 

Gold 198 

Gondibert 372 

Good  Husbandly  Lessons 86 

Good-morrow 104 

Good  Name 208 

Good-night!    H 

Good-night!    105 

Good-nitxht.  and  jov  be  wi'  ye  a' ! 1611 

Greenwich  Hill  ....* 1142 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


II 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Grief  that  cannot  be  comforted 168 

Grievances  of  a  Scottish  Peasant  of  the  Six- 
teenth Century  58 

GrongarHill  880 


H. 


Haidee  and  Juan  at  the  Feast 1350 

Haidee  visits  the  Shipwrecked  Don  Juan..  1349 

Hallowed  Ground 1309 

Hamc,  Hame,  Hame 1617 

Hamlet's  Soliloquy  on  Death 184 

Hannibal's  Oath 1466 

Happiness   1435 

Happiness  of  a  Coimtry  Life 960 

Happiness  of  Married  Life  452 

Happiness  of  the  Shepherd's  Life 314 

Harmosan 1802 

He  laraenteth  that  he  had  ever  cause  to 

doubt  his  Lady's  Faith 79 

Helen  of  Kirkconnel 1606 

Hell  1431 

Henry  and  Emma 755 

Henry,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  in  the  In- 
fernal Regions  98 

Henry  the  Fifth's  Address  at  Agincourt ...     179 
Henry  the  Fifth's  Address  to  his  Soldiers  . 

before  Harfleur 178 

Henry  the  Fourth's  Expostulation  with  his 

Son 175 

Henry  the  Sixth's  Soliloquy  on  the  Battle- 
field         180 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'  1590 

Hermione 1692 

Heroine  of  Anster  Fair 1629 

Hey,  then,  up  go  we 737 

Highland  Mary  1586 

Highland  Poor 1120 

Hills  o' Gallowa'     1648 

His  hatred  of  the  Scots 377 

Hogarth  954 

Hohenlinden  1304 

Home 1389 

Homer  and  Virgil 681 

Honour 552 

Hope 1239 

Hope  triumphant  in  Death 1297 

Hotspur's  Defence 172 

Household  Treasures  1815 

Housewifery  Physic 85 

How  each  thing,  save  the  Lover, -in  Spring 

reviveth  to  Pleasure 68 

How  Robin  Hood  lends  a  poor  Knight  Four 

Hundred  Pounds    521 

How's  my  Boy? 1671 

Hudibras  commencing    Battle    with    the 

Rabble 640 

Hudibras  consulting  the  Lawyer 642 

Hunting  of  the  Cheviot 528 

Hunting  Song 1037 

Hunting  Song 1332 

Hymn  ]537 

Hymn  (16th  Sunday  after  Trinity)  1G68 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Cha- 

mouni  1504 

Hymn  for  Family  Worship 1168 

Hymn  for  the  Dead  1336 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid 1324 

Hymn  on  Solitude 877 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity 606 

Hymn  to  Adversity .'     908 


NO.  OT  POEM. 

Hymn  to  Content 1106 

Hymn  to  Contentment 810 

Hymn  to  God  the  Father 246 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 1375 

Hymn  to  the  Almighty    676 

Hymn  to  the  Father 228 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers _1419 

Hyma  to  the  Name  of  Jesus 298 


I  am  all  alone    1527 

I  fear  thy  Kisses  1363 

I  love  my  King  and  Country  well 733 

I  remember,  I  remember 1491 

I  thank  j'ou  twice 739 

Idleness  400 

If  that  were  true  ! 1781 

II  Penseroso  604 

Imagination  155 

Imprisoned  in  Windsor,  he  recounteth  his 

Pleasure  there  passed  64 

In  a  Year 1786 

In  praise  of  Angling 163 

In  1»ho  Days  o' Langsyne   1646 

In  what  manner  the  Soul  is  united  to  the 

Body 224 

Incitement  to  Perseverance 1836 

Inconstancy  of  Love 700 

Inconstancy  of  the  Multitude 698 

Indignation    at    the    Sale    of   a    Wife's 

Honour    454 

Insanity 199 

Inscription  in  a  Hermitage 969 

Inscription  on  the  Tomb  of  Cowper. 1090 

Instability  of  Human  Greatness 315 

Interview  of  St.  Serf  with  Sathanas  45 

Introduction  of  Foreign  Vices  deprecated  136 
Introduction    to    the    "Flower   and   the 

Leaf"   25 

Invitation  to  Izaak  Walton 647 

Invocation  1368 

Invocation  to  Rain  in  Summer 1764 

Iphigenia  and  Agamemnon 1275 

Iris  the  Rainbow    1835 

Is  it  come?  1782 

Is  this  a  time  to  plant  and  build  ? 1798 

Isaac  Ashford,  a  Noble  Peasant 11 74 


J. 


Jacob 1550 

Jaffar  1403 

James  bewails  his  Captivity    42 

•James  first  sees  the  Lady  Jane 48 

Jealousy  426 

Jeanie  Morrison 1631 

Jenny  dang  the  Weaver 1609 

Jenny's  Bawbee 1610 

Jesu,  Lover  of  my  Soul 1066 

Joab's  Address  to  David  on  the  Death  of 

Absalom  414 

Joab's  Description  of  David    413 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 1318 

John  Anderson  1589 

John  the  Baptist 365 

Journey  into  France 252 

Julia 347 


xl 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


K. 

irO.  OF  POEM. 

Kilmeny  1615 

King  Arthur's  Death    95 

King  David 415 

King  Edward  IV.  and  the  Tanner  of  Tarn- 
worth  536 

King  James  I.  and  the  Tinkler  ..: 717 

Kiug  John  and  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury    529 

Kisses 1748 

KublaKlian 1509 


L. 


L' Allegro 603 

L'Amour  Timide 983 

La  Belle  Confidante  568 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci  *...  1825 

Labour  and  Genius,  or  the  Millstream  and 

the  Cascade • 985 

Lady  Jilice  723 

Lady  Barbara 1743 

Lady  Clare 1707 

Langsyne  1535 

Last  Verses  of  L.  E.  L 1469 

Lavinia  870 

Law  455 

Life 189 

Life 256 

Life 1696 

Life  and  ImmortaUty 990 

Life's  Progress 818 

Lilliput  Levee 1838 

Lines 1192 

Lines  addressed  to  my  Children   1128 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  his  Eldest  Son 1146 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air 1362 

Lines  to  Fanny 1807 

Lines  written  in  a  Lonely  Burial-ground 

in  the  Highlands 1423 

Lines  written  in  the  Churchyard  of  Pvich- 

mond,  Yorkshire 1383 

Little  Children  1659 

Little  John  in  the  Service  of  the  Sheriff  of 

Nottingham 523 

Little  Eed  Riding  Hood 1463 

Little  Streams 1656 

Loehiel's  Warning 1303 

Logan  Braes 1605 

Loudon 884 

London,  1802 1189 

Look  Home 109 

Lord  Beichan 533 

Lord  Delaware 715 

Lord  Gregory 1152 

Lord  UUin's  Daughter 1307 

Losses 1784 

Lost  FeeUngs 1483 

Love 201 

Love 481 

Love 693 

Love 1217 

Love 1505 

Love 1672 

Love  and  Clory 1138 

Love  and  Kature 1518 

Love  Divine,  all  Love  excelling 1072 

Love  in  the  Valley 1744 

Love  in  Women 697 

Love  of  Country 1315 

Love  of  Praise 860 


NO.  OS-  POEM. 

Love  not  1735 

Love  will  find  out  the  way  534 

Love  without  Return 468 

Love's  Darts  339 

Love's  Darts 483 

Love's  Farewell 599 

Love's  History 1 702 

Love's  Philosophy 1364 

Love's  Servile  Lot 108 

Loyalty  confined    513 

Lucy    1193 

Lucy's  Flittin' 1649 

Lullaby 434 

Lycidas 605 


M. 


Macbeth,  before  Murdering  the  King 185 

MacFlecknoe  660 

Madness  of  Orestes    467 

Mahmoud 1404 

Maid  of  Athens 1338 

Man  309 

Man's  Mortality 501 

Many,  many  Years  ago    1810 

Marcelia 1674 

Marguerite  of  France  1440 

Mariner's  Hymn    15-33 

Markxii.  17     301 

Mark  Antony's  Oration  on  the  Body  of 

Csesar 187 

Marriage  of  Cupid  and  Psyche — Psyche's 

Banishment 1121 

Mary 1428 

Mary  Morison 1578 

Mary  of  Castle  Cary 1597 

Marj',  the  Maid  of  the  Inn  1226 

Mary's  Dream 1046 

Massacre  of  the  Macpherson  1662 

Maternal  Care 1299 

May,  1795  1257 

May  Day 1153 

Melancholy 215 

Meldrum's  Duel  with  the  EngUsh  Champion, 

Talbart 61 

Meleager  Dying 1834 

Memory  of  the  Dead 1812 

Mercury  and  Cupid  753 

Mercy  24 

Mercy  165 

Mercy  and  Truth 17 

Mercy  should  have  mitigated  Justice  933 

xMidnight  Hymn 821 

Midnight  Wind 1635 

Miriam's  Song 1290 

Miscellaneous  Thoughts 644 

Mr.  Murray's  Proposal 1294 

Moonlight    783 

Moonrise 1794 

Morning  285 

Morning  771 

Morning  940 

Morning  and  Evening  1729 

Morning  Hymn 812 

Morning  Hymn  ..'. 819 

Morning  in  May 57 

Morning  in  Paradise 628 

.Morning  Landscape  989 

Mother  and  Son 1770 

Mortimer,  Earl  of  March,  and  the  Queen, 
surprised  by  Edward  III.  in  Notting- 
ham Castle 141 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


xli 


II 


I 


wo.  ov  roEM. 

Mountain  Children    1653 

Music's  Duel 300 

Musidora 8(57 

]Mustering  of  the  Trades  to  shoot  for  the 

Siller  Gun    1608 

Mutability  1376 

My  Bonnie  Mary   1577 

My  Fantasy  will  never  turn    397 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 1580 

My  Heavenly  Father  and  His  erring  Child  279 

31y  Held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie 1638 

MyNanie,  0  1618 

My  only  Jo  and  Dearie,  0  1603 

My  own  dear  Country 1736 

My  Wife's  a  winsome,  wee  Thing 1588 


N. 


Napoleon  and  the  Sailor 1311 

Naseby 1567 

Nature  and  Love    213 

Nee  Sntor  ultra 509 

Nehusta's  Lover 1725 

Netley  Abbey 1256 

Newborn  Death 1843 

Night    166 

Night    288 

Night    855 

Night    1384 

Night    1675 

Night  and  Music    167 

Night  at  Sea  1464 

Night  is  nigh  gone    390 

No  Age  content  with  his  own  Estate    J^o 

No  Jewell'd  Beauty  is  my  Love 1746 

No  Treasure  without  Gladness  53 

Nomine  Labia  mea  aperies 325 

NocgtoDgpaw 1139 

Noon 1548 

Noontide  Hymn , 813 

Noontide  of  a  Summer's  Day 392 

Not  ours  the  Vows    1456 

Note  to  Moschus   569 

Nothing  on  Earth  Permanent 6 

Notre  Dame    1549 

November   1574 

Nympl|  complaining  for  the  Death  of  her 
Fawn    636 


0. 


0  !  breathe  not  his  Name 1287 

0  !  Mary,  go  and  call  the  Cattle  Home 1799 

O  !  Nanny,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  Me ._  937 

0  !  where  do  Fairies  hide  their  Heads .'  1502 

Ode 236 

Ode 876 

Ode 888 

Ode 996 

Ode 1198 

Ode  from  Horace 826 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  1823 

Ode  on  hearing  the  Drum 1019 

Ode  on  Mankind 1044 

Ode  on  Privateering 1020 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson  892 

Ode  on  the  Spring 911 

Ode  sent   to  a   Friend   on   his  leaving   a 

favourite  Village 971 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale    1822 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin  1131 


KO.   OF   POESr. 

Ode  to  Aurora 977 

Ode  to  Evening 889 

Ode  to  Independeuco  921 

Ode  to  Leven-water  922 

Ode  to  Memory 895 

Ode  to  Memory 914 

Ode  to  Peace  ......,,^_  993 

Ode  to  Pity 887 

Ode  to  Solitude 1015 

Ode  to  Spring 1104 

Ode  to  the  Evening  Star 1134 

Ode  to  the  Right  Hon.  John  Lord  Gower       834 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 1372 

(Enone's  Complaint 409 

Of  a  Precise  Tailor 153 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  can  blaw 1583 

Of  Church    156 

Of  Discretion  in  Giving 54 

Of  Discrefton  in  Taking 55 

Of  Fortune  151 

Of  Heaven 655 

Of  Myself 540 

Of  Solitude 653 

Of  the  Queen  695 

Of  Treason  150 

Of  Writers  who  carp  at  other  Men's  Books    152 

Oh!  lay  thy  Hand  in  mine,  Dear! 1756 

Oh,  the  pleasant  Days  of  Old  ! 1783 

Old  Age  and  Death 592 

Old  England 1751 

On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College 907 

On  a  Distant  View  of  England  1252 

On  a  Girdle 585 

On  a  Sprig  of  Heath 1119 

On  a  Tear 1188 

On  an  Infant  Dying  as  soon  as  born 1231 

On  Bishop  Atterbury's  Burying  the  Duke 

of  Buckingham,  MDCcxx ' 762 

On  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge 1191 

On  leaving  a  Village  in  Scotland  1250 

On  Life,  Death,  and  Immortality 856 

On  Love 586 

On  Loving  at  First  Sight ' 600 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford 240 

On  May  Morning 610 

On  Mr.  W.  Montague's  Ptetuni  from  Travel     265 

On  Mrs.  A.  H.  at  a  Concert 1030 

On  my  Lady  Isabella  playing  the  Lute 597 

On  my  Lady  Sydney's  Picture 596 

On  Phillis  Walking  before  Sunrise 378 

On  Pi,ecovery  jrom  Sickness 1061 

On  Pisvie wing  the  Foregoing 1 260 

On  Revisiting  Oxford  1258 

On  Revisiting  the  River  Loddon 966 

On  Shakspere 1670 

On  the  Birth  of  the  Princess  Royal  1397 

On  the  Day  of  Judgment 653 

On  the  Death  of  George  III 1420 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  Bevil  Grenville 482 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Robert  Levett 886 

On  the  Death  of  the  Rev.  William  Beuwell  1259 

On  the  Departure  of  the  Nightingale 1099 

On  the  Earl  of  Strafford's  Trial  and  Death    577 

On  the  Fmieral  of  Charles  1 1243 

On  the  Poverty  of  Poets  955 

On  the  Receipt  of  his  Mother's  Picture  ....  1081 

On  the  Sight  of  his  Mistress'  House 708 

On  the  Sudden  Restraint  of  the  Earl  of  So- 
merset, then  falling  from  favour  162 

On  the  Tomb  of  Mrs.  Unwin  1091 

On  Vicissitude  912 

One  Summer  Nisrht 1728 

One  Way  of  Love 1785 


xlii 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


NO.    OF   POEM. 

One  Word  is  too  often  profaned 1367 

Opening  of  Queen  Mab  1359 

Opening  of  the  Minstrel 988 

Opening  of  the  Second  Book  of  the  Task...  1086 

Opening  of  the  Songs  of  Zion 1474 

Order  and  Obedience  203 

Owen  of  Carron 935 

Ozymandias  of  Egypt 1370 


P. 


Palamon  and  Arcite  ;  or,  the  Knight's  Tale    659 

Paradise  625 

Parting 688 

Parting 1529 

Passage  of  the  Red  Sea  1377 

Passing  away 1444 

Passions  .' 696 

Patience 436 

Patient  Grissell 526 

Path  of  Life 1261 

Paucitatem  Dierum  meorura  nuncia  mihi.,     326 

Peace    559 

Peace!  What  do  tears  arail  ? 1690 

Pericles  and  Aspasia 1538 

Persian  Song  of  Hafiz  1012 

Personal  Appearance  of  Hudibras .'.     639 

Persuasion  to  Mothers  to  Suckle  their  own 

Children  1096 

Persuasions  to  Love 266 

Pestilence  of  the  Fifteenth  Century 927 

Phoebe  Dawson  1175 

Philanthropy — Mr.  Howard  1095 

Philomela  1760 

Philomela's  Ode 425 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 1322 

Picture  of  a  Witch 689 

Picture  of  Twilight   1710 

Picture  of  War  1482 

Pictures  of  Native  Genius 1554 

Pixies  of  Devon 1515 

Plague  Scenes 1426 

Plighting  Troth 212 

Portrait  of  a  Poor  Gallant 249 

Posies  for  thine  own  Bedchamber 89 

Power  and  Gentleness  ;   or,  the  Cataract 

and  Streamlet 1453 

Praise  of  a  Country  Life  807 

Praise  of  Chastity 607 

Praise  of  Good  Women 15 

Praise  of  Women   27 

Praise  to  God 1110 

Prattle  your  Pleasure  under  the  Rose 742 

Prayer 1388 

Prayer ; 1519 

Prayer  for  Indifference 987 

Prayer  for  Seasonable  Weather 284 

Pre-existency  of  the  Soul 575 

Preparation  for  Execution   448 

Preparing  to  meet  God 1062 

Pride  of  Youth 1330 

Primrose 1266 

Prince  Ai-thur's  Address  to-Night 131 

Principal  Points  of  Religion 90 

Procrastination  858 

Proper  U.se  of  Talents  204 

Protogenes  and  Apelles 757 

Psalm  xiii 500 

Psalm  xxiii 499 

Psalm  xxiii,,  Paraphrase  on 770 

Psalm  XXX 498 

Psalm  xlii 478 


NO.  OF  roEai. 

Psalm  xlviii 479 

Psalm  civ 823 

Psalm  cxlviii.  Paraphrased -281 


E. 


Rainbow  310 

ReaUty  of  a  True  Religion  157 

Reason 658 

Rebellion 1543 

Recollections  of  English  Scenery 1101 

Recommendation  of  a  High  Situation  on 

the  Sea-coast  925 

Reconciliation 1704 

Red,  Red  Rose    1584 

Reflections  1178 

Reign  of  Christ  on  Earth 1392 

Religion  of  Hudibras 638 

Remorse  840 

Remorse  952 

Render  to   Csesar  the  Things  which  are 

Caesar's 1817 

Requiescat  in  Pace  ! 1832 

Requirements  of  a  Tutor 248 

Retaliation  917 

Retirement 991 

Richard  II. ,  the  Morning  before  his  Murder    137 

Richard  the  Second's  Lament 170 

Rinaldo  at  Mount  Olivet  and  the  Enchanted 

Wood   149 

Robene  and  Makyne 38 

Robert,  Duke  of  Normandy,  previously  to 

his  Eyes  being  put  out 496 

Robin  Goodfellow  510 

Robin  Hood  and  AUen-a-Dale  517 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne  519 

Robin  Hood  and  the  Curtal  Friar 520 

Robin  Hood  reimburses  himself  of  his  Loan  524 
Robin  Hood  rescuing  the  Widow's  three 

Sons 518 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial 525 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  Me 1074 

Rondel  of  Love  387 

Rosabelle 1331 

Rosader's  Sonetto 430 

Rosalind's  Madrigal 429 

Rosiphele's  Vision  of  Ladies , . .      30 

Rule  Britannia   879 

Rumour 1'  3 

Rural  Sounds 10'  d 

Ruth 1413 


S. 


Sabbath  Chimes 1701 

Sadness    502 

St.  Peter's  Day  1797 

St.  Romuald   1227 

Sally  in  our  Alley 1035 

Samela • 420 

Samson  bewailing  his  Blindness  and  Cap- 
tivity      616 

Sardanapalus  1723 

Satan    1546 

Satan  meets  Sin  and  Death 622 

Satan's  Address  to  the  Sun 020 

Satan's  Speech   3 

Satire 777 

Say,  lovely  Dream  ! 590 

Scene  of  Early  Love 1432 

Scenes  and  Musings  of  the  Peasant  Poet...  1413 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


jtliii 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Scorn  not  the  Least 112 

Scotland  1135 

Scotland  1156 

Search  after  God    476 

Self-inspection     200 

Self-murder 694 

Sent  with  a  rose,  to  Rose 1808 

Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child 422 

Severed  Friendship  1510 

She  walks  in  Beauty 1353 

She's  gane  to  dwell  in  Heaven    1621 

Sheepfold     1265 

Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses 460 

Shepherd's  Song 474 

Shipwreck  by  Drink 475 

Shipwrecked  Sohtary's  Song  to  the  Night .  1170 

Showers  in  Spring 864 

Sic  Vita    255 

Sir  Francis  Drake 492 

Sir  John  Barleycorn 719 

Sir  Sidney  Smith   1137 

Sit  down,  Sad  Soul    1695 

Sketches  from  a  Painter's  Studio  1775 

Sleep 174 

Sleep 497 

Smoking  Spiritualized 711 

Smollett  953 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath 1688 

Soliloquy  of  Richard  the  Second  in  Prison    171 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister  1787 

Solitary  Life   395 

Song  by  Love,  to  Physander  and  Bellanima     376 

Song  by  Rogero,  in  the  "  Rovers  "    1145 

Song  for  a  Highland  Drover  returning  from 

England  1127 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  D3y  at  Oxford 763 

Song  for  the  Seasons    1686 

Song— May  Eve  ;  or,  Kate  of  Aberdeen  ...  1022 

Song  of  Hesi^erus  239 

Song  of  Honest  Recreation 403 

Song  of  the  Brook 1703 

Song  of  the  Danish  Sea  King 1641 

Song  of  the  Greek  Poet    1344 

Song  of  the  Virgins  celebrating  the  Victory  1237 

Song  of  Wood  Nymphs 1679 

Song— The  Blind  Boy  1033 

Song- The  Parting  Kiss 1000 

Song  to  Apollo   408 

Song  to  Celia 242 

Song  to  David 994 

Song  to  Echo  1098 

SongtoMay   1097 

Song  to  Morpheus 578 

SongtoPan    220 

Songs,  216,  232,  241,  254,  258,  259,  260, 
262,  263,  289,  290,  296,  329,  332,  343, 
352,  356,  373,  488,  571,  654,  656,  657, 
ms,  670,  679,  680,  683,  684,  685,  690, 
701,  702,  703,  704,  705,  748,  811,  824, 
827,  830,  835,  836,  837,  838,  882,  883, 
899,  984,  1001.  1021,  1039,  1040,  1112, 
1113,  1118,  1286,  1302,  1319,  1320,  1485, 
1499,  1508,  1564,  1573,  1651,  1790. 

Sonnet  made  on  Isabella  Markham  99 

Sonnet  on  a  Wet  Summer    1009 

Sonnet  on  Age  of  T wenty-three 612 

Sonnet  on  His  Blindness 613 

Sonnet  on  His  late  Deceased  Wife  61 4 

Sonnet  on  Sabbath  Morn 1130 

Sonnet  on  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont    615 
Sonnet,  supposed  to  be  written  at  Lemnos  1043 

Sonnet  to  the  Nightingale   611 

Sonnet  to  the  Redbreast 1008 


no.  OF  I'OEM. 

Sonnet  to  Valclusa    1042 

Sonnet  upon  a  Stolen  Kiss  272 

Sonnets,  107,  123,  134,  140,  147,  164,  235, 
396,  485,  489,  968,  1007,  1010,  1166, 
1249,  1251,  1254,  1569,  1791,  1824 

Sonnets  to  a  Friend  1571 

Sospetto  d'Herode,  Lib.  I ^....^    297 

Speaking  and  Kissing  567 

Speech 692 

Spring  41 

Spring  363 

Spring  439 

Spring  941 

Spring 1382 

Spring  Cuckoo    1264 

Staffa    1235 

Stanzas  for  Music 1340 

Stanzas  on  the  Sea 1457 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples,.  1369 

Starlight  Frost  1271 

Sudden  Change 299 

Summer's  Evening 1263 

Summer  Morning  1408 

Summer  is  i-cumen  in  12 

Summer  Spoi'ts  457 

Summer  Woods 1658 

Summons  of  the  Destroying  Angel  to  the 

City  of  Babylon 1664 

Sunday 302 

Sunday  in  Edinburgh    10.55 

Sunrise 1262 

Sweet  and  Twenty 1749 

Sweet  Content    433 

Sweet  Spirit  of  Mv  Love 1750 

Sweet  William's  Farewell    802 

Swiftness  of  Time 102 

Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi  1632 


T. 


Take  the  Beam  out  of  thine  Own  Eye   205 

Tale  of  Argentile  and  Curan 484 

Tale  of  Drury  Lane,  by  W.  S 1416 

Tamo'Shanter  1591 

Taste 902 

Temperance     631 

Tendencies  of  the  Soul  towards  the  Infinite    901 

Terrors  of  a  Guilty  Conscience 976 

Tetrastic  1013 

That  Pleasiu-e  is  mixed  with  every  Pain  ...  75 
That  the  Soul  is  more  than  a  Perfection  or 

Reflection  of  the  Sense 222 

That  the  Soul  is  more  than  the  Tempera- 
ture of  the  Humours  of  the  Body 223 

The  Adopted  Child    1452 

The  Age  of  Wisdom 1762 

The  Aged  Man-at-Arms   411 

The  Alderman's  Funeral 1216 

The  Alehouse 1595 

The  Angel  of  the  Flowers 1811 

The  Angel  of  the  World 1551 

The  Angelic  Worship    624 

The  Anniversai-y    1111 

The  Answer  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  to 

Henry  V 176 

The  Apple  Dumplings  and  a  King 1150 

The  Apple  of  Life 1829 

The  Annies  at  Salamis 998 

The  Arraignment  of  a  Lover 101 

The  Astronomical  Lady   861 

The  Author's  Picture    978 


xUv 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


so.  OF  POEM. 

The  Awakine;  of  Eadymion 1465 

The  Ballad  of  Agincourt 143 

The  Baby's  Debut,  by  W.  \V 1415 

The  Bard     909 

The  Battle  of  Byland's  Path 35 

The  Bee   558 

The  Beggar     1027 

The  Belgian  Lovers  and  the  Plague  1093 

The  Better  Land    1445 

The  Birth  of  Christ  822 

The  Birth  of  Eobin  Hood   515 

The  Blackbird    1S06 

The  Black-cock  1471 

The  Blind  Beggar  of  Bednall  Green 714 

The  Blood  Horse  1680 

The  Bloom  hath  fled  thy  Cheek,  Mary 1637 

The  Boat-race    1777 

The  Bower  of  Bliss  133 

The  Braes  o'  Balquhither 1598 

The  Braes  o'  Gleniffer 1599 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow 881 

The  Brave  Earl  Brand,  and  the   King  of 

England's  Daughter 721 

TheBreakof  Day 233 

The  Bridal  1805 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 1495 

The  Brier.. 1273 

The  Brook-side  '.  1717 

The  Broom-Flower    1657 

The  Brown  Jug 1014 

The  Brownie  of  Blednock    1650 

TheBud  589 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore    1562 

The  Burial  of  the  Righteous  1161 

The  Burial-March  of  Dundee 1663 

The  Bush  aboon  Traquair   1028 

The  Call  308 

The  Cameronian  Cat 738 

The  Cameronian's  Dream 1652 

The  Canterbury  Tales  19 

The  Catholick 712 

The  Cavalier's  Farewell  to  his  Mistress    ...     743 

The  Cavalier's  Song 1636 

The  Cave 939 

The  Chameleon 1016 

The  Character  of  Chatham 1077 

The  Cherry  and  the  Slae 389 

The  Child  and  the  Mourners  1738 

The  Child  and  the  Watcher 1559 

The  Childe  of  EUe 535 

The  Child's  First  Grief 1448 

The  Christening , 1232 

The  Christiad 1169 

The  Chronicle  541 

The  Church-builder  839 

The  Cloud 1360 

The  Cobbler  and  the  Vicar  of  Bray 744 

The  Coming  of  Winter 441 

The  Commencement  of  Dartmoor 1513 

The  Common  Doom   461 

The  Common  Lot ; 1387 

The  Companionship  of  the  Muse 273 

The  Complaint "...     549 

The  Complaints  of  the  Poor 1222 

The  Compliment  261 

The  Confession 445 

The  Contented  Shepherd !    829 

The  Convict  Ship  .."  1525 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 1592 

The  Council  of  Horses 799 

The  Country  Ballad-singer 804 

The  Country  Life 345 

The  Country's  Recreations 115 


NO.  OF  POEJI. 

The  Covenanter's  Battle  Chant 1639 

The  Cross  1730 

The  Cuckow  and  the  Nightingale. '21 

The  Daffodils 1207 

The  Day  of  Judgment 853 

The  Day  of  Judgment 1666 

The  Death-bed 1497 

The  Death-bell 469 

The  Death  of  a  Good  Man  848 

The  Death  of  Haidee 1351 

The  Death  of  Jauusa  and  Ammurat 584 

The  Death  of  Mary 1563 

The  Death  of  Rosamond 367 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous 1108 

The  Deatli  of  the  Warrior  King 1697 

The  Death  of  the  Young  Mother  1433 

The  Death  of  Wallace 47 

The  Decay  of  Summer 440 

The  Demand  of  Justice 313 

The  Departure  of  the  Swallow 1661 

The  Deserted  Village  919 

The  Despairing  Shepherd 749 

The  Dispensary  786 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin 1087 

The  Dream 234 

The  Dream  1241,  1341 

The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram  1494 

The  Duplicity  of  Women 26 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul 781 

The  Dying  Sailor  1177 

The  Elder  Scripture  1796 

The  Elephant  in  the  Moon 643 

The  Emigrant's  Adieu  to  Ballyshannon....  1838 

The  Emigrant's  Farewell 1480 

The  Emigrants  in  Bermudas  634 

The  Emptiness  of  Riches 859 

The  Envious  Man  and  the  Miser  31 

The  Equality  of  the  Grave 462 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 1820 

The  Evening  Cloud 1425 

The  Exactions  and  Delay  of  the  Law  59 

The  Excommunication  of  the  Cid 1524 

The  Excursion  1553 

The  E.xile'sSong 1647 

The  Fair  Recluse 1665 

The  Fairies  of  the  Caldonlaw 1654 

The  Fairy  to  Puck 210 

The  Farmer's  Boy 725 

The  Farmer's  Ingle 1053 

The  Farmer's  Life 1123 

The  Father  and  Child 1724 

The   Father  of  Pharonnida  discovers  her 

Attachment  to  Argalia 582 

The  Feast 557 

The  Field  of  Battle  982 

The  Field  of  the  World  1394 

The  Fireside   1024 

The  First  Day 1 

The  First  Pastoral 790 

The  Fishermen   1800 

The  Flight  of  Love 1366 

The  Flower 304 

The  Flower  o'Dumblane 1600 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest 1048 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  1049 

The  Ford  of  Arle 282 

The  Fox  at  the  Point  of  Death 798 

The  French  Army  in  Russia 1539 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray 938 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife- 
grinder  1144 

The  Garden  of  Adonis 132 

The  Garden  Gate  729 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

TheGarlcand 754 

The  Giants  and  the  Abbey 1295 

The  Gipsy's  Malison 1233 

The  Girl  of  Cadiz 1339 

The  Gladiator 1346 

The  Goat  without  a  Beard 796 

The  Golden  Age 39 

The  Golden  Glove 716 

The  Good  Man   160 

The  Good  Time  coming   1741 

The  Gospel 1058 

The  Grand  Question  debated 775 

The  Grasp  of  the  Dead 1467 

The  Gi-ave 842 

The  Grave 847 

The  Grave 1385 

The  Grave  of  Anna  1141 

The  Graves  of  a  Household 1439 

The  Greenland  Missionaries 1078 

The  Greenwich.  Pensioners 1240 

The  Greenwood 1241 

The  Hamlet,  an  Ode 965 

The  Happy  Man 8 

The  Happy  Man 878 

The  Happy  Marriage 1034 

The  Hare  and  many  Friends  801 

The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls .  1285 

The  Harvest  Storm 871 

The  Haunch  of  Venison 920 

The  Haymaker's  Song 728 

The  Heir  of  Linne 537 

The  Helmets  981 

The  Hermit 809 

The  Hermit 992 

The  Heroine  of  Auster  Fair    1629 

The  Highland  Poor  1120 

The  Hills  o' Gallowa'    1648 

The  Hitchin  May-day  Song 727 

The  Holly  Tree 1215 

The  Homes  of  England 1436 

The  Hour  of  Prayer 1443 

The  House  of  Fame 23 

The  House  of  liiches 129 

The  Hunter's  Song 1684 

The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot   528 

The  Husband's  Return 1596 

The  Image  of  Death Ill 

The  Image  of  Jealousy  in  the  Chapel  of 

Diana 334 

The  Immortality  of  the  Soul 225 

The  Impressed  Sailor  Boy 1163 

The  Inchcape  Eock 1224 

The  Induction  to  the  Complaint  of  Henry, 

Duke  of  Buckingham 9Q 

The  Inquiry 384 

The  InterWew  of  Vortigem  with  Rowen ...       14 
The  Invocation  and  Introduction  to  Para- 
dise Lost  ; 619 

The  Ivy  Green   1818 

The  Jews'  Return  to  Jerusalem 980 

The  Journey  onwards  1293 

The  Jovial  Hunter  of  Bromsgrove 722 

The  Just  Indignation  of  the  Oppressed 277 

The  Reach  i'  the  Creel 718 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Ride   1716 

The  King's  Answer 177 

The  Kiss,  a  Dialogue 340 

The  Kitten 1473 

The  Knight  releases  his  Lands  and  suc- 
cours a  Yeoman  522 

The  Ladder  to  Thrift   83 

The  Lady's  Looking-glass 750 

The  Lady's  Song  in  "Comus" 608 


XO.    OF   POFM. 

The  Land  of  My  Birth 1721 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 1451 

The  Languid  Lady 862 

The  Lark 473 

The  Lass  of  Lochroyan 539 

The  Last  Journey 1532 

The  Last  Time  I  came  o'er  the  Moor   825 

The  Last  Verses  of  Chaucer  ....TTir.rr     -28 

The  Light  of  other  Days 1292 

The  Lily  1122 

The  Lion  and  Giraffe 1479 

The  Lion  and  the  Cub 794 

The  Long-ago  1719 

The  Lost  Leader 1788 

The  Lot  of  Thousands 1115 

The  Love  of  Praise    860 

The  Love  that  is  requited  with  Disdain 93 

Tlie  Loved  One  was  not  there 1743 

The  Lover  complaineth  of  the  Unkiudness 

of  His  Love 72 

The  Lover  requesteth  some  Friendly  Com- 
fort, affirming  his  Constancy  92 

The    Lover's    Lute    cannot    be     blamed, 
though  it  smg  of  his  Lady's  Unkind- 

ness 73 

The  Loyal  Soldier 746 

The  Mad  Lover 382 

The  Madman's  Song 447 

The  Madness  of  Orestes    467 

The  Maid's  Lament  1272 

The  Maid  of  Neidpath 1329 

The  Man  of  Ross 779 

The  Mariner's  Wife  929 

The  Marriage  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  1121 

The  Massacre  of  the  Macpherson 1662 

The  Means  to  attain  Happy  Life   66 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead 1793 

The  Men  of  Forty-eight  1745 

The  Men  of  Old 1718 

The  Merle  and  Nightingale 51 

The  Mermaid 1132 

The  Messiah 630 

The  Messiah • 776 

The  Midges  dance  aboon  the  Burn    1601 

The  Midnight  Messenger 710 

The  Midnight  Ocean 1424 

The  Midnight  Wind 1635 

The  Minion  Wife 399 

The  Ministry  of  Angels 130 

The  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella 944 

The  Miser 844 

The  Miser's  Mansion 1218 

The  Miseries  of  a  Poet's  Life 9,50 

The  Monkey 1655 

The  Monkey  who  had  seen  the  World 792 

The  Moon  was  a-waning 1614 

The  Morning  Star 375 

The  Mother's  Hand 1699 

The  Mother's  Heart 1711 

The  Mother's  last  Song    1689 

The  Mow 726 

The  Muster  for  the  First  Crusade 13 

The  Nabob 1102 

The  New  Litany 735 

The  New-mown  Hay 730 

The  New  Year 646 

The  New  Year's  Gift 1472 

The  Night  before  the  Battle  of  Waterloo...  1358 
The  Night-piece  ;  or,  a  Pictxire  Drawn  in 

the  Dark 602 

The  Nightingale 1506 

The  Nobility  exhorted  to  the  Patronage  of 
Learning 139 


xlvi 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


so.  OP  roHM. 

The  Nobleman's  generous  Kindness 720 

The  Noontide  of  a  Summer's  Day 392 

TheNuu  liOl 

The  Nutbrown  Maid 94 

The  Nymph's  Reply 114 

The  Nymphs  to  their  May  Queen 122 

The  Odour  305 

The  Old  and  Young  Courtier 511 

The  Old  Arm-chair 1720 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 1230 

The  Old  Farm-gate " 1722 

The  Old  Hen  and  the  Cock 795 

The  Old  Man's  Comforts 1223 

The  Old  Man's  Wish 686 

The  Old  Protestant's  Litany  736 

The  Old  Water-mill  1724 

The  One  Gray  Hair 1277 

The  Only  Eest  7 

The  Orphan  Boy  1700 

The  Orphan  Boy's  Tale  IIIG 

The  Outlaw 1326 

The  Owl  1685 

The  Owl  and  the  Bell 1831 

The  Oxford  Riddle 507 

The  Painter 1542 

The  Painter  who  pleased  NobodyandEvery- 

body 793 

The  Palmer 1333 

The  Parish  Workhouse  and  Apothecary  ...  1173 

The  Parrot 1310 

The  Parting  of  Lovers 1737 

The  Passionate  Shephoi-d  to  his  Love 113 

The  Past  1727 

The  Pauper's  Death-bed 1531 

The  Philosopher's  Devotion 572 

The  Pilofrims  and  the  Peas 1147 

The  Pixies  of  Devon 1515 

The  Poet  and  the  Rose 800 

The  Poet's  Bridal-day  Song 1622 

The  Poet's  Hour 1547 

The  Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife  1687 

The  Power  of  Love 217 

The  Praise  of  a  Solitary  Life    366 

The  Pre-existency  of  the  Soul 575 

The  Preparation  for  Execution  448 

The  Pride  of  Youth  1330 

The  Primrose 270 

The  Primrose 1409 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 1345 

The  Progress  of  Discontent 973 

The  Progress  of  Love    904 

The  Prophecy 942 

The  Puritan 740 

The  Queen  1774 

The  Quiet  Life    782 

The  Rainbow  310 

The  Rainbow  562 

The  Real  and  the  Ideal    456 

The  Reaper 1206 

The  Reconciliation 1704 

The  Re-cured  Lover  exulteth  in  his  Free- 
dom, and  voweth  to  remain  Free  nntil 

Death 74 

The  Reign  of  Christ  on  Earth 1392 

The  Resolve 381 

The  Resurrection  849 

The  Retirement 648 

The  Retreat 564 

The  Return  of  David  II.  from  Captivity  ...      44 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 1503 

The  Rose 850 

The  Roundhead 741 

The  Sabbath  Day  1422 


NO.  OF  POBM. 

The  Sailing  of  Beowulf 9 

The  Sailor's  Farewell    1038 

The  Sailor's  Wife 1742 

The  Saint's  Encouragement 370 

The  Scholar 1220 

The  Schoolmistress 893 

The  Sea 1681 

The  Sea 1833 

The  Sea  in  Calm  1683 

The  Seasons  of  Life  1812 

The  Secret  Way 1828 

The  Seeds  of  Love 671 

The  Seeker 816 

The  Self-banished 601 

The  sequestered  Retirement  of  Bentworth    283 

The  Shepherd  and  his  Wile 423 

The  Shepherd  Boy 1462 

The  Ship  departing  from  the  Haven 946 

The  Shipwreck  of  the  Caravel  of  Grace  ....       56 

The  Shipwrecked  Solitary's  Song  1170 

The  Sick  Man  and  the  Angel 797 

The  Skylark 1613 

The  Sleep 1561 

The  Sleeping  Beauty 1184 

The  Sleeping  Figure  of  Modena 1676 

The  Soldier's  Dream 1308 

The  Soldier's  Home  1125 

The  Solitary  Tomb 1458- 

The  Song  of  the  Enamoured  Shepherd 410 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt  1496 

The  Songs  of  Birds 405 

The  Sorcerers  of  Vain  Delights 311 

The  Soul  and  Body 574 

The  Soul  in  Despair 5 

The  Soul's  Errand 119 

The  Soul's  Errand 503 

The  Spanish  Lady's  Love 538 

The  Spirit's  Epilogue  in  ''Comus" 609 

The  Splendid  Shilling 666 

The  Spring 368 

The  S<iuire  and  the  Dove 126 

The  Squiere's  Tale 20 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 1167 

The  Starry  Heavens  1481 

The  Stormy  Petrel 1682 

The  Stranger  and  his  Friend 1393 

The  Suicide 970 

The  Summer's  Queen  432 

The  Sun  rises  bright  in  France  1627 

The  Swearer   863 

The  Sweets  of  Beauty  464 

The  Tale  of  the  Coffers  or  Caskets    29 

The  Tar  for  all  Weathers 1136 

The  Tears  of  Scotland 923 

The  Tempestuous  Evening 1018 

The  Temptation  of  Eve 4 

The  Theatre    1414 

The  Thief  and  the  Cordelier   756 

The  Thought  of  Death -. 674 

The  Three  Knights 713 

The  Three  Sons 1801 

The  Three  States  of  Woman  450 

The  Three  Warnings    1026 

The  Thrush's  Nest 1410 

The  Timber 561 

The  Toilet   780 

TheTomb    565 

The  Town  Child  and  Country  Child 1624 

The  Town  Ladies  388 

The  Traveller 918 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep  1437 

The  Troubadour 1468 

The  Tub  Preacher 734 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  POEMS. 


xlvii 


KO.  OIP  POBM. 

The  Twa  Sisters  o' Binnorie    527 

The  Two  April  Mornings 1212 

The  Unknown  Grave 1536 

The  Upas  in  Marylebone  Lane 1417 

The  Useful  Plow    724 

The  Uses  of  Adversity  191 

The  Valediction 570 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Learning    221 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes   885 

The  Vanity  of  the  Beautiful  103 

The  Vanity  of  the  World 293 

The  Vessel  going  to  Pieces 949 

The  Voice  of  Spring 1438 

The  Voice  of  the  Dying   206 

The  Voice  of  the  Morning  1698 

The  Votaress  of  Diana 336 

The  Waiting-maid 551 

The  Wanderer    841 

The  Wandering  Wind = 1450 

The  War  of  the  League    1565 

The  Water!  the  Water  ! 1634 

The  Water  Lady    1498 

The  Water  o'  Wearie's  Well  532 

The  Widow  and  Child  1705 

The  Widow  Bird    1374 

The  Widowed  Mother  1213 

The  Widowed  Mother  1429 

The  Wife 495 

The  Wife's  Appeal 1778 

The  Wife's  Funeral  1179 

TheWild  Huntsman 1334 

The  Will 230 

The  Winds 87 

The  Winter  Evening 1084 

The  Wish 546 

The  Wish 678 

The  Wish 1017 

The  Witch's  Cave 335 

The  Wreath    563 

The  Woodman's  Walk 505 

The  Work-girl's  Song   398 

The  World  a  Stage   193 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us 1190 

The  Worn  Wedding  Ring    1768 

The  Young  Man's  Wish   709 

The  Young  Maxwell 1619 

Theodore  and  Honoria 664 

There  be  those   1455 

There  is  an  Ancient  Man 1733 

There  is  a  Garden  in  her  Face 486 

There's  no  Dearth  of  Kindness  1753 

They  are  all  gone  560 

They  come,  the  Merry  Summer  Months  ...  1633 

Think  on  thy  Home 364 

Think  not  of  the  Future  1501 

Thomas  the  Rhymer 531 

Those  Evening  Bells 1288 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  Grave    1381 

Thou  hast  vow'd  by  thy  Faith,  ray  Jeanie  1625 

Thoughts  of  Heaven 1642 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden 633 

Thoughts  on  Time 857 

Thus  stood  his  Mind 1430 

Time's  Alteration  512 

Time's  Song    1814 

Tiroes  go  by  turns     110 

Tintern  Abbey  1195 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer    1278 

To  a  Bcioved  One 1754 

To  a  Brother  Poet 276 

To  a  Child  embracing  his  Mother 1 489 

To  a  Coy  Lady  383 

To  a  Cricket   1764 


KG.  OV  POBIC. 

To  a  Daisy  1391 

To  a  Distant  Friend 1200 

To  a  Family  Bible 1447 

To  a  Highland  Girl    1196 

To  a  Lady    698 

To  a  Lady   778 

To  a  Lady  admiring  Herself  in  a  Looking- 
glass 358 

To  a  Lady  I  know,  aged  One  1771 

To  a  Lady  with  a  Guitar 1371 

To  a  Lady  with  some  Painted  Flowers 1105 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy    , 1575 

To  a  Nightingale   361 

To  a  Skylark  , 1361 

To  a  Sleeping  Child 1421 

To  a  Sleeping  ChUd  1837 

To  a  Tuft  of  Early  Violets  1143 

To  a  very  Young  Lady..; 667 

To  Althea  (from  Prison)  355 

To  Amoret  593 

To  an  Early  Primrose  1165 

To  Autumn 1521 

ToBelshazzar 1357 

To  Blossoms    341 

ToCastara  317 

To  Castara,  inquiring  why  I  loved  her 318 

To     Castara    (the    Record     of    Innocent 

Love) 323 

To  Certain  Golden  Fishes    1572 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney 791 

To  Chloe 338 

ToCorinna  351 

To  Daffodils    342 

To  Fancy 974 

To  Ferdinand  Seymour 1712 

Tofind  God 850 

To  Hester 1228 

To  his  Coy  Love 145 

To  his  Empty  Purse 22 

To  his  Heart  386 

To  his  Lute 362 

To  his  Mistress  78 

To  his  Mistress  645 

To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia  ...     ]58 

To  his  Son  Vincent  Corbet 251 

To  his  Wife 1126 

To  his  Wife 1600 

Tolanthe    1133 

To  Lucasta  (going  to  the  Wars) 353 

To  Lucasta  (from  Prison)    354 

To  Macaulay  •..  1276 

To  Mary  (Mrs.  Unwin) 1082 

To  Mary  in  Heaven  1587 

ToMeadows    344 

To  Mrs.  Bishop 1002 

To  Mrs.  Bishop      1003 

T  o  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey   63 

To  my  Candle 1155 

To  my  Daughter,  on  being  separated  from 

her  on  her  Marriage  1114 

To  my  Daughter,  on  h  er  Birthday 1490 

To  my  Noblest  Friend 324 

To  my  Picture    360 

To  my  Son  1164 

To  Phyllis 694 

To  Posterity   493 

To  Primroses  filled  with  Morning  Dew     ...    346 

To  Religion 120 

To  Roses  in  the  Bosom  of  Castara 316 

To  Saxham 269 

ToSeymors     321 

To  Sleep  218 

To  Sleep 1210 

d 


ITO.  OF  POEM. 

To  T.  L.  H,,   six  yeaxs  old,  during  a  Sick- 
ness    1398 

To  the  Bramble  Flower   1552 

To  the  Butterfly 1187 

To  the  Comet  of  1811  ^  1616 

Tothe  Cuckoo    962 

To  the  Cuckoo    1202 

To  the  Daisy  1208 

To  the  Earl  of  Warwick  on  the  Death  of 

Addison   785 

To  the  Evening  Primrose 1454 

To  the  Evening  Star 682 

To  the  Evening  Star 1301 

To  the  First  Cuckoo  of  the  year  1816 

To  the  Glowworm 1405 

To  the  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket    1399 

To  the  Holy  Trinity ,     237 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Lady 1540 

To  the  Memory  of  the  First  Lady  Lyttelton    906 

Tothe  Night 1365 

To  the  Nightingale   707 

To  the  Passions 890 

To  the  Queen 374 

To  the  Reverend  Dr.  Ayscough 905 

To  the  River  CherweU 1253 

To  the  River  Nith 1607 

To  the  River  Tweed 1248 

To  the  River  Wensbeck   .'  1247 

To  the  Skylark  1201 

To  the  Snowdrop   1678 

Tothe  Spring 320 

To  the  Tron  Kirk  Bell 1054 

To  Thomas  Moore     1337 

To  Time  1238 

To  Tom  Bowling   1140 

ToW.  G.  B 1773 

To-morrow,  Lord,  is  Thine 1060 

Town  and  Country 1484 

Translation  of  Horace,  Odes,  I.  5 617 

Tribute  to  a  Mother  on  her  Death    1 089 

True  Beauty  in  Woman   1821 

Tullochgorum 1050 

Tweedside    1029 

Twenty-eight  and  Twenty-nine 1709 

Two  April  Mornings 1212 


U. 

Una  and  the  Red  Cross  Knight ,    124 

Una  followed  by  the  Lion    125 

Under  the  Holly  Bough 1739 

Unprepared  for  Death 845 

Upon  his  Mistress  sad  879 

Upon  Westminster  Bridge 1204 

Urania I759 


Valediction 231 

Vanity  of  Earthly  Things 52 

Variety 986 

Verses 832 

Verses  on  a  most  stony-hearted  Maiden  ...  100 

Verses  on  his  Own  Death 774 

Verses  written  when  alone  in  an  Inn  at 

Southampton  1031 

Vicarious  Justice 641 

Virgin  Purity. 580 

Virtue 303 


KO.  OP  POEM. 

Virtue  and  Vice.. , 435 

Vision  of  Beishazzar. 1356 


W. 


Walking  the  Streets  of  London 805 

War  Song  on  the  Victory  of  Brunnenburg   1296 

Warriors 699 

Washing-day  1107 

We  are  Brethren  a'   1643 

We  have  been  Friends  together 1713 

Weary  of  Wandering 1065 

Wedding  Words....... 1769 

Welcome  to  the  Forest's  Queen 463 

What  ails  this  Heart  o' mine  ?    1103 

What  is  Heaven  ? 16 

WhatisLife? 292 

What  is  Life  ?  , , 1407 

What  is  Love? 470 

What  Love  is  like  451 

What  might  be  done 1740 

When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  Earth  am 

sleeping 1640 

When  the  King  comes  Home   in  Peace 

again 732 

When  the  Kye  comes  Hame  1612 

When  we  two  parted  1342 

Where  shall  the  Lover  Rest  ? 1328 

Whitbread's    Brewery    visited    by    their 

Majesties 1151 

Wife,  Chddren,  and  Friends 1396 

Wild  Flowers 1644 

William  and  Margaret ,     897 

Willow  Song   1449 

Winter  Evening  in  t  he  Country 1085 

Winter  Redbreast 1268 

Wishes  for  Obscurity    695 

Wolseyon  his  Fall 182 

Wolsey's  Ambition  490 

Wolsey's  Vision 491 

Woman's  Voice 1758 

Woo'd  and  married  and  a'   1045 

W^ork-girl's  Song 398 

Wreathe  the  Bowie 1279 

Wretchedness  of  a  School  Usher   951 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley 896 

Written  at  the  Close  of  Spring  1100 

Written  at  Tynemouth,  Northumberland, 

after  a  Tempestuous  Voyage 1245 

Written  in    a    blank  leaf    of    Dugdale's 

"  Monasticon  " , 967 

Written  in  Early  Spring 1211 

Written    on    a   Visit  to  the  Country  in 

Autumn 963 


Y. 


Yarrow  Visited 1199 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  1305 

Ye're  all  the  World  to  me.  Lassie 1813 

Young  Lochinvar  1317 

Young  Love , 635 

Youth  and  Age 1221 

Youth  and  Age 1355 


Z. 

Zara's  Ear-rings. ,...,.....„„r 1523 


THE  FIKST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


^ 


HO.  OP  POBM. 

A  band,  a  bobwig,  and  a  feather 833 

A  brace  of  sinners,  for  no  ^ood 1147 

A  broad  stream,  smooth  with  deep-grass'd 

fields 1775 

A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 1307 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun  1425 

A  cobbler  and  a  curate  once  disputed  509 

A  country  life  is  sweet !    724 

A  curious  eye 334 

A  curse  upon  that  faithless  maid  704 

A  face  that  should  content  me  wondrous 

well  76 

A  fair  young  May  went  up  the  street  718 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 1210 

A   fool  !    a    fool !      I  met  a  fool  i'   the 

forest    192 

A  fox,  in  life's  extreme  decay 798 

A  gentle    knight    was    pricking    on  the 

plain 124 

A  gentle  maid,  of  rural  breeding   986 

A  gentle  squire  would  gladly  entertain 248 

A  good  Pope  was  thilk  time  at  Rome  that 

hecht  Urban   13 

A  happy  bit  hame  this  auld  world  would  be  1643 

A  jewel  for  my  lady's  ear    1769 

"A  knife,"  dear  girl,  "cuts  love,"  they 

say!  1002 

A  learn'd  society  of  late  643 

A  little  child,  beneath  a  tree  1738 

A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 616 

A  mighty  pain  to  love  it  is 542 

A  monkey,  to  reform  the  times 792 

A  mother's  love — how  sweet  the  name ! 1390 

A  noble  marquess 526 

A  nobleman  lived  in  a  village  of  late 720 

A  pp,rrot  from  the  Spanish  main 1310 

A  poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief  1393 

A  quack  (too  scandalously  mean  to  name)     652 

A  star  has  left  the  kindling  sky 1469 

A  steed  !  a  steed  of  matchless  speed 1636 

A  tailor,  thought  a  man  of  upright  dealing    153 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we  1682 

A  thousand  pretty  ways  we'll  think  upon...  550 
A  tree  gi'ew  in  Java,  whose  pestilent  rind...  1417 
A  veteran  gambler,  in  a  tempest  caught ...  1006 

A  wandering  orphan  child  was  I    1699 

A  warrior  so  bold  and  a  virgin  so  bright ...  1313 
A  wealthy  young  squire  of  Tamworth,  we 

hear  716 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid  1320 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea    1623 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love...  1374 
A  wretch  had  committed  all  manner  of  evil  839 
A!  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing ! 32 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !)  1402 

ActsDon  lost,  in  middle  of  his  sport 123 

Adieu,  farewell  earth's  bliss    442 

Adieu  to  Ballyshannon  !  where  I  was  bred 

and  born  1838 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever 1576 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride 1478 

Afric  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 1351 

After  giving,  I  speak  of  taking  55 

Again,  how  can  she  but  immortal  be  ? 225 

Again,  sweet  siren,  breathe  again 1133 

Again  the  chief  th'  instructive  draught  ex- 

tendt 948 

Ah  !  Chi  oris,  that  I  now  could  sit  667 

Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh   1327 

Ah !   from  mine  eyes  the  tears  unbidden 

start  1252 

Ah  !  I  remember  well  (and  how  can  1 135 

Ah,   lovely  Lichfield !    that    so  long  hast 

shone     1111 

Ah,  me!  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn   ...    893 

Ah,  me  !  the  little  tyrant  thief  357 

Ah,  mourn,  thou  loved  retreat !    No  more    971 

Ah,  ope.  Lord  Gregorj'-,  thy  door 1152 

Ah,  the  poor  shepherd's  mournful  fate 883 

Ah,  were  she  pitiful  as  she  is  fair 427 

Ah  !  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run  966 
Ah  !  what  is  love  ?  It  is  a  pretty  thing  ...  424 
Ah  !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb...     988 

Alas!  in  how  grim 5 

Alas  !  that  moon  should  ever  beam  1498 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth 1510 

Alexis  shunned  his  fe Wow-swains    749 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay 660 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  mooi''d 802 

All  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves   1785 

All  men  loved  him  for  his  bounty 33 

All  praise  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night 820 

All  smatterers  are  more  brisk  and  pert    ...     644 

All  the  world's  a  stage 193 

All  these,  and  more  came  flocking ;    but 

with  looks    621 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights 1505 

All  we  have  is  God's,  and  yet 301 

All  white  hung  the  bushes  o'er  Elaw's  sweet 

stream 1472 

All  wit  and  fancy,  like  a  diamond 644 

All  ye,  who  far  from  town,  in  rural  hall ....  1009 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bow'rs 220 

Almighty  Father  !  let  Thy  lowly  child 1557 

Alone  she  was,  her  head  against  the  wall...  1839 

Along  the  garden  walk  I  stray'd 1807 

Along  the  mead  Europa  walks    569 

Amang  the  birks  sac  blithe  and  gay 1648 

c^2 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.  OF  POBU. 

Amarantha  sweet  and  fair  356 

Among  thy  fancies  tell  me  this 340 

An  ancient  story  I'll  tell  you  anon 529 

An  old  dull  sot,  who  toU'd  the  clock 642 

An  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate 511 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 929 

And  doth  not  a  meeting  like  this  make 

amends 1281 

And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came  1349 

And  eke  this  house  hath  of  entries  23 

And  first  within  the  porch  and  jaws  of  hell      97 
And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home. . .  1534 

And  is  the  swallow  gone? 1661 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?    And  is  there 

love  130 

And  is  this  the  old  mill-stream  that  ten 

years  ago 1724 

And  is  this  Yarrow  ?— this  the  stream 1199 

And  now  before  young  David  could  come  in    144 

And  now,  lashed  on  by  destinj'-  severe 949 

And  now,  philanthropy  !  thy  rays  divine...  1095 
And  now,  to  be  brief,  let's  pass  over  the 

rest    717 

And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  dis- 
played       780 

And  Rachel  lies  in  Ephrath's  land 1475 

And  so  I  glad^  of  the  season  sweet    25 

And  the  night  was  dark  and  calm '. .  1466 

And  then  came  Covetise,  can  I  him  not 

descrive? 18 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair  ...  1354 
And  thou  hast  walk'd  about  (how  strange 

astory!) 1418 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old    1335 

And  what  is  life  ?    An  hour-glass  on  the 

run    1407 

And  what's  a  life  ?— a  weary  pilgrimage  ...     292 
And  when  the  king  wist  that  they  were  ...       34 

And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary    1654 

And  wherefore  do  the  poor  complain? 1222 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus 77 

And  with  that  word  she  smiled,  and  ne'er- 

theless 148 

Anger,  in  hasty  words  or  blows 586 

Another  nymph,  amongst  the  many  fair  ...     758 
Are  they  not  senseless,  then,  that  think 

the  soul    222 

Ariel  to  Miranda  :— Take    1371 

Array'd  a  half -angelic  sight    1232 

Art  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth    1421 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slum- 
bers?     433 

As  after  noon,  one  summer's  day  752 

As  at  the  approach  of  winter  all    644 

As  bird  in  cage  debarr'd  the  use  of  wings. . .     496 

As,  by  some  tyrant's  stern  command 936 

As  by  the  shore  at  break  of  day 1286 

As  chaos  which  by  heavenly  doom 1416 

As  doctors  give  physic  by  way  of  preven- 
tion  • 760 

As  due  by  many  titles,  I  resign 235 

As  fireflaucht  hastily  glancing    62 

As  fresh  Aurore  to  mighty  Tithon  spouse      57 

As  homeward  by  the  evening  star 1263 

As  I  walked  forth  one  summer's  morn 730 

As  I  was  pausing  in  a  morning  aire 394 

As  in  an  evening,  when  the  gentle  air 286 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 121 

As  near  Porto-Bello  lying '    999 

As  on  a  summer's  day 829 

As  one  who,  long  by  wasting  sickness  worn  1254 

As  Rochefoucault  his  maxims  drew 774 

As  slow  I  climb  the  cliff's  ascending  side...  1245 


NO.  OF  POBM. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 1293 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went 1704 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away '231 

As  we  bene  on  the  high  hills  situate 56 

As  when,  to  one,  who  long  hath  watch' d  the 

morn 1007 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows   260 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here  270 

At  £eatt^/s  bar  as  I  did  stand    101 

At  length  escaped  from  every  human  eye . . .     906 

At  Sarra,  in  the  land  of  Tartaric  2C 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet 

isstill    992 

At  Willie's  wedding  on  the  green 1609 

Autumn   hath  all  the    summer's  fruitful 

treasure    441 

Avenge,  0  Lord,  Thy  slaughtered  saints, 

whose  bones    615 

Awake,  my  muse,  and  leave  to  dream  of 

loves 489 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 819 


B. 


Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare 402 

Balm  of  my  cares,  sweet  solace  of  my  toils  972 
Batter  my  heart,  three-personed  God  ;  for 

you    235 

Be  merry,  friends,  take  ye  no  thought 401 

Be  merry,  man,  and  take  nought  far  in  mynd  53 
Be  patient !  Oh,  be  patient !  put  yoiu*  ear 

against  the  earth   1803 

Be  wise  to-day  ;  'tis  madness  to  defer  858 

Be  wise  to  run  thy  race    1076 

Beat  on,  proud  billows  :  Boreas,  blow 513 

Beauteous   and    bright  is  he  among  the 

tribes    413 

Beauties,  have  you  seen  this  toy   238 

Beautiful  children  of  the  woods  and  fields  !  1644 

Beauty,  alas  !  where  wast  thou  born    419 

Beauty  is  but  a  vain  and  doubtful  good  ...     195 

Because  I  oft  in  dark  abstracted  guise 107 

Before  I  sigh  my  last  gasp,  let  me  breathe    230 

Before  my  face  the  picture  hangs Ill 

Began  then  himself  equip    4 

Begone  dull  care  ! 731 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 1206 

Behold  upon  the  swelling  wave 1039 

Behold  where  thou  dost  lie 1397 

Below  the  bottom  of  the  great  abyss    297 

Belshazzar  !  from  the  banquet  turn  1357 

Beneath  the  beech,  whose  branches  bare...     970 

Beneath  this  stony  roof  reclined    969 

Bereave  me  not  of  fancy's  shadowy  dreams  1244 

Beside  her  babe  who  sweetly  slept    1 429 

Betwixt  two  sloping  verdant  hills 985 

Bewailing  in  my  chamber  thus  alone    43 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping    1779 

Bid  me  not  go  where  neither   suns  nor 

showers 337 

Bing,  bim,  bang,  borne  !  1831 

Bird,   bee,   and   butterfly — the   favourite 

three 1517 

Bird  of  the  wilderness 1613 

Blame  not  my  lute  !  for  he  must  sound  ...  73 
Bless  God,  my  soul !  Thou,  Lord,  alone  ...     823 

Blessed  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he    788 

Blest  temple,  haile,  where  the  chast  altar 

stands  321 

Blossom  of  the  almond  trees   1757 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 211 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


VO.  OF  POEM. 

Bone-weary,  many-childed,  trouble-tried  !  1553 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  np  the  glen 1615 

Born  in  yon  blaze  of  orient  sky 1097 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead  ...  1315 

Bright  star  !  by  Venus  fix'd  above   682 

Bright  sun  had  in  his  ruddy  robes  been 

dight 940 

Brightest  and  best  of    the  sons  of    the 

morning  1380 

Bring  flowers,  young  flowers,  for  the  festal 

board    1441 

Brother,  thou  art  gone  before  us  1 669 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride    881 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly 1021 

But  all  our  praises  why  should  lords  en- 
gross?       779 

But  happy  they !    the  happiest  of  their 

kind! 866 

But  how  shall  we  this  union  well  express  ?  224 
But  if  the  breathless  chase  o'er  hill  and 

dale  926 

But  see  the  fading  many-colour'd  woods  ...  872 
But  sith  'tis  so  there  is  a  trespass  done  ...  24 
But  still,  forgot  the  grandeur  of  thy  reign  932 
But  wood  and  wild,  the  mountain  and  the 

dale  1161 

By  Logan  streams  that  rin  saedeep 1605 

By  painful  steps  at  last  we  labourup 681 

By  sylvan  waves  that  westward  flow 1 702 

By  this  had  chanticleer,  the  village  cock...    285 


C. 


Ca' the  yowes  to  the  knowes  1582 

Cajlia  is  cruel :  Sylvia,  thou 685 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren  446 
Can  gold  calm  passion,   or  make  i*eason 

shine? 859 

Can  you  paint  a  thought  ?  or  number  458 

Care-charmer  sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night  140 

Care-charming  sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes  218 

Careful  observers  may  foretell  the  hour   ...  772 

Careful  sorrowing  10 

Cease  to  blame  my  melancholy  984 

Cecilia,  whose  exalted  hymns 763 

Celia  and  I  the  other  day 750 

Checke  thy  forward  thoughts,  and  know...  319 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches  1766 

Cherry  ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry  348 

Chei-well !  how  pleased  along  thy  willow'd 

hedge 1253 

Child  amidst  the  flowers  at  j)lay     1443 

Child  of  the  country!  free  as  air  1624 

Child  of  the  potent  spell  and  nimble  eye...  1041 
Child  of  the  sun  !    pursue  thv  rapturous 

fliffht .'. 1187 

Children  are  what  the  mothers  are    1274 

Chloe,  why  wish  you  that  your  years    338 

Chloris,  yourself  you  so  excel      598 

Clarinda  came  at  last    336 

Close  in  the  covert  of  an  hazel  copse    867 

Clysdale,  as  thy  romantic  vales  I  leave 1250 

Cold    is    the  senseless  heart    that    never 

strove    1010 

Come,  all  ye  feathery  people  of  mid  air  ...  1677 

Come  all  ye  jolly  shepherds   1612 

Come,  all  ye  youths  whose  hearts  e'er  bled  690 

Come  back,  come  back  together 1463 

Come,  come  away  745 

Come,  evoninge  gale  !  the  crimsonne  rose  1541 

Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace  1085 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Come,  gentle  sleep  !   attend  thy  votary's 

prayer  1154 

Come,  gentle  zephyr,  trick'd  with  those 

perfumes  417 

Come,  gie's  a  sang,  Montgomery  cried 1050 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  dwell 1679 

Come,  Holy  Spirit,  come  ^...,,.,^..^  1075 

Come,  list  and  hark,  the  bell  doth  toll 469 

Come,  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free  . . .     517 

Come,  little  infant,  love  me  now    635 

Come,  live  with  me  and  be  my  love  113 

Come,  my  Way,  my  Truth,  my  Life  ! 308 

Come,  O  come,  with  sacred  lays 281 

Come,  0  thou  traveller  unknown  1064 

Come,  said  Jesus' sacred  voice    1109 

Come,  sleep,  0  sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 

peace 107 

Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace    1242 

Come,   ye  brown  oaks,   and    stoop    your 

heavy  boughs 1548 

Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods    1658 

Comes    next    from    Ross-shire  and    from 

Sutherland   1630 

Comforts  lasting,  loves  encreasing 459 

Condemn'd  to  Hope's  delusive  mine  886 

Connubial  Fair  !  whom  no  fond  transport 

wanns   1096 

Contentment,  parent  of  delight 815 

Cosmelia's  charms  inspire  my  lays 669 

Crowns,    therefore    keep    your    oaths    of 

coronation    154 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played    404 

Cursed  with  xinnumber'd  groundless  fears  976 
Custom,  the  world's  great  idol,  we  adore...    677 


D. 


Darkness,  which  fairest  nymphs  disarms...    602 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power  908 

Daughter  of  Time,  sincere  Posterity    493 

Daughters  of  Israel !    praise  the  Lord  of 

Hosts! 1237 

Day  stai's  !  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn 

to  twinkle    1419 

Dazzled  thus  with  height  of  place 162 

Dear  Agnes,  gleam'd  with  joy  and  dash'd 

with  tears    1470 

Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd 1024 

Dear  Fanny,  nine  long  years  ago 1490 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale 1186 

Dear  Joseph,  five  and  twenty  years  ago  . . .  1088 
Dear  to  my  heart  as  life's  warm  stream  ...  1114 
Dear  Tom,  this  brown  jug  that  now  foams 

with  mild  ale 1014 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have 

called  thee  235 

Deathless  principle,  arise  !  1073 

Death's  shafts  fly  thick !    Here  falls  the 

village  swain   847 

Deem  as  you  list  upon  good  cause 79 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage 967 

Defeating  oft  the  labours  of  the  year    871 

Degenerate  Douglas !     Oh  the  unworthy 

lord! 1203 

Delightful  is  this  loneliness  ;   it  calms 1158 

Despairing  beside  a  clear  stream   828 

Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love  201 
Dim  as  the  borrow'd  beams  of  moon  and 

stars 658 

Do  I  not  know  a  great  man's  power  and 

might    277 


lii 


THE  FIRST  LIXES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Do  not  beguile  my  heart 306 

Do  not  unjustly  blame 645 

Do  you  ask  me  what  the  birds  say  ?    The 

sparrow,  the  dove 1512 

Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers    1197 

Drink  to  me,  only  with  thine  eyes 212 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears,  and  bathe  those 

beauteous  feet 312 

Dry  those  fair,  those  crystal  eyes 251 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  love  ! — I  fain  would  be 

gay!  1526 

Dwellers  by  lake  and  hill! 1653 


E. 


Each  opening   season,  and  each  opening 

scene 1413 

Earl  Gawain  woo'd  the  Lady  Barbara  1743 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair.  1204 

Enj  oy  the  present  smiling  hour 665 

Equipp'd  and  bent  for  heaven  I  left  yon 

world 1421 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade  1511 

Ere  yet  the  fell Plantagenets  had  spent  ...     927 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind !    1345 

Ethereal  minstrel  !  pilgrim  of  the  sky!  ...  1201 
Even  now  his  eyes  with  smiles  of  rapture 

glow 989 

Even  the  lag  flesh 849 

Even  thus  amid  thy  pride  and  luxury  1666 

Evening  and  morning — those  two  ancient 

names   1729 

Evening,  as  slow  thy  placid  shades  descend  1249 


Faintly  bray'd  the  battle's  roar 982 

Fair  and  soft,  and  gay  and  young 684 

Fair  as  imshaded  light  or  as  the  day 374 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 342 

Fair  Echo,  rise  !    sick-thoughted  nymph, 

awake   380 

Fair  Fidelia,,  tempt  no  more   743 

Fair  flower  that  shunn'st  the  glare  of  day  1454 

Fair  is  thy  level  landscape,  England  fair  ...  1516 

Fair  is  my  love,  and  cruel  as  she's  fair 140 

Fair  lady,  when  you  see  the  grace 358 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree 341 

Fair  Rosomond  within  her  bower  of  late  ...  367 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France  143 

Fair  summer  droops,  droop  men  and  beasts 

therefore 440 

Fair  !  that  you  may  truly  know 593 

Faire  mistresse  of  the  Earth,  with  garlands 

crown'd 320 

Fall'npile!  I  ask  not  what  has  been  ithy 

fate    1256 

False  world,  thou  ly'st :  thou  canst  not  lend  233 

Famous  was  Beowulf    9 

Fancies  are  but  streams   "*"  456 

Fai'  have  I  clambered  in  my  mind [  573 

Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view 809 

Farin  the  country  of  Arden    ]  146 

Far  in  the  windings  of  a  vale 898 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  my  great- 

.^iiess! 182 

Farewell  rewards  and  fairies  253 

Farewell,  sweet  groves  to  you  !  275 

Farewell  the  field  s  of  Irwan's  vale .'.'.."  934 


NO.  OE  POEM. 

Farewell,  thou  busy  world,  and  may 648 

Farewell  to  Lochaber,  farewell  to  my  Jean  -  824 
Farewell,  ye  gilded  follies  !  pleasing  trou- 
bles         159 

Father  in  heaven  !  who  gave  me  breath  ...  1537 

Father,  wake,  the  storm  is  loud 1734 

Few  are  thy  days  and  full  of  woe  964 

Few  have  lived  ; 1727 

Fhairshon  swore  a  feud 1662 

Fight  on,  brave  soldiers,  for  the  cause 370 

Fill  the  bowl  with  rosy  wine   542 

Fill  the  bumper  fair  !    1280 

First  shall  the  heavens  want  starry  light...     431 

First  think,  my  soul,  if  I  have  foes    274 

First-love  will  with  the  heart  remain    1411 

Five  years  have  pass'd  ;  five  summers,  with 

the  length 1195 

Flower  of  the  waste  !  the  heath-fowl  shuns  1119 
Flowers  to  the  fair ;   to  you  these  flowers  I 

bring 1105 

Fly  from  the  press,  and  dwell  with  soth- 

fastness 28 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me 1284 

Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you  241 

Fond  man,  that  looks  on  earth  for  happiness    315 

Foolish  Prater,  what  dost  thou  542 

For  his  religion,  it  was  fit   638 

For  many  a  coal-black    tribe    and   cany 

spear 1377 

For  me  who  feel,  whene'er  I  touch  the  lyre  1089 

For  sure  in  all  kinds  of  hypocrisy 157 

For, this  ye  know  well,  tho'  I  wouldin  lie...       27 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 78 

Fortitude  then  stood  steadfast  in  his  might  39 
Fortune,  men  say,  doth  give  too  much  to 

many    151 

Friend  of  my  soul !  this  goblet  sip    1282 

Friends,    Romans,  countrymen,  lend    me 

your  ears 187 

Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a  name 801 

From  an  extempore  prayer  and  a  godly 

ditty 735 

From  Ashur's  vales  when  proud  Sennache- 
rib trod 1092 

From  depth  of  doole  wherein  my  soule  doth 

dwell 106 

From  frozen  climes,  and  endless  tracts  of 

snow 789 

From  fruitful  beds  and  flowery  borders    ...     558 

From  Oberon  in  fairy  land 510 

From   Pembroke's    princely  dome,  where 

mimic  art 968 

From  that  rich  valley,  where  the  angels 

laidhim    491 

From  Tuskane  came  my  ladies  worthy  race  69 
Full  of  the  art  of  brewing  beer  1151 


G. 


Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed   1680 

Gane  were  but  the  winter  cauld 1620 

Gather  ye  rose-buds,  while  ye  may   343 

Genius  of  the  forest  shades 1128 

Gentle  nymphs,  be  not  refusing 289 

Gentlefolks,  in  my  time,  I've  made  many  a 

rhyme  1137 

Gentlest  girl    1731 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming 

mom 351 

Give  mo  more  love,  or  more  disdain 262 

Gloomy  winter's  now  awa'  1602 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


HO.  OF  POEM. 

Go,  blushing  flow'r  ! 1808 

Go,  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o' wine   1577 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! 591 

Go,  my  Willy,  get  thee  gone  276 

Go,  seek  in  the  wild  glen 1626 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest  119 

Go  to  your  bosom 205 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee  1283 

Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant  glades    1118 

God  hath  a  thousand  hand^s  to  chastise  ...  40 
God  sendeth  and  giveth  both  mouth  and 

meat 86 

God,  who  the  universe  doth  hold 499 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes 434 

Good  husbandmen  must  moil  and  toil 81 

Good  huswife  provides,  ere  a  sickness  do 

come 8o 

Good-morrow  to  thy  sable  beak 1471 

Good  muse,  rock  me  asleep 118 

Good  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear,  my 

Lord 208 

Good-night,  and  joy  be  wi'  ye  a'    1611 

Gr-r-r —  there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence !  1787 
Great  God,  whose  sceptre  rules  the  earth...  676 
Great    Strafford,    worthy  of  that   name, 

though  all    577 

Green  Httle  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass 1399 

Grieve  not,  fond  man,  nor  let  one  tear 468 


H. 


Had  Cain   been   Scot,  God  would    have 

changed  his  doom 377 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 1350 

Hail,  beauteous  Dian,  queen  of  shades 472 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 962 

Hail,  Bishop  Valentine  !  whose  day  this  is    227 

Hail,  gentle  stream  !  for  ever  dear    1607 

Hail,    holy  Light,    offspring  of   Heaven, 

firstborn  623 

Hail,  mildly  pleasing  solitude 877 

Hail,  old  patrician  trees,  so  great  and  good    553 

Hail,  progeny  divine  !  1063 

Hail   thou,  my  native  soil '  thou  blessed 

plot .: 291 

Hail  to  the  Lord's  anointed 1392 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  !  1361 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame,  fain  wad  I  be...  1617 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be 542 

Happy  the  man  who  his  whole  time  doth 

bound  545 

Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care    782 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  1 564 

Hark!  ah,  the  Nightingale  !  1760 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  clash  and  clang 1236 

Hark  !  now  everything  is  still    448 

Hark  !    the  cock  crows,  and  yon   bright 

star    646 

Hark  !  'tis  the  twanging  horn  o'er  yonder 

bridge  1084 

Harp  of  Zion,  pure  and  holy  1474 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning 

star    1504 

Haunts  of  my  youth  !    1101 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my 

lance 107 

Haymakei's,  rakers,  reapers,  and  mowers...     457 

He  comes  ;  thy  God..  0  Israel,  comes  1062 

He  ended  ;  and  the  Archangel  soon  drew 

nigh 632 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain   1323 


NO.  or  POEM. 

He,  o'er  his  sceptre  bowing,  rose  630 

He  raised  the  golden  cup  from  the  board  1468 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 264 

He  that  of   such  a  height  hath  built  his 

mind 138 

He  was  bot  twintie  yeiris  of  age    60 

He's    not   the   happy   man   to~  whrrm-^is 

given 878 

Hear  me,  0  God  ! 246 

Hear  me,  ye  nymphs,  and  every  swain 1028 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell 1508 

Hear  ye,  ladies  that  despise    217 

Heart-tearing  cai-es  and  quiv' ring  fears  ...  115 
Heaven  doth  with  us  as  we  with  torches  do  204 
Heaven  hath  its  crown  of  stars,  the  Earth  1754 

Heaven's  verge  extreme   1300 

Hence  all  you  vain  delights 215 

Hence,  heart,  with  her  that  must  depart...     386 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy 603 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys  604 

Hengist  that  day  did  his  might 14 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold  1348 
Her  cell  was  hewn  out  in  the  marble  rock.  335 
Her  dainty  hand  nestled  in  mine,  rich  and 

white 1747 

Her  form  was  as  the  morning's  blithesome 

star   1629 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling  1140 
Here  did  presumption  her  pavilion  spread    311 

Here,  stranger,  in  this  humble  nest 554 

Hei-e  the  lank-sided  miser,  worst  of  felons    844 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'  1590 

Hey,  now  the  day 's  dawning 390 

High  in  the  airy  element  there  hung    310 

High  mounted  on  an  ebon  throne  on  which    581 

High  peace  to  the  soul  of  the  dead   1540 

High  thoughts  ! 1642 

Higher,  higher,  will  we  climb 1386 

His  golden  locks  time  hath  to  silver  turned    411 

His  tawny  beard  was  th'  equal  grace    639 

Ho  !  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin...  1762 

Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  !    1671 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  1705 

Hope  !  of  all  ills  that  men  endure 544 

Hope  !  whose  weak  being  ruin'd  is    543 

Hot  sun,  cool  fire,  tempered  with  sweet  air  416 
Household  treasures,  household  treasures  1815 

How  are  Thy  servants  blest,  0  Lord  !  768 

How  beautiful  is  night !    1213 

How  blest  has  my  time  been  !  what  joys 

have  I  known  1034 

How  blest  the  man  who,  in  these  peaceful 

plains    960 

How  calmly,  gliding  through  the  dark  blue 

sky ...  1214 

How  cheerfully  th'  unpartiall  sunne 327 

How  custom  steels  the  human  breast  1020 

How  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scene  !  deep, 

deep ,  1160 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 1302 

How  fair  is  the   rose  !  what  a  beautiful 

flower    850 

How  fine  has   the   day  been,  how  bright 

was  the  sun 851 

How  fond  are  men  of  rule  and  place 794 

How  fresh,  0  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean...     304 

How  gaily  is  at  first  begun 818 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 160 

How  long  must  women  wish  in  vain 700 

How  lovely  is  this  wilder'd  scene  1616 

How  many  summers,  love    1687 

How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects  174 
How  miserable  a  thing  is  a  great  man 695 


Uv 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


JTO.  OF  POBM. 

How  mournfully  this  burial-ground 1423 

How  near  am  I  now  to  a  happiness 452 

How    pleasant  came    thy  rushing,  silver 

Tweed! 1156 

How  shall  I  meet  thee,  summer,  wont  to  fill  1257 
How  shocking  must  thy  summons  be,  0 

Death! 845 

How  short  is  life's  uncertain  space  ! 1017 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 888 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of 

youth    612 

How  soothing  is  that  sound  of  far-oft  wheels  1735 

How  sweet  the  answer  echo  makes    1291 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  Afternoon  !  ...  1806 
How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this 

bank 167 

How  sweet  thy  modest  light  to  view 1134 

How  sweetly  doth  My  Master  sound  ! — My 

Master 305 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze  633 

How  wither'd,  perish'd  seems  the  form  ...  1122 
How  wonderful  is  Death  1359 


I. 


I  am  all  alone  !  and  the  visions  that  play...  1527 
I  am  an  Englishman,  and  naked  I  stand 

here  80 

I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  be 74 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care 1056 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee   1362 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for    the  thirsting 

flowers  1360 

I  cannot  change  as  others  do  655 

I  chanced,  my  dear,  to  come  upon  a  day...    489 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 1703 

I  come,  I  come  !  ye  have  call'd  me  long  ...  1438 

I  disdain  all  pomp  when  thou  ai-t  by 693 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  that  fair    261 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods   1706 

I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maid 1363 

I  had  a  vision  :  evening  sat  in  gold   1543 

I  hate  that  drum's  discordant  sound 1019 

I  hate  the  man  who  builds  his  name 800 

I  hate  these  potent  madmen,  who  keep  all  699 
1  have  a  son,  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five 

years  old  1801 

I  have  an  eye  for  her  that's  fair 706 

I  have  been  in  love,  and  in  debt,  and  in 

drink 382 

I  have  been  studying  how  to  compare 171 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  com- 
panions   1230 

'*  I  have  no  hopes,"  the  duke  he  says,  and 

dies    762 

I  have  no  muses  that  will  serve  the  turn  ...    280 

I  hear  theespeak  of  the  better  land 1445 

I  heard  a  sick  man's  dying  sigh 1709 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 1211 

I  hold  as  faith 712 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old 1718 

I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus  ...     186 

I  lately  vow'd,  but  'twas  in  haste  838 

I  lent  my  gossop  my  meir  to  fetch  hame 

coals  59 

I'll  not  such  favour  to  rebellion  show    698 

I  look'd  upon  his  brow— no  sign 1461 

I  love  (and  have  some  cause  to  love)  the 

earth 295 

I  love,  and  he  loves  me  again  243 

I  love  it,  I  love  it ;  and  who  shall  dare 1720 


wo.  OF  POKM. 

I  love  my  king  and  country  well 733 

I  loved  him  as  young  Genius  loves 1460 

I  loved  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone...  1272 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 1370 

I  met  four  chaps  yon  birks  amang 1610 

I  must  not  grieve,  my  love,  whose    eyes 

would  read  140 

I  must  not  say  that  thou  wert  true    1761 

I  never  hear  the  sound  of  thy  glad  bells  ...  1258 

I  n  ever  loved  ambitiously  to  climb    443 

I  never  sawe  my  Ladye  laye  apart 71 

I  own  I  like  not  Johnson's  turgid  style 1148 

I  pity,  from  my  soul,  unhapp}-  men  651 

I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel 168 

I  pray  thee,  love,  love  me  no  more    145 

I  prithee  leave  this  peevish  fashion   383 

I  prith  ee  send  me  back  my  heart   332 

I  remember,  I  remember 1491 

I  remember  well  one  svimmei-'s  night    1728 

I  rise,  dear  Mary,  from  the  soundest  rest...  1126 
I  sail'd  from  the  Downs  in  the  "  Nancy"...  1136 

I  saw  him  last  on  this  terrace  proud 1 420 

I  saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk    1231 

I  sing  the  name  which  none  can  say 298 

I  sought  Thee  round  about,  0  Thou  my 

God! 476 

I  sowed  the  seeds  of  love,  it  was  all  in  the 

spring    671 

I  swear,  Aurora,  by  thy  starry  eyes 396 

I  tell  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been 330 

I  then  did  use  the  person  of  your  father  ...     176 

I  thirst,  thou  wounded  Lamb  of  God    1068 

I  turn  these  leaves  with  thronging  thoughts, 

and  say 1260 

I've  a  letter  from  thy  sire 1742 

I've  a  proposal  here  from  Mr.  Murray 1294 

I've  heard  the  lilting  at  our  yowe-milking  1048 

I've  often  wished  that  I  had  clear 777 

I've  seen,  indeed,  the  hopeful  bud 299 

I've  seen  the  smiling 1049 

I've  wander'd  East,  I've  wander'd  West  ...  1()31 

I  wander'd  by  the  brook-side 1717 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud    1207 

I  was  a  scholar  :  seven  useful  springs  466 

I  went  fi'om  England  into  France  252 

I  wha  stand  here,  in  this  bare  scowry  coat  1594 
I  will  go  back  to  th^  great  sweet  mother  ...  1833 

I  will  not  have  the  mad  Clytie    1487 

I  wish  I  had  a  cottage  snug  and  neat    1628 

I  wish  I  was  where  Anna  lies 1141 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies   1606 

I  wot  not  how  the  world's  degenerate  250 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young 114 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song  ...  889 
If  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  muse  hath 

stay'd    785 

If  heaven  the  grateful  liberty  would  give...     678 

If  I  could  but  attain  my  wish ._ 709 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died  ...  1563 
If  I  live  to  grow  old,  for  I  find  I  go  down     686 

If  in  that  breast,  so  good,  so  pure 983 

If  she  doth  then  the  subtle  sense  excel    ...     223 

If  the  quick  spirits  in  your  eye  263 

If  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  ur 

chance  1183 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love 1378 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright ...  1314 

If  we  no  old  historian's  name 384 

If  we,  O  Dorset !  quit  the  city  throng 790 

If  you  become  a  nun,  dear  1401 

Illustrious  England,  ancient  seat  of  kings  412 
Image  of  her  whom  I  love  more  than  she  234 
Imperial  bird,  who  wont  to  .soar 996 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

In  a  croniquethus  I  rede 29 

In  a  deep  vision's  intellectual  scene  549 

In  a  dream   of  the  night  I  was    wafted 

away 1652 

In  a  howm  whose  bonny  buniie 1595 

In  a  maiden  time  professed 450 

In  a  melancholy  study 257 

In  ancient  times,  as  story  tells  778 

In  Bedfordshire  there  dwelt  a  knight  744 

In  Britain's  isle  and  Arthur's  days    808 

In  days  of  old,  there  lived,  of  mighty  fame  659 
In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to 

fly , 1520 

In  going  to  my  naked  bed,  as  one  that 

would  have  slept 91 

In  haste  he  sent  to  gather  fresh  recruits  ...  ]828 

In  heaven,  one  holiday,  you  read   . .     751 

In  martial  sports  I  had  my  cunning  tried...     107 

In  May  as  that  Aurora  did  upspring 51 

In  my  poor  mind  it  is  most  sweet  to  muse  1234 
In  pride  of  wit,  with  high  desire  of  fame...     147 

In  Rome  no  temple  was  so  low   ...,,..,. 644 

In  search  of   things    that  secret  are  my 

mated  muse  began 93 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind...     817 

In  sullen  humour  one  day  Jove 753 

In  summer  time,  when  leaves  grow  green    53^6 

In  summer  when  the  shawes  be  shene  516 

In  sunlight  and  in  shade , 1514 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne  when  we  carles 

were  young- 1646 

In  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  tower...  1685 

In  the  merry  month  of  June  728 

In  the  Parliament  House,  a  great  rout  has 

been  there    715 

In  the  summer  time,  when  leaves   grow 

green..- 520 

In  those  low  paths  which  poverty  sur- 
rounds    1412 

In  vain  you  tell  your  parting  lover 748 

la  Ver,  that  full  of  virtue  is  and  good 41 

In  walks  of  humour,  in  that  cast  of  style    954 

I:,  what  torn  ship  soever  I  embark 229 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 1509 

In  yonder  brake  there  is  a  nest 1267 

In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies  892 

r  the  thrang  of  stories  tellin' 1593 

Interr'd  beneath  this  marble  stone    761 

Interval  of  grateful  shade   1059 

Invidious  grave  !   how  dost  thou  rend  in 

sunder  '. 843 

Inhigenia,  when  she  heard  her  doom    1275 

Is  chance  a  guilt,  that  my  disastrous  heart  840 
Is  it  come  ?  they  said,  on  the  banks  of  the 

Nile 1782 

"Is  there  no  hope  ?"  the  sick  man  said  ...     797 

Is  there,  or  do  the  schoolmen  dream 1044 

Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me     ...     185 

Is  this  a  time  to  plant  and  build    1798 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas 530 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ...  1209 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crown'd  1558 

It  is  an  ancient  mariner    ,,.  1503 

It  is  not  that  I  love  you  less    601 

It  is  the  midnight  hour :    the  beauteous 

sea 1424 

It  is  written  on  the  rose 1444 

It  standeth  so  ;  a  deed  is  do' 94 

It  was  a  beauteous  lady  richly  dress'd  1714 

It  was  a  dreary  place.   The  shallow  brook  1674 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gi-ay    938 

It  was  a  summer  evening 1219 

It  was  an  eve  of  autumn's  holiest  mood   ...  1432 


vo.  or  POEM 

It  was  near  a  thicky  shade  423 

It  was  not  by  vile  loitering  in  ease 875 

It  was  not  in  the  winter  1485 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night !  1792 

It  was  the  time  when  'gainst  the  breaking 

day 149 

It  was  the  time  when  the  still  moon  ....^^ 548 

It  was  the  winter  wild  606 

It  was  when  from  Spain  across  the  Main 

the  Cid  had  come  to  Rome 1524 


Jaffar  the  Barmecide,  the  good  vizier  1043 

Jesu,  Lover  of  my  soul 1066 

Jesus,  thy  Blood  and  Righteousness ,  1069 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John  1589 

John  Bull  for  pastime  took  a  prance    1139 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen    1087 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us   1788 

Justice  gives  sentence  many  times    641 


K. 


Keen  blaws  the  wind  o'er  the  braes  o'  Glen- 

iffer  1599 

King  of  kings  !  and  Lord  of  lords  !    1670 

Know  this,  my  brethz-en,  heaven  is  clear  ...    737 
Knowledge's  next  organ  is  imagination    ...     155 


Ladies,  though  to  your  conquering  eyes  ...  701 
Lady    Alice    was    sitting    in    her    bower 

window     723 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed    05 

Land  of  my  fathers  !  though  no  mangrove 

here  1135 

Langsyne  !  how  doth  the  word  come  back  1535 

Lately  on  yonder  swelling  bush 589 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner! 1533 

Lead  the  black  bull  to  slaughter,  with  the 

boar  265 

Lessons  sweet  of  Spring  returning 1795 

Let  fools  great  Cupid's  yoke  disdain 258 

Let  God,  the  God  of  battle,  rise 479 

Let  long-lived  pansies  here  their  scents 

bestow  975 

Let  me  speak,  sir  183 

Lest  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue    793 

Let  observation,  with  extensive  view 885 

Let  others  sing  of  knights  and  paladins  . . .  164 
Let  their  vile  cunning  in  their  limits  pent .     136 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go  1598 

Like  as  the  culver,  on  the  bared  bough   ...     134 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see    501 

Like  some  vision  olden 1462 

Like  the  low  murmur  of  the  secret  stream  1519 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone    322 

Like  to  a  light  fast  lock'd  in  lanthom  dark    574 

Like  to  Diana  in  her  summer  weed   420 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere    428 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star 255 

Lips,  lips,  open  ! 1837 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen 537 

Lithe  and  lysteu,  genty Imen  521 

Little  streams  are  light  and  shadow 1656 


M 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.  OF  PO  EM 

liO  !  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps  1299 
Lo  !  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  lingering 

light 1171 

Lo  !  now  on  earth  is  he 8 

Lo  what  is  it  to  luve 387 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours  911 

Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day 1303 

Lone  upon  a  mountain,  the  pine-trees  wail- 
ing I'ound  him 1465 

Long  he  wooed  a  maid  all  innocence  and 

truth 1518 

Long  in  thy  shackles,  liberty 354 

Long  of  yore,  on  the  mountain,  the  voice  1830 
Look  back !   a  thought  which  borders  on 

despair 952 

Look,   how  the  flower  which   ling'ringly 

doth  fade 364 

Look,  how  the  industrious  bee  in  fragrant 

May  492 

Look  on  these  waters  with  how  solt  a  kiss  1545 
Look  once  more  ere  we  leave  this  specular 

mount  6T8 

Lookout,  bright  eyes,  and  bless  the  air  !...     216 

Look  up  to  Pentland's  towering  toj) 826 

Look  what  immortal  floods  the  sunset  poui-s  1683 

Look  where  my  dear  Hamilla  smiles 1030 

Ldose  every  sail  to  the  breeze 1040 

Lord!  as  the  hart  embost  with  heat 478 

Lord,  how  long,  how  long  wilt  thou  500 

Lord,  should  the  sun,  the  clouds,  the  wind    284 

Lord,  Thou  hast  given  me  a  cell    349 

Lord,  to  Thee  while  I  am  living 498 

Lord  Beichan  was  a  noble  lord  533 

Lord  Ronald  coui'ted  Lady  Clare  1707 

Love  divine,  all  love  excelling 1072 

Love  in  fantastic  triumph  sat 705 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee 429 

Love  is  by  fancy  led  about  837 

Love  is  like  a  lamb  and  love  is  like  a  lion...     451 
Love  is  the  happy  privilege  of  the  mind  ...  1672 

Love  is  too  great  a  happiness 644 

Love  mistress  is  of  many  minds 108 

Love,  nature's  plot,  this  great  creation's 

soul   385 

Love  not !   love  not !   ye  hapless  sons  of 

clay! 1715 

Love  still  has  something  of  the  sea    668 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one  !  1489 

Love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts 201 

Lovely  Devonia  !  land  of  flowers  and  songs !  1513 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind 810 

Low  in  a  glen 1163 

Low  walks  the  sun,  and  broadens  by  degrees    869 

Lullaby^lullaby,  baby  dear ! 1772 

Lyth  and  lysten,  gentyll  men 523 


M. 


Magnificence  of  ruin  !  what  has  time    1539 

Magnificent    creature  !    so     stately    and 

bright! 1427 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part  1338 

Man  !  foolish  man  ! 747 

Man  's  a  poor  deluded  bubble [  1001 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale  I  ...  1321 

Margarita  first  possest 541 

Mark  the  soft-falling  snow  1058 

Martial  the  things  that  do  attain fit? 

May  the  Babylonish  curse   1 229 

Meantime,  the  moist  malignity  to  shun    ...     925 
Meanwhile,  the  adversary  of  God  and  man    622 


KO.  OF  POEM. 

Melancholy,  hence,  and  get 379 

Melpomene,  the  muse  of  tragic  songs  409 

Merry  it  was  in  the  green  forest.... 514 

Merry  Margaret 63 

Methinks  I  can  remember  when  a  shade  ...  1726 
Methinks  I  could  have  bome  to  live  my 

days 1730 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here    1383 

Meth  ought  I  heard  a  butterfly  1269 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint...     614r 

'Mid  the  cloud-enshi-ouded  haze 1835 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! ...  1165 
Milton  !   thou   shouldst  be  living   at  this 

hour 1189 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill  1185 

Mistress  Matrossa  hopes  to  be  a  lady  508 

Mona  on  Snowdon  calls 913 

Monkey,  little  merry  fellow 1655 

Morn  on  the  waters  !  and  purple  and  bright  1525 
Morpheus,  the  humble  god,  that  dwells  ...  578 
Most  earnest  was  his  voice  !  most  mild  his 

look 1157 

Mother  of  Wisdom  !  thou  whose  sway 914 

"  Mother,    the    storm,     how    it    shrieks 

without!"    1770 

Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy 422 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 923 

Mournfully!  O  mournfully 1635 

Muses,  that  sing  Love's  sensual  empiric  ...     485 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore    1337 

My  brier  that  smelledst  sweet 1273 

My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May 1415 

My  Daphne's  hair  is  twisted  gold 407 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed 1220 

My  days  have  been  so  wondrous  free    811 

My  dear  mistress  has  a  heart 657 

My  earl}'^  love,  and  must  we  part  ? 1529 

My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rin|;s  !  they've  dropfc 

into  the  well    1523 

My  father  was  an  a\ild  man  and  an  hoar  ...       58 

My  God,  I  heard  this  day 309 

My  God,  now  I  from  sleep  awake  821 

My  God,  Thy  service  well  demands   1061 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness 

pains 1822 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 1192 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is 

not  here 1580 

My  held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie   1638 

My  Infelice's  face,  her  brow,  her  eye    438 

My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners 172 

My  loved,  my  honour' d,   much-respected 

friend!  1592 

My  lute,  awake  !  perform  the  last 72 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst 

grow 362 

My  own  dear  country  !  thy  remembrance 

comes   1736 

My  sheep  I  neglected,  I  broke  my  sheep- 
hook 1051 

My  song  hath  closed,  the  holy  dream    1477 

My  soul,  there  is  a  country 559 

My  time,  O  ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent...  1057 
My  untried  Muse  shall  no  high  tone  assume  1125 


X. 


Napoleon's  banners  at  Boulogne    1311 

Needy    knife-grinder  !    whither   are    you 

going?  1144 

Never  any  more 1786 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OP  THE  POEMS. 


Ivl 


KO.   OP  POEM. 

Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  nougat  allied...  1174 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest    138i 

Night !    thou  foul  mother  of  annoyance 

sad    131 

No  cloud,  no  relict  of  the  sunken  day 1506 

No  jewell'd  beauty  is  my  love    1746 

No,  my  fair  cousin    179 

No  plate  had  John  and  Joan  to  hoard 1004 

No  seas  again  shall  sever 1780 

No  season  this  for  counsel  or  delay  ! 947 

No  sooner  had  the  Almighty  ceased,  but 

all 624 

No  s||r  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 1224 

Noble  the  mountain  stream    1453 

Nobles  and  heralds,  by  your  leave    759 

Noe  monument  of  me  remaine    325 

Nor  rm-al  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds...  1079 
North-east,  not  far  from  this  great  pool, 

there  lies 282 

North  winds  send  hail,  south  winds  bring 

rain    87 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  fimeral  note  1562 
Not  a  leaf  of  the  tree  which  stood  near  me 

was  stirr'd   1458 

Not  caring  to  observe  the  wind 600 

Not  in  the  swaying  of  the  summer  trees  ...  1758 

Not  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  plight 1456 

Not   to   be  wrought   by  malice,   gain,  or 

pride 482 

Not    unremember'd    is     the    hour    when 

friends 1434 

Nothing  did  make  me,  when  I  loved  them 

^best  437 

Nothing  is  to  man  so  dear  15 

Nothing  so  true  as  what  you  once  let  fall...     778 
Nought  is  there  under  heaven's  wide  hol- 
lo wness 125 

Now  came  still   evening  on,  and  twilight 

^gray 629 

Now  dawns  the  morn,  and  on  Mount  Olivet  980 
Now  fai-e  thee  well,  England :  no  further  I'll 

roam 1127 

Now,  from  his  eastern  couch,  the  sun 1737 

Now,  gentle  sleep  hath  closed   up  those 

eyes  272 

Now,  glory  to  our  England 1752 

Now,  glory  to  the   Lord  of  Hosts,   from 

whom  all  glories  are 1565 

Now,  golden  Autumn  from  her  open  lap...  806 
Now  great  Hyperion  left  his  golden  throne  287 
Now,  hardly  here   and  there   a  hackney 

coach    771 

Now,  'mid   the  general  glow  of   opening 

blooms 1162 

Now  morn  her   rosy  steps  in  th'  eastern 

clime 628 

Now  morn,  with  rosy-coloured  finger,  raised  979 
Now,  my  co-mates  and  brothers  in  exile  ...     191 

Now,  m}^  fairest  friend 169 

No  w  our  work  's  done,  thus  we  feast 726 

Now,  sober  industry,  illustrious  power  !  ...  959 
Now  that  the  winter 's  gone,  the  earth  hath 

lost    267 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  har- 
binger       610 

Now  the  golden  morn  aloft 912 

Now  the   third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the 

Persian  throne  was  done 1802 

Now  to  thy  silent  presence.  Night !  1675    | 

Now  westward  Sol  had  spent  the  richest 

beams  300 

Now  what  is  love  I  will  thee  tell 470 

Nowe  is  the  knyght  went  on  his  way    522 


O  } 

NO.  OP  POEM.         \ 

■  0!  Arr^nm ore,  loved  An-anmore 1289 

•  O  beauteous  God  !  uncircumscribed  treasure    555 

O  blithe  new  comer  !  Ihaveheax'd 1202 

O  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair    .T...,— .  1326 

0  come  away  557 

O  cruel  love,  on  thee  I  lay  406 

0  day  most  calm,  most  bright   302 

O  did  you  ever  hear    of    the  brave  Earl 

Brand  1521 

0  faithful  love,  by  poverty  embraced  ! 054 

0  .for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness 1 786 

O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain 1 4^4 

O  gentle  love,  ungentle  for  thy  deed    JO 

O  give  me,  kind  Bacchus,  thou  God  of  the 

vine 835 

0  happy,  if  ye  knew  your  happy  state 807 

O  happy  persecution,  I  embrace  thee 453 

0  happy  Thames,  that  didst  my  Stella  bear    107 
O  hard  condition,  and  twin-bom  with  great- 
ness     196 

O  Holy,  blessed,  glorious  Trinity 237 

O  ignorant  poor  man  !  what  dost  thou  bear    226 

O  lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 1499 

O,  let  us  howl  some  heavy  note 447 

0  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay! 1331 

O  Lord  !  another  day  is  flown    1168 

O  Lord,  my  God,  in  mercy  turn 1172 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see 1329 

0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 1799 

O  Memory  !  celestial  maid  1 895 

0,  my  heart,  my  heart  is  sick  awishing  and 

awaiting 1832 

0,  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose  1584 

O  Nanny,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  me 937 

0  nightingale,  best  poet  of  the  grove  876 

0  nightingale,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray,,     611 

0  parent  of  each  lovely  muse  ! 974 

0  perfect  light,  which  shed  away 391 

O  saw  ye  bonnieLeshe 1585 

0  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 1492 

O  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 1564 

Osay  !  what  is  that  thing  call'd  light   1033 

O!  sing  unto  my  roundelay  944 

O  Solitude,  I'omantic  maid  !    1015 

O  sun  !  thou  o'er  Athenian  towers 998 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story ,  1352 

O  the  broom,  the  yellow  broom 1657 

O,  the  month  of  May,  the  merry  month  of 

May  432 

0  thou  great  Power  !  in  whom  we  move  ...     161 

0  thou,  that  sitt'st  upon  a  throne 994 

O  thou,  that,  with  surpassing  glory  crown'd     620 

0  thou,  the  friend  of  man  assign'd 887 

0  thou,  the  nymph  with  placid  eye  1 1]06 

O  Thou,  to  whose  all- searching  sight 1071 

0  thou  vast  ocean  !  ever-sounding  sea  ! 1673 

O  Time  !  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to 

lay 1238 

0  tuneful  voice  !  I  still  deplore  1113 

0  Tweed  !  a  stranger,  that  with  wandering 

feet 1248 

0  wha  will  shoe  my  bonny  foot  ? 539 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms 1825 

0  when  did  baby  come 1827 

0!  where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads 1502 

O  !  wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph 

from  the  North 1507 

0  wild  west  wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being 1372 

O  Willie  's  large  o'  limb  and  lith   515 


Iviii 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


UO.  or  POEM. 

0  ye  wild  groves,   0  where  is  now  your 

bloom  ? 990 

O'er  moorlands  and  mountains,  rude,  barren 

and  bare  1023 

O'er  the  gay  vessel,  and  her  daring  band...     945 
O'er  the  level  plain,  where  mountains  greet 

me  as  I  go 1814 

O'er  winter's  long  unclement  sway 834 

Of  a' the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 1583 

Of  all  deeds  yet  this  strikes  the  deepest 

wound  , . ,     454 

Of  all  the  cities  in  Romanian  lands 664 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart  1035 

Of  all  the  kings  that  ever  here  did  reign  ...     107 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are  1561 

Of  all  the  torments,  all  the  cares 683 

Of  comfort  no  man  speak 170 

Of  Isi-ael's  sweetest  singer  now  I  sing  415 

Of  Jupiter  thus  I  find  y-writ. 31 

Of  Leinster,  famed  for  maidens  fair .     784 

Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit    619 

OfNelson  and  the  North 1306 

Of  old,  when  ScaiTon  his  companions  invited    917 

Of  these  the  false  Acbitophel  was  first 662 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  born 977 

Oft  am  I  by  the  women  told 542 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark  ...  1016 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night  1292 

Oft  I've  implored  the  gods  in  vain 987 

Oft  that  wild  untutor'd  race  would  draw...  1295 

Oh  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  green  ..  1818 

Oh  !  ask  not  a   home  in  the  mansions  of 

pride 1725 

Oil !  breathe  not  his  name !  let  it  sleep  in 

the  shade 1287 

Oh!  call  my  brother  back  to  me  ! 1448 

Oh,  come  you  from  the  Indies,  and,  soldier, 

•   can  you  tell 1776 

Oh  !  do  not  wrong  my  honest  simple  truth    212 

Oh,  don't  go  in  to-night,  John  ! 1778 

Oh  !  hadst  thou  never  shai-ed  my  fate 1500 

Oh  ho w  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 201 

Oh !  I  shall  not  forget,  until  memory  depart  1457 

Oh,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear ! 1756 

Oh  Lord,  in  sickness  and  in  health ,.,.  1261 

Oh,  Mary,  at  thy  window  be 1578 

Oh  !  my  black  soul,   now  thou  art  sum- 
moned  235 

Oh  !  my  golden  days  of  childhood 1810 

Oh!  my  love's  a  winsome  lady 1749 

Oh  !  my  love's  like  the  steadfast  sun 1622 

Oh,  never  talk  again  to  me 1339 

Oh,  reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see  . . .  1215 

Oh,  sunny  curls  !  oh  eyes  of  blue  !... 1771 

Oh  that  the  chemist's  magic  art 1188 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language !    Life  has 

pass'd 1081 

Oh  the  bells  '  the  morning  bells  !     1805 

Oh  the  pleasant  days  of  old,  which  so  often 

people  praise  ! , 1783 

Oh!  the  sad  day..  !!!.!!!!!!!!!.     674 

Oh  those  little,  those  little  blue  shoes  I!!!!!  1767 

Oh,  thou  conqueror 214 

Oh  twilight !  Spirit  that  doth  render  birth  1710 

Oh  !  weep  not  that  our  beauty  wears 1 483 

Oh!  well  may  the  poets  make  a  fuss '.  1484 

Oh  !  what  is  this  which  shines  so  bright....  1270 

Oh!  when 'tis  summer  weather 1241 

Oh  !  who  hath  tasted  of  Thy  clemency..,..     477 

Oh!  why  left  I  my  hame  ? 1647 

Oh,  young  Lochiuvar  is  come  out  of  the 

west  , 1317 

Old  Sir  Robert  Bolton  had  three  sons 722 


i  NO.  OP  POEM. 

j    On  a  hill  there  grows  a  flower 117 

j    On  Carron'  s  side  the  primrose  pale 935 

I    On  either  side  is  level  fen,  a  prospect  wild 

i       and  wide 1176 

[    On  Jura's  heath  now  sweetly  swell 1132 

:    On  Leven's  banks,  while  free  to  rove 922 

I    On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 1304 

On  parent  knees,  a  naked  new-bom  child..  1013 

!    On  Sunday,  here,  an  alter'd  scene 1055 

I   On  sure  foundations  let  your  fabric  rise  ...     650 

On  that  deep,  retiring  shore 1719 

On  this  lone  isle,  whose  rugged  rocks  af- 
fright   .^043 

On  Trinity  Monday  in  the  morn 95 

On  Wednesday  the  false  Southron  furth 

brocht  47 

On  yonder  hill  a  castle  stands    535 

Once  in  the  flight  of  ages  past    1387 

Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends, 

once  more    178 

Once  on  a  time,  a   monarch,  tired  with 

whooping 1150 

One  day,  it  matters  not  to  know   1227 

One  kind  wish  before  we  part 1000 

One  kiss  more,  sweet! 1748 

One  more  Unfortunate 1495 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 1367 

Open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show  !  1333 

Open  your  ears  :  for  which  of  you  will  stop    173 
Our  bark  is  on  the  waters  deep,  our  bright 

blades  in  our  hand 1641 

Our  bugles  sang  truce  ;  for  the  night-cloud 

had  lower'd 1308 

Our  life  is  twofold ;   sleep  hath  its  own 

i       world    1341 

I    Our  native  land — our  native  vale   1480 

;    Our  sighs  were  numerous,  and  profuse-  our 

j       tears.  ., '. 1433 

I    Our  task  is  done  ! — on  Gunga's  breast 1379 

Out  of  her  swoone  when  she  did  abbraide..       36 
Out  of  the  west   coast,   a  wench,  as  me- 

thought    ......,, 17 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 331 

Over  hill,  over  dale 210 

Over  the  mountains  534 

Oxford  and  Cambridge  shall  agree    732 


•    P. 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day    473 

Patience  !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace 436 

Patriots,   alas  !    the  few  that   have  been 

found    1077 

Peace,     heaven-descended    maid !    whose 

powerful  voice 993 

Peace!  what  can  tears  avail  ?... 1690 

Phyllis  !  why  should  we  delay , 594 

Pibroch  ofDonuilDhu 1322 

Pipe,  merry  Annot •  398 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man  ! 1027 

Placed,  by  false  Manto,  in  a  closet,  which    584 

Poor  robin  sits  and  sings  alone  1268 

Pope,  to  whose  reed  beneath  the  beechen 

shade 904 

Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise 1110 

Pray  thou  thy  days  be  long  before  thy 

death 1834 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire 1388 

Prepare  the  hallow'd  strain,  my  muse 764 

Pretty  firstling  of  the  year  !    ,..  1678 

Prince  of  the  fallen  !  around  thee  sweep...  1546 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


lix 


wo.  OF  POKM. 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood 1330 

Pursuing  beauty,  men  descry 827 

Put  the  broidery- frame  away 15(50 


Q. 


Queen,  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair 239 

Quin,  from  afar,  lured  by  the  scent  of  fame    957 
Quivering  fears,  heart-tearing  cares 163 


E. 


Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou 1368 

Reader,  when  these  dumb  stones  have  told    268 

Reason  thuswith  life 189 

Red  rows  the  Nith  'tween  bank  and  brae...  1618 

Religion,  0  thou  life  of  life 120 

Remember  us  poor  Mayers  all !  727 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow 918 

Render  to  Csesar  things  which  Caesar's  are  1817 

Restless  forms  of  living  light 1572 

Restrain  your  child  ;  you'll  soon  believe  . . .  795 
Retired  thoughts  enjoy  their  own  delights  109 
Rise,  heart !  thy  Lord  is  risen.     Sing  His 

praise    307 

Rise,  lady  !    Mistress,  rise  !    488 

Rise !  sleep  no  more  !    'Tis  a  noble  morn  168-1 
Rise,  then,  Aristo's  son,  assist  my  muse  ...     575 

Robene  sat  on  gud  grene  hill  48 

Rock  of  Ages,  clef t  for  me  1074 

Roses,  in  breathing  forth  their  scent    566 

Rosy  child,  with  forehead  fair    1712 

'\  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  king 909 


S. 


Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going 1791 

St.  Agnes'  Eve— Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! ...  1820 

Satan  harangued    3 

Saw  ye    my  wee   thing,   saw  ye   my  ain 

thing 1597 

Say,  dearest  friend,    how  roll  thy  hours 

away  ? 905 

Say,  from  what  golden  quivers  of  the  sky  547 
Say,  lovely  dream  !  where  couldst  thou  find    590 

Say,  mighty  love,  and  teach  my  song  852 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth    1836 

Say,  why  was  man  so  eminently  raised 901 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure 1604 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled 1579 

See,  brother,  how  the  wicked  throng  and 

crowd    359 

See,  how  fair  Corinna  lies 702 

See,  0  see  ! 571 

See  !  stretch'd  on  nature's  couch  of  grass  1005 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  love 245 

See  the  star  that  leads  the  day 812 

Seest  thou  how   gaily  my  young  master 

goes  249 

See  st  thou  not,  in  clearest  days 273 

Set  me  whereas  the  sunne  doth  parche  the  ' 

grene 70 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love    290 

She  comes  adown  the  pale  blue  depths  of 

heaven 1811 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 1193 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing 1588 


KG.  OF  FOBIC. 

She  loves,  and  she  confesses  too 552 

She  rose,  and  all  enchanted  gazed 1121 

She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh  ...  1759 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn    1493 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night  1353 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 1194 

She's  gane  to  dwell  in  heaven,  my  lassie  .^.  1621 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot  ......  ~.  1581 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye 880 

Silent  with  passion,    which   his  eyes  in- 
flamed    582 

Silver  Phoebe  spreads  997 

Since  I  did  leave  the  presence  of  my  love. . .  134 

Since  I  in  storms  most  used  to  be 563 

Sing  aloud  !     His  praise  rehearse  572 

Sing  forth,  sweete  cherubin  (for  we  have 

choice   317 

.     .     .     Sing,  heavenly  muse !  666 

Sing  the  old  song,  amid  the  sounds  dis- 
persing   1790 

Sing  to  Apollo,  god  of  day 408 

Sir,  I  hate  the  countrie's  durt  and  manners, 

yet 324 

Sit  down,  sad  soul,  and  count 1695 

Sitting  by  a  river'sside 425 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine  ! 1131 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee 1398 

Sleep,  downy  sleep,  come  close  my  eyes  ...  675 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  heaven  awhile 1184 

Sleep  on,  baby,  on  the  floor    1559 

Sleep  !     The  ghostly  winds  are  blowing  !...  1689 

Slowly,  with  measured  tread  1532 

So  cruel  prison  how  could  betide,  alas 64 

So  now  is  come  our  joyful' st  feast 271 

So  on  a  time  he  desired  to  play 46 

So  on  he  fares,  and  to  the  border  comes  ...  625 

So  on  he  passed,  till  he  comen  hath 1032 

So  she  rose,  and  went  forth  thro'  the  city...  1829 

So  stood  Eliza  on  the  wood-crown'd  height  1094 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath 1688 

Some  ask'd  me  where  the  rubies  grew 347 

Some  men  delight  huge  buildings  to  behold  489 

Some  nymphs  prefer  astronomy  to  love  ...  861 
Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the 

land  663 

Some  wifis  of  the  borowstoun 388 

Sometimes  briskly,  sometimes  flaggin'     ...  1596 

Soul,  not  yet  from  heaven  beguiled  1773 

Sound  the  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan 1663 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark 

sea!    1290 

Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed    1394 

Speak,  goddess  !  since  'tis  thou  that  best , 

canst  tell •;•••  786 

Special  Jurymen  of  England  !  who  admire 

your  country's  laws   1763 

Speech  is  morning  to  the  mind 692 

Spirit  of  light  and  life  !  when  battle  rears  1482 
Spit  in  my  face,  you  Jews,  and  pierce  my 

side 235 

Spite  of  his  spite,  which  that  in  vain 397 

Sporting  through  the  forest  wide 1659 

Spring,  the    sweet   spi'ing,    is  the   year's 

pleasant  king 439 

Staffa,  I  scaled  thy  summit  hoar   1235 

Stand  and  ad  ore  !  how  glorious  He  854 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee 1301 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake 1116 

Stay,  0  sweet  !  and  do  not  rise 233 

Still  Herald  of  the  Morn  !  whose  ray    375 

Still  young  and  fine,  but  what  is  still  in 

view 562 

Stop,  mortal!     Here  thy  brother  lies  1556 


Is 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


no.  OF  POEM. 

Sublimer  strains,  0  rustic  muse  !  prepare    804 
Such  moving  sounds  from  such  a  careless 

touch  !  597 

Such  was  Philoclea,  and  such  Dorus'  tiame  !    596 
Suck,  baby,  suck  !  mother's  love  grows  by- 
giving    1233 

Summer  is  i-cumen  in    ; 12 

Sunk  was   the   sun,  and   up   the   eastern 

heaven 1065 

Sure  such  a  wretch  as  I  was  never  bom  ...     995 

Sure  the  last  end    848 

Sure  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream    576 
Sure  thou  didst  flourish  once,  and  many 

springs 561 

Sure  'tis  a  serious  thing  to  die  !    My  soul    846 

Sweet  are  the  charms  of  her  I  love    836 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  con- 
tent      421 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain    919 
Sweet  bird,  that   sing'st   away  the   early 

hours 361 

Sweet  country  life,  to  such  unknown 345 

Sweet  daughter  of  a  rough  and  stormy  sire  1104 

Sweet  day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 303 

Sweet  Echo  !  sleeps  thy  vocal  shell  1098 

Sweet  Echo,   sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st 

unseen 608 

Sweet  flowers  !  that  from  your  humble  beds  1143 

Sweet  Highland  girl !  a  very  shower 1196 

Sweet  is  the  rose,  but  grows  upon  a  brere    134 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies  ! 1108 

Sweet  maid,  if  thou  wouldst   charm   my 

sight 1012 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods,  a  long  adieu  !    ...  1099 

Sweet,  solitary  life  !  lovely  dumb  joy    395 

Sweet  spirit  of  my  love  !  1750 

Sweet  Spring,  thou   com'st   with   all  thy 

goodly  train 363 

Sweetest  Love,  I  do  not  go 232 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave 1365 


T. 


Take,  holy  earth  !  all  that  my  soul  holds 

dear  915 

Take,  oh  !  take  those  lips  away 219 

Tasteful  illumination  of  the  night 1405 

Tax  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense  1191 

Tell  me  not  of  a  face  that's  fair 381 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind   353 

Tell  me,  0  great  all-knowing  God  !   326 

Tell  me  what  is  a  poet's  thought  ? 1693 

Thalestris  triumphs  in  a  manly  mien 863 

Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer 

or  fatter    920 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadfui'day'.'.'.".'.'.*     653 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day 1336 

That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and 

strong    129 

That  rock  's  his  haunt.     There's  not  in  all 

our  hills 1542 

That  sound  bespeaks  salvation  on  her  way  1078 
That  thou  wilt   be  pleased   to  grant  our 

requests    ygg 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined  ......'    585 

The    air    which    thy   smooth    voice    doth 

break 567 

The  All-powerful  bad    2 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on 

the  fold 1343 

Theautnrrin  is  old 1488 


IfO.  OF  POKM. 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  power...  1376 
The  barge    she    sat   in  like    a   burnish'd 

throne '188 

The  beam-repelling  mists  arise  814 

The  bee  is  humming  in  the  sun 1264 

The  bell  strikes  one.     We  take  no  note  of 

time  857 

The  blessed  Damozel  lean'd  out 1841 

The  bloom  hath  fled  thy  cheek,  Mary  1637 

The  blushing  rose  and  purple  flower 464 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck  1442 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high  1451 

The  bride  cam' out  o' the  byre  1045 

The  Brutons  thus  departed  hence,  seven 

kingdoms  here  begone 484 

The  budding  floweret  blushes  at  the  light    941 

The  castle  clock  had  toll'd  midnight 124^ 

The  course  of  true  love   never   did   run 

smooth 201 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day...     910 

The  cushat  crouds,  the  corbie  cries  389 

The  daisies  peep  from  every  field   1153 

The  day  goeth  down  red  darkling 1755 

The  day  was  spent,  the  moon  shone  bright    729 
The   dew   is   on   the    summer's    greenest 

grass 1645 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall  928 

The  dreamy  rhymer's  measured  snore 1276 

The    emphatic    speaker    dearly   loves    to 

oppose  1080 

The  farmer's  life  displays  in  every  part   ...  1123 

The  f eather'd  songster  chanticleer 943 

The  feeling  is  a  nameless  one 1528 

The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 1376 

The  flowers  the  sultry  summer  kills  1406 

The  flowers  were  blooming  fresh  and  fail-...  1816 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 1364 

The  fi'ost  performs  its  secret  ministry 1507 

The  garlands  fade   that  Spring   so  lately 

wove  1100 

The  gates  were  then  thrown  open 1296 

The  gentle  season  of  the  year 502 

The  Gipsy  race  my  pity  rarely  move 931 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 462 

The  god  of  love  and  benedicite  21 

The  golden  sun  that  brings  the  day  506 

The  half -seen  memories  of  childish  days  ...  1789 

The  harlot  muse,  so  passing  gay 950 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls  ...  1285 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed  1319 

The  heavens  on  high  perjietually  do  move    102 

The  hierarchy  is  out  of  date  .' 739 

The  hinds  how  blest,  who  ne'er  beguiled ...     965 
The  hour  is  come  !    the  hour  is  come  ! 

With  voice  1664 

The  house's  form  within  was   rude  and 

strong  129 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  !..,  1344 
The  king  to  Gondibex't  is  grown  so  kinde...     372] 

The  Kingwas  on  his  throne 1356 

The  languid  lady  next  appears  in  state    ...     862 

The  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky  1181 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest 373 

The  lark,  that  shuns  on   lofty  boughs  to 

build 595 

The  last  and  greatest  herald  of  heaven's 

King 365 

The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor   825 

The  lift  was  clear,  the  mom  serene   1608 

The  lives  of  frail  men  are  compared  by 

the  sages 649 

The  lopped  trees  in  time  may  grow  again...     110 
The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare   770 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Ixi 


NO.  OF  FO-RU. 

The  lovely  purple  of  the  noon's  bestow- 
ing   • I'iG^ 

The  lovely  young  Lavinia  once  had  friends    S70 

The  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close 1574 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn 1601 

The  moon  had  climb'd  the  highest  hill 1046 

The  moon  shines  bright : — In  such  a  night 

as  this \Q^ 

The  moon  was  a-waning   -"^91^ 

The  morning  hath  not  lost  her  virgin  blush    579 

The  morning  pearls  580 

The  Moslem  spears  were  gleaming 14-10 

The  momitains  high,  whose  lofty  tops  do 

meet  the  haughty  sky  92 

The  Muses  are  turn'd  gossips  ;  they  have 

Ic^t    1107 

The  night-helm  grew  dusky    11 

The  north-east  spends  his  rage ;  he  now 

shut  up 864 

The  ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded  1312 

The  organ  peals ;  at  once,  as  some  vast  wave  1549 

The  Percy  out  of  Northumberland   528 

The  pride  of  every  grove  I  chose    754 

The  proudest  pitch  of  that  victorious  spirit     294 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd 165 

The  rapid  motion  of  the  spheres    480 

The  readers  and  the  hearers  like  my  books     152 

The  room  is  old — the  night  is  cold 1700 

The  roses  grew  so  thickly    1809 

The  sable  mantle  of  the  silent  night 288 

The  sails  were  f  url'd  ;  with  many  a  melting 

close 1182 

The  sea  !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea!  1681 

The  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread 

power  ! 1346 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er    592 

The  season  comes  when  first  we  met 1112 

The  sheep  were  in  the  fold  at  night 1265 

The  sheiyf  dwelled  in  Nctyngharae 524 

The  silver  moon  at  midnight  cold  and  still  1129 

The  silver  moon's  enamour'd  beam   1022 

The  sluggish  morn  as  yet  undress'd  378 

The  smiling  morn,  the  breathing  spring  ...     899 

The  social  laws  from  insult  to  protect  930 

The  soft  green  grass  is  growing 1812 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  foi-th 

brings   67 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky 1570 

The  soule  which  doth  with  God  unite  328 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high 766 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound  1395 

The  stars  are  shining  overhead  1271 

The  stately  homes  of  England   1436 

The  summer  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet  1225 
The  sun  from  the  east  tips  the  mountains 

with  gold 1037 

The  sun  had  set  behind  yon  hills  725 

The  sun  has  gone  down  o'er  the  lofty  Ben 

Lomond    1600 

The  sun  is  swiftly  mounted  high    81 3 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear 1369 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France   1627 

The  suii  was  sinking  on  the  mountain  zone  1550 
The  sun's  bright  orb,  declining  all  serene    946 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain 542 

The  time  so  tranquil  is  and  clear  892 

The  tongues  of  dying  men  206 

Ths  topsails  shiver  in  the  wind  1038 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  foimd 1026 

The  troops  exulting  sat  in  order  round 783 

The  truest  characters  of  ignorance    644 

.     .     .     The  Turks  had  ought   583 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past 1082 


NO.  or  POEir. 

The  voice  of   the  morning  is    calling  to 

childhood 1698 

The  wanton  troopers  riding  by  636 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is 

wailing 1373 

The  water  !  the  water  ! 1634 

The  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle  horn... rrr... -1334 

The  wind  is  up,  the  field  is  bare 939 

The  wind,  the  wandering  wind  1450 

The  wisest  of  the  wise  1277 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and 

soon  1190 

The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornament  190 
The  wrathfull  winter  prochinge  on  a  pace      96 

"Thee,  Mary,  with  this  ring  i  wed"    1003 

Thee,    senseless    stock,    because    thou'rt 

richly  gilt 371 

Thee  will  I  love,  my  strength,  my  tower...  1070 
Theirs  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  parish 

poor 1173 

.     .     .     their  harboury  was  tane  49 

Then  came  the  jovial  day,  no  streaks  of 

red 1124 

Then  clariouns  and  trumpets  blew    61 

Then  died,  lamented,  in  the  strength  of 

life 1179 

Then  first  came  Henry,  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham        98 

Then  Gudrun  turned 1849 

Then  hear  me,  bounteous  Heaven 687 

Then  may  I  trust  her  body  with  her  mind    495 

Then  wisdom  again  6 

Ther  is  lyf  withoute  ony  deth 16 

There  are  noble  heads  bowed  down  and 

pale   1697 

There  are  twelve  months  in  all  the  year  ...     518 

There  be  none  of  beauty's  daughters 1340 

There  be  those  who  sow  beside  1455 

There  cam  a  bird  out  o'  a  bush  532 

There  cam  a  strange  wight  to  our  town-en'  1650 
There  came  a  man  making  his  hasty  moan  1404 

There  came  three  men  out  of  the  west 719 

There  did  three  knights  come  from  the  west    713 

There  dwells  a  people  on  the  earth   507 

There  grew  an  aged  tree  on  the  green 127 

There  had  not  hero  as  yet  ^  1 

There  is  a  book,  who  runs  may  read 1796 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep  1385 

There  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower 1391 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 486 

There  is  a  gloomy  gi-andeur  in  the  sun 1544 

There  is  a  jewel  which  no  Indian  mine  can 

buy    504 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride...  1389 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods...  1347 
There  is  a  willow  grows  ascavmt  the  brook    199 

There  is  an  ancient  man  who  dwells 1733 

There  is  an  old  proverb  which  all  the  world 

knows   742 

There  is  continual  spring  and  harvest  there    132 

There  she  sits  in  her  Island  home 1751 

There  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground    133 

There  was  a  Cameronian  cat  738 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 1358 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 

stream "^^^^ 

There  was  an  eye  whose  partial  glance 1117 

There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bow'r    527 

"There,  win  the  cup,  and  you  shall  have 

my  girl 1777 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys 1741 

There's  a  magical  tie  to  the  land  of  our 
.      home 1721 


Ixii 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


»0.  OF  POEM. 

There's    glory  on  thy    mountains,  proud 

Bengal l;"*-^! 

There's  grandeur  in  this  sounding  storm  1018 

There's  music  in  the  morning  air  17*  '1 

There's  no  dearth  of  kindness 1753 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like 

that  it  takes  away 13/)o 

These  are  great  maxims,  sir,  it  is  confess'd  697 
These,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father, 

these 874 

These  thoughts,  0  night !  are  thine 855 

They  answer  in  a  joint  and  corporate  voice  197 
They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light...     560 

They  are  flown    1515 

They  course   the   glass,   and   let    it  take 

no  rest 103 

They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side 1439 

They  rose  in  freedom's  rare  sunrise  1745 

They  seized  the  keys,  they  patrolled  the 

street 1826 

They  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die  1217 

Think  not,  'cause  men  flatt'ring  say 266 

Think  not  of  the  future,   the  prospect  is 

uncertain 1501 

This  battle  fares  like  to  the  morning's  war    180 

.     .     .     This  gentleman  and  I  475 

This  Indian  weed,  now  withered  quite 711 

This  is  her  picture  as  she  was 1842 

This  man  of  half  a  million   1216 

This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire  ...  240 
This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may 

"  lie 540 

This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd 

Isle    202 

This  said,  with  hasty  rage,  he  snatch'd  . . .  640 
This  song  's  of  a  beggar  who  long  lost  his 

sight 714 

This  truth  of  old  was  sorrow's  friend 942 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land 1538 

This  wavering  warld's  wretchedness 52 

This  world  is  full  of  variance 26 

Those  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells  !  1288 

Those  few  pale  autumn  flowers  1530 

Those  whiter  lilies  which  the  early  morn  ...  368 
Thou  angel  sent  amongst  us,  sober  Law  ...  455 
Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — we  no  longer 

deplore  thee    1381 

Thou  askest  what  has  changed  my  heart...  1476 
Thou  blushing  rose,  within  whose  virgin 

leaves    "...     369 

Tliou  earnest  with  kind  looks,  when  on  the 

brink I059 

Thou  gallant  court,  to  thee  farewell ! 1 1'i 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf  !  I486 

Thou  hast  beauty  bright  and  fair 1692 

Thou  hast  vow'd  by  thy  faith,  my  Jeanie  1625 
Thouhiddenloveof  God,  whose  height  ...  1067 

Thou  ling'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray 1587 

Thou    lone   companion    of   the    spectred 

^,^'S^^  [■ 1155 

Thou  maid  of  gentle  light !  thy  straw- wove 

vest   1521 

Thou  mouldering  mansion,  whose  embat- 
tled side 1218 

Thou  spirit  of  the  spangled  night  !.........  ]il70 

Thou  still  unravished  brideof  (juietuess  !...  1823 
Thou  thrice  denied,  yet  thrice  beloved......  1797 

Thou,  to  whose  eyes'l  bend,  at  whose  com- 
mand         ^fj5 

Thou  wealthy  man  of  large  possessions  here  710 
Though  clouds  obscured  the  morning  hour  1142 
Though  frost  and  snow  lock'd  from  mine 


iro.  OF  POBlff. 

Though  grief  and  fondness  in  my  breast 

rebel -  884 

Though  short  thy  span,  God's  unimpeach'd 

decrees 1146 

Thoughts!  what  are  they? 672 

Three  days  before  my  Mar^-'s  death 1428 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west  1800 
Thi'ice  happy  he  who  by  some  shady  grove  366 
Thrice  has  the  spring  beheld   thy  faded 

fame 903 

Thrice,  O  thrice  happy  shepherd's  life  and 

state!    314 

Through  a  close  lane  as  I  pursued  my  jour- 
ney        689 

Through  a  fair  forest  as  I  went 505 

Through  the  gaunt  woods  the  winds  are   • 

shrilling  cold 1804 

Through    the    hushed    air    the  whit'ning 

shower  descends 873 

Through  winter  streets  to  steer  your  course 

aright   805 

Thus  Eve  replied  :  *'0  thou  for  whom 627 

Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme  1169 

Thus,  having  in  few  images  exprest 156 

Thus  spoke  to  my  lady  the  knight  full  of 

care  775 

Thus  stood  his  mind  when  round  him  came 

a  cloud 1430 

Thus  were  they  fechtand  in  the  pass    35 

Thus  when  the  plague,  upborne  on  Belgian 

air 1093 

Thy  cheek  is  o'  the  rose's  hue 1603 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  schoolboy  knows  ...  1552 
Thy  glass  will  show  thee  how  thy  beauties 

wear 200 

Thy  maid  !  Ah  !  find  some  nobler  theme  551 
Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover's  thought ...  1298 
Thy    wish   was    father,    Harry,    to    that 

thought    175 

Th}'  spirit,  independence,  let  me  share  . . .  921 
Till  at  the  last,  among  the  bowes  glade    ...       38 

Timely  blossom,  infant  fair 791 

Tired  nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmj'-  sleep  !    856 

'Tis  affection  but  dissembled  481 

'Tis  certain,  that  the  modish  passions 796 

'Tis  chastity,  my  brother,  chastity    607 

'Tis  long  ago — we  have  toil'd  and  traded...  1781 
'Tis  not  the  gray  hawk's  flight  o'er  moun- 
tain and  mere 1632 

'Tis  past !  no  more  the  summer  blooms!...  963 
'Tis  past :  the  iron  north  has  spent  his  rage    961 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  merry  lark 1573 

'Tis  sweet  to  meet  the  morning  breeze 1408 

'Tis  sweet  to  view  from  half- past  five  to  six  1414 

'Tis  the  first  primrose  !  see  how  meek 1266 

'Tis  the  hourof  even  now 1459 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer  1278 

To  all  you  ladies  now  at  land 680 

To  battle!  To  battle  !  1639 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question  ...     184 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb    ; 891 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent 1824 

To  pray  to  God  continually 90 

To  speak  of  gifts  and  almos  deeds 54 

To  take  thy  calling  thankfully    83 

To  the  brook  and   the  willow  that  heard 

him  complain 830 

To  the  deep  woods 865 

To  the  ocean  now  I  fly 609 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet 1667 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom,  I  retire  896 

To  view  these  walls    each    night   I  come 

alone r. 708 


so.  OF  POEM. 

To  you,  my   purse,    and   to  none  other 

wight   22 

To-day  Death  seems  to  me  an  infant  child  1843 
Together  will  ye  walk  through  long,  long 

streets  1426 

To-morrow,  Lord,  is  Thine 1060 

Too  late,  alas !  I  must  confess    656 

Touch  us  gently.  Time  !  1694 

Tread  softly  !  bow  the  head    1531 

Treading  the  path  to  nobler  ends 599 

Treason  doth  never  prosper;   what's   the 

reason? 150 

True  Thomas  lay  on  Huntley  bank  531 

Trusting  in  God  with   all  her  heart  and 

mind 1091 

*'  Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale 916 

Turn  I  my  looks  imto  the  skies 430 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won    ...     661 

'Twas  at  the  silent,  solemn  hour    897 

'Twas  early  day,  and  sunlight  stream'd 1446 

'Twas  in   the   battle-field,    and  the  cold, 

pale  moon 1467 

'Twas  in  the  prime  of  summer  time  1494 

'Twas    midnight — every  mortal    eye    was 

clo-sed   981 

'Twas  when  the  seas  were  roaring 803 

'Twas  when  the  wan   leaf  frae  the  birk- 

tree  was  fa'in  ., 1649 

Twenty  lost  years  have  stolen  their  hours 

away 1031 

Twice  has  the  sun  commenced  his  annual 

round 1164 

Twilight's  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village 

green 1180 

Two  boys,  whose  birth  beyond  all  question 

springs 958 

Two  of  far  nobler  shape,  erect  and  tall 626 

Two    pretty  rills   do  meet,   and   meeting 

make 283 

Two   summers  since  I  saw   at    Lammas 

fiair    1175 


U. 


Under  yonder  beech  tree,  standing  on  the 

green  sward 1744 

Underneath  this  myrtle  shade   542 

Underneath  this  sable  herse   244 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers 

burn 1297 

Unnumber'd  objects  ask  thy  honest  care...     933 

Upon  a  couch  of  silk  and  gold   1676 

Upon  a  time  a  neighing  steed    799 

Upon  the  white  sea-sand : 1784 

Upon    two    stony    tables,    spread   before 
her    313 


V. 


Vain  world,  what  is  in  thee  ? 570 

Vengeance  will  sit  above  our  faults 236 

Venomous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp  and 

keen 75 

Victorious  men  of  earth  no  more  461 

Virtue's  branches  wither,  virtue  pines 435 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame 781 

Voice  of  summer,  keen  and  shrill 1765 


W. 

NO.  OF  POEM. 

Wake  now,  my  love,  awake  ;  for  it  is  time    128 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay 1332 

Walking  in  a  shady  grove .t~"  ,  —  445 

Wanton  droll,  whose  harmless  play 1 473 

Wan  wordy,  crazy,  dinsome  thing 1054 

Was  not  Christ  ourSaviour 88 

We  are  born  ;  we  laugh ;  we  weep 1696 

We  are  the  sweet  flowers 1400 

We  gather'd  round  the  festive  board    1723 

We  have  been  dwellers  in  a  lovely  land  ...  1732 

We  have  been  friends  together 1713 

We  love  the  king  who  loves  the  law 1083 

We    oft    by   lightning    read    in    darkest 

nights   696 

We  saw  and  woo'd  each  other's  eyes 323 

We  that  have  known  no  greater  state 474 

We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 1212 

We  watched  her  breathing  thro'  the  night  1497 

Weary  of  wand'ring  from  my  God 1065 

Weave  no  more  the  marriage  chain  ! 1691 

Wee,  modest,  crimson- tippid  flower 1575 

Weep,  weep,  you  Argonauts  467 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains 497 

Weigh  me  the  fire  ;  or,  canst  thou  find 350 

Welcome,  pale  primrose  !  starting  up  be- 
tween     ; 1409 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  this  shady 

green 463 

Welcome,  welcome,  happy  pair 376 

Well,  0  children  of  men  7 

Well  observe  the  rule  of  Not  too  much 631 

Well  said  the  wise  man,  now  proved  true 

by  this 126 

Well,  then  ;  I  now  do  plainly  see  546 

Were  I  at  once  empower'd  to  show  951 

Whan  gloamin  grey  out  owre  the  welkin 

keeks 1053 

Whanne  that  April  with  his  shoures  sote  .      19 

What  ails  this  heart  o'  mine? H03 

What  art  thou.  Mighty  One !  and  where 

thy  seat?  1166 

What  beauties  does  Flora  disclose  !  1029 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail 405 

What  blessings  attend,  my  dear  mother, 

all  those  1025 

What  constitutes  a  state  ?   1011 

What  creature 's  that,  with  his  short  hairs  741 
What  heart  can  think,  or  tongue  express  .  400 
What  hidest  thou  in  thy  treasure  caves  and 

cells  1437 

What  household  thoughts  around  thee,  as 

their  shrine 1447 

What  I  shall  leave  thee  none  can  tell  251 

What  !    irks    it,   David,    that    the  victor 

breathes   414 

What  is  the  existence  of  man's  life   256 

What  is't  to  us  if  taxes  rise  or  fall? 955 

What  lookest  thou  herein  to  have 82 

What  might  be  done  if  men  were  wise 1740 

What  pleasure,  then,  to  walk  and  see  393 

What  slender  youth,  bedewed  with  liquid 

odours 617 

What  stands  upon  the  highland  ? 1794 

What  stronger  breastplate  than   a  heart 

untainted 207 

What  then  is  taste,  but    these  internal 

powers 902 

What  though,  Valclusa, the  fond  bard  be  fled  1042 
e 


Ixiv 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


NO.  OF  POBM. 

What  torments    are    allotted   those    sad 

spirits   694 

What  tunes,  what  words,  what  looks,  what 

wonders  pierce    418 

What  was 't  awaken'd  first  the  untried  ear  1569 
What  will  not  men  attempt   for  sacred 

praise? 860 

What  wisdom  m«re,  what  better  life,  than 

pleasethGod  to  send 89 

What  would  I  have  you  do  ?  I'll  teU  you, 

kinsman   247 

What  would  it   pleasure  me  to  have  my 

throat  cut    449 

^Vllat's  hallowed   ground  ?     Has  earth  a 

clod   1309 

Whate'er  you  wish  in  landscape  to  excel...  1149 
When  age  hath  made  me  what  I  am  not 

now   360 

When  all  the  fiercer  passions  cease  1178 

When  all  thy  mercies,  0  my  God 767 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command.  879 
When  by  God's  inward  light  a  happy  child  1422 

When  cbapman  billies  leave  the  street 1591 

When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high 637 

When  come  was  the  month  of  May  30 

When,  cruel  fair  one,  I  am  slain    565 

When  day  is  done,  and  clouds  are  low  ......  1547 

When,  doff' d  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air  . . .  1316 
When  evening  listen'd  to  the  dripping  oar  1240 
When  first  thou  camest,  gentle,  shy,  and 

fond  1731 

When  first  thy  eyes  unvail,  give  thy  soul 

leave 556 

When  from  my  humble  bed  I  rise 1262 

When  gods    had   framed    the  sweets  of 

woman's  face  426 

When  homeward  bands  their  several  ways 

disperse    1159 

When  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart 1115 

When  I   beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am 

sleeping    1640 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent  ...  613 
When  I  first  came  to  London,  I  rambled 

about    816 

When  I  go  musing  all  alone    487 

When  m  the  crimson  cloud  of  even  991« 

When  in  the  field  of  Mars  we  lie   746 

When  Israel  of  the  Lord  beloved  1324 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 355 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 1228 

When  marshall'd  on  the  nightly  plain 1167 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young ...  890 
When  now  mature  in  classic  knowledge  ...     973 

When  on  my  sick  bed  I  languish  673 

When  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze    ...  1660 

When  our  heads  are  bow'd  with  woe 1668 

When  Phillis  watched  her  harmless  sleep  .  703 
When  Phoebus  lifts  his  head  out  of  the 

winter's  wave 142 

When  poets  wrote,  and  painters  drew ......     757 

When  princely  Hamilton's  abode 1325 

When  rising  from  the  bed  of  death  769 

When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John  '.     525 

When  shaws  be  sheen,  and  swards  full  fair    519 

When  silent  time  wi'  lightly  foot  1102 

When  spring  unlocks  the  flowers  to  paint 

the  laughingsoil 1382 

When  that  the  fields  put  on  their  gay  attire  1008 
When  the  black-letter*  d  list  to  the  gods 

was  presented 139g 

Wheu  the  fierce  north  wind,  with  his  airy 

forces    853 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 1366 


•  NO,  OV  POEM. 

When  the  merry  lark  did  gild    1686 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  . 

kye  at  hame 1047 

When  this  old  cap  was  new 512 

When  thou  has  spent  the  hngring  day  in 

pleasure  and  delight 105 

When  travels  grete  in  matters  thick 403 

When  we  two  parted 1342 

When  we  were   idlers  with  the  loitering 

rills   1571 

When  wert  thou  bom.  Desire  ?    In  pride 

and  pomp  of  May  494 

When  Windsor  walls  sustain'd  my  wearied 

arm   68 

Whence  comes  my  love  ?  Oh,  heart  disclose ;       99 
Whence  could    arise    this   mighty  critic 

spleen   953 

Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 1145 

Where  am  I  ?    Sure  I  wander  'midst  en- 
chantment      688 

Where  gang  ye,  thou  silly  auld  carle  ? 1619 

Where  is  that  learned  wretch  that  knows  .     483 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest  1328 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  lurk  1 209 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 634 

Where,  where  is  the  gate  that  once  served 

to  divide 1722 

Where  words  are  weak  and  foes  encoun- 

t'ring  strong    112 

Where  yonder  ridgy  mountains  bound  the 

scene 1120 

Whereas  in  ward  fiill  oft  I  would  bewail ...      42 

Where'er  I  turn  my  eyes 1036 

Whether  in  crowds  or  solitudes,  in  streets  1435 

Whether  the  soul  receives  intelligence 137 

While  here  my  muse  in  discontent  doth 

sing 278 

While  in  my  matchless   graces  wrapt  I 

stand 978 

While  in  this  park  I  sing,  the  list'ning  deer    588 

While  on  those  lovely  looks  I  gaze 654 

While  St.  Serf,  in  til  a  stead  45 

While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by 

night    822 

While    slowly    wanders    thy    sequester'd 

stream 1247 

While   that  the  armed  Hand  doth  fight 

abroad  203 

While  with  a  strong  and  yet  a  gentle  hand    587 
While  you,   my  lord,    the    rural    shades 

admire 765 

Whilst  in  this  cold  and  blustering  clime  ...     647 
Whilst  some  afltect  the  sun,  and  some  the 

shade    842 

Whither  goest  thou  ?    Here  be  woods  as 

green    213 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-eight  ?   1793 

Who  has  e'er  been  at  Paris  must  needs 

know  the  Gr^ve 756 

Who  is  yonder  poor  maniac,  whose  wildly 

fix'deyes 1226 

Who  should  this  stranger  be  ?    And  then 

this  casket  831 

Who  sleeps  below  ? — Who  sleeps  below ? ...  1536 

Who  so  to  marry  a  minion  wife 399 

Who  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating  1819 
Whom  fancy  persuadeth,    among    other 

crops 84 

Whose  was  that  gentle  voice,  that  whisper- 
ing sweet 1255 

Why  art  thou  silent  ?  Is  thy  love  a  plant  .  1200 
Why  art  thou  slow,  thou  rest  of  trouble, 

death 465 


THE  FIRST  LINES  OF  THE  POEMS. 


Ixv 


so.  OF  POEM. 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  ?    Can  tears    346 

Why,  Damon,  with  the  forward  day 832 

Why  did  my  parents  send  me  to  the  schools    221 

Why  didst  thou  raise  such  woeful  wail 100 

W^hy  doth  the  stubborne  iron  prove 318 

Why  is't  damnation  to  despair  and  die  ....     444 

Why,  little  charmer  of  the  air   707 

Why  should  you  swear  I  am  forsworn 352 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover! 329 

Why,  then  I  do  but  dream  on  sovereignty  181 
Why  this  will  lug  your  priests  and  servants 

from  your  sides  198 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladye    1318 

Why  wouldst  thou  leave  me,  0  gentle  child  ?  1452 

Wi'  drums  and  pipes  the  clachan  rang 1651 

Will  you  heara  Spanish  lady ,...     538 

Willow  !  in  thy  breezy  moan 1449 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun    228 

Wine,  wine,  in  a  morning 679 

Wish'd  morning  's  come  ;  and  now  upon 

the  plains 691 

With  cheerful  step  the  traveller 1221 

With  face  and  fashion  to  be  known 734 

With  face  and  fashion  to  be  known 74U 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode  1708 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn 1496 

With  fragrant  flowers  we  strew  the  way  . . .  122 
With  how  sad  steps,  0  moon,  thou  climb' st 

With  little  hereto  do"  or'see'.' !!!"!!!!!!.".'!."."  1208 

With  quicken'd  step 868 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  mom 1130 

With  some  good  ten  of  his  chosen  men, 

Bernardo  hath  appear'd 1522 

With  that  low    cunning,  which  in   fools 

supplies 956 

Within  a  little  silent  grove  hard  by  .*     333 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn 

bush 1410 

Within  the  castle  hath  the  queen  devised..  141 
Within  the  hall,  neither  rich  nor  yet  poor  37 
Woman  !  when  I  behold  thee,  flippant,  vain  1821 

Woodmen,  shepherds,  come  away 460 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 1716 

Would  my  good  lady  love  me  best  50 

Would  you  know  what's  soft  ?    I  dare 259 

Wouldst  thou  view  the  lion's  den  ? 1479 

Wreathe  the  bowl 1279 


Y. 


NO.  OF  POBM. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around  .  1586 
Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers... ^^...    907 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green .~  344 

Ye  holy  towers  that  shade  the  wave- worn 

steep 1246 

Ye  little  birds  that  sit  and  sing 471 

Ye  mariners  of  England   1305 

Ye  midnight  shades  !  o'er  Nature  spread...  900 
Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma  !  begin  the  song  ...  776 
Ye  quenchless  stars  !  so  eloquently  bright  1481 
Ye  rocks !    ye   elements !    thou  shoreless 

main 1555 

Ye  shepherds  of  this  pleasant  vale 882 

Ye  shepherds  so  cheerful  and  gay 894 

Ye  wha  are  fain  to  hae  your  name 1052 

Ye  who  amid  this   feverish  world  would 

wear 924 

Ye  who  have  scorn'd  each  other 1739 

Ye  who  with  warmth,  the  public  triumph 

feel 1090 

Yee  blushing  virgins  happie  are 316 

Yes  !  there  are  real  mourners. — I  have  seen  1177 
Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye  !...  1205 

Yes,  wife,  I'd  be  a  throned  king 1774 

Yet,  as  through  Tagus'  fair  transparent 

streams 490 

Yet,  I  confess,  in  this  mv  pilgrimage  ......    279 

Yet  in  prison  was  King  l)avy '..      44 

Yet  once  more,  0  ye  laurels,  and  once  more  605 
"  You  are  Old  Father  William,"  the  young 

man  cried 1223 

You  are  right,  justice,  and  you  weigh  this 

well  177 

You  ask  us  why  the  soil  the  thistle  breeds  787 
You  earthly  souls  that  count  a  wanton 

flame 568 

Yon  mansion,  made  by  beaming  tapers  gay    841 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night 158 

You  mighty  lords  that  with  respected  grace    139 

You  that  haue  spent  the  silent  night    104 

You  were  used  to  say   194 

Young  Henry  was  as  brave  a  youth 1138 

Your  wedding-ring  wears  thin,  dear  wife  ; 

ah,  summers  not  a  few 1768 


e'2 


i 


BIOGEAPHIES  OF  THE  AMERICAN  POETS. 


Adams,  John  Quincy. 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan. 

Allston,  Washington. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan. 

Barlow,  Joel. 

Honeywood,  St.  John. 

Schoolcraft,  Henry  Rowe. 

Bryant,  WiUiam  Cullen. 

Hopkinson,  Joseph. 

Stoddard,  R.  H. 

Clifton,  William. 

Humphreys,  David. 

Taylor,  Bayard. 
Trumbull,  John. 

Dwight,  Timothy. 

Leland,  Charles  G. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth. 

Tuckerman,  Henry  Theodore. 

English,  Thomas  Dunn. 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf. 

Freneau,  Phillip. 

Morris,  Greorge  P. 

wmis,  N.  P. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene. 

NAMES  OF  AMERICAN  POETS  WITH  NUMBERS  OF  POEMS. 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Adams,  John  Quincy 1 850 

Akers,  Elizabeth 1938-1945 

Allston,  Washington 1853 

Barlow,  Joel 1848 

Bryant,  William  Ciillen 

1855-1859 

Clark,  Willis  G 1898 

Clifton,  William   1852 

Dwight,  Timothy 1846 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo 

1864-1870 
English,  Thomas  Dunn ....  1918 
Freneau,  Phillip 1844 


KO.  OF  POEM. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene  1860-1862 
Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno...  1871 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 

1889-1897 

Honeywood,  St.  John 1849 

Hopkinson,  Joseph 1851 

Humphreys,  David 1847 

Leland,  Charles  G....  1921-1923 
Longfellow,   Henry  Wadsworth 

1872-1883 
Lowell,  James  Russell  1911-1917 

Morris,  George  P 1863 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan....  1899-1908 


■so.   OF  POEM. 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan 

1919,  1920 

Saxe,  J.  G 1936,1937 

Schoolcraft,  Henry  Rowe..  1854 

Stoddard,  R.  H 1932-1935 

Taylor,  Bayard  1924-1931 

Trumbull,  John    1845 

Tuckerman,  Henry  Theodore 

1909,  1910 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf 

1885-1888 
Willis,  N.  P 1884 


NAMES  OF  AMEEICAN  POETS  WITH  THE  TITLES  OF  POEMS. 


ADAMS,  JOHN  QUINCY. 
The  Wants  of  Man 

NO.   OF  POEM. 

1850 

1938 

1939 

1940 

1941 

KO.  OP  POEM. 

1942 

Kisses                              

1943 

AKERS,  ELIZABETH. 

Broken  Faith 

Time 

Endurance   

Singiag  in  the  Rain  

Rock  me  to  Sleep] 

1944 

1945 

ALLSTON,  WASHINGTON. 
America  to  Great  Britain..:. 

1853 

Ixviii 


AMERICAN  POETS. 


MO.    OF   FOBH. 

BARLOW,  JOEL. 

Burning  of  New  England  Villages 1848 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN. 

The  Prairies 1855 

ForestHymn  1856 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom 1857 

Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race 1858 

Song  of  Marion's  Men  1859 

CLARK,  WILLIS  G. 

Euthanasia  1898 

CLIFTON,  WILLIAM. 

To  Wmiam  Gifford,  Esq 1852 

DWIGHT,  TIMOTHY. 

England  and  America  1846 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO. 

"Good-bye,  Proud  World!" 1864 

To  the  Humble  Bee  1865 

The  Snow-storm    1866 

The  Problem  1867 

The  Poet 1868 

Dirge    1869 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel 1870 

ENGLISH,  THOMAS  DUNN. 

Ben  Bolt 1918 

FRENEAU,  PHILIP. 

The  Dying  Indian 1844 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE. 

Burns    1860 

Alnwick  Castle  1861 

Marco  Bozzaris 1862 

HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO. 

The  Origin  of  Mint  Juleps   1871 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL. 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl  1889 

An  Evening  Thought    1890 

La  Grisette 1891 

The  Treadmill  Song  1892 

Latter-Day  Warnings  1893 

The  Old  Man's  Dream 1894 

What  we  all  Think    1895 

The  Last  Blossom  1896 

Contentment  1897 

HONEYWOOD,  ST.  JOHN. 

Crimes  and  Punishments 1849 

HOPKINSON,  JOSEPH. 

Hail,  Columbia  !    1851 

HUMPHREYS,  DAVID. 

Western  Emigration 1847 

LELAND,  CHARLES  G. 

Theleme  1921 

A  Dream  of  Love  1922 

The  Three  Friends ',[,[  1923 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH. 

Nuremburg 1872 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 1873 

The  Skeleton  in  Armour 1874 

A  Psalm  of  Life 1875 


«  NO.  OP  POBM. 

Endymion  1876 

The  Beleagured  City 1877 

It  is  not  always  May 1878 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year 1879 

Maidenhood 1880 

The  Children's  Hour 1881 

A  Spring  Landscape 1882 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus   1883 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 

To  the  Dandelion 1911 

The  Poet 1912 

The  Sirens 1913 

An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car 1914 

The  Heritage 1915 

To  the  Future 1916 

The  Fountain 1917 


MORRIS,  GEORGE  P. 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree 


1863 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN. 

Annabel  Lee 1899 

Ulalume:  A  Ballad  1900 

Dream-land 1901 

Lenore 1902 

Israfel  1903 

The  Bells ; 1904 

To  F.  S.  0 1905 

For  Annie 1906 

The  Raven 1907 

The  Conqueror  Worm  1908 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN. 

The  Brickmaker 1919 

My  Hermitage 1920 

SAXE,  J.  G. 

The  Way  of  the  World 1936 

Ye  Tailyor-man 1937 

SCHOOLCRAFT,  HENRY  ROWE. 

Geehale  :  An  Indian  Lament 1854 

STODDARD,  R.  H. 

Leonatus 1952 

The  Shadow  of  the  Hand 1933 

Invocation  to  Sleep 1934 

At  Rest 1935 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD. 

Bedouin  Song 1924 

The  Arab  to  the  Palm 1925 

Kubleh 1926 

The  Poet  in  the  East 1927 

Kilimandjaro 1928 

An  Oriental  Idyll  1929 

Hassan  to  his  Mare  1930 

The  Phantom 1931 

TRUMBULL,  JOHN. 

Character  of  McFingal 1845 

TUCKERMAN,  HENRY  THEODORE. 

Mary 1909 

Florence  1910 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF. 

The  Ballad  of  Cassandra  South  wick...  1885 

Pentucket 1886 

Randolph  of  Roanoke  1887 

Democracy 1888 

WILLIS,  N.  P. 

April  Violets  


1884 


TITLES  OF  THE  AMERICAN  POEMS, 


NO.  OF  POBM. 

Alnwick  Castle   1861 

America  to  Great  Britain. 1853 

Annabel  Lee    1899 

Antiquity  of  Freedom,  The    1 857 

April  Violets  1884 

Arab  to  the  Palm  1925 

Arsenal  at  Springfield,  The 1873 

At  Rest    1935 

Ballad  of  Cassandra  Southwick,  The    1885 

Bedouin  Song 1924 

Beleagured  City,  The  1877 

Bells,  The    1904 

Ben  Bolt  1918 

Brickmaker,  The 1919 

Broken  Faith 1938 

Burning  of  New  England  Villages    1848 

Bums    1860 

Character  of  McFingal    1845 

Children's  Hour,  The    1881 

Conqueror  Worm,  The 1908 

Contentment  1897 

Crimes  and  Pvmishments 1849 

Democracv 18S8 

Dirge    1869 

Dream,  A 1942 

Dream  of  Love,  A 1922 

Dreamland  1901 

Dying  Indian,  The 1844 

Endurance 1940 

Endymion    1876 

England  and  America  1846 

Euthanasia 1898 

Evening  Thought,  An  1890 

Florence  1910 

Fountain,  The    1917 

For  Annie 1906 

Forest  Hymn .'.. 1856 

Geehale  :  an  Indian  Lament  1854 

*'  Good-bye,  Proud  World  !" 1864 

Hail,  Columbia  !    1851 

Hassan  to  his  Mare  1930 

Heritage,  The , 1915 

Incident  in  a  Railway  Car,  An   1914 

Invocation  to  Sleep   1934 

Israfel  1903 

It  is  not  always  May 1878 

Kilimandjaro 1928 

Kisses  1943 

Kubleh 1926 

LaGrisette 1891 

Last  Blossom,  The 1896 


so.  OX'  POBIC. 

Latter-day  Warnings 1893 

Lenore 1902 

Leonatus 1932 

Lost 1945 

Maidenhood    1880 

Marco  Bozzaris  1862 

Mary 1909 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year  1879 

Mountain  and  the  Squirrel,  The 1870 

My  Hermitage 1920 

Nuremburg 1872 

Oh  Mother  of  a  Mighty  Race 1858 

Old  Man's  Dream,  The 1894 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl 1889 

Oriental  Idyll,  An 1929 

Origin  of  Mint  Juleps,  The 1871 

Pentucket    1886 

Phantom,  The    1931 

Poet  in  the  East,  The  1927 

Poet,  The ]868 

Poet,  The 1912 

Prairies,  The 1855 

Problem,  The 1867 

Psalm  of  Life,  A 1875 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 1887 

Raven,  The 1907 

Rock  me  to  Sleep 1944 

Shadow  of  the  Hand,  The 1933 

Skeleton  in  Armour,  The 1874 

Singing  in  the  Rain  1941 

Su-ens.  The 1913 

Snow-storm,  The  1866 

Song  of  Marion's  Men  1859 

Spring  Landscape,  A    1882 

Theleme  1921 

Three  Friends,  The  1923 

Time 1939 

To  F.  S.  0 1905 

To  the  Dandelion  1911 

To  the  Future 1916 

To  the  Humble  Bee 1865 

To  William  Gifford,  Esq 1852 

Treadmill  Song,  The 1892 

Ulalume:  a  Ballad  1900 

Wants  of  Man,  The 1850 

Way  of  the  World,  The  1936 

Western  Emigration 1847 

What  we  all  Think    1895 

Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree    1863 

Wreck  of  the  HesjJerus,  The  1883 

Ye  Tailyor-mau 1937 


Ixx 


AMERICAN  POETS. 


FIEST  LINES  OF  AMERICAN  POEMS. 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Again  I  sit  within  the  mansion  1931 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl    1902 

Ah,  Clemence,  when  I  saw  thee  last 1891 

All  hail!  thou  noble  land    1853 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky   1866 

A  silver  javelin  which  the  hills  1929 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent 1862 

A  youth  would  marry  a  maiden 1936 

Back  again,  darling?  0  day  of  delight  !....  1942 
Backward,  turn  backward,  0  Time,  in  your 

flight 1944 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight  1881 

Buds  on  the  apple-boughs   1938 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely    1901 

Come,    my   beauty  !     come,    my    desert 

darling!   1930 

Dear,  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside 

the  way    1911 

Don'tyou  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt?  1918 

Draw  the  curtains  round  your  bed    1934 

Fine  humble-bee  !  fine  humble-bee  ! 1865 

For  this  present,  hard 1868 

From  the  desert,  I  come  to  thee    1924 

Good-bye,  proud  world  !  I'm  going  home..  1864 

Hail,  Columbia  !  happy  land  1851 

Hail  to  thee,  monarch  of  African  mountains  1928 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 1904 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  gnarled 

pines 1857 

He  spoke  of  Bums  ;  men  rude  and  rough..  1914 

Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race 1861 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet 

not  break!  1940 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 1886 

I  dream'd  I  lay  beside  the  dark  blue  Rhine  1922 

If  sometimes  in  the  dark  blue  eye 1890 

I  have  found  violets.     April  hath  come  on.  1884 

I  have  read  in  some  old  marvellous  tale 1877 

I  have  three  friends,  three  glorious  friends, 

three  dearer  could  not  be 1923 

Hike  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl  1867 

In  heaven  and  earth  a  spirit  doth  dwell  ...  1903 
In  the  old  days  of  awe  and   keen-eyed 

wonder 1912 

In  the  valley  of  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad 

meadow  lands 1872 

In  these  cold  shades,  beneath  these  shift- 
ing skies  1852 

Into  the  sunshine 1917 

I  sat  one  night  on  a  palace  step 1921 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 1899 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 1883 

Knows  he  who  tills  this  lonely  field 1869 

Let  the  blinded  horse  go  round  1919 

Little  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few 1897 

Lo!  'Tis  a  gala  night 1908 

Maiden!  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes.........  1880 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below 1850 

Methinks,  when  on  the  languid  eye '.  1898 

Next  to  thee,  0  fair  gazelle 1925 

Of  crimes,  empoison'd  source  of  human 

woes 1849 


NO.  OF  POEM. 

Oh,  fairest  born  of  love  and  light 1888 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  !    1894 

Oh,  mother  Earth  !  upon  thy  lap 1887 

Oh  mother  of  a  mighty  race    1858 

0,  Land  of  Promise  !  from  what  Pisgah's 

height 1916 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary « 1907 

On  yonder  lake  I  spread  the  sail  no  more  1844 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried 1859 

Princes,  when  soften' d  in  thy  sweet  em- 
brace   1910 

Right  jollie  is  ye  tailyor-man  1937 

Soon  fleets    the  sunbright  form,  by  man 

adored  1846 

''  Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest !  " 1874 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers  1875 

Thank  Heaven  !  the  crisis 1906 

That  age  was  older  once  than  now 1895 

The  blackbird  is  singing  on    Michigan's 

shore 1854 

The  black-eyed  children  of  the  Desert  drove  1926 

The  fair  boy  Leonatus  1932 

The  green  trees  whisper'dlow  and  mild 1882 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples 1856 

The  kiss  of  friendship,  kind  and  calm  1943 

The  mouutain  and  the  squirrel    1870 

The  poet  came  to  the  land  of  the  East  1927 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands 1915 

The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars 1876 

The  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary    1913 

These  are  the  gardens  of  the  desert,  these  1855 

The  skies  they  are  ashen  and  sober  1900 

The  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky 1892 

The  sun  is  bright,  the  air  is  clear  1878 

The  word  has  come  ; — go  forth  1945 

This  ancient,  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells 

of  good  old  times    1889 

This  is"  the  arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling  1873 
Though    young    no    more  we  still  would 

dream    1896 

Thou    would'st  be  loved  ?— then  let  thy 

heart 1905 

Through  solid  curls  of*  smoke,  the  bursting 

fires 1848 

Tis  said  that  the  Gods,  on  Olympus  of  old  1871 
To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my 

blessing  rise  to-day   1885 

What  though  the  name  is  old  and  ofb  re- 
peated    1909 

When  legislators  keep  the  law  1893 

When  Yankees,  skill'd  in  martial  rule 1845 

Where  the  elm-tree  branches  by  the  rain 

arestirr'd 1941 

Wild  rose  of  Alio  way,  my  thanks    1860 

With  all  that's  ours,  together  let  us  rise...  1847 

With  folded  hands  the  lady  lies 1935 

Within  a  wood  one  summer's  day  _ 1920 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree ! .' 1863 

Yes,  the  year  is  growing  old 1879 

You  see  the  tree  that  sweeps  my  window 

pane?   1939 

You  were  very  charming,  madam 1933 


iBoDH^oftBoetrH 


THE    FIRST    PEUIOD, 

FROM  THE  EARLIEST  PERIOD  TO  THE  YEAR  HOO. 


«  "T)ELOVED  indeed,"  says  dear  old  genial  Dibdin,  "is  the  poetry  of  our  own  country." 
JD  It  expresses  all  the  great  changes  England  has  undergone.  It  tells  of  its  manners  and 
customs,  of  its  thoughts  and  feehngs,  of  its  hopes  and  fears,  of  its  inner  and  outward  life.  One 
cannot  read  it  without  gaining  an  insight  into  the  every-day  experience  of  our  forefathers. 
Whatever  is  keenly  felt  is  sure  to  manifest  itself  in  language  of  touching  verse.  And  thus  it  has 
been  in  times  gone  by ;  the  real  life  of  the  people,  of  the  prince  and  the  peasant,  has  found  an 
utterance  in  the  poetry  of  our  gifted  bards.  Indeed,  more  of  true  history  may  be  learnt  from 
even  the  slight  and  almost  despised  Ballad,  sung  about  the  streets,  than  from  the  more 
dignified  and  solemn  narrative  of  the  historian.  He  takes  generally  what  is  called  a  deep 
and  philosophical  view  of  events  and  men  and  manners,  but  one  little  song  sung  by  a  few 
strolling  minstrels  before  the  houses  of  the  rich  or  poor  tells  us  more  of  what  England  was, 
and  what  were  England's  feelings,  than  all  this  pomp  and  parade  of  philosophic  learning. 
Just  indeed  as  one  may  know  a  man  for  years,  and  never,  notwithstanding  admiration  for  his 
intellect  and  accomplishments,  get  one  gUmpse  of  his  heart,  and  yet  in  some  unforeseen 
moment  of  sudden  joy  or  sorrow  learn  for  the  first  time  the  deep  tenderness  of  his  heart ;  so 
with  the  poetry  of  any  land ;  it  opens  up  the  unselfish  soul  of  a  nation ;  it  shows  that  there  is 
the  freshness  of  spring,  when  all  seems  sear  and  withered  with  frost  and  snow  and  sleet  and 
winter ;  it  reveals  the  love  of  the  holy  and  the  best,  and  brings  down  to  earth,  as  it  were, 
heaven  in  its  purity  and  sweetness,  and  divine,  untainted  loveliness  and  glory. 

And  also,  poetry  reveals  the  darker  doings  of  mankind,  opens  up  the  terrible  passions  of 
mankind,  shows  human  nature  as  it  too  often  is,  thoroughly  regardless  of  the  pure  and  the 
beautiful  and  the  good.  Yet,  this  is  but  exceptional,  its  spirit  is  rather  to  breathe  sweet  and 
loving  accents,  to  gatter  together  earth's  beauties,  to  depict  scenes  of  fairest  loveliness,  to 
tell  of  holiest  sacrifices,  to  bring  down  as  it  were  the  very  glories  of  a  world  beyond  to  a 
world  which  knows  sorrow  and  pain  and  sickness  and  death. 

This  our  earliest  period  is  characterized  by  many  features  which  make  it  essentially  different 
to  all  the  rest.  Its  poetry  is  the  rude  utterance  of  a  rude  but  brave  people.  A  few  mission- 
aries of  Christ  were  almost  the  only  ones  who  helped  to  a  purer  faith  and  feeling.  Then  came 
wars,  and  invasions,  and  mixture  of  races  ;  still  the  old  primitive  British  Church,  planted  likely 
by  the  Apostle  St.  Paul,  maintained  her  hold  upon  the  affections  of  the  people  and  influenced 
even  her  conquerors.  But  Rome  came  and  conquered,  Augustine  came ; — then  attacks  from 
Danes,  then  William  the  Norman ;  thus  the  language  became  inundated  with  words  from 
other  nations,  our  own  early  speech  was  considered  vulgar,  the  conquerors'  speech  prevailed. 
Yet  notwithstanding  all  this  confusion,  the  early  speech  of  our  old  forefathers  maintained  a 
hold  which  to  this  day  has  not  been  lost.  The  poetry  therefore  of  this  period  will  be  found  to  be 
of  a  varied  nature,  exhibiting  great  force  and  vigour,  and  sometimes  verses  of  touching 
sweetness  and  beauty. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICES. 


C^DMON. 

Caedmon  is  considered  the  earliest  of  our 
English  poets.  He  was  a  man  sprung  from 
the  people,  and  at  one  time  in  his  life  was  a 
mere  cowherd.  He  was,  however,  addressed 
one  night  by  a  stranger,  as  he  thought,  in  his 
sleep,  and  asked  to  sing  a  song.  He  replied 
that  he  could  not,  when  the  stranger  urged 
that  he  could,  and  that  he   could  singr   the 


"  Creation."  Caedmon  then,  wondering  at 
himseK,  began  to  sing  most  beautiful  verses. 
He  soon  afterwards  awoke,  and  went  im- 
mediately to  the  Reeve  of  Whitby,  who,  wise 
and  good  man  that  he  was,  took  him  to  the 
abbey  and  told  the  wondrous  story  to  the 
Abbess  Hilda.  He  recounted  the  last  night's 
adventure  and  repeated  the  verses,  which  at 
once  obtained  the  admiration  of  the  persons 
present.      They  then  explained  to  him  other 

1* 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES.        [First  Period.— J^roj??,  tlie 


parts  of  Holy  Scripture,  whereupon  he  went 
home  and  produced  a  beautiful  poem.  At  the 
request  of  the  abbess  he  became  a  monk,  and 
continued  to  write  poems  founded  on  Sacred 
History. 

Our  readers  will  notice  the  striking  re- 
semblance between  Casdmon's  account  of 
"  The  Fall  of  Man,"  &c.,  and  portions  of 
Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost."  Conybeare,  in  his 
"  Illustrations  of  Anglo-Saxon  Poetry,"  says 
— "  The  pride,  rebellion,  and  punishment  of 
Satan  and  his  princes  have  a  resemblance  to 
Milton  so  remarkable,  that  most  of  this  por- 
tion might  be  almost  literally  translated  by  a 
cento  of  lines  from  the  great  poet."  The  time 
of  Csedmon's  death  is  uncertain,  probably 
about  680. 


ALFRED  THE  GREAT. 

Alfred  the  Great  was  the  youngest  son  of 
Ethelwolf,  king  of  the  West  Saxons,  and 
Osburga,  daughter  of  Oslac  the  Goth,  who 
inherited  the  blood  of  the  sub-kings  of  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  At  the  age  of  five  he  was  sent 
to  Rome,  whore  Leo  IV.  anointed  him  with 
the  royal  unction.  When  only  twenty-two 
years  of  age  he  found  himseK  the  monarch  of 
a  distracted  kingdom.  After  several  un- 
fortunate battles  with  the  Danes,  he  dis- 
banded his  followers  and  wandered  about 
the  woods,  and  finally  found  shelter  in  the 
cottage  of  a  herdsman  named  Denulf,  at 
Athelney,  in  Somersetshire.  Here  occurred 
the  interesting  event  which  has  pleased  so 
many  boys  and  girls — the  burning  of  the 
cakes.  Receiving  information  that  Odun, 
Earl  of  Devon,  had  obtained  a  victory  over 
the  Danes  in  Devonshire,  and  had  taken  their 
magical  standard,  he  disguised  himself  as  a 
harper  and  obtained  admission  to  the  Danish 
camp,  where  his  skill  was  so  much  admired 
that  he  was  retained  a  considerable  time,  and 
was  admitted  to  play  before  King  Gorm,  or 
Guthrum,  and  his  chiefs.  Having,  by  these 
means,  gained  a  knowledge  of  his  enemy,  he 
collected  his  vassals  and  nobles,  surprised  the 
Danes  at  Eddington,  and  completely  defeated 
them,  in  May,  878.  The  king  behaved  with 
great  magnanimity  to  his  foes,  giving  up  the 
kingdom  of  East  Anglia  to  those  of  the 
Danes  who  embraced  the  Christian  religion. 
He  now  put  his  kingdom  into  a  state  of 
defence,  and  greatly  increased  his  navy,  and 
by  his  energy,  activity,  bravery,  and  wisdom 
the  country  became  exceedingly  prosperous. 
He  is  said  to  have  fought  fifty- six  battles  by 
sea  and  land,  although  his  valour  as  a  warrior 
has  excited  less  admiration  than  his  wisdom 
as  a  legislator.  He  composed  a  body  of 
statutes,  instituted  trial  by  jury,  divided  the 
kingdom  into  shires  and  tithings.  He  was 
so  exact  in  his  government  that  robbery  was 
unheard  of,  and  gold  chains  might  be  left  in 
the  highways  untouched.  He  also  formed  a 
parliament,  which  met  in  London  twice  a  year. 


There  was  so  little  learning  in  his  time,  that 
from  the  Thames  to  the  Humber  hardly  a  j 
man  could  be  found  who  understood  Latin.  j 
To  remedy  this  state  of  things,  he  invited 
learned  men  from  all  parts,  and  endowed 
schools  throughout  the  kingdom ;  and  if 
indeed  he  was  not  the  founder  of  the  University 
of  Oxford,  he  raised  it  to  a  reputation  which  it 
had  never  before  enjoyed.  Among  other  acts 
of  munificence  to  that  seat  of  learning  he 
founded  University  College.  Ho  himself  was 
a  learned  prince,  composed  several  works, 
translated  the  historical  works  of  Orosius  and 
Bede,  some  religious  and  moral  treatises, 
perhaps  ^sop's  Fables  and  the  Psalms  of 
David  ;  also  the  Metres  of  Boethius.  He 
divided  the  twenty-four  hours  into  three 
equal  parts  ;  one  he  devoted  to  the  service  of 
God,  another  to  public  affairs,  and  the  third 
to  rest  and  refreshment.  In  private  life  he 
was  benevolent,  pious,  cheerful  and  affable ; 
the  story  of  his  giving  the  poor  beggar  half 
his  loaf  when  famished  himself  is  one  of  the 
many  things  which  have  won  for  him  the  love 
and  admiration  of  all  true  Englishmen.  Ho  was 
born  at  Wantage  in  Berkshire,  849  ;  died  900. 
— See  Becton's  Universal  Biography,  p.  50. 


ROBERT  OF  GLOUCESTER. 

Robert  of  Gloucester  lived  during  the  reigns 
of  Henry  III.  and  Edward  I. ;  and  composed, 
in  verse,  "  The  Chronigle  of  English  Affairs," 
from  the  earliest  to  his  own  times.  He  was  a 
monk  of  Gloucester  Abbey ;  hence  he  is  called 
Robert  of  Gloucester.  Warton  describes  the 
work  as  alike  destitute  of  art  and  imagination, 
and  in  many  parts  even  less  poetical  than  the 
prose  history  by  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  from 
which  most  of  the  events  were  taken. 
Another  critic,  however,  speaks  of  his  poem 
as  in  general  appropriate  and  dramatic, 
proving  not  only  his  good  sense,  but  also  his 
eloquence.  There  are  several  copies  of  his 
work,  which  was  edited  by  Hearne  and  pub- 
lished in  1724. — See  Chambers,  vol.  i.  p.  6. 


ROBERT  DE  BRUNNE. 

Robert  de  Brunne,  or  Robert  Mannyng,  a 
native  of  Brunne,  in  Lincolnshire,  was  a  canon 
of  the  Gilbertine  order,  and  resident  in  the 
priory  of  Sempringhani  ten  years  in  the  time 
of  Prior  John  of  Camelton,  and  five  years  with 
John  of  Clyntone.  In  1303  he  began  his 
translation,  or  rather  paraphrase,  of  "  Manuel 
Peche,"  or  "  Manuel  des  Peches,"  that  is, 
"  The  Manuel  of  Sins."  It  is  a  long  production, 
treating  of  the  Decalogue  and  the  Seven 
Deadly  Sins,  which  are  illustrated  by  many 
legendary  stories.  It  was  never  printed,  but 
is  preserved  in  the  Bodleian  Library  ]\ISS,, 
No.  415,  and  in  the  Harlcian  MSS.,  No. 
1,701.  In  this  work  ho  remonstrates  tipoo 
the  introduction   of    foreign  terms  into    the 


Earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


language:    "I  seke,"  says  he,  "no  straunge 
Ynglyss." 

But  a  more  important  work  of  his  is  "  A 
Metrical  Chronicle  of  England."  The  former 
part  is  a  translation  from  an  old  French  poet, 
called  Maister  Wace,  or  Gasse,  who  copied 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  in  a  poem  called 
"  Roman  des  Rois  d'Angleterre."  The  second 
part  of  "  De  Brunne's  Chronicle,"  beginning 
from  CadwaUader,  and  ending  with  Edward 
I.,  is  translated  principally  from  a  chronicle 
by  Peter  Langtoft,  an  Augustine  canon  of 
BridHngton,  in  Yorkshire,  who  is  supposed  to 
have  died  in  the  reign  of  Edward  II.,  and  was 
therefore  a  contemporary  of  De  Brunne. 
Hearne  edited  De  Brunno,  but  suppressed 
much  of.  the  translation.  Both  Ellis  and 
Warton  refer  to  this  poet. — AUbone,  vol.  i. 
p.  269. 


RICHARD  ROLLE. 

Richard  RoUe,  a  hermit  of  the  order  of  St. 
Augustine  and  doctor  of  divinity,  who  lived  a 
solitary  life  near  the  nunnery  of  Hampole, 
four  miles  from  Doncaster.  He  wrote  metrical 
paraphrases  of  certain  parts  of  Scripture,  and 
an  original  poem  of  a  moral  and  religious 
nature,  entitled,  "  The  Pricks  of  Conscience  ;" 
but  of  the.  latter  work  it  is  not  certainly 
known  that  he  composed  it  in  English,  there 
being  some  reason  for  believing  that,  in  its 
present  form,  it  is  a  translation  from  a  Latin 
original  written  by  him. — Chamhcrs,  vol.  i. 
p.  11. 


ROBERT  LANGLANDE. 

Robert  Langlande  was  one  of  the  first 
disciples  of  Wickliffe,  and  composed  a  curious 
poem,  entitled  "  The  Visions  of  Piers  Plow- 
man," intended  as  a  satire  on  almost  every 
description  of  men,  but  especially  the  clergy. 
It  is  written  in  blank  verse,  with  wit  and 
humour,  in  an  alliterative  measure. — (See 
Beeton's  Dictionary  of  Universal  Biogra'pliy , 
p.  627.)  Chambers  says  of  this  work  :  "  '  The 
Vision  of  Pierce  Plowman,'  a  satirical  poem, 
ascribed  to  Robert  Longlande,  a  secular  priest, 
also  shows  very  expressively  the  progress 
which  was  made,  about  the  middle  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  towards  a  literary  style. 
This  poem,  in  many  points  of  view,  is  one  of 
the  most  important  works  that  appeared  in 
England  previous  to  the  invention  of  printing. 
It  is  the  popular  representative  of  the  doc- 
trines which  were  silently  bringing  about  the 
Reformation,  and  it  is  a  peculiarly  national 
poem,  not  only  as  being  a  much  purer  specimen 
of  the  English  language  than  Chaucer,  but  as 
exhibiting  the  revival  of  the  same  system  of  al- 
literation which  characterized  the  Anglo-Saxon 
poetry.  It  is,  in  fact,  both  in  this  peculiarity 
and  in  its  political  character,  characteristic 
of  a  great  literary  and  political  revolution,  in 
which  the  language  as  well  as  the  independence 


of  the  Anglo-Saxons  had  at  last  gained  the 
ascendency  over  those  of  the  Normans. 
Pierce  i|||represented  as  faUing  asleep  on  the 
Malvern  Hills,  and  as  seeing,  in  his  sleep,  a 
series  of  visions  ;  in  describing  these,  he  ex- 
poses the  corruptions  of  society,  but  particu- 
larly the  dissolute  lives  of  the  rehgious  orders, 
with  much  bitterness." — Cha^yihers,  volTl.  p.  11. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer,  1328—1400,  the  father 
of  English  poetry,  was  a  native  of  London. 
His  parentage  and  early  life  are  involved 
in  great  obscurity,  and  the  honour  of  his 
education  is  claimed  by  both  Universities. 
He  was  a  great  favourite  at  the  court  of 
Edward  III.,  and  a  devoted  adherent  to  the 
celebrated  John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster, 
whose  sister-in-law,  Philippa  de  Rouet,  ac- 
cepted the  offer  of  his  hand.  By  this  connec- 
tion the  poet  became  linked  with  the  good  or 
ill  fortune  which  attaches  to  greatness.  But 
this  generally  received  narrative  has  been 
doubted  by  some  critics.  In  1356  we  find 
Chaucer  bearing  arms  in  the  expedition  of 
Edward  III.  against  France.  For  some  time 
he  was  held  as  a  prisoner  of  war  by  the  enemy. 
In  1367  he  was  allowed  an  annual  pension  of 
twenty  marks,  between  two  or  three  hundred 
pounds  of  our  present  money ;  and  in  1373 
was  employed  in  an  embassy  to  Genoa  on 
affairs  of  the  State.  A  year  later  than  this  he 
was  appointed  Comptroller  of  the  Customs  of 
Wool,  &c.  It  was  during  this  visit  to  Italy — 
he  had  before  travelled  on  the  Continent — that 
he  enjoyed  some  delightful  converse  with 
Petrarch,  to  which  he  alludes  in  the  Prologue 
to  the  Gierke's  Tale  : — 

"  I  wol  you  tell  a  tale,  which  that  I 
Learned  at  Padowe  of  a  worthy  clerk. 
As  preved  by  his  wordes  and  his  werk ; 
Fraunceis  Petrark,  the  laureat  pocte, 
Highte  this  clerk  whos  rhetorike  swete 
Enlumined  all  Itaille  of  poetrie. 
As  Lynyan  did  of  philosophic,"  &c. 

Mr.  Tyrwhitt  is  inclined  to  doubt  this 
meeting  of  the  poets,  but  De  Sala  promised 
to  prove  its  occurrence.  He  died  before  he 
fulfilled  the  pledge.  Four  years  before  this 
acquaintance,  Chaucer  had  added  to  the 
evidence  of  his  own  poetical  talents  by  the 
Lament  for  the  Death  of  Blanche,  Duchess 
of  Lancaster,  entitled  "The  Book  of  the 
Duchesse."  In  the  early  part  of  the  reign  of 
Richard  II.  our  poet  became  involved  in  the 
political  religious  troubles  of  the  day,  espousing 
the  cause  of  John  Comberton  (John  de 
Northampton),  a  warm  champion  of  the 
doctrines  of  Wickliffe.  Comberton  was  im- 
prisoned, while  Chaucer  escaped  the  same 
fate  by  a  precipitate  flight  to  the  Continent. 
Of  course  he  lost  his  place  in  the  Customs. 
He  was  so  imprudent  as  to  return  to  London 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[First  Period. 


within  a  short  period ;  was  committed  to  the 
Tower,  and  only  released  by  disclosing  the 
names  and  projects  of  his  late  associa|Bs.  For 
this  breach  of  confidence  he  subsequently  ex- 
perienced great  remorse,  and  composed  his 
"  Testament  of  Love,"  in  which  he  complains 
of  the  change  in  his  fortunes  and  of  the 
disgrace  in  which  his  conduct  had  involved 
him. 

Campbell,  in  his  "  Specimens  of  the  British 
Poets,"  says,  "  It  is  not  known  what  he 
revealed;  certainly  nothing  to  the  prejudice  of 
John  of  Gaunt,  since  that  prince  continued  to 
be  his  friend.  To  his  acknowledged  partisans, 
who  had  betrayed  and  tried  to  starve  him  during 
his  banishment,  he  owed  no  fidelity.  It  is 
true  that  extorted  evidence  is  one  of  the  last 
ransoms  which  a  noble  mind  would  wish  to 
pay  for  liberty ;  but  before  Ave  blame  Chaucer 
for  making  any  confession,  we  should  con- 
sider how  fair  and  easy  the  lessons  of 
uncapitulating  fortitude  may  appear  on  the 
outside  of  a  prison,  and  yet  how  hard  it  may 
be  to  read  them  by  the  light  of  a  dungeon. 
As  far  as  date's  can  be  "guessed  at  in  so 
obscure  a  transaction,  his  hberation  took  place 
after  Eichard  had  shaken  off  the  domineering 
party  of  Gloucester,  and  had  begun  to  act  for 
himself.  Chaucer's  political  errors — and  he 
considered  his  share  in  the  late  conspiracy  as 
an  error  of  judgment,  though  not  of  intention — 
had  been  committed  while  Eichard  was  a 
minor,  and  acknowledgment  of  them  might 
seem  less  humiliating  when  made  to  the 
monarch  himself,  than  to  an  usurping  faction 
ruling  in  his  name.  He  was  charged  too,  by 
his  loyalty,  to  make  certain  disclosures  im- 
portant to  the  peace  of  the  kingdom ;  and  his 
duty  as  a  subject,  independent  of  personal 
considerations,  might  well  be  put  in  competi- 
tion with  ties  to  associates  already  broken  by 
their  treachery." — Campbell,  p.  2. 

In  1389  his  great  patron  returned  from 
abroad,  and  Chaucer's  fortunes  improved.  He 
was  appointed  Clerk  of  the  Works  at  West- 
minster, and  soon  after  to  those  at  Windsor. 
He  retained  these  offices  scarcely  two  years, 
when  he  retired,  at  the  age  of  sixty-four,  to 
Woodstock,  at  which  quiet  town  he  composed 
his  immortal  "  Canterbury  Tales."  In  1394 
he  received  a  pension  of  .£20  per  annum,  and 
during  the  last  year  of  Eichard' s  reign  he 
was  granted  yearly  a  tun  of  wine.  These 
were  continued  under  the  new  reign,  with  an 
additional  pension  of  forty  marks.  He  did 
not  long  live  to  enjoy  this  accession  of  for- 
tune, for  on  the  25th  of  October,  1400,  he 
died.    He  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

"  Chaucer's  forte,"  writes  a  poet  and  critic, 
"is  description;  much  of  his  moral  reflection 
is  superfluous ;  none  of  his  painting  charac- 
teristic. His  men  and  women  are  not  mere 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  hke  those  who  furnish 
apologies  for  Boccaccio's  stories.  They  rise 
before  us  minutely  traced,  profusely  varied, 
and  strongly  discriminated.     Their   features 


and  casual  manners  seem  to  have  an  amusing 
cougruity  with  their  moral  characters.  He 
notices  minute  cu'cumstances  as  if  by  chancej 
but  every  touch  has  its  effect  on  our  con- 
ception so  distinctly,  that  we  seem  to  live  and 
travel  Avith  his  personages  throughout  the 
journey." 


JOHN  GOWEE. 

j       John    Gower,    1325  (?)— 1402,     was    con- 
I   temporary  and  friend  of  Chaucer.     He  was  a 
I   student  of  law  in  the  Inner  Temple,  a  man  of 
substance,  much  esteemed,  and  lost  his  sight 
about  three  years  previous  to  his  death.     Be- 
yond  these   particulars     nothing    further   is 
known.     His  monument  is  still  to  be  seen  in 
I    St.   Saviour's  Church.     As  to  his  poems,  it 
j    may  truly  be  said,  "  that  even  in  the  lighter 
strains  of  his  muse  he  sought  to  be  the  in- 
structor of  the  dark  age  in  which  his  lot  was 
cast."     Peacham,  in  his   "  Compleat  Gentle- 
man," says,  "His  verses  are  full  of  good  and 
brave    moralitie."       "  Indeed,"    as    Warton 
remarks,    "if   Chaucer  had  not  existed,  the 
compositions    of   Gower    would    have    been 
sufficient  to  rescue  the  reigns  of  Edward  III. 
and    Eichard    II.   from    the    imputation    of 
barbarism." 


JOHN  BAEBOUE. 

John  Barbour,  Barber,  Barbere,  or  Barbar, 
Archdeacon  of  Aberdeen,  died  1396,  is  one  of 
the  earliest  Scottish  poets  and  historians. 
The  date  and  place  of  his  birth  are  un- 
known. He  wrote  a  metrical  chronicle, 
entitled  "The  Bruce,"  which  recounts  the 
heroic  deeds  of  Eobert  I.  in  support  of  his 
country's  independence.  Some  writers  affirm 
that  the  work  was  undertaken  at  the  request 
of  Eobert' s  son  and  successor.  He  wrote 
another  work,  in  which  he  gives  a  genealogical 
history  of  the  kings  of  Scotland,  and  traces 
their  origin  to  the  Trojan  colony  of  Brutus. 
In  1357  we  find  that  he  received  from 
Edward  III,,  of  England,  a  safe-conduct  in 
these  words  :  "  John  Barber,  Archdeacon  of 
Aberdeen,  with  three  scholars  in  his  company. 
Coming  in  order  to  study  in  the  University 
of  Oxford,  and  perform  his  scholastic  exer- 
cises." A  learned  writer  says,  "  Our  Arch- 
deacon was  not  only  famous  for  his  extensive 
knowledge  in  the  philosophy  and  divinity  of 
those  times,  but  still  more  admired  for  his 
admirable  genius  for  English  poetry  ;  in 
which  he  composed  a  history  of  the  life  and 
glorious  actions  of  Eobert  Bruce — a  work 
not  only  remarkable  for  its  copious  cir- 
cumstantial details  of  the  exploits  of  that 
illustrious  prince  and  his  brave  companions 
in  arms,  Eandolff,  Earl  of  Lloray,  and  the 
Lord  James  Douglas,  but  also  for  the  beauty 
of  its  style,  which  is  not  inferior  to  that  of 
his  contemporary  Chaucer." 


THE   BOOK   OF   POETEY. 

FIRST   PERIOD. 

From   the   Earliest   Times   to   1400. 

I.— THE  I'lKST  DAY. 

The  dusky  ways. 

Then  was  the  glory-bright 

There  had  not  here  as  yet, 

Spirit  of  heaven's  Guardian 

Save  oavern-shade, 

Borne  over  the  deep 

Aught  been ; 

With  utmost  speed : 

But  this  wide  abyss 

The  Creator  of  angels  bade, 

F      Stood  deep  and  dim, 

The  Lord  of  life. 

Strange  to  its  Lord, 

Light  to  come  forth 

Idle  and  useless ; 

Over  the  spacious  deep. 

On  which  looked  with  his  eyes 

Quickly  was  fulfilled 

The  King  firm  of  mind, 

The  high  King's  behest ; 

And  beheld  those  places 

For  him  was  holy  light 

Void  of  joys ; 

Over  the  waste, 

Saw  the  dark  cloud 

As  the  Maker  bade. 

Lower  in  eternal  night, 

Then  sundered 

Swart  under  heaven. 

The  Lord  of  triumphs 

Dark  and  waste, 

Over  the  ocean-flood 

Until  this  worldly  creation 

Light  from  darkness. 

Through  the  world  existed 

Shade  from  brightness. 

Of  the  Glory-King. 

Then  gave  names  to  both 

1              Here  first  shaped 

The  Lord  of  life. 

The  Lord  eternal. 

Light  was  first 

Chief  of  all  Creatures 

Through  the  Lord's  word 

Heaven  and  earth ; 

Named  day ; 

The  firmament  upreared, 

Beauteous,  bright  creation ! 

And  this  spacious  land 

Well  pleased 

Established, 

The  Lord  at  the  beginning 

By  His  strong  Powers, 

The  procreative  time. 

The  Lord  Almighty. 

The  first  day  saw 

The  earth  as  yet  was 

The  dark  shade 

Not  green  with  grass  ; 

Swart  prevailing 

Ocean  covered, 

Over  the  wide  abyss. 

Swart  in  eternal  night. 
Far  and  wide, 

Ccedmon,  hy  Benjamin  Thor^pe. — Ahov.t  C60. 

C^DMON'.] 


FALL  OF  THE  EEEEL  ANGELS.      [First  Period.— JVom  the 


2.— THE  FAT,L  OF  THB  EEBEL  ANGELS. 

Be  a  vassal. 

'^  Why  shall  I  toil  ? "  said  ho ; 

The  All-powerful  harl 

"  To  me  it  is  no  whit  needful 

Angel-tribes, 

To  have  a  superior  ; 

Tlirougli  might  of  hand, 

I  can  with  my  hands  as  many 

The  holy  Lord, 

Wonders  v/ork ; 

Ten  established. 

I  have  great  power 

In  whom  He  trusted  well 

To  form 

That  they  His  service 

A  diviner  throne, 

Would  follow. 

A  higher  in  heaven. 

Work  His  wiU ; 

Why  shall  I  for  his  favor  serve, 

Therefore  gave  he  them  wit, 

Bend  to  him  in  such  vassalage  ? 

And  shaped  them  with  his  hands, 

I  may  be  a  god  as  he. 

The  holy  Lord. 

Stand  by  me  strong  associates. 

He  had  placed  them  so  happily. 

Who  will  not  fail  me  in  the  strife. 

One  He  had  made  so  powerful, 

Heroes  stern  of  mood, 

So  mighty  in  his  mind's  thought. 

They  have  chosen  me  for  chief, 

He  let  him  sway  over  so  much. 

Eenowned  warriors  ! 

Highest  after  himself  in  heaven's  kingdom. 

With  such  may  one  devise  counsel. 

He  had  made  him  so  fair. 

With  such  capture  his  adherents  ; 

So  beauteous  was  his  form  in  heaven, 

They  are  my  zealous  friends. 

That  came  to  him  from  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

Faithful  in  their  thoughts  ; 

He  was  like  to  the  light  stars. 

I  may  be  their  chieftain, 

It  was  his  to  work  the  praise  of  the  Lord, 

SAvay  in  this  realm  : 

It  was  his  to  hold  dear  his  joys  in  heaven^ 

Thus  to  me  it  seemeth  not  right 

And  to  thank  his  Lord 

That  I  in  aught 

For  the  reward  that  He  had  bestowed  on  him 

Need  cringe 

in  that  light ; 

To  God  for  any  good  ; 

Then  had  He  let  him  long  possess  it ; 

I  -will  no  longer  be  his  vassal." 

But  he  turned  it  for  himself  to  a  worse  thing, 

When  the  All-powerful  it 

Began  to  raise  war  upon  Him, 

All  had  heard, 

Against  the  highest  ruler  of  heaven, 

That  his  angel  devised 

Who  sitteth  in  His  holy  seat. 

Great  presumption 

Dear  was  he  to  our  Lord, 

To  raise  up  against  his  Master, 

But  it  might  not  be  hidden  from  Him 

And  spake  proud  words 

That  His  angel  began 

Foolishly  against  his  Lord, 

To  be  presumptuous, 

Then  must  he  expiate  the  deed, 

Eaised  himself  against  his  Master, 

Share  the  work  of  war. 

Sought  speech  of  hate, 

And  for  his  punishment  must  have 

Words  of  pride  towards  him. 

Of  all  deadly  ills  the  greatest. 

Would  not  serve  God, 

So  doth  every  man 

Said  that  his  body  was 

Who  against  his  Lord 

Light  and  beauteous. 

Deviseth  to  war. 

Fair  and  bright  of  hue  : 

With  crime  against  the  great  Euler. 

He  might  not  find  in  lais  mind 

Then  was  the  Mighty  angry. 

That  he  would  God 

The  highest  Eulcr  of  heaven 

In  subjection. 

Hurled  him  from  the  lofty  seat ; 

His  Lord,  serve : 

Hate  had  he  gained  at  his  Lord, 

Seemed  to  himseK 

His  favor  he  had  lost, 

That  he  a  power  and  force 

Incensed  with  him  was  the  Good  in  his  mind. 

Had  greater 

Therefore  must  he  seek  the  gulf 

Than  the  holy  God 

Of  hard  hell-torment. 

Could  have 

For  that  he  had  warred  with  heaven's  Enler. 

Of  adherents. 

•  He  rejected  him  then  from  his  favor. 

Many  words  spake 

And  cast  him  into  hell, 

The  angel  of  Presumption ; 

Into  the  deep  parts, 

Thought,  through  his  own  power. 

"Wliere  he  became  a  devil : 

How  he  for  himself  a  stronger 

The  fiend  with  all  his  comrades 

Seat  might  make. 

Fell  then  from  heaven  above, 

Higher  in  heaven : 

Through  as  long  as  three  nights  and  days, 

Said  that  him  his  mind  impelled, 

The  angels  from  heaven  into  heU  ; 

That  he  west  and  north 

And  them  all  the  Lord  transformed  to  devils. 

Would  begin  to  work, 

Because  they  his  deed  and  word 

Would  prepare  structures : 

Would  not  revere ; 

Said  it  to  him  seemed  doubtful 

Therefore  them  in  a  worse  light. 

That  he  to  God  would 

Under  the  earth  beneath, 

earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


SATAN'S  SPEECH. 


[C-EDMON. 


»   Almighty  God 

His  dire  punishment. 

Had  i)laced  triumpliless 

Then  spake  he  the  words  : — 

In  the  swart  hell ; 

"  This  narrow  place  is  most  unlike 

There  they  have  at  even, 

That  other  that  we  ere  knew. 

Immeasurably  long-, 

High  in  heaven's  kingdom, 

Each  of  all  the  fiends, 

Which  my  Master  bestowed  on  me. 

A  renewal  of  fire  ; 

Though  we  it,  for  the  All-powerful, 

Then  cometh  ere  dawn 

May  not  possess, 

The  eastern  v.dnd, 

Must  cede  our  realm. 

Frost  bitter  cold, 

Yet  hath  he  not  done  rightly, 

Ever  fire  or  dart ; 

That  he  hath  struck  us  down 

Some  hard  torment 

To  the  fiery  abyss 

They  must  have, 

Of  the  hot  hell, 

It  was  wrought  for  them  in  punishment, 

Bereft  us  of  heaven's  kingdom, 

Their  world  (life)  was  changed  : 

Hath  it  decreed 

For  their  sinful  course 

With  mankind 

He  fiUed  hell  with  the  apostates. 

To  people. 

The  angels  continued  to  hold 

That  of  sorrows  is  to  me  the  greatest, 

The  heights  of  heaven's  kingdom, 

That  Adam  shall, 

Those  who  ere  God's  pleasure  executed ; 

Who  of  earth  was  wrought. 

The  others  lay  fiends  in  the  fire. 

My  strong 

Who  ere  had  had  so  much 

Seat  possess  ; 

Strife  with  their  Euler  : 

Be  to  him  in  delight 

Torment  they  suffer. 

And  we  endure  this  torment, — 

Burning  heat  intense, 

Misery  in  this  hell. 

In  midst  of  hell 

Oh  !  had  I  power  of  my  hands, 

Firo  and  broad  flames ; 

And  might  one  season 

So  also  the  bitter  reeks, 

Be  without, 

Smoke  and  darkness, 

Be  one  winter's  space, 

For  that  they  the  service 

Then  with  this  host  I 

Of  God  neglected. 

But  around  me  lie 

Them  their  folly  deceived  ; 

Iron  bonds  ; 

The  angel's  pride 

Presseth  this  cord  of  chain, — 

They  would  not  the  All-powerful' s 

I  am  powerless ! 

Word  revere. 

Me  have  so  hard 

Tliey  had  great  torment : 

Tlae  clasps  of  hell. 

Then  were  they  fallen 

So  firmly  grasped ! 

To  the  fiery  abyss. 

Here  is  a  vast  fire 

Into  the  hot  hell. 

Above  and  underneath. 

Through  frenzy 

Never  did  I  see 

And  through  pride  ; 

A  loathier  landskip  ; 

Tliey  sought  another  land. 

The  flame  abateth  not ; 

That  was  void  of  light 

Hot  over  heU. 

And  was  full  of  flame, 

Me  hath  the  clasping  of  these  rings, 

A  great  receptacle  of  fire. 

This  hard-polished  band, 

Ccedmon,  hy  Benjamin  Thorpe. — Ahout  660. 

Impeded  in  my  course, 
Debarred  mo  from  my  way  ; 

My  feet  are  bound, 

3.— SATAN'S  SPEECH. 

My  hands  manacled ; 
Of  these  hell-doors  aro 

Sat^n  harangued. 

The  ways  obstructed, 

Sorrowing  spake, 

So  that  with  aught  I  cannot 

He  who  hell  henceforth 

From  these  limb-bonds  escape ; 

Should  rule, 

About  me  lie 

Govern  the  abyss. 

Of  hard  iron 

He  was  erst  God's  angel, 

Forged  with  heat. 

Fair  in  heaven, 

Huge  gratings, 

Until  him  his  mind  urged, 

With  which  me  God 

And  his  pride 

Hath  fastened  by  the  neck. 

Most  of  all, 

Thus  perceive  I  that  he  knoweth  my  mind, 

That  he  would  not 

And  that  knew  also 

The  Lord  of  host's 

The  Lord  of  hosts, 

Word  revere. 

That  should  us,  through  Adam, 

Boiled  Avithin  him 

Evil  befall 

His  thought  about  his  heart. 

About  the  realm  of  heaven, 

Hot  was  without  him 

Where  I  had  power  of  my  bauds. 

C-EDMON.] 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  EVE.       [First  Period.— ^rom  the 


But  we  now  suffer  chastisement  in  hell, 

Which  is  darkness  and  heat, — 

Grim,  bottomless ; 

God  hath  us  himself 

Swept  into  these  swart  mists, 

Thus  he  cannot  us  accuse  of  any  sin 

That  we  against  him  in  the  land  framed  e\al ; 

Yet  hath  he  deprived  us  of  the  light, 

Cast  us  into  the  greatest  of  all  torments  : 

We  may  not  for  this  execute  vengeance, 

Eeward  him  with  aught  of  hostility, 

Because  he  hath  bereft  us  of  the  light. 

He  hath  now  devised  a  world 

Where  he  hath  wrought  man 

After  his  own  likeness. 

With  whom  he  will  re-people 

The  kingdom  of  heaven  with  pure  souls ; 

Therefore  must  we  strive  zealously 

That  we  on  Adam,  if  we  ever  may. 

And  likewise  on  his   offspring,    our  wrongs 
repair. 

Corrupt  him  there  in  his  will. 

If  we  may  it  in  any  way  devise. 

Now  I  have  no  confidence  farther  in  this  bright 
state. 

That  which  he  seems  long  destined  to  enjoy. 

That  bliss  with  his  angel's  power. 

We  cannot  that  ever  obtain. 

That  we  the  mighty  God's  mind  weaken ; 

Let  us  avert  it  now  from  the  children  of  men. 

That   heavenly   kingdom,    now   we  may  not 
have  it ; 

Let  us  so  do  that  they  forfeit  his  favour, 

That  they  pervert  that  which  he  with  his  word 
commanded. 

Then  with  them  will  he  be  wroth  in  mind. 

Will  cast  them  from  his  favor ; 

Then  shall  they  seek  this  heU, 

And  these  grim  depths  ; 

Then  may  we  them  have  to  ourselves  as  vassals 

The  children  of  men  in  this  fast  durance. 
Begin  we  now  ^about  the  warfare  to  con- 
sult : — 

If  to  any  follower  I 

Princely  treasures 

Gave  of  old. 

While  we  in  that  good  realm 

Happy  sat, 

And  in  our  seats  had  sway, 

Then  me  he  never,  at  time  more  precious, 

Could  with  recompense 

My  gift  repay ; 

If  in  return  for  it  he  would 

(Any  of  my  followers) 

Be  my  supporter. 

So  that  up  from  hence  he 

Forth  might 

Pass  through  these  barriers ; 

And  had  power  with  him,  ' 

That  he  with  wings 

Might  fly,— 

Revolve  in  cloud, — 

To  where  stand  wrought 

Adam  and  Eve, 

On  earth's  kingdom. 

With  weal  encircled  : — 


And  we  are  hither  cast 

Into  this  deep  den. 

Now  with  the  Lord  are  they 

Far  higher  in  esteem. 

And  may  for  themselves  that  weal  possess 

That  we  in  heaven's  kingdom 

Should  have, — 

Our  realm  by  right : 

This  counsel  is  decreed 

For  mankind. 

That  to  me  is  in  my  mind  so  painful, 

Rueth  in  my  thought. 

That  they  heaven' s«kingdom 

For  ever  shall  possess. 

If  any  of  you  may 

With  aught  so  turn  it. 

That  they  God's  word 

Through  guile  forsake, 

Soon  shall  they  be  the  more  hateful  to  him  ; 

If  they  break  his  commandment, 

Then  will  he  be  incensed  against  them : 

Afterwards  will  the  weal  be  turned  from  them, 

And  for  them  punishment  will  be  prepared, — 

Some  hard  lot  of  evil." 

Ccedmon,  hy  Benjamin  Thorpe. — About  660. 


4.— THE  TEMPTATION  OF  EVE. 

Began  then  himself  equip 

The  apostate  from  God, 

Prompt  in  arms. 

He  had  a  crafty  soul ; 

On  his  head  the  chief  his  helmet  set, 

And  it  full  strongly  bound, 

Braced  it  with  clasps. 

He  many  speeches  knew 

Of  guileful  words ; 

"Wheeled  up  from  thence, 

Departed  through  the  doors  of  hell. 

(He  had  a  strong  mind) 

Lion-like  in  air, 

In  hostile  mood. 

Dashed  the  fire  aside 

With  a  fiend's  power  ; 

Would  secretly 

The  subjects  of  the  Lord. 

With  wicked  deeds, 

Men  deceive. 

Mislead  and  pervert. 

That  they  might  become  hateful  to  Gofl. 

He  journeyed  then. 

Through  his  fiend's  might. 

Until  he  Adam 

On  earth's  kingdom, 

The  creature  of  God's  hand. 

Found  ready, 

Wisely  wrought. 

And  his  wife  also. 

Fairest  woman  ; 

Just  as  they  knew  many  things 

Of  good  to  frame, 

Which  to  them,  his  disciples. 

The  Creator  of  mankind 

Had  himself  pointed  out ; 

And  by  them  two 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  EVE. 


L(J.a;DMON 


Trees  stood, 

To  where  he  knew  the  liandiwork 

That  were  without 

Of  heaven's  King  to  be  : 

Laden  with  fruit, — 

Began  then  ask  him. 

With  produce  covered ; 

With  his  first  word 

As  them  the  powerful  God, 

The  enemy  with  lies, 

High  King-  of  Heaven, 

"  Gravest  thou  aught. 

With  his  hands  had  set, 

Adam,  up  with  God  ? 

That  there  the  child  of  man 

I  on  his  errand  hither  have              ~ 

Might  choose 

Journeyed  from  far ; 

Of  good  and  evil, — 

Nor  was  it  now  long  since 

Every  man 

That  with  himseK  I  sat,      [journey, 

Of  weal  and  woe. 

When  he  me  bade  to  travel  on  this 

The  fruit  was  not  alike; 

Bade  that  of  this  fruit  thou  eat. 

The  one  so  pleasant  was, 

Said  that  thy  power  and  strength 

Fair  and  beautiful, 

And  thine  understanding 

Soft  and  delicate, — 

Would  become  greater, 

That  was  Life's  tree ; 

And  thy  body 

He  might  for  ever 

Brighter  far, — 

After  live. 

Thy  form  more  beauteous  ; 

Be  in  the  world. 

Said  that  to  thee  of  my  treasure  need 

Who  of  this  fruit  tasted, 

Would  not  be  in  the  world. 

So  that  him  after  that 

Now  thou  hast  willingly 

Age  might  not  impair, 

Wrought  the  favor 

Nor  grievous  sickness  ; 

Of  heaven's  King, 

But  he  might  ever  be 

Gratefully  served 

Forthwith  in  joys. 

Thy  Master, 

And  his  life  hold  ; 

Hast  ma,de  thee  dear  with  thy  Lord 

The  favor  of  heaven's  King 

I  heard  him  thy  deeds  and  words 

Here  in  the  world  have. 

Praise  in  his  brightness, 

To  him  should  be  decreed 

And  speak  about  thy  life. 

Honours  in  the  high  heaven 

So  must  thou  execute 

When  he  goeth  hence. 

What  hither,  into  this  land, 

Then  was  the  other 

His  angels  bring. 

Utterly  black, 

In  the  world  are  broad 

Dim  and  dark, — 

Green  places. 

That  was  Death's  tree. 

And  God  ruleth 

Which  much  of  bitter  bare. 

In  the  highest 

Both  must  know 

Eealm  of  heaven. 

Every  mortal. 

The  All-powerful  above 

Evil  and  good ; 

WiU  not  the  trouble 

Waned  in  this  world, 

Have  himseK 

He  in  pain  must  ever, 

That  on  this  journey  he  should  come, 

With  sweat  and  with  sorrows, 

The  Lord  of  men  ; 

After  Kve 

But  he  his  vassal  sendeth 

Whoe'er  should  taste 

To  thy  speech. 

Of  what  on  this  tree  grew ; 

Now  biddeth  he  thee,  by  messages, 

Age  should  from  him  take 

Science  to  learn ; 

Of  bold  deeds 

Perform  thou  zealously 

The  joys,  and  of  dominion. 

His  message. 

And  death  be  him  allotted. 

Take  thee  this  fruit  in  hand. 

A  little  while  he  should 

Bite  it  and  taste  ; 

His  life  enjoy, 

In  thy  breast  thou  shalt  be  expanded 

Then  seek  of  lands 

Thy  form  the  fairer ; 

With  fire  the  swartest ; 

To  thee  hath  sent  the  powerful  God, 

To  fiends  should  minister 

Thy  Lord,  this  help 

Where  of  all  perils  is  the  greatest 

From  heaven's  kingdom." 

To  people  for  a  long  season. 

Adam  spake. 

That  the  foe  weU  knew  ; 

Where  on  earth  he  stood, 

The  devil's  dark  messenger, 

A  self-created  man. 

Who  warred  with  God, 

"  When  I  the  Lord  of  triumph, 

Cast  him  then  into  a  worm's  body, 

The  mighty  God, 

And  then  twined  about 

Heard  speak 

The  tree  of  death. 

With  strong  voice  ; 

Through  devil's  craft. 

And  He  me  here  standing  bade 

There  took  of  the  fruit, 

Hold  His  commandments  • 

And  again  tm*ned  him  thence 

And  me  gave  this  bride, 

C23DMON.J 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  EVE.        [First  Period— :From  the 


This  wife  of  beauteous  mien ; 

And  me  bade  bewaro 

That  in  the  tree  of  death 

I  were  not  deceived, 

Too  much  seduced : 

He  said  that  the  swart  hell 

Should  inhabit 

He  who  in  his  heart  aught 

Should  admit  of  sin.  [v/ith  lies, 

I  know  not  (for  thou  may'st  come 

Through  dark  design) 

That  thou  art  the  Lord's 

Messenger  from  heaven  ; 

Nay,  I  cannot  of  thy  orders, 

Of  thy  words,  nor  courses. 

Aught  understand, — 

Of  thy  journey,  nor  of  thy  sajdngs. 

I  know  what  He  himself  commanded  me, 

Our  Preserver, 

When  Him  last  I  saw  ; 

He  bade  me  His  words  revere 

And  well  observe, 

Execute  His  instructions. 

Thou  art  not  like 

To  any  of  His  angels 

That  I  before  have  seen, 

Nor  showest  thou  me 

Any  token 

"Which  He  to  me  in  pledge 

Hath  sent. 

My  Lord,  through  favor ; 

Therefore  I  thee  cannot  obey. — 

But  thou  mayest  take  thee  hence. 

I  have  firm  trust 

On  the  Almighty  God  above, 

Who  wrought  me  with  his  arms 

Here  with  his  hands  ; 

He  can  me,  from  His  high  realm, 

Gift  with  each  good. 

Though  he  send  not  his  vassal." 

He  turned  him,  wroth  of  mood, 
To  where  he  saw  the  woman 
On  earth's  realm, 
Eve  standing. 
Beautifully  formed  ; 
Said  that  the  greatest  ills 
To  all  their  offspring 
From  thenceforth 
In  the  world  would  be. 
"  I  know  that  the  supreme  God  with  you 
Will  be  incensed. 
As  I  to  him  this  message 
Myself  relate, 

When  I  from  this  journey  come 
Over  a  long  way  ; 
That  ye  will  not  well  execute 
Whatsoever  errand  he 
From  the  east  hither 
At  this  time  sendeth. 
Now  must  he  come  himself 
For  your  answer. 
His  errand  may  not 
His  messenger  command  ; 
Therefore  know  I  that  he  with  you  will 

be  angry ; 
The  Mighty,  in  his  mind. 


If  thou  nathloss  wilt, 

A  willing  woman, 

My  words  obey. 

Then  from  this  mayst  thou  amply 

Counsel  devise. 

Consider  in  thy  breast. 

That  from  you  both  thou  mayst 

Ward  off  punishment, 

As  I  shall  show  thee. 

Eat  of  this  fruit, 

Then  will  thine  eyes  become  so  clear 

That  thou  mayst  so  widely 

Over  all  the  world 

See  afterwards. 

And  the  throne  of  himself, 

Thy  Lord,  and  have 

His  grace  henceforward. 

Thou  mightest  Adam 

Afterwards  rule. 

If  thou  his  affection  have, 

And  he  trust  in  thy  words. 

If  thou  soothly  say  to  him 

What  monitions  thou  thyseK 

Hast  in  thy  breast, 

AVlierefore  thou  God's  mandate 

By  persuasion  hast  performed  ; 

He  the  hateful  strife, 

The  evil  answer. 

Will  abandon 

In  his  breast's  recess  ; 

So  we  both  to  him 

One  purpose  speak : 

Urge  thou  him  zealously. 

That  he  may  follow  thy  instruction, 

Lest  ye  hateful  to  God, 

Your  Lord, 

Should  become. 

If  thou  perfect  this  attempt, — 

Best  of  women, — 

I  will  conceal  from  your  Lord 

That  to  me  so  much  calumny 

Adam  spake, 

Evil  words, 

Accuseth  me  of  untruths, 

Sayeth  that  I  am  anxious  for  mischiefs, 

A  servant  of  the  malignant, 

Not  God's  angel. 

But  I  so  readily  know  all 

The  angels'  origins, 

The  roofs  of  the  high  heavens, — 

So  long  was  the  while 

That  I  diligently 

Served  God,  » 

Throagh  faithful  mind. 

My  Master, 

The  Lord  himself, — 

I  am  not  like  a  devil." 

He  led  her  thus  with  lies, 

And  with  wiles  instigated 

The  woman  to  that  evil, 

Until  began  within  her 

The  serpent's  counsel  boil 

(To  her  a  weaker  mind  had 

The  Creator  assigned), 

So  that  she  her  mood 

Began  relax,  after  these  allurements  ; 


earliest  Times  to  1400.]                 THE  TEMPTATION  OF  EVE.                                  [C^dmon. 

f              Therefore  she  of  the  enemy  received, 

And  all  day  urged  him 

Against  the  Lord's  word, 

To  that  dark  deed. 

Of  death's  tree              ^ 

That  they  their  Lord's 

The  noxious  fruit. 

Will  break. 

Then  tcJ  her  spouse  she  spake  : — 

The  fell  envoy  stood  by. 

"  Adam,  my  lord, 

Excited  his  desires, 

This  fruit  is  so  sweet. 

And  with  wiles  urged  him, 

Mild  in  the  breast ; 

Dangerously  followed  him.       "^   — 

And  this  bright  messenger, 

The  foe  was  full  near 

God's  angel  good. 

Who  on  that  dire  journey 

I  by  his  habit  see 

Had  fared 

That  he  is  the  envoy 

Over  a  long  way  : 

Of  our  Lord, 

Nations  he  studied 

Heaven's  King; 

Into  that  great  perdition 

His  favour  it  is  for  us 

Men  to  cast. 

Better  to  gain 

To  corrupt  and  to  mislead, 

Than  his  aversion. 

That  they  God's  loan. 

If  thou  to  him  this  day 

The  Almighty's  gift, 

Spake  aught  of  harm, 

Might  forfeit, 

Yet  will  ho  it  forgive, 

The  power  of  heaven's  kingdom  ; 

If  we  to  him  gbedience 

For  the  hell-miscreant 

WiU  show. 

Well  knew 

What  shall  profit  thee  such  hrieful  strife 

That  they  God's  ire 

With  thy  Lord's  messenger  ? 

Must  have, 

To  us  is  his  favor  needful ; 

And  hell-torment. — 

He  may  bear  our  errands 

The  torturing  punishment, — 

To  the  All-powerful, 

Needs  receive. 

Heavenly  King. 

Since  they  God's  command 

I  can  see  from  thence 

Had  broken. 

Where  He  himself  sitteth, 

What  time  he  (the  fiend)  seduced, 

That  is  south-east. 

With  lying  words. 

With  bliss  encircled. 

To  that  evil  counsel 

Him  who  formed  this  world  ; 

The  beauteous  woman. 

I  see  his  angels 

Of  females  fairest. 

Encompass  him 

That  she  after  his  will  spake, 

With  feathery  wings, 

Was  as  a  help  to  him 

Of  all  folks  greatest, 

To  seduce  God's  handiwork. 

j              Of  bands  most  joyous. 

Then  she  to  Adam  spake — 

Who  could  to  me 

Fairest  of  women — 

Such  perception  give 

Full  oft, 

If  now  it 

Till  in  the  man  began 

God  did  not  send, 

His  mind  to  turn. 

Heaven's  Euler? 

So  that  he  trusted  to  the  promise 

I  can  hear  from  far. 

Which  to  him  the  woman 

'               And  so  widely  see, 

Said  in  words  : 

Through  the  whole  world, 

Yet  did  she  it  through  faithful  mind, — 

Over  the  broad  Creation  ; 

Knev*^  not  that  hence  so  many  ills, 

I  can  the  joy  of  the  firmament 

Sinful  woes. 

Hear  in  heaven  ; 

Must  follow 

;              It  became  light  to  me  in  mind, 

To  mankind. 

From  without  and  from  within. 

Because  she  took  in  mind 

After  the  fruit  I  tasted. 

That  she  the  hostile  envoy's 

I  now  have  of  it, 

Suggestions  would  obey. 

Here  in  my  hand. 

But  weened  that  she  the  favor 

I              My  good  lord, — 

Of  heaven's  King 

I  will  fain  give  it  thee  ; 

Wrought  with  the  words 

I  believe  that  it 

Which  she  to  the  ma,n 

Came  from  God, 

Eevealed,  as  it  were  a  token. 

Brought  by  his  command, 

And  vowed  them  true  ; 

From  what  this  messenger  told  me 

Till  that  to  Adam, 

With  cautious  words ; 

Within  his  breast 

It  is  not  like  to  aught 

His  mind  was  changed, 

Else  on  earth  : 

And  his  heart  began 

But, — so  this  messenger  sayeth, — 

Turn  to  her  will. 

That  it  directly  cam.e  from  God." 

He  from  the  woman  took 

She  spake  to  him  oft. 

Hell  and  death, 

C^DMON.]                                      THE  SOUL  IN  DESPAIE.           [First  Period.— From  the 

Though  it  was  not  so  called, 

Joyful  that  they  may  : 

But  it  the  name  of  fruit 

But  the  stark  storm, 

Must  have ; 

When  it  string  comes 

Yet  was  it  death's  dream, 

From  north  and  east. 

And  the  devil's  artifice, 

It  quickly  takes  away 

Hell  and  death, 

The  beauty  of  the  rose. 

And  man's  perdition, 

And  also  the  northern  storm, 

The  destruction  of  human  kind, 

Constrained  by  necessity, 

That  they  made  for  food 

'     That  it  is  strongly  agitated 

Unholy  fruit ! 

Lashes  the  spacious  sea 

Thus  it  came  within  him, 

Against  the  shore. 

Touched  at  his  heart. 

Alas  !  that  on  earth 

Laughed  then  and  played 

Aught  of  permanent 

The  bitter-purposed  messenger. 

Work  in  the  world 

Ccedmon,  hy  Benjamin  Tlwrpe. — About  6G0. 

Does  not  ever  remain." 

King  Alfred's  Metres  of  Boethius. — About  880 

5.— THE  SOUL  IN  DESPATT?,. 

Alas !  in  how  grim 

7.— THE  ONLY  EEST. 

And  how  bottomless 
A  gulf  labours 
The  darkling  mind, 
When  it  the  strong 
Storms  lash 

Well,  0  children  of  men. 
Throughout  the  middle  earth  ! 
Let  every  one  of  the  free 
Aspire  to  the 

Of  worldly  cares  ; 

When  it,  thus  contending, 

Its  proper  light 

Once  forsakes, 

And  in  woe  forgets 

The  everlasting  joy, 

And  rushes  into  the  darkness 

Of  this  world, 

Afflicted  with  cares ! 

Thus  has  it  now  befallen 

This  my  mind  ; 

Now  it  no  more  knows 

Of  good  for  God, 

But  lamentations 

Eternal  good 

Which  we  are  speaking  about, 

And  to  the  felicities 

That  we  are  telling  of. 

Let  him  who  is  now 

Straitly  bound 

With  the  vain  love 

Of  this  great 

Middle  earth. 

Also  quickly  seek  for  himself 

Full  freedom, 

That  he  may  arrive 

At  the  felicities 

For  the  good  of  souls ; 

For  the. external  world  : 
To  it  is  need  of  comfort. 

For  that  is  the  only  rest                 • 
Of  all  labours ; 
The  desirable  haven 

King  Alfred's  Metres  of  Boethius.— About  8S0. 

To  the  lofty  ships 

Of  our  mind, — 

A  great  tranquil  station ; 

6.— NOTHING  ON  EAETH  PEEMANENT. 

That  is  the  only  haven 

Which  ever  is, 

Then  Wisdom  again 

After  the  waves 

His  treasury  of  words  unlocked, 

Of  our  labours, 

Sung  various  maxims, 

And  every  storm, 

And  thus  expressed  himseK  : — 

Always  calm. 

"  When  the  Sun 

That  is  the  refuge, 

Clearest  shines. 

And  the  only  comfort, 

Serenest  in  the  heaven, 

Of  aU  the  wretched, 

Quickly  are  obscured 

After  these 

Over  the  earth 

Worldly  labours. 

All  other  stars ; 

That  is  a  pleasant  place. 

Because  their  brightness  is  not 

After  these  miseries. 

Brightness  at  all, 

To  possess. 

Compared  with 

But  I  well  know, 

The  Sun's  light. 

That  neither  golden  vessels, 

When  mild  blows 

Nor  heaps  of  silver. 

The  south  and  western  wind 

Nor  precious  stones. 

Under  the  clouds, 

Nor  the  wealth  of  the  middle  earth, 

Then  quickly  grow 

The  eyes  of  the  mind 

The  flowers  of  the  field, 
0 

Ever  enlighten ; 

earliest  Time?  to  1400.] 


AN  OLD  IVL\N'S  SOBEOW, 


[Anonymous. 


Nor  aught  improve 
Their  sharjpness 
To  the  contemplation 
Of  true  felicities ; 
But  they  rather 
The  mind's  eyes 
Of  every  man 

Make  bhnd  in  their  breasts, 
Than  make  them  clearer. 
For  everything 
That  in  this  present 
Life  delights 
Are  poor 
Earthly  things, 
Ever  fleeting ! 
But  wonderful  is  that 
Splendor  and  brightness 
Which  every  one  of  things 
V7ith  splendour  enlightens, 
And  afterwards 
Entirely  rules. 
The  Euler  wiUs  not 
That  our  souls 
Shall  perish  ; 
But  he  himself  will  thera 
With  a  ray  illumine, — 
The  Ruler  of  life  ! 
If,  then,  any  man, 
With  the  clear  eyes 
Of  his  mind,  may 
Ever  behold 
The  clear  brightness 
Of  heaven's  light. 
Then  will  he  say 
That  the  briglitness  of  the  sun 
Is  darkness ; 
So  every  man, 
Compared  with 
That  great  light 
Of  God  Almighty, 
That  is  to  every  soul 
Eternal  without  end. 
To  blessed  souls. 
King  Alfred's  Metres  of  Boethius. — About  880. 


Discover  to  the  skies 
The  right  path 
To  the  eternal  region 
Of  our  souls. 

King  Alfred's  Metres  of  Boethius.- 


-About  880. 


8.— THE  HAPPY  MAN. 

Lo  !  now  on  earth  is  ho 

In  every  thing 

A  happy  man. 

If  he  may  see 

The  clearest 

Heaven- shining  stream, 

The  noble  fountain 

Of  all  good ; 

And  of  himself 

The  swarthy  mist, — 

The  darkness  of  the  mind, — 

Can  dis|>el ! 

We  will,  as  yet, 

With  God's  help. 

With  old  and  fabulous 

Stories  instruct 

Thy  mind ; 

That  thou  the  better  maycst 


9.— THE   SAILING  OF  BEOWULF. 

Famous  was  Beowulf ; 

Wide  sprang  the  blood 

Which  the  heir  of  the  Shylds 

Shed  on  the  lands. 

So  shall  the  bracelets 

Purchase  endeavor, 

Freely  presented 

As  by  thy  fathers ; 

And  all  the  young  men, 

As  is  their  custom. 

Cling  round  their  leader 

Soon  as  the  war  comes. 

Lastly,  thy  people 

The  deeds  shall  bepraiso 

Which  their  men  have  perfonned. 

When  the  Shyld  had  awaited 

The  time  he  should  stay, 

Came  many  to  face 

On  the  billows  so  free. 

His  ship  they  bore  out 

To  the  brim  of  the  ocean, 

And  his  comrades  sat  down 

At  their  oars  as  he  bade  : 

A  word  could  control 

His  good  fellows,  the  Shylds. 

There,  at  the  Hythe, 

Stood  his  old  father. 

Long  to  look  after  him. 

The  band  of  his  comrades, 

Eager  for  outfit. 

Forward  the  Atheling. 

Then  all  the  people 

Cheered  their  loved  lord. 

The  giver  of  bracelets. 

On  the  deck  of  the  ship 

He  stood  by  the  mast. 

There  was  a  treasure, 

Won  from  afar. 

Laden  on  board. 

Ne'er  did  I  hear 

Of  a  vessel  appointed 

Better  for  battle, 

With  weapons  of  war, 

And  waistcoats  of  wool. 

And  axes  and  swords. 

Modernized  by  W.  Taylor. — About  900. 


10.— AN  OLD  MAN'S   SOEEOW. 

Careful,  sorrowing, 

He  seeth  in  his  son's  bower 

The  wine-hall  deserted. 

The  resort  of  the  wind  noiseless. 

The  knight  sleepeth  ; 

The  warrior,  in  darkness. 

There  is  not  there 


Anonymous.] 


GOOD  NIGHT. 


[FiKST  Period. — Fror^i  the 


Noise  of  the  harp, 
Joy  in  the  dwelling's, 
As  there  was  before. 
Then  departcth  he  into  song-s, 
Singeth  a  lay  of  sorrow, 
One  after  one ; — 
All  seemed  to  him  too  wide, 
The  plains  and  the  dwelling-place. 
Modernized  hy  John  M.  Kemole. — About  900. 


II.— GOOD   NIGHT. 

The  night-helm  grew  dusky, 
Dark  over  the  vassals  ; 
The  court  all  rose, 
The  mingled-haired 
Old  Scylding 
Would  visit  his  bed ; 
The  Ge^t  wished  the 
Renowned  warrior  to  rest 
Immeasurably  well. 
Soon  him  the  foreigner. 
Weary  of  his  journey. 
The  hall-thane  guided  forth. 
Who,  after  a  fitting  manner, 
Provided  all  that 
The  thane  needed. 
Whatsoever  that  day 
The  sailors  over  the  deep 
Should  have. 

The  magnanimous  warrior  i-ested. 
The  house  rose  aloft. 
Carved  and  variegated  with  gold ; 
The  stranger  slept  therein 
Until  the  pale  raven. 
Blithe  of  heart, 
Announced  the  joy  of  heaven. 
The  bright  sun,  to  be  come. 
Modernized  hy  John  M.  Kemhle. — Ahoid  900. 


12.— SUMMEE  IS  I-CUMEN  IN.* 

Summer  is  i-cumen  in, 
Llude  sing  cuccu ; 
Groweth  sed,  and  bloweth  mod, 
And  springth  the  wde  nu. 
Sing  cuccu,  cuccu. 

Awe  bleteth  after  lomb, 

Lhouth  after  calue  eu  ; 

BuUuc  sterteth.  bucke  verteth ; 

Murio  sing  cuccu, 

Cuccu,  cuccu. 
Wei  singes  thu  cuccu, 
Ne  swik  thu  nauer  nu  ; 

Sing  cuccu  nu, 

Sing  cuccu. 

Alout  900. 

*  This  is  the  most  aiscient  English  sonp  that  appears 
in  onr  manuscripts  with  the  musical  notes  annexed. 
The  music  is  of  that  species  of  composition  which  is 
called  Canon  in  the  Unison,  and  is  supposed  to  be  of 
the  fifteenth  century.— Waeton's  "History  of  English 
Poetry." 


The  Song  of  Summer. 

Summer  is  a  coming  in. 

Loud  sing,  cuckow ; 
Groweth  seed,  and  bloweth  mead, 
And  springeth  the  wood  now. 

Sing,  cuckow,  cuckow. 

Ewe  bleateth  after  lamb, 

Loweth  calf  after  cow, 

Bullock  starteth,  buck  depart eth, 

Merry  sing,  cuckow, 

Cuckow,  cuckow. 
Well  singeth  the  cuckow, 
Nor  cease  to  sing  now ; 

Sing  cuckow,  now, 

Sing  cuckow. 

Modernized  hy  Warton. — About  1785. 


13.— THE   MUSTER   FOR   THE   FIRST 
CRUSADE. 

A  good  pope  was  thilk  time  at  Rome,  that 

hecht  Urban, 
Tha.t  preached  of  the  creyserie,  and  crej'sed 

mony  man. 
Therefore    he    send     preachers    through    all 

Christendom, 
And  himself   a-this-side   the  mounts  and  to 

France  come ; 
And   preached   so   fast,    and   with   so   great 

wisdom. 
That  about  in  each  lend  the  cross  fast  me 

nome. 
In  the  year  of  grace  a  thousand  and  sixteen. 
This   great   creyserie   began,  that   long  was 

i-seen. 
Of  so  much  folk  nyme  the  cross,  ne  to  the 

holy  land  go, 
Me  ne  see  no  time  before,  ne  suth  nathemo. 
For  seK  women  ne  beleved,  that  they  ne  wend 

thither  fast, 
Ne  young  folk  [that]  feeble  were,  the  while 

the  voyage  y-last. 
So    that   Robert    Curthose    thitherward    his 

heart  cast, 
And,  among  other  good  knights,  ne  thought 

not  be  the  last. 
He  wends  here  to  Englond  for  the  creyserie, 
And  laid  William   his  brother  to  wed  Nor- 
mandy, 
And  borrowed  of  him   thereon   an   hundred 

thousand  mark, 
To  wend  with  to  the  holy  lend,  and  that  was 

somedeal  stark.     *     * 
The  Earl  Robert  of  Flanders  mid  him  wend 

also, 
And  Eustace   Earl   of  Boulogne,  and  mony 

good  knight  thereto. 
There  wend  the  Duke  Geoffrey,  and  the  Earl 

Baldwin  there, 
And  the  other  Baldwin  also,  that  noble  men 

were. 
And  kings  syth  all  three  of  the  holy  lond. 
The  Earl  Stephen   de  Blois  wend  eke,  that 

great  power  had  on  hond, 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


WHAT  IS  HEAVEN"? 


[ElCHARD   EOLLE. 


And  Eobert's  sister  Curtliose  espoused  had  to 

wive. 
There  wend  yet  other  knights,  the  best  that 

were  alive ; 
As  the  Earl  of  St  GUes,  the  good  Raymond, 
And  Niel  the  king's  brother  of  France,  and 

the  Earl  Beanmond, 
And  Tancred  his  nephew,  and  the  bishop  also 
Of    Podys,    and    Sir    Hugh    the    great    earl 

thereto ; 
And  folk  also  without  tale,  of  all  this  west 
I  end 

Of  Englond  and  of  France,  thitherward  gan 

wend, 
Of   Normandy,    of   Denmark,  of  Norway,  of 

Britain, 
Of  "Wales  and  of  Ireland,  of  Gaacony  and  of 

Spain, 
Of  Provence  and  of  Saxony,  and  of  Alemain, 
Of   Scotlond    and    of   Greece,  of  Eome  and 

Aquitain.     *     * 

Robeyi:  of  Gloucester. — About  1260. 


14. 


* 


-THE  INTEEVIEW  OF  VORTIGEEN 
WITH  EOWEN. 

Hengist  that  day  did  his  might. 
That  all  were  glad,  king  and  knight. 
And  as  they  were  best  in  glading. 
And  well  cup-shotten,  knight  and  king. 
Of  chamber  Eowenen  so  gent. 
Before  the  kiag  in  hall  she  went. 
A  cup  with  wine  she  had  in  hand, 
And  her  attire  was  well  farand. 
Before  the  king  on  knee  set, 
And  in  her  language  she  him  gret 
'  Laverd  king,  wassail !  '  said  she. 
The  king  asked.  What  should  be. 
On  that  language  the  king  ne  couth 
A  knight  her  language  lerid  in  youth, 
Bregh  hight  that  knight,  bom  Breton, 
That  lerid  the  language  of  Saxon. 
This  Bregh  was  the  latimer. 
What  she  said  told  Vortiger. 
'  Sir,'  Bregh  said,  '  Eowen  you  greets. 
And  king  calls  and  lord  you  leets. 
This  is  their  custom  and  their  gest. 
When  they  are  at  the  ale  or  feast, 
Hk  man  that  loves  vrhere  him  think. 
Shall  say  Wassail  !  and  to  him  drink. 
He  that  bids  shall  say.  Wassail ! 
The  tother  shall  say  again,  Drinhhail ! 
That  says  Wassail  drinks  of  the  cup, 
Kissing  his  fellow  he  gives  it  up. 
Drinkhail  he  says,  and  drinks  thereof, ' 
Kissing  him  in  bourd  and  skof.' 
The  king  said,  as  the  knight  gan  ken, 
'  Drinkhail,'  smiling  on  Eowenen. 
Eowen  drank  as  her  list. 
And  gave  the  king,  syne  him  kissed. 
There  was  the  first  wassail  in  dede. 
And  that  first  of  fame  gaed. 
Of  that  wassail  men  told  great  tale. 
And  wassail  when  they  were  at  ale. 


And  drinkhail  to  them  that  drank, 

Thus  was  wassail  ta'en  to  thank. 

Fell  sithes  that  maidin  ying 

Wassailed  and  kissed  the  king. 

Of  body  she  was  right  avenant, 

Of  fair  colour  with  sweet  semblant. 

Her  attire  full  well  it  seemed,         ~    ~ 

Mervelik  the  king  she  queemed. 

Of  our  measure  was  he  glad. 

For  of  that  maidin  he  wax  all  mad. 

Drunkenness  the  fiend  wrought, 

Of  that  paen  was  all  his  thought. 

A  mischance  that  time  him  led, 

He  asked  that  paen  for  to  wed. 

Hengist  would  not  draw  o  lite, 

Bot  granted  him  all  so  tite. 

And  Hors  his  brother  consented  soon. 

Her  friends  said,  it  were  to  done. 

They  asked  the  king  to  give  her  Kent, 

In  dowery  to  take  of  rent. 

Upon  that  maidin  his  heart  was  cast ; 

That  they  asked  the  king  made  fast. 

I  ween  the  king  took  her  that  day, 

And  wedded  her  on  paen's  lay. 

Robert  Be  Brunne. — About  1320. 


15.— PEAISE  OF  GOOD  WOMEN. 

Nothing  is  to  man  so  dear 

As  woman's  love  in  good  manner. 

A  good  woman  is  man's  bliss. 

Where  her  love  right  and  stedfast  is. 

There  is  no  solace  under  heaven, 

Of  all  that  a  man  may  neven. 

That  should  a  man  so  much  glew, 

As  a  good  woman  that  loveth  true  : 

Ne  dearer  is  none  in  God's  hurd, 

Than  a  chaste  woman  with  lovely  wurd. 

Robert  De  Brunne. — About  1320. 


1 6. —WHAT  IS  HEAVEN? 

Ther  is  lyf  withoute  ony  deth. 

And  ther  is  youthe  without  ony  elde ; 

And  ther  is  alle  manner  welthe  to  welde  : 

And  ther  is  rest  without  ony  travaiUe ; 

And  ther  is  pees  without  ony  strife, 

And  ther  is  alle  manner  lykinge  of  lyf : — 

And  ther  is  bright  somer  ever  to  se. 

And  ther  is  severe  wynter  in  that  countrie : — 

And  ther  is  more  worshipe  and  honour, 

Then  evere  hade  kynge  other  emperour. 

And  ther  is  grete  melodic  of  aungeles  songe. 

And  ther  is  prey  sing  hem  amonge. 

And  ther  is  alle  manner  frendshipe  that  may  be. 

And  ther  is  evere  perfect  love  and  charite  ; 

And  ther  is  wisdom  without  folye, 

And  ther  is  honeste  without  vileneye. 

Al  these  a  man  may  joyes  of  hevene  call : 

Ac  yutte  the  most  sovereyn  joye  of  alle 

Is  the  sighte  of  Goddes  bright  face. 

In  wham  resteth  alle  manere  grace. 

Richard  Rolle. — About  1350. 
2 


Egbert  Longlande.j 


MEECY  AND  TEUTH. 


FFiRST  Period. — From  the 


17.— MEECY  AND  TEUTH. 

Out  of  the  west  coast,  a  wench,  as  me  thought, 
Came  walking  in  the  way,  to  hell- ward  she 

looked ; 
Mercy  hight  that  maid,  a  meek  thing  withal, 
A  fuU  benign  burd,  and  buxom  of  speech  ; 
Her  sister,  as  it  seemed,  came  soothly  walking, 
Even  out  of  the  east,  and  westward  she  looked, 
A  full  comely  creature.  Truth  she  hight, 
For  the  virtue  that  her  followed  afeard  was 

she  never. 
When  these  maidens  mette,  Mercy  and  Truth, 
Either  axed  other  of  this  great  wonder, 
Of  the  din  and  of  the  darkness,  &c. 

Robert  Longlande. — About  1850. 


18.— COVETOUSNESS. 
And  then  came  Covetise,  can  I  him  not  cCe- 

scrive, 
So  hungrily  and  hoUow  Sir  Hervey  him  looked ; 
He  was  beetle-browed,  and  babber-lipped  also. 
With  two  bleared  een  as  a  blind  hag, 
And  as  a  leathern  purse  lolled  his  cheeks. 
Well  syder  than  his  chin,  they  shriveled  for  eld : 
And  as  a  bondman  of  his  bacon  his  beard  was 

bedrivelled. 
With  an  hood  on  his  head  andalousyhat  above. 
And  in  a  tawny  tabard  of  twelve  winter  age, 
Al  so-torn  and  baudy,  and  fuU  of  lice  creeping ; 
But  if  that  a  louse  could  have  loupen  the  better, 
She  should  not  have  walked  on  the  welt,  it 

was  so  threadbare. 

Robert  Longlande. — About  1350. 


19.— THE  CANTEEBUEY  TALES. 

THE  PROLOGUE. 

Whanne  that  April  with  his  shoures  sote 
The  droughte  of  March  hath  perced  to  the  rote, 
And  bathed  every  veine  in  swiche  licour. 
Of  whiche  vertue  engendred  is  the  flour ; 
Whan  Zephirus  eke  with  his  sote  brethe 
Enspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  hethe 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Eam  his  halfe  cours  yronne, 
And  smale  foules  maken  melodic, 
That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye, 
So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages ; 
Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages, 
And  palmeres  for  to  seken  strange  strondes. 
To  serve  halwes  couthe  in  sondry  londes ; 
And  specially,  from  every  shire's  ende 
Of  Englelond,  to  Canterbury  they  wende, 
The  holy  bKsful  martyr  for  to  seke, 
That  hem  hathholpen,  whan  that  they  were  seke. 

BefeUe,  that,  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
Eedy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury  with  devoute  corage. 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Wei  nine  and  twenty  in  a  compagnie 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  yfaUe 
In  felawship,  and  pUgriraes  were  they  aUe, 


That  toward  Canterbury  wolden  ride. 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wide. 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  gon  to  reSte, 
So  hadde  I  spoken  Avith  hem  everich  on, 
That  I  was  of  hir  felaAVship  anon. 
And  made  forword  erly  for  to  rise, 
To  take  oure  way  ther  as  I  you  devise. 

But  natheles,  while  I  have  time  and  space, 
Or  that  I  forther  in  this  tale  pace, 
Me  thinketh  it  accordant  to  reson. 
To  tellen  you  alle  the  condition 
Of  eche  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me, 
And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degre ; 
And  eke  in  what  araie  that  they  were  inne  : 
And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  firste  beginne. 

A  Knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  time  that  he  firste  began 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  chevalrie, 
Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curtesie. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre. 
And  therto  hadde  he  ridden,  no  man  ferre, 
As  wel  in  Cristendom  as  in  Hethenesse, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthinesse. 

At  Alisandre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne. 
Ful  often  time  he  hadde  the  bord  begonne 
Aboven  aUe  nations  in  Pruce. 
In  Lettowe  hadde  he  reysed,  and  in  Euce, 
No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degre. 
In  Gernade  at  the  siege  eke  hadde  he  be 
Of  Algesir,  and  ridden  in  Belmarie. 
At  Leyes  was  he,  and  at  Satalie, 
Whan  they  were  wonne ;  and  in  the  Grete  see 
At  many  a  noble  armee  hadde  he  be. 
An  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  ben  fiftene, 
And  foughten  for  our  faith  at  Tramissene 
In  listes  thries,  and  ay  slain  his  fo. 

This  Uke  worthy  knight  hadde  ben  also 
Somtime  with  the  lord  of  Palatie, 
Agen  another  hethen  in  Turkie  : 
And  evermore  he  hadde  a  sovereine  pris. 
And  though  that  he  was  worthy  he  was  wise, 
And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vilanie  ne  sayde 
In  alle  his  lif ,  unto  no  manere  wight. 
He  was  a  veray  parfit  gentil  knight. 

But  for  to  tellen  you  of  his  araie, 
His  hors  was  good,  but  he  ne  was  not  gaie. 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipon, 
AUe  besmotred  with  his  habergeon, 
For  he  was  late  ycome  fro  his  viage. 
And  wente  for  to  don  his  pilgrimage. 

With  him  ther  was  his  sone  a  yonge  Squier, 
A  lover,  and  a  lusty  bacheler. 
With  lockes  cruU  as  they  were  laide  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yere  of  age  he  was  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  deliver,  and  grete  of  strengthe. 
And  he  hadde  be  somtime  in  chevachie, 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artois,  and  in  Picardie, 
And  borne  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  space. 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  ladies  grace. 

Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  medo 
Alle  ful  of  freshe  floures,  white  and  rede. 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


THE  CANTEEBUEY  TALES. 


[Chaucek. 


Singing  he  was,  or  floyting  all  the  day, 
He  was  as  freshe  as  is  the  moneth  of  May. 
Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  long  and  wide. 
Wei  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  fayre  ride. 
He  conde  songes  make,  and  well  endite, 
Juste  and  eke  dance,  and  welt)ourtraie  and  write. 
So  hote  he  loved,  that  by  nightertale. 
He  slep  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale. 

Curteis  he  was,  lowly,  and  servisable, 
And  carf  before  his  fader  at  the  table. 

A  Yeman  hadde  he,  and  servantes  no  mo 
At  that  time,  for  him  luste  to  ride  so  ; 
And  he  was  cladde  in  cote  and  hode  of  grene 
A  shefe  of  peacock  arwes  bright  and  kene 
Under  his  belt  he  bare  ful  thriftily. 
Wei  coude  he  dresse  his  takel  yemanly : 
His  arwes  drouped  not  with  fetheres  lowe. 
And  in  his  hond  he  bare  a  mighty  bowe. 

A  not-hed  hadde  he,  with  a  broune  visage. 
Of  wood-craft  coude  he  wel  alle  the  usage. 
Upon  his  arme  he  bare  a  gaie  bracer, 
And  by  his  side  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler, 
And  on  that  other  side  a  gaie  daggere, 
Hameised  wel,  and  sharpe  as  point  of  spare  : 
A  Cristofre  on  his  breste  of  silver  shene. 
An  home  he  bare,  the  baudrik  was  of  grene. 
A  forster  was  he  sothely  as  I  gesse. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hire  smiling  was  ful  simple  and  coy ; 
Hire  gretest  othe  n'as  but  by  Seint  Eloy  ; 
And  she  was  cleped  madame  Eglentine. 
Ful  wel  she  sange  the  service  devine, 
Entuned  in  hire  nose  fid  swetely ; 
And  Frenche  she  spake  ful  fayre  and  fetisly, 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  bowe, 
For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  was  she  wel  ytaughte  withalle ; 
She  lette  no  morsel  from  hire  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe. 
Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 
Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest. 
In  curtesie  was  sette  ful  moche  hire  lest. 
Hire  over  lippe  wiped  she  so  clene, 
That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  f  erthing  sene 
Of  grese,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hire  draught. 
Ful  semely  after  hire  mete  she  raught. 
And  sikerly  she  was  of  grete  disport, 
And  ful  plesant,  and  amiable  of  port, 
And  peined  hire  to  contrefeten  chere 
Of  court,  and  ben  estatelich  of  manere, 
And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence. 

But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience. 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous. 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 
Caughte  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  ded  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rosted  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wastel  brede. 
But  sore  wept  she  if  on  of  hem  were  dede, 
Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  yerde  smerte  : 
And  all  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 

Ful  semely  hire  wimple  ypinched  was ; 
Hire  nose  tretis  ;  her  eyen  grey  as  glas ; 
Hire  mouth  ful  smale,  and  therto  soft  and  red ; 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fayre  forehed. 


It  was  almost  a  spanne  brode  I  trowe ; 
For  hardily  she  was  not  undergrowe. 

Ful  fetise  was  hire  cloke,  as  I  was  ware. 
Of  smale  coraU  aboute  hire  arm  she  bare 
A  pair  of  bedes,  gauded  aU  with  grene  ; 
And  thereon  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene, 
On  whiche  was  first  y^vriten  a  crouned  A^ 
And  after.  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

Another  Nonne  also  with  hire  hadde  she 
That  was  hire  chappelline,  and  Preestes  thre. 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fayre  for  the  maistrie, 
An  out-rider,  that  loved  venerie  ; 
A  manly  man,  to  ben  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deinte  hors  hadde  he  in  stable  : 
And  whan   he   rode,  men   mighte  his  bridel 

here 
Gingeling  in  a  whistling  wind  as  clere. 
And  eke  as  loude,  as  doth  the  chapell  belle, 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  keper  of  the  celle. 

The  reule  of  seint  Maure  and  of  seint  Beneit, 
Because  that  it  was  olde  and  sondele  streit, 
This  ilke  monk  lette  olde  thinges  pace. 
And  held  after  the  newe  world  the  trace. 
He  yave  not  of  the  text  a  pulled  hen, 
That  saith,  that  hunters  ben  not  holy  men ; 
Ne  that  a  monk,  whan  he  is  rekkeles, 
Is  like  to  a  fish  that  is  waterles ; 
This  is  to  say,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloistre. 
This  ilke  text  held  he  not  worth  an  oistre. 
And  I  say  his  opinion  was  good. 
What  shulde  he  studie,  and  make  himselven 

wood, 
Upon  a  book  in  cloistre  alway  to  pore, 
Or  swinken  with  his  hondes,  and  laboure, 
As  Austin  bit  ?  how  shal  the  world  be  served  ? 
Let  Austin  have  his  swink  to  him  reserved. 
Therefore  he  was  a  prickasoure  a  right ; 
Greihoundes  he  hadde  as  swift  as  foul  of  flight; 
Of  pricking  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare 
Was  aU  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 

I  saw  his  sieves  purfiled  at  the  hond 
With  gris,  and  that  the  finest  of  the  lond. 
And  for  to  fasten  his  hood  under  his  chinne, 
He  hadde  of  gold  ywrought  a  curious  pinne  : 
A  love-knotte  in  the  greter  ende  ther  was. 
His  hed  was  balled,  and  shone  as  any  glas, 
And  eke  his  face,  as  it  hadde  ben  anoint. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  point. 
His  eyen  stepe,  and  rolling  in  his  hed, 
That  stemed  as  a  forneis  of  a  led. 
His  bootes  souple,  his  hors  in  gret  estat. 
Now  certainly  he  was  a  fayre  prelat. 
He  was  not  pale  as  a  forpined  gost. 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  rost. 
His  palfrey  was  as  broune  as  is  a  bery. 

A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wanton  and  a  mery, 
A  Limitour,  a  ful  solempne  man. 
In  all  the  ordres  foure  is  non  that  can 
So  moche  of  daliance  and  fayre  langage. 
He  hadde  ymade  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wimmen,  at  his  owen  cost. 
Until  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  beloved,  and  familier  was  he 
With  frankeleins  over  all  in  his  contree, 

2# 


Chatjces,] 


THE  CATEEBUEY  TALES.  [First  Period.— jProm  the 


And  eke  with  worthy  wimmen  of  the  toun  : 
For  he  had  power  of  confession, 
As  saide  himselfe,  more  than  a  ourat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licentiat. 
Ful  swetely  herde  he  confession, 
And  plesant  was  his  absolution. 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  give  penance, 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitance  : 
For  unto  a  poure  ordre  for  to  give 
Is  signe  that  a  man  is  well  yshrive. 
For  if  he  gave,  he  dorste  make  avant. 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentant. 
For  many  a  man  so  harde  is  of  his  herte. 
He  may  not  wepe  although  him  sore  smerte. 
Therefore  in  stede  of  weping  and  praieres, 
Men  mote  give  silver  to  the  poure  freres. 

His  tippet  was  ay  farsed  ful  of  knives. 
And  pinnes,  for  to  given  fayre  wives. 
And  certainly  he  hadde  a  mery  note. 
Wei  coude  he  singe  and  plaien  on  a  rote. 
Of  yeddinges  he  bare  utterly  the  pris. 
His  nekke  was  white  as  the  flour  de  lis. 
Thereto  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 
And  knew  wel  the  tavernes  in  every  toun, 
And  every  hosteler  and  gay  tapstere,     - 
Better  than  a  lazar  or  a  beggere. 
For  unto  swiche  a  worthy  man  as  he 
Accordeth  nought,  as  by  his  faculte, 
To  haven  with  sike  lazars  acquaintance. 
It  is  not  honest,  it  may  not  avance. 
As  for  to  delen  with  no  swiche  pouraille. 
But  all  with  riche,  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 

And  over  all,  ther  as  profit  shuld  arise, 
Curteis  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servise. 
Ther  n'as  no  man  no  wher  so  vertuous. 
He  was  the  beste  begger  in  all  his  hous  : 
And  gave  a  certaine  ferme  for  the  grant, 
Non  of  his  brethren  came  in  his  haunt. 
For  though  a  widdewe  hadde  but  a  shoo, 
(So  plesant  was  his  In  principio) 
Yet  wold  he  have  a  ferthing  or  he  went. 
His  pourchas  was  wel  better  than  his  rent. 
And  rage  he  coude  as  it  hadde  ben  a  whelp, 
In  lovedayes,  ther  coude  he  mochel  help. 
For  ther  was  he  nat  like  a  cloisterere, 
With  thredbare  cope,  as  is  a  poure  scolere, 
But  he  was  like  a  maister  or  a  pope. 
Of  double  worsted  was  his  semicope. 
That  round  was  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 
Somwhat  he  lisped  for  his  wantonnesse. 
To  make  his  English  swete  upon  his  tonge  ; 
And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  hadde  songe, 
His  eyen  twinkeled  in  his  hed  aright, 
As  don  the  sterres  in  a  frosty  night. 
This  worthy  limitour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  berd, 
In  mottelee,  and  highe  on  hors  he  sat, 
And  on  his  hed  a  Flaundrish  bever  hat. 
His  bootes  elapsed  fayre  and  fetisly. 
His  resons  spake  he  ful  solempnely, 
Souning  alway  the  encrese  of  his  winning. 
He  wold  the  see  were  kept  for  any  thing 
Betwixen  Middleburgh  and  Orewell. 
Wel  coud  he  in  eschanges  sheldes  seUe. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  besette ; 


Ther  wiste  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette, 
So  stedefastly  didde  he  his  governance, 
With  his  bargeines,  and  with  his  chevisance. 
Forsothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  withalle, 
But  soth  to  sayn,  iii'ot  how  men  him  calle. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenforde  also, 
That  unto  logike  hadde  long  ygo. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake. 
And  he  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake  ; 
But  loked  holwe,  and  therto  soberly, 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overest  courtepy, 
For  he  hadde  geten  him  yet  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  nought  worldly  to  have  an  office. 
For  him  was  lever  han  at  his  beddes  hed 
Twenty  bokes  clothed  in  blake  or  red, 
Of  Aristotle,  and  his  philosophic. 
Than  robes  riche,  or  fidel,  or  sautrie. 
But  all  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre 
But  all  that  he  might  of  his  frendes  hente. 
On  bokes  and  on  lerning  he  it  spente, 
And  besily  gan  for  the  soules  praie 
Of  hem,  that  yave  him  wherwith  to  scolaie. 
Of  studie  toke  he  moste  cure  and  hede. 
Not  a  word  spake  he  more  than  was  nede ; 
And  that  was  said  in  forme  and  reverence. 
And  short  and  quike,  and  ful  of  high  sentence. 
Souning  in  moral  vertue  was  his  speche. 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe  ware  and  wise, 
That  often  hadde  yben  at  the  paruis, 
Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discrete  he  was,  and  of  gret  reverence  : 
He  semed  swiche,  his  wordes  were  so  wise. 
Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  assise, 
By  patent,  and  by  pleine  commissioun  ; 
For  his  science,  and  for  his  high  renoun. 
Of  fees  and  robes  had  he  many  on. 
So  grete  a  pourchasour  was  no  wher  non. 
All  was  fee  simple  to  him  in  effect, 
His  pourchasing  might  not  ben  in  suspect. 
No  wher  so  besy  a  man  as  he  ther  n'as. 
And  yet  he  semed  besier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  cas  and  domes  alle. 
That  fro  the  time  of  king  Will,  weren  falle. 
Thereto  he  coude  endite,  and  make  a  thing, 
Ther  coude  no  wight  pinche  at  his  writing. 
And  every  statute  coude  he  plaine  by  rote. 
He  rode  but  homely  in  a  medlee  cote. 
Girt  with  a  seint  of  silk,  with  barres  smalo 
Of  his  array  tell  I  no  lenger  tale. 

A  Frankelein  was  in  this  compagnie  : 
White  was  his  berd,  as  is  the  dayesie. 
Of  his  complexion  he  was  sanguin. 
Wel  loved  he  by  the  morwe  a  sop  in  win. 
To  liven  in  delit  was  ever  his  wone, 
For  he  was  Epicure's  owen  sone, 
That  held  opinion,  that  plein  delit 
Was  veraily  felicite  parfite. 
An  housholder,  and  that  a  grete  was  he ; 
Seint  Julian  he  was  in  his  contree. 
His  brede,  his  ale,  was  alway  after  on ; 
A  better  envyned  man  was  no  wher  non. 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


THE  CANTERBUEY  TALES. 


[Chaucer. 


Withouten  bake  mete  never  was  Ms  hous, 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plenteous, 
It  snewed  in  his  hoiis  of  mete  and  drinke, 
Of  alle  deintees  that  men  coud  of  thinke. 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yere, 
So  changed  he  his  mete  and  his  sjoupere. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  mewe. 
And  many  a  breme,  and  many  a  luce  in  stewe. 
Wo  was  his  coke,  but  if  his  sauce  were 
Poinant  and  sharpe,  and  redy  all  his  gere. 
His  table  dormant  in  his  halle  alway 
Stode  redy  covered  alle  the  longe  day. 

At  sessions  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire. 
Ful  often  time  he  was  knight  of  the  shire. 
An  anelace  and  a  gipciere  all  of  silk, 
Heng  at  his  girdel,  white  as  morwe  milk. 
A  shereve  hadde  he  ben,  and  a  contour. 
Was  no  wher  swiche  a  worthy  vavasour. 

An  Haberdashek,  and  a  Carpenter, 
A  Webbe,  a  Deter,  and  a  Tapiser, 
Were  alle  yclothed  in  o  livere. 
Of  a  solempne  and  grete  fratemite. 
Ful  freshe  and  newe  hir  gere  ypiked  was. 
Hir  knives  were  ychaped  not  with  bras, 
But  all  with  silver,  wrought  ful  clene  and  wel, 
Hir  girdeles  and  hir  pouches  every  del. 
Wel  semed  eche  of  hem  a  fayre  burgeis, 
To  sitten  in  a  gild  halle,  on  the  deis. 
Everich  for  the  wisdom  that  he  can, 
Was  shapelich  for  to  ben  an  alderman. 
For  catel  hadden  they  ynough  and  rent. 
And  eke  hir  wives  wolde  it  wel  assent : 
And  elles  certainly  they  were  to  blame. 
It  is  ful  fayre  to  ben  ycleped  madame, 
And  for  to  gon  to  vigiles  all  before, 
And  have  a  mantel  reaUich  ybore. 

A  Coke  they  hadden  with  hem  for  the  nones. 
To  boil  the  chikenes  and  the  marie  bones, 
And  poudre  marchant,  tart  and  galingale. 
Wel  coude  he  knowe  a  draught  of  London  ale. 
He  coude  roste,  and  sethe,  and  broile,  and  frie, 
Maken  mortrewes,  and  wel  bake  a  pie. 
But  gret  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me. 
That  on  his  shinne  a  mormal  hadde  he. 
For  blanc  manger  that  made  he  with  the  best. 

A  Shipman  was  ther,  woned  fer  by  West ; 
For  ought  I  wote,  he  was  of  Dertemouth. 
He  rode  upon  a  rouncie,  as  he  couthe. 
All  in  a  gouno  of  f aiding  to  the  knee. 
A  dagger  hanging  by  a  las  hadde  hee 
About  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adotm. 
The  hote  sommer  hadde  made  his  hewe  al  broun. 
And  certainly  he  was  a  good  felaw. 
Ful  many  a  draught  of  win  he  hadde  draw 
From  Burdeux  ward,  while  that  the  chapmen 

slepe. 
Of  nice  conscience  toke  he  no  kepe. 
If  that  he  faught,  and  hadde  the  higher  hand. 
By  water  he  sent  hem  home  to  every  land. 
But  of  his  craft  to  reken  wel  his  tides, 
His  stremes  and  his  strandes  him  besides. 
His  herberwe,  his  mone,  and  his  lodemanage, 
Ther  was  non  swiche,  from  Hull  unto  Cartage. 


Hardy  he  was,  and  wise,  I  undertake  : 

With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  herd  be  shake. 

He  knew  wel  alle  the  havens,  as  they  were. 

Fro  Gotland,  to  the  Cape  de  finistere. 

And  every  creke  in  Bretagne  and  in  Spaine  : 

His  barge  ycleped  was  the  Magdelaine. 

With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisike, 
In  all  this  world  ne  was  ther  non  him  like 
To  speke  of  phisike,  and  of  surgerie  : 
For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomic. 
He  kept  his  patient  a  ful  gret  del 
In  houres  by  his  magike  naturel. 
Wel  coude  he  f  ortunen  the  ascendent 
Of  his  images  for  his  patient. 

He  knew  the  cause  of  every  maladie, 
Were  it  of  cold,  or  hote,  or  moist,  or  drie. 
And  wher  engendred,  and  of  what  humour, 
He  was  a  veray  parfite  practisour. 
The  cause  yknowe,  and  of  his  harm  the  rote, 
Anon  he  gave  to  the  sike  man  his  bote. 
Ful  redy  hadde  he  his  apothecaries 
To  send  him  dragges,  and  his  lettuaries. 
For  eche  of  hem  made  other  for  to  winne : 
Hir  frendship  n'as  not  ncAve  to  beginne. 
Wel  knew  he  the  old  Esculapius, 
And  Dioscorides,  and  eke  Eufus ; 
Old  Hippocras,  Hali,  and  Gallien ; 
Serapion,  Basis,  and  Avicen ; 
Awerois,  Damascene,  and  C-onstantin ; 
Bernard  and  Gatisden,  and  GUbertin. 
Of  his  diete  mesurable  was  he, 
For  it  was  of  no  superfluitee 
But  of  gret  nourishing,  and  digestible. 
His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 
In  sanguin  and  in  perse  he  clad  was  alle 
Lined  with  taffata,  and  with  sendalle. 
And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence  : 
He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  the  pestilence. 
For  gold  in  phisike  is  a  cordial ; 
Therefore  he  loved  gold  in  special. 

A  good  WiF  was  ther  of  beside  Bathe, 
But  she  was  som  del  defe,  and  that  was  scathe. 
Of  cloth  making  she  hadde  swiche  an  haunt, 
She  passed  hem  of  Ipres,  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  all  the  parish  wif  ne  was  ther  non, 
That  to  the  offring  before  hire  shulde  gon. 
And  if  ther  did,  certain  so  wroth  was  she. 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee. 
Hire  coverchief s  weren  ful  fine  of  ground ; 
I  dorste  swere,  they  weyeden  a  pound : 
That  on  the  Sonday  were  upon  hire  hede. 
Hire  hosen  weren  of  fine  scarlet  rede, 
Ful  streite  yteyed,  and  shoon  ful  moist  and 

newe. 
Bold  was  hire  face,  and  fayre  and  rede  of  hew. 
She  was  a  w^orthy  woman  all  hire  live, 
Housbondesat  the  chirche  dore  hadshehadfive, 
V/ithouten  other  compagnie  in  youthe. 
But  therof  nedeth  not  to  speke  as  nouthe. 
And  thries  hadde  she  ben  at  Jerusaleme. 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  strange  streme. 
At  Borne  she  hadde  ben,  and  at  Boloine, 
In  Galice  at  Seint  James,  and  at  Coloine. 
She  coude  moche  of  wandring  by  the  way. 


Chaucer.] 


THE  CANTEEBUEY  TALES. 


[First  Period. — From  tlu 


Gat-tothed  was  she,  sothly  for  to  say. 
Upon  an  ambler  esily  she  sat, 
Twimpled  wel,  and  on  hire  hede  an  hat, 
As  brode  as  is  a  bokeler,  or  a  targe. 
A  fete  mantel  about  hire  hippes  large, 
And  on  hire  fete  a  pair  of  sporres  sharpe. 
In  felawship  wel  eoude  she  laughe  and  carpe. 
Of  remedies  of  love  she  knew  parchance, 
For  of  that  arte  she  coude  the  olde  dance. 

A  good  man  ther  was  of  religioun, 
That  was  a  poure  Persone  of  a  toun : 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche. 
His  parishens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent. 
And  in  adversite  ful  patient : 
And  swiche  he  was  ypreved  often  sithes. 
Ful  loth  wer  him  to  cursen  for  his  tithes, 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven  out  of  doute. 
Unto  his  poure  parishens  aboute, 
Of  his  offring,  and  eke  of  his  substance. 
He  coude  in  litel  thing  have  suffisance. 
Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  fer  asonder, 
But  he  ne  left  nought  for  no  rain  ne  thonder, 
In  sikenesse  and  in  mischief  to  visite 
The  ferrest  in  his  parish,  moche  and  lite, 
Upon  his  fete,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf . 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  shepe  he  yaf , 
That  first  he  wrought,  and  afterward  he  taught. 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes  caught, 
And  this  figure  he  added  yet  therto. 
That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shuld  iren  do  ? 
For  if  a  preest  be  foule,  on  whom  we  trust, 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  rust : 
And  shame  it  is,  if  that  a  preest  take  kepe, 
To  see  a  shitten  shepherd,  and  clene  shepe  : 
Wel  ought  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yeve, 
By  his  clenenesse,  how  his  shepe  shulde  live. 

He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hire. 
And  lette  his  shepe  acombred  in  the  mire, 
And  ran  unto  London,  unto  Seint  Poules, 
To  seken  him  a  chanterie  for  soules, 
Or  with  a  brotherhede  to  be  withold  : 
But  dwelt  at  home,  and  kepte  wel  his  fold, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  miscarie. 
He  was  a  shepherd,  and  no  mercenarie. 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous, 
He  was  to  sinful  men  not  dispitous, 
Ne  of  his  speche  dangerous  ne  digne, 
But  in  his  teching  discrete  and  benigne. 
To  drawen  folk  to  heven,  with  fairenesse, 
By  good  ensample  was  his  besinesse  : 
But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat. 
What  so  he  were  of  highe  or  low  estat, 
Him  wolde  he  snibben  sharply  for  the  nones. 
A  better  preest  I  trowe  that  no  wher  non  is. 
He  waited  after  no  pompe  ne  reverence, 
Ne  maked  him  no  spiced  conscience, 
But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taught,  but  first  he  folwed  it  himselve. 

With  him  ther  was  a  Plowman,  was  his 
brother. 
That  hadde  ylaid  of  dong  ful  many  a  f other. 


A  trewe  swinker,  and  a  good  was  he, 
Living  in  pees,  and  parfite  charitee. 
God  loved  he  beste  with  all  his  herte 
At  alle  times,  were  it  gain  or  smerte. 
And  than  his  neighebour  right  as  himselve. 
He  wolde  thresh,  and  therto  dike,  and  delve, 
For  Cristes  sake,  for  every  poure  wight, 
Withouten  hire,  if  it  lay  in  his  might. 

His  tithes  paied  he  ful  fayre  and  wel 
Both  of  his  propre  swinke,  and  his  catel. 
In  a  tabard  he  rode  upon  a  mere. 

Ther  was  also  a  Eeve,  and  a  Millere, 
A  Sompnour,  and  a  Pardoner  also, 
A  Manciple,  and  myself,  ther  n'ere  no  mo. 

The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl  for  the  nones, 
Ful  bigge  he  was  of  braun,  and  eke  of  bones  ; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over  all  ther  he  came, 
At  wrastling  he  wold  bere  away  the  ram. 
He  was  short  shuldered  brode,  a  thikke  gnarre, 
Ther  n'as  no  dore,  that  he  n'olde  heve  of  barre, 
Or  breke  it  at  a  renning  with  his  hede. 
His  berd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  rede. 
And  therto  brode,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 
Upon  the  cop  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  wert,  and  theron  stode  a  tufte  of  heres, 
Eede  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres. 
His  nose-thirles  blacke  were  and  wide. 
A  swerd  and  bokeler,  bare  he  by  his  side. 
His  mouth  as  wide  was  as  a  fomeis. 
He  was  a  j  angler,  and  a  goliardeis. 
And  that  was  most  of  sinne,  and  harlotries. 
Wel  coude  he  stelen  come,  and  tollen  thries. 
And  yet  he  had  a  thomb  of  gold  parde. 
A  white  cote  and  a  blew  hode  wered  he. 
A  baggepipe  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  soune. 
And  therwithall  he  brought  us  out  of  toune. 

A  gentil  Manciple  was  ther  of  a  temple. 
Of  which  achatours  mighten  take  ensemple 
For  to  ben  wise  in  bying  of  vitaille. 
For  whether  that  he  paide,  or  toke  by  taille, 
Algate  he  waited  so  in  his  achate, 
That  he  was  ay  before  in  good  estate. 
Now  is  not  that  of  God  a  ful  fayre  grace, 
That  swiche  a  lewed  mannes  wit  shal  pace 
The  wisdom  of  an  hepe  of  lered  men  ? 

Of  maisters  had  he  mo  than  thries  ten, 
That  were  of  lawe  expert  and  curious  : 
Of  which  ther  was  a  dosein  in  that  hous, 
Worthy  to  ben  stewardes  of  rent  and  lond 
Of  any  lord  that  is  in  Englelond, 
To  maken  him  live  by  his  propre  good, 
In  honour  detteles,  but  if  he  were  wood, 
Or  live  as  scarsly,  as  him  list  desire  ; 
And  able  for  to  helpen  all  a  shire 
In  any  cas  that  mighte  fallen  or  happe  ; 
And  yet  this  Manciple  sette  hir  aller  cappe. 

The  Eeve  was  a  slendre  colerike  man, 
His  berd  was  shave  as  neighe  as  ever  he  can. 
His  here  was  by  his  eres  round  yshome. 
His  top  was  docked  like  a  preest  beforne. 
Ful  longe  were  his  legges,  and  ful  lene, 
Ylike  a  staff,  ther  was  no  calf  ysene. 
Wel  coude  he  kepe  a  garner  and  a  binne  : 


Times  to  1400.] 


THE  CANTEEBUEY  TALES. 


[Chaucer 


I 


Ther  was  non  auditour  coude  on  him  winne. 
Wei  wiste  he  by  the  drought,  and  by  the  rain, 
The  yelding  of  his  seed,  and  of  his  grain. 
His  lordes  shepe,  his  nete,  and  his  deirie, 
His  swine,  his  hors,  his  store,  and  his  pultrie. 
Were  holly  in  this  reves  governing, 
And  by  his  covenant  yave  he  rekening, 
Sin  that  his  lord  was  twenty  yere  of  age  ; 
Ther  coude  no  man  bring  him  in  arerage, 
Ther  n'as  baUlif,  ne  herde,  ne  other  hine, 
That  he  ne  knew  his  sleight  and  his  covine  : 
They  were  adradde  of  him,  as  of  the  deth. 
His  wonning  was  f ul  fayre  upon  an  heth, 
With  grene  trees  yshadewed  was  his  place. 
He  coude  better  than  his  lord  pourchace. 
Ftd  riche  he  was  ystored  privHy. 
His  lord  wel  coude  he  plesen  subtilly, 
To  yeve  and  lene  him  of  his  owen  good. 
And  have  a  thank  and  yet  a  cote  and  hood. 
In  youthe  he  lerned  hadde  a  good  mistere. 
He  was  a  wel  good  wright,  a  carpentere. 
This  reve  sate  upon  a  right  good  stot. 
That  was  all  pomelee  grey  and  highte  Scot, 
A  long  surcote  of  perse  upon  he  hade. 
And  by  his  side  he  bare  a  rusty  blade. 
Of  Norfolk  was  t^is  reve,  of  which  I  tell, 
Beside  a  toun,  men  clepen  Baldeswell. 
Tucked  "he  was,  as  is  a  frere  aboute, 
And  ever  he  rode  the  hinderest  of  the  route. 

A  SoMPNOUB  was  ther  with  us  in  that  place, 
That  hadde  a  fire-red  cherubinnes  face, 
For  sausefleme  he  was,  with  eyen  narwe. 
As  hote  he  was,  and  likerous  as  a  sparwe. 
With  scalled  browes  blake,  and  pilled  berd : 
Of  his  visage  children  were  sore  aferd. 
Ther  n'as  quiksilver,  litarge,  ne  brimston, 
Boras,  ceruse,  ne  oHe  of  tartre  non, 
Ne  oinement  that  wolde  dense  or  bite. 
That  him  might  helpen  of  his  whelkes  white, 
Ne  of  the  knobbes  sitting  on  his  chekes. 
Wel  loved  he  garlike,  onions,  and  lekes, 
And  for  to  drinke  strong  win  as  rede  as  blood. 
Than  wolde  he  speke,  and  crie  as  he  were  wood. 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  had  the  win, 
Than  wold  he  speken  no  word  but  Latin. 
A  fewe  termes  coude  he,  two  or  three, 
That  he  had  lerned  out  of  som  decree ; 
No  wonder  is,  he  herd  it  all  the  day. 
And  eke  ye  knowen  wel,  how  that  a  jay 
Can  clepen  watte,  as  wel  as  can  the  pope. 
But  who  so  wolde  in  other  thing  him  grope. 
Than  hadde  he  spent  all  his  philosophic, 
Ay,  Questio  quid  juris,  wolde  he  crie. 

He  was  a  gentil  harlot  and  a  kind ; 
A  better  felaw  shulde  a  man  not  find. 
He  wolde  suffre  for  a  quart  of  wine, 
A  good  felaw  to  have  his  concubine 
A  twelvemonth,  and  excuse  him  at  the  full. 
Ful  prively  a  finch  eke  coude  he  pull. 
And  if  he  found  o  where  a  good  felawe, 
He  wolde  techen  him  to  have  non  awe 
In  swiehe  a  cas  of  the  archedekenes  curse  ; 
But  if  a  mannes  soule  were  in  his  purse  ; 
Bor  in  his  purse  he  shulde  ypunished  be. 
Purse  is  the  archedekenes  helle,  said  he. 


But  wel  I  wote,  he  lied  right  in  dede  : 
Of  cursing  ought  eche  gilty  man  him  drede. 
For  curse  wol  sle  right  as  assoiling  saveth, 
And  also  ware  him  of  a  significavit. 

In  danger  hadde  he  at  his  owen  gise 
The  yonge  girls  of  the  diocise, 
And  knew  hir  conseil,  and  was  of  hir  rede. 
A  gerlond  hadde  he  sette  upon  his  hede^ 
As  gret  as  it  were  for  an  alestake : 
A  bokeler  hadde  he  made  him  of  a  cake. 

With  him  ther  rode  a  gentil  Pardonere 
Of  Eouncevall,  his  frend  and  his  compere. 
That  streit  was  comen  from  the  court  of  Eome. 
Ful  loude  he  sang.  Come  hither,  love,  to  me. 
This  sompnour  bare  to  him  a  stiff  burdoun. 
Was  never  trompe  of  half  so  gret  a  soun. 
This  pardoner  had  here  as  yelwe  as  wax, 
But  smoth  it  heng,  as  doth  a  strike  of  flax  : 
By  unces  heng  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde, 
And  ther  with  he  his  shulders  overspradde. 
Ful  thinne  it  lay,  by  culpons  on  and  on, 
But  hode  for  jolite,  ne  wered  he  non. 
For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  wallet. 
Him  thought  he  rode  al  of  the  newe  get, 
Dishevele,  sauf  his  cappe,  he  rode  all  bare. 
Swiehe  glaring  eyen  hadde  he,  as  an  hare. 
A  vemicle  hadde  he  sewed  upon  his  cappe. 
His  wallet  lay  beforne  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful  of  pardon  come  from  Eome  al  hote. 
A  vols  he  hadde,  as  smale  as  hath  a  gote. 
No  berd  hadde  he,  ne  never  non  shuld  have, 
As  smothe  it  was  as  it  were  newe  shave ; 
I  trowe  he  were  a  gelding  or  a  mare. 

But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwike  unto  Ware, 
Ne  was  ther  swich  an  other  pardonere. 
For  in  his  male  he  hadde  a  pilwebere, 
"Which,  as  he  saide,  was  our  ladies  veil : 
He  saide,  he  hadde  a  gobbet  of  the  seyl 
Whiche  Seint  Peter  had,  whan  that  he  went 
Upon  the  see,  till  Jesu  Crist  him  hent. 
He  had  a  crois  of  laton  full  of  stones, 
And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones. 
But  with  these  relikes,  whanne  that  he  fond 
A  poure  persone  dwelling  up  on  lond. 
Upon  a  day  he  gat  him  more  moneie 
Than  that  the  persone  gat  in  monethes  tweie. 
And  thus  with  fained  flattering  and  japes, 
He  made  the  persone,  and  the  peple,  his  apes. 

But  trewely  to  tellen  atte  last. 
He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiast. 
Wel  coude  he  rede  a  lesson  or  a  stone. 
But  alderbest  he  sang  an  offertorie  : 
For  wel  he  wiste,  whan  that  song  was  songe, 
He  must  preche,  and  wel  afile  his  tonge, 
To  winne  silver,  as  he  right  wel  coude  : 
Therfore  he  sang  the  merier  and  loude. 

Now  have  I  told  you  shortly  in  a  clause, 
Th'estat,th'araie,  thenombre,  and  eke  the  cause 
Why  that  assembled  was  this  compagnie 
In  Southwerk  at  this  gentil  hostelrie. 
That  highte  the  Tabard,  faste  by  the  BeUe. 
But  now  is  time  to  you  for  to  telle, 
How  that  we  baren  us  that  ilke  night, 
Whan  we  were  in  that  hostelrie  alight. 


Chaucer.] 


THE  CANTERBUEY  TALES. 


[FiKST  Period. — From  the 


And  after  wol  I  telle  of  our  viage, 

And  all  the  remenant  of  our  pilgrimage. 

But  firste  I  praie  you  of  your  curtesie, 
That  ye  ne  arette  it  not  my  vilanie, 
Though  that  I  plainly  speke  in  this  matere, 
To  tellen  you  hir  wordes  and  hir  chere  ; 
Ne  though  I  speke  hir  wordes  proprely. 
For  this  ye  knowen  al  so  wel  as  I, 
Who  so  shall  telle  a  tale  after  a  man, 
He  moste  reherse,  as  neighe  as  ever  he  can, 
Everich  word,  if  it  be  in  his  charge, 
All  speke  he  never  so  rudely  and  so  large  ; 
Or  elles  he  moste  tellen  his  tale  untrewe. 
Or  feinen  thinges,  or  finden  wordes  newe. 
He  may  not  spare,  although  he  were  his  brother. 
He  most  as  wel  sayn  o  word,  as  an  other. 
Crist  spake  himself  ful  brode  in  holy  writ. 
And  wel  ye  wote  no  vilanie  is  it. 
Eke  Plato  sayeth,  who  so  can  him  rede, 
The  wordes  moste  ben  cosin  to  the  dede. 

Also  I  praie  you  to  forgive  it  me. 
All  have  I  not  sette  folk  in  hir  degree, 
Here  in  this  tale,  as  that  they  shulden  stonde. 
My  wit  is  short,  ye  may  wel  understonde. 

Gret  chere  made  oure  hoste  us  everich  on. 
And  to  the  souper  sette  he  us  anon  : 
And  served  us  with  vitaille  of  the  beste. 
Strong  was  the  win,  and  wel  to  drinke  us  leste. 
A  semely  man  our  hoste  was  with  alle. 
For  to  han  ben  a  marshal  in  an  halle. 
A  large  man  he  was  with  eyen  stepe, 
A  fairer  burgeis  is  ther  non  in  Chepe  : 
Bold  of  his  speche,  and  wise  and  wel  ytaught, 
And  of  manhood  him  lacked  righte  naught. 
Eke  therto  was  he  right  a  mery  man. 
And  after  souper  plaien  he  began, 
And  spake  of  mirthe  amonges  other  thinges, 
Whan  that  we  hadden  made  our  rekeninges  ; 
And  saide  thus  :  "  Now,  lordinges,  trewely 
Ye  ben  to  me  welcome  right  hertily  : 
For  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  not  lie, 
I  saw  nat  this  yere  swiche  a  compagnie 
At  ones  in  this  herbewe,  as  is  now. 
Fayn  wolde  I  do  you  mirthe,  and  I  wiste  how. 
And  of  a  mirthe  I  am  right  now  bethought. 
To  don  you  ese,  and  it  shall  coste  you  nought. 
Ye  gon  to  Canterbury  ;  God  you  spede. 
The  blisful  martyr  quite  you  your  mede ; 
And  wel  I  wot,  as  ye  gon  by  the  way, 
Ye  shapen  you  to  talken  and  to  play  : 
For  trewely  comfort  ne  mirthe  is  non. 
To  riden  by  the  way  dombe  as  the  ston  : 
And  therfore  wold  I  maken  you  disport. 
As  I  said  erst,  and  don  you  some  comfort, 
And  if  you  liketh  aUe  by  on  assent 
Now  for  to  stonden  at  my  jugement : 
And  for  to  werchen  as  I  shal  you  say 
To-morwe,  when  ye  riden  on  the  way, 
Now  by  my  faders  soule  that  is  ded. 
But  ye  be  mery,  smiteth  of  my  hed. 
Hold  up  your  hondes  withouten  more  speche." 

Our  conseil  was  not  longe  for  to  seche  : 
Us  thought  it  was  not  worth  to  make  it  wise. 
And  granted  him  withouten  more  aviso, 
And  bad  him  say  his  verdit,  as  him  lesto. 


"  Lordinges,"  (quod  he)  "  now  herkenethfor 
the  beste ; 
But  take  it  nat,  I  pray  you,  in  disdain ; 
This  is  the  point,  to  speke  it  plat  and  plain", 
That  eche  of  you  to  shorten  with  youre  way, 
In  this  viage,  shall  tellen  tales  tway. 
To  Canterbury  ward,  I  mene  it  so. 
And  homeward  he  shall  tellen  other  two, 
Of  aventures  that  w^hilom  han  befalle. 
I   And  which  of  you  that  bereth  him  best  of  alle, 
That  is  to  sayn,  that  telleth  in  this  cas 
Tales  of  best  sentence  and  most  solas, 
Shal  have  a  souper  at  your  aller  cost 
i   Here  in  this  place  sitting  by  this  post, 
j   "VVhan  that  ye  comen  agen  from  Canterbury, 
j   And  for  to  maken  you  the  more  mery, 
I   I  wol  my  selven  gladly  with  you  ride, 

Eight  at  min  owen  cost,  and  be  your  gide. 
I   And  who  that  wol  my  jugement  withsay, 
I   Shal  pay  for  alle  we  spenden  by  the  way. 
And  if  ye  vouchesauf  that  it  be  so. 
Telle  me  anon  withouten  wordes  mo. 
And  I  wol  erly  shapen  me  therfore." 

This  thing  was  granted,  and  our  othes  swore 
With  ful  glad  herte,  and  projiden  him  also. 
That  he  wold  vouchesauf  for  to  don  so, 
And  that  he  wolde  ben  our  governourj 
And  of  our  tales  juge  and  reportour, 
And  sette  a  souper  at  a  certain  pris  ; 
And  we  wol  ruled  ben  at  his  devise, 
In  highe  and  lowe  :  and  thus  by  on  assent, 
We  ben  accorded  to  his  jugement. 
And  therupqn  the  win  was  fette  anon. 
We  dronken,  and  to  reste  wenten  eche  on, 
Withouten  any  longer  tarrying. 

A  morwe  whan  the  day  began  to  spring, 
Up  rose  our  hoste,  and  was  our  aller  cok. 
And  gaderd  us  togeder  in  a  flok. 
And  forth  we  riden  a  litel  more  than  pas, 
Unto  the  watering  of  Seint  Thomas  : 
And  ther  our  hoste  began  his  hors  arest. 
And  saide,  "  lordes,  herkeneth  if  you  lest. 
Ye  wete  your  forword,  and  I  it  record. 
If  even  song  and  morwe  song  accord. 
Let  se  now  who  shal  telle  the  firste  tale. 
As  ever  mote  I  drinken  win  or  ale, 
Who  so  is  rebel  to  my  jugement, 
Shal  pay  for  alle  that  by  the  way  is  spent. 
Now  draweth  cutte,  or  that  ye  f orther  twinne. 
He  which  that  hath  the  shortest  shal  beginne. 
"  Sire  knight,"  (quod  he)  "  my  maister  and 
my  lord. 
Now  draweth  cutte,  for  that  is  min  accord. 
Cometh  nere"  (quod  he)  "my  lady  prioresse, 
And  ye,  sire  clerk,  let  be  your  shamefacednesse, 
Ne  studie  nought :  lay  hand  to,  every  man." 

Anon  to  drawen  every  wight  began. 
And  shortly  for  to  tellen  as  it  was, 
Were  it  by  aventure,  or  sort,  or  cas. 
The  sothe  is  this,  the  cutte  felle  on  the  knight, 
Of  which  ful  blith  and  glad  was  every  -wight ; 
And  tell  he  must  his  tale  as  was  reson, 
By  forword,  and  by  composition. 
As  ye  han  herd  ;  what  nedeth  wordes  mo  ? 
And  whan  this  good  man  saw  that  it  v,^a3  SQ^ 
As  he  that  wise  was  and  obedient 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


THE  CANTEEBURY  TALES. 


[Chaucee. 


II 


To  kepe  his  forword  by  his  free  assent, 
He  saide  ;  "  Sithen  I  shal  begin  this  game, 
What,  welcome  be  the  cutte  a  Goddes  name. 
Now  let  us  ride,  and  herkeneth  what  I  say." 

And  with  that  word  we  riden  forth  our  way  ; 
And  he  began  with  right  a  mery  chore, 
His  tale  anon,  and  saide  as  ye  shul  here. 

Chaucer.— About  1380. 


20.— THE  SQUIEEES  TALE. 

At  Sarra,  in  the  lond  of  Tartaric, 

Ther  dwelt  a  king  that  werreied  Russie, 

Thurgh  which  ther  died  many  a  doughty  man  : 

This  noble  king  was  cleped  Cambuscan, 

Which  in  his  time  was  of  so  gret  renoun, 

That  ther  n'as  no  wher  in  no  regioun, 

So  excellent  a  lord  in  alle  thing  : 

Him  lacked  nought  that  longeth  to  a  king, 

As  of  the  secte  of  which  that  he  was  borne. 

He  kept  his  lay  to  which  he  was  ysworne, 

And  therto  he  was  hardy,  wise,  and  riche, 

And  pitous  and  just,  and  alway  yliche, 

Trewe  of  his  word,  benigne  and  honourable ; 

Of  his  corage  as  any  centre  stable ; 

Yong,  fresh,  and  strong,  in  armes  desirous. 

As  any  bachelor  of  all  his  hous. 

A  faire  person  he  was,  and  fortunate, 

And  kept  alway  so  wel  real  estat, 

That  ther  n'as  no  wher  swiche  another  man. 

This  noble  king,  this  Tartre  Cambuscan, 
Hadde  two  sones  by  EKeta  his  wif. 
Of  which  the  eldest  sone  highte  Algarsif , 
That  other  was  ycleped  CambaUo. 

A  doughter  had  this  worthy  king  also, 
That  yongest  was,  and  highte  Canace  : 
But  for  to  tellen  you  all  hire  beautee, 
It  lith  not  in  my  tonge,  ne  in  my  conning, 
I  dare  not  undertake  so  high  a  thing  : 
Min  English  eke  is  unsufiicient. 
It  muste  ben  a  Rethor  excellent, 
That  coude  his  colours  longing  for  that  art. 
If  he  shuld  hire  descriven  ony  part : 
I  am  not  swiche,  I  mote  speke  as  I  can. 

And  so  befell,  that  whan  this  Cambuscan 
Hath  twenty  winter  borne  his  diademe. 
As  he  was  wont  fro  yere  to  yere  I  deme, 
He  let  the  feste  of  his  nativitee 
Don  crien,  thurghout  Sarra  his  citee, 
The  last  Idus  of  March,  after  the  yere. 

Phebus  the  sonne  ful  jolif  was  and  clere, 
For  he  was  nigh  his  exaltation 
In  Martes  face,  and  in  his  mansion 
In  Aries,  the  colerike  hote  signe : 
Ful  lusty  was  the  wether  and  benigne 
For  which  the  foules  again  the  sonne  shene, 
What  for  the  seson  ane  the  yonge  grene, 
Ful  loude  songen  hir  affections  : 
Hem  semed  han  getten  hem  protections 
Again  the  swerd  of  winter  kene  and  cold. 

This  Cambuscan,  of  which  I  have  you  told. 
In  real  vestiments,  sit  on  his  deis 
With  diademe,  ful  high  in  his  paleis  ; 
Ai\d  holte  his  feste  solempne  and  so  riche. 
That  in  this  world  ne  was  ther  non  it  liche, 


Of  which  if  I  shal  teUen  all  the  array, 
Than  wold  it  occupie  a  somers  day  ; 
And  eke  it  nedeth  not  for  to  devise 
At  every  cours  the  order  of  hir  service. 
I  wol  not  tellen  of  hir  strange  sewes, 
Ne  of  hir  swannes,  ne  hir  heronsewes. 
Eke  in  that  lond,  as  tellen  knightes  old, 
Ther  is  som  mete  that  is  ful  deintoe  Hold; 
That  in  this  lond  men  recche  of  it  ful  smal : 
Ther  n'is  no  man  that  may  reporten  al. 
I  wol  not  tarien  you,  for  it  is  prime, 
And  for  it  is  no  fruit,  but  losse  of  time, 
Unto  my  purpose  I  wol  have  recours. 

And  so  befell  that  after  the  thridde  cours 
While  that  this  king  sit  thus  in  his  nobley, 
Herking  his  ministralles  hir  thinges  pley 
Beforne  him  at  his  bord  deliciously. 
In  at  the  halle  dore  al  sodenly 
Ther  came  a  knight  upon  a  stede  of  bras. 
And  in  his  hond  a  brod  mirrour  of  glas  ; 
Upon  his  ihombe  he  had  of  gold  a  ring. 
And  by  his  side  a  naked  swerde  hanging  : 
And  up  he  rideth  to  the  highe  bord. 
In  all  the  halle  ne  was  ther  spoke  a  word. 
For  mervaille  of  this  knight ;  him  to  behold 
Ful  besily  they  waiten  yong  and  old. 

This  strange  knight  that  come  thus  sodenly 
Al  armed  save  his  hed  ful  richely, 
Salueth  king  and  quene,  and  lordes  alle 
By  order,  as  they  saten  in  the  halle, 
With  so  high  reverence  and  observance, 
As  wel  in  speche  as  in  his  contenance, 
That  Gawain  with  his  olde  curtesie, 
Though  he  were  come  agen  out  of  Faerie, 
Ne  coude  him  not  amenden  Avith  a  word. 
And  after  this,  beforn  the  highe  bord 
He  with  a  manly  vois  sayd  his  message, 
After  the  forme  used  in  his  langage, 
Withouten  vice  of  sillable  or  of  letter. 
And  for  his  tale  shulde  seme  the  better. 
Accordant  to  his  wordes  was  his  chore. 
As  techeth  art  of  speche  hem  that  it  lere. 
Al  be  it  that  I  cannot  soune  his  stile, 
Ne  cannot  climben  over  so  high  a  stile. 
Yet  say  I  this,  as  to  comun  entent, 
Thus  much  amounteth  all  that  ever  he  ment, 
If  it  so  be  that  I  have  it  in  mind. 

He  sayd ;  "  The  king  of  Arabic  and  of  Inde, 
My  Hege  lord,  on  this  solempne  day 
Salueth  you  as  he  best  can  and  may. 
And  sendeth  you  in  honour  of  your  feste 
By  me,  that  am  al  redy  at  your  heste. 
This  stede  of  bras,  that  esily  and  wel 
Can  in  the  space  of  a  day  naturel, 
(This  is  to  sayn,  in  four  and  twenty  houres) 
Wher  so  you  list,  in  drought  or  elles  shoures, 
Beren  your  body  into  every  place. 
To  which  your  herte  willeth  for  to  pace, 
Withouten  wemme  of  you,  thurgh  foule  or  faire. 
Or  if  you  list  to  fleen  as  high  in  the  aire. 
As  doth  an  egle,  whan  him  list  to  sore. 
This  same  stede  shal  here  you  evermore 
Withouten  harme,  till  ye  be  ther  you  lest, 
(Though  that  ye  slepen  on  his  back  or  rest 
And  turne  again,  Avith  writhing  of  a  pin. 
He  that  it  wrought,  he  coude  many  a  gin ; 


Chaucee.] 


THE  CANTEEBUEY  TALES.  [First  Period. — From  the 


He  waited  many  a  constellation, 

Or  he  had  don  this  operation. 

And  knew  ful  many  a  sele  and  many  a  bond. 

"  This  mirrour  eke,  that  I  have  in  min  hond, 
Hath  swiche  a  might,  that  men  may  in  it  see, 
Whan  ther  shal  falle  ony  adversitee 
Unto  your  regne,  or  to  yourself  also, 
And  openly,  who  is  your  frend  or  fo. 
And  over  all  this,  if  any  lady  bright 
Hath  set  hire  herte  on  any  maner  wight, 
If  he  be  false,  she  shal  his  treson  see, 
His  newe  love,  and  all  his  subtiltee 
So  openly,  that  ther  shal  nothing  hide. 

"  Wherfore  again  this  lusty  somer  tide 
This  mirrour  and  this  ring,  that  ye  may  se, 
He  hath  sent  to  my  lady  Canace, 
Your  excellente  doughter  that  is  here. 

"  The  vertue  of  this  ring,  if  ye  wol  bere, 
Is  this,  that  if  hire  list  it  for  to  were 
Upon  hire  thombe,  or  in  hire  purse  it  here, 
Ther  is  no  foule  that  fleeth  under  heven, 
That  she  ne  shal  wel  understond  his  steven, 
And  know  his  mening  openly  and  plaine, 
And  answere  him  in  his  langage  again  : 
And  every  gras  that  groweth  upon  rote 
She  shal  eke  know,  and  whom  it  wol  do  bote. 
All  be  his  woundes  never  so  depe  and  wide. 

"This  naked  swerd,  thathangeth  by  my  side, 
Swiche  vertue  hath,  that  what  man  that  it  smite, 
Thurghout  his  armure  it  wol  kerve  and  bite, 
Were  it  as  thicke  as  is  a  braunched  oke  : 
And  what  man  that  is  wounded  with  the  stroke 
Shal  never  be  hole,  til  that  you  list  of  grace 
To  stroken  him  with  the  platte  in  thilke  place 
Ther  he  is  hurt ;  this  is  as  much  to  sain, 
Ye  moten  with  the  platte  swerd  again 
Stroken  him  in  the  wound,  and  it  wol  close. 
This  is  the  veray  soth  withouten  glose. 
It  failleth  not,  while  it  is  in  your  hold." 

And  whan  this  knight  hath  thus  his  tale  told, 
He  rideth  out  of  halle,  and  doun  he  light : 
His  stede,  which  that  shone  as  sonne  bright, 
Stant  in  the  court  as  stille  as  any  ston. 
This  knight  is  to  his  chambre  ladde  anon, 
And  is  unarmed,  and  to  the  mete  ysette. 
Thise  presents  ben  ful  richelich  yfette. 
This  is  to  sain,  the  swerd  and  the  mirrour, 
And  borne  anon  into  the  highe  tour. 
With  certain  officers  ordained  therfore  ; 
And  unto  Canace  the  ring  is  bore 
Solempnely,  ther  she  sat  at  the  table  ; 
But  sikerly,  withouten  any  fable. 
The  hors  of  bras,  that  may  not  be  remued ; 
It  stant,  as  were  to  the  ground  yglued  ; 
Ther  may  no  man  out  of  the  place  it  drive 
For  non  engine,  of  windas,  or  polive  : 
And  cause  why,  for  they  con  not  the  craft. 
And  therfore  in  the  place  they  han  it  laft, 
Til  that  the  knight  hath  taught  hem  the  manere 
To  voiden  him,  as  ye  shal  after  here, 

Gret  was  the  proes  that  swarmed  to  and  fro 
To  gauren  on  this  hors  that  stondeth  so  : 
For  it  so  high  was,  and  so  brod  and  long. 
So  wel  proportioned  for  to  be  strong. 
Eight  as  it  were  a  stede  of  Lumbardie  ; 
Therwith  so  horsly,  and  so  quik  of  eye, 


As  it  a  gentil  Poileis  courser  were  : 
For  certes,  fro  his  tayl  unto  his  ere 
Nature  ne  art  ne  coud  him  not  amend 
In  no  degree,  as  all  the  peple  wend. 

But  evermore  hir  moste  wonder  was, 
How  that  it  coude  gon,  and  was  of  bras  ; 
It  was  of  faerie,  as  the  peple  semed. 
Diverse  folk  diversely  han  demed  ; 
As  many  heds,  as  many  wittes  ben. 
They  murmured,  as  doth  a  swarme  of  been. 
And  maden  skiUes  after  hir  fantasies, 
Eehersing  of  the  olde  poetries. 
And  sayd  it  was  ylike  the  Pegasee, 
The  hors  that  hadde  winges  for  to  flee, 
Or  elles  it  was  the  Grekes  hors  Sinon, 
That  broughte  Troye  to  destruction, 
As  men  moun  in  thise  olde  gestes  rede. 

"  Min  herte,"  quod  on,  "isevermore  indrede, 
I  trow  som  men  of  armes  ben  therin, 
That  shapen  hem  this  citee  for  to  win  : 
It  were  right  good  that  al  swiche  thing  were 

know." 
Another  rowned  to  his  felaw  low. 
And  sayd,  "  He  lieth,  for  it  is  rather  like 
An  apparence  ymade  by  som  magike. 
As  jogelours  plain  at  thise  festes  grete." 
Of  sondry  doutes  thus  they  jangle  and  trete. 
As  lewed  peple  demen  comunly 
Of  thinges,  that  ben  made  more  subtilly 
Than  they  can  in  hir  leAvednesse  comprehende. 
They  demen  gladly  to  the  badder  ende. 

And  som  of  hem  wondred  on  the  mirrour, 
That  born  was  up  in  to  the  maister  tour, 
How  men  mighte  in  it  swiche  thinges  see. 

Another  answered,  andsayd,  "  Itmight  wel  be 
Naturelly  by  compositions 
Of  angles,  and  of  slie  reflections ;  " 
And  saide  that  in  Eome  was  swiche  on. 
They  speke  of  Alhazen  and  Vitellon, 
And  Aristotle,  that  writen  in  hir  lives 
Of  queinte  mirrours,  and  of  prospectives, 
As  knowen  they,  that  han  hir  bookes  herd. 

And  other  folk  han  wondred  on  the  swerd, 
That  wolde  percen  thurghout  every  thing  : 
And  fell  in  speche  of  Telephus  the  king. 
And  of  Achilles  for  his  queinte  spere. 
For  he  coude  with  it  bothe  hele  and  dere. 
Eight  in    swiche  wise  as  men  may  with  the 

swerde, 
Of  which  right  now  ye  have  yourselven  herd. 
They  speken  of  sondry  harding  of  metall, 
And  speking  of  medicines  therwithall. 
And  how,  and  whan  it  shuld  yharded  be, 
Which  is  unknow  algates  unto  me. 

Tho  speken  they  of  Canacees  ring, 
And  saiden  all,  that  swiche  a  wonder  thing 
Of  craft  of  ringes  herd  they  never  non. 
Save  that  he  Moises  and  king  Salomon 
Hadden  a  name  of  conning  in  swiche  art. 
Thus  sain  the  peple,  and  drawen  hem  apart. 

But  natheles  som  saiden  that  it  was 
Wonder  to  maken  of  fcrne  ashen  glas. 
And  yet  is  glas  nought  like  ashen  of  feme, 
But  for  they  han  yknowen  it  so  feme, 
Therfore  ceseth  hir  jangling  and  hir  wonder. 

As  sore  wondren  som  on  cause  of  thonder. 


earliest  Times  to  1400. 


THE  CANTEEBUEY  TALEJ 


Chaucer. 


On  ebbe  and  floud,  on  g-ossomer,  and  on  mist, 
And  on  all  thing,  til  that  the  cause  is  wist. 

Thus  janglen  they,  and  demen  and  devise. 
Til  that  the  king  gan  fro  his  bord  arise. 
Phebus  hath  left  the  angle  meridional, 
And  yet  ascending  was  the  beste  real, 
The  gentil  Leon,  with  his  Aldrian, 
Whan  that  this  Tartre  king,  this  Cambuscan, 
Eose  from  his  bord,  ther  as  he  sat  ful  hie  : 
Beforne  him  goth  the  loude  minstralcie. 
Til  he  come  to  his  chambre  of  parements, 
Ther  as  they  sounden  divers  instmments. 
That  it  is  like  an  heven  for  to  here. 

Now  dauncen  lusty  Venus  children  dere 
For  in  the  Fish  hir  lady  set  ful  hie. 
And  loketh  on  hem  with  a  frendly  eye. 

This  noble  king  is  set  upon  his  trone ; 
rhis  straunge  knight  is  fet  to  him  ful  sone. 
And  on  the  daunce  he  goth  with  Canace. 

Here  is  the  revell  and  the  jolitee, 
That  is  not  able  a  duU  man  to  devise  : 
He  must  han  knowen  love  and  his  servise, 
And  ben  a  festlich  man,  as  fresh  as  May, 
That  shulde  you  devisen  swiche  array. 

Who  coude  tellen  you  the  forme  of  daunces 
So  uncouth,  and  so  freshe  contenaunces, 
Swiche  subtil  lokings  and  dissimulings. 
For  dred  of  jalous  mennes  apperceivings  ? 
No  man  but  Launcelot,  and  he  is  ded. 
Therfore  I  passe  over  all  this  histyhed, 
I  say  no  more  but  in  this  jolinesse 
I  lete  hem,  tU  men  to  the  souper  hem  dresse. 

The  steward  bit  the  spices  for  to  hie 
And  eke  the  win,  in  all  this  melodic  ; 
The  ushers  and  the  squierie  ben  gon. 
The  spices  and  the  vnn  is  come  anon : 
They  ete  and  drinke,  and  whan  this  had  an  end. 
Unto  the  temple,  as  reson  was,  they  wend : 
The  service  don,  they  soupen  all  by  day. 
What  nedeth  you  rehersen  hir  array  ? 
Eche  man  wot  wel,  that  at  a  kinges  fest 
Is  plentee,  to  the  most  and  to  the  lest, 
And  deintees  mo  than  ben  in  my  knowing. 

At  after  souper  goth  this  noble  king 
To  seen  this  hors  of  bras,  with  all  a  route 
Of  lordes  and  of  ladies  him  aboute. 
Swiche  wondring  was  ther  on  this  hors  of  bras. 
That  sin  the  gret  assege  of  Troye  was, 
Ther  as  men  wondred  on  an  hors  also, 
Ne  was  ther  swiche  a  wondring,  as  was  tho. 
But  finally  the  king  asketh  the  knight 
The  vertue  of  this  courser,  and  the  might, 
And  praied  him  to  tell  his  governaunce. 

This  hors  anon  gan  for  to  trip  and  daunce. 
Whan  that  the  knight  laid  hond  up  on  his  rein, 
And  saide,  "  Sire,  ther  n'is  no  more  to  sain, 
But  whan  j'ou  list  to  riden  any  where. 
Ye  moten  triU  a  pin,  stant  in  his  ere. 
Which  I  shall  tellen  you  bet^vixt  us  two, 
Ye  moten  nempne  him  to  what  place  also. 
Or  to  what  contree  that  you  list  to  ride. 

"  And  whan  ye  come  ther  as  you  list  abide, 
Bid  him  descend,  and  trill  another  pin, 
(For  therin  lieth  the  effect  of  all  the  gin) 
And  he  wol  doun  descend  and  don  your  will. 
And  in  that  place  he  wol  abiden  still : 


Though  al  the  world  had  the  contrary  swore. 
He  shal  not  thennes  be  drawe  ne  be  bore. 
Or  if  you  list  to  bid  him  thennes  gon, 
Trille  this  pin,  and  he  wol  vanish  anon 
Out  of  the  sight  of  every  maner  wight. 
And  come  agen,  be  it  by  day  or  night, 
"Whan  that  you  list  to  clepen  him  again 
In  swiche  a  guise,  as  I  shal  to  you  sain  ~~ 
Betwixen  you  and  me,  and  that  ful  sone. 
Eide  whan  you  list,  ther  n'is  no  more  to  done." 
Enf  ourmed  whan  the  king  was  of  the  knight, 
And  hath  conceived  in  his  wit  aright 
The  maner  and  the  forme  of  all  this  thing, 
Ful  glad  and  blith,  this  noble  doughty  king 
Eepaireth  to  his  revel,  as  beforne. 
The  bridel  is  in  to  the  tour  yborne, 
And  kept  among  his  jewels  lefe  and  dere  : 
The  hors  vanisht,  I  n'ot  in  what  manere, 
Out  of  hir  sight,  ye  get  no  more  of  me  : 
But  thus  I  lete  in  lust  and  jolitee 
This  Cambuscan  his  lordes  festejdng, 
TU  that  wel  nigh  the  day  began  to  spring. 

Pars  Secunda. 

The  norice  of  digestion,  the  slepe, 
Gan  on  hem  winke,  and  bad  hem  taken  kepe, 
That  mochel  drinke,  and  labour  wol  have  rest : 
And  with  a  galping  mouth  hem  all  he  kest. 
And  said,  "that  it  was  time  to  lie  adoun. 
For  blood  was  in  his  dominatioun  : 
Cherisheth  blood,  natures  frend,"  quod  he. 

They  thanken  him  galping,  by  two  by  three  ; 
And  every  wight  gan  drawe  him  to  his  rest. 
As  slepe  hem  bade,  they  toke  it  for  the  best. 

Hir  dremes  shul  not  now  be  told  for  me ; 
Ful  were  hir  hedes  of  fumositee. 
That  causeth  dreme,  of  which  ther  is  no  charge. 
They  slepen  til  that  it  was  prime  large. 
The  moste  part,  but  it  were  Canace ; 
She  was  ful  mesurable,  as  women  be. 
For  of  hire  father  had  she  take  hire  leve 
To  gon  to  rest,  sone  after  it  was  eve ; 
Hire  liste  not  appalled  for  to  be. 
Nor  on  the  morwe  unfestliche  for  to  see  ; 
And  slept  hire  firste  slepe,  and  than  awoke. 
For  swiche  a  joye  she  in  hire  herte  toke 
Both  of  hire  queinte  ring,  and  of  hire  mirrour, 
That  twenty  time  she  chaunged  hire  colour  ; 
And  in  hire  slepe  right  for  the  impression 
Of  hire  mirrour  she  had  a  vision. 
Wlierfore,  or  that  the  sonne  gan  up  glide, 
She  clepeth  upon  hire  maistresse  hire  beside. 
And  saide,  that  hire  luste  for  to  arise. 

Thise  old  women,  that  ben  gladly  wise. 
As  is  hire  maistresse,  answered  hire  anon. 
And  said  :  "  Madame,  whider  wol  ye  gon 
Thus  erly  ?  for  the  folk  ben  all  in  rest." 

"  I  wol,"  quod  she,  "  arisen  (for  me  lest 
No  longer  for  to  slepe)  and  walken  aboute." 

Hire  maistresse  clepeth  women  a  gret  route, 
And  up  they  risen,  wel  a  ten  or  twelve ; 
Up  riseth  freshe  Canace  hireselve. 
As  rody  and  bright,  as  the  yonge  sonne. 
That  in  the  Eam  is  f oure  degrees  yronne  j 
No  higher  was  he,  when  she  redy  was  ; 
And  forth  she  walketh  esily  a  pas, 


Chaucer.] 


THE  CANTEEBURY  TALES. 


[First  Period. — Fro^n  the 


Arrayed  after  the  lusty  seson  sote 
Lightely  for  to  playe,  and  walken  on  fote, 
Nonglit  but  with  five  or  sixe  of  her  meinie ; 
And  in  a  trenche  forth  in  the  park  goth  she. 

The  vapour,  which  that  fro  the  erthe  glode, 
Maketh  the  sonne  to  seme  rody  and  brode  : 
But  natheles,  it  was  so  faire  a  sight, 
That  it  made  all  hir  hertes  for  to  light. 
What  for  the  seson,  and  the  morwening, 
And  for  the  foules  that  she  herde  sing. 
For  right  anon  she  wiste  what  they  ment 
Eight  by  hir  song,  and  knew  al  hir  entent. 

The  knotte,  why  that  every  tale  is  tolde, 
If  it  be  taried  til  the  lust  be  colde 
Of  hem,  that  han  it  herkened  after  yore, 
The  savour  i^asseth  ever  lenger  the  more, 
For  fulsumnesse  of  the  prolixitee  : 
And  by  that  same  reson  thinketh  me 
I  shuld  unto  the  knotte  condescende. 
And  makcn  of  hire  walking  sone  an  ende. 

Amidde  a  tree  for-dry,  as  white  as  chalk, 
As  Canace  was  playing  in  hire  walk, 
Ther  sat  a  faucon  over  hire  hed  ful  hie, 
That  with  a  pitous  vois  so  gan  to  crie, 
That  all  the  wood  resouned  of  hire  cry, 
And  beten  had  hire  self  so  pitously 
With  bothe  hire  winges,  til  the  rede  blood 
Ean  endelong  the  tree,  ther  as  she  stood. 
And  ever  in  on  alway  she  cried  and  shright, 
And  with  hire  bek  hireselven  she  so  twight. 
That  ther  n'is  tigre,  ne  no  cruel  best. 
That  dwelleth  other  in  wood,  or  in  forest, 
That  n'olde  han  wept,  if  that  he  wepen  coude, 
For  sorwe  of  hire,  she  shright  alway  so  loude. 

For  ther  was  never  yet  no  man  on  live. 
If  that  he  coude  a  faucon  well  descrive, 
That  herde  of  swiche  another  of  fayrencsse 
As  wel  of  plumage,  as  of  gentUesse, 
Of  shape,  of  all  that  might  yrekened  be. 
A  faucon  peregrine  semed  she 
Of  fremde  lond,  and  ever  as  she  stood. 
She  swouned  now  and  now  for  lack  of  blood, 
Til  wel  neigh  is  she  fallen  fro  the  tree. 

This  faire  kinges  doughter  Canace, 
That  on  hire  finger  bare  the  queinte  ring, 
Thurgh  which  she  understood  wel  every  thing 
That  any  foule  may  in  his  leden  sain. 
And  coude  answere  him  in  his  leden  again. 
Hath  understonden  what  this  faucon  seyd, 
And  wel  neigh  for  the  routhe  almost  she  deyd  : 
And  to  the  tree  she  goth  ful  hastily. 
And  on  this  faucon  loketh  pitously, 
And  held  hire  lap  abrode,  for  wel  she  wist 
The  faucon  muste  fallen  from  the  twist 
Whan  that  she  swouned  next,  f  or  f  ante  of  blood. 
A  longe  while  to  waiten  hire  she  stood. 
Til  at  the  last  she  spake  in  this  manere 
Unto  the  hauk,  as  ye  shul  after  here, 

"  What  is  the  cause,  if  it  be  for  to  tell, 
That  ye  ben  in  this  furial  peine  of  hell  ?  " 
Quod  Canace  unto  this  hauk  above  ; 
"  Is  this  for  sorwe  of  deth,  or  losse  of  love  ? 
For  as  I  trow,  thise  be  the  causes  two. 
That  causen  most  a  gentil  herte  wo. 
Of  other  harme  it  nedeth  not  to  speke. 
For  ye  yourself  upon  yourself  a^vreke. 


Which  preveth  wel,  that  other  ire  or  drede 

Mote  ben  encheson  of  your  cruel  dede, 

Sin  that  I  se  non  other  wight  you  chace.  . 

For  the  love  of  God,  as  doth  yourselven  grace : 

Or  what  may  be  your  helpe  ?  for  west  ne  est 

Ne  saw  I  never  er  now  no  brid  ne  best. 

That  ferde  with  himself  so  pitously. 

Ye  sle  me  with  your  sorwe  veraily, 

I  have  of  you  so  gret  compassioun. 

For  Goddes  love  come  fro  the  tree  adoun ; 

And  as  I  am  a  kinges  doughter  trewe, 

If  that  I  veraily  the  causes  knewe 

Of  your  disese,  if  it  lay  in  my  might, 

I  wold  amend  it,  or  that  it  were  night, 

As  wisly  help  me  the  gret  God  of  kind. 

And  herbes  shal  I  right  ynough  yfind. 

To  elen  with  your  hurtes  hastily." 

Tho  shright  this  faucon  yet  more  pitously 
Than  ever  she  did,  and  fell  to  ground  anon,. 
And  lith  aswoune,  as  ded  as  lith  a  ston, 
Til  Canace  hath  in  hire  lappe  hire  take, 
Unto  that  time  she  gan  of  swoune  awake  : 
And  after  that  she  out  of  swom:e  abraido» 
Eight  in  hire  haukes  leden  thus  she  sayde. 

"  That  pitee  renneth  sone  in  gentil  herto 
(Feling  his  similitude  in  peine  s  smerte) 
Is  proved  alle  day,  as  men  may  see. 
As  wel  by  werke  as  by  auctoritee, 
For  gentil  herte  kitheth  gentillesse. 
I  see  wel,  that  ye  have  on  my  distresse 
Compassion,  my  faire  Canace, 
Of  veray  womanly  benignitee. 
That  nature  in  jour  principles  hath  set. 
But  for  non  hope  for  to  fare  the  bet. 
But  for  to  obey  unto  your  herte  free. 
And  for  to  maken  other  yware  by  me. 
As  by  the  whelpe  chastised  is  the  loon, 
Eight  for  that  cause  and  that  conclusion. 
While  that  I  have  a  leiser  and  a  space, 
Min  harme  I  wol  confessen  er  I  pace." 
And  ever  while  that  on  hire  sorwe  told. 
That  other  wept,  as  she  to  water  wold. 
Til  that  the  faucon  bad  hire  to  be  still. 
And  with  a  sike  right  thus  she  said  hire  till. 

"  Ther  I  was  bred,  (alas  that  ilke  day  !)        ' 
And  fostred  in  a  roche  of  marble  gray 
So  tendrely,  that  nothing  ailed  me. 
I  ne  wist  not  what  was  adversitee. 
Til  I  coud  flee  ful  high  under  the  skic. 

"  Tho  dwelled  a  tercelet  me  fasto  by. 
That  semed  welle  of  alle  gentillesse, 
Al  were  he  ful  of  treson  and  falsenesse. 
It  was  so  wrapped  under  humble  chere. 
And  under  hew  of  trouth  in  swiche  manere. 
Under  plesance,  and  under  bcsy  peine, 
That  no  wight  coud  have  wend  he  coudo  feine. 
So  depe  in  greyn  he  died  his  coloures. 
Eight  as  a  serpent  hideth  hiui  under  floures, 
Til  he  may  see  his  time  for  to  bite ; 
Eight  so  this  god  of  loves  hypocrite 
Doth  so  his  ceremonies  and  obeisance. 
And  kepeth  in  semblaunt  alle  his  observance, 
That  souneth  unto  gentillnesse  of  love. 
As  on  a  tombe  is  alle  the  faire  above. 
And  under  is  the  corps,  swiche  as  ye  wote  ; 
Swiche  was  this  hypocrite  both  cold  and  hote, 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


THE  CANTERBUEY  TALES. 


[Chaucer 


And  in  this  v/ise  he  served  his  entent, 
That,  save  the  fend,  non  wiste  what  he  ment : 
Til  he  so  long  had  weped  and  complained. 
And  many  a  yere  his  service  to  me  fained, 
Til  that  min  herte,  to  pitous  and  to  nice, 
Al  innocent  of  his  crowned  malice, 
For-fered  of  his  deth,  as  thoughte  me, 
Upon  his  othes  and  his  seuretee, 
Gratinted  him  love,  on  this  conditioun, 
That  evermo  min  honour  and  renonn 
Were  saved,  bothe  privee  and  apert ; 
This  is  to  say,  that,  after  his  desert, 
I  3'ave  him  all  min  herte  and  all  my  thought, 
(God  wote,  and  he,  that  other  wayes  nought) 
And  toke  his  herte  in  chaunge  of  min  for  ay. 
But  soth  is  said,  gon  sithen  is  many  a  day, 
A  trewe  wight  and  a  theef  thinken  not  on. 

"  And  whan  he  saw  the  thing  so  fer  ygon, 
That  I  had  granted  him  fully  my  love, 
In  swiche  a  guise  as  I  have  said  above, 
And  yeven  him  my  trewe  herte  as  free 
As  he  swore  that  he  yaf  his  herte  to  me. 
Anon  this  tigre,  ful  of  doublenesse, 
Fell  on  his  knees  with  so  gret  humblesse, 
With  so  high  reverence,  as  by  his  chore, 
So  like  a  gentU  lover  of  manere, 
So  ravished,  as  it  semed,  for  the  joye. 
That  never  Jason,  ne  Paris  of  Troye, 
Jason  ?  certes,  ne  never  other  man. 
Sin  Lamech  was,  that  alderfirst  began 
To  loven  two,  as  wTiten  folk  beforne, 
Ne  never  sithen  the  first  man  was  borne, 
Ne  coude  man  by  twenty  thousand  part 
Contrefete  the  sophimes  of  his  art ; 
Ne  were  worthy  to  unbocle  his  galoche, 
Ther  doublenesse  of  faining  shuld  approche, 
Ne  coude  so  thanke  a  wight,  as  he  did  me. 
His  maner  was  an  heven  for  to  see 
To  any  woman,  were  she  never  so  wise ; 
So  painted  he  and  kempt,  at  point  devise, 
As  wel  his  wordes,  as  his  contenance. 
And  I  so  loved  him  for  his  obeisance. 
And  for  the  trouthe  I  demed  in  his  herte. 
That  if  so  were  that  any  thing  him  smerto, 
Al  were  it  never  so  lite,  and  I  it  wist, 
Me  thought  I  felt  deth  at  myn  herte  twist. 
And  shortly,  so  ferforth  this  thing  is  went. 
That  my  will  was  his  willes  instrument ; 
This  is  to  say,  my  will  obeied  his  will 
In  alle  thinge,  as  fer  as  reson  fill, 
Keping  the  boundes  of  my  worship  ever  : 
Ne  never  had  I  thing  so  lefe,  ne  lever. 
As  him,  God  wot,  ne  never  shal  no  mo. 

"  This  lasteth  longer  than  a  yere  or  two, 
That  I  supposed  of  him  nought  but  good. 
But  finally,  thus  at  the  last  it  stood, 
That  fortune  wolde  that  ho  muste  twin 
Out  of  that  x^laco,  which  that  I  was  in. 
Wher  me  was  wo,  it  is  no  question ; 
I  cannot  make  of  it  description. 
For  o  thing  care  I  tellen  boldely, 
I  know  what  is  the  peine  of  deth  therby, 
Swiche  harme  I  felt,  for  he  ne  might  byleve. 

"  So  on  a  day  of  me  he  toke  his  leve. 
So  sorweful  eke,  that  I  wend  veraily, 
That  he  had  felt  as  mochel  harme  as  I, 


Whan  that  I  herd  him  speke,  and  sawe  his 

hewe. 
But  natheles,  I  thought  he  was  so  trewe. 
And  eke  that  he  repairen  shuld  again 
Within  a  litel  while,  soth  to  sain, 
And  reson  wold  eke  that  he  muste  go 
For  his  honour,  as  often  happeth  so,_  _ 
That  I  made  vertue  of  necessitee. 
And  toke  it  wel,  sin  that  it  muste  be. 
As  I  best  might,  I  hid  fro  him  my  sorwe. 
And  toke  him  by  the   hond,   Seint  John  to 

borwe, 
And  said  him  thus  ;  '  Lo,  I  am  youres  all, 
Beth  swiche  as  I  have  ben  to  you  and  shall.' 
-  "  What  he  answerd,  it  nedeth  not  reherse  ; 
Who  can  say  bet  than  he,  who  can  do  worse  ? 
Whan  he  hath  al  wel  said,  than  hath  he  done. 
Therfore  behoveth  him  a  ful  long  spone. 
That  shal  ete  with  a  fend ;  thus  herd  I  say. 

"So  at  the  laste  he  muste  forth  his  way, 
And  forth  he  fleeth,  til  he  come  ther  him  lest. 
Whan  it  came  him  to  purpos  for  to  rest, 
I  trow  that  he  had  thilke  text  in  mind, 
That  alle  thing  repairing  to  his  kind 
Gladeth  himself ;  thus  sain  men  as  I  gesse  : 
Men  loven  of  propre  kind  newefangelnesse. 
As  briddes  don,  that  men  in  cages  fede. 
For  though  thou  night  and  day  take  of  hem 

hede. 
And  strew  hir  cage  faire  and  soft  as  silke. 
And  give  hem  sugre,  hony,  bred,  and  milke. 
Yet  right  anon  as  that  his  dore  is  up, 
He  with  his  feet  wol  spurnen  doun  his  cup, 
And  to  the  wood  he  wol,  and  wormes  ete ; 
So  newefangel  ben  they  of  hir  mete, 
And  loven  noveltees  of  propre  kind ; 
No  gentniesse  of  blood  ne  may  hem  bind. 

"  So  ferd  this  tercelet,  alas  the  day  ! 
Though  he  were  gentil  borne,  and  fresh,  and 

gay. 
And  goodly  for  to  seen,  and  humble,  and  free. 
He  saw  upon  a  time  a  kite  flee, 
And  sodenly  he  loved  this  kite  so. 
That  all  his  love  is  clone  fro  me  ago  : 
And  hath  his  trouthe  falsed  in  this  wise. 
Thus  hath  the  kite  my  love  in  hire  service, 
And  I  am  lorn  withouten  remedy." 

And  with  that  word  this  faucon  gan  to  cry. 
And  swouneth  eft  in  Canacees  barme. 
Gret  was  the  sorwe  for  that  haukes  harme, 
That  Canace  and  all  hire  women  made  ; 
They  n'isten  how  they  might  the  faucon  glade. 
But  Canace  horn  bereth  hire  in  hire  lap, 
And  softely  in  piastres  gan  hire  wrap, 
Ther  as  she  with  hire  bek  had  hurt  hireselve. 

Now  cannot  Canace  but  herbes  delve 
Out  of  the  ground,  and  maken  salves  newe 
Of  herbes  precious  and  fine  of  hewe. 
To  helen  with  this  hauk ;  fro  day  to  night 
She  doth  hire  besinesse,  and  all  hire  might. 
And  by  hire  beddes  hed  she  made  a  mew, 
And  covered  it  with  velouettes  blew. 
In  signe  of  trouth,  that  is  in  woman  sene  ; 
And  all  without  the  mew  is  pointed  grene, 
In  which  were  pointed  all  thise  false  foules, 
As  ben  thise  tidifes,  tercelettes,  and  owles ; 


Chaucer.] 


CUCKOW  AND  NIGHTmaALE.      [First  Period.— i^rowi-  the 


And  pies,  on  hem  for  to  cry  and  chide, 
Right  for  despit  were  peinted  hem  beside. 

Thus  lete  I  Canace  hire  hank  keping. 
I  wol  no  more  as  now  speke  of  hire  ring, 
TU  it  come  eft  to  purpos  for  to  sain. 
How  that  this  faucon  gat  hire  love  again 
Repentant,  as  the  story  telleth  us. 
By  mediation  of  Camballus 
The  kinges  sone,  of  which  that  I  you  told. 
But  hennesforth  I  wol  my  processe  hold 
To  speke  of  aventures,  and  of  batailles. 
That  yet  was  never  herd  so  gret  mervailles. 

First  wol  I  tellen  you  of  Cambuscan, 
That  in  his  time  many  a  citee  wan  : 
And  after  wol  I  speke  of  Algarsif, 
How  that  he  wan  Theodora  to  his  wif, 
For  whom  ful  oft  in  gret  peril  he  was, 
Ne  had  he  ben  holpen  by  the  hors  of  bras. 
And  after  wol  I  speke  of  Camballo, 
That  fought  in  listes  with  the  brethren  two 
For  Canace,  er  that  he  might  hire  winne, 
And  ther  I  left  I  wol  again  beginne. 
#  *  #  # 

Chaucer. — About  1380. 


21.— THE  CUCKOW  AND  THE  NIGHTIN- 
GALE. 

The  god  of  love  and  benedicite, 
How  mighty  and  how  great  a  lord  is  he, 
For  he  can  make  of  low  hertes  hy, 
And  of  high  low,  and  like  for  to  dy, 
And  herd  hertes  he  can  maken  free. 

He  can  make  within  a  little  stound 

Of  sicke  folke  hole,  fresh,  and  soimd, 

And  of  hole  he  can  make  seeke, 

He  can  bind  and  vnbinden  eke 

That  he  woU  have  bounden  or  vnbound. 

To  tell  his  might  my  wit  may  not  suffice, 
For  he  can  make  of  wise  folke  full  nice, 
For  he  may  do  all  that  he  woll  devise, 
And  lithy  folke  to  destroyen  vice. 
And  proud  hertes  he  can  make  agrise. 

Shortly  all  that  ever  he  woll  he  may, 
Against  him  dare  no  wight  say  nay, 
For  he  can  glad  and  greve  whom  him  liketh, 
And  who  that  he  woll,  he  lougheth  or  siketh, 
And  most  his  might  he  shedeth  ever  in  May. 

For  every  true  gentle  herte  free. 

That  with  him  is,  or  thinketh  for  to  be, 

Againe  May  now  shall  have  some  stering, 

Or  to  joy  or  els  to  some  mourning. 

In  no  season  so  much,  as  thinketh  me. 

For  whan  they  may  here  the  birds  sing, 
And  see  the  floures  and  the  leaves  spring. 
That  bringeth  into  hir  remembraunce 
A  manner  ease,  meddled  with  grevaunce. 
And  lustie  thoughts  full  of  great  longing. 


And  of  that  longing  commeth  hevinesse, 
And  thereof  gtoweth  of  great  sicknesse. 
And  for  lacke  of  that  that  they  desire. 
And  thus  in  May  beri  hertes  set  on  fire. 
So  that  they  brennen  forth  in  great  distresse. 

I  speak^  this  of  feeling  truly. 

If  I  be  old  and  vnlusty. 

Yet  I  have  felt  of  the  sicknesse  through  May 

Both  hote  and  cold,  and  axes  every  day, 

How  sore  ywis  there  wote  no  wight  but  I. 

I  am  so  shaken  with  the  fevers  white. 

Of  all  this  May  sleepe  I  but  a  lite, 

And  also  it  is  not  like  to  me. 

That  any  herte  should  sleepy  be, 

In  whom  that  Love  his  firy  dart  woll  smite. 

But  as  I  lay  this  other  night  waking, 
I  thought  how  lovers  had  a  tokening, 
And  among  hem  it  was  a  commune  tale. 
That  it  were  good  to  here  the  nightingale, 
Rather  than  the  lend  cuckow  sing. 

And  than  I  thought  anon  as  it  was  day, 
I  would  go  some  where  to  assay 
If  that  I  might  a  nightingale  here, 
For  yet  had  I  none  heard  of  all  that  yere, 
And  it  was  th©  the  third  night  of  May. 

And  anone  as  I  the  day  aspide. 

No  lenger  would  I  in  my  bed  abide, 

But  vnto  a  wood  that  was  fast  by, 

I  went  forth  alone  boldely. 

And  held  the  way  downe  by  a  brooke  side. 

Till  I  came  to  a  laund  of  white  and  green. 

So  faire  one  had  I  never  in  been, 

The  ground  was  green,  ypoudred  with  daisie. 

The  floures  and  the  greues  like  hy, 

AU  greene  and  white,  was  nothing  els  seene. 

There  sate  I  downe  among  the  faire  flours. 
And  saw  the  birds  trip  out  of  hir  hours. 
There  as  they  rested  hem  all  the  night. 
They  were  so  joyfull  of  the  dayes  light. 
They  began  of  May  for  to  done  honours. 

They  coud  that  seruice  all  by  rote. 
There  was  many  a  louely  note. 
Some  song  loud  as  they  had  plained. 
And  some  in  other  manner  voice  yfained, 
And  some  all  out  with  the  full  throte. 

They  proyned  hem,  and  made  hem  right  gay, 
And  daunceden  and  lepten  on  the  spray, 
And  euermore  two  and  two  in  fere, 
Right  so  as  they  had  chosen  hem  to  yere 
In  Feuerere  vpon  saint  Ualentines  day. 

And  the  riuer  that  I  sate  vpon. 
It  made  such  a  noise  as  it  ron, 
Accordaunt  with  the  birds  armony, 
Me  thought  it  was  the  best  melody 
That  might  ben  yheard  of  any  mon. 

And  for  delite  I  wote  neuer  how 

I  fell  in  such  a  slomber  and  a  swow, 

Nat  all  asleepe,  ne  fully  waking. 

And  in  that  swow  me  thought  I  heard  sing 

The  sorry  bird,  the  leaud  cuckow. 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


CUCKOW  AND  NIGHTINGALE. 


[Chaucer. 


And  that  was  on  a  tree  right  fast  by, 
But  who  was  than  euill  apaid  but  I : 
"  Now  God,"  quod  I,  "that  died  on  the  crois 
Teue  sorrow  on  thee,  and  on  thy  leaud  vois, 
Full  little  joy  haue  I  now  of  thy  cry." 

And  as  I  with  the  cuckow  thus  gan  chide, 

I  heard  in  the  next  bush  beside 

A  nightingale  so  lustely  sing. 

That  with  her  clere  voice  she  made  ring 

Through  all  the  greene  wood  wide. 

"Ah,  good  nightingale,"  quod  I  than, 
"  A  little  hast  thou  ben  too  long  hen, 
For  here  hath  ben  the  leaud  cuckow, 
And  songen  songs  rather  than  hast  thou, 
I  pray  to  God  euill  fire  her  bren." 

But  now  I  woll  you  tell  a  wonder  thing, 
As  long  as  I  lay  in  that  swouning. 
Me  thought  I  wist  what  the  birds  ment, 
And  what  they  said,  and  what  was  hir  entent, 
And  of  hir  speech  I  had  good  kno^ving. 

There  heard  I  the  nightingale  say, 
"  Now,  good  cuckow,  go  somewhere  away, 
And  let  vs  that  can  singen  dwellen  here, 
For  euery  wight  escheueth  thee  to  here, 
Thy  songs  be  so  elenge  in  good  fay." 

"What,"  quod  she,  "what  may  thee  aylen  now, 
It  thiaketh  me,  I  sing  as  well  as  thou, 
For  my  song  is  both  true  and  plaine, 
And  though  I  cannot  crakeU  so  in  vaine, 
As  thou  dost  in  thy  throte,  I  wot  neuer  how. 

"  And  euery  wight  may  vnderstand  mee, 
But  nightingale  so  may  they  not  done  thee, 
For  thou  hast  many  a  nice  queint  cry, 
I  haue  thee  heard  saine,  ocy,  ocy, 
How  might  I  know  what  that  should  be  ?  " 

"Ah  !  foole,"  quod  she,   "west  thou  not  what 

it  is, 
Whan  that  I  say,  ocy,  ocy,  ywis. 
Than  meane  I  that  I  would  wonder  faine, 
That  all  they  were  shamefully  yslaine, 
That  meanen  ought  againe  loue  amis. 

"  And  also  I  would  that  aU  tho  were  dede, 
That  thinke  not  in  loue  hir  life  to  lede. 
For  who  so  that  wol  not  the  god  of  loue  serue, 
I  dare  well  say  he  is  worthy  to  sterue. 
And  for  that  skill,  ocy,  ocy,  I  grede." 

"  Eye,"  quod  the  cuckow,  "  this  is  a  queint  law, 

That  euery  wight  shall  loue  or  be  to  draw. 

But  I  forsake  all  such  companie. 

For  mine  entent  is  not  for  to  die, 

Ne  neuer  while  I  liue  on  Loues  yoke  to  draw. 

"  For  louers  ben  the  folke  that  ben  on  liue. 
That  most  disease  haue,  and  most  vnthriue. 
And  most  endure  sorrow,  wo,  and  care. 
And  least  feelen  of  welfare, 
What  nedeth  it  ayenst  trouth  to  striue." 


"  What,"  quod  she,  "  thou  art  out  of  thy  mind, 
How  might  thou  in  thy  churlenesse  find 
To  speake  of  Loues  seruaunts  in  this  wise, 
For  in  this  world  is  none  so  good  seruise 
To  euery  wight  that  gentle  is  of  kind. 

"  For  thereof  truly  commeth  all  gooi^e^e. 
All  honour  and  all  gentlenesse, 
Worship,  ease,  and  all  hertes  lust, 
Parfite  joy,  and  full  assured  trust, 
lohtie,  pleasaunce,  and  freshnesse, 

"  Lowlyhead,  largesse,  and  curtesie, 
Semelyhead,  and  true  companie, 
Drede  of  shame  for  to  done  amis  : 
For  he  that  tridy  Loues  seruaunt  is, 
Were  lother  be  shamed  than  to  die. 

"  And  that  this  is  soth  that  I  sey. 

In  that  beleeue  I  will  liue  and  dey, 

And  cuckow  so  I  rede  that  thou  do  ywis  :  " 

"  Than,"  quod  he,  "  let  me  neuer  haue  blisse 

If  euer  I  vnto  that  counsaile  obey. 

"  Nightingale  thou  speakest  wonder  faire. 
But  for  all  that  is  the  sooth  contraire. 
For  loue  is  in  yong  folke,  but  rage, 
And  in  old  folke  a  great  dotage. 
Who  most  it  vseth,  most  shall  enpaire. 

"  For  thereof  cometh  disease  and  heuinesse. 
So  sorow  and  care,  and  many  a  great  sicknesse 
Despite,  debate,  anger,  and  enuie, 
Deprauing,  shame,  vntrust,  and  jelousie. 
Pride,  mischeefe,  pouerty,  and  woodnesse  : 

"  Louing  is  an  oflRce  of  despaire. 

And  one  thing  is  therein  that  is  not  faire, 

For  who  that  getteth  of  loue  a  little  blisse. 

But  if  he  be  alway  therewith  ywis. 

He  may  full  soone  of  age  haue  his  haire. 

"  And,  nightingale,  therefore  hold  thee  ny. 
For  leue  me  well,  for  all  thy  queint  cry. 
If  thou  be  ferre  or  long  fro  thy  make. 
Thou  shalt  be  as  other  that  been  forsake. 
And  than  thou  shalt  hoten  as  doe  I." 

"  Fie,"  quod  she,  "  on  thy  name  and  on  thee. 
The  god  of  loue  ne  let  thee  neuer  ythee. 
For   thou  art  worse   a   thousand  fold    than 

wood. 
For  many  a  one  is  full  worthy  and  fuU  good. 
That  had  be  naught  ne  had  loue  ybee. 

"  For  euermore  Loue  his  seruants  amendeth, 
And  from  all  euill  taches  hem  defendeth. 
And  maketh  hem  to  brenne  right  in  a  fire. 
In  trouth  and  in  worshipfull  desire, 
And  whan  him  liketh,  joyinough  hemsendeth." 

"Thou  nightingale,"  he  said,  "be  still, 
For  Loue  hath  no  reason,  but  it  is  will, 
For  oft  time  vntrue  folke  he  easeth. 
And  true  folke  so  biterly  he  displeaseth. 
That  for  default  of  courage  he  let  hem  spiU.' 


Chaucer.] 


CUCKOW  AND  NIGHTINGALE.      [First  Period.— From  ihe 


Than  tooke  I  of  the  nightingale  keepe, 
How  she  cast  a  sigh  out  of  her  deepe, 
And  said,  "  Alas  that  euer  I  was  bore, 
I  can  for  tene  not  say  one  word  more," 
And  right  with  that  word  she  brast  out  to 
weepe. 

"  Alas,"  quod  she,  "  my  herte  woll  to  breake, 
To  hearen  thus  this  leaud  bird  speake 
Of  Loue,  and  of  his  worshipfull  seruise. 
Now,  god  of  loue,  thou  help  me  in  some  wise, 
That  I  may  on  this  cuckow  been  awreake." 

Me  thought  than  he  stert  vp  anone, 
And  glad  was  I  that  he  was  agone. 
And  euermore  the  cuckow  as  he  flay, 
Said,  "Farewell,  farewell,  popingay." 
As  though  he  had  scorned  me  alone. 

And  than  came  tL  ^  nightingale  to  mee, 
And  said,  "  Friend  forsooth  I  thanke  thee, 
That  thou  hast  \\^oa  me  to  rescow. 
And  one  auow  to  loue  make  I  now. 
That  aU  this  May  I  woll  thy  singer  be." 

I  thanked  her,  and  was  right  well  apaied : 
"  Ye,"  quod  she,  "  and  be  thou  not  dismaied, 
Tho  thou  haue  herd  the  cuckow  erst  than  me, 
For  if  I  line,  it  shall  amended  be 
The  next  May,  if  I  be  not  afiraied. 

"  And  one  thing  I  woll  rede  thee  also, 
Ne  leue  thou  not  the  cuckow,  ne  his  loues  so. 
For  all  that  he  hath  said  is  strong  leasing  :" 
"  Nay,"   quod  I,   "  thereto  shall  nothing  me 

bring, 
For  loue  and  it  hath  doe  me  much  wo. 

"Ye,  vse,"  quod  she,  "  this  medicine 

Euery  day  this  May  or  thou  dine. 

Go  looke  vpon  the  fresh  daisie. 

And  though  thou  be  for  wo  in  point  to  die. 

That  shall  full  greatly  lessen  thee  of  thy  pine. 

"And  looke  alway  that  thou  be  good  and 

trew, 
And  I  woll  sing  one  of  the  songs  new 
For  loue  of  thee,  as  loud  as  I  may  crie  :  " 
And  than  she  began  this  song  full  hie, 
"  I  shrew  all  hem  that  been  of  loue  vntrue." 

And  whan  she  had  song  it  to  the  end, 
*'.Now  farewell,"  quod  she,  "  for  I  mote  wend. 
And  god  of  loue,  that  can  right  well,  and  jnsuj, 
As  much  joy  send  thee  this  day, 
As  any  yet  louer  he  euer  send." 

Thus  taketh  the  nightingale  her  leaue  of  me, 
I  pray  to  God  alway  with  her  be, 
And  joy  of  loue  he  send  her  euermore. 
And  sidlde  us  fro  the  cuckow  and  his  loro, 
For  there  is  not  so  false  a  bird  as  he. 

Forth  she  flew  the  gentle  nightingale 
To  all  the  birds  that  were  in  that  dale, 
And  gate  hem  all  into  a  place  in  fere, 
And  besoughten  hem  that  they  would  here 
Her  disease,  and  thus  began  her  tale. 


"  The  cuckow,  well  it  is  not  for  to  hide. 
How  the  cuckow  and  I  fast  haue  chide, 
Euer  sithen  it  was  day  light, 
I  pray  you  all  that  ye  do  me  right 
On  that  foule  false  vnkind  bridde." 

Than  spake  o  bird  for  aU,  by  one  assent, 
"  This  matter  asketh  good  auisement, 
For  we  ben  birdes  here  in  fere, 
And  sooth  it  is,  the  cuckow  is  not  here, 
And  therefore  we  woll  haue  a  parliment. 

"  And  thereat  shall  the  egle  be  our  lord, 
And  other  peres  that  been  of  record, 
And  the  cuckow  shall  be  after  sent, 
There  shall  be  yeue  the  judgement, 
Or  els  we  shall  finally  make  accord. 

"  And  this  shall  be  without  nay 
The  morrow  after  Saint  Ualentines  day. 
Under  a  maple  that  is  faire  and  grene. 
Before  the  chamber  window  of  the  queue. 
At  Woodstocke  vpon  the  grene  lay." 

She  thanked  hem,  and  than  her  leaue  toko, 
And  into  an  hauthorne  by  that  broke, 
And  there  she  sate  and  song  vpon  that  tree, 
"  Terme  of  life  loue  hath  withhold  me," 
So  loud  that  I  with  that  song  awoke. 

EXPLICIT. 

0  lend  book  with  thy  foul  rudenesse, 

Sith  thou  haste  neither  beauty  ne  eloquence. 
Who  hath  thee  caused  or  yeue  the  hardinosso 
For  to  appeare  in  my  ladies  presence, 

1  am  full  siker  thou  knowest  her  beneuolenoc, 
Full  agreeable  to  all  her  abying, 

For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  lining. 

Alas  that  thou  ne  haddest  worthinesse, 
To  shew  to  her  some  pleasaunt  sentence, 
Sith  that  she  hath  through  her  gentillesse 
Accepted  the  seruant  to  herr  digne  reuerence, 
O,  me  repenteth  that  I  ne  had  science 
And  leiser  als,  to  make  thee  more  flourishing, 
For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  liuing. 

Beseech  her  meekely  with  all  lowlinesse. 

Though  I  be  ferro  from  her  in  absence. 

To  think  on  my  trouth  to  her  and  stedfast- 


And  to  abridge  of  my  sorrowes  the  violence. 
Which   caused  is,  wherof  knoweth  your   sa- 
pience. 
She  like  among  to  notifie  me  her  liking 
For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  liuing. 

liANUOTE. 

Aurore  of  gladnesse,  and  day  of  lustinesse, 
Lucern  a  night  with  heauenly  influence 
Illumined,  root  of  beauty  and  goodnesse. 
Suspires,  which  I  effunde  in  silence, 
Of  grace  I  beseech  alledge  let  your  writing. 
New  of  all  good,  sith  ye  be  best  liuing. 


EXPLICIT. 

Chaucer.- 


•About  1380. 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


FEOM  "  THE  FLOWER  AND  LEAF. 


[Chaucei 


22.— TO  HIS  EMPTY  PURSE. 

To  you  my  pizrse  and  to  none  other  wight 

CoTTiplaine  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere, 

I  am  sorry  now  that  ye  be  light, 

For  certes  ye  now  make  me  heauy  chere, 

Me  were  as  lefe  laid  vpon  a  bere, 

For  which  vnto  your  mercy  thus  I  crie, 

Be  heauy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 

Now  vouchsafe  this  day  or  it  be  night, 
That  I  of  you  the  blissful  sowne  may  here, 
Or  see  your  colour  like  the  sunne  bright, 
That  of  yelowness  had  neuer  pere, 
Ye  be  my  life,  ye  be  my  hertes  stere, 
Queene  of  comfort  and  of  good  companie. 
Be  heauy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 

Now  purse  that  art  to  me  my  lines  light, 
And  sauiour,  as  do^vne  in  this  world  here, 
Out  of  this  towne  helpe  me  by  your  might, 
Sith  that  you  woll  not  be  my  treasure, 
For  I  am  shaue  as  nere  as  any  frere, 
But  I  pray  vnto  your  curtesie, 
Be  heauy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 

EXPLICIT. 

Chaucer. — About  1380. 


23.— THE  HOUSE  OF  FAME. 

And  eke  this  house  hath  of  entrees 

As  many  as  leaves  ben  on  trees 

In  summer,  when  that  they  ben  green ; 

And  on  the  roof  yet  men  may  sene 

A  thousand  bolis,  and  well  mo, 

To  letten  the  sound  out  ygo. 

And  by  day,  in  every  tide, 

Ben  all  the  doores  open  wide  ; 

And  by  night  each  one  is  unshetto ; 

Ne  porter  is  there  none  to  let, 

Ne  manere  tidings  in  to  pace ; 

Ne  never  rest  is  in  that  place, 

That  it  n'  is  filled  full  of  tidings, 

Either  loud,  or  of  whisperings. 

And,  ever,  all  the  House's  angles 

Is  full  of  rownings  and  of  jangles  ; 

Of  wars,  of  peace,  of  marriages. 

Of  rests,  of  labour,  of  viages. 

Of  abode,  of  death,  of  life. 

Of  love,  of  hate,  accord,  of  strife  ; 

Of  loss,  of  lore,  and  of  winnings, 

Of  health,  of  sickness,  or  le sings  ; 

Of  faire  weather,  and  tempestis. 

Of  qualm,  of  folke,  and  of  beastis  ; 

Of  divers  transmutations 

Of  estates  and  of  regions ; 

Of  trust,  of  dread,  of  jealousy, 

Of  wit,  of  winning,  of  foUy  ; 

Of  plenty,  and  of  great  famine ; 

Of  cheap,  of  dearth,  and  of  mine  ; 

Of  good,  or  of  misgovernment, 

Of  fire,  and  divers  accident. 

Chaucer. — About  1380. 


24.— M  E  R  C  Y. 
But,  sith  'tis  so  there  is  a  trespass  done. 
Unto  Mercy  let  yield  the  trespassour. 
It  is  her  office  to  redress  it  soon, 
For  Trespass  is  to  Mercy  a  mirrbur. 
And  like  as  the  sweet  hath  the  price  by  sour, 
So  by  Trespass,  Mercy  hath  all  her  might : 
Without  Trespass,  Mercy  hath  lack  of  light. 

What  should  Physic  do  but  if  Sickness  were  ? 
What  needeth  salve  but  if  there  were  a  sore  ? 
What  needeth   drink  where  thirst   hath  no 

power  ? 
What  should  Mercy  do,  but  Trespass  go  afore  ? 
But  Trespass,  Mercy  woll  be  little  store ; 
Without  Trespass  near  execution, 
May  Mercy  have  ne  chief  perfection. 

ChoMcer.— About  1380. 


25.— INTRODUCTION  TO  "  THE  FLOWER 
AND  THE  LEAF." 

And  so  I,  glade  of  the  season  sweet 
Was  happid  thus  ;  upon  a  certain  night 
As  I  lay  in  my  bed,  sleep  full  unmeet 
Was  unto  me  ;  but  why  that  I  ne  might 
Rest  I  ne  wist,  for  there  n'  'as  earthly  wight. 
As  I  suppose,  had  more  of  hertis  ease 
Than  I,  for  I  n'  'ad  sickness  nor  disease. 

Wherefore  I  marvell'd  greatly  of  myself 
That  I  so  long  withouten  sleepe  lay. 
And  up  I  rose  three  hours  after  twelve. 
About  the  springing  of  the  gladsome  day. 
And  on  I  put  my  gear  and  mine  array. 
And  to  a  pleasant  grove  I  'gan  to  pass. 
Long  or  the  taright  sunne  uprisen  was ; 

In  which  were  oakes  great,  straight  as  a  line, 
Under  the  which  the  grass  so  fresh  of  hue 
Was  newly  sprung,  and  an  eight  foot  or  nine 
Every  tree  well  from  his  fellow  grew 
With  branches  broad,  laden  with  leaves  new. 
That  springen  out  against  the  sonne  sheen, 
Some  very  red,  and  some  a  light  glad  green, 

Which,  as  methought,  was  aright  pleasant  sight; 
And  eke  the  burdis  songis  for  to  hear. 
Would  have  rejoiced  any  earthly  wight, 
And  I,  that  couth  not  yet  in  no  manere 
Hearen  the  nightingale  of  all  the  year, 
Full  busily  hearkened  with  heart  and  ear 
If  I  her  voice  perceive  could  any  where. 

And  at  the  last  a  path  of  little  brede 
I  found,  that  greatly  had  not  used  be. 
For  it  forgrowen  was  with  grass  and  weed. 
That  well  unneathis  a  wight  might  it  see. 
Thought  I,    "This   path  some   whider  goth, 

parde  !  " 
And  so  I  followed  it  till  it  me  brought 
To  a  right  pleasant  herbir  well  ywrought, 

Which  that  benched  was,  and  with  turves  new 
Freshly  turved,  whereof  the  greene  grass 
So  small,  so  thick,  so  soft,  so  fresh  of  hue. 
That  most  like  to  green  wool,  wot  I,  it  was ; 
The  hedge  also  that  yeden  in  compass, 


Chaucek.] 


DUPLICITY  OF  WOMEN. 


[First  Period. — From  the 


And  closed  in  alle  the  green  herbere 
With  sycamore  was  set  and  eglatere 

Within,  in  fere  so  well  and  cunningly, 
That  every  branch  and  leaf  grew  by  measure 
Plain  as  a  board,  of  an  height  by  and  by  ; 
I  see  never  a  thing,  I  you  ensure, 
So  well  ydone ;  for  he  that  took  the  cure 
It  for  to  make,  I  trow,  did  all  his  pain, 
To  make  it  pass  all  tho  that  men  have  seen. 
Choicer. — About  1380. 


26.— THE  DUPLICITY  OF  WOMEN. 

This  vrorld  is  full  of  variance, 
In  everything,  who  taketh  heed. 
That  faith  and  trust,  and  all  Constance, 
Exiled  be,  this  is  no  drede. 
And  save  only  in  womanhead, 
I  can  ysee  no  sikemess  ; 
But  for  all  that  yet,  as  I  read, 
Beware  alway  of  doubleness. 

Also  that  the  fresh  summer  flowers. 
The  white  and  red,  the  blue  and  green, 
Be  suddenly  with  winter  showers, 
Made  faint  and  fade,  withouten  ween, 
That  trust  is  none,  as  ye  may  seen, 
In  no  thing,  nor  no  steadfastness. 
Except  in  women,  thus  I  mean  ; 
Yet  aye  beware  of  doubleness. 

The  crooked  moon  (this  is  no  tale), 
Some  while  isheen  and  bright  of  hue, 
And  after  that  full  dark  and  pale. 
And  every  moneth  changeth  new, 
That  who  the  very  sothe  knew 
All  thing  is  built  on  brittleness, 
Save  that  women  alway  be  true  ; 
Yet  aye  beware  of  doubleness. 

The  lusty  freshe  summer's  day. 
And  Phoebus  with  his  beames  clear, 
Towardes  night  they  draw  away. 
And  no  longer  list  t' appear, 
That  in  this  present  life  now  here 
Nothing  abideth  in  his  fairness. 
Save  women  aye  be  found  entere, 
And  devoid  of  all  doubleness. 

The  sea  eke  with  his  sterne  wawes 
Each  day  yfloweth  new  again, 
And  by  the  concourse  of  his  lawes 
The  ebbe  floweth  in  certain  ; 
After  great  drought  there  cometh  rain  ; 
That  farewell  here  all  stableness, 
Save  that  women  be  whole  and  plein ; 
Yet  aye  beware  of  doubleness. 

Fortunes  wheel  go'th  round  about 
A  thousand  times  day  and  night, 
Whose  course  standeth  ever  in  doubt 
For  to  transmue  she  is  so  light. 
For  which  adverteth  in  your  sight 
Th'  untrust  of  worldly  fickleness, 
Save  women,  which  of  kindly  right 
Ne  hath  no  touch  of  doubleness. 


What  man  ymay  the  wind  restraia. 
Or  holden  a  snake  by  the  tail  ? 
Who  may  a  slipper  eel  constrain 
That  it  will  void  withouten  fail  ? 
Or  who  can  driven  so  a  nail 
To  make  sure  newfangleness. 
Save  women,  that  can  gie  their  sail 
To  row  their  boat  with  doubleness  ? 

At  every  haven  they  can  arrive 
Whereas  they  wot  is  good  passage  ; 
Of  innocence  they  sannot  strive 
With  wawes,  nor  no  rockes  rage ; 
So  happy  is  their  lodemanage 
With  needle'  and  stone  their  course  to  dregs', 
That  Solomon  was  not  sc  sage 
To  find  in  them  no  doubleness : 

Therefore  whoso  doth  them  accuse 
Of  any  double  intention, 
To  speake  rown,  other  to  muse, 
To  pinch  at  their  condition. 
All  is  but  false  collusion, 
I  dare  right  well  the  soth  express. 
They  have  no  better  protection. 
But  shroud  them  under  doubleness. 

So  well  fortuned  is  their  chance, 
The  dice  to-turnen  up  so  down. 
With  sice  and  cinque  they  can  advance, 
And  then  by  revolution 
They  set  a  fell  conclusion 
Of  lombes,  as  in  sothfastness. 
Though  clerkes  maken  mention 
Their  kind  is  fret  with  doubleness. 

Sampson  yhad  experience 
That  women  were  full  true  yf ound  ; 
Wlien  Dalila  of  innocence 
With  shear es  "gan  his  hair  to  round ; 
To  speak  also  of  Rosamond, 
And  Cleopatra's  faithfulness. 
The  stories  plainly  will  confound 
Men  that  apeach  their  doubleness. 

Single  thing  is  not  ypraised. 
Nor  of  old  is  of  no  renown, 
In  balance  when  they  be  ypesed. 
For  lack  of  weight  they  be  borne  down. 
And  for  this  cause  of  just  reason 
These  women  all  of  rightwisness 
Of  choice  and  free  election 
Most  love  exchange  and  doubleness. 

l'envoye. 

O  ye  women  !  which  be  inclined 
By  influence  of  your  nature 
To  be  as  pure  as  gold  yfined, 
And  in  your  truth  for  to  endure, 
Armeth  yourself  in  strong  armure, 
(Lest  men  assail  your  sikemess). 
Set  on  your  breast,  yourself  t' assure, 
A  mighty  shield  of  doubleness. 

Chaucer. — About  1380. 


earliest  Times  to  1400.] 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  COFFERS. 


[John  Gower. 


27.— PRAISE  OF  WOMEN. 

For,  this  ye  know  well,  tho'  I  wonldin  lie, 
In  women  is  all  truth  and  steadfastness  ; 
For,  in  good  faith,  I  never  of  them  sie 
But  much  worship,  bounty,  and  gentleness, 
Right  coming,  fair,  and  full  of  meekeness ; 
Good,  and  glad,  and  lowly,  I  you  ensure, 
Is  this  goodly  and  angelic  creature. 

And  if  it  hap  a  man  be  in  disease, 
She  doth  her  business  and  her  full  pain 
With  all   her  might  him   to  comfbrt  and 


If  fro  his  disease  him  she  might  restrain : 
In  word  ne  deed,  I  wis,  she  woU  not  faine  ; 
With  all  her  might  she  doth  her  business 
To  bringen  him  out  of  his  heaviness. 

Lo,  here  what  gentleness  these  women  have, 
If  we  could  know  it  for  our  rudeness  ! 
How  busye  they  be  us  to  keep  and  save 
Both  in  hele  and  also  in  sickness, 
And  alway  right  sorry  for  our  distress  ! 
In  every  raanere  thus  shew  they  ruth, 
That  in  them  is  aU  goodness  and  all  truth. 

Chaucer.— About  1380. 


II 


28.— THE  LAST  VERSES  OF  CHAUCER. 

{Written  on  Ms  Deathbed.) 

Fly  from  the  press,  and  dwell  with  sothf ast- 
ness  ; 

Suffice  unto  thy  good  though  it  be  small ; 
For  hoard  hath  hate,  and  climbing  tickleness, 
Press  hath  envy,  and  weal  is  blent  o'er  all ; 
Savour  no  more  than  thee  behoven  shall ; 
Rede  well  thyself,  that  otherfolk  can'st  rede, 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver  't  is  no  drede. 

Pain  thee  not  each  crooked  to  redress 
In  trust  of  her  that  tumeth  as  a  ball ; 
Great  rest  standeth  in  little  business  ; 
Beware  also  to  spurn  against  a  nallo ; 
Strive  not  as  doth  a  crocke  with  a  wall ; 
Deemeth  thyself  that  deemest  other's  deed, 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver  't  is  no  drede. 

That  thee  is  sent  receive  in  buxomness ; 
The  wrestling  of  this  world  asketh  a  fall ; 
Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  wilderness ; 
Forth,  pilgrim,  forth ;  O  beast  out  of  thy  stall ; 
Look  up  on  high,  and  thank  thy  God  of  all ; 
Waiveth  thy  lust  and  let  thy  ghost  thee  lead, 
And  truth  thee  shall  deliver  't  is  no  drede. 


Che 


-About  1400. 


29.— THE   TALE  OF  THE  COFFERS  OR 
CASKETS,  «&c. 

In  a  cronique  thus  I  rede  : 
Aboute  a  king,  as  must  nede, 
Ther  was  of  knyghtes  and  squiers 
Gret  route,  and  eke  of  officers  : 
Some  of  long  time  him  hadden  served, 
And  thoughten  that  they  haue  deserved, 
Avancement,  and  gon  withoute  : 
And  some  also  ben  of  the  route, 
That  comen  but  a  while  agon, 
And  they  avanced  were  anon. 

These  olde  men  upon  this  thing. 
So  as  they  durst,  ageyne  the  king 
Among  hemself  compleignen  ofte : 
".But  there  is  nothing  said  so  softe. 
That  it  ne  comith  out  at  laste  : 
The  king  it  wiste,  and  als  so  faste. 
As  he  which  was  of  high  prudence  : 
He  shope  therefore  an  evidence 
Of  hem  that  pleignen  in  the  cas 
To  knowe  in  whose  defalte  it  was  : 
And  all  within  his  owne  entent, 
That  non  ma  wiste  what  it  ment. 
Anon  he  let  two  cofres  make. 
Of  one  semblance,  and  of  one  make, 
So  lich,  that  no  lif  thilke  throwe. 
That  one  may  fro  that  other  knowe  : 
They  were  into  his  chamber  brought, 
But  no  man  wot  why  they  be  wrought, 
And  natheles  the  king  hath  bede 
That  they  be  set  in  privy  stede, 
As  he  that  was  of  wisdom  slih  ; 
Whan  he  therto  his  time  sih. 
All  prively  that  none  it  wiste, 
His  owne  hondes  that  one  chiste 
,  Of  fin  gold,  and  of  fin  perie. 
The  which  out  of  his  tresorie 
Was  take,  anon  he  fild  full ; 
That  other  cofre  of  straw  and  mull 
With  stones  meynd  he  fild  also : 
Thus  be  they  full  bothe  two. 
So  that  erliche  upon  a  day 
He  had  within,  where  he  lay, 
Ther  should  be  tofore  his  bed 
A  bord  up  set  and  faire  spred  : 
And  than  he  let  the  cofres  fette 
Upon  the  bord,  and  did  hem  sette. 
He  knewe  the  names  well  of  tho, 
The  whiche  agein  him  grutched  so, 
Both  of  his  chambre,  and  of  his  halle. 
Anon  and  sent  for  hem  alle  ; 
And  seide  to  hem  in  this  wise. 

There  shall  no  man  his  hap  despise : 
I  wot  well  ye  have  longe  served. 
And  god  wot  what  ye  have  deserved ; 
But  if  it  is  along  on  me 
Of  that  ye  unavanced  be. 
Or  eUes  if  it  belong  on  yow, 
The  sothe  shall  be  proved  now  : 
To  stoppe  with  your  evil  word, 
Lo  !  here  two  cofres  on  the  bord  ; 
Chese  which  you  list  of  bothe  two ; 

3* 


John  Go  web.] 


EOSIPHELE'S    VISION. 


[First  i'EUiOD. — From  tim 


And  witeth  well  that  one  of  the 

Of  women  but  a  few  it  wist. 

Is  with  tresor  so  full  begon, 

And  forth  she  went  privily 

That  if  he  happe  thempon 

Unto  a  park  was  fast  by, 

Ye  shall  be  riche  men  for  ever  : 

All  softe  walkend  on  the  grass, 

Now  chese  and  take  which  yon  is  lever 

Till  she  came  there  the  land  was 

But  be  well  ware  ere  that  ye  take. 

Through  which  ran  a  great  rivere. 

For  of  that  one  I  undertake 

It  thought  her  fair,  and  said,  "  Here 

Ther  is  no  maner  good  therein, 

«'  WiU  I  abide,  under  the  shaw ;  " 

Wherof  ye  mighten  profit  winne. 

And  bade  her  women  to  vdthdraw. 

Now  goth  together  of  one  assent. 

And  there  she  stood  alone  still. 

And  taketh  your  avisement ; 

To  think  what  was  in  her  wiU.- 

For  but  I  you  this  day  avance, 

She  saw  the  sweet  flowers  spring ; 

It  stant  upon  your  owne  chance. 

She  heard  (the)  glad  fowls  sing ; 

Al  only  in  defalte  of  grace  ; 

She  saw  beastes  in  their  kind, 

So  shall  be  shewed  in  this  place 

The  buck,  the  doe,  the  hart,  the  hind, 

Upon  you  all  well  afjm, 

The  males  go  with  the  female : 

That  no  defalte  shal  be  myn. 

And  so  began  there  a  quareU 

They  knelen  all,  and  with  one  vois 

Between  love  and  her  owne  heart. 

The  khig  they  thonken  of  this  chois : 

From  which  she  couthe  not  astart. 

And  after  that  they  up  arise, 

And  as  she  cast  her  eye  about, 

And  gon  aside  and  hem  avise. 

She  saw,  clad  iu  one  suit,  a  rout 

And  at  laste  they  accorde 

Of  ladies,  where  they  comen  ride 

(Wherof  her  tale  to  recorde 

Along  under  the  wood  side ; 

To  what  issue  they  be  falle) 

On  fair  ambulend  horse  they  set. 

A  knyght  shall  speke  for  hem  aUe  : 

That  were  all  white,  fair,  and  great ; 

He  kneleth  doun  unto  the  king, 

And  everiche  one  rid  on  side. 

And  seith  that  they  upon  this  thing. 

The  saddles  were  of  such  a  pride, 

Or  for  to  winne,  or  for  to  lese, 

So  rich  saw  she  never  none 

Ben  aU.  avised  for  to  chese. 

With  pearls  and  gold  so  well  begone  ; 

Tho  toke  this  knyght  a  yerd  on  honde, 

In  kirtels  and  in  copes  rich 

And  goth  there  as  the  cofres  stonde, 

They  were  all  clothed  all  alich, 

And  with  assent  of  everychone 

Departed  even  of  white  and  blue 

He  leith  his  yerde  upon  one, 

With  all  lustes  that  she  knew 

And  seith  the  king  how  thilke  same 

They  were  embroidered  over  all ; 

They  chese  in  reguerdon  by  name. 

Their  bodies  weren  long  and  sma,ll. 

And  preith  him  that  they  might  it  have. 

The  beauty  of  their  fair  face 

The  king,  which  wolde  his  honor  save, 

There  may  no  earthly  thing  deface : 

Whan  he  had  heard  the  common  vois, 

Corownes  on  their  heads  they  bare 

Hath  granted  hem  her  owne  chois, 

As  each  of  them  a  queen  were ; 

And  toke  hem  therupon  the  keie  ; 

That  aU  the  gold  of  Croesus'  hall 

But  for  he  wolde  it  were  scie 

The  least  coronal  of  all 

What  good  they  have  as  they  suppose, 

Might  not  have  bought,  after  the  worth  : 

He  bad  anon  the  cofre  unclose, 

Thus  comen  they  ridend  forth. 

Which  was  fulfild  with  straw  and  stones : 

John  Goiver.— About  1390. 

Thus  be  they  served  all  at  ones. 

This  king  than  in  the  same  stede. 

'^~ 

Anon  that  other  cofre  undede, 

Where  as  they  sihen  gret  richesse, 

31.— THE  ENVIOUS    MAN   AND    THE 

Wei  more  than  they  couthen  gesse. 

MISEE. 

Lo  !  seith  the  king,  now  may  ye  see 

Of  Jupiter  thus  I  find  y-writ, 

That  ther  is  no  defalte  in  me  ; 

How  whilom  that  he  would  wit, 

Forthy  my  self  I  wol  acquite. 
And  bereth  he  your  owne  wite 
Of  that  fortune  hath  you  refused. 

Upon  the  plaints  which  he  heard 
Among  the  men,  how  it  fared, 
As  of  the  wrong  condition 

Thus  was  this  wise  king  excused : 
And  they  lefte  off  her  evil  speche, 

To  do  justification ; 

And  for  that  cause  down  he  sent ' 

And  mercy  of  her  king  beseche. 

An  angel,  that  about  went. 

John  Gowcr. — Ahout  1390. 

That  he  the  sooth  know  may. 

So  it  befel  upon  a  day, 

This  angel  which  him  should  inform 

30.— EOSIPHELE'S  VISION  OF  LADIES. 

Was  clothed  in  a  man's  form, 
And  overtook,  I  understand. 

When  come  was  the  month  of  May, 

Two  men  that  wenten  over  lend  ; 

She  would  walk  upon  a  day. 

Through  which  he  thought  to  aspy 

And  that  was  ere  the  sun  arist, 

His  cause,  and  go'th  in  company. 

earliest  Times  to  1400.]       DEATH  OF  SIE  HENEY  DE  BOHUN.                [John  Babbouk. 

This  anorel  with  his  words  wise 

Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis : 

Opposeth  them  in  sundry  wise  ; 

He  le\'ys  at  ese  that  frely  levys  ! 

Now  loud  words  and  now  soft, 

A  noble  hart  may  haiff  nane  ese. 

That  made  them  to  disputen  oft ; 

Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese, 

And  each  his  reason  had, 

Gyff  fredome  f ailythe  :  for  fre  liking 

And  thus  with  tales  he  them  led, 

Is  yeamyt  our  all  othir  thing 

With  good  examination. 

Na  he,  that  ay  hase  levyt  fre,  _    

Till  he  knew  the  condition, 

May  nocht  knaw  weiU  the  propyrte, 

What  men  they  were  both  two  ; 

The  angyr,  na  the  wrechyt  dome. 

And  saw  well  at  last  tho. 

That  is  cowplyt  to  foule  thyrldome. 

That  one  of  them  was  covetous. 

Bot  gyff  he  had  assayit  it, 

And  his  fellow  was  en-\dous. 

Than  aU  perquer  he  suld  it  wyt ; 

And  thus  when  he  hath  knowledging, 

And  suld  think  fredome  mar  to  pryse 

Anon  he  feigned  departing, 

Than  all  the  gold  in  warld  that  is. 

And  said  he  mote  algate  wend ; 

Jolm  Barbour. — About  1390. 

But  hearken  now  what  fell  at  end  ! 

For  then  he  made  them  understond, 
That  he  was  there  of  God's  sond, 

And  said  them  for  the  kindship. 

33.— CHARACTER  OF  SIR  JAMES  OF 

He  Avould  do  them  some  grace  again. 

DOUGLAS. 

And  bade  that  one  of  thom  should  sain 

AU  men  loved  him  for  his  bounty, 
For  he  was  of  full  fair  efFeir, 

What  thing  is  him  levest  to  crave, 

And  he  it  shall  of  gift  have. 

Wise,  courteous,  and  debonair. 

And  over  that  ke  forth  with  all 

Darge,  and  luffand  als  was  he. 

He  saith,  that  other  have  shall 

And  oure  all  things  loved  lawte. 

The  double  of  that  his  fellow  axeth ; 

*               *               * 

And  thus  to  them  his  grace  he  taxeth. 

He  was  in  aU  his  deedis  leal ; 

The  Covetous  was  wonder  glad ; 
And  to  that  other  man  he  bade, 
And  saith,  that  he  first  ax  should  j 

For  him  dedeynyeit  not  to  deal 
With  treachery,  na  with  falset : 
His  heart  on  high  honoiir  was  set  ; 
And  him  contentit  on  sic  manere. 

For  he  supposeth  that  he  would 

That  aU  him  loved  that  were  him  near. 

Make  his  axing  of  world's  good  ; 
For  then  he  knew  well  how  it  stood ; 
If  that  himsell  by  double  weight 

But  he  was  not  so  fair,  that  we 
Should  speak  greatly  of  his  beauty. 
In  visage  he  was  some  deal  grey, 
And  had  black  hair,  as  I  heard  say ; 
But  of  limbs  he  was  well  made, 
With  banys  great,  and  shoulders  braid. 
*               *               * 

Shall  after  take,  and  thus  by  sleight 

Because  that  he  would  win. 
He  bade  his  fellow  first  begin. 
This  Envious,  though  it  be  late, 

When  that  he  saw  he  mote,  algate, 
Make  his  axing  first,  he  thought. 
If  he  his  worship  and  profit  sought 
It  shall  be  double  to  his  fere, 

When  he  was  blythe  he  was  lovelj^, 
And  meek,  and  sweet  in  company ; 
But  who  in  battle  might  him  see. 
Another  countenance  had  he. 

That  he  would  chuse  in  no  mn.nner. 

But  then  he  showeth  what  he  was 

Jolm  Barbour. — About  1390. 

Toward  envy,  and  in  this  case, 
Unto  this  angel  thus  he  said, 
And  for  his  gift  thus  he  prayed, 

34.— DEATH  OF  SIR  HENRY  DE  BOHUN. 

To  make  him  blind  on  his  one  ee, 

And  when  the  king  wist  that  they  were 

So  that  his  fellow  nothing  see. 

In  hale  battle,  comand  sae  near, 

His  battle  gart  he  weel  array. 

This  word  was  not  so  soon  spoke, 

He  rade  upon  a  little  palfrey, 

Than  his  one  ee  anon  was  loke  : 

Lawcht  and  joly  array  and 

And  his  feUow  forthwith  also 

His  battle,  with  an  ax  in  hand. 

Was  blind  on  both  his  eyes  two. 

And  on  his  bassinet  he  bare 

Tho  was  that  other  glad  enough  : 

An  hat  of  tyre  aboon  ay  where  ; 

That  one  wept,  and  that  other  lough. 

And,  thereupon,  into  takin, 

He  set  his  one  ee  at  no  cost, 

Ane  high  crown,  that  he  was  king. 

Whereof  that  other  two  hath  lost. 

And  when  Gloster  and  Hereford  were 

I^v                                   John  Govjer. — About  1390. 

With  their  battle  approachand  near. 

Before  them  aU  there  came  ridand, 
With  helm  on  held  and  spear  in  hand, 

I^^^t 

j           32.— APOSTROPHE  TO  FREEDOM. 

Sir  Henry  tho  Boon,  the  worthy. 
That  was  a  wicht  knicht,  and  a  hardy. 

A  !  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing  ! 

And  to  the  Earl  of  Hereford  cousin  ; 

Fredome  mayso  man  to  haiff  liking ! 

Armed  in  arms  gude  and  fine ; 

John  Babbouk.] 


BATTLE  OF  BYLAND'S  PATH. 


[First  Period. 


Came  on  a  steed  a  bowshot  near, 

Before  all  other  that  there  were  : 

And  knew  the  king',  for  that  he  saw 

Hun  sae  range  his  men  on  raw, 

And  by  the  crown  that  Avas  set 

Also  upon  his  bassinet. 

And  toward  him  he  went  in  hy. 

And  the  king  sae  apertly 

Saw  him  come,  foronth  all  his  fears, 

In  hy  till  him  the  horse  ho  steers. 

And  when  Sir  Henry  saw  the  king 

Come  on,  forontin  abasing, 

Tin  him  he  rode  in  great  hy. 

He  thought  that  he  should  weel  lichtly 

Win  him,  and  have  him  at  his  will, 

Sin'  he  him  horsit  saw  sae  ill. 

Sprent  they  samen  intill  a  l3Tig ; 

Sir  Henry  missed  the  noble  king ; 

And  he  that  in  his  stirrups  stude, 

With  the  ax,  that  was  hard  and  gude, 

With  sae  great  main,  raucht  him  a  dint, 

That  nouther  hat  nor  helm  micht  stint 

The  heavy  dush,  that  he  him  gave, 

That  near  the  head  till  the  harns  clave. 

The  hand-ax  shaft  frushit  in  tway ;   . 

And  he  down  to  the  yird  gan  gae 

All  flatlings,  for  him  failit  micht. 

This  was  the  first  straik  of  the  ficht, 

That  was  performit  douchtily. 

And  when  the  king's  men  sae  stoutly 

Saw  him,  richt  at  the  first  meeting, 

Forouten  doubt  or  abasing, 

Have  slain  a  knicht  sae  at  a  straik, 

Sic  hard'ment  thereat  gan  they  tak, 

That  they  come  on  richt  hardQy. 

When  Englishmen  saw  them  sae  stoutly 

Come  on,  they  had  great  abasing  ; 

And  specially  for  that  the  king 

Sae  smartly  that  gude  knicht  has  slain, 

That  they  withdrew  them  everilk  ane. 

And  durst  pot  ane  abide  to  ficht : 

Sae  dreid  they  for  the  king's  micht.     *     * 

When  that  the  king  repairit  was, 


That  gart  his  men  all  leave  the  chase, 

The  lordis  of  his  company 

Blamed  him,  as  they  durst,  greatumly,  , 

That  he  him  put  in  aventure, 

To  meet  sae  stith  a  knicht,  and  stour, 

In  sic  point  as  he  then  was  seen. 

For  they  said  weel,  it  micht  have  been 

Cause  of  their  tynsal  everilk  ane. 

The  king  answer  has  made  them  nane, 

But  mainit  his  hand- ax  shaft  sae 

Was  -with  the  straik  broken  in  tway. 

Jolin  Barhoiir. — About  1390. 


35.— THE  BATTLE  OF  BYLAND'S  PATH. 

Thus  were  they  fechtand  in  the  pass, 
And  when  the  king  Eobert,  that  was 
Wiss  in  his  deid,  and  anerly, 
Saw  his  men  sae  right  doughtily 
The  path  upon  their  fajds  ta' ; 
And  saw  his  fayis  defend  them  sae ; 
Then  gart  he  all  the  Irishry 
That  were  intill  his  company. 
Of  Argyle  and  the  Isles  alsua, 
Speed  them  in  great  hy  to  the  brae. 
And  bade  them  leave  the  path  haly 
And  climb  up  in  the  crags  hy ; 
And  speed  them  fast  the  height  to  ta'  : 
Then  might  men  see  them  stoutly  gae. 
And  climb  all  gate  up  the  height, 
And  leave  not  for  their  fayis  might. 
Maugre  their  fayis,  they  bare  them  sae 
That  they  are  gotten  abune  the  brae. 
Then  might  men  see  them  fight  felly ; 
And  rusche  their  fayis  sturdily. 
And  they  that  till  the  pass  were  gane, 
Maugre  their  fayis,  the  height  has  tane ; 
Then  laid  they  on  with  all  their  might ; 
There  might  men  see  them  feUy  fight. 

John  Barbour. — About  1390, 


THE    SECOND    PERIOD, 

FROM    UOO    TO    1558. 


WARTON,  with  great  beauty  and  justice,  compares  the  appearance  of  Chaucer  in  our 
language  to  a  premature  day  in  an  English  spring ;  after  which  the  gloom  of  winter 
returns,  and  the  buds  and  blossoms,  which  have  been  called  forth  by  a  transient  sunshine,  are 
nipped  by  frosts  and  scattered  by  storms.  The  causes  of  the  relapse  of  our  poetry,  after 
Chaucer,  seem  but  too  apparent  in  the  annals  of  English  history,  which  during  five  reigns  of 
the  fifteenth  century  continue  to  display  but  a  tissue  of  conspiracies,  proscriptions,  and  blood- 
shed. Inferior  even  to  France  in  literary  progress,  England  displays  in  the  fifteenth  century  a 
still  more  mortifying  contrast  with  Italy.  Italy,  too,  had  her  rehgious  schisms  and  public 
distractions  ;  but  her  arts  and  Uterature  had  always  a  sheltering-place.  They  were  even 
cherished  by  the  rivalship  of  independent  communities,  and  received  encouragement  from  the 
opposite  sources  of  commercial  and  ecclesiastical  wealth.  Eut  v:e  had  no  Nicholas  the  Fifth, 
nor  house  of  Medicis.  In  England,  the  evils  of  civil  war  agitated  society  as  one  mass.  There 
was  no  refuge  from  them — no  inclosure  to  fence  in  the  field  of  improvement — no  mound  to 
stem  the  torrent  of  public  troables.  Before  the  death  of  Henry  VI.,  it  is  said  that  one  half  of 
the  nobihty  and  gentry  in  the  kingdom  had  perished  in  the  field,  or  on  the  scafi'old.  Whilst 
in  England  the  pubhc  spirit  was  thus  brutalized,  whilst  the  value  and  security  of  life  were 
abridged,  whilst  the  wealth  of  the  rich  was  employed  only  in  war,  and  the  chance  of  patronage 
taken  from  the  scholar  ;  in  Italy,  princes  and  magistrates  vied  with  each  other  in  caUing  men 
of  genius  around  them,  as  the  brightest  ornaments  of  their  states  and  courts.  The  art  of 
printing  came  to  Italy  to  record  the  treasures  of  its  literary  attainments ;  but  when  it  came  to 
England,  with  a  very  few  exceptions,  it  could  not  be  said,  for  the  purpose  of  diffusing  native 
literature,  to  be  a  necessary  art.  A  circumstance,  additionally  hostile  to  the  national  genius, 
may  certainly  be  traced  in  the  executions  for  religion,  which  sprang  up  as  a  horrible  novelty 
in  our  country  in  the  fifteenth  century.  The  clergy  were  determined  to  indemnify  themselves 
for  the  exposures  which  they  had  met  with  in  the  preceding  age,  and  the  unhallowed  com- 
promise which  Henry  IV.  made  with  them,  in  return  for  supporting  his  accession,  armed  them, 
in  an  evil  hour,  with  the  torch  of  persecution.  In  one  point  of  improvement,  namely,  in  the 
boldness  of  religious  inquiry,  the  North  of  Europe  might  already  boast  of  being  superior  to 
the  South,  with  aU  its  learning,  wealth,  and  elegant  acquirements.  The  Scriptures  had  been 
opened  by  Wickliffe,  but  they  were  again  to  become  "a  fountain  sealed,  and  a  spring  shut  up." 
Amidst  the  progress  of  letters  in  Italy,  the  fine  arts  threw  enchantment  around  superstition ; 
and  the  warm  imagination  of  the  South  was  congenial  to  the  nature  of  Catholic  institutions. 
But  the  English  mind  had  already  shown,  even  amidst  its  comparative  barbarism,  a  stern 
independent  spirit  of  religion ;  and  from  this  single  proud  and  elevated  point  of  its  character, 
it  was  now  to  be  crushed  and  beaten  down.  Sometimes  a  baffled  struggle  agaiast  oppression 
is  more  depressing  to  the  human  faculties  than  continued  submission. 

Our  natural  hatred  of  tyranny,  and  we  may  safely  add,  the  general  test  of  history  and 
experience,  would  dispose  us  to  believe  religious  persecution  to  be  necessarily  and  essentially 
baneful  to  the  elegant  arts,  no  less  than  to  the  intellectual  pursuits  of  mankind.  It  is  natural 
to  think,  that  when  punishments  are  let  loose  upon  men's  opinions,  they  wlU  spread  a 
contagious  alarm  from  the  understanding  to  the  imagination.  They  wiU  make  the  heart  grow 
close  and  insensible  to  generous  feelings,  where  it  is  unaccustomed  to  express  them  freely ;  and 
the  graces  and  gaiety  of  fancy  wiU  be  dejected  and  appalled.  In  an  age  of  persecution,  even 
the  living  study  of  his  own  species  must  be  comparatively  darkened  to  the  poet.  He  looks 
round  on  the  characters  and  countenances  of  his  fellow-creatures  ;  and  instead  of  the  naturally 
cheerful  and  eccentric  variety  of  their  humours,  he  reads  only  a  sullen  and  oppressed 
uniformity.  To  the  spirit  of  poetry  we  should  conceive  such  a  period  to  be  an  impassable 
Avernus,  where  she  would  drop  her  wings  and  expire.     Undoubtedly  this  inference  will  be 


THE  SECOND  PERIOD.— FEOM  1400—1558. 

found  warranted  by  a  general  survey  of  the  history  of  Genius.  It  is,  at  the  same  time,  im- 
possible to  deny,  that  wit  and  poetry  have  in  some  instances  flourished  coeval  with  ferocious 
bigotry,  on  the  same  spot,  and  under  the  same  government.  The  literary  glory  of  Spain  was 
posterior  to  the  establishment  of  the  Inquisition.  The  fancy  of  Cervantes  sported  in  its 
neighbourhood,  though  he  declared  that  he  could  have  made  his  writings  still  more  enter- 
taining if  he  had  not  dreaded  the  Holy  Office.  But  the  growth  of  Spanish  genius,  in  spite  of 
the  co-existence  of  religious  tyranny,  was  fostered  by  imcommon  and  glorious  advantages  in 
the  circumstances  of  the  nation.  Spain  (for  we  are  comparing  Spain  in  the  sixteenth  with 
England  in  the  fifteenth  century)  was,  at  the  period  aUuded  to,  great  and  proud  in  an  empire 
on  which  it  was  boasted  that  the  sun  never  set.  Her  language  was  widely  diffused.  The 
wealth  of  America  for  a  while  animated  all  her  arts.  Robertson  says  that  the  Spaniards  dis- 
covered at  that  time  an  extent  of  political  knowledge  which  the  English  themselves  did  not 
attain  for  more  than  a  century  afterwards.  Religious  persecutions  began  in  England  at  a  time 
when  she  was  comparatively  poor  and  barbarous,  yet  after  she  had  been  awakened  to  so  much 
intelligence  on  the  subject  of  religion  as  to  make  one  half  of  the  people  indignantly  impatient 
of  priestly  tyranny.  If  we  add  to  the  political  troubles  of  the  age,  the  circumstances  of 
religious  opinions  being  silenced  and  stifled  by  penal  horrors,  it  will  seem  more  wonderful  that 
the  spark  of  literature  was  kept  alive,  than  that  it  did  not  spread  more  widely.  Yet  the 
fifteenth  century  had  its  redeeming  traits  of  refijiement,  the  more  wonderful  for  appearing  in 
the  midst  of  such  unfavourable  circumstances.  It  had  a  Fortescue,  although  he  wandered  in 
exile,  unprotected  by  the  constitution  wliich  he  explained  and  extolled  in  his  writings.  It  had 
a  noble  patron  and  lover  of  letters  in  Tiptoft,  although  he  died  by  the  hands  of  the  executioner. 
It  witnessed  the  founding  of  many  colleges  in  both  of  the  universities,  although  they  were 
still  the  haunts  of  scholastic  quibbling ;  and  it  produced,  in  the  venerable  Pecock,  one  con- 
scientious dignitary  of  the  church,  who  wished  to  have  converted  the  Protestants  by  appeals 
to  reason,  though  for  so  doing  he  had  his  books,  and,  if  he  had  not  recanted  in  good  time,  would 
have  had  his  body  also,  committed  to  the  flames.  To  these  causes  may  be  ascribed  the  back- 
wardness of  our  poetry  between  the  dates  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser.  I  speak  of  the  chasm 
extending  to,  or  nearly  to,  Spenser  ;  for,  without  undervaluing  the  elegant  talents  of  Lord  Surrey, 
I  think  we  cannot  consider  the  national  genius  as  completely  emancipated  from  oppressive 
circumstances,  till  the  time  of  Elizabeth.  There  was  indeed  a  commencement  of  our  poetry 
under  Henry  VIII.  It  was  a  fine,  but  a  feeble  one.  English  genius  seems  then  to  have  come 
forth,  but  half  assured  that  her  day  of  emancipation  was  at  hand.  There  is  something 
melancholy  even  in  Lord  Surrey's  strains  of  gallantry.  The  succession  of  Henry  VIII.  gave 
stability  to  the  government,  and  some  degree  of  magnificence  to  the  state  of  society.  But 
tyranny  was  not  yet  at  an  end ;  and  to  judge,  not  by  the  gross  buffoons,  but  by  the  few  minds 
entitled  to  be  called  poetical,  which  appear  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  we  may 
say  that  the  English  Muse  had  still  a  diffident  aspect  and  a  faltering  tone.     *     *     *     * 

The  Scottish  poets  of  the  fifteenth,  and  of  a  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  would  also  justly 
demand  a  place  in  any  history  of  our  poetry  that  meant  to  be  copious  and  minute ;  as  the 
northern  "makers,"  notwithstanding  the  difference  of  dialect,  generally  denominate  their 
language  "  Inglis."  Scotland  produced  an  entire  poetical  version  of  the  ^neid,  before  Lord 
Surrey  had  translated  a  single  book  of  it ;  indeed,  before  there  was  an  English  version  of  any 
classic,  excepting  Boethius,  if  he  can  be  called  a  classic.  Virgil  was  only  known  in  the 
EngKsh  language  through  a  romance  of  the  Siege  of  Troy,  published  by  Caxton,  which,  as 
Bishop  Douglas  observes,  in  the  prologue  to  his  Scottish  iEneid,  is  no  more  like  Virgil  than 
the  devil  is  like  St.  Austin.  Perhaps  the  resemblance  may  not  even  be  so  great.  But  the 
Scottish  poets,  after  all  that  has  been  said  of  them,  form  nothing  like  a  brilliant  revival  of 
poetry.  They  are  on  the  whole  superior,  indeed,  in  spirit  and  originality  to  their  English 
contemporaries,  which  is  not  saying  much  ;  but  tt-eir  style  is,  for  the  most  part,  cast,  if  possible, 
in  a  worst  taste.  The  prevailing  fault  of  English  diction,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  is  redundant 
ornament,  and  an  affectation  of  Anglicising  Latin  words.  In  this  pedantry  and  use  of  "  aureate 
terms,"  the  Scottish  versifiers  went  even  beyond  their  brethren  of  the  south.  Some  exceptions 
to  the  remark,  I  am  aware,  may  be  found  in  Dunbar,  who  sometimes  exhibits  simplicity  and 
lyrical  terseness ;  but  even  his  style  has  frequent  deformities  of  quaintness,  false  ornament, 
and  alliteration.  The  rest  of  them,  when  they  meant  to  be  most  eloquent,  tore  up  words  from 
the  Latin,  which  never  took  root  in  the  language,  like  children  making  a  mock  garden  with 
flowers  and  branches  stuck  in  the  ground,  which  speedily  wither. — Campbell's  Essay  on 
English  Poetry. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICES. 


JOHN  LYDGATE. 

John  Jjjdgsite,  who  flourished  about  the 
year  1430,  was  an  Augustine  monk  of  St.  Ed- 
mund's Bury.  " His  muse,"  says  Warton,  "was 
of  universal  access,  and  he  was  not  only  the 
poet  of  the  monastery,  but  of  the  world  in 
general.  If  a  disguising  was  intended  by  the 
company  of  Goldsmiths,  a  mask  before  His 
Majesty  at  Eltham,  a  May-game  for  the 
sheriffs  and  aldermen  of  London,  a  mumming 
before  the  Lord  Mayor,  a  procession  of 
pageants  from  the  creation  for  the  festival 
of  Corpus  Christi,  or  a  card  for  the  corona- 
tion, Lydgate  was  consulted  and  gave  the 
poetry."  He  travelled  in  France  and  Italy. 
Ho  kept  a  school  for  pupils  of  the  higher 
classes  in  versification.  He  ^vrote,  according 
to  Eitson,  in  his  "  BibHographica  Poetica," 
no  fewer  than  251  works.  He  was  a  good 
mathematician  and  also  an  accomplished 
scholar.     Bom  1375,  died  1461. 


JAMES  I. 

James  I.,  King  of  Scotland,  the  son  of 
Robert  111. ,  was  taken  by  the  English  on  his 
passage  to  France,  and  kept  in  confinement 
eighteen  years.  In  1423  he  obtained  his  li- 
berty on  Marrying  Joanna  Beaufort,  daughter 
of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  with  whom  he  had 
fallen  in  love  from  seeing  her  walking  in  the 
royal  gardens  at  Windsor  while  he  was  a 
prisoner  there,  and  who  is  believed  to  be  the 
lady  alluded  to  in  James's  pleasing  poem  of 
the  "  King's  Quhair."  On  his  return  to 
Scotland  he  severely  punished  his  uncle,  the 
Duke  of  Albany,  and  others,  who  had  mis- 
governed the  country  in  his  absence,  in  con- 
sequence of  which  a  conspiracy  was  formed, 
and  he  was  murdered  in  his  private  apart- 
ments in  1437.  James  I.  was  a  most  accom- 
phshed  gentleman,  and  a  poet  of  no  little 
merit.  He  invented  a  sort  of  plaintive 
melody,  which  was  greatly  admired  and  imi- 
tated in  Italy,  in  which  country  he  was,  in 
consequence,  long  remembered  with  respect. 
He  was  one  of  the  most  skilful  harpers  of  his 
time,  and  excelled  all  competitors  in  the  use 
of  that  instrument.  Three  compositions  of 
his  have  come  down  to  us,  "  Christ's  Kirk  on 


the  Green,"  the  "King's  Quhair,"  and 
"  Peebles  at  the  Play,"  which  exhibit  no 
mean  degree  of  intellectual  power  and  literary 
skill. — Beeton's  TJniverscd  Biography,  p.  548. 


ANDREW  WYNTOUN. 

Andrew  Wyntoun  lived  in  the  early  part  of 
the  15th  century.  He  was  a  priest  of  St. 
Serf's  monastery  in  Lochleven.  He  wrote  a 
chronicle  of  his  country  in  rhyme.  It  is 
"  valuable  as  a  picture  of  ancient  manners,  as 
a  repository  of  historical  anecdotes,  and  as  a 
specimen  of  the  Kterary  attainments  of  our 
ancestors.  It  contains  a  considerable  number 
of  fabulous  legends,  such  as  we  may  suppose 
to  have  been  told  beside  the  parlour  fire  of  a 
monastery  of  those  days." — Chambers's  CyclO' 
pxdia  of  English  Literature,  vol.  i.  p.  28. 


BLIND  HAERY. 

Blind  Harry,  or  Henry  the  Minstrel,  lived 
about  the  close  of  the  15th  century.  He  sang 
the  adventures  of  Wallace,  and  the  poem,  in 
eleven  books,  is  full  of  animated  descriptions 
of  battle  and  heroic  deeds.  William  Hamilton 
of  Gibertfield  paraphrased  it  into  modem 
Scotch.  In  its  new  dress  it  has  been  exceed- 
ingly popular  among  the  peasantry,  and  tended 
greatly  to  kindle  the  genius  of  Bums. 


ROBERT  HENRYSONE. 

Little  is  known  of  this  poet's  history. 
He  was  a  schoolmaster  at  Dunfermhne, 
and  a  monk  of  the  Benedictine  order.  He 
wrote  a  number  of  poems,  the  chief  of 
which  are  "The  Testament  of  Cresseide," 
being  a  sequel  to  Chaucer's  Troilus  and 
Cresseide  "  Fabils,"  thirteen  in  number. 
His  best  fable  is  the  "  Vpoulands  Mouse  and 
the  Burgesse  Mouse  ;  "  but  his  most  exquisite 
production  is  "  Robene  and  Makyne,"  which  is 
probably  the  earliest  specimen  of  pastoral 
poetry  in  the  Scottish  language.  Dr.  David 
Irving,  in  his  "Lives  of  the  Scottish  Poets," 
thus  speaks  of  him  : — "  The  various  v-'orka  of 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Second  Period. 


Henrysone  afford  so  excellent  a  specimen  of 
the  Scottish  language  and  versification,  that  a 
complete  collection,  printed  with  due  accuracy 
and  accompanied  with  proper  illustrations, 
could  not  fan  to  be  highly  acceptable  to  the 
lovers  of  our  early  literature.  The  poems  of 
Henrysone  are  given  in  the  collections  of 
Hailes,  Pinkerton,  Ramsay,  Sibbald,  Irving, 
and  EUis."  He  died  some  time  before  the 
year  1508. 


WILLIAM  DUNBAE. 

William  Dunbar,  born  1465,  died  1530. 
Dunbar  was  a  native  of  Salton,  East  Lothian, 
Scotland.  He  received  his  education  at  the 
University  of  St.  Andrew.  He  became  a 
Franciscan  friar,  and  preached  in  Scotland, 
England,  and  France.  James  IV.  gave  him 
residence  at  the  court,  and  employed  him  in 
diplomatic  services.  He  wrote  "  The  Thistle 
and  Rose,"  an  allegory  celebrating  the 
marriage  of  James  IV.  of  Scotland  with 
Margaret,  daughter  of  Henry  VII. ;  "  The 
Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  through 
Hell;"  and  "The  Golden  Terge."  -  His 
"  Merle  and  Nightingale "  exhibits  much 
beauty.  "  The  Two  Married  Women  and  the 
Widow  "  is  in  a  rich  vein  of  humour :  it  is 
however  indelicate.  Sir  Walter  Scott  ex- 
presses a  very  high  opinion  of  Dunbar;  he 
says,  "  that  he  is  unrivalled  by  any  poet  that 
Scotland  has  yet  produced  ;  "  and  Ellis  speaks 
in  equally  high  terms  :  "  Dunbar's  peculiar 
excellence  is  much  good  sense  and  sound 
morality,  expressed  with  force  and  concise- 
ness, llis  style,  whether  grave  or  humorous, 
whether  simple  or  ornamented,  is  always 
energetic;  and  though  all  his  compositions 
cannot  be  expected  to  possess  equal  merit,  we 
seldom  find  in  them  a  weak  or  redundant 
stanza."  His  poems  were  published  with 
notes  by  Sir  David  Dabymple.  Strange  to 
say  that,  with  a  very  slight  exception,  all  his 
writings  remained  in  manuscript  till  the 
beginning  of  the  last  century. 


GAWAIN  DOUGLAS. 

Gawain  Douglas,  bom  at  Brechin  1475, 
died  1522.  He  was  the  third  son  of  Arclii- 
bald,  fifth  Earl  of  Angus,  and  became  Bishop 
of  Dunkeld.  He  was  educated  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Paris,  and  having  entered  the  church, 
he  was  ever  regarded  as  a  lover  of  peace.  He 
was  a  poet  of  considerable  power,  and  his 
principal  production,  "  The  Palice  of  Honour," 
wiU  often  remind  the  reader  of  Bunyan's 
Pilgrim's  Progress.  He  is,  however,  best 
known  for  his  translation  of  Virgil's  .^neid 
into  Scottish  verse  :  the  first  version  of  any 
classic  author  into  the  British  language. 
Hallam,  in  "  Introduction  to  Literary  History," 
says  "  the  character  of  Douglas's  original 
poetry  seems  to  be  that  of  the  middle  ages  in 


general — prolix,  though  sometimes  animated, 
descriptive  of  sensible  objects."  Warton 
speaks  of  him  as  highly  poetical ;  and  Irving 
as  a  bold  and  energetic  writer. 


SIR  DAVID  LYNDSAY. 
Sir  David  Lyndsay  was  born  abo'at  1490- 
He  served  King  James  V.  in  a  variety  of 
offices,  as  sewer,  carver,  cupbearer,  purse, 
master,  and  was  afterwards  appointed  Lord 
Lyon  King  at  Arms.  He  was  given  to  hu- 
mour and  satire  ;  and  though  so  intimately 
connected  with  the  court,  yet  he  boldly  de- 
nounced its  foibles  and  abuses.  The  clergy, 
who  then  led  for  the  most  part  very  dissolute 
lives,  he  strongly  assailed.  His  writings 
doubtless  contributed  in  no  little  degree  to 
help  forward  the  Reformation  in  Scotland. 
He  died  about  the  year  1555. 


JOHN  SKELTON. 

John  Skelton  was  bom  either  in  Cum- 
berland, or  more  probably  in  Norfolk,  about 
1460.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  after- 
wards became  Rector  of  Diss.  His  conduct 
was  very  unsuitable  for  a  clergyman,  although 
some  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  general 
laxity  of  the  times.  Through  an  attack  in 
his  poem  "  Why  come  ye  not  to  Court  ?  "  on 
Cardinal  Wolsey,  then  in  the  zenith  of  power, 
he  was  compelled  to  seek  refuge  with  Islip, 
the  Abbot  of  Westminster.  With  this  kind 
and  faithful  friend  he  lived  till  his  death,  in 
1529.  His  works  consist  chiefly  of  satires 
and  sonnets :  there  are  also  some  severe  remarks 
on  Lily,  a  noted  grammarian  at  that  period. 
The  Rev.  Alexander  Dyce  has  published  his 
poems. 


HENEY  HOWARD. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  bom  1518, 
died  1547.  He  was  the  third  son  of  Thomas, 
Earl  of  Surrey,  and  third  Duke  of  Norfolk,  by 
his  second  duchess,  Elizabeth,  daughter  of 
Stafford,  Duke  of  Buckingham.  He  was  the 
companion  of  Henry  Fitzroy,  Duke  of  Rich- 
mond, Henry  VIII. 's  natural  son.  Both  were 
sent  to  Cardinal  College,  now  called  Christ 
Church,  Oxford.  He  married  in  1535  Lady 
Frances  Vere.  In  1542  he  soi-ved  under  his 
father  in  Scotland.  Two  years  afterwards  he 
was  appointed  Field-Marshal  of  the  English 
army  on  the  Continent.  He  distinguished  him- 
self greatly  at  the  sieges  of  Landrecy  and 
Boulogne.  He  became  highly  popular,  and  de- 
servedly so,  as  his  valour,  skill,  and  accom- 
plishments were  great.  But  this  the  jealous 
Henry  could  ill  brook.  He  was  recalled  from 
the  Continent  and  imprisoned  immediately  on 
his  arrival  in  England.     He  was  then  charged, 


From  1400  to  1558.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


on  the  most  trifling  and  flimsy  pretences,  with 
high  treason.  He  was  convicted,  and  on  the 
19th  January,  1547,  this  brave,  generous, 
noble-hearted  man  was  beheaded  on  Tower 
Hill,  through  the  caprice  of  a  relentless 
tji-ant.  He  left  two  sons  and  three  daughters. 
Robert  Chambers  rightly  describes  the  poetry 
of  Surrey  as  "  remarkable  for  a  flowing  melody, 
correctness  of  style,  and  purity  of  expression. 
He  was  the  first  to  introduce  the  sonnet  and 
blank  verse  into  English  poetry.  The  gentle 
and  melancholy  pathos  of  his  style  is  well 
exemplified  in  the  verses  which  he  wrote 
during  his  captivity  in  Windsor  Castle."  He 
was  celebrated  by  Drayton,  Dryden,  Fenton, 
and  Pope ;  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  says,  "  he 
was  no  less  valiant  than  learned,  and  of  excel- 
lent hopes."  Lodge,  in  "Biographical  Ac- 
counts of  the  Holbein  Portraits,"  states  that 
"  the  character  of  Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey,  re- 
flects splendour  even  upon  the  name  of  Howard. 
He  revived,  in  an  age  too  rude  to  enjoy  fully 
those  beauties  which  mere  nature  could  not  but 
in  some  degree  relish,  the  force  of  expression, 
the  polished  style  and  the  passionate  senti- 
ments of  the  best  poets  of  antiquity."  Hallam," 
in  his  "Literary  History  of  Europe,"  writes, 
"the  taste  of  this  remarkable  man  is  more  than 
his  poetical  genius.  He  did  much  for  his  own 
country  and  his  native  language." 


SIR  THOMAS  WYAT. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat  the  Elder  was  bom  at 
Allington  Castle,  in  Kent,  in  1503.  He  was 
educated  at  the  University  of  Cambridge. 
He  married  early,  and  was  ia  great  repute 
with  Henry  VIII. ,  who  sent  him  on  many 
difficult  missions,  ia  all  of  which  he  showed 
great  wisdom  and  knowledge  of  mankind.  It 
is  believed  that  he  was  attached  to  Anne 
Boleyn  before  her  marriage  with  the  king. 
His  poems  were  one  of  the  last  works  read  by 
the  ill-fated  queen.  Once  Wyat  seems  to 
have  lost  his  influence  at  court,  for  he  was 
committed  to  the  Tower ;  but  though  unfairly 
tried,  was  honourably  acquitted.  He  once 
again  became  a  favourite  with  the  capricious 
and  tyrannical  monarch.  "  In  the  autumn  of 
1542,  he  received  orders  to  meet  the  Spanish 
Ambassador,  who  had  landed  at  Falmouth, 
and  to  conduct  him  to  London.  In  this 
journey  he  overheated  himseK  with  riding,  and 
was  seized  at  Sherborne  with  a  malignant 
fever,  which  carried  him  off,  after  a  few  days' 
illness,  in  his  thirty-ninth  year." — {CamphelVs 
Specimens  of  the  British  Poets.)  He  wrote 
many  beautiful  songs  and  sonnets,  principally 
at  his  paternal  seat  of  Allington.  He  also 
translated  David's  Psalms  into  English  verse. 


ANDREW  BOURiD. 

Andrew  Bourd,  born  about  1500,  died  1549. 
was   a   native   of    Sussex,    and   educated   at 


Oxford.  Hearne  tells  us  that  he  "  frequented 
markets  and  fairs  where  a  conflux  of  people 
used  to  get  together,  to  whom  he  prescribed, 
and  to  induce  them  to  flock  thither  the  more 
readily,  he  would  make  humorous  speeches." 
He  published  "  Pryncyples  of  Astronomy  e  "  in 
1540 ;  in  1542  he  issued  "  The  First  Boke  of 
the  Introduction  of  Knowledge,  the-which  doth 
teach  a  man  to  speake  part  of  al  manor  of 
languages,  and  to  know  the  usage  and  fashion 
of  al  maner  of  countryes,  &c.,"  of  which  work 
Dibdiu  says,  "  Probably  the  most  curious  and 
generally  iateresting  volume  ever  put  forth 
from  the  press  of  the  Coplands."  He  "svi-ote 
the  well-known  and  celebrated  "Merrie  Tales 
of  the  Mad  Men  of  Gotham."  This  "was 
accounted  a  book  full  of  wit  and  mirth  by 
scholars  and  gentlemen.  Afterwards  being 
often  printed,  is  now  sold  only  on  the  stalls  of 
ballad-singers." — (Athen.  Oxon.)  He  wrote 
"  The  Breviarie  of  Healthe  for  all  Manner  of 
Sicknesses  and  Diseases,"  &c.,  1547,  which 
was  approved  by  the  University  of  Oxford. 
In  the  dedicatory  Epistle  to  the  College  of 
Physicians  he  thus  writes  :  "  Egregious  doctors 
and  masters  of  the  eximious  and  arcane 
science  of  physic,  of  your  urbanity  exas- 
perate not  yourselves  against  me  for  making 
this  little  volume  of  physic."  See  Wood's 
"  Athen.  Oxon.,"  Bliss's  edit. ;  Warton's  "Eng- 
lish Poetry";  Dibdin's  "Ames";  "Brit. 
Bibliog.  "  ;  Ritson's  "  Bibliog.  Poet.  "  ;  Dodd's 
"  Ch.  Hist.,"  vol.  i. ;  Cooper's  "  Muses' 
Library "  ;  Phillips's  "  Theatrum  Poet. 
Angl. "  ;  Hearne' s  "  Pref.  to  Benedictus  Abbas 
Petroburg"  ;  Chalmers's  "  Biog.  Diet." 


THOMAS  TUSSER. 

Thomas  Tusser,  born  1523,  died  1580. 
Little  is  known  of  this  poet  beyond  that  "  he 
was  well  educated,  commenced  Hfe  as  a 
courtier  under  the  patronage  of  Lord  Paget, 
but  became  a  farmer,  pursuing  agriculture  at 
Ratwood,  in  Sussex,  Ipswich,  Fairstead  in 
Essex,  Norwich,  and  other  places ;  that  he 
was  not  successful,  and  had  to  betake  himself 
to  other  occupations,  such  as  those  of  a  cho- 
rister, fiddler,  &c. ;  and  that  finally  he  died  a 
poor  man  in  London,  in  the  year  1580.  Tusser 
has  left  only  one  work,  published  in  1557, 
entitled  '  A  Hundred  Good  Points  of  Hus- 
bandrie,'  written  in  simple,  but  at  the  same 
time  strong  verse.  It  is  our  first,  and  not 
our  worst  didactic  poem." — Geo.  Gilfillan's 
Specimens,  with  Memoirs  of  the  less  known 
British  Poets. 


RICHARD  EDWARDS. 

Richard  Edwards,  1523—1566.  One  of  the 
earliest  dramatic  writers,  educated  at  Coitus 
Christi  College,  and  Christchxirch,  Oxford. 
He  was  one  of  the  contributors  of  the 
"  Paradyse  of  Daynty  Devises,"   author  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Second  Period- 


"  Damon  and  Pythias."  This  "  Damon  and 
Pythias"  was  the  foremost  of  English  dramas 
On  classical  subjects,  and  was]  acted  before 
Queen  Elizabeth  in  1566.  He  wrote  also  the 
comedy  of  "  Palfflmon  and  Arcyte,"  which  was 
performed  in  the  hall  of  his  former  coUege, 
Christchurch,  in  the  same  year ;  and  Wood,  in 
"  Athen.  Oxon.,"  Bliss's  edit.,  i.  353,  gives  a 
most  interesting  account  of  the  acting 
thereof  in  the  presence  of  Eoyalty,  when  the 
cry  of  the  hounds  was  so  well  imitated  that 
many  of  the  scholars  "were  so  much  taken 
and  surprised,  supposing  it  had  been  real, 
that  they  cried  out, '  Tljere,  there — he's  caught, 
he's  caught ! '  All  which  the  queen  merrily 
beholding,  said,  '  Oh,  excellent !  those  boys  in 
very  truth  are  ready  to  leap  out  of  the 
windows  to  foUow  the  hounds.'  "  Edwards's 
madrigals  and  other  poetical  productions  were 
very  popular.  See  Puttenham'  s  ' '  Arte  of  Eng. 
Poets"  ;  Wood's  "  Annals"  ;  Sir  E.  Brydges's 
edit,  of  Phillips's  "  Theatrum  Poetarum  "  ; 
"  Brit.  Bibliog."  vol.  iii. ;  Hawkins's  "  Hist,  of 


Music"  ;  EUis's  "  Spec.  Eng.  Poet." ;  Warton's 
"Hist,  of  Eng.  Poet.";  "Biog.  Dramat. "  ; 
Collier's  "Hist,  of  Dram,  Poet."  ;  and  Drake^s 
"  Shakspeare  and  his  Times." 


WILLIAJVI  HUNNIS. 

William  Hunnis  was  chapel-master  to  Queen 
Elizabeth.     He   wrote    "  Certayne  Psalms   in 
English  Metre,"  1550;  also  in  1578  a  "Hyve 
full  of  Hunny,  containing  the  First  Booke  of 
Moses    called    Genesis   turned   into    English. 
Metre."     He    published    "Seven   Sobs   of    a 
Sorrowful   Soule   for    Sinne,"  &c.,   in    1585 
"  Eecreations,"    in    1588,    and    other   works 
See  "Bibl.  Anglo.  Poet.";  Lowndes's  "Bibl 
Man.";  Brydges's  "Brit.  Bibliog.";  Camp, 
bell's  "  Spec,  of  Eng.  Poets  "  ;  Dibdin's  "Lib 
Comp.,"  ed.  1825,  655;  HaUam's  "Lit.  Hist 
of    Europe,"    ed.    1854,    ii.    120;    Collier's 
"  Annals  of  the  Stage,"  vol.  i.  p.  235. 


SECOND     PEEIOD. 


From  1400  to  1558. 


CONDEMNED  TO  DEATH 
BY  HER  FATHER  iEOLUS,  SENDS  TO 
HER  GUILTY  BROTHER  MACAREUS 
THE  LAST  TESTIMONY  OF  HER  UN- 
HAPPY  PASSION. 

Out  of  hev  swoone  when  she  did  abbraide, 
Knowing  no  mean  but  death  in  her  distresse, 
To  her  brother  full  piteouslie  she  said, 
"Cause  of  my  sorrowe,  roote  of  my  heavinesse, 
That  whilom  were  the  sourse  of  my  gladnesse, 
When  both  our  joyes  by  -sville  were  so  disposed, 
Under  one  key  our  hearts  to  be  enclosed. 


This  is  mine  end,  I  may  it  not  astarte ; 

0  brother  mine,  there  is  no  more  to  saye ; 
Lowly  beseeching  with  mine  whole  heart 
For  to  remember  specially,  I  praye, 

If  it  befall  my  littel  sonne  to  dye. 

That  thou  mayst  after  some  mind  on  us  have, 

Suffer  us  both  be  buried  in  one  grave. 

1  hold  him  strictly  twene  my  armes  twein, 
Thou  and  Nature  laide  on  me  this  charge ; 
He,  guUtlesse,  muste  with  me  suffer  paine. 
And,  sith  thou  art  at  freedom  and  at  large, 
Let  kindnesse  oure  love  not  so  discharge, 
But  have  a  minde,  wherever  that  thou  be, 
Once  on  a  day  upon  my  child  and  me. 

On  thee  and  me  dependeth  the  trespace 
Touching  our  guilt  and  our  great  offence, 
But,  welaway  !  most  angelik  of  face 
Our  childe,  young  in  his  pure  innocence, 
Shall  agayn  right  suffer  death's  violence, 
Tender  of  limbes,  God  wote,  full  guiltelesse 
The  goodly  faire,  that  lieth  here  speechless. 

A  mouth  he  has,  but  wordis  hath  he  none  ; 
Cannot  complaine  alas  !  for  none  outrage  : 
Nor  grutcheth  not,  but  lies  here  all  alone 
Still  as  a  lambe,  most  meke  of  his  visage. 
What  heart  of  stele  could  do  to  him  damage. 
Or  suffer  him  dye,  beholding  the  manere 
And  looke  benigne  of  his  twein  eyen  clere." — 


Writing  her  letter,  awhapped  all  in  drede, 
In  her  right  hand  her  pen  ygan  to  quake. 
And  a  sharp  sword  to  make  her  hearte  blede, 
In  her  left  hand  her  father  hath  her  take. 


And  most  her  sorrowe  was  for  her  childea  sake, 
Upon  whose  face  in  her  barme  sleepynge 
Full  many  a  tere  she  wept  in  complayning. 
After  all  this  so  as  she  stoode  and  quoke. 
Her  child  beholding  mid  of  her  peines  smart, 
Without  abode  the  sharpe  sword  she  tooke. 
And  rove  herself  e  even  to  the  hearte  ; 
Her  childe  fell  down,  which  mighte  not  astert, 
Having  no  help  to  succour  him  nor  save. 
But  in  her  blood  theselfe  began  to  bathe. 

J»7m  Lydgate. — About  1420. 


37.— FROM 


THE    LONDON  LACK- 
PENNY." 


Within  the  hall,  neither  rich  nor  yet  poor 
Would  do  for  me  aught,  altho'  I  should  die, 

Which  seeing  I  gat  me  out  of  the  door, 
Where  Flemings  began  on  me  for  to  cry, 
"  Master  what  will  you  kopen  or  buy  ? 

Fine  felt  hats,  or  spectacles  to  read  ? 

Lay  down  your  silver  and  here  may  you  speed." 

Then  to  Westminster  gate  I  presently  went, 
When  the  sun  it  was  at  high  prime  : 

And  cooks  to  me  they  took  good  intent, 
And  proffered  me  bread,  with  ale  and  wine, 
Ribs  of  beef,  both  fat  and  full  fine, 

A  fair  cloth  they  'gan  for  to  spread. 

But,  wanting  money,  I  might  not  be  sped. 

Then  unto  London  I  did  me  hie. 
Of  all  the  land  it  beareth  the  price. 

"  Hot  peascods  !  " — one  began  to  cry, 

"  Strawberry  ripe,  and  cherries  in  the  rise." 
One  bade  me  draw  near  and  buy  some  spice. 

Pepper  and  saffron  they  'gan  me  bid, 

But,  for  lack  of  money,  I  might  not  speed. 

Then  to  the  Cheepe  I  'gan  me  drawn. 
Where  much  people  I  saw  for  to  stand. 

One  offered  me  velvet,  silk,  and  lawn ; 
Another  he  taketh  me  by  the  hand, — 
"Here  is  Paris  thread,  the  finest  in  the  land." ' 

I  never  was  used  to  such  things  indeed. 

And,  wanting  money,  I  might  not  speed. 

Then  went  I  forth  by  London  Stone, 
Through  out  all  Canwyke  Street. 

Drapers  much  cloth  me  offered  anon. 

Then  comes  me  one  cried — "Hot  sheep' sfeet." 
One  cried  "  Mackrell !  " — "  Rysses  green  !  " 
another  'gan  greit. 


(OHN  LtDGATE. 


A  SYLVAN  RETEEAT. 


[Second  Period. — 


One  bade  me  buy  a  hood  to  cover  my  head, 
But,  for  want  of  money,  I  might  not  be  sped. 

Then  I  hied  me  unto  East  Cheepe. 

One  cries  ribs  of  beef,  and  many  a  pie. 
Pewter  pots  they  clattered  on  a  heap. 

There  was  harp,  pipe,  and  minstrally. 

"  Yea,  by  cock  !  nay,  by  cock  !  " — some  'gan 
cry. 
Some  sang  of  Jenkin  and  Julian  for  their  meed. 
But,  for  lack  of  money,  I  might  not  speed. 

Then  into  Cornhill  anon  I  yode, 

Where  was  much  stolen  gear ;  among 

I  saw  where  hung  mine  own  hood. 
That  I  had  lost  among  the  throng. 
To  buy  my  own  hood  I  thought  it  wrong  ; 

I  knew  it,  well  as  I  did  my  creed, 

But,  for  lack  of  money,  I  could  not  speed. 

The  tavemer  took  me  by  the  sleeve, 

"  Sir,"  says  he,  "  will  you  our  wine  assay  ?  " 

I  answered,  "  That  cannot  much  me  grieve, — 
A  penny  can  do  no  more  than  it  may." 
I  drank  a  pint,  and  for  it  did  pay  : 

Yet  sore  a  hungered  from  thence  I  yede. 

And,  wanting  money,  I  could  not  speed. 

John  Lydgate. — About  1420. 


38.— A  SYLVAN  RETEEAT. 

Till  at  the  last,  among  the  bowes  glade. 
Of  adventure,  I  caught  a  pleasant  shade  ; 
Full  smooth,  and  plain,  and  lusty  for  to  seen. 
And  soft  as  velvet  was  the  yonge  green  : 
Where  from  my  horse  I  did  alight  as  fast, 
And  on  the  bow  aloft  his  reine  cast. 
So  faint  and  mate  of  weariness  I  was, 
Tliat  I  me  laid  adown  upon  the  grass. 
Upon  a  brinke,  shortly  for  to  tell. 
Beside  the  river  of  a  crystal  well ; 
And  the  water,  as  I  reherse  can. 
Like  quicke  silver  in  his  streams  y-ran, 
Of  which  the  gravel  and  the  brighte  stone, 
As  any  gold,  against  the  sun  y- shone. 

John  Lydgate. — About  1420. 


39.— THE  GOLDEN  AGE. 

Fortitude  then  stood  steadfast  in  his  might ; 
Defended  widows  ;  cherished  chastity  ; 
Knighthood  in  prowess  gave  so  clear  a  light, 
Girt  with  his  sword  of  truth  and  equity. 

John  Lydgate. — About  1420. 


40.— GOD'S  PEOVIDENCE. 

God  hath  a  thousand  handes  to  chastise  ; 
A  thousand  dartes  of  punicion  ; 
A  thousand  bowes  made  in  divers  wise  ; 
A  thousand  arlblasts  bent  in  his  dongeon. 
John  Lydgate. — About  1420. 


41.— SPEING. 

QUHAIR:   CANTO  II. 

In  Ver,  that  full  of  virtue  is  and  good, 
When  Nature  first  beginneth  her  emprise. 
That  whilom  was,  by  cruel  frost  and  flood. 
And  showers  sharp,  oppressed  in  many  wise  : 
And  Cynthius  beginneth  to  arise 
High  in  the  east,  a  morrow  soft  and  sweet, 
Upwards  his  course  to  drive  in  Ariete ; 

II. 
Passit  but  midday  four  'greis,  even 
Of  length  and  breadth  his  angel  wingis  bright 
He  spread  upon  the  ground  down  from  the 

heaven ; 
That  for  gladness  and  comfort  of  the  sight. 
And  with  the  tickling  of  his  heat  and  light. 
The  tender  flowris  openit  them  and  sprad. 
And  in  their  nature  thankit  him  for  glad. 

James  I.  of  Scotland. — About  1420. 


42.— JAMES  BEWAILS  HIS  CAPTIVITY. 
CANTO  i:. 


Whereas  in  ward  full  oft  I  would  bewail. 
My  deadly  life  full  of  pain  and  penn^nce, 
Saying  right  thus: — "What  have  I  guilt,  to  fail 
My  freedom  in  this  world  and  my  pleasaunce  ? 
Since  every  wight  thereof  has  suffisance. 
That  I  behold, — and  I,  a  creature 
Put  from  all  this  : — ^hard  is  mine  aventure. 


"  The  bird,  the  beast,  the  fish  eke  in  the  sea, 
They  live  in  freedom,  everich  in  his  kind, 
A.nd  I,  a  man — and  lacketh  liberty  ! 
What  shall  I  sayn  ?     What  reason  may  I  find 
That  fortune  should  do  so  ?  "    Thus  in  my  mind ; 
My  folk  I  would  argewe — but  all  for  nought — 
Was  none  that  might  that  on  my  paines  rought. 
James  I.  of  Scotland. — About  1420. 


43.— JAMES  FIEST  SEES  THE  LADY 
JANE. 

Bewailing  in  my  chamber,  thus  alone, 
Despaired  of  all  joy  and  remedy, 
For-tired  of  my  thought,  and  woe-begone. 
And  to  the  window  gan  I  walk  in  hy 
To  see  the  world  and  folk  that  went  forbye. 
As,  for  the  time,  though  I  of  mirthis  food 
Might  have  no  more,  to  look  it  did  me  good. 

Now  was  there  made,  fast  by  the  towris  wall, 

A  garden  fair  ;  and  in  the  comers  set 

Ane    arbour   green,    with   wandis    long    and 

small 
Railed  about,  and  so  with  trees  set 
W^as  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet 
That  lyi  was  none  walking  there  forbye. 
That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espy. 


From  1400  to  15^8.] 


THE  EETUEN  OF  DAVID  II. 


[Andrew  Wtntoun. 


30  thick  tlie  boug-Ms  and  the  leavis  green 

Beskaded  ail  tha  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  niids  of  every  arbour  might  be  seen 

The  sharpe  greene  sweete  juniper, 

Growing  so  fair  with  branches  here  and  there, 

That  as  it  seemed  to  a  lyf  without, 

The  boughis  spread  the  arbour  all  about. 

And  on  the  smiiile  greene  twistis  sat, 
The  little  sweete  nightingale,  and  sung 
Sc  loud  and  clear,  the  hymnis  consecrat 
Of  lovis  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among, 
That  all  the  gardens  and  the  wallis  rung 
Eight  of  their  song.  *  * 

Cast  I  down  mine  eyes  again, 


I 


Where  as  I  saw,  walking  under  the  tower. 
Full  secretly,  new  comen  here  to  plain. 
The  fairist  or  the  freshest  younge  flower 
That  ever  I  saw,  methought,  before  that  hour, 
For  which  sudden  abate,  anon  astart. 
The  blood  of  all  my  body  to  my  heart. 

And  though  I  stood  abasit  tho  a  lite. 
No  wonder  was  ;  for  why  ?  my  wittis  all 
Were  so  overcome  with  pleasance  and  delight, 
Only  through  letting  of  my  eyen  fall, 
That  suddenly  my  hear-t  became  her  thrall, 
For  ever  of  free  wUl, — for  of  menace 
There  was  no  token  in  her  sweete  face. 

And  in  mj^  head  I  drew  right  hastily, 
And  eftesoons  I  leant  it  out  agam, 
And  saw  her  walk  that  very  womanly, 
With  no  wight  mo',  but  only  women  twain. 
Then  gan  I  study  in  myself,  and  sajTi, 
"  Ah,  sweet !  are  ye  a  worldly  creature, 
Or  heavenly  thing  in  likeness  of  nature  ? 

Or  are  ye  god  Cupidis  own  princess, 
And  comin  are  to  loose  me  out  of  band  ? 

Or  are  ye  very  Nature  the  goddess, 
That  hove  depainted  with  your  heavenly  hand, 
Tliis  garden  full  of  flowers  as  they  stand  ? 
What  shall  I  think,  alas  !  what  reverence 
Shall  I  mister  unto  your  excellence  ? 

If  ye  a  goddess  be,  and  that  ye  like 

To  do  me  pain,  I  may  it  not  astart  : 

If  ye  be  warldly  wight,  that  doth  mo  sike. 

Why  list  God  make  you  so,  my  dearest  heart, 

To  do  a  seely  prisoner  this  smart. 

That  loves  you  all,  and  wot  of  nought  but  wo  ? 

And  therefore  mercy,  sweet !  sin'  it  is  so."  * 

Of  her  array  the  form  if  I  shall  write. 
Towards  her  golden  hair  and  rich  attire. 
In  fretwise  couchit  with  pearlis  white 
And  great  balas  leaming  as  the  fire. 
With  mony  ane  emeraut  and  fair  sapphire  ; 
And  on  her  head  a  chaplet  fresh  of  hue. 
Of  plumis  parted  red,  and  white,  and  blue. 

Full  of  quaking  spangis  bright  as  gold, 
Forged  of  shape  like  to  the  amorcts, 
So  new,  so  fresh,  so  pleasant  to  behold. 
The  plumis  eke  like  to  the  flower  jonets  ; 
And  other  of  shape  like  to  the  flower  jonets  ; 


And  above  all  this,  there  was,  well  I  wot, 
Beauty  enough  to  make  a  world  to  doat. 

About  her  neck,  white  as  the  fire  amail, 
A  goodly  chain  of  small  orfevory, 
"Whereby  there  hung  a  ruby,  without  fail. 
Like  to  ane  heart  shapen  verily. 
That  as  a  spark  of  low,  so  v/antonly    — 
Seemed  burning  upon  her  white  throat, 
Now  if  there  was  good  party,  God  it  wot. 

And  for  to  walk  that  fresh  May's  morrow, 
Ane  hook  she  had  upon  her  tissue  white, 
That  goodlier  had  not  been  seen  to-forow, 
As  I  suppose  ;  and  girt  she  was  alite. 
Thus  halflings  loose  for  haste,  to  such  delight 
It  was  to  see  her  youth  in  goodlihede. 
That  for  rudeness  to  speak  thereof  I  dread. 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty,  with  humble  aport, 

Bounty,  rich.es,  and  womanly  feature, 

God  better  wot  than  my  pen  can  report : 

Wisdom,  largess,  estate,  and  cunning  sur3. 

In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure, 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 

That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  avance ! 

#  *  *  # 

And  when  she  walked  had  a  little  thraw 
Under  the  sweete  greene  boughis  bent, 
Her  fair  fresh  face,  as  white  as  any  snaw. 
She  turned  has,  and  fm*th  her  wayis  went ; 
But  tho  began  mine  aches  and  torment. 
To  see  her  part  and  follow  I  na  might ; 
Methought  the  day  was  turned  into  night. 
James  I.  of  Scotland. — About  1420. 


44. 


-THE  EETUEN  OF  DAVID  II.  FEOM 
CAPTIVITY. 

Yet  in  prison  was  King  Davy. 
And  when  a  lang  time  was  gane  by, 
Frae  prison  and  perplexitio 
To  Berwick  Castle  brought  was  he. 
With  the  Earl  of  Northamptoun, 
For  to  treat  there  of  his  ransoun. 
Some  lords  of  Scotland  come  there. 
And  als  prelates,  that  wisest  were. 
Four  days  or  five  there  treated  they. 
But  they  accorded  by  nae  way ; 
For  English  folk  all  angry  were, 
And  ay  spak  rudely  mair  and  mair. 
While  at  the  last  the  Scots  party. 
That  dred  their  faes'  feliony. 
All  privily  went  hame  their  way ; 
At  that  time  there  nae  mair  did  they. 
The  king  to  London  then  was  had, 
That  there  a  lang  time  after  bade. 

After  syne,  with  mediatioun 
Of  messengers,  of  his  ransoun 
Was  treated,  while  a  set  day 
Till  Berwick  him  again  brought  they. 
And  there  was  treated  sae,  that  he 
Should  of  prison  delivered  be. 
And  freely  till  his  lands  found. 
To  pay  ane  hundred  thousand  pound 


1 

Andrew  Wtntoun.]                   INTERVIEW  OF  ST.  SERF.                    Second  Period. — 

Of  silver,  intil  fourteen  year 

To  that  St.  Serf  answered  there, 

And  [while]  the  payment  [payit]  were, 

"  Of  creatures  made  he  was  maker. 

To  make  sae  lang  truce  took  they, 

A  maker  micht  he  never  be. 

And  a,ffirmed  with  seal  and  fay. 

But  gif  creatures  made  had  he." 

Great  hostage  there  leved  he, 

The  devil  askit  him,  "  Why  God  of  noucht 

That  on  their  awn  dispense  should  be. 

His  werkis  aU  fuU  gude  had  Avroucht." 

Therefore,  while  they  hostage  were, 

St.  Serf  answered,  "  That  Goddis  will 

Expense  but  number  made  they  there. 

Was  never  to  make  his  werkis  iU, 

The  king  was  then  delivered  free, 

And  as  envious  he  had  been  seen, 

And  held  his  way  tiU  his  countrie. 

Gif  nought  but  he  full  gude  had  been." 

"With  him  of  Enghsh  brought  he  nane, 

St.  Serf  the  devil  askit  than, 

Without  a  chamber-boy  alane. 

"  Where  God  made  Adam,  the  first  man  ?" 

The  whether,  upon  the  morn,  when  he 

"  In  Ebron  Adam  formit  was," 

Should  wend  till  his  counsel  privy, 

St.  Serf  said.     And  till  him  Satha.nas, 

The  folk,  as  they  were  wont  to  do, 

"  Where  was  he,  eft  that,  for  his  vice, 

Pressed  right  rudely  in  thereto  : 

He  was  put  out  of  Paradise  ?" 

But  he  right  suddenly  can  arrace 

St.  Serf  said,  "  Where  he  was  made." 

Out  of  a  macer's  hand  a  mace. 

The  devil  askit,  "  How  lang  he  ba,fle 

And  said  rudely,  "  How  do  we  now  ? 

In  Paradise,  after  his  sin." 

Stand  still,  or  the  proudest  of  you 

"  Seven  hours,"  Serf  said,  "bade  he  therein." 

Shall  on  the  head  have  with  this  mace  1  " 

"  When  was  Eve  made  ? "  said  Sathanas. 

Then  there  was  nane  in  aU  this  place, 

"  In  Paradise,"  Serf  said,  "  she  was."    *   * 

But  all  they  gave  him  roo:a  in  hy ; 

The  devil  askit,  "  Why  that  ye 

Durst  Tia.Tie  press  further  that  were  by ; 

Men,  are  quite  delivered  free, 

His  council  door  might  open  stand, 

Through  Christ's  passion  precious  boucht, 

That  nane  durst  tiU  it  be  pressand. 

And  we  devils  say  are  noucht  ?" 

Radure  in  prince  is  a  gude  thing ; 

St.  Serf  said,  "  For  that  ye 

For,  but  radure,  all  governing 

Fell  through  your  awn  iniquity ; 

Shall  all  time  but  despised  be  : 

And  through  ourselves  wo  never  fell, 

And  where  that  men  may  radure  see, 

But  through  your  fellon  false  counsell."  *  * 

They  shall  dread  to  trespass,  and  sae 

Then  saw  the  devil  that  he  could  noucht, 

Peaceable  a  king  his  land  may  ma'. 

With  all  the  wiles  that  he  Avrought, 

Thus  radure  dred  that  gai-t  him  be. 

Overcome  St.  Serf.     He  said  than 

Of  Ingland  but  a  page  brought  he, 

He  kenned  him  for  a  wise  man. 

And  by  his  sturdy  'ginning 

Forthy  there  he  gave  him  quit. 

He  gart  them  aU  have  sic  dreading. 

For  he  wan  at  him  na  profit. 

That  there  was  nane,  durst  nigh  him  near, 

St.  Serf  said,  "  Thou  wretch,  gae 

But  wha  by  name  tha.t  called  were. 

Frae  this  stead,  and  'noy  nae  mae 

He  led  with  radure  sae  his  land. 

Into  this  stead,  I  bid  ye." 

In  aU  time  that  he  was  regnand, 

Suddenly  then  passed  he  ; 

That  nane  durst  weU  withstand  his  wiU, 

Frae  that  stead  he  held  his  way. 

All  wiTmiTig  bowsome  to  be  him  till. 

And  never  was  seen  there  to  this  day. 

Andreiu  Wyntoun.— About  1430. 

Andreio  Wy^itoun. — About  1430. 

45-— INTERVIEW  OF  ST.  SERF  WITH 

46.— ADVENTURE  OF  WALLACE  WHILE 

SATHANAS. 

FISHING  IN  IRVINE  WATER.' 

While  St.  Serf,  intil  a  stead, 

So  on  a  time  he  desired  to  play. 

Lay  after  matins  in  his  bed. 

In  Aperil  the  three-and-twenty  day, 

The  devil  came,  in  foul  intent 

Till  Irvine  water  fish  to  tak  ho  went. 

For  til  found  him  with  argument, 

Sic  fantasy  fell  in  his  intent. 

And  said,  "  St.  Serf,  by  thy  werk 

To  lead  his  net  a  child  fiu-th  with  him  yede. 

I  ken  thou  art  a  cunning  clerk." 

But  he,  or  noon,  was  in  a  fellon  dread. 

St.  Serf  said,  "  Gif  I  sae  be, 

-  His  swerd  he  left,  so  did  he  never  again  ; 

Foul  wretch,  what  is  that  for  thee  ?  '* 

It  did  him  gude,  suppose  he  suffered  pain. 

The  devil  said,  "  This  questibn 

Of  that  labour  as  than  he  was  not  slie. 

I  ask  in  our  coUation — 

Happy  he  was,  took  fish  abunrla.ritiy. 

Say  where  was  God,  wit  ye  oucht. 

Or  of  the  day  ten  hours  o'er  couth  pass. 

Before  that  heaven  arid  erd  was  wroucht  ?  " 

Ridand  there  came,  near  by  where  Wallace  was. 

St.  Serf  said,  "  In  himself  steadless 

The  Lord  Percy,  was  cajitain  than  of  Ayr  ; 

His  Godhead  hampered  never  was." 

Frae  then'  heturned,  and  couth  to  Glasgow  fare. 

The  devil  then  askit,  "What  cause  he  h^rl 

Part  of  the  court  had  Wallace,  labour  seen, 

To  make  the  creatures  that  he  made  ? " 

TiU  him  rade  five,  clad  into  ganand  green, 

From  1400  to  1558.] 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLACE. 


[Blind  Harey. 


And  said  soon,   "  Scot,  Martin's  fish  we  wald 

have !  " 
Wallace  meekly  again  answer  him  gave. 
"  It  were  reason,  methink,  ye  should  have  part, 
Waith  should  be  dealt,  in  all  place,  with  free 

heart." 
He  bade  his  child,  "Give them  of  ourwaithing." 
Tlie  Southron  said,  "  As  now  of  thy  deahng 
We  will  not  tak  ;  thou  wald  give  us  o'er  small." 
He  lighted  down  and  frae  the  child  took  all. 
Wallace  said  then,  "  Gentlemen  gif  ye  be, 
Leave  us  some  part,  we  pray  for  charity. 
Ane  aged  knight  serves  our  lady  to-day  ; 
Gude  friend,  leave  part,  and  tak  not  all  away." 
'•  Thou  shall  have  leave  to  fish,  and  tak  thee 

mae, 
All  this  forsooth  shall  in  our  flitting  gae. 
We  serve  a  lord ;  this  fish  shall  tiU  him  gang." 
Wallace  answered,   said,   "Thou  art  in  the 

wrang." 
"  Wham  thous  thou,  Scot  ?  in  faith  thou  'serves 

a  blaw." 
Till  him  he  ran,  and  out  a  swerd  can  draw. 
WUliara  was  wae  he  had  nae  wappins  there 
But  the  poutstaff,  the  whilk  in  hand  he  bare. 
Wallace  with  it  fast  on  the  cheek  him  took, 
With  sae  gude  will,  while  of  his  feet  he  shook. 
The  swerd  flew  frae  him  a  fur-braid  on  the  land. 
Wallace  was  glad,  and  hint  it  soon  in  hand  ; 
And  with  the  swerd  awkward  he  him  gave 
Under  the  hat,  his  craig  in  sunder  drave. 
By  that  the  lave  lighted  about  Wallace, 
He  had  no  help,  only  but  God's  grace. 
On  either  side  full  fast  on  him  they  dang, 
Great  peril  was  gif  they  had  lasted  lang. 
Upon  the  head  in  great  ire  he  strak  ane  ; 
The  shearand  swerd  glade  to  the  collar  bane. 
Ane  other  on  the  arm  he  hit  so  hardily. 
While  hand  and  swerd  baith  in  the  field  can  He. 
The  tother  twa  fled  to  their  horse  again ; 
He  stickit  him  was  last  upon  the  plain.  . 
Three  slew  he  t'here,  twa  fled  with  all  their 

might 
After  their  lord  ;  but  he  was  out  of  sight, 
Takand  the  muir,  or  he  and  they  couth  twine. 
Till  him  they  rade  anon,  or  they  wald  blin. 
And  cryit,  "  Lord,  abide ;  your  men  are  mar- 
tyred down 
Eight  cruelly,  here  in  this  false  region. 
Five  of  our  court  here  at  the  water  bade. 
Fish  for  to  bring,  though  it  nae  profit  made. 
We  are  scaped,  but  in  field  slain  are  three." 
The  lord  speirit,  "  How  mony  might  they  be  ?  " 
"We  saw  but  ano  that  has  discomfist  us  all." 
Then  leugh  he  loud,  and  said,  "  Foul  mot  you 

fall! 
Sin'  ane  you  all  has  put  to  confusion. 
Wha  meins  it  maist  the   devil   of   hell  him 

drown ! 
This  day  for  mc,  in  faith,  he  bees  not  sought." 
AVhen   Wallace   thus   thia  worthy  wark  had 

wrought, 
Their  horse  he  took,  and  gear  that  left  was 

there. 
Gave  ower  that   craft,  he  yede  to   fish   nae 

mair.  ^ 


Went  till  his  eme,  and  tald  him  of  this  deed, 
And  he  for  woe  well  near  worthit  to  weid. 
And  said,  "  Son,  thir  tidings  sits  me  sore. 
And,  be  it  known,  thou  may  tak  scaith  there- 
fore." 
"  Uncle,"  he  said,  "  I  will  no  langeritjidn, 
Thir  southland  horse  let  see  gif  I  can  ride." 
Then  but  a  child,  him  service  for  to  mak, 
His  eme's  sons  he  wald  not  with  him  tak. 
This  gude  knight  said,  "  Dear  cousin,  pray  I 

thee. 
When  thou  wants  gude,  come  fetch  eneuch 

frae  me." 
Silver  and  gold  he  gart  on  him  give, 
Wallace  inclines,  and  gudely  took  his  leave. 

Blind  Harry.— About  1460. 


47.— THE  DEATH  OF  WALLACE. 

On    Wednesday    the    false    Southron  furth 

brocht 
To  martyr  him,  as  they  before  had  wrocht. 
Of  men  in  arms  led  him  a  full  great  rout. 
With  a  bauld  sprite  guid  Wallace  blent  about : 
A  priest  he  asked,  for  God  that  died  on  tree. 
King  Edward  then  commanded  his  clergy. 
And  said,  "  I  charge  you,  upon  loss  of  life, 
Nane  be  sae  bauld  yon  tyrant  for  to  shrive. 
He  has  reigned  long  in  contrar  my  highness." 
A  blyth  bishop  soon,  present  in  that  place ; 
Of  Canterbury  he  then  was  righteous  lord; 
Again'  the  king  he  made  this  richt  record, 
And  said,  "  Myself  shall  hear  his  confession. 
If  I  have  micht  in  contrar  of  thy  crown. 
An  thou  through  force  v/ill  stop  me  of  this 

thing, 
I  vow  to  God,  who  is  my  righteous  king. 
That  all  England  I  shall  her  interdite. 
And  make  it  known  thou  art  a  heretic. 
The  sacrament  of  kirk  I  shall  him  give : 
Syne  take  thy  choice,  to  starve  or  let  him  live. 
It  were  mair  weil,  in  worship  of  thy  crown. 
To  keep  sic  ane  in  life  in  thy  bandoun. 
Than  all  the  land  and  good  that  thou  hast 

reived. 
But  cowardice  thee  ay  fra  honour  dreived. 
Thou  has  thy  life  rougin  in  wrangeous  deed ; 
That  shall  be  seen  on  thee  or  on  thy  seed." 
The  king  gart  charge  they  should  the  bishop 

ta. 
But  sad  lords  counseUit  to  let  him  ga. 
All  Englishmen  said  that  his  desire  was  richt. 
To  Wallace  then  he  rakit  in  their  sicht 
And  sadly  heard  his  confession  till  ane  end  : 
Humbly  to  God  his  sprite  he  there  commend 
Lowly  him  served  with  hearty  devotion 
Upon  his  knees  and  said  ane  orison.        *      * 
A  psalter-book  Wallace  had  on  him  ever 
Fra  his  childheid — fra  it  wald  nocht  dissever; 
Better  he  trowit  in  wyage  for  to  speed. 
But  then  he  was  dispalyed  of  his  weed. 
This  grace  ho  asked  at  Lord  Clifford,   that 

knicht. 
To  let  him  have  his  psalter-book  in  sicht.     . 


— 

Egbert  Henrysone.]                   EOBENE  AND  MAKTNE.                   [Second  Period.— 

He  gart  a  priest  it  open  before  him  hald, 

VI. 

"VVTiile  they  till  him  had  done  all  that  they  wald, 

He.    Makyne,  to  morne  this  ilka  tyde. 

Stedfast  he  read  for  ought  they  did  him  there; 

And  ye  will  meit  me  heir  ; 

Feil  Southrons  said  that  Wallace  felt  na  sair. 

Peradventure  my  scheip  may  gang  be- 

Guid  devotion,  sae,  was  his  beginning, 

syde, 

Conteined  therewith,  and  fair  was  his  ending. 

QuhiU  we  haif  liggit  full  neir, 

While  speech  and  sprite  at  anis  all  can  fare 

Bot  maugre  haif  I,  an  I  byde, 

To  lasting  bliss,  we  trow,  for  evermair. 

Fra  they  begin  to  steir, 

Blind  Harry.— About  1460. 

Quhat  lyis  on  hairt  I  wiU  nocht  hyd, 

Makyne  then  mak  gud  cheir. 

VII. 

She.  Eobene  thou  reivis  me  roif  and  rest, 

48.— EOBENE  AND  MAKYNE, 

I  luve  but  the  allone, 

A  BALLAD. 

He.    Makyne  adew  !  the  sone  gois  west, 

I. 

The  day  is  neirhand  gone. 

Eobene  sat  on  gud  grene  hill, 

She.  Eobene,  in  dule  I  am  so  drest, 

Keipand  a  flock  of  fie : 

That  luve  will  be  my  bone. 

Mirry  Makyne  said  him  tiU, 

He.    Ga  luve,  Makyne,  quhair  evir  thou  list, 

Eobene  thou  rew  on  me  : 

For  leman  I  lue  none. 

I  haif  the  luvit,  lowd  and  still 

This  yieris  two  or  thre ; 

VIII. 

My  dule  in  dern  bot  gif  thou  dill, 

She.  Eobene,  I  stand  in  sic  a  style. 

Doubtless  bot  dreid  I  die. 

I  sicht,  and  that  fiiU  sair. 

He.    Makyne,  I  haif  bene  heir  this  quhile, 

II. 

At  hame  God  gif  I  wair. 

He.    Eobene  answerit,  be  the  rude, 

She.  My  hinny  Eobene,  talk  ane  quhyle  ; 

Nathing  of  lufe  I  knaw ; 

Gif  thou  wilt  do  na  mair. 

Bot  keipis  my  scheip  undir  yone  wud, 

He.    Makyne,  sum  uther  man  begyle ; 

Lo  quhair  they  raik  on  raw. 

For  hamewart  I  wiU  fair. 

Quhat  has  marrit  the  in  thy  mude, 

IX. 

Makyne  to  me  thow  schaw  ? 

Or  what  is  luve,  or  to  be  lu'ed, 

Eobene  on  his  wayis  went, 

Eain  wald  I  leir  that  law. 

As  licht  as  leif  of  tre  : 

Makyne"  murnit  in  her  intent, 

III. 

And  trow'd  him  nevir  to  se, 

She.  At  luvis  leir  gif  thow  will  leir. 
Take  thair  an  A,  B,  C, 
Be  kind,  courtas,  and  fair  of  feir, 
Wyse,  hardy,  and  fre. 

Eobene  brayd  attour  the  bent, 
Than  Makyne  cryit  on  hie, 
Now  ma  thow  sing,  for  I  am  schent, 
Quha,t  alls  lufe  with  me. 

Se  that  no  danger  do  the  deir, 

X. 

Quhat  dule  in  dern  thow  drie, 
Preiss  the  with  pane  at  all  poweir, 

Makyne  went  hame  withouttin  faiU, 
Full  werry  aftir  couth  weip, 

Be  patient,  and  previe. 

Than  Eobene  in  a  fuU  fair  daiU, 

AssembHt  all  his  scheip. 

IV. 

Be  that  sum  parte  of  Makyne' s  ail, 

He.   Eobene  answerit  her  agane, 

Ourthrow  his  hairt  cowd  creip. 

I  wait  not  quhat  is  luve. 

He  followit  hir  fast  thair  till  assaill, 

But  I  haif  marveU,  in  certaine, 

And  tiU  hir  tuke  gude  keep. 

Quhat  makis  the  this  wanrufe. 

XI. 

The  weddir  is  fair,  and  I  am  fane, 
My  scheip  gois  haUl  aboif, 
An  we  wald  play  us  in  this  plane 
They  wald  us  baith  reproif . 

He.    Abyd,  abyd,  thou  fair  Makyne, 
A  word  for  ony  thing ; 
For  all  my  luve  it  shall  be  thine, 
Withouttin  departing. 

V. 

All  thy  hairt  for  till  have  myne, 

Is  all  my  cuvating,  . 

She.  Eobene  take  tent  unto  my  tale, 

My  scheip,  to  morne,  qnhyle  honrisnyne 

And  wirk  all  as  I  reid, 

Will  need  of  no  kepin'g. 

And  thow  sail  haif  my  hart  all  haile 

Eik  and  my  maidenheid. 

XII. 

Sen  God  sendis  bute  for  baill, 

For  of  my  pane  thow  made  it  play, 

And  for  muming  remeid, 

And  aU  in  vain  I  spend. 

I  dern  with  the,  but  gif  I  dai1l, 

As  thow  hes  done,  sa  sail  I  say, 

Doubtless  I  am  bot  deid. 

Miirae  on,  I  think  to  mend. 

From  1400  to  1558.]         DINNEE  gUVEN  BY  THE  TO"\VN  MOUSE. 


[R.  Henrysone. 


He.    Makyne  the  howp  of  all  my  heill, 
My  hairt  on  the  is  sett 
And  evir  mair  to  the  be  leill, 
Quhile  I  ma3^  leif,  but  lett. 
Never  to  faill,  as  utheris  faill, 
Quhat  grace  that  evir  I  get. 

She.  Robene,  with  the  I  will  not  deill, 
Adew  !  for  thus  we  mett. 

XVI. 

Makyne  wont  hame  blythe  aneuche, 

Attoure  the  holtis  hair ; 

Robene  mumit,  and  Makyne  leuch, 

Scho  sang,  he  sichit  sair. 

And  so  left  him  baith  wo  and  wrench, 

In  dolour  and  in  cair, 

Kepand  his  bird  under  a  heuch, 

Amang  the  holtis  hair. 

Robert  Henrysone. — Aboid  1490. 


49.  — DINNER  GIVEN  BY    THE    TOWN 
MOUSE  TO  THE  COUNTRY  MOUSE. 

*         *         *     their  harboury  was  tane 
Intill  a  spence,  where  victual  was  plenty, 
Baith  cheese  and  butter  on  lang  shelves  richt 

hie, 
With  fish  and  flesh  enough,  baith  fresh  and  salt, 
And  pockis  full  of  groats,  baith  meal  and  malt. 

After,  when  they  disposit  were  to  dine, 
Withouten  grace  they  wuish  and  went  to  meat. 
On  every  dish  that  cookmen  can  divine, 
Mutton  and  beef  stricken  out  in  telyies  grit ; 
Ane  lordis  fare  thus  can  they  counterfeit. 
Except  ane  thing — they  drank  the  water  clear 
Instead  of  wine,  but  yet  they  made  gude  cheer. 

With  blyth  upcast  and  merry  countenance. 
The  elder  sister  then  spier' d  at  her  guest, 
Gif  that  sho  thoucht  by  reason  difference 
Betwixt  that  chalmer  and  her  sairy  nest. 
"  Yea,  dame,"  quoth  sho,  "  but  how  lang  will 

this  last  ?  " 
"  For  evermair,  I  wait,  and  langer  too ;  " 
"  Gif  that  be  true,  ye  are  at  ease,"  quoth  sho. 

To  eik  the  cheer,  in  plenty  f urth  they  broucht 

A  plate  of  groatis  and  a  dish  of  meal, 

A  threif  of  cakes,  I  trow  sho  spared  them 

noucht. 
Abundantly  about  her  for  to  deal. 
Furmage  full  fine  sho  broucht  instead  of  jeil, 
A  white  candle  out  of  a  coffer  staw. 
Instead  of  spice,  to  creish  their  teeth  witha'. 

Thus  made  they  merry,  while  they  micht  nae 

mair, 
An       Hail  Yule,  hail ! "  they  cryit  up  on  hie ; 
But  after  joy  aftentimes  comes  care, 
And  trouble  after  grit  prosperity. 
Thus  as  they  sat  in  all  their  solity, 
The  Spenser  cam  with  keyis  in  his  hand, 
Opened  the  door,  and  them  at  dinner  fand. 


They  tarried  not  to  wash,  as  I  suppose, 
But  on  to  gae,  wha  micht  the  foremost  win  ; 
The  burgess  had  a  hole  and  in  sho  goes, 
Her  sister  had  nae  place  to  hide  her  in ; 
To  see  that  silly  mouse  it  was  great  sin, 
Sae  desolate  and  wild  of  all  gude  rede^^ 
For  very  fear  sho  fell  in  swoon,  near  dead. 

Then  as  God  wald  it  fell  in  happy  case, 
The  Spenser  had  nae  leisure  for  to  bide, 
Nowther  to  force,  to  seek,  nor  scare,  nor  chase. 
But  on  he  went  and  cast  the  door  up-wide. 
This  burgess  mouse  his  passage  weel  has  spied. 
Out  of  her  hole  sho  cam  and  cried  on  hie, 
"  How,  fair  sister,  cry  peep,  where'er  thou  be." 

The  rural  mouse  lay  flatlings  on  the  ground, 

And  for  the  deid  sho  was  full  dreadand, 

For  till  her  heart  strake  mony  waeful  stound, 

As  in  a  fever  trembling  foot  and  hand  ; 

And  when  her  sister  in  sic  plight  her  fand. 

For  very  pity  sho  began  to  greet. 

Syne  comfort  gave,  with  words  as  honey  sweet. 

"  Why  lie  ye  thus  ?    Rise  up,  my  sister  dear, 
Come  to  your  meat,  this  peril  is  o'erpast." 
The  other  answered  with  a  heavy  cheer, 
I  may  nought  eat,  sae  sair  I  am  aghast. 
Lever  I  had  this  forty  dayis  fast. 
With  water  kail,  and  green  beans  and  peas. 
Then   all   your    feast   with   this   dread    and 
disease. 

With  fair  'treaty,  yet  gart  she  her  rise ; 
To  board  they  went,  and  on  together  sat. 
But  scantly  had  they  drunken  anes  or  twice. 
When  in  cam  Gib  Hunter,  our  jolly  cat. 
And  bade  God  speed.     The  burgess  up  then 

gat, 
And  till  her  hole  she  fled  as  fire  of  flint ; 
Bawdrons  the  other  by  the  back  has  hent. 

Frae  foot  to  foot  he  cast  her  to  and  frae. 
While  up,  while  down,  as  cant  as  only  kid ; 
While  wald  he  let  her  run  under  the  strae 
While  wald  he  wink  and  play  with  her  buik- 

hid; 
Thus  to  the  silly  mouse  great  harm  he  did '; 
While  at  the  last,  through  fair  fortune  and 

hap. 
Betwixt  the  dresser  and  the  wall  she  crap. 

Syne  up  in  haste  behind  the  paneling, 

Sae  hie  sho  clam,  that  Gilbert  might  not  get  her, 

And  by  the  cluiks  craftily  can  hing. 

Till  he  was  gane,  her  cheer  was  all  the  better  : 

Syne  down  sho  lap,  when  there  was  nane  to 

let  her  ; 
Then  on  the  burgess  mouth  loud  couth  sho  cry, 
"  Fare  weel  sister,  here  I  thy  feast  defy. 

"  Thy  mangery  is  minget  all  with  care. 

Thy  guise  is  gude,  thy  gane-fnll  sour  as  gall ; 

The  fashion  of  thy  feris  is  but  fair. 

So  shall  thou  find  hereafterward  may  fall. 

I  thank  yon  curtain,  and  yon  parpane  wall. 

Of  my  defence  now  frae  yon  cruel  beast 

Almighty  God,  keep  me  frae  sic  a  feast !    ,i  # 


Robert  Henrtsone.]  THE  GAEMENT  OF  GOOD  .LADIES.  [Second  Period. 


"  Were  I  into  the  place  that  I  cam  frae, 

For  weal  nor  wae  I  should  ne'er  come  again." 

With  that  sho  took  her  leave,  and  forth  can 

gae, 
While    through  the  com,  while  through  the 

plain. 
When  she  was  forth  and  free  she  was  right 

fain. 
And  merrily  linkit  unto  the  muir, 
I  cannot  tell  how  afterward  sho  fure. 

But  I  heard  syne  she  passit  to  her  den, 
As  warm  as  woo',  suppose  it  was  not  grit, 
Full  beinly  stuffit  was  baith  butt  and  ben. 
With  peas  and  nuts,  and  beans,  and  rye  and 

wheat ; 
Whene'er  sho  liked,  sho  had  enough  of  meat, 
In  quiet  and  ease,  withouten  [ony]  dread, 
But  till  her  sister's  feast  nae  mair  sho  gaed. 

From  the  Moral. 

Blissed  be  simple  life,  withouten  dreid ; 

Blissed  be  sober  feast  in  quiete  ; 

Wha  has  eneuch  of  no  more  has  he  neid. 

Though  it  be  little  into  quantity. 

Grit  abundance,  and  blind  prosperitj^ 

Oft  trmis  make  ane  evil  conclusion ; 

The  sweetest  life,  theirfor,  in  this  country, 

Is  of  sickerness,  with  small  possession. 

Robert  Henrysone. — About  1490. 


50.— THE  GAEMENT  OF  GOOD  LADIES. 

Would  my  good  lady  love  me  best. 

And  work  after  my  will, 
I  should  a  garment  goodliest 

Gar  make  her  body  till. 

Of  high  honour  should  be  her  hood, 

Upon  her  head  to  wear, 
Garnish' d  with  governance,  so  good 

Na  deeming  should  her  deir. 

Her  sark  should  be  her  body  next, 

Of  chastity  so  white  : 
With  shame  and  dread  together  mixt, 

The  same  should  be  perfyte. 

Her  kirtle  should  be  of  clean  Constance, 

Lacit  with  lesum  love ; 
The  mailies  of  continuance. 

For  never  to  remove. 

Her  gown  should  be  of  goodliness. 

Well  ribbon' d  with  renown ; 
Purfill'd  with  pleasure  in  ilk  place, 

Furrit  with  fine  fashioun. 

Her  belt  should  be  of  benignity, 

About  her  middle  meet ; 
Her  mantle  of  humility. 

To  thole  both  wind  and  weit. 

Her  hat  should  be  of  fair  having, 

And  her  tippet  of  truth  ; 
Her  patelet  of  good  pausing, 

Her  hals-ribbon  of  ruth. 


Her  sleeves  should  be  of  esperance, 

To  keep  her  fra  despair : 
Her  glovis  of  good  governance. 

To  hide  her  fingers  fair. 

Her  shoen  should  be  of  sickerness, 

In  sign  that  she  not  slide ; 
Her  hose  of  ho^iesty,  I  guesSj 

I  should  for  her  provide. 

Would  she  put  on  this  garment  gay, 

I  Tiurst  swear  by  my  seill. 
That  she  wore  never  green  nor  gray 

That  set  her  half  so  weel. 

Robert  Henrysone. — About  1490, 


51.— THE  MEELE  AND  NIGHTINGALE. 

In  May,  as  that  Aurora  did  upspring. 
With  crystal  een  chasing  the  cluddes  sable, 
I  heard  a  Merle  with  merry  notis  sing 
A  sang  of  love,  with  voice  right  comfortable. 
Again'  the  orient  beamis,  amiable, 
Upon  a  blissful  branch  of  laurel  green  ; 
This  was  her  sentence,  sweet  and  delectable, 
A  lusty  life  in  Lovis  service  been. 

Under  this  branch  ran  down  a  river  bright, 
Of  balmy  liquor,  crystalline  of  hue, 
Again'  the  heavenly  azui-e  skyis  light. 
Where  did  upon  the  tother  side  pursue 
A  Nightingale,  with  sugared  notis  new, 
Whose  angel  feathers  as  the  peacock  shone ; 
This  was  her  song,  and  of  a  sentence  true. 
All  love  is  lost  but  upon  God  alone. 

With  notis  glad,  and  glorious  harmony, 
This  joyful  merle,  so  salust  she  the  day, 
While  rung  the  woodis  of  her  melody, 
Sajdng,  Awake,  ye  lovers  of  this  May ; 
Lo,  fresh  Flora  has  flourished  every  spray. 
As  nature  has  her  taught,  the  noble  queen, 
The  field  been  clothit  in  a  new  array ; 
A  lusty  life  in  Lovis  service  been. 

Ne'er  sweeter  noise  was  heard  with  living  man, 
Na  made  this  merry  gentle  nightingale ; 
Her  sound  went  with  the  river  as  it  ran, 
Out  through  the  fresh  and  flourished  lusty 

vale  ; 
0  Merle  !  quoth  she,  O  fool !  stint  of  thy  tale, 
For  in  thy  song  good  sentence  is  there  none. 
For  both  is  tint,  the  time  and  the  travail 
Of  every  love  but  upon  God  alone. 

Cease,  quoth  the  Merle,  thy  preaching.  Night- 
ingale : 
Shall  folk  their  youth  spend  into  holiness  ? 
Of  young  Sanctis,  grows  auld  f eindis,  but  fable ; 
Fye,  hypocrite,  in  yeiris  tenderness. 
Again'  the  law  of  kind  thou  goes  express. 
That  crookit  age  makes  one  with  youth  serene, 
Whom  nature  of  conditions  made  diverse : 
A  lusty  life  in  Lovis  service  been. 


1400  to  1558.  J 


NO  TREASUEE  WITHOUT  GLADNESS.      [William  Dunbar. 


The  Nightingale  said,  Fool,  remember  thee, 
That  both  in  youth  and  eild,  and  every  hour, 
The  love  of  God  most  dear  to  man  suld  be ; 
That  him,    of   nought,  wrought  like  his  own 

figour, 
And  died  himself,  fro'  dead  him  to  succour ; 
O,  whether  was  kythit  there  true  love  or  none  ? 
He  is  most  true  and  steadfast  paramour, 
And  love  is  lost  but  upon  him  alone. 

The  Merle  said,  Why  put  God  so  great  beauty 
In  ladies,  with  sic  womanly  having, 
But  gif  he  would  that  they  suld  lovit  be  ? 
To  love  eke  nature  gave  them  inclining, 
And  He  of  nature  that  worker  was  and  king, 
Would  nothing  frustir  put,  nor  let  be  seen, 
Into  his  creature  of  his  own  making ; 
A  lusty  life  in  Lovis  service  been. 

The  Nightingale  said.  Not  to  that  behoof 
Put  God  sic  beauty  in  a  lady's  face, 
That  she  suld  have  the  thank  therefor  or  luve. 
But  He,  the  worker,  that  put  in  her  sic  grace  ; 
Of  beauty,  bounty,  riches,  time,  or  space. 
And  every  gudeness  that  been  to  come  or  gone 
The  thank  redounds  to  him  in  every  place  : 
All  love  is  lost,  but  upon  God  alone. 

O  Nightingale  !  it  were  a  story  nice, 
That  love  suld  not  depend  on  charity ; 
And,  gif  that  virtue  contrar  be  to  vice, 
Then  love  maun  be  a  virtue,  as  thinks  me ; 
For,  aye,  to  love  envy  maun  bontrar'  be  : 
God  bade   eke   love   thy  neighbour    fro  the 

spleen  ; 
And  who  than  ladies  sweeter  neighbours  be  ? 
A  lusty  life  in  Lovis  service  been. 

The  Nightingale  said.   Bird,  why  does  thou 

rave  ? 
Man  may  take  in  his  lady  sic  delight. 
Him  to  forget  that  her  sic  virtue  gave. 
And  for  his  heaven  receive  her  colour  white ; 
Her  golden  tressit  hairis  redomite, 
Like  to  Apollo's  beamis  tho  they  shone, 
Suld  not  him  blind  fro'  love  that  is  perfite ; 
All  love  is  lost  but  upon  God  alone. 

The  Merle  said,  Love  is  cause  of  honour  aye. 
Love  makis  cowards  manhood  to  purchase. 
Love  makis  knichtis  hardy  at  essay. 
Love  makis  wretches  full  of  largeness, 
Love  makis  sweir  folks  full  of  business. 
Love  makis  sluggards  fresh  and  well  be  seen, 
Love  changes  vice  in  virtuous  nobleness  -, 
A  lusty  life  in  Lovis  service  been. 

The  Nightingale  said,  True  is  the  contrary ; 
Sic  frustis  love  it  blindis  men  so  far. 
Into  their  minds  it  makis  them  to  vary ; 
In  false  vain-glory  they  so  drunken  are. 
Their  wit  is  r/ont,  of  woe  they  are  not  waur, 
While  that   all  worship  away  be  fro'  them 

gone. 
Fame,    goods,    and  strength;  wherefore  well 

say  I  daur, 
All  love  is  lost  but  upon  God  alone. 


Then  said  the  Merle,  Mine  error  I  confess  : 
This  frustis  love  is  all  but  vanity  : 
Blind  ignorance  me  gave  sic  hardiness. 
To  argue  so  again'  the  verity  ; 
Wherefore  I  counsel  every  man  that  he 
With  love  not  in  the  feindis  net  be  tone. 
But  love  the  love  that  did  for  his  love  die  : 
All  love  is  lost  but  upon  God  alone. 

Then  sang  they  both  with  voices  loud  and 

clear. 
The  Merle  sang,  Man,  love  God  that  has  thee 

wrought. 
The  Nightingale   sang,   Man,   love  the  Lord 

most  dear, 
That  thee  and  all  this  world  made  of  nought. 
The  Merle  said.  Love  him  that  thy  love  has 

sought 
Fro'  heaven  to  earth,  and  here  took  flesh  and 

bone. 
The  Nightingale  sang.  And  with  his  dead  thee 

bought : 
All  love  is  lost,  but  upon  him  alone. 

Then  flew  thir  birdis  o'er  the  boughis  sheen, 
Singing  of  love  amang  the  leavis  small ; 
Whose  eidant  plead  yet  made  my  thoughtis 

grein. 
Both  sleeping,  waking,  in  rest  and  in  travail : 
Me  to  recomfort  most  it  does  avail, 
Again  for  love,  when  love  I  can  find  none, 
To  think  how  sung  this  Merle   and  Nightin- 
gale; 
AU  love  is  lost  but  upon  God  alone. 

William  Dunhar. — About  1505. 


52. —THE  VANITY  OF  EAETHLY 
THINGS. 

This  wavering  warld's  wretchedness 
The  failing  and  fruitless  business, 
The  misspent  time,  the  service  vain, 

For  to  consider  is  ane  pain. 

The  sliding  joy,  the  gladness  short. 
The  feigned  love,  the  false  comfort. 
The  sweir  abade,  the  slightful  train. 

For  to  consider  is  ane  pain. 

The  suggared  mouths,  with  minds  therefra. 
The  figured  speech,  with  faces  tway  ; 
The  pleasing  tongues,  with  hearts  unplain. 
For  to  consider  is  ane  pain. 

WilUcmi  Dunbar. — About  1505. 


53.— NO  TEEASUEE  WITHOUT  GLAD- 
NESS. 

Be  merry,  man,  and  tak  nought  far  in  mynd 
The   wavering  of   this  wretched   world  of 
sorrow, 
To  God  be  humble,  to  thy  friend  be  kind, 


William  Dunbar.]                   OF  DISCRETION  IN  GIVING.                [Second  Period.— 

Aud  with    thy  neighbours  gladly   lend  and 

Some  to  the  rich  gives  his  gear. 

borrow ; 

That  might  his  giftis  weel  forbear ; 

Hia   chance  to-night  it   may  be  thine  to- 

And, though  the  poor  for  fault  sould  die,- 

morrow. 

His  cry  not  enters  in  his  ear  : 

Be  blythe  in  heart  for  ony  aventure  ; 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

For  Avith  wysane  it  hath  been  said  aforrow, 
Without  gladness  availeth  no  treasure. 

Some  gives  to  strangers  with  faces  new. 
That  yesterday  fra  Flanders  flew ; 

Mak  the  gude  cheer  of  it  that  God  thee  sends; 
For   warld's    wrack    but   weilfare    nought 
avails, 

And  to  auld  servants  list  not  see, 
Were  they  never  of  sae  gTeat  virtue  : 
In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

Na  gude  is  thine,  save  only  but  thou  spends — 

Some  gives  to  them  can  ask  and  pleinyie, 

Eemenant  all,  thou  bruikis  but  with  bails 

Some  gives  to  them  can  flatter  and  feignie  ; 

Seek  to  solace  when  sadness  thee  assails, 

Some  gives  to  men  of  honestie, 

In  dolour  lang  thy  life  may  not  endure  ; 

And  halds  all  j  anglers  at  disdenyie  : 

Wherefore  of  comfort  set  up  all  thy  sail, 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

Without  gladness  availis  no  treasure. 

Some  gettis  gifts  and  rich  arrays. 

Follow  on  pity  ;  flee  trouble  and  debate ; 
With  famous  folkis  hold  thy  company. 

To  swear  all  that  his  master  says. 

Though  all  the  contrair  weel  knaws  he  ; 

Are  mony  sic  now  in  thir  days  : 
In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

Be  charitable  and  humble  in  thine  estate, 
For  wardly  honour  lestis  but  a  cry. 

For  trouble  in  earth  take  no  melancholy  ; 

Some  gives  to  gude  men  for  their  thews ; 

Be  rich  in  patience,  if  thou  in  goods  be  poor. 

Some  gives  to  trumpours  and  to  shrews ; 

Who  livfs  merry  he  lives  mightily  ; 

Some  gives  to  knaw  his  authoritie, 

Without  gla.dnesa  availis  no  treasure. 

But  in  their  office  gude  fund  in  few  is  ; 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

William  Dunbar.— About  1505. 

Some  givis  parochines  full  wide, 

Kirks  of  St.  Bernard  and  St.  Bride, 
The  people  to  teach  and  to  o'ersee, 

54.— OF  DISCRETION  IN  GIVING. 

Though  he  nae  wit  has  them  to  guide  : 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

To  speak  of  gifts  and  almos  deeds ; 

Willia/ni  Dunbar.— About  1505. 

Some  gives  for  merit,  and  some  for  meeds  ; 

Some  wardly  honour  to  uphie  ; 
Some  gives  to  them  that  nothing  needs  ; 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

55.— OF  DISCRETION  IN  TAKING. 

Some  gives  for  pride  and  glory  vain  ; 

After  Giving  I  speak  of  Taking, 

Some  gives  with  grudging  and  with  pain  ; 

But  little  of  ony  gude  forsaking ; 

Some  gives  on  prattick  for  supplie ; 

Some  takes  o'er  little  authoritie. 

Some  gives  for  twice  as  gude  again  : 

And  some  o'er  mickle,  and  that  is  glaiking 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

Some  gives  for  thank,  and  some  for  threat ; 

The  clerks  takes  benefices  with  brawls, 

Some  gives  money,  and  some  gives  meat ; 

Some  of  St.  Peter  and  some  of  St.  Paul's  ; 

Some  givis  wordis  fair  and  slie  ; 

Tak  he  the  rents,  no  care  has  he. 

And  gifts  fra  some  may  na  man  treit : 

Suppose  the  devil  tak  all  their  sauls  : 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

Some  is  for  gift  sae  lang  required. 

Barons  taks  fra  the  tenants  puir 

While  that  the  craver  be  so  tired, 

All  fruit  that  growis  on  the  fur, 

That  ere  the  gift  delivered  be. 

In  mails  and  gersoms  raisit  o'er  hie  ; 

The  thank  is  frustrate  and  expired  ; 

And  gars  them  beg  fra  door  to  door  : 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

Some  gives  so  little  full  wretchedly, 

Some  merchands  taks  unleesome  wine, 

That  all  his  gifts  are  not  set  by. 

Whilk  maks  their  packs  oft  time  full  thin, 

And  for  a  hood-pick  halden  is  he, 

By  their  succession  as  ye  may  see. 

That  all  the  warld  cries  on  him,  Fje  ! 

That  ill- won  gear  'riches  not  the  kin  : 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

Some  in  his  giving  is  so  large, 

Some  taks  other  mennis  tacks, 

That  all  o'erladen  is  his  barge ; 

And  on  the  puir  oppression  maks. 

Then  vice  and  prodigalitie, 

And  never  remembers  that  he  maun  die, 

There  of  his  honour  does  discharge  : 

Till  that  the  gallows  gars  him  rax  : 

In  Giving  sould  Discretion  be. 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

From  1400  to  1558.] 


MORNING  IN  MAY. 


[Gawain  Douglas. 


Some  taks  by  sea,  and  some  by  land, 
And  never  fra  taking  can  hald  their  hand, 

Till  he  be  tyit  up  to  ane  tree  ; 
And  syne  they  gar  him  understand, 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

Some  wald  tak  all  his  neighbour's  gear ; 
Had  he  of  man  as  little  fear 

As  he  has  dread  that  God  him  see ; 
To  tak  then  sould  he  never  forbear  : 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

Some  wald  tak  all  this  warld  on  breid  ; 
And  yet  not  satisfied  of  their  need. 

Through  heart  unsatiable  and  greedie ; 
Some  wald  tak  little,  and  can  not  speed  : 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

Great  men  for  taking  and  oppression, 
Are  set  full  famous  at  the  Session, 

And  puir  takers  are  hangit  hie, 
Shawit  for  ever,  and  their  succession  : 

In  Taking  sould  Discretion  be. 

William  Dunbar. — Ahout  1505. 


56.— THE  SHIPWRECK  OF  THE  CARA- 
VEL OF  GRACE. 

PART   III.   STANZA  VII. 

As  we  bene  on  the  high  hills  situate, 

"Look  do^v^l,"  quoth  she,  "conceive  in  what 

estate 
Thy  wretched  world  thou  may  consider  now ! " 
At   her   command,    with  meikle   dread,    God 

wait, 
Out  oure  the  hill  sae  hideous,  high,  and  strait 
I  blent  adown,  and  felt  my  body  grow  : — 
This  brukil  earth,  sae  little  till  allow, 
Methought  I  saw  burn  in  a  fiery  rage 
Of    stormy     sea    whilk    might  nae    manner 

'suage. 

VIII. 

That  terrible  tempest's  hideous  wallis  huge 
Were  maist  grislie  for  to  behald  or  judge, 
Where  neither  rest  nor  quiet  might  appear  ; 
There  was  a  perilous  place  folk  for  to  lodge, 
There  was  nae  help,  support,  nor  yet  refuge. 
Innumerable  folk  I  saw  fiotterand  in  fear, 
Whilk  perished  on  the  weltering  wallis  weir. 
And  secondly  I  saw  a  lustie  barge 
Oureset  with  seas  and  many  a  stormy  charge. 


This  goodly  Carwell,  taiklit  traist  on  raw. 
With  blanched  sail,  milk-white  as  ony  snaw, 
Right    souer,    tight,    and    wonder    strangly 

beildit. 
Was  on  the  bairdin  wallis  quite  o'erthraw. 
Contrariously  the  blusterous  winds  did  blaw 
In  bubbis  thick,  that  nae  ship's  sail  might 

wield  it. 
Now  sank  she  low,  now  high  to   heaven  up- 

heildit ; 


At  every  part  sae  (the)  sea  windis  draif. 
While  on  ane  sand  the  ship  did  burst  and 
claif. 


It  was  a  piteous  thing, — alaik,  alaik  ! 
To  hear  the  doleful  cry  when  that  she  straik ; 
Maist  lamentable  the  perished  folk  to  see ! 
Sae  famist,  drowkit,  mait,  forwrought,  and 

walk; 
Some  on  ane  plank  of  fir-tree,  and  some  of 

aik  ; 
Some  hang  upon  a  takill,  some  on  ane  tree  ; 
Some  frae  their  grip  soon  washen  by  the  sea  ; 
Part  drownit,  part  to  the  rock  fleit  or  swam 
On  raips  or  buirds,  syne  up  the  hill  they  clam. 


Tho  at  my  nymph  briefly  I  did  enquire, 

What  signified  that  fearful  wonders  seir  ; 

"  Yon    multitude,"     said    she,     "  of     people 

drownit, 
Are  faithless  folk,  whilkis,  while  they  are  here, 
Misknawis  God,  and  follows  their  pleseir. 
Wherefore  they  shall  in  endless  fire  be  brint, 
Yon  lusty  ship  thou  sees  perished  and  tint. 
In  whom  yon  people  made  ane  perilous  race, 
She  hecht  the  Carwell  of  the  state  of  Grace." 


Ye  bene  all  bom  the  sons  of  ire,  I  guess, 
Syne  through  baptism  gets  grace  and  faith- 
fulness; 
Then  in  yon  Carwell  surely  ye  remain. 
Oft  stormested  with  this  warld' s  bruckleness, 
While  that  ye  fall  in  sin  and  wretchedness. 

pain. 
Then  ship-broke  shall   ye  drown   in  endless 
Except  by  faith  ye  find  the  plank  again, 
By  Christ  working  good  works,  I  understand ; 
Remain  therewith ;  thir  shall  you  bring  to 
land. 

Oawain  Douglas. — Alout  1510. 


57.— MORNING  IN  MAY. 

As  fresh  Aurore,  to  mighty  Tithon  spouse, 
Ished  of  her  saffron  bed  and  ivor  house. 
In  cram'sy  clad  and  grained  violate. 
With  sanguine  cape,  and  selvage  purpurate, 
Unshet  the  windows  of  her  large  hall. 
Spread  all  with  roses,  and  full  of  balm  royal, 
And  eke  the  heavenly  portis  chrystalline 
Un warps  braid,  the  warld  till  illumine  ; 
The  twinkling  streamers  of  the  orient 
Shed  purpour  spraings,   with  gold  and  azure 

ment 
Eons,  the  steed,  with  ruby  harness  red, 
Above  the  seas  liftis  furth  his  head. 
Of  colour  sore,  and  somedeal  brown  as  berry, 
For  to  alichten  and  glad  our  emispery ; 
The  fiame  out-bursten  at  the  neisthirls. 
So  fast  Phaeton  with  the  whip  him  whirls.  *  * 


Gawain  Douglas.] 


MOENING  IN  MAY. 


[Second  Feeiod.- 


While  shortly,  with  the  bleezand  torch  of  day, 
Abulyit  in  his  lemand  fresh  array, 
Furth  of  his  palace  royal  ishit  Phoebus, 
"With  golden  crown  and  visage  glorious, 
Crisp  hairs,  bricht  as  chrysolite  or  topaz  ; 
For  whase  hue  micht  nane  behald  his  face.  *  * 
The  auriate  vanes  of  his  throne  soverane 
With  glitterand  glance  o'erspread  the  oceane ; 
The  large  fludes,  lemand  all  of  licht, 
But  with  ane  blink  of  his  supernal  sicht. 
For  to  behald,  it  was  ane  glore  to  see 
The  stabled  windis,  and  the  calmed  sea, 
The  soft  season,  the  firmament  serene. 
The  loune  illuminate  air  and  firth  amene.   *  * 
And  lusty  Flora  did  her  bloomis  spread 
Under  the  feet  of  Phoebus'  suly art- steed ; 
The  swarded  soil  embrode  with  selcouth  hues, 
Wood  and  forest,  obnumbrate  with  bews.  *  * 
Towers,  turrets,  kimals,  and  pinnacles  hie, 
Of  kirks,  castles,  and  ilk  fair  citie, 
Stude  painted,  every  fane,  phiol,  and  stage, 
Upon  the  plain  ground  by  their  awn  umbrage. 
Of  Eolus'  north  blasts  havand  no  dreid, 
The  soil  spread  her  braid  bosom  on-breid ; 
The  corn-crops  and  the  beir  new-braird 
With  gladsome  garment  revesting  the  yefd.  * 
The   prai    besprent   with   springand   sprouts 

dispers 
For  caller  humours  on  the  dewy  nicht 
Eendering  some   place  the  gerse-piles  their 

licht ; 
As  far  as  cattle  the  lang  summer's  day 
Had  in  their  pasture  eat  and  nip  away  ; 
And  blissful  blossoms  in  the  bloomed  yerd, 
•  Submits  their  heids  to  the  young  sun's  safe- 
guard. 
Ivy  leaves  rank  o'erspread  the  barmkin  wall ; 
The  bloomed  hawthorn  clad  his  pikis  all ; 
Furth   of  fresh   bourgeons   the  wine  grapes 

ying 
Endland  the  trellis  did  on  twistis  hing  ; 
The  loukit  buttons  on  the  gemmed  trees 
O'erspreadand  leaves  of  nature's  tapestries ; 
Soft  grassy  verdure  after  balmy  shouirs. 
On  curland  stalkis  smiland  to  their  flouirs.  *  * 
The  daisy  did  on-breid  her  crownal  small. 
And  every  flouer  unlappit  in  the  dale.     *     * 
Sere  downis  small  on  dentilion  sprang. 
The  young  green  bloomed  strawberry  leaves 

amang ; 
Jimp  jeryflouirs  thereon  leaves  unshet, 
Fresh  primrose  and  the  purpour  violet ;    *     * 
Heavenly  lilies,  with  lockerand  toppis  white, 
Opened  and  shew  their  crestis  redemite.    *     * 
Ane  paradise  it  seemed  to  draw  near 
Thir  galyard  gardens  and  each  green  herbere 
Maist  amiable  wax  the  emeraut  meads  ; 
Swarmis    souchis    through    out  the   respand 

reeds. 
Over  the  lochis  and  the  fludis  gray, 
Searchand  by  kind  ane  place  where  they  should 

lay. 
Phoebus'  red  fowl,  his  cural  crest  can  steer. 
Oft  streikand  furth  his  heckle,  crawand  cleer. 
Amid  the  wortis  and  the  rutis  gent 
Pickand  his  meat  in  alloys  where  he  went, 


His  wivis  Toppa  and  Partolet  him  by — 
A  bird  all-time  that  hauntis  bigamy. 
The  painted  powne  pacand  with  plumes  gym, 
Kest  up  his  tail  ane  proud  plesand  wheel-rim, 
Ishrouded  in  his  feathering  bright  and  sheen, 
Shapand  the  prent  of  Argus'  hundred  een. 
Amang  the  bowis  of  the  olive  twists. 
Sere  small  fowls,  workand  crafty  nests, 
Endlang  the  hedges  thick,  and  on  rank  aiks 
Ilk  bird  rejoicand  with  their  mirthful  makes. 
In  corners  and  clear  fenestres  of  glass, 
FuU  busily  Arachne  weavand  was, 
To  knit  her  nettis  and  her  wobbis  slie, 
Therewith  to  catch  the  little  midge  or  flie. 
So  dusty  powder  upstours  in  every  street, 
While  corby  gaspit  for  the  fervent  heat. 
Under  the  bowis  bene  in  lufely  vales. 
Within  fermance  and  parkis  close  of  pales. 
The  busteous  buckis  rakis  furth  on  raw, 
Herdis  of  hertis  through  the  thick  wood-shaw. 
The  young  fawns  foUowand  the  dun  daes, 
Kids,  skippand  through,  runnis  after  raes. 
In  leisurs  and  on  leyis,  little  lambs 
Full  tait  and  trig  socht  bletand  to  their  dams. 
On  salt  streams  wolk  Dorida  and  Thetis, 
By  rinnand  strandis,  Nymphis  and  Naiadis, 
Sic  as  we  clepe  wenches  and  damysels. 
In  gersy  graves  wanderand  by  spring  wells  ; 
Of  bloomed  branches  and  flowers  white  and 

red, 
Plettand  their  lusty  chaplets  for  their  head. 
Some   sang  ring-songes,   dances,    leids,    and 

rounds. 
With  voices  shrill ,  while  all  the  dale  resounds. 
Whereso  they  walk  into  their  caroling. 
For  amorous  lays  does  all  the  rockis  ring. 
Ane  sang,  "  The  ship  sails  over  the  salt  faem, 
Will  bring  the  merchants  and  my  leman  hame." 
Some  other  sings,  "  I  will  be  blythe  and  licht. 
My  heart  is  lent  upon  so  goodly  wicht." 
And  thoughtful  lovers  rounis  to  and  fro, 
To  leis  their  pain,  and  plein  their  jolly  woe. 
After  their  guise,  now  singand,  now  in  sorrow, 
With  heartis  pensive  the  lang  summer's  mor- 
row. 
Some  ballads  list  indite  of  his  lady  ; 
Some  livis  in  hope  ;  and  some  all  utterly 
Despairit  is,  and  sae  quite  out  of  grace, 
His  purgatory  he  finds  in  every  place.     *     * 
Dame  Nature's  menstrals,  on  that  other  part 
Their  blissfull  lay  intoning  every  art,     *     * 
And  all  small  fowlis  singis  on  the  spray, 
Welcome  the  lord  of  licht,  and  lampe  of  day. 
Welcome  fosterer  of  tender  herbis  green. 
Welcome  quickener  of  fiourist  flouirs  sheen. 
Welcome  support  of  every  rute  and  vein, 
Welcome  comfort  of  all  kind  fruit  and  grain. 
Welcome  the  birdis  beild  upon  the  brier, 
Welcome  master  and  ruler  of  the  year, 
Welcome  weelfare  of  husbands  at  the  plews, 
Welcome  repairer  of  woods,  trees,  and  bews. 
Welcome  depainter  of  the  bloomit  meads. 
Welcome  the  life  of  every  thing  that  spreads. 
Welcome  storer  of  all  kind  bestial. 
Welcome  be  thy  bricht  beamis  gladdand  all.*  * 
Gawain  Dovglas. — About  1510. 


From  1400  to  1558.]  DESCEIPTION  OF  SQUYEE  MELDEUM.    [Sib  David  Ltndsay. 


58.— GEIEVANCES  OF  A  SCOTTISH  PEA- 
SANT OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTUEY. 

Pauper. 

My  father  was  an  anld  man  and  ane  hoar, 
And  was  of  age  four  score  (of)  years  or  more. 
And  Maid,  my   mother,    was  four  score  and 

fifteen, 
And  with  my  labour  I  did  them  baith  sustene. 
We  had  ane  meir  that  carryit  salt  and  coal, 
And  ever  ilk  year  she  brought  us  hame  ane 

foal. 
We  had  three  ky,  that  was  baith  fat  and  fair, 
Nane  tidier  into  the  toun  of  Ayr. 
My  father  was  sac  waik  of  bluid  and  bane 
That  ho  deit,   wheref5re  my  mother  made 

great  mane  ; 
Then  she  deit  within  ane  day  or  two, 
And  there  began  my  poverty  and  wo. 
Our  gude  grey  meir  was  baitand  on  the  field, 
And  our  land's  laird  took  her  for  his  heryield. 
The  vicar  took  the  best  cow  by  the  heid 
Incontinent,  when  my  father  was  deid. 
And  when  the  vicar  heard  tell  how  that  my 

mother 
Was  deid,  f ra  hand,  he  took  till  him  the  other. 
Then  Meg,  my  wife,  did  murn  baith  even  and 

morrow. 
Till  at  the  last  she  deit  for  verie  sorrow ; 
And  when  the  vicar  heard  tell  my  wife  was 

deid, 
The  thrid  cow  he  cleibet  by  the  head. 
Their  upmest  clais,  that  was  of  raploch  grey, 
The  vicar  gart  his  dark  bear  them  away. 
When  all  was  gane,  I  micht  mak  nae  debeat. 
But  with  my  bairns  passed  for  till  beg  my 

meat. 
Now  have  I  tauld  you  the  black  veritie, 
How  I  am  brocht  into  this  misery. 

Diligence. 
How  did  the  parson  ?  was  he  not  thy  gude 


freend  ? 


Paxi/per. 


he  curst  me  for  my  tiend. 

And  halds  me  yet  under  that  same  process, 
That  gart  me  want  the  sacrament  at  Pasche. 
In   gude   faith.   Sir,   thocht   he  wad   cut  my 

throat, 
I  have  nae  gear  except  ane  English  groat, 
Whilk  I  purpose  to  give  ane  man  of  law. 

Diligence. 

Thou  art  the  daftest  fule  that  e'er  I  saw. 
Trows  thou,  man,  by  the  law  to  get  remeid 
Of  men  of  kirk  ?  Na,  nocht  till  thou  be  deid. 

Pauper. 

Sir,  by  what  law,  tell  me,  wherefore  or  why  ? 
That  ane  vicar  should  tak  fra  me  three  ky  ? 

Diligence. 

They  have  nae  law  excepting  consuetude, 
WhUk  law  to  thom  is  sufficient  and  cude. 


Pauper. 

Ane  consuetude  aganes  the  common  weil. 
Should  be  nae  law,  I  think,  by  sweet  Sanct 

GeiU. 
Whaiir  will  ye  find  that  law,  teU  gif  ye  can, 
To  tak  three  ky  fra  ane  puir  husband  man  ? 
Ane  for  my  father,  and  for  my  wife- ane  other. 
An   the   thrid   cow   he   took   for   Maid,    my 

mother. 

Diligence. 
It  is  their  law  ;  all  that  they  have  in  use, 
Thocht  it  be  cow,  sow,  ganer,  gryce,  or  guse. 

Pauper. 
Sir  I  wad  speir  at  you  ane  question ; 
Behald  some  prelates  of  this  region — 

Diligence. 
Hald    thy  tongue,  man,  it  seems  that  thou 

were  mangit. 
Speak  thou  of  priests,  but  doubt,  thou  will  be 
hangit. 

Sir  Dawid  Lyndsay. — About  1520. 


59.— THE  EXACTIONS  AND  DELAY  OF 
THE  LAW. 

Pauper. 

I  lent  my  gossop  my  meir  to  fetch  hame  coals, 
And  he  her  droun'd  into  the  querrel  holes. 
And  I  ran  to  the  consistory  for  to  plenye, 
And   there   I   happened    amang   ane    greedy 

menye. 
They  gave  me  first   ane  thing  they  call  ci- 

tanddtm ; 
Within  aucht  days  I  gat  but  lihellandum ; 
Within  ane  month  I  gat  ad  opponendv/ni ; 
In  ane  half  year  I  gat  inter  loquendum ; 
An   syne  I  gat — how  caU  ye  it.? — ad  repli- 

candtun ; 
But,  I  could  never  ane  word  yet  understand 

him. 
An  then,  they  gart  me  cast  out  mony  placks. 
And  gart  me  pay  for  four  and  twenty  acts  ; 
But  or  they  came  half  gate  to  concludendicin. 
The  fient  a  plack  was  left  for  to  defend  him. 
Thus  they  postpon'd  me  twa  year,  with  their 

train. 
Syne,  hodie  ad  octo,  bade  me  come  again. 
An  then  thir  rooks  they  roupit  wonder  fast, 
For  sentence  silver  they  cryit  at  the  last. 
Of   pronunciandum    they   made   me   wonder 

fain ; 
But  I  gat  ne'er  my  gude  grey  meir  again. 

Sir  David  Lyndsay. — About  1520. 


60, 


DESCEIPTION  OF  SQUYEE   MEL- 
DEUM. 

He  was  bot  twintie  yeiris  of  age, 
Quehen  he  began  his  vassalage  : 
Proportionat  weill,  of  mid  stature  : 
Feirie  and  wicht  and  micht  endure 


Sib  David  Lyndsay.]                       MELDEUM'S  DUEL.                       [Second  Period. — 

Ovirset  with  travell  both  nicht  and  day, 

And  sweitlie  to  the  Squiyre  said, 

Eicht  hardie  baith  in  ernist  and  play  : 

Thou  knawis  the  cunning  that  we  made, 

Bl3dth  in  countenance,  richt  fair  of  face, 

Quhilk  of  us  twa  suld  tyne  the  field, 

And  stude  woill  ay  in  his  ladies  grace : 

He  suld  baith  hors  and  armour  yield 

For  he  "was  wondir  amiabill, 

Till  him  that  wan,  quhairfore  I  will 

And  in  all  deidis  honourabill ; 

My  hors  and  harness  geve  the  till. 

And  ay  his  honour  did  advance, 

Then  said  the  Squyer,  courteouslie, 

In  Ingland  first  and  syne  in  France 

Brother,  I  thank  you  hartfullie  ; 

And  thare  his  manheid  did  assail 

Of  you,  forsooth,  nothing  I  crave, 

Under  the  kingis  great  admirall. 

For  I  have  gotten  that  I  would  have. 

Quhen  the  greit  navy  of  Scotland 
Passit  to  the  sea  againis  Ingland. 

Sir  Dcuvid  Lyndsay. — About  1520. 

Sir  David  Lyndsay. — About  1520. 

62.— CHEIST  COMING  TO  JUDGMF.NT. 

6i.— MELDEUM'S    DUEL  WITH  THE 

As  fireflaucht  hastily  glancing, 

ENGLISH  CHAMPION  TALBAET. 

Descend  shall  the  maist  heavenly  King. 

Then  clariouns  and  trumpets  blew, 

As  Phoebus  in  the  orient 

And  weiriours  many  hither  drew ; 

Lightens  in  haste  the  Occident, 

On  eviry  side  come  mony  man 

Sae  pleasandly  he  shall  appear 

To  behald  Avha  the  battel  wan. 

Amang  the  heavenly  cluddis  clear, 

The  field  was  in  the  meadow  green. 

With  great  power  and  majesty, 

Quhare  everie  man  micht  weil  be  seen  : 

Above  the  country  of  Judie ; 

The  heraldis  put  tham  sa  in  order. 

As  clerkis  doth  conclude  in  haill, 

That  na  man  past  within  the  border,    - 

Direct  above  the  lusty  vale 

Nor  preissit  to  com  within  the  green, 

Of  Josaphat  and  Mount  Olivet : 

Bot  heraldis  and  the  campiouns  keen ; 

An  prophecy  there  shall  complete. 

The  order  and  the  circumstance 

The  angels  of  the  orders  nine 

Wer  lang  to  put  in  remembrance. 

Environ  shall  that  throne  Divine 

Quhen  thir  twa  nobill  men  of  weir 

With  heavenly  consolation. 

Wer  Weill  accouterit  in  their  geir, 

Making  him  ministration. 

And  in  thair  handis  strong  burdounis, 

In  his  presence  there  -shall  be  borne 

Than  trumpettis  blew  and  clarionnis, 

The  signs  of  cross  and  crown  of  thorn, 

And  heraldis  cryit  hie  on  hicht. 

Pillar,  naillis,  scourgis,  and  spear, 

Now  let  thame  go — God  shaw  the  richt. 

With  everilk  thing  that  did  him  deir, 

#             *             *             #             # 

The  time  of  his  grim  passion ; 

Than  trumpettis  blew  triumphantly, 

And,  for  our  consolation. 

And  thay  twa  campiouns  eagerlie, 

Appear  shall,  in  his  hands  and  feet 

They  spurrit  their  hors  with  speiron  breist, 

And  in  his  side,  the  print  complete 

Pertly  to  prief  their  pith  they  preist. 

Of  his  five  woundis  precious. 

That  round  rink-room  was  at  utterance. 

Shining  like  rubies  radious. 

Bot  Talbart's  hors  with  ane  mischance 

Sir  David  Lyndsay. — About  1520. 

H  (outterit,  and  to  run  was  laith  ; 

Quharof  Talbart  was  wonder  wraith. 

The  Squyer  furth  his  rink  he  ran, 

Commendit  weill  with  every  man. 

63.— TO  MISTEESS  MAEGAEET  HUSSEY. 

And  him  discharget  of  his  speir 

Merry  Margaret, 

Honestlie,  like  ane  man  of  weir. 

As  midsummer  flower, 

*             *             #             #             # 

Gentle  as  falcon. 

The  trenchour  of  the  Squyreis  speir 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower ; 

Stak  still  into  Sir  Talbart's  geir; 

With  solace  and  gladness, 

Than  everie  man  into  that  steid 

Much  mirth  and  no  madness. 

Did  all  beleve  that  he  was  dede. 

All  good  and  no  badness  ; 

The  Squyer  lap  richt  haistiUie 

So  joyously. 

From  his  coursour  deliverlie, 

So  maidenly. 

And  to  Sir  Talbart  made  support, 

So  womanly, 

And  humillie  did  him  comfort. 

Her  demeaning, 

Wlien  Talbart  saw  into  his  schield 

In  everything, 

Ane  otter  in  ane  silver  field. 

Far,  far  passing 

This  race,  said  he,  I  sair  may  rew. 

That  I  can  indite. 

For  I  see  weill  my  dreame  was  true  ; 

Or  suffice  to  write. 

Mothocht  yon  otter  gart  me  bleid. 

Of  merry  Margaret, 

And  buir  mo  backwart  from  my  sted ; 

As  midsummer  flower, 

But  heir  I  vow  to  God  soverane. 

Gentle  as  falcon 

That  I  sail  never  just  agano. 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower  ; 

fVom  1400  to  1558.] 


NO  AGE  CONTENT. 


[Howard,  E.  of  SurreTv 


As  patient  and  as  still, 

And  as  full  of  goodwill^ 

As  fair  Isiphil, 

Coliander. 

Sweet  Pomander, 

Good  Cassander ; 

Stedfast  of  thonght, 

Well  made,  well  wrought 

Far  may  be  sought, 

Ere  you  can  find 

So  courteous,  sc  kind, 

As  merry  Margaret, 

This  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 


John  Shelton. — About  1520. 


64.— IMPRISONED  IN  WINDSOE,  HE  EE- 
COUNTETH  HIS  PLEASUEE  THEEE 
PASSED. 

So  cruel  prison  how  could  betide,  alas  ! 
As  proud  Windsor  ?     Where  I  in  lust  and  joy, 
With  a  king's  son.  my  childish  years  did  pass. 
In  greater  feast  than  Priam's  sons  of  Troy; 
Where  each  sweet  place  returns  a  taste  full  sour. 
The  large  green  courts,  where  we  were  wont  to 

rove, 
With  eyes  upcast  unto  the  maiden's  tower. 
And  easy  sighs,  such  as  folk  draw  in  love. 
The  stately  seats,  the  ladies  bright  of  hue. 
The  dances  short,  long  tales  of  great  delight ; 
With  words  and  looks  that  tigers  could  but  rue. 
When  each  of  us  did  plead  the  other's  right. 
The  palm  play,  where  desported  for  the  game. 
With  dazed  eyes  oft  we,  by  gleams  of  love. 
Have  miss'd  the  ball,  and  got  sight  of  our  dame. 
To  bait  her  eyes,  which  kept  the  leads  above. 
The  gravell'd  ground,  with  sleeves  tied  on  the 

holm. 
On  foaming  horse  with  swords  and  friendly 

hearts ; 
With  cheer  as  though  one  should  another  whelm , 
Where  we  have  fought,  and  chased  oft  with 

darts. 
With  silver  drops  the  meads  yet  spread  for  ruth ; 
In  active  games  of  nimblenesa  and  strength. 
Where  we  did  strain,  trained  with  swanns  of 

youth, 
Our  tender  limbs  that  yet  shot  up  in  length. 
The  secret  groves,  which  oft  we  made  resound 
Of  pleasant  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies'  praise  ; 
Eecording  oft  what  grace  each  one  had  found. 
What  hope  of  speed,  what  dread  of  long  delays. 
The  wild  forest,  the  clothed  holts  with  green  ; 
With  reins  avail'd,  and  swift  ybreathed  horse, 
With  cry  of  hounds,  and  merry  blasts  between, 
Where  we  did  chase  the  fearful  hart  of  force. 
The  void  walls  eke  that  harbour' d  us  each 

night : 
Wherewith,  alas  !  revive  within  my  breast 
The  sweet  accord,  such  sleeps  as  yet  delight ; 
Tlio  pleasant  dreams,  the  quiet  bed  of  rest ; 


The  secret  thoughts,  imparted  with  such  trust ; 
The  wanton  talk,  the  divers  change  of  play ; 
The  friendship  sworn,  each  promise  kept  so  just. 
Wherewith  we  past  the  Avinter  nights  away. 
And  -with  this  thought  the  blood  forsakes  the 

face  ; 
The  tears  berain  my  cheeks  of  deadly  hue  : 
The  which,  as  soon  as  sobbing  sighs,  alas  ! 
Upsupped  have,  thus  I  my  plaint  renew  : 
0  place  of  bliss  !  renewer  of  my  woes  ! 
Give  me  account,  where  is  my  noble  fere  ? 
Whom   in  thy  walls  thou   didst  each  night 

enclose  ; 
To  other  lief  :  but  unto  me  most  dear. 
Echo,  alas  !  that  doth  my  sorrow  rue, 
Eeturns  thereto  a  hollow  sound  of  plaint. 
Thus  I  alone,  where  all  my  freedom  grew. 
In  prison  pine,  with  bondage  and  restraint : 
And  with  remembrance  of  the  greater  grief, 
To  banish  the  less,  I  find  my  chief  relief. 

Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. — About  1535. 


65. 


-NO  AGE  CONTENT  WITH  HIS 
OWN  ESTATE. 


Laid  in  my  quiet  bed. 

In  study  as  I  were, 
I  saw  within  my  troubled  head, 

A  heap  of  thoughts  appear. 

And  every  thought  did  show 

So  lively  in  mine  eyes. 
That  now  I  sighed,  and  then  I  smiled, 

As  cause  of  thoughts  did  rise. 

I  saw  the  little  boy. 

In  thought  how  oft  that  ho 
Did  wish  of  God,  to  scape  the  rod, 

A  tall  young  man  to  be. 

The  young  man  eke  that  feels 
His  bones  with  pains  opprest. 

How  he  would  be  a  rich  old  man, 
To  live  and  lie  at  rest : 

The  rich  old  man  that  sees 

His  end  draw  on  so  sore. 
How  he  would  be  a  boy  again, 

To  live  so  much  the  more. 

Whereat  fuU  oft  I  smiled. 
To  see  how  all  these  three, 

From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy, 
Would  chop  and  change  degree  : 

And  musing  thus,  I  think, 

The  case  is  very  strange, 
That  man  from  wealth,  to  live  in  woe, 

Doth  ever  seek  to  change. 

Thus  thoughtful  as  I  lay, 

■  I  saw  my  withered  skin, 
How  it  doth  show  my  dented  thews. 
The  flesh  was  worn  so  thin ; 


Howard,  E.  of  Surrey.] 


TO  ATTAIN  HAPPY  LIFE. 


[Second  Period. — 


And  eke  my  toothless  chaps, 

The  gates  of  my  right  way, 
That  opes  and  shuts  as  I  do  speak, 

Do  thus  unto  me  say : 

The  white  and  hoarish  hairs. 

The  messengers  of  age. 
That  show,  like  lines  of  true  belief, 

That  this  life  doth  assuage  ; 

Bids  thee  lay  hand,  and  feel 

Them  hanging  on  my  chin. 
The  which  do  write  two  ages  past, 

The  third  now  coming  in. 

Hang  up,  therefore,  the  bit 

Of  thy  young  wanton  time  ; 
And  thou  that  therein  beaten  art, 

The  happiest  life  define  : 

Whereat  I  sighed,  and  said, 

Farewell  my  wonted  joy, 
Truss  up  thy  pack,  and  trudge  from  me, 

To  every  little  boy ; 

And  tell  them  thus  from  me, 

Their  time  most  happy  is, 
If  to  their  time  they  reason  had. 

To  know  the  truth  of  this. 

Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. — About  1535. 


66.— THE  MEANS  TO  ATTAIN  HAPPY 
LIFE. 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  Hfe,  be  these,  I  find. 

The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain ; 
The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind. 

The  equal  friend  ;  no  grudge,  no  strife. 
No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance  ; 

Without  disease,  the  healthful  life  ; 
The  household  of  continuance  : 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare  ; 

True  wisdom  joined  with  simpleness  ; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care ; 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress. 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate  ; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night ; 
Contented  with  thine  own  estate, 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 

Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. — About  1535. 


67.— DESCEIPTION  OF  SPEING. 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 

brings, 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale. 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings  ; 
The  turtle  to  her  make  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs. 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale  ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 
The  fishes  fleet  with  new  repaired  scale ; 


The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings  : 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  small ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings  ; 
Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flower's  bale. 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 
Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. — About  1535. 


68.— HOW  EACH  THING,  SAVE  THE 
LOVER,  IN  SPEING  EEVIVETH  TO 
PLEASURE. 

When  Windsor  walls  sustain'd  my  wearied  arm ; 
My  hand  my  chin,  to  ease  my  restless  head ; 
The  pleasant  plot  revested  green  with  warm  ; 
The  blossom' d  boughs  with  lusty  ver  y  spread ; 
The  flower' d  meads,  the  wedded  birds  so  late 
Mine  eyes  discover ;  and  to  my  mind  resort 
The  jolly  woes,  the  hateless  short  debate, 
The  rakehell  life  that  longs  to  love's  disport. 
Wherewith,  alas  !  the  heavy  charge  of  care 
Heap'd  in  my  breast,  breaks  forth  against  my 

wiU 
In  smoky  sighs  that  overcast  the  air. 
My  vapour' d  eye  such  dreary  tears  distU, 
The  tender  green  they  quicken  where  they  fall ; 
And  I  half  bend  to  throw  me  down  withal. 

Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. — About  1535. 


69.. 


-DESCEIPTION  AND  PEAISE  OF 
HIS  LOUE  GEEALDINE. 


From  Tuskane  came  my  ladies  worthy  race  : 
Faire   Florence  was   sometime   her   auncient 

seate 
The  western  yle,  whose  plesant  shore  doth  face 
Wnde  Cambers    clifs,    did    gyve  her  liuely 

heate  : 
Fostred  she  was  with  milke  of  Irish  brest ; 
Her  sire,  an  Erie  ;  her  dame  of  princes  blood  ; 
From  tender  yeres,  in  Britain  she  doth  rest 
With  klnges  childe,  where  she  tasteth  costly 

fooL 
Hoiisdon  did  first  present  her  to  mine  yien  ; 
Bright  is  her  hewe,  and  Geraldine  she  hight ; 
Hampton  me  taught  to  Avishe  her  first  for 

mine  : 
And  Windsor,  alas,  doth  chase  me  from  her 

sight. 

Her  beauty  of  kind,  her  vertues  from  aboue ; 

Happy  is  he,  that  can  obtaine  her  loue  ! 
Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. — About  1535. 


7o._A  VOW  TO  LOUE. 

Set  me  whereas  the  sunne  doth  parche  tho 

grene. 
Or  where  his  beames  do  not  dissolue  the  5'se  : 
In  temperate  heate  where  he  is  felt  and  sene  : 
In  presence  prest  of  people  madde  or  wise  ; 


From  1400  to  1558.] 


THE  LOVER'S  LUTE. 


[Sir  Thomas  Wyat. 


Set  me  in  hye,  or  yet  in  low  degree  ; 
In  longest  night,  or  in  the  shortest  daye  : 
In  clearest  skie,  or  where  cloudes  thickest  be  ; 
In  lusty  youth,  or  when  my  heeres  are  graye  : 
Set  me  in  heauen,  in  earth,  or  els  in  hell, 
In  hyll  or  dale,  or  in  the  foming  flood, 
Thrall,  or  at  large,  aliue  whereso  I  dwell, 
Sicke  or  in  health,  in  euill  fame  or  good : 
Hers  will  I  be,  and  onely  with  this  thought 
Content   my   self,    although   my  chaunce  be 
nought. 

Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. — About  1535. 


71.— A  LOVEE'S  COMPLAINT. 

I  never  sawe  my  Ladye  laye  apart. 

Her  comet  blacke,  in  colde  nor  yet  in  heate, 

Sith  fyrst  she  knew  my  griefe  was  growen  so 

greate  ; 
Whiche  other  fansies  driueth  from  my  hart 
That  to  my  seK  I  do  the  thought  reserue, 
The   which   unwares   did  wound  my  woeful 

brest ; 
But  on  her  face  mine  eyes  mought  neuer  rest : 
Yet  sins  she  knew  I  did  her  loue  and  serue. 
Her  golden  tresses  cladde  alway  with  blacke  ; 
Her  smyling  lokes  that  hid  thus  euermore, 
And  that  restraines  whiche  I  desire  so  sore  : 
So  dothe  thys  cornet  goueme  me  alacke  ; 
In  somer,  sunne  :  in  winters  breathe,  a  froste  : 
Wherby  the  light  of  her  faire  lokes  I  lost. 
Howard,  Earl  of  Su/rrey. — About  1535. 


72. —  THE   LOVER    COMPLAINETH    OF 
THE  UNKINDNESS  OF  HIS  LOVE. 

My  lute,  awake  !  perform  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 
And  end  that  I  have  now  begun  ; 
For  when  this  song  is  sung  and  past, 
My  lute  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none, 
As  lead  to  grave  in  marble  stone. 
My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon  : 
Should  we  then  sing,  or  sigh,  or  moan  ? 
No,  no,  my  lute  !  for  I  have  done. 

The  rocks  do  not  so  cruelly 
Repulse  the  waves  continually, 
As  she  my  suit  and  affection  ; 
So  that  I  am  past  remedy  ; 
Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple  hearts,  thorough  Love's  shot, 
By  whom,  unkind  !  thou  hast  them  won : 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot, 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Vengeance  shall  fall  on  thy  disdain, 
That  mak'st  but  game  of  earnest  payne. 
Think  not  alone  under  the  sun, 
Unquit  the  cause  thy  lovers  plaine, 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 


May  chance  thee  lye  withred  and  old, 
In  winter  nights  that  are  so  cold, 
Playning  in  vain  unto  the  moon ; 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  be  told ; 
Care  then  who  list !  for  I  have  done. 

And  then  may  chaunce  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  hast  lost  and  spent. 
To  cause  thy  lovers  sigh  and  swoon ; 
Then  shalt  thou  know  beauty  but  lent, 
And  wish  and  want,  as  I  have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute  !  this  is  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 
And  ended  is  that  I  begun ; 
Now  is  this  song  both  sung  and  past ; 
My  lute !  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat.— About  1535. 


73.— THE  LOVER'S  LUTE  CANNOT  BE 
BLAMED,  THOUGH  IT  SING  OF  HIS 
LADY'S    UNKINDNESS. 

Blame  not  my  Lute  !  for  he  must  sound 

Of  this  or  that  as  liketh  me ; 
For  lack  of  wit  the  Lute  is  bound 

To  give  such  tunes  as  pleaseth  me  ; 
Though  my  songs  be  somewhat  strange,  « 
And  speak  such  words  as  touch  my  change. 
Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

My  Lute,  alas  !  doth  not  offend, 

Though  that  per  force  he  must  agree 

To  sound  such  tunes  as  I  intend, 
To  sing  to  them  that  heareth  me  ; 

Then  though  my  songs  be  somewhat  plain. 

And  toucheth  some  that  use  to  feign. 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

My  Lute  and  strings  may  not  deny, 
But  as  "l  strike  they  must  obey ; 

Break  not  them  then  so  wrongfully, 
But  wreak  thyself  some  other  way ; 

And  though  the  songs  which  I  indite, 

Do  quit  thy  change  with  rightful  spite, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

Spite  asketh  spite,  and  changing  change, 
And  falsed  f^th,  must  needs  be  known  ; 

The  faults  so  great,  the  case  so  strange ; 
Of  right  it  must  abroad  be  blown  : 

Then  since  that  by  thine  own  desert 

My  songs  do  teU  how  true  thou  art. 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

Blame  but  thyseK  that  hast  misdone, 
And  well  deserved  to  have  blame ; 

Change  thou  thy  way,  so  evil  begone, 

And  then  my  Lute  shall  sound  that  same ; 

But  if  till  then  my  fingers  play, 

By  thy  desert  their  wonted  way, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 


Sir  Thomas  Wtat.] 


THE  RE-CURED  LOVER  EXULTETH. 


[Second  Period. — 


Farewell !  Tmknown  ;  for  though  thou  break 
My  strings  in  spite  with  great  disdain, 

Yet  have  I  found  out  for  thy  sake, 
Strings  for  to  string  my  Lute  again  : 

And  if  perchance  this  silly  rhyme, 

Do  make  thee  blush  at  any  time, 

Blame  not  my  Lute  ! 

8vr  Thomas  Wyat.-—Alout  1535. 


74.— THE  EE-CUEED  LOVEE  EXULTETH 
IN  HIS  FEEEDOM,  AND  VOWETH  TO 
REMAIN  FEEE  UNTIL  DEATH. 

I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  wiU  I  be  ; 
But  how  that  I  am  none  knoweth  truly. 
Be  it  ill,  be  it  weU,  be  I  bond,  be  I  free, 
I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  be. 

I  lead  my  life  indifferently ; 

I  mean  nothing  but  honesty  ; 

And  though  folks  judge  full  diversely, 

I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  I  die. 

I  do  not  rejoice,  nor  yet  complain, 
Both  mirth  and  sadness  I  do  refrain. 
And  use  the  means  since  folks  will  feign  ; 
Yet  I  am  as  I  am,  be  it  pleasant  or  pain. 

Divers  do  judge  as  they  do  trow. 
Some  of  pleasure  and  some  of  woe, 
Yet  for  all  that  nothing  they  know  ; 
But  I  am  as  I  am,  wheresoever  I  go. 

But  sir'^-'  j'jdgers  do  thus  decay, 
Let  every  man  his  judgment  say ; 
I  will  it  take  in  sport  and  play. 
For  I  am  as  I  am,  whosoever  say  nay. 

Who  judgeth  weU,  weU  God  them  send ; 
Who  judgeth  evil,  God  them  amend ; 
To  judge  the  best  therefore  intend,  • 
For  I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  wiU  I  end. 

Yet  some  there  be  that  take  delight, 
To  judge  folk's  thought  for  envy  and  spite  ; 
But  whether  they  judge  me  wrong  or  right, 
I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  do  I  write. 

Praying  you  all  that  this  do  read. 
To  trust  it  as  you  do  your  cre^d  ; 
And  not  to  think  I  change  my  weed, 
For  I  am  as  I  am,  however  I  speed. 

But  how  that  is  I  leave  to  you ; 
Judge  as  ye  Hst,  false  or  true, 
Ye  know  no  more  than  afore  ye  knew. 
Yet  I  am  as  I  am,  whatever  ensue. 

And  from  this  mind  I  will  not  flee, 
But  to  you  all  that  misjudge  me, 
I  do  protest,  as  ye  may  see, 
That  I  am  as  I  am,  and  so  will  be. 

Svr  Thomas  Wyat. — Ahout  1535.  ' 


75- 


-THAT  PLEASURE  IS  MIXED  WITH 
EVERY  PAIN. 


Venomous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp  and  keen 
Bear  flowers,  we  see,  full  fresh  and  fair  of 
hue, 

Poison  is  also  put  in  medicine, 

And  unto  man  his  health  doth  oft  renew. 

The  fire  that  all  things  eke  consuraeth  clean. 
May  hurt  and  heal :  then  if  that  this  be 
true, 

I  trust  some  time  my  harm  may  be  my  health. 

Since  every  woe  is  joined  with  some  wealth. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat. — About  1535. 


76.— A  DESCRIPTION  OF  SUCH  A  ONE 
AS  HE  WOULD  LOVE. 

A  face  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well. 
Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold 
With  gladsome  cheer,  aU  grief  for  to  expeU ; 
With  sober  looks  so  would  I  that  it  should 
Speak  without  words,  such  words  as  none  can 

teU; 
The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 
With  wit  and  these,  might  chance  I  might  be 

tied. 
And  knit  again  with  knot  that  should  not  slide. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat.— About  1535. 


77.— AN  EAENT^ST  SUIT  TO  HIS  UNKIND 
MISTEESS  NOT  TO  FOESAKE  HIM. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay !  for  shame ! 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
That  hath  lov'd  thee  so  long  ? 
In  wealth  and  woe  among : 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart, 
Never  for  to  depart. 
Neither  for  pain  nor  smart, 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 

And  have  no  more  pity 

Of  him  that  loveth  thee  ; 

Alas  !  thy  cruelty  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay !  say  nay  ! 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat.— Ahout  1535. 


From  1400  to  1558.]       INTRODUCTION  TO  BOOK  OF  HUSBANDRY,     [Thomas  Tusseb. 


78.— TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant ; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life,  ye  know  since  whan, 
The  suit,  the  service,  none  teU  can ; 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not ! — Oh  !  forget  not  this. 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved, 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved. 
Forget  not  this ! 

Svr  Thomas  Wyat—Ahoiit  1535. 


^79.— HE  LAMENTETH  THAT  HE  HAD 
EVER  CAUSE  TO  DOUBT  HIS  LADY'S 
FAITH. 

Deem  as  ye  list  upon  good  cause, 
I  may  or  think  of  this  or  that ; 
But  what  or  why  myself  best  knows. 
Whereby  I  think  and  fear  not. 
But  thereunto  I  may  well  think 
The  doubtful  sentence  of  this  clause ; 
I  would  it  were  not  as  I  think  ; 
I  would  I  thought  it  were  not. 

For  if  I  thought  it  were  not  so, 
Though  it  were  so,  it  griev'd  me  not ; 
Unto  my  thought  it  were  as  tho 
I  hearkened  though  I  hear  not. 
At  that  I  see  I  cannot  wink, 
Nor  from  my  thought  so  let  it  go : 
I  would  it  were  not  as  I  think  ; 
I  woidd  I  thought  it  were  not. 

Lo  !  how  my  thought  might  make  me  free. 
Of  that  perchance  it  needs  not : 
Perchance  none  doubt  the  dread  I  see ; 
I  shrink  at  that  I  bear  not. 
But  in  my  heart  this  word  shall  sink. 
Until  the  proof  may  better  be  : 
I  would  it  were  not  as  I  think  ; 
I  would  I  thought  it  were  not. 

If  it  be  not,  shew  no  cause  why 
I  should  so  think,  then  care  I  not ; 
For  I  shall  so  myself  apply 
To  be  that  I  appear  not. 
That  is,  as  one  that  shall  not  shrink 
To  be  your  own  until  I  die ; 
And  if  that  be  not  as  I  think, 
Likewise  to  think  it  is  not. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat^Ahout  1635. 


80. 


-CHARACTERISTIC   OF  AN 
ENGLISHMAN. 


I  am  an  Englishman,  and  naked  I  stand  here, 
Musing  in   my  mind  what  garment   I  shall 

wear, 
For  now  I  wiU  wear  this,  and  now  1  will  wear 

that. 
Now  I  will  wear  I  cannot  teU  what : 
AU  new  fashions  be  pleasant  to  me, 
I  will  have  them  whether  I  thrive  or  thee  : 
Now  I  am  a  fisher,  all  men  on  me  look 
What  should  I  do  but  set  cock  on  the  hoop  f 
What  do  I  care  if  all  the  world  me  fail, 
I  will  have  a  garment  reach  to  my  tail. 
Then  I  am  a  minion,  for  I  wear  the  new  gmse, 
The  next  year  after  I  hope  to  be  wise — 
Not  only  in  wearing  my  gorgeous  array, 
For  I  will  go  to  learning  a  whole  summer's 

day; 
I  will  learn  Latin,  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  French, 
And  I  Avill  learn  Dutch  sitting  on  my  bench. 
I  do  fear  no  man,  each  man  feareth  me  ; 
I  overcome  my  adversaries  by  land  and  by  sea : 
I  had  no  peer  if  to  myself  I  were  true ; 
Because  I  am  not  so,  diverse  times  do  I  rue  : 
Yet  I  lack  nothing,  I  have  all  things  at  wiU, 
If  I  were  wise  and  would  hold  myself  stiU, 
And  meddle  with  no  matters  but  to  me  per- 
taining. 
But  ever  to  be  true  to  God  and  my  king. 
But  I  have  such  matters  rolling  in  my  pate. 
That  I  will  and  do — I  cannot  tell  what. 
No  man  shall  let  me,  but  I  will  have  my  mind. 
And  to  father,   mother,   and  friend,   I'U  be 

unkind. 
I  will  follow  mine  own  mind  and  mine  old 

trade  : 
Who  shaU  let  me  ?     The  devil's  nails  are  un- 

pared. 
Yet  above  all  things  new  fashions  I  love  well. 
And  to  wear  them  my  thrift  I  will  sell. 
In  all  this  world  I  shall  have  but  a  time  : 
Hold  the  cup,  good  fellow,  here  is  thine  and 

mine ! 

Andrew  Bourd. — Ahoxit  1537. 


Si.—AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  BOOK 
OF  HUSBANDRY. 

CHAP.   IV. 

Good  husbandmen  must  moil  and  toil, 

To  lay  to  live,  by  laboured  field  : 
Their  wives,  at  home,  must  keep  such  coil, 
As  their  like  acts  may  profit  yield. 
For  well  they  know. 
As  shaft  from  bow, 
Or  chalk  from  snow, 
A  good  round  rent  their  lords  they  give, 
And  must  keep  touch  in  all  tjieir  pay ; 
With  credit  crackt,  else  for  to  live. 
Or  trust  to  legs,  and  run  away. 


Thomas  Tusseb.]                                    A  PEEFACE. 

[Second  Period. — 

Though  fence,  well  kept,  is  one  good  point, 

9. 

To  hold  that  thine  is  lawfully. 

And  tilth  well  done,  in  season  due ; 

For  stoutness,  or  for  flattery. 

Yet  needing  salve,  in  time  t' anoint, 

10. 

To  wed  good  wife  for  company. 

Is  all  in  all,  and  needfull  true : 

And  live  in  wedlock  honestly. 

As  for  the  rest. 

11. 

To  furnish  house  with  housholdry, 

Thus  think  I  best, 

And  make  provision  skilfrdly. 

As  friend  doth  guest, 

12. 

To  join  to  wife  good  family. 

With  hand  in  hand  to  lead  thee  forth, 

And  none  to  keep  for  bravery. 

To  Ceres  camp,  there  to  behold 

13. 

To  suffer  none  live  idely, 

A  thousand  things,  as  richly  worth, 

For  fear  of  idle  knavery. 

As  any  pearl  is  worthy  gold. 

14. 

To  courage  wife  in  huswifery. 

Thomas  Tusser.^About  1557. 

And  use  weU  doers  gentily. 

15. 

To  keep  no  more  but  needfuUy, 

16. 

And  count  excess  unsavoury. 
To  raise  betimes  the  lubberly, 

82.— A  PEEFACE  TO  THE  BUYEE  OF 

Both  snorting  Hoh  and  Margery. 

HIS  BOOK  ON  HUSBANDEY. 

17. 

To  walk  thy  pastures  usually. 
To  spy  ill  neighbour's  subtilty. 

CHAP.  V. 

18. 

To  hate  revengement  hastily; 

What  lookest  thou  herein  to  have  ? 
Fine  verses  thy  fancy  to  please  ? 

19. 

For  losing  love  and  a,mity. 

To  love  thy  neighbour,  neighbourly. 

And  shew  him  no  discourtesy. 

Of  Tna,Tiy  my  betters  that  crave  : 
Look  nothing  but  rudeness  in  these. 

20. 

To  answer  stranger  civilly, 
But  shew  him  not  thy  secresy. 

"What  other  thing  lookest  thou  then  ?  ' 

21. 

To  use  no  man  deceitfully, 

Grave  sentences  many  to  find  ? 

To  offer  no  man  villainy. 

Such,  poets  have,  twenty  and  ten, 

22. 

To  learn  how  foe  to  pacify. 

Yea  thousands,  contenting  thy  mind. 

But  trust  him  not  too  hastily. 

23. 

To  keep  thy  touch  substantially, 

What  look  ye,  I  pray  you  shew  what  ? 

And  in  thy  word  use  constancy. 

Terms  painted  with  rhetorick  fine  ! 

24. 

To  make  thy  bands  advisedly. 

Good  husbandry  seeketh  not  that, 

And  come  not  bound  through  suerty. 

Nor  is't  any  meaning  of  mine. 

25. 

To  meddle  not  with  usury, 

What  lookest  thou,  speak  at  the  last  ? 

Good  lessons  for  thee  and  thy  wife  ? 
Then  keep  them  in  memory  fast, 

To  help  as  a  comfort  to  life. 

26. 
27. 

Nor  lend  thy  money  foolishly. 
To  hate  to  live  in  infamy. 
Through  craft,  and  living  shiftingly. 
To  shun  all  kind  of  treachery, 
For  treason  endeth,  horribly. 

What  look  ye  for  more  i^  my  book  ? 

28. 

To  learn  to  shun  ill  company, 

Points  needfull  and  meet  to  be  known  ? 

And  such  as  live  dishonestly. 

Then  daily  be  suer  to  look, 

29. 

To  banish  house  of  blasphemy, 

To  save  to  be  siier  thine  own. 

Lest  crosses  cross,  unluckily. 

Thomas  Tusser.— About  1557. 

30. 

To  stop  mischance  through  policy 
For  chancing  too  unhappily. 

31. 

To  bear  thy  crosses,  patiently. 
For  worldly  things  are  slippery. 

83.— THE  LADDEE  TO  THEIFT. 

32. 

To  lay  to  keep  from  misery, 
Age  coming  on,  so  creepingly. 

CHAP.   IX. 

33. 

To  pray  to  God,  continually. 

For  aid  against  thine  enemy. 

1.    To  take  thy  calling  thankfuUy, 

34. 

To  spend  thy  Sabbath  holily. 

And  shun  the  path  to  beggary. 

And  help  the  needy  poverty. 

2.    To  grudge  in  youth  no  drudgery. 

35. 

To  live  in  conscience  quietly, 

To  come  by  knowledge  perfectly. 

And  keep  thyself  from  malady. 

3,    To  count  no  travell  slavery, 

36. 

To  ease  thy  sickness  speedily. 

That  brings  in  penny  saverly. 

Ere  help  be  past  recovery. 

4.    To  follow  profit,  earnestly. 

37. 

To  seek  to  God  for  remedy. 

But  meddle  not  with  pilfery. 

For  witches  prove  unluckily. 

5.    To  get  by  honest  practisy, 

And  keep  thy  gettings  covertly. 

These  be  the  steps,  unfeignedly. 

6.    To  lash  not  out,  too  lashingly, 

To  climb  to  thrift  by  husbandry. 

For  fear  of  pinching  penury. 

7.    To  get  good  plot,  to  occupy. 

These  steps  both  reach,  and  teach  thee  shall, 

And  §tore  and  use  it,  husbandly. 

To  come  by  thrift,  to  shift  withaU. 

8.    To  shew  to  landlord  courtesy, 

And  keep  thy  covenants  orderly. 

TJiomas  Tusser. — About  1557. 

From  1400  to  1558.] 


GOOD  HUSBANDLY  LESSONS. 


[Thomas  Tusser. 


84.— DIEECTIONS  FOR  CULTIVATING  A 
HOP-GARDEN. 

"Whom  fancy  persuadeth,  among  otlier  crops, 
Tq  have  for  his  spending  sufficient  of  hops, 
Must  willingly  follow,  of  choices  to  choose, 
Such  lessons  approved,  as  skilful  do  use. 

Ground  gravelly,  sandy,  and  mixed  with  clay. 
Is  naughty  for  hops,  any  manner  of  way. 
Or  if  it  bs  mingled  with  rubbish  and  stone. 
For  dryness  and  barrenness  let  it  alone. 

Choose  soil  for  the  hop  of  the  rottenest  mould, 
Well  dunged  and  ^vrought,  as  a  garden-plot 

should ; 
Not  far  from  the  water,  but  not  overflown, 
This  lesson,  well  noted,  is  meet  to  be  known. 

The  sun  in  the  south,  or  else  southly  and 

west, 
Is  joy  to  the  hop,  as  a  welcomed  guest ; 
But   \nnd    in    the   north,   or  else  northerly 

east. 
To  the  hop  is  as  ill  as  a  fay  in  a  feast. 

Meet  plot  for  a  hop-yard  once  found  as  is  told, 
Make  thereof  account,  as  of  jewel  of  gold ; 
Now  dig  it,  and  leave  it,  the  sun  for  to  burn. 
And  afterwards  fence  it,  to  serve  for  that  turn. 

The  hop  for  his  profit  I  thus  do  exalt. 
It  strengtheneth  drink,  and  it  favoureth  malt ; 
And  being  well  brewed,  long  kept  it  will  last, 
And  drawing  abide — if  ye  draw  not  too  fast. 

Thomas  Tusser. — About  1557. 


85.— HOUSEWIFERY  PHYSIC.  • 

Good  huswife  provides,  ere  a  sickness  do  come. 
Of  sundry  good  things  in  her  house  to  hava 

some. 
Good  ojjua  composita,  and  vinegar  tart, 
Rose-water,    and  treacle,    to   comfort    thine 

heart. 
Cold  herbs  in  her  garden,  for  agues  that  burn. 
That  over-strong  heat  to  good  temper  may 

turn. 
White  endive,  and  succory,  with  spinach  enow; 
All  such  with  good  pot-herbs,  should  follow 

the  plough. 
Get  water  of  fumitory,  liver  to  cool. 
And  others  the  like,  or  else  lie  like  a  fool. 
Conserves  of  barbary,  quinces,  and  such. 
With  sirops,  that  easeth  the  sickly  so  much. 
Ask  Medicus'  counsel,  ere  medicine  ye  take. 
And  honour  that  man  for  necessity's  sake. 
Though  thousands  hate  physic,  because  of  the 

cost, 
Yet  thousands  it  helpeth,  that  else  should  be 

lost. 
Good  broth,  and  good  keeping,  do  much  now 

and  than  : 
Good  diet,  with  "wisdom,  best  comforteth  man. 
In  health,  to  be  stirring  shall  profit  thee  best ; 
In  sickness,  hate  trouble ;  seek  quiet  and  rest. 


Remember  thy  soul ;  lot  no  fancy  prevail ; 
Make  ready  to  God- ward ;  let  faith  never  quail : 
The  sooner  thyself  thou  submittest  to  God, 
The  sooner  he  ceaseth  to  scourge  with  his  rod. 

Thomas  Tusser. — About  1557. 


86.— GOOD  HUSBANDLY  LESSONS, 
Worthy  to  bo  followed  of  such  as  ivould  thrive. 

CHAP.   X. 

1.  God  sendeth  and  giveth,  both  mouth  and 

the  meat, 
And  blesseth  us  all  with  his  benefits  great : 
Then  serve  we  the  God,  who  so  richly  doth 

give, 
Shew  love  to  our  neighbours,  and  lay  for 

to  live. 

2.  As    bud,    by  appearing,    betok'neth  the 

spring, 
And    leaf,   by   her  falling,   the   contrary 

thing ; 
So  youth  bids  us  labour,  to  get  as  we  can. 
For  age  is  a  burden  to  labouring  man. 

3.  A  competent  living,  and  honestly  had, 
Makes  such  as  are  godly,  both  thankful 

and  glad : 
Life,  never  contented,  with  honest  estate. 
Lamented  is  oft,  and  repented  too  late. 

4.  Count  never  well  gotten,  what  naughty  is 

got. 
Nor  well  to  account  of,  which  honest  is  not : 
Look  long  not  to  prosper,  that  weighest 

not  this. 
Lest  prospering  faileth,  and  all  go  amiss. 

5.  True  wedlock  is  best,  for  avoiding  of  sin  ; 
The  bed  undefiled,  much  honour  doth  win  : 
Though  love  be   in  choosing,  far   better 

than  gold, 
Let  love  come  with  somewhat,  the  better 
to  hold. 

6.  Wliere  couples  agree  not,  is  rancour  and 

strife. 
Where   such  be  together,  is  seldom  good 

life; 
Whore  couples  in  wedlock  do  lovely  agree. 
There  f  oison  remaineth,  if  wisdom  there  be. 

7.  Who  looketh  to  marry,  must  lay  to  keep 

house. 
For  love  may  not  alway  be  playing  with 

douse ; 
If  children  increase,  and  no  stay  of  thine 

own. 
What    afterward    follows   is   soon  to   be 

known. 

8.  Once  charged  with  children,  or  likely  to 
be. 
Give   over  to   sojourn,    that    thinkest  to 
thee ;  5 


Thomas  Tusser.]                   GOOD  HUSBANDLY  LESSONS.                 [Second  Period.— 

Lest  grudging  of  hostess,  and  craving  of 

18.  Make  husbandry  bailiff,  abroad  to  provide. 

nurse, 

Make  huswifery  daily,  at  home  for  to  guide  : 

Be  costly  and  noisome  to  thee  and  thy 

Make  coffer,  fast  locked,  thy  treasure  to 

purse. 

keep, 

Make  house  to  be  siier,  the  safer  to  sleep. 

9.  Good  husha.nds  that  loveth  good  houses  to 

keep. 

19.  Make  bandog  thy  scoutwatch,  to  bark  at 

Are  oftentimes  careful  when  others  do  sleep : 

a  thief. 

To  spend  as  they  may,  or  to  stop  at  the 

Make  courage  for  life,  to  be  capitain  chief : 

first. 

Make  trap-door  thy  bulwark,  make  bell  to 

For  nmning  in  danger,  or  fear  of  the  worst. 

begin, 

Make  gunstone  and  arrow,  shew  who  is 

10.  Go  count  with  thy  coffers,  when  harvest 

within. 

IS  in. 
Which  way  for  thy  profit  to  save  or  to  win : 

20.  The  credit  of  master,  to  brothel  his  man, 

Of  t'one  or  them  both,  if  a  savour  we  smell, 

And  also  of  mistress,  to  minikin  Nan, 

House-keeping  is  godly,  wherever  we  dwell. 

Be  causers  of  opening  a  number  of  gaps, 

That  letteth  in  mischief,  and  many  mishaps. 

11.  Son,  think  not  thy  money,  purse  bottom 

to  bum. 

21.  Good  husband  he  trudgeth  to  bring  in  the 

But  keep  it  for  profit,  to  serve  thine  own 

gains. 

turn: 

Good  huswife  she  drudgeth,  refusing  no 

A  fool  and  his  money  be  soon  at  debate. 

pains. 

Which  after,  with  sorrow,  repents  him  too 

Though  husband  at  home,  be  to  count,  ye 

late. 

wot  what. 

Yet  huswife,  within,  is  as  needful  as  that. 

12.  Good  bargain  adoing,  make  privy  but  few. 

In  selling,  refrain  not,  abroad  it  to  shew : 

22.  What  helpeth  in  store,  to  have  never  so 

In  making,  make  haste,  and  away  to  thy 

much, 

pouch. 

Half  lost  by  ill  usage,   ill  huswives  and 

In  selling,  no  haste,  if  ye  dare  it  avouch. 

such? 

So,  twenty  load  bushes,  cut  down  at  a  clap. 

13.  Good  landlord,  who  findeth,  is  blessed  of 

Such  heed  may  be  taken,  shall  stop  but  a 

God,— 

,      gap. 

A  cumbersome  landlord  is  husbandman's 

rod; 

23.  A    retcheless   servant,    a    mistress    that 

He  noyeth,  destroyeth,  and  all  to  this  drift, 

scowls, 

To  strip  his  poor  tenant  of  farm  and  of 

A   ravening   mastiff,    and   hogs    that   eat 

thrift. 

.    fowls. 

A   giddy  brain   master,    and   stroyall  his 

14.  Eent-corn,  whoso  payeth,  (as  worldlings 

knave, 

would  have. 

Brings  ruling  to  ruin,  and  thrift  to  licr 

So  much  for  an  acre)  must  live  like  a  slave  ; 

grave. 

Eent-corn  to  be  paid,  for  a  reas'nable  rent. 

At  reas'nable  prices,  is  not  to  lament. 

24.  With  some  upon  Sundays,  their  tables  do 
reek. 
And  half  the  week  after,  their  dinners  do 

15.  Once  placed  for  profit,  look  never  for  ease. 

Except   ye   beware    of    such    michera   as 

seek, 

these,— 

Not  often  exceeding,  but  always  enough, 

Unthriftiness,  Slothfulness,   Careless  and 

Is  husba,ndly  fare,  and  the  guise  of   the 

Eash, 

plough. 

That  thrusteth  thee  headlong,  to  run  in 

the  lash. 

25.  Each  day  to  be  feasted,  what  husbandi-y 

16.  Make  Money  thy  drudge,  for  to  follow  thy 

worse, 
Each   day  for  to  feast,  is- as  ill  for  the 

work. 

purse ; 

Make  Wisdom  comptroller,  and  Order  thy 

Yet  measurely  feasting,   with   neighbours 

clerk : 

among. 

Provision  cater,  and  Skill  to  be  cook. 

Shall  make  thee  beloved,  and  live  the  more 

Make  Steward  of  all,  pen,  ink,  and  thy 
book. 

long. 

26.  Things  husbandly  handsome,  let  workma,n 

17.  Make  hunger  thy  sauce,  ^s  a  med'cine  for 

contrive, 

health. 

But  build  not  for  glory,  that  thinkest  to 

Make  thirst  to  be   butler,  as  physic  for 

thrive  ; 

wealth  : 

Who  fondly  in  doing,  consumeth  his  stock. 

Make  eye  to  be  usher,  good  usage  to  have. 

In  the  end  for  his  folly,  doth  get  but  a 

Make  bolt  to  be  porter,  to  keep  out  a  knave. 

mock. 

From  1400  to  1558.] 


GOOD  HUSBANDLY  LESSONS. 


[Thomas  Tusser. 


27.  Spend  none  but  your  oAvn,  howsoever  ye 

spend, 
For  bribing  and  shifting  have  seldom  good 

end : 
In  substance  although   ye  have  never  so 

much, 
Delight  not  in  parasites,  harlots,  and  such. 

28.  Be  suerty  seldom,  (but  never  for  much) 
For  fear  of  purse,  pennyless,  hanging  by 

such ; 
Or  Scarhorow  warning,  as  iU  I  believe, 
When,  (Sir,  I  arrest  ye  !)  gets  hold  of  thy 

sleeve. 

29.  Use  (legem  pone)  to  pay  at  thy  day, 
But  use  not  (oremus)  for  often  delay : 
Yet  (prcesta  quoesumus)  out  of  a  grate,  , 
Of  all  other  collects,  the  lender  doth  hate. 

30.  Be  pinched  by  lending,  for  kiffc  nor  for 

kin, 
Nor  also  by  spending,  by  such  as  come  in  ; 
Nor  put  to  thine  hand,  betwixt  bark  and 

the  tree. 
Lest  through  thine  own  foUy,  so  pinched 

thou  be, 

31.  As  lending  to  neighbour,  in  time  of  his 

need, 

Wins  love  of  thy  neighbour,  and  credit 
doth  breed ; 

So  never  to  crave,  but  to  live  of  thine 
own. 

Brings  comforts  a  thousand,  to  many  un- 
known. 

32.  ^Vho  living  but  lends  ?  and  be  lent  to  they 

must. 
Else  buying  and   selling  must  lie  in  the 

dust : 
But  shameless  and  crafty  that  desperate 

are, 
Make  many,  full  honest,  the  worser  to  fare. 

33.  At  some  time   to  borrow,  account  it  no 

shame. 
If  justly  thou  keepest  thy  touch  for  the 

same : 
Who  quick  be  to  borrow,  and  slow  be  to 

pay, 
Their  credit  is  naught,  go  they  never  so 

gay. 

34.  By   shifting    and   borrowing,   who  so  as 

lives, 
Not  weU  to  be  thought  on,  occasion  gives : 
Then   lay  to   live  warily,    and   wisely  to 

spend  ; 
For  prodigall  livers  have  seldom  good  end. 

35.  Some  spareth  too  late,  and  a  number  with 

him, — 
The  fool  at  the  bottom,  the  wise  at  the 

brim : 
Who  careth,  nor   spareth,   till   spent   he 

hath  all, 
Of  bobbing,  not  robbing,  be  fearful  he  shall. 


36.  Where  wealthiness  floweth,  no  friendship 

can  lack, 
Whom  poverty  pincheth,  hath  freedom  as 

slack : 
Then  happy  is  he,  hj  example  that  can 
Take  heed  by  the  fall,  of  a  mischieved  man. 

37.  Who  breaketh  his  credit,  or  cracketh  it 

twice, 
Trust  such  with  a  suerty,  if  ye  be  wise  : 
Or  if  he  be  angry,  for  asking  thy  due. 
Once  even,  to  him  afterward,  lend  not  anev.^, 

38.  Account  it  well  sold,  that  is  justly  well 

paid. 
And  count  it  well  bought,  that   is  never 

denaid  ; 
But  yet  here  is  t'one,  here  is  t'other  doth 

best, 
For  buyer  and  seller,  for  quiet  and  rest. 

39.  Leave  princes'  affaires,  undescanted  on. 
And  tend  to  such  doings  as  stands  thee 

upon : 
Fear  God,  and  offend  not  the  prince,  nor 

his  laws. 
And  keep  thyself  out  of  the  magistrate's 

claws. 

40.  As  interest,  or  usury  playoth  the  devil. 
So  hil-back  and  fil-belly  biteth  as  evil : 
Put  dicing  among  them,  and  docking  the 

dell. 
And  by  and  by  after,  of  beggary  smell. 

41.  Once  weekly,   remember  thy  charges   to 

cast. 
Once  monthly,  see  how  thy  expences  may 

last : 
If  quarter  declareth  too  much  to  be  spent, 
For  fear  of  ill  year,  take  advice  of  thy 

rent. 

42.  Who   orderly   ent'reth   his   payments   in 

book. 
May  orderly  find  them  again,  (if  he  look  :) 
And   he   that  intendeth,  but  once  for  to 

pay, 
Shall  find  this  in  doing,  the  quietest  way. 

43.  In  dealing  uprightly,  this  counsel  I  teach. 
First  reckon,  then  write,  ere  to  purse  ye 

do  reach  ; 
Then  pay  and  dispatch  him,  as  coon  as  ye 

can, 
For  ling'ring  is  hinderance,  to  many  a  man. 

44.  Have  weights,  I  advise  thee,  for  silver  and 

gold. 
For  some  be  in  knavery,  now  a-days  bold ; 
And  for  to  be  siier,  good  money  to  pay, 
Eeceive  that  is  current,  as  near  as  ye  may. 

45.  Delight  not,  for  pleasure,  two  houses  to 

keep. 
Lest  charge,    without  measure,  upon  thee 

do  creep ; 
And  Jankin  and  Jenylcin  cozen  thee  so. 
To  make  thee  repent  it,  ere  year  about  go. 


Thomas  Tussee.] 


GOOD  HUSBANDLY  LESSONS. 


[  Second  Period. — 


46.  Tho  stone  that  is  rolling,  can  gather  no 

moss, 
Who  often  removeth  is  aiier  of  loss  : 
The   rich   it   compelleth,   to  pay  for  his 

pride. 
The  poor  it  undoeth,  on  every  side. 

47.  The  eye  of  the  master  enricheth  the  hutch, 
The  eye  of  the  mistress  availeth  as  much ; 
Which  eye,  if  it  govern,  with  reason  and 

skUl, 
Hath  servant  and  service,  at  pleasure  and 
will. 

48.  Who  seeketh  revengement  of  every  wrong, 
In  quiet  nor  safety,  continueth  long : 

So  he  that  of  wilfulness,  trieth  the  law, ' 
Shall  strive  for  a  coxcomb,  and  thrive  as 
a  daw. 

49.  To  hunters  and  hawkers  take  heed  what 

ye  say, 
Mild  answer  with  courtesy,   drives  them 

away ; 
So  where  a  man's  better  will  open  a  gap, 
E«sist  not  with  rudeness,  for  fear  of  mis- 
hap. 

50.  A'  man  in  this  world,  for  a  churl  that  is 

known, 
Shall  hardly  in  quiet,  keep  that  is  his  own:. 
Where   lowly,    and   such   as   of   courtesy 

smells. 
Finds  favour  and  friendship,  wherever  he 

dwells. 

51.  Keep  truly  thy  Sabbath,   the  better  to 


Keep  servant  from  gadding,  but  when  it 

is  need : 
Keep  fish-day  and  fasting-day,  as  they  do 

fall, 
What   custom   thou    keepest,    let   others 

keep  all. 

52.  Though  some  in  their  tithing,  be  slack  or 

too  bold. 
Be  thou  unto  Godward,  not  that  way  too 

cold : 
Evil  conscience  grudgeth,  and  yet  we  do 

see, 
111  tithers,  ill  thrivers  most  commonly  be. 

53.  Pay  weekly  thy  workman,    his   houshold 

to  feed. 
Pay  quarterly   servants,   to  buy  as   they 

need  : 
Give  garment  to  such  as  deserve,  and  no 

mo. 
Lest  thou  and  thy  wife,  without  garment 

do  go. 

54.  Beware  rasTcahilia, — slothful  to  work, 
Purloiners  and    filchers,    that  loveth   to 

lurk: 
Away  with  such  lubbers,  so  loth  to  take 

pain. 
That  rolls  in  expences,  but  never  no  gain. 


55.  Good  wife  and  good  children  are  worthy 

to  eat, 
Good  servant,  good  labourer,  earneth  their 

meat ; 
Good  fellow,  good  neighbour,  that  fellowly 

guest. 
With  heartile  welcome,  should  have  of  the 

best. 

56.  Depart  not  with  all  that  thou  hast  to  thy 

child. 
Much  less  unto  other,  for  being  beguil'd : 
Lest   if   thou   wouldst   gladly   possess   it 

again, 
Look,  for  to  come  by  it,  thou  wettest  not 

when. 

57.  The  greatest  preferment  that  child  we  can 

give 
Is  learning  and  nurture,  to  train  him  to 

live ; 
Wliich  whoso  it  wanteth,  though  left  as  a 

squire, 
Consumeth  to  nothing,  as  block  in  the  fire. 

58.  When  God  hath  so  blest  thee,  as  able  to  live. 
And  thou  hast  to  rest  thee,  and  able  to 

give  ; 
Lament  thy  offences,  serve  God  for  amends, 
Make  soul  to  be  ready,  when  God  for  it 
■     sends. 

59.  Send  fruits  of  thy  faith  to  heaven,  af ore- 

hand. 
For  mercy  here  doing,  God  blesseth  thy 

land ; 
He  maketh  thy  store  with  his  blessing  to 

swim,  • 

And  after,  thy  soul  to  be  blessed  with  him. 

60.  Some  lay  to  get  riches,  by  sea  and  by  land. 
And  vent'rcth  his  life,  in  his  enemies  hand ; 
And  setteth  his  soul  upon  six  or  on  seven, 
Not  caring  nor  fearing,  for  hell  nor  for 

heaven. 

61.  Some  pincheth  and  spareth,  and  pineth 

his  life, 
To  coffer  up  bags,  for  to  leave  to  his  wife  ; 
And  she  (when  he  dieth)   sets  open  the 

chest. 
For  such  as  can  soothe  her,  and  all  away 

wrest. 

62.  Good  husband  preventing  the  frailness  of 

some. 
Takes  part  of  God's  benefits,  as  they  do 

come : 
And  leveth  to  wife  and  his  children  the 

rest. 
Each  one  his  own  part,  as  he  thinketh  it 

best. 

63.  These  lessons  approved,  if  wisely  ye  note, 
May    save    and    advantage   ye,    many   a 

groat; 
Which  if  ye  can  follow,  occasion  found, 
Then  every  lesson  may  save  ye  a  pound. 

Thomas  Tusscr. — About  1557. 


From  1400  to  1558.]      •  POSIES  FOE  THINE  OWN  BED-CHAMBER.        [Thomas  Tusseb. 


S;.— THE  WINDS. 

CHAP.   XIII. 

North  vnnds  send  hail,    South   v>'inds  bring 

rain, 
East   winds   wo    bewail,    West    winds   blow 

amain : 
North-east  is  too  cold,    South-east  not  too 

warm, 
North-west  is  too  bold.  South-west  doth  no 

harm. 

The  North  is  a  noyer  to  grass  of  all  stiites, 

The  East  a  destroj'or  to  herb  and  all  fruits ; 

The  South,  with  his  showers,  refrosheth  the 
corn, 

The  West,  to  aU  flowers,  may  not  be  for- 
borne. 

The  West,    as   a   father,    all  goodness  doth 

bring, 
The  East,  a  forbearer  no  manner  of  thing : 
The  South,  as  unkind,  drawcth  sickness  too 

near, 
The   North,   as   a  friend,   maketh  all  again 

clear. 

With  temperate  wind,  we  be  blessed  of  God, 
With  tempest  we  find,  we  are  beat  -with  his 

rod: 
AU  power,  we  know,  to  remain  in  his  hand, 
How  ever  wind  blow,  by  sea  or  by  land. 

Though    winds    do   rage,    as   winds   were 

wood. 
And  cause  spring  tides  to  raise  great 
And  lofty  ships  leave  anchor  in  mud 
Bereaving  many  of  life,  and  of  blood ; 
Yet  true  it  is,  as  cow  chews  cud, 
And  trees,  at  spring,  do  yield  forth  bud, 
Except  wind  stands,  as  never  it  stood, 
It  is  an  iU  wind  turns  none  to  good. 

Thomas  Tusser. — Aboi'.t  1557. 


flood. 


88.— A  GHEISTMAS  CAROL. 

CHAP.   XXXI. 

Was  not  Christ  our  Saviour, 
Sent  to  us  fro  God  above  ? 
Not  for  our  good  beha\dour, 
But  only  of  his  mercy  and  love. 
If  this  be  true,  as  true  it  is, 

Truly  in  deed 
Great  thanks  to  God  to  yield  for  this, 

Then  had  we  need. 

This  did  our  God,  for  very  troth. 

To  train  to  him  the  soul  of«man. 

And  justly  to  perform  his  oath, 

To  Sarah  and  to  Abram  than 

That  through  his  seed  all  nations  should 

Most  blessed  be : 
As  in  duo  time,  perform  he  would. 

As  now  v^e  see. 


3.  Wliich  wondrously  is  brought  to  pass. 
And  in  our  sight  already  done, 

By  sending,  as  his  promise  was, 

(To  comfort  us)  his  only  Son, 

Even  Christ,  I  mean,  that  virgin's  child, 

In  Bethlem  born. 
That  lamb  of  God,  that  prophet  mild, 

With  crowned  thorn. 

4.  Such  was  his  love  to  save  us  all, 
From  dangers  of  the  curse  of  God, 
That  we  stood  in  by  Adam's  fall. 
And  by  our  own  deserved  rod. 

That  through  his  blood  and  holy  name 

Who  so  believes. 
And  fly  from  sin,  and  abhors  the  same. 

Free  mercy  he  gives. 

5.  For  these  glad  news  this  feast  doth  bring, 
To  God  the  Son  and  Holy  Ghost, 

Let  man  give  thanks,  rejoice  and  sing, 
From  world  to  world,  from  coast  to  coast, 
For  all  good  gifts  so  many  ways. 

That  God  doth  send. 
Let  us  in  Christ  give  God  the  praise, 

TiU  life  shall  end. 

At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withall, 
And  feast  thy  poor  neighbours,  the  great  with 

the  small ; 
Yea  all  the  year  long,  to  the  poor  let  us  give, 
God's  blessing  to  follow  us,  whiles  we  do  live. 

TJiomas  Tusser. — Ahont  1557. 


89. 


-POSIES  FOE  THINE  OWN  BED- 
CHAMBER. 


1.  What  wisdom  more,  what  better  life,  than 

pleaseth  God  to  send. 
What  worldly  goods,  what  longer  use,  than 
pleaseth  God  to  lend  ? 

2.  What  better  fare,  than  well  content,  agree- 

ing Avith  thy  wealth. 
What  better  guest  than  trusty  friend,  in 
sickness  and  in  health  ? 

3.  What  better  bed  than  conscience  good,  to 

pass  the  night  with  sleep. 
What  better  work,  than  daily  care,  from 
sin  thyself  to  keep  ? 

4.  What  better  thought,  than  think  on  God, 

and  daily  him  to  serve. 
What  better  gift  than  to  the  poor,  that 
ready  be  to  sterve  ? 

5.  What  greater  praise  of  God  and  man,  than 

mercy  for  to  shov/, 
Who  merciless,  shall  mercy  find,  that  mercy 
shews  to  few  ? 

G.  What  worse  despair,  than  loth  to  die,  for 
fear  to  go  to  hell  ? 
What    greater   faith   than  trust   in   God, 
through  Christ  in  heaven  to  dwell  ? 

Thomcs  Tusser. — About  15i;7. 


Anonymous.] 


THE  NUT-BROW^  MAID. 


[Second  Period. 


Which  soon  should  gi'ieve  you,  I  believe, 

And  ye  would  gladly  than 
That  I  had  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.  Sith  I  have  here  been  partiner 

With  you  of  joy  and  bliss, 
I  must  also  part  of  your  wo 

Endure,  as  reason  is. 
Yet  I  am  sure  of  one  pleasure, 

And,  shortly,  it  is  this. 
That,  where  ye  be,  me  seemeth,  par  die, 

I  could  not  fare  amiss. 
Without  more  speech,  I  you  beseech 

That  ye  were  soon  agone, 
For,  to  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.  If  ye  go  thither,  ye  must  consider. 

When  ye  have  list  to  dine, 
There  shall  no  meat  be  for  you  geto, 

Nor  drink,  beer,  ale,  nor  wine, 
No  sheetes  clean,  to  lie  between, 

Made  of  thread  and  twine  ; 
None  other  house  but  leaves  and  boughs, 

To  cover  your  head  and  mine. 
Oh  mine  heart  sweet,  this  evil  diet. 

Should  make  you  pale  and  wan  ; 
Wherefore  I  will  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.  Among  the  wild  deer,  such  an  archer. 

As  men  say  that  ye  be. 
Ye  may  not  fail  of  good  vittail. 

Where  is  so  great  plentie. 
And  water  clear  of  the  river, 

Shall  be  full  sweet  to  me. 
With  which  in  heal  I  shall  right  weel 

Endure,  as  ye  shall  see  ; 
And  ere  we  go,  a  bed  or  two 

I  can  provide  anone  ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.  Lo  yet  before,  ye  must  do  more. 

If  ye  will  go  with  me  ; 
As  cut  your  hair  up  by  your  oar. 

Your  kirtle  to  the  knee  ; 
With  bow  in  hand,  for  to  \vithstand 

Your  enemies,  if  need  be  ; 
'And  this  same  night,  before  day-light, 

To  wood-ward  will  I  flee. 
If  that  ye  will  aU  this  fulfiU, 

Do't  shortly  as  ye  can  : 
Else  will  I  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

>S7ic.  I  shall,  as  now,  do  more  for  you, 

Than  'longeth  to  womanheed, 
To  short  my  hair,  a  bow  to  bear, 

To  shoot  in  time  of  need. 
Oh,  my  sweet  mother,  before  all  other 

For  you  I  have  most  dread  ; 
"But  now  adieu  !  I  must  ensue 

"Where  fortune  doth  me  lead. 
All  this  make  ye  :  Now  let  us  flee ; 

The  day  comes  fast  upon  : 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


He.  Nay,  nay,  not  so  ;  yc  shall  not  go. 

And  I  shall  tell  you  why  : 
Your  appetite  is  to  be  light 

Of  love,  I  weel  espy  : 
For  like  as  ye  have  said  to  me. 

In  like  wise,  hardily. 
Ye  would  answer  whoever  it  were, 

In  way  of  company. 
It  is  said  of  old,  soon  hot,  soon  cold  ; 

And  so  is  a  woman, 
Wherefore  I  to  the  wood  will  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.  If  ye  take  heed,  it  is  no  need 

Such  words  to  say  by  me  ; 
For  oft  ye  prayed  and  me  assayed, 

Ere  I  loved  you,  pardie  : 
And  though  that  I,  of  ancestry, 

A  baron's  daughter  be. 
Yet  have  you  proved  how  I  you  loved, 

A  squire  of  low  degree  ; 
And  ever  shall,  whatso  befal ; 

To  die  therefore  anon  ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 
He.  A  baron's  child  to  be  beguiled, 

It  were  a  cursed  deed  ! 
To  be  fellaw  with  an  outlaw. 

Almighty  God  forbid ! 
It  better  were,  the  poor  squier 

Alone  to  forest  yede. 
Than  I  should  say,  another  day, 

That,  by  my  cursed  deed, 
We  were  betrayed:  wherefore,  good  maid, 

The  best  rede  that  I  can, 
Is,  that  I  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.  Whatever  befall,  I  never  shall, 

Of  this  thing  you  upbraid  ; 
But,  if  ye  go,  and  leave  me  so, 

Then  have  ye  me  betrayed.  ' 
Eemember  weel,  how  that  you  deal ; 

For  if  ye,  as  ye  said. 
Be  so  unkind  to  leave  behind, 

Your  love,  the  Nut-Bro^vn  Maid, 
Trust  me  truly,  that  I  shall  die 

Soon  after  ye  be  gone  ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.  If  that  ye  went,  ye  should  repent ; 

For  in  the  forest  now 
I  have  purveyed  me  of  a  maid. 

Whom  I  love  more  than  you; 
Another  fairer  than  ever  ye  were, 

I  dare  it  weel  avow. 
And  of  you  both  each  should  be  -vvrotli 

With  other,  as  I  trow  : 
It  were  mine  ease  to  live  in  peace ; 

So  will  I,  if  I  can  ; 
Wherefore  I  to  the  wood  will  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.  Though  in  the  wood  I  understood 
Ye  had  a  paramour. 
All  this  may  not  remove  my  thought, 
But  that  I  will  be  your. 


From  1400  to  1558.] 


KING  ARTHUR'S  DEATH. 


[Anonymous. 


I 


And  she  shall  find  me  soft  and  kind 

And  courteous  every  hour  ; 
Glad  to  fulfill  all  that' she  wiU 

Command  me  to  my  power. 
For  had  ye,  lo,  an  hundi-ed  mo, 

Of  them  I  would  be  one; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

JTc.  Mine  own  dear  love,  I  see  thee  prove 

That  ye  bo  kind  and  true  ; 
Of  maid  and  wife,  in  all  my  life, 

The  best  that  ever  I  knew. 
Bo  moiTy  and  glad ;  no  more  be  sad  ; 

The  case  is  changed  now  ; 
For  it  were  ruth,  that,  for  your  truth, 

Ye  should  have  cause  to  rue. 
Bo  not  dismayed  ;  whatever  I  said 

To  5'ou,  when  I  began  ; 
I  will  not  to  the  greenwood  go, 

I  am  no  banished  man. 

Slic.  These  tidings  be  more  glad  to  me, 

Than  to  bo  made  a  queen, 
If  I  were  sure  they  would  endure  : 

But  it  is  often  seen. 
When  men  -will  break  promise,  they  speak 

The  wordes  on  the  spleen. 
Ye  shape  some  wile  me  to  beguile, 

And  steal  from  me,  I  ween  : 
Than  v/ere  the  case  worse  than  it  was, 

And  I  more  woe-begone  : 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  aU  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.  Ye  shall  not  need  further  to  dread  : 

I  will  not  disparage. 
You  (God  defend  !)  sith  ye  descend 

Of  so  great  a  lineage. 
Now  understand ;  to  Westmoreland, 

Which  is  mine  heritage, 
I  will  you  bring ;  and  with  a  ring, 

By  way  of  marrihge, 
I  ^vill  you  take,  and  lady  make, 

As  shortly  as  I  can  : 
Thus  have  you  won  an  erly's  son, 

And  not  a  banished  man. 

A'lionymous. — About  1502. 


i 


95.— KING  ARTHUR'S  DEATH. 

On  Trinity  Monday  in  the  morn. 

This  sore  battayle  was  doomed  to  be  ; 
Where  many  a  knight  cried,  "  Well-awayo  ! 

Alack,  it  v/as  the  more  pity. 
Ere  the  first  crowing  of  the  cook. 

When  as  the  king  in  his  bed  lay, 
Ho  tliought  Sir  Gawaine  to  him  came. 

And  there  to  him  these  words  did  say ; 
"  Now,  as  ye  are  mine  uncle  dear. 

And  as  you  prize  your  life,  this  day 
0  meet  not  with  your  foe  in  fight ; 

Put  off  the  battayle,  if  ye  may  j 


For  Sir  Launcelot  is  now  in  France, 
And  with  him  many  a  hardy  knight. 

Who  will  within  this  month  be  back. 
And  will  assist  ye  in  the  fight." 

The  king  then  called  his  nobles  all, 
Before  the  breaking  of  the  day ;_ 

And  told  them  how  Sir  Gawaine  camo 
And  there  to  him  these  words  did  say. 

His  nobles  all  this  counsel  gave. 

That,  early  in  the  morning,  he 
Should  send  away  an  herald  at  arms 

To  ask  a  parley  fair  and  free. 

Then  twelve  good  knights  King  Arthur  chose. 
The  best  of  all  that  \N'ith  hiin  were. 

To  parley  with  the  foe  in  field. 

And  make  with  him  agreement  fair. 

The  king  he  charged  all  his  host. 

In  readiness  there  for  to  bo : 
But  no  man  should  no  weapon  stir, 

Unless  a  sword  drawn  they  should  see. 

And  Mordred  on  the  other  part, 

Twelve  of  his  knights  did  Kkewise  bring ; 

The  best  of  all  his  compan;^, 

To  hold  the  parley  with  the  king. 

Sir  Mordred  also  charged  his  host, 

In  readiness  there  for  to  be ; 
But  no  man  should  no  weapon  stir. 

But  if  a  sword  drawn  they  should  see. 

For  he  durst  not  his  uncle  trust. 
Nor  he  his  nephew,  sooth  to  tell : 

Alack  !  it  was  a  woeful  case. 
As  e'er  in  Christentie  befel. 

But  when  they  were  together  met, 
And  both  to  fair  accordance  brought ; 

And  a  month's  league  between  them  set. 
Before  the  battayle  should  be  fought ; 

An  adder  crept  forth  of  a  bush, 

Stvmg  one  o'  the  king's  knights  on  the  knee : 
Alack  !  it  was  a  woeful  chance, 

As  ever  wds  in  Christentie. 

When  the  knight  found  him  wounded  sore, 
And  saw  the  wild- worm  hanging  there, 

His  sword  he  from  his  scabbard  drew ; 
A  piteous  case  as  ye  shall  hear. 

For  when  the  two  hosts  saw  the  sword. 

They  joined  battayle  instantly : 
Till  of  so  many  noble  knights, 

On  one  side  there  were  left  but  three. 

For  all  were  slain  that  durst  abide. 
And  but  some  few  that  fled  aAvay  : 

Ay  me  !  it  was  a  bloody  field, 

As  o'er  was  fought  on  summer's  day. 

Upon  King  Arthur's  ov/n  party, 

Only  himself  escaped  there, 
And  Lukyn,  Duke  of  Gloster,  free. 

And  the  king's  butler,  Bedevere. 

And  when  the  king  beheld  his  knights. 
All  dead  and  scattered  on  the  mould ; 

The  tears  fast  trickled  down  liis  face : 
That  manly  face  in  fight  so  bold. 


Anonymous.]                              KIl^G  AETHUB'S  DEATH.                         [Second  Period. 

"  Now  rest  ye  all,  brave  knights,"  he  said, 

"  With  this  good  falchion  in  my  hand, 

"  So  true  and  faithful  to  your  trust ; 

Oft  have  I  reaped  the  bloody  field : 

And  must  ye  then,  ye  valiant  hearts, 

But  now  the  fatal  hour  is  come. 

Be  left  to  moulder  into  dust  ? 

That  never  more  I  may  thee  wield." 

"  Most  loyal  have  ye  been  to  me. 

The  duke  to  the  river  side  he  went. 

Most  true  and  faithful  unto  death  : 

And  there  his  own  sword  in  threw  he ; 

And,  oh  !  to  raise  ye  up  again. 

But  he  kept  back  Excalibar, 

How  freely  could  I  yield  my  breath ! 

He  kept  it  back  in  privitie. 

"  But  see  the  traitor's  yet  alive, 

For  all  of  Cologne  was  the  blade ; 

Lo,  where  he  stalks  among  the  dead ! 

And  all  the  hilt  of  precious  stone ; 

Now  bitterly  he  shaU.  abye. 

"  And  ever  alack  !  "  then  said  the  knight. 

And  vengeance  fall  upon  his  head." 

"  Must  such  a  sword  away  be  thrown  ?  " 

"  Oh,  stay,  my  liege,"  then  said  the  duke, 

Then  back  he  came  unto  tlie  king. 

"  O  stay  for  love  and  charitie ; 

Who  said,  "  Sir  Lukyn,  what  did  you  see  ?" 

Eemember  what  the  vision  spake, 

"  Nothing,  my  liege,  save  that  the  wind 

Nor  meet  your  foe,  if  it  may  be. 

Blew  o'er  the  waters  fair  and  free." 

"  0,  stay  mo  not,  thou  worthy  wight, 

"  0  go  again,"  then  said  the  king. 

This  debt  my  loyal  knights  I  owe : 

"  0  good  Sir  Lukyn  go  again  ; 

Betide  me  life,  betide  me  death, 

Into  the  river  throw  my  sword. 

I  will  avenge  them  of  their  foe." 

Nor  keep  me  lingering  here  in  pain." 

Then  straight  he  grasped  his  trusty  spear. 

The  duke  then  to  the  river  went. 

And  on  his  horse  then  mounted  he  : 

And  the  king's  scabbard  in  threw  he ; 

As  his  butler  holpe  him  to  his  horse. 

But  he  kept  back  Excalibar, 

His  bowels  gnished  to  his  knee. 

And  hid  it  underneath  a  tree. 

"  Alas !  "  then  said  the  noble  king. 

Then  back  he  came  to  tell  the  king, 

"  That  I  should  live  this  sight  to  see ! 

Who  said,  "  Sir  Lukyn,  saw  ye  aught  ?  "  ' 

To  see  this  good  knight  here  be  sla.iu, 

"  Nothing,  my  liege,  save  that  the  wind 

All  for  his  love  in  helping  me  ! ' ' 

Now  with  the  angry  waters  fought." 

He  put  his  spear  into  his  rest, 

"  0  Lukyn,  Lukyn,"  said  the  king. 

And  to  Sir  Mordred  loud  gan  cry — 

"  Twice  hast  thou  dealt  deceitfully ; 

"  Now  set  thyself  upon  thy  guard. 

Alack,  whom  may  we  ever  trust, 

For,  traitor,  now  thy  death  is  nigh." 

When  such  a  knight  so  false  can  be  ? 

Sir  Mordred  lifted  up  his  sword, 

"  Say,  wouldst  thou  have  thy  master  dead, 

And  fierce  to  meet  the  king  ran  he  : 

All  for  a  sword  that  wins  thine  eye  ? 

The  king  his  spear  he  through  him  thrust ; 

Now  go  again,  and  throw  it  in. 

A  fathom  thorow  his  bodie. 

Or  here  the  one  of  us  shall  die." 

When  Mordred  felt  the  stroke  of  death. 

The  duke,  all  shent  with  this  rebuke, 

And  found  that  he  was  woujided  so ; 

No  answer  made  unto  the  king ; 

He  thrust  himself  upon  the  spe^r, 
And  struck  the  king  a  deadly  blow. 

But  to  the  river  took  the  sword. 

And  threw  it  far  as  he  could  fling. 

Then  grimly  died  Sir  Mordered, . 

Presently  upon  that  tree ; 
And  bloody  streams  ran  from  the  king 

Ere  to  the  duke  returned  he. 

A  hand  and  an  arm  did  meet  the  sword, 
And  flourished  three  times  in  the  air ; 

Then  sunk  beneath  the  running  stream, 
And  of  the  duke  was  seen  nae  mair. 

All  sore  astonished  stood  the  duke  ; 

Sir  Lukyn  then  he  thus  bespake, — 

He  stood  as  still,  as  still  mote  be  : 

"  Sir  knight,  thou  hast  been  faithful  tried, 

Then  hastened  back  to  toll  the  king ; 

Now  take  my  sword  Excalibar, 

But  he  was  gone  from  under  the  tree. 

That  hangs  so  freely  by  my  side. 

But  to  what  place  he  could  not  tell. 

"  0  take  my  sword  Excalibar, 

For  never  after  he  did  him  spye  ; 

And  there  into  the  river  throw  : 

But  he  saw  a  barge  go  from  the  land, 

For  here,  henceforth,  beneath  this  tree 

And  he  heard  ladies  howl  and  cry. 

All  use  of  weapons  I  forego. 

And  whether  the  king  was  there,  or  not, 

"  And  fare  thee  well,  thou  trusty  sword, 

He  never  knew,  nor  ever  colde  ; 

A  better  ne'er  had  valiant  knight, 

For  from  that  sad  and  direful  day, 

With  thee  full  oft,  and  many  a  day. 

Ho  never  more  was  seen  on  mould. 

Ha-ve  I  withstood  my  foe  in  fight. 

Anonymous. — About  1550. 

THE    THIED    PERIOD, 

FROM    1558    TO    1649. 


THIS  period  has  been  termed  the  glorious  age  of  English  literature.  The  greatest  names 
will  be  found  in  clusters,  whether  it  be  in  poetry,  or  philosophy,  or  politics  ;  Slmkspere, 
Bacon,  Spenser,  Sydney,  Hooker,  Taylor,  Barrow,  Ealeigh,  Napier,  and  Hobbes,  and 
many  others  adorn  its  annals.  In  all  probability  the  Reformation  tended,  Avith  other  causes, 
to  produce  this.  Through  printing,  the  treasures  of  Greece  and  Eome  were  laid  open  to  the 
public.  Then  came  translations  from  many  of  the  highest  works  of  Spain  and  Italy.  Tasso 
was  translated  by  Fairfax  ;  Ariosto  by  Harrington ;  Homer  and  Hesiod  by  Chapman.  Boccaccio, 
Petrarch,  Dante,  Aretino,  Machiavel,  Castiglione,  all  were  opened  up  to  the  English  reader  in 
his  own  tongue.  Sir  Thomas  North's  translation  of  Plutarch  did  much  to  give  incidents  and 
facts  to  the  dramatic  writers,  who  used  them  freely ;  but,  above  all,  the  Bible,  for  the  first 
time  placed  within  the  power  of  the  poorest  to  read,  was  doubtless  the  greatest  means  of 
quickening  the  hearts  and  intellects  of  the  great  and  glorious  writers  of  the  age.  Hazlitt,  in 
one  of  his  own  eloquent  passages,  says : — 

"  The  translation  of  the  Bible  was  the  chief  engine  in  the  great  work.  It  threw  open,  by 
a  secret  spring,  the  rich  treasures  of  religion  and  morality,  which  had  been  there  locked  up 
as  in  a  shrine.  It  revealed  the  visions  of  the  prophets,  and  conveyed  the  lessons  of  inspired 
teachers  (such  they  were  thought)  to  the  meanest  of  the  people.  It  gave  them  a  common 
interest  in  the  common  cause.  Their  hearts  burned  within  them  as  they  read.  It  gave  a 
mmd  to  the  people  by  giving  them  common  subjects  of  thought  and  feeling.  It  cemented 
their  union  of  character  and  sentiment :  it  created  endless  diversity  and  collision  of  opinion. 
They  found  objects  to  employ  their  faculties,  and  a  motive  in  the  magnitude  of  the  con- 
sequences attaching  to  them,  to  exort  the  utmost  eagerness  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  and  the 
most  daring  intrepidity  in  maintaining  it.  ReUgious  controversy  sharpens  the  understanding 
by  the  subtlety  and  remoteness  «f  the  topics  it  discusses,  and  braces  the  -will  by  their  infinite 
importance.  We  perceive  in  the  history  of  this  period  a  nervous  mascuUne  intellect.  No 
levity,  no  feebleness,  no  indifference  ;  or  if  there  were,  it  is  a  relaxation  from  the  intense 
anxiety  which  gives  a  tone  to  its  general  chai'acter.  But  there  is  a  gravity  approaching  to 
piety ;  a  seriousness  of  impression,  a  conscientious  severity  of  argument,  an  habitual  fervour 
and  enthusiasm  in  their  mode  of  handling  almost  every  subject.  The  debates  of  the  school- 
men were  sharp  and  subtle  enough ;  but  they  wanted  interest  and  grandeur,  and  were  besides 
confined  to  a  few  :  they  did  not  afi^ect  the  general  mass  of  the  community.  But  the  Bible  was 
thrown  open  to  aU  ranks  and  concJitions,  '  to  run  and  read,'  with  its  wonderful  table  of  con- 
tents from  Genesis  to  the  Revelations.  Every  village  in  England  would  present  the  scene  so 
weU  described  in  Burns' s  '  Cotter's  Saturday  Night.'  I  cannot  think  that  all  this  variety  and 
knowledge  cotdd  be  thrown  in  all  at  once  upon  the  mind  of  a  people  and  not  make  some  im- 
pression upon  it,  the  traces  of  which  might  be  discerned  in  the  manners  and  literature  of  the 
age.  For  to  leave  more  disputable  points,  and  take  only  the  historical  parts  of  the  Old 
Testament,  or  the  moral  sentiments  of  the  New,  there  is  nothing  like  them  in  the  power  of 
exciting  awe  and  admiration  or  of  riveting  sympathy.  We  see  what  Milton  has  made  of  the 
account  of  the  '  Creation,'  from  the  manner  in  which  he  has  treated  it,  imbued  and  im- 
pregnated with  the  spirit  of  the  time  of  which  we  speak.  Or  what  is  there  equal  (in  that 
romantic  interest  and  patriarchal  simplicity  which  goes  to  the  heart  of  a  country  and  rouses  it, 
as  it  were,  from  its  lairs  and  wildernesses)  equal  to  the  story  of  Joseph  and  his  Brethren,  of 
Rachel  and  Laban,  of  Jacob's  dream,  of  Ruth  and  Boaz,  the  descriptions  in  the  book  of  Job, 
the  deliverance  of  the  Jews  out  of  Egypt,  or  the  account  of  their  captivity  and  return  from 
Babylon  ?  There  is  in  all  these  parts  of  the  Scripture,  and  numberless  more  of  the  same  kind, 
to  pass  over  the  Orphic  hymns  of  David,  the  prophetic  denunciations  of  Isaiah,  or  the 
gorgeous  visions  of  Ezekiel,  an  originality,  a  vastness  of  conception,  a  depth  and  tenderness 
of  feeling,  and  a  touching  simplicity  in  the  mode  of  narration,  which  he  who  does  not  feel, 
need  be  made  of  no  '  penetrable  stuff.'  There  is  something  in  the  character  of  Christ  too, 
(leaving  religious  faith  quite  out  of  the  question),  of  more  sweetness  and  majesty,  and  more 
likely  to  work  a  change  in  the  mind  of  man,  by  the  contemplation  of  its  idea  alone,  than  any 
to   be  found  in  history,  whether  actual  or  feigned.      This  character  is  that  of    a  subhme 


THE  THIED  PERIOD.— FROM  1558—1649. 

humanity,  sucli  as  was  never  seen  on  earth  before,  nor  since.  This  shone  manifestly  both  in 
his  words  and  actions.  Wo  see  it  in  his  washing  the  Disciples'  feet  the  night  before  His  death, 
that  unspeakable  instance  of  humility  and  love,  above  all  art,  all  meanness,  and  all  pride,  and 
in  the  leave  He  took  of  them  on  that  occasion :  '  My  peace  I  give  unto  you,  that  peace  which 
the  world  cannot  give,  give  I  unto  you  ;  "  and  in  His  last  commandment,  that  '  they  should 
love  one  another.'  Who  can  read  the  account  of  His  behaviour  on  the  cross,  when  turning  to 
his  mother.  He  said,  '  Woman,  behold  thy  son ; '  and  to  the  disciple  John,  '  Behold  thy 
mother;'  and  'from  that  hour  that  disciple  took  her  to  his  own  home,' mthout  having  his 
heart  smote  within  him  ?  We  see  it  in  His  treatment  of  the  woman  taken  in  adultery,  and  in 
His  excuse  for  the  woman  who  poured  precious  ointment  on  His  garment  as  an  offering  of 
devotion  and  love,  which  is  here  all  in  all.  His  religion  was  the  religion  of  the  heart.  We 
see  it  in  His  discourse  with  the  Disciples  as  they  walked  together  towards  Emmaus,  when 
their  hearts  burned  -within  them ;  in  His  sermon  from  the  mount,  in  His  parable  of  the  Good 
Samaritan,  and  in  that  of  the  Prodigal  Son — in  every  act  and  word  of  His  life,  a  grace,  a 
mildness,  a  dignity  and  love,  a  patience  and  wisdom  worthy  of  the  Son  of  God.  His  v/hole 
life  and  being  were  imbued,  steeped  in  this  word,  charity ;  it  was  the  spring,  the  well-head 
from  which  every  thought  and  feeling  gushed  into  act ;  and  it  was  this  that  breathed  a  mild 
glory  from  His  face  in  that  last  agony  upon  the  cross,  when  the  meek  Saviour  bowed  His  head 
and  died,  praying  for  His  enemies.  He  was  the  first  true  teacher  of  morality  ;  for  He  alone 
conceived  the  idea  of  a  pure  humanity.  He  redeemed  man  from  the  worship  of  that  idol,  self ; 
and  instructed  him,  by  precept  and  example,  to  love  his  neighbour  as  himself,  to  forgive  our 
enemies,  to  do  good  to  those  that  curse  us  and  despitefully  use  us.  He  taught  the  love  of 
good  for  the  sake  of  good,  without  regard  to  personal  or  sinister  views,  and  made  the  affections 
of  the  heart  the  sole  seat  of  morality,  instead  of  the  pride  of  the  understanding  or  the 
sternness  of  the  will.  In  answering  the  question,  '  Who  is  our  neighbour  ? '  as  one  who 
stands  in  need  of  our  assistance,  and  whose  wounds  we  can  bind  up,  He  has  done  more  to 
humanize  the  thoughts  and  tame  the  unruly  passions,  than  all  who  have  tried  to  reform  and 
benefit  mankind.  The  very  idea  of  abstract  benevolence,  of  the  desire  to  do  good  because 
another  wants  our  services,  and  of  regarding  the  human  race  as  one  family,  the  offspring  of 
one  common  parent,  is  hardly  to  be  found  in  any  other  code  or  system.  It  was  to  the  Jews  a 
stumbhng-block,  and  to  the  Greeks  foolishness.  The  Greeks  and  Romans  never  thought  of 
considering  others ;  but  as  they  were  Greeks  or  Romans,  as  they  were  bound  to  them  by 
cei-tain  positive  ties ;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  as  separated  from  them  by  fiercer  antipathies. 
Their  virtues  were  the  virtues  of  political  machines ;  their  vices  were  the  vices  of  demons, 
ready  to  inflict  or  to  endure  pain  with  obdurate  and  remorseless  inflexibility  of  purpose.  But 
in  the  Christian  religion  '  we  perceive  a  softness  coming  over  the  heart  of  a  nation,  and  the 
iron  scales  that  fence  and  harden  it,  melt  and  drop  off.'  It  becomes  malleable,  capable  of 
pity,  of  forgiveness,  of  relaxing  in  its  claims,  and  remitting  its  power.  We  strike  it,  and  it 
does  not  hurt  us :  it  is  not  steel  or  marble,  but  flesh  and  blood,  clay  tempered  with  tears,  and 
*  soft  as  sinews  of  the  new-born  babe.'  The  gospel  was  first  preached  to  the  poor,  for  it 
consulted  their  wants  and  interests,  not  its  own  pride  and  arrogance.  It  first  promulgated 
the  equality  of  mankind  in  the  community  of  duties  and  benefits.  It  denounced  the  iniquities 
of  the  chief  Priests  and  Pharisees,  and  declared  itself  at  variance  with  principalities  and 
powers,  for  it  sympathizes  not  with  the  oppressor,  but  the  oppressed.  It  first  abolished 
slavery,  for  it  did  not  consider  the  power  of  the  will  to  inflict  injury,  as  clothing  it  with  a 
right  to  do  so.  Its  law  is  good,  not  power.  It  at  the  same  time  tended  to  wean  the  mind  from 
the  grossness  of  sense,  and  a  particle  of  its  divine  flame  was  lent  to  brighten  and  purify  the 
lamp  of  love  !  " 

There  have  been  persons  who,  being  sceptics  as  to  the  divine  mission  of  Chi-ist,  have 
taken  an  unaccountable  prejudice  to  His  doctrines,  and  have  been  disposed  to  deny  the  merit 
of  His  character ;  but  this  was  not  the  feeling  of  the  great  men  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth 
(whatever  might  be  their  belief),  one  of  whom  says  of  Him,  with  a  boldness  equal  to 
its  piety : — 

"The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him,  was  a  sufferer ; 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed." 

This  was  old  honest  Decker,  and  the  lines  ought  to  embalm  his  memory  to  every  one  who 
has  a  sense  either  of  religion,  or  philosophy,  or  true  genius.  Nor  can  I  help  thinking  that  we 
may  discern  the  ti'aces  of  the  influence  exerted  by  religious  faith  in  the  spirit  of  the  poetry  of 
the  age  of  Elizabeth,  in  the  means  of  exciting  terror  and  pity,  in  the  delineation  of  the 
passions  of  grief,  remorse,  love,  sympathy,  the  sense  of  shame,  in  the  fond  desires,  the  longings 
after  immortality,  in  the  heaven  of  hope,  and  the  abyss  of  despair  it  lays  open  to  us. 

The  literature  of  this  age  then,  I  would  say,  was  strongly  influenced  (among  other 
causes)  first,  by  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  and  secondly,  by  the  spirit  of  Protestantism. 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


THOMAS  %ACKVILLE. 

Thoma-s  Sackvillo,  Earl  of  Dorset,  born 
1536,  died  1608,  was  distingTiislied  both  by 
high  official  position,  Lord  High  Treasurer  of 
England,  and  poetical  eminence.  He  was  one 
of  the  commissioners  who  tried  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots,  and  it  Avas  he  who  was  deputed  to 
announce  her  sentence  to  that  much-to-be 
pitied  lady.  When  a  student  at  the  Inner 
Temple  he  wrote  a  tragedy,  "  Gorboduc," 
which  was  performed  by  the  students  in  a 
Christmas  entertainment  and  afterwards 
before  Queen  Elizabeth  at  Whitehall,  in 
1561.  He  contributed  the  Induction  and 
Legend  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  to  the 
"  Mirror  of  Magistrates."  Campbell  says, 
"  He  carried  taste  and  elegance  even  into  his 
formal  political  functions,  and  for  his 
eloquence  was  styled  the  bell  of  the  Star 
Chamber.  As  a  poet,  his  attempt  to  unite 
allegory  with  heroic  narrative  and  his  giving 
our  language  its  earliest  regular  tragedy, 
evince  the  views  and  enterprise  of  no  or- 
dinary mind ;  but,  though  the  induction  to 
the  '  Mirror  for  Magistrates  *  displays  some 
potent  sketches,  it  bears  the  complexion  of 
a  saturnine  genius,  and  resembles  a  bold  and 
gloomy  landscape  on  which  the  sun  never 
shines.  As  to  '  Gorboduc,'  it  is  a  piece  of 
monotonous  recitals,  and  cold  and  heavy 
accumulation  of  incidents.  As  an  imitation 
of  classical  tragedy  it  is  peculiarly  unfortu- 
nate, in  being  without  even  the  unities  of 
place  and  time,  to  circumscribe  its  dulness." 
Sir  Philip  Sydney,  in  his  "  Defence  of  Poesie," 
speaks,  however,  in  much  more  favourable 
strains.  " '  Gorboduc '  is  full  of  stately 
speeches  and  well-sounding  phrases,  clyming 
to  the  height  of  Seneca  his  style,  and  as  full 
of  notable  moralitie,  which  it  doth  most 
delightfully  teach  and  so  obtayne  the  very 
end  of  poesie  "  ;  and  Warton  referring  to  the 
"  Complaint "  of  Henry  Duke  of  Buckingham 
says,  it  is  written  "with  a  force  and  even 
elegance  of  expression,  a  copiousness  of 
phraseology,  and  an  exactness  of  versification, 
not  to  be  found  in  any  other  part  of  the 
collection."  See  Warton's  "Hist,  of  Eng. 
Poetry  ;  "  Hor.  Walpole's  "  Royal  and  Noble 
Authors  "  ;  Collins' s  "  Peerage  "  by  Brydges. 


JOHN  HAEEINGTON. 

John  Harrington,  born  1534,  died  1582. 
He  was  imprisoned  by  Queen  Mary  for  his 
suspected  attachment  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  by 
whom  he  was  afterwards  rewarded  with  a 
grant  of  lands.  He  wrote  but  little,  but  that 
little  causes  us  to  regret  that  he  did  not  write 
more.  "His  love  verses,"  says  Campbell, 
"  have  an  elegance  and  terseness  more  modern, 
by  an  hundred  years,  than  those  of  his  con- 
temporaries." Hallam  adds,  "they  are  as 
polished  as  any  written  at  the  close  of  the 
Queen's  reign."  See  "  Nugaj  Antiquas"; 
Ellis's  "  Specimens  "  ;  Hallam' s  "  Lit.  Hist, 
of  Europe." 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE. 

George  Gascoigne,  born  1537,  died  }577, 
after  studying  for  some  time  at  Cambridge, 
removed  to  Gray's  Inn,  which  he  left  for  the 
army,  and  served  in  Holland,  where  he  re- 
ceived a  captain's  commission  from  the 
Prince  of  Orange.  Returning  to  England,  he 
became  a  courtier,  and  contributed  to  the 
festivities  which  enlivened  the  business  of 
statesmen  and  the  progress  of  the  queen. 
The  name  of  the  princely  pleasures  of  "  Kenil- 
worth  Castle,"  one  of  Gascoigne's  masques, 
will  remind  many  of  our  readers  of  Amy 
Robsart  and  Sir  Richard  Varney,  of  the 
ambitious  Earl  and  his  imperious  mistress. 
Among  Gascoigne's  best-known  pieces  are : 
"  The  Glasse  of  Government,  a  Tragicall 
Comedie,  Lon.,  1575  "  ;  "  The  Steele  Glas,  a 
Satyre,  1576  "  ;  "A  Delicate  Diet  for  daintie 
mouthde  Droonkards ;  wherein  the  fowle 
abuse  of  common  carousing  and  quaffing  with 
heartie  draughtes  is  honestly  admonished, 
1576";  "The  Droome  of  Doomes  Day; 
wherein  the  frailties  and  miseries  of  man's 
life  are  lively  portrayed  and  learnedly  set 
forth,  1586  "  ;  "  The  Comedie  of  Supposes, 
and  the  Tragedie  of  Jocasta,  in  the  collective 
edition  of  his  whole  woorkes,  1587."  Warton 
says,  that  the  comedy  of  "Supposes"  was 
the  first  comedy  written  in  English  prose  ; 
and  Dr.  Farmer  in  his  Essay  on  Shakspere 
says   that  the  latter  borrowed   part  of    the 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Thikd  Period. 


plot  and  of  the  phraseology  of  this  play,  and 
transferred  it  into  his  "  Taming  of  the  Shrew." 
This  was  the  opinion  of  Chalmers,  Warton,  and 
Gifford.  Phillips  in  his  "  Theat.  Poet."  says, 
that  the  poetical  works  of  Gascoigne  have 
been  thought  worthy  to  be  quoted  among  the 
chief  of  that  time,  and  Sir  S.  E.  Brydges  in 
his  edition  of  Phillips's  book  says,  "  From 
what  I  have  seen  of  his  works,  his  fancy 
seems  to  have  been  sparkling  and  elegant, 
and  he  always  writes  with  the  powers  of  a 
poet."  Hallam  deems  his  minor  poems,  es- 
pecially one  called  "  The  Arraignment  of  a 
Lover,"  as  having  much  spirit  and  gaiety. 
Headley,  in  his  "  Select  Beauties  of  Ancient 
English  Poetry,"  speaks  of  him  as  a  writer 
whose  mind,  though  it  exhibits  few  marks  of 
strength,  is  not  destitute  of  delicacy ;  he  is 
smooth,  sentimental,  and  harmonious.  See  AUi- 
bone's  "  Crit.  Diet,  of  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  "  Athen. 
Oxon."  ;  Whetstone's  "  Remembrance  of  Gas- 
coigne"; "  Censura  Literaria";  Eitson's 
"Bibl.  Poetica";  Watts's  "  Bibl.  Brit."; 
Chalmers's  "  British  Poets." 


SIR  PHILIP  SYDNEY. 

Sir  Philip  Sydney  was  born  at  Penhurst,  in 
Kent,  in  1554.  He  was  a  cliivalrous  English 
soldier  and  poet.  In  his  fifteenth  year  he  was 
sent  to  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  and  at  the  age 
of  seventeen  he  wemt  on  his  travels.  He  was 
in  Paris  during  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartho- 
lomew, and  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  the 
abode  of  Sir  Francis  Walsingham,  the  English 
ambassador.  After  visiting  various  cities  in 
Hungary,  Italy,  and  Germany,  he  in  1575 
returned  to  England,  and  in  the  following 
year  Queen  Elizabeth  ai)pointed  him  ambas- 
sador to  the  Emperor  Rudolph,  at  whose 
court  he  contracted  an  intimacy  with  the 
famous  Don  John  of  Austria.  On  account  of 
his  declaring  his  sentiments  freely  against  .the 
queen's  marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  in 
1580,  in  his  remonstrance  to  her  majesty,  he 
retired  from  court,  and  in  his  retreat  wrote 
his  celebrated  romance  "Arcadia,"  and  his 
"  Defence  of  Poesie."  In  1582  he  received 
the  honour  of  knighthood,  and  in  1585  was 
appointed  governor  of  Flushing,  and  general 
of  the  troops  sent  to  the  assistance  of  the 
United  Provinces.  About  this  time  his  repu- 
tation for  wisdom  and  valour  stood  so  high, 
that  he  was  thought  a  fit  person  to  be  a  can- 
didate for  the  crown  of  Poland ;  but  the 
queen  would  not  consent  to  the  loss  of  "  the 
jewel  of  lier  dominions."  In  September,  1586, 
Sir  Philip  displayed  extraordinary  bravery  at 
the  battle  of  Zutphen,  but  received  a  mortal 
wound  in  the  thigh  as  he  was  mounting  his 
third  horse,  having  had  two  slain  under  him. 
His  conduct  whilst  leaving  the  battle-field 
illustrates  his  noble  character.  "  In  which 
sad  progress,"  says  his  biographer.  Lord 
Brook,  "  passing  along  by  the  rest  of  the  army 


where  his  uncle  the  general,  the  Earl  of  Lei- 
cester, was,  and  being  thirsty  with  excess  of 
bleeding,  he  called  for  some  drink,  which 
was  presently  brought  him  ;  but  as  he  was 
putting  the  bottle  to  his  mouth,  he  saw  a 
poor  soldier  carried  along,  who  had  eaten  his 
last  at  the  same  feast,  ghastly  casting  up  his 
eyes  at  the  bottle,  which,  Sir  Phihp  perceiving, 
took  it  from  his  head  before  he  drank  and 
delivered  it  to  the  pw^r  man  with  these  words, 
'  Thy  necessity  is  yet  greater  than  mine.' " 
This  wound  proved  fatal  twenty-five  days 
afterwards.  His  body  was  brought  home  and 
buried  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  In  addition 
to  the  works  already  mentioned,  Sir  Philip 
wrote  sonnets,  "  Ourani'"  a  poem,  and  several 
other  pieces. — (Beeton's  Diet.  Universal  Biog.) 
Campbell  speaks  in  the  following  terms  of 
our  poet: — "The  contemporaries  of  Sydney 
knew  the  man,  and  foreigners,  no  less  than 
his  own  countrymen,  seem  to  have  felt  from 
his  personal  influence  and  conversation,  an 
homage  for  him,  that  could  only  be  paid  to  a 
commanding  intellect  guiding  the  principles 
of  a  noble  heart.  The  variety  of  his  ambition, 
perhaps,  unfavourably  divided  the  force  of 
his  genius;  feeling  that  he  could  take  dif- 
ferent paths  to  reputation,  he  did  not  confine 
himself  to  one,  but  was  successively  occupied 
in  the  punctilious  duties  of  a  courtier,  the 
studies  and  pursuits  of  a  scholar  and  traveller, 
and  in  the  life  of  a  soldier,  of  which  the  chi- 
valrous accomplishments  could  not  be  learnt 
without  diligence  and  fatigue.  All  his  ex- 
cellence in  those  pursuits,  and  all  the  cele- 
brity that  would  have  placed  him  among  the 
competitors  for  a  crown,  was  gained  in  a  life 
of  thirty-two  years.  His  sagacity  and  inde- 
pendence are  recorded  in  the  advice  which  he 
gave  to  his  o^vn  sovereign.  In  the  quarrel 
with  Lord  Oxford,  he  opposed  the  rights  of  an 
English  commoner  to  the  prejudices  of  aris- 
tocracy and  of  royalty  itself.  At  home  he 
was  the  patron  of  literature.  All  England 
wore  mourning  for  his  death.  Perhaps  the 
well-known  anecdote  of  his  generosity  to  the 
dying  soldier  speaks  more  powerfully  to  the 
heart  than  the  whole  volumes  of  elegies,  in 
Hebrew,  Greek  and  Latin,  that  were  pub- 
lished at  his  death  by  the  Universities." 


ROBERT   SOUTHWELL. 

Robert  Southwell,  born  1560,  died  1595. 
He  was  descended  from  an  ancient  family  in 
Norfolk,  but  educated  at  the  English  college 
in  Douay,  after  which  he  became  a  Jesuit  at 
Rome.  He  was  appointed  prefect  of  studies 
there  in  1585,  but  soon  afterwards  he  was 
sent  as  a  missionary  to  England.  The 
Countess  of  Arundel,  who  appointed  him  her 
chaplain,  proved  a  generous  and  faithful  friend. 
He  resided  much  with  her.  In  July,  1592,  he 
was  apprehended  as  being  implicated  in  secret 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


I 


conspireicies  against  the  government.  He  was 
kept  in  prison  nearly  three  years,  and  was 
during  that  period  often  subjected  to  the 
torture  of  the  rack.  He  thus  suffered  no  less 
than  ten  times.  He  acknowledged  that  he  was 
a  priest  and  a  Jesuit,  that  he  came  to  England 
to  preach  the  Catholic  religion,  and  that  for 
this  he  was  ready  to  lay  down  his  life  ;  but  he 
would  never  admit  any  knowledge  of  the  con- 
spiracies. He  Avas  at  last  brought  to  trial  at 
the  King's  Bench,  condemned  and  executed 
according  to  the  barbarous  custom  of  the 
period,  the  next  day,  at  Tyburn.  In  the  67th 
volume  of  the  *'  Gentleman's  Magazine"  there 
is  given  a  list  of  his  writings  and  a  sketch  of 
his  life.  Eobert  Aria  Willmott  says,  "  One 
of  the  least  known,  though  certainly  not  the 
least  deser\dng  writers  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth, 
was  Robert  Southwell.  His  poetical  compo- 
sitions do  not  entitle  him  to  an  elevated  rank 
either  by  their  fancy  or  their  power,  yet  they 
contain  many  thoughts  that  often  '  he  too  deep 
for  tears,'  and  as  '  a  warbler  of  poetic  prose  ' 
he  will  be  found  to  have  few  rivals  ;  of  all 
our  early  poets,  Southwell  recalls  most  freshly 
the  manner  of  Goldsmith  ;  not  that  he  ever 
opened  the  same  vein  of  pleasantry,  or 
acquired  the  art  of  making  a  history  of 
animals  as  amusing  as  a  Persian  tale  ;  the 
resemblance  is  te  be  traced  in  the  naturalness 
of  the  sentiment,  the  propriety  of  the  expres- 
sion, and  the  easy  harmony  of  the  verse." 
In  his  own  times  Southwell's  works  were  very 
popular. 


I 


I 


SrB  WALTEE  EALEIGH. 

Sir  Walter  Ealeigh  was  born  at  Hayes, 
Devonshire,  in  1552.  In  1568  he  was  sent  to 
Oriel  College,  Oxford,  where  "  he  was  worthily 
esteemed  a  proficient  in  oratory  and  philo- 
sophy," but  did  not  long  remain.  He  entered 
the  troop  of  gentlemen  volunteers  who  went 
to  the  assistance  of  the  Protestants  of  France, 
and  in  which  he  remained  five  or  six  years. 
He  subsequently  joined  the  expedition  of 
General  Norris  in  the  Netherlands,  in  aid  of 
the  Prince  of  Orange.  Soon  after  his  return, 
he  engaged  with  his  brother-in-law,  Sir 
Humphrey  Gilbert,  in  a  voyage  to  America, 
whence  they  returned  in  1579.  The  next  year 
he  was  in  Ireland,  and  distinguished  himself 
against  the  rebels  of  Munster.  On  his  return 
to  England,  he  gained  the  favour  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  by  a  romantic  piece  of  gallantry. 
Her  Majesty,  while  taking  a  walk,  stopped  at 
a  muddy  place,  hesitating  whether  to  proceed 
or  not ;  on  which  Ealeigh  took  off  his  new 
plush  cloak,  and  spread  it  on  the  ground. 
The  queen  trod  gently  over  the  foot-cloth  and 
soon  rewarded  the  sacrifice  of  a  cloak.  In 
1584  he  fitted  out  a  squadron  and  endeavoured 
to  establish  the  colony,  named  in  honour  of 
Elizabeth,  Virginia.     After  spending  ,£40,000, 


he  abandoned  the  attempt   to   a   mercantile 
corporation.     The    expedition   brought   home 
the  tobacco-plant  and  the  potato.     Sir  Walter 
bore  a  distinguished  part  in  the  defeat  of  the 
Spanish  Armada  in  1588.     In  1595  he  sailed 
to    Guiana    and    destroyed    the    capital    of 
Trinidad.     He  was  one  of  those  who  brought 
about  the  fall  of  Essex,  and  remained  in  the 
favour  of  the  queen  till  her  death.     In  the 
succeeding  reign  his  fortunes  changed.     He 
was  stripped  of   his   preferments,  tried   and 
condemned  for  high  treason,  on  a  charge  the 
i   most  frivolous  and  without  the  least  evidence. 
He   remained  in  the   Tower   thirteen   years, 
during    which   he   \vrote    several    works    on 
various  subjects  of  great  importance,  the  best 
of  which  was  the  "  History  of  the   World," 
which    was    published    in    1614.     The    year 
following  he  was  released,  in  consequence  of 
the  flattering  account  which  he  had  given  of 
some  rich  mines  in  G-uiana.     On  gaining  his 
liberty,  he  sailed  to  that  country,  in  search  of 
j  those  pretended  mines,  instead  of  discovering 
I   which,    he   burnt   the    Spanish   town   of    St. 
i   Thomas,  and  returned  to  England,  where  on 
j   the    complaint    of    Gondomar,    the    Spanish 
I   ambassador,  he  was   apprehended,  and,  in  a 
j   most    unprecedented    manner,    beheaded    at 
1    Westminster,  1618,  on   his  former  sentence. 
His  works  are  historical,  philosophical,  poet- 
ical   and    pohtical.       As    an    author,  Hume 
declares  him  to  be  the  "best  model  of  our 
ancient  style  ; ' '  and  Hallam  speaks  of  him  as 
"lesspedantic  than  most  of  his  contemporaries, 
seldom  low,  and  never  affected." 


NICHOLAS  BEETON. 

Nicholas  Breton,  bom  1555,  died  1624.  He 
is  supposed  to  have  been  of  a  Staffordshire 
family.  He  published  a  number  of  poetical 
pieces.  Sir  Egerton  Brydges  writes :  "  The 
ballad  of  Phillida  and  Coridon,  reprinted  by 
Percy,  is  a  delicious  little  poem ;  and  if  we 
are  to  judge  from  this  specimen,  his  poetical 
powers — for  surely  he  must  have  had  the  powers 
of  a  poet — were  distinguished  by  simplicity,  at 
once  easy  and  elegant."  "Nicholas  Breton," 
says  Phillips,  in  his  "  Theatrum  Poetarum,"  "  a 
writer  of  pastorals,  sonnets,  canzons  and 
madrigals,  in  which  kind  of  writing  he  keeps 
company  with  several  other  contemporary 
emulators  of  Spenser  and  Sir  Philip  Sydney  in 
a  published  collection  of  selected  odes  of  the 
chief  pastoral  sonnetteers,  &c.  of  that  age." 
"  His  happiest  vein,"  remarks  Campbell,  "isin 
little  pastoral  pieces." — SeeEitson's  "Biblio. 
Poetica";  Lowndes's  "Brit.  Bibhographer," 
Bohn's  edit. 


CHEISTOPHEE  MAELOWE. 

Christopher  Marlowe  was  born   about  the 
year  1565.     He    studied  at  Cambridge,    and 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Period.- 


took  the  M.A.  degree  in  1587.  He  became  a 
writer  for  the  stage  and  probably  an  actor. 
His  life  was  disgraceful.  At  the  early  age  of 
thirty  he  was  killed  in  a  disreputable  quarrel, 
his  own  sword  being  turned  against  him  in  a 
house  of  ill-fame.  He  translated  several  of 
the  classics.  He  also  wrote  '/  Dr.  Faustus  "  ; 
"  Edward  the  Second  " ;  "  The  Jew  of  Malta  " ; 
"  Tamborlaine  the  Great";  "Lust's  Domi- 
nion" ;  "Dido,  Queen  of  Carthage"  ;  and  the 
"  Massacre  at  Paris."  They  convey  abund- 
ant proof  of  the  great  power  their  author 
possessed  of  drawing  characters  more  than 
human  in  their  intense  malignity  and  terrible 
depth  of  villany.  The  bishops  ordered  his 
translations  of  "  Ovid's  Love  Elegies  "  to  be 
burnt  in  public  for  their  licentiousness,  although 
CampbeU  justly  adds,  that  if  all  the  licentious 
poems  of  that  period  had  been  included  in  the 
martyrdom,  Shakspere's  "  Venus  and  Adonis  " 
would  have  hardly  escaped. — See  Beeton's 
"  Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  ;  Campbell's  "  Specimens 
of  the  British  Poets." 


JOSHUA  SYLVESTEE. 

Joshua  Sylvester,  born  1563,  died  in  Holland 
1618.  Ho  was  a  merchant  adventurer,  and 
was  in  great  favour  with  Queen  Elizabeth  and 
King  James.  Prince  Henry,  son  of  the  latter 
monarch,  appointed  him  his  poet  pensioner. 
He  wrote  several  poems,  and  translated  into 
English  verse,  Du  Bartas's  "  Divine  Weeks 
and  Works,"  and  some  pieces  from  Fracas- 
tarius.  He  was  called  by  his  contemporaries, 
Silver-tongued.  —  Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ. 
Biog."  J  Campbell's  "Specimens.** 


EICHAED  BAENFIELD. 

Eichard  Barnfield  was  born  in  1574,  and 
entered  at  Brasenose  College,  Oxford,  in  1589. 
He  wrote  "  The  Affectionate  Shepherd "  ; 
"  The  Encomium  of  Lady  Pecunia,  or  the 
Praise  of  Money  "  ;  "  The  Complaint  of  Poetrie 
for  the  Death  of  Liberalitie"  ;  "The  Combat 
between  Conscience  and  Coveteousness  in  the 
Minds  of  Men";  and  "Poems  in  divers 
Humours."  In  what  year  he  died  is  unknown. 
—See  Eose's  '1  Biog.  Diet.";  Ellis's  "  Speci- 
mens  "  ;  Eitson's  "  Bib.  Poet.  "  ;  Warton's 
"Hist,  of  Eng.  Poetry":  AUibono's  "Crit.- 
Diet,  of  Eng.  Lit." 


THOMAS   WATSON. 

Thomas  Watson,  bom  1560,  died  about 
1592.  Ho  was  a  native  of  London,  and 
studied  the  common  law.  Stevens  preferred 
his  sonnets  to  Shakspere's;  but  Campbell 
wittUy  remarks,    "Watson's  sonnets  are  all 


of  eighteen  lines;  and  perhaps  in  their 
superfluity  of  four,  Stevens  thought  their 
excellence  to  consist;  for  as  he  loved  quantity 
in  Shakspere,  he  would  like  hidk  in  another." 
— Campbell's  Sjpecimens. 


EDMUND  SPENSEE. 
This  eminent  poet  was  born  in  1553,  and 
educated  at  Pembroke  College,  Cambridge, 
where  he  took  his  degree ,  but  not  obtaining 
his  fellowship,  he  quitted  the  university. 
His  earliest  poem  was  the  "Shepherd's 
Calendar,"  first  published  in  1579,  which 
he  dedicated  to  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  who 
became  his  patron,  and  introduced  him  at 
court.  In  1580  he  was  appointed  by  the 
Earl  of  Leicester,  Secretary  to  Lord  Grey, 
Viceroy  of  Ireland,  and  obtained  a  grant  of 
lands  at  Kilcolmain,  in  the  county  of  Cork, 
where  he  built  a  house,  and  finished  his 
celebrated  poem,  "The  Faerie  Queen."  In 
the  rebellion  begun  by  the  Earl  of  Tyrone, 
his  house  was  fired,  and  one  of  his  children 
perished  in  the  conflagration  ;  upon  which  he 
retired  to  London.  He  died  in  1599,  and  was 
buried  near  Chaucer  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
Pope  says  :  "  There  is  something  in  Spenser 
which  pleases  us  as  strongly  in  one's  old  age 
as  it  did  in  one's  youth.  I. read  the  'Faerie 
Queen '  when  I  was  about  twelve  with  a  vast 
deal  of  delight;  "  and  Professor  Craik,  inhis 
admirable  "  Sketches  of  Literature  and  Learn- 
ing in  England,"  observes  :  "  Without  calling 
Spenser  the  greatest  of  .all  poets,  we  may  still 
say  that  his  poetry  is  the  most  poetical  of  all 
poetry." — See  Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ.  Biog.  "  ; 
Campbell's  "Specimens"  ;  Chambers's  "Cyclo. 
English  Lit."  vol.  i. 


SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

Samuel  Daniel  was  bom  at  Taunton, 
Somersetshire  in  1562.  He  was  educated  at 
Magdalen  Hall,  Oxford,  and  was  subsequently 
tutor  to  the  celebrated  Anne  Clifford,  daughter 
of  George,  Earl  of  Cumberland,  and  afterwards 
Countess  of  Pembroke.  We  know  little  of 
his  history.  He  resided  for  some  years,  it 
seems,  in  a  small  house  in  the  parish  of  St. 
Luke,  London,  associated  with.  Shakspeare, 
Marlowe,  Chapman  and  others,  and  towards 
the  close  of  his  life,  retired  to  a  farm  at 
Beckington,  near  Philips-Norton,  in  Somerset- 
shire. He  wrote  a  number  of  works.  Drum- 
mond  says  of  him,  "  for  sweetness  and  rhyming, 
second  to  none,"  and  Bolton  remarks  of  his 
writings  that  they  "  containe  somewhat  a  flat, 
yet  withal  a  very  pure  and  copious  English, 
and  words  as  warrantable  as  any  man's,  and 
fitter  perhaps  for  prose  than  measure." 
Gabriel  Harvey  admires  Daniel  for  his  efforts 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


to  enricli  and  improve  his  native  tongue. 
Langbaine,  in  his  "Dramatic  Poets,"  speaks 
of  him  as  "  one  whose  memory  will  ever  be 
fresh  in  the  minds  of  those  who  favotir  history 
or  poetry."  Fuller,  in  his  "  Worthies,"  calls 
him  "  an  exquisite  poet."  Headley  says,  "  he 
has  skill  in  the  pathetic,  and  his  pages  are 
disgraced  with  neither  pedantry  nor  conceit," 
in  which  opinion  he  is  confirmed  by  the 
illustrious  author  of  the  "Introduction  to  the 
Literature  of  Europe,"  who  writes,  "  It  is 
the  chief  praise  of  Daniel,  and  must  have 
contributed  to  what  popularity  he  enjoyed  in 
his  OAvn  age,  that  his  English  is  eminently 
pure,  free  from  affectation,  archaism,  and 
from  pedantic  innovation,  with  very  little  that 
is  now  obsolete." — See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet, 
of  Eng.  Lit."  :  Chambers's  "Cycl."  vol.  i. ; 
Campbell's  "Specimens";  Drake's  "  Shak- 
spere  and  his  Times." 


MICHAEL  DEAYTON. 

Michael  Drayton  is  said  to  have  been  born 
at  Hartshill,  Warwickshire,  in  1653.  He 
studied  some  time  at  Oxford,  and  was  in- 
debted to  Sir  Henry  Goodeve,  the  Countess 
of  Bedford,  and  Sir  Walter  Aston.  To  the 
hospitality  of  the  last-mentioned  patron  he 
refers,  when  complaining  of  his  want  of  suc- 
cess in  gaining  the  smiles  of  the  court,  upon 
the  accession  of  James  I. :  "  All  my  long- 
nourished  hopes  (were)  even  buried  alive 
before  my  face ;  so  uncertain  in  this  world 
be  the  end  of  our  dearest  endeavours  !  And 
whatever  is  herein  (the  "Poly-Olbion")  that 
tastes  of  a  free  spirit,  I  thankfully  confess 
to  proceed  from  the  continued  bounty  of  my 
truly  noble  friend,  Sir  Walter  Aston ;  which 
hath  given  me  the  best  of  those  hou.rs,  whose 
leisure  hath  effected  this  which  now  I  pub- 
Msh ;  "  and  again  : 

"  Trent,   by  Tlxall  graced,  the  Astons' 

ancient  seat. 
Which  oft  the  Muse  hath  found  her  safe 

and  sweet  retreat." 

The  Earl  of  Dorset  proved  as  kind  to  his 
age  as  Sir  Walter  Aston  had  to  his  earlier 
years,  and  under  the  roof  of  this  generous 
nobleman  he  spent  his  declining  days  in  re- 
pose and  comfort,  beloved  by  his  associates 
and  admired  by  his  countrymen  at  large.  In 
1613  appeared  the  first  of  his  principal  work, 
the  "Poly-Olbion,"  containing  eighteen  songs; 
this  he  reprinted  in  1622  with  the  addition  of 
twelve  songs,  making  thirty  in  the  whole,  or 
thirty  thousand  lines,  written  in  Alexandrian 
couplets  !  He  wrote  the  "  Shepherd's  Gar- 
land" ;  the  "  Barrens'  Warres"  ;  "  England's 
Heroical  Epistles  "  ;  the  "  Downfall  of  Robert 
of  Normandy";  "  Holy  Himnes  "  ;  "  Nym- 
phidia";  the  "  Court  of  Fayrie  "  ;  "Elegies  "  ; 


and  other  works.  It  is  said  of  the  "  Nym- 
phidia,"  that  it  "can  never  become  obsolete 
until  the  spirit  of  true  poetry  shall  have  lost 
its  charms."  Burton,  the  antiquary  of  Leices- 
tershire, considers  that  the  name  alone  of 
Drayton  exalted  the  poetical  eminence  of 
England  to  an  equality  with  Italy"  itself. 
Bishop  Nicolson,  in  his  English  "Hist.  Lib.," 
commends  the  accuracy  of  the  "Poly-Olbion  "  : 
"  It  affords  a  much  truer  account  of  this  king- 
dom, and  the  dominion  of  Wales,  than  could 
well  be  expected  from  the  pen  of  a  poet." 
This  work  is,  indeed,  a  most  singular  perform- 
ance. Imagine  a  poet  gravely  proposing  as 
the  subject  of  his  muse,  a  chorographical  de- 
scription of  all  the  tracts,  rivers,  mountains, 
forests,  and  other  parts  of  the  renowned  isle 
of  Great  Britain,  with  intermixture  of  the 
most  remarkable  stories,  antiquities,  wonders, 
&c.,  of  the  same.  Headley  remarks,  that  "  his 
'  Poly-Olbion '  is  one  of  the  most  singular 
works  this  country  has  produced,  and  seems 
to  me  eminently  original.  The  information 
contained  in  it  is  in  general  so  accurate,  that  he 
is  quoted  as  an  authority  by  Heame  and 
Wood.  His  perpetual  allusions  to  obsolete 
traditions,  remote  events,  remarkable  facts 
and  personages,  together  with  hia  curious 
genealogies  of  rivers,  and  his  taste  for  natural 
history,  have  contributed  to  render  his  work 
very  valuable  to  the  antiquary." — See  Allibone'  s 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.Xit."  ;  Hallam's  "  Introduc. 
to  Lit.  His.";  Brydges'  "  Imaginative Biog."  ; 
Disraeli's  "Amenities  of  Lit.";  Drake's  "Shak- 
spere  and  his  Times." 


EDWARD  FAIRFAX,  B.D. 

Edward  Fairfax,  B.D.,  was  the  second  son 
of  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  of  Denton,  in  York- 
shire, and  passed  his  days  in  lettered  ease  at 
his  seat  at  Fuyistone.  He  wrote  a  poetical 
history  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  twelve 
eclogues,  a  "  Discourse  of  Witchcraft,"  some 
letters  against  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  a 
translation  of  Tasso's  "  Recovery  of  Jeru- 
salem." Few  translators  have  been  honoured 
with  commendations  from  so  many  distin- 
guished authorities.  The  names  of  King 
James,  King  Charles,  Drj'den,  Waller,  Collins, 
Milton,  Hume,  Charles  Lamb,  by  no  means 
exhaust  the  list.  Its  ease,  elegance,  and 
exactness,  for  the  age  in  which  it  was  trans- 
lated, is  surprising. — See  AUibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit.";  Dryden's  preface  to  his 
"  Fables  "  ;  Hume's  "  History  of  England  "  ; 
"London  Quarterly  Review";  Phillips's 
"  Theat.  Poet." 


SIR  JOHN  HARRINGTON. 

Sir  John  Harrington,  born  1561,  died  1612. 
He  was  the  son  of  John  Harrington,   the  poet 

6 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Thied  Pekiod.- 


FULKE  GEEVILLE. 

Fulke  Gre\Tlle,  Lord  Brooke,  born  1554, 
died  1628,  was  the  son  of  Sir  Fiilke  Greville, 
of  Beauchamp  Court,  in  Warwickshire.  He 
entered  at  Trinity  Colleg-e,  Cambridge,  and 
afterwards  completed  his  studies  at  Oxford. 
After  attaining  distinction  at  court,  and  being 
honoured  by  a  seat  at  the  Privy  Council,  he 
was  assassinated  by  one  of  his  domestics, 
named  Ralph  Heywood.  He  ordered  the  fol- 
lowing inscription  to  be  placed  on  his  own 
grave  :  "  Servant  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  Coun- 
cillor to  King  James,  and  friend  to  Sir  Philip 
Sydney."  He  wrote  a  variety  of  works, 
among  which  are:  "A  Treatise  of  Human 
Learning,"  in  fifteen  stanzas;  "  An  Inquisition 
upon  Fame  and  Honour,"  in  eighty-six  stan- 
zas; the  "Life  of  the  renowned  Sir  Philip 
Sydney";  "Alaham,"  a  tragedy;  "Musta- 
pha,"    a  tragedy ;     a   "  Letter   of   Travell." 


we  have  already  noticed,  and  was  a  great 
favourite  with  his  godmother,  Queen  Elizabeth, 
although  temporarily  banished  from  cotu-t  for 
writing  a  witty  work  upon  an  objectionable 
theme,  entitled  "  The  Metamorphosis  of  Ajax." 
Lon.  1596,  8vo.  A  licence  was  refused  for 
printing  this  work,  yet  it  nevertheless  went 
through  three  impressions.  Sir  John  also 
published  "  Orlando  Furioso,"  translated  into 
English  verse,  which  was  the  first  version  of 
Ariosto  in  our  language.  The  first  fifty  stanzas 
of  Book  XXXII.  were  translated  by  Francis 
Harrington,  Sir  John's  youngest  brother. 
Ellis  says  of  this  work,  "  that  although  much  j 
admired  at  the  time,  it  is  now  found  to  be 
inaccurate  and  feeble;"  yet,  notwithstanding 
this,  Warton  remarks,  that  "  it  enriched  our 
poetry  by  a  communication  of  new  stories  of 
fiction  and  imagination,  both  of  the  romantic 
and  comic  species  of  Gothic  machinery  and 
familiar  manners."  Campbell  speaks  in  higher 
terms  :  "  The  translation  of  the  '  Jerusalem  ' 
was  published  when  he  was  a  young  man,  was 
inscribed  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  forms  one 
of  the  glories  of  her  reign."  Sir  John  pub- 
lished a  number  of  works,  among  which  was 
the  "  Nugse  Antiquos,"  being  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  original  papers  in  prose  and 
verse,  of  the  times  of  Henry  VIII. ,  Edward 
VI.,  Mary,  Elizabeth,  and  James,  by  Sir  J.  H. 
and  others  who  lived  in  those  times.  These 
volumes  should  be  in  the  library  of  every 
historical  student.  "  Sir  John  Harrington 
appears  to  have  been  a  gentleman  of  great 
pleasantry  and  humour ;  his  fortune  was  easy, 
the  court  his  element,  and  wit,  not  his  busi- 
ness, but  diversion." — See  Campbell's  "  Speci- 
mens " ;  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ; 
Hallam's  "Lit.  Hist,  of  Europe  "  ;  "  Censura 
Literaria";  Cooper's  "Muses'  Library,"  p. 
297;  Bishop Mcolson's  "Enghsh  Hist.  Lib."; 
Park's  Advert,  to  his  edition  of  "Nugas 
Antiquae." 


Richard  Baxter,  the  celebrated  nonconformist, 
speaks  highlj'-  of  one  of  his  works.  HaUam, 
in  his  "Literary  History  of  Europe,"  says: 
"  Lord  Brooke's  poetry  is  chiefly  worth  notice 
as  an  indication  of  that  thinking  spirit  upon 
political  science,  which  was  to  produce  the 
riper  speculation  of  Hobbes  and  Harrington 
and  Locke." — See  Walpole's  "Royal  and 
Noble  Authors";  Langbaine's  "Dramatical 
Poets  "  ;  Baxter's  "  Poetical  Fragments  "  ; 
Charles  Lamb;  Hazlitt's  "Table  Talk:  of 
Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen " ; 
Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Camp- 
bell's "  Specimens." 


SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton,  born  at  Bocton-Mal- 
herbe,  in  Kent,  in  1568.  Foreseeing  the  fall 
of  Essex,  to  whom  he  was  secretary,  he  left 
the  kingdom,  but  returned  on  the  accession  of 
James,  and  was  appointed  ambassador  to  the 
court  of  Venice.  Towards  the  close  of  his 
life,  he  took  deacon's  orders,  and  was  nomi- 
nated Provost  of  Eton.  He  wrote  the  "  Ele- 
ments of  Architecture";  "  Parallel  between 
the  Earl  of  Essex  and  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham" ;  "Characters  of  some  Kings  of  Eng- 
land" ;  "Essay  on  Education"  ;  and  "Poems," 
printed  in  the  Reliqua3  Wottonian83,  by  good 
old  Isaac  Walton.  He  died  in  1639.  If  the 
reader  has  not  seen  the  "Life  ofc  Vfotton," 
by  Walton,  let  him  by  all  means  get  it ;  a 
greater  treat  is  not  in  the  whole  language  of 
biography  than  this  life  by  the  quaint  and 
delightful  angler. — See  Campbell's  "  Speci- 
mens "  ;  Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ.  Biog." ; 
Chambers's  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


HENRY  CONSTABLE. 

Henry  Constable  was  educated  at  Oxford, 
but  took  his  B.A.  degTce  at  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge,  in  1579.  He  published  "  Diana, 
or  the  Excellent  Conceitful  Sonnets  of  H.  C, 
&c.,"  in  1584.  Ellis  thinks  he  was  bom  in 
1568,  but  it  is  quite  uncertain,  as  also  is  the 
time  of  his  death.  Dr.  Birch,  in  his  "  Me- 
moirs of  Queen  Elizabeth,"  supposes  that  he 
was  the  same  Henry  Constable  who,  for  his 
zeal  in  the  Catholic  religion,  was  long  obliged 
to  live  in  a  state  of  banishment.  He  returned 
to  England,  however,  about  the  beginning  of 
James's  reign. — See  Edmund  Bolton's  "  Hy- 
percritica  "  ;  Ellis's  "  Specimens  "  ;  Malone's 
"Shakspere,"  x.  74;  Todd's  "Milton";  War- 
ton's  "  English  Poetry  "  ;  Campbell's  "  Speci- 
mens "  ;  Allibone's  "  Ciit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 

William  Shakspere,  born  1564,  died  1616. 
The  neglect  of  Shakspere  by  his  countrymen, 


From  1558  to  1G49.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


immediately /after  his  own  age,  or  rather  the 
little  attention  then  paid  to  the  personal 
history  of  poets,  has  left  to  the  anxious  curi- 
osity of  modern  admiration  slight  materials 
for  the  construction  of  his  biography.  Official 
documents,  tradition,  and  scattered  notices  in 
various  writers,  have  been  carefully  gleaned  to 
procure  a  few  meagre  facts  from  which  we 
may  trace  the  great  poet's  living  career.  He 
was  born  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  in  Warwick- 
shire, in  April,  1564.  His  father,  a  wool- 
comber  or  glover,  seems  to  have  been  de- 
scended from  a  family  of  yeomen  settled  at 
Snitterfield,  near  Warwick,  and,  marrying  a 
mstic  heiress,  Mary  Arden  (who  inherited  a 
farm  of  some  value),  he  went  to  Stratford  to 
reside  as  a  tradesman.  He  became  high- 
bailiff  of  the  town,  and  possessed  several 
houses  in  Stratford;  but  his  circumstances 
declined.  It  is  conjectured  that  a  short  course 
in  the  Stratford  grammar-school  was  all  the 
regular  education  Shakspere  ever  received. 
The  necessity  of  a,ssistance  in  .his  business 
forced  his  father  to  withdraw  him  early  from 
school.  The  traditionary  anecdotes  of  his 
youth  indicate  anything  but  the  earnest 
student  anxiously  expanding  the  rudimentary 
acquirements  received  from  a  village  peda- 
gogue ;  and  yet  the  question  of  his  learning 
has  employed  the  elaborate,  and  often  sar- 
castic and  angry  erudition  of  hostile  critics. 
But  Shakspere's  "wit"  was  "made  of 
Atalanta's  heels  :  "  an  hour  of  a  mind  like  his 
could  extract  the  honey,  the  acquisition  of 
which  employed  the  days  and  nights  of  less 
vigorous  intellects.  If  we  cannot  believe,  in 
all  its  circumstances,  the  traditionary  tale  of 
the  deer-stealing  in  Charlecote  Park,  the 
angry  vengeance  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  and 
the  forced  flight  of  the  poet  from  his  native 
place ;  we  can  yet  discern  in  the  compelled 
hurry  of  his  marriage,  that  the  ardour  of  his 
temperament  had  involved  him  in  irregularities 
and  imprudences.  He  married,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  Anne  Hathaway,  a  young  woman 
seven  years  older  than  himself,  the  daughter 
of  a  "  substantial  yeoman"  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Three  or  four  years  after  his  marriage 
he  removed  to  London,  having  possibly  per- 
ceived the  incipient  tendencies  of  his  genius 
during  the  occasional  visits  of  the  metropolitan 
players  to  Stratford.  In  London  we  soon  find 
the  poet  in  comparative  opulence.  He  rapidly 
acquired  a  large  property  in  more  than  one 
theatre.  The  order  in  which  he  produced  his 
dramatic  compositions  has  been  a  subject  of 
keen  inquiry ;  but  the  minute  researches  of 
editors  elicit  few  satisfactory  results.  In 
whatever  order  his  dramas  were  produced,  he 
soon  vindicated  the  immense  superiority  of 
his  genius  by  universal  popularity.  He  was 
the  companion  of  the  nobles  and  the  wits  of 
the  time,  and  a  favourite  of  Elizabeth  herself, 
at  whose  request  some  of  his  pieces  were 
written.  The  wealth  which  his  genius  re- 
alized  enabled   him,    comparatively   early   in 


life,  to  retire  from  his  professional  career. 
He  had  purchased  an  estate  in  the  vicinity  of 
his  native  town ;  but  his  tranquil  retirement 
was  of  no  long  duration  :  he  enjoyed  it  only 
four  years.  He  died  April  23rd  (St.  George's 
day),  1616,  and  was  buried  "  on  theTiorth  side 
of  the  chancel  in  the  great  church  of  Strat- 
ford." His  bust  is  placed  in  the  wall  over  his 
grave  :  on  the  stone  beneath  is  the  following 
epitaph  : — 

"  Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake,  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  inclosed  here. 
Blest  be  the  man  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

His  only  son  had  died  early ;  all  the  children 
of  his  married  daughters  died  without  issue. 

The  works  of  Shakspere  consist  of  thirty- 
seven  plays,  tragedies,  comedies,  and  histories ; 
the  poems  "Venus  and  Adonis,"  and  "Tar- 
quin  and  Lucrece,"  with  a  collection  of  sonnets. 
Of  the  thirty-seven  plays,  "Titus  Andronicus," 
"Pericles,"  and  "  Henry  VI.,"  with  portions 
of  some  others,  have  been  doubted  by  critics 
to  be  authentically  Shakspere's  ;  and  some 
have  claimed  for  him  other  authorless  pieces 
of  the  period.  The  total  want  of  care  to  pre- 
serve and  to  authenticate  the  productions  of 
his  genius  before  his  death,  has  been  supposed 
to  indicate  the  poet's  perfect  indifference  to 
fame. 

The    worship   with    which    Shakspere    is 

universally  regarded  in  this  country  disposes 

us  to  love  him  on  trust.     The  estimation  of 

{   his  contemporaries  and  rivals  proves  him  not 

undeserving   of    this   regard.      The    "gentle 

j    Shakspere"    was  universally  beloved.      Gif- 

I   ford  has  extracted  the  gall  even  from  expres- 

I    sions  that  were  esteemed  as  the  sarcasm  of 

Ben  Jonson's  surly  ingi'atitude. 

The  subject  of    Shakspere's  dramatic  and 
poetical  character  is  so  vast,  that  it  would  be 
idle  here  to  attempt  its  analysis.    The  vai-iety 
of  its  attributes  has,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, drawn  both  censure  and  applause  from 
different  tastes  and  ages.     Voltaire  could  see 
in  "  Hamlet "  only  the  work  of  a  "  drunken 
savage."     The  mechanical  pedantry  of  Rymer 
sees  in  "Othello"   only    "a  bloody  farce": 
"a  tragedy  of  a  pocket-handkerchief."     We 
shall  quote  the  celebrated  i)assage  of  Dryden, 
eulogized  by  Johnson  as  "  a  perpetual  model 
of  encomiastic  criticism ;     exact  without  mi- 
nuteness, and  lofty  without  exaggeration"  : — 
"  He  (Shakspere)  was    the  man,  who  of   all 
modem,  and,  perhaps,  ancient  jioets,  had  the 
largest  and  most  comprehensive  soul.    All  the 
!   images  of  nature  were  still  present  to  him, 
I   and  he  drew  them,  not  laboriously',  but  luckily. 
I   When  he  describes  anything,  you  more  than 
I    see  it,  you  feel  it  too.     Those  who  accuse  him 
I   to  have  wanted  learning  give  him  the  greater 
I    commendation  :  he  was  naturally  learned  ;  he 
I    needed  not  the  spectacles  of  books  to  read 
I    natui'c ;    he   looked   inwards   and  found  her 
1    there.     I  cannot  say  he  is  everywhere  alike ; 

6* 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Pekiod. — 


were  he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  compare 
him  with  the  greatest  of  mankind.  He  is 
many  times  flat,  insipid  ;  his  comic  wit  de- 
generating into  clinches,  his  serious  into  bom- 
bast. But  he  is  always  great,  when  great 
occasion  is  presented  to  him ;  no  man  can  say 
he  ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his  wit,  and  did 
not  then  raise  himself  as  high  above  the  rest 
of  poets — 

Quantum  lenta  solent  inter  viburna  cupressi." 

This  "epitome  of  excellence,"  as  Johnson 
terms  the  above  criticism,  must  constitute 
our  sole  tribute  to  Shakspere's  merits. 
The  voluminous  admiration  of  more  modern 
times  does  not  contain  a  very  great  deal  more 
than  is  compressed  into  the  vigour  of  Dry  den's 
remarks.  We  would  simply  invite  attention 
to  the  higher  views  of  the  philosophy  of 
Shakspere's  literature,  suggested  by  the 
fine  imagination  of  Coleridge.  Poets  have 
always  been  Shakspere's  best  critics. 

See  the  "  Poetry  and  Poets  of  Britain,"  by 
Daniel  Scrymgeour,  pp.  83 — 85  ;  Chambers's 
"  Cyc  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  i. ;  Beeton's  "  Diet. 
Univ.  Biog." 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHEE. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  bom  1586,  died 
1616;  born  1576,  died  1625.  those  names, 
united  by  friendship  and  confederate  genius, 
ought  not  to  be  disjoined.  Francis  Beau- 
mont was  the  son  of  Judge  Beaumont  of  the 
Common  Pleas,  and  was  born  at  Grace-Dieu, 
in  Leicestershire,  in  1586.  He  studied  at 
Oxford,  and  passed  from  thence  to  the  Inner 
Temple ;  but  his  application  to  the  law  cannot 
be  supposed  to  have  been  intense,  as  his  first 
play,  in  conjunction  with  Fletcher,  was  acted 
in  his  twenty-first  year,  and  the  short  re- 
mainder of  his  life  was  devoted  to  the  drama. 
He  married  Ursula,  daughter  and  co-heiress 
of  Sir  Henry  Isle/,  of  Kent,  by  whom  he  had 
two  daughters,  one  of  whom  was  alive,  at  a 
great  age,,  in  the  year  1700.  He  died  in  1616, 
and  was  buried  at  the  entrance  of  St.  Bene- 
dict's chapel,  near  the  Earl  of  Middlesex's 
monument,  in  the  collegiate  church  of  St. 
Peter,  Westminster.  As  a  lyrical  poet, 
F.  Beaumont  would  be  entitled  to  some 
remembrance,  independent  of  his  niche  in 
the  drama. 

John  Fletcher  was  the  son  of  Dr.  E.  Fletcher, 
bishop  of  London :  he  was  bom,  probably,  in  the 
metropolis,  in  1576,  and  was  admitted  a  pen- 
sioner of  Bennet  College  about  the  age  of 
fifteen.  His  time  and  progress  at  the  univer- 
sity have  not  been  traced,  and  only  a  few 
anecdotes  have  been  gleaned  about  the  manner 
of  his  life  and  death.  Before  the  marriage 
of  Beaumont,  we  are  told  by  Aubrey,  that 
Fletcher  and  he  lived  together  in  London, 
near  the  Bankside,  not  far  from  the  theatre. 


had  one  *  *  *  in  the  same  house  betAveen 
them,  the  same  clothes,  cloalf,  &c.  Fletcher 
died  in  the  great  plague  of  1625.  A  friend 
had  invited  him  to  the  country,  and  he  un- 
fortunately staj^ed  in  town  to  get  a  suit  of 
clothes  for  the  visit,  during  which  time  he 
caught  the  fatal  infection.  He  was  interted 
in  St.  Saviour's,  Southwark,  where  his  grave, 
like  that  of  Beaitmont's  in  Westminster,  is 
Avithout  an  inscription. 

Fletcher  survived  his  dramatic  associate 
ten  years  ;  so  that  their  share  in  the  drama 
that  passes  by  their  joint  names  was  far  from 
equal  in  quantity,  Flqtcher  having  written 
between  thirty  and  forty  after  t^e  death  of 
his  companion.  Eespecting  those  Avhich  ap- 
peared in  their  common  lifetime,  the  general 
account  is,  that  Fletcher  chiefly  supplied  the 
fancy  and  invention  of  their  pieces,  and  that 
Beaumont,  though  he  Avas  the  younger,  dic- 
tated the  cooler  touches  of  taste  and  accuracy. 
This  tradition  is  supported,  or  rather  exagge- 
rated, in  the  verses  of  Cartwright  to  Fletcher, 
in  which  he  says, 

"  Beaumont  Avas  fain 
To  bid   thee   bo  more   dull ;    that's    Avrite 

again, 
And  bate  some  of  thy  fire  which  from  thee 

came 
In  a  clear,   bright,    full,    but  too  large  a 

flame." 

Many  verses  to  the  same  effect  might  be 
quoted,  but  this  tradition,  so  derogatory  to 
Beaumont's  genius,  is  contradicted  by  other 
testimonies  of  rather  tin  earlier  date,  and 
coming  from  AVi-iters  Avho  must  have  known 
the  great  dramatists  themselves  much  better 
than  CartAArright.  Ben  Jonson  speaks  of 
Beaumont's  originality  with  the  emphasis 
peculiar  to  the  expression  of  all  his  opinions ; 
and  Earle,  the  intimate  friend  of  Beaumont, 
ascribed  to  him,  while  Fletcher  was  still  alive, 
the  exclusive  claim  to  those  three  distinguished 
plays,  the  "  Maid's  Tragedy,"  "  Philaster," 
and  "  King  and  No  King " ;  a  statement 
which  Fletcher's  friends  were  likely  to  ha\-e 
contradicted,  if  it  had  been  untrue.  If  Beau- 
mont had  the  sole  or  chief  merit  of  those 
pieces,  he  could  not  have  been  what  CartAATight 
Avould  have  us  believe,  the  mere  prunor  of 
Fletcher's  luxuriances;  an  assessor,  Avho  made 
him  Avrite  again  and  more  dully.  Indeed, 
Avith  reverence  to  their  memories,  nothing  that 
they  have  left  us  has  much  the  appearance 
of  being  twice  written ;  and  whatever  their 
amiable  editor,  Mr.  ScAvard,  may  say  about 
the  correctness  of  thei?  plots,  the  manage- 
ment of  their  stories  would  lead  us  to  suspect, 
that  neither  of  the  duumvirate  troubled  them- 
seh^es  much  about  correctness.  Their  charm 
is  vigour  and  variety ;  their  defects,  a  coarse- 
ness and  grotesqueness  that  betray  no  circum- 
spection. There  is  so  much  more  hardihood 
than  discretion  in  the  arrangement  of  their 
scenes,  that  if  Beaumont's  taste  and  judgment 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


had  the  disposal  of  them,  he  fully  proved  him- 
self the  junior  partner.  But  it  is  not  pro- 
bable that  their  departments  were  so  divided. 
Still,  however,  the  scanty  lights  that  enable 
lis  to  guess  at  what  they  respectively  wrote, 
seem  to  warrant  that  distinction  in  the  cast 
of  their  genius  which  is  made  in  the  poet's 
allusion  to 

"  Fletcher's  keen  treble,   and  deep   Beau- 
mont's base." 

Beaumont  was  the  deeper  scholar.  Fletcher 
is  said  to  have  been  more  a  man  of  the  world. 
Beaumont's  vein  was  more  pathetic  and 
solemn,  but  he  was  not  without  humour ; 
for  the  mock-heroic  scenes,  that  are  excellent 
in  some  of  their  pla3\s,  are  universally  as- 
cribed to  him.  Fletcher's  muse,  except  where 
she  sleeps  in  pastorals,  seems  to  have  been  a 
nymph  of  boundless  unblushing  pleasantry. 
Fletcher's  admirers  warmly  complimented  his 
originality  at  the  expense  of  Beaumont,  on 
the  streng-th  of  his  superior  gaiety,  as  if  gay 
thoughts  must  necessarily  be  more  original 
than  serious  ones,  or  depth  of  sensibility  be 
allied  to  shaUo^vness  of  invention.  We  are 
told  also,  that  Beaumont's  taste  leant  to  the 
hard  and  abstract  school  of  Jonson,  while  his 
coadjutor  followed  the  wilder  graces  of  Shak- 
spere.  But  if  Earle  can  be  credited  for 
Beaumont's  having  written  "  Philaster,"  we 
shall  discover  him  in  that  tragedy  to  be  the 
very  opposite  of  an  abstract  painter  of  charac- 
ter ;  it  has  the  spirit  of  individual  life.  The 
piece  owes  much  less  to  art  than  it  loses  by 
negligence.  Its  forms  and  passions  are  those 
of  romance,  and  its  graces,  evidently  imitated 
from  Shakspere,  want  only  the  fillet  and 
zone  of  art  to  consummate  their  beauty. 

On  the  whole,  while  it  is  generally  allowed 
that  Fletcher  was  the  gayer,  and  Beaumont 
the  graver  genius  of  their  amusing  theatre,  it 
is  unnecessary  to  depreciate  either,  for  they 
were  both  original  and  creative  ;  or  to  draw 
invidious  comparisons  between  men,  who, 
themselves,  disdained  to  be  rivals. 

See  Campbell's  "  Specimens  "  ;  Fuller's 
"Worthies";  Cunningham's  "Biog.  Hist,  of 
Eug."  ;  Schlegel's  "  Dramatic  Literature  "  ; 
"  General  Biog.  Diet."  ;  "  Lord  Macaulay  "  ; 
Shaw's  "Outlines  of  English  Literature"; 
Spalding's  "  Hist." 


SIE  JOHN  DAVIES. 

Sir  John  Davies,  born  1570,  died  1626. 
He  was  a  native  of  Wiltshire,  educated  at 
Queen's  College,  Oxford,  and  afterwards 
studied  law.  In  1603,  ho  was  sent  as  Soli- 
citor-General to  Ireland,  soon  rose  to  be 
Attorney-General,  and  subsequently  was  ap- 
pointed one  of  the  Judges  of  Assize.  In  1607 
he  was  knighted,  and  after  filling  several 
offices  with  great  credit,  he  was  in  1626  ap- 


pointed Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England,  but 
died  suddenly,  before  the  ceremony  of  settle- 
ment or  installation  could  be  performed. 
Campbell  says  that  Sir  John  was  expelled 
from  the  Temple  for  beating  Richard  Martin, 
who  was  afterwards  Recorder  of  London.  His 
"Poeme  of  Dauncing,"  which  h£_wrote  in 
fifteen  days,  appeared  in  1596,  and,  curious 
enough,  with  a  dedicatory  sonnet  "  To  his 
very  Friend,  Ma.  Rich.  Martin."  In  1599, 
although  the  dedication  to  Queen  Elizabeth 
bears  date  1592,  appeared  his  "  Nosce  Teip- 
sum  :  this  Oracle  expounded  in  two  Elegies  : 
1st.  Of  Human  Knowledge  :  2nd.  Of  the'^Soul 
of  Man  and  the  Immortality  thereof."  Richard 
Baxter  calls  it  "  an  excellent  Poem,  in  open- 
ing the  nature,  faculties,  and  certain  immor- 
tality of  man's  soul ; "  and  Hallam  says, 
"  Perhaps  no  language  can  produce  a  poem, 
extending  to  so  great  a  length,  of  more  con- 
densation of  thought,  or  in  which  fewer  lan- 
guid verses  will  be  found." 

"  Sir  John  Davies  and  Sir  William  Dave- 
nant,"  writes  Southe}^  "  avoiding  equally  the 
opposite  faults  of  too  artificial  and  too  careless 
a  style,  wrote  in  numbers,  which  for  precision 
and  clearness,  and  felicity  and  strength,  have 
never  been  surpassed." 

He  published  a  number  of  law  books;  among 
which  are  :  "  Reports  of  Cases  in  the  Law  in 
the  King's  Courts  in  Ireland,"  2  Jac.  L,  10 
Jac.  I.,  1604-12,  with  a  learned  preface. 
These  were  the  first  reports  of  Irish  judgments 
which  had  ever  been  made  public  during  the 
400  years  tliat  the  laws  of  England  had  existed 
in  that  kingdom.  "  An  Abridgement  of  Coke's 
Reports."  The  great  Earl  of  Chatham,  Bishop 
Nicolson,  and  other  eminent  men,  speak  in  the 
highest  terms  of  Sir  John.  Indeed,  in  versa- 
tility of  talent,  brilliancy  of  imagination, 
political  wisdom,  and  literary  taste,  he  has 
been  equalled  but  by  few  Englishmen. — See 
Campbell's  "  Specimens  "  ;  Allibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  "  Athen.  Oxon."  ;  Johnson 
and  Chalmers's  "English  Poets";  Marvin's 
"Legal  Bibl." ;  AVallace's  "Reporters"; 
"  Retrosp.  Review,"  vol.  xliv.,  1822. 


JOHN  DONNE,  D.D. 

John  Donne,  D.D.,  bom  1573,  died  1651. 
The  life  of  Donne  is  more  interesting  than 
his  poetry.  He  was  descended  from  an  an- 
cient family  ;  his  mother,  was  related  to  Sir 
Thomas  More,  and  to  Heywood,  the  epigram- 
matist. A  prodigy  of  youthful  learning,  he 
was  entered  of  Hart  Hall,  now  Hertford 
College,  at  the  unprecedented  age  of  eleven  : 
he  studied  afterwards  with  an  extraordinary 
thirst  for  general  knowledge,  and  seems  to 
have  consumed  a  considerable  patrimony  on 
his  education  and  travels.  Having  accom- 
panied the  Earl  of  Essex  in  his  expedition  to 
Cadiz,  he  jDurposed  to  have  set  out   on   an 


lilOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Period. 


extensive  course  of  travels,  and  to  have  visited 
the  holy  sepulchre  at  Jerusalem.  Though 
compelled  to  give  up  his  design  by  the  in- 
superable dangers  and  difficulties  of  the 
joiimey,  he  did  not  come  home  till  his  mind 
had  been  stored  with  an  extensive  knowledge 
of  foreign  languages  and  manners,  by  a  resi- 
dence in  the  south  of  Europe.  On  his  return 
to  England,  the  Lord  Chancellor  Ellesmere 
made  him  his  secretary,  and  took  him  to  his 
house.  There  he  formed  a  mutual  attachment 
to  the  niece  of  Lady  Ellesmere,  and  without 
the  means  or  prospect  of  support,  the  lovers 
thought  proper  to  marry.  The  lady's  father. 
Sir  George  More,  on  the  declaration  of  this 
step,  was  so  transported  with  rage,  that  he 
insisted  on  the  chancellor's  driving  Donne 
from  his  protection,  and  even  got  him  im- 
prisoned, together  with  the  witnesses  of  the 
marriage.  He  was  soon  released  from  prison, 
but  the  chancellor  would  not  again  take  him 
into  his  service ;  and  the  brutal  father-in-law 
would  not  support  the  unfortunate  pair.  In 
their  distress,  however,  they  were  sheltered 
by  Sir  Francis  Wolley,  a  son  of  Lady  Elles- 
mere by  a  former  marriage,  with  whom  they 
resided  for  several  years,  and  were  treated 
with  a  kindness  that  mitigated  their  sense  of 
dependence. 

Donne  had  been  bred  a  Catholic,  but  on 
mature  reflection  had  made  a  conscientious 
renunciation  of  that  faith.  One  of  his  warm 
friends,  Dr.  Morton,  afterwards  bishop  of 
Durham,  wished  to  have  provided  for  him,  by 
generously  surrendering  one  of  his  benefices  : 
he  therefore  pressed  him  to  take  holy  orders, 
and  to  return  to  him  the  third  day  with  his 
answer  to  the  proposal.  "At  hearing  of 
this,"  says  his  biographer,  "Mr.  Donne's 
faint  breath  and  perplexed  countenance  gave 
visible  testimony  of  an  inward  conflict.  He 
did  not,  howevei*,  return  his  answer  till  the 
third  day ;  when,  with  fervid  thanks,  he 
declined  the  offer,  telling  the  bishop  that 
there  were  some  errors  of  his  life  which, 
though  long  repented  of,  and  pardoned,  as  he 
trusted,  by  God,  might  yet  be  not  forgotten 
by  some  men,  and  which  might  cast  a  dishonour 
on  the  sacred  office."  We  are  not  told  what 
those  irregularities  were  ;  but  the  conscience 
which  could  dictate  such  an  answer  was  not 
likely  to  require  great  offences  for  a  stumbling- 
block.  This  occurred  in  the  poet's  thirty- 
fourth  year. 

After  the  death  of  Sir  F.  Wolley,  hia  next 
protector  was  Sir  Robert  Drury,  whom  he 
accompanied  on  an  embassy  to  France.  His 
wife,  with  an  attachment  as  romantic  as 
poet  could  wish  for,  had  formed  the  design  of 
accompanying  him  as  a  page.  It  was  on  this 
occasion,  and  to  dissuade  her  from  the  design, 
that  he  addressed  to  her  the  verses  beginning, 
"  By  our  first  strange  and  fatal  interview." 
Isaak  Walton  relates,  with  great  simplicity, 
how  the  poet,  one  evening,  as  he  sat  alone 
in  his  chamber  in  Paris,  saw  the  vision  of  his 


beloved  wife  appear  to  him  with  a  dead  infant 
in  her  arms,  a  story  which  wants  only  cre- 
dibility to  be  interesting.  He  had  at  last  the 
good  fortune  to  attract  the  regard  of  'King 
James  ;  and,  at  his  majesty's  instance,  as  he 
might  now  consider  that  he  had  outlived  the 
remembrance  of  his  former  follies,  he  was 
persuaded  to  become  a  clergyman.  In  this 
capacity  he  was  successively  appointed  chap- 
lain to  the  king,  lecturer  of  Lincoln's  Inn, 
vicar  of  St.  Dunstan's,  Fleet  Street,  and 
Dean  of  St.  Paul's.  His  death,  at  a  late  age, 
was  occasioned  by  consumption.  Ho  was 
buried  in  St.  Paul's,  where  his  figure  yet 
remains  in  the  vault  of  St.  Faith's,  carved 
from  a  painting  for  which  he  sat  a  few  days 
before  his  death,  dressed  in  his  winding-sheet. 
— SeeCampbell's  "Specimens";  Scrymgeour's 
"  Poetry  and  Poets  of  Britain  "  ;  "  London 
Quarterly  Review,"  lix.  6,  1837 ;  Isaak  Wal- 
ton's "Life  of  Donne";  Walton's  "Life," 
by  Zouch ;  Drake's  "  Shakspere  and  his 
Times";  "Retros.  Rev.,"  viii.  31,  1823; 
AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


BEN  JONSON. 

Ben  Jonson,  born  1574,  died  1637.  Benja- 
min, or,  according  to  his  own  abbreviation  of 
signature,  Ben  Jonson,  was  born  in  West- 
minster. His  family  is  said  to  have  been 
originally  from  Annandale.  Losing  his  father, 
a  preacher  in  Westminster,  before  his  birth, 
the  benevolence  of  a  friend  placed  him  at 
Westminster  School,  where  he  attracted  the 
notice  of  the  celebrated  Camden,  at  that 
period  second  master  in  that  establishment. 
His  mother  having  married  a  bricklayer,  Ben 
was  taken  from  school  and  made  to  work  at 
his  stepfather's  business.  From  this  disagree- 
able occupation  he  escaped  by  enlisting  into 
the  army.  Ho  served  one  campaign  in  the 
Low  Countries,  and  on  his  return  he  is  said 
to  have  been  a  short  time  at  St.  John's 
College,  Cambridge  ;  but  this  wants  confirma- 
tion. He  took  to  the  stage,  fought  a  duel 
with  a  brother  actor,  whom  he  killed,  and 
was  thrown  into  prison.  In  prison  he  became 
a  convert  to  the  Roman  Catholic  religion, 
which  he  professed  for  a  number  of  years 
afterwards. 

On  his  release  he  resumed  his  efforts  to 
procure  a  subsistence  from  a  connection  with 
the  theatres.  Slender  as  were  his  resources 
and  prospects,  at  the  age  of  twenty  he 
married ;  and  pursued  with  indomitable  per- 
severance, under  groat  disadvantages,  those 
studies  which  ultimately  rendered  liim  one  of 
the  most  learned  men  of  his  time.  Although 
his  talents  procured  liim  notice  and  distinction, 
his  circumstances  continued  still  straitened. 
Gifford  disproves  satisfactorily  the  frequently 
alleged  generous  patronage  of  Jonson,  in  his 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


necessity,  by  Shakspere,  and,  equally  satis- 
factorily, the  alleged  ingi-atitude  and  malignity 
of  Jonson.  His  early  efforts,  as  was  the 
custom  of  the  time,  were  made  in  joint  works 
with  Marston,  Decker,  and  others.  His  fii'st 
acknowledged  piece  that  has  descended  to  us 
is  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour."  Its  success, 
if  not  materially  improving  his  finances, 
prodigiously  increased  his  reputation.  A 
rapid  succession  of  pieces  of  great  excellence 
placed  him  in  the  first  rank  of  dramatic 
writers.  Fairer  prospects  of  emolument 
opened  to  him  on  the  accession  of  James  I. 
From  that  period  he  almost  abandoned  the 
stage,  and  employed  himself  in  the  production 
of  his  series  of  beautiful  masques  for  the 
amusement  of  the  Court  and  of  the  nobility. 
This  species  of  writing  Jonson  may  claim  the 
credit  of  having  brought  to  perfection,  and 
it  may  almost  be  said  to  have  died  with 
him. 

It  was  during  these  happier  j'ears  that  he 
acquired  those  habits  of  conviviality  to  which 
his  enemies  have  given  a  less  gentle  name. 
His  company  was  courted  by  all  the  talent 
of  the  time,  and  the  suppers  of  the  "  Mer- 
maid" are  mentioned  with  enthusiasm  by 
those  who  had  enjoyed  their  keen  encounters 
of  contending  wits.  Much  of  the  obloquy 
against  Jonson  has  arisen  from  a  result  of  a 
journey  he  undei-took  to  Scotland  in  1618. 
He  had  visited  the  poet  Drummond  of  Haw- 
thomden.  Drummond' s  notes  of  their  conver- 
sations were  published  partiallj',  under  the 
sanction  of  his  son,  in  1711,  long  after  his 
own  and  Jonson' s  death.  They  contained 
strictures,  reckoned  to  be  malignant,  on  many 
of  Jonson' s  contemporaries  and  on  some  of 
his  patrons.  Jonson' s  biographer,  Gifford, 
falls  furiously  on  Drummond  for  the  treachery 
implied  in  the  noting  down  of  confidential 
conversations,  as  these  have  been  the  founda- 
tion of  aspersions  of  the  worst  kind  on 
Jonson' s  character. 

The  death  of  James  deprived  Jonson  of  a 
kind  and  indulgent  patron.  He  had  succeeded 
Daniel  in  the  hitherto  honorary  office  of 
laureate,  and  received  for  it  a  small  pension ; 
but  he  was  neglected  by  Charles  I.,  and  the 
concluding  years  of  his  life  were  spent  under 
the  pressure  of  poverty  and  disease,  during 
which,  however,  his  indefatigable  pen  was 
seldom  unemployed.  He  died  in  1637,  and 
was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  The 
flagstone  over  his  grave  was  inscribed  by 
some  familiar  friend  with  the  words  "Oh, 
rare  Ben  Jonson." 

Gifford  heroically  defends  Jonson  from  the 
calumnies  heaped  on  his  memory,  especially 
by  the  commentators  of  Shakspere,  and 
vindicates  for  his  author  the  possession  of 
qualities  that  commanded  the  affection  and 
respect  of  the  first  men  of  the  time,  and 
caused  his  death  to  be  felt  as  a  public  loss. 
He  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  strong  and 
independent  character ;  somewhat  rough  and 


arrogant  in  manner,  but  liberal  and  kind- 
hearted  in  temper,  mth  the  frankness  and 
bluntness  of  a  true  Englishman.  His  works 
display  a  veneration  for  aU  that  is  high- 
minded  and  virtuous ;  his  learning  is  so 
prodigious  that  his  commentators  pant  with 
difticulty  after  his  footsteps.  He  has  not 
been  popular  since  his  own  ago ;~  Gifford 
assigns  for  this  various  reasons. — See  vol.  i. 
p.  135,  et  scq.  His  characters  want  indivi- 
duality, and  illustrate  "humours"  rather 
than  minds.  His  wit  is  brilliant,  "but  does 
not  make  the  heart  laugh."  His  two  trage- 
dies, "Sejanus"  and  "Catiline,"  lofty,  ornate, 
and  correct  in  the  costume  of  Roman  manners, 
are  frigid  and  passionless.  "  In  the  plots  of 
his  comedies  he  is  deserving  of  undisputed 
praise."  Aristophanes,  Terence,  and  Plautus 
are  his  models.  At  the  head  of  his  comedies 
in  reputation  stand 

"  The  Fox,  the  Alchemist,  and  Silent  "Woman, 
Done  by  Ben  Jonson,  and  outdone  by  no 
man." 

His  language  is  nervous  and  masculine  ;  "  per- 
haps," says  Dryden,  "he  did  a  httle  too 
much  Romanize  our  tongue."  His  masques 
abound  in  passages  of  the  most  airy  and 
animated  beauty. 

Leigh  Hunt  in  his  "Men,  Women,  and 
Books,"  says,  "  I  do  not  think  that  his 
poetical  merits  are  yet  properly  appreciated. 
I  cannot  consent  that  the  palm  of  humour 
alone  shall  be  given  to  him  while  in  wit, 
feeling,  pathos,  and  poetical  diction  ho  is  to 
be  sunk  fathoms  below  Fletcher  and  Massin- 
ger.  In  the  last  particular  I  think  that  he 
excels  them  both,  and,  indeed,  all  his  contem- 
poraries except  Shakspeare."  SeeScrymgeour's 
"Poetry  and  Poets  of  Britain";  Schlegel's 
"  Dramat.  Art  and  Lit."  ;  Hazlitt's  "  Lect. 
on  the  English  Comic  Writers "  ;  Disraeli's 
"  Amenities  of  Literature  ";  the  "  Humours 
of  Jonson";  Austin  and  Ralph's  "Lives  of 
the  Poets-Laureate";  Mary  Russell  Mitford's 
j    "  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life." 


JOSEPH  HALL,  D.D. 

Joseph  HaU,  D.D.,  bom  1574,  died  1656, 
one  of  the  most  eminent  English  divines  and 
scholars,  was  a  native  of  Ashby-de-la-Zouch, 
and.  educated  at  Emanuel  College,  Cambridge, 
where,  for  a  short  time,  he  read  the  Rhetoric 
Lecture  in  the  Schools.  He  became  Rector 
of  Halstead,  was  subsequently  presented  by 
Lord  Denny  to  Waltham  Holy  Cross,  and  next 
made  a  Prebendary  of  the  Collegiate  Church  of 
Wolverhampton.  In  1618  he  was  sent  to  the 
Synod  of  Dort,  was  made  Bishop  of  Exeter 
in  1627,  and  translated  to  Norwich  in  1641. 
On  the  occurrence  of  the  rebellion,  after 
suffering  imprisonment  and  enduring  various 


BIOGEAPHIGAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Period. — 


other  hardships,  he  was  sequestered  and  reduced 
to  great  poverty.  He  retired  to  Higham, 
near  Norwich,  wliere  he  spent  the  rest  of  his 
days  on  a  straitened  income,  but  in  the  active 
discharge  of  ministerial  duty.  As  a  man  of 
profound  learning,  fervent  piety,  and  practical 
philanthropy,  liis  name  should  be  had  in  ever- 
lasting remembrance.  He  was  distinguished 
as  a  poet  and  as  a  prose  Avi-iter,  and  wrote  many 
sermons,  controversial  tracts  against  Roman- 
ism, and  other  theological  treatises.  The  Rev. 
John  Whitefoote,  in  his  funeral  sermon,  saj's  : 
"He  was  noted  for  a  singular  wit  from  his 
youth ;  a  most  acute  rhetorician  and  an  ele- 
gant poet.  He  understood  many  tongues ; 
and  in  the  rhetorick  of  his  own  he  was  second 
to  none  that  lived  in  his  time."  See  AUi- 
bone's  "Crit.  Diet.  Eng. Lit."  ;  "Selections  of 
Hall's  Works,"  by  Rev.  Josiah  Pratt,  1808  ; 
Orme's  "Bibl.Bib.";  Dibdin's  "Lit.  Comp."; 
Bicker steth's  "  Christian  Student  "  ;  Hallam's 
"  Lit.  Hist,  of  Europe  "  ;  Fuller's  "  Worthies 
of  Leicestershire "  ;  Rev.  Chas.  Bridges' s 
"  Memoir  of  Miss  M.  J.  Graham"  ;  Campbell's 
"  Specimens." 


RICHARD  CORBET. 

This  witty  and  good-natured  bishop  was  born 
in  1582.  He  was  the  son  of  a  gardener,  who, 
however,  had  the  honour  to  be  known  to  and 
sung  by  Ben  Jonson.  He  was  educated  at 
Westminster  and  Oxford  ;  and  having  received 
orders,  was  made  successively  Bishop  of  Ox- 
ford and  of  Norwich.  He  was  a  most  facetious 
and  rather  too  convivial  person  ;  and  a  collec- 
tion of  anecdotes  about  him  might  be  made, 
little  inferior,  in  point  of  wit  and  coarseness, 
to  that  famous  one,  once  so  popular  in  Scot- 
land, relating  to  the  sayings  and  doings  of 
George  Buchanan.  He  is  said,  on  one  occa- 
sion, to  have  aided  an  unfortunate  ballad- 
singer  in  his  professional  duty  by  arraying 
himself  in  his  leathern  jacket  and  vending 
the  stock,  being  possessed  of  a  fine  presence 
and  a  clear,  full,  ringing  voice.  Occasionally 
doffing  his  clerical  costume,  he  adjourned 
with  his  chaplain.  Dr.  Lushington,  to  the 
wine-cellar,  where  care  and  ceremony  were 
both  speedily  drowned,  the  one  of  the  pair 
exclaiming,  "  Here's  to  thee,  Luthington," 
and  the  other,  "ELere's  to  thee,  Corbet." 
Men  winked  at  those  irregularities,  probably 
on  the  principle  mentioned  by  Scott,  in  refer- 
ence to  Prior  Aymer,  in  "  Ivanhoe,"— *"  If 
Prior  Aymer  rode  hard  in  the  chase,  or  re- 
mained late  at  the  banquet,  men  only  shrugged 
up  their  shoulders  by  recollecting  that  the 
same  irregularities  were  practised  by  many  of 
his  brethren,  who  had  no  redeeming  qualities 
whatsoever  to  atone  for  them."  Corbet,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  a  kind  as  well  as  a  con- 
vivial— a  warm-hearted  as  well  as  an  eccentric 
man.  He  was  tolerant  to  the  Puritans  and 
sectaries ;  his  attention  to  his  duties  was  re- 


spectable ;  his  talents  were  of  a  high  order, 
and  he  had  in  him  a  vein  of  genius  of  no 
ordinary  kind.  He  died  in  1635,  but  his 
poems  were  not  published  till  1647.  They  are 
of  various  merit,  and  treat  of  various  subjects. 
In  his  "  Journey  to  France,"  you  see  the 
humourist,  who,  on  one  occasion,  when  the 
country  people  were  flocking  to  be  confirmed, 
cried,  "  Bear  off,  there,  or  I'll  confirm  ye  with 
my  staff."  In  his  lines  to  his  son  Vincent, 
we  see,  notwithstanding  all  his  foibles,  the 
good  man;  and  in  his  "Farewell  to  the 
Fairies,"  the  fine  and  fanciful  poet.  See 
Gilfillan's  "Memoirs  of  the  Less  Kno-vvn 
British  Poets";  Aubrey's  "Letters"; 
"Life,"  by  Gilchrist ;  "Athen.  Oxon." 


DR.  HENRY  KING. 

Dr.  Henry  King,  born  1592,  died  1669. 
He  was  chaplain  to  James  I.  and  Bishop  of 
Chichester.  His  poems,  elegies,  paradoxes, 
and  sonnets  have  a  neatness,  elegance,  and 
even  a  tenderness  which  entitle  them  to  more 
attention  than  they  now  obtain.  To  this 
testimony  of  Peter  Cunningham,  Robert 
Chambers  says,  "  His  language  and  imagery 
are  chaste  and  refined."  See  Campbell's 
"Specimens";  Chambers's  "  Cycl.  Eng. 
Lit."  vol.  i.  118. 


DR.  WILDE. 

Dr.  Wilde  was  a  dissenting  minister. 
We  know  not  the  dates  of  his  birth  and  death. 
He  Avrote  "Iter  Boreale"  a  poem;  and  a 
comcdj^,  entitled  "  The  Benefice." 


THOMAS  CAREW. 

This  delectable  versifier  was  born  in  1589, 
in  Gloucestershire,  from  an  old  family  in 
which  he  sprung.  He  was  educated  at  Corpus 
Christi  College,  Oxford,  but  neither  matricu- 
lated nor  took  a  degree,  After  finishing  his 
travels,  he  returned  to  England,  and  became 
soon  highly  distinguished,  in  the  Court  of 
Charles  I.,  for  his  manners,  accomplishments, 
and  wit.  He  was  appointed  Gentleman  of  the 
Privy  Chamber  and  Server  in  Ordinary  to  the 
King.  He  spent  the  rest  or  his  life  as  a  gay 
and  gallant  courtier ;  and  in  the  intervals  of 
pleasure  produced  some  light  but  exquisite 
poetry.  He  is  said,  ere  his  death,  which  took 
place  in  1639,  to  have  become  very  devout, 
and  bitterly  to  have  deplored  the  licentious- 
ness of  some  of  his  verses. 

Indelicate  choice  of  subject  is  often,  in 
Carew,  combined  with  great  delicac.y  of  execu- 
tion.    No  one  touches  dangerous  themes  vrith. 


From  1558  fo  1649.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


so  light  and  glove-guarded  a  hand.  His  pieces 
are  aU  fugitive,  but  they  suggest  great  possi- 
bilities, which  his  mode  of  life  and  his  prema- 
ture removal  did  not  permit  to  be  realized. 
Had  he,  at  an  earlier  period,  renounced,  like 
George  Herbert,  "  the  painted  pleasures  of  a 
court,"  and,  like  Prospero,  dedicated  himself 
to  "closeness,"  with  his  marvellous  facility 
of  verse,  his  laboured  levity  of  style,  and  his 
nice  exuberance  of  fancy,  he  might  have  pro- 
duced some  work  of  Horatian  merit  and 
classic  permanence.  See  Gilfillan's  "  Speci- 
mens and  Memoirs  of  the  Less-known  British 
Poets";  "  Athen.  Oxon."  ;  Lloyd's  "Wor- 
thies"; Langbaine's  " Dramatick  Poetry"; 
"Bishop  Percy";  Headley's  "Beauties  of 
Ancient  EngHsh  Poetry";  also  HaUam's 
"  Introduction  to  Literary  History." 


GEOEGE  WITHER. 

George  Wither,  born  1588,  died  1667,  was 
a  voluminous  author,  in  the  midst  of  disasters 
and  sufferings  that  would  have  damped  the 
spirit  of  any  but  the  most  adventurous  and 
untiring  enthusiast.  Some  of  his  happiest 
strains  were  composed  in  prison :  his  limbs 
were  incarcerated  -within  stone  walls  and  iron 
bars,  but  his  fancy  was  among  the  hills  and 
plains,  •with  shepherds  hunting,  or  loitering 
-with  Poesy,  by  rustling  boughs  and  murmur- 
ing springs.  There  is  a  freshness  and  natural 
vivacity  in  the  poetry  of  Wither,  that  render 
his  early  works  a  "perpetual  feast."  We 
cannot  say  that  it  is  a  feast  "  where  no  cinide 
surfeit  reigns,"  for  he  is  often  harsh,  obscure, 
and  affected  ;  but  he  has  an  endless  diversity 
of  style  and  subjects,  and  true  poetical  feeling 
and  expression.  Wither  was  a  native  of 
Hampshire,  and  received  his  education  at 
Magdalen  College,  Oxford.  He  first  appeared 
as  an  author  in  the  year  1613,  when  he  pub- 
lished a  satire,  entitled  "Abuses  Stript  and 
A^Tiipt."  For  this  he  was  thrown  into  the 
Marshalsea,  where  he  composed  his  fine  poem, 
"The  Shepherds'  Hunting."  When  the 
abuses  satirised  by  the  poet  had  accumulated 
and  brought  on  the  civil  war,  Wither  took  the 
popular  side,  and  sold  his  paternal  estate  to 
raise  a  troop  of  horse  for  the  parliament. 
He  rose  to  the  rank  of  a  major,  and  in  1642 
was  made  governor  of  Farnham  Castle,  after- 
wards held  by  Denham.  Wither  was  accused 
of  deserting  his  appointment,  and  the  castle 
was  ceded  the  same  year  to  Sir  William 
Waller.  During  the  struggles  of  that  period, 
the  poet  was  made  prisoner  by  the  royalists, 
and  stood  in  danger  of  capital  punishment, 
when  Denham  interfered  for  his  brother  bard, 
alleging,  that  as  long  as  Wither  lived,  he 
(Denham)  would  not  be  considered  the  worst 
poet  in  England.  The  joke  was  a  good  one, 
if  it  saved  Wither' s  life ;  but  George  was  not 
frightened  from  the  perilous  contentions  of 
the  times.     He  was  afterwards  one  of  Crom- 


well's majors-general,  and  kept  watch  and 
ward  over  the  royalists  of  Surrey.  From  the 
sequestrated  estates  of  these  gentlemen. 
Wither  obtained  a  considerable  fortune  ;  but 
the  Restoration  came,  and  he  was  stript  of 
all  his  possessions.  He  remonstrated  loudly 
and  angrily ;  his  remonstrances  w:ere_yoted 
libels,  and  the  unlucky  poet  was  again  thrown 
into  prison.  He  published  various  treatises, 
satires,  and  poems,  during  this  period,  though 
he  was  treated  with  great  rigour.  He  was 
released,  under  bond  for  good  behaviour,  in 
1663,  and  survived  nearly  four  years  after- 
wards, dying  in  London  on  the  2nd  of  May 
1667. 

Wither' s  fame  as  a  poet  is  derived  chiefly 
from  his  early  productions,  written  before  he 
had  imbibed  the  sectarian  gloom  of  the  Pu- 
ritans, or  become  embroiled  in  the  struggles 
of  the  civil  war.  A  collection  of  his  poems 
was  published  by  himself  in  1622,  with  the 
title,  "Mistress  of  Philarete  ;  "  his  "Shep- 
herds' Hunting,"  being  certain  Eclogues 
written  during  the  time  of  the  author's  im- 
prisonment in  the  Marshalsea,  appeared  in 
1633.  His  "Collection  of  Emblems,  Ancient 
and  Modern,  Quickened  vdih  Metrical  Illus- 
trations," made  their  appearance  in  1635.  His 
satirical  and  controversial  works  were  nume- 
rous, but  are  now  forgotten.  Some  authors 
of  our  own  day  (Mr.  Southey  in  particular) 
have  helped  to  popularise  Wither,  by  frequent 
quotation  and  eulogy ;  but  Mr.  Ellis,  in  his 
"  Specimens  of  Early  English  Poets,"  was  the 
first  to  point  out  "  that  playful  fancy,  pure 
taste,  and  artless  delicacy  of  sentiment,  which 
distinguish  the  poetry  of  his  early  youth." 
His  poem  on  Christmas  affords  a  lively  picture 
of  the  manners  of  the  times.  His  "  Address 
to  Poetry,"  the  sole  yet  cheering  companion 
of  his  prison  solitude,  is  worthy  of  the  theme, 
and  superior  to  most  of  the  effusions  of  that 
period.  The  pleasure  with  which  he  recounts 
the  various  charms  and  the  "divine  skill"  of 
his  Muse,  that  had  derived  nourishment  and 
delight  from  the  "meanest  objects"  of  ex- 
ternal nature — a  daisy,  a  bush,  or  a  tree  ;  and 
which,  when  these  picturesque  and  beloved 
scenes  of  the  country  were  denied  him,  could 
gladden  even  the  vaults  and  shades  of  a 
prison,  is  one  of  the  richest  offerings  that  has 
yet  been  made  to  the  pure  and  hallowed  shrine 
of  poesy.  The  superiority  of  intellectual 
pursuits  over  the  gratifications  of  sense,  and 
all  the  malice  of  fortune,  has  never  been  more 
touchingly  or  finely  illustrated.  See  Cham- 
bers's "  Cycl.  Engl.  Lit.  "  vol.  i.  125  ;  Camp- 
bell's "  Specimens  "  ;  R.  A.  Willmott's  "  Lives 
of  the  Sacred  Poets,"  a  delightful  work. 


WILLIAM  BROWNE. 

William  Browne,  born  1590,  died  1645.  He 
was  a  native  of  Tavistock,  in  Devonshire,  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Pebiod. — 


edvicated  at  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  about  the 
beginning  of  the  reign  of  James  I.  He  wrote 
"Britannia's  Pastoralls  "  ;  "The  Shepherd's 
Pipe "  ;  and  other  poems.  His  poetry  was 
very  popular  in  his  own  day,  but  fell  after- 
wards into  neglect.  Yet  Thomas  Miller,  one 
of  the  most  dehcious  writers  on  country 
scenes  of  the  present  day,  says,  "  He  carries 
with  him  the  true  aroma  of  old  forests  ;  his 
lines  are  mottled  with  mosses,  and  there  is  a 
gnarled  ruggedness  upon  the  stems  of  his 
trees.  His  waters  have  a  wet  look  and 
splashing  sound  about  them,  and  you  feel  the 
fresh  air  play  around  you  while  you  read. 
His  birds  are  the  free  denizens  of  the  fields, 
and  they  send  their  songs  so  life-like  through 
the  covert,  that  their  music  rings  upon  the 
ear,  and  you  are  carried  away  with  his  sweet 
pipings."  See  Alhbone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit.";  "London  Monthly  Eev.,"  1772;  Sir 
EgertonBrydges's  ed.  of  Browne's  "Poems." 


ERANCIS  QUARLES. 

Francis  Quarles,  born  1592,  died'  1644. 
His  writings  are  more  like  those  of  a  divine, 
or  contemplative  recluse,  than  of  a  busy  man 
of  the  world,  who  held  various  pubUc  situa- 
tions, and  died  at  the  age  of  fifty-two.  Quarles 
was  a  native  of  Essex,  educated  at  Cambridge, 
and  afterwards  a  student  of  Lincoln's  Inn. 
He  was  successively  cup-bearer  to  Elizabeth, 
Queen  of  Bohemia,  secretary  to  Archbishop 
Usher,  and  chronologer  to  the  city  of  London. 
He  espoused  the  cause  of  Charles  I.,  and  was 
so  harassed  by  the  opposite  party,  who  in- 
jured his  property,  and  plundered  him  of  his 
books  and  rare  manuscripts,  that  his  death  was 
attributed  to  the  afiiiction  and  ill-health 
caused  by  these  disasters.  Notwithstanding 
his  loyalty,  the  works  of  Quarles  have  a 
tinge  of  Puritanism  and  ascetic  piety  that 
might  have  mollified  the  rage  of  his  perse- 
cutors. His  poems  consist  of  various  pieces 
— "  Job  Militant  "  ;  "  Sion's  Elegies  "  ;  "  The 
History  of  Queen  Esther "  ;  "  Argalus  and 
Parthenia";  "The  Morning  Muse";  "The 
Feast  of  Worms";  and  "The  Divine  Em- 
blems." The  latter  were  published  in  1645, 
and  were  so  popular,  that  Phillips,  Milton's 
nephew,  styles  Qaarles  "  the  darling  of  our 
plebeian  judgments."  The  eulogium  still 
holds  good  to  some  extent,  for  the  Divine 
Emblems,  with  their  quaint  and  grotesque 
illustrations,  are  still  found  in  the  cottages  of 
our  peasants.  After  the  Restoration,  when 
everything  sacred  and  serious  was  either  ne- 
glected or  made  the  subject  of  ribald  jests, 
Quarles  seems  to  have  been  entirely  lost  to 
the  public.  Even  Pope,  who,  had  he. read 
him,  must  have  relished  his  lively  fancy  and 
poetical  expression,  notices  only  his  bathos 
and  absurdity.  The  better  and  more  tolerant 
taste  of  modem  times  has  admitted  the 
divine  emblemist  into  the  "  laurelled  frater- 


nity of  poets,"  where,  if  he  does  not  occupy 
a  conspicuous  place,  he  is  at  least  sure  of  his 
due  measure  of  homage  and  attention.  Em- 
blems, or  the  union  of  the  graphic  and  poetic 
arts,  to  inculcate  lessons  of  morality  and 
religion,  had  been  tried  with  success  by 
Peacham  and  Wither.  Quarles,  however, 
made  Herman  Hugo,  a  Jesuit,  his  model,  and 
from  the  "  Pia  Desideria "  of  this  author 
copied  a  great  part  of  his  prints  and  mottoes. 
His  style  is  that  of  his  age — studded  with 
conceits,  often  extravagant  in  conception,  and 
presenting  the  most  outre  and  ridiculous 
combinations.  There  is  strength,  however, 
amidst  his  contortions,  and  true  wit  mixed 
up  with  the  false.  His  epi"grammatic  point, 
uniting  wit  and  devotion,  has  been  considered 
the  precursor  of  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts." 
The  fastidious  and  elegant  taste  of  Campbell 
evidently  influenced  him  in  giving  judgment  on 
Quarles,  and  although  there  is  much  truth  in 
what  he  says,  still  he  treats  tmjustly  the  various 
good  qualities  of  this  poet.  See  Chambers's 
"  Cycl.  Eng.  Lit.  "  i.  129  ;  Campbell's  "  Speci- 
mens"; R,  A.  Willmott's  "Lives  of  the 
Sacred  Poets"  ;  "Rctrosp.  Rev."  v.  180. 


RICHARD    CRASHAW. 

Richard  Crashaw,  born  1615  (P),  died  1650. 
His  father  was  a  preacher  at  the  Temple 
Church  in  London.  The  time  of  the  poet's 
birth  is  uncertain.  In  1637  he  is  found  in 
possession  of  a  fellowship  in  Cambridge,  from 
which  he  Avas  ejected  by  the  Parhanientary 
army  for  non-compHance  with  the  covenant. 
He  went  to  France,  and  became  a  Roman 
Catholic.  By  the  patronage  of  the  exiled 
English  queen,  Henrietta  Maria,  he  obtained 
an  ecclesiastical  situation  in  Italy,  and 
became  a  canon  of  the  Church  of  Loretto, 
where  he  died. 

Crashaw' s  poetry  is  of  a  fervid  religious 
character.  Ho  "  formed  his  style  on  the  most 
quaint  and  conceited  school  of  Italian  poetry, 
that  of  Marino  "  (Campbell),  whose  "  Sosi>etto 
d'Herode  "  he  partly  translated.  It  is  chiefly 
in  translation  that  the  strength  of  Crashaw  is 
visible.  His  pieces  are  never  tedious,  but  full 
of  the  strained  and  exaggerated  conceits  of 
the  school  of  Donne ;  ho  had  a  rich  warm 
fancy,  and  a  delicate  car  for  music.  The 
Roman  Catholic  cast  of  his  religious  poetry 
may  have  contributed  to  its  neglect  in  this 
country.  See  Scrymgeour's  "  Poetry  and 
Poets  of  Britain";  Allibone's  "Crit.  Diet. 
Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  Dr.  Johnson's  "  Life  of  Cowley"  ; 
Ellis's    "Specimens";     Campbell's    "  Speci- 


GEORGE  HERBERT. 
George  Herbert,  born  1593,  died  1032,  was 
a  descendant  of  the  Earls  of  Pembroke,  and  a 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


younger  brother  of  Lord  Herbert  of  Cher- 
biiry.  He  was  born  at  Montgomery  Castle  in 
Wales,  educated  at  Westminster  School,  and 
there  elected  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
of  which  he  was  elected  fellow  ;  University 
Orator  1619  ;  took  holy  orders  and  was  made 
Prebendary  of  Layton  Ecclesia,  in  the  diocese 
of  Lincoln,  by  Archbishop  Williams ;  and  in 
1630  was  presented  by  Charles  I.  to  the  living 
of  Bemerton.  For  the  deeply  interesting 
account  of  this  good  man's  life  our  readers 
must  turn  to  the  charming  pages  of  Izaak  Wal- 
ton. He  pubKshed  several  works  in  prose  and 
poetry  ;  one  of  the  best  is  "  The  Temple,  Sacred 
Poems  and  Private  Ejaculations."  Within  a 
few  weeks  of  its  issue  from  the  press,  twenty 
thousand  copies  were  sold.  The  "  Priest  to  the 
Temple,  or  the  Country  Parson ;  his  Character 
and  Rule  of  Holy  Life "  is  much  admired. 
Coleridge  thus  speaks  of  our  poet :  "  Having 
mentioned  the  name  of  Herbert,  that  model 
of  a  man,  a  gentleman,  and  a  clergyman,  let 
me  add,  that  the  quaintness  of  some  of  his 
thoughts — not  his  diction,  than  which  nothing 
can  be  more  pure,  manly,  and  unaffected,  has 
blinded  modern  readers  to  the  general  merits 
of  his  poems,  which  are  for  the  most  part  ex- 
quisite in  their  kind."  Cowper,  in  his  melan- 
choly, when  neither  nature  nor  the  classics 
had  any  charms  for  him,  found  pleasure  in 
reading  Herbert.  He  says,  "  At  length  I  met 
with  Herbert's  Poems,  and  gothic  and  uncouth 
as  they  were,  I  yet  found  in  them  a  strain  of 
piety  which  I  could  not  but  admire.  This  was 
the  only  author  I  had  any  delight  in  reading. 
I  pored  over  him  all  day  long,  and  though  I 
found  not  here  what  I  might  have  found — a 
cure  for  my  malady — yet  it  never  seemed  so 
much  alleviated  as  while  I  was  reading  him." 
There  is  an  exquisite  sketch  of  Herbert's  life 
and  critique  on  his  poems  in  Gilfillan's  "  In- 
troduction to  the  Poet's  Works."  See  Preface 
to  "  Silex  Scintillans,  or  Sacred  Poems  and 
Private  Ejaculations";  Baxter's  "Poetical 
Fragments "  ;  E.  A.  Willmott's  "  Lives  of 
the  Sacred  Poets";  Allibone's  "Crit.  Diet. 
Ener.  Lit." 


GILES  FLETCHER. 

Giles  Fletcher,  born  1588,  died  1623.  He 
was  the  younger  brother  of  Phineas,  and  died 
twenty-three  years  before  him.  He  was  a 
covisin  of  Fletcher  the  dramatist,  and  the  son 
of  Dr.  Giles  Fletcher,  who  was  employed  in 
many  important  missions  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and,  among  others,  negotiated  a 
commercial  treaty  with  Russia  greatly  in  the 
favour  of  his  own  country.  Giles  is  supposed  to 
have  been  born  in  1588.  He  studied  at  Cam- 
bridge ;  published  his  noble  i)oem,  "Christ's 
Victory  and  Triumph,"  in  1610,  when  he  was 
twenty- three  years  of  age;  was  appointed  to 
the  living  of  Alderston,  in  Sufiblk,  where  he 


died,  in  1623,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-five, 
"equally  loved,"  says  old  Wood,  "of  the 
Muses  and  the  Graces." 

The  poem,  in  four  cantos,  entitled  "  Christ's 
Victory  and  Triumph,"  is  one  of  almost 
Miltonic  magnificence.  With  a  wing  as  easy 
as  it  is  strong,  he  soars  to  heaven,  and  fills 
the  austere  mouth  of  Justice  and~fho~golden 
lips  of  Mercy  with  language  worthy  of  both. 
He  then  stoops  down  on  the  Wilderness  of 
the  Temptation,  and  paints  the  Saviour  and 
Satan  in  colours  admirably  contrasted,  and 
which  in  their  brightness  and  blackness  can 
never  decay.  Nor  does  he  fear,  in  fine,  to 
pierce  the  gloom  of  Calvary,  and  to  minglo 
his  note  with  the  harps  of  angels,  saluting 
the  Redeemer,  as  He  sprang  from  the  grave, 
with  the  song,  "  He  is  risen,  He  is  risen — 
and  shall  die  no  more."  The  style  is  steeped 
in  Spenser — equally  mellifluous,  figurative, 
and  majestic.  In  allegory  the  author  of  the 
"Fairy  Queen"  is  hardly  superior,  and  in 
the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  Fletcher  surpasses 
him  far.  From  the  great  light  thus  early 
kindled  and  early  quenched,  Milton  did  not 
disdain  to  draw  with  his  "  golden  urn." 
"  Paradise  Regained  "  owes  much  more  than 
the  suggestion  of  its  subject  to  "Christ's 
Victory;"  and  is  it  too  much  to  say  that, 
had  Fletcher  lived,  he  might  have  shone 
in  the  same  constellation  with  the  bard 
of  the  "Paradise  Lost"?  The  plan  of  our 
"Specimens"  permits  only  a  few  extracts. 
Let  those  who  wish  more,  along  with  a 
lengthened  and  glo-sving  tribute  to  the  author' s 
genius,  consult  Blackn-ood  for  November, 
1835.  The  reading  of  a  single  sentence  will 
convince  them  that  the  author  of  the  paper 
was  Christopher  North. — (Gilfillan's  Specimens 
u'ithMem.  of  tlieLess-himrn British  Poets;yo\.i. 
190.)  Antony  Wood  tell  us  that  Giles  was 
"equally  beloved  of  the  Muses  and  the  Graces." 
See  Headley's  "Beauties  Anc.  Eng.  Poet."; 
Campbell's  "  Specimens "  ;  Hallam's  "  In- 
troduction to  Lit.  of  Europe  "  ;  Allibone. 


PHINEAS  FLETCHER. 

We  have  already  spoken  of  Giles  Fletcher, 

the  brother  of  Phineas.     Of  Phineas  we  know 

nothing   except  that   he   was   born  in  1584, 

j    educated    at    Eton   and   Cambridge,   became 

j    Rector  at  Hilgay,  in  Norfolk,  where  he  re- 

'    mained  for  twenty-nine  j^ears,  surviving  his 

brother ;  that  he  wrote   an   account  of    the 

founders  and  learned  men  of  his  university ; 

that    in    1633    he    published    "  The    Purple 

Island  "  ;  and  that  in  1650  he  died. 

His  "Purple  Island"  (with  which  we  first 
became  acquainted  in  the  writings  of  James 
Hervey,  author  of  the  "  Meditations,"  who 
was  its  fervent  admirer)  is  a  curious,  complex, 
and  highly   ingenious   allegory,   forming    an 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Period. — 


elaborate  picture  of  Man,  in  his  body  and  soul. ; 
and  for  subtlety  and  infinite  flexibility,  both  of 
fancy  and  verse,  deserves  great  praise,  although 
it  cannot  for  a  moment  be  compared  with 
his  brother's  "  Clu-ist's  Victory  and  Triumph," 
either  in  interest  of  subject  or  in  splendour  of 
genius. — (Gilfillan's  Specimens  of  Lcss-knoivn 
British  Poets,  vol.  i.  315.)  The  great  Milton 
is  said  to  have  ingenuously  confessed  that  he 
owed  his  immortal  work  of  "Paradise  Lost" 
to  Mr.  Fletcher's  "  Locustse."  See  "  Retrosp. 
Eev."  ii.  342,  120;  Headley;  Hallam;  Pref. 
to  Eev.  J.  Sterling's  Poems  ;  Warton. 


WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 

William  Habington,  born  1605,  died  1654. 
This  amiable  man  and  irreproachable  poet 
was  born  at  Hindlip,  in  Worce.stershire,  on 
the  5th  of  November,  1605, — a  most  memor- 
able day  in  the  history  of  the  Habington 
family ;  for  they  were  Papists,  The  discovery 
of  the  gunpowder  plot  is  believed  to  -have 
come  from  his  mother;  and  his  father,  who 
had  been  six  years  imprisoned  for  his  supposed 
concern  in  Babington's  conspiracy,  was  con- 
demned to  die  for  concealing  some  of  the  gun- 
powder traitors  in  his  house.  Whether  or  not 
he  had  actually  been  so  far  implicated  in  their 
legal  guilt  is  not  certain;  but  he  owed  his 
pardon  to  the  intercession  of  his  brother-in- 
law,  Lord  Morley. 

They  were  a  wealthy  family.  William  was 
educated  in  the  Jesuit  College  at  St.  Omer, 
and  afterwards  at  Paris,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  enter  into  that  society.  But  he  pre- 
ferred a  -\viser,  and  better,  and  happier  course 
of  life  ;  and  returning  to  his  own  countrj^, 
married  Lucy,  daughter  of  William  Herbert, 
first  Lord  Powis,  the  Castara  of  his  poems. 
He  died  when  he  had  just  completed  his 
fortieth  year,  and  was  buried  in  the  family 
vault  at  Hindlip.  The  poems  were  introduced, 
for  the  first  time,  into  a  general  collection,  by 
Mr.  Chalmers,  most  properly.  He  appears 
in  them  to  have  thoroughly  deserved  the 
happiness  which  during  his  short  life  he 
enjoyed.— (Southey's  Brit.  Poet.  975.)  The 
Laureate  was  mistaken  in  saying  "fortieth 
year,"  it  was  in  his  forty-ninth  year  that- 
Habington  died.  See  Gilfillan's  "Spec, 
with  Mem.  of  Less-known  Brit.  Poets'"  ;  Alii, 
bone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  "  Cens.  Lit." 
viii.  227-233,  also  pp.  387-396;  Headlev's 
"  Anc.  Eng.  Poet." 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING. 
Sir  John  Suckling,  bom   1608,  died  1641. 
This   poet,    who   gives   levity  its   gayest  ex- 
pression,  was  the  son  of  the  comptroller  of 
the  household  to  Charles  I.     Langbaine  tells 


us  that  he  spoke  Latin  at  five  years  of  age ; 
but  with  what  correctness  or  fluency  we  are 
not  informed.  His  versatile  mind  certainly 
acquired  many  accomplishments,  and  filled  a 
short  life  with  many  pursuits,  for  he  was  a 
traveller,  a  soldier,  a  lyric  and  dramatic  poet, 
and  a  musician.  After  serving  a  campaign 
under  Gustavus  Adolphus,  he  returned  to 
England,  Avas  favoured  by  Charles  I.,  and 
wrote  some  pieces,  which  were  exhibited  for 
the  amusement  of  the  court  Avith  sumptuous 
splendour.  When  the  civil  wars  broke  out  he 
expended  Jei200  on  the  equipment  of  a  regi- 
ment for  the  king,  which  was  distinguished, 
however,  only  by  its  finery  and  cowardice.  A 
brother  poet  crowned  his  disgrace  with  a 
ludicrous  song.  The  event  is  said  to  have 
affected  him  deeply  with  shame ;  but  he  did 
not  live  long  to  experience  that  most  incurable 
of  the  heart's  diseases.  Having  learnt  that 
his  servant  had  robbed  him,  he  drew  on  his 
boots  in  great  haste ;  a  rusty  nail,  that  was 
concealed  in  one  of  them,  pierced  his  heel,  and 
produced  a  mortification,  of  which  he  died. 
His  poems,  his  five  plays,  together  with  his 
letters,  speeches,  and  tracts,  have  been  col- 
lected into  one  volume. — (Campbell's  Sped- 

TilCilS,  p.  181.) 


JOHN  CHALKHILL. 

John  Chalkhill  is  a  name  prefixed  by  Izaak 
Walton  to  a  work  published  by  him  in  1683, 
entitled  "  Thealma  and  Clearchus  :  a  Pastoral 
History  in  Smooth  and  Easie  Verse."  Some 
have  supposed  the  work  written  by  the  genial 
angler  himself ;  but  this  can  scarcely  be, 
when  he  describes  Chalkhill  as  a  man  in  his 
time  "  generaU}'-  known  and  as  v/ell  beloved  ; 
for  he  was  humble  and  obliging  in  his 
behaviour  ;  a  gentleman,  a  scholar,  very  in- 
nocent and  prudent ;  and  indeed  his  whole 
life  was  useful,  quiet,  and  virtuous."  The 
"  Lond.  Retrosp.  Rev.,"  1821,  pronounces 
"  the  versification  extremely  sweet  and 
equable.  Occasionallj^  harsh  lines  and  un- 
licensed rhymes  occur ;  but  they  are  only 
exceptions  to  the  general  style  of  the  poem — 
the  errors  of  haste  or  negligence."  Gilfillan 
writes  in  his  highest  style  of  eloquence  about 
this  i^oem  : — "Thealma  and  Clearchus  "  may 
be  called  the  "Arcadia"  in  rhyme.  It  re- 
sembles that  work  of  Sir  PhiHp  Sidney,  not 
only  in  subject,  but  in  execution.  Its  plot  is 
dark  and  puzzling,  its  descriptions  are  rich  to 
luxuriance,  its  narrative  is  tedious,  and  its 
characters  are  mere  shadows.  But  although 
a  dream,  it  is  a  dream  of  genius,  and  brings 
beautifully  before  our  imagination  that  early 
period  in  the  world's  history,  in  which  poets 
and  painters  have  taught  us  to  beheve,  when 
the  hea.vens  were  nearer,  the  skies  clearer, 
the  fat  of  the  earth  richer,  the  foam  of  the  sea 
brighter,  than  in  our  degenerate  days  ; — when 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


shepherds,  reposing"  under  broad,  umbrageous 
oaks,  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  in  the  groves 
the  shadows  of  angels,  and  on  the  mountain- 
summits  the  descending  footsteps  of  God. 
Chalkhill  resembles,  of  all  our  modern  poets, 
perhaps  Shelley  most,  in  the  ideality  of  his 
conception,  the  enthusiasm  of  his  spirit,  and 
the  unmitigated  gorgeousness  of  his  imagi- 
nation. 


WILLIAM  CARTWRIGHT. 

William  CartAvright,  born  1611,  died  1643. 
He  was  a  native  of  Northway,  Gloucestershire, 
educated  at  Westminster,  and  Christchurch, 
Oxford.  He  was  ordained  in  1638.  In  1643 
he  was  chosen  Proctor  of  the  University  of 
Oxford  and  Eeader  in  Metaphysics,  and  died 
the  same  year  of  malignant  fever.  He  wrote 
"  The  Eoyal  Slave,"  a  Tragi-Comedy  ;  "  Tragi- 
comedies, with  other  Poems  "  ;  "  Poemata 
Gra3ca  et  Latina"  ;  and  other  pieces.  Cart- 
wright  was  held  in„  high  estimation  by  his 
contemporaries.  Dr.  Fell,  Bishop  of  Oxford, 
says  :  "  Cartwright  is  the  utmost  man  can 
come  to."  Ben  Jonson  writes :  "  My  son 
Cartwright  writes  like  a  man,"  Anthony 
Wood  declares,  that  "  he  was  another  Tully 
and  Virgil,  as  being  most  excellent  for  oratory 
and  poetry."  Gerard  Langbaine  confirms  all 
this  eulogium  by :  "  He  was  extremely  remark- 
able both  for  his  outward  and  inward  endow- 
ments, his  body  being  as  handsome  as  his 
soul.  He  was  an  excellent  orator,  and  yet  an 
admirable  poet — a  quality  which  Cicero,  with 
all  his  pains,  could  not  attain  to."  The  king, 
who  was  at  Oxford  when  he  died,  went  in 
mourning  for  him.  GilfiUan  says  :  "  One  is 
reminded  of  the  description  given  of  Jeremy 
Taylor,  who,  when  he  first  began  to  preach, 
by  his  young  and  florid  beauty,  and  his  sub- 
lime and  raised  discourses,  made  men  take 
him  for  an  angel  newly  descended  from  the 
climes  of  Paradise."  See  Allibone's  "  Grit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


EOBEET  HEEEICK. 

Eobert  Herrick,  born  1591,  died  1662  (?).  He 
is  said  to  have  been  descended  from  Eric,  a 
Danish  chief  who  lived  in  the  time  of  Alfred 
the  Great.  He  was  born  in  Cheapside, 
London,  studied  at  Cambridge,  presented  to 
the  living  of  Dean  Prior,  Devonshire,  in  1629; 
was  deprived  by  Cromwell  in  1648,  and  re- 
instated in  his  living  by  Charles  II.  in  1660. 
At  the  age  of  fifty-six  he  published  his  "  Noble 
Numbers,  or  Pious  Pieces,"  and  soon  after  his 
"  Hesperides,  or  Works  both  Human  and 
Divine,  of  Eobert  Herrick,  Esq.,"  his  minis- 
terial prefix  being  now  laid  aside.     Many  of 


these  poems  were  very  licentious;  but  under- 
neath all  there  can  be  discerned  a  higher 
nature,  which,  had  it  fallen  on  different  times, 
might  have  gained  the  love  and  respect  of  all 
good  men.  Gilfillan  calls  him  "  a  bird  with 
tropical  plumage  and  norland  sweetness  of 
song."  Drake,  in  his  "  Literary  Hours,"  did 
much  towards  reviving  the  poems  of  Herrick, 
which  had  all  but  sunk  into  oblivion.  Yet 
even  he,  with  all  his  admiration,  had  to  speak 
in  strong  language  of  the  unclerical  and  im- 
moral nature  of  many  poems.  So  injudiciously 
are  the  contents  of  his  volume  disposed,  and 
so  totally  divested  of  order  and  propriety,  that 
it  would  almost  seem  the  poet  wished  to  pollute 
and  bury  his  best  eflfusions  in  a  mass  of  non- 
sense and  obscenity.  AlKbone  says,  "  Herrick 
is  a  most  exquisite  poet,  but  unfortunately 
delighted  with  the  wanderings  of  a  libertine 
muse."  Mary  Eussell  Mitford,  in  her  charm- 
ing "  EecoUections  of  a  Literary  Life,"  tells  us 
that  "  his  real  delight  was  among  flowers  and 
bees,  and  nymphs  and  cupids ;  and  certainly 
these  graceful  subjects  were  never  handled 
more  gracefully."  Campbell  says,  whilst  ad- 
mitting, as  every  one  must,  the  sad  licentious- 
ness of  Herrick,  that  "  where  the  ore  is  pure, 
it  is  of  high  value."  In  the  forty- fifth  volume 
of  Blackwood's  Marjazino  the  writer  re- 
marks that  our  poet  displays  considerable 
fa(5ility  of  simple  diction  and  considerable 
variety  of  lyrical  versification.  He  is  suc- 
cessful in  imitating  the  sprightliness  of  Ana- 
creontic gaiety  and  the  lucid  neatness  of  the 
ancient  anthologists."  And  the  "  London 
Eetrospective  Eeview,"  v.  156-180,  adds,  "  his 
poems  resemble  a  luxuriant  meadow,  full  of 
king-cups  and  wild  flowers,  or  a  July  firma- 
ment, sparkling  with  a  myriad  stars.  But  let 
our  poet  in  his  more  thoughtful  moments 
speak : 

"  For  these  my  unbaptized  rhymes — 
Writ  in  my  wild  unhallowed  times, — 
For  every  sentence,  clause,  and  word. 
That 's  not  inlaid  with  thee,  O  Lord  ! 
Forgive  me,  God,  and  blot  each  line 
Out  of  my  book  that  is  not  thine. 
But  if  'mongst  all  thou  findest  one 
Worthy  thy  benediction. 
That  one  of  all  the  rest  shall  be 
The  glory  of  my  work  and  me." 

Peace  be  to  his  ashes  ! 


EICHAED  LOVELACE. 

Eichard  Lovelace,  bom  1618,  died  1658. 
Gilfillan,  in  an  admirable  article  on  this 
writer,  says :  "  This  iinlucky  cavalier  and 
bard  was  born  in  1618.  He  was  the  son  of 
Sir  William  Lovelace,  of  Woolwich,,  in  Kent. 
He  was  educated,  some  say  at  Oxford,  and 
others  at  Cambridge — took  a  master's  degree, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Period. — 


and  was  afterwards  presented  at  Court.  An- 
thony Wood  thus  describes  his  personal 
appearance  at  the  age  of  sixteen  : — '  He  was 
the  most  amiable  and  beautiful  person  that 
eye  ever  beheld, — a  person  also  of  innate 
modesty,  virtue,  and  courtly  deportment, 
which  made  him  then,  but  especially  after 
when  he  retired  to  the  great  city,  much 
admired  and  adored  by  the  fair  sex.'  Soon 
after  this,  he  was  chosen  by  the  county  of 
Kent  to  deliver  a  petition  from  the  inhabi- 
tants to  the  House  of  Commons,  praying  them 
to  restore  the  king  to  his  rights,  and  to  settle 
the  government.  Such  offence  was  given  by 
this  to  the  Long  Parliament,  that  Lovelace 
was  thrown  into  prison,  and  only  liberated  on 
heavy  bail.  His  paternal'  estate,  which 
amounted  to  .£500  a-year,  was  soon  exhausted 
in  his  efforts  to  promote  the  royal  cause.  In 
1646,  he  formed  a  regiment  for  the  service  of 
the  King  of  France,  became  iis  colonel,  and 
was  wounded  at  Dunkirk.  Ere  leaving  Eng- 
land, he  had  formed  a  strong  attachment  to 
a  Miss  Lucy  Saoheverell,  and  had  written 
much  poetry  in  her  praise,  designating  her  as 
Lux-Casta.  Unfortunately,  hearing  a  report 
that  Lovelace  had  died  at  Dunkirk  of  his 
wounds,  she  married  another,  so  that,  on  his 
return  home  in  1648,  he  met  a  deep  disap- 
pointment ;  and  to  complete  his  misery,  the 
ruling  powers  cast  him  again  into  prison, 
where  he  lay  till  the  death  of  Charles.  Like 
some  other  men  of  geniixs,  he  beguiled  his 
confinement  by  literary  employment ;  and  in 
1649,  he  published  a  book  under  the  title  of 
'  Lucasta,'  consisting  of  odes,  sonnets,  songs, 
and  miscellaneous  poems,  most  of  which  had 
been  previously  composed.  After  the  execu- 
tion of  the  king,  he  was  liberated ;  but  his 
funds  were  exhausted,  his  heart  broken,  and 
his  constitution  probably  injured.  He  gi*a- 
dually  sunk  ;  and  Wood  says  that  he  became 
very  poor  in  body  and  purse,  was  the  object 
of  charity,  '  went  in  ragged  clothes,  and 
mostly  lodged  in  obscure  and  dirty  places.' 
Alas  for  the  Adonis  of  sixteen,  the  beloved  of 
Lucasta,  and  the  envied  of  all !  Some  have 
doubted  these  stories  about  his  'extreme 
poverty;  and. one  of  his  biographers  asserts, 
that  his  daughter  and  sole  heir  (but  who, 
pray,  was  his  wife  and  her  mother  ?)  married 
the  son  of  Lord  Chief  Justice  Coke,  and 
brought  to  her  husband  the  estates  of  her 
father  at  Kingsdown,  in  Kent.  Aubrey,  how- 
ever, corroborates  the  statements  of  Wood  ; 
and,  at  all  events,  Lovelace  seems  to  have 
died,  in  1658,  in  a  wretched  alley  near  Shoe 
Lane. 

There  is  not  much  to  be  said  about  his 
poetry.  It  may  be  compared'  to  his  person — 
beautiful,  but  dressed  in  a  stiff  mode.  We  do 
not,  in  every  point,  homologate  the  opinions 
of  Prynne,  as  to  the  '  unloveliness  of  love- 
locks;' but  we  do  certainly  look  with  a 
mixture  of  contempt  and  pity  on  the  self- 
imposed  trammels  of  affectation  in  style  and 


manner  which  bound  many  of  the  poets  of 
that  period.  The  wits  of  Charles  II.  were 
more  disgustingly  licentious  :  but  their  very 
carelessness  saved  them  from  the  conceits  of 
their  predecessors  ;  and,  while  lowering  tho 
tone  of  morality,  they  raised  unwittingly  the 
standard  of  taste.  Some  of  the  songs  of 
Lovelace,  however,  such  as  '  To  Althea,  from 
Prison,'  are  exquisitely  simple,  as  well  as 
pure.  Sir  Egerton  Brydges  has  found  out 
that  Byron,  in  one  of  his  bepraised  para- 
doxical beauties,  either  copied,  or  coincided 
with,  our  poet.  In  the  '  Bride  of  Abydos,' 
he  says  of  Zuleika — 

'  The  mind,  the  music  breathing  from  her 
face.' 

Lovelace  had,  long  before,  in  the  song  of 
'  Orpheus  Mourning  for  his  Wife,'  employed 
the  words — 

''Oh,  could  you  view  the  melody 

Of  every  grace. 
And  music  of  her  face, 

You'd  drop  a  tear ; 
Seeing  more  harmony 

In  her  bright  eye 
Than  now  you  hear.' 

While  many  have  praised,  others  have 
called  this  idea  nonsense ;  although,  if  we 
are  permitted  to  speak  of  the  harmony  of  the 
tones  of  a  cloud,  why  not  of  the  harmony  pro- 
duced by  the  consenting  lines  of  a  counte- 
nance, where  every  grace  melts  into  another, 
and  the  various  features  and  expressions  fluc- 
tuate into  a  fine  whole  ?  Whatever,  whether 
it  be  the  beauty  of  the  human  face,  or  the 
quiet  lustre  of  statuary,  or  the  mild  glory  of 
moonlight,  gives  the  effect  of  music,  and,  like 
that  divine  art, 

*  Pours  on  mortals  a  beautiful  disdain,' 

may  surely  become  music's  metaphor  and 
poetic  analogy." 

To  this  beautiful  critique  we  may  add  the 
words  of  Thomas  B.  Shaw,  who  says : — 
"  Some  of  his  most  charming  lyrics  were 
written  in  prison ;  and  the  beautiful  lines 
to  Althea,  composed  when  the  author  was 
closely  confined  in  the  Gate-house  at  West- 
minster, remind  us  of  the  caged  bird,  which 
learns  its  sweetest  and  most  plaintive  notes, 
when  deprived  of  its  Avoodland  liberty." 


THOMAS  EANDOLPH. 

Thomas  Randolph,  born  1605,  died  1634. 
He  was  bom  near  Daventry  ;  was  a  scholar 
and  poet.  His  jiioces  are  worthy  of  better 
treatment  than  they  have  received.  Through 
excess,  he  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine. 
His  chief  plays  were  :  "  The  Muses'  Looking- 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Glass,"  and  "  The  Jealous  Lovers."  Camp- 
bell says  :  "  His  execution  is  vigorous  ;  his 
ideal  characters  are  at  once  distinct  and 
various,  and  compact  vnth.  the  expression 
which  he  purposes  to  give  them." 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOXD. 

William  Drummond,  bom  1585,  died  1649. 
Druramond,  the  first  Scotch  poet  who  wrote 
well  in  Enghsh,  wnr.  born  at  Hawthomden 
(Southey),  near  Edinburgh.  His  father,  Sir 
John  Drummond,  lield  a  situation  about  the 
person  of  James  VI.  The  poet,  in  his  youth, 
studied  law,  but  relinquishing  that  profession, 
he  retired  to  a  life  of  ease  and  literature  on 
his  "  delightful "  patrimonial  estate.  His 
happiness  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
death  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  was  betrothed ; 
he  spent  several  years  in  seeking  by  travel  a 
refuge  from  liis  sorrow.  He  married,  late  in 
life,  Elizabeth  Logan,  attracted  to  her,  it  is 
said,  by  her  resemblance  to  his  first  love. 
He  was  warmly  attached  to  Charles  I. :  grief 
for  the  king's  death,  it  is  alleged,  shortened 
his  life. 

Drummond's  works  consist  of  sonnets, 
madrigals,  and  religious  and  occasional 
poems ;  among  the  latter  is  the  ludicrous 
Latin  doggrel  "  Polemo-Middinia."  His  son- 
nets are  estimated  by  Hazlitt  as  the  finest  in 
the  language,  and  approaching  nearest  to  the 
Italian  model.  Drummond's  fancy  is  luxu- 
riant, but  tinctured  v/ith  frigid  conceits.  His 
versification  is  floAving  and  harmonious.  Even 
Ben  Jonson's  arrogance  condescended  to 
"  envy  "  the  author  of  "  The  Forth  Feasting." 
He  is  the  writer  of  a  forgotten  history  of  the 
Jameses. 


THOMAS  MAY. 

Thomas  May,  bom  1595,  died  1650.  Camp- 
bell, in  his  "Specimens,"  writes:  "Thomas 
May,  whom  Dr.  Johnson  has  pronounced  the 
best  Latin  poet  of  England,  was  the  son  of 
Sir  Thomas  May,  of  Mayfield,  in  Sussex. 
During  the  earlier  part  of  his  public  life  he 
was  encouraged  at  the  court  of  Charles  I.,  in- 
scribed several  poems  to  his  majesty,  as  well 
as  wrote  them  at  his  injunction,  and  received 
from  Charles  the  appellation  of  '  his  poet.' 
During  this  connection  with  royalty,  he  wrote 
his  five  dramas,  translated  the  Georgics  and 
Pharsalia,  continued  the  latter  in  English  as 
well  as  Latin,  and,  by  his  imitation  of  Lucan, 
acquired  the  reputation  of  a  modern  classic  in 
foreign  countries.  It  were  much  to  be  wished, 
that  on  siding  with  the  Parliament  in  the  civil 
wars,  he  had  left  a  valedictory  testimony  of 
regret  for  the  necessity  of  opposing,  on  public 


gi'ounds,  a  monarch  who  had  been  personally 
kind  to  him.  The  change  was  stigmatized  as 
ungrateful ;  and  it  was  both  sordid  and  un- 
gi-ateful,  if  the  account  given  by  his  enemies 
can  be  relied  on,  that  it  was  owing  to  the 
king's  refusal  of  the  laurcateship,  or  of  a 
pension — for  the  story  is  told  iri^diffbrent 
ways.  All  that  can  be  suggested  in  May's 
behalf  is,  that  no  comphmentary  dedications 
could  pledge  his  iirinciples  on  a  great  question 
of  public  justice,  and  that  the  motives  of  an 
action  are  seldom  traced  Anth  scrupulous 
truth,  where  it  is  the  bias  of  the  narrator 
to  degrade  the  action  itself.  Clarendon,  the 
most  respectable  of  his  accusers,  is  exactly  in 
this  situation.  He  begins  by  praising  his  epic 
poetry  as  among  the  best  in  our  language,  and 
inconsistently  concludes  by  pronouncing  that 
May  deserves  to  be  forgotten. 

"  The  Parhament,  from  whatever  motive  he 
embraced  their  cause,  appointed  him  their 
secretary  and  historiographer.  In  tliis  capa- 
city he  wrote  his  Breidary,  which  Warburton 
pronounces  '  a  just  composition  according  to 
the  rules  of  history.'  It  breaks  off,  much  to 
the  loss  of  the  history  of  that  time,  just  at 
the  period  of  the  Self-denying  Ordinance. 
Soon  after  this  publication  he  went  to  bed 
one  night  in  apparent  health,  having  drank 
freely,  and  was  found  dead  in  the  morning. 
His  death  was  ascribed  to  his  nightcap  being 
tied  too  tightly  under  his  chin.  Andrew 
Marvel  imputes  it  to  the  cheerful  bottle. 
Taken  together,  they  were  no  bad  receipt 
for  suffocation.  The  vampire  revenge  of  his 
enemies  in  digging  him  up  from  his  grave,  is 
an  event  too  notorious  in  the  liistory  of  the 
Restoration.  They  gave  him  honourable  com- 
panj--  in  this  sacrilege,  namely,  that  of  Blake. 

"  He  has  ventured  in  narrative  poetry  on  a 
similar  difficulty  to  that  Shakspere  encoun- 
tered in  the  historical  drama,  but  it  is  un- 
necessary to  show  with  how  much  less  success. 
Even  in  that  department,  he  has  scarcely 
equalled  Daniel  or  Drayton." 


SIR  RICHARD  FANSHAWE. 

Sir  Richard  Fanshawe,  bom  1607,  died 
1666.  He  was  the  brother  of  Lord  Fan- 
shawe, and  secretary  to  Prince  Rupert  : 
appointed  ambassador  to  the  court  of  Spain 
by  Charles  II.,  and  died  at  Madrid  in  1666. 
He  translated  Camoens'  "  Lusiad,"  and  the 
"  Pastor  Fido"  of  Guarini.  He  wrote  many 
smaller  poems.  His  song,  "The  Saints' En- 
couragement," 1643,  is  full  of  clever  satire, 
and  all  his  verse  is  forcible,  with  here  and 
there  a  touch  of  the  true  poet's  beauty. — 
(Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  p.  187.)  "He 
holds,"  says  Gilfillan,  "  altogether  a  respect- 
able, if  not  a  very  high  place,  among  our 
early  translators  and  minor  poets." 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Pepi<->d. — 


SIE  WILLIAM  DAVENANT. 

Sir  William  Daveiiant,  bom  1605,  died 
1668.  By  far  the  best  critique  on  the  works 
.-)£  this  poet,  together  with  sketch  of  liis  life, 
23  by  Campbell,  who  writes :  "  Davenant's 
ijersonal  history  is  sufficiently  curious,  A\dthout 
attaching  importance  to  the  insinuation  of 
Wood,  so  gravely  taken  up  by  Mr.  Malone, 
that  he  was  the  son  of  Shakspere.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  vintner  at  Oxford,  at  whose 
house  the  immortal  poet  is  said  to  have 
frequently  lodged.  Having  risen  to  notice 
by  his  tragedy  of '  Albovine,'  he  wrote  masques 
for  the  court  of  Charles  L,  and  was  made 
governor  of  the  king  and  queen's  company  of 
actors  in  Drury  Lane.  In  the  civil  wars,  we 
find  the  theatric  manager  quickly  transmuted 
into  a  lieutenant-general  of  ordnance,  knighted 
for  his  services  at  the  siege  of  Gloucester,  and 
afterwards  negotiating  between  the  king  and 
his  advisers  at  Paris.  There  he  began  his 
poem  of  '  Gondibert,'  which  he  laid  aside 
for  a  time  for  the  scheme  of  canying  a  colony 
from  France  to  Virginia ;  but  his  vessel  was 
seized  by  one  of  the  parliament  ships,  he  was 
thrown  into  prison,  and  owed  his  life  to 
friendly  interference,  it  is  said  to  that  of 
Milton,  whose  friendship  he  returned  in  kind. 
On  being  liberated,  his  ardent  activity  was 
shov/'n  in  attempting  to  restore  theatrical 
amusements  in  the  very  teeth  of  bigotry 
and  Puritanism,  and  he  actually  succeeded  so 
far  as  to  open  a  theatre  in  the  Charter-house 
Yard.  At  the  Restoration,  he  received  the 
patent  of  the  Duke's  Theatre,  in  Lincoln's 
Inn,  which  he  held  till  his  death. 

"  'Gondibert'  has  divided  the  critics.  It  is 
undeniable,  on  the  one  hand,  that  he  showed 
a  high  and  independent  conception  of  epic 
poetry,  in  wishing  to  emancipate  it  from  the 
slavery  of  ancient  authority,  and  to  establish 
its  interest  in  the  dignity  of  human  nature, 
without  incredible  and  stale  machinery.  His 
subject  was  well  chosen  from  modern  romantic 
story,  and  he  strove  to  give  it  the  close  and 
compact  symmetry  of  the  drama.  Ingenious 
and  witty  images,  and  majestic  sentiments, 
are  thickly  scattered  over  the  poem.  But 
Gondibert,-  who  is  so  formally  described,  has 
certainly  more  of  the  cold  and  abstract  air  of 
an  historical,  than  of  a  poetical  portrait,  and, 
unfortunately,  the  beauties  of  the  poem  are 
those  of  elegy  and  epigram,  more  than  of 
heroic  fiction.  It  wants  the  charm  of  free  and 
forcible  narration ;  the  life-pulse  of  interest  is 
incessantly  stopped  by  solemn  pauses  of  re- 
flection, and  the  story  works  its  way  through 
an  intricacy  of  superfluous  fancies,  some  beau- 
tiful and  others  conceited  ;  but  all,  as  they  are 
united,  tending  to  divert  the  interest,  like  a 
multitude  of  weeds  upon  a  stream,  that  en- 
tangle its  course  while  they  seem  to  adorn  it." 

See  "  Athen.  Oxon."  ;  Knox's  "Essays"  ; 
Bishop  Kurd's  "  Crit.  Com.  Notes  and 
Dissert."  iii.  138 — 144 ;  Biog.  and  Sketches 
prefixed  to  Hcadley's  Collect.,  vol.  i. 


JOHN  HALL. 

John  Hall,  bom  1627,  died  1656.  He  was 
bom  at  Durham,  and  educated  at  St.  John's, 
Cambridge.  In  1646  he  published  a  volume 
of  Poems  ;  he  practised  at  the  bar,  and  died  in 
his  twenty-ninth  year. 


THOMAS  NABBES. 

Thomas  Nabbes,  born  (unknown),  died  1649. 
He  wrote  in  the  reign  of  Charles  1. ;  was 
secretary  to  some  noble  or  prelate,  near 
Worcester.  The  chief  of  his  dramatic  pieces 
were,  for  none  are  extant,  "  Microcosmus  "  ; 
"  Spring's  Glory  "  ;  "  Bride  "  ;  "  Charles  I.," 
a  tragedy;  "  Swetman,"  a  comedy.  He  wrote 
also  a  continuation  of  Knolles's  "  History  of 
the  Turks."  He  had  also  a  share  in  the  col- 
lection called  "Fancy's  Theatre,"  with  Tat- 
ham,  Richard  Brome,  and  others. — See  Shaw's 
"Hist.  English  Hist.";  Campbell's  "Spec. 
Brit.  Poets." 


JOHN  CLEVELAND. 

John  Cleveland,  born  1613,  died  1658.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  Leicestershire  clergyman, 
and  greatly  distinguished  himself,  on  the  side 
of  the  king,  during  the  civil  war,  both  as 
I  soldier  and  poet.  He  was  educated  at  Christ's 
College  and  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 
In  1647  he  published  a  satire  on  the  Scotch ; 
was  imprisoned  in  1655,  released  by  Cromwell, 
but  soon  afterwards  died.  Some  of  his 
writings,  though  conceited,  contain  true 
poetry.  Butler  is  said  to  have  borrowed 
greatly  from  him  in  his  "  Hudibras." — (Shaw's 
"  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.")  Fuller,  in  his  "  Worthies 
of  Leicestershire,"  whites  of  him  as  "a  general 
artist,  pure  Latinist,  exquisite  orator,  and, 
which  was  his  master-piece,  eminent  poet." 
His  epithets  were  pregnant  mth  metaphors, 
carrying  in  them  a  difficult  plainness  ;  difficult 
at  hearing,  plain  at  the  consideration  thereof. 
His  lofty  fancy  may  seem  to  stride  from  the 
top  of  one  mountain  to  the  top  of  another,  so 
making  to  itself  a  constant  level  champaign  of 
continued  elevations." 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

James  Shirley,  bom  1596,  died  1666.  James 
Shirley  was  born  in  London.  He  was  educated 
at  Cambridge,  where  he  took  the  degree  of 
A.M.,  and  had  a  curacy  for  some  time  at  or 
near  St.  Albans ;  but  embracing  popery,  became 
a  schoolmaster  (1623)  in  that  town.  Leaving 
this  employment,  he  settled  in  London  as  a 
dramatic  writer,  and  between  the  years  1625 


From  1558  to  1619.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


and  1666  published  thirty-nine  plays.  In  the 
civil  wars  he  followed  his  patron,  the  Earl  of 
Newcastle,  to  the  field ;  but  on  the  decline  of 
the  royal  cause,  returned  to  London,  and,  as 
the  theatres  were  now  shut,  kept  a  school  in 
Whitefriars,  where  he  educated  many  eminent 
characters.  At  the  reopening  of  the  theatres 
he  must  have  been  too  old  to  have  renewed 
his  dramatic  labours  ;  and  what  benefit  the 
Restoration  brought  him  as  a  royalist,  we  are 
not  informed.  Both  he  and  his  wife  died  on 
the  same  day,  immediately  after  the  great  fire 
of  London,  by  which  they  had  been  driven  out 
of  their  house,  and  probably  owed  their  deaths 
to  their  losses  and  terror  on  that  occasion.   • 


ALEXANDER  BROME. 

Alexander  Brome,  born  1620,  died  1666. 
He  was  an  attorney  in  the  Lord  Mayor's 
Court  and  a  poet.  He  contributed  greatly  to 
the  promotion  of  the  Restoration  by  the 
severity  and  ridicule  with  which  he  treated 
the  Roundheads  in  th.e  day  of  their  power. 
He  had  also  a  share  in  the  translation  of 
Horace,  with  Fanshawe,  Holiday,  Cowley, 
and  others,  and  published  a  single  comedy, 
"The  Cunning  Lovers"  which  was  acted  in 
1651,  at  the  private  house  in  Drury.  Camp- 
bell says  :  "  There  is  a  playful  variety  in  his 
metre,  that  probably  had  a  better  elfect  in 
song  than  in  reading.  His  thoughts  on  love 
and  the  bottle  have  at  least  the  merit  of  being 
decently  jovial,  though  he  arrays  the  trite 
arguments  of  convivial  invitation  in  few 
original  images."  It  seems  that  Brome  had 
intended  to  translate  Lucretius.  Izaak 
Walton  commends  him  highly. 


KATHERINE  PHILLIPS. 

Katherine  Phillips,  bom  1631,  died  1664. 
Very  little  is  known,  remarks  GilfiUan  in  his 
*'  Specimens  with  Memoirs  of  the  Less-known 
British  Poets,"  of  the  life  of  this  lady-poet. 
She  was  born  in  1631.  Her  maiden  name  was 
Fowler.  She  married  James  Phillips,  Esq., 
of  the  Priory  of  Cardigan.  Her  poems,  pub- 
lished under  the  name  of  "  Orinda,"  were 
very  popular  in  her  lifetime,  although  it  was 
said  they  were  published  without  her  consent. 
She  translated  two  of  the  tragedies  of  Cor- 
neille,  and  left  a  volume  of  letters  to  Sir 
Charles  Cotterell.  These,  however,  did  not 
appear  till  after  her  death.  She  died  of 
small-pox — then  a  deadly  disease — in  1664. 
She  seems  to  have  been  a  favourite  alike  with 
the  wits  and  the  divines  of  her  age.  Jeremy 
Taylor  addressed  to  her  his  "  Measures  and 
Offices  of  Friendship ;  "  Dry  den  praised  her-; 
and  Flatman  and  Cowley,  besides  imitating 


her  poems  while  she  was  living,  paid  rhymed 
tributes  to  her  memory  when  dead.  Her 
verses  are  never  commonplace,  and  always 
sensible,  if  they  hardly  attain  to  the  measure 
and  the  stature  of  lofty  poetry. 


ALEXANDER  SCOT. 

Alexander  Scot  flourished  about  the  year 
1562.  He  wi'ote  several  short  satires  and  some 
miscellaneous  poems,  the  prevailing  amatory 
character  of  wliich  caused  him  to  be  called 
the  Scottish  Anacreon,  though  there  are  many 
points  wanting  to  complete  his  resemblance 
to  the  Teian  bard. — Chambers's  "  Cyc.  Eng. 
Lit.,"  vol.  i.  154 ;  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


SIR  RICHARD  MAITLAND. 

Sir  Richard  Maitland,  born  1496,  died  1586, 
is  more  celebrated  as  a  collector  of  poems 
than  as  an  original  poet.  There  is  however 
much  good  taste  displayed  in  his  own  pro- 
ductions. 


ALEXANDER  MONTGOMERY. 

Alexander  Montgomery  was  the  author  of 
an  allegorical  poem  called  "The  Cherry  and 
the  Sloe,"  published  in  1597,  which  long 
continued  a  favourite,  and  the  metre  of  which 
was  adopted  by  Burns. — Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng. 
Lit." 


ALEXANDER  HUME. 

The  time  and  place  of  his  birth  are  un- 
known. He  was  a  clergyman,  and  published, 
in  1589,  a  volume  of  hymns  or  sacred  songs  ; 
he  died  in  1609. 


KING  JAMES  VI. 

King  James  VI.  published,  in  1584,  a  volume 
of  poetry,  "Essays  of  a  Prentice  in  the 
Divine  Art  of  Poesie,  with  the  rewlis  and 
cautelis  to  be  pursued  and  avoided." 


EARL  OF  ANCRUM. 

Earl  of    Ancrum,  born  1578,    died  1654. 
Wrote  some  sonnets  of  considerable  merit. 


EARL  OF  STIRLING. 

Earl   of   Stirling,    born   1580,   died    1640, 
published,  in  1637,    "  Recreations    with   the 

7 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Period. — 


Muses,"  of  wMch  says  Campbell,  "there  is 
elegance  of  expression  in  a  few  of  his  shorter 
pieces." 


THOMAS  INGELAND. 

Scarcely  anything  is  known  of  this  author, 
excepting  that  he  wrote  "  A  Pretie  and 
Merie  New  Enterlude,  entitled  the  Dis- 
obedient Child." 


NICHOLAS   UDALL. 

Nicholas  Udall  wrote  the  earliest  comedy 
in  the  English  language,  "Ealph  Eoyster 
Doyster,"  which  was  acted  in  1551.  He  for 
a  long  time  executed  the  duties  of  Master  of 
Eton  College. 


JOHN  HEYWOOD. 

John  Heywood  was  a  man  of  considerable 
attainments,  but  who  seemed  to  have  per- 
formed the  duties  of  jester  at  the  court  of 
Henry  VIII. 


JOHN  STILL. 

John  Still,  bom  1543,  died  1607.  He  was 
master  of  St.  John's  and  Trinity  Colleges, 
Cambridge,  and  became  afterwards  bishop  of 
Bath  and  Wells,  He  wrote  "  Gammer  Gur- 
ton's  Needle,"  which  seems  to  have  been  the 
second  earliest  regular  comedy  published  in 
our  language.  The  whole  intrigue  consists  in 
the  search  instituted  after  this  unfortunate 
little  implement,  which  is  at  last  discovered 
by  Hodge  himself,  on  suddenly  sitting  down 
in  the  garment  which  Gammer  Gurton  had 
been     repairing.  The    play    is    included 

in    Dodsley's     collection. —  See    Campbell's 
"Specimens"  ;  Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


JOHN  LTLT. 

John  Lyly  was  bom  in  Kent  in  1554,  and 
produced  nine  plarjrs  between  the  years  1579 
and  1600.  They  were  mostly  written  for 
court  entertainments,  and  performed  by  the 
scholars  of  St.  Paul's.  He  was  educated  at 
Oxforrt,  and  many  of  his  plays  are  on  my- 
thological subjects,  as  "  Sappho  and  Phaon," 
"Endymion,"  the  "Maid's  Metamorphosis!" 
&c.  His  stjde  is  affected  and  unnatural,  yet 
like  his  own  Niobo,  in  the  "  Metamorphosis," 
"oftentimes  he  had  sweet  thoughts,  some- 
times hard  conceits;  betwixt  both  a 'kind  of 
yieldixig-."    By  his  "  Euphues,"  or  the  "Ana- 


tomy of  Wit,"  Lyly  exercised  apowerful  though 
injurious  influence  on  the  fashionable  literature 
of  his  day,  in  prose  composition  as  well  as  in 
discourse.  His  plays  were  not  important 
enough  to  found  a  school.  Hazlitt  was  a 
warm  admirer  of  Lyly's  "Endymion,"  but 
evidently,  from  the  feelings  and  sentiments 
it  awakened,  rather  than  the  poetry.  "  I 
know  few  things  more  perfect  in  characteristic 
painting,"  he  remarks,  "  than  the  exclamation 
of  the  Phrygian  shepherds,  who,  afraid  of 
betraying  the  secret  of  Midas' s  ears,  fancy 
that  'the  rery  reeds  bow  down,  as  though 
they  listened  to  their  talk  ; '  nor  more  affect- 
ing in  sentiment,  than  the  apostrophe  ad- 
dressed by  his  friend  Eumenides  to  Endymion, 
on  waking  from  his  long  sleep.  '  Behold  the 
twig  to  which  thou  laidest  down  thy  head  is 
now  become  a  tree.'  "  There  are  finer  things 
in  the  Metamorphosis,  as  where  the  prince 
laments  Eurj-mene  lost  in  the  woods — 

"  Adorned  with  the  presence  of  my  love, 
The   woods   I  fear   such   secret   power  shall 

prove, 
As  they'll  shut  up  each  path,  hide  every  way. 
Because  they  still  would  have  her  go  astray. 
And  in   that  place  would   always   have   her 

seen. 
Only  because  they  would  be  ever  green. 
And  keep  the  winged  choristers  still  there, 
To  banish  winter  clean  out  of  the  year." 

Or  the  song  of  the  fairies — 

"  By  the  moon  we  sport  and  play, 

With  the  night  begins  our  day  : 

As  we  dance  the  dew  doth  fall ; 

Trip  it,  little  urchins  all, 

Lightly  as  the  little  bee. 

Two  by  two,  and  three  by  three, 

And  about  go  we,  and  about  go  we." 

The  genius  of  Lyly  was  essentially  lyrical. 
The  songs  in  his  plays  seem  to  flow  freely 
from  nature. 


GEOEGE  PEELE. 
George  Peele,  like  Lyly,  had  received  a 
liberal  education  at  Oxford.  Ho  was  one  of 
Shakspere's  fellow-actors  and  fellow-share- 
holders in  the  Blackfriars  Theatre.  He  was 
also  employed  by  the  city  of  London  in  com- 
posing and  preparing  those  spectacles  and 
shows  which  formed  so  great  a  portion  of 
ancient  civic  festivity.  His  earliest  work, 
"  The  Arraignment  of  Paris,"  was  printed 
anonymously  in  1584.  His  most  celebrated 
dramatic  works  were  the  "  David  and  Beth- 
sabe,"  and  "Absalom,"  in  which  there  is  great 
richness  and  beauty  of  language  and  occa- 
sional indications  of  a  high  order  of  pathetic 
and  elevated  emotion;  but  his  versification, 
though  sweet,  has  little  variety;  and  the 
luxurious  and  sensuous  descriptions  in  which 


From  1588  to  1649.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Peele  most  delighted  are  so  numerous,  that 
they  become  rather  tiresome  in  the  end.  It 
should  be  remarked  that  this  poet  was  the 
first  to  give  an  example  of  the  peculiar  kind 
of  historical  play  in  which  Shakspere  was 
afterwards  so  consummate  a  master.  His 
"Edward  I."  is,  though  monotonous,  decla- 
matory, and  stiff,  in  some  sense  the  fore- 
runner of  such  works  as  "  Richard  II., " 
"Eichard  III.,"  or  "Henry  V.  "  —  Shaw's 
"Hist.  Eng.  Lit.  "  p.  130.  See  Chambers*5 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  i. ;  Campbell's  "  Spec. 
Brit.  Poets." 


THOMAS  NASH  AND  EOBEET  GREENE. 

"Both  were  Cambridge  men,  both  sharp, 
and  I  fear,"  says  Shaw,  in  his  valuable 
"  History  of  English  Literature,"  "  mercenary 
satirists,  and  both  alike  in  the  profligacy  of 
their  lives  and  the  misery  of  their  deaths, 
though  they  may  have  eked  out  their  income 
by  occasionally  writing  for  the  stage,  were  in 
reality  rather  pasquinaders  and  pamphleteers 
than  dramatists — condottieri  of  the  press, 
shamelessly  advertising  the  services  of  their 
ready  and  biting  pen  to  any  person  or  any 
cause  that  would  pay  them.  They  were  both 
unquestionably  men  of  rare  powers,  Nash  pro- 
bably the  better  man  and  the  abler  writer  of 
the  two.  Nash  is  famous  for  the  bitter  con- 
troversy with  the  learned  Gabriel  Harvey, 
whom  he  has  caricatured  and  attacked  in 
numerous  pamphlets,  in  a  manner  equally 
humorous  and  severe.  He  was  concerned  with 
other  dramatists  in  the  production  of  a  piece 
entitled  '  Summer's  Last  Will  and  Testament,' 
and  in  a  satirical  comedy,  '  The  Isle  of  Dogs,' 
which  drew  do^vn  upon  him  the  anger  of  the 
Government,  for  we  know  that  he  was  im- 
prisoned for  some  time  in  consequence. 

"  Greene  was,  Hke  Nash,  the  author  of  a 
multitude  of  tracts  and  pamphlets  on  the  most 
miscellaneous  subjects.  Sometimes  they  were 
tales,  often  translated  or  expanded  from  the  \ 
ItaUan  noveKsts ;  sometimes  amusing  exposures  | 
•of  the  various  arts  of  coney -catching,  wliich  | 
means  cheating  and  swindling,  practised  at  j 
that  time  in  London,  and  in  which,  it  is  feared, 
Greene  was  personally  not  unversed;  some- 
times moral  confessions,  Hke  Nash's  '  Pierce 
Pennilesse,  his  Supplication  to  the  Devil,'  or 
Greene's  '  Groat  worth  of  Wit,'  purporting 
to  be  a  warning  to  others  against  the  conse- 
quences of  unbridled  passion.  Some  of  these 
■confessions  are  exceedingly  pathetic,  and  would 
•be  more  so  could  the  reader  divest  himself  of 
a  lurking  suspicion  that  the  whole  is  often  a 
mere  trick  to  catch  a  pemiy.  The  popularity 
•of  these  tracts,  we  know,  was  very  great. 
The  only  dramatic  work  we  need  specify  of 
Greene's  was  '  George-a-Green,'  the  legend  of 
an  old  English  popular  hero,  recounted  with 
much  vivacity  and  humour," — See  Alhbone's 


"Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.";  Chambers's  "Cyc. 
Eng.  Lit."  ;  Campbell's  "  Specimens  " ;  Wood's 
"  Fasti  Oxon."  ;  Haslewood's  "  Censura  Lite- 
raria,"  ii,  288-300  ;  Beloe's  "  Anec.  of  Lib.  and 
Scarce  Books";  "  Drake's  Shakspere  and  his 
Times":  J.Payne  Collier's  "Hist,  of  Eng. 
Dram.  Poets,"  iii.  153-154;  Professor  Tieck's 
Preface  to  his  "  Shakspere' s  Vorschule"; 
Hallam's  "Lit.  Hist,  of  Europe,"  ii.  173; 
"  British  Bibliogi-apher "  ;  Dibdin's  "  Lib. 
Comp.";  Lowndes's  "Bibl.  Man.";  Dunlop's 
"  Hist,  of  Fiction." 


THOMAS  LODGE. 

Thomas  Lodge,  born  1556,  died  1625  (?), 
a  physician  and  dramatic  poet  ;  he  was 
born  in  Lincolnshire,  educated  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  and  first  appeared  as  an  author 
in  1580.  Ten  of  Lodge's  poems  are  contained 
in  the  English  "  HeKcon,"  published  in  1600. 
To  his  poem  entitled  "Eosalynde:  Eupheus 
Golden  Legacie,"  Shakspere  was  indebted  for 
the  plot  and  incidents  of  his  drama  "  As  You 
Like  It."  He  is  described  by  Collier  as  second 
to  Kyd  in  vigour  and  boldness  of  conception ; 
but  as  a  drawer  of  character,  so  essential  a 
part  of  dramatic  poetry,  he  unquestionably 
has  the  advantage.  His  principal  work  is 
a  tragedy  entitled  "  The  Hounds  of  Civil 
War,  lively  set  forth  in  the  two  Tragedies 
of  Marius  and  Sylla."  He  also  composed,  in 
conjunction  with  Greene,  "A  Looking-Glass 
for  London  and  England,"  the  object  of  which 
is  a  defence  of  the  stage  against  the  Puritanical 
party.— See  Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


THOMAS  DEKKEE. 

Thomas  Dekker  was  a  very  industrious 
author ;  he  was  connected  with  Jonson  in 
writing  for  the  Lord  Admiral's  theatre,  con- 
ducted by  Henslowe ;  but  Ben  and  he  became 
bitter  enemies,  and  the  former,  in  his 
"  Poetaster,"  performed  in  1601,  has  satirized 
Dekker  under  the  character  of  Crispinus, 
representing  himself  as  Horace.  Dekker 
replied  by  another  drama,  "  Satiromastix ;  or, 
the  Untrussing  the  Humorous  Poet."  The 
poetic  diction  of  Dekker  is  choice  and  elegant, 
but  he  often  wanders  into  absurdity.  He  is 
supposed  to  have  died  about  the  year  1638. 
His  life  seems  to  have  been  spent  in  irregu- 
larity and  poverty.  According  to  Oldys,  he 
was  three  years  in  the  King's  Bench.  In  one 
of  his  o^vn  beautiful  lines  he  says : 

"  We  ne'er  are  angels  till  our  passions  die." 

But  the  old  dramatists  lived  in  a  world  of 
passion   and    revelry,   want   and    despair. — 

7* 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Thisd  Period. — 


(Chambers's  "  Cyclo.  English  Lit."  vol.  ii.  21.) 
He  published  the  "  GitU's  Horn  Book,"  of 
which  a  new  edition  was  published  in  1812, 
Bristol,  4to,  edited  by  Dr.  Nott.  Drake  says 
of  this  work,  "  His  '  Gul's  Home  Booke,  or 
Fashions  to  please  all  Sorts  of  Guls,'  first 
printed  in  1609,  exhibits  a  very  curious,  mi- 
nute, and  interesting  picture  of  the  manners 
and  habits  of  the  middle  class  of  society." — 
See  Lowndes's  "  Bibl.  Man," ;  Warton's  "  Hist. 
Eng.  Poetry"  ;  "  Bibl.  Anglo-Poet."  ;  Collier's 
*'  Hist,  of  Eng.  Dramatic  Poets." 


HENRY  CHETTLE. 

He  was  a  dramatic  writer  of  the  age  of 
Elizabeth.  He  wrote  the  tragedy  of 
"  Hoffman,  or  aEevenge  for  a  Father,"  1631  ; 
and  was  concerned,  more  or  less,  according  to 
"  Henslowe's  Diary,"  in  the  production  of 
thirty-eight  plays,  only  four  of  which  have 
been  printed,  and  have  come  down  to  us. — 
See  Allibone's  "Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."; 
Collier's  "Hist,  of  English  Dramatic  Poetry  "  ; 
Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  HAUGHTON. 

William  Haughton  was  the  author  of  a 
number  of  dramatic  pieces,  of  which  the 
comedy  of  "Englishmen  for  my  Money"  is 
one  of  the  best  known.  He  wrote  the  comedy 
of  "  Patient  Grissill,"  in  which  he  was 
assisted  by  Chettle  and  Dekker. — See  "  Biog. 
Dramat. "  :  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit." 


DABRIDGECOURT  BELCHIEE. 

Dabridgecourt  Belchier  was  admitted  at 
Corpus  Christi  College,  Cambridge,  m  1508  ; 
removed  to  Christchurch,  Oxford,  where  he 
took  his  B.A.  in  1600.  He  translaied  into 
English  "Hans  Beerport,  his Eisible Comedy 
of  See  me  and  See  me  Not,"  1618.  Wood 
ascribes  some  other  pieces  to  him. — See 
Allibone's  "Crit.  Diet.  Eng  Lit.";  Camp- 
bell's "  Specimens." 


JOHN  WEBSTEE. 

John  Webster,  the  "  noble-minded,"  as 
Hazhtt  designates  him,  lived  and  died  about 
the  same  time  as  Dekker,  with  whom  he 
^\'rote  in  the  conjunct  authorship  then  so 
common.  His  original  dramas  are  the 
"  Duchess  of  Malfy/'  "  Guise,  crthc  Massacre 


of  France,"  the  "  Devil's  Law  Case,"  "  Appius 
and  Virginia,"  and  the  "  White  Devil,  oi* 
Vittoria  Corombona "  Webster,  it  Jias 
been  said,  was  clerk  of  St  Andrew's  church, 
Holborn ;  but  Mr.  Dyce,  his  editor  and  bio- 
grapher, searched  the  registers  of  the  parish 
for  his  name  without  success.  The  "  White 
Devil"  and  the  "Duchess  of  MalSy"  have 
divided  the  opinions  of  critics  as  to  their 
relative  incnt.-^.  They  are  both  poAverful 
dramas,  though  filled  with  "  supernumerary 
horrors."  The  former  was  not  successful  on 
the  stage,  and  the  author  published  it  with  a 
dedication,  in  which  he  states,  that  "  most  of 
the  people  that  come  to  the  play-house  re- 
semble those  ignorant  asses  who,  visiting 
stationers'  shops,  their  use  is  not  to  inquire 
for  good  books,  but  new  books."  He  Avas 
accused,  like  Jonson,  of  being  a  slow  writer, 
but  he  consoles  himself  with  the  example  of 
Euripides,  and  confesses  that  he  did  not 
write  with  a  goose  quill  Avinged  with  two 
feathers.  In  this  slighted  play  there  are 
some  exquisite  touches  of  pathos  and  natural 
feeling.  The  grief  of  a  group  of  mourners 
over  a  dead  body  is  thus  described : — 

"  I  found  them  winding  of  Marcello's  corse, 
And  there  in  such  a  solemn  melody, 
'Tween  doleful  songs,  tears,  and  sad  elegies. 
Such  as  old  grandames  watching  by  the  dead 
Were  wont  to  outwear  the  night  with ;  that, 

believe  me, 
I  had  no  eyes  to  guide  me  forth  the  room. 
They  were  ^o  o'ercharged  with  water.^' 

The  funeral  dirge  for  MarceUo,  sung  by  his 
mother,  possesses,  says  Charles  Lamb,  "that 
intenseness  of  feeling  which  seems  to  resolve 
itself  into  the  elements  which  it  contem- 
plates "  : — 

"  Call  for  the  robin  redbreast  and  the  wren. 

Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 

And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 

The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 

Call  unto  his  funeral  dole, 

The  ant,  the  field-mou.se,  and  the  mole, 

To   raise   him   hillocks   that  shaU  keep   him 

warm, 
And,  when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd,  sustain  no 

harm  ; 
But  keep  the  Avolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to 

men, 
For  with  his  nails  he'U  dig  them  up  again." 

The  following  couplet  has  been  admired  : — 

"Glories,  like  glow-worms,  afar  off  shine  bright ; 
But   look'd   to   near,  have  neither  heat   nor 
Hght." 

The  "Duchess  of  Malfy"  abounds  more  in 
the  terrible  graces.  It  turns  on  the  mortal 
offence  which  the  lady  gives  to  her  two  proud 
brothers,  Ferdinand,  Duke  of  Calabria,  and  a 
cardinal,  by  indulging  in  a  generous  though 
infatuated  passion  for  Antonio,  her  steward. 


From-  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


— {Chomhcrs,  vol.  i.  pp.  211,  212.)  Shaw  says, 
"  But  perhaps  the  most  powerful  and  original 
genius  among  the  Shaksperian  dramatists  of 
the  second  order  is  John  Webster.  His 
terrible  and  funereal  Muse  on  '  Death  ; '  his 
wild  imagination  revelled  in  images  and 
sentiments  which  breathe,  as  it  were,  the 
odour  of  the  charnel :  his  plaj^s  are  full  of 
pictures  recalling  with  fantastic  variety  all 
associations  of  the  weakness  and  futility  of 
human  hopes  and  interests,  and  dark  question- 
ings of  our  future  destinies.  His  literary 
phj'siognomy  has  something  of  that  dark, 
bitter,  and  woeful  expression  which  makes  us 
thrill  in  the  portraits  of  Dante.  In  selecting 
Buch  revolting  themes  as  abounded  in  the 
black  annals  of  mediaeval  Italy,  Webster 
followed  the  peculiar  bent  of  his  great  and 
morbid  genius ;  in  the  treatment  of  these 
subjects,  we  find  a  strange  mixture  of  the 
horrible  with  the  pathetic.  In  his  language 
there  is  an  extraordinary  union  of  complexity 
and  siinplicitj^ :  he  loves  to  draw  his  illustra- 
tions not  only  from  skulls  and  graves  and 
epitaphs,  '  but  also  from  the  most  attractive 
and  picturesque  objects  in  nature ; '  and  his 
occasional  intermingling  of  the  deepest  and 
■  most  innocent  emotion  of  the  most  exquisite 
touches  of  natural  beauty  produces  the  effect 
of  the  daisy  springing  up  amid  the  festering 
mould  of  the  graveyard." 


more  disgrace  upon  the  age  than  all  its  genius 
could  redeem ;  namely,  the  fate  of  Mother 
Sawyer,  the  Witch  of  Edmonton,  an  aged 
woman,  who  had  been  recently  the  victim  of 
legal  and  superstitious  murder — 

'  Nil  adeo  f  oedum  quod  non  exacta  vetustas 
Ediderit.' 

The  time  of  his  death  is  unknown." — 
(Campbell's  Specimens,  p.  166.)  See  Shaw's 
"  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  Professor  Spalding's 
"  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  Weber's  ed.  of  Ford's 
Works  ;  Lord  Jeffrey's  article  "  Edin. 
Eev.,"  X.  275,  304 ;  John  Gifford,  "  Quart. 
Rev.,"  vi.  462-487 ;  Lamb's  "  Specimens  of 
Eng.  Dram.  Poets." 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON 

Thomas  Middleton  is  admired  for  a  wild 
and  fantastic  fancy,  whic4i  delights  in  por- 
traying scenes  of  witchcraft  and  supernatural 
agency — such  is  the  correct  estimate  of  Shaw, 
in  his  excellent  work,  the  "  Hist,  of  Eng. 
Lit." 


JOHN  FORD. 

John  Ford,  born  1586,  died  1640  (r).  "  He 
was  born  of  a  respectable  family  in  Devon- 
shire ;  was  bred  to  the  law,  and  entered  of 
the  Middle  Temple  at  the  age  of  seventeen. 
At  the  age  of  twenty  he  published  a  poem, 
entitled  'Fame's  Memorial,'  in  honour  of  the 
deceased  Earl  of  Devonshire ;  and  from  the 
dedication  of  that  piece  it  appears  that  he 
chiefly  subsisted  upon  his  professional  labours, 
making  poetry  the  solace  of  his  leisure  hours. 
All  his  plays  were  published  between  the  years 
1629  and  1639  ;  but  before  the  former  period 
he  had  for  some  time  been  known  as  a  dra- 
matic writer,  his  works  having  been  printed  a 
considerable  time  after  their  appearance  on 
the  stage  ;  and,  according  to  the  custom  of 
the  age,  had  been  associated  in  several  works 
with  other  composers .  With  Dekker  he 
loir.ed  in  drumatizing    a   story,  which  reflects 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

"  Of  the  personal  history  of  Philip  Mas  singer 
little  is  known.  This  excellent  poet  was  born 
in  1584,  and  died,  apparently  very  poor,  in 
1640.  His  birth  was  that  of  a  gentleman,  his 
education  good,  and  even  learned  ;  for  though 
his  stay  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  which 
he  entered  in  1602,  was  not  longer  than  two 
years,  his  Avorks  prove,  by  the  uniform 
elegance  and  refined  dignity  of  their  diction, 
and  by  the  peculiar  fondness  with  which  he 
dwells  on  classical  allusions,  that  he  was  in- 
timately penetrated  with  the  finest  essence  of 
the  great  classical  writers  of  antiquity.  His 
theatrical  life,  extending  from  1604  to  his 
death,  appears  to  have  been  an  uninterrupted 
succession  of  struggle,  disappointment,  and 
distress  ;  and  we  possess  one  touching  docu- 
ment, proving  how  deep  and  general  was  that 
distress  in  the  dramatic'  profession  of  the 
time.  It  is  a  letter  written  to  Henslowe,  the 
.  manager  of  the  Globe  Theatre,  in  the  joint 
names  of  Massinger,  Field,  and  Daborne,  all 
poets  of  considerable  popularity,  imploring 
the  loan  of  an  insignificant  sum  to  liberate 
them  from  a  debtors'  prison.  Like  most  of 
his  fellow-dramatists,  Massinger  frequently 
wrote  in  partnership  with  other  playAvrights, 
the  names  of  Dekker,  Field,  Rowley,  Middle- 
ton,  and  others,  being  often  found  in  conjunc- 
tion with  his.  We  possess  the  titles  of  about 
thirty-seven  plays,  either  entirely  or  partially 
written  by  Massinger,  of  which  number,  how- 
ever, only  eighteen  are  now  extant,  the  re- 
mainder having  been  lost  or  destroyed.  These 
works  are  tragedies,  comedies,  and  romantic 
dramas,  partaking  of  both  characters.  The 
finest  of  them  are  the  following  :  the  '  Fatal 
Dowry  '  ;  the  *  Unnatural  Combat '  ;  the 
'  Roman  Actor,'  and  the  '  Duke  of  Milan,' 
in  the  first  category  :  the  '  Bondman,'  the 
'  Maid  of  Honour,'  and  the  '  Picture,'  in 
the  third  ;  and  the  '  Old  Law,'  and  '  A  New 
Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,'  in  the  second.  The 
qualities  which  distinguish  this  noble  writer 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Period. — 


are,  an  extraordinary  dij^nit}'  and  elevation 
of  moral  sentiment,  a  sin^lar  power  of  de- 
lineating the  sorrows  of  pure  and  lofty  minds 
exposed  to  unmerited  suffering',  cast  down  but 
not  humiliated  by  misfortune.  In  these  lofty 
delineations,  it  is  impossible  not  to  trace  the 
reflexion  of  Massinger's  own  high  but  melan- 
choly spirit.  Female  purity  and  devotion  he 
has  painted  with  great  skill ;  and  his  plays 
exhibit  many  scenes  in  which  he  has  ventured 
to  sound  the  mysteries  of  the  deepest  passions, 
as  in  the  '  Fatal  Dowry  '  and  the  '  Duke  of 
Milan,'  the  subject  of  the  latter  having  some 
resemblance  with  the  terrible  story  of  '  Ma- 
riamne.'  It  was  unfortunately  indispensable, 
in  order  to  please  the  mixed  audiences  of  those 
days,  that  comic  and  farcical  scenes  should  be 
introduced  in  every  piece  ;  and  for  comedy 
and  pleasantry  Massinger  had  no  aptitude. 
This  portion  of  his  works  is  in  every  case  con- 
temptible for  stupid  buffoonery,  as  well  as 
odious  for  loathsome  indecency ;  and  the 
coarseness  and  obscenity  of  such  passages 
forms  so  painful  a  contrast  with  the  general 
elegance  and  purity  of  Massinger's  tone  and 
language,  that  we  are  driven  to  the  suppo- 
sition of  his  having  had  recourse  to  other 
hands  to  supply  this  obnoxious  matter  in 
obedience  to  the  popular  taste.  Massinger's 
style  and  versification  are  singularly  sweet 
and  noble.  No  writer  of  that  day  is  so  free 
from  archaisms  and  obscurities ;  and  perhaps 
there  is  none  in  whom  more  constantly  appears 
aU  the  force,  harmony,  and  dignity,  of  which 
the  English  language  is  susceptible.  From 
many  passages  we  may  draw  the  conclusion 
that  Massinger  was  a  fervent  Catholic.  The 
'  Virgin  Martyr'  is  indeed  a  Catholic  mystery ; 
and  in  many  plays — as,  for  example,  the  '  Re- 
negade ' — he  has  attributed  to  Romanist  con- 
fessors, and  even  to  the  then  unpopular  Jesuits, 
the  most  amiable  and  Christian  virtues.  If  wo 
desire  to  characterize  Massinger  in  one  sen- 
tence, we  may  say  that  dignity,  tenderness, 
and  grace,  are  the  qualities  in  which  he  excels." 
(Shaw's  "Hist,  of  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  170,  171.)— 
See  Campbell's  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  i. 


was  bred  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  He  held 
the  living  of  East  Clandon,  in  Surrey,  but  un- 
fortunately succeeded  not  only  to  the  living, 
but  to  the  widow  of  his  predecessor,  who,  being- 
a  Xantippe,  contributed,  according  to  Lang- 
baine,  to  shorten  his  days  by  the  '  violence  of 
her  proi-old))(j  tongue.''  He  had  the  reputation 
of  an  eloquent  preacher,  and  some  of  his 
sermons  appeared  in  print." 


JOHN  MAESTON. 

Very  little  is  known  of  this  poet.  In  1598 
he  published  "  Certayno  Satires,"  and  in  1599, 
the  "  Scourge  of  Villany."  He  produced  also 
some  comedies.  Dr.  Angus  considers  the 
"Satires"  decidedly  inferior  to  Hall's,  and 
very  poor.  —  "Handbook  of  English  Lit.," 
155. 


THOMAS  GOFFE. 

Tliomas  Goffo,  born  1592,  died  1627.  "Tliis 
writer,"  says  Campbell,  "left  four  or  five 
dramatic  pieces,  of  very  ordinary  merit.     He 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

The  date  of  birth  and  death  unknown. 
This  poet  exhibits  a  graceful  fancy,  and  one 
of  his  plays,  "A  Woman  killed  with  Kind- 
ness," is  among  the  most  touching  of  this 
X)eriod. — Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


GEORGE  SANDYS. 

George  Sandys,  born  1577,  died  1643.  A 
traveller  and  poet.  He  was  the  youngest 
son  of  the  Archbisliop  of  York.  His  "  Travels 
in  the  East,"  and  his  translation  of  0\T.d's 
"  Metamorphoses,"  wore  very  popular.  Pro- 
fessor Spalding  says  that  these  translations 
"  are  poetically  pleasing,  and  they  have  a 
merit  in  diction  and  versification  which  has 
been  acknowledged  thankfully  by  later  writers . ' ' 
— See  R.  Aris  Willmott's  "  Lives  of  the 
Sacred  Poets,"  i. 


SIDNEY  GODOLPHIN. 

Sidney  Godolphin,  born  1610,  died  1642. 
He  was  a  native  of  Cornwall,  and  the  brother 
of  the  treasurer  Godolphin,  and  flourished  and 
perished  in  the  Civil  wars.  Lord  Clarendon 
praised  him  highly.  He  wrote  several 
original  poems  and  translations  of  the  "  Lives 
of  Dido  and  Ji]neas,"  from  Virgil,  1358. — 
Campbell's  "Specimens";  Hobbes's  " Levia- 
than." 


WILLIAM  WARNER. 

William  Warner,  born  1558,  died  1609,  was 
a  native  of  Oxfordshire,  an  attorney  of  the 
Common  Pleas,  and  the  author  of  "Albion's 
England."  This  poem,  published  in  1586,  is 
a  history  of  England  from  the  Deluge  to  the 
reign  of  James  I.  It  supplanted  iif  popular 
favour  the  "  Mirror  for  Magistrates."  The 
style  of  the  work  was  much  admired  in  its 
day,  and  Meres,  in  his  "Wit's  Treasury," 
says,  that  by  Warner's  pen  the  English  tongue 
was  "  mightily  enriched  and  gorgeously  in- 
vested in  rare  ornaments  and  resplendent 
habiliments."  The  tales  are  chiefly  of  a 
merry  cast,  and  many  of  them  indecent. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


GEOEGE  CHAPMAN. 

George  Chapman,  born  1557,  died  1634, 
a  native  of  Hitching-  Hill,  in  the  county  of 
Hertford,  and  studied  at  Oxford.  From 
thence  he  repaired  to  London,  and  became 
the  friend  of  Shakspere,  Spenser,  Daniel, 
Marlowe,  and  other  contemporaiy  men  of 
genius.  He  was  patronised  by  Prince  Henry, 
and  Carr,  Earl  of  Somerset.  The  death  of 
the  one,  and  the  disgrace  of  the  other,  must 
have  injured  his  prospects  ;  but  he  is  supposed 
to  have  had  some  place  at  court,  either  under 
King  James  or  his  consort  Anno.  He  lived 
to  an  advanced  ago  ;  and,  according  to  Wood, 
was  a  person  of  reverend  aspect,  religioiTS,  and 
temperate.  Inigo  Jones,  with  whom  he  lived 
on  terms  of  intimate  friendship,  planned  and 
erected  a  monument  to  his  memory  over 
his  burial-place,  on  the  south  side  of  St. 
Giles's  church  in  the  fields  ;  but  it  was 
unfortunately  destroyed  with  the  ancient 
church. 

Chapman  seems  to  have  been  a  favourite  of 
his  own  times  ;  and  in  a  subsequent  age,  his 
version  of  Homer  excited  the  raptures  of 
Waller,  and  was  diligenfly  consulted  by  Pope. 
The  latter  speaks  of  its  daring  fire,  though  ho 
owns  that  it  is  clouded  by  fustian.  Webster, 
his  fellow  dramatist,  praises  his  "full  and 
heightened  style,"  a  character  which  he  does 
not  deserve  in  any  favourable  sense ;  for  his 
diction  is  chiefly  marked  by  barbarous  rugged- 
noss,  false  elevation,  and  extravagant  meta- 
phor. The  drama  owes  him  very  little ;  his 
"  Bussy  D'Ambois  "  is  a  piece  of  frigid  atro- 
city, and  ia  the  '•  Widow's  Tears,"  where  his 
heroine  Cynthia  falls  in  love  with  a  sentinel 
gfuarding  the  corpse  of  her  husband,  whom 
she  was  bitterly  lamenting,  he  has  dramatised 
one  of  the  most  puerile  and  disgusting  legends 
ever  fabricated  for  the  disparagement  of 
female  constancy.  See  Campbell's  "  Speci- 
mens," p.  130 ;  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit.";  Warton's  "Hist.  Eng.  Poetry"; 
Langbaine's  "  Dramat.  Poets." 


EICHAED  ALLISON. 

Scarcely  anything  is  known  of  this  writer. 
He  published, in  1590,  "A  Plaine  Confutation 
of  a  Treatise  of  Brownism,  entitled,  A 
Description  of  the  Visible  Church."  "  An 
Houre's  Eecreation  in  Musicke,  apt  for  In- 
struments and  Voyces,"  appeared  in  1606. 


EOBEET  BUETON. 

Eobert  Burton,  born  1576,  died  1640.  "  In 
every  nation,"  says  Shaw,  "there  may  be 
found  a  small  number  of  writers  who,  in  their 


life,  in  the  objects  of  their  studies,  and  in  the 
form  and  manner  of  their  productions,  bear  a 
peculiar _  stamp  of  eccentricity.  No  country 
has  been  more  prolific  in  such  excejitional  m.- 
dividualities  than  England,  and  no  age  than 
the  sixteenth  century.  There  cannot  be  a 
more  striking  example  of  this^small  but 
curious  class  than  old  Eobert  Burton,  whose 
life  and  writings  are  equally  odd.  His 
personal  history  was  that  of  a  retired  and 
laborious  scholar,  and  his  principal  work,  the 
'  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,'  is  a  strange  com- 
bination of  the  most  extensive  and  out-of-the- 
way  reading,  with  just  observation  raid  a 
peculiar  kind  of  grave  saturnine  humour.  Tlie 
object  of  the  writer  was  to  give  a  complete 
monograph  of  Melancholy,  and  to  point  out 
its  causes,  its  symptoms,  its  treatment,  and 
its  cure  :  but  the  descriptions  given  of  the 
various  phases  of  the  disease  are  written  m 
so  curious  and  pedantic  a  style,  accompanied 
with  such  an  infinity  of  quaint  observation, 
and  illustrated  by  such  a  mass  of  quotations 
from  a  crowd  of  authors,  principally  the 
medical  writers  of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
centuries,  of  whom  not  one  reader  in  a  thou- 
sand in  the  present  day  has  ever  heard,  that 
the  '  Anatomy '  possesses  a  charm  which  no 
one  can  resist  who  has  once  fallen  under  its 
fascination. 

"  The  enormous  amount  of  curious 
quotation  with  which  Burton  has  incrusted 
every  paragraph  and  almost  every  line  of  his 
work  has  rendered  him  the  favourite  study  of 
those  who  wish  to  appear  learned  at  a  small 
expense  ;  and  liis  pages  have  served  as  a 
quarry  from  which  a  multitude  of  authors 
have  borrowed,  and  often  ^vithout  acknow- 
ledgement, much  of  their  materials,  as  the 
great  Eoman  feudal  famiUes  plundered  the 
Coliseum  to  construct  their  frowning  fortress- 
palaces. 

"  The  greater  part  of  Burton's  la- 
borious  life  was  passed  in  the  University  of 
Oxford,  where  he  died,  not  without  suspicion 
of  having  hastened  his  own  end,  in  order  that 
it  might  exactly  correspond  with  the  astrolo- 
gical predictions  which  he  is  said,  being  a  firm 
believer  in  that  science,  to  have  drawn  from 
his  own  horoscope.  He  is  related  to  have 
been  himself  a.  victim  to  that  melancholy 
which  he  has  so  minutely  described,  and  his 
tomb  bears  the  astrological  scheme  of  his  own 
nativity,  and  an  inscription  eminently  charac- 
teristic of  the  man :  '  Hie  jacet  Democritua 
junior,  cui  vitam  dedit  et  mortem  Melan- 
cholia.' "—{Hist,  of  Eng.  Lit.,  p.  106,  107.) 
Prefixed  to  the  "Anatomy"  ia  a  poem  of 
twelve  stanzas  on  Melancholy,  from  which 
Milton  borrowed  some  of  the  imagery  of 
II  Penseroso  ;  and  Dr.  Ferriar,  of  Manchester, 
created  some  sensation  in  1798,  by  showing 
that  Sterne  had  copied  passages  verbatim, 
■vvithout  acknowledgement.  —  Dr.  Angus's 
"  Handbook  of  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  Allibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


TThird  Pekiod. — 


NATHANIEL  FIELD. 

Nathaniel  Field,  in  the  reigns  of  James  I. 
and  Charles  I.,  wrote  "A  Woman  is  a 
Weathercock,"  1612  ;  "Amends  for  Ladies," 
1618.     Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER. 

William  Alexander,  Earl  of  Sterline,  bom 
1580,  died  1640.  "William  Alexander,  of 
Menstrie,  travelled  on  the  Continent  as  tutor 
to  the  Earl  of  Argyll ;  and  after  his  return 
to  his  native  country  (Scotland),  having  in 
vain  solicited  a  mistress,  whom  he  celebrates 
in  his  poetry  by  the  name  of  Aurora,  he 
married  the  daugliter  of  Sir  William  Erskine. 
Having  repaired  to  the  court  of  James  L,  he 
obtained  the  notice  of  the  monarch,  was  ap- 
pointed gentleman  usher  to  Prince  Charles, 
and  was  knighted  by  James.  Both  of  those 
sovereigns  patronized  his  scheme  for  colonizing 
Nova  Scotia,  of  which  the  latter  made  him 
lord-lieutenant.  Charles  I.  created  him  Earl 
of  Sterline  in  1633,  and  for  ten  years  he  held 
the  office  of  secretary  of  state  for  Scotland, 
with  the  praise  of  moderation,  in  times  that 
were  rendered  peculiarly  trying  by  the 
struggles  of  Laud  against  the  Scottish  Pres- 
byterians. He  ^vrote  some  very  heavy 
tragedies ;  but  there  is  elegance  of  expression 
in  a  few  of  his  shorter  pieces." — (CcunphelVs 
Specimens,  p.  158.)  Walpole  says  of  this 
author,  that  he  was  greatly  superior  to  the 
style  of  his  age.  Pinkerton  calls  "The 
Paraenesis  "  a  noble  poem.  Dr.  Drake,  refer- 
ing  to  his  tragedies,  states  that  although 
these  pieces  are  not  calculated  for  the  stage, 
still  they  include  some  admirable  lessons  for 
sovereign  power,  and  several  choruses  written 
with  no  small  share  of  poetic  vigour.  Dr. 
Anderson  considers  his  "  Paraenesis "  and 
*' Aurora"  almost  classical  performances,  and 
well  meriting  publication. — Allibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  Chambers's  '.'  Cyc.  Eng. 
Lit." 


THOMAS  STORER. 

Thomas  Storer  died  1604.  The  birth  of  this 
poet  is  unknown.  We,  however,  find  him 
elected  a  student  of  Christchurch,  Oxford,  in 
1587.  Wood  says  he  was  the  son  of  John 
Storer,  a  Londoner,  and  that  he  died  in  the 
metropolis.  He  wrote  the  "  History  of  Car- 
dinal Wolsey,"  and  several  pastoral  pieces  in 
"  England's  HeHcon."     See  Campbell's  "  Spe- 


CHARLES  FITZGEFFREY. 

All  we  know  is  given  by  Campbell,  who  says 
he  was  rector  of  St.  Dominic,  Cornwall,  and 
died  in  1636. 


JOHN  DOWLAND. 

John  Dowland,  died  1615.  An  English 
musician,  published  several  musical  treatises, 
amongst  which  was  a  translation  of  Ornitha- 
phareus's  "  Micrologus  ;  or.  Art  of  Singing," 
fol.  1609,  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


EDWARD  VERE,  EARL  OF  OXFORD. 

Edward  Vere,  Earl  of  Oxford,  born  1534, 
died  1604,  the  author  of  some  verses  in  the 
"  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices."  He  sat  as 
Great  Chamberlain  of  England  upon  the  trial 
of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  The  foUov/ing  from 
Disraeli  is  of  interest : — 

"It  is  an  odd  circumstance  in  literary  re- 
search that  I  am  enabled  to  correct  a  story 
which  was  written  about  1680.  The  '  Aubrey 
Papers,'  recently  published  -with  singular 
faithfulness,  retaining  all  their  peculiarities, 
even  to  the  grossest  errors,  were  memoranda 
for  the  use  of  Anthony  Wood's  great  work. 
But  beside  these,  the  Oxford  antiquary  had  a 
very  extensive  literary  correspondence ;  and 
it  is  known,  that  when  speechless  and  dying 
he  evinced  the  fortitude  to  call  in  two  friends 
to  destroy  a  vast  multitude  of  papers  :  about 
two  bushels  full  were  ordered  for  the  fires 
lighted  for  the  occasion  ;  and,  '  as  he  was  ex- 
piring, he  expressed  both  his  knowledge  and 
approbation  of  what  was  done,  by  throwing 
out  his  hands.'  These  two  bushels  full  were 
not,  however,  all  his  papers  ;  his  more  private 
ones  he  had  ordered  not  to  be  opened  for 
seven  years.  I  suspect  also,  that  a  great  I 
number  of  letters  were  not  burnt  on  this 
occasion  ;  for  I  have  discovered  a  manuscript 
written  about  1720  to  1730,  and  which,  the 
writer  tells  us,  consists  of  '  Excerpts  out  of 
Anthony  Wood's  papers.'  It  is  closely 
written,  and  contains  many  curious  facts  not 
to  be  found  elsewhere.  These  papers  of 
Anthony  Wood  probably  still  exist  in  the 
Ashmolean  Museum  :  should  they  have 
perished,  in  that  case  this  solitary  manuscript 
will  be  the  sole  record  of  many  interesting 
particulars. 

"  By  these  I  correct  a  little  story  which 
may  be  found  in  the  'Aubrey  Papers,'  vol. 
iii.  395.  It  is  an  account  of  one  Nicholas 
Hill,  a  man  of  great  learning,  and  in  the  high 
confidence  of  a  remarkable  and  munificent 
Earl  of  Oxford,  travelling  with  him  abroad. 
I  transcribe  the  printed  Aubi-ey  account. 

"  '.In  his  travels  with  his  lord  (I  forget 
whether  Italy  or  Germany,  but  I  think  the 
former),  a  poor  man  begged  him  to  give  him 
a  penny.  "  A  penny  ! "  said  Mr.  Hill ;  "  what 
dost  say  to  ten  pounds?"  —  "Ah  !  ten 
pounds,"  said  the  beggar  ;  "  that  would  make 
a  man  happy."  Mr.  Hill  gave  him  im- 
mediately ten  pounds,  and  putt  it  downe  upoA 
\  account : — "  Item,  to  a  heg<jar  ten  pounds  to 


From  1558  to  1649.1 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


hiake  him  happy  I'  "  The  point  of  this  story- 
lias  been  marred  in  the  telling  :  it  was  drawn 
up  from  the  following  letter  by  Aubrey  to 
A.  Wood,  dated  July  15,  1680.  'A  poor  man 
asked  Mr.  Hill,  his  lordship's  steward,  once  to 
give  him  sixpence,  or  a  shilling,  for  an  alms. 
"  What  dost  say  if  I  give  thee  ten  pounds  ?  " 
— "Ten  pounds!  that  would  tiialce  a  man  of 
me ! "  Hill  gave  it  him,  and  put  down  in  his 
account,  "Item,  d810  for  maldng  a  man," 
which  his  lordship  inquiring  about  for  the 
oddness  of  the  expression,  not  only  allowed, 
but  was  pleased  with  it.' 

"  This  philosophical  humourist  was  the 
steward  of  Edward  Vere,  Earl  of  Oxford,  in 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Tliis  peer  was  a 
person  of  elegant  accomplishments  ;  and  Lord 
Orford,  in  his  '  Noble  Authors,'  has  given  a 
higher  character  of  him  than  perhaps  he  may 
deserve.  He  was  of  the  highest  rank,  in 
great  favour  with  the  queen,  and,  in  the  style 
of  the  day,  when  all  our  fashions  and  our 
poetry  were  moulding  themselves  on  the 
Italian  model,  he  was  the  '  Mu-rour  of  Tus- 
canismo ; '  and,  in  a  word,  this  coxcombical 
peer,  after  seven  years'  residence  in  Florence, 
returned  highly  '  Italianated.'  The  ludicrous 
motive  of  this  peregrination  is  given  in  the 
present  manuscript  account.  Haughty  of 
his  descent  and  alliance,  irritable  with  efre- 
minate  delicacy  and  personal  vanity,  a  little 
circumstance  almost  too  minute  to  be  recorded, 
inflicted  such  an  injurj'-  on  his  pride,  that  in 
his  mind  it  required  years  of  absence  from  the 
court  of  England  ere  it  could  be  forgotten. 
Once  making  a  lov/  obeisance  to  the  queen, 
before  the  whole  court,  this  stately  and  in- 
flated peer  suffered  a  mischance,  which  has 
happened,  it  is  said,  on  a  like  occasion — it 
was  '  light  as  air ! '  But  this  accident  so 
sensibly  hurt  his  mawkish  dehcacy,  and  so 
humbled  his  aristocratic  dignity,  that  he 
could  not  raise  his  eyes  on  his  roj'al  mistress. 
He  resolved  from  that  day  to  '  be  a  banished 
man,'  and  resided  for  seven  years  in  Italy, 
li\-ing  in  more  grandeur  at  Florence  than  the 
Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany.  He  spent  in  those 
years  forty  thousand  pounds.  On  his  return 
he  presented  the  queen  with  embroidered 
gloves  and  perfumes,  then  for  the  first  time 
introduced  into  England,  as  Stowe  has  noticed. 
Part  of  the  presents  seem  to  have  some 
reference  to  the  Earl's  former  mischance. 
The  queen  received  them  graciously,  and  was 
even  painted  wearing  those  gloves  ;  but  my 
authority  states,  that  the  masculine  sense  of 
Elizabeth  could  not  abstain  from  congratu- 
lating the  noble  coxcomb ;  perceiving,  she 
said,  that  at  length  my  lord  had  forgot  the 
mentioning  the  little  mischance  of  seven  years 
ago ! 

"  This  peer's  munificence  abroad  was  indeed 
the  talk  of  Europe  ;  but  the  secret  motive  of 
this  was  as  wicked  as  that  of  his  travels  had 
been  ridiculous.  This  Earl  of  Oxford  had 
married  the  daughter  of  Lord  Burleigh,   and 


when  this  great  statesman  would  not  consent 
to  save  the  life  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  the 
friend  of  this  earl,  he  swore  to  revenge  him- 
self on  the  countess,  out  of  hatred  to  his 
father-in-law.  He  not  only  forsook  her,  but 
stTidied  every  means  to  waste  that  great  in- 
heritance which  had  descended  to  him  from 
his  ancestors.  Secret  history  often  startles 
us  with  unexpected  discoveries  :  the  personal 
afiectations  of  this  earl  induced  him  to  quit  a 
court,  where  he  stood  in  the  highest  favour, 
to  domesticate  himself  abroad ;  and  a  family 
pique  was  the  secret  motive  of  that  splendid 
prodigality  which,  at  Florence,*  could  throw 
into  shade  the  court  of  Tuscany  itself." 


SIR  THOMAS  OVERBURY. 

*'  Sir  Thomas  Overbury  was  born  in  1581, 
and  perished  in  the  Tov»'er  of  London,  1613, 
by  a  fate  that  is  too  well  known.  The  com- 
passion of  the  public  for  a  man  of  worth, 
'  Avhose  spirit  still  walked  unrevenged  amongst 
them,'  together  with  the  contrast  of  his  ideal 
wife  with  the  Countess  of  Essex,  v/ho  was  his 
murderess,  attached  an  interest  and  popularity 
to  his  poem,  and  made  it  pass  through  sixteen 
editions  before  the  year  165o.  His  '  Cha- 
racters, or  Witty  Descriptions  of  the  Properties 
of  sundry  Persons,'  is  a  work  of  considerable 
merit ;  but  unfortunately  his  prose,  as  well  as 
his  verse,  has  a  dryness  and  quaintness  that 
seem  to  oppress  the  natural  movement  of  his 
thoughts.  As  a  poet,  he  has  few  imposing 
attractions :  his  beauties  must  be  fetched  by 
repeated  perusal.  They  are  those  of  solid 
reflection,  predominating  over,  but  not  extin- 
guishing, sensibility ;  and  there  is  danger  of 
the  reader  neglecting,  under  the  coldness  and 
ruggedness  of  his  manner,  the  manly  but  un- 
ostentatious moral  feeling  that  is  conveyed  in 
his  maxims,  which  are  sterling  and  liberal,  if 
we  can  only  pardon  a  few  obsolete  ideas  on 
female  education." — (Campbell's  Specimens, 
p.  74.)  How  charming  is  the  following  de- 
scription by  Overbury  : — 

"  A  fair  and  happ^''  milkmaid  is  a  country 
wench,  that  is  so  far  from  making  herself 
beautiful  by  art,  that  one  look  of  hers  is  able 
to  put  all  face-physic  out  of  countenance. 
She  knows  a  fair  look  is  but  a  dumb  orator  to 
commend  virtue ;  therefore  minds  it  not.  All 
her  excellencies  stand  in  her  so  silently,  as  if 
they  had  stolen  upon  her  without  her  know- 
ledge. The  lining  of  her  apparel,  which  is 
herself,  is  far  better  than  outsides  of  tissue  ; 
for  though  she  be  not  arrayed  in  the  spoil  of 
the  silkworm,  she  is  decked  in  innocence, — a 
far  better  wearing.  She  doth  not,  with  lying 
long  in  bed,  spoil  both  her  complexion  and 
conditions.  Nature  hath  taught  her,  too,  im- 
moderate sleep  is  rust  to  the  soul ;  she  rises 
therefore  with  Chanticlcre,  her  dame's  cock, 
and  at  night  makes  the  lambs  her  curfew.    In 


BIOGBAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Third  Period. 


milking  a  cow,  and  straining  the  teats  through 
her  fingers,  it  seems  that  so  SAveet  a  milk- 
press  makes  the  milk  whiter  or  sweeter ;  for 
never  came  almond-glore  or  aromatic  oint- 
ment on  her  palm  to  taint  it.  Tlie  golden 
ears  of  corn  fall  and  kiss  her  feet  when  she 
reaps  them,  as  if  they  wished  to  be  bound 
and  led  prisoners  by  the  same  hand  that  felled 
them.  Her  breath  is  her  own,  which  scents 
all  the  year  long  of  June,  like  a  new  made 
haycock.  She  makes  her  hand  hard  with 
labour,  and  her  heart  soft  with  pity  ;  and 
when  winter  evenings  fall  early,  sitting  at  her 
merry  wheel,  *she  sings  defiance  to  the  giddy 
wheel  of  fortune.  She  doth  aU  things  with 
so  sweet  a  grace,  it  seems  ignorance  will  not 
suffer  her  to  do  ill,  being  her  mind  is  to  do 
well.  She  bestows  her  year's  wages  at  next 
fair,  and  in  choosing  her  garments,  counts  no 
bravery  in  the  world  like  decency.  The 
garden  and  beehive  are  all  her  own  physic 
and  surgery,  and  she  lives  the  longer  for  it. 
She  dares  go  alono  and  unfold  sheep  in  the 
night,  and  fears  no  manner  of  ill,  because  she 
means  none ;  yet,  to  say  truth,  she  is  never 
alone,  but  is  still  accompanied  with  old  songs, 
honest  thoughts,  and  prayers,  but  short  ones  ; 
yet  they  have  their  efficacy,  in  that  the.y  are 
not  palled  with  ensuing  idle  cogitations. 
Lastly,  her  dreams  are  so  chaste,  that  she 
dare  tell  them :  only  a  Friday's  dream  is  all 
her  superstition  ;  that  she  conceals  for  fear  of 
anger.  Thus  lives  she,  and  all  her  care  is, 
she  may  die  in  the  si)ring-time  to  have  store 
of  flowers  stuck  upon  her  winding-sheet." 


RICHARD  NICCOLS. 

Richard  Niccols,  born  1584.  He  contributed 
to  the  "Mirror  for  Magistrates,"  which  was 
carried  on  by  Churchyard,  Drayton,  and  others. 
He  wrote  the  "  Cuckoo,"  in  imitation  of 
Drayton'3  "  Owl,"  and  a  drama,  "  The 
j  TAv^Tincs'  Tragedy,"  Wood  says  he  was  a 
Londoner,  that  he  studied  at  Oxford,  and 
obtained  some  congenial  employment.  Camp- 
bell's "Specimens." 


FRANCIS  DAVISON. 

Francis  Davison,  son  of  William  Davison, 
an  eminent  statesm.an  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth. 
He  wrote  several  pieces  in  the  "  Poetical 
Rhapsody."  This  collection  contains  poems  by 
Walter  Davison,  Sir  John  Davios,  Sir  Philip 
Sydney,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke,  Spencer,  Sir  H.  Walton,  Donne, 
Greene,  and  others.  "How  say  you,  reader? 
Is  not  the  above  a  glorious  pageant  of  poets  ? 
Does  not  the  mere  enumeration  of  them  beget 
in  thee  a  longing  to  explore  the  pages  which 
contain  their  bright  thoughts  and  tuneful 
lines?" — See  AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit.";   Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


SIMON  WASTALL. 

Bom  in  Westmoreland  about  1560 
about  1630. 


died 


TEIED    PEEIOD, 


From  1558  to  1649. 


96.  — THE  rtsTDUCTION  TO  THE  COM- 
PLAINT OF  HENEY,  DUKE  OE  BUCK- 
INGHAM. 

The  ^v^athf^lll  winter  procMuge  on  a  pace, 
With  blustring  blastes  had  al  ybared  the  treen, 
And  olde  Satnrnns  -^vith  his  frosty  face 
With   chilling   colde   had   pearst   the  tender 

g^reen ; 
The  mantels  rent,  wherein  enwrapped  been 
The   gladsom   groves   that   nowe   laye   over- 

throwen, 
The    tapets    tome,    and    every  blome  down 

blovren. 

The'soyle  that  erst  so  seemly  was  to  seen, 
Was  all  despoyled  of  her  beauties  hewe ; 
And  soot  freshe  flowers  (where  with  the  som- 

mers  qtieen 
Had  clad  the  eai-th)  now  Boreas  blastes  downo 

blewe 
And  small  fowles  flocking,  in  their  song  did 

rewo 
The  Avintors  -wrath,  wher  with  eche  thing  de- 

fa.ste 
In  woful  wise  bewayled  the  sommer  past. 

Hawthorne  had  lost  his  motley  lyverye 
The  naked  twigges  were  shivering  all  for  colde  ; 
And  dropping  downe  the  teares  abundantly  ; 
Eche  thing  (me  thought)  with  weping  eye  me 

tolde 
The  crueU  season,  bidding  me  witholde 
My  selfe  within,  for  I  was  gotten  out 
Into  the  feldes  whereas  I  walkte  about. 

When  loe  the  night  with  mistie  mantels  spred. 
Can  darke  the  daye,  and  dim  the  azure  skyes, 
And  Venus  in  her  message  Hermes  sped 
To  bLuddy  Ma^rs,  to  Avyl  him  not  to  ryse,  _ 
Wliile  she  her  selfe  approcht  in  speedy  wise  ; 
And  Virgo  hiding  her  disdainful  brest 
With  Thetis  now  had  layd  her  downe  to  rest. 

Whiles  Scorpio  dreading  Sagittarius  dart. 
Whose  bowe  prest  bent  in  sight,  the  string 

had  slypt, 
Downe  slyd  into  tlie  ocean  flud  aparte, 
The  Boare  that  in  the  Iryshe  seas  had  dipt 
His  griesly  feetc,  with  speode  from  thence  he 

whypt ; 
For  Thetis  hasting  from  the  Virgines  bed 
Pursued  the  Bear,  that  ear  she  came  was  fled. 


And  PhaBton  nowe  neare  reaching  to  his  race 
With    glistering    beames,    gold    streamynge 

where  they  bent 
Was  prest  to  enter  in  his  resting  place. 
Crythius  that  in  the  carte  fyrste  went 
Had  even  now  attaynde  his  journeys  stent 
And  fast  declining  hid  away  his  head, 
While  Titan  couched  him  in  his  purple  bed. 

And  pale  Cinthea  with  her  borrowed  light 
Beginning  to  supply  her  brothers  place. 
Was  past  the  noonsteede  syre  degrees  in  sight. 
When  sparkling  starres  amyd  the  heavens  face 
With  twinkling  light  sheen  on  the  earth  apace, 
That   whyle   they  brought  about  the  nightes 

chare 
The  darke  had  dimmed  the  day  ear  I  was  ware. 

And  sorowing  I  to  see  the  sommer  flowers 
The  livly  greene,  the  lusty  leas  forlorne, 
The  sturdy  trees  so  shattered  with  the  showers, 
The  fields  so  fade  that  floorisht  so  beforne 
It  taught  me  wel  all  earthly  thinges  bo  borne 
To  dye  the  death,  for  nought  long  time  may 

last; 
The  sommers  beauty  yeeldcs  to  winters  blast. 

Then  looking  upward  to  the  heavens  leames 
With  nightes    starres    thick   powdred   every 

where, 
Which    erst    so    glistened    with    the   golden 

streames 
That   chearefull  Phebus   spread  downe  from 

his  sphere,  * 

Beholding  darke  oppressing  day  so  neare  : 
The  sodayne  sight  reduced  to  my  minde 
The  sundry  chaungcs  that  in  earth  we  fynde. 

That  musing  on  this  worldly  wealth  in  thought, 
Which  comes  and  goes  more  faster  than  we  see 
The   flyckering   flame   that   with   the  fyer  is 

wrought. 
My  busie  minde  presented  unto  me 
Such  fall  of  pieres  as  in  this  realme  had  be  : 
That  ofte  I  wisht  some  would  their  woes  de- 

scryve. 
To  warne  the  rest  whom  fortune  left  alive. 

And  strayt  forth  stalking  with  redoubled  pace 
For  that  I  sawe  the  night  drewe  on  so  fast, 
In  blacke  all  clad  there  fell  before  my  face 
A  piteous  vvdght,  whom  woe  had  al  forwastc, 


Thoma-S  Sackville.1 


ALLEGOEICAL  PERSONAGES. 


[Third  Period. 


Furth  from  her  iyeu  the  cristall  teares  oiit- 

brast, 
And  syghinjj  sore  her  handes  she  wrong  and 

folde. 
Tare  al  her  heare,  that  ruth  was  to  beholde. 

Her  body  small  forwithered  and  forespent, 
As  is  the  stalk  that  sommers  drought  opprest ; 
Her  wealked  face  ^vith  wof ul  teares  besprent, 
Her  colour  pale,  and  (as  it  seemd  her  best) 
In  woe  and  playnt  reposed  was  her  rest. 
And  as  the  stone  that  droppes  of  water  weares  ; 
So  dented  wher  her  cheekes  with  fall  of  teares. 

Her  iyes  swollen  with  flowing  streames  aflote, 
Wherewith   her   lookes   thro  wen   up   full  pi- 

teouslie, 
Her  forceles  handes  together  ofte  she  smote, 
With  doleful  shrikes,  that  echoed  in  the  skye  : 
Whose  playnt  such  sighes  dyd  strayt  accom- 
pany, 
That  in  my  doome  was  never  man  did  see 
A  Avight  but  halfe  so  woe  begon  as  she. 

Thomas  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset— About  1563. 


97.— ALLEGOEICAL  PERSONAGES  DE- 
SCRIBED IN  HELL. 

And  first,  within  the  porch  and  jaws  of  hell, 
Sat  deep  Remorse  of  Conscience,  all  besprent 
With  tears  ;  and  to  herself  oft  would  she  tell 
Her  MT.'etchednes.s,  and,  cursing,  never  stent 
To  sob  and  sigh,  but  ever  thus  lament 
With  thoughtful  care  ;  as  she  that,  all  in  vain, 
Would  wear  and  waste  continually  in  pain  : 

Her  eyes  unstedfast,  rolling  here  and  there, 
Whirl' d  on  each  place,  as  place  that  vengeance 

brought, 
So  v/as  her  mind  continually  in  fear. 
Tost  and  tormented  with  the  tedious  thought 
Of    those   devested    crimes    which    she    had 

wrought ; 
With  dreadful  cheer,  and  looks  thrown  to  the 

Wishing  for  death,  and  yet  she  could  not  die. 

Next,    saw   avc   Dread,  all  trembling  how  he 

shook. 
With  foot  uncertain,  profer'd  here  and  there  ; 
Benumb' d  Avith  speech;  and,  with  a  ghastly 

look, 
Searched  every  place,  all  pale  and  dead  for  fear. 
His  cap  borne  up  with  staring  of  his  hair ; 
'Stoin'd  and  amazed  at  his  own  shade  for  dread, 
And  fearing  greater  dangers  than  was  need. 

And,  next,  within  the  entry  of  this  lake, 
Sat  fell  Revenge,  gnashing  her  teeth  for  ire  ; 
Deviai&g  means  how  she  may  vengeance  take  : 
Never  in  rest,  'till  she  have  her  desire  ; 
But  frets  within  so  far  forth  with  the  fire 
Of  wreaking  flames',  that  now  determines  she 
To  die  by  death,  or  "veng'd  by  death  to  be. 


When  fell  Revenge,  with  bloody  foul  pretence, 
Had  show' d 'herself,  as  next  in  order  set. 
With  trembling  limbs  we  softly  parted  thence, 
'Till  in  our  eyes  another  sight  we  met ; 
When  fro  my  heart  a  sigh  forthwith  I  fet, 
Ruing,  alas,  upon  the  woeful  plight 
Of  Misery,  that  next  appeared  in  sight : 

His  face  was  lean,  and  some-deal  pin'd  away, 
And  eke  his  hands  consumed  to  the  bone  ; 
But,  what  his  body  was,  I  cannot  say. 
For  on  his  carcase  raiment  had  he  none. 
Save  clouts  and  patches  pieced  one  by  one ; 
With  staff  in  hand,  and  scrip  on  shoulders  cast, 
His  chief  defence  against  the  winter's  blast : 

His  food,  for  most,  was  wild  fruits  of  the  tree. 
Unless    sometime   some    crumbs   fell   to    his 

share, 
Which  in  his  wallet  long,  God  wot,  kept  he, 
As  on  the  which  full  daint'ly  would  he  fare  ; 
His  drink,  the  running  stream,  his  cup,  the  bare 
Of  his   palm   closed;  his  bed,  the  hard  cold 

ground : 
To  this  poor  life  was  Misery  y bound. 

Whose  wretched  state  when  wo  had  well  be- 
held. 
With  tender  ruth  on  him,  and  on  his  feers, 
In  thoughtful   cares  forth  then  our  pace  we 

held ; 
And,  by  and  by,  another  shape  appears 
Of  greedy  Care,  still  brushing  up  the  briers ; 
His  knuckles  knob'd,  his  flesh  deep  dinted  in, 
AVith  tawed  hands,  and  hard  ytanned  skin. 

j   The  morrow  grey  no  sooner  hath  begun 
I    To  spread  his  light  e'en  peeping  in  our  eyes, 
i   But  he  is  up,  and  to  his  work  jrnn ; 
But  let  the  night's  black  misty  mantles  rise. 
And  with  foul  dark  never  so  much  disguise 
The  fair  bright  day,  yet  ceaseth  he  no  while, 
But  hath  his  candles  to  prolong  his  toil. 

By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  the  cousin  of  Death, 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone, 
A  very  corpse,  save  yielding  forth  a  breath  ; 
Small  keep  took  he,  whom  fortune  frowned  on, 
Or  whom  she  lifted  up  into  the  throne 
Of  high  renown,  but,  as  a  living  death. 
So  dead  alive,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath  : 

The  body's  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart. 
The  travel's  ease,  the  still  night's  feer  was  he. 
And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part : 
Riever  of  sight,  and  j^et  in  whom  we  see 
Things  oft  that  [tyde]  and  oft  that  never  be ; 
Without  respect,  esteem[ing]  equally 
King  Crffisus'  pomp  and  Irus'  jioverty. 

And  next  in  order  sad.  Old- A  go  we  found ; 
His  beard  all  hoar,  his  eyes  hollow  and  blind ; 
With    drooping    cheer    still    poring    on    the 

ground, 
As  on  the  place  where  nature  him  assign'd 
To  rest,  v.-hon  that  the  sisters  had  untAvir.'<i 


From  1558  to  1G49.]       ALLEGOEICAL  PERSONAGES  DESCRIBED.  [Thomas  Sackville. 


His  vital  thread,  and  ended  with  their  knife 
The  fleeting  course  of  fast  declining  life  : 

There  heard  vro  him  with  broke  and  hollow 
plaint 

Rue  with  himself  his  end  approaching  fast, 

And  all  for  nought  his  -vvi-etched  mind  tor- 
ment 

With  sweet  remembrance  of  his  pleasures 
past. 

And  fresh  delights  of  lusty  youth  forewaste  ; 

Recounting  which,  how  would  he  sob  and 
shriek. 

And  to  be  young  again  of  Jove  bcseek  ! 

But,  an  the  cruel  fates  so  fixed  be 
That  time  forepast  cannot  return  again, 
This  one  request  of  Jove  yet  prayed  he, — 
That,   in  such  wither' d  plight,  and  wretched 

pain, 
As  eld,  accompany'd  with  her  loathsome  train. 
Had  brought  on  him,  all  were  it  woe  and  grief 
He  might  a  while  yet  linger  forth  his  life. 

And  not  so  soon  descend  into  the  pit ; 
Where  Death,  when  he  the  mortal  corpse  hath 

slain. 
With  reckless  hand  in  grave  doth  cover  it : 
Thereafter  never  to  enjoy  again 
The  gladsome  light,  but,  in  the  ground  ylain. 
In   depth   of    darkness   waste    and   wear  to 

nought. 
As  he  had  ne'er  into  the  world  been  brought  : 

But  who  had  seen  him  sobbing  how  he  stood 
Unto  himself,  and  how  he  would  bemoan 
His  youth  forepast — as  though  it  wrought  him 

good 
To  talk  of  youth,  all  were  his  youth   fore- 
gone— 
He  would  have  mused,  and   marvel' d   much 

whereon 
This  wretched  Age  should  life  desire  so  fain, 
And  knows  full  well  life  doth  but  length  his 
pain : 

Crook-back'd  he  was,  tooth-shaken,  and  blcai- 

eyed ; 
Went  on  three  feet,   and  sometime  crept  on 

four ; 
With  old  lame  bones,  that  rattled  by  his  side  ; 
His  scalp  all  pil'd,  and  he  with  eld  forelore, 
His  wither' d    fist  still  knocking   at  death's 

door; 
Fumbling,    and   driveling,    as   he  draws  his 

breath ; 
For  brief,  the  shape  and  messenger  of  Death. 

And  fast  by  him  pale  Malady  was  placed  : 
Sore  sick  in  bed,  her  colour  all  foregone ; 
Bereft  of  stomach,  savour,  and  of  taste, 
Ne  could  she  brook  no  meat  but  broths  alone  ; 
Her  breath  corrupt ;  her  keepers  every  one 
Abhorring  hnr  ;  her  sickness  past  recure, 
Detesting  physic,  and  all  physic's  cure. 


But,  oh,  the  doleful  sight  that  then  we  see  1 
We  turn'd  our  look,  and  on  the  other  side 
A  grislj'  shape  of  Famine  mought  we  see  : 
With  greedy  looks,   and  gaping  mouth,  that 

cried 
And  roar'd  for  meat,  as  she  should  there  have 

died;  

Her  body  thin  and  bare  as  any  bone,  ~ 
Whereto  was  left  nought  but  the  case  alone. 

And  that,  alas,  was  gnawen  every  where. 
All  full  of  holes  ;  that  I  ne  mought  refrain 
From   tears,   to  see  how  she  her  arms  could 

tear, 
And  Avith  her  teeth  gnash  on  the  bones  in  vain. 
When,  all  for  nought,  she  fain  would  so  sustain 
Her  starven  corpse,  that  rather  seem'd  a  shade 
Than  any  substance  of  a  creature  made : 

Great  was  her  force,  whom  stone-wall  could 

ngt  stay : 
Her  tearing  nails  snatching  at  all  she  saw ; 
With  gaping  jaws,  that  by  no  means  ymay 
Be  satisfy'd  from  hunger  of  her  maw. 
But  eats  herself  as  she  that  hath  no  law ; 
Gnawing,  alas  !  her  carcase  all  in  vain. 
Where  you  may  count  each  sinew,  bone,  and 


On  her  while  we  thus  firmly  fix'd  our  eyes, 
That  bled  for  ruth  of  such  a  dreary  sight, 
Lo,  suddenly  she  shriek'd  in  so  huge  wise 
As  made  hell  gates  to  shiver  with  the  might ; 
Wherewith,  a  dart  we  saw,  how  it  did  light 
Right  on  her  breast,   and,  therewithal,  pale 

Death 
Enthirling  it,  to  rieve  her  of  her  breath : 

And,  by  and  by,  a  dumb  dead  corpse  we  saw, 
Heavy,  and  cold,  the  shape  of  Death  aright. 
That  daunts  all  earthly  creatures  to  his  law. 
Against  whose  force  in  vain  it  is  to  fight ; 
Ne  peers,  ne  princes,  nor  no  mortal  wight. 
No   towns,    ne   realms,    cities,    ne  strongest 

tower. 
But  all,  perforce,  must  yield  unto  his  power : 

His  dart,  anon,  out  of  the  corpse  he  took, 
And  in  his  hand  (a  dreadful  sight  to  see) 
With   great   triumph   eftsoons   the   same  he 

shook. 
That  most  of  all  my  fears  affrayed  me  ; 
His  body  dight  with  nought  but  bones,  pardy ; 
The  naked  shape  of  man  there  saw  I  plain. 
All  save  the  flesh,  the  sinew,  and  the  vein. 

Lastly,  stood  War,  in  glittering  arms  yclad, 
With  visage  grim,  stern   look,    and   blackly 

hued : 
In  his  right  hand  a  naked  sword  he  had, 
That  to  the  hilts  was  all  with  blood  imbrued  ; 
And   in   his   left    (that   kings    and  kingdoms 

rued) 
Famine  and  fire  he  held,  and  therewithal 
He  razed  towns,  and  threw  down  towerg  and 

all: 


•JThomas  Sackville.]  THE  AERAIGNMENT  OF  A  LOVEE. 


[Third  Period— 


Cities    he    saek'd,    and  realms  (that  whilom 

flower' d 
In  honour,  glory,  and  rule,  above  the  rest) 
He  overwhelm' d,  and  all  their  fame  devour' d, 
Consnm'd,  destroy" d,  wasted,  and  never  ceas'd, 
'Till  he  their  wealth,  their  name,  and  all  op- 
press'd  : 
His  face  forehew'd  with  wounds ;  and  by  his 

side 
There  hung  his  targe,  with  gashes  deep  and 

wide. 
Thomas  Soxhvillc,  Earl  of  Dorset. — About  1563. 


98.— HENEY  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM 
IN  THE  INFEENAL  EEGIONS. 

Then  first  came  Henry  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
His  cloak  of  black  all  piled,  and  quite  forlorn. 
Wringing  his   hands,    and   Fortune  oft  doth 

blame. 
Which  of  a  duke  had  made  him  now  her  scorn  ; 
With  ghastly  looks,  as  one  in  manner  lorn, 
Oft  spread  his  arms,  stretched  hands  he  joins 

as  fast, 
With  rueful  cheer,  and  vapoured  eyes  upcast. 

His  cloak  he  rent,  his  manly  breast  he  beat  ; 
His  hair  all  torn,  about  the  place  it  lain  : 
My  heart  so  molt  to  see  his  grief  so  great, 
As  feelingly,  methought,  it  dropped  away  : 
His  eyes  they  whirled  about  "svithouten  stay : 
With  stormy  sighs  the  place  did  so  complain, 
As  if  his  heart  at  each  had  burst  in  twain. 

Thrice  he  began  to  tell  his  doleful  tale. 

And  thrice  the  sighs  did  swallow  up  his  voice  ; 

At  each  of  Avhich  he  shrieked  so  Av-ithal, 

As  though  the  heavens  ryved  with  the  noise  ; 

Till  at  the  last,  recovering  of  his  voice, 

Supping  the  tears  that  all  his  breast  berained. 

On  cruel  Fortune,  weeping  thus  he  plained. 

Thomas  Sachville,  Earl  of  Dorset. — Ahoutl5G3. 


99.— SONNET  MADE   ON  ISABELLA 
MAEKHAM, 

Wlten  I  first  thottght  her  fair,  as  she  stood  o.t 
the  Princess's  window,  in  goodly  attire,  and 
talked  to  divers  in  the  court-yard,  1564. 

Whence  comes  my  love  ?     Oh,  heart,  disclose  ; 
It  was  from  cheeks  that  shamed  the  rose, 
From  lips  that  spoil  the  ruby's  praise. 
From  eyes  that  mock  the  diamond's  blaze  : 
Whence  comes  my  woe  ?  as  freely  own  ; 
Ah  me  !  'twas  from  a  heart  like  stone. 

The  blushing  cheek  speaks  modest  mind, 
The  lips  befitting  words  most  kind, 
The  eye  does  tempt  to  love's  desire, 
And  seems  to  say  'tis  Cupid's  fire  ; 
Yet  all  BO  fair  but  speak  my  moan, 
Sith  nought   doth  say  the  heart  of  stone. 


Why  thus,  my  love,  so  kind  bespeak 

Sweet  eye,  sweet  lip,  sweet  blushing  cheek — 

Yet  not  a  heart  to  save  my  pain  ; 

Oh,  Venus,  take  thy  gifts  again ! 

Make  not  so  fair  to  cause  o\ir  moan, 

Or  make  a  heart  that's  like  our  own. 

John  Harrington. — About  1564. 


100.— VEESES  ON  A  MOST  STONY- 
HEAETED  MAIDEN, 

Who  did  sorely  beguile  the  Noble  Kivightj 
my  true  Friend. 

I. 

Why  didst  thou  raise  such  woeful  wail, 
And  waste  in  briny  tears'  thy  days  ? 
'Cause  she  that  wont  to  flout  and  rail, 
At  last  gave  proof  of  woman's  Avays  ; 
She  did,  in  sooth,  display  the  heart 
That  might  have  wrought  thee  greater  smart. 


Why,  thank  her  then,  not  weep  or  moan  ; 
Let  others  guard  their  careless  heart. 
And  praise  the  day  that  thus  made  known 
The  faithless  hold  on  woman's  art ; 
Their  lips  can  gloze  and  gain  such  root, 
That  gentle  youth  hath  hope  of  fruit. 

III. 

But,  ere  the  blossom  fair  doth  rise. 
To  shoot  its  sweetness  o'er  the  taste, 
Creepeth  disdain  in  canker-wise, 
And  chilling  scorn  the  fruit  doth  blast : 
There  is  no  hope  of  all  our  toil ; 
There  is  no  fruit  from  such  a  soil. 


Give  o'er  thy  plaint,  the  danger's  o'er  ; 
She  might  have  poison'd  all  thy  life  ; 
Such  wayward  mind  had  bred  thee  more 
Of  sorrow  had  she  proved  thy  vdfe  : 
Leave  her  to  meet  all  hopeless  meed, 
And  bless  th^^seK  that  so  art  freed. 


No  youth  shall  sue  such  one  to  win, 
Unmark'd  by  all  the  shirjing  fair, 
Save  for  her  pride  and  scorn,  such  sin 
As  heart  of  love  can  never  bear ; 
Like  leafless  plo.nt  in  blasted  shade, 
So  liveth  she — a  barren  maid. 

Joltn  Harrington. — About  1564, 


loi.— THE  AEEAIGNMENT  OF  A  LOVEE. 

At  Beauty's  bar  as  I  did  stand. 
When  False  Suspect  accused  me, 
George,  quoth  the  judge,  hold  up  thy  hand. 
Thou  ai-t  arraign' d  of  Flattery  ; 


Prow  1558  to  1649.] 


GOOD  MOREOW. 


[George  Gascoigne. 


Tell,  therefore,  how  wilt  thou  be  tried. 
Whose  judgment  thou  wilt  here  abide  ? 

My  lord,  quod  I,  this  lady  here, 
Wliom  I  esteem  above  the  rest. 
Doth  know  my  guilt,  if  any  were  ; 
Wherefore  her  doom  doth  please  me  best. 
Let  her  be  judge  and  juror  both. 
To  try  me  guiltless  by  mine  oath. 

Quoth  Bcanty,  No,  it  fitteth  not 
A  prince  herself  to  judge  the  cause ; 
Will  is  our  justice,  well  ye  wot. 
Appointed  to  discuss  our  laws  ; 
If  you  will  guiltless  seem  to  go, 
God  and  your  country  quit  you  so. 

Then  Craft  the  crier  call'd  a  quest. 
Of  whom  was  Falsehood  foremost  fere  ; 
A  pack  of  pickthanks  were  the  rest. 
Which  came  false  witness  for  to  bear ; 
The  jury  such,  the  judge  unjust. 
Sentence  was  said,  "  I  should  be  truss'd." 

Jealous,  the  gaoler,  bound  me  fast, 
To  hear  the  verdict  of  the  bill ; 
George,  quoth  the  judge,  now  thou  art  cast. 
Thou  must  go  hence  to  Hcai'y  Hill, 
And  there  bo  hang'd  all  but  the  head  ; 
God  rest  thy  soul  when  thou  art  dead  I 

Down  fell  I  then  upon  my  knee, 
All  flat  before  dame  Beauty's  face. 
And  cried.  Good  Lady,  pardon  me '. 
WTao  here  appeal  unto  your  grace  ; 
You  know  if  I  have  been  untrue, 
It  was  in  too  much  praising  you. 

And  though  this  Judge  doth  make  such  haste 
To  shed  with  shame  my  guiltless  blood, 
Yet  let  your  pity  first  be  placed 
To  save  the  man  that  meant  you  good  ; 
So  shall  you  show  yoiu'self  a  Queen, 
And  I  may  be  your  servant  seen. 

Quoth  Beauty,  Well ;  because  I  guess 
What  thou  dost  mean  henceforth  to  be ; 
Although  thy  faults  deserve  no  less 
Than  Justice  here  hath  judged  thee  ; 
Wilt  thou  be  bound  to  stint  all  strife, 
And  be  true  prisoner  all  thy  life  ? 

Yea,  madam,  quoth  I,  that  I  shall ; 

Lo,  Faith  and  Truth  my  sureties  : 
Why  then,  quoth  she,  come  when  I  call, 
I  ask  no  better  warrantise. 
Thus  am  I  Beantifs  bounden  thrall, 
At  her  command  when  she  doth  call. 

George  Gascoigne. — About  1575. 


I02.— SWIFTNESS  OF  TIME. 

The  heavens  on  high  perpetually  do  move  ; 
By  minutes  meal  the  hour  doth  steal  away, 
By  hours  the  days,  by  days  the  months  remove, 
And  then  by  months  the  years  as  fast  decay  ; 
Yea,  Virgil's  verso  and  TuUy's  truth  do  say, 


That  Time  flieth,  and  never  claps  her  wings ; 
But  rides  on  clouds,  and  forward  still   she 
flings. 

George  Gascoigne. — About  1575. 


103.— THE  VANITY  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

They  course  the  glass,  and  let  it  take  no  rest ; 
They  pass  and  spy  who  gazeth  on  their  face ; 
They  darkly  ask  whose  beautj'"  seemeth  best ; 
They  hark  and  mark  who  marketh  most  their 

grace; 
They  stay  their  steps,  and  stalk  a  stately  pace ; 
They  jealous  are  of  every  sight  they  see  ; 
They  strive  to  seem,  but  never  care  to  be. 


What  grudge  and  grief  our  joys  may  then  sup- 
press. 
To  see  our  hairs,  which  yellow  were  as  gold. 
Now  grey  as  glass  ;  to  feel  and  find  them  less ; 
To  scrape  the  bald  skull  which  was  wont  to 

hold 
Our  lovely  locks  with  cttrling  sticks  controul'd  j 
To  look  in  glass,  and  spy  Sir  Wrinkle's  chair 
Set  fast  on  fronts  which  erst  were  sleek  and 
fair. 

***** 

George  Gascoigne. — About  1575. 


104.— GOOD  MOREOW. 

You  that  haue  spent  the  silent  night, 

In  sleepe  and  quiet  rest, 

And  ioye  to  see  the  cheerefull  lyght 

That  ryseth  in  the  East : 

Now  cleare  your  voyce,  now  chore  your  hart, 

Come  helpe  me  nowe  to  sing  : 

Echo  willing  wight  come  beare  a  part, 

To  prayse  the  heauenly  King. 

And  you  whome  care  in  prison  keepes, 
Or  sickenes  doth  suppresse. 
Or  secret  sorowe  breakes  your  sleepes, 
Or  dolours  doe  distresse  : 
Yet  beare  a  part  in  dolfuU  -svise, 
Yea  thinke  it  good  accorde. 
And  acceptable  sacrifice, 
Eche  sprite  to  prayse  the  Lorde. 

The  dreadfull  night  with  darkesomnesse, 
Had  ouer  spread  the  light. 
And  sluggish  sleepe  with  drowsynesse, 
Had  ouer  prest  our  might : 
A  glasse  wherin  you  may  beholde, 
Eche  storme  that  stopes  our  breath. 
Our  bed  the  graue,  our  clothes  lyke  molde, 
And  sleepe  like  dreadfull  death. 

Yet  as  this  deadly  night  did  laste, 
But  for  a  little  space. 
And  heauenly  daye  nowe  night  is  past, 
Doth  shewe  his  ploasaunt  face  : 


George  Gascoigne.] 


GOOD  NIGHT. 


[Third  Period.- 


So  must  we  hope  to  see  Gods  face, 

At  last  in  heauen  on  hie, 

When  we  hane  chang-'d  this  mortall  place. 

For  Immortalitie. 

And  of  such  happes  and  heauenly  ioyes, 

As  then  we  hope  to  holde, 

All  earthly  sightes  and  worldly  toyes, 

Are  tokens  to  beholde. 

The  daye  is  like  the  daye  of  doome,  ^ 

The  sunne,  the  Sonne  of  man, 

The  skyes  the  heauens,  the  earth  the  tombe 

Wherein  we  rest  till  than. 

The  Eainbowe  bending  in  the  skyc, 
Bedeckte  with  sundrye  hewes, 
Is  like  the  seate  of  God  on  hye, 
And  seemes  to  tell  these  newes  : 
That  as  thereby  he  promised, 
To  drowne  the  world  no  more, 
So  by  the  bloud  which  Christ  hath  shead, 
He  -will  our  helth  restore.. 

The  mistie  cloudes  that  fall  somtime, 
And  ouercast  the  skyes, 
Are  like  to  troubles  of  our  time, 
Which  do  but  dymme  our  eyes  : 
But  as  suche  dewes  are  dryed  vp  quite, 
"When  Phoebus  shewes  his  face, 
So  are  such  fansies  put  to  flighte, 
"VVliere  God  doth  guide  by  grace. 

The  caryon  Crowe,  that  lothsome  beast, 

Which  cryes  agaynst  the  rayne, 

Both  for  hir  hewe  and  for  the  rest, 

The  Deuill  resembleth  playne  : 

And  as  Avith  gonnes  we  kill  the  Crowe, 

For  spoyling  our  releefe. 

The  Deuill  so  must  we  ouerthrowe. 

With  gonshote  of  beleefe. 

The  little  byrdes  which  sing  so  sweto, 
Are  like  the  angelles  voyce, 
"VMiich  render  God  his  prayses  meeto, 
And  teachc  vs  to  reioyce  : 
And  as  they  more  esteeme  that  myrth, 
Than  dread  the  nights  anoy. 
So  much  we  deeme  our  days  on  earth, 
But  hell  to  heauenly  ioye. 

Unto  which  Joyes  for  to  attayne 
God  graunt  vs  all  his  grace, 
And  sende  vs  after  worldly  payne, 
In  heauen  to  haue  a  place. 
Where  wee  maye  still  enioye  that  light. 
Which  neuer  shall  decaye  : 
Lorde,  for  thy  mercy  lend  vs  might, 
To  see  that  ioyfuU  daye. 

Haud  ictns  sapio. 
George  Gascoigne. — Ahout  1575. 


105.— GOOD  NIGHT. 

When   thou   hast  spent  the  lingring  day  in 

pleasure  and  delight, 
Or  after  toyle  and  wearie  waye,  dost  seeke  to 

rest  at  nighte : 


Unto  thy  paynes  or  pleasures  past,  adds  this 

one  labour  yet. 
Ere  sleepe  close  vp  thyne  eye  to  fast,   do  not 

thy  God  forget, 
But  searche  within  thy  secret  thoughts,  what 

deeds  did  thee  befa,!  : 
And  if  thou  find  amisse  in  ought,  to  God  for 

mercy  call. 
Yea  thoiigh  thou  find  nothing  amisse,  which 

thou  canst  cal  to  mind, 
Yet  euer  more  remember  this,  there  is  the 

more  behind  : 
And  thinke  how  well  so  euer  it  be,  that  thou 

hast  spent  the  daye, 
It  came  of  God,  and  not  of  thee,  so  to  direct 

thy  waye. 
Thus   if   thou    trie    thy    dayly   deedes,    and 

pleasure  in  this  payne, 
Thy  life  shall  dense  thy  corne  from  weeds, 

and  thine  shal  be  the  gaine  : 
But  if  thy  sinfuU  sluggishe  eye,  will  venter 

for  to  v/inke, 
Before  thy  wading  will  may  trye,  how  far  thy 

soule  maye  sinke, 
Beware  and  wake,  for  else  thy  bed,  v<^hich  soft 

and  smoth  is  made, 
Mi'jy  heape   more  harm  vpo  thy  head,  than 

blowes  of  enmies  blade. 
Thus  if  this  paine  procure  thine  ease,  in  bed 

as  thou  doest  lye, 
Perhaps  it  shall  not  God  displease,  to  sing 

thus  soberly ; 
I  see  that  sleepe  is  lent  me  here,  to  ease  my 

wearye  bones. 
As  death  at  laste  shall  eke  appeere,  to  ease 

my  greeuous  grones. 
My  dayly  sportes,  my  panch  full  fed,  haue 

causde  my  drousie  eye, 
As  carelesse  life  in  quiet  led,  might  cause  my 

soule  to  dye : 
The   stretching   armes,    the   yauning  breath, 

which  I  to  bedward  vse, 
Are   patternes  of  the  pangs  of  death,    when 

life  win  me  refuse. 
And  of  my  bed  echo  sundrye  part  in  shaddowes 

doth  resemble, 
The  siidry  shapes  of  deth,  whose  dart  shal 

make  my  flesh  to  treble. 
My  bed  it  selfe  is  like  the  graue,  my  sheotes 

the  winding  sheete, 
My  clothes  the  mould  which  I  must  haue,  to 

couer  me  most  meete  : 
The  hungry  fleas  v/hich  fritike  so  freshe,  to 

wormes  I  can  copare. 
Which   greedily  shall   gnaw   my    fleslie,   and 

leaue  the  bones  ful  bare  : 
The  waking  Cock  that  early  crowos  to  weare 

the  night  aw.^ye. 
Puts   in  my  minde  the  trumpe  that  blowes 

before  the  latter  day. 
And  as  I  rise  vp  lustily,  when  sluggish  sleepe 

is  past, 
So  hope  I  to  rise  ioyfully,  to  Judgement  at  the 

last. 
Thus  wyll  I  wake,  thus  wyll  I  sleepe,  thus 

wj'll  I  hope  to  ryse, 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


DE  PEOFUNDIS. 


[George"  Gascoigne. 


Thus  \v7ll  I  neither  waile  nor  weepe,  but  sing 

in  godly  ^vyse. 
My  bones  shall  in  this  bed  remaine,  my  soule 

in  God  shall  trust, 
By  whome  I  hope  to  ryse  againe  from  death 

and  earthly  dust. 

Haud  ictus  sa/pio. 
George  Gascoigne. — About  1575. 


106.— DE  PEOFUNDIS. 

From  depth  of  doole  wherein  my  soule  doth 

dwell, 
From   heauy   heart   which    harbours   in   my 

brest, 
From  troubled   sprite   which  sildome  taketh 

rest. 
From  hope  of  heauen,  from  dreade  of  darkesome 

heU. 
O  gracious  God,  to  thee  I  crye  and  yell. 
My  God,  my  Lorde,  my  louely  Lorde  aloane, 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  make  my  moane. 
And  thou  (good  God)  vouchsafe  in  gree  to 

take. 
This  woefull  plaint, 
WTierein  I  faint. 
Oh  heare  me  then  for  thy  great  mercies  sake. 

Oh  bende  thine  eares  attentiuely  to  hear^ 
Oh  turne  thine  eyes,  behold  me  how  I  wayle, 
Oh  hearken  Lord,  giue  eare  for  mine  auaile, 
O  marke  in  minde  the  burdens  that  I  beare  : 
See  howe  I  sinke  in  sorrowes  euerye  where. 
Beholde   and  see  what  dollors  I  endure, 
Giue  eare  and  marke  what  plaintes  I  put  in 

vi-e. 
Bende  wyUing  eare  :  and  pittie  therewithal!, 
My  wayling  voyce, 
"NVTiich  hath  no  choyce. 
But  euermere  vpon  thy  name  to  call. 

If  thou  good  Lorde  shouldest  take  thy  rod 
in  hando, 
If  thou  regard  what  sinnes  are  daylye  done, 
If  thou  take  holde  where   wee   our   workes 

begone. 
If  thou  decree  in  Judgement  for  to  stande, 
And  be  extreame  to  see  our  senses  skande, 
If  thou  take  note  of  euery  thing  amysse, 
And  wryte  in  rowles  howe  frayle  our  nature  is, 
O  gloryous  God,  O  king,  0  Prince  of  power, 
What  mortall  wight, 
Maye  then  haue  light, 
To   feele   thy  fro\vne,  if   thou  haue  lyst   to 

lowre? 

But  thou   art  good,    and  hast   of   mercyo 
store. 
Thou  not  delyghst  to  see  a  sinner  fall. 
Thou  hearknest  first,  before  we  come  to  call. 
Thine  eares  are  set  wyde  open  euermore. 
Before  we  knocke  thou  commest  to  the  doore. 
Thou  art  more  prest  to  heare  a  sinner  crye. 
Then  he  is  quicke  to  climbe  to  thee  on  hye. 


Thy  mighty  name  bee  praysed  then  alwaye, 

Let  fayth  and  feare. 

True  witnesse  beare, 

Howe  fast  they  stand  which  on  thy  mercy 


I  looke  for  thee  (my  louelye  Lord)  4her^ore, 
For  thee  I  wayte,  for  thee  I  tarrye  styll, 
Myne  eyes  doe  long  to  gaze  on  thee  my  fyll. 
For  thee  I  watche,  for  thee  I  prye  and  pore. 
My  Soule  for  thee  attendeth  euermore. 
My  Soule  doth  thyrst  to  take  of  thee  a  taste, 
My  Soule  desires  with  thee  for  to  bee  plaste. 
And  to  thy  worde  (which  can  no  man  deceyue) 
Myne  onely  trust, 
My  loue  and  lust, 
In  confidence  continually e  shall  cleaue. 

Before  the  breake  or  dawning  of  the  daye, 
Before  the  lyght  bo  scene  in  loftye  Skyes, 
Before  the  Sunne  appeare  in  pleasaunt  wyse, 
Before  the  watche  (before  the  watche  I  saye) 
Before     the    warde    that     waytes    therefore 

alwaye : 
My  soide,  my  sense,  my  secreete  thought,  my 

sprite, 
My  wyU,  my  wishe,  my  ioye,  and  my  delight : 
Unto  the  Lord  that  sittes  in  heauen  on  highe. 
With  hastye  wing, 
From  me  doeth  fling. 
And  stryueth  styll,  vnto  the  Lorde  to  flye. 

O  Israeli,  O  housholde  of  the  Lorde, 
O    Abrahams   Brattes,    O   broode  of  blessed 


j   O  chosen  sheepe  that  loue  the  Lorde  in  deede : 
O    hungrye    heartes,    feede    styll    vpon    his 

worde, 
And  put  your  trust  in  him  with  one  accorde. 
For  he  hath  mercye  euermore  at  hande. 
His  fountaines  fiowe,  his  springes  do  neuer 

stande. 
And  plenteouslye  hee  loueth  to  redeeme, 
Such  sinners  all, 
As  on  him  call. 
And  faithfully  his  mercies  most  esteeme. 

Hee   wyll   redeeme    our   deadly    drowping 
state, 
He  wyll   bring  home   the    sheepe   that    goe 

astraye, 
He  wyU  helpe  them  that  hope  in  him  alwaye  : 
He  wyll  appease  our  discorde  and  debate, 
He  wyll  soone  saue,  though  we  repent  vs  late. 
He  wj'U  be  ours  if  we  continewe  his. 
He  wyll  bring  bale  to  ioye  and  perfect  blissc, 
He  wyll  redeeme  the  flocke  of  his  electe. 
From  all  that  is, 
Or  was  amisse, 
Since  Abrahams  heyres  dyd  first  his  Lawes 

reiect. 

Etier  or  neuer. 

George  Gascoigne. — About  1575, 


Sir  Philip  Sidney.] 


SONNETS. 


[Third  Period. — 


107.— SONNETS. 

Because  I  oft  in  dark  abstracted  guise 
Seem  most  alone  in  greatest  company, 
With,  dearth  of  words,  or  answers  quite  awry 
To  them  that  would  make  speech  of  speech 

arise, 
They  deem,  and  of  their  doom  the  rumour  flies, 
That  poison  foul  of  bubbling  Pride  doth  lie 
So  in  my  swelling  breast,  that  only  I 
Fawn  on  myself,  and  others  do  despise. 
Yet  Pride,  I  think,  doth  not  my  soul  possess, 
Which  looks  too  oft  in  liis  unflattering  glass ; 
But  one  worse  fault  Ambition  I  confess, 
That  makes  me  oft  my  best  friends  overpass, 
Unseen,   unheard,   while  thought  to  highest 

place 
Bends  all  his  powers,  even  unto  Stella's  grace. 
Sir  Philvp  Siobiey. — Ahout  1582. 


With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon !  thou  climb' st 

the  skies, 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 
What  may  it  be,  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  Archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ? 
Sure,  if  that  long  with  love  acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case  ; 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks,  thy  languish'd  grace 
To  me  that  feel  the  like  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me. 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of 

wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  lov'd,  and  yet 
Those    lovers    scorn   whom    that  love   doth 

possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  ? 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. — About  1582. 


Come,    Sleep,    O  Sleep,   the  certain  knot  of 

peace, 
The  baiting  place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release. 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low. 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the 


Of  those  fierce  darts,   Despair  at  me  doth 
throw ; 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease : 

1  win  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed ; 
A  chamber,  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right. 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me 
Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  PhiUp  Sidney. — About  1582. 


Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance 
Guided  so  well,  that  I  obtain'd  the  prize. 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes. 
And  of   some  sent   from  that  sweet  enemy 

France  ; 
Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  advance ; 


Townfolks  my  strength  j  a  daintier  judge  ap- 
plies 
His  praise  to  sleight  which  from  good  use 

doth  rise  ; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance ; 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take 
My  blood  from  them  who  did  excel  in  this. 
Think  nature  me  a  man  of  arms  did  make. 
How  far  they  shot  awry  !  the  true  cause  is, 
SteUa  look'd  on,  and  from  her  heavenly  face 
Sent  forth  the  beams  which  made  so  fair  my 
race. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. — About  1582. 


In  martial  sports  I  had  my  cunning  tried, 
And  yet  to  break  more  staves  did  me  address ; 
While  with  the  people's  shouts,  I  must  confess. 
Youth,  luck,  and  praise,  even  fill'd  my  veins 

with  pride. 
When  Cupid,  having  me  (his  slave)  descried 
In  Mars' s  livery,  prancing  in  the  press, 
"  What  now.  Sir  Fool,"  said  he,  "I  would  no 

less. 
Look  here,  I  say."    I  look'd,  and  Stella  spied, 
Who  hard  by  made  a  window  send  forth  light. 
My  heart  then  quaked,  then  dazzled  were  mine 

eyes ; 
One  hand  forgot  to  rule,  th'  other  to  fight : 
Nor  trumpet's  sound  I  heard,   nor   friendly 

cries ; 
My  foe  came  on,  and  beat  the  air  for  me. 
Till  that  her  blush  taught  me  my  shame  to  see. 
Sir  Philip  Sidmey. — About  1582. 


Of  all  the  kings  that  ever  here  did  reign, 
Edward  named  Fourth   as  first  in  praise  I 

name; 
Not  for  his  fair  outside,  nor  well-lined  brain, 
Although  less  gifts  imp  feathers  oft  on  Fame : 
Nor  that  he  could,  young-wise,  wise-valiant, 

frame 
His  sire's  revenge,  join'dwith  akingdom'sgain, 
And,  gain'd  by  Mars,  could  yet  mad  Mars  so 

tame, 
That  Balance  weigh' d  what  Sword  did  late 

obtain  : 
Nor  that  he  made  the  Flower-de-luce  so  fraid, 
Though  strongly  hedg'd  of  bloody  Lion's  paws, 
That  witty  Lewis  to  him  a  tribute  paid. 
Nor  this,  nor  that,  nor  any  such  small  cause — 
But  ordy  for  this  worthy  knight  durst  prove 
To  lose  his  crown,  rather  than  fail  his  love. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. — About  1582. 


0  happy  Thames,  that  didst  my  Stella  bear  1 

1  saw  thee  with  full  many  a,  smiling  lino 
Upon  thy  cheerful  face  joy's  livery  wear, 
WTiile  those  fair  planets  on  thy  streams  did 

shine. 
The  boat  for  joy  could  not  to  dance  forbear ; 
While  wanton  winds,  with  beauties  so  divine 
Ravish' d,  staid  not,  tUl  in  her  golden  hair 
They    did    themselves    (0    sweetest    prison) 

twine : 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  IMAGE  OF  DEATH. 


[Robert  Southwell. 


And  fain  those  (Eol's  youth  there  would  their 

stay- 
Have  made ;  but,  forced  by  Nature  still  to  fly, 
First  did  mth  puffing  kiss  those  locks  display. 
She,  so  disheveU'd,  blush' d.  From  windo-w  I, 
With  sight  thereof,  cried  out,  "  0  fair  dis- 
grace; 
Let  Honour's  self  to  thee  grant  highest  place." 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. — About  1582. 


loS.— LOVE'S  SERVILE  LOT. 

Love  mistress  is  of  many  minds. 
Yet  few  know  whom  they  serve ; 
They  reckon  least  how  little  hope 
Their  service  doth  deserve. 

The  will  she  robbeth  from  the  wit, 
The  sense  from  reason's  lore ; 
She  is  delightful  in  the  rind. 
Corrupted  in  the  core. 

*  *  *  * 

May  never  was  the  month  of  love ; 
For  May  is  full  of  floAvers  ; 
But  rather  April,  wet  by  kind ; 
For  love  is  full  of  showers. 

With  soothing  words  inthraUed  souls 
She  chains  in  servile  bands  ! 
Her  eye  in  silence  hath  a  speech 
Which  eye  best  understands. 

Her  little  sweet  hath  many  sours, 
Short  hap,  immortal  harms  ; 
Her  loving  looks  are  murdering  darts, 
Her  songs  bewitching  charms. 

lake  winter  rose,  and  summer  ice, 
Her  joys  are  still  untimely ; 
Before  her  hope,  behind  remorse, 
Fair  first,  in  fine  unseemly. 

Plough  not  the  seas,  sow  not  the  sands. 
Leave  off  your  idle  pain  ; 
Seek  other  mistress  for  your  minds, 
Love's  service  is  in  vain. 

Robert  Soutlvwell. — About  1587. 


109.— LOOK  HOME. 

Retired  thoughts  enjoy  their  own  delights. 
As  beauty  doth  in  self -beholding  eye  : 
Man's  mind  a  mirror  is  of  heavenly  sights, 
A  brief  wherein  all  miracles  summed  lie  ; 
Of  fairest  forms,   and   sweetest   shapes  the 

store. 
Most   graceful  all,   yet  thought   may   grace 

them  more. 

The  mind  a  creature  is,  yet  can  create. 
To  nature's  patterns  adding  higher  skill 
Of  finest  works ;  wit  better  could  the  state, 
If  force  of  wit  had  equal  power  of  will. 
Devise  of  man  in  working  hath  no  end ; 
What  thought   can   think,    another   thought 
can  mend. 


Man's  soul  of  endless  beauties  image  is. 
Drawn    by  the   work   of    endless   skill   and 

might : 
This  skilful  might  gave  many  sparks  of  bliss. 
And,  to  discern  this  bliss,  a  native  Ught, 
To  frame  God's  image  as  his  worth  required; 
His  might,  his  skill,  his  word  and-iviH  con- 
spired. 

All  that  he  had,  his  image  should  present ; 
All  that  it  should  present,  he  could  afford ; 
To  that  he  could  afford  his  will  was  bent ; 
His  will  was  followed  with  performing  word. 
Let  this  suffice,  by  this  conceive  the  rest, 
He  should,  he  could,  he  would,  he  did  the  best. 

Robert  Southivell. — About  1687. 


no.— TIMES.  GO  BY  TURNS. 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again. 
Most   naked   plants    renew    both   frtdt    and 

flower, 
The  sorriest  wight  may  find  release  of  pain. 
The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moistening  showor ; 
Time  goes  by  turns,   and  chances  change  by 

course. 
From  foul  to  fair,  from  better  hap  to  worse. 

The  sea  of  Fortune  doth  not  ever  flow  ; 
She  draws  her  favours  to  the  lowest  ebb ; 
Her  tides  have  equal  times  to  come  and  go ; 
Her  loom  doth  weave  the  fine  and  coarsest 

web: 
"No  joy  so  great  but  runneth  to  an  end, 
No  hap  so  hard  but  may  in  time  amend. 

Robert  Southwell. — About  1587. 


III.— THE  IMAGE  OF  DEATH. 

Before  my  face  the  picture  hangs, 
That  daily  should  put  me  in  mind 

Of  those  cold  names  and  bitter  pangs 
That  shortly  I  am  like  to  find  j 

But  yet,  alas  !  full  little  I 

Do  think  hereon,  that  I  must  die. 

I  often  look  upon  a  face 

Most  ugly,  grisly,  bare,  and  thin  ; 
I  often  view  the  hollow  place 

Where  eyes  and  nose  had  sometime  been : 
I  see  the  bones  across  that  lie. 
Yet  little  think  that  I  must  die. 

I  read  the  label  underneath, 

That  telleth  me  whereto  I  must ; 

I  see  the  sentence  too,  that  saith, 

"  Remember,  man,  thou  art  but  dust." 

But  yet,  alas  !  how  seldom  I 

Do  think,  indeed,  that  I  must  die ! 

Continually  at  my  bed's  head 

A  hearse  doth  hang,  which  doth  me  tell 
That  I  ere  morning  may  be  dead. 

Though  now  I  feel  myself  full  well ; 
But  yet,  alas  !  for  all  this,  I 
Have  little  mind  that  I  must  die  ! 

8* 


Robert  Southwell.] 


SCOEN  NOT  THE  LEAST. 


[Third  Period. 


The  gown  which  I  am  used  to  wear, 
The  knife  wherewith  I  cut  my  meat 

And  eke  that  old  and  ancient  chair, 
Which  is  my  only  usual  seat ; 

All  these  do  tell  me  I  must  die, 

And  yet  my  life  amend  not  I. 

My  ancestors  are  tum'd  to  clay, 
And  many  of  my  mates  are  gone  ; 

My  youngers  daily  drop  away, 
And  can  I  think  to  'scape  alone  ? 

No,  no ;  I  know  that  I  must  die, 

And  yet  my  life  amend  not  I. 


If  none  can  'scape  Death's  dreadful  dart ; 

If  rich  and  poor  his  beck  obey ; 
If  strong,  if  wise,  if  all  do  smart, 

Then  I  to  'scape  shall  have  no  way : 
Then  grant  me  grace,  O  God !  that  I 
My  life  may  mend,  since  I  must  die. 

Robert  Southwell— About  1587. 


112.— SCOEN  NOT  THE  LEAST. 

"Where  words  are  weak,  and  foes  encount'ring 
strong. 
Where  mightier  do  assault  than  do  defend, 
The  feebler  part  puts  up  enforced  wrong. 
And   silent    sees,    that  speech    could   not 
amend : 
Yet  higher  powers  must  think,  though  they 

repine. 
When  sun  is  set  the  little  stars  will  shine. 

While  pike  doth  range,  the  silly  tench  doth 

And  crouch  in  privy  creeks  with  smaller 
fish; 
Yet  pikes  are  caught  when  little  fish  go  by. 
These  fleet  afloat,  while  those  do  fill  the 
dish; 
There  is  a  time  even  for  the  worms  to  creep, 
And   suck   the   dew  while  all  their  foes  do 
sleep. 

The  merlin  cannot  ever  soar  on  high, 

Nor    greedy    greyhound    still    pursue   the 
chase ; 

The  tender  lark  will  find  a  time  to  fly. 
And  fearful  hare  to  run  a  quiet  race. 

He  that  high  growth  on  cedars  did  bestow. 

Gave  also  lowly  mushrooms  leave  to  grow. 

In  Haman's  pomp  poor  Mardocheus  wept, 
Yet  God  did  turn  his  fate  upon  his  foe. 
The  Lazar  pin'd,  while  Dives'  feast  was  kept, 

Yet  he  to  heaven — to  hell  did  Dives  go. 
We  trample  grass,  and  prize  the  flowers  of 

May; 
Yet  grass  is   green,  when   flowers    do    fade 
away. 

Robert  Southwell. — About  1587. 


113- 


-THE   PASSIONATE   SHEPHEED 
TO  HIS  LOVE. 


Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  vallies,  groves,  and  hills  and  fields, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountains  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  rosea, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies  ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle, 
Embroider' d  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle  : 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool. 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold. 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold : 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing. 
For  thy  delight,  each  May-morning  : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

ChHstopher  Marlow. — About  1590. 


114.— THE  NYMPH'S  EEPLY. 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold ; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb. 
The  rest  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields  ; 
A  honey  tongue — a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  stiU  breed. 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need. 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh.— About  1610. 


From  1558  to  1649.]      A  PASTOEAL  OF  PHILLIS  AND  COEIDON.      [Nicholas  Bketon. 


115.— THE  COUNTRY'S  RECREATIONS. 

Heart-tearing  cares  and  quiv'ring  fears, 
Anxious  sighs,  untimely  tears, 

Fly,  fly  to  courts, 

Fly  to  fond  worldling's  sports  ; 
Wliere  strained  sardonic  smiles  are  glozing 

stiU, 
And  Grief  is  forced  to  laugh  against  her  will ; 

Where  mirth's  but  mummery, 

And  sorrows  only  real  be. 

Fly  from  our  country  pastimes,  fly, 
Sad  troop  of  human  misery  ! 

Come,  serene  looks, 

Clear  as  the  crystal  brooks, 
Or  the  pure  azur'd  heaven  that  smiles  to  see 
The  rich  attendance  of  our  poverty. 

Peace  and  a  secure  mind, 

Which  all  men  seek,  we  only  find. 

Abused  mortals,  did  you  know 
Where  joy,  heart's  ease,  and  comforts  grow. 
You'd  scorn  proud  towers, 
And  seek  them  in  these  bowers ; 
Where  winds  perhaps  our  woods  may  some- 
times shake. 
But    blustering    care    could    never    tempest 
make, 
Nor  murmurs  e'er  come  nigh  us. 
Saving  of  foimtains  that  glide  by  us. 
#  *  *  _ 

Blest  silent  groves  !  O  may  ye  be 
For  ever  mirth's  best  nursery  ! 
May  pure  contents 
For  ever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  those  downs,  these  meads,  these  rocks, 

these  mountains. 
And  peace  still  slumber  by  these  purling  foun- 
tains, 
Which  we  may  every  year 
Find  when  we  come  a-fishing  here. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh.— About  1610. 


116.— FAREAVELL  TO  TOWN. 

*  #  # 

Thou  gallant  court,  to  thee  farewell ! 
For  froward  fortune  me  denies 

Now  longer  near  to  thee  to  dwell. 
I  must  go  Uvo,  I  wot  not  where, 
Nor  how  to  live  when  I  come  there. 

And  next,  adieu  you  gallant  dames, 
The  chief  of  noble  youth's  delight ! 

Untoward  Fortune  now  so  frames. 
That  I  am  banish' d  from  your  sight. 

And,  in  your  stead,  against  my  will, 

I  must  go  live  with  country  Jill. 

Now  next,  my  gallant  youths,  farewell ; 

My  lads  that  oft  have  cheered  my  heart 
My  grief  of  mind  no  tongue  can  tell. 

To  think  that  I  must  from  you  part. 
I  now  must  leave  you  all,  alas. 
And  live  with  some  old  lobcock  ass  ! 


And  now  farewell  thou  gallant  lute. 
With  instruments  of  music's  sounds  ! 

Recorder,  citern,  harp,  and  fiute. 

And  heavenly  descants  on  sweet  grounds. 

I  now  must  leave  you  all,  indeed, 

And  make  some  music  on  a  reed ! 

And  now,  you  stately  stamping  steeds. 
And  gallant  geldings  fair,  adieu  ! 

My  heavy  heart  for  sorrow  bleeds. 
To  think  that  I  must  part  with  you : 

And  on  a  strawen  pannel  sit. 

And  ride  some  country  carting  tit ! 

And  now  farewell  both  spear  and  shield, 

Caliver  pistol,  arquebuss, 
See,  see,  what  sighs  my  heart  doth  yield 

To  think  that  I  must  leave  you  thus ; 
And  lay  aside  my  rapier  blade. 
And  take  in  hand  a  ditching  spade ! 

And  you  farewell,  all  gallant  games, 

Primero,  and  Inijperial, 
Wherewith  I  us'd,  with  courtly  dames. 

To  pass  away  the  time  withal : 
I  now  must  learn  some  country  plays 
For  ale  and  cakes  on  holidays  ! 

And  now  farewell  each  dainty  dish. 
With  sundry  sorts  of  sugar' d  wine  ! 

Farewell,  I  say,  fine  flesh  and  fish. 
To  please  this  dainty  mouth  of  mine  ! 

I  now,  alas,  must  leave  all  these. 

And  make  good  cheer  with  bread  and  cheese 

And  now,  all  orders  due,  farewell ! 

My  table  laid  when  it  was  noon  ; 
My  hea"\^  heart  it  irks  to  tell 

My  dainty  dinners  all  are  done  : 
With  leeks  and  onions,  whig  and  whey, 
I  must  content  me  as  I  may. 

And  farewell  all  gay  garments  now, 
With  jewels  rich,  of  rare  device ! 

Like  Robin  Hood,  I  wot  not  how, 
I  must  go  range  in  woodman's  Mase; 

Clad  in  a  coat  of  green,  or  grey. 

And  glad  to  get  it  if  I  may. 

What  shall  I  say,  but  bid  adieu 
To  every  dream  of  sweet  delight. 

In  place  where  pleasure  never  grew. 
In  dungeon  deep  of  foul  despite, 

I  must,  ah  me  !  wretch  as  I  may, 

Go  sing  the  song  of  welaway ! 

Nicholas  Breton. — About  1620. 


117.— A  PASTORAL  OF  PHILLIS  AND 
CORIDON. 

On  a  hill  there  grows  a  flower, 
Fair  befal  the  dainty  sweet ; 
By  that  flower  there  is  a  bower, 
Where  the  heavenly  Muses  meet. 

In  that  bower  there  is  a  chair, 
Fringed  all  about  with  gold, 
Where  doth  sit  the  fairest  fair 
That  ever  eye  did  yet  behold. 


Nicholas  Bketox.] 


A  SWEET  PASTOEAL. 


[Thtkd  Pekiod. — 


It  is  PMllis  fair  and  bright, 
She  that  is  the  shepherd's  joy, 
She  that  Venus  did  despite. 
And  did  blind  her  little  boy. 
This  is  she,  the  wise,  the  rich, 
That  the  world  desires  to  see  ; 
This  is  ipsa  quce,  the  which 
There  is  none  but  only  she. 
Who  would  not  this  face  admire  ? 
Who  would  not  this  saint  adore  ? 
Who  would  not  this  sight  desire. 
Though  he  thought  to  see  no  more  ? 

0  fair  eyes,  yet  let  me  see 

One  good  look,  and  I  am  gone  : 

Look  on  me,  for  I  am  he. 

Thy  poor  silly  Coridon. 

Thou  that  art  the  shepherd's  queen, 

Look  upon  thy  silly  swain  ; 

By  thy  comfort  have  been  seen 

Dead  men  brought  to  life  again. 

Nicholas  Breton. — About  1620. 


ii8.— A  SWEET  PASTOEAL. 

Good  Muse,  rock  me  asleep 
With  some  sweet  harmony  ; 
The  weary  eye  is  not  to  keep 
Thy  wary  company. 
Sweet  love,  begone  awhile, 
Thou  know'st  my  heaviness  ; 
Beauty  is  born  but  to  beguile 
My  heart  of  happiness. 

See  how  my  little  flock 

That  loved  to  feed  on  high, 

Do  headlong  tumble  down  the  rock, 

And  in  the  valley  die. 

The  bushes  and  the  trees. 
That  were  so  fresh  and  green, 
Do  all  their  dainty  colour  leese, 
And  not  a  leaf  is  seen. 

Sweet  Philomel,  the  bird 
That  hath  the  heavenly  throat. 
Doth  now,  alas  !  not  once  afford 
Eecording  of  a  note. 

The  flowers  have  had  a  frost. 
Each  herb  hath  lost  her  savour, 
And  Phillida  the  fair  hath  lost 
The  comfort  of  her  favour. 
Now  all  these  careful  sights 
So  kill  me  in  conceit. 
That  how  to  hope  upon  delights, 
Is  but  a  mere  deceit. 

And,  therefore,  my  sweet  Muse, 
Thou  know'st  what  help  is  best, 
Do  now  thy  heavenly  cunning  use, 
To  set  my  heart  at  rest. 

And  in  a  dream  bewray 
What  fate  shall  be  my  friend, 
Whether  my  life  shall  stiU  decay, 
Or  when  my  sorrow  end. 

Nicholas  Breton. — About  1620. 


119 


,— THE  SOUL'S  EEEAND. 


Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest, 

Upon  a  thankless  errand  ! 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best. 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant ; 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die. 
And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows. 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood  ; 
Go,  tell  the  church  it  shows 

What's  good,  and  doth  no  good: 
If  church  and  court  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates,  they  live 

Acting  by  others  actions, 
Not  lov'd  unless  they  give. 

Not  strong  but  by  their  factions. 
If  potentates  reply. 
Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 

That  rule  affairs  of  state. 
Their  purpose  is  ambition. 
Their  practice  only  hate. 
And  if  they  once  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most. 

They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who  in  their  greatest  cost. 

Seek  nothing  but  commending. 
And  if  they  make  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion, 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust, 
TeU  time  it  is  but  motion, 
Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust ; 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  waste th, 
•     TeU  honour  how  it  alters, 
TeU  beauty  how  she  blasteth, 
TeU  favour  how  she  falters. 
And  as  they  shaU  reply. 
Give  every  one  the  Ue. 
TeU  wit  how  much  it  v^angles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness  : 
Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness. 
And  when  they  do  reply, 
Straight  give  them  both  the  Ue. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness, 
TeU  skiU  it  is  pretension. 
Tell  charity  of  coldness, 
TeU  law  it  is  contention. 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
So  give  them  stUl  the  Ue. 

TeU  fortune  of  her  blindness, 

TeU  nature  of  decay, 
TeU  friendship  of  unkindness, 
TeU  justice  of  delay. 
And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  aU  the  lie. 


From  1553  to  1649.] 


THE  NTMPHS  TO  THEIE  MAY  QUEEN.        [Thomas  Watson. 


Tell  arts  ttey  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming ; 
Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  arts  and  schools  reply, 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it's  fled  the  city. 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth, 
Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  pity, 
Tell,  virtue  least  preferreth. 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing : 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing ; 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 

Joshua  Sylvester. — About  1610. 


I 


I20.— TO  RELIGION. 

Eeligion,  0  thou  life  of  life. 
How  worldlings,  that  profane  thee  rife, 
Can  wrest  thee  to  their  appetites  ! 
How  princes,  who  thy  power  deny, 
Pretend  thee  for  their  tyranny, 
And  people  for  their  false  delights ! 

Under  thy  sacred  name,  all  over, 

The  vicious  all  their  vices  cover ; 

The  insolent  their  insolence. 

The  proud  their  pride,  the  false  their  fraud, 

The  thief  his  theft,  her  filth  the  bawd. 

The  impudent  their  impudence. 

Ambition  under  thee  aspires. 
And  Avarice  under  thee  desires  ; 
Sloth  under  thee  her  ease  assumes, 
Lux  under  thee  all  overflows, 
"Wrath  tmder  thee  outrageous  grows. 
All  evil  under  thee  presumes. 

BeKgion,  erst  so  venerable, 
"What  art  thou  now  but  made  a  fable, 
A  holy  mask  on  Folly's  brow. 
Where  under  lies  Dissimulation, 
Lined  with  all  abomination. 
Sacred  Religion,  where  art  thou  ? 

Not  in  the  church  with  Simony, 

Not  on  the  bench  with  Bribery, 

Nor  in  the  court  with  Machiavel, 

Nor  in  the  city  with  deceits. 

Nor  in  the  countiy  with  debates  ; 

For  what  hath  Heaven  to  do  with  Hell  ? 

Joshua  Sylvester. — About  1610. 


12] 


—ADDRESS  TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day. 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made  ; 


Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing. 

Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spring ; 

Everything  did  banish  moan, 

Save  the  nightingale  alone. 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Lean'd  her  breast  up -till  a  thorn  ; 

And  there  sung  the  dolefull'stTiitty, 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry ; 

Teru,  teru,  by  and  by  ; 

That,  to  hear  her  so  complain. 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain ; 

For  her  griefs,  so  lively  shown, 

Made  me  tliink  upon  mine  own. 

Ah !  (thought  I)  thou  mourn' st  in  vain ; 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  : 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee. 

Ruthless  bears  they  will  not  cheer  thee  : 

King  Pandion  he  is  dead  ; 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead ; 

All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing, 

Careless  of  thy  sorroAving  ! 

Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smil'd. 

Thou  and  I  were  both  beguil'd. 

Every  one  that  flatters  thee 

Is  no  friend  in  misery. 

Words  are  easy,  like  the  wind ; 

Faithful  friends  are  hard  to  find. 

Every  man  will  be  thy  friend 

Whilst  thou  hast  wherewith  to  spend : 

But,  if  store  of  crowns  be  scant, 

No  man  will  supply  thy  want. 

If  that  one  be  prodigal. 

Bountiful  they  will  him  caU ; 

And  with  such-like  flattering, 

"  Pity  but  he  were  a  king." 

If  he  be  addict  to  vice. 

Quickly  him  they  will  entice ; 

But  if  fortune  once  do  frown. 

Then  farewell  his  great  renoMoi : 

They  that  fawn'd  on  him  before 

Use  his  company  no  more. 

He  that  is  thy  friend  indeed. 

He  will  help  thee  in  thy  need ; 

If  thou  sorrow,  he  will  weep. 

If  thou  wake  he  cannot  sleep  : 

Thus,  of  every  grief  in  heart 

He  with  thee  doth  bear  a  part. 

These  are  certain  signs  to  know 

Faithful  friend  from  flattering  foe. 

Richard  Barnjield. — About  1610. 


I22<— THE  NYMPHS   TO  THEIR  MAY 
QUEEN. 

With  fragrant  flowers  we  strew  the  way, 
And  make  this  pur  chief  holiday  : 
For  though  this  cKme  was  blest  of  yore, 
Yet  was  it  never  proud  before. 
O  beauteous  queen  of  second  Troy, 
Accept  of  our  unfeigned  joy. 

Now  the  air  is  sweeter  than  sweet  balm. 
And  satyrs  dance  about  the  palm  ; 


Thomas  Watson.] 


SONNET. 


[Third  Period. — 


Now  earth  with  verdure  newly  dight, 
Gives  perfect  signs  of  her  delight : 
O  beauteous  queen ! 

Now  birds  record  new  harmony, 
And  trees  do  whistle  melody  : 
And  everything  that  nature  breeds 
Doth  clad  itseK  in  pleasant  weeds. 

Thomas  Watson. — About  1590. 


Actaeon  lost,  in  middle  of  his  sport, 

Both  shape  and  life  for  looking  but  awry  : 

Diana  was  afraid  he  would  report 

What  secrets  he  had  seen  in  passing  by. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  self-same  hurt  have  I, 

By  viewing  her  for  whom  I  daily  die  ; 

I  leese  my  wonted  shape,  in  that  my  mind 

Doth  suffer  wreck  upon  the  stony  rock 

Of  her  disdain,  who,  contrary  to  kind, 

Does  bear  a  breast  more  hard  than  any  stock  ; 

And  former  form  of  limbs  is  changed  quite 

By  cares  in  love,  and  want  of  due  delight. 

I  leave  my  life,  in  that  each  secret  thought 

Which  I  conceive  through  wanton  fond  regard, 

Doth  make  me  say  that  life  avaUeth  nought, 

Where  service  cannot  have  a  due  reward. 

I  dare  not  name  the  nymph  that  works  my 

smart. 
Though  love  hath  graven  her  name  within  my 

heart. 

Thomas  Watson. — About  1590. 


124. 


-UNA  AND  THE  EEDCEOSS 
KNIGHT. 


A  gentle  knight  was  pricking  on  the  plain, 
Yclad  in  mighty  arms  and  silver  shield, 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deep  wounds  did  remain, 
The  cruel  marks  of  many  a  bloody  field ; 
Yet  arms  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield  : 
His  angry  steed  did  chide  his  foaming  bit, 
As  much  disdaining  to  the  curb  to  yield : 
Full  joUy  knight  he  seem'd,  and  fair  did  sit, 
As  one  for  knightly  jousts  and  fierce  encoun- 
ters fit. 

And  on  his  breast  a  bloody  cross  he  bore, 
The  dear  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 
For  whose  sweet  sake  that  glorious  badge  he 

wore. 
And  dead  (as  living)  ever  him  adored : 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scored. 
For  sovereign  hope,  which  in  his  help  he  had : 
Eight  faithful  true  he  was  in  deed  and  word ; 
But  of  his  cheer  did  seem  too  solemn  sad : 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad. 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bound. 
That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave, 
(That  greatest  glorious  queen  of  fairy  lond,) 
To  win  him  worship,  and  her  grace  to  have, 


Which  of  all  earthly  things  he  most  did  crave; 
And  ever  as  he  rode  his  heart  did  yearn 
To  prove  his  puissance  in  battle  brave 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learn  ; 
Upon  his  foe,  a  dragon  horrible  and  stem. 

A  lovely  lady  rode  him  fair  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  ass  more  white  than  snow ; 
Yet  she  much  whiter,  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  veil  that  wimpled  was  full  low, 
And  over  all  a  black  stole  she  did  throw, 
As  one  that  inly  mourn' d :  so  was  she  sad. 
And  heavy  sat  upon  her  palfrey  slow  ; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had. 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milk-white  lamb  she  leJ. 

So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lamb. 
She  was  in  life  and  every  virtuous  lore. 
And  by  descent  from  royal  lineage  came 
Of  ancient  kings  and  queens,  that  had  of  yore 
Their  sceptres  stretcht  from  east  to  western 

shore. 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held ; 
Till  that  infernal  fiend  with  foul  uproar 
Fore  wasted  all  their  land  and  them  expell'd  : 
Whom  to  avenge,  she  had  this  knight  from 

far  compell'd. 

Behind  her  far  away  a  dwarf  did  lag, 
That  lazy  seem'd  in  being  ever  last, 
Or  wearied  mth  beai*ing  of  her  bag 
Of  needments  at  his  back.    Thus  as  they  past 
The  day  with  clouds  was  sudden  overcast. 
And  angry  Jove  an  hideous  storm  of  rain 
Did  pour  into  his  leman's  lap  so  fast, 
That  every  wight  to  shroud  it  did  constrain, 
And  this  fair  couple  eke  to  shroud  themselves 
were  fain. 

Enforced  to  seek  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shady  grove  not  far  away  they  spied. 
That  promised  aid  the  tempest  to  withstand  ; 
Whose  lofty  trees,  yclad  with  summer's  pride. 
Did  spread  so  broad,  that  heaven's  light  did 

hide. 
Nor  pierceable  with  power  of  any  star  : 
And  all  within  were  paths  and  alleys  wide, 
With  footing  worn,  and  leading  inward  far : 
Fair  harbour,  that  them  seems ;  so  in  they 

entered  are. 
And  forth  they  pass,  with  pleasure  forward 

led. 
Joying  to  hear  the  birds'  sweet  harmony, 
Which  therein   shrouded   from  the  tempest 

dread, 
Seem'd  in  their  song  to  scorn  the  cruel  sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so  straight 

and  high. 
The  sailing  Pine,  the  Cedar  proud  and  tall. 
The  vine-prop  Elm,  the  Poplar  never  dry. 
The  builder  Oak,  sole  king  of  forests  all. 
The    Aspin    good    for   staves,     the   Cypress 

funeral. 
The  Laurel,  meed  of  mighty  conquerors 
And  poets  sage,  the  Fir  that  weepeth  still. 
The  Willow,  worn  of  forlorn  paramours, 
The  Yew  obedient  to  the  bender's  will, 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


UNA  FOLLOWED  BY  THE  LION, 


[Edmund  Spenser. 


The  Birch  for  shafts,  the  Sallow  for  the  mill, 
The  Myrrh  sweet  bleeding  in  the  bitter  wound, 
The  warlike  Beech,  the  Ash  for  nothing  ill, 
The  fruitful  OHve,  and  the  Plantain  round, 
The  carver  Holme,  the  Maple  seldom  inward 
sound : 

Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the  way. 
Until  the  blustering  storm  is  overblown, 
When,  weening  to  return,  whence  they  did 

stray, 
They  cannot  find  that  path  which  first  was 

shown. 
But  wander  to  and  fro  in  ways  unknown, 
Furthest  from  end  then,  when  they  nearest 

ween, 
That  makes  them  doubt  their  wits  be  not  their 

own : 
So  many  paths,  so  many  turnings  seen, 
That  which  of  them  to  take,  in  divers  doubt 

they  been. 

Edmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


125.— UNA  FOLLOWED  BY  THE  LION. 

Nought  is  there  under  Heaven's  wide  hollo w- 

ness, 
That  moves  more  dear  compassion  of  mind, 
Than  beauty  brought  t'unworthy  wretched- 
ness, 
Through   envy's  snares,    or   fortune's  freaks 

unkind. 
I,    whether    lately    through    her    brightness 

blind. 
Op  through  allegiance  and  fast  fealty, 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  womankind. 
Feel  my  heart  pierced  with  so  great  agony, 
When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pity  I  could  die. 

And  now  it  is  impassioned  so  deep, 
For  fairest  Una's  sake,  of  whom  I  sing, 
That  my  frail  eyes  these  lines  with  tears  do 

steep, 
To  think  how  she  through  guileful  handelKng, 
Though  true  as  touch,  though   daughter  of  a 

king. 
Though  fair  as  ever  living  wight  was  fair, 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deed  ill  meriting. 
Is  from  her  knight  divorced  in  despair, 
And  her  due  love's  derived  to  that  vile  witch's 

share. 

Yet  she,  most  faithful  lady,  all  this  while 
Forsaken,  woeful,  solitary  maid. 
Far  from  all  people's  preace,  as  in  exile. 
In  wilderness  and  wasteful  deserts  stray'd. 
To  seek  her  knight,  who,  subtily  betray' d 
Through  that  late  vision,  which  the  enchanter 

wrought. 
Had  her  abandon' d  :  she,  of  nought  afraid. 
Through  woods  and  wasteness  wide  him  daily 

sought ; 
Yet   wished  tidings  none    of   him   unto   her 

brought. 


One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way. 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight ; 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  laid  her  stole  aside  :  her  angel's  face. 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shined  l^right. 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  ; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such   heavenly 
grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood, 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly. 
Hunting  fuU  greedy  after  savage  blood ; 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy. 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily. 
To  have  at  once  devour' d  her  tender  corse  ; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh, 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse, 
And,  with  the  sight  amazed,  forgot  his  furious 
force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kiss'd  her  weary  feet, 
And  lick'd  her  lily  hands  with  fawning  tongue, 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
O  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong. 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong ! 
Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  submission, 
Stni  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked 

long. 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassion, 
And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

"  The  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in  field,"  j 

Quoth    she,    "  his    princely    puissance    doth        | 

abate,  ! 

And  mighty  proud  to  humble  weak  does  yield,        I 
Forgetful  of  the  hungry  rage  which  late  i 

Him  prick'd,  in  pity  of  my  sad  estate  : 
But  he,  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord. 
How  does  he  find  ia  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  loved,  and  ever  most  adored. 
As   the   God   of   my  life  ?  why  hath   he    mo 

abhorr'd.P"  i 

Eedounding  tears  did  choke  th'  end  of  her        I 

plaint,  I 

Which    softly    echoed    from    the    neighbour        j 

wood ; 
And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  constraint, 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood  ;  ; 

With  pity  calm'd,  down  fell  his  angry  mood.  j 

At  last,  in  close  heart  shutting  up  her  pain. 
Arose  the  virgin,  born  of  heavenly  blood. 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  again, 
To  seek  her  strayed  champion,  if  she  might 
attain. 

The  lion  would  not  leave  her  desolate. 
But  \vith  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  guard 
Of  her  chaste  person,  and  a  faithful  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles,  and  misfortunes  hard. 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and 

ward  ; 
And,  when  she  waked,  he  waited  diligent. 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepared  : 
From  her  fair  eyes  he  took  commandement, 
And  ever  by  her  looks  conceived  her  intent. 
Edmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


Edmund  Spenser.] 


THE  SQUIEE  AND  THE  DOVE. 


[Third  Period. 


126.— THE  SQUIEE  AND  THE  DOVE. 
"Well  said  the  wise  man,  now  prov'd  true  by  this, 
WMch  to  this  gentle  squire  did  happen  late ; 
That  the  displeasure  of  the  mighty  is 
Than  death  itself  more  dread  and  desperate  : 
For  nought  the  same  may  calm,  nor  mitigate, 
Tin  time  the  tempest  do  thereof  aUay 
With  sufferance  soft,  which  rigour  can  abate, 
And  have  the  stern  remembrance  wip'd  away 
Of  bitter  thoughts,   which  deep  therein  in- 
fixed lay. 

Like  as  it  fell  to  this  unhappy  boy. 
Whose  tender  heart  the  fair  Belphcebe  had 
With  one  stern  look  so  daunted,  that  no  joy 
In  all  his  life,  which  afterwards  he  lad, 
He  ever  tasted ;  but  with  penance  sad. 
And  pensive  sorrow,  pin'd  and  wore  away, 
Nor  ever  laugh' d  nor  once  show'd  countenance 

glad; 
But  always  wept  and  wailed  night  and  day, 
As  blastedblossom,  through  heat,  doth  languish 

and  decay ; 

Till  on  a  day  (as  in  his  wonted  wise 
His  dole  he  made)  there  chanced  a  turtle-dove 
To  come,  where  he  his  dolours  did  devise. 
That  likewise  late  had  lost  her  dearest  love  ; 
Which  loss  her  made  like  passion  also  prove. 
Who  seeing  his  sad  plight,  her  tender  heart 
With  dear  compassion  deeply  did  emmove, 
That  she  gan  moan  his  undeserved  smart, 
And  with  her  doleful  accent,  bear  with  him  a 
part. 

She,  sitting  by  him,  as  on  ground  he  lay. 
Her  mournful  notes  full  piteously  did  frame, 
And  thereof  made  a  lamentable  lay. 
So  sensibly  compiled,  that  in  the  same 
Him  seemed  oft  he  heard  his  own  right  name. 
With  that,  he  forth  would  pour  so  plenteous 


And  beat  his  breast  unworthy  of  such  blame, 
And  knock  his  head,  and  rend  his  rugged  hairs. 
That  could  have  pierc'd  the  hearts  of  tigers 
and  of  bears. 

Thus  long  this  gentle  bird  to  him  did  use, 

Withouten  dread  of  peril  to  repair 

Unto  his  wonne  ;  and  with  her  mournful  muse 

Him  to  recomfort  in  his  greatest  care. 

That  much  did  ease  his  mourning  and  misf  are : 

And  every  day,  for  guerdon  of  her  song. 

He  part  of  his  small  feast  to  her  would  share; 

That,  at  the  last,  of  all  his  woe  and  wrong. 

Companion  she  became,  and  so  continued  long. 

Upon  a  day,  as  she  him  sate  beside. 
By  chance  he  certain  miniments  forth  drew, 
Which  yet  %vith  him  as  relics  did  abide 
Of  all  the  bounty  which  Belphcebe  threw 
On  him,  while  goodly  grace  she  did  him  shew : 
Amongst  the  rest,  a  jewel  rich  he  found, 
That  was  a  ruby  of  right  perfect  hue, 
Shap'd  like  a  heart,  yet  bleeding  of  the  wound. 
And  with  a  little  golden  chain  about  it  bound. 


The  same  he  took,  and  with  a  ribbon  new 
(In  which  his  lady's  colours  were)  did  bind 
About  the  turtle's  neck,  that  with  the  view 
Did  greatly  solace  his  engrieved  mind. 
All  unawares  the  bird,  when  she  did  find 
HerseK  so  deck'd,  her  nimble  wings  display' d. 
And  flew  away,  as  lightly  as  the  wind : 
Which  sudden  accident  him  much  dismay' a, 
And  looking  after  long,  did  mark  which  way 
she  stray' d. 

But,  when  as  long  he  looked  had  in  vain, 
Yet  saw  her  forward  still  to  make  her  flight. 
His  weary  eye  return' d  to  him  again, 
Full  of  discomfort  and  disquiet  plight, 
That  both  his  jewel  he  had  lost  so  light, 
And  eke  his  dear  companion  of  his  care. 
But  that  sweet  bird  departing,  flew  forth  right 
Through  the  wide  region  of  the  wasteful  air, 
Until  she  came  where  wonned  his  Belphcebe 
fair. 

There  found  she  her  (as  then  it  did  betide) 
Sitting  in  covert  shade  of  arbors  sweet. 
After  late  weary  toil,  which  she  had  tried 
In  savage  chace,  to  rest  as  seem'd  her  meet. 
There  she  alighting,  fell  before  her  feet. 
And  gan  to  her,  her  mournful  plaint  to  make. 
As  was  her  wont :  thinking  to  let  her  weet 
The  great  tormenting  grief,  that  for  her  sake 
Her  gentle  squire  through  her  displeasure  did 
partake. 

She,  her  beholding  with  attentive  eye. 
At  length  did  mark  about  her  purple  breast 
That  precious  jewel,  which  she  formerly 
Had  known  right  well,  with  colour' d  ribbon 

drest ; 
Therewith  she  rose  in  haste,  and  her  addrest 
With  ready  hand  it  to  have  reft  away. 
But  the  swift  bird  obey'd  not  her  behest. 
But  swerv'd  aside,  and  there  again  did  stay  ; 
She   foUow'd  her,  and  thought   again  it  to 


And  ever  when  she  nigh  approach' d,  the  dove 
Would  flit  a  little  forward,  and  then  stay 
Till  she  drew  near,  and  then  again  remove  ; 
So  tempting  her  still  to  pursue  the  prey. 
And  still  from  her  escaping  soft  away  : 
Till  that  at  length,  into  that  forest  wide 
She  drew  her  far,  and  led  with  slow  delay. 
In  the  end,  she  her  unto  that  place  did  guide. 
Whereas  that  woful  man  in  languor  did  abide. 

He  her  beholding,  at  her  feet  down  fell, 
And  kiss'd  the  ground  on  which  her  sole  did 

tread, 
And  wash'd  the  same  with  water,  which  did 

well 
From  his  moist  eyes,  and  like  two  streams 

proceed ; 
Yet  spake  no  word,  whereby  she  might  aread 
What  mister  wight  he  was,  or  what  he  meant; 
But  as  one  daunted  with  her  presence  dread, 
Only  few  rueful  looks  unto  her  sent. 
As  messengers  of  h:s  true  meaning  and  intent. 


From  155S  to  1649.]         FABLE  OF  THE  OAK  AND  THE  BRIAE.         [Edmund  Spensir. 


Yet  nathemore  his  meaning  she  ared, 
But  wondered  much  at  his  so  uncouth  case ; 
And  by  his  person's  secret  seemlihed 
Well  ween'd,  that  he  had  been  some  man  of 

place, 
Before  misfortune  did  his  hue  deface  : 
That  being  moved  vrith  ruth  she  thus  bespake. 
Ah  !  woful  man,  what  heaven's  hard  disgrace, 
Or  wrath  of  cruel  wight  on  thee  ywrake, 
Or  self -disliked  life,  doth  thee  thus  wretched 

make? 

If  heaven,  then  none  may  it  redress  or  blame. 
Since  to  his  power  we  all  are  subject  born : 
If  wrathful  wight,  then  foul  rebuke  and  shame 
Be  theirs,  that  have  so  cruel  thee  forlorn ; 
But  if  through  inward  grief,  or  wilful  scorn 
Of  life  it  be,  then  better  do  avise. 
For,  he  whose  days  in  Avilful  woe  are  worn, 
The  grace  of  his  Creator  doth  despise, 
That  will  not  use  his  gifts  for  thankless  nig- 
gardise. 

When  so  he  heard  her  say,  eftsoons  he  brake 
His  sudden  silence,  which  he  long  had  pent, 
And  sighing  inly  deep,  her  thus  bespake  : 
Then  have  they  all  themselves  against  me  bent ; 
For  heaven  (first  author  of  my  languishment) 
Envying  my  too  great  felicity, 
Did  closely  with  a  cruel  one  consent, 
To  cloud  my  days  in  doleful  misery. 
And  make  me  loath  this  life,  still  longing  for 
to  die. 

Nor  any  but  yourself,  O  dearest  dread. 
Hath  done  this  wrong ;  to  wreak  on  worthless 

wight 
Your  high  displeasure,  through  misdeeming 

bred  : 
That  when  your  pleasure  is  to  deem  aright, 
Ye  may  redress,  and  me  restore  to  light. 
Which  sorry  words  her  mighty  heart  did  mate 
With  mild  regard,  to  see  his  rueful  plight, 
That  her  in-burning  wrath  she  gan  abate. 
And  him  received  again  to  former  favour's 

state. 

Edmiund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


127. 


-FABLE  OF  THE  OAK  AND  THE 
BEIAE. 


There  grew  an  aged  tree  on  the  green, 
A  goodly  Oak  sometime  had  it  been. 
With  arms  full  strong  and  largely  display' d, 
But  of  their  leaves  they  were  disaray'd  : 
The  body  big  and  mightily  pight, 
Thoroughly  rooted,  and  of  wondrous  height ; 
Whilom  had  been  the  king  of  the  field. 
And  mochel  mast  to  the  husband  did  yield, 
And  with  his  nuts  larded  many  swine. 
But  now  the  gray  moss  marred  his  rine. 
His  bared  boughs  were  beaten  with  storms. 
His  top  was  bald,  and  wasted  with  worms, 
His  honour  decay' d,  his  branches  sere. 


Hard  by  his  side  grew  a  bragging  Briere, 
Which  proudly  thrust  into  th'  element, 
And  seemed  to  threat  the  firmament : 
It  was  embellisht  with  blossoms  fair, 
And  thereto  aye  wonted  to  repair 
The  shepherd's  daughters  to  gather  flowres. 
To  paint  their  garlands  with  his  co^nwres. 
And  in  his  small  bushes  used  to  shroud, 
The  sweet  nightingale  singing  so  loud. 
Which  made  this  foolish  Briere  wex  so  bold, 
That  on  a  time  he  cast  him  to  scold, 
And  sneb  the  good  Oak,  for  he  was  old. 

Why  stands  there  (quoth  he)  thou  brutish 
block  ? 
Nor  for  fruit  nor  for  shadow  serves  thy  stock ; 
Seest  how  fresh  my  flowres  been  spread, 
Died  in  lily  white  and  crimson  red. 
With  leaves  engrained  in  lusty  green 
Colours  meet  to  cloath  a  maiden  queen  ? 
Thy  waste  bigness  but  cumbers  the  ground, 
And  dirks  the  beauty  of  my  blossoms  round : 
The  mouldy  moss,  which  thee  accloyeth  : 
My  cinnamon  smell  too  much  annoyeth  : 
Wlierefore  soon  I  rede  thee  hence  remove. 
Lest  thou  the  price  of  my  displeasure  prove. 
So  spake  this  bold  Briere  with  great  disdain, 
Little  him  answer' d  the  Oak  again. 
But  yielded,  with  shame  and  grief  adaw'd, 
That  of  a  weed  he  was  over-craw' d. 

It  chanced  after  upon  a  day, 
The  husband-man's  self  to  come  that  way, 
Of  custom  to  surview  his  ground. 
And  his  trees  of  state  in  compass  round ; 
Him  when  the  spiteful  Briere  had  espyed, 
Causeless  complained,  and  loudly  cryed 
Unto  his  lord,  stirring  up  stern  strife  ; 

O  my  liege  Lord  !  the  god  of  my  life, 
Please  you  ponder  your  suppliant's  plaint. 
Caused  of  wrong  and  cruel  constraint. 
Which  I  your  poor  vassal  daily  endure ; 
And  but  your  goodness  the  same  recure, 
And  like  for  desperate  dole  to  die. 
Through  f elonous  force  of  mine  enemy. 

Greatly  aghast  with  this  piteous  plea. 
Him  rested  the  good  man  on  the  lea. 
And  bade  the  Briere  in  his  plaint  proceed. 
With    painted    words    then    gan   this  proud 

weed 
(As  most  usen  ambitious  folk) 
His  colour' d  crime  with  craft  to  cloke. 

Ah,  my  Sovereign  !  lord  of  creatures  all. 
Thou  placer  of  plants  both  humble  and  tail, 
Was  not  I  planted  of  thine  own  hand. 
To  be  the  primrose  of  all  thy  land, 
With  flow'ring  blossoms  to  furnish  the  prime, 
And  scarlet  berries  in  sommer-time  ? 
How  falls  it  then  that  this  faded  Oak, 
Whose  body  is  sere,  whose  branches  broke, 
Whose  naked  arms  stretch  unto  the  fire, 
Unto  such  tjTanny  doth  aspire, 
Hindring  with  his  shade  my  lovely  light, 
And  robbing  me  of  the  sweet  sun's  sight  ? 
So  beat  his  old  boughs  my  tender  side, 
That  oft  the  blood  springeth   from  wounda 

wide. 


Edmund  Spensek.] 


FEOM  THE  EPITHALAMION. 


[Thikd  Period. 


Untimely  my  flowers  forced  to  fall, 
That  been  the  honour  of  your  coronal ; 
And  oft  he  lets  his  canker-worms  light 
Upon  my  branches,  to  work  me  more  spight ; 
And  of  his  hoary  locks  down  doth  cast, 
Wherewith  my  fresh  flowrets  been  defast : 
For  this,  and  many  more  such  outrage, 
Craving  your  godly  head  to  assuage 
The  rancorous  rigour  of  his  might ; 
Nought  ask  I  but  only  to  hold  my  right, 
Submitting  me  to  your  good  sufferance. 
And  praying  to  be  guarded  from  grievance. 

To  this  this  Oak  cast  him  to  reply 
Well  as  he  couth  ;  but  his  enemy 
Had  kindled  such  coals  of  displeasure. 
That  the  good  man  nould  stay  his  leisure, 
But  home  him  hasted  with  furious  heat, 
Encreasing  his  wrath  with  many  a  threat ; 
His  harmful  hatchet  he  hent  in  hand, 
(Alas  !  that  it  so  ready  should  stand  !) 
And  to  the  field  alone  he  speedeth, 
(Aye  little  help  to  harm  there  needeth) 
Anger  nould  let  him  speak  to  the  tree, 
Enaunter  his  rage  might  cooled  be. 
But  to  the  root  bent  his  sturdy  stroke, ' 
And  made  many  wounds  in  the  waste  Oak. 
The  axe's  edge  did  oft  turn  again, 
As  half  unwilling  to  cut  the  grain, 
Seemed  the  senseless  iron  did  fear. 
Or  to  wrong  holy  eld  did  forbear ; 
For  it  had  been  an  ancient  tree, 
Sacred  with  many  a  mystery. 
And  often  crost  with  the  priests'  crew, 
And  often  hallowed  with  holy- water  dew ; 
But  like  fancies  weren  foolery. 
And  broughten  this  Oak  to  this  misery ; 
For  nought  might  they  quitten  him  from  decay, 
For  fiercely  the  good  man  at  him  did  lay. 
The  block  oft  groaned  under  his  blow. 
And  sighed  to  see  his  near  overthrow. 
In  fine,  the  steel  had  pierced  his  pith, 
Then  down  to  the  ground  he  fell  forthwith. 
His   wondrous   weight   made  the  ground  to 

quake, 
Th'  earth  shrunk  under  him,  and  seem'd  to 

shake  ; 
There  lieth  the  Oak  pitied  of  none. 

Now  stands  the  Briere  like  a  lord  alone, 
Puffd  up  with  pride  and  vain  pleasance  : 
But  all  this  glee  had  no  continuance ; 
For  eftsoons  winter  'gan  to  approach, 
The  blustering  Boreas  did  encroach, 
And  beat  upon  the  solitary  Briere, 
For  now  no  succour  was  seen  him  near. 
Now  'gan  he  repent  his  pride  too  late, 
For  naked  left  and  disconsolate, 
The  biting  frost  nipt  his  stalk  dead, 
The  watry  wet  weighed  down  his  head, 
And  heap'd  snow  burdned  him  so  sore, 
That  now  upright  he  can  stand  no  more ; 
And  being  down  is  trod  in  the  dirt 
Of  cattle,  and  bronzed,  and  sorely  hurt. 
Such  was  th'  end  of  this  ambitious  Briere, 
For  scorning  eld, 

Edmimd  Spenser. — About  1590. 


128.— FEOM  THE  EPITHALAMION. 

Wake  now,  my  love,  awake ;  for  it  is  time'; 
The  rosy  morn  long  since  left  Tithon's  bed. 
All  ready  to  her  silver  coach  to  climb  ; 
And  Phoabus  'gins  to  show  his  glorious  head. 
Hark  !  now  the  cheerful  birds  do  chant  their 

lays. 
And  carol  of  Love's  praise. 
The  merry  lark  her  matins  sings  aloft ; 
The  thrush  replies  ;  the  mavis  descant  plays  ; 
The  ouzel  shrills ;  the  ruddock  warbles  soft ; 
So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent, 
To  this  day's  merriment. 

Ah  !  my  dear  love,  why  do  you  sleep  thus  long, 
When  meeter  were  that  you  should  now  awake, 
T'  await  the  coming  of  your  joyous  make, 
And  hearken  to  the  birds'  love-learned  song, 
The  dewy  leaves  among  ! 
For  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  them   answer  and  their 

echo  ring. 

My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dream, 
And  her  fair  eyes  like  stars  that  dimmed  were 
With  darksome  cloud,  now  show  their  goodly 

beams 
More  bright  than  Hesperus  his  head  doth  roar. 
Come  now,  ye  damsels,  daughters  of  delight, 
Help  quickly  her  to  dight ; 
But  first   come,  ye   fair  Hours,  which  were 

begot. 
In  Jove's  sweet  paradise,  of  Day  and  Night ; 
Which  do  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot, 
And  all,  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fair. 
Do  make  and  still  repair  ; 
And    ye    three    handmaids    of    the   Cyprian 

Queen, 
The  which  do  still  adorn  her  beauties'  pride. 
Help  to  adorn  my  beautifullest  bride  : 
And,  as  ye  her  array,  still  throw  between 
Some  graces  to  be  seen ; 
And,  as  ye  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing. 
The  whiles  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  your 

echo  ring. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come  : 
Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  await ; 
And  ye,  fresh  boys,  that  tend  upon  her  groom. 
Prepare  yourselves,  for  he  is  coming  straight. 
Set  all  your  things  in  seemly  good  array. 
Fit  for  so  joyful  day  • 
The  joyful!' st  day  that  ever  sun  did  see. 
Fair  Sun  !  show  forth  thy  favourable  ray. 
And  let  thy  lifeful  heat  not  fervent  be. 
For  fear  of  burning  her  sunshiny  face. 
Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 
O  fairest  Phoebus  !  father  of  the  Muse  ! 
If  ever  I  did  honour  thee  aright. 
Or  sing  the  thing  that  might  thy  mind  delight, 
Do  not  thy  servant's  simple  boon  refuse. 
But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day  be  mire  ; 
Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 
Then  I  thy  sovereign  praises  loud  vnll  sirg, 
That  all  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  their 
echo  rins". 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  EICHES. 


[Edmund  Spenser. 


Lo  !  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace, 
like  Phoebe,  from  her  chamber  of  the  east, 
Arising  forth  to  rirn  her  mighty  race, 
Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a  virgin  best. 
So  well  it  her  beseems,  that  ye  would  ween 
Some  angel  she  had  been. 
Her  long  loose  yellow  locks,  like  golden  wire. 
Sprinkled  with  pearl,   and   pearling  flowers 

atween, 
Do  like  a  golden  mantle  her  attire ; 
And  being  crowned  with  a  garland  green, 
Seem  like  some  maiden  queen. 
Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 
So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare. 
Upon  the  lowly  ground  afiixed  are ; 
Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold, 
But  blush  to  hear  her  praises  sung  so  loud, 
So  far  from  being  proud. 
Nathless  do  ye  still  loud  her  praises  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo 

ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants'  daughters,  did  ye  see 
So  fair  a  creature  in  your  town  before  ? 
So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  she, 
Adorn'd   with   beauty's    grace,   and   virtue's 

store ; 
Her  goodly  eyes  like  sapphires  shining  bright, 
Her  forehead  ivory  white, 
Her   cheeks  like  apples  which  the  sun  hath 

rudded, 
Her  lips  like  cherries  charming  men  to  bite. 
Her  breast  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream  uncrudded. 
Why  stand  ye  still,  ye  virgins,  in  amaze, 
Upon  her  so  to  gaze, 
■Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to  sing. 
To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and  your  echo 

ring? 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see. 
The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  sp'rit, 
Garnished  with  heavenly  gifts  of  high  degree, 
Much  more  then  would  ye   wonder   at  that 

sight. 
And  stand  astonished  like  to  those  which  read 
Medusa's  mazeful  head. 

There  dwells  sweet  Love,  and  constant  Chas- 
tity, 
Unspotted  Faith,  and  comely  Womanhood, 
Regard  of  Honour,  and  mild  Modesty ; 
There  Virtue  reigns  as  queen  in  royal  throne, 
And  giveth  laws  alone. 
The  which  the  base  affections  do  obey. 
And  yield  their  services  unto  her  wUl ; 
Ne  thought  of  things  uncomely  ever  may 
Thereto  approach  to  tempt  her  mind  to  iU. 
Had  ye  once  seen  these  her  celestial  treasures, 
And  unrevealed  pleasures. 
Then  would  ye  wonder  and  her  praises  sing, 
That  aU  the  woods  would  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love. 
Open  them  wide  that  she  may  enter  in. 
And  all  the  posts  adorn  as  doth  behove. 
And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  garlands  trim, 


For  to  receive  this  saint  with  honour  due, 

That  Cometh  in  to  you. 

With  trembling  steps,  and  humble  reverence. 

She  Cometh  in,  before  the  Almighty's  view  : 

Of  her,  ye  virgins,  learn  obedience. 

When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places. 

To  humble  your  proud  faces : 

Bring  her  up  to  the  high  altar,  that  she  may 
The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake, 
The  which  do  endless  matrimony  make  ; 
And  Jet  the  roaring  organs  loudly  play 
The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes  ; 
The  whiles,  with  hollow  throats, 
The  choristers  the  joyous  anthem  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their  echo 
ring. 

Behold  while  she  before  the  altar  stands. 
Hearing  the  hcfij  priest  that  to  her  speaks. 
And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands. 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks. 
And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermeil  stain, 
Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain  ; 
That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain. 
Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly. 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair. 
The  more  they  on  it  stare. 
But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty. 
That  suffers  not  a  look  to  glance  awry. 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 
Why  blush  you,  love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 
The  pledge  of  aU  our  band  ? 
Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  alleluya  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  echo 
ring. 

Edmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


129.— THE  HOUSE  OF  EICHES. 

That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and  strong, 
Like  an  huge  cave  hewn  out  of  rocky  clift. 
From,  whose  rough  vault  the  ragged  breaches 

hung 
Embossed  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  gift. 
And  with  rich  metal  loaded  every  rift. 
That  heavy  ruin  they  did  seem  to  threat ; 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lift 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spread  her  subtle  net, 
Enwrapped  in   foul    smoke  and  clouds  more 

black  than  jet. 

Both  roof,  and  floor,  and  walls,  were  all  of 

gold. 
But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  decay. 
And  hid  in  darkness,  that  none  could  behold 
The  hue  thereof :  for  view  of  cheerful  day 
Did  never  in  that  house  itself  display. 
But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertain  light ; 
Such  as  a  lamp  whose  life  does  fade  away  ; 
Or  as  the  Moon,  clothed  with  cloudy  night, 
Does  show  to  him  that  walks  in  fear  and  sad 

affright. 


Edmund  Spenser.] 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  ANGELS. 


[Third  Period. 


In  all  that  room  was  nothings  to  be  seen 

But  huge  great  iron  chests,  and  coffers  strong, 

All  barred  with  double  bends,  that  none  could 

ween 
Them  to  enforce  by  violence  or  wrong ; 
On  every  side  they  placed  were  along. 
But  all  the  ground  with  skulls  was  scattered 
And   dead   men's  bones,    which  round  about 

were  flung ; 
Whose  lives,  it  seemed,  whilome  there  were 

shed, 
And  their  vile  carcases  now  left  unburied. 

JEdmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


130.— THE  MINISTRY  OF  ANGELS. 

And  is  there  care  in  Heaven  ?     And  is  there 

love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  base, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 
There  is  : — else  much  more  wretched  were  the 

case 
Of  men  than  beasts :     But  0  !  th'  exceeding 

grace 
Of  highest  God,  that  loves  his  creatures  so, 
And  all  his  works  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and  fro, 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his  wicked 

foe  ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave 
To  come  to  succour  us  that  succour  want ! 
How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pinions  cleave 
The  flitting  skies,  like  flying  pursuivant, 
Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant ! 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and  duly  ward. 
And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about  us 

plant ; 
And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for  reward  : 
O  why  should  heavenly  God  to  men  have  such 

regard  ? 

Ednrnnd  Spenser. — About  1590. 


131.— PRINCE  ARTHUR'S  ADDRESS  TO 
NIGHT. 

"  Night !  thou  foul  mother  of  annoyance  sad, 
Sister  of  heavy  Death,  and  nurse  of  Woe, 
Which  was  begot  in  Heaven,  but  for  thy  bad 
And  brutish  shape  thrust  down  to  HeU  below, 
Where,  by  the  grim  flood  of  Cocytus  slow, 
Thy  dwelling  is  in  Erebus'  black  house, 
(Black  Erebus,  thy  husband,  is  the  foe 
Of  all  the  gods,)  where  thou  ungracious 
Half  of  thy  days  doest  lead  in  horror  hideous. 

"  What  had  th'  Eternal  Maker  need  of  thee 
The  world  in  his  continual  course  to  keep, 
That  doest  all  thiiigs  deface,  nor  lettest  see 
The  beauty  of  his  work  ?  Indeed,  in  sleep 
The  slothful  body,  that  doth  love  to  steep 
His  lustless  limbs,  and  drown  his  baser  mind, 
Doth  praise  thee  oft,  and  oft  from  Stygian 
deep 


Calls  thee  his  goddess,  in  his  error  blind, 
And  great  dame  Nature's  handmaid  cheering 
every  kind. 

"  But  well  I  wot  that  to  an  heavy  heart 
Thou  art  the  root  and  nurse  of  bitter  cares, 
Breeder  of  new,  renewer  of  old  smarts ; 
Instead  of  rest  thou  lendest  railing  tears  ; 
Instead  of  sleep  thou  sendest  troublous  fears 
And  dreadful  visions,  in  the  which  alive 
The  dreary  image  of  sad  Death  appears  : 
So  from  the  weary  spirit  thou  doest  drive 
Desired  rest,  and  men  of  happiness  deprive. 

"  Under  thy  mantle  black  there  hidden  lie 
Light- shunning  Theft,  and  traitorous  Intent, 
Abhorred  Bloodshed,  and  vile  Felony, 
Shameful  Deceit,  and  Danger  imminent, 
Foxd  Horror,  and  eke  hellish  Dreariment : 
All  these  I  wot  in  thy  protection  be, 
And  light  do  shun,  for  fear  of  being  shent ; 
For  light  alike  is  loth'd  of  them  and  thee  ; 
And  all,  that  lewdness  love,  do  hate  the  light 
to  see. 

"  For  Day  discovers  all  dishonest  ways. 
And  sheweth  each  thing  as  it  is  indeed  : 
The  praises  of  high  God  he  fair  displays. 
And  his  large  bounty  rightly  doth  areed : 
Day's  dearest  children  be  the  blessed  seed 
Which  Darkness   shall   subdue  and  Heaven 

win: 
Truth  is  his  daughter ;  he  her  first  did  breed, 
Most  sacred  virgin,  without  spot  of  sin  : 
Our  life  is   day ;   but   death   with   darkness 

doth  begin." 

Edmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


132.— THE  GARDEN   OF  ADONIS. 

There  is  continual  spring,  and  harvest  there 

Continual,  both  meeting  at  one  time  : 

For  both   the   boughs   do  laughing  blossoms 

bear. 
And  with  fresh   colours   deck    the    wanton 

prime. 
And  eke  at  once  the  heavy  trees  they  climb, 
Which  seem  to  labour  under  their  fruit's  load  : 
The    while    the    joyous    birds    make    their 

pastime 
Amongst  the  shady  leaves,  their  sweet  abode. 
And  their  true  loves  without   suspicion  tell 

abroad. 

Right  in  the  middest  of  that  paradise 

There  stood  a  stately  mount,  on  whose  round 

top 
A  gloomy  grove  of  myrtle  trees  did  rise, 
Whose  shady  boughs  sharp  steel  did  never  lop, 
Nor  wicked  beasts  their  tender  buds  did  crop, 
But,  like  a  girlond,  compassed  the  height. 
And  from  their  fruitful  sides  sweet  gam  did 

drop, 
That    all    the    ground,    with    precious    dew 

bedight. 
Threw  forth  most  dainty  odours  and  most 

sweet  delight. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


SONNETS. 


[Edmund  Spenser. 


And  in  the  thickest  covert  of  that  shade 
There  was  a  pleasant  arbonr,  not  by  art 
But  of  the  trees'  own  inclination  made, 
Which  knitting  their  rank  branches  part  to 

part, 
With  wanton  ivy-twine  entrailed  athwart. 
And  eglantine  and  caprifole  among, 
Fashioned  above  within  their  inmost  part, 
That  neither  Phoebus'  beams  could  through 

them  throng, 
Nor  Coins'  sharp  blast  could  work  them  any 


wrong. 


Edmuiid  Spenser. — About  1590. 


There  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground 

Itself  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye, 

In  which  all  pleasures  plenteously  abound, 

And  none  does  others  happiness  envy  ; 

The  painted  flowers,  the  trees  upshooting  high. 

The   dales  for  shade,   the  hills  for  breathing 

space. 
The  trembling  groves,  the  crystal  running  by ; 
And  that  which  all  fair  works  doth  most  ag- 

girace. 
The  art,  which  all  that  wrought,  appeared  in 

no  place. 

One  would  have  thought  (so  cunningly  the  rude 
And  scorned  parts  were  mingled  with  the  fine) 
That  nature  had  for  wantonness  ensued 
Art,  and  that  art  at  nature  did  repine ; 
So  striving  each  th'  other  to  undermine, 
Each  did  the  other's  work  more  beautify ; 
So  differing  both  in  wills,  agreed  in  fine  : 
So  all  agreed  through  sweet  diversity, 
This  garden  to  adorn  with  aU  variety. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountain  stood 
Of  richest  substance  that  on  earth  might  be, 
So  pure  and  shiny,  that  the  silver  flood 
Through   every   channel   running  one  might 

see  ; 
]\Iost  goodly  it  with  curious  imagery 
Was  overwrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boys, 
Of  which  some  seem'd  with  lively  jollity 
To  fly  about,  plajdng  their  wanton  toys. 
While  others  did  embaye  themselves  in  liquid 

joys. 

And  over  all,  of  purest  gold,  was  spread 
A  trail  of  ivy  in  his  native  hue  ; 
For,  the  rich  metal  was  so  coloured. 
That  wight,  who  did  not  well  ad  vis' d  it  view, 
Would  surely  deem  it  to  be  ivy  true  : 
Low  his  lascivious  arms  adown  did  creep, 
That  themselves  dijiping  in  the  silver  dew, 
Their  fleecy  flowers  they  fearfully  did  steep, 
Which  drops  of  crystal  seem'd  for  wantonness 
to  weep. 

Infinite  streams  continually  did  well 
Out  of  this  fountain,  sweet  and  fair  to  see. 
The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell. 
And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quantity, 
That  like  a  little  lake  it  seem'd  to  be ; 


Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  height. 
That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom 

see. 
All  pav'd  beneath  with  jasper  shining  bright, 
That  seem'd  the  fountain  in  that  sea  did  sail 

upright. 


And  all  the  margin  round  about 
With  shady  laurel  trees,  thence  to  defend 
The  sunny  beams,  which  on  the  billows  beat, 
And  those  which  therein  bathed  might  oflFend. 
***** 

Eftsoons  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 
Of  all  that  might  delight  a  dainty  ear. 
Such  as  at  once  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  paradise  be  heard  elsewhere  : 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  hear. 
To  read  what  manner  music  that  might  be  :. 
For  aU  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear. 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmony  ; 
Birds,  voices,  instriunents,  winds,  waters,  all 
agree.\ 

The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attemper' d  sweet ; 
Th'  angelical  soft  trembling  voices  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver  sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  water's  fall : 
The  water's  fall  with  difference  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call : 
The  gentle  warbUng  wind  low  answered  to  aU. 

The  while  some  one  did  chaunt  this  lovely  lay ; 
"  Ah  see,  whoso  fair;  thing  thou  dost  fain  to 

see. 
In  springing  flower  the  image  of  thy  day ; 
Ah  see  the  virgin  rose,  how  sweetly  she 
Doth  first  peep  forth  with  bashful  modesty. 
That  fairer  seems  the  less  ye  see  her  may ; 
Lo,  see  soon  after,  how  more  bold  and  free 
Her  bared  bosom  she  doth  broad  display ; 
Lo,  see  soon  after,  how  she  fades  and  falls 

away  ! 

"  So  passeth,  in  the  passing  of  a  day, 
Of  mortal  life,  the  leaf,  the  bud,  the  flower, 
Nor  more  doth  flourish  after  first  decay. 
That  erst  was  sought  to  deck  both  bed  and 

bower 
Of  many  a  lady,  and  many  a  paramour  ; 
Gather  therefore  the  rose,  while  yet  is  prime. 
For  soon  comes  age,  that  wiU  her  pride  de- 
flower : 
Gather  the  rose  of  love,  while  yet  is  time. 
While  loving  thou  mayst  loved  be  with  equal 
crime." 

Edmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


134- 


-SONNETS. 


Sweet  is  the  rose,  but  grows  upon  a  brere  ; 
Sweet  is  the  juniper,  but  sharp  his  bough  ; 
Sweet  is  the  eglantine,  but  pricketh  near ; 
Sweet  is  the  firbloom,  but  his  branches  rough  ; 


Samuel  Daniel.] 


EAELY  LOY£. 


[Thied  Period. — 


Sweet  is  the  Cyprus,  but  his  rind  is  tough  j 
Sweet  is  the  nut,  but  bitter  is  his  pill ; 
Sweet    is    the    broom    flower,   but    yet  sour 

enough  ; 
And  sweet  is  moly,  but  his  root  is  ill ; 
So,  every  sweet,  with  sour  is  tempered  still, 
That  maketh  it  be  coveted  the  more  : 
For  easy  things  that  may  be  got  at  will 
Most  sorts  of  men  do  set  but  little  store. 
Why  then  should  I  account  of  little  pain, 
That  endless  pleasure  shall  unto  me  gain  ? 

Edmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


Since  I  did  leave  the  presence  of  my  love, 
Many  long  weary  days  I  have  outworn, 
And  many  nights  that  slowly  seem'd  to  move 
Their  sad  protract  from  evening  until  morn. 
For,  when  as  day  the  heaven  doth  adorn, 
I  wish  that  night  the  noyous  day  would  end  ; 
And  when  as  night  hath  us  of  light  forlorn, 
I  wish  that  day  would  shortly  reascend. 
Thus  I  the  time  with  expectation  spend, 
And  fain  my  grief  with  changes  to  beguile, 
That  further  seems  his  term  still  to  extend. 
And  maketh  every  minute  seem  a  mile. 
So  sorrow  still  doth  seem  too  long  to  last. 
But  joyous  hours  do  fly  away  too  fast. 

Edmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


Like  as  the  culver,  on  the  bared  bough. 
Sits  mourning  for  the  absence  of  her  mate. 
And  in  her  songs  sends  many  a  wishful  vow 
For  his  return  that  seems  to  linger  late ; 
So  I  alone,  now  left  disconsolate, 
Mourn  to  myself  the  absence  of  my  Love, 
And,  wand'ring  here  and  there,  all  desolate, 
Seek  with  my  plaints  to  match  that  mournful 

dove  ; 
Ne  joy  of  aught  that  under  heaven  doth  hove, 
Can  comfort  me  but  her  own  joyous  sight, 
Whose  sweet  aspect  both  God  and  man  can 

move, 
In  her  unspotted  pleasuns  to  delight. 
Dark  is  my  day,  whiles  her  fair  light  I  miss. 
And  dead  my  life,  that  wants  such  lively  bliss. 
Edmund  Spenser. — About  1590. 


135.— EARLY  LOVE. 

Ah,  I  remember  well  (and  how  can  I 
But  evermore  remember  well)  when  first 
Our  flame  began,  when  scarce  we  knew  what 

was 
The  flame  we  felt ;  when  as  Ve  sat  and  sigh'd 
And  look'd  upon  each  other,  and  conceived 
Not  what  we  ail'd,  yet  something  wo  did  ail, 
And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well, 
And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 
Then  would  we  kiss,    then  sigh,  then  look  : 

and  thus 
In  that  first  garden  of  our  simpleness 
We  spent  our  childhood.      But  when  years 

began 


To  reap  the  fruit  of  knowledge  ;  ah,  how  then 
Would   she    with   sterner  looks,  with  graver 

brow. 
Check  my  presumption  and  my  forwardness  ! 
Yet  still  would  give  me  flowers,  still  would 

show 
What   she  would  have  me,  yet  not  have  me 

know. 

Samuel  Daniel. — About  1612. 


136.— THE  mTRPDUCTIO:Nr  OF  FOREIGN 
VICES  DEPRECATED. 

Let  their  vile  cunning,  in  their  limits  pent, 
Remain  among  themselves  that  like  it  most, 
And  let  the  north,  they  count  of  colder  blood, 
Be  held  more  gross,  so  it  remain  more  good. 

Let  them  have  fairer  cities,  goodlier  soils. 
And  sweeter  fields  for  beauty  to  the  eye, 
So  long  as  they  have  these  ungodly  wiles. 
Such  detestable  vile  impiety. 
And  let  us  want  their  vines,  their  fruits  the 

whiles. 
So  that  we  want  not  faith  or  honesty. 
We  care  not  for  these  pleasures  ;  so  we  may 
Have  better  hearts  and  stronger  hands  than 

they. 

Neptune,  keep  out  from  thy  embraced  ifsle 
This  foul  contagion  of  iniquity  ! 
Drown  all  corruptions,  coming  to  defile 
Our  fair  proceedings,  ordered  formally. 
Keep  us  mere  English  ;  let  not  craft  beguile 
Honour  and  justice  with  strajUge  subtlety. 
Let   us   not  think   how   that   our   good  can 

frame 
That  ruined  hath  the  authors  of  the  same. 

Samuel  Daniel. — About  1612. 


137.— RICHARD   II., 

The  Morning  before  his  Murder  in  Pomfret 
Castle. 

Whether  the  soul  receives  intelligence. 
By  her  near  genius,  of  the  body's  end, 
And  so  imparts  a  sadness  to  the  sense, 
Foregoing  ruin  whereto  it  doth  tend ; 
Or  whether  nature  else  hath  conference 
With   profound  sleep,  and  so  doth  warning 

send. 
By  prophetising  dreams,  what  hurt  is  near, 
And  gives  the  hea\'y  careful  heart  to  fear. 

However,  so  it  is,  the  now  sad  king, 
Toss'd  here  and  there  his  quiet  to  confound, 
Feels  a  strange  weight  of  sorrows  gathering 
Upon  his  trembling  heart,  and  sees  no  ground  ; 
Feels  sudden  terror  bring  cold  shivering ; 
Lists  not  to  eat,  still  muses,  sleeps  unsound ; 
His  senses  droop,  his  steady  eyes  unquick, 
And  much  he  ails,  and  yet  he  is  not  sick. 


From  1558  io  1649.] 


AN  EPISTLE. 


[Samuel  Daniel. 


The  morning  of  that  day  which  was  his  last, 
After  a  weary  rest,  rising  to  pain, 
Out  at  a  little  grate  his  eyes  he  cast 
Upon  those  bordering  hills  and  open  plain, 
Where  other's  liberty  make  him  complain 
The  more  his  own,  and  grieves  his  soul  the 

more, 
Conferring  captive  crowns  with  freedom  poor. 

O  happy  man,  saith  he,  that  lo  I  see, 
Grazing  his  cattle  in  those  pleasant  fields. 
If  he  but  knew  his  good.     How  blessed  he 
That  feels  not  what  affliction  greatness  yields  ! 
Other  than  what  he  is  he  would  not  be, 
iSTor  change  his  state  with  him  that  sceptre 

wields. 
Thine,  thine  is  that  true  life  ;  that  is  to  live, 
To  rest  secure,  and  not  rise  up  to  grieve. 

Thou  sitt'st  at  home  safe  by  thy  quiet  fire, 
And  hear'st  of  other's  harms,  but  fearest  none  : 
And  there  thou  tell'st  of  kings,  and  who  aspire. 
Who  f  aU,  who  rise,  who  triumph,  who  do  moan. 
Perhaps  thou  talk'st  of  me,  and  dost  enquire 
Of  my  restraint,  why  here  I  live  alone. 
And  pitiest  this  my  miserable  fall ; 
For  pity  must  have  part — envy  not  all. 

Tlirice  happy  you  that  look  as  from  the  shore. 
And  have  no  venture  in  the  wreck  you  see  ; 
No  interest,  no  occasion  to  deplore 
Other  men's  travels,  while  yourselves  sit  free. 
How  much  doth  your  sweet  rest  make  us  the 

more 
To  see  our  misery,  and  what  we  be  : 
Whose  blinded  greatness,  ever  in  turmoil, 
Still  seeking  happy  life,  makes  life  a  toU. 

Samuel  Daniel. — About  1612. 


138.— AN  EPISTLE  TO  THE   COUNTESS 
OF  CUMBERLAND. 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind. 
And  rear'd  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so 

strong, 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers  ;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malico  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same  : 
What  a  fair  scat  hath  he,  from  whence  he 

may 
The   boundless   wastes   and   weilds   of    man 

survey  ? 

And  with  how  free  a:i  eye  doth  he  look  down 
Upon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil  ? 
Where  all  the  storms  of  passions  mainly  beat 
On   fle^li   and   blood :  where  honour,    power, 

renown, 
Are  only  gay  afflictions,  golden  toil ; 
Where  grea,tness  stands  upon  as  feeble  feet. 
As  frailty  doth ;  and  only  great  doth  seem 
To  little  minds,  Avho  do  it  so  esteem. 

He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch's  wars 
But  only  as  on  stately  robberies  ; 


Where  evermore  the  fortune  that  prevails 
Must  be  the  right :  the  ill- succeeding  mars 
The  fairest  and  the  best  fac'd  enterprise. 
Great  pirate  Pompey  lesser  pirates  quails  : 
Justice,  he  sees,  (as  if  seduced)  still 
Conspires  ■wdth  power,  whose  cause  must  not 
be  ill. 

He  sees  the  face  of  right  t' appear  as  manifold 
As  are  the  passions  of  uncertain  man ; 
Who  puts  it  in  all  colours,  all  attires, 
To  serve  his  ends,  and  make  his  courses  hold. 
He  sees,  that  let  deceit  work  what  it  can. 
Plot  and  contrive  base  ways  to  high  desires ; 
That  the  all-guiding  Providence  doth  yet 
All  disappoint,  and  mocks  the  smoke  of  wit. 

Nor  is  ho  mov'd  with  all  the  thunder-cracks 
Of  tyrants'  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  Pow'r,  that  proudly  sits  on  others'  crimes  : 
Charg'd  with  more  crying  sins  than  those  he 

checks. 
The  storjas  of  sad  confusion,  that  may  grow 
Up  in  the  present  for  the  coming  times. 
Appal  not  him  that  hath  no  side  at  all. 
But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  fall. 

Although  his  heart  (so  near  ally'd  to  earth) 
Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexed  state 
Of  troublous  and  distressed  mortality. 
That  thus  make  way  unto  the  ugly  birth 
Of  their  own  sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
Aflfliction  upon  imbecility : 
Yet  seeing  thus  the  course  of  things  must  run, 
He  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  fore-done. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  compasses. 
And  is  encompass'd  ;  whilst  as  craft  deceives, 
And  is  deceiv'd  :    whilst  man  doth  ransack 

man. 
And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress ; 
And  th'  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  hopes  :  he  looks  thereon, 
As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  iinwet  eye. 
And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 

Thus,    madam,    fares    that    man,    that  hath 

prepar'd 
A  rest  for  his  desires  ;  and  sees  all  things 
Beneath  him ;  and  hath  learn' d  this  book  of 

man. 
Full  of  the  notes  of  frailty ;  and  compar'd 
The  best  of  glory  with  her  sufferings  : 
By  whom,  I  see,  you  labour  all  you  can 
To  plant  your  heart ;  and  set  your  thoughts  as 

near 
His  glorious  mansion,  as  your  pow'rs  can  bear. 

Which,  madam,  are  so  soundly  fashioned 

By  that  clear  judgment,  that  hath  carry'd  you 

Beyond  the  feeble  limits  of  your  kind, 

As  they  can  stand  against  the  strongest  head 

Passion  can  make  ;  inur'd  to  any  hue 

The  world  can  cast ;   that  cannot  cast  that 

mind 
Out  of  her  form  of  goodness,  that  doth  see 
Both  what  the  best  and  worst  of  earth  can  be 

9 


Samuel  Daniel.] 


THE  NOBILITY  EXHORTED. 


[Thisd  Pekiod. — 


Which  makes,  that  whatsoever  here  befalls, 
You  in  the  region  of  yourself  remain  : 
Where  no  vain  breath  of  th'  impudent  molests. 
That  hath  secur'd  within  the  brazen  walls 
Of  a  clear  conscience,  that  (without  all  stain) 
Eises  in  peace,  in  innocency  rests  ; 
"Wliilst  all  what  Malice  from  mthout  procures, 
Shows  her  own  ugly  heart,  but  hurts»not  yours. 

And  whereas  none  rejoice  more  in  revenge, 
Than  women  use  to  do  ;  yet  you  well  know. 
That  wrong  is  better  check' d  by  being  con- 

temn'd. 
Than  being  pursu'd  ;  leaving  to  him  t'avenge. 
To  whom  it  appertains.     Wherein  you  show 
How  worthily  your  clearness  hath  condemn' d 
Base  malediction,  living  in  the  dark, 
That  at  the  rays  of  goodness  still  doth  bark. 

Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which 
These  revolutions  of  disturbances 
StUl  roll ;  where  all  th'  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate  :  whose  strong  effects  a*re  such, 
As  he  must  bear,  being  pow'rless  to  redress  : 
And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can     - 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man. 

And  how  turmoil' d  they  are  that  level  lie 
With  earth,  and  cannot  lift  themselves  from 

thence  ; 
That  never  are  at  peace  with  their  desires, 
But  work  beyond  their  years  ;  and  ev'n  deny 
Dotage  her  rest,  and  hardly  will  dispense 
With  death.     That  when  ability  expires, 
Desire  lives  still — So  much  delight  they  have, 
To  carry  toil  and  travel  to  the  grave. 

Whose  ends  you  see ;  and  what  can  be  the 

best 
They  reach  unto,  when  they  have  east  the  sum 
And  reck'nings  of  their  glory.    And  you  know, 
This  floating  life  hath  but  this  port  of  rest, 
A  heaH  2y'i'epa7'\l,  tl tat  fears  no  ill  to  come. 
And  that  man's  greatness  rests  but  in  his  show, 
The  best  of  all  whose  days  consumed  are, 
Either  in  war,  or  peace-conceiving  war. 

This  concord,  madam,  of  a  well- tun' d  mind 
Hath  been  so  set  by  that  all- working  hand 
Of  Heaven,  that  though  the  world  hath  done 

his  worst 
To  put  it  out  by  discords  most  unkind  ; 
Yet  doth  it  still  in  perfect  union  stand 
With  God  and  man  ;  nor  ever  will  be  forc'd 
Erom  that  most  sweet  accord ;  but  still  agree. 
Equal  in  fortune's  inequality. 

And  this  note,  madam,  of  your  worthiness 
Remains  recorded  in  so  many  hearts. 
As  time  nor  malice  cannot  wrong  your  right, 
In  th'  inheritance  of  fame  you  must  possess  : 
Yon  that  have  built  you  by  your  great  deserts 
(Out  of  small  means)  a  far  more  exquisite 
And  glorious  dwelling  for  your  honou.r'd  name. 
Than  all  the  gold  that  leaden  minds  can  frame. 

Samuel  Daniel.— About  1612. 


139.— THE  NOBILITY  EXHORTED  TO 
THE  PATRONAGE  OF  LEARNING. 

You  mighty  lords,  that  with  respected  grace 
Do  at  the  stern  of  fair  example  stand, 
And  all  the  body  of  this  populace 
Guide  with  the' turning  of  your  hand ; 
Keep    a    right    course;    bear    up    from    all 

disgrace  ; 
Observe  the  point  of  glory  to  our  land  : 

Hold    up    disgraced    Knowledge    from    the 

ground ; 
Keep  Virtue  in  request :  give  worth  her  due. 
Let     not    Neglect    with     barbarous     means 

confound 
So  fair  a  good,  to  bring  in  night  a-new  : 
Be  not,  0  be  not  accessary  found 
Unto  her  death,  that  must  give  life  to  you. 

Where  will  you  have  your  virtuous  name  safe 

laid  ? — 
In  gorgeous  tombs,  in  sacred  cells  secure  ? 
Do  you  not  see  those  prostrate  heaps  betray'd 
Your  fathers'  bones,  and  could  not  keep  them 

sure  ? 
And  will  you  trust  deceitful  stones  fair  laid, 
And  think  they  will  be  to  your  honour  truer  ? 

No,  no ;  unsparing  Time  will  proudly  send 
A  warrant  unto  Wrath,  that  with  one  frown 
Will  all  these  mockeries  of  vain-glory  rend. 
And     make     them      (as     before)     ungraced, 

unknown : 
Poor  idle  honours,  that  can  ill  defend 
Your  memories,  that  cannot  keep  their  own  ! 
8amttel  Daniel. — About  1612. 


140.— SONNETS. 

I  must  not  grieve,  my  love,  whose  eyes  would 

read 
Lines   of   delight,  whereon  her  youth  might 

smile ; 
Flowers  ha,ve  time  before  they  come  to  seed, 
And  she  is  young,  and  now  must  sport  the 

while. 
And  sport,  sweet  maid,in  season  of  these  years. 
And    learn    to    gather    flowers    before    they 

wither  ; 
And  where  the  sweetest  blossom  first  appears, 
Let  love   and   youth   conduct  thy  pleasures 

thither. 
Lighten  forth  smiles  to  clear  the  clouded  air, 
And  calm  the  tempest  which  my  sighs  do  raise ; 
Pity  and  smiles  do  best  become  the  fair ; 
Pity  and  smiles  must  only  yield  thee  praise. 
Make  me  to  say,  when  all  my  griefs  are  gone, 
Happy  the  heart  that  sigh'd  for  such  a  one. 

Fair  is  my  love,  and  cruel  as  she's  fair ; 

Her  brow  shades  frown,  altho'  her  eyes  are 

sunny ; 
Her  smiles  are  lightning,  though   her  pride 

despair ; 
And  her  disdains  are  gall,  her  favours  honey. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


MOETIMEE,  EAEL  OF  MAECH. 


[Michael  Drayton. 


A  modest  maid,  deck'd  with  a  blush  of  honour, 
Whose  feet  do  tread  green  paths  of  youth  and 

love  ; 
The  wonder  of  all  eyes  that  look  upon  her : 
Sacred  on  earth  ;  design' d  a  saint  above ; 
Chastity  and  Beauty,  which  are  deadly  foes, 
Live  reconciled  friends  within  her  brow ; 
And  had  she  Pity  to  conjoin  with  those, 
Then  who  had  heard  the  plaints  I  utter  now  ? 
For  had  she  not  been  fair,  and  thus  unkind. 
My  muse  had  slept,  and  none  had  known  my 

mind. 

Care-charmer  sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 
Eelieve  my  anguish,  and  restore  the  light, 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return. 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ni-advised  youth  ; 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torments  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires. 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  to-morrow ; 
Never  let  the  rising  sun  prove  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief,  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

Samuel  Daniel. — About  1612. 


141.  —  MOETIMEE,  EAEL  OF  MAECH, 
AND  THE  QUEEN,  SUEPEISED  BY 
EDWAED  III.  IN  NOTTINGHAM 
CASTLE. 

Within  the  castle  hath  the  queen  devised 
A  chamber  with  choice  rarities  so  fraught. 
As  in  the  same  she  had  imparadised 
Almost  what  man  by  industry  hath  sought ; 
Where  with  the  curious  pencil  was  comprised 
What    could    with    colours    by    the    art    be 
wi'ought, 
In  the  most  sure  place  of  the  castle  there, 
Which  she  had  named  the  Tower  of  Mor- 
timer. 

An  orbal  form  with  pillars  small  composed, 
Which  to  the  top  like  parallels  do  bear. 
Arching  the   compass   where   they  were   in- 
closed. 
Fashioning  the  fair  roof  like  the  hemisphere, 
In  whose  partitions  by  the  lines  disposed, 
All  the  clear  northern  asterisms  were 

In  their  corporeal   shapes   Avith   stars   in- 
chased. 
As  by  th'   old  poets  they  in  heaven  were 
placed. 

About  which  lodgings,  tow'rds  the  upper  face, 
Ean  a  fine  bordure  circularly  led, 
As  equal  'twixt  the  high'st  point  and  the  base, 
That  as  a  zone  the  waist  ingirdled. 
That  lends  the  sight  a  breathing,  or  a  space, 
'Twixt  things  near  view  and  those  far  overhead. 
Under  the  which  the  painter's  curious  skill 
In  lively  forms  the  goodly  room  did  fill. 


Here  Phoebus  clipping  Hyacinthus  stood. 
Whose    life's   last    drops    his    snowy   breast 

imbrue, 
The  one's  tears  mixed  with  the  other's  blood. 
That  should't  be  blood  or  tears  no  sight  could 

view,  —    - 

So  mix'd  together  in  a  little  flood ; 
Yet  here  and  there  they  sev' rally  withdrew, 
The  pretty  wood-nymphs  chafing  him  with 

balm. 
To  bring  the  sweet  boy  from   his  deadly 
qualm. 

With  the  god's  lyre,  his  quiver,  and  his  bow. 

His  golden  mantle  cast  upon  the  ground, 

T'  express  whose  grief  Art  ev"n  her  best  did 

show. 
The  sledge  so    shadow' d  still  seem'd  to  re- 
bound. 
To  counterfeit  the  vigour  of  the  blow, 
As  still  to  give  new  anguish  to  the  wound  ; 
The  purple  flower  sprung  from  the  blood 

that  run. 
That  op'neth  since  and  closeth  with  the  sun. 

By  which  the  heifer  lo,  Jove's  fair  rape, 
Gazing  her  new-ta'en  figure  in  a  brook. 
The  water  shadow' d  to  observe  the  shape 
In  the  same  form  that  she  on  it  doth  look. 
So  cimningly  to  cloud  the  wanton  'scape. 
That  gazing  eyes  the  portraiture  mistook, 
j        By  perspective  devised  beholding  now, 
1        This  way  a  maiden,  that  way't  seem'd  a  cow. 

I    Swift  Mercury,  like  to  a  shepherd's  boy, 
I    Sporting  with  Hebe  by  a  fountain  brim, 
I   With  many  a  sweet  glance,  many  an  am'roua 
toy, 
Ho  sprinkling  drops  at  her,  and  she  at  him ; 
Wherein  the  painter  so  explain' d  their  joy. 
As  though  his  skill  the  perfect  life  could  limn. 
Upon  whose  brows  the  water  hung  so  clear, 
As  through  the  drops  the  fair  skin  might 
appear. 

And  ciffy  Cynthus  with  a  thousand  birds, 
Whose  freckled  plumes  adorn  his  bushy  crown, 
Under  whose  shadow  graze  the  straggling  herds. 
Out  of  whose  top  the  fresh  springs  trembling 

down, 
Dropping  like  fine  pearl  through  his  shaggy 

beards. 
With  moss  and  climbing  ivy  over-grown ; 
The  rock  so  lively  done  in  every  part. 
As  Nature  could  be  patterned  by  Art. 

The  naked  nymphs,  some  up  and  down  de- 
scending. 
Small  scatt'ring  flowers  at  one  another  flung, 
With  nimble  turns  their  limber  bodies  bending, 
Cropping  the  blooming  branches  lately  sprung, 
(Upon  the  briars  their  colour' d  mantles  rend- 
ing) 
Which   on   the   rocks    grew   here   and   there 
among ; 
Some  comb  their  hair,   some  making  gar- 
!  lands  by, 

As  with  delight  might  satisfy  the  eye. 
'  9* 


Michael  Drayton.] 


MORTIMEE,  EAEL  OF  MAECH. 


[Third  Period. — 


There  comes  proud  Phaeton  tumbling  through 

the  clouds, 
Cast  by  his  palfreys  that  their  reins  had  bro'ke, 
And  setting  fire  upon  the  Avelked  shrouds, 
Now  through  the  heaven  run  madd'ning  from 

the  yoke, 
The  elements  together  thrust  in  crowds. 
Both  land  and  sea  hid  in  a  reeking  smoke ; 
Drawn  with  such  life,   as  some  did  much 

desire 
To  warm  themselves,    some  frighted  with 

the  fire. 

The  river  Po,  that  him  receiving  burn'd, 
His  seven  sisters  standing  in  degrees. 
Trees  into  women  seeming  to  be  turn'd, 
As  the  gods  turn'd  the  women  into  trees, 
Both  which  at  once  so  mutually  that  mourn'd. 
Drops  from  their  boughs,   or  tears  fell  from 
their  eyes ; 
The  fire  seem'd  to  be  water,  water  flame, 
Such  excellence  in  showing  of  the  same. 

And  to  this  lodging  did  the  light  invent, 
That  it  should  first  a  lateral  course  reflect, 
Through  a  short  room  into  the  window  sent. 
Whence  it  should  come  expressively  direct. 
Holding  just  distance  to  the  lineament, 
And  should  the  beams  proportionably  project. 
And  being  thereby  condensated  and  grave. 
To  every  figure  a  sure  colour  gave. 

In  part  of  which,  under  a  golden  vine. 
Whose  broad-leaved  branches  cov'ring  over  all. 
Stood  a  rich  bed,   spread  with  this  wanton 

twine, 
Doubling  themselves  in  their  lascivious  fall, 
Whose  rip'ned  clusters  seeming  to  decline. 
Where,  as  among  the  naked  Cupids  sprawl. 
Some  at  the  sundry-colour' d  birds  do  shoot, 
Some  swarming  up  to  pluck  the  purple  fruit. 

On  which  a  tissue  counterpane  was  cast, 
Arachne's  web  the  same  did  not  surpass. 
Wherein  the  story  of  his  fortunes  past 
In  lively  pictures  neatly  handled  was  ; 
How  he  escaped  the  Tower,  in  France  how 


With  stones  embroider' d,  of  a  wondrous  mass  ; 
About  the  border,  in  a  curious  fret, 
Emblems,  impresas,  hieroglyphics  set. 

This  flatt'ring  sunshine  had  begot  the  shower, 
And  the  black  clouds  with   such  abundance 

fed. 
That  for  a  wind  they  waited  but  the  hour, 
With  force  to  let  their  fury  on  his  head  : 
Which  when  it  came,    it  came  with  such  a 

power, 
As  he  could  hardly  have  imagined. 

But  when  men  think  they  most  in  safety 

stand. 
Their  greatest  peril  often  is  at  hand. 

For  to  that  largeness  they  increased  were, 
That  Edward  felt  March  heavy  on  his  throne, 
Whose  props  no  longer  both  of  them  couldbear ; 
Two  for  one  seat,  that  over-groat  were  grown, 


Prepost'rously  that  moved  in  one  sphere, 
And  to  the  like  predominancy  prone, 

That  the  young  king  down  Mortimer  must 
cast. 

If  he  himself  would  e'er  hope  to  sit  fast. 

Who  finding  the  necessity  was  such. 
That  urged  him  still  th'  assault  to  undertake, 
And  yet  his  person  it  might  nearly  touch. 
Should  he  too  soon  his  sleeping  power  awake : 
Th'  attempt,  wherein  the  danger  was  so  much, 
Drove  him  at  length  a  secret  means  to  make. 
Whereby  he  might  the  enterprise  effect. 
And   hurt   him  most,    where  he  did  least 
suspect. 

Without  the  castle,  in  the  earth  is  found 
A  cave,  resembling  sleepy  Morpheus'  cell. 
In  strange  meanders  winding  under  ground. 
Where  darkness  seeks  continually  to  dwell. 
Which  with  such  fear  and  hprror  doth  abound. 
As  though  it  were  an  entraiicc  into  hell ; 
By  architects  to  serve  the  castle  made. 
When  as  the  Danes  this  island  did  invade. 

Now  on  along  the  crankling  path  doth  keep. 

Then  by  a  rock  turns  up  another  way, 

Eising  tow'rds  day,  then  falling  tow'rds  the       | 

deep. 
On  a  smooth  level  then  itself  doth  lay. 
Directly  then,  then  obliquely  doth  creep. 
Nor  in  the  course  keeps  any  certain  stay ; 
Till  in  the  castle,  in  an  odd  by-place. 
It  casts  the  foul  mask  from  its  dusky  face. 

By  which  the  king,  with  a  selected  crew 
Of  such  as  he  with  his  intent  acquainted. 
Which  he  affected  to  the  action  knew, 
And  in  revenge  of  Edward  had  not  fainted. 
That  to  their  utmost  would  the  cause  pursue, 
And  with  those  treasons  that  had  not  been 
tainted, 
Adventured  the  labyrinth  t'  assay. 
To  rouse  the  beast  which  kept  them  all  at 
bay. 

Long  after  Phoebus  took  his  lab' ring  teem. 
To  his  pale  sister  and  resign' d  his  place, 
To  wash  his  cauples  in  the  open  stream. 
And  cool  the  fervour  of  his  glowing  face  ; 
And  Phoebe,  scanted  of  her  brother's  beam, 
Into  the  west  went  after  him  apace. 

Leaving  black  darkness  to  possess  the  sky, 
To  fit  the  time  of  that  black  tragedy. 

What  time  by  torch-light  they  attempt  the 

cave, 
Which  at  their  entrance  seemed  in  a  fright, 
With  the  reflection  that  their  armour  gave. 
As  it  till  then  had  ne'er  seen  any  light ; 
Which,  striving  their  pre-eminence  to  have. 
Darkness  therewith  so  daringly  doth  fight. 
That  each  confounding  other,  both  appear. 
As  darkness  light,  and  hght  but  darkness 
were. 

The  craggy  cliff's,  which  cross  them  as  they  go, 
Made  as  their  passage  they  would  have  denied. 
And  threat'ned  them  their  journey  to  foreslow. 
As  angry  with  the  path  that  was  their  guide. 


From  1558  fo  1649.] 


MORTIMEE,  EAEL  OF  MAECH. 


[Michael  Drayton. 


And  sadly  seem'd  their  discontent  to  show 
To  the  vile  hand  that  did  them  first  divide ; 

Whose  cumbrous  falls  and  risings  seem'd  to 
say, 

So  ill  an  action  could  not  brook  the  day. 

And  by  the  lights  as  they  along  were  led, 
Their  shadows  then  them  following  at  their 

back, 
Were  like  to  mourners  carrying  forth  their 

dead, 
And  as  the  deed,  so  were  they,  ugly,  black, 
Or  like  to  fiends  that  them  had  followed, 
Pricking  them  on  to  bloodshed  and  to  wrack  ; 
Whilst   the   light   look'd   as   it    had   been 

amazed 
At  their  deformed  shapes,  whereon  it  gazed. 

The  clatt'ring  arms  their  masters  seem'd  to 

chide. 
As  they  would  reason  wherefore  they  should 

wound, 
And  struck  the  cave  in  passing  on  each  side, 
As  they  were  angry  with  the  hollow  ground, 
That  it  an  act  so  pitiless  should  hide ; 
Whose  stony  roof  lock'd  in  their  angry  sound, 
And  hanging  in  the  creeks,  drew  back  again, 
As  willing  them  from  murder  to  refrain. 

The  night  wax'd  old  (not  dreaming  of  these 

things) 
And  to  her  chamber  is  the  queen  withdrawn, 
To  whom  a  choice  musician  plays  and  sings, 
Whilst  she  sat  under  an  estate  of  lawn. 
In  night-attire  more  god-like  glittering. 
Than  any  eye  had  seen  the  cheerful  dawn. 
Leaning  upon  her  most-loved  Mortimer, 
Whose  voice,  more  than  the  music,  pleased 
her  ear. 

Where  her  fair  breasts  at  liberty  were  let. 
Whose  violet  veins  in  branched  riverets  flow. 
And  Venus'  swans  and  milky  doves  were  set 
Upon  those  swelling  mounts  of  driven  snow ; 
Whereon  whilst  Love  to  sport  himself  doth 

get, 
He  lost  his  way,  nor  back  again  could  go. 
But  with  those  banks  of  beauty  set  about. 
He  wander' d  still,  yet  never  could  get  out. 

Her  loose  hair  look'd  like  gold  (0  word  too 

base  ! 
Nay,  more  than  sin,  but  so  to  name  her  hair) 
Declining,  as  to  kiss  her  fairer  face, 
No  word  is  fair  enough  for  thing  so  fair, 
Nor  ever  was  there  epithet  could  grace 
That,    by    much    praising    which    we    much 

impair  ; 
And   where   the  pen   fails,    pencils  cannot 

show  it, 
Only  the  soul  may  be  supposed  to  know  it. 

She  laid  her  fingers  on  his  manly  cheek, 

The  Gods'  pxire  sceptres  and  the  darts  of  Love, 

That  with  their  touch  might  make  a  tiger 

meet, 
Or  might  great  Atlas  from  his  seat  remove ; 


So  white,  so  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sleek,  • 
As  she  had  worn  a  lily  for  a  glove ; 

As  might  beget  life  where  was  never  none, 
And  put  a  spirit  into  the  hardest  stone. 

The  fire  of  precious  wood ;  the  light_perfume. 
Which  left  a  sweetness  on  each  thing  it  shone. 
As  everything  did  to  itself  assume 
The  scent  from  them,  and  made  the  same  their 

own  : 
So  that  the  painted  flowers  within  the  room 
Were  sweet,  as  if  they  naturally  had  grown ; 

The  light  gave  colours,  which  upon  them 
feU, 

And  to  the  colours  the  perfume  gave  smell. 

When  on  those  sundry  pictures  they  devise, 
And  from  one  piece  they  to  another  run, 
Commend   that   face,   that   arm,    that   hand, 

those  eyes ; 
Show  how  that  bird,  how  well  that  flower  was 

done ; 
How  this  part  shadow' d,  and  how  that  did 

rise, — 
This   top   was   clouded,   how  that  trail  was 

spun, — 
The  landscape,  mixture,  and  delineatings. 
And  in  that  art  a  thousand  curious  things  ; 

Looking  upon  proud  Phaeton  wrapt  in  fire. 

The  gentle  queen  did  much  bewail  his  fall ; 

But  Mortimer  commended  his  desire, 

To  lose  one  poor  life,  or  to  govern  all : 

"  What    though    (quoth    he)    he    madly    did 

aspire. 
And  his  great  mind  made  him  Droud  Fortune's 

thrall  ? 
Yet  in  despight,  when  she  her  worst  had 

done, 
He  perish'd  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun." 

"  Phoebus  (she  said)  was  over-forced  by  art ; 
Nor    could  she  find  how  that  embrace  could 

be." 
But  Mortimer  then  took  the  painter's  part : 
"  Why  thus,   bright  empress,  thus  and  thus 

(quoth  he ;) 
That  hand  doth  hold  his  back,   and  this'his 

heart ; 
Thus  their  arms  twine,   and  thus  their  lips, 
you  see : 
Now  are  you  Phoebus,  Hyacinthus  I ; 
It  were  a  life,  thus  every  hour  to  die." 

When,  by  that  time,  into  the  castle-hall 
Was  rudely  enter' d  that  well-armed  rout. 
And  they  within  suspecting  nought  at  all, 
Had  then  no  guard  to  watch  for  them  without. 
See  how  mischances  suddenly  do  fall. 
And  steal  upon  us,  being  farth'st  from  doubt ! 
Our  life's  uncertain,  and  our  death  is  siu-e, 
And  tow'rds  most  peril  man  is  most  secure. 

Whilst  youthful  Neville  and  brave  Turrington, 
To  the  bright  queen  that  ever  waited  near. 
Two  with  great  March  much  credit  that  had 

won, 
That  in  the  lobby  with  the  ladies  were, 


Michael  DEATrou.]                THE  BALLAD  Or  AGINCOUET.                [Third  Period.— 

143.— THE  BATJ.AD  OF  AGINCOUET. 

That  with  the  cries  they  maka 

The  very  earth  did  shake  ; 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 

Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

When  we  our  sails  advance, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Nor  noAV  to  prove  our  chance 
Longer  will  tarry ; 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 

But  putting  to  the  main, 

0  noble  Erpingham ! 

At  Kause,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 

Which  did  the  signal  aim 

With  all  his  martial  train, 

To  our  hid  forces  ; 

Landed  King  Harry. 

When,  from  a  meadow  by, 

Like  a  storm  suddenly. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 

The  English  archery 

Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 

Struck  the  French  horses. 

Marched  toward  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour ; 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 

Skirmishing  day  by  day 

Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long. 

With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 

That  like  to  serpents  stung. 

Where  the  French  gen'ral  lay 

Piercing  the  weather ; 

With  all  his  power. 

None  from  his  fellow  starts. 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride. 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

But  playing  manly  parts. 
And  like  true  English  hearts. 
Stuck  close  together. 

To  the  king  sending ; 

Wlien  down  their  bows  they  threw. 

Which  he  neglects  the  while. 

And  forth  their  bilbows  drew. 

As  from  a  nation  vile, 

And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Not  one  was  tardy  : 

Their  fall  portending. 

Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent ; 

And  turning  to  his  men. 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then  : 

Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent ; 
Down  the  French  peasants  went ; 
Our  men  were  hardy. 

Though  they  to  one  be  ten^ 

Be  not  amazed ; 

This  while  our  noble  king. 

Yet  have  we  well  begun. 

His  broadsword  brandishing. 

Battles  so  bravely  won 

Down  the  French  host  did  ding. 

Have  ever  to  the  sun. 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 

By  fame  been  raised. 

And  many  a  deep  wound  rent 

And  for  myself,  quoth  he, 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be ; 

His  arms  with  blood  besprent. 
And  many  a  cruel  dent. 
Bruised  his  helmet. 

England  ne'er  mourn  for  me. 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 

Glo'ster,  that  duke  so  good. 

Victor  I  will  remain, 

Next  of  the  royal  blood, 

Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain  ; 

For  famous  England  stood, 

Never  shall  she  sustain 

With  his  brave  brother 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 

Ypt  171  thnf.  fnTionti  •firrlrh 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 
Under  our  swords  they  fell. 

-l-V^U     AXX      VJLLOtV     ±  U.1.  X\J  1X7^     Xl^illJ 

Scarce  such  another. 

No  less  our  skill  is 

War-svick  in  blood  did  wade  ; 

Than  when  our  grandsire  great. 

Oxford  the  foe  invade. 

Claiming  the  regal  seat. 

And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. 

Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply  ; 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 

Beaumont  and  Willoughby 

The  eager  vaward  led  ; 

Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

With  the  main  Henry  specl 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Amongst  his  henchmen. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  day 

Excester  had  the  rear, 

Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 

A  braver  man  not  there  : 

Which  fame  did  not  delay 

U  Lord  I  now  hot  they  were 

To  England  to  carry. 

On  the  false  Frenchmen  ! 

0,  when  shall  Englishmen 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone  ; 

With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 

Armour  on  armour  shone  ; 

Or  England  breed  again 

Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

Such  a  King  Harry  ? 

To  hear*  was  wonder ; 

Michael  Drayton.— About  1613. 

From  1558  to  1049.] 


DAVID  AND  GOLIAH. 


[Michael  Drayton. 


144.— DAVID  AND  GOLIAH. 

And  now  before  young  David  oould  come  in, 
The  host  of  Israel  somewhat  doth  begin 
To  rouse  itself ;  some  climb  the  nearest  tree. 
And   some   the   tops  of  tents,   whence  they 

might  see 
How  this  unarmed  youth  himself  would  bear 
Against  the  all-armed  giant  (which  they  fear) : 
Some  get  up  to  the  fronts  of  easy  hills  ; 
That  by  their  motion  a  vast  murmur  fills 
The   neighbouring   valleys,    that    the   enemy 

thought 
Something  would  by  the  Israelites  be  wrought 
They  had  not  heard  of,  and  they  longed  to  see 
What  strange  and  warlike  stratagem  't  should 

be. 
When  soon  they  saw  a  goodly  youth  de- 
scend. 
Himself  alone,  none  after  to  attend, 
That  at  his  need  with  arms  might  him  supply, 
As  merely  careless  of  his  enemy  : 
His  head  uncovered,  and  his  locks  of  hair 
As  he  came  on  being  played  with  by  the  air. 
Tossed  to  and  fro,    did  mth   such  pleasure 

move, 
As  they  had  been  i:)ro vocatives  for  love  : 
His  sleeves  stript  up  above  his  elbows  were, 
And  in  his  hand  a  stiff  short  staff  did  bear, 
Wliich  by  the  leather  to  it,  and  the  string, 
They  easily  might  discern  to  be  a  sling. 
Suiting  to  these  he  wore  a  shepherd's  scrip, 
Which  from  his  side  hung  down  upon  his  hip. 
Those  for  a  champion  that  did  him  disdain, 
Cast    with    themselves    what    such    a   thing 

should  mean ; 
Some  seeing  him  so  wonderously  fair 
(As  in  their  eyes  he  stood  beyond  compare). 
Their  verdict  gave  that  they  had  sent  him  sure 
As  a  choice  bait  their  champion  to  allure ; 
Others  again,  of  judgment  more  precise. 
Said  they  had  sent  him  for  a  sacrifice. 
And  though  he  seemed  thus  to  be  very  young, 
Yet  was  he  well  proportioned  and  strong. 
And  with  a  comely  and  undaunted  grace, 
Holding  a  steady  and  most  even  pace, 
This  way  nor  that  way,  never  stood  to  gaze  ; 
But  like  a  man  that  death  could  not  amaze, 
Came  close  up  to  Goliah,  and  so  near 
As  he  might  easily  reach  him  with  his  spear. 
Which   when   Goliah    saw,    "  Why,    boy," 

qtioth  he, 
"  Thou  desperate  youth,  thou  tak'st  me  sure 

to  be 
Some  dog,  I  think,  and  under  thy  command, 
That  thus  a,rt  come  to  beat  me  with  a  Avand : 
The  kites  and  ravens  are  not  far  away. 
Nor  beasts  of  ravine,  that  shall  make  a  prey 
Of  a  poor  corpse,  which  they  from  me  shall 

have, 
And  their  foul  bowels  shall  be  all  thy  grave." 
"  TJncircumcised  slave,"  quoth  David  then, 
"  That  for  thy  shape,  the  monster  art  of  men  ; 
Thou  thus  in  brass  comest  arm'd  into  the  field. 
And  thy  huge  spear  of  brass,  of  brass  thy 

shield :  - 


I  in  the  name  of  Israel's  God  alone, 
That  more  than  mighty,  that  eternal  One, 
Am  come  to  meet  thee,  who  bids  not  to  fear. 
Nor  once  respect  the  arms  that  thou  dost  bear. 
Slave,  mark  the  earth  whereon  thou  now  dost 

stand, 
I'll  make  thy  length  to  measure  so  i»ueh  land, 
As  thou  liest  grov'Kng,  and  within  this  hour 
The  birds  and  beasts  thy  carcass  shall  devour." 

In  meantime  Da^dd,  looking  in  his  face, 
Between  his  temples,  saw  how  large  a  space 
He  Avas  to  hit,  steps  back  a  yard  or  two, 
The  giant  wond'ring  what  the  youth  would  do  : 
Whose   nimble   hand  out   of   his   scrip   doth 

bring 
A  pebble-stone,  and  puts  it  in  his  sling ; 
At  which  the  giant  openly  doth  jeer. 
And  as  in  scorn,  stands  leaning  on  his  spear, 
Which  gives  young  David  much  content  to  see, 
And  to  himself  thus  secretly  saith  he  : 
"  Stand  but  one  minute  still,  stand  but  so  fast, 
And  have  at  all  PhiHstia  at  a  cast." 
Then  with  such  sleight  the  shot  away  he  sent. 
That  from  his  sling  as  't  had  been  lightning 

went; 
And  him  so  full  upon  the  forehead  smit. 
Which  gare  a  crack,  when  his  thick  scalp  it 

hit 
As  't  had  been  thrown  against  some  rock  or 

post. 
That  the  shrill  clap  was  heard  through  either 

host. 
Staggering  awhile  upon  his  spear  he  leant, 
Till  on  a  sudden  he  began  to  faint ; 
When  down  he  came,  like  an  old  o'ergrown 

oak. 
His   huge   root   hcAvn    up  by  the  labourers' 

stroke, 
That   with   his   very   weight    ho    shook    the 

ground ; 
His  brazen  armoiir  gave  a  jarring  sound 
Like  a  crack'd  bell,  or  vessel  chanced  to  fall 
From  some  high  place,  which  did  like  death 

appal 
The  proud  Philistines  (hopeless  that  remain), 
To  see  their  champion,  great  Goliah,  slain  : 
When  such  a  shout  the  host  of  Israel  gave. 
As  cleft  the  clouds  ;  and  like  to  men  that  rave 
(O'ercome  with  comfort)  cry,  "  The  boy,  the 

boy! 
0  the  brave  David,  Israel's  only  joy  ! 
God's  chosen  champion !    0  most   wondrous 

thing ! 
The  great  Goliah  slain  with  a  poor  sling  I  " 
Themselves  encompass,  nor  can  they  contain ; 
Now  are  they  silent,  then  they  shout  again. 
Of  which  no  notice  David  seems  to  take. 
But  towards  the  body  of  the  dead  doth  make, 
With  a  fair  comely  gait ;  nor  doth  he  run, 
As  though  he  gloried  in  what  he  had  done ; 
But  treading  on  the  uncircumeised  dead, 
With  his   foot    strikes  the   helmet  from  his 

head ; 
"Wliich  with  the  sword  ta'en  from  the  giant's 

side. 
He  from  the  body  quickly  doth  divide. 


Michael  Drayton.] 


TO  HIS  COY  LOVE. 


[Third  Period. — ' 


Now  tliG  Philistines,  at  this  fearful  sight, 
Leaving   their   arms,    betake    themselves    to 

flight, 
Quitting  their  tents,  nor  dare  a  minute  stay ; 
Time  wants  to  carry  any  thing  away, 
Being  strongly  routed  Avith  a  general  fear ; 
Yet  in  pursuit  Saul's  army  strikes  the  rear 
To  Ekron  walls,  and  slew  them  as  they  fled, 
That  Sharam's  plains  lay  cover' d  with   the 

dead ; 
And  having  put  the  Philistines  to  foil. 
Back  to  the  tents  retire,  and  take  the  spoil 
Of  what  they  left ;  and  ransacking,  they  cry, 
"  A  David,  David,  and  the  victory  !  " 

"When  straightway  Saul  his  general,  Abner, 

sent 
For  valiant  David,  that  incontinent 
He  should  repair  to  court ;  at  whose  command 
He  comes  along,  and  beareth  in  his  hand 
The  giant's  head,   by  the  long   hair   of   his 

crown, 
Wlaich  bj^  his  active  knee  hung  dangling  down. 
And  through  the  army  as  he  comes  along. 
To  gaze  upon  him  the  glad  soldiers  throng : 
Some  do  instyle  him  Israel's  only  light,  ' 
And  other  some  the  valiant  Bethlemite. 
With  congees  all  salute  him  as  he  past, 
And  uijon  him  their  gracious  glances  cast : 
He  was  thought  base  of   him  that  did  not 

boast. 
Nothing  but  David,  David,  through  the  host. 
The  virgins  to  their  timbrels  frame  their  lays 
Of  him ;  till  Saul  grew  jealous  of  his  j)raise. 

Michael  Drayton. — About  1613. 


145.— TO  HIS  COY  LOVE. 

I  pray  thee,  love,  love  mo  no  more. 

Call  home  the  heart  you  gave  me ; 
I  but  in  vain  that  saint  adore. 

That  can,  but  will  not  save  me  : 
These  poor  half  kisses  kill  me  quite ; 

Was  ever  man  thus  served  ? 
Amidst  an  ocean  of  delight. 

For  pleasure  to  be  starved. 

Show  me  no  more  those  snowy  breasts, 

With  azure  rivers  branched, 
Where  whilst  mine  eye  with  plenty  feasts, 

Yet  is  my  thirst  not  staunched. 
O  Tantalus,  thy  pains  ne'er  tell ! 

By  me  thou  art  prevented ; 
'Tis  "nothing  to  be  plagued  in  hell, 

But  thus  in  heaven  tormented. 

Clip  me  no  more  in  those  dear  arms 

Nor  thy  life's  comfort  call  me  ; 
O,  these  are  but  too  powerful  charms, 

And  do  but  more  enthral  me. 
But  see  how  patient  I  am  gi'own, 

In  all  this  coil  about  thee ; 
Come,  nice  thing,  let  thy  heart  alone, 

I  cannot  live  without  thee.  I 

Miclioel  Drayton. — About  1613.    i 


146.— BALLAD  OF  DOWSABEL. 

Far  in  the  country  of  Arden, 

There  won'd  a  knight,  hight  Cassamen, 

As  bold  as'  Isenbras  : 
Fell  was  he  and  eager  bent. 
In  battle  and  in  tournament. 

As  was  the  good  Sir  Topas. 
He  had,  as  antique  stories  tell, 
A  daughter  cleped  Dowsabel, 

A  maiden  fair  and  free. 
And  for  she  was  her  father's  heir, 
Full  well  she  Avas  ycond  the  leir 

Of  mickle  courtesy. 
The  silk  -well  couth  she  twist  and  twine, 
And  make  the  fine  march-pine. 

And  with  the  needle  work  : 
And  she  couth  help  the  priest  to  say 
His  matins  on  a  holy-day. 

And  sing  a  psalm  in  kirk. 
She  wore  a  frock  of  frolic  green. 
Might  well  become  a  maiden  queen. 

Which  seemly  was  to  see  ; 
A  hood  to  that  so  neat  and  fine, 
In  colour  like  the  columbine, 

Iwrought  full  featously. 
Her  features  all  as  fresh  above, 
As  is  the  grass  that  grows  by  Dove, 

And  lythe  as  lass  of  Kent. 
Her  skin  as  soft  as  Lemster  wool, 
As  white  as  snow,  on  Peakish  Hull, 

Or  swan  that  swims  in  Trent. 
This  maiden  in  a  morn  betime, 
Went  forth  when  May  was  in  the  prime, 

To  get  sweet  setywall, 
The  honey-suckle,  the  harlock, 
The  lily,  and  the  lady-smock, 

To  deck  her  summer  hall. 
Thus  as  she  wander' d  here  and  there. 
And  picked  off  the  bloomy  brier, 

She  chanced  to  espy 
A  shepherd  sitting  on  a  bank  ; 
Like  chanticleer  he  crowned  crank, 

And  piped  full  merrily. 
He  learn'd  his  sheep,  as  he  him  list. 
When  he  would  whistle  in  his  fist, 

To  feed  about  him  round  ; 
Whilst  he  fiill  many  a  carol  sang, 
Until  the  fields  and  meadows  rang, 

And  all  the  woods  did  sound. 
In  favour  this  same  shepherd  swain 
Was  like  the  bedlam  Tamerlane, 

Which  held  proud  kings  in  awe ; 
But  meek  as  any  lamb  might  be ; 
And  innocent  of  ill  as  he 

Whom  his  lewd  brother  slaw. 
The  shepherd  wore  a  sheep-gray  cloak. 
Which  was  of  the  finest  lock, 

That  could  be  cut  with  sheer. 
His  mittens  were  of  bauzons'  skin. 
His  cockers  were  of  cordiwin, 

His  hood  of  miniveer. 
His  awl  and  lingel  in  a  thong, 
His  far-box  on  his  broad  belt  hung, 

His  breech  of  Cointree  blue. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


RINALDO  AT  MOUNT  OLIVET. 


[Edward  Fairfax. 


Full  crisp  and  curled  wern  his  locks, 
His  brows  as  white  as  Albion  rocks, 

So  like  a  lover  true. 
And  piping  still  he  spent  the  day, 
So  merry  as  the  popinjay, 

Which  liked  Dowsabel ; 
That  would  she  ought,  or  would  she  nought, 
This  lad  would  never  from  her  thought. 

She  in  love-longing  fell. 
At  length  she  tucked  up  her  frock, 
White  as  a  lily  wae  her  smock. 

She  drew  the  shepherd  nigh  : 
But  then  the  shepherd  piped  a  good, 
That  all  his  sheep  forsook  their  food, 

To  hear  this  melody. 
Thy  sheep,  quoth  she,  cannot  be  lean. 
That  have  a  jolly  shepherd  swain. 

The  which  can  pipe  so  well. 
Tea,  but  (saith  he)  their  shepherd  may, 
If  piping  thus  he  pine  a,\vsij, 

In  love  of  Dowsabel. 
Of  love,  fond  boy,  take  thou  no  keep. 
Quoth  she  :  look  well  unto  thy  sheep. 

Lest  they  should  hap  to  stray. 
Quoth  he,  so  had  I  done  full  well, 
Had  I  not  seen  fair  Dowsabel 

Come  forth  to  gather  May. 
With  that  she  'gan  to  veil  her  head, 
Her  cheeks  were  like  the  roses  red. 

But  not  a  word  she  said. 
With  that  the  shepherd  'gan  to  frown, 
He  threw  his  pretty  pipes  adown, 

And  on  the  gi'ound  him  laid. 
Saith  she,  I  may  not  stay  till  night, 
And  leave  my  summer  hall  undight, 

And  all  for  love  of  thee. 
My  cote,  saith  he,  nor  yet  my  fold. 
Shall  neither  sheep  nor  shepherd  hold, 

Except  thou  favour  me. 
Saith  she,  yet  lever  I  were  dead, 
Than  I  should  lose  my  mtaidenhead, 

And  all  for  love  of  men. 
Saith  he,  yet  are  you  too  unkind, 
If  in  your  heart  you  cannot  find 

To  lo"ve  us  now  and  then. 
And  I  to  thee  will  be  as  kind. 
As  Colin  was  to  Rosalind, 

Of  courtesy  the  flower. 
Then  will  I  be  as  true,  quoth  she. 
As  ever  maiden  yet  might  be, 

Unto  her  paramour. 
With  that  she  bent  her  snow-white  knee, 
Down  by  the  shepherd  kneeled  she, 

And  him  she  sweetly  kist. 
W'ith  that  the  shepherd  whoop' d  for  joy ; 
Quoth  he,  there's  never  shepherd's  boy 

That  ever  was  so  blest. 

Michael  Drayton. — About  1613. 


With  those  the  thronged  theatres  that  press, 
I  in  the  circuit  for  the  laurel  strove, 
"Where  the  full  praise,  I  freely  must  confess, 
In  heat  of  blood,  a  modest  mind  might  move. 
With  shouts  and  claps,  at  everj'-  little  pause, 
When  the  proud  round   on  every  side  hath 

rung,  ~ 

Sadly  I  sit  unmoved  with  the  applause. 
As  though  to  me  it  nothing  did  belong  : 
No  public  glory  vainly  I  pursue  ; 
The  praise  I  strive,  is  to  eternize  you. 

Michael  Drayton. — About  1613. 


148.— DESCRIPTION  OF  ARMIDA  AND 
HER  ENCHANTED  GIRDLE. 

And  with  that  word  she  smiled,  and  ne'erthe- 

les^ 
Her  love-toys  still  she  used,    and  pleasures 

bold: 
Her  hair  (that  done)  she  twisted  up  intress, 
And  looser  locks  in  silken  laces  roU'd  ; 
Her  curls,  garland-wise,  she  did  up  dress, 
Wherein,  like  rich  enamel  laid  on  gold. 
The  twisted  flow' rets  smiled,  and  her  white 

breast 
The  lilies  there  that  spring  with  roses  drest. 

The  jolly  peacock  spreads  not  half  so  fair 
The  eyed  feathers  of  his  pompous  train ; 
Nor  golden  Iris  so  bends  in  the  au* 
Her  twenty-coloured  bow,  through  clouds  of 

rain : 
Yet  all  her  ornaments,  strange,  rich,  and  rare, 
Her  girdle  did  in  price  and  beauty  stain  ; 
Not  that,  with  scorn,   which  Tuscan  Guilla 

lost, 
Nor  Venus'  cestus  could  match  this  for  cost. 

Of  mild  denays,  of  tender  scorns,  of  sweet 
Eepulses,  Avar,  peace,  hope,  despair,  joy,  fear; 
Of  smiles,  jests,  mirth,  woe,  grief,  and  sad 

regret ; 
Sighs,   sorrows,  tears,  embracements,   kisses 

dear, 
That,  mixed  first,   by  weight  and   measures 

meet; 
Then,  at  an  easy  fire,  attempered  were ; 
This  wondrous  girdle  did  Armida  frame. 
And,  when  she  would  be  loved,  wore  the  same. 

Edward  Fairfax.— About  1600. 


147.— SONNET. 

la  pride  of  wit,  when  high  desire  of  fame 
Gave  life  and  courage  to  my  labouring  pen. 
And  first  the  sound  and  virtue  of  my  name 
Won  grace  and  credit  in  the  ears  of  men ; 


149.— RINALDO    AT    MOUNT    OLIVET, 
AND  THE  ENCHANTED  WOOD. 

It  v/as  the  time  when  'gainst  the  breaking  day 

I  Rebellious  night  yet  strove,  and  still  repined; 

i  For  in  the  east  appear' d  the  morning  crrey, 

I  And  yet  some  lamps  m  Jove's   high   palace 
I  shined, 

I  VvTien  to  Mount  Olivet  he  took  his  way, 

I  And  saw,  as  round  about  his  eyes  he  twined, 


Edward  Fairfax.] 


RINALDO  AT  MOUNT  OLIVET. 


[Third  Period. — 


Night's    shadows   hence,   from   thence  the 

morning's  shine ; 
This  bright,  that  dark;  that  earthly,  this 

divine : 

Thus  to  himself  he  thought :  how  many  bright 
And  splendent  lamps  shine  in  heaven's  temple 

high : 
Day  hath  his  golden  sun,  her  moon  the  night, 
Her    fix'd    and  wand'ring   stars    the    azure 

slcy; 
So  framed  ail  by  their  Creator's  might, 
That  still  they  live  and  shine,  and  ne'er  shall 

die, 
Till,    in   a  moment,     with   the    last  day's 

brand 
They  burn,  and  with  them  bum  sea,  air,  and 

land. 

Thus  as  he  mused,  to  the  top  he  went. 

And  there  kneel' d  down  with  reverend  and 

fear; 
His  eyes  upon  heaven's  eastern  face  he  bent ; 
His    thoughts    above    all    heavens    up-lifted 

were : 
The  sins  and  errors,  which  I  now  repent, 
Of  my  imbridlccl  youth,  O  Father  dear, 
Eemembcr  not,  but  lot  thy  mercy  fall, 
And  purge  my  faults  and  my  offences  all. 

Thus  prayed  he  ;  with  purj^le  wings  up-flew 
In  golden  weed  the  morning's  lusty  queen, 
Begilding,  with  the  radiant  beams  she  threw. 
His   helm,    his    harness,    and   the   mountain 

green : 
Upon  his  breast  and  forehead  gently  blew 
The  air,  that  balm  and  nardus  breathed  un- 
seen ; 
And  o'er  his  head,  let  down  from  clearest 


A  cloud  of   pure  and  precious   dew  there 
flies: 

The  heavenly  dew  was  on  his  garments  spread, 
To  which  compared,    his  clothes  pale  ashes 

seem. 
And  sprinkled  so,  that  all  that  paleness  fled. 
And  thence  of  purest  white  bright  rays  out- 
stream  : 
Se  cheered  are  the  flowers,  late  withered. 
With  the  sweet  comfort  of  the  morning  beam ; 
And  so,  rotui-n'd  to  youth,  a  serpent  old 
Adorns  herself  in  new  anil  native  gold. 

The  lovely  whiteness  of  his  changed  weed 
The  prince  perceived  well  and  long  admired ; 
Toward  the  forest  march' d  he  on  with  speed, 
Eesolved,  as  such  adventures  great  required  : 
Thither  he  came,  whence  shrinking  back  for 

dread 
Of  that  strange  desert's  sight,  the  first  re- 
tired ; 
But  not  to  him  fearful  or  loathsome  made 
That  forest  was,   but  sweet  with  pleasant 
shade. 


Forward  he  pass'd,  and  in  the  grove  before 
He  heard  a  sound,  that  strange,  sweet,  pleas- 
ing was  ; 
There  roU'd  a  crystal  brook  with  gentle  roar. 
There  sigh'd  the  winds,  as  through  the  leaves 

they  pass ; 
There  did  the  nightingale  her  wrongs  deplore, 
There  sung  the  swan,  and  singing  died,  alas ! 
There  lute,  harp,  cittern,  human  voice,  he 

heard. 
And  all  these  sounds  *onc  sound  right  well 
declared. 

A  dreadful  thunder- clap  at  last  he  heard. 
The  aged  trees  and  plants  well  nigh  that  rent, 
Yet  heard  the  nymphs  and  syrens  afterward, 
Birds,    winds,    and  waters,    sing  with  sweet 

consent ; 
Whereat  amazed,  he  stay'd,  and  well  prepared 
For  his  defence,  heedful  and  slow  forth  went ; 
Nor  in  his  way  his  passage  ought  withstood, 
Except  a  quiet,  still,  transparent  flood. 

On  the  green  banks,  which  that  fair  stream 

inbound, 
Flowers    and    odours    sweetly    smiled     and 

smell' d, 
Wliich  reaching  out  his  stretched  arms  around. 
All  the  large  desert  in  his  bosom  held, 
And  through  the  grove  one  channel  passage 

found ; 
This  in  the  wood,  in  that  the  forest  dwell'd : 
Trees  clad  the  streams,  streams  green  those 

trees  hjg  made, 
And  so  exchanged  their  moisture  and  their 

shade. 

The  knight  some  Avay  sought  out  the  flood  to 

pass. 
And  as  he  sought,  a  wondrous  bridge  appear'd; 
A  bridge  of  gold,  an  huge  and  mighty  mass. 
On  arches  gx-eat  of  that  rich  metal  rear'd : 
When  through  that  golden  way   he   enter' d 

was, 
Down  fell  the  bridge ;  swelled  the  stream,  and 

wear'd 
The   work   away,    nor  sign  left,    where  it 

stood. 
And  of  a  river  calm  became  a  flood. 

He  turn'd,  amazed  to  see  it  troubled  so, 
Like  sudden  brooks,    increased  with   molten 

snow ; 
The  billows  fierce,  that  tossed  to  and  fro. 
The  whirlpools  suck'd  down  to  their  bosoms 

low ; 
But  on  he  went  to  search  for  wonders  mo, 
Through  the  thick  trees,  there  high  and  broad 

v/hich  grow ; 
And  in  that  forest  huge,  and  desert  wide, 
The  more  he  sought,  more  wonders  still  he 

spied. 

W^here'er  he    stepp'd,    it   seem'd   the  joyful 

ground 
Renew" d  the  verdure  of  her  flowery  weed ; 
A  fountain  here,  a  well-spring  there  ho  found ; 
Here  bud  the  roses,  there  the  lilies  spread : 


From  loo8  to  164^9.'], 


RINALDO  AT  MOUKT  OLIVET. 


[Edward  Fairfax. 


The  aged  wood  o'er  and  about  liim  round 
Flourish' d  with  blossoms  new,  new  leaves,  new 
seed ; 
And  on  the  boughs  and  branches  of  those 

treen 
The  bark  was    soften' d,    and   renew' d   the 
green. 

The  manna  on  each  leaf  did  pearled  lie  ; 

The  honey  stilled  from  the  tender  rind : 

Again  he  heard  that  wondrous  harmony 

Of  songs  and  sweet  complaints  of  lovers  kind; 

The  human  voices  sung  a  treble  high, 

To  which  respond  the  birds,  the  streams,  the 

wind ; 
But  yet  unseen  those  nymphs,  those  singers 

were, 
Unseen  the  lutes,  harps,  viols  w^hich  they 

bear. 

He  look'd,  he  listen' d,  yet  his  thoughts  de- 
nied 
To  think  that  true,  which  he  did  hear  and 

see : 
A  myrtle  in  ian  ample  plain  he  spied. 
And  thither  by  a  beaten  path  went  he  ; 
The  myrtle  spread  her  mighty  branches  wide, 
Higher  than  pine,  or  palm,  or  cypress  tree. 
And  far  above  all  other  plants  were  seen 
That  forest's  lady,  and  that  desert's  queen. 

Upon  the  tree  his  eyes  Rinaldo  bent, 

And  there  a  marvel  great  and  strange  began ; 

An  aged  oak  beside  him  cleft  and  rent. 

And   from   his  fertile,    hollow    womb,    forth 

ran. 
Clad  in  rare  weeds  and  strange  habiliment, 
A  nymph,  for  ago  able  to  go  to  man ; 

An  hundred  plants  beside,  even  in  his  sight, 
Childed    an  hundred  nymphs,  so  great,  so 
dight. 

Such  as  on  stages  play,  such  as  we  see 
The  dryads  painted,  whom  wild  satyrs  love, 
"Whose  arms  half  naked,  locks  untrussed  be. 
With  buskins  laced  on  their  legs  above, 
And    silken   robes   tuck'd  short   above  their 

knee. 
Such   seem'd    the   sylvan   daughters   of   this 

grove ; 
Save  that,  instead  of  shafts  and  bows  of 

tree, 
•She  bore  a  lute,  a  harp  or  cittern  she ; 

And  wantonly  they  cast  them  in  a  ring. 

And   sung  and  danced  to   move  his  weaker 

sense, 
Einaldo  round  about  environing. 
As  does  its  centre  the  circumference ; 
The  tree   they    compass' d   eke,  and   'gan  to 

sing. 
That  woods  and  streams  admired  their  excel- 
lence— 
Welcome,  dear  Lord,  welcome  to  this  sweet 

grove ; 
Welcome,   our  lady's  hope;  welcome,   her 
love ! 


Thou  comest  to  cure  our  princess,  faint  and 

sick 
For  love,  for  love  of  thee,    faint,    sick,    dis- 
tress'd  ; 
Late  black,  late  dreadful  was  this  forest  thick, 
Fit   dwelling   for    sad   folk,    with    grief   op- 

press'd ;  

See,  with  thy  coming  how  the  branches  quick 
Revived  are,  and  in  new  blossoms  dress'd  ! 
This  was  their  song ;  and  after  from  it  went 
First  a  sweet  sound,  and  then  the  myrtle 
rent. 

If  antique  times  admired  Silenus  old, 
Who  oft  appear' d  set  on  his  lazy  ass. 
How  would  they  wonder,  if  they  had  behold 
Such  sights  as  from  the  myrtle  high  did  pass  ! 
Thence  came  a  lady  fair  with  locks  of  gold, 
That  like  in  shape,  in  face,  and  beauty  was 
To  fair  Armida ;  Rinald  thinks  he  spies 
Her  gestures,   smiles,    and  glances  of  her 
eyes. 

On  him  a  sad  and  smiling  look  she  cast. 
Which  twenty  passions  strange  at  once  be- 
wrays. 
And  art  thou   come,   quoth  she,  return' d  at 

last 
To  her,  from  whom  but  late  thou  ran'st  thy 

ways? 
Comest  thou  to  comfort  me  for  sorrows  past. 
To  ease  my  widow  nights,  and  careful  days  ? 
Or  comest  thou  to  work  me  grief  and  harm? 
Why  nilt  thou  speak,   why  not   thy  face 
disarm  ? 

Comest  thou  a  friend  or  foe  ?  I  did  not  frame 
That  golden  bridge  to  entertain  my  foe ; 
Nor   open'd   flowers    and    fountains   as    you 

came, 
To   welcome  him  with  joy,    who  brings  me 

woe. 
Put  off  thy  helm  :  rejoice  me  with  the  flame 
Of  thy  bright  eyes,  whence  first  my  fires  did 
grow; 
Kiss  me,  embrace  me ;  if  you  further  ven- 
ture, 
Love  keeps  the  gate,  the  fort  is  eath  to 
enter. 

Thus  as  she  wooes,  she  rolls  her  rueful  eyes 
With  piteous  look,  and  changeth  oft  her  chear 
An  hundred  sighs  from  her  false  heart  up-fly 
She  sobs,  she  mourns,  it  is  great  ruth  to  hear 
The  hardest  breast  sweet  pity  mollifies  ; 
What  stony  heart  resists  a  woman's  tear  ? 
But  yet  the  knight,  wise,  wary,  not  unkind. 
Drew  forth  his  sword,  and  from  her  careless 
twined. 

Towards   the   tree   he  march' d;    she  thither 

start. 
Before  him  stepp'd,  embraced  the  plant,  and 

cry'd, — 
Ah !  never  do  me  such  a  spiteful  part. 
To  cut  my  tree,  this  forest's  joy  and  jjride ; 


Sir  J.  Habeington.] 


OF  TEEASON. 


J^Thikd  Period. 


Put  up  thy  sv/ord,   else  pierce  therewith,  the  See  where  he  comes  I — Array'd  in  glitt'riiig' 

heaxt  I            white 

Of  thy  forsaken  and  despised  Armide  ;  j   Appear' d  the  man,    bold,    stately,    high  and 

For  throu'^jh  this  breast,  and  throup^h  this  great ; 


heart,  unkind, 
To  this  fair  tree  thy  sword  shall  passage 
find. 

He  lift  his  brand,  nor  cared,  though  oft  she 

pray'd, 
And  she  her  form  to  other  shape  did  change ; 
Such  monsters  huge,  when  men  in  dreams  are 

laid, 
Oft  in  their  idle  fancies  roam  and  range  : 
Her  body  swell' d,  her  face  obscure  was  made ; 
Vanish' d   her    garments    rich,    and   vestures 

strange ; 
A  giantess  before  him  high  she  stands, 
Arm'd,    like    Briareus,    with    an    hundred 

hands. 

With  fifty  swords,  and  fifty  targets  bright. 
She  threatened  death,   she  roar'd,   she  cry'd 

and  fought ; 
Each  other  nymph,  in  armoiu*  likewise  dight, 
A    Cyclops    great    became ;    he   fear'd  them 

nought. 
But  on  the  myrtle  smote  with  all  his  might, 
Whioh  groan' d  like  living  souls  to  death  nigh 

brought ; 
The  sky  seom'd  Pluto's  court,  the  air  seem"d 

heU, 
Therein  such  monsters  roar,    such   spirits 

yell: 

Lighten' d  the  heaven  above,  the  earth  below 
Roared     aloud ;     that    thunder' d,     and   this 

shook : 
Bluster' d  the  tempests  strong ;  the  whirlwinds 

blow  ; 
The    bitter    storm    drove    hailstones    in    his 

look ; 
But  yet  his  .arm  grow  neither  weak  nor  slow. 
Nor  of  that  fury  heed  or  care  he  took, 

Till  low  to  earth  the  wounded  tree  dovm 

bended ; 
Then  fled   the  spirits   all,    the  charms  all 

ended. 

The  heavens  grew  clear,  the  air  wax'd  calm 

and  still. 
The  wood  returned  to  its  wonted  state. 
Of  witchcrafts  free,  quite  void  of  spirits  ill, 
Of  horror  full,  but  horror  there  innate  : 
Ho  further  tried,  if  aught  withstood  his  will 
To  cut  those  trees,  as  did  the  charms  of  late. 

And  finding  nought  to  stop  him,  smiled  and 
r>iud — 

O  siadows  vain  !  O  fools,  of  shades  afraid  ! 

From  thence  home  to  the  camp-ward  tum'd 

the  knight  ; 
The  hermit  cry'd,  up-starting  from  his  seat. 
Now  of  the  wood  the  charms  have  lost  their 

might ; 
The  sprites  are  conquer' d,  ended  is  the  feat ; 


His  eagle'.-;  silver  Avings  to  shine  begun 
With  wondrous  splendour  'gainst  the  golden 
sun. 

The  camp  received  him  with  a  joyful  cry, — 
A  ciy,  the  hills  and  dales  about  that  fill'd ; 
Then  Godfrey   welcomed   him    with   honovirs 

high; 
His  glory  quench'd  all  spite,  all  envy  kill'd  : 
To  yonder  dreadful  grove,  quoth  he,  v/ent  I, 
And  from  the  fearful  wood,  as  me  you  will'd, 

Have  driven  the  sprites  away ;  thither  let 
be 

Your  people  sent,  the  way  is  safe  and  fi'oe. 

Edward  Fairfax. — About  1600. 


^  150.— OF  TREASON. 
Treason  doth  never  prosper ;  what' s  the  reason  ? 
For  if  it  prosper  none  dare  call  it  treason. 

Sir  John  Ha,' riiKjton.-^ About  1G07. 


151.— OF  FORTUNE. 

Fortune,  men  say,  doth  give  too  much  to  many, 
But  yet  she  never  gave  enough  to  any. 

Bir  John  Harrington. — Abo  at  1607. 


152. 


-OF  WRITERS  WHO  CARP  AT 
OTHER  MEN'S  BOOKS. 

Tlie  readers  and  the  hearers  like  my  books. 
But  yet  some  writers  cannot  them  digest ; 
But  what  care  I  ?  for  when  I  make  a  f(;ast 
I  Avould  my  guests  should  praise  it,  not  tho 


cooks. 


Sir  John  Horriinjton. — About  1607. 


153.— OF  A  PRECISE  TAILOR. 

A  tailor,  thought  a  man  of  upright  dealing — 
True,  but  for  lying — honest,  but  for  stealing — 
Did  fall  one  day  extremely  sick  by  chance. 
And  on  the  sudden  was  in  wondrous  trance ; 
The  fiends  of  hell  mustering  in  fea,rful  manner. 
Of  sundry  coloiu-'d  silks  display' d  a  banner 
Which  he  had  stolen,  and  v/ish'd,   as  they  did 

teU, 
That  he  might  find  it  all  one  day  in  hell. 
The  man,  affrighted  with  this  apparition. 
Upon  recovery  grew  a  great  precisian  : 
He  bought  a  Bible  of  the  best  translation, 
And  in  his  life  he  show'd  great  reformation  ; 
He  walked  mannerly,  he  talked  meekly, 
He   heard   three   lectures   and   two    sermons 

weekly ; 
He  vow'd  to  shun  all  company  unruly, 
And  in  his  speech  he  used  no  oath  but  bruly  j 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


OF  CHUECH. 


[F.  Grevile,  Lord  Brooke 


And  zealously  to  keep  the  Sabbath's  rest, 
His  meat  for  that  day  on  the  eve  was  drest  ; 
And  lest  the  custom  which  he  had  to  steal 
Might  cause  him  sometimes  to  forget  his  zeal,    j 
He  gives  his  joui'neyman  a  special  charge, 
That  if  the  stuff,  allowance  being  large, 
He  found  his  fingers  were  to  filch  inclined, 
Bid  him  to  have  the  banner  in  his  mind. 
This  done  (I  scant  can  tell  the  rest  for  laughter) 
A  captain  of  a  ship  came  three  days  after, 
And  brought  three  yards  of  velvet  and  three 

quarters. 
To  make  Venetians  down  below  the  garters. 
He,  that  precisely  know  what  was  enough. 
Soon  slipt  aside  three-quarters  of  the  stuff;    g 
His  man,  espying  it,  said  in  derision. 
Master,  remember  how  you  saw  the  vision  ! 
Peace,  knave  !  quoth  he,  I  did  not  see  one  rag 
Of  such  a  colour' d  silk  in  all  the  flag. 

Sir  John  Harrington. — About  1607. 


154.— CONSTITUTIONAL    LIMITATION 
OF  DESPOTISM. 

Crowns,  therefore  keep  your  oaths  of  corona- 
tion. 
Succession  frees  no  tyranny  from  those  ; 
Faith  is  the  balance  of  power's  reputation ; 
That  circle  broken,  where  can  man  repose  ? 
Since    sceptre    pledges,    which    should    be 

sincere. 
By  one  false  act  grow  bankrupt  every  where. 
Make    not    men's    conscience,    wealth,     and 

liberty. 
Servile,  mthout  book,  to  unbounded  will ; 
Procrustes  like  he  racks  humanity, 
That  in  power's  own  mould  casts  their  good 
wiU; 
And  slaves  men  must  be  by  the  sway  of 

time. 
When  tyranny  continues  thus  sublime. 
*  *  #  * 

Yet  above  all  these,  tyrants  must  have  care 
To  cherish  these  assemblies  of  estate 
Which  in  great  monarchies  true  glasses  are, 
To  show  men's  grief,  excesses  to  abate, 

Brave  moulds  for  laws,  a  medium  that  in 
one 

Joins  -with  content  a  people  to  the  throne. 

Fall-c  Grevile,  Lord  Brooke— About  1620. 


155.— IMAGINATION. 

Knowledge's  next  organ  is  imagination ; 
A  glass,  wherein  the  object  of  our  sense 
Ought  to  respect  true  height,  or  declination, 
For  understanding's  clear  intelligence  : 
But  this  power  also  hath  her  variation. 
Fixed  in  some,  in  some  with  difference  : 
In  all,  so  shadowed  \vith  self-application. 

As  makes  her  pictures  still  too  foul,  or  fair; 

Not  like  the  life  in  lineament  or  air. 


This  power,  besides,  always  cannot  receive 
What  sense  reports,  but  what  th'  affections 

»    please 
To  admit ;  and,  as  those  princes  that  do  leave' 
Their  state  in  trust  to  men  corrupt  with  ease. 
False  in  their  faith,  or  but  to  faction  friend. 
The  truth  of  things  can  scarcely  compre- 
hend; 

So  must  th'  imagination  from  the  sense 
Be  misinformed,  while  our  affections  cast 
False  shapes  and  forms  on  their  intelligence. 
And  to  keep  out  true  intromission  thence. 
Abstracts  the  imagination  or  distastes, 
With  images  pre-occupately  plac'd. 

Hence  our  desires,  fears,  hopes,  love,  hate, 

and  sorrow. 
In  fancy  make  us  hear,  feel,  see  impressions, 
Such  as  out  of  our  sense  they  do  not  borrow ; 
And  are  the  efficient  cause,  the  true  progTcs- 
sion 
Of  sleeping  visions,  idle  phantasms  waking. 
Life,   dreams,  and  knowledge,    apparitions 
making. 
Fulke  Grevile,  Lord  Brooke. — About  162CI 


156.— OF  CHUECH. 

Thus  having  in  few  images  exprest 
The  effect  which  each  extremity  brings  forth, 
Within  mans  nature,  to  distui-b  mans  rest ; 
What  enemies  again  they  be  to  worth. 

As  either  gyves,  which  freedom  doe  restrain, 
Oi<'Jubiles  which  let  confusion  raign. 

There  rests  to  shew,  what  these  degrees  of 

vice 
Work,  when  they  fixt  be  to  the  moulds  of 

might ; 
As  what  relation  to  the  prejudice. 
Or  help  they  yeeld  of  universal  right ; 
Vice  getting  forces  far  above  her  o-v\ti, 
Wlien  it  spreads  from  a  person  to  a  tlirone. 

For  as  in  princes  natures,  if  there  bo 
An  audit  taken,  what  each  kind  of  passion 
Works  and  by  what  usurp 'd  authority. 
Order  and  reason's  peace  they  do  disfashion  ; 
Within  man's   little  world,   it  proves  the 

same 
Wliich  of  pow'rs  great  world  doth  confound 
the  frame. 

Whence  spread  kings  self-love  into  church  or 

law, 
Pulpit  and  bar  streight  feel  corrupted  might. 
Which  bounded  mil  not  be,  much  less  in  awe, 
Of  heavenly  censure,  or  of  earthly  right : 
Besides  creation  and  each  other  part 
Withers,  when  pow'r  turns  nature  into  art 

For  as  between  the  object  and  our  senco 
Look  where  the  mediums   do  prove  dim   or 

cleer. 
Mens  minds  receive  forms  of  intelligence, 
Which  makes  things  either  fair  or  foul  appear,' 
So  betAveen  powers  lust,  and  i^eoples  right, 
The  mediums  help  to  cleer  or  dazel  light. 


F.  Gbevile,  Lord  Brooke.] 


OF  CHUECH. 


[Third  Period. — 


Therefore  to  let    down  these    high   pillar' d 

thrones 
To  lower  orbs  where  prince  and  people  mixb,'** 
As  church,  laAvs,  commerce,  rights,  well  tem- 
per'd  zones, 
Where  neither  part  extremity  can  fixe, 

Either  to  bind  transcendence  by  constraint. 
Or  spoil  mankind  of  all  rights  but   com- 
plaint. 

And  where  by  this  well-ballancing  of  might, 
Regalities  of  crowns  stand  undeclin'd. 
Whose  beings  are  not  to  be  infinite, 
And  so  of  greater  price  then  all  mankind ; 
But  in  desire  and  function  temper' d  so 
As  they  may  current  -with  their  people  go. 

When  Theopompus,  Lacedemons  king 
Had  rais'd  up  a  plebean  magistrate, 
(Like  Roman  tribunes)  which  the  soaring  wing 
Of  soveraign  excesses  might  abate  ; 

He   therein    saw,    although   he   bound   his 
child, 

Yet  in  a  less  room  he  did  surer  build. 

For  infinite  ambition  to  extend 

The  bounds  of  pow'r  (which  finite  pow'rs  must 
weld) 

As  vain  is,  as  desire  to  comprehend, 

And  plant  eternity  in  nature's  field ; 
Whereby  the  idle,  and  the  over-doing 
Alike  run  on,  their  own  destruction  woing. 

Active  then  yet  without  excess  of  spirit, 
Strong  princes  must  be  in  their  government, 
Their  influence  in  every  thing-  of  merit, 
Not  with  an  idle,  glorious  name  content, 
But  quick  in  nimble  use,    and   change  of 

wombs. 
Which  else  prove  peoples  snares  and  princes 
tombs. 

Placing  the  first  foundation  of  their  raigns 
Upon  that  frame,  which  all  frames  else  ex- 
ceeds ; 
Religion,  by  whose  name  the  scepter  gains 
More   of  the   world,    and   greater   reverence 
breeds 
In  forrainer,  and  home-bred  subjects  too. 
Then  much  expence  of  blood  and  vv^oalth  can 
do. 

For    with    what    force    Gods    true    religion 
spreads. 

Is  by  her  shadow  superstition  known  ; 

When  Midas  having  over  Phrygia  shed 

Seeds  of  this  ceremony,  tiU  then  unknown, 
Made  Asia  safer  by  that  empty  word, 
Then  his  forefathers  had  done  by  the  sword. 

And  is  not  Mahomets  forg'd  Alcoran 
Both  with  the  heathen  in  authority : 
And  to  the  Christians  misled  miter-throne 
Become  a  very  rack  of  tiranny  ? 

Their  spirits  united,  eating  men  like  food, 
And  making  ill   ends  with   strong  armies 
good. 


Religions  fair  name  by  insinuation 
Secretlj'^  seiseth  all  pow'rs  of  the  mind, 
In  understanding  raiseth  admiration. 
Worship  in  will,  which  native  sweet  links  bind 
The  soul  of  man,  and  having  got  possession 
Give  pow'rfull  will  an  ordinate  progression. 

Forming  in  conscience  lines  of  equity, 

To  temper  laws,  and  without  force  infuse 

A  home-born  practice  of  civility, 

Current  with  that  which  all  the  world  doth 
use, 
Whereby  divided  kingdoms  may  unite 
If  not  in  truth,  at  least  in  outward  rite. 

'Therefore  I  say  pow'r  should  be  provident 

In  judging  this  chief  strength  of  tyranny 

With  caution,  that  the  clergy  government 

Give  not  the  mitre  crown- supremacy ; 

Making  the  sultan  and  the  caliph  one 

To  tyrannize  both  Cair  and  Babylon. 

The  churches  proper  arms  bo  tears  and  prayers, 
Peters  true  keys  to  open  earth,  and  sky, 
Which  if  the  priest  out  of  his  prides  despair 
WiU  into  Tybris  cast,  and  Pauls  sword  try ; 
Gods  sacred  word  he  therein  doth  abandon. 
And  runs  with  fleshj^  confidence  at  random. 

Mild  people  therefore  honour  you  your  king, 
Reverence  your  priests,  but  never  under  one 
Frail  creature  both  your  soul  and  body  bring, 
But  keep  the  better  part  to  God  alone. 
The  soul  his  image  is,  and  onely  he 
Knows  what  it  is,  and  what  it  ought  to  be. 

Lest  else  by  some  idolatrous  conceit. 
You  give  them,  that  at  sin  can  cast  no  stone, 
INIcans  to  pluck  dovv^n  the  Godhead  by  deceit. 
And  upon  mans  inventions  raise  a  throne  : 
Besides,  where  sword,  and  canons  do  unite, 
The  peoples  bondage  there  proves  infinite. 

Princes  again  wake,  and  be  well  advised, 
How  suddenly  in  man  kings  pow'r  is  drown'd, 
The  miter  rais'd,  the  scepter  prejudic'd, 
If  you  leave  all  rights  superstition  bound  ; 
For  then  as  souls  more  dear,  then  bodies 

are ; 
So  these  church- visions  may  strain  nature 
far. 

Kings  therefore  that  fear  superstitious  might. 
Must  cross  their  courses  in  their  infancy. 
By  which  the  Druids,    with   their  shadow' d 

Hght, 
Got  g'oods  from  them  that  took  their  words, 
to  be 
Treble  rewarded  in  the  life  to  come  ; 
And  works  not  paradice  the  same  for  Rome  ? 

For  with  such  mystical  dexterity. 
Racking  the  li\ang  souls  through  rage  of  sin, 
And  dying  souls  with  horrors  mystery, 
Did  not  the  miter  from  the  scepter  win 

The  third  part  of   the  world,    till  Luther 

came, 
Who  shak't   the    doctrine    of   that  double 
frame  ? 


F)vm  1558  to  1649.] 


OF  CHUECH. 


[F.  Grevile,  Lord  Brooke. 


Lie  not  France,  Poland,  Italy  an4  Spam, 
Still  as  the  snow  doth,  when  it  threatens  more. 
Like  engines,  fitted  to  draw  back  again 
Those  that  the  true  light  severed  before  ? 
And  was  not  Venice  excommunicate, 
For  curbing  such  false  purchases  of  late  ? 

Which  endless  thirst  of  sacred  avarice, 
If  in  the  infancy  it  be  not  bounded. 
Will  hardly  by  prosperit}-^  grow  wise  ; 
For  as  this  church  is  on  apparance  founded 

So  besides  schools,  and  cells  which  vail  her 
shame, 

Hath  she  not  armies  to  extend  her  name  ? 

Pow'r  for  a  pensil,  conscience  for  a  table, 
To  write  opinion  in  of  any  fashion. 
With  wits  distinctions,  ever  merchantable. 
Between  a  princes  throne  and   peoples  pas- 
sion ? 
Upon  which  texts  she  raiseth  or  puis  down 
All,  but  those  objects,  which  advance  her 
cro^vn. 

Pow'r  therefore,  be  she  needy,  or  ambitious, 
Dispos'd  to  peace,  or  unto  war  enclin'd. 
Whether  religious  in  her  life,  or  vicious, 
Must  not  to  miters  so  enthral  mankind : 
As  above  truth,  and  force,  monks  may  pre- 
vail, 
On    their     false     visions    crown-rights    to 
entail. 

Again,  let  not  her  clerks  by  Simons  ways, 

Lay  wast  endowments  of  devoted  spirits ; 

And   so   pull   down,    what    their   forefathers 
rais'd 

With  honour  in  their  actions,  if  not  merit : 
Least  as  by  pride  they  once  got  up  too  high, 
Their  baseness  feel  the  next  extremity. 

For  first  besides  the  scandal,  and  contempt 
Which  those  base  courses  on  their  doctrine 

cast; 
The  stately  monuments  are  not  exempt. 
Because  without  means,    no  time-works  can 
last  y 
And  from  high  pomp  a  desperate  descent 
Shows  both  in  state  and  church  misgovern- 
ment. 

Whereof  let  her  take  heed,  since  when  estates 
From  such  a  greatness  do  begin  to  fall. 
Descent  is  unto  them  precipitate  : 
For  as  one  gangren'd  member  ruines  all. 
So  what  the  modesty  of  one  time  leaves, 
The  time  succeeding  certainly  bereaves. 

Therefore   must  thrones   (as   gods   of   forms 

exterior) 
Cast  up  this  earthly  mettal  in  good  mould ; 
And  when  men  to  professions  prove  superior, 
Eestrain   proud   thoughts,    from  doing  what 
they  would. 
Guiding  the  weak,  and  strong,  to  such  ex- 
tension, 
As  may  to  order  sacrifice  invention. 


And  hereby  work  that  formal  unity, 
Which  brooks  no  new,  or  irreligious  sects, 
To  nurse  up  faction  or  impiety, 
Change  ever  teaching  people  to  neglect : 
But  raise  the  painful,  learned,  and  devout 
To  plant  obeying  conscience  thorcm-out. 

Veyling  her  doctrine  with  antiquity. 

Whence,    and  where   although   contradicting 
sects   . 

Strive  to  derive,  and  prove  their  pedigree, 

As  safest  humane  levels  to  direct 

Into  what  mould  opinion  should  be  cast. 
To  make  her  true,  at  least  like  truth  to  last. 

Or  if  their  times  will  not  permit  a  truce. 

In  wrangling  questions,  which  break  natures 

peace. 
And  therein  offer  God  and  man  abuse ; 
Let   pow'r  yet    vidsely    make   their   practice 


In  church  or  courts,  and  bind  them  to  the 

schools. 
As  business  for  idle,  witty  fools. 

Ordering  that  people  from  the  pulpit  hear 
Nothing,  but  that  which  seems  mans  life  to 

mend; 
As  shadows  of  eternal  hope  and  fear. 
Which  do  contract  the  ill,  and  good  extend. 
Not  idle  theorick,  to  tickle  wit. 
Empty  of  goodness,  much  more  nice  then 
fit. 

To  which  refining  end,  it  may  seem  just. 
That  in  the  church  the  supream  magistrates 
Should  ancient  be,  ere  they  be  put  in  trust. 
Since  aged  wit  best  tempers,  and  abates 
These  heady  and  exorbitant  affections, 
Which  are  of  blind  proud  youth  the  imper- 
fections. 

The  Roman  laws  for  magistrates  admit 
None  that  had  not  pass'd  the  meridian  line 
Of  youth,  and  humours  incident  to  it ; 
And  shall  it  not  in  functions  divine 

Be  more  absurd,  to  let  that  youth  appear. 
And  teach  what  wise  men  think  scarce  fit 
to  hear  ? 

Besides,  chaste  life  years  easilier  may  observe. 
Which  temper  in  cathedral  dignity, 
Though  wives  be  lawful,  yet  doth  well  deserve. 
As  to  their  functions  leaving  them  more  free  : 

Instance    their   learned   works    that    liv'd 
alone, 

Where  married  bishops  left  us  few,  or  none. 

And  if  men  shall  object,  that  this  restraint 
Of  lawful  marriage  wiU  increase  the  sin. 
And  so  the  beauty  of  the  church  attaint, 
By  bringing  scandal  through  mans  frailty  in, 
I  say  mans  fall  is  sins,  not  churches  shame. 
Ordain' d  by  censure  to  enlarge  her  fame. 

Censure,  the  life  of  discipline,  which  bears 
Pow'rs  spiritual  standard,  fit  to  govern  all 
Opinions,  actions,  humours,  hopes,  and  fears. 
Spread  knowledge,  make  obedience  general ; 

10 


F.  Grevile,  Lord  Brooke.]      EEALITY  OF  A  TEUE  EELIGIOK        [Third  Period.— 


Whence  man  instructed  well,  and  kept  in 

awe, 
If  not  the  inward,  yet  keeps  outward  law. 

'vVTiich  form  is  all  that  tyranny  expects, 
I  mean,  to  win,  to  change  and  yet  unite  ; 
Where  a  true  king  in  his  estate  affects 
So  from  within  man,  to  v/ork  out  the  right, 
As  his  will  need  not  limit  or  allay 
The  liberties  of  God's  immortal  way. 

Wliere  tyrants  discipline  is  never  free, 
But  ballanced,  proportioned,  and  bounded 
So  with  the  temporal  ends  of  tyranny. 
And  ways  whereon   pow'ra   greatnesses   axe 
founded ; 
As  in  creation,  fame,  life,  death,  or  war, 
Or  any  other  heads  that  soveraign  are. 

Pow'r  may  not  be  opposed,  or  confounded ; 
But  each  inferior  orb  command  or  serve, 
With  proper  latitudes  distinctly  bounded, 
To  censure  all  states  that  presume  to  swervp, 
Whereby  the  common  people  and  the  throne 
May  mutually,  protected  be  in  one. 

Not  rent  asunder  by  sophistication 
Of  one  frail  sinner,  whose  supremacy 
Stands  by  prophane  or  under- valuation 
Of  Gods  anointed  soveraignity ; 

And  by  dividing  subjects  from  their  kings 
Soars  above  those  thrones,  which  first  gave 
them  wings. 

Affecting  such  irrevocable  might 

With  us,  as  to  their  mufty,  Turks  liv'd  under, 

Or  rather  sacriledge  more  infinite. 

From  Jove  to  ■svrest  away  the  fearful  thunder : 
Salmoneus  pride,  as  if  the  truth  then  fell. 
When  he  alone  rul'd  not  earth,  heav'n  and 
heU. 

Salmoneus  who  while  he  his  carroach  drave 
Over  the  brazen  bridge  of  Elis  stream. 
And  did  with  artificial  thunder  brave 
Jove,   till    he   pierc't  him  with   a   lightning 
beam ; 
From  which  example  who  will  an  idol  be, 
Must  rest  assur'd  to  feel  a  deity. 

Thus  much  to  shew  the  outward  churches  use, 

In  framing  up  the  superstitious  sphear, 

Subject  alike  to  order,  or  abuse. 

Chain' d  with  immortal   seeming   hopes   and 
fear ; 
Which  shadow-like  their  beings  yet  bereave, 
By  trusting  to  be,  when  their  bodies  leave. 

Where  if  that   outward   work   which   pow'r 

Ijretends, 
Were  life  indeed,  not  frail  hypocrisie, 
Monarchs  should  need  no  other  laws  to  friend. 
Conscience  being  base  of  their  authority  ; 
By  whoso  want,  frailty  flashing  out  mans 

error 
Makes  thrones  enwall  themselves  with  laws 
of  terror. 

Fulke  Grevilc,  Lord  Brooke— About  1620. 


157.— EEALITY  OF  A. TRUE  EELIGION. 

For  sure  in  all  kinds  of  hypocrisy 

No  bodies  yet  are  found  of  constant  being ; 

No  uniform,  no  stable  mj'^stery, 

No  inward  nature,  but  an  outward  seeming ; 
No  solid  truth,  no  virtue,  holiness, 
But  types  of  these,  which  time  makes  more 
or  less. 

And,  from  these  springs,  strange  inundations 

flow. 
To  drown  the  sea-marks  of  humanity. 
With  massacres,  conspiracy,  treason,  woe, 
By  sects  and  schisms  profaning  Deity : 
.  Besides,  with  furies,  fiends,  earth,  air,  and 
hell. 
They  fit,  and  teach  confusion  to  rebel. 

But,  as  there  lives  a  true  God  in  the  heaven. 

So  is  there  true  religion  here  on  earth  : 

By  nature?      No,   by   grace;    not   got,   but 

given; 
Inspir'd,   not   taught ;    from   God    a    second 
birth ; 
God  dwelleth  near  about  us,  even  within. 
Working  the  goodness,  censuring  the  sin. 

Such  as  we  are  to  him,  to  us  is  he, 
Without  God  there  was  no  man  ever  good ; 
Divine  the  author  and  the  matter  be. 
Where  goodness  must  be  wrought  in  flesh  and 
blood : 
Eeligion  stands  not  in  corrupted  things, 
But  virtues    that   descend   have   heavenly 
wings. 
FiUlce  Grevile,  Lord  Brooke. — About  1620. 


158.— TO  HIS  MISTEESS,  THE  QUEEN 
OF  BOHEMIA. 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night. 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eye  3 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light ! 

You  common  people  of  the  skies  ! 

What  are  you,  when  the  sun  shall  rise  ? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood. 

That  warble  forth  dame  Nature's  lays. 

Thinking  your  voices  understood 

By  your  weak  accents  !  what's  your  praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise  ? 

You  violets  that  first  appear. 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known. 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own ! 
What  are  you,  when  the  rose  is  blown  ? 

So,  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind ; 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen  ! 
Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  design' d 
Th'  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 

Sir  Henry  Wotton.—Abovt  1625. 


From  1558  to  1640.] 


A  MEDITATION. 


[Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


159- 


-A  FAEEWELL  TO  THE  VANITIES 
OF  THE  WOELD. 


Farewell,  ye  gilded  follies  !  pleasing  troubles ; 
Farewell,  yo  honour'd  rags,  ye  glorious  bub- 
bles; 
Fame's  but  a  hollow  ecbo,  gold  pure  clay, 
Honour  the  darling  but  of  one  short  day, 
Beauty,  th'  eye's  idol,  but  a  damask'd  skin, 
State  but  a  golden  prison  to  live  in 
And  torture    free-born    minds;    embroider' d 

trains 
Merely  but  pageants  for  proud  swelling  veins; 
And  blood,  allied  to  greatness,  is  alone 
Inherited,  not  purchased,  nor  our  own. 
Fame,  honour,  beauty,  state,  train,  blood,  and 

birth. 
Are  but  the  fading  blossoms  of  the  earth. 

I  would  be  great,  but  that  the  sun  doth  still 
Level  his  rays  against  the  rising  hill ; 
I  would  be  high,  but  see  the  proudest  oak 
Most  subject  to  the  rending  thunder-stroke ; 
I  would  be  rich,  but  see  men  too  unkind 
Dig  in  the  bowels  of  the  richest  mind ; 
I  would  be  wise,  but  that  I  often  see 
The  fox  suspected  while  the  ass  goes  free ; 
I  would  be  fair,  but  see  the  fair  and  proud 
Like  the  bright  sun  oft  setting  in  a  cloud  ; 
I  would  be  poor,  but  know  the  humble  grass 
Still  trampled  on  by  each  unworthy  ass ; 
Eich,  hated;  wise,  suspected;  scom'dif  poor; 
Great,  fear'd;  fair,  tempted;  high,  still  en- 
vied more. 
I  have  -svish'd  all,  but  now  I  wish  for  neither 
Great,  high,  rich,  wise,  nor  fair — poor  I'U  be 
rather. 

Would  the  world  now  adopt  me  for  her  heir, 
"Would  beauty's  queen  entitle  me  "  the  fair," 
Fame  speak  me  fortune's  minion,  could  I  vie 
Angels  with  India  ;  with  a  speaking  eye 
Command   bare   heads,    bow'd  knees,    strike 

justice  dumb 
As  well  as  blind  and  lame,  or  give  a  tongue 
To  stones  by  epitaphs  ;  be  call'd  great  master 
In  the  loose  rhymes  of  every  poetaster ; 
Could  I  be  more  than  any  man  that  lives, 
Great,  fair,  rich,  wise,  all  in  superlatives  ; 
Yet  I  more  freely  would  these  gifts  resign, 
Than   ever   fortune   woidd  have   made  them 

mine ; 
And  hold  one  minute  of  this  holy  leisure 
Beyond  the  riches  of  this  empty  pleasure. 

"Welcome,  pure  thoughts  !  welcome,  ye  silent 

groves ! 
These   guests,   these   courts,    my   soul  most 

dearly  loves. 
Now  the  mng'd  people  of  the  sky  shall  sing 
My  cheerful  anthems  to  the  gladsome  spring ; 
A  prayer-book  now  shall  be  my  loolcing-glass. 
In  which  I  -will  adore  sweet  virtiae's  face  ; 
Here  dwell  no  hateful  looks,  no  palace  cares, 
No  broken   vows  dwell  here,  nor  pale-faced 

fears : 


Then  here  I'U  sit,   and  sigh  my  hot  love's 

foUy, 
And  learn  to  affect  a  holy  melancholy ; 
And  if  Contentment  be  a  stranger  then, 
I'U  ne'er  look  for  it  but  in  heav'n  again. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton.— AlmttAQ2b. 


i6o.— THE  GOOD  MAN. 

How  happy  is  he  bom  and  taught, 
That  serveth  not  another's  wUl ; 
"Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skiU ! 

"Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are. 
Whose  soul  is  stiU  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 
Of  pubUc  fame,  or  private  breath  ; 

"Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice ;  who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed, 
"Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

"Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray, 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  reUgious  book  or  friend ; 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands. 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  faU ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  aU. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton.— About  1625. 


i6i.— A  MEDITATION. 

O  thou  great  Power !  in  whom  we  move, 
By  whom  we  Hve,  to  whom  we  die. 

Behold  me  through  thy  beams  of  love, 
"Whilst  on  this  couch  of  tears  I  lie. 

And  cleanse  my  sordid  soul  within 

By  thy  Christ's  blood,  the  bath  of  sin. 

No  haUow'd  oUs,  no  gums  I  need, 
No  new-bom  drams  of  purging  fire ; 

One  rosy  drop  from  David's  seed 

Was  worlds  of  seas  to  quench  thine  ire  i 

O  precious  ransom  !  which  once  paid, 

That  Conswmmatum  est  was  said. 

And  said  by  him,  that  said  no  more, 
But  seal'd  it  with  his  sacred  breath : 

Thou  then,  that  has  dispurged  our  score. 
And  dying  wert  the  death  of  death, 

Be  now,  whilst  on  thy  name  we  caU, 

Our  Ufe,  our  strength,  our  joy,  our  all  I 


Sir  Henry  Wotton.- 


-Ahout  1625. 
10* 


Sir  Henry  Wotton.] 


THE  EAEL  OF  SOMERSET. 


[Third  Period. — 


[62.— ON  THE  SUDDEN  EESTEAINT  OF 

THE    EARL   OF    SOMERSET,    THEN 

FALLING  FROM  FAVOUR. 

Dazzled  thus  with  height  of  place, 
Whilst  our  hopes  our  wits  beguHe, 
No  man  marks  the  narrow  space 
'Twixt  a  prison  and  a  smile. 

Yet  since  Fortune's  favours  fade, 
You  that  in  her  arms  do  sleep, 
Learn  to  swim  and  not  to  wade, 
For  the  hearts  of  kings  are  deep. 

But  if  greatness  be  so  blind 
As  to  trust  in  towers  of  air, 
Let  it  be  with  goodness  lined, 
That  at  least  the  fall  be  fair. 

Then  though  dark  and  you  shall  say, 
"When  friends  fail  and  princes  frown, 
Virtue  is  the  roughest  way, 
But  proves  at  night  a  bed  of  down. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. — About  1625. 


163.— IN  PRAISE  OF  ANGLING. 

Quivering  fears,  heart-tearing  cares, 
Anxious  sighs,  untimely  tears. 

Fly,  fly  to  courts, 

Fly  to  fond  worldlings'  sports, 
Where  strained  sardonic  smiles  are  glosing 

still. 
And  grief  is  forced  to  laugh  against  her  will. 

Where  mirth 's  but  mummery, 

And  sorrows  only  real  be. 

Fly  from  our  country  pastimes,  fly, 
Sad  troops  of  human  misery, 

Come,  serene  looks. 

Clear  as  the  crystal  brooks, 
Or  the  pure  azm-ed  hea>ven  that  smiles  to  sec 
The  rich  attendance  on  our  poverty ; 

Peace  and  a  secure  mind. 

Which  all  men  seek,  we  only  find. 

Abused  mortals  !  did  you  know 

Where  joy,  heart's  ease,  and  comforts  grow, 
You'd  scorn  proud  towers, 
And  seek  them  in  these  bowers. 

Where  winds,  sometimes,  ovx  woods  perhaps 
may  shake. 

But  blustering  care  could  never  tempest  make ; 
Nor  murmurs  e'er  come  nigh  us, 
Saving  of  fountains  that  glide  by  us. 

Here's  no  fantastic  mask  nor  dance, 
But  of  our  kids  that  frisk  and  prance; 

Nor  wars  are  seen. 

Unless  upon  the  green, 
Two  harmless  lambs  are  butting  one  the  other. 
Which  done,  both  bleating  run,  each  to  his 
mother ; 

And  wounds  are  never  found. 

Save   what   the   ploughshare    gives    the 
ground. 


Here  are  no  entrapping  baits 
To  hasten  to  too  hasty  fates  ; 

Unless  it  be 

The  fond  credulity 
Of  silly  fish,  which  (worldling  like)  still  look 
Upon  the  bait,  but  never  on  the  hook ; 

Nor  envj^  less  among 

The  birds,  for  price  of  their  sweet  song. 

Go,  let  the  diving  negro  seek 

For  gems,  hid  in  some  forlorn  creek ; 

We  all  pearls  scorn, 

Save  what  the  dewy  morn 
Congeals  upon  each  little  spire  of  grass, 
Which  careless  shepherds  beat  down  as  they 
pass; 

And  gold  ne'er  here  appears. 

Save  what  the  yellow  Ceres  bears. 

Bless'd  silent  groves,  oh,  may  you  be. 
For  ever,  mirth's  best  nursery. 
May  pure  contents 
For  ever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  these  doAvns,  these  meads,  these  rocks, 

these  mountains, 
And    peace   still   slumber   by   these    purling 
fountains. 

Which  we  may  every  year 

Meet,  when  we  come  a-fishing  here. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. — About  1625. 


164.— S  0  N  N  E  T. 

Let  others  sing  of  knights  and  paladins, 
In  aged  accents  and  untimely  words. 
Paint  shadows  in  imaginary  lines. 
Which  well  the  reach  of  their  high  wits  re- 
cords ; 
But  I  must  sing  of  thee  and  those  fair  eyes, 
Authentic  shall  my  verse  in  time  to  come, 
Wlien  yet  th'  unborn  shall  say,  Lo,  here  she 

lies! 
Whose  beauty  made  him  speak  what  else  was 

dumb. 
These  are  the  arks,  the  trophies  I  erect. 
That  fortify  thy  name  against  old  age. 
And  these  thy  sacred  virtues  must  protect 
Against  the  dark  and  Time's  consuming  age  ; 
Though  th'  error  of  my  youth  they  shall  dis- 
cover, 
Sufiice  to  show  I  lived,  and  was  thy  lover. 

Henri/  Constable. — About  1600. 


165.— M  E  R  C  Y. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain' d ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  bless'd ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 
His   sceptre    shows    the    force    of  temporal 

power, 
Th'  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 


From  1558  to  1649.]  GRIEF  THAT  CANNOT  BE  COMFOETED. 


[Shakspekf. 


Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway, 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself ; 

And   earthly   power   doth   then   show  likest 

God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.    Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to 

render 
The  deeds  of  ftiercy.    I  have  spoke  thus  much, 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea. 

Shaksjperc. — About  1610. 


i66.— N  I  G  H  T. 

The  moon  shines  bright : — In  such  a  night  as 

this. 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees. 
And  they  did  make  no  noise, — in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents. 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

In  such  a  night. 
Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself. 
And  ran  dismay' d  away. 

In  such  a  night, 
Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waft  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

In  such  a  night, 
Medea  gather'd  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  ^son. 

In  such  a  night, 
Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew  ; 
And    with    an    unthrift   love   did   run   from 

Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

In  such  a  night, 
Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  loved  her  well ; 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

In  such  a  night, 
Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

I  would  out-night  you,  did  no  body  come : 
But,  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

8halii<2'><^rc.—Ahoid  1610. 


167.— NIGHT  AND  MUSIC. 

How  sweet  the   moonlight  sleeps   upon  this 

bank ! 
Here  wUl  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep   in   our   ears ;    soft    stillness,    and  the 

night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look  how  the  fiooT  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold. 


There  's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  be- 
hold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings. 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubims  : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot-hea*  it. — 
Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ; 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  yom*  mistress' 

ear. 
And  draw  her  home  with  music. 

I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 
The  reason  is  your  spirits  are  attentive  : 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd, 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts. 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neigh- 
ing loud. 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood  ; 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound. 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears. 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand. 
Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze, 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music  :  Therefore,  the 

poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,   stones, 

and  floods ; 
Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of 

rage. 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  na- 
ture ; 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself. 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds,. 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affectiolis  dark  as  Erebus  : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. — Mark  the  music. 

Blmlcspere.—Ahout  1610. 


168. 


-GEIEF  THAT  CANNOT  BE 
COMFORTED. 


I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel, 
Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
As  water  in  a  sieve  :  give  not  me  counsel ; 
Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear. 
But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with 

mine. 
Bring  me  a  father,  that  so  loved  his  child, 
Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelm' d  Kke  mine, 
And  bid  him  speak  of  patience  ; 
Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of 

mine, 
And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain ; 
As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such. 
In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form  : 
If  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard ; 
And  '•  sorrow  wag  "  cry ;  hem,  when  he  should 

groan ; 
Patch  grief  mth  proverbs  ;  make  misfortune 

drunk 
With  candle  wasters  ;  bring  him  yet  to  me, 
And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience. 
But  there  is  no  such  man  :   For,  brother,  men 
Can  counsel,  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 


SxIAKSPEIlE. 


FLOWEES. 


TThird  Period. 


Which  they  themselves  not  feel :  but,  tasting 

it, 
Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 
Would  give  precoptial  medicine  to  rage, 
Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread. 
Charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  words  ; 
No,  no  ;  'tis  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 
To  those  that  v^rring  under  the  load  of  sorrow ; 
But  no  man's  virtue  nor  sufficiency, 
To  be  so  moral,  when  he  shall  endure 
The  like  himself :  therefore  give  me  no  counsel : 
My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement. 

BJiaksj>ere. — About  1610. 


169.— F'LO  WEES. 

Now,  my  fairest  friend, 
I  vrould  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring,  that 

might 
Become  your  time  of  day;    and  yours,  and 

yours ; 
That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 
Your  maidenheads  grooving : — 0  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st 

fall 
From  Dis's  wagon  !  daffodils. 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty ;  violets,  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids  ;  bold  oxlij)3,  and 
The  crown-imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds. 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one  !  O,  these  I  lack, 
To  make   you  garlands  of ;    and,  my  sweet 

friend. 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

Shalcspcro. — About  1610. 


170.— EICHAED    THE    SECOND'S 
LAMENT. 

Of  comfort  no  man  speak : 
Let's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs  ; 
Make  dust  our  paper,  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Let's  choose  executors,  and  talk  of  wills  : 
And  yet  not  so, — ^for  what  can  we  bequeath, 
Save  our  depos^^d  bodies  to  the  ground  ? 
Our  lands,  our  lives,  and  all  are  Bolingbroke's, 
And  nothing  can  wo  call  our  own,  but  death, 
And  that  small  model  of  the  bai-ren  earth. 
Which  serves  as  paste  and  cover  to  our  bones. 
For  heaven's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground, 
And  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings  : — 
How  some  have  been  deposed,  some  slain  in 

war; 
Some  haunted  by  the  ghosts  they  have  deposed; 
Some  poison' d  by  their  wives,  some  sleeping 

kiU'd ; 
All  murther'd  : — For  within  the  hollow  crown, 
That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  kinr, 


Keeps  death  his  court ;   and  there  the  antic 

sits. 
Scoffing  his  state,  and  grinning  at  his  pomp  ; 
Allowing  him  a  breath,  a  little  scene 
To  monarchize,  be  fear'd  and  kill  Avith  looks; 
Infusing  him  with  self  and  vain  conceit, — 
As  if  this  flesh,  which  v/alls  about  our  life. 
Were  brass  impregnable  ;  and  humour'd  thus, 
Comes  at  the  last,  and  with  a  little  pin 
Bores  through  his  castle  walls,  and — farewell 

king  ! 
Cover  your  heads,  and   mock   not  flesh  and 

blood  ' 

With  solemn  reverence  ;  throw  away  respect, 
Tradition,  form,  and  ceremonious  duty, 
For  you  have  but  mistook  me  all  this  while  : 
I  live  with  bread  like  you,  feel  want,  taste 

grief. 
Need  friends  : — Subjected  thus, 
How  can  you  say  to  me — I  am  a  king  ? 
*  *  #  # 

What   must   the   king   do   now  ?      Must  he 

submit  ? 
The  king  shall  do  it.     Must  he  be  deposed  ? 
The  king-  shall  be  contented  :  Must  he  lose 
The  name  of  king  ?  o'  Grod's  name,  let  it  go  : 
I'll  give  my  jewels,  for  a  set  of  beads  ; 
My  gorgeous  palace,  for  a  hermitage ; 
My  gay  apparel,  for  an  alms-man's  gown ; 
My  figured  goblets,  for  a  dish  of  wood  ; 
My  sceptre,  for  a  palmer's  walking-staff; 
My  subjects,  for  a  pair  of  carved  saints  ; 
And  my  large  kingdom,  for  a  little  grave, 
A  little  little  grave,  an  obscure  grave : — 
Or  I'll  be  buried  in  the  king's  highway, 
Some  way  of  common  trade,  where  subjects* 

feet 
May  hourly  trample  on  their  sovereign's  head: 
For  on  my  heart  they  tread,  now  whilst  I  live ; 
And,  buried  once,  why  not  upon  my  head  ? — 
Aumerle,  thou  v/eop'st  ;    My  tender-hearted 

cousin ! — 
We'U  make  foul  weather  with  despised  tears  ; 
Our  sighs,  and  they,  shall  lodge  the  summer 

corn, 
And  make  a  dearth  in  this  revolting  land. 
Or  shall  we  play  the  wantons  with  our  woes, 
And  make  some  pretty  match  with  shedding 

tears  ? 
As  thus  ; — To  drop  them  still  upon  one  place. 
Till  they  have  fretted  us  a  pair  of  graves 
Within  the  earth ;  and,  therein  laid, — There  lies 
Two  kinsmen,  digg'd  their  graves  Avith  weep- 
ing eyes  ? 
Would  not  this  ill  do  well  ?— Well,  well,  I  see 
I  talk  but  idly,  and  you  mock  at  me. — 
Most  mighty  prince,  my  lord  Northumberland, 
"What  says  king  Bolingbroke  ?  will  his  majesty 
Give  Eichard  leave  to  live  till  Eichard  die  ? 

Shakspere, — About  1610. 


171.— SOLILOQUY   OF  EICHAED    THE 

SECOND   IN  PEISON. 
I  have  been  studying  how  to  compare 
This  prison,  where  I  live,  unto  the  world  ; 


From  1558  to  1641).] 


HOTSPUE'S  DEFENCE. 


[Shakspere. 


An^,  for  because  the  world  is  populous, 
And  here  is  not  a  creature  but  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it ; — Yet  I'll  hammer  it  out. 
My  brain  I'll  prove  the  female  to  my  soul ; 
My  soul,  the  father  :  and  these  two  beget 
A  generation  of  still-breeding  thoughts, 
And  these  same  thoughts  people  this   little 

world ; 
In  humours,  like  the  people  of  this  world. 
For  no  thought  is   contented.      The  better 

sort, — 
As  thoughts  of  things  divine, — are  intermix' d 
With  scruples,  and  do  set  the  faith  itself 
Against  the  faith : 

As  thus, — Come,  little  ones ;  and  then  again, — 
It  is  as  hard  to  come,  as  for  a  camel 
To  thread  the  postern  of  a  needle's  eye. 
Thoughts  tending  to  ambition,  they  do  plot 
Unlikely  wonders  :  how  these  vain  weak  nails 
May  tear  a  passage  through  the  flinty  ribs 
Of  this  hard  world,  mj  ragged  prison  walls  ; 
And,  for  they  cannot  die  in  their  own  pride. 
Thoughts  tending  to  content,    flatter  them- 
selves,— 
That  they  are  not  the  first  of  fortune's  slaves, 
Nor  shall  not  be  the  last ;  like  silly  beggars. 
Who,    sitting    in    the    stocks    refuge    their 

shame, — 
That  many  have,  and  others  must  sit  there  : 
And  in  this  thought  they  find  a  kind  of  ease, 
Bearing  their  own  misfortunes  on  the  back 
Of  such  as  have  before  endured  the  like. 
Thus  play  I,  in  one  person,  many  people, 
And  none  contented  :  Sometimes  am  I  king ; 
Then  treason  makes  me  wish  myself  a  beggar. 
And  so  I  am :  Then  crushing  penury 
Persuades  me  I  was  better  when  a  king ; 
Then  am  I  king'd  again  :  and,  by-and-by, 
Think  that  I  am  unking' d  by  Bolingbroke, 
And  straight  am  nothing  : — But,  whate'er  I 

am. 
Nor  I,  nor  any  man,  that  but  man  is, 
With  nothing  shall  be  pleased,  tUl  he  be  eased 
With  being  nothing. — Music  do  I  hear  ? 
Ha,  ha !  keep  time. — How  sour  sweet  music  is. 
When  time  is  broke,  and  no  proportion  kept ! 
So  is  it  in  the  music  of  men's  lives. 
And  here  have  I  the  daintiness  of  ear. 
To  check  time  broke  in  a  disorder' d  string  ; 
But,  for  the  concord  of  my  state  and  time, 
Had  not  an  ear  to  hear  my  true  time  broke. 
I  wasted  time,  and  now  doth  time  waste  me. 
For  now  hath  time  made  me  his  numb'ring 

clock : 
My  thoughts  are  minutes ;    and,  with  sighs, 

they  jar 
Their  watches  on  unto  mine  eyes,  the  outward 

watch, 
Whereto  my  finger,  like  a  dial's  point. 
Is  pointing  still,  in  cleansing  them  from  tears. 
Now,    Sir,    the  sounds,  that  tell  what  hour 

it  is. 
Are  clamorous  groans,  that  strike  upon  my 

heart, 
Which  is  the  bell :    So  sighs,  and  tears,  and 

groans, 


Show  minutes,  times,   and  hours  : — but   my 

time 
Euns  posting  on  in  Bolingbroke' s  proud  joy. 
While  I  stand  fooling  here,  his  Jack  o'  the 

clock. 
This  music  mads  me,  let  it  sound  no  more  ; 
For,  though  it  have  holpe  madinpn-t^o  their 

wits. 
In  me,  it  seems  it  will  make  wise  men  mad. 
Yet  blessing  on  his  heart  that  gives  it  me  ! 
For  'tis  a  sign  of  love ;  and  love  to  Eichard 
Is  a  strange  brooch  in  this  aU-hating  world. 

Shalcspere. — About  1610. 


172.— HOTSPUE'S  DEFENCE. 

My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners. 
But,  I  remember,  when  the  fight  was  done, 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat  and  trimly 

dress'd. 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom;   and  his  chin,  ne\5 

reap'd, 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home ; 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner ; 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  anon 
He  gave  his  nose,  and  took  't  away  again ; 
Who,   therewith  angry,   when   it  next  came 

there, 
Took  it  in  snuff:    and  stiU  he  smiled  and 

talk'd 
And  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by. 
He  call'd  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly. 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
He  question'd  me ;  among  the  rest,  demanded 
My  prisoners,  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 
I  then,  all  smarting,  with  my  wounds  being 

cold. 
To  be  so  pester' d  with  a  popinjay. 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience 
Answer' d  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what ; 
He  should,  or  should  not ; — for  he  made  me 

mad, 
To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet, 
And  talk  so  like  a  waiting-gentlewoman 
Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds,   (God  save 

the  mark !) 
And  telling  me,  the  sovereign' st  thing  on  earth 
Was  parmacetti  for  an  inward  bruise ; 
And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was. 
That  villainous  saltpetre  should  be  digg'd 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth. 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 
So  cowardly ;  and  but  for  those  vile  guns 
He  would  himseK  have  been  a  soldier. 
This  bald  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 
I  answer' d  indirectly,  as  I  said ; 
And  I  beseech  you,  let  not  this  report 
Come  current  for  an  accusation, 
I   Bct-wixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty. 

Bhalispere. — About  1610. 


Shakspere.] 


EIJMOUE. 


[Third  Period. — 


173.— RUMOUR. 

Open  your  ears  :  For  which  of  you  will  stop 
The  vent  of  hearing  when  loud  Rumour  speaks  ? 
I,  from  the  orient  to  the  drooping  west, 
Making  the  wind  my  post-horse,  still  unfold 
The  acts  commenced  on  this  ball  of  earth : 
Upon  my  tongues  conbinual  slanders  ride ; 
The  which  in  every  language  I  pronounce, 
Stuffing  the  ears  of  men  with  false  reports. 
I  speak  of  peace,  while  covert  enmity, 
Under  the  smile  of  safety,  wounds  the  world  : 
And  who  but  Eumour,  who  but  only  I, 
Make  fearful  musters,  and  prepared  defence. 
Whilst  the  big  year,  swoln  with  some  other 

griefs. 
Is  thought  with  child  by  the  stem  tyrant  war, 
And  no  such  matter  ?  Eumour  is  a  pipe 
Blown  by  surmises,  jealousies,  conjectures ; 
And  of  so  easy  and  so  plain  a  stop 
That  the  blunt  monster  with  uncounted  heads. 
The  still-discordant  wavering  multitude, 
Can  play  upon  it.     But  what  need  I  thus 
My  well-known  body  to  anatomize 
Among  my  household  ?  Why  is  Rumour  here  ? 
I  run  before  king  Harry's  victory  ; 
^Vho,  in  a  bloody  field  by  Shrewsbury, 
Hath  beaten  down  young  Hotspur,  and  his 

troops. 
Quenching  the  flame  of  bold  rebellion 
Even  with  the  rebels'  blood.    But  what  mean  I 
To  speak  so  true  at  first  ?  my  office  is 
To  noise  abroad, — that  Harry  Monmouth  fell 
Under  the  wrath  of  noble  Hotspur's  sword ; 
And  that  the  king  before  the  Douglas'  rage 
St(K)p'd  his  anointed  head  as  low  as  death. 
This  have  I  rumour' d  through  the  peasant 

towns 
Between  the  royal  field  of  Shrewsbury 
And  this  worm-eaten  hold  of  ragged  stone, 
Where  Hotspur's  father,  old  Northumberland, 
Lies  crafty-sick :  the  posts  come  tiring  on, 
And  not  a  man  of  them  brings  other  news 
Than  they  have  learn' d  of  me  :  From  Rumour's 

tongues 
They  bring  smooth  comforts  false,  worse  than 

true  wrongs. 

Shalcspcrc.—Alout  1610. 


174.— S  LEER 

How  many  thousand  of  my  poorest  subjects 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep  I  O  sleep,  O  gentle 

sleep, 
^Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  thee, 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids 

down, 
And  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness  ? 
Why  rather,  sleep,  licst  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee. 
And  hush'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy 

slumber, 
Than  in  the  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great,     j 
Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state,  | 

And  luU'd  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody  ?        I 


O  thou  duU  god,  why  liest  thou  with  the  rile, 
In   loathsome   beds;  and  leav'st  the  kingly 

couch, 
A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'larum-bell  ? 
Wilt  thou  tipon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal   up   the   ship-boy's  eyes,    and  rock  his 

brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  sui-ge, 
And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds. 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top, 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging 

thom 
With  deaf'ning  clamours  in  the  slippery  clouds. 
That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes  ? 
Canst  thou,  0  partial  sleep  !  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude ; 
And,  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night, 
With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot. 
Deny   it   to  a  king.?     Then,    happy  low-lie- 
down  ! 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

8Ml:sx>ere. — About  1610. 


175.— HENRY    THE    FOURTH'S    EXPOS- 
TULATION WITH  HIS  SON. 

Thy   wish    was     father,    Harry,    to    that 
thought : 
I  stay  too  long  by  thee,  I  weary  thee. 
Dost  thou  so  hunger  for  my  empty  chair. 
That  thou  wilt  needs  invest  thee  with  mine 

honours 
Before  thy  hour  be  ripe  ?     0  foolish  youth  '. 
Thou    seek'st  the  greatness   that  Avill  over- 
whelm thee. 
Stay  but  a  little  ;  for  my  cloud  of  dignity 
Is  held  from  falling  Avith  so  weak  a  wind. 
That  it  will  quickly  drop  :  my  day  is  dim. 
Thou  hast  stol'n  that,  which,  after  some  few 

hours, 
Were  thine  without  offence  ;  and,  at  my  death, 
Thou  ha.st  seal'd  up  my  expectation  : 
Thy  life  did  manifest  thou  lov'dst  me  not, 
And  thou  wilt  have  me  die  assured  of  it. 
Thou    hid'st     a    thousand    daggers    in    thy 

thoughts, 
Which  thou  hast  wetted  on  thy  stony  heart, 
To  stab  at  half  an  hour  of  my  life. 
What !    canst  thou  not  forbear   me  half  an 

hour? 
Then  get  thee  gone ;  and  dig  my  grave  thy- 
self; 
And  bid  the  merry  bells  ring  to  thine  ear 
That  thou  art  crown'd,  not  that  I  am  dead. 
Let  all  the  tears  that  should  bedew  my  hearse 
Be  drops  of  balm,  to  sanctify  thy  head  : 
Only  compound  me  with  forgotten  dust ; 
Give  that,   which   gave   thee   life,    imto   the 

Avorms. 
Pluck  down  my  officers,  break  my  decrees ; 
For  now  a  time  is  come  to  mock  at  form. 
Harry  the  Fifth  is  crown'd  : — Up,  vanity ! 
Down,  royal  state  !  all  you  sage  counsellors 

hence ! 
And  to  the  English  court  assemble  now. 


From  1558  to  1(>49.] 


THE  KING'S  ANSWEE. 


[Shakspeee. 


From  every  region,  apes  of  idleness  ! 

Now,  neighbour  confines,  purge  you  of  your 

scum : 
Have  you  a  ruffian  that  will  swear,   drink, 

dance, 
Eicvel  the  night ;  rob,  murder,  and  commit 
The  oldest  sins  the  newest  kind  of  ways  ? 
Be  happy,  ho  Avill  trouble  you  no  more : 
England  shall  double  gild  his  treble  guilt : 
England  shall  give  him  office,  honour,  might : 
For  the  fifth  Harry  from  curb'd  licence  plucks 
The  muzzle  of  restraint,  and  the  wild  dog 
Shall  flesh  his  tooth  in  every  innocent. 

0  my  poor  kingdom,  sick  with  civil  blows  ! 
When  that  my  care  could  not  withhold  thy 

riots. 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  riot  is  thy  care  ? 
O,  thou  wilt  be  a  wilderness  again, 
Peopled  with  wolves,  thy  old  inhabitants  ! 

#  «  #  #  =K: 

O  my  son ! 
Heaven  put  it  in  thy  mind  to  take  it  hence. 
That  thou  mightst  win  the  more  thy  father's 

love, 
Pleading  so  wisolj'  in  excuse  of  it. 
Come  hither,  Harry,  sit  thou  by  my  bed  ; 
And  hear,  I  think,  the  very  latest  counsel 
That  ever  I  shall  breathe.     Heaven  knows, 

my  son, 
By  what  by-paths,  and  indirect  crook'd  ways, 

1  met  this  crown ;  and  I  myself  know  Avell 
How  troublesome  it  sat  upon  my  head  : 
To  thee  it  shall  descend  with  better  quiet, 
Better  opinion,  better  confirmation  ; 

For  all  the  soil  of  the  achievement  goes 
With  me  into  the  earth.     It  sceni'd  in  me 
But  as   an  hoiiour  snatch' d  with  boisterous 

hand ; 
And  I  had  many  living,  to  upbraid 
Mj'  gain  of  it  by  their  assistances  ; 
Which  daily  grew  to  quarrel,   and  to  blood- 
shed. 
Wounding    supposed   peace :    all   these   bold 

fears. 
Thou  seest,  -w-ith  peril  I  have  answer'd  : 
For  all  my  reign  hath  been  but  as  a  scene 
Acting  that  argument :  and  now  my  death 
Changes  the  mood  :  for  what  in  me  was  pur- 
chased. 
Falls  upon  thee  in  a  more  fairer  sort ; 
So  thou  the  garland  wcar'st  successively. 
Yet,  though  thou  stand' st  more  sure  than  I 

could  do, 
Thou  art  not  firm  enough,   since  griefs  are 

green ; 
And  all  thy  friends,  which  thou  must  make 

thy  friends, 
Have  but  their  stings  and  teeth  newly  ta'en 

out ; 
By  whose  fell  v»rorking  I  was  first  advanced. 
And  by  whose  power  I  well  might  lodge  a  fear 
To  be  again  displaced  :  which  to  avoid, 
I  cut  them  off;  and  had  a  i^urpose  now 
To  lead  out  many  to  the  Holy  Land ; 
Lest  rest,  and  lying  still,  might  make  them  look 
Too  near  unto  my  state.  Therefore,  my  Harry, 


Be  it  thy  course,  to  busy  giddy  minds 

With   foreign   quarrels ;    that    action,    hence 

borne  out, 
May  waste  the  memory  of  the  former  days. 
More  would  I,  but  my  lungs  are  wasted  so, 
That  strength  of  speech  is  utterly  denied  me. 
How  I  came  by  the  crown,  O  Heaxeniorgive! 
And  grant  it  may  with  thee  in  true  peace  live ! 

S1ia]{spc7'e. — About  1610. 


176.— THE    ANSWER     OF     THE    LORD 
CHIEF  JUSTICE   TO   HENRY   V. 

I  then  did  use  the  person  of  your  father  ; 
The  image  of  his  power  lay  then  in  me  : 
And  in  th'  administration  of  his  law, 
Whiles  I  was  busy  for  the  commonwealth. 
Your  highness  pleased  to  forget  my  place, 
The  majesty  and  power  of  law  and  justice, 
The  image  of  the  king  whom  I  presented, 
And  struck  me  in  my  very  seat  of  judgment ; 
!   Whereon,  as  an  offender  to  your  father, 
I    I  gave  bold  way  to  my  authority, 
I   And  did  commit  you.     If  the  deed  were  ill, 
1   Be  you  contented,  wearing  now  the  garland, 
I   To  have  a  son  set  your  decrees  at  naught ; 
j   To  pluck  do\vn  justice  from  your  awful  bench ; 
j   To  trip  the  course  of  law,  and  blunt  the  sword 
'■   That  guards  the  peace  and  safety  of  your  per- 
;       son: 

I   Nay,  more ;  to  spurn  at  your  most  royal  image, 
I   And  mock  your  workings  in  a  second  body. 
I   Question  your  royal  thoughts,  make  the  case 
[       yours ; 
Be  now  the  father,  and  propose  a  son  : 
Hear  your  own  dignity  so  much  profaned. 
See    your    most    dreadful    laws    so    loosely 

slighted, 
Behold  yourself  so  by  a  son  disdain'd ; 
And  then  imagine  me  taking  your  i^art, 
And,  in  your  power,  soft  silencing  your  son  : 
After  this  cold  considerance,  sentence  me ; 
And,  as  you  are  a  king,  speak  in  your  state, 
What  I  have  done,  that  misbecame  my  place, 
My  person,  or  my  liege's  sovereignty. 

Shal-spere.— About  IGIO. 


177.— THE   KING'S  ANSWER. 

You  are  right,  justice,  and  you  weigh  this  mcII  ; 
Therefore  still  bear  the  balance  and  the  sword : 
And  I  do  wish  your  honours  may  increase, 
Till  you  do  live  to  see  a  son  of  mine 
Offend  you,  and  obey  you,  as  I  did. 
So  shall  I  live  to  speak  my  father's  words  : — 
Happy  am  I,  that  have  a  man  so  bold. 
That  dares  do  justice  on  my  proper  son  : 
And  no  less  happy,  having  such  a  son. 
That  Avould  deliver  up  his  greatness  so 
Into  the  hands  of  justice. — You  did  commit 

me  : 
For  which,  I  do  commit  into  your  hand 
The  unstain'd  swcrd  that  you  have  udcd  lo 

bear ; 


Shakspeee.] 


HENEY  THE  FIFTH'S  ADDEESS. 


[Third  Peeiod. — 


With,  this  remembrance, — That  you  use  the 

same 
With  the  like  bold,  just,  and  impartial  spirit, 
As  you  have  done  'gainst  me.     There  is  my 

hand ; 
You  shall  be  as  a  father  to  my  youth  : 
My  voice  shall  sound  as  you  do  prompt  mine 

ear; 
And  I  wUl  stoop  and  humble  my  intents 
To  your  well-practised,  wise  directions, — 
And,  princes  all,  believe  me,  I  beseech  you; — 
My  father  is  gone  wild  into  his  grave. 
For  in  his  tomb  lie  my  afiFections ; 
And  with  his  spirit  sadly  I  survive, 
To  mock  the  expectation  of  the  world  ; 
To  frustrate  prophecies ;  and  to  raze  out 
Eotten  opinion,  who  hath  writ  me  down 
After  my  seeming.     The  tide  of  blood  in  me 
Hath  proudly  flow'd  in  vanity,  till  now  : 
Now  doth  it  turn,  and  ebb  back  to  the  sea ; 
Where  it  shall  mingle  with  the  state  of  floods, 
And  flow  henceforth  in  formal  majesty. 
Now  call  we  our  high  court  of  parliament : 
And  let  us  choose  such  limbs  of  noble  counsel, 
That  the  great  body  of  our  state  may  gp 
In  equal  rank  with  the  best-govern' d  nation  ; 
That  war,  or  peace,  or  both  at  once,  may  be 
As  things  acquainted  and  familiar  to  us ; — 
In  which  you,   father,    shall   have   foremost 

hand. 

Shalcsperc. — About  1610. 


178.— HENEY  THE    FIFTH'S    ADDEESS 
TO  HIS  SOLDIEES  BEFOEE  HAEFLEUE. 

Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends, 
once  more ; 
Or  close  the  wall  up  -svith  our  English  dead ! 
In  peace,  there's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man, 
As  modest  stillness,  and  humility  : 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger ; 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour' d  rage : 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect ; 
Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head. 
Like  the  brass  cannon;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm 

it, 
As  fearfully  as  doth  a  galled  rock 
O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 
Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 
Now  set  the  teeth,   and  stretch  the  nostril 

wide ; 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 
To   his   full  height  !— On,    on,   you  noblest 

English, 
Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war-proof ! 
Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 
Have,  in  these  parts,  from   morn   tiU  even 

fought. 
And  sheath' d  their  swords  for  lack  of  argu- 
ment. 
Dishonour  not  your  mothers  ;  now  attest. 
That  those  whom  you  call'd  fathers,  did  be- 
get you ! 


Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood, 

And  teach  them  how  to  war  ! — And  you,  good 

yeomen, 
Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us 

here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture ;  let  us  swear 
That  you  are  worth  your  breeding  :   which  I 

doiibt  not ; 
For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base, 
That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips. 
Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game  's  afoot ; 
Follow  your  spirit :  and,  upon  this  charge. 
Cry — Grod  for   Harry  !    England !    and  Saint 

George  ! 

Shalcsperc. — Aho^lt  1610. 


179.— HENEY   THE   FIFTHS    ADDEESS 
AT  AGINCOUET. 

No,  my  fair  cousin  : 
If  we  are  mark'd  to  die,  we  are  enow 
To  do  our  country  loss ;  and  if  to  live. 
The  fewer  men  the  greater  share  of  honour. 
God's  will !    I  pray  thee,  wish  not  one  man 

more. 
By  Jove,  I  am  not  covetous  for  gold  ; 
Nor  care  I  who  doth  feed  upon  my  cost ; 
It  yearns  me  not  if  men  my  garments  wear ; 
Such  outward  things  dwell  not  in  my  desires  : 
But  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honour, 
I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 
No,  'faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man  from  Eng- 
land : 
God's  peace !   I  would  not  lose  so  great  an 

honour. 
As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would  share  from 

me. 
For  the  best  hope  I  have.     0,  do  not  -wash  one 

more : 
Eather  proclaim   it,  Westmoreland,  through 

my  host. 
That  he  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  fight 
Let  him  depart ;  his  passport  shall  be  made, 
And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse  : 
We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company 
That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 
This  day  is  call'd  the  feast  of  Crispian : 
He  that   outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe 

home. 
Will  stand  a  tip-toe  when  this  day  is  named, 
And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian. 
He  that  shall  see  this  day,  and  live  old  age. 
Will  yearly  on  the  ^dgil  feast  his  neighbours. 
And  say,  To-morrow  is  saint  Crispian  : 
Then  will  he  strip  his  sleeve,  and  show  his 

scars : 
Old  men  forget ;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot, 
But  he'll  remember,  with  advantages. 
What  feats  he  did  that  day :    Then  shall  our 

names. 
Familiar  in  his  mouth  as  household  words, — 
Harry  the  king,  Bedford,  and  Exeter, 
Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloster, — 
Be  in  their  floAving  cups  freshly  remember' d : 
This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son ; 


From  1558  to  1&49.] 


GLOSTEE'S  SOLILOQUY. 


[Shakspeee. 


And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  g-o  b}^ 

From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world, 

But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered  : 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers  ; 

For  he  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me, 

Shall  be  my  brother ;  be  he  ne'er  so  vUe, 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition  : 

And  gentlemen  in  England,  now  a-bed, 

Shall  think  themselves  accursed  they  were  not 

here ; 
And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap,  whiles  any 

speaks, 
That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day. 

Shal-S2'>crc— About  1610. 


i8o.— HENEY  THE  SIXTH'S  SOLILOQUY 
ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

This  battle  fares  like  to  the  morning's  war, 
When   dying    clouds   contend   with   growing 

light ; 
What  time  the  shepherd,  blowing  of  his  nails. 
Can  neither  call  it  perfect  day  nor  night. 
Now  sways  it  this  way,  like  a  mighty  sea. 
Forced  by  the  tide  to  combat  with  the  wind ; 
Now  sways  it  that  way,  like  the  self- same  sea 
Forced  to  retire  by  fury  of  the  wind  : 
Sometime,  the  flood  prevails;   and  then,  the 

wind  : 
Now,  one  the  better ;  then,  another  best  ; 
Both  tugging  to  be  victors,  breast  to  breast, 
Yet  neither  conqueror,  nor  conquered  : 
So  is  the  equal  pois^e  of  this  fell  war. 
Here  on  this  molehill  will  I  sit  me  down. 
To  whom  God  will,  there  be  the  victory ! 
For  Margaret,  my  queen,  and  Clifford  too, 
Have  chid  me  from  the  battle ;  swearing  both, 
They  prosper  best  of  all  when  I  am  thence. 
'Would  I  were  dead  !   if  God's  good  will  were 

so  ; 
For  what  is  in  this  world  but  grief  and  woe  ? 
O  God  !  methinks,  it  were  a  happy  life. 
To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain  ; 
To  sit  upon  a  hill,  as  I  do  now, 
To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point, 
Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  hoAv  they  run  : 
How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete, 
How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day. 
How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year. 
How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 
When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times  : 
So  many  hours  must  I  tend  my  flock ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate  ; 
So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself  ; 
So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young ; 
So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean  ; 
So  ma.ny  years  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece  ; 
So  minutes,  hours,  days,  weeks,  months,  and 

years, 
Pass'd  over  to  the  end  they  were  created, 
Would  bring  v/hitc  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave. 
Ah,  what  a  life  were  this  !    How  sweet !   How 

lovely  ! 
I        Gives  not  the  ha-\\^;horn  bush  a  sweeter  shade 


To  shepherds,  looking  on  their  silly  sheep, 
Than  doth  a  rich  embroider' d  canopy 
To  kings,  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery  ? 
O,  yes,  it  doth  ;  a  thousand  fold  it  doth. 
And    to    conclude, — The    shepherd's   homely 

curds, 
His  cold  thin  drink  out  of  hisleatiier-bottle, 
His  wonted  sleep  under  a  fresh  tree's  shade, 
All  which  secure  and  sweetly  he  enjoys, 
Is  far  beyond  a  prince's  delicates. 
His  viands  sparkling  in  a  golden  cup, 
His  body  couched  in  a  curious  bed. 
When  care,  mistrust,  and  treason  wait  on  him. 

Shalcspc7'e. — About  1610. 


1 8 1. —GLOSTEE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

Why,  then  I  do  but  dream  on  sovereignty ; 
Like  one  that  stands  upon  a  promontory. 
And  spies  a  far-off  shore  where  he  would  tread, 
Wishing  his  foot  were  equal  with  his  eye  ; 
And  chides  the  sea  that  sunders  him  from 

thence, 
Saying — ^he'll  lade  it  dry  to  have  his  way : 
So  do  I  wish  the  crown,  being  so  far  off; 
And  so  I  chide  the  means  that  keep  me  from 

it; 
And  so  I  say — I'll  cut  the  causes  off. 
Flattering  me  with  impossibilities. — 
My  eye's  too  quick,  my  heart  o'erweens  too 

much. 
Unless  my  hand   and   strength   could   equal 

them. 
Well,    say    there    is    no    kingdom    then    for 

Eichard ; 
"What  other  pleasure  can  the  world  afford  ? 
I'll  make  my  heaven  in  a  lady's  lap. 
And  deck  my  body  in  gay  ornaments. 
And  witch  sweet  ladies  vath  my  words  and 

looks. 
O  miserable  thought !  and  more  unlikely. 
Than  to  accomplish  twenty  golden  crowns  ! 
WI13',  love  forswore  me  in  my  mother's  womb: 
And,  for  I  should  not  deal  in  her  soft  laws. 
She  did  corrupt  frail  nature  with  some  bribe 
To  shrink  mine  arm  up  like  a  wither' d  shrub ; 
To  make  an  envious  mountain  on  my  back, 
Wliere  sits  deformity  to  mock  my  body ; 
To  shape  my  logs  of  an  unequal  size ; 
To  disproportion  me  in  every  part. 
Like  to  a  chaos,  or  an  unhck'd  bear-whelp, 
That  carries  no  impression  like  the  dam. 
And  am  I  then  a  man  to  be  beloved  ? 
O,  monstrous  fault,  to  harbour  such  a  thought ! 
Then  since  this  earth  affords  no  joy  to  me. 
But  to  command,  to  check,  to  o'erbear  such 
As  are  of  better  person  than  myself, 
I'll   make   my   heaven    to    dream    upon    the 

crown ; 
And,  whiles  I  live,  to  account  this  world  but 

heU, 
Until  my  mis-shap'd  trunk,  that  bears  this  head, 
lie  round  impaled  with  a  glorious  crown. 
And  yet  I  know  not  how  to  get  the  crown, 
For  many  lives  stand  between  me  and  heme  ; 


Shakspere.] 


WOLSEY  ON  HIS  FALL. 


[Third  Period. — 


And  I, — ^like  one  lost  in  a  thorny  wood, 
That  rents  the  thorns,  and  is  rent  with  the 

thorns  ; 
Seeking'  a  way,  and  straying  from  the  way ; 
Not  kno-\ving  how  to  find  the  open  air, 
But  toiling  desperately  to  find  it  out, — 
Torment  myself  to  catch  the  English  crown ; 
And  from  that  torment  I  will  free  myself, 
Or  hew  my  way  out  with  a  bloody  axe. 
Why  I  can  smile,  and  murther  whiles  I  smile  ; 
And,  cry,  content,  to  that  which  grieves  my 

heart ; 
And  wet  my  cheeks  with  artificial  tears, 
And  frame  my  face  to  all  occasions. 
I'll  drown  more  sailors  than  the  mermaid  shall; 
I'll  slay  more  gazers  than  the  basilisk ; 
I'll  play  the  orator  as  well  as  Nestor, 
Deceive  more  slily  than  Ulj^sses  could. 
And,  like  a  Sinon,  take  another  Troy  : 
I  can  add  colours  to  the  cameleon  ; 
Change  shapes  with  Proteus,  for  advantages, 
And  set  the  murth'rous  Machiavel  to  school. 
Can  I  do  this,  and  cannot  get  a  crown  ? 
Tut !  were  it  farther  off  I'll  pluck  it  doAvn. 

SlioJcspere.—A'bout  1610. 


182.— WOLSEY  ON  HIS  FALL. 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  great- 
ness ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man :    To-day  he  puts 

forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hopes,  to-morrow  blos- 
soms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon 

him; 
The  third  day  com.es  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And, — when  he  thinks,   good  easy  man,  full 

surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening, — nips  his  root. 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventur'd, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory ; 
But  far  beyond  my   depth :   my  high-blown 

pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left 

me, 
Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  open'd  :  O,  how  wretched 
Is   thfit   poor   man   that   hangs    on   princes' 

favours ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire 

to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin. 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  Avomen 

have ; 
And  v/hen  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again. — 

*  «  *  # 

CromweU,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forc'd  me 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth  to  play  the  woman. 


Let's  dry  our  eyes :  and  thus  far  hear  me, 
Cromwell ; 

And, — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be ;   ' 

And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  men- 
tion 

Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of, — say,  I  taught 
thee  ; 

Say,  Wolsey, — that  once  trod  the  ways  of 
glory. 

And  sounded  all  the  depths   and  shoals  of 
honour, — 

Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wrack,  to  rise  in ; 

A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd 
it. 

Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin'd  me. 

CromweU,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition  ; 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man  then, 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't  ? 

Love  thyself  last :  cherish  those  hearts  that 
hate  thee  ; 

Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace. 

To  silence  envious  tongues.    Be  just,  and  fear 
not : 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  coun- 
try's. 

Thy  God's,  and  truth's;  then  if  thou  fall'st, 
O  Cromwell, 

Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.  Serve  the  king ; 

And, — Prithee,  load  me  in  : 

There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 

To  the  last  penny  ;  'tis  the  king's  :  my  robe, 

And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 

I   dare   now   call   mine  own.      O   Cromwell, 
Cromwell, 

Had  I  but  serv'd  my  God  Avith  half  the  zeal 

I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 

Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 

8halcs]pere. — About  1610. 


183.— CRANMEE'S  PEOPHECY  OF 
QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

Let  me  speak,  sir. 
For  heaven  now  bids  me;  and  the  words  I 

utter 
Let  none  think  flattery,  for  they'U  find  them 

truth. 
This  royal  infant,  (hoftven  still  move  about 

her !) 
Though  in  her  cradle,  yet  now  promises 
Upon  this  land  a  thousand  thousand  blessings, 
Which  time  shall  bring  to  ripeness  :  She  shall 

be 
(But  few  now  living  can  behold  that  good- 
ness) 
A  pattern  to  all  princes  living  with  her, 
And  all  that  shall  succeed  :  Saba  was  never 
More  covetous  of  "wisdom,  and  fair  virtue, 
Than  this  pure   soul   shall  be  :    all  princely 

graces. 
That  mould  up  such  a  mighty  piece  as  this  is. 
With  all  the  virtues  that  attend  the  good, 
Shall  still  bo  doubled  on  her :  truth  hIuiII  nurse 

her, 


From  1558  to  1649.]      MACBETH  BEFOEE  MURDEEING  THE  KING. 


[Shakspere. 


1 


Holy  and  heavenly  thoughts  still  counsel  her : 
She  shall  be  lov'd,  and  fear'd  :  Her  own  shall 

bless  her : 
Her  foes  shake  like  a  field  of  beaten  com, 
And   hang  their  heads   with   sorrow:    Good 

grows  with  her : 
In  her  days,  everj^  man  shall  eat  in  safety 
Under  his  own  vine,  what  he  plants ;  and  sing 
The  merry  songs  of  peace  to  aU  his  neigh- 
bours : 
God  shall  be  truly  known;  and  those  about 

her 
From    her    shall  read   the  perfect   ways    of 

honour, 
And  by  those  claim  their  greatness,  not  by 

blood. 
Nor  shall  this  peace  sleep  vnth.  her :  But  as 

when 
The  bird  of  wonder  dies,  the  maiden  phoenix, 
Her  ashes  new  create  another  heir, 
As  great  in  admiration  as  herself  ; 
So  shall  she  leave  her  blessedness  to  one, 
(When  heaven  shall  call  her  from  this  cloud 

of  darkness), 
Who,  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  her  honour, 
Shall  star-like  rise,  as  great  in  fame  as  she 

was. 
And  so  stand  fix'd :  Peace,  plenty,  love,  truth, 

terror. 
That  were  the  servants  to  this  chosen  infant, 
Shall  then  be  his,  and  like  a  vine  grow  to  him ; 
Wherever  the  bright  sun  of  heaven  shall  shine. 
His  honour,  and  the  greatness  of  his  name, 
Shall  be,  and  make  new  nations :   He  shall 

flourish 
And,  like  a  mountain  cedar,  reach  his  branches 
To  all  the  plains  about  him  : — Our  children's 

children  ♦ 

Shall  see  this,  and  bless  heaven. 


She  shall  be,  to  the  happiness  of  England, 
An  aged  princess ;  many  days  shall  see  her. 
And  yet  no  day  without  a  deed  to  crown  it. 
Would  I  had  known  no  more !  but  she  must 

die. 
She  must,  the  saints  must  have  her;  yet  a 

virgin, 
A  most  unspotted  lily  shall  she  pass 
To  the  ground,  and  all  the  world  shall  mourn 

her. 

Shakspere. — Ahout  1610. 


184.— HALILET'S  SOLILOQUY  ON  DEATH. 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question : 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune. 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles. 
And  by   opposing   end  them  ? — To  die, — to 

sleep, — 
No  more  ;  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The   heart-ache,    and   the   thousand   natural 

shocks  K 

That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die, — to  sleep  ; — 


To  sleep!   perchance  to  dream;   ay,  there's 

the  rub ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may 

come. 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil. 
Must  give  us  pause  :  there's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamitj'-  of  so  long  lif^^   _ 
For  who  would  bear  the  v.diips  and  scorns  of 

time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  con- 
tumely, 
The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  sj)urns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  who  would  these  fardels 

bear. 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life ; 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death. 
The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  j)uzzles  the  will ; 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of  ? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought 
And  enterprizes  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  away, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 

ShaJcsjyere. — Ahout  1610. 


185.— MACBETH  BEFOEE  MUEDEEING 
THE  KING. 

Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me. 
The  handle  toward  my  hand  ?    Come,  let  me 

clutch  thee  : — 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling,  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind  ;  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  jDalpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshall'st  me  the  wa3^  that  I  was  going; 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other 


Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade,  and  dudgeon,  gouts  of  blood, 
Which  was  not  so  before. — There's  no  such 

thing ; 
It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes. — Now  o'er  the  one  half 

world 
I'Tature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtain' d  sleep  ;  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings;  and  wither' d  murther. 
Alarum' d  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf. 
Whose  howl 's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy 

pace, 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  sides,  towards  his 

design. 
Moves  like  a  ghost. Thou  sure  and  firm-set 

earth, 


SHAKSrEHE.] 


CASSIU3  TO  BRUTUS. 


[Third  ?EiiiOD. — 


Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for 

fear 
Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  where-about, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 
Which  now  smts  with  it. — Whiles  I  threat  he 

lives : 
Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath 

gives. 
I  g'o,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me. 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan ;  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven,  or  to  hell. 

Shakspere. — About  1610. 


i86.— CASSIUS  TO  BEUTUS. 

I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favour. 
Well,  honour  is  the  subject  of  my  story. — 
I  cannot  tell  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  this  life ;  but,  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  lief  not  be  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Cjesar  ;  so  were  you  r 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he. 
For  once,  upon  a  raw  and  gusty  day. 
The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  her  shores, 
Caesar  said  to  me,  "Dar'st  thou,  Cassius,  now 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood. 
And  swim  to  yonder  point  ?  "    Upon  the  word, 
Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 
And  bade  him  follow  :   so,  indeed,  he  did. 
The  torrent  roar'd ;  and  we  did  buffet  it 
With  lusty  sinews  ;  throwing  it  aside 
And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 
But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  propos'd, 
Caesar  cried,  "  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink." 
I,  as  ^neas,  our  great  ancestor. 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 
The  old  Anchises  bear,  so,  from  the  waves  of 

Tiber, 
Did  I  the  tired  Csesar :  And  this  man 
Is  now  become  a  god ;  and  Cassius  is 
A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body, 
If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake :    'tis  true,  this  god  did 

shake : 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  colour  fly ; 
And  that  same  eye  whose  bend  doth  awe  the 

world 
Did  lose  his  lustre  :  I  did  hear  him  groan  : 
Ay,   and  that  tongue   of  Ms   that  bade  the 

Romans 
Mark  him,  and  write  his   speeches  in  their 

books, 
Alas !  it  cried,  "  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius," 
As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 
A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 
So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 
And  bear  the  palm  alone. 

#  #  #  # 

Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world, 
Like  a  Colossus ;  and  we  petty  men 


Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonourable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates : 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus  and  Caesar  :  What  should  be  in  that 

Caesar  ? 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than 

yours  ? 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well; 
Weigh  them,  it  is   as  heavy;    conjure  with 

them, 
Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Csesar. 
Now  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
Upon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Casar  feed. 
That  he  is  grown  so   great  ?     Age,  thou  art 

sham'd  ! 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods  I 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  sinc^  the  great 

flood. 
But  it  was  famed  with  more  than  with  one 

man  ? 
When  could  they  say,  tni  now,  that  talk'd  of 

Rome, 
That  her   wide  walks   encompass' d   but  one 

man  ? 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 
Oh  !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say,' 
There  was  a  Brutus   once  that  woidd  have 

brook' d 
The  eternal  devU  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome, 
As  easily  as  a  king. 

Slia'kspere. — About  1610. 


i87.:j-^AEK  ANTONY'S  ORATION  ON 
THE  BODY  OF  C^SAR. 

Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your 
ears; 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 
The  good  is  oft  interr'd  with  their  bones ; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious  : 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault ; 
And  gTievously  hath  Caesar  answer' d  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus,  and  the  rest, 
(For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honourable  men;) 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Csesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me  : 
But  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious  ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honom-able  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 
When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Cassar  hath 

wept : 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff : 
Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal 
I  thrice  x)resented  him  a  kingly  crown. 


From  1558  to  1G49.] 


CLEOPATEA. 


[ShAKSI'EKK. 


Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.  Was  this  ambi- 
tion ? 

Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious  ; 

And,  siu*e,  he  is  an  honourable  man. 

I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 

But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 

You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause ; 

What  cause  withholds  you  then  to  mourn  for 
him  ? 

O  judgToent,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason  ! — Bear  with 
me  ; 

My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 

And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

*  #  #  # 

But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Caesar  might 
Have  stood  against  the  world:   now  lies  he 

there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters !  if  I  were  disposed  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong. 
Who,  you  aU  know,  are  honourable  men : 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong ;  I  rather  choose 
To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you, 
Than  I  will  wrong  such  honourable  men. 
But  here's  a  parchment,  with  the  seal  of  Caesar, 
I  found  it  in  his  closet,  'tis  his  will : 
Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, 
(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  moan  to  read,) 
And  they  would   go  and  kiss  dead  Cfflsar's 

wounds, 
And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 
Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 
And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 
Bequeathing  it,  as  a  rich  legacy, 
Unto  their  issue, 

*  #  *  #        . 

Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  mwst  not 
read  it ; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  lov'd  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but 

men; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  Avill  make  you  mad  : 
'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs; 
For  if  you  should,  oh,  what  would  come  of  it ! 

*  *  #  * 

Will  you   be   patient  ?     Will  you   stay   a 
while  ? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself,  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honourable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Caesar :  I  do  fear 

it. 

*  *  *  # 

If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them 
now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle  :  I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on ; 
'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent ; 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nersdi: — 
Look  !    in    this    place    ran    Cassius'    dagger 

through : 
See,  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made  : 
Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd; 
And,  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 


Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  follow' d  it ; 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knocked,  or  no  ; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 
Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Cassar  loved 

him ! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  oftdl-j- 
For  when  the  noble  Ceesar  saw  him  stab. 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitor's  arms. 
Quite  vanquish' d  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty 

heart ; 
And,  in  his  mantle  mufiling  up  Ids  face, 
Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue. 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar 

feU. 
Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourish' d  over  us. 
Oh,  now  you  weep  ;  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity  :   these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you,  when  you  but 

behold 
Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?  Look  you  hero. 
Here  is   himself,   marr'd,   as   you   see,   with 

traitors. 

#  #  *  # 

Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir 
you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honour- 
able J 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas  !  I  know 

not. 
That  made  them  do  it ;    they  are  wise  and 

honourable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts ; 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is  : 
But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man. 
That  love  my  friend ;  and  that  they  know  full 

well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 
To  stir  men's  blood  :  I  only  speak  right  on  ; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  youi'selves  do  know; 
Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor 

dumb  mouths. 
And  bid   them   speak  for  me  :    But   were  I 

Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  rufiie  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 

Shalvspere. — About  1610. 


1 88.— CLEOPATEA. 

The   barge    she    sat    in,   like  a  bumish'd 
throne, 
Burnt  on  the  water  ;    the  poop  was  beaten 

gold; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 
The   winds   were   love-sick   with   them :    the 

oars  were  silver ; 


Shakspere.] 


LIFE. 


[Third  Period. 


Wliich  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and 

made 
The  water,  which  they  beat,  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.     For  her  own 

person, 
It  beggar' d  all  description  :  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion  (cloth  of  gold,  of  tissue), 
O'erpicturing  that  Venus,  where  we  see 
The  fancy  out- work  nature  :  on  each  side  her 
Stood    pretty    dimpled    boys,    like    smiling 

Cupids, 
With  divers-colour'd   fans,   whose   wind  did 

seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did 

cool, 
And  what  they  undid,  did. 

Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  adomings  :  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers ;  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft 

hands. 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.    From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her ;  and  Antony, 
Enthron'd  in  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone. 
Whistling  to  the  air ;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too, 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her, 
Invited  her  to  supper :  she  replied. 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest ; 
Which  she  entreated :  Our  courteoiis  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  "  No  "  woman  heard 

speak, 
Being  barber' d  ten  times  o'er,  goes   to  the 

feast ; 
And,  for  his  ordinary,  pays  his  heart. 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

S]mks2:)cre. — About  1610. 


189.— LIFE. 

Eeason  thus  with  life  : 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep :   a  breath 

thou  art, 
(Servile  to  all  the  skiey  influences,) 
That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st, 
Hourly  afflict:  merely,  thou  art  death's  fool; 
For  him  thou  labour' st  by  thy  flight  to  shun. 
And  yet  runn'st  toward  him  still:   Thou  art 

not  noble ; 
For  all  the  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st 
Are  nurs'd  by  baseness  :  Thou  art  by  no  means 

valiant ; 
For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  worm :  Thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep. 
And   that   thou   oft   provok'st;    yet   grossly 

fear'st 
Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.     Thou  art  not 

thyself ; 


For  thou  exist' st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust :    Happy  thou  art  not : 
For  what  thou  hast  not  still  thou  striv'st  to 

get; 
And  what  thou  hast,  forgett'st :  Thou  art  not 

certain ; 
For  thy  complexion  shifts  to  strange  effects. 
After  the  moon:  If  thou  art  rich,  thoa  art 

poor ; 
For,  like  an  ass  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  riches  but  a  journej^ 
And  death  unloads  thee. 

#  *  *  # 

Thou  hast  nor  youth,  nor  age, 
But,  as  it  were,  an  after-dinner' s  sleep. 
Dreaming  on  both  :  for  all  thy  blessed  youth 
Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 
Of  palsied  eld ;  and  when  thou  art  old,  and 

rich. 
Thou  hast  neither  heat,  affection,   limb,  nor 

beauty. 
To  make  thy  riches  pleasant.     What  's  jet 

in  this, 
That  bears  the  name  of  life  ?    Yet  in  this  life 
Lie  hid  more  thousand  deaths :  yet  death  we 

fear. 
That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

Shakspere. — About  1610. 


190.— APPEAEANCES. 

The  world  is  still  deceiv'd  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt. 
But,  being  season' d  with  a  gracious  voice^ 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ?    In  religion, 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  vnih  a  text, 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament  ? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as 

false 
As   stayers   of   sand,    wear   yet  upon    their 

chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules  and  frowning  Mars, 
Vfho,  inward  search' d,  have  livers  white  as 

milk ; 
And  these  assume  but  valour's  excrement, 
To  render  them  redoubted  !  Look  on  beauty, 
And    you    shall   see   'tis    purchas'd  by  the 

weight ; 
Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature, 
Malring  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it : 
So  are  those  crisped  snaky  golden  locks, 
Wliich  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the 

wind. 
Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  bo  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 
The  scull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulchre. 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  shore 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea ;  the  beauteous  scarf 
Veiling  an  Indian  beaxity  ;  in  a  word. 
The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest. 

S]iaksx>cre. — Aho  ut  1610. 


Jt'rom  1558  to  le^.'j 


CEEEMONY. 


[Shakspeee. 


191.— THE  USES  OF  ADVERSITY. 

Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in  exile. 
Hath   not   old  custom   made  this  life  more 

sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?     Are  not  these 

woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Hero  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam. 
The  seasons'  difference, — as,  the  icy  fang, 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind. 
Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say 
This  is  no  flattery, — these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity ; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head ; 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running 

brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 

Shal-sx>ere. — About  1610. 


192.— A  MEDITATIVE  FOOL. 

A  fool,  a  fool !    I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 
A  motley  fool ;  a  miserable  world  : 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool ; 
Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the 


And  rail'd  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 
In  good  set  terms, — and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
"  Good-morrow,  fool,"  quoth  I :    "  No,   sir," 

quoth  he, 
"  Call  me  not  fool,  till  Heaven  hath  sent  me 

fortune  :  " 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke  ; 
And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye, 
Says,  very  wisely,  "  It  is  ten  o'clock  : 
Thus  we  may  see,"  quoth  he,  "  how  the  world 

wags  : 
'Tis  but  an  hour  ago,  since  it  was  nine  ; 
And  after  one  hour  more,  't  will  be  eleven  ; 
And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and  ripe, 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot. 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale."     When  I  did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer. 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative  ; 
And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission. 
An  hour  by  his  dial. — 0  noble  fool ! 
A  vrorthy  fool !    Motley 's  the  only  wear. 

Shahspere.— About  1610. 


193.— THE  WORLD  A   STAGE. 

All  the  world  's  a  stage. 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players  : 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.    At  first,  the  infant. 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms  : 
Then  the  whining  schoolboy,  with  his  sat&bel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 


Unwillingly  to  school :  and  then,  the  lover. 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow :  Then,  a  soLiier; 
Full  of  strange  oaths,   and  bearded  like  the 

pard, 
Jealous  in  honour,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel. 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation  —  — 

Even  in  the  caimon's  mouth  :   and  then,  the 

justice ; 
In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lined. 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut. 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modem  instances. 
And  so  he  plays  his  part :  The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slipper' d  pantaloon ; 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side ; 
His  youthful  hose  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk   shank ;    and  his  big  manly 

voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound :   Last  scene  of  all. 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history. 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion  ; 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every- 
thing. 

ShaJcsperc. — About  1610. 


194.— ADVERSITY. 

You  were  used 
To  say,  Extremity  was  the  trier  of  Spirits  ; 
That   common   chances   common   men   could 

bear ; 
That,  when  the  Sea  was  calm,  all  boats  alike 
Show'd   mastership    in    floating :     Fortune's 

blows, 
Wlien    most     struck     home,     being    gentLa 

wounded,  crave 
A  noble  cunning. 

Shakspere. — About  1610. 


195.— BEAUTY. 

Beauty  is  but  a  vain  and  doubtful  Good, 

A  shining  Gloss,  that  fadeth  suddenly  ; 

A  Flower  that  dies,  when  first  it  'gins  to  ])ud  ; 

A  brittle  Glass,  that's  broken  presently ; 

A  doubtful  Good,  a  Gloss,  a  Glass,  a  Flower, 

Lost,  faded,  broken,  dead  within  an  hour. 

And  as  Good  lost,  is  seld  or  never  found, 
As  faded  Gloss  no  rubbing  will  refresh. 
As  Flowers  dead,  lie  wither' d  on  the  ground. 
As  broken  Glass  no  cement  can  redress, 
So  Beauty  blemish' d  once,  for  ever's  lost. 
In  spite  of  physic,  painting,  pain,  and  cost. 
ShaJcsjpere. — About  1610l 


196.— CEREMONY. 

0  hard  condition,  and  twin-born  with  great- 
ness, 
Subject  to  breath  of  ev'ry  fool,  whose  sense 
No  more  can  feel  but  his  own  wringing. 
What  infinite  heart-ease  must  Kings  neglect. 
That  private  Men  enjoy  ?  and  what  have  Kings, 

11 


Shakspere.] 


FEIENDS  TALLING  OFF. 


[Third  Period.—. 


Tliat  Privates  have  not  too,  save  Ceremony  ? 

Save  gen'ral  Ceremon}^  ? 

And  what  art  thou,  thou  idol  Ceremony  ? 

What  kind  of  God  art  thou?  that  suffer' st  more 

Of  mortal  griefs  than  do  thy  worshippers. 

What  are  thy  rents  ?  what  are  thy  c6mings-in  ? 

O  Ceremony,  show  me  but  thy  worth  : 

What  is  thy  toll,  O  Adoration  ? 

Art  thou  aught  else  but  Place,  Degree,  and 
Form, 

Creating  awe  and  fear  in  other  men  ? 

Wherein  thou  art  less  happy,  being  fear'd, 

Than  they  in  fearing. 

■\Vhat  drink' st  thou  oft,  instead  of  Homage 
sweet, 

But  poison' d  Flatt'ry  ?      Oh,  be   sick,  great 
Greatness, 

And  bid  thy  Ceremony  give  thee  cure. 

Think' st  thou,  the  fiery  fever  will  go  out 

With  Titles  blown  from  Adulation  ? 

Will  it  give  place  to  flexure  and  low  bending  ? 

Canst  thou,  when  thou  command'st  the  beg- 
gar's knee, 

Command  the  health  of  it  ?  no,  thou  proud 
dream, 

That  play'st  so  subtly  with  a  King's  repose. 
SlmJcspere. — About  1610. 


197.— FRIENDS  FALLING  OFF. 

They  answer,  in  a  joint  and  corporate  voice, 

That  now  they  are  at  Fall,  want   treasure, 
cannot 

Do  what  they  would ;    are    sorry — you    are 
honourable, — 

But  yet  they  could  have  wish'd — they  know 
not — but 

Something  hath  been  amiss — ^a  noble  nature 

May  catch  a  wrench — would  aU  were  well — 
'tis  pity — 

And  so,  intending  other  serious  matters. 

After  distasteful  looks,  and  these  hard  frac- 
tions. 

With  certain  half -caps,  and  coldtmoving  nods. 

They  froze  me  into  silence. 

Shakspere. — About  1610. 


198.— GOLD. 

Why  this 
Will  lug  your  Priests  and  Servants  from  your 

sides ; 
Pluck  stout  Men's  pillows  from  below  their 

heads  : 
This  Yellow  Slave 
Will  knit  and  break  ^ligions ;  bless  the  ac- 

curs'd ; 
Make  the  hoar  Leprosy  ador'd  ;  place  Thieves, 
And  give  them  title,  knee,  and  approbation, 
With  Senators  on  the  bench. 
For  this  the  foolish  over-careful  fathers 
Have  broke  their  sleep  with  thoughts,  their 

brains  with  care. 
Their  bones  with  industry. 


There  is  thy  Gold ;  worse  Poison  to  men's  souls, 
Doing  more  murders  in  this  loathsome  world. 
Than  the^e  poor  compounds  that  thou  may'st 

not  sell : 
I  sell  thee  Poison,  thou  hast  sold  me  none. 


O  thou  sweet  King-killer,  and  dear  Divorce 
'Twixt  natural  son  and  sire !  thou  bright  Defiler 
Of  Hymen's  purest  bed !  thou  valiant  Mars  ! 
Thou  ever  young,  fresh,  lov'd,  and  delicate 

Wooer, 
Whose  blush  doth  thaw  the  consecrated  snow 
That  lies  on  Dian's  lap  !  thou  visible  God, 
That  solder' at  close  impossibilities, 
And  mak'st  them  kiss  !    that  speak' st   with 

every  tongue. 
To  every  purpose !  O  thou  Touch  of  Hearts  I 
Think,  thy   slave  Man   rebels;    and  by  thy 

virtue 
Set  them  into  confounding  odds,  that  beasts 
May  have  the  world  in  empire  ! 

Tliat  Broker,  that  still   breaks  the   pate   of 

Faith ; 
That  daily  Break-vow  ;  he  that  wins  of  all, 
Of  kings,  of  beggars,  old  men,  young  men, 

maids ; — 
Who  having  no  external  thing  to  lose 
But  the  word  Maid, — cheats  the  poor  maid  of 

that. 

Shakspcrc— About  1610. 


199.— INSANITY. 
There  is  a  willow  grows  ascaunt  the  brook. 
That   shows   his  hoar  leaves   in  the  glassy 

stream ; 
Therewith  fantastic  Garlands  did  she  make 
Of   crow-flowers,  nettles,    daisies,    and   long 

purples, 
That  liberal  Shepherds  give  a  grosser  name, 
But  our  cold  maids  do  dead  men's  fingers  call 

them : 
There  on  the  pendant  boughs  her  coronet 

weeds 
Clambering  to  hang,  an  envious  sliver  broke ; 
When  down  her  weedy  trophies  and  herself, 
Fell   in    the   weeping  Brook.      Her   clothes 

spread  wide  ; 
And,  Mermaid-like,  a  while  they  bore  her  np  : 
"Which  time,  she  chanted  snatches  of  old  tunes  ; 
As  one  incapable  of  her  own  Distress, 
Or  like  a  creature  native  and  indued 
Unto  that  element :  but  long  it  could  not  be, 
Till  that  her  garments,  heavy  with  their  drink, 
PiiU'd  the  poor  Wretch  from  her  melodious  lay 
To  muddy  Death. 

Slwlcspere.— About  1610. 


200.— SELF-INSPECTION. 

Thy  Glass  will  show  thee  how  thybeauties  wear, 
Thy  Dial  how  thy  precious  minutes  waste  ; 
The  vacant  Leaves  thy  mind's  imprint  -will  bear. 
And  of  this  Book  this  learning  may'st  thou 
taste. 


From.  1558  to  1649.1 


OEDEB  AND  OBEDIENCE. 


[Shakbpere. 


The  wrinkles  which  thy  Glass  will  truly  show, 
Of  mouthed  graves  will  give  thee  memory ; 
Thou  by  thy  Dial's  shady  stealth  may'st  know 
Time's  thie\dsh  progress  to  Eternity. 
Look,  what  thy  memory  cannot  contain, 
Commit  to  these  waste  Blanks,  and  thou  shalt 

find 
Those  children  nurs'd,  deliver' d  from  thy  brain, 
To  take  a  now  acquaintance  of  thy  mind. 
These  offices,  so  oft  as  thou  wilt  look, 
Shall  profit  thee,  and  much  enrich  thy  Book. 
Shal-sperc— About  1610. 


20I.— LOVE. 

Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  Love, 
'  Thou  would' st  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow, 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  Love  with  words. 
I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  Love's  hot  fire. 
But  qualify  the  Fire's  extreme  rage, 
Lest   it   should   bum   above    the  bounds   of 

reason. 
The  more  thou  dam'st  it  up,  the  more  it  biarns  ; 
The  current  that  %vith  gentle  mm*mur  glides. 
Thou  know' st,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth 

rage ; 
But,  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 
He   makes   sweet   Music   with  the   enamel' d 

stones, 
Giving  a  gentle  Kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  ; 
And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  straj-^s, 
With  willing  sport,  to  the  wild  Ocean. 


'  The  course  of  true  Love  never  did  run  smooth ; 
But,  either,  it  was  different  in  Blood — 

'  Or  else  misgraffed,  in  respect  of  Years — 
Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  Friends — 
Or  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice. 
War,  Death,  or  Sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it ; 
Making  it  momentary  as  a  Sound, 
Swift  as  a  Shadow,  short  as  any  Dream, 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night. 
That  (in  a  spleen)  unfolds  both  Heaven  and 

Earth  ; 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say.  Behold ! 

'  The  jaws  of  Darkness  do  devour  it  up ; 

:  So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 


Oh,  how  this  spring  of  Love  resembleth 
The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day  ; 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  Sun, 
And  by  and  by  a  Cloud  takes  all  away. 


Love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts, 
■\^^lich  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  Sun's 

beams 
Driving  back  Shadows  over  low'ring  hills  : 
Therefore    do    nimble-pinion' d    Doves    draw 

Love, 
And    therefore    hath    the    wind-swift    Cupid 

wings. 


O  most  potential  Love  !  vow,  bond,  nor  space, 
In  thee  hath  neither  sting,  knot,  nor  confine. 
For  thou  art  all,  and  all  things  else  are  thine. 
When  thou   impressest,   what    are   Precepts 

worth 
Of  stale  example  ?     When  thou  wilt  inflame. 
How  coldly  those  impediments  stand  forth 
Of   Wealth,    of   filial    Fear,    Law,    Kindred, 

Fame? 
Love's   arms  are  Peace,  'gainst  rule,   'gainst 

sense,  'gainst  shame  ; 
And  sweetens,  in  the  sufferuag  pangs  it  bears. 
The  Aloes  of  all  forces,  shocks,  and  fears. 

81iaJctfj)crc. — About  1610. 


202.— ENGLAND. 

Tliis  royal  Throne  of  Kings,  this  scepter 'd  Isle, 
This  Earth  of  Majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise  ; 
This  Fortress,  built  by  Nature  for  herself, 
Against  infection,  and  the  hand  of  war ; 
This  Happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world ; 
This  precious  Stone  set  in  the  Silver  Sea, 
Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall. 
Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 
Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands  ; 
This  blessed  plot,  this  Earth,  this  Eealm,  this 

England, 
Dear  for  her  Reputation  through  the  world. 
Slial-sjpe  re. —About  1610. 


203.— ORDEE  AND  OBEDIENCE. 

While  that  the  armed  Hand  doth  fight  abroad, 
The  advised  Head  defends  itself  at  home  : 
For  Government,  though  high,   and  low,  and 

lower. 
Put  into  parts,  doth  keep  in  one  consent ; 
Congruing  in  a  full  and  natural  close, 

Like  music 

Therefore  doth  Heaven  divide 
The  state  of  Man  in  divers  functions. 
Setting  endeavour  in  continual  motion  ; 
To  which  is  fixed,  as  an  aim  or  butt. 
Obedience  :  for  so  work  the  Honey-bees  ; 
Creatures,  that,  by  a  rule  in  nature,  teach 
The  act  of  order  to  a  peopled  Kingdom. 
They  have  a  King,  and  Officers  of  sorts : 
"Wliere  some,  like  Magistrates,  correct  at  home; 
Others,  like  Merchants ^  venture  trade  abroad  ; 
Others,  like  Soldiers,  armed  in  their  stings, 
Make  boot  upon  the  summer's  velvet  buds  ; 
Which  pillage  they  with  merry  march  bring 

home 
To  the  tent-royal  of  their  Emperor  : 
Who,  busied  in  his  Majesty,  surveys 
The  singing  Masons  btiilding  roofs  of  gold  ; 
The  civil  Citizens  kneading  up  the  honey  j 
The  poor  mechanic  porters  crowding  in 
Their  heavy  burdens  at  his  narrow  gate  ; 
The  sad-eyed  Justice,  with  his  surly  hum, 
Delivering  o'er  to  executors  pale 
The  lazy  ya^vning  Drone.     I  this  infer, — 
That  many  things,  having  full  reference 

11* 


Shakspere.] 


PEOPEE  USE  OF  TALENTS. 


[Third  Period. — 


To  one  consent,  may  work  contrariovTsly  : 
As  many  Arrows,  loosed  several  ways, 
Ely  to  one  mark  ; 

As  many  several  ways  meet  in  one  Town  ; 
As  many  fresh  streams  run  in  one  self  Sea ; 
As  many  lines  close  in  the  Dial's  centre ; 
So  may  a  thousand  actions,  once  afoot. 
End  in  one  purpose,  and  be  all  well  borne 
Without  defeat. 

Shal^spcn'.— About  1610. 


204.— PEOPEE  USE  OF  TALENTS. 

Heaven  doth  with  us,  as  we  with  torches  do, 
Not  light  them  for  themselves  :  for  if  our 

virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are  not  finely 

touched, 
But  to  fine  issues ;  nor  Nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence. 
But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 
Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 
Both  thanks  and  use. 


Shal^spci 


-About  1610. 


205. 


-TAKE  THE  BEAM  OUT  OF  THINE 
OWN  EYE. 


Go  to  your  bosom  : 
Knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart,  what  it  doth 

know 
That's  like  my  brother's  fault :  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness,  such  as  is  his, 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 

Shed- spc  re. —About  1610. 


206.— THE  VOICE  OF  THE  DYING. 

The  tongues  of  dying  men 
Inforce  attention,  like  deep  harmony : 
Where  words  are  scarce,  they're  seldom  spent 

in  vain: 
For  they  breathe   truth,  that  breathe  their 

words  in  pain. 
He  that  no  more  must  say,  is  listen' d  more 
Than  they  whom  youth    and    ease    have 
taught  to  glose  ; 
More  are  men's  ends  mark'd,  than  their  lives 
before : 
The  setting  sun,  and  music  in  the  close. 
As  the  last  taste  of  sweets  is  sweetest  last ; 
Writ  in  remembrance,  more  than  things  long 
past. 

Slwh^^pcrc— About  1610. 


207.— A  GOOD  CONSCIENCE. 

What  stronger  breastplate  than  a  heart  un- 
tainted ? 
Thrice  is  he  arm'd  that  hath  his  quarrel  just ; 
And  he  but  naked,  though  lock'd  up  in  steel, 
Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted. 
Shakspere. — About  1610. 


208.— GOOD  NAME. 

Good  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my  Lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls. 

Who  steals  my  purse,  steals  trash ;  'tis  some- 
thing, nothing  : 

'Twas  mine,  'tis  his ;  and  has  been  slave  to 
thousands ; 

But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 

Eobs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 

And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 

Shalcspcrc— About  1610. 


209.— AEIEL'S  SONG. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  lurk  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry ; 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly. 
After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the 
bough. 

S1ia'ksp)erc. — Aboiit  IGIG. 


210.— THE  FAIEY  TO  PUCK. 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 
Thorough  bush,  thorough  briar, 
Over  park,  over  pale. 
Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  every  where, 
Swifter  than  the  moone's  sphere. 
And  I  serve  the  Fairy  Queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green  ; 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  bo, 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see, — 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours  : 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours. 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Sha]csp)crc.— About  1610. 


211.— AMIENS'  SONG. 
Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen. 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp. 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  rememb'red  not. 

Shal-spcrc.—About  leiO. 


212.— PLIGHTING  TEOTH. 

Oh,  do  not  wrong  my  honest  simple  truth  ! 
Myself  and  my  affections  are  as  pure 
As  those  chaste  flames  that  burn  before  the 
shrine 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


SONG. 


[Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


Of  the  great  Dian  :  only  my  intent 

To  draw  you  hither  was  to  plight  our  troths, 

With  interchange  of  mutual  chaste  embraces, 

And  ceremonious  tying  of  our  souls. 

For  to  that  holy  wood  is  consecrate 

A  virtuous  well,  about  whose  flowery  banks 

The  nimble-footed  fairies  dance  their*  rounds, 

By  the  pale  moonshine,  dipping  oftentimes 

Their  stolen  children,  so  to  make  them  free 

From  dying  flesh  and  dull  mortality. 

By  this  fair   fount   hath   many   a   shepherd 

sworn. 
And  given  away  his  freedom  :  many  a  troth 
Been  plight,  which  neither  Envy  nor  old  Time 
Could  ever  break,  with  many   a  chaste  kiss 

given. 
By  this  fresh  fountain  manj'^  a  blushing  maid 
Hath   crown' d   the   head    of    her   long-loved 

shepherd 
With  gaudy  flowers,  whilst  he  happy  sung 
Lays  of  his  love  and  dear  captivity. 

Bcauiuont  and  Fletcher. — About  1647. 


213.— NATUEE  AND  LOVE. 

"Whither   goest   thou  ?      Here   be   woods    as 

green 
As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet 
As  where  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the  fleet 
Face  of  the  curled  streams,  with  flowers  as 

many 
As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice  as 

any. 
Here  be  all  new  delights ;  cool  streams  and 

wells; 
Arbours    o'ergrown   with   woodbines ;    caves 

and  dells ; 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  while  I  sit  by  and 

sing, 
Or  gather  rushes  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers  ;  tell  thee  tales  of  love ; 
How  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove, 
First  saAv  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  ej'^es 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies ; 
How  she  conveyed  him  softly  in  a  sleep, 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmos,  where  she  stoops  each 

night, 
Gilding    the    mountain    with    her    brother's 

light, 
To  kiss  her  sweetest. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. — About  1647. 


214.— CESAR'S  LAMENTATION  OVER 
POMPEY'S  HEAD. 

Oh,  thou  Conqueror, 
Thou  glory  of  the  world  once,  now  the  pity ; 
Thou  awe  of  nations,  wherefore  didst  thou 

fall  thus  ? 
What  poor   fate   followed  thee  and  plucked 

thee  on 
To  trust  thy  sacred  life  to  an  Egyptian  r — 
The  lif »  and  light  of  Rome  to  a  blind  strangor 


That  honourable  war  ne'er  taught  a  noble- 
ness. 
Nor  worthy  circumstance  showed  what  a  man 

was? — 
That  never  heard  thy  name  sung  but  in  ban- 
quets 
And  loose  lascivious  pleasures  r — tcra,  boy 
That  had  no  faith  to  comprehend  thy  great- 
ness, 
No  study  of  thy  life  to  know  thy  goodness  ? — 
And  leave  thy  nation,  nay,  thy  noble  friend. 
Leave  him  distrusted,  that  in  tears  falls  with 

thee — 
In   soft   relenting  tears  ?      Hear   me,    great 

Pompey, 
If  thy  great  spirit  can  hear,  I  must  task  thee, 
Thou  hast  most  unnobly  robbed  me  of  my 

victory. 
My  love  and  mercy. 

=:*         *****         ^- 

Egyptians,  dare  ye  think  your  highest  pyra- 
mids, 
Built  to  outdure  the  sun,  as  you  suppose, 
Where  yoiu:  unworthy  kings  lie  raked  in  ashes, 
Are  monuments  fit  for  him  ?      No,  brood  of 

Nilus, 
Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven  j 
No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories, 
But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness, 
To  which  I  leave  him. 

BcaiUKvut  and  Fletcher. — About  1647. 


2 1 5  .—MELANCHOLY. 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  yo\i  spend  your  folly  I 
There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet. 
If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy  ! 

Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fixed  03'es, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fasten' d  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chain' d  up,  without  a  sound  ! 

Fountain  heads,  and  pathless  groves. 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves  ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  hous'd,  save  bats  and  owls  ; 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan  ! 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon ; 
Then   stretch   our   bones   in   a   still   gloomy 

valley : 
Nothing's  so  dainty-sweet  as   lovely  melan- 
choly. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. — About  1647' 


216.— SONG. 

Look  out,  bright  eyes,  and  bless  the  air  I 
Even  in  shadows  you  are  fair. 
Shut-up  beauty  is  like  fire, 
That  breaks  out  clearer  still  and  higher. 


Beaumont  and  Fletcher.]         THE  POWEE  OF  L0\^. 


[Third  Period. 


Though  your  beauty  be  confin'd, 
And  soft  Love  a  prisoner  bound, 

Yet  the  beaiity  of  your  mind, 

Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found. 

Look  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Ev'n  the  fetters  that  you  wear ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. — Ahoiit  1G47. 


217.— THE  POWER  OF  LOVE. 

Hear  ye,  ladies  that  despise 

What  the  mighty  Love  has  done ; 
Fear  examples  and  be  wise  : 

Fair  Calisto  was  a  nun  : 
Leda,  sailing  on  the  stream, 

To  deceive  the  hopes  of  man, 
Love  accounting  but  a  dream, 

Doted  on  a  silver  swan ; 
Danae  in  a  brazen  tower, 
Where  no  love  was,  lov'd  a  shower. 

Hear  ye,  ladies  that  are  coy. 

What  the  mighty  Love  can  do ; 
Fear  the  fierceness  of  the  boy  ; 

The  chaste  moon  he  makes  to  woo 
Vesta,  kindling  holy  fires. 

Circled  round  about  with  spies 
Never  dreaming  loose  desires, 

Doting  at  the  altar  dies  ; 
Ilion  in  a  short  hour  higher, 
He  can  build,  and  once  more  fire. 

Beaumont  and  Flctclie,'. — Aho%i,t  1647. 


218.— TO  SLEEP. 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince  :  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers  ;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or    painful    to    his    slumbers ;    easy,    sweet 

[light?], 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  night. 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses,  sing  his  pain 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind  or  gentle  rain. 
Into  this  prince,  gently,  oh,  gently  slide, 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride ! 

Beaumo7it  and  Fletcher. — About  1647. 


219.— FROM  ROLLO. 

Take,  oh !  take  those  lips  away. 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn. 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day. 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn ; 
But  my  kisses  bring  again. 
Seals  of  love,  though  seal'd  in  vain. 
Hide,  oh  !  hide  these  hills  of  snow, 

Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears. 
On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 

Are  yet  of  those  that  April  wears ; 
But  first  set  my  i)oor  heart  free, 
Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

Beau,mont  and  Fletcher. — Aho^lt  1647. 


220.— SONG  TO  PAN. 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bow'i'S,,  - 

All  ye  virtues  and  ye  pow'rs 

That  inhabit  in  the  lakes. 

In  the  pleasant  springs  or  brakes, 

Move  your  feet 
To  oiu*  sound, 

Whilst  we  greet 
All  this  ground, 
With  his  honour  and  his  name 
That  defends  our  flocks  from  blame. 

He  is  great,  and  he  is  just, 
He  is  ever  good,  and  must 
Thus  be  honour' d.     Daffodilies, 
Roses,  pinks,  and  loved  lilies, 

Let  us  fling. 

Whilst  we  sing, 

Ever  holy. 

Ever  holy. 
Ever  honour' d,  ever  young ! 
Thus  great  Pan  is  ever  sung. 

Beaumont  and^  Fletcher. — About  1647i 


221.— THE  VANITY  OF  I-IUMAI{ 
LEARNING. 

Wliy  did  my  parents  send  me  to  the  school?, 
That  I  withknowledge  might  enrich  my  mind  ? 

Since  the  desire  to  know  first  made  men  fools. 
And  did  corrupt  the  root  of  all  mankind , 

For  when  God's  hand  had  written  in  the  hearts 
Of  the  first  parents,  all  the  rules  of  good. 

So  that  their  skill  infus'd,  did  pass  all  arts 
That  ever  were,  before,  or  since  the  flood ; 

And  when  their  reason' s  eye  was  sharp  and  clear, 
And  (as  an  eagle  can  behold  the  sun) 

Could  have  approach' d  th'  eternal  light  as  near,. 
As  th'  intellectual  angels  could  have  done  : 

E'en  then  to  them  the  spirit  of  lies  suggests. 
That  they  were  blind,  because  they  saw  not 
ill. 

And  breath' d  into  their  incorrupted  breasts 
A  curious  msh,  which  did  corrupt  their  will. 

For  that  same  ill  they  straight  desir'd  to  know  ; 

Which  ill,  being  naught  but  a  defect  of  good. 
In  all  God's  works  the  devil  could  not  show, 

While  man  their  lord  in  his  perfection  stood. 

So  that  themselves  were  first  to  do  the  ill, 
Ere  they  thereof  the  knowledge  coidd  attain. 

Like  him  that  knew  not  poison's  power  to  kill, 
Until  (by  tasting  it)  himself  was  slain. 

E'en  so  by  tasting  of  that  fruit  forbid, 

Where  they  sought  knowledge  they  did  error 
find, 

111  they  desir'd  to  know,  and  ill  they  did  ; 
And  to  give  passion  eyes,  made  reason  blind. 

For  then  their  minds  did  first  in  passion  see 
Those  wretched  shapes  of  misery  and  woe. 

Of  nakedness,  of  shame,  of  poverty. 

Which  then  their  own  experience  made  them 
know. 


From  1558  to  164Q.] 


THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  LEARNING.         [Sir  John  Dayies. 


But  then  grew  reason  dark,  that  she  no  more 
Could  the   fair   forms  of   good   and  truth 
discern ; 

Bats  they  became,  that  eagles  were  before  ; 
And  this  they  got  by  their  desire  to  learn. 

But  we,  their  wretched  offspring,  what  do  we  ? 

Do  not  we  still  taste  of  the  fruit  forbid  ? 
Whilst  with  fond  fruitless  curiosity, 

In  books  profane  we  seek  for  knowledge  hid. 

What  is  this  knowledge?  but  the  sky-stol'n  fire. 
For  which  the  thief  still  chain' d  in  ice  doth 
sit? 
And  which  the  poor  rude  satyr  did  admire, 
And  needs  would  kiss,  but  burnt  his  lips 
with  it. 

What  is  it  ?  but  the  cloud  of  empty  rain, 
^Vhioh   when    Jove's   guest    embrac'd,   he 
monsters  got  ? 
Or  the  false  pails,  which  oft  being  fiU'd  with 
pain, 
Eeceiv'd  the  water,  but  retain'd  it  not  ? 

In  fine,  what  is  it  ?  but  the  fiery  coach 

Which  the  youth   sought,  and  sought  his 
death  withal  ? 
Or  the  boy' swings,  which  when  he  did  approach 
The  sun's  hot  beams,  did  melt  and  let  him 
fall  ? 

And  yet,  alas  !  when  all  our  lamps  are  bum'd, 
Our  bodies  wasted,  and  our  spirits  spent ; 

When  we  have  all  the  learned  volumes  turn'd 
Which  yield  men's  wits  both  help  and  orna- 
ment : 

Wliat  can  we  know  ?  or  what  can  we  discern  ? 

WTien  error  choaks  the  windows  of  the  mind ; 
The  divers  forms  of  things,  how  can  we  learn. 

That  have  been  ever  from  our  birth-day  blind? 

When  reason's  lamp,  which  (like  the  sun  in  sky) 
Throughout  man's  little  world  her  beams  did 
spread. 

Is  now  become  a  sparkle,  which  doth  lie 
Under  the  ashes,  half  extinct,  and  dead : 

Hov/-  can  we  hope,  that  through  eye  and  ear, 

This  dying  sparkle,  in  this  cloudy  place. 
Can  recollect  these  bea,ms  of  knowledge  clear, 

Which  were  infus'd  in  the  first  minds  by 
grace? 
So  might  the  heir,  whoso  father  hath  in  play 

Wasted  a  thousand  pounds  of  ancient  rent. 
By  painful  earning  of  one  groat  a  day, 

Hope  to  restore  the  patrimony  spent. 

The  wits   that   div'd   most  deep,  and   soar'd 
most  high. 
Seeking  man's  pow'rs,  have  found  his  weak- 
ness such : 
Skill  comes  so  slow,  and  life  so  fast  doth  fly, 
We  learn  so  little  and  forget  so  much." 

For  this  the  wisest  of  all  moral  men 

Said,  he  knew  nought,  but  that  he  nought 
did  know,^ 

Andthe  great  mocking-master  mock'dnot  then. 
When  he  said.  Truth  was  buried  deep  belov/. 


For  how  may  we  to  other  things  attain, 

When  none  of  us  his  own  soul  understands  ? 

For  which  the  Devil  mocks  our  curious  brain, 
When,  Know  thyself,  liis  oracle  commands. 

For  why  should  we  the  busy  soul  believe. 
When  boldly  she  concludes  of  that  and  this, 

When  of  herself  she  can  no  judgment  give, 
Nor  how,  nor  whence,  nor  where,  nor  what 
she  is  ? 

AU  things  without,  which  round  about  we  sec, 
We  seek  to  know,  and  how  therewith  to  do  : 

But  that  whereby  we  reason,  live,  and  be. 
Within  ourselves,  we  strangers  are  thereto. 

We  seek  to  know  the  moving  of  each  sphere, 
And  the  strange  cause  of  th'  ebbs  and  floods 
of  Nile; 

But  of  that  clock  within  our  breasts  we  bear. 
The  subtle  motions  we  forget  the  while. 

We  that  acquaint  ourselves  with  ev'ry  zone. 
And  pass  both  tropics,  and  behold  each  pole. 

When  we  come   home,  are  to  ourselves   un- 
known. 
And  unacquainted  still  with  our  own  soul. 

We  study  speech,  but  others  we  persuade ; 

We  leech-craft  learn,  but  others  euro  with  it ; 
We  interpret  laws,  which  other  men  have  made. 

But  read  not  those  which  in  o\xv  heaxts  are 
writ. 

Is  it  because  the  mind  is  like  the  eye. 

Through  which   it   gathers   knowledge   by 


Whose  ra.ys  reflect  not,  but  spread  outwardly  ; 
Not  seeing  itself  when  other  things  it  sees  ? 

No,  doubtless  ;  for  the  mind  can  backward  cast 
Upon  herself,  her  understanding's  light, 

But  she  is  so  corrupt,  and  so  defac'd, 
As  her  own  image  doth  herself  afi'right. 

As  is  the  fable  of  the  lady  fair. 

Which  for  her  lust  was  turn'd  into  a  cow, 
When  thirsty  to  a  stream  she  did  repair. 

And  saw  herself  transform'd  she  wist  not 
how  : 

At  first  she  startles,  then  she  stands  amazed  ; 

At  last  with  terror  she  from  thence  doth  fly, 

And  loathes   the   wat'ry   glass   wherein    she 


And  shuns  it  still,   though  she  for  thirst 
doth  die  : 

E'en  so  man's  soul  which  did  God's  imago 
bear. 
And  was  at  first  fair,  good,  and  spotless 
pure, 
Since  with  her  sins  her  beauties  blotted  were. 
Doth  of  aU  sights  her  own  sight  least  en- 
dure : 

For  e'en  at  first  reflection  she  espies 

Such  strange  chimeras,  and  such  monsters 
there, 
Such  toys,  such  antics,  and  such  vanities, 
As  she  retires,  and  shrinks  for  shame  and 
fear 


Sir  John  Davies.]  THE  SOUL  MOEE  THAN  THE  SENSE. 


[Third  Period.- 


And  as  the  man  loves  least  at  home  to  be, 
That  hath  a  sluttish  house  haunted  with 
sprites ; 
So  she  impatient  her  own  faults  to  see, 

Turns  from  herself,  and  in  strange  things 
delights. 
For  this  few  know  themselves :  for  merchants 
broke 
View  their  estate  with  discontent  and  pain, 
And  seas  are  troubled,  when  they  do  revoke 
Their  flowing  waves  into  themselves  again. 

And  while  the  face  of  outward  things  we  find, 

Pleasing  and  fair,  agreeable  and  sweet. 
These  things   transport,  and   carry   out   the 

mind. 
That  with  herself  the  mind  can  never  meet. 

Yet  if  Affliction  once  her  wars  begin. 

And  threat  the  feebler  sense  with  sword  and 
fire. 

The  mind  contracts  herself,  and  shrinketh  in. 
And  to  herself  she  gladly  doth  retire  : 

As  spiders  touch' d,   seek  their  web's  inmost 
part ; 

As  bees  in  storms  back  to  their  hives  return; 
As  blood  in  danger  gathers  to  the  heart ; 

As  men  seek  towns,  when  foes  the  country 
burn. 
If  aught  can  teach  us  aught,  affliction's  looks, 

(Making  us  pry  into  ourselves  so  near) 
T-each  us  to  know  ourselves  beyond  all  books, 

Or  all  the  learned  schools  that  ever  were. 

This  mistress  lately  pluck' d  me  by  the  ear, 
And  many  a  golden  lesson  hath  mo  taught ; 

Hath  made  my  senses  quick,  and  reason  clear ; 
Reform'd  my  will,  and  i-ectify'd  my  thought. 

So  do  the  winds  and  thunders  cleanse  the  air : 
So  working  seas  settle  and  purge  the  wine  : 

So  lopp'd  and  pruned  trees  do  flourish  fair  : 
So  doth  the  fire  the  drossy  gold  refine. 

Neither  Minerva,  nor  the  learned  Muse, 
Nor  rules  of  art,  nor  precepts  of  the  wise, 

Could  in  my  brain  those  beams  of  skill  infuse, 
As  but  the  glance  of  this  dame's  angry  e3'es. 

She  within  lists  my  ranging  mind  hath  brought. 
That  now  beyond  myself  I  will  not  go  ; 

Myself  am  centre  of  my  circling  thought. 
Only  myself  I  study,  learn,  and  know. 

I  know  my  body's  of  so  frail  a  kind. 

As  force  without,  fevers  within  can  kill : 

I  know  the  heavenly  nature  of  my  mind. 
But  'tis  corrupted  both  in  wit  and  ^vill : 

I  know  my  soul  hath  power  to  know  all  things, 

Yet  is  she  blind  and  ignorant  in  all : 
I  know  I'm  one  of  Nature's  little  kings, 

Yet  to  the  least  and  vilest  things  am  thrall. 
I  know  my  life's  a  pain,  and  but  a  span ; 

I  know  my  sense  is  mock'd  in  ev'ry  thing : 
And  to  conclude,  I  know  myself  a  man, 

Which  is  a  proud,  and  yet  a  wretched  thing. 
Sir  John  Davies. — About  1000. 


222.— THAT  THE  SOUL  IS  MOEE  THAN 
A  PEEFECTION,  OE  EEFLECTION  OF 
THE  SENSE. 

Are  they  not  senseless,  then,  that  think  the  soul 
Nought  but  a  fine  perfection  of  the  sense, 

Or  of  the  forms  which  fancy  doth  enroll ; 
A  quick  resulting,  and  a  consequence  ? 

What  is  it,  then,  that  doth  the  sense  accuse, 
Both  of  false  judgment,  and  fond  appetites  ? 

What  makes  us  do  what  sense  doth  most  refuse, 
■^Vhich  oft  in  torment  of  the  sense  delights  ? 

Sense  thinks  the  planets'  spheres  not  much 

asunder : 

What  tells  us,  then,  the  distance  is  so  far  ? 

Sense  thinks   the  lightning  born  before  the 

thunder : 

What  tells  us,  then,  they  both  together  are  ? 

When  men  seem  crows  far  off  upon  a  tow'r. 
Sense  saith,  they're  crows  :   what  makes  us 

think  them  men  ? 
When  we  in  agues  think  all  sweet  things  sour, 
What  makes  us  know  our  tongue's   false 

judgment  then  ? 

What  pow'r  was  that,  whereby  Medea  saw, 
And  well  appro v'd,  and  prais'd   the  better 
course ; 
When  her  rebellious  sense  did  so  withdraw 
Her   feeble   pow'rs,  that    she   pursu'd  the 
worse  ? 

Did  sense  persuade  Ul3'sses  not  to  hear 

The  mermaid's  songs  which  so  his  men  did 
please. 

That  they  were  all  persuaded,  through  the  ear, 
To  quit  the  ship  and  leap  into  the  seas  ? 

Could  any  pow'r  of  sense  the  Eoman  move. 
To  burn  his  own  right  hand  with  courago 
stout  ? 
Could  sense  make  Marius  sit  unbound,  and 
prove 
The  cruel  lancing  of  the  knotty  gout  ? 

Doubtless,  in  man  there  is  a  nature  found, 
Besides  the  senses,  and  above  them  far ; 

"  Though  most  men  being  in  sensual  pleasures 
drown' d, 
It  seems  their  souls  but  in  their  senses  are." 

If  we  had  nought  but  sense,  then  only  they 
Should  have  sound  minds,  which  have  their 
senses  sound : 

But  wisdom  grows,  when  senses  do  decay ; 
And  folly  most  in  quickest  sense  is  found. 

If  we  had  nought  but  sense,  each  living  wight, 
Which  we  call  brute,  would  be  more  sharp 
than  we ; 

As  having  sense's  apprehensive  might 
In  a  more  clear  and  excellent  degree. 

But  they  do  want  that  quick  discoursing  pow'r, 
Which  doth  in  us  the  erring  sense  correct : 

Therefore  the  bee  did  suck  the  4)ainted  flow'r, 
And  birds,  of  grapes,  the  cunning  shadow 
peck'd. 


Froiii  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  IMMOETALITY  OF  THE  SOUL. 


[Sib  John  Davids. 


Sense   outsides  knows,  the  soul  through  all 
things  sees : 
Sense,  circumstance ;  she  doth  the  substance 
view : 
Sense  sees  the  bark,  but  she  the  life  of  trees  ; 
Sense  hears  the  sounds,  but  she  the  concords 
true. 

But  why  do  I  the  soul  and  sense  divide, 
Wlieu  sense  is  but  a  pow'r,  which  she  ex- 
tends ; 

"SVlaieh  being  in  divers  parts  diver sify'd, 
The  divers  forms  of  objects  apprehends  ? 

This  power  spreads  outward,  but  the  root  doth 

grow 

In  th'  inward  soul,  which  only  doth  perceive  ; 

For  th'  eyes  and  ears  no  more  their  objects 

know, 

Than  glasses  know  what  faces  they  receive. 

For  if  we  chance  to  fix  our  thoughts  elsewhere, 
Tiiough  our  eyes  open  be,  we  cannot  see  : 

And  if  one  i^owr  did  not  both  see  and  hear, 
Our  sights  and  sounds  would  always  double 
be. 

Then  is  the  soul  a  nature,  which  contains 
The  pow'r  of  sense,  within  a  greater  pow'r ; 

"Which  doth  employ  and  use  the  sense's  i^ains. 

But  sits      d  rules  within  her  private  bow'r. 

Sir  John  Backs. — Ahuid  1600. 


223.— THAT  THE  SOUL  IS  MOEE  THAN 
THE  TEMPERATURE  OF  THE 
HUMOURS    OF    THE    BODY. 

If  she  doth  then  the  subtle  sense  excel. 

How  gi'oss  are  they  that  dro^vn  her  in  the 
blood  ? 

Or  in  the  body's  humours  temper' d  well ; 
As  if  in  them  such  high  perfection  stood  ? 

As  if  most  skill  in  that  musician  were, 

"Which  had  the  best,  and  best  tun'd  instru- 
ment ? 

As  if  the  pencil  neat,  and  colours  clear. 
Had  pow'r  to  make  the  painter  excellent  ? 

"VMiy  doth  not  beauty  then  refine  the  wit. 

And  good  complexion  rectify  the  will  ? 
"Why  doth  not  health  luring  wisdom  still  with 
it? 

"Why  doth  not  sickness  make  men  brutish 
still? 
"Who  can  in  memory,  or  wit,  or  will, 

Or  air,  or  fire,  or  earth,  or  water  find  ? 
"What  alchymist  can  draw,  with  all  his  skill, 

The  quintessence"  of  these  out  of  the  mind  ? 

If  th'  elements  which  have  nor  life,  nor  sense. 
Can  breed  in  us  so  great  a  pow'r  as  this, 

"Why  give  they  not  themselves  like  excellence, 
Or  other  things  wherein  their  mixture  is  ? 

If  she  were  but  the  body's  quality. 

Then  she  would  be  with  it  sick,  maim'd,  and 
blind : 

But  we  perceive  where  these  privations  be. 
An  healthy,  perfect,  and  sharp-sighted  mind. 


If  she  the  body's  nature  did  partake. 

Her  strength  would  Avith  the  body's  strength 
decay : 

But  when  the  body's  strongest  sinews  slake, 
Then  is  the  soul  most  active,  quick,  and  guj. 

If  she  were  but  the  body's  accident. 
And  her  sole  being  did  in  it  subsist,  ~ 

As  white  in  snow,  she  might  herself  absent. 
And  in  the  body's  substance  not  be  miss'd. 

But  it  on  her,  not  she  on  it  depends ; 

For  she  the  body  doth  sustain  and  cherish ; 
Such  secret  pow'rs  of  life  to  it  she  lends. 

That  when  they  fail,  then  doth  the  body 
perish. 

Since  then  the  soul  v/orks  by  herself  alone. 
Springs  not  from  sense,  nor  humours  well 
agreeing, 
Her  nature  is  peculiar,  and  her  own ; 
She  is  a  substance,  and  a  perfect  being. 

Sir  John  Davies.—Alout  1600. 


224. 


-IN    WHAT    MANNER    THE    SOUL 
IS  UNITED  TO  THE  BODY. 

But  how  shall  Ave  this  union  well  express  ? 

Nought  ties  the  soul,  her  subtlety  is  such ; 
She  moves  the  body,  which  she  doth  possess  ; 

Yet  no  part  toucheth,  but  by  virtue's  touch. 

Then  dwells  she  not  therein,  as  in  a  tent ; 

Nor  as  a  pilot  in  his  ship  doth  sit ; 
Nor  as  the  spider  in  his  Aveb  is  pent ; 

Nor  as  the  wax  retains  the  i^rint  in  it ; 

Nor  as  a  vessel  Avater  doth  contain ; 

Nor  as  as  one  liquor  in  another  shed  ; 
Nor  as  the  heat  doth  in  the  fire  remain ; 

Nor  as  a  voice  throughout  the  air  is  spread  : 

But  as  the  fair  and  cheerful  morning  light 
Doth  here  and  there  her  silver  beams  impart, 

And  in  an  instant  doth  herself  unite 

To  the  transparent  air,  in  all  and  ev'ry  part : 

Still  resting  Avhole,  Avhen  blows  the  air  divide; 

Abiding  pure,  Avhen   th'  air   is   most   cor- 
rupted ; 
Throughout  the  air,  her  beams  dispersing  Avidc ; 

And  AV'hen  the  air  is  toss'd,  not  interrupted. 

So  doth  the  piercing  soul  the  body  fill. 
Being  all  in  all,  and  all  in  part  diffus'd ; 

Indi\-isible,  incorruptible  still ; 

Not  forc'd,  encounter' d,  troubled,  cr  coii- 
fus'd. 

And  as  the  sun  above  the  light  doth  bring, 
Though  wo  behold  it  in  the  air  below ; 

So  from  th'  Eternal  Light  the  soul  doth  spring. 

Though  in  the  body  she  her  pow'rs  do  shoAv, 

Sir  John  Davies. — About  IGOO. 


225.— THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL. 

Again,  hoAV  can  she  but  immortal  be, 

When  Avith  the  motions  of  both  Avill  and  Avit, 

She  still  aspireth  to  eternity. 

And  never  rests,  till  she  attain  to  it  ? 


Sir  John  Davies.J 


THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL. 


[Thihd  Period. 


"Water  in  conduit  pipes  can  rise  no  higher 
Than  the  well-head  from  whence  it  first  doth 
spring  : 

Then  since  to  eternal  God  she  doth  aspii-e, 
She  cannot  be  but  an  eternal  thing. 

"  All  nio\'ing  things  to  other  things  do  move, 
Of  the  same  kind  whicii  shews  their  nature 
such  : " 
So   earth  falls   down,    and   fire   doth  mount 
above, 
Till  both  their  proper  elements  do  toiich. 

And  as  the  moistui*e,  which  the  thirsty  earth- 
Sucks  from  the  sea,  to  fill  her  empty  veins. 

From  out  her  womb  at  last  doth  take  a  birth, 
And  runs  a  lymph  along  the  grassy  plains  : 

Long  doth  she  stay,  as  loth  to  leave  the  land, 
From   whose  soft  side  she  first   did  issue 
make  : 

She  tastes  all  places,  turns  to  every  hand, 
Her  flow'ry  banks  umvilling  to  forsake  : 

Yet  nature  so  her  streams  doth  lead  and  carry, 
As  that  her  course  doth  make  no  final  stay, 

Till  she  herself  unto  the  ocean  marry. 
Within  whose  wat'ry  bosom  first  she  lay. 

E'en  so  the  soul,  which  in  this  earthly  mould 
The  spirit  of  God  doth  secretly  infuse. 

Because  at  first  she  doth  the  earth  behold. 
And  only  this  material  world  she  views : 

At  first  her  mother  earth  she  holdeth  dear, 
And  doth  embrace  the  world,  and  worldly 
things ; 
She   flies   close   by  the   ground,  and   hovers 
here, 
And  mounts  not  up  with  her  celestial  wings  : 

Yet  under  heaven  she  cannot  light  on  aught 
That  with  her  heav'nly  nature  doth  agree  ; 

She  cannot  rest,  she  cannot  fix  her  thought, 
She  cannot  in  this  world  contented  be. 

For  who  did  ever  yet,  in  honour,  wealth. 
Or  pleasure  of  the  sense,  contentment  find  ? 

Who  ever  ceas'd  to  wish,  when  he  had  health  ? 
Or  having  wisdom,  was  not  vex'd  in  mind  ? 

Then  as  a  bee  which  among  weeds  doth  fall, 
Which  seem  sweet  flow'rs,  with  lustre  fresh    ' 
and  gay : 
She  lights  on  that,  and  this,  and  tasteth  all ; 
But,  pleas'd  with  none,  doth  rise  and  soar 
away  : 

So,  when  the  soul  finds  hero  no  true  content. 
And,  like  Noah's  dove,  can  no  sure  footing 
take. 
She  doth  return  from  whence  she  first  was 
sent, 
And  flies  to  him  that  first  her  wings  did 
make. 

Wit,  seeking  truth,  from  cause  to  cause  as- 
cends, 

And  never  rests,  till  it  the  first  attain  : 
Will,  seeking  good,  finds  many  middle  ends ; 

But  never  stays,  till  it  the  last  do  gain. 


Now  God  the  truth,  and  first  of  causes  ia  ; 

God  is  the  last  good  end,  which  lasteth  still; 
Being  Alpha  and  Omega  nam'd  for  this ; 

Alpha  to  wit.  Omega  to  the  will. 

Since  then  her  heavenly  kind  she   doth  dis- 
play, 

In  that  to  God  she  doth  directly  move  ; 
And  on  no  mortal  thing  can  make  her  stay, 

She  cannot  be  from  hence,  but  from  above. 

And  yet  this  first  true  cause,  and  last  good 
end, 

She  cannot  here  so  well  and  truly  see  ; 
For  this  perfection  she  must  yet  attend, 

Till  to  her  Maker  she  espoused  be. 

As  a  king's  daughter,  being  in  person  sought 
Of  divers  princes,  who  do  neighboiu'  near, 

On  none  of  them  can  "fix  a  constant  thought. 
Though  she  to  all  do  lend  a  gentle  ear : 

Yet  can  she  love  a  foreign  emperor, 

Whom  of  great  worth  and  pow'r  she  hears 
to  be. 

If  she  be  woo'd  but  by  ambassador, 
Or  but  his  letters,  or  his  pictures  see  : 

For  well  she  knows,  that  when  she  shall  bo 
brought 
Into  the  kingdom  where  her  spouse  doth 
reign  ; 
Her   eyes   shall   see   what    she  concciv'd   in 
thought. 
Himself,  his  state,  his  glory,  and  his  train. 

So  while  the  virgin  soul  on  earth  doth  stay. 
She  woo'd   and  tempted  in  ten  thousand 
ways. 
By  these  great  pow'rs  which  on  the  earth  boar 
sway; 
The  wisdom  of  the  world,  wealth,  pleasure, 
praise : 

With   these    sometimes    she    doth   her  time 
beguile. 

These  do  by  fits  her  fantasy  possess ; 
But  she  distastes  them  all  within  a  while. 

And  in  the  sweetest  finds  a  tediousness ; 

But  if  upon  the  world's  Almighty  King 

She  once  doth  fix  her  humble  loving  thought, 

Who  by  his  picture  drawn  in  every  thing 
And  sacred  messages,  her  love  hath  sought  ; 

Of  him  she  thinks  she  cannot  think  too  much; 

This  honey  tasted  still,  is  ever  sweet ; 
The  pleasure  of  her  ravish'd  thought  is  such, 

As  almost  here  she  with  her  bliss  doth  meet. 

But  when  in  heaven  she  shall  his  essence  see, 
This  is  her  sovereign  good,  and  perfect  bliss  ; 

Her  longing,  wishings,  hopes,  all  finish'd  be  ; 
Her  joys  are  fiTll,  her  motions  rest  in  this  : 

There  is  she  cro\vn'd  with  garlands  of  content ; 

There  doth  she  manna  eat,  and  nectar  drink : 

That  presence  doth  such  high  delights  present. 

As  never   tongue   could   sj^eak,    nor  heart 

could  think. 

Sir  John  Davics.— About  1600. 


i 


trom  1568  to  1649.] 


A  HYMN  TO  CHEIST. 


[John  Donne. 


226.— AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  HEABT. 

0  ignorant  poor  man  !  wtat  dost  thou  bear 
Lock'd  up  within  the  casket  of  tliy  breast  ? 

What  jewels,  and  what  riches  hast  thou  there  ? 
What  heav'nly  treasure  in  so  weak  a  chest  ? 

Look  in  thy  soul,  and  thou  shalt  beauties  find, 
Like  those  which  drown' d  Narcissus  in  the 
flood : 

Honour  and  pleasure  both  are  in  thy  mind, 
And  all  that  in  the  world  is  counted  good. 

Think  of  her  worth,  and  think  that  God  did 
mean, 
This  worthy  mind   should   worthy  things 
embrace : 
Blot  not  her  beauties  with  thy  thoughts  un- 
clean, 
Nor  her  dishonour  with  thy  passion  base. 

Kill  not  her  quick' ning  pow'r  Avith  surfeitings  : 
Mar  not  her  sense  with  sensuality  : 

Cast  not  her  wit  on  idle  things  : 

Make  not  her  free  will  slave  to  vanity. 

And  when  thou  think' st  of  her  eternity. 

Think  not  that  death  against  her  nature  is; 

Think  it  a  birth  :  and  when  thou  go'st  to  die, 
Sing  like  a  swan,  as  if  thou  went'st  to  bliss. 

And  if  thou,  like  a  child,  didst  fear  before, 
Being  in  the  dai-k,  where  thou  didst  nothing 
see; 
Now  I  have  brought  thee  torch-light,  fear  no 
more  ; 
Now  when  thou  dy'st,  thou  canst  not  hood- 
wink'd  be. 
And  thou,  my  soul,  which  turn'st  with  curious 
eye, 
To  view  the  beams  of  thine  own  form  divine, 
Know,  that  thou  canst  know  nothing  perfectly, 
While  thou  art  clouded  with  this  flesh  of 
mine. 

Take  heed  of  overweening,  and  compare 
Thy  peacock's  feet  with  thy  gay  peacock's 
train  : 

Study  the  best  and  highest  things  that  are, 
But  of  thyself  an  humble  thought  retain. 

Cast  down  thyself,  and  only  strive  to  raise 
The  glory  of  thy  Maker's  sacred  name  : 
Use  all  thy  pow'rs  that  blessed  pow'r  to  praise. 
Which  gives  thee  pow'r  to  be,  and  use  the 
same. 

Sir  John  Davies.—Abo^it  1600. 


227. 


-ADDEESS  TO  BISHOP  VALEN- 
TINE, 


On   the  daij   of  the  warrlmje  of  the  Elector 
Palatine  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Hail,  Bishop  Valentine  !  whose  day  this  is. 

All  the  air  is  thy  diocese, 

And  all  the  chirping  choristers 

And  other  birds  are  thy  parishioners  : 

Thou  marryest,  every  year, 


The  lyric  lark  and  the  grave  whispering  dove ; 
The  sparrow  that  neglects  his  life  for  love, 
The  household  bird  with  his  red  stomacher ; 
Thou  mak'st  the  blackbird  speed  as  soon, 
As  doth  the  goldfinch  or  the  halcyon  ; 
This  day  more  cheerfully  than  ever  shine ; 
This  day   which  might   inflame  thyself,    old 
Valentine ! 

*  *  *  * 

John  Donne. — Ahxd  1630. 


228.— A  HYMN  TO  THE  FATHER. 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 
Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done 
before  ? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin,  through  Avhich  I 

run, 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore  ? 
"When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done, 
For  I  have  more. 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin,  which  I  have  won 
Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their  door? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 
A  year  or  two, — but  wallow' d  in  a  score  ? 
When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done, 
For  I  have  more. 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I've  spun 

My  last  thread,  I  shall  perish  on  the  shore; 
But  swear  by  Thyself  that  at  my  death  Thy 

Son 
Shall  shine  as  he  shines  now  and  heretofore ; 
And  having  done  that  Thou  hast  done, 
I  fear  no  more ! 

John  Donne.— About  1G30. 


229.— A  HYMN  TO   CHEIST, 

At  the  Autlwr^ s  last  going  into  Germany. 

In  what  torn  ship  soever  I  embark. 
That  ship  shall  be  my  emblem  of  thy  ark : 
What  sea  soever  swallow  me,  that  flood 
Shall  be  to  me  an  emblem  of  thy  blood. 
Though  thou  with  clouds  of  anger  do  disguise 
Thy  face,  yet  through  that  mask  I  know  those 

eyes, 
Which,  though  they  turn  away  sometimes, 

They  never  will  despise. 

I  sacrifice  this  island  unto  thee, 

And  all,  whom  I  love  here,  and  who  love  me  ; 

When  I  have  put  this  flood  'twixt  them  and 

me. 
Put  thou  thy  blood  betwixt  my  sins  and  thee, 
As  the  tree's  sap  doth  seek  the  root  below 
In  winter,  in  my  winter  now  I  go, 

Where  none  but  thee,  th'  eternal  I'oot 

Of  true  love,  I  may  know. 

Nor  thou,  nor  thy  religion,  dost  control 
The  amorousness  of  an  harmonious  soul  : 
But  thou  would' st  have  that  love  thyself  :  as 

thou 
Art  jealous,  Lord,  so  I  am  jealous  now. 


John  Donne.] 


THE  WILL. 


Third  Period. — 


.  Thou  lov'st  not,  till  from  loving  more  thou 

free 
My  soul :   who  ever  gives,  takes  liberty  : 
Oh,  if  thou  car'st  not  whom  I  love, 

Alas  !  thou  lov'st  not  me. 

Seal  then  this  bill  of  my  divorce  to  all, 
On  whom  those  fainter  beams  of  love  did  fall ; 
Marry  those  loves,  which  in  youth  scattered  be 
On  face,  vnt,  hopes  (false  mistresses)  to  thee. 
Churches  are  best  for  prayer,  that  have  least 

light ; 
To  see  God  only,  I  go  out  of  sight : 

And,  to  'scape  stormy  days,  I  choose 
An  everlasting  night. 

John  Donne— Ahov.t  1630. 


230.— THE  WILL. 

Before  I  sigh  my  last  gasp,  let  me  breathe 
Great  Love,  some  legacies  :  I  here  bequeath 
Mine  eyes  to  Argus,  if  mine  eyes  can  see  ; 
If  they  be  blind,  then.  Love,  I  give  them  thee ; 
My  tongue  to  Fame;   to  ambassadors  mine 

ears ; 

To  women,  or  the  sea,  my  tears  ; 
Thou,  Love,  hast  taught  me  heretofore, 
By  making  me  serve  her  who  had  tAventy  more, 
That  I  should  give  to  none  but  such  as  had 

too  much  before. 

My  constancy  I  to  the  planets  give  : 

My  truth  to  them  who  at  the  court  do  live  ; 

Mine  ingenuity  and  openness 

To  Jesuits  ;  to  Buffoons  my  pensiveness  ; 

My  silence  to  any  who  abroad  have  been ; 

My  money  to  a  Capuchin. 
Thou,  Love,  taught' st  me,  by  appointing  me 
To  love  there,  where  no  love  received  can  be, 
Only  to  give  to  such  as  have  no  good  capacity. 

My  faith  I  give  to  Eoman  Catholics  ; 
All  my  good  works  unto  the  schismatics 
Of  Amsterdam ;  my  best  civility 
And  courtship  to  an  university  ; 
My  modesty  I  give  to  soldiers  bare  ; 
My  patience  let  gamesters  share  ; 
Thou,  Love,  taught' st  me,  by  making  me 
Love  her  that  holds  my  love  disparity. 
Only  to  give  to  those  that  count  my  gifts  in- 
dignity. 

I  give  my  reputation  to  those 

Which  were  my  friends ;    mine   industry  to 

foes; 
To  schoolmen  I  bequeath  my  doubtfulness  ; 
My  sickness  to  physicians,  or  excess  ; 
To  Nature  all  that  I  in  rhyme  have  lorit ! 

And  to  my  company  my  wit : 
Thou,  Love,  by  making  me  adore 
Her  who  begot  this  love  in  me  before, 
Taught' st  me  to  make  as  though  I  gave,  when 

I  do  but  restore. 

To  him  for  whom  the  passing  bell  next  tolls 
I  give  my  physic  books ;  my  written  rolls 
Of  moral  counsels  I  to  Bedlam  give  ; 
My  brazen  medals,  tmto  them  which  live 


In  want  of  bread  ;  to  them  which  pass  among 
All  foreigners,  my  English  tongue  : 
Thou,  Love,  by  making  me  love  one 
Who  thinks  her  friendship  a  fit  portion 
For  younger  lovers,  dost  my  gifts  thus  dispro- 
portion. 

Therefore  I'll  give  no  more,  but  I'll  undo 
The  world  by  dying,  because  love  dies  too. 
Then  all  your  beauties  Avill  be  no  more  worth 
Than  gold  in  mines,  where  none  doth  draw  it 

forth, 
And  all  your  graces  no  more  use  shall  have 

Than  a  sun-dial  in  a  grave. 
Thou,  Love,  taught' st  me,  by  making  me 
Love  her  who  doth  neglect  both  me  and  thoc. 
To  invent  and  practise  this  one  way  to  an- 
nihilate all  three. 

JoJin  Donne— About  1630. 


23 1  .—VALEDICTION. 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  aAvay, 
And  Avhisper  to  their  souls  to  go  ; 
Whilst  some  of  their  sad  friends  do  say, 
The  breath  goes  now — and  some  say,  no  ; 

So  let  us  molt,  and  make  no  noise. 
No  tear-floods,  nor  sigh-tempests  move  ; 
'Twere  profanation  of  our  joys 
To  tell  the  laity  our  love. 

Moving  of  th'  earth  brings  harms  and  fears, 
Men  reckon  what  it  did,  and  meant ; 
But  trepidation  of  the  spheres, 
Though  greater  far,  is  innocent. 

Dull,  sublunary  lover's  love 
(Whose  soul  is  sense)  cannot  admit 
Absence,  because  it  doth  remove 
Those  things  which  alimented  it. 

But  we're  by  love  so  much  refined, 
That  ourselves  know  not  what  it  is  ; 
Inter-assured  of  the  mind, 
Careless  eyes,  lips,  and  hands  to  miss. 

Our  two  souls,  therefore  (which  are  one) 
Though  I  must  go,  endure  not  yet 
A  breach,  but  an  expansion, 
Like  gold  to  airy  thinness  beat. 

If  they  be  two,  they  are  two  bo 

As  stiff  twin  compasses  are  two  ; 
1    Thy  soul,  the  fix'd  foot,  makes  no  show 
j    To  move,  but  doth,  if  th'  other  do. 

And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit, 
Yet  when  the  other  far  doth  roam, 
It  leans,  and  hearkens  after  it, 
And  grows  erect  as  that  comes  homa* 

Such  wilt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must 
Like  th'  other  foot,  obliquely  run  ; 
Thy  firmness  makes  my  circles  just. 
And  makes  me  end  where  I  begun. 

John  Donne. — About  1630. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


SONNETS. 


[John  Donne. 


232.— S  0  N  G. 

Sweetest  Love,  I  do  not  go 

For  weariness  of  thee, 

Nor  in  hope  the  world  can  show 

A  fitter  love  for  mo. 

But  since  that  I 

Must  die  at  last,  'tis  best 

Thus  to  use  myself  in  jest 

Hy  feigned  death  to  die. 

Yesternight  the  sun  went  hence, 

And  yet  is  here  to-day  ; 

He  hath  no  desire  nor  sense, 

Nor  half  so  short  a  way  ; 

Then  fear  not  me, 

But  believe  that  I  shall  make 

Hastier  journeys,  since  I  take 

More  wings  and  spurs  than  he. 


John  Donne. — About 


233.— THE  BREAK  OF  DAY. 

Stay,  O  Sweet  1  and  do  not  rise  : 

The  light  that  shines  comes  from  thine  eyes ; 

The  day  breaks  not — it  is  my  heart, 

Because  that  you  and  I  must  part. 

Stay,  or  else  my  joys  will  die. 

And  perish  in  their  infancy. 

'Tis  true,  it's  day — what  though  it  be  ? 

O  wilt  thou  therefore  rise  from  me  ? 

Why  should  we  rise  because  'tis  light  ? 

Did  we  lie  doA\'n  because  'twas  night  ? 

Love,  Avhich  in  spite  of  darkness  brought  us 

hither. 
Should,  in  dosi)ito  of  light,  keep  us  together. 

Light  hath  no  tongue,  but  is  all  eye ; 

If  it  could  speak  as  well  as  spy, 

This  were  the  worst  that  it  could  say. 

That,  being  well,  I  fain  would  stay, 

And  that  I  loved  my  heart  and  honour  so, 

That  I  would  not  from  her  that  had  them  go. 

MiTst  business  thee  from  hence  remove  ? 

Oh,  that's  the  worst  disease  of  love  ! 

The  poor,  the  foul,  the  false,  love  can 

Admit,  but  not  the  busy  man. 

Ho  which  hath  business  and  makes  love,  doth 

do 
Such  wrong  as  when  a  married  man  doth  woo. 

John  Donne. — About  1630. 


234.— THE  DEEAM. 

Image  of  her  whom  I  love  more  than  she 
Wliose  fair  impression  in  my  faithful  heart 
Makes  me  her  medal,  and  makes  her  love  me 
As  kings  do  coins,  to  which  their  stamps  im- 
part 
The  value — go,  and  take  my  heart  from  hence, 
"Which  now  is  grown  too  great  and  good  for 

me. 
Honoiirs  oppress  weak  spirits,  and  our  sense 
Strong  objects  dull ;  the  more,  the  less  wc  see. 


WTien  you  are  gone,  and  reason  gone  with  you, 
Then  phantasy  is  queen,  and  soul,  and  all ; 
She  can  present  joys  meaner  than  you  do. 
Convenient,  and  more  proportional. 
So  if  I  dream  1  have  you,  I  have  you, 
For  all  our  joys  are  but  fantastical. 
And  so  I  'scaiic  the  pain,  for  i»airi~is  true ; 
And  sleep,  which  locks  up  sense,  doth  lock 

out  all. 
After  such  a  fruition  I  shall  wake, 
And,  but  the  waking,  nothing  shall  repent ; 
And  shall  to  love  more  thankful  sonnets  make. 
Than  if  more  honour,  tears,  and  pains,  were 

spent. 
But,  dearest  heart,  and  dearer  image,  stay ; 
Alas  !  true  joys  at  best  are  dreams  enough. 
Though  you  stay  here  you  pass  too  fast  away, 
For  even  at  first  life's  tai)er  is  a  snuff. 
Fill'd  with  her  love,  may  I  be  rather  grown 
Mad  with  much  heart,  than  idiot  with  none. 
John  Donne— About  1630. 


235.— SONNETS. 


A    due  by  many  titles,  I  resign 
Myself  to  thee,  O  God.     First  I  was  made 
By  thee  and  for  thee  ;  and,  when  I  was  decay'd. 
Thy  blood  bought  that,  the  which  before  was 

thine ; 
I  am  thy  son,  made  with  thyself  to  shine, 
Thy  servant,  whose  pains  thou  hast  still  re- 
pay'd, 
Thy  sheep,  thine  image,  and,  till  I  betray'd 
Myself,  a  temj)le  of  thy  spirit  divine. 
Why  doth  the  devil  then  usurp  on  me  ? 
Why  doth   he  steal,    nay,  ravish  that's  thy 

right  ? 
Except  thou  rise,   and  for   thine  own  work 

fight. 
Oh !  I  shall  soon  despair,  when  I  shall  see 
That  thou  lov'st  mankind  well,  yet  wilt  not 

choose  me. 
And  Satan  hates  mo,  yet  is  loth  to  lose  me. 


Oil !  my  black  soul,  now  thou  art  summoned 
Ey  sickness,  Death's  herald  and  champion; 
Thou'rt  like  a   pilgrim,    which   abroad  hath 

done 
Treason,  and  durst  not  turn  to  whence  he  is 

fled; 
Or  like  a  thief,  which  till  death's  doom  be 

read, 
W^isheth  himself  delivered  from  prison ; 
But  damn'd  and  hawl'd  to  execution, 
Wisheth  that  still  he  might  b'imprisoned : 
Yet  grace,  if  thou  repent,  thou  canst  not  lack; 
But  who  shall  give  thee  that  grace  to  begin  ? 
Oh,  make  thyself  with  holy  mourning  black, 
And  red  with  blushing,  as  thou  art  -with  sin  ; 
Or  wash  thee  in  Christ's  blood,  which  hath 

tliis  might, 
That,  being  red,  it  dies  red  souls  to  white. 


John  Donne.] 


ODE. 


Third  Pekiod.- 


X. 

Death,    be    not    prond,    though   -some    have 

called  thee 
Mig-hty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so ; 
For   those,    whom   thou   think'st   thou   dost 

overthrow. 
Die  not,  poor  death ;  nor  yet  canst  thou  kill 

me. 
From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  picture 

be, 
Much  pleasure;  then  from  thee  much  more 

must  flow ; 
And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do  go, 
Best  of  their  bones,  and  soul's  delivery. 
Thou'rt   slave   to   fate,    chance,   kings,     and 

desperate  men. 
And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness  dwell. 
And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as 

well. 
And  better  than  thy  stroke.     Why  swell' st 

thou  then  ? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally  ; 
And  death  shall  be  no  more,  death,  thou  shalt 

die. 

XI, 

Spit  in  my  face,  you  Jews,  and  pierce  my 

side, 
Buffet  and  scoff,  scourge  and  crucify  me : 
For  I  have  sinn'd,  and  sinn'd  ;  and  only  he, 
Who  could  do  no  iniquity,  hath  dy'd  : 
But  by  my  death  cannot  be  satisfi'd 
My  sins,  Avhich  pass  the  Jews'  impiety : 
They  kill'd  once  an  inglorious  man,  but  I 
Crucify  him  daily,  being  now  glorifi'd. 
Oh,  let  me  then  his  strange  love  still  admire  : 
Kings  pardon,  but  he  bore  our  punishment ; 
And  Jacob  came,  cloth'd  in  vile  harsh  attire, 
But  to  supplant,  and  with  gainful  intent : 
God  cloth'd  himself  in  vile  man's  flesh,  that  so 
He  might  be  weak  enough  to  suffer  woe. 


XIV. 

Batter  my  heart,  three-person' d  God;  for 
you 

As  yet  but  knock,  breathe,  shine,  and  seek  to 
mend ; 

That  I  may  rise  and  stand,  o'erthrow  m',  and 
bend 

Your  force,  to  break,  blow,  bum,  and  make 
me  new. 

I,  like  an  usurp' d  town  to  another  due, 

Labour  t'  admit  you,  but  oh,  to  no  end ; 

Eeason,  your  viceroy  in  me,  we  should  de- 
fend, 

But  is  captiv'd,  and  proves  weak  or  untrue  ; 

Yet  dearly  I  love  you,  and  would  be  lov'd 
fain, 

But  am  betroth' d  unto  your  enemy  : 

Divorce  me,  untie,  or  break  that  knot  again, 

Take  me  to  you,  imprison  me  ;  for  I, 

Except  you  enthrall  me,  never  sliall  be  free ; 

Nor  ever  chaste,  except  you  ravish  mo. 

John  Donne. — About  1630. 


236.— ODE. 

Vengeance  will  sit  above  our  faults ;   but  till 

She  there  do  sit. 
We  see  her  not,  nor  them.    Thus  blind,  yet  still 
We  lead  her  way :  and  thus,  whilst  we  do  ill. 

We  suffer  it. 

Unhappy  he,  whom  youth  makes  not  beware 

Of  doing  ill : 
Enough  we  labour  under  age  and  care ; 
In  number  th'  errours  of  the  last  place  are 

The  greatest  still. 

Yet  we,  that  should  the  ill,  we  now  begin. 

As  soon  repent, 
(Strange  thing !)  perceive  not ;  our  faults  are 

not  seen. 
But  past  us  ;  neither  felt,  but  only  in 

The  punishment. 

But  we  know  ourselves  least ;  mere  outward 
shows 

Our  minds  so  store. 
That  our  soiils,  no  more  than  our  eyes,  dis- 
close 
But  form  and  colour.     Only  he,  who  knows 
Himself,  knows  more. 

John  Donne. — About  1630. 


and 


237.— TO  THE  HOLY  TEINITY. 
I. 
0  Holy,  blessed,  glorious  Trinity 
Of  Persons,  still  one  God  in  unity, 
The  faithful  man's  believed  mystery, 

Help,  help  to  lift 
Myself    up    to    thee,    harrow' d,     torn, 

bruised 
By  sin  and  Satan,  and  my  flesh  misused 
As  my  heart  lies  in  pieces,  all  confused, 
O,  take  my  gift. 


All-gracious  God,  the  sinner's  sacrifice, 

A  broken  heart  thou  wert  not  wont  despise  ; 

But,  'bove  the  fat  of  rams  and  bulls,  to  prize — 

An  offering  meet 
For  thy  acceptance.     O,  behold  me  right, 
And  take  compassion  on  my  grievous  plight ! 
What  odour  can  be  than  a  heart  contrite 

To  thee  more  sweet  ? 

III. 
Eternal  Father,  God,  who  didst  create 
This  all  of  nothing,  gav'st  it  form  and  fate, 
And  breath' st  into  it  life  and  light,  and  state 

To  worship  thee  ! 
Eternal  God,  the  Son,  who  not  denied' st 
To  take  our  nature  ;  becam'st  man,  and  died'st 
To  pay  our  debts,  upon  thy  cross,  and  cried' st — 

"  All  's  done  in  me  ! " 

IV. 

Eternal  Spirit,  God  from  both  proceeding. 
Father  and  Son — the  Comforter,  in  breeding 
Pure  thoughts  in  man ;  with  fiery  zeal  them 
feeding 

For  acts  of  grace ! 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


ON  LUCY,  COUNTESS  OF  BEDFOED. 


[Ben  Jonson. 


Increase  those  acts,  0  g-lorious  Unity 
Of  Persons,  still  one  God  in  Trinity ; 
Till  I  attain  the  longed-for  mystery 

Of  seeing  your  face. 


Beholding  One  in  Three,  and  Three  in  One, 

A  Trinity  to  shine  in  Union ; 

The  gladdest  light  dark  man  can  think  upon. 

Oh,  grant  it  me ! 
Father  and  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  you  tlu-ee 
All  co-eternal  in  your  Majesty, 
Distinct  in  Persons,  yet  in  Unity — 

One  God  to  see. 


My  Maker,  Saviour,  and  my  Sanctifier ! 
To  hear,  to  meditate,  sweeten  my  desire 
With  grace,  and  love,  with  cherishing  entire  ; 

O,  then  how  blest ! 
Among  thy  saints  elected  to  abide, 
And  with  thy  angels  placed,  side  by  side, 
But  in  thy  presence  truly  glorified. 

Shall  I  there  rest. 

Ben  Jonson.— About  1630. 


238.— C  U  P  I  D. 

Beauties,  have  you  seen  iliis  toy, 
Called  love,  a  little  boy 
Almost  naked,  wanton,  blind  ; 
Cruel  now,  and  then  as  kind  ? 
If  he  be  amongst  ye,  say ; 
He  is  Venus'  runaway. 

She  that  will  but  now  discover 
Where  the  winged  wag  doth  hover, 
Shall  to-night  receive  a  kiss, 
How  or  where  herself  would  wish ; 
But  who  brings  him  to  his  mother, 
Shall  have  that  kiss,  and  another. 

He  hath  marks  about  him  plenty  ; 
You  shall  know  him  among  twenty. 
All  his  body  is  a  fire, 
And  his  breath  a  flame  entire, 
That,  being  shot  like  lightning  in, 
Wounds  the  heart  but  not  the  skin. 

At  his  sig*ht  the  sun  hath  tum'd, 
Neptune  in  the  waters  bum'd  ; 
Hell  hath  felt  a  greater  heat ; 
Jove  himself  forsook  his  seat ; 
From  the  centre  to  the  slcy 
Are  his  trophies  reared  high. 

Wings  he  hath,  which  though  ye  cUp, 
He  will  leap  from  lip  to  lip. 
Over  liver,  lights,  and  heart, 
But  not  stay  in  any  part ; 
And  if  chance  his  arrow  misses, 
He  will  shoot  himself  in  kisses. 

He  doth  bear  a  golden  bow, 
And  a  quiver  hanging  low. 


Full  of  arrows,  that  outbrave 
Dian's  shafts  ;  where,  if  he  have 
Any  head  more  sharp  than  other. 
With  that  first  he  strikes  his  mother. 

Still  the  fairest  are  his  fuel. 

When  his  days  arc  to  be  cruelj^ 

Lovers'  hearts  are  all  his  food, 
And  his  baths  their  warmest  blood; 
Nought  but  wounds  his  hand  doth  season, 
And  he  hates  none  like  to  Eeasou. 

Trust  him  not ;  his  words,  though  sweet, 

Seldom  with  his  heart  do  meet. 

AU  his  practice  is  deceit ; 

Every  gift  it  is  a  bait ; 

Not  a  kiss  but  poison  bears ; 

And  most  treason  in  his  tears. 

Idle  minutes  are  his  reign  ; 

Then  the  straggler  makes  his  gain. 

By  presenting  maids  with  toys, 

And  would  have  ye  think  them  joys ; 

'Tis  the  ambition  of  the  elf 

To  have  all  childish  as  himself. 

If  by  these  yo  please  to  know  him. 
Beauties,  be  not  nice,  but  show  him. 

Though  ye  had  a  will  to  hide  him. 
Now,  we  hope,  ye'll  not  abide  him. 
Since  you  hear  his  falser  play. 
And  that  he's  Venus'  runaway. 

Ben  Jonson. — About  1630. 


239._SONG  OF  HESPEEUS. 

Queen,  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair. 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep  : 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light. 

Goddess,  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 
Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 
Heaven  to  clear,  when  day  did  close  : 

Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight. 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart. 

And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver ; 

Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever : 

Thou  that  makest  a  day  of  night, 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Ben  Jonson. — About  1630. 


240.— ON  LUCY,  COUNTESS  OF  BED- 
FOED. 

This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire, 
I  thought  to  form  unto  my  zealous  INIuse, 

What  kind  of  creature  I  could  most  de-ire. 
To  honour,  serve,  and  love ;  as  poets  use 


Ben  Jonson.] 


SONG. 


[Thikd  Period. — 


I  meant  to  make  her  fair,  and  free,  and  wise. 

Of  greatest  blood,  and  yet  more  good  than 
great ; 
I  meant  the  day-star  should  not  brighter  rise, 

Nor  lend  like  influence  from  his  lucent  seat. 
I  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile,  sweet. 

Hating  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness,  pride ; 
I  meant  each  softest  virtue  there  should  meet. 

Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 
Only  a  learned,  and  a  manly  soul 

I   purposed   her ;    that   should,   with  even 
powers, 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  sheers  control 

Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free  hours. 
Such  when  I  meant  to  feign,  and  wish'd  to  see, 
My  Muse  bade,  Bedford  write,  and  that  was  she ! 
Ben  Jonson.— About  1630. 


241.— S  O  N  G. 

Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you ; 

Seem  to  fly  it,  it  will  pursue  : 
So  court  a  mistress,  she  denies  you ; 

Let  her  alone,  she  will  court  you. 
Say  are  not  women  truly,  then. 
Styled  but  the  shadows  of  us  men  ? 

At  morn  and  even  shades  are  longest ; 

At  noon  they  are  or  short,  or  none  : 
So  men  at  weakest,  thej""  are  strongest, 

But  grant  us  perfect,  they're  not  known. 
Say  are  not  women  truly,  then. 
Styled  but  the  shadows  of  us  men  ? 

Ben  Jonson. — About  1630.   I 


242.— SONG  TO  CELIA. 

Drink  to  me,  only  with  thine  eyes. 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  ^vine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  : 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 
I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  wither' d  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  : 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  sv/car. 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

Ben  Jonson. — About  1630. 


243.— A  NYMPH'S  PASSION. 
1  iove,  and  he  loves  me  again, 

Yet  dare  I  not  tell  who ; 
Fov  if  the  nymphs  should  know  my  swain, 
I  fear  they'd  love  him  too ; 
Yet  if  he  be  not  known. 
The  pleasure  is  as  good  as  none, 
For  that's  a  narrow  joy  is  but  our  own. 


I'll  tell,  that  if  they  be  not  glad, 

They  yet  may  envy  me ; 
But  then  if  I  grow  jealous  mad, 
And  of  them  pitied  be, 

It  were  a  plague  'bove  scorn  : 
And  yet  it  cannot  be  forbom. 
Unless  my  heart  wovild,  as  my  thought,  be 
torn. 

He  is,  if  they  can  find  him,  fair, 

And  fresh  and  fragrant  too. 
As  summer's  sky,  or  purged  air. 
And  looks  as  lilies  do 

That  are  this  morning  blown  ; 
Yet,  yet  I  doubt  he  is  not  known, 
And  fear  much  more,  that  more  of  him  be 
shown. 

But  he  hath  eyes  so  round,  and  bright. 

As  make  away  my  doubt. 
Where  Love  may  all  his  torches  light, 
Though  hate  had  put  them  out : 
But  then  t'  increase  my  fears. 
What  nymph  soe'er  his  voice  but  hears, 
Will  be  my  rival,  though  she  have  but  ears. 

I'll  tell  no  more,  and  yet  I  love. 

And  he  loves  me  ;  yet  no 
One  unbecoming  thought  doth  move 
From  either  heart,  I  know ; 
But  so  exempt  from  blame. 
As  it  would  bo  to  each  a  fame. 
If  love  or  fear  would  let  mo  tell  his  name. 

Ben  Jonson. — About  1630. 


244.— EPITAPH  ON  THE  COUNTESS  OF 
PEMBEOKE. 

Underneath  this  sable  herse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother ; 
Death  !  ere  thou  hast  slain  another. 
Learn' d  and  fair,  and  good  as  she. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee  ! 

Ben  Jonson. — About  1630. 


245.— A  CELEBEATION  OF  CHAEIS. 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  htsre  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth  ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove. 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beaaty  ; 
And,  enamour'd,  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight. 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she 

would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 
All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 

Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 
As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


POETRAIT  OF  A  POOE  GALLANT. 


[Bishop  Hall. 


Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her  ! 
And  from  her  arched  brows  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements' 
strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touch' d  it  ? 
Have  you  mark'd  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutoh'd  it  ? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver  ? 

Or  swan's  do^vn  ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier  ? 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
O  so  white  !     0  so  soft !     O  so  sweet  is 
she ! 

Ben  Jonson. — Ahout  1630. 


246.— A  HYMN  TO  GOD  THE  FATHEE. 

Hear  me,  O  God  ! 

A  broken  heart 

Is  my  best  part  :  • 

Use  stiU  Thy  rod, 

That  I  may  prove 

Therein  Thy  love. 

K  Thou  hadst  not 

Been  stern  to  me, 

Eut  left  me  free, 
I  had  forgot 

Myself  and  thee. 

For,  sin's  so  sweet, 

As  minds  ill  bent 

Earely  repent, 
Until  they  meet 

Their  punishment. 

Who  more  can  crave 
Than  Thou  hast  done, 
That  gav'st  a  Son 

To  free  a  slave  ? 

First  made  of  nought 
With  all  since  bought. 

Sin,  Death,  and  Hell, 

His  glorious -name 

Quite  overcame ; 
Yet  I  rebel, 

And  slight  the  same. 

But  I'll  come  in, 

Before  my  loss 

Me  farther  toss  ; 
As  sure  to  win 

Under  His  Cross. 

Ben  Jonson, — About  1630. 


I 


247.— ADVICE  TO  A  EECKLESS  YOUTH. 

What  would  I  have  you  do  ?   I'll  tell  you, 
kinsman  ; 
Learn  to  bo  wise,  and  practise  how  to  thrive, 


That  would  I  have  you  do ;  and  not  to  spend 
Your  coin  on  every  bauble  that  yoix  fancy. 
Or  every  foolish  brain  that  humours  you. 
I  would  not  have  you  to  invade  each  place. 
Nor  thrust  yourself  on  all  societies, 
TiU.  men's  affections,  or  your  own  desert. 
Should  worthily  invite  you  to  you?- rank. 
He  that  is  so  respectless  in  his  courses. 
Oft  sells  his  reputation  at  cheap  market. 
Nor  would  I  you  should  melt  away  yourseK 
In  flashing  bravery,  lest,  while  you  affect 
To  make  a  blaze  of  gentry  to  the  world, 
A  little  puff  of  scorn  extinguish  it. 
And  you  be  left  like  an  unsavoury  snuff, 
Whose  property  is  only  to  offend. 
I'd  ha'  you  sober,  and  contain  yourself ; 
Not  that  your  sail  be  bigger  than  your  boat ; 
But  moderate  your  expenses  now  (at  first) 
As  you  may  keep  the  same  proportion  still. 
Nor  stand  so  much  on  your  gentility. 
Which  is  an  airy,  and  mere  borrow' d  thing. 
From  dead  men's  dust,  and  bones;  and  none 

of  yours. 
Except  you  make,  or  hold  it. 


Ben  Jonson. — About  1630. 


248.- 


-THE   EEQUIEEMENTS   OF   A 
TUTOE. 


A  gentle  squire  would  gladly  entertain 
Into  his  house  some  trencher  chapelain  : 
Some  willing  man  that  might  instruct  his  sons, 
And  that  would  stand  to  good  conditions. 
First,  that  he  lie  upon  the  truckle-bed, 
While  his  young  master  lieth  o'er  his  head. 
Second,  that  he  do,  on  no  default. 
Ever  presume  to  sit  above  the  salt. 
Third,  that  he  never  change  his  trencher  twice. 
Fourth,  that  he  use  all  common  courtesies  ; 
Sit  bare  at  meals,  and  one  half  rise  and  wait. 
Last,  that  he  never  his  young  master  beat, 
But  he  must  ask  his  mother  to  define, 
How  many  jerks  he  would  his  breech  should 

line. 
All  these  observed,  he  coxild  contented  be. 
To  give  five  marks  and  winter  livery. 


B\ 


Hall,  1600. 


249.— POETEAIT  OF  A  POOE  GALLANT. 

Seest  thou  how  gaily  my  young  master  goes, 

Vaunting  himself  upon  his  rising  toes  ; 

And  pranks  his  hand  upon  his  dagger's  side; 

And  picks  his  glutted  teeth  since  late  noon- 
tide ? 

'Tis  Eufiio:  Trow'st  thou  where  he  dined  to- 
day ? 

In  sooth  I  saw  him  sit  with  Duke  Humphrey. 

Many  good  welcomes,  and  much  gratis  cheer, 

Keeps  he  for  every  straggling  cavalier  ; 

An  open  house,  haunted  with  great  resort ; 

Long  service  mixt  with  musical  disport. 

Many  fair  younker  with  a  feather' d  crest, 

Chooses  much  rather  be  his  shot-free  guest, 

12 


Bishop  Hall.] 


DISCONTENT  OF  MEN. 


[Third  Period. — 


I        To  fare  so  freely  with  so  little  cost, 

Than  stake  his  twelvepence  to  a  meaner  host. 

'        Hadst  thou  not  told  me,  I  should  surely  say 

I        He  touch' d  no  meat  of  all  this  live-long  day. 

j        For  sure  methought,  yet  that  was  but  a  guess, 
His  eyes  seem'd  sunk  for  very  hollo wness, 
But  could  he  have  (as  I  did  it  mistake) 
So  little  in  his  purse,  so  much  upon  his  back  ? 
So  nothing  in  his  maw  ?   yet  seemeth  by  his 

belt. 
That  his  gaunt  gut  no  too  much  stuffing  felt, 
Seest  thou  how  side  it  hangs  beneath  his  hip  ? 
Hunger  and  heavy  iron  makes  girdles  sUp. 
Yet  for  all  that,  how  stiffly  struts  he  by, 
All  trapped  in  the  new-found  bravery. 
The  nuns  of  new- won  Calais  his  bonnet  lent, 
In  lieu  of  their  so  kind  a  conquerment. 
What  needed  he  fetch  that  from  farthest  Spain, 
His  grandame  could  have  lent  with  lesser  pain  ? 
Though  he  perhaps  ne'er  pass'd  the  English 

shore, 
Tet  fain  would  counted  be  a  conqueror. 
His  hair,  French-like,  stares  on  his  frighted 

head, 
One  lock  amazon-Hke  dishevelled, 
As  if  he  meant  to  wear  a  native  cord. 
If  chance  his  fates  should  him  that  bane  afford. 
All  British  bare  upon  the  bristled  skin, 
Close  notched  is  his  beard,  both  lip  and  chin ; 
His  linen  collar  labyrinthian  set. 
Whose  thousand  double  turnings  never  met : 
His  sleeves  half  hid  with  elbow  pinionings. 
As  if  he  meant  to  fly  with  linen  wings. 
But  when  I  look,  and  cast  mine  eyes  below. 
What  monster  meets  mine  eyes  in  human  show  ? 
So  slender  waist  with  such  an  abbot's  loin, 
Did  never  sober  nature  sure  conjoin. 
Lik'st  a  strawn  scarecrow  in  the  new-sown 

field, 
Rear'd  on  some  stick,  the  tender  corn  to  shield; 
Or,  if  that  semblance  suit  not  every  deal, 
Like  a  broad  shake-fork  with  a  slender  steel. 

Bishop  Hall,  1600. 


250.— DISCONTENT    OF    MEN    WITH 
THEIE    CONDITION. 

I  wot  not  how  the  world's  degenerate, 
That  men  or  know  or  like  not  their  estate  : 
Out  from  the  Gades  up  to  th'  eastern  morn, 
Not  one  but  holds  his  native  state  forlorn. 
When  comely  striplings   wish  it   were  their 

chance 
For  Casnis'  distaff  to  exchange  their  lance, 
And  wear  curl'd  periwigs,  and  chalk  their  face, 
And  still  are  poring  on  their  pocket-glass. 
Tired  with  pinn'd  ruffs  and  fans,  and  partlet 

strips 
And  busks  and  verdingales  about  their  hips ; 
And  tread  on  corked  stilts  a  prisoner's  pace. 
And  make  their  napkin  for  their  spitting-place. 
And  gripe  their  waist  within  a  narrow  span  : 
Fond  Cffinis,  that  wouldst  wish  to  be  a  man ! 


Whose  mannish  housewives  like  their  refuse 

state. 
And  make  a  drudge  of  their  uxorious  mate, 
Who  like  a  cot-queen  freezeth  at  the  rock, 
Wliiles  his  breech' d  dame  doth  man  the  foreign 

stock. 
Is't  not  a  shame  to  see  each  homely  groom 
Sit  perched  in  an  idle  chariot  room, 
That  were  not  meet  some  pannel  to  bestride, 
Surcingled  to  a  galled  hackney's  hide  ? 
Each  muck- worm  will  be  rich  with  lawless  gain, ' 
Although  he  smother  up  mows  of  seven  years' 

grain. 
And  hang'd  himseK  when  corn  grows  cheap 

again ; 
Although  he  buy  whole  harvests  in  the  spring, 
And  foist  in  false  strikes  to  the  measuring  ; 
Although  his  shop  be  muffled  from  the  light, 
Like  a  day  dungeon,  or  Cimmerian  night ; 
Nor  full  nor  fasting  can  the  carle  take  rest. 
While  his  george-nobles  rusten  in  his  chest ; 
He  sleeps  but  once,  and  dreams  of  burglary. 
And  wakes,  and  casts  about  his  frighted  eye, 
And  gropes  for  thieves  in  every  darker  shade ; 
And  if  a  mouse  but  stir,  he  calls  for  aid. 
The  sturdy  ploughman  doth  the  soldier  see. 
All  scarf  d  with  pied  colours  to  the  knee. 
Whom  Indian  pillage  hath  made  fortunate, 
And  now  he  'gins  to  loath  his  former  state ; 
Now  doth  he  inly  scorn  his  Kendal-green, 
And  his  patched  cockers  now  despised  been ; 
Nor  list  he  now  go  whistling  to  the  car. 
But  sells  his  team,  and  fetleth  to  the  war. 
O  war  !  to  them  that  never  tried  thee,  sweet ! 
When  his  dead  mate  falls  groveling  at  his  feet. 
And  angry  bullets  whistlen  at  his  ear, 
And  his  dim  eyes  see  nought  but  death  and 

drear. 
O   happy   ploughman  !    were   thy   weal   well 

known ; 
O  happy  all  estates,  except  his  own ! 
Some  drunken  rhymer   thinks   his  time  well 

spent. 
If  he  can  live  to  see  his  name  in  print, 
Who,  when  he  is  once  fleshed  to  the  press. 
And  sees  his  hansell  have  such  fair  success. 
Sung  to  the  wheel,  and  sung  unto  the  paH, 
He  sends  forth  thraves  of  ballads  to  the  sail, 
Nor  then  can  rest,  but  volumes  up  bodged 

rhymes. 
To  have  his  name  talked  of  in  future  times. 
The  braia-sick  youth,  that  feeds  his  tickled 

ear 
With  sweet-sauced  lies  of  some  false  traveller, 
Which  hath  the  Spanish  Decades  read  awhile, 
Or  whetstone  leasings  of  old  Mandeville, 
Now  with  discourses  breaks  his  midnight  sleep 
Of  his  adventures  through  the  Indian  deep, 
Of  all  their  massy  heaps  of  golden  mine. 
Or  of  the  antique  tombs  of  Palestine, 
Or  of  Damascus'  magic  wall  of  glass. 
Of  Solomon  his  sweating  piles  of  brass. 
Of  the  bird  rue  that  bears  an  elephant, 
Of  mermaids  that  the  southern  seas  do  haunt, 
Of  headless  men,  of  savage  cannibals. 
The  fashions  of  their  lives  and  governals  ; 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


JOURNEY  INTO  FRANCE. 


TBisHOP  Corbet. 


What  monstrous  cities  there  erected  be, 

Cairo,  or  the  city  of  the  Trinity  ; 

Now  are  they  dunghill  cocks  that  have"  not 

seen 
The  ))orderijig  Alps,   or   else  the   neighbour 

Rhine  ;    w 
And  now  he  plies  tbe  news-full  Grasshopper, 
Of  voyages  and  ventures  to  inquire. 
His  land  mortgaged,  he  sea-beat  in  the  way. 
Wishes  for  home  a  thousand  sighs  a  day ; 
And  now  he  deems  his  home-bred  fare  as  leaf 
As  his  parch' d  biscuit,  or  his  barrell'd  beef. 
'Mongst  all  these  stirs  of  discontented  strife, 
O,  let  me  lead  an  academic  life ; 
To  know  much,  and  to  think  for  nothing,  know 
Nothing  to  have,  yet  think  wo  have  enow  ; 
In  skill  to  want,  and  wanting  seek  for  more  ; 
In  weal  nor  want,  nor  wish  for  greater  store. 
En\^,  ye  monarchs,  with  your  proud  excess, 
At  our  low  sail,  and  our  high  happiness. 

Bishop  Hall,  1600. 


251.— TO    HIS  SON,  VINCENT  CORBET. 

What  I  shall  leave  thee  none  can  tell, 

But  all  shall  say  I  wish  thee  well : 

I  wish  thee,  Vin,  before  all  wealth, 

Both  bodily  and  ghostly  health  ; 

Nor  too  much  wealth,  nor  wit  come  to  thee, 

So  much  of  either  may  undo  thee. 

I  wish  thee  learning  not  for  show, 

Enough  for  to  instruct  and  know ; 

Not  such  as  gentlemen  require 

To  prate  at  table  or  at  fire. 

I  wish  thee  all  thy  mother's  graces, 

Thy  father's  fortunes  and  his  places. 

I  msh  thee  friends,  and  one  at  court 

Not  to  build  on,  but  support ; 

To  keep  thee  not  in  doing  many 

Oppressions,  but  from  suffering  any. 

I  wish  thee  peace  in  all  thy  ways, 

Nor  lazy  nor  contentious  days  ; 

And,  when  thy  soul  and  body  part, 

As  innocent  as  now  thou  art. 

BisJiop  Corbet,  1647. 


252.— JOURNEY  INTO  FRANCE. 

I  went  from  England  into  France, 

Nor  yet  to  learn  to  cringe  nor  dance,     ^ 

Nor  yet  to  ride  nor  fence  ; 

Nor  did  I  go  like  one  of  those 

That  do  return  with  half  a  nose, 

They  carried  from  hence. 

But  I  to  Paris  rode  along, 

Much  like  John  Dory  in  the  song, 

Upon  a  holy  tide  ; 

I  on  an  ambling  nag  did  jet 

(I  trust  he  is  not  paid  for  yet). 

And  spurr'd  him  on  each  side. 


And  to  St.  Denis  fast  we  came, 
To  see  the  sights  of  Notre  Dame 
(The  man  that  shows  them  snafl3.es), 
Where  who  is  apt  for  to  believe. 
May  see  our  Lady's  right-arm  sleeve, 
And  eke  her  old  pantoffles  ; 

Her  breast,  her  milk,  her  very  gown 
That  she  did  wear  in  Bethlehem  towTi, 
When  in  the  inn  she  lay  ; 
Yet  all  the  world  knows  that's  a  fable, 
For  so  good  clothes  ne'er  lay  in  stable, 
Upon  a  lock  of  hay. 

No  carpenter  could  by  his  trade 

Gain  so  much  coin  as  to  have  made 

A  gown  of  so  rich  stuff; 

Yet  they,  poor  souls,  think  for  their  credit, 

That  they  believe  old  Joseph  did  it, 

'Cause  he  deserv'd  enough. 

There  is  one  of  the  cross's  nails, 
Which  whoso  sees  his  bonnet  vails, 
And,  if  he  wiU,  may  kneel ; 
Some  say  'twas  false,  'twas  never  so. 
Yet,  feeling  it,  thus  much  I  know. 
It  is  as  true  as  steel. 

There  is  a  lanthorn  which  the  Jews, 
When  Judas  led  them  forth,  did  use. 
It  weighs  my  weight  down  right ; 
But  to  believe  it,  you  must  think 
The  Jews  did  put  a  candle  in't. 
And  then  'twas  very  light. 

There's  one  saint  there  hath  lost  his  nose. 

Another  's  head,  but  not  his  toes, 

His  elbow  and  his  thumb  ; 

But  when  that  we  had  seen  the  rags. 

We  went  to  th'  inn  and  took  our  nags. 

And  so  away  did  come. 

We  came  to  Paris,  on  the  Seine, 
'Tis  wondrous  fair,  'tis  nothing  clean, 
'Tis  Europe's  greatest  town; 
How  strong  it  is  I  need  not  tell  it, 
For  all  the  world  may  easily  smell  it. 
That  walk  it  up  and  down. 

There  many  strange  things  are  to  see. 

The  palace  and  great  gallery. 

The  Place  Royal  doth  excel. 

The  New  Bridge,  and  the  statues  there, 

At  Notre  Dame  St.  Q.  Pater, 

The  steeple  bears  the  bell. 

For  learning  the  University, 
And  for  old  clothes  the  Frippery, 
The  house  the  queen  did  build. 
St.  Innocence,  whose  earth  devours 
Dead  corps  in  four  and  twenty  hours. 
And  there  the  king  was  kill'd. 

The  Bastile  and  St.  Denis  street, 
The  Shafflenist  like  London  Fleet, 
The  Arsenal  no  toy ; 
But  if  you'U  see  the  prettiest  thing. 
Go  to  the  court  and  see  the  king, 
O,  'tis  a  hopeful  boy  ! 

12* 


Bishop  Corbet.] 


FAEEWELL  TO  THE  FAIEIES. 


[Third  Period.- 


He  is,  of  all  Hs  dukes  and  peers, 
Beverenc'd  for  much  wit  at  's  years, 
Nor  must  you  think  it  much  ; 
For  he  with  little  switch  doth  play, 
And  make  fine  dirty  pies  of  clay, 
O,  never  king  made  such ! 

A  bird  that  can  but  kill  a  fly, 

Or  prate,  doth  please  his  majesty, 

'Tis  known  to  every  one  ; 

The  Duke  of  Guise  gave  him  a  parrot. 

And  he  had  twenty  cannons  for  it, 

For  his  new  galleon. 

0  that  I  e'er  might  have  the  hap 
To  get  the  bird  which  in  the  map 
Is  call'd  the  Indian  ruck  ! 

I'd  give  it  him,  and  hope  to  be 
As  rich  as  Guise  or  Livine, 
Or  else  I  had  ill-luck. 

Birds  round  about  his  chamber  stand. 

And  he  them  feeds  with  his  own  hand, 

'Tis  his  humility  ; 

And  if  they  do  want  anything, 

They  need  but  whistle  for  their  king,- 

And  he  comes  presently. 

But  now,  then,  for  these  parts  he  must 

Be  enstUed  Lewis  the  Just, 

Great  Henry's  lawful  heir ; 

When  to  his  stile  to  add  more  words. 

They'd  better  call  him  King  of  Birds, 

Than  of  the  great  Navarre. 

He  hath  besides  a  pretty  quirk. 
Taught  him  by  nature,  how  to  work 
In  iron  with  much  ease  ! 
Sometimes  to  the  forge  he  goes, 
There  he  knocks,  and  there  he  blows. 
And  makes  both  locks  and  keys  ; 

Which  puts  a  doubt  in  every  one, 
Whether  he  be  Mars  or  Vulcan's  son. 
Some  few  bebeve  his  mother ; 
But  let  them  all  say  what  they  will, 

1  came  resolved,  and  so  think  still, 
As  much  th'  one  as  th'  other. 

The  people  too  dislike  the  youth, 
Alleging  reasons,  for,  in  truth, 
Mothers  should  honour' d  be  ; 
Yet  others  say,  he  loves  her  rather 
As  well  as  ere  she  loved  his  father, 
And  that's  notoriously 

His  queen,  a  pretty  little  wench. 
Was  bom  in  Spain,  speaks  little  French, 
She's  ne'er  like  to  be  mother ; 
For  her  incestuous  house  could  not 
Have  children  which  were  not  begot 
By  uncle  or  by  brother. 

Nor  why  should  Lewis,  being  so  just, 
Content  himself  to  take  his  lust 
With  his  Lucina's  mate. 
And  suffer  his  little  pretty  queen, 
From  all  her  race  that  yet  hath  been, 
So  to  degenerate  ? 


'Twere  charity  for  to  be  known 
To  love  others'  children  as  his  own. 
And  why  ?  it  is  no  shame. 
Unless  that  he  would  greater  be 
Than  was  his  father  Henery, 
Who,  men  thought,  did  the  sa»e. 

Bishop  Corbet,  1647. 


253.— FAEEWELL  TO  THE  FAIEIES. 

Farewell  rewards  and  fairies. 

Good  housewifes  now  may  say. 
For  now  foul  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  v/ell  as  they. 
And  though  they  sweep  their  hearths  no  less 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  do  ; 
Yet  who  of  late,  for  cleanliness. 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shoe  ? 

Lament,  lament,  old  Abbeys, 

The  fairies'  lost  command ; 
They  did  but  change  priests'  babies, 

But  some  have  changed  your  land ; 
And  all  your  children  sprung  from  thence 

Are  now  grown  Puritans  ; 
Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since, 

For  love  of  your  domains. 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both, 

You  merry  were  and  glad, 
So  little  care  of  sleep  or  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had ; 
When  Tom  came  home  from  labour. 

Or  Cis  to  milking  rose. 
Then  merrily  went  their  tabor, 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain, 
Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  days 

On  many  a  grassy  plain ; 
But  since  of  late  Elizabeth, 

And  later,  James  came  in. 
They  never  danc'd  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been. 

By  which  we  note  the  fairies 

Were  of  the  old  profession. 
Their  songs  were  Ave-Maries, 

Their  dances  were  procession  : 
But  now,  alas  !  they  all  are  dead, 

Or  gone  beyond  the  seas  ; 
Or  farther  for  religion  fled, 
*0r  else  they  take  their  ease. 

A  tell-tale  in  their  company 

They  never  could  endure. 
And  whoso  kept  not  secretly 

Their  mirth,  was  punish' d  sure  ; 
It  was  a  just  and  Christian  deed. 

To  pinch  such  black  and  blue  : 
0  how  the  commonwealth  doth  need 

Such  justices  as  you ! 

Bishop  Corbet,  1647. 


From  1558  to  1649.]  A  COMPLAINT  OF  A  LEARNED  DIVINE. 


[Dr.  Wilde. 


254.— S  0  N  G  . 

Dry  those  fair,  those  crystal  eyes, 

Which,  like  growing  fountains,  rise, 

To  drown  their  banks  :  grief's  sullen  brooks 

Would  better  flow  in  furrow' d  looks  ; 

Thy  lovely  face  was  never  meant 

To  be  the  shore  of  discontent. 

Then  clear  those  waterish  stars  again, 

Which  else  portend  a  lasting  rain  ; 

Lest  the  clouds  which  settle  there, 

Prolong  my  winter  all  the  year. 

And  thy  example  others  make 

In  love  with  sorrow  for  thy  sake. 

Bishop  King. — About  1649. 


255.— SIC   VITA. 
Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are ; 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew ; 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood. 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood  : 
Ev"n  such  is  man,  whose  borrow' d  light 
Is  straight  call'd  in,  and  paid  to-night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies; 
The  spring  entomb 'din  autumn  lies; 
The  dew  dries  up,  the  star  is  shot ; 
The  flight  is  past- — and  man  forgot. 

Bishop  King. — About  1649. 


256.— L  I  F  E. 

WTiat  is  the  existence  of  man's  life 

But  open  war  or  slumber' d  strife  ? 

Where  sickness  to  his  sense  presents 

The  combat  of  the  elements, 

And  never  feels  a  perfect  peace 

Till  death's  cold  hand  signs  his  release. 

It  is  a  storm — v/here  the  hot  blood 

Outvies  in  rage  the  boiling  flood  : 

And  each  loud  passion  of  the  mind 

Is  like  a  furious  gust  of  wind. 

Which  beats  the  bark  with  many  a  wave, 

Till  he  casts  anchor  in  the  grave. 

It  is  a  flower — which  buds,  and  grows, 
And  withers  as  the  leaves  disclose  ; 
Whose  spring  and  fall  faint  seasons  keep, 
Like  fits  of  waking  before  sleep, 
Then  shrinks  into  that  fatal  mould 
Where  its  first  being  was  enroll' d. 

It  is  a  dream — whose  seeming  truth 
Is  moralised  in  age  and  youth ; 
Where  all  the  comforts  he  can  share 
As  wand'ring  as  his  fancies  are. 
Till  in  a  mist  of  dark  decay 
The  dreamer  vanish  quite  away. 

It  is  a  dial — which  points  out 
The  sunset  as  it  moves  about ; 
And  shadows  out  in  lines  of  night 
The  subtle  stages  of  Time's  flight. 
Till  all-obscuring  earth  hath  laid 
His  body  in  perpetual  shade. 


It  is  a  weary  interlude — 
Which  doth  short  joys,  long  woes,  include  : 
The  world  the  stage,  the  prologue  tears  ; 
The  acts  vain  hopes  and  varied  fears ; 
The  scene  shuts  up  with  loss  of  breath, 
And  leaves  no  epilogue  but  Death_[ 

Bishop  King. — About  1649. 


257.— A    COMPLAINT    OF    A    LEAENED 
DIVINE  IN  PURITAN  TIMES. 

In  a  melancholy  study. 
None  but  myself, 

Methought  my  Muse  grew  muddy ; 
After  seven  years'  reading. 
And  costly  breeding, 
I  felt,  but  could  find  no  pelf. 
Into  learned  rags 
I  have  rent  my  plush  and  satin, 
And  now  am  fit  to  beg 
In  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Latin : 
Instead  of  Aristotle, 
Would  I  had  got  a  patten. 
Alas !  poor  scholar,  whither  wilt  thou  go ; 
#  #  #  * 

I  have  bowed,  I  have  bended, 
And  all  in  hope 
One  day  to  be  befriended ; 
I  have  preach' d,  I  have  printed, 
Whate'er  I  hinted. 
To  please  our  English  Pope ; 
I  worship' d  towards  the  East 
But  the  sun  doth  now  forsake  me ; 
I  find  that  I  am  falling. 
The  northern  winds  do  shake  me. 
Would  I  had  been  upright, 
For  bowing  now  will  break  me. 
Alas!  poor,  &c. 

At  great  preferment  I  aim'd. 
Witness  my  silk. 
But  now  my  hopes  are  maim'd. 
I  looked  lately  ^ 

To  live  most  stately. 
And  have  a  dairy  of  bell-rope's  milk  ; 
But  now,  alas ! 
Myself  I  must  flatter. 
Bigamy  of  steeples  is  a  laugliing  matter 
Each  man  must  have  but  one. 
And  curates  will  grow  fatter, 
Alas!  poor,  &c. 

Into  some  country  village 
Now  I  must  go. 
Where  neither  tithe  nor  tillage 
The  greedy  patron, 
And  parched  matron, 
Swear  to  the  church  they  owe  : 
Yet  if  I  can  preach. 
And  pray  too  on  a  sudden. 
And  confute  the  Pope 
At  adventure  without  studying, 
Then  ten  pounds  a  year, 
Besides  a  Sunday  pudding. 
Alas !  poor,  &c. 


Thomas  Caeew.]                                           SONG.                                         [Third  Period. — 

AU  the  arts  I  have  skill  in, 

259.— S  0  N  G  . 

Divine  and  human, 

Yet  all's  not  worth  a  shilling. 

Would  you  know  what's  soft  ?    I  dare 

When  the  women  hear  me 

Not  bring  you  to  the  down  or  air  ; 

They  do  but  jeer  me, 

Nor  to  stars  to  show  what's  bright. 

And  say  I  am  profane. 

Nor  to  snow  to  teach  you  white. 

Once  I  remember 

Nor,  if  you  would  music  hear. 

I  preached  with  a  weaver ; 

Call  the  orbs  to  take  your  ear ; 

I  quoted  Austin, 

Nor  to  please  your  sense  bring  forth 

He  quoted  Dod  and  Clever : 

Bruised  nard  or  what's  more  worth. 

I  nothing  got, 

Or  on  food  were  your  thoughts  plac'd, 

He  got  a  cloak  and  beaver. 

Bring  you  nectar,  for  a  taste  : 

Alas!  poor,  &c. 

Would  you  have  aU  these  in  one, 

Ships,  ships,  ships  I  discover. 

Name  my  mistress,  and  'tis  done. 

Crossing  the  main ; 

Thomas  Carew.— About  1830. 

Shall  I  in  and  go  over, 

Turn  Jew  or  Atheist, 

Turk  or  Papist, 

260.— S  0  N  G . 

To  Geneva  or  Amsterdam  ? 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 

Bishoprics  are  void 

When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose ; 

In  Scotland,  shall  I  thither  ? 

For  in  your  beauties,  orient  deep, 

Or  follow  Windebank 

These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

And  Finch,  to  see  if  either 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 

Do  want  a  priest  to  shrieve  them  ?  - 

The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 

Oh,  no,  'tis  blustering  weather. 

For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 

Alas!  poor,  &c. 

Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ho,  ho,  ho,  I  have  hit  it : 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 

Peace,  Goodman  fool ! 

The  nightingale  when  May  is  past ; 

Thou  hast  a  trade  will  fit  it ; 

For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 

Draw  thy  indenture, 

She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Be  bound  at  a  venture 
An  apprentice  to  a  free- school ; 
There  thou  mayst  command, 
By  William  Lilly's  charter ; 
There  thou  mayst  whip,  strip, 
And  hang,  and  draw  and  quarter, 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  Phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest ; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies. 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies  ! 

TJiomas  Carcw. — About  1630. 

And  commit  to  the  red  rod 
Both  Will,  and  Tom,  and  Arthur. 

261.— THE   COMPLIMENT. 

Ay,  ay,  'tis  hither,  hither  will  I  go. 

jyr.  Wilde.— About  1649. 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  that  fair 
Rich  fan  of  thy  most  curious  hair  ; 

Though  the  wires  thereof  be  drawn 
Finer  than  the  threads  of  lawn. 

258.— S  0  N  G. 

And  are  softer  than  the  leaves                               | 
On  which  the  subtle  spider  weaves. 

Let  fools  great  Cupid's  yoke  disdain, 

I  do  not  love  thee  for  those  flowers 

Loving  their  own  wild  freedom  better ; 

Growing  on  thy  cheeks  (love's  bowers) ; 

Whilst,  proud  of  my  triumphant  chain. 

Though  such  cunning  them  hath  spread. 

I  sit  and  court  my  beauteous  fetter. 

None  can  paint  them  white  and  red  : 

Her  murdering  glances,  snaring  hairs, 

And  her  bewitching  smiles  so  please  me, 
As  he  brings  ruin,  that  repairs 

Love's  golden  arrows  thence  are  shot, 
Yet  for  them  I  love  thee  not. 
I  do  not  love  thee  for  those  soft 

The  sweet  afflictions  that  disease  me. 

Eed  coral  lips  I've  kiss'd  so  oft ; 

Nor  teeth  of  pearl,  the  double  guard 

Hide  not  those  panting  balls  of  snow 

To  speech,  when  music  stiU  is  heard ; 

With  envious  veils  from  my  beholding ; 

Though  from  those  lips  a  kiss  being  taken, 

Unlock  those  lips,  their  pearly  row 

Might  tyrants  melt,  and  death  awaken. 

In  a  sweet  smile  of  love  unfolding. 

I  do  not  love  thee,  oh  !  my  fairest, 

And  let  those  eyes,  whose  motion  wheels 

For  that  richest,  for  that  rarest 

The  restless  fate  of  every  lover, 

Silver  pillar,  which  stands  under 

Survey  the  pains  my  sick  heart  feels. 

Thy  sound  head,  that  globe  of  wonder ; 

And  wounds,  themselves  have  made,    dis- 

Tho' that  neck  be  whiter  far 

cover. 

Than  towers  of  polish' d  ivory  are. 

Thomas  Carew.—Aboxd  1630. 

Thomas  Carew.— About  1630. 

From  1558  to  1649.] 


PERSUASIONS  TO  LOVE. 


[Thomas  Carkw. 


262.— S  O  N  G . 

Give  me  more  love,  or  more  disdain, 

The  torrid,  or  the  frozen  zone 
Bring  equal  ease  unto  my  pain  ; 

The  temperate  affords  me  none  ; 
Either  extreme,  of  love  or  hate. 
Is  sweeter  than  a  calm  estate. 

Give  me  a  storm  ;  if  it  be  love, 

Like  Danae  in  a  golden  shower. 
I  swim  in  pleasure  ;  if  it  prove 

Disdain,  that  torrent  will  devour 
My  vulture-hopes  ;  and  he's  possess'd  • 
Of  heaven  that's  but  from  hell  released : 
Then  crown  my  joys,  or  cure  my  pain ; 
Give  me  more  love,  or  more  disdain. 

Tlwmas  Carew. — About  1630. 


263.— SONG. 

If  the  quick  spirits  in  your  eye 
Now  languish  and  anon  must  die ; 
If  ev'ry  sweet,  and  ev'ry  grace 
Must  fly  from  that  forsaken  face  : 
Then,  Celia,  let  us  reap  our  joys, 
Ere  time  such  goodly  fruit  destroys. 

Or,  if  that  golden  fleece  must  grow 
For  ever,  free  from  aged  snow  ; 
If  those  bright  suns  must  know  no  shade, 
Nor  your  fresh  beauties  ever  fade  ; 
Then  fear  not,  Celia,  to  bestow 
"WTiat  still  being  gather' d  still  must  grow. 
Thus,  either  Time  his  sickle  brings 
In  vain,  or  else  in  vain  his  wings. 

Thomas  Careiv.— About  1630. 


264.— DISDAIN  EETURNED. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek. 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires. 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires  ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires. 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  checks,  or  lips  or  eyes. 

No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win 

My  resolved  heart  to  return  ; 
I  have  search' d  thy  soul  within. 

And  find  nought  but  pride  and  scorn  ; 
I  have  learn' d  thy  arts,  and  now 
Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou. 
Some  power,  in  my  revenge,  convey 
That  love  to  her  I  cast  away. 

Thomas  Ca/rew. — About  1630. 


265.— ON  MR.  W.  MONTAGUE'S  RETURN 
FROM  TRAVEL. 

Lead  the  black  bull  to  slaughter,  with  the  boar 
And  lamb  :  then  purple  with  their  mingled  gore 
The  ocean's  curled  brow,  that  so  w^may 
The  sea-gods  for  their  careful  waftage  pay  : 
Send  grateful  incense  up  in  pious  smoke 
To  those  mild  spirits  that  cast  a  curbing  yoke 
Upon  the  stubborn  winds,  that  calmly  blew 
To  the  wish'd  shore  our  long' d- for  Montague  : 
Then,  whilst  the  aromatic  odours  bum 
In  honour  of  their  darling's  safe  return. 
The  Muse's  quire  shall  thus,  with  voice  and 

hand. 
Bless  the  fair  gale  that  drove  his  ship  to  land. 

Sweetly-breathing  vernal  air, 

That  witli  kind  warmth  dost  repair 

Winter's  ruins  ;  from  whose  breast 

All  the  gums  and  spice  of  th'  East 

Borrow  their  perfumes  ;  whose  eye 

Gilds  the  mom,  and  clears  the  sky ; 

Whose  dishevel'd  tresses  shed 

Pearls  upon  the  violet  bed ; 

On  whose  brow,  with  calm  smiles  dress'd. 

The  halcyon  sits  and  builds  her  nest ; 

Beauty,  youth,  and  endless  spring. 

Dwell  upon  thy  rosy  wing ; 

Thou,  if  stormy  Boreas  throws 

Down  whole  forests  when  he  blows. 

With  a  pregnant  flow'ry  birth 

Canst  refresh  the  teeming  earth  : 

If  he  nip  the  early  bud. 

If  he  blast  what's  fair  or  good. 

If  he  scatter  our  choice  flowers. 

If  he  shake  our  hills  or  bowers, 

If  his  rude  breath  threaten  us  ; 

Thou  canst  stroke  great  Eolus, 

And  from  him  the  grace  obtain 

To  bind  him  in  an  iron  chain. 

TJiomas  Carew. — About  1630. 


266.— PERSUASIONS  TO  LOVE. 

Think  not,  'cause  men  flatt'ring  say, 
Y'are  fresh  as  April,  sweet  as  May, 
Bright  as  is  the  morning  star, 
That  you  are  so  ;  or,  though  you  are, 
Be  not  therefore  proud,  and  deem 
All  men  unworthy  your  esteem ; 
Nor  let  brittle  beauty  make 
You  your  wiser  thought.s  forsake  : 
For  that  lovely  face  will  fail ; 
Beauty's  sweet,  but  beauty's  frail ! 
'Tis  sooner  past,  'tis  sooner  done, 
Than  summer's  rain  or  winter's  sun; 
Most  fleeting  when  it  is  most  dear ; 
'Tis  gone  while  we  but  say — 'tis  here. 
These  curious  locks,  so  aptly  twin'd, 
Whose  every  hair  a  soitI  doth  bind. 
Will  change  their  auburn  hue,  and  grow 
White  and  cold  as  winter's  snow. 
That  eye,  which  nov/  is  Cupid's  nest, 
Will  prove  his  grave.  ,?nd  all  the  rest 


Thomas  Carew.] 


APPROACH  OF  SPEING. 


[Third  Period. 


Will  follow  ;  in  the  cheek,  chin,  nose, 

Nor  lily  shall  be  found,  nor  rose  ; 

And  what  will  then  become  of  all 

Those  whom  now  you  servants  call  ? 

Like  swallows,  when  your  summer's  done, 

They'll  fly,  and  seek  some  warmer  sun. 

Then  wisely  choose  one  to  your  friend 

Whose  love  may  (when  your  beauties  end) 

Remain  still  firm ;  be  provident, 

And  think,  before  the  summer's  spent, 

Or  following'  winter  ;  like  the  ant, 

In  plenty  hoard  for  time  of  scant. 

For  when  the  storms  of  Time  have  moved 

Waves  on  that  cheek  which  was  beloved ; 

When  a  fair  lady's  face  is  pined. 

And  yellow  spread  where  red  once  shin'd  ; 

When  beauty,  youth,  and  all  sweets  leave 

her, 
Love  may  return,  but  lovers  never  : 
And  old  folks  say  there  are  no  pains 
Like  itch  of  love  in  aged  veins. 
O  love  me  then,  and  now  begin  it, 
Let  us  not  lose  this  present  minute ; 
For  time  and  age  will  work  that  wrack 
Which  time  or  age  shall  ne'er  call  back. 
The  snake  each  year  fresh  skin  resumes, 
And  eagles  change  their  aged  plumes ; 
The  faded  rose,  each  spring,  receives, 
A  fresh  red  tincture  on  her  leaves  : 
But  if  your  beauties  once  decay, 
You  never  know  a  second  May. 
Oh,  then,  be  wise,  and  whilst  your  season 
Affords  you  days  for  sport,  do  reason  ; 
Spend  not  in  vain  your  life's  short  hour, 
But  crop  in  time  your  beauties'  flovv'er, 
Which  will  away,  and  doth  together 
Both  bud  and  fade,  both  blow  and  wither. 
Thomas  Carew. — About  1630. 


267.— APPROACH  OF   SPRING. 

Now  that  the  winter's  gone,  the  earth  hath  lost 
Her  snow-white  robes,  and  now  no  more  the 

frost 
Candies  the  grass,  or  calls  an  icy  cream 
Upon  the  silver  lake,  or  crystal  stream  ; 
But  the  warm  sun  thaws  the  benumb' d  earth. 
And  makes  it  tender ;  gives  a  sacred  birth 
To  the  dead  swallow ;  wakes  in  hollow  tree 
The  drowsy  cuckoo,  and  the  humble  bee ; 
Now  do  a  choir  of  chirping  minstrels  bring- 
In  triumph  to  the  world  the  youthful  spring. 
The  valleys,  hills,  and  woods,  in  rich  array. 
Welcome  the  coming  of  the  long'd  for  May. 
Now  all  things  smile. 

TJiomas  CoA-ew. — About  1630. 


268.— EPITAPH   ON  THE  DUKE  OF 
BUCKINGHAM. 
Reader,  when  these  dumb  stones  have  told 
In  borrow' d  speech  what  guest  they  hold, 
Thou  shalt  confess  the  vain  pursuit 
Of  human  glory  yields  no  fruit 


But  an  untimely  grave.     If  Fate 

Could  constant  happiness  create, 

Her  ministers,  fortune  and  worth. 

Had  here  that  miracle  brought  forth : 

They  fix'd  this  child  of  honour  where 

No  room  was  left  for  hope  or  fear 

Of  more  or  less  :  so  high,  so  great. 

His  growth  was,  yet  so  safe  his  seat : 

Safe  in  the  circle  of  his  friends  ; 

Safe  in  his  loyal  heart  and  ends  ; 

Safe  in  his  native  valiant  spirit ; 

By  favour  safe,  and  safe  by  merit ; 

Safe  by  the  stamp  of  Nature,  wliich 

Did  strength  with  shape  and  grace  enrich ; 

Safe  in  the  cheerful  courtesies 

Of  floAving  gestures,  speech,  and  eyes ; 

Safe  in  his  bounties,  which  were  more 

Proportion' d  to  his  mind  than  store  : 

Yet  though  for  virtue  he  becomes 

Involv'd  himself  in  borrowed  sums. 

Safe  in  his  care,  he  leaves  betray' d 

No  friend  engag'd,  no  debt  unpaid. 

But,  though  the  stars  conspire  to  shower 
Upon  one  head  th'  united  power 
Of  all  their  graces,  if  their  dire 
Aspects  must  other  breasts  inspire 
With  vicious  thoughts,  a  murderer's  knife 
May  cut  (as  here)  their  darling's  life : 
Who  can  be  happy  then,  if  Nature  must, 
To  make  one  happy  man,  make  all  men  just  ? 

Thomas  Carew. — About  1630. 


269.— TO  SAXHAM. 

Though  frost  and  snow  lock'd  from  mine  eyes 

That  beauty,  which  without  door  lies, 

The  gardens,  orchards,  walks,  that  so 

I  might  not  all  thy  pleasures  know ; 

Yet,  Saxham,  thou,  within  thy  gate. 

Art  of  thyseK  so  delicate, 

So  full  of  native  sweets,  that  bless 

Thy  roof  with  inw-ard  happiness  ; 

As  neither  from,  nor  to  thy  store. 

Winter  takes  aught,  or  spring  adds  more. 

The  cold  and  frozen  air  had  starv'd 

Much  poor,  if  not  by  thee  preserv'd  ; 

Whose  prayers  have  made  thy  table  blest 

With  plenty,  far  above  the  rest. 

The  season  hardly  did  afford 

Coarse  cates  unto  thy  neighbour's  board, 

Yet  thou  hadst  dainties,  as  the  sky 

Had  only  been  thy  volary  ; 

Or  else  the  birds,  fearing  the  snow 

Might  to  another  deluge  grow. 

The  pheasant,  partridge,  and  the  lark. 

Flew  to  thy  house,  as  to  the  ark. 

The  willing  ox  of  himself  came 

Home  to  the  slaughter,  with  the  lamb, 

And  every  beast  did  thither  bring 

Himself  to  be  an  offering. 

The  scaly  herd  more  pleasure  took, 

Bath'd  in  thy  dish,  than  in  the  brook. 

Water,  earth,  air,  did  all  conspire 

To  pay  their  tributes  to  thy  fire ; 


M'rom  1558  to  1649.J 


CHEISTMAS. 


[George  "Wither. 


Wliose  cherishhifr  flames  themselves  divide 

Through  every  room,  where  they  deride 

The  night  and  cold  abroad ;  whilst  they, 

Like  suns  within,  keep  endless  day. 

Those  cheerful  beams  send  forth  their  light, 

To  all  that  wander  in  the  night, 

And  seem  to  bookon  from  aloof 

The  weary  pilgrim  to  thy  roof  ; 

"Wlicre,  if  refreshed,  he  will  away, 

He's  fairly  welcome  ;  or,  if  stay, 

Far  more,  which  he  shall  hearty  find, 

Both  from  the  master  and  the  hind. 

The  stranger's  welcome  each  man  there 

Stamp' d  on  his  cheerful  brow  doth  wear ; 

Nor  doth  this  welcome,  or  his  cheer, 

Grow  less,  'cause  he  stays  longer  here. 

There's  none  observes,  much  less  repines, 

How  often  this  man  sups  or  dines. 

Thou  hast  no  porter  at  the  door 

T'  examine  or  keep  back  the  poor  ; 

Nor  locks  nor  bolts ;  thy  gates  have  been 

Made  only  to  let  strangers  in  ; 

Untaught  to  shut,  they  do  not  fear 

To  stand  wide  open  all  the  year  ; 

Careless  who  enters,  for  they  know 

Thou  never  didst  deserve  a  foe ; 

And  as  for  thieves,  thy  bounty's  such, 

They  cannot  steal,  thou  giv'st  so  much. 

Thomas  Carew. — About  1G30. 


270.— THE  PEIMEOSE. 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here 

This  firstling  of  the  infant  year ; 

Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 

This  primrose  all  bepearl'd  with  dew  ; 

I  straight  will  whisper  in  your  ears, 

The  sweets  of  love  are  wash'd  with  tears  : 

A&k  me  why  this  fiow'r  doth  show 

So  .yellow,  green,  and  sickly  too ; 

Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak, 

And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ; 

I  must  tell  you,  these  discover 

What  doubts  and  fears  are  in  a  lover. 

Thomas  Ca/reiv. — About  1630. 


271.— CHEISTMAS. 

So  now  is  come  our  joyful' st  feast ; 

Let  every  man  be  jolly ; 
Each  room  with  ivy  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  mth  holly. 
Though  some  churls  at  our  mirth  repine, 
Eound  your  foreheads  garlands  twine. 
Drown  sorrow  in  a  cup  of  wine. 

And  let  us  all  be  merry. 

Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke. 
And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning ; 

Their  ovens  they  with  baked  meat  choke, 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 

Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie  ; 

And  if  for  cold  it  hap  to  die. 

We'll  bury't  in  a  Christmas  pie, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 


Now  every  lad  is  wond'rous  trim, 

And  no  man  minds  his  labour  ; 
Our  lasses  have  provided  them 

A  bagi)ipe  and  a  taboT  ; 
Young  men  and  maids,  and  girls  and  boys, 
Give  life  to  one  another's  joys ; 
And  you  anon  shall  by  their  noise 

Perceive  that  they  are  merry. 
Eank  misers  now  do  sparing  shun  ; 

Their  hall  of  music  soundcth  ; 
And  dogs  thence  with  whole  shoulders  run, 

So  all  things  there  aboundeth. 
The  country  folks  themselves  advance, 
W^ith  crowdy-muttons  out  of  France ; 
And  Jack  shall  pipe,  and  Gill  shall  dance. 

And  all  the  town  be  merry. 
Ned  Squash  hath  fetchthis  bands  from  pawn, 

And  all  his  best  apparel ; 
Erisk  Nell  hath  bought  a  ruff  of  lawn 

With  dropping  of  the  barrel. 
And  those  that  hardly  all  the  year 
Had  bread  to  eat,  or  rags  to  wear. 
Will  have  both  clothes  and  dainty  fare, 

And  all  the  day  be  merry. 

Now  poor  men  to  the  justices 

With  capons  make  their  errants  ; 
And  if  they  hap  to  fail  of  these, 

They  plague  them  with  their  warrants  : 
But  now  they  feed  them  with  good  cheer, 
And  what  they  want  they  take  in  beer. 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

And  then  they  shall  be  merry. 
Good  farmers  in  the  country  nurse 

The  poor,  that  else  were  undone  ; 
Some  landlords  spend  their  money  worse. 

On  lust  and  pride  at  London, 
There  the  roysters  they  do  play, 
Drab  and  dice  their  lands  away, 
Which  may  be  ours  another  day, 

And  therefore  let's  be  merry. 

The  client  now  his  suit  forbears, 

The  prisoner's  heart  is  eased  ; 
The  debtor  drinks  away  his  cares, 

And  for  the  time  is  pleased. 
Though  others'  purses  be  more  fat, 
Wliy  should  we  pine,  or  grieve  at  that  ? 
Hang  sorrow  !  care  will  kill  a  cat, 

And  therefore  let's  be  merry. 
Hark  !  now  the  wags  abroad  do  call, 

Each  other  forth  to  rambling ; 
Anon  you'll  see  them  in  the  haU, 

For  nuts  and  apples  scrambling. 
Hark  !  how  the  roofs  -with  laughter  sound, 
Anon  they'll  think  the  house  goes  round. 
For  they  the  cellar's  depth  have  found. 

And  there  they  will  be  merry. 

T^he  wenches  with  their  wassail  bowls 

About  the  streets  are  singing ; 
The  boys  are  come  to  catch  the  owls. 

The  wild  mare  in  is  bringing. 
Our  kitchen  boy  hath  broke  liis  box, 
And  to  the  dealing  of  the  ox. 
Our  honest  neighbotirs  come  by  flocks, 

And  here  they  will  be  merry. 


George  Wither.] 


SONKET  UPON  A  STOLEN  KISS. 


[Third  J^eriod. — 


Now  kings  and  queens  poor  sheepcotes  have, 

And  mate  with  everybedy ; 
The  honest  now  may  play  the  knave, 

And  wise  men  play  the  noddy. 
Some  youths  will  now  a  mumming  go, 
Some  others  play  at  Eowland-bo, 
And  twenty  other  game  boys  mo, 

Because  they  will  be  merry. 

Then,  wherefore,  in  these  merry  days, 

Should  we,  I  pray,  be  duller  ? 
No,  let  us  sing  some  roundelays. 
To  make  our  mirth  the  fuller : 
And,  while  we  thus  inspired  sing. 
Let  all  the  streets  with  echoes  ring ; 
Woods  and  hills,  and  everything, 
witness  we  are  merry. 

George  Wither. — Ahoiit  1635. 


272.— SONNET  UPON  A  STOLEN  KISS. 

Now  gentle  sleep  hath  closed  up  those  eyes 
Which,  waking,  kept  my  boldest  thoughts  in 

awe  ; 
And  free  access  unto  that  sweet  lip  lies. 
From  whence  I  long  the  rosy  breath  to  draw. 
Methinks  no  wrong  it  were,  if  I  should  steal 
From  those  two  melting  rubies,  one  poor  kiss  ; 
None  sees  the  theft  that  would  the  theft  reveal. 
Nor  rob  I  her  of  ought  what  she  can  miss  : 
Nay  should  I  twenty  kisses  take  away, 
There  would  be  little  sign  I  would  do  so  ; 
Why  then  should  I  this  robbery  delay  ? 
Oh  !  she  may  wake,  and  therewith  angry  grow  ! 
Well,  if  she  do,  I'll  back  restore  that  one, 
And  twenty  hundred  thousand  more  for  loan. 
George  Wither. — About  1635. 


273.— TH:K  COMPANIONSHIP  OF  THE 

MUSE. 

See'st  thou  not,  in  clearest  days. 

Oft  thick  fogs  cloud  heaven's  rays  ; 

And  the  vapours  that  do  breathe 

From  the  earth's  gross  womb  beneath, 

Seem  they  not  with  their  black  steams 

To  pollute  the  sun's  bright  beams. 

And  yet  vanish  into  air, 

Leaving  it,  unblemish'd,  fair  ? 

So,  my  Wniy,  shall  it  be 

With  Detraction's  breath  and  thee  : 

It  shall  never  rise  so  high, 

As  to  stain  thy  poesy. 

As  that  sun  doth  oft  exhale 

Vapours  from  each  rotten  valo  ; 

Poesy  so  sometime  drains 

Gross  conceits  from  muddy  brains  ; 

Mists  of  envy,  fogs  of  spite, 

'Twixt  men's  judgments  and  her  light : 

But  so  much  her  power  may  do. 

That  she  can  dissolve  them  too. 

If  thy  verse  do  bravely  tower, 

As  she  makes  wing  she  gets  power  ; 


Yet  the  higher  she  doth  soar, 
She's  affronted  still  the  more  ; 
Till  she  to  the  high'st  hath  past, 
Then  she  rests  with  fame  at  last : 
Let  nought  therefore  thee  affright, 
But  make  forward  in  thy  flight ; 
For,  if  I  could  match  thy  rhyme, 
To  the  very  stars  I'd  climb  ; 
There  begin  again,  and  fly 
Tni  I  reach' d  eternity. 
But,  alas  !  my  muse  is  slow  ; 
For  thy  page  she  flags  too  low  : 
Yea,  the  more's  her  hapless  fate, 
Her  short  wings  were  clipt  of  late : 
And  poor  I,  her  fortune  rueing. 
Am  myseK  put  up  a-mewing  : 
But  if  I  my  cage  can  rid, 
I'll  fly  where  I  never  did  : 
And  though  for  her  sake  I'm  crost. 
Though  my  best  hopes  I  have  lost, 
And  knew  she  would  make  my  trouble 
Ten  times  more  than  ten  times  double  : 
I  should  love  and  keep  her  too. 
Spite  of  all  the  world  could  do. 
For,  though  banish' d  from  my  flocks, 
And  confin'd  within  these  rocks, 
Here  I  waste  away  the  light, 
And  consume  the  sullen  night, 
She  doth  for  my  comfort  stay, 
And  keeps  many  cares  away. 
,  Though  I  miss  the  flowery  fields, 
With  those  sweets  the  springtide  yields, 
Though  I  may  not  see  those  groves. 
Where  the  shepherds  chant  their  loves, 
And  the  lasses  more  excel 
Than  the  sweet- voiced  Philomel. 
Though  of  aU  those  pleasures  past, 
Nothing  now  remains  at  last, 
But  ErCmembrance,  poor  relief, 
That  more  makes  than  mends  my  grief 
She's  my  mind's  companion  still, 
Maugre  Envy's  evil  will. 
(Whence  she  would  be  driven,  too, 
Were't  in  mortal's  power  to  do.) 
She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 
Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow  : 
Makes  the  desolatest  place 
To  her  presence  be  a  grace  ; 
And  the  blackest  discontents 
Be  her  fairest  ornaments. 
In  my  former  days  of  bliss, 
Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this. 
That  from  everything  I  saw, 
I  could  some  invention  draw  : 
And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height, 
Through  the  meanest  object's  sight. 
By  the  murmur  of  a  spring. 
Or  the  least  bough's  rustleing. 
By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves  spread, 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed  ; 
Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree, 
She  could  more  infuse  in  me, 
Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man. 
By  her  help  I  also  now 
Make  this  churlish  place  allow 


From  1558  to  1649.]        JUST  INDIGNATION  OF  THE  OPPEESSED.       [George  Wither.       | 


Some  things  that  may  sweeten  gladness, 

In  the  very  gaU  of  sadness. 

The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade, 

That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made ; 

The  strange  music  of  the  -waves. 

Beating  on  these  hoUow  caves  ; 

This  black  den  which  rocks  emboss, 

Overgrown  with  eldest  moss  : 

The  rude  portals  that  give  light 

More  to  terror  than  delight : 

This  my  chamber  of  neglect, 

Wall'd  about  with  disrespect. 

From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 

A  fit  object  for  despair, 

She  hath  taught  me  by  her  might 

To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 

Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 

I  will  cherish  thee  for  this. 

Poesy,  thou  sweet' st  content 

That  e'er  heaven  to  mortals  lent : 

Though  they  as  a  trifle  leave  thee, 

Whose  dull  thoughts  cannot  conceive  thee, 

Though  thou  be  to  them  a  scorn, 

That  to  nought  but  earth  are  bom, 

Let  my  life  no  longer  be 

Than  I  am  in  love  with  thee, 

Though  our  wise  ones  call  thee  madness, 

Let  me  never  taste  of  gladness. 

If  I  love  not  thy  madd'st  fits 

Above  all  their  greatest  wits. 

And  though  some,  too  seeming  holy. 

Do  account  thy  raptures  folly. 

Thou  dost  teach  me  to  contemn 

What  make  knaves  and  fools  of  them. 

George  Wither. — Ahout  1635. 


274.— A  PEISONEE'S  LAY. 

First  think,  my  soul,  if  I  have  foes 
That  take  a  pleasure  in  my  care, 
And  to  procure  these  outward  woes 
Have  thus  enwrapt  me  unaware. 

Thou  should' st  by  much  more  careful  be. 
Since  greater  foes  lay  wait  for  thee. 

By  my  late  hopes  that  now  are  crost, 
Consider  those  that  firmer  be. 
And  make  the  freedom  I  have  lost 
A  means  that  may  remember  thee. 
Had  Christ  not  thy  Eedeemer  been. 
What  horrid  state  hadst  thou  been  in  ! 

Or  when  through  me  thou  seest  a  man 
Condemn' d  unto  a  mortal  death. 
How  sad  he  looks,  how  pale,  how  wan. 
Drawing,  with  fear,  his  panting  breath ; 
Think  if  in  that  such  grief  thou  see. 
How  sad  will  "  Go,  ye  cursed,"  be  ! 

These  iron  chains,  these  bolts  of  steel, 
Which  often  poor  offenders  grind  ; 
The  wants  and  cares  which  they  do  feel 
May  bring  some  greater  things  to  mind ; 
For  by  their  grief  thou  shalt  do  well 
To  think  upon  the  pains  of  hell. 


Again,  when  he  that  fear'd  to  die 
(Past  hope)  doth  see  his  pardon  brought, 
Eead  but  the  joy  that  's  in  his  eye. 
And  then  convey  it  to  thy  thought ; 
Then  think  between  thy  heart  and  thee. 
How  glad  will  "  Come,  ye  blessed,'! be! 

George  Wither. — Ahoiit  1G35. 


275.— FEOM  "A  DIEGE." 

Farewell, 

Sweet  groves  to  you ! 

You  hills  that  highest  dwell, 

And  all  you  humble  vales,  adieu ! 

You  wanton  brooks  and  soHtary  rocks. 

My  dear  companions  all,  and  you  my  tender 

flocks ! 
Farewell,   my  pipe !    and  all   those    pleasing 

songs  whose  moving  strain 
Delighted  once  the  fairest  nymphs  that  dance 

upon  the  plains. 

You  discontents,  whose  deep  and  over-deadly 

smart 

Have  without  pity  broke  the  truest  heart. 

Sighs,  tears,  and  every  sad  annoy. 

That  erst  did  with  me  dwell, 

And  others  joy, 

Farewell ! 

George  Wither. — About  1635. 


276.— TO  A  BEOTHEE  POET. 

Go,  my  Willy,  get  thee  gone, 
Leave  me  in  exile  alone  ; 
Hie  thee  to  that  merry  throng. 
And  amaze  them  with  thy  song. 
Thou  art  young,  yet  such  a  lay 
Never  graced  the  month  of  May, 
As  (if  they  provoke  thy  skill) 
Thou  canst  fit  unto  the  quill. 
I,  with  wonder,  heard  thee  sing 
At  our  last  year's  revelHng  : 
Then  I  with  the  rest  was  free. 
When  unknown  I  noted  thee, 
And  perceived  the  ruder  swains 
Envy  thy  far  sweeter  strains. 
Yea,  I  saw  the  lasses  cling 
Eound  about  thee  in  a  ring. 
As  if  each  one  jealous  were 
Any  but  herself  should  hear. 

George  Wither. — Ahout  1635. 


277.— THE  JUST  INDIGNATION  OF  THE 
OPPEESSED. 

Do  I   not   know  a  great   man's   power   and 

might. 
In  spite  of  innocence,  can  smother  right, 
Colour  his  villainies  to  get  esteem, 
And  make  the  honest  man  the  villain  seem  ? 
I  know  it,  and  the  world  doth  know  'tis  true. 
Yet  I  protest  if  such  a  man  I  knew. 


Geokge  Wither.] 


A  PEESECUTED  POET'S  ADDEESS. 


[Third  Period. 


That  might  my  country  prejudice,  or  thee, 
Were  he  the  greatest  or  the  proudest  he 
That  breathes  this  day  :  if  so  it  might  be  found 
That  any  good  to  either  might  redound, 
I,  unappall'd,  dare  in  such  a  case 
Eip  up  his  foidest  crimes  before  his  face. 
Though  for  my  labour  I  were  sure  to  drop 
Into  the  mouth  of  ruin  without  hope. 

George  Wither. — About  1635. 


278. 


-A  PEESECUTED  POET' J 
TO  HIS  KING. 


ADDEESS 


Wliile  here  my  muse  in  discontent  doth  sing 
To  thee,  her  great  Apollo,  and  my  king  ; 
Imploring  thee,  by  that  high,  sacred  name, 
By  justice,  and   those  powers  that  I   could 

name  : 
By  whatsoe'er  may  move,  entreat  I  thee, 
To  be  what  thou  art  unto  all,  to  me. 

George  Wither.— About  1635. 


279.— 1^-IY  HEAVENLY  FATHEE  AND 
HIS  EEEING  CHILD. 

Yet  I  confess,  in  this  my  pilgrimage, 
I,  like  some  infant,  am  of  tender  age. 
For  as  the  child  who  from  his  father  hath 
Stray' d  in  some  grove  thro'  many  a  crooked 

path, 
Is  sometimes  hopeful  that  he  finds  the  way. 
And  sometimes  doubtful  ho  runs  more  astray. 
Sometime   with    fair   and    easy   paths   doth 

meet. 
Sometime  with  rougher  tracts  that  stay  his 

feet ; 
Here  goes,  there  runs,  and  yon  amazed  stays ; 
Then  cries  and  straight  forgets  his  care,  and 

plays. 
Then  hearing  where  his  loving  father  calls, 
Makes  haste,  but  through   a  zeal  ill-guided 

faUs; 
Or  runs  some  other  way,  until  that  he 
(Whose  love  is  more  than  his  endeavours  be) 
To  seek  the  wanderer,  forth  himself  doth  come. 
And  take  him  in  his  arms,  and  bear  him  home. 
So  in  this  life,  this  grove  of  ignorance. 
As  to  my  homeward,  I  myseK  advance. 
Sometimes  aright,  and  sometimes  wrong  I  go. 
Sometimes  my  pace  is  speedy,  sometimes  slow : 
One  while  my  ways  are  pleasant  unto  me. 
Another  while  as  full  of  cares  they  be. 
I  doubt  and  hope,  and  doubt  and  hope  again, 
And  many  a  change  of  passion  I  sustain 
In  this  my  journey,  so  that  now  and  then 
I  lost,  perhaps,  may  seem  to  other  men. 
Yea,  to  myself  awhile,  when  sins  impure 
Do  my  Eedcemer's  love  from  me  obscure. 
But  whatsoe'er  betide,  I  know  full  well 
My  Father,  who  above  the  clouds  doth  dwell. 
An  eye  upon  His  wandering  child  doth  cast, 
And  He  will  fetch  me  to  my  home  at  last. 

George  Wither. — About  1635. 


280.— AGAINST  HIEED  FLATTEEEES. 

I  have  no  muses  that  will  serve  the  turn 

At  every  triumph,  and  rejoice  or  mourn. 

After  a  minute's  warning,  for  their  hire. 

If  with  old  sherry  they  themselves  inspire. 

I  am  not  of  a  temper  like  to  those 

That  can  provide  an  hour's  sad  talk  in  prose 

For  any  funeral,  and  then  go  dine, 

And  choke  my  grief  with  sugar-plums  and  wine. 

I  cannot  at  the  claret  sit  and  laugh, 

And  then,  half  tipsy,  write  an  epitaph. 

I  cannot  for  reward  adorn  the  hearse 

Of  some  old  rotten  miser  with  my  verse ; 

Nor,  like  the  poetasters  of  the  time. 

Go  howl  a  doleful  elegy  in  rhyme. 

For  every  lord  or  ladyship  that  dies, 

And  then  perplex  their  heirs  to  patronize 

That  muddy  poesy.     Oh,  how  I  scorn, 

That  raptures  which  are  free  and  nobly  bom 

Should,  fidler-like,  for. entertainment  scrape 

At  strangers'  windows,  and  go  play  the  ape 

In  counterfeiting  passion. 

George  Wither. — Ahoict  1635. 


281.— THE  148th  psalm  PAEAPHEASED. 

Come,  O  come,  with  sacred  lays, 
Let  us  sound  th'  Almighty's  praise. 
Hither  bring  in  true  consent. 
Heart,  and  voice,  and  instrument. 
Let  the  orpharion  sweet 
With  the  harp  and  \dol  meet : 
To  your  voices  tune  the  lute  ; 
Let  not  tongue,  nor  string  be  mute ; 
Nor  a  creature  dumb  be  found 
That  hath  either  voice  or  sound. 

Let  such  things  as  do  not  live, 
In  still  music  praises  give  : 
Lowly  pipe,  ye  worms  that  creep, 
On  the  earth,  or  in  the  deep. 
Loud  aloft  your  voices  strain. 
Beasts  and  monsters  of  the  main. 
Birds,  your  warbling  treble  sing ; 
Clouds,  your  peals  of  thunder  ring ; 
Sun  and  moon,  exalted  <iiigher, 
And  you,  stars,  augment  the  quire. 

Come,  ye  sons  of  human  race, 
In  this  chorus  take  your  place. 
And  amid  this  mortal  throng, 
Be  you  masters  of  the  song. 
Angels  and  celestial  powers, 
Be  the  noblest  tenor  yours. 
Let,  in  praise  of  God,  the  sound 
Eun  a  never-ending  round ; 
That  our  holy  hymn  may  be 
Everlasting,  as  is  He. 

From  the  earth's  vast  hollow  womb, 
Music's  deepest  base  shall  come  ; 
Sea  and  floods,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Shall  the  counter-tenor  roar. 
To  this  concert,  when  we  sing. 
Whistling  winds,  your  descant  bring, 


From  1558  to  1640.,]  PRAYER  FOR  SEASONABLE  WEATHER.        [George  Wither. 


WMch  may  bear  the  sound  above, 
Where  the  orb  of  fire  doth  move  ; 
And  so  climb  from  sphere  to  sphere, 
Till  our  song  th'  Almighty  hear. 

So  shall  He  from  Heaven's  high  tower 
On  the  earth  His  blessings  shower  ; 
All  this  huge  wide  orb  we  see, 
Shall  one  quire,  one  temple  be. 
There  our  voices  we  will  rear, 
Till  we  fill  it  everywhere  ; 
And  enforce  the  fiends  that  dwell 
In  the  air,  to  sink  to  hell. 
Then,  O  come,  with  sacred  lays, 
Let  us  sound  th'  Almighty's  praise. 

George  Wither.— About  1635. 


And  those  so  thick  that  Phoebus  scarcely  sees 
The  earth  they  grow  on  once  in  all  the  year, 
Nor  what  is  done  among  the  shadows  there. 

George  Wither: — About  1635. 


283. 


•THE  SEQUESTERED  RETIREMENT 
OF  BENTWORTH. 


fi_ 


Two  pretty  rOls  do  meet,  and,  meeting,  make 

Within  one  valley  a  large  silver  lake. 

About   whose   banks    the    fertile    mountains 

stood. 
In  ages  pass'd  bravely  crown'd  with  wood, 
Which  lending  cold    sweet  shadows   gave  it 

grace 
To  be  accounted  Cynthia's  bathing-place. 


282.— THE  FORD  OF  ARLE. 

North-east,  not  far  from  this  great  pool,  there 

lies 
A  tract  of  beechy  mountains  that  arise, 
With  leisurely  ascending,  to  such  height 
As  from  their  tops  the  warlike  Isle  of  Wight 
You  in  the  ocean's  bosom  may  espie, 
Tho'  near  two  hundred  furlongs  hence  it  lie. 
The  pleasant  way,  as  up  those  hills  you  climb. 
Is  strew'd  o'er  with  marjoram  and  thyme, 
"Which  grows  unset.     The  hedge-rows  do  not 

want 
The  cowslip,  violet,  primrose,  nor  a  plant 
That  freshly  scents  ;  as  birch,  both  green  and 

tall,  ^ 

Low  swallows  on   whose  bloomings  bees  do 

faU, 
Fair  woodbines,  which  about  the  hedges  twine. 
Smooth  privet,  and  the  sharp  sweet  eglantine. 
With  many  more,  whose  leaves  and  blossoms 

fair 
The  earth  adorn,  and  oft  perfume  the  air. 

E'en  there,  and  in  the  least  frequented  place 

Of  all  these  mountains,  is  a  little  space 

Of  pleasant  ground,  hemm'd  in  with  dropping 


And  from  her  father  Neptune's  brackish  court, 
Fair  Thetis  hither  often  would  resort. 
Attended  by  the  fishes  of  the  sea. 
Which  in  those  sweeter  waters  came  to  play. 
There  would  the  daughter  of  the  sea-god  dive. 
And  thither  came  the  land- nymphs  every  eve. 
To  wait  upon  her,  bringing  for  herl^rows 
Rich  garlands  of   sweet  flowers,  and  beechy 
boughs ; 

For  pleasant  was  that  pool,  and  near  it  then 
Was  neither  rotten  marsh  nor  boggy  fen. 
It  was  not  overgrown  with  boisterous  sedge. 
Nor  grew  there  rudely  then  along  the  edge 
A  bending  willow,  nor  a  prickly  bush. 
Nor  broad-leaf 'd  flag,  nor  reed,  nor  knotty 

rush. 
But  here,  well-order' d  was  a  grove  with  bowers. 
There   grassy   plots    set    round   about   with 

flowers  : 
Here,  you  might    thro'  the   waters  see  the 

land 
Appear,  strew'd  o'er  with  white,   or    yellow 

sand. 
Yea,  deeper  was  it ;  and  the  wind  by  whiffs 
Would  make  it  rise,  and  wash  the  little  cliffs. 
On  which  oft  pluming  sat,  unfrighted  then. 
The  gaggling  wild  goose,  and  the  snow  white 

swan, 
With  all  the  flocks  of  fowls  which  to  this  day. 
Upon  those  quiet  waters  breed  and  play. 

George  Wither. — About  1635, 


284.— PRAYER  FOR   SEASONABLE 
WEATHER. 

Lord,  should  the  sun,  the  clouds,  the  wind. 

The  air  and  seasons  be, 
To  us  so  froward  and  unkind. 

As  we  are  false  to  Thee : 
All  fruits  would  quite  away  be  bum'd. 

Or  lie  in  water  drown' d. 
Or  blasted  be,  or  overturn' d. 

Or  chilled  on  the  ground. 

But  from  our  duty  though  we  swerve, 

Thou  still  dost  mercy  show, 
And  deign  Thy  creatures  to  preserve. 

That  men  might  thankful  grow. 
Yet,  though  from  day  to  day  we  sin^ 

And  Thy  displeasure  gain, 
No  sooner  wo  to  cry  begin. 

But  pity  we  obtain. 

The  weather  now  Thou  changed  hast. 

That  put  us  late  to  fear, 
And  when  our  hopes  were  almost  past, 

Then  comfort  did  appear. 
The  heaven  the  earth's  complaint  hath  heard, 

They  reconciled  be  ; 
And  Thou  such  weather  hast  prepared. 

As  we  desired  of  Thee. 

George  Wither. — About  1635. 


William  Browne.] 


JklOENING. 


[Third  Period. — 


285.— MOENING. 

By  this  had  chanticleer,  the  village  cock, 
Bidden  the  goodwife  for  her  maids  to  knock  ; 
And  the  swart  ploughman  for  his  breakfast 

stayed, 
That  he  might  till  those  lands  were  fallow  laid 
The  hiUs  and  valleys  here  and  there  resound 
With  the  re-echoes  of  the  deep-mouth' d  hound 
Each  shepherd's  daughter  with  her  cleanly  pail 
Was  come  a- field  to  milk  the  morning's  meal 
And  ere  the  sun  had  climb' d  the  eastern  hills 
To  gild  the  muttering  bourns  and  pretty  rills 
Before  the  labouring  bee  had  left  the  hive, 
And  nimble  fishes,  which  in  rivers  dive, 
Began  to  leap  and  catch  the  drowned  fly, 
I  rose  from  rest,  not  infelicity. 

WillioAn  Browne. — About  1620. 


286.— EVENING. 

As  in  an  evening,  when  the  gentle  air 
Breathes  to  the  sullen  night  a  soft  repair, 
I  oft  have  sat  on  Thames'  sweet  bank,  to  hear 
My  friend  with  his  sweet  touch  to  charm  mine 

ear: 
When  he  hath  play'd  (as  well  he  can)  some 

strain. 
That  likes  me,  straight  I  ask  the  same  again, 
And  he,  as  gladly  granting,  strikes  it  o'er 
With  some  sweet  relish  was  forgot  before  : 
I  would  have  been  content  if  he  would  play. 
In  that  one  strain,  to  pass  the  night  away  ; 
But,  fearing  much  to  do  his  patience  wrong. 
Unwillingly  have  ask'd  some  other  song : 
So,  in  this  diff'ring  key,  though  I  could  well 
A  many  hours,  but  as  few  minutes  tell, 
Yet,  lest  mine  own  delight  might  injure  you, 
(Though  loath  so  soon)  I  take  my  song  anew. 
William  Browne. — About  1620. 


287.— A  NIGHT  SCENE. 

Now  great  Hyperion  left  his  golden  throne 
That  on  the  dancing  waves  in  glory  shone. 
For  whose  declining  on  the  western  shore 
The  oriental  hills  black  mantles  wore, 
And  thence  apace  the  gentle  twilight  fled. 
That  had  from  hideous  caverns  ushered 
All-drowsy  night ;  who,  in  a  car  of  jet, 
By  steeds  of  iron-gray  (which  mainly  sweat 
Moist  drops  on  all  the  world)  drawn  through 

the  sky. 
The  helps  of  darkness  waited  orderly. 
First,  thick  clouds  rose  from  all  the  liquid 

plains : 
Then  mists  from  marishes,  and  grounds  whose 

veins 
Were  conduit  pipes  to  many  a  crystal  spring  : 
From  standing  pools  and  fens  were  following 
Unhealthy  fogs  :  each  river,  every  rill 
Sent  up  their  vapours  to  attend  her  will. 
These  pitchy  curtains  drew  'twixt  Earth  and 

Heaven, 


And  as  Night's  chariot  through  the  air  was 

driven. 
Clamour  grew  dumb,  unheard  was  shepherd's 

song, 
And   silence   girt    the   woods  ;    no   warbling 

tongue 
Talk'd  to  the  echo ;  satyrs  broke  their  dance, 
And  all  the  upper  world  lay  in  a  trance  : 
Only  the  curled  streams  soft  chidings  kept ; 
And   little   gales,  that  from   the   green   leaf 

swept 
Dry   summer's    dust,    in   fearful   whisp'rings 

stirr'd. 
As  loath  to  waken  any  singing  bird. 

William  Browne, — About  1620. 


288.— NIGHT. 

The  sable  mantle  of  the  silent  night 

Shut  from  the  world  the  ever-joysome  light. 

Care  fled  away,  and  softest  slumbers  please 

To  leave  the  court  for  lowly  cottages. 

Wild  beasts  forsook  their  dens  on  woody  hills, 

And  sleightful  otters  left  the  purling  rills ; 

Books  to  their  nests  in  high  woods  now  were 

flung. 
And  with  their  spread  wings  shield  their  naked 

young. 
When  thieves  from  thickets  to  the  cross- ways 

stir, 
And  terror  frights  the  lonely  passenger  ; 
When  nought  was  heard  but  now  and  then  the 

howl 
Of  some  vile  cur,  or  whooping  of  the  owl. 

William  Browne. — About  1620. 


289.— S  O  N  G. 

Gentle  nymphs,  be  not  refusing. 
Love's  neglect  is  time's  abusing, 

They  and  beauty  are  but  lent  you ; 
Take  the  one,  and  keep  the  other  : 
Love  keeps  fresh  what  age  doth  smother, 

Beauty  gone,  you  will  repent  you. 

'Twill  be  said,  when  ye  have  proved, 
Never  swains  more  truly  loved  : 

Oh,  then  fly  all  nice  behaviour  ! 
Pity  fain  would  (as  her  duty) 
Be  attending  still  on  Beauty, 

Let  her  not  be  out  of  favour. 

William  Broivne. — About  1620. 


290.— S  O  N  G. 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  awhile  to  me. 
And  if  such  a  woman  move 

As  I  now  shall  versify ; 
Be  assured,  'tis  she,  or  none, 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  VANITY  OF  THE  WORLD. 


[Francis  Quables. 


Nature  did  her  so  much  right, 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art. 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 

As  e'er  yet  embraced  a  heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 

To  make  known  how  much  she  hath ; 

And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 
Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 

Full  of  pity  as  may  be. 

Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 

Eeason  masters  every  sense, 

And  her  \Trtues  grace  her  birth : 

Lovely  as  all  excellence, 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth  : 

Likelihood  enough  to  prove 

Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  she  is  :  and  if  you  know 

Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung ; 
Be  she  brown,  or  fair,  or  so. 

That  she  be  but  somewhile  young ; 
Be  assured,  'tis  she,  or  none, 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

Williann  Browne. — Ahout  1620. 


291.— ADDRESS  TO  HIS  NATIVE  SOIL. 

Hail  thou,  my  native  soil !  thou  blessed  plot 
Whoso  eqi^al  all  the  world  affordeth  not ! 
Show  me  who  can  ?  so  many  crystal  rills, 
Such  sweet-clothed  vaUies,  or  aspiring  hills, 
Such  wood-ground,  pastures,  quarries,  wealthy 

mines. 
Such  rocks  in  whom  the  diamond  fairly  shines : 
And  if  the  earth  can  show  the  like  again, 
Yet  will  she  fail  in  her  sea-ruling  men. 
Time  never  can  produce  men  to  o'ertake 
The  fames  of  Grenville,  Davis,  Gilbert,  Drake, 
Or  worthy  Hawkins,  or  pf  thousands  more. 
That  by  their  power  made  the  Devonian  shore 
Mock  the  proud  Tagus ;  for  whose  richest  spoil 
The  boasting  Spaniard  left  the  Indian  soil 
Bankrupt  of  store,  knowing  it  would  quit  cost 
By  winning  this,  though  all  the  rest  were  lost. 

William  Browne. — About  1620. 


292.— WHAT   IS   LIFE? 

And  what 's  a  life  ? — a  weary  pilgrimage, 
Whose  glory  in  one  day  doth  fill  the  stage 
With  childhood,  manhood,  and  decrepit  age. 

And  what 's  a  life  ? — the  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer  meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow  hay. 

Read  on  this  dial,  how  the  shades  devour 
My  short-Kved  winter's   day!    hour  eats   up 

hour; 
Alas  !   the  total 's  but  from  eight  to  four. 


Behold  these    lilies,    which    thy  hands  have 

made. 
Fair  copies  of  my  Hfe,  and  open  laid 
To  view,  how  soon  they  droop,  how  soon  they 

fade! 

Shade  not  that  dial,  night  will  blind  ioo  soon ; 
My  non-aged  day  already  points  to  noon  ; 
How  simple  is  my  stdt ! — how  small  my  boon ! 

Nor  do  I  beg  this  slender  inch  to  wile 
The  time  away,  or  falsely  to  beguile 
My  thoughts  with  joy :  here's  nothing  worth  a 
smile. 

Francis  Quarles. — Ahout  1640. 


293.— THE  VANITY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

False  world,  thou  ly'st :  thou  canst  not  lend 

The  least  deUght : 
Thy  favours  cannot  gain  a  friend, 

They  are  so  slight : 
Thy  morning  pleasures  make  an  end 

To  please  at  night : 
Poor  are  the  wants  that  thou  supply' st, 
And  yet  thou  vaunt' st,  and  yet  thou  vy'st 
With  heaven ;  fond  earth,  thou  boasts ;  false 
world,  thou  ly'st. 

Thy  babbling  tongue  tells  golden  tales 

Of  endless  treasure ; 
Thy  bounty  offers  easy  sales 

Of  lasting  pleasure ; 
Thou  ask'st  the  conscience  what  she  ails, 

And  swear' st  to  ease  her  : 
There  's  none  can  want  where  thou  supply' st : 
There 's  none  can  give  where  thou  deny'st. 
Alas !  fond  world,  thou  boasts  j  false  world, 
thou  ly'st. 

What  well-advised  ear  regards 

What  earth  can  say  ? 
Thy  words  are  gold,  but  thy  rewards 

Are  painted  clay : 
Thy  cunning  can  cut  pack  the  cards, 

Thou  canst  not  play  : 
Thy  game  at  weakest,  still  thou  vy'st ; 
If  seen,  and  then  revy'd,  deny'st : 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st  j  false  world, 
thou  ly'st. 

Thy  tinsel  bosom  seems  a  mint 

Of  new-coin' d  treasure  : 
A  paradise,  that  has  no  stint. 

No  change,  no  measure  ; 
A  painted  cask,  but  nothing  in't. 

Nor  wealth,  nor  pleasure  : 
Vain  earth  !  that  falsely  thus  comply' st 
With  man ;  vain  man  !  that  thou  rely'st 
On  earth  ;  vain  man,  thou  dot'st ;  vain  earth, 
thou  ly'st. 

What  mean  dull  souls,  in  this  high  measure, 

To  haberdash 
In  earth's  base  wares,  whose  greatest  treasure 

Is  dross  and  trash  ? 
The  height  of  whose  enchanting  pleasure 

Is  but  a  flash  ? 


FeANCIS  QuAEIiES.] 


FAITH. 


[Third  Period. 


Are  these  the  goods  that  thou  supply' st 
Us  mortals  with  ?     Are  these  the  high'st  ? 
Can  these  bring  cordial  peace?   false  world, 
thou  ly'st. 

Francis  Quarles. — About  1640. 


294.— F  A  I  T  H. 

The  proudest  pitch  of  that  victorious  spirit 

Was  but  to  win  the  world,  whereby  t'  inherit 

The  airy  purchase  of  a  transitory 

And  glozing  title  of  an  age's  glory 

Would' st  thou  by  conquest  win  more  fame  than 

he, 
Subdue  thyseK !  thyself  'a  a  world  to  thee. 
Earth 's  but  a  ball,  that  heaven  hath  quilted 

o'er 
With  Wealth  and  Honour,  banded  on  the  floor 
Of  fickle  Fortune's  false  and  slippery  court, 
Sent  for  a  toy,  to  make  us  children  spoit, 
Man's  satiate  spirits  with  fresh  delights  sup- 
plying, 
To  still  the  fondlings  of  the  world  from  cry- 
ing; 
And  he,  whose  merit  mounts  t-o  such  a  joy, 
Gains  but  the  honour  of  a  mighty  toy. 

But  would' st  thou  conquer,  have  thy  con- 
quest crown' d 
By  hands  of  Seraphims,  triumph'd  with  the 

sound 
Of  heaven's  loud  trampet,   warbled  by  the 

shrin 
Celestial  choir,  recorded  with  a  quill 
Pluck' d  from  the  pinion  of  an  angel's  wing, 
Confirm'd  with  joy  by  heaven's  eternal  King ; 
Conquer  thyself,  thy  rebel  thoughts  repel. 
And  chase  those  false  affections  that  rebel. 
Hath  heaven  despoU'd  what  his  full  hand  hath 

given  thee  ? 
Nipp'd  thy  succeeding  blossoms  ?  or  bereaven 

thee 
Of  thy  dear  latest  hope,  thy  bosom  friend  ? 
Doth  sad  Despair  deny  these  griefs  an  end  ? 
Despair's  a  whisp'ring  rebel,  that  within  thee, 
Bribes  all  thy  field,  and  sets  thyself  again' 

thee: 
Make  keen  thy  faith,  and  with  thy  force  let 

flee, 
If  thou  not  conquer  him,  he  '11  conquer  thee  : 
Advance  thy  shield  of  Patience  to  thy  head. 
And  when  Grief  strikes,  'twill  strike  the  striker 
.     dead. 

In  adverse  fortunes,  be  thou  strong  and  stout. 
And  bravely  win  thyself,  heaven  holds  not  out 
His  bow  for  ever  bent ;  the  disposition     , 
Of  noblest  spirit  doth,  by  opposition. 
Exasperate  the  more  :  a  gloomy  night 
Whets  on  the  morning  to  return  more  bright 
Brave  minds,  oppress' d,  should  in  despite  of 

Fate, 
Look  greatest,  like  the  sun,  in  lowest  state. 
But,  ah !  shaU  God  thus  strive  with  flesh  and 

blood  ? 
Receives  he  glory  from,  or  reaps  he  good 


In  mortals'  ruin,  that  he  leaves  man  so 
To  be  o'erwhelm'd  by  this  unequal  foe  ? 

May  not  a  potter,  that,  from  out  the  ground, 
Hath  framed  a  vessel,  search  if  it  be  sound  ? 
Or  if,  by  furbishing,  he  take  more  pain 
To  make  it  fairer,  shall  the  pot  complain  ? 
Mortal,  thou  art  but  clay ;  then  shall  not  he, 
That  framed  thee  for  his  service,  season  thee! 
Man,  close  thy  lips ;  be  thou  no  undertaker 
Of  God's  designs  :  dispute  not  -svdth  thy  Maker. 

Francis  Quarles. — About  1640. 


295.— DELIGHT  IN  GOD  ONLY. 

I  love  (and  have  some  cause  to  love)  the  earth; 
She  is  my  Maker's  creature  :  therefore  good  : 
She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth  ; 
She  is  my  tender  nurse — she  gives  me  food ; 

But  what 's  a  creature,  Lord,  compared  with 
thee? 

Or  what 's  my  mother,  or  my  nurse  to  me  ? 

I  love  the  air  :  her  dainty  sweets  refresh 
My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  invite  me; 
i    Her  shrill-mouth' d  quire  sustains  me  with  their 
!       flesh, 

I  And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  delight  me : 
But  what 's  the  air  or  aU  the  sweets  that  she 
Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compared  to  thee  ? 

I  love  the  sea  :  she  is  my  fellow- creature, 
My  careful  purveyor  ;   she  provides  me  store  : 
She   walls   me   round ;    she   makes   my   diet 

gi"^ater ;  , 

She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a  foreign  shore  : 
But,  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compared  with 

thee, 
'  What  is  the  ocean,  or  her  wealth  to  me  ? 

To  heaven's  high  city  I  direct  my  journey, 
Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine  eye  ; 
Mine  eye,  by  contemplation  's  great  attorney. 
Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the  sky  : 
But  what  is  heaven,  great  God,  compared  to 

thee  ?  ' 

Without  thy  presence  heaven  's  no  heaven 
to  me. 

Without  thy  presence  earth  gives  no  refection ; 

Without  thy  presence  sea  affords  no  treasure ; 

Without  thy  presence  air  's  a  rank  infection  ; 

Without  thy  presence  heaven  itself  no  pleasure : 
If  not  possess'd,  if  not  cnjoy'd  in  thee, 
What 's  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  heaven  to 
me? 

The  highest  honours  that  the  world  can  boast. 
Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire ; 
The  brightest  beams  of  glory  are  (at  most) 
But  dying  sparkles  of  thy  living  fire  : 

The  loudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle,  be 
But  nightly  glow-worms,  if  compared  to  thee. 

Without  thy  presence  wealth  is  bags  of  cares ; 
Wisdom  but  folly ;  joy  disquiet — sadness  : 
Friendship  is  treason,  and  delights  are  snares ; 
Pleasures  but  pain,   and  mirth  but  pleasing 
madness  ; 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


SOKQ. 


[Francis  Quarles. 


Without  thoe,   Lord,  things  be   not   what 

they  be, 
Nor  have  they  being,  when  compared  with 

thee. 

In  having  all  things,  and  not  thee,  what  have  I  ? 
Not  having  thee,  what  have  my  labours  got  ? 
Let  me  enjoy  but  thee,  what  further  crave  I  ? 
And  having  thee  alone,  what  have  I  not  ? 
I  wish  nor  sea  nor  land  ;  nor  would  I  be 
Possess'd  of  heaven,  heaven  unpossess'd  of 
thee. 

Francis  Qum'les. — About  1640. 


296.— S  O  N  G. 

Know  then,  my  brethren,  heaven  is  clear. 

And  all  the  clouds  are  gone ; 
The  righteous  now  shall  flourish,  and 

Good  days  are  coming  on : 
Come  then,  my  brethren,  and  be  glad, 

And  eke  rejoice  with  me  ; 
Lawn  sleeves  and  rochets  shall  go  down, 

And  hey !  then  up  go  we ! 

We'll  break  the  windows  which  the  Whore 

Of  Babylon  hath  painted, 
And  when  the  popish  saints  are  down, 

Then  Barrow  shall  be  sainted. 
There's  neither  cross  nor  crucifix 

Shall  stand  for  men  to  see ; 
Rome's  trash  and  trumperies  shall  go  down. 

And  hey  !  then  up  go  we  ! 

#  #  #  # 
We'll  down  with  all  the  '  Varsities, 

Where  learning  is  profest, 
Because  they  practise  and  maintain 

The  language  of  the  beast. 
We'll  drive  the  doctors  out  of  doors. 

And  arts,  whate'er  they  be  ; 
We'll  cry  both  arts  and  learning  down, 

And  hey  !  then  up  go  we  ! 

#  *  *  * 
K  once  that  Antichristian  crew 

Be  cmsh'd  and  overthrown, 
We'U  teach  the  nobles  how  to  crouch. 

And  keep  the  gentry  down. 
Good  manners  have  an  ill  report, 

And  turn  to  pride,  we  see ; 
We'll  therefore  cry  good  manners  down. 

And  hey !  then  up  go  we  ! 

The  name  of  lord  shall  be  abhorr'd. 

For  every  man's  a  brother ; 
No  reason  why,  in  church  or  state, 

One  man  should  rule  another. 
But  when  the  change  of  government 

Shall  set  our  fingers  free, 
We'U  make  the  wanton  sisters  stoop 

And  hey  !  then  up  go  we ! 

Our  cobblers  shall  translate  their  souls, 
From  caves  obscure  and  shady ; 

We'U  make  Tom  T  *     *  as  good  as  my  lord, 
And  Joan  as  good  as  my  lady. 


We'U  crush  and  fling  the  marriage  ring 

Into  the  Eioman  see ; 
We'U  ask  no  bands,  but  e'en  clap  hands, 

And  hey !  then  up  go  we  ! 

Francis  Quarles. — About  1640. 


297.— SOSPETTO  D'  HEEODE.     LIB.  I. 

*  #  *  * 

Below  the  bottom  of  the  great  abyss. 
There  where  one  centre  reconcUes  all  things ; 
The   world's    profound    heart    pants;    there 

placed  is 
Mischief's  old  master,  close  about  him  clings 
A  curl'd  knot  of  embracing  snakes,  that  kiss 
His  correspondent   cheeks;   these  loathsome 
strings 
Hold  the  perverse  prince  in  eternal  ties, 
Fast  bound,  since  first  he  forfeited  the  skies. 


From  death's  sad  shades,  to  the  life-breathing 

air. 
This  mortal  enemy  to  mankind's  good. 
Lifts  his  malignant  eyes,  wasted  with  care. 
To  become  beautiful  in  human  blood. 
Where  Jordan  melts  his  crystal,  to  make  fair 
The  fields  of  Palestine  with  so  pure  a  flood ; 
There  does  he  fix  his  eyes,  and  there  detect 
New  matter  to  make  good  his  great  suspect. 

He  caUs  to  mind  the  old  quarrel,  and  what 

spark 
Set  the  contending  sons  of  heaven  on  fire  : 
Oft  in  his  deep  thought  he  revolves  the  dark 
SybUs'  divining  leaves  ;  he  does  inquire 
Into  the  old  prophecies,  trembUng  to  mark 
How  many  present  prodigies  conspire 

To  crown  their  past  predictions,  both  he 

lays 
Together,    in    his    ponderous    mind    both 

weighs. 

Heaven's  golden- winged  herald,  late  he  saw 

To  a  poor  GalUean  virgin  sent : 

How  low  the  bright  youth  bow'd,  and  with 
what  awe 

Immortal  flowers  to  her  fair  hand  present. 

He  saw  the  old  Hebrew's  womb  neglect  the 
law 

Of  age  and  barrenness,  and  her  babe  prevent 
His  birth  by  his  devotion,  who  began 
Betimes  to  be  a  saint,  before  a  man. 

He  saw  rich  nectar  thaws  release  the  rigour 
Of  the  icy  north,   from   frost-bound   Atlas' 

hands 
His  adamantine  fetters  fall ;  green  vigour 
Gladding    the   Scythian    rocks,    andw  Libyan 

sands. 
He  saw  a  vernal  smUe  sweetly  disfigure 
Winter's  sad  face,  and  through  the  flowery 

lands 
Of  fair  Engaddi's  honey- sweating  fountains. 
With  manna,  mUk,  and  balm,  new  broach 

the  mountains.  -  „ 


ElCHARD  CrASHAW.] 


SOSPETTO  D'  HEEODE. 


[Third  Period.- 


He  saw  how  in  that  blest  day-bearing  night, 
The  heaven-rebuked  shades  made  haste  away ; 
How  bright  a  dawn  of  angels  with  new  Hght, 
Amazed  the  midnight  world,  and  made  a  day 
Of  which  the  morning  knew  not ;  mad  with 

spite. 
He  mark'd  how  the  poor  Shepherds  ran  to  pay 
Their  simple  tribute  to  the  babe,  whose  birth 
Was  the  great  business  both  of  heaven  and 
earth. 

He  saw  a  threefold  sun,  with  rich  increase, 
Make  proud  the  ruby  portals  of  the  east. 
He  saw  the  temple  sacred  to  sweet  peace. 
Adore  her  prince's  birth,  flat  on  her  breast. 
He  saw  the  falling  idols  all  confess 
A  coming  Deity.     He  saw  the  nest 

Of  poisonous  and  unnatural  loves,   earth- 
nurst, 

Touch' d  with  the  world's  true  antidote  to 
burst. 

He   saw  Heaven  blossom  with  a  new-bom 

ligbt. 
On  which,  as  on  a  glorious  stranger,  gazed 
The  golden  eyes  of  night,  whose  beam  made 

bright 
The  way  to  Beth'lem,  and  as  boldly  blazed 
(Nor  ask'd  leave  of  the  sun),  by  day  as  night. 
By  whom  (as  Heaven's  illustrious  handmaid) 

raised 
Three  kings  (or  what  is  more)  three  wise 

men  went 
Westward,  to  find  the  world's  true  orient. 

*  *  #  * 

That  the  great  angel-blinding  light  should 

shrink 
His  blaze,  to  shine  in  a  poor  shepherd's  eye. 
That  the  unmeasured  God  so  low  should  sink, 
As  pris'ner  in  a  few  poor  rags  to  lie. 
That  from  his  mother's  breast  he  milk  should 

drink. 
Who  feeds  with  nectar  Heaven's  fair  family, 
That   a  vile  manger  his   low  bed   should 

prove, 
Who  in  a  throne  of  stars  thunders  above. 

That  he  whom  the  sun  serves,  should  faintly 

peep 
Through  clouds  of  infant  flesh :  that  he  the 

old 
Eternal  Word  should  be  a  child  and  weep  : 
That  he  who  made  the  fire  should  fear  the 

cold: 
That  Heaven's  high  Majesty  his  court  should 


In  a  clay  cottage,  by  each  blast  controU'd : 
That  glory's  self  should  serve  our  griefs  and 

fears, 
And  free  eternity  submit  to  years. 

And  further,  that  the  law's  eternal  Giver 
Should  bleed  in  his  own  law's  obedience ; 
And  to  the  circumcising  knife  deliver 
Himself,  the  forfeit  of  his  slave's  offence. 
That  the  unblemish'd  Lamb,  blessed  for  ever, 
Should  take  the  mark  of  sin,  and  pain  of  sense. 


These  are  the  knotty  riddles,  whose  dark 

doubt 
Entangles  his  lost  thoughts  past  getting  out : 

While   new  thoughts   boil'd   in   his    enraged 

breast, 
His  gloomy  bosom's  darke&t  character 
Was  in  his  shady  forehead  seen  express'd. 
The   forehead's    shade   in   grief's   expression 

there. 
Is  what  in  sign  of  joy  among  the  blest. 
The  face's  lightning,  or  a  smUe  is  here. 

Those  stings  of  care  that  his  strong  heart 

opprest, 
A  desperate  Oh  me !  drew  from  his  deep 
breast. 

Oh  me  !  (thus  bellow' d  he) ;  oh  me !  what  great 
Portents  before  mine  eyes  their  powers  ad- 
vance ? 
And  serve  my  purer  sight,  only  to  beat 
Down  my  proud  thought,  and  leave  it  in  a 

trance  ? 
Frown  I,  and  can  great  Nature  keep  her  seat  ? 
And  the  gay  stars  lead  on  their  golden  dance ; 
Can  his  attempts  above  still  prosperous  be^ 
Auspicious  still,  in  spite  of  hell  and  me  ? 

He  has  my  Heaven  (what  would  he  more?) 

whose  bright 
And  radiant  sceptre  this  bold  hand  should  bear. 
And  for  the  never-fading  fields  of  light. 
My  fair  inheritance,  he  confines  me  here 
To  this  dark  house  of  shades,  horror,  and 

night, 
To  draw  a   long-lived  death,   where  all  my 

cheer 
Is  the  solemnity  my  sorrow  wears. 
That   mankind's   torment   waits   upon  my 

tears. 

Dark  dusky  man,  he  needs  would  single  forth, 
To  make  the  partner  of  his  own  pure  ray  : 
And  should  we  powers  of  Heaven,  spirits  of 

worth, 
Bow  our  bright  heads  before  a  king  of  clay  ? 
It  shall  not  be,  said  I ;  and  clomb  the  north, 
Where  never  wing  of  angel  yet  made  way. 

What  though  I  miss'd   my  blow  ?    yet   I 
struck  high, 

And  to  dare  something,  is  some  victory. 

Is  he  not  satisfied  ?  means  he  to  wrest 
Hell  from  me  too,  and  sack  my  territories  ? 
VUe  human  nature,  means  he  not  t'  invest 
(O  my  despite  !)  with  his  divinest  glories  ? 
And  rising  with  rich  spoils  upon  his  breast. 
With  his  fair  triumphs  fill  all  future  stories  ? 

Must  the  bright  arms  of  heaven  rebuke  these 
eyes? 

Mock  me,  and  dazzle  my  dark  mysteries  ? 

Art  thou  not  Lucifer  ?  he  to  whom  the  droves 
Of  stars  that  gild  the  mom  in  charge  were 

given? 
The  nimblest  of  the  lightning- winged  loves  ? 
The    fairest,    and    the    first    born    smile   of 

Heaven  ? 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


HYMN  TO  THE  NAME  OF  JESUS. 


fRlCHAED  CeASHAW. 


Look  in  what  pomp  the  mistress  planet  moves, 
Rev'rently  circled  by  the  lesser  seven  ; 

Such  and  so  rich,  the  flames  that  from 
thine  eyes 

Oppress'd  the  common  people  of  the  skies. 

Ah,  wretch  !  what  boots  thee  to  cast  back  thy 

eyes 
Where   dawning   hope   no  beam  of   comfort 

shows  ? 
While  the  reflection  of  thy  forepast  joys 
Renders  thee  double  to  thy  present  woes. 
Rather  make  up  to  thy  new  miseries, 
And  meet  the  mischief  that  upon  thee  grows. 
If  hell  must  mourn,  heaven  sure  shall  sym- 
pathise. 
What  force  cannot  effect,  fraud  shall  de- 
vise. 

And  yet  whose  force  fear  I  ?  have  I  so  lost 
Myself  ?  my  strength  too  with  my  innocence  ? 
Come,  try  who  dares,  heaven,  earth,  whate'er 

dost  boast 
A  borrow' d  being,  make  thy  bold  defence. 
Come  thy  Creator  too,  what  though  it  cost 
Me  yet  a  second  fall  ?  we'd  try  our  strengths. 
Heavens  saw  us  struggle  once :  as  brave  a 

fight 
Earth  now  shall  see,  and  tremble  at  the 
sight. 

Richard  Crasliaw. — About  1640. 


298.— HYMN  TO  THE  NAME  OF  JESUS. 

I  sing  the  Name  which  none  can  say. 
But  touch' d  with  an  interior  ray  ; 
The  name  of  our  new  peace ;  our  good  ; 
Our  bliss,  and  supernatural  blood ; 
The  name  of  all  our  lives  and  loves  : 
Hearken  and  help,  ye  holy  doves  ! 
The  high-born  brood  of  day ;  you  bright 
Candidates  of  blissful  light. 
The  heirs  elect  of  love  ;  whose  names  belong 
Unto  the  everlasting  life  of  song  ; 
All  ye  wise  souls,  who  in  the  wealthy  breast 
Of  this  unbounded  Name  build  your  warm  nest. 
Awake,  my  glory  !  soul  (if  such  thou  be. 
And  that  fair  word  at  all  refer  to  thee), 
Awake  and  sing, 
And  be  all  wing  ! 
Bring  hither  thy  whole  self ;  and  let  me  see 
What  of  thy  parent  heaven  yet  speaks  in  thee. 
0  thou  art  poor 
Of  noble  powers,  I  see. 
And  full  of  nothing  else  but  empty  me  ; 
Narrow  and  low,  and  infinitely  less 
Than  this  great  morning's  mighty  business. 
One  little  world  or  two, 
Alas  !  will  never  do ; 
We  must  have  store  ; 
Go,  soul,  out  of  thyself,  and  seek  for  more  ; 

Go  and  request 
Great  Nature  for  the  key  of  her  huge  chest 
Of  heav'ns,  the  seK-involving  set  of  spheres. 
Which  dull  mortality  more  feels  than  heajs  ; 
Then  rouse  the  nest 


Of  nimble  art,  and  traverse  round 

The  airy  shop  of  soul-appeasing  sound : 

And  beat  a  summons  in  the  same 
All- sovereign  name, 

To  warn  each  several  kind 

And  shape  of  sweetness — be  they  such 

As  sigh  with  supple  wind      ~    ~ 
Or  answer  artful  touch- — 

That  they  convene  and  come  away 

To  wait  at  the   love-crown'd   doors   of  that 
illustrious  day 


Come,  lovely  name !  Hfe  of  our  hope  !  • 

Lo,  we  hold  our  hearts  wide  ope  ! 
Unlock  thy  cabinet  of  day. 
Dearest  sweet,  and  come  away. 

Lo,  how  the  thirsty  lands 
Gasp    for    thy   golden    show'rs,    with    long- 
stretch' d  hands ! 

Lo,  how  the  labouring  earth, 

That  hopes  to  be 

AU  heaven  by  thee. 

Leaps  at  thy  birth  ! 
The  attending  world,  to  wait  thy  rise, 

First  turn'd  to  eyes  ; 
And  then,  not  knowing  what  to  do, 
Turn'd  them  to  tears,  and  spent  them  too. 
Come,  royal  name  !  and  pay  the  expense 
Of  all  this  precious  patience  : 

Oh,  come  away 
And  kill  the  death  of  this  delay. 
Oh  see,  so  many  worlds  of  barren  years 
Melted  and  measur'd  out  in  seas  of  tears  ! 
Oh,  see  the  weary  lids  of  wakeful  hope 
(Love's  eastern  vdndows)  all  wide  ope 

W7th  curtains  drawn. 
To  catch  the  daybreak  of  thy  dawn ! 
Oh,  dawn  at  last,  long-look'd  for  day  ! 
Take  thine  own  wings  and  come  away. 
Lo,  where  aloft  it  comes? !     It  comes,  among 
The  conduct  of  adoring  spirits,  that  throng 
Like  diligent  bees,  and  swarm  about  it. 

Oh,  they  are  wise. 
And  know  what  sweets  are  suck'd  from  but  it. 

It  is  the  hive 

By  which  they  thrive. 
Where  aU  their  hoard  of  honey  lies. 
Lo,  where  it  comes,  upon  the  snowy  dove's 
Soft  back,  and  brings  a  bosom  big  with  loves. 
Welcome  to  our  dark  world,  thou  womb  of  day ! 
Unfold  thy  fair  conceptions ;  and  display 
The  birth  of  our  bright  joys. 

Oh,  thou  compacted 
Body  of  blessings  !  spirit  of  souls  extracted  ! 
Oh,  dissipate  thy  spicy  powers. 
Cloud  of  condensed  sweets  !  and  break  upon  us 

In  balmy  showers ! 
Oh,  fill  our  senses,  and  take  from  us 
All  force  of  so  profane  a  fallacy. 
To  think  aught  sweet  but  that  which  smells 

of  thee. 
Fair  flow'ry  name  !  in  none  but  thee. 
And  thy  nectareal  fragrancy. 

Hourly  there  meets 
An  universal  synod  of  aU  sweets ;  ,  o# 


ElCHABD  CrASHAW.J 


SFDDEN  CHANGE. 


[Third  Period. — 


By  whom  it  is  defined  thus — 

That  no  perfume 

For  ever  shall  presume 
To  pass  for  odoriferous, 
But  such  alone  whose  sacred  pedigree 
Can  prove  itself  some  kin,  sweet  name !  to  thee. 
Sweet  name  !  in  thy  each  syllable, 
A  thousand  blest  Arabias  dwell ; 
A  thousand  hills  of  frankincense  ; 
Mountains  of  myrrh  and  beds  of  spices, 
And  ten  thousand  paradises, 
The  soul  that  tastes  thee  takes  from  thence. 
How  many  unknown  worlds  there  are 
Of  comforts,  which  thou  hast  in  keeping ! 
How  many  thousand  mercies  there 
In  pity's  soft  lap  lie  a-sleeping  ! 
Happy  he  who  has  the  art 

To  awake  them. 

And  to  take  them 
Home,  and  lodge  them  in  his  heart. 
Oh,  that  it  were  as  it  was  wont  to  be. 
When  thy  old  friends,  on  fire  all  full  of  thee, 
Fought  against    frowns   with    smiles  ;    gave 

glorious  chase" 
To  persecutions  ;  and  against  the  face 
Of  death  and  fiercest  dangers,  durst  with  brave 
And  sober  pace  march  on  to  meet  a  grave. 
On  their  bold  breasts  about  the  world  they 

bore  thee. 
And  to  the  teeth  of  hell  stood  up  to  teach  thee ; 
In  centre  of  their  inmost  souls  they  wore  thee, 
Where  racks  and  torments  striv'd  in  vain  to 
reach  thee. 

Little,  alas !  thought  they 
Who  tore  the  fair  breasts  of  thy  friends, 

Their  fury  but  made  way 
For  thee,  and  serv'd  them  in  thy  glorious  ends. 
What  did  their  weapons,  but  with  wider  pores 
Enlarge  thy  flaming-breasted  lovers. 

More  freely  to  transpire 

That  impatient  fire 
The  heart  that  hides  thee  hardly  covers  ? 
What  did  their  weapons,  but  set  wide  the  doors 
For  thee  ?  fair  purple  doors,  of  love's  devising; 
The  ruby  windows  which  enrich' d  the  east 
Of  thy  so  oft-repeated  rising. 
Each  wound  of  theirs  was  thy  new  morning. 
And  re-enthron'd  thee  in  thy  rosy  nest, 
With   blush    of    thine    own  blood    thy   day 

adorning  : 
It  was  the  wit  of  love  o'erflow'd  the  bounds 
Of  wrath,  and  made  the  way  through  all  these 

wounds. 
Welcome,  dear,  all-adored  name  ! 

For  sure  there  is  no  knee 

That  knows  not  thee  ; 
Or  if  there  be  such  sons  of  shame, 

Alas  !  what  wUl  they  do, 
When  stubborn  rocks  shall  bow. 
And  lulls  hang  dovm  their  heav'n-saluting 
heads 

To  seek  for  humble  beds 
Of  dust,  where,  in  the  bashful  shades  of  night. 
Next  to  their  own  low  nothing  they  may  lie, 
And  couch  before  the  dazzling  light  of  thy 
dread  Majesty. 


They  that  by  love's  mild  dictate  now 

Will  not  adore  thee. 
Shall  then,  with  just  confusion,  bow 

And  break  before  thee. 

Richard  Crashaw. — About  1640. 


299.— SUDDEN  CHANGE. 

I've  seen,  indeed,  the  hopeful  bud 

Of  a  ruddy  rose,  that  stood, 

Blushing  to  behold  the  ray 

Of  the  new-saluted  day ; 

His  tender  top  not  fully  spread ; 

The  sweet  dash  of  a  shower  new  shed, 

Invited  him  no  more  to  hide 

Within  himself  the  purple  pride 

Of  his  forward  flower,  when  lo. 

While  he  sweetly  'gan  to  show 

His  swelling  glories,  Auster  spied  him  ; 

Cruel  Auster  thither  hied  him, 

And  with  the  rush  of  one  rude  blast 

Sham'd  not  spitefully  to  waste 

All  his  leaves  so  fresh  and  sweet. 

And  lay  them  trembling  at  his  feet. 

I've  seen  the  morning's  lovely  ray 

Hover  o'er  the  new-born  day. 

With  rosy  wings,  so  richly  bright. 

As  if  he  scorn' d  to  think  of  night. 

When  a  ruddy  storm,  whose  scowl 

Made  Heaven's  radiant  face  look  foul, 

Call'd  for  an  untimely  night 

To  blot  the  newly-blossom'd  light. 

Bicltayrd  CrasJmw. — About  1640. 


300.— MUSIC'S   DUEL. 

Now  westward  Sol  had  spent  the  richest  beams 
Of  noon's    high   glory,   when,    hard   by  the 

streams 
Of  Tiber,  on  the  scene  of  a  green  plat, 
Under  protection  of  an  oak,  there  sat 
A  sweet  lute's  master ;  in  whose  gentle  airs 
He  lost  the  day's  heat,  and  his  own  hot  cares. 
Close  in  the  covert  of  the  leaves  there  stood 
A  nightingale,  come   from  the  neighbouring 

wood 
(The  sweet  inliabitant  of  each  glad  tree. 
Their  muse,  their  syren,  harmless  syren  she)  : 
There  stood  she  list'ning,  and  did  entertain 
The  music's  soft  report :  and  mould  the  same 
In  her  own  murmurs  ;  that  whatever  mood 
His  curious  fingers  lent,  her  voice  made  good. 
The  man  perceiv'd  his  rival,  and  her  art, 
Dispos'd  to  give  the  light-foot  lady  sport. 
Awakes  his  lute,  and  'gainst  the  fight  to  coino 
Informs  it  in  a  sweet  praeludium 
Of  closer  strains,  and  e'er  the  war  begin. 
He  lightly  skirmishes  on  every  string 
Charged  with  a  flying  touch ;  and  straightway 

she 
Carves  out  her  dainty  voice  as  readily. 
Into  a  thousand  sweet  distinguish'd  tones. 
And  reckons  up  in  soft  divisions 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


MUSIC'S  DUEL. 


[ElCHARD  CrASHAW. 


Quick  volumes  of  wild  notes,  to  let  him  know, 
JBy  that  shrill  taste,  she  could  do  something  too. 

His  nimble  hand's  instinct  then  taught  each 
string 
A  cap'ring  cheerfulness,  and  made  them  sing 
To  their  own  dance  ;  now  neghgently  rash 
He  throws  his  arm,  and  with  a  long-drawn  dash 
Blends  all  together  ;  then  distinctly  trips 
From  this  to  that,  then  quick  returning,  skips 
And  snatches  this  again,  and  pauses  there. 
She  measures  every  measure,  everywhere 
Meets  art  with  art ;  sometimes,  as  if  in  doubt 
Not  perfect  yet,  and  fearing  to  be  out, 
Trails  her  plain  ditty  in  one  long-spun  note, 
Through  the  sleek  passage  of  her  open  throat, 
A  clear  un wrinkled  song;  then  doth  she  point  it 
With  tender  accents,  and  severely  joint  it 
By  short  diminutives,  that,  being  rear'd 
In  controverting  warbles,  evenly  shar'd, 
With  her  sweet  seK  she  wrangles  ;  he  amaz'd, 
That  from  so  small  a  channel  should  be  rais'd 
The  torrent  of  a  voice,  whose  melody 
Could  melt  into  such  sweet  variety, 
Strains  higher  yet,  that,  tickled  with  rare  art, 
The  tattling  strings,  each  breathing  in  his  part, 
Most  kindly  do  fall  out ;  the  grumbling  base 
In  surly  groans  disdains  the  treble's  grace  ; 
The  high-perch't  treble  chirps   at   this,  and 

chides, 
Untn  his  finger  (moderator)  hides 
And  closes  the  sweet  quan-el,  rousing  all 
Hoarse,  shrill  at  once  ;  as  when  the  trumpets 

caU 
Hot  Mars  to  th'  harvest  of  death's  field,  and 

woo 
Men's  nearts  into  their  hands  :  this  lesson  too 
She  gives  them  back  :  her  supple  breast  thrills 

out 
Sharp  airs,  and  staggers  in  a  warbling  doubt 
Of  dallying  sweetness,  hovers  o'er  her  skill, 
And  folds  in  wav'd  notes,  with  a  trembling  bill. 
The  pliant  series  of  her  slippery  song ; 
Then  starts  she  suddenly  into  a  throng 
Of  short  thick  sobs,  whose  thund'ring  volleys 

float, 
And  roll  themselves  over  her  lubric  throat 
In  panting  murmurs,  still'd  out  of  her  breast; 
That  ever-bubbling  spring,  the  sugar' d  nest 
Of  her  delicious  soul,  that  there  does  lie 
Bathing  in  streams  of  liquid  melody  ; 
Music's  best  seed-plot ;  when  in  ripen'd  airs 
A  golden-headed  harvest  fairly  rears 
His  honey-dropping  tops,    plough'd    by   her 

breath 
Which  there  reciprocally  laboureth. 
In  that  sweet  soil  it  seems  a  holy  quire. 
Sounded  to  th'  name  of  great  Apollo's  lyre  ; 
Whose  silver  roof  rings  with   the  sprightly 

notes 
Of  sweet-lipp'd  angel-imps,    that  swiU  their 

throats 
In  cream  of  morning  Helicon,  and  then 
Prefer  soft  anthems  to  the  ears  of  men. 
To  woo  them  from  their  beds,  still  murmuring 
That  men  can  sleep  while  they  their  matins 

sing 


(Most  divine  service) :  whose  so  early  lay 
Prevents  the  eyelids  of  the  blushing  day. 
There  might  you  hear  her  kindle  her  soft  voice, 
In  the  close  murmur  of  a  sparkling  noise ; 
And  lay  the  ground- work  of  her  hopeful  song, 
Still  keeping  in  the  forward  stream  so  long, 
Till  a  sweet  whirlwind  (striving  to  get  oat) 
Heaves  her  soft  bosom,  wanders  round  about. 
And  makes  a  pretty  earthquake  in  her  breast. 
Till  the  fledged  notes  at  length  forsake  their 

nest. 
Fluttering  in  wanton  shoals,  and  to  the  sky, 
Wing' d  with  their  OAvn  wild  echoes,  prattHngfly. 
She  opes  the  flood-gate,  and  lets  loose  a  tide 
Of  streaming  sweetness,  which  in  state  doth 

ride 
On  the  wav'd  back  of  every  swelling  strain, 
Eising  and  falling  in  a  pompous  train, 
And  while  she  thus  discharges  a  shrill  peal 
Of  flashing  airs,  she  qualifies  their  zeal 
With  the  cool  epode  of  a  graver  note  ; 
Thus  high,  thus  low,  as  if  her  silver  throat 
Would  reach  the  brazen  voice  of  war's  hoarse 

bird; 
Her  little  soul  is  ravish'd,  and  so  pour'd 
Into  loose  ecstacies,  that  she  is  plac'd 
Above  herself,  music's  enthusiast. 

Shame  now  and  anger  mix'd  a  double  stain 
In  the  musician's  face  :  "  yet,  once  again. 
Mistress,  I  come  :  now  reach  a  strain,  my  lute. 
Above  her  mock,  or  be  for  ever  mute. 
Or  tune  a  song  of  victory  to  me, 
Or  to  thyself  sing  thine  own  obsequ5^" 
So  said,  his  hands  sprightly  as  fire  he  flings. 
And   with   a   quavering    coyness    tastes   the 

strings : 
The  sweet-lipp'd  sisters  musically  frighted. 
Singing  their  fears,  are  fearfully  delighted : 
Trembling  as  when  Apollo's  golden  hairs 
Are  fann'd  and  frizzled  in  the  wanton  airs 
Of  his  own  breath,  which,  married  to  his  lyre. 
Doth  tune  the  spheres,  and  make  heaven's  self 

look  higher ; 
From  this  to  that,  from  that  to  this  he  flies. 
Feels  music's  pulse  in  all  her  arteries ; 
Caught  in  a  net  which  there  Apollo  spreads, 
His  fingers  struggle  with  the  vocal  threads, 
Following  those  little  rills,  he  sinks  into 
A  sea  of  Helicon  ;  his  hand  does  go 
Those  parts  of  sweetness  which  with  nectar 

drop. 
Softer  than  that  which  pants  in  Hebe's  cup  : 
The  humorous    strings   expound   his   learned 

touch 
By  various  glosses  ;  now  they  seem  to  grutch, 
And  murmur  in  a  buzzing  din,  then  gingle 
In  shrill-tongued  accents,  striving  to  be  single; 
Every  smooth  turn,  every  delicious  stroke 
Gives  life  to  some  new  grace  ;    thus  doth  he 

invoke 
Sweetness  by  aU  her  names :  thus,  bravely  thus 
(Fraught  with  a  fury  so  harmonious) 
The  lute's  light  genius  now  does  proudly  rise, 
Heav'd  on  the  surges  of  SAvoll'n  rhapsodies ; 
Whose  flourish  (meteor-like)  doth  curl  the  air 
With  flash  of  high-born  fancies,  here  and  there 


ElCHARD  CrASHAW.] 


MAEK  XII.  17. 


[Third  Period.- 


Dancing  in  lofty  measures,  and  anon 
Creeps  on  the  soft  touch  of  a  tender  tone, 
Whose  trembling  murmurs,  melting  in  wildairs, 
Run  to  and  fro,  complaining  his  sweet  cares  ; 
Because  those  precious  mj^steries  that  dwell 
In  music's  ravish' d  soul  he  dare  not  tell, 
But  whisper  to  the  world  :  thus  do  they  vary, 
Each  string  his  note,  as  if  they  meant  to  carry 
Their  master's  blest  soul  (snatch'd  out  at  his 

ears 
By  a  strong  ecstacy)  through  all  the  spheres 
Of  music's  heaven ;  and  seat  it  there  on  high, 
In  th'  empyreum  of  pure  harmony. 
At  length  (after  so  long,  so  loud  a  strife 
Of  all  the  strings,  still  breathing  the  best  life 
Of  blest  variety,  attending  on 
His  fingers'  fairest  revolution. 
In  many  a  sweet  rise,  many  as  sweet  a  fall) 
A  full-mouth'd  diapason  swallows  all. 

This  done,  he  lists  what  she  would  say  to 
this  ; 
And  she,  although  her  breath's  late  exercise 
Had  dealt  too  roughly  with  her  tender  throat. 
Yet  summons  all  her  sweet  powers  for  a  note. 
Alas  !  in  vain  !  for  while  (sweet  soul)  she  tries 
To  measure  all  those  wide  diversities 
Of  chatt'ring  strings,  by  the  small  size  of  one 
Poor  simple  voice,  raised  in  a  natural  tone  ; 
She  fails,  and  failing  grieves,  and  grieving  dies : 
She  dies,  and  leaves  her  life  the  victor's  prize, 
Falling  upon  his  lute  :  Oh  fit  to  have 
(That  lived  so  sweetly)  dead,  so  sweet  a  grave ! 

Richa/rd  Crashaw. — About  1640. 


301.— MAEK  XII.  17. 

All  we  have  is  God's,  and  yet 
CaBsar  challenges  a  debt. 
Nor  hath  God  a  thinner  share, 
"Whatever  Caasar's  payments  are. 
All  is  God's,  and  yet  'tis  true 
All  we  have  is  Caesar's  too  ; 
All  is  Cajsar's,  and,  what  odds, 
So  long  as  Cesar's  self  is  God's  ? 

Richard  Crashavj. — About  1640. 


302.— SUNDAY. 

O  day  most  calm,  most  bright. 
The  fruit  of  this  the  next  world's  bud, 
The  indorsement  of  supreme  delight, 
Writ  by  a  Friend,  and  with  his  blood  ; 
The  couch  of  time,  care's  balm  and  bay  ; 
The  week  were  dark,  but  for  thy  light  j 

Thy  torch  doth  show  the  way. 

The  other  days  and  thou 
Make  up  one  man ;  whose  face  thou  art, 
Knocking  at  heaven  with  thy  brow  : 
The  workydays  are  the  back-part ; 
The  burden  of  the  week  lies  there, 
Making  the  whole  to  stoop  and  bow, 

Till  thy  release  appear. 


Man  had  straight  forward  gone 
To  endless  death  :  bat  thou  dost  pull 
And  turn  us  round,  to  look  on  one. 
Whom,  if  we  were  not  very  dull. 
We  could  not  choose  but  look  on  still ; 
Since  there  is  no  place  so  alone, 

The  which  he  doth  not  fill. 

Sundays  the  pillars  are. 
On  which  heaven's  palace  arched  lies : 
The  other  days  fill  up  the  spare 
And  hollow  room  with  vanities. 
They  are  the  fruitful  beds  and  borders 
In  God's  rich  garden  :  that  is  bare, 

Which  parts  their  ranks  and  orders. 

The  Sundays  of  man's  life. 
Threaded  together  on  Time's  string. 
Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal  glorious  King. 
On  Sunday  heaven's  gate  stands  ope  ; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife — 

More  plentiful  than  hope. 

This  day  my  Saviour  rose, 
And  did  enclose  this  light  for  his  ; 
That,  as  each  beast  his  manger  knows, 
Man  might  not  of  his  fodder  miss. 
Christ  hath  took  in  this  piece  of  ground, 
And  made  a  garden  there  for  those 

Who  want  herbs  for  their  wound. 

The  rest  of  our  creation 
Our  great  Eedeemer  did  remove 
With  the  same  shake,  which  at  his  passion 
Did  the  earth  and  all  things  with  it  move. 
As  Sampson  bore  the  doors  away, 
Christ's  hands,  though  nail'd,  wrought  our 
salvation. 

And  did  unhinge  that  day. 

The  brightness  of  that  day 
We  sullied  by  our  foul  offence  : 
Wherefore  that  robe  we  cast  away, 
Having  a  new  at  his  expense. 
Whose  drops  of  blood  paid  the  full  price, 
That  was  required  to  make  us  gay, 

And  fit  for  paradise. 

Thou  art  a  day  of  mirth  : 
And  where  the  week-days  trail  on  ground, 
Thy  flight  is  higher,  as  thy  birth  : 
O  let  me  take  thee  at  the  bound. 
Leaping  with  thee  from  seven  to  seven. 
Till  that  we  both,  being  toss'd  from  earth. 

Fly  hand  in  hand  to  heaven  ! 

George  Herbert. — About  1630. 


303.— VISTUE. 

Sweet  day !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ; 

The  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 

For  thou  must  die. 
Sweet  rose  !  v/hose  hue,  angry  and  bravo, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye ; 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave  ; 

And  thou  must  die. 


Front  1558  io  1649.] 


COMPLAININa. 


[G-EORGE  Herbert. 


Sweet  spring !  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses ; 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie ; 
Thy  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes ; 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  season' d  timber  never  gives  ; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal. 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

George  Hcrhert— About  1630. 


304.— THE  FLO  WEE. 

How  fresh,  O  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean 
Are    thy   returns  !    e'en    as    the   flowers   in 
spring — 
To  which,  besides  their  own  demean, 
The    late-past    frosts    tributes    of    pleasure 
bring. 

Grief  melts  away 
Like  snow  in  May, 
As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 

Who   would  have    thought   my   shrivell'd 
heart 
Could  have  recover'd  greenness  ?    It  was  gone 

Quite  under  ground ;  as  flow'rs  depart 
To  see   their   mother-root    when    they  have 
blown, 

Where  they  together. 
All  the  hard  weather. 
Dead  to  the  world,  keep  house,  unknown. 

These  are  Thy  wonders,  Lord  of  power : 
Killing  and  quickening,  bringing  down  to  hell 

And  up  to  heaven  in  an  hour  : 
Making  a  chiming  of  a  passing-bell. 
We  say  amiss. 
This  or  that  is, — 
Thy  word  is  all,  if  wo  could  spell. 

0  that  I  once  past  changing  were, 

Fast   in   Thy  paradise,  where  no  flower  can 
wither ! 
Many  a  spring  I  shoot  up  fair. 
Off 'ring   at    heav'n,    growing    and    groaning 
thither ; 

Nor  doth  my  flower 
Want  a  spring  shower, 
My  sins  and  I  joining  together. 

But,  while  I  grow  in  a  straight  Line, 
Still  upwards  bent,  as  if  heav'n  were  mine 
own. 
Thy  anger  comes,  and  I  decline ; 
What  frost  to  that  ?     What  pole  is  not  the 
zone 

Where  all  things  bum. 
When  Thou  dost  turn, 
And  the  least  frown  of  Thine  is  shown. 

And  now  in  age  I  bud  again. 
After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  write ; 

1  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain. 
And  relish  versing ;  0,  my  only  Light, 

It  cannot  be 
That  I  am  he 
On  whom  Thy  tempests  fell  all  night ! 


These  are  Thy  wonders.  Lord  of  love. 

To  make  us  see  we  are  but  flowers   that 
glide ; 
Which  when  we  once  can  find  and  prove. 
Thou  hast  a  garden  for  us  where  to  bide. 
Who  would  be  more, 

Swelling  through  store, 

Forfeit  their  paradise  by  their  pride. 

George  Eerbert. — About  1630. 


305.— THE  ODOUE. 

How  sweetly  doth  My  Master  sound ! — My 
Master ! 
As  ambergris  leaves  a  rich  scent 

Unto  the  taster. 
So  do  these  words  a  sweet  content 
An  Oriental  fragrancy — My  Master ! 

With  these  all  day  I  do  perfume  my  mind, 
My  mind  even  thrust  into  them  both — 

That  I  might  find 
What  cordials  make  this  curious  broth, 
This  broth  of  smells,  that  feeds  and  fata  my 
mind. 

My  Master,  shall  I  speak  ?     0  that  to  Thee 
My  servant  were  a  little  so 
As  flesh  may  be  ! 
That  these  two   words   might   creep   and 
grow 
To  some  degree  of  spiciness  to  Thee  ! 

Then  should  the  pomander,  which  was  before 
A  speaking  sweet,  mend  by  reflection, 

And  tell  me  more  ; 
For  pardon  of  my  imperfection 

Would  warm  and  work  it  sweeter  than  before. 

For  when  My  Master,  which  alone  is  sweet. 
And,  e'en  in  my  un worthiness  pleasing, 

Shall  call  and  meet 
My  servant,  as  Thee  not  displeasing. 

That  call  is  but  the  breathing  of  the  sweet. 

This  breathing  would  with  gains,  by  sweet 'ning 
me, 
(As  sweet  things  traffic  when  they  meet) 

Eetum  to  Thee ; 
And  so  this  new  commerce  and  sweet 
Should  all  my  life  employ,  and  busy  me. 

George  Herbert. — About  1630. 


306.— COMPLAINING. 
Do  not  beguile  my  heart, 
Because  thou  art 
My  power  and  wisdom  !      Put   me  not  to 
shame. 

Because  I  am 
Thy  clay  that  weeps.  Thy  dust  that  calls  ! 

Thou  art  the  Lord  of  Glory — 

The  deed  and  story 
Are  both  Thy  due ;  but  I  a  sUly  fly. 

That  live  or  die, 
According  as  the  weather  falls. 


Geobqe  Herbert,] 


EASTEE. 


[Third  Period. 


Art  Thou  all  justice,  Lord  ? 

Shows  not  Thy  word 
More  attributes  ?     Am  I  all  throat  or  eye, 

To  weep  or  cry  ? 
Have  I  no  parts  but  those  of  grief  ? 

Let  not  Thy  wrathful  power 
Afflict  my  hour, 
My  inch  of  Mfe ;  or  let  Thy  gracious  power 

Contract  my  hour, 
That  I  may  climb  and  find  relief. 

George  Herbert. — About  1630. 


307.— EASTEE. 

Eise,  Heart !    thy  Lord  is   risen.     Sing  His 
praise 

Without  delays 
Who  takes  thee  by  the  hand,  that  thou  like- 


With  Him  may'st  rise — 
That,  as  His  death  calcined  thee  to  dust, 
His  life  may  make  thee  gold,  and  much  more 
just. 

Awake,  my  lute,  and  struggle  for  thy  part 

With  aU  thy  art  I 
The  cross  taught  all  wood  to  resound  His 
name 

Who  bore  the  same  ; 
His  stretched  sinews  taught  all  strings  what 

key 
Is  best  to  celebrate  this  most  high  day. 

Consort  both  harp  and  lute,  and  twist  a  song 

Pleasant  and  long ! 
Or,  since  all  music  is  but  three  parts  vied 

And  multiplied, 

0  let  thy  blessed  Spirit  bear  a  part. 

And  make  up  our  defects  with  His  sweet  art. 

1  got  me  flowers  to  strew  the  way, 
I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree ; 
But  thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day. 

And  brought' st  thy  sweets  along  with  thee. 

The  Sun  arising  in  the  east. 

Though  he  give  light,  and  th'  east  perfume, 

If  they  should  offer  to  contest 

With  thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  be  any  day  but  this, 
Though  many  Suns  to  shine  endeavour  ? 
We  count  three  hundred,  but  we  miss — 
There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 

George  Herbert. — About  1630. 


308.— THE  CALL. 

Come,  my  Way,  my  Truth,  my  Life 
Such  a  Way  as  gives  us  breath ; 

Such  a  Truth  as  ends  all  strife  ; 
Such  a  Life  as  killeth  death. 


Come,  my  Light,  my  Feast,  my  Strength  ! 

Such  a  Light  as  shows  a  feast ; 
Such  a  Feast  as  mends  in  length ; 

Such  a  Strength  as  makes  His  guest. 

Come,  my  Joy,  my  Love,  my  Heart ! 

Such  a  Joy  as  none  can  move ; 
Such  a  Love  as  none  can  part ; 

Such  a  Heart  as  joys  in  love. 

George  Herbert. — Aboiit  1630. 


309. — :mais. 

My  God,  I  heard  this  day 
That  none  doth  build  a  stately  habitation 
But  he  that  means  to  dwell  therein. 
What  house  more  stately  hath  there  been, 
Or  can  be,  than  is  man,  to  whose  creation 

All  things  are  in  decay  ? 

For  man  is  ev'rything. 
And  more  :  he  is  a  tree,  yet  bears  no  fruit  ; 
A  beast,  yet  is,  or  should  be,  more — 
Eeason  and  speech  we  only  bring. 
Parrots  may  thank  us,  if  they  are  not  mute — 

They  go  upon  the  score. 

Man  is  aU  symmetric — 
Full  of  proportions,  one  limb  to  another, 
And  aU  to  all  the  world  besides. 
Each  part  may  call  the  farthest  brother  ; 
For  head  with  foot  hath  private  amitie, 

And  both  with  moons  and  tides. 

Nothing  hath  got  so  farre 
But  man  hath  caught  and  kept  it  as  his  prey^ 
His  eyes  dismount  the  highest  starre ; 
He  is  in  little  all  the  sphere. 
Herbs  gladly  cure  our  flesh,  because  that  they 

Finde  their  acquaintance  there. 

For  us  the  winds  do  blow, 
The    earth    doth    rest,    heaven    move,    and 

fountains  flow. 
Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good. 
As  our  delight,  or  as  our  treasure ; 
The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food 
Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

The  starres  have  us  to  bed — 
Night   draws   the   curtain,  which  the  sunne 

withdraws. 
Musick  and  light  attend  our  head ; 
All  things  unto  our  flesh  are  kinde 
In  their  descent  and  being — to  our  minde 
In  their  ascent  and  cause. 

Each  thing  is  f  uU  of  dutie : 
Waters  united  are  our  navigation — 
Distinguished,  our  habitation ; 
Below,  our  drink — above,  our  meat ; 
Both  are  our  cleanlinesse.      Hath  one  such 
beautie  ? 

Then  how  are  all  things  neat  ? 


From  1558  to  1649.]  THE  SOECEEEES  OF  VAIN  DELIGHTS. 


[Giles  Fletcher. 


More  servants  wait  on  man 
Than  he'll  take  notice  of.     In  ev'ry  path 
He  treads   down   that   which  doth  befriend 

him 
When  sicknesse  makes  him  pale  and  wan. 
O  mightie  love  !    Man  is  one  world,  and  hath 
Another  to  attend  him. 

Since  then,  my  God,  Thou  hast 
So  brave  a  palace  built,  O  dwell  in  it, 
That  it  may  dwell  with  Thee  at  last ! 
Till  then  afford  us  so  much  wit 
That,  as  the  world  serves  us,  we  may  serve 
Thee, 

And  both  Thy  servants  be. 

George  Herbert. — About  1630. 


310.— THE  EAIKBOW. 

High  in  the  airy  element  there  hung 
Another  cloudy  sea,  that  did  disdain, 
As    though    his   purer    waves    from    heaven 

sprung. 
To  crawl  on  earth,  as  doth  the  sluggish  main : 
But  it  the  earth  would  water  vnth.  his  rain, 
That   ebb'd   and  flow'd  as  wind   and  season 

would ; 
And  oft  the  sun  would  cleave  the  limber  mould 
To  alabaster  rocks,  that  in  the  liquid  roU'd. 

Beneath  those  sunny  banks  a  darker  cloud, 
Dropping  with  thicker  dew,  did  melt  apace, 
And  bent  itseK  into  a  hollow  shroud, 
On  which,  if  Mercy  did  but  cast  her  face, 
A  thousand  colours  did  the  bow  enchase, 
That  wonder  was  to  see  the  silk  distain'd 
"With  the  resplendence  from  her  beauty  gain'd. 
And  Iris  paint  her  locks  with  beams  so  lively 
feign' d. 

About  her  head  a  cypress  heaven  she  wore, 
Spread  like  a  veil,  upheld  with  silver  wire, 
In  which  the  stars  so  burnt  in  golden  ore. 
As  seem'd  the  azure  web  was  all  on  fire  : 
But  hastily,  to  quench  their  sparkling  ire, 
A  flood  of  milk  came  rolling  up  the  shore. 
That  on  his  curded  wave  swift  Argus  wore. 
And   the   immortal  swan,   that   did   her  life 
deplore. 

Yet  strange  it  was  so  many  stars  to  see. 
Without  a  sun  to  give  their  tapers  light ; 
Yet  strange  it  was  not  that  it  so  should  bo ; 
For,  where  the  sun  centres  himself  by  right, 
Her  face  and  locks  did  flame,  that  at  the  sight 
The   heavenly  veil,  that  else   should  nimbly 

move, 
Forgot  his  flight,  and  all  incensed  with  love. 
With  wonder  and  amazement,  did  her  beauty 

prove. 

Over  her  hung  a  canopy  of  state. 
Not  of  rich  tissue  nor  of  spangled  gold, 
But  of  a  substance,  though  not  animate, 
Yet  of  a  heavenly  and  spiritual  mould. 
That  only  eyes  of  spirits  might  behold  : 
Such  light  as  from  main  rocks  of  diamond, 


Shooting  their  sparks  at  Phoebus,  would  re- 
bound, 

And  little  angels,  holding  hands,   danced  all 
around. 

Giles  Fletcher. — About  1610. 


311.- 


-THE  SOECEEEES  OF  VAIN 
DELIGHTS. 


Here  did  Presumption  her  pavilion  spread 
Over  the  temple,  the  bright  stars  among, 
(Ah,  that  her  foot  should  trample  on  the  head 
Of  that  most  reverend  place !)  and  a  lewd  throng 
Of  wanton  boys  sung  her  a  pleasant  song 
Of  love,  long  life,  of  mercy,  and  of  grace, 
And  every  one  her  dearly  did  embrace, 

And  she  herself  enamour' d  was  of  her  own  face, 

• 
A  painted  face,  belied  with  vermeyl  store. 
Which  light  Euelpis  every  day  did  trim. 
That  in  one  hand  a  gilded  anchor  wore, 
Not  fixed  on  the  rock,  but  on  the  brim 
Of  the  wide  air,  she  let  it  loosely  swim ! 
Her  other  hand  a  sprinkle  carried. 
And  ever  when  her  lady  wavered. 
Court  holy- water  all  upon  her  sprinkled. 

Poor  fool!    she  thought  herself  in  wondrous 

price 
With  God,  as  if  in  Paradise  she  were  : 
But,  were  she  not  in  a  fool's  paradise. 
She  might  have  seen  more  reason  to  despair  : 
But  him  she,  like  some  ghastly  fiend,  did  fear. 

And  therefore  as  that  wretch  hew'd  out  his 
ceU 

Under  the  bowels,  in  the  heart  of  HeU ; 
So  she  above  the  Moon,  amid  the  stars  would 

dweU. 

Her  tent  with  sunny  clouds  was  ciel'd  alcft. 
And  so  exceeding  shone  with  a  false  light. 
That  Heav'n  itseK  to  her  it  seemed  oft, 
Heav'n  without  clouds  to  her  deluded  sight ; 
But  clouds  withouten  Heav'n  it  was  aright  : 
And  as  her  house  was  buUt,  so  did  her  brain 
Build  castles  in  the  a^r,  with  idle  pain. 
But  heart  she  never  had  in  all  her  body  vain. 

Like  as  a  ship,  in  which  no  balance  lies. 
Without  a  pUot  on  the  sleeping  waves. 
Fairly  along  with  wind  and  water  flies. 
And  painted  masts  with  silken  sails  embraves. 
That  Neptune's  self  the  bragging  vessel  saves, 

To  laugh  a  while  at  her  so  proud  array ; 

Her  waving  streamers  loosely  she  lets  play. 
And  flagging  colours  shine  as  bright  as  smiling 

day: 

But  all  so  soon  as  Heav'n  his  brows  doth  bend. 
She  veils  her  banners,  and  pulls  in  her  beams, 
The  empty  bark  the  raging  billows  send 
Up  to  th'  Olympic  waves,  and  Argus  seems 
Again  to  ride  upon  our  lower  streams  : 
Eight  so  Presumption  did  herself  behave. 
Tossed  about  with  every  stormy  wave, 
And  in  white  lawn  she  went,  most  like  an  angel 
brave. 


Giles  Fletcher.]  THE  SOECEEEES  OF  VAIN  DELIGHTS.  [Third  Period. 


Gently  our  Saviour  she  began  to  shriv  e, 
Whether  he  were  the  Son  of  God,  or  no ; 
For  any  other  she  disdain' d  to  -wife  : 
And  if  he  were,  she  bid  him  fearless  throw 
Himself  to  ground ;  and  therewithal  did  show 
A  flight  of  little  angels,  that  did  wait 
Upon  their  glittering  Avings,   to  latch  him 
straight ; 
And  longed  on  their  backs  to  feel  his  glorious 
weight. 

But  when  she  saw  her  speech  prevailed  nought, 
Herself  she  tumbled  headlong  to  the  floor : 
But  him  the  angels  on  their  feathers  caught, 
And  to  an  airy  mountain  nimbly  bore, 
''^Tiose   snowy   shoulders,   like    some   chalky 
shore, 
Eestless  Olympus  seem'd  to  rest  upon 
With  aU  his  swimming-  globes  :   so  both  are 
gone 
The   Dragon   with   the   Lamb.      Ah,  unmeet 
paragon ! 

All  suddenly  the  hill  his  snow  devours. 
In  lieu  whereof  a  goodly  garden  grew. 
As  if  the  snow  had  melted  into  flow'rs,   . 
Which  their  sweet  breath  in  subtle  vapours 

threw : 
That  all  about  perfumed  spirits  flew. 

For  whatsoever  might  aggrate  the  sense, 
In  all  the  world,  or  please  the  appetence. 
Here  it  was  poured  out  in  lavish  afiluence. 

Not  lovely  Ida  might  with  this  compare, 
Though  many  streams  his  banks  besilvered, 
Though  Xanthus  with  his  golden  sands  he  bare : 
Nor  Hybla,  though  his  thyme  depastured. 
As  fast  again  with  honey  blossomed : 
No  Ehodope,  no  Tempe's  flow'ry  plain  : 
Adonis'  garden  Avas  to  this  but  vain, 
Though  Plato  on  his  beds  a  flood  of  praise 

did  rain. 
For  in  all  these  some  one  thing  most  did  grow, 
But  in  this  one  grew  all  things  else  beside  ; 
For  sweet  Variety  herself  did  throw 
To  every  bank,  here  all  the  ground  she  dide 
In  lily  white,  there  pinks  eblazed  white. 

And  damask  all  the  earth;  and  here  she  shed 
Blue  violets,  and  there  came  roses  red  : 
And  every  sight  the  yielding  sense  as  captive 
led. 

The  garden  like  a  lady  fair  was  cut. 
That  lay  as  if  she  slumber' d  in  delight, 
And  to  the  open  skies  her  eyes  did  shut ; 
The  azure  fields  of  Heav'n  were  'sembled  right 
In  a  large  round,  set  with  the  flow'rs  of  light : 
•  The  flow'rs-de-luce,  and  the  round  sparks  of 
dew. 
That  hung  upon  their  azure  leaves,  did  show 
Like  twinkling   stars,    that    sparkle    in    the 
evening  blue. 

Upon  a  hniy  bank  her  head  she  cast, 
On  which  the  bower  of  Vain-delight  was  bmlt. 
White  and  red  roses  for  her  face  were  plac't. 
And  for  her  tresses  marigolds  were  spilt : 
Them  broadly  she  displayed,  like  flaming  gilt, 


Till  in  the  ocean  the  glad  day  were  drown' d  : 
Then  up  again  her  yellow  locks  she  wound, 
And  with  green  fillets  in  their  pretty  cauls 
them  bound. 

What  should  I  here  depaint  her  lily  hand. 
Her  veins  of  violets,  her  ermine  breast. 
Which  there  in  orient  colours  living  stand  : 
Or  how  her  gown  with  silken  leaves  is  drest. 
Or  how  her  watchman,  arm'd  vdih   boughy 
crest, 
A  wall  of  prim  hid  in  his  bushes  bears, 
Shaking  at  every  wind  their  leavy  spears. 
While  she  supinely  sleeps  ne  to  be  waked  fears  ? 

Over  the  hedge  depends  the  graping  elm. 
Whose  greener  head,  empurpuled  in  wine. 
Seemed  to  wonder  at  his  bloody  helm. 
And  half  suspect  the  bunches  of  the  vine, 
Lest  they,  perhaps,  his  wit  should  undermine. 
For  well  he  knew  such  fruit  he  never  bore  : 
But  her  weak  arms  embraced  him  the  more. 
And   her   with  ruby   grapes   laugh' d   at  her 
paramour. 

Under  the  shadow  of  these  drunken  elms 
A  fountain  rose,  where  Pangloretta  uses 
(When  her  some  flood  of  fancy  overwhelms, 
And  one  of  all  her  faA'Ourites  she  chooses) 
To  bathe  herself,  whom  she  in  lust  abuses. 
And  from  his  wanton  body  sucks  his  soul. 
Which,  dro■v^^l'd  in  pleasure  in  that  shallow 
bowl. 
And  swimming  in  delight,  doth  amorously  roll. 

The  font  of  silver  was,  and  so  his  showers 
In  silver  fell,  only  the  gilded  bowls 
(Like  to  a  furnace,  that  the  min'ral  powers) 
Seem'd  to  have  mol't  it  in  their  shining  holes  : 
And  on  the  v/ater,  like  to  burning  coals. 
On  liquid  silver  leaves  of  roses  lay  : 
But  when  Panglory  here  did  list  to  play, 
Eose- water  then  it   ran,  and  milk  it  rain'd, 
they  say. 

The  roof  thick  clouds  did  paint,  from  which 

three  boys 
Three  gaping  mermaids   with  their  ewers  did 

feed. 
Whose  breasts  let  fall  the  streams,  with  sleepy 

noise. 
To  lions'  mouths,  from  whence  it  leapt  with 


And  in  the  rosy  laver  seem'd  to  bleed. 
The  naked  boys  unto  the  water's  fall. 
Their  stony  nightingales  had  taught  to  call, 

When  Zephyr  breath' d  into    their  wat'ry  in- 
terail. 

And  all  about,  embayed  in  soft  sleep, 
A  herd  of  charmed  beasts  a-ground  were  spread. 
Which  the  fair  witch  in  golden  chains  did  keep. 
And  them  in  willing  bondage  fettered  : 
Once  men  they  liv'd,  but  now  the  men  were 
dead. 
And  turn'd  to  beasts,  so  fabled  Homer  old. 
That  Circe  with  her  potion,  charm' d  in  gold, 
Us'd  manly  souls  in  beastly  bodies  to  immould. 


From  1558  to  1649.]  THE  SORCERERS  OF  VAIN  DELIGHTS. 


[Giles  Fletcher. 


Through  this  false  Eden,  to  his  leman's  bow'r, 
(Whom  thousand  souls  devoutly  idolize) 
Oxir  first  destroyer  led  our  Saviour ; 
There  in  the  lower  room,  in  solemn  wise, 
They  danc'd  a  round,  and  pour'd  their  sacrifice 
To  plump  Lyseus,  and  among  the  rest, 
The  jolly  priest,  in  ivy  garlands  drest. 
Chanted  wild  orgials,  in  honour  of  the  feast. 

Others  within  their  arbours  s-vvilling  sat, 
(For  all  the  room  about  was  arboured) 
With  laughing  Bacchus,  that  was  grown  so  fat, 
That  stand  he  could  not,  but  was  carried, 
And  every  evening  freshly  watered. 

To  quench  his  fiery  cheeks,  and  all  about 
Small  cocks  broke  through  the  wall,  and 
sallied  out 
Flaggons  of  wine,  to  set  on  fire  that  spuing 
rout. 

This    their    inhumed    souls    esteem' d    their 

wealths. 
To  crown  the  bousing  can  from  day  to  night, 
And  sick  to  drink  themselves  with  drinking 

healths, 
Some  vomiting,  all  drunken  with  delight. 
Hence  to  a  loft,  carv'd  aU  in  ivory  white, 

They  came,  where  whiter  ladies  naked  went, 

Melted  in  pleasure  and  soft  languishment. 
And  sunk  in  beds  of  roses,  amorous  glances 

sent. 

Fly,  fly,  thou  holy  Child,  that  wanton  room, 
And  thou,  my  chaster  Muse,  those  harlots  shun, 
And  with  him  to  a  higher  story  come. 
Where  mounts  of  gold  and  floods  of  silver  run, 
The  while  the  o^vners,  with  their  wealth  un- 
done, 
.Starve  in  their  store,  and  in  their  plenty  pine, 
Tumbling  themselves  upon  their  heaps  of 
mine, 
Glutting  their  famish' d  souls,  with  the  deceit- 
ful shine. 

Ah  !  who  was  he  such  precious  berils  found  ? 
How  strongly  Nature  did  her  treasures  hide, 
And  threw   upon   them   mountains   of   thick 

ground, 
To  dark  their  ory  lustre !  but  quaint  Pride 
Hath  taught  her  sons  to  wound  their  mother's 
side. 
And  gage  the  depth,  to  search  for  flaring 

shells, 
In   whose   bright   bosom    spumy    Bacchus 
swells. 
That  neither  Heaven  nor  Earth  henceforth  in 
safety  dwells. 

O  sacred  hunger  of  the  greedy  eye, 
"Whose  need  hath  end,  but  no  end  covetise. 
Empty  in  fulness,  rich  in  poverty. 
That  ha-vdng  all  things,  nothing  can  suffice, 
How  thou  befanciest  the  men  most  wise  ! 

The  poor  man  would  be  rich,  the  rich  man 
great. 

The  great  man  king,  the  king  in  God's  o-\vn 
seat 
Enthron'd,  with  mortal  arm  dares  flames,  and 

thunder  threat. 


Therefore  above  the  rest  Ambition  sate. 
His  court  with  glitterant  pearl  was  all  in  wall' d, 
And  round  about  the  wall,  in  chairs  of  state, 
And  most  majestic  splendour,  were  install'd 
A  hundred  kings,  whose  temples  were  impaU'd 
In  golden  diadems,  set  here  and  there 
With  diamonds,  and  gemmed  everj^  where, 
And  of  their  golden  virges   none   disceptred 
were. 

High  over  all,  Panglory's  blazing  throne, 
In  her  bright  turret,  all  of  crystal  wrought. 
Like  Phoebus'  lamp,  in  midst  of  Heaven,  shone : 
Whose  starry  top,  with  pride  infernal  fraught, 
Self -arching  columns  to  uphold  were  taught : 
In  which  her  image  still  reflected  was 
By  the  smooth  crystal,  that,  most  like  her 
glass, 
In  beauty  and  in  frailty  did  all  others  pass. 

A  silver  wand  the  sorceress  did  sway, 
And,  for  a  crown  of  gold,  her  hair  she  wore  ; 
Only  a  garland  of  rose-buds  did  play 
About  her  locks,  and  in  her  hand  she  bore 
A  hollow  globe  of  glass,  that  long  before 
She  full  of  emptiness  had  bladdered, 
And  all  the  world  therein  depictured  ; 
Whose  colours,  like  the  rainbow,  ever  vanished. 

Such  wat'ry  orbicles  young  boys  do  blow 
Out  from  their  soapy  shells,  and  much  admire 
The  swimming  world,  which  tenderly  they  row 
With  easy  breath  till  it  be  waved  higher  : 
But  if  they  chance  but  roughly  once  aspire, 

The  painted  bubble  instantly  doth  fall. 

Here  when  she  came,  she  'gan  for  music  call, 
And  sung  this  wooing  song,  to  welcome  him 

withal : 

"  Love  is  the  blossom  where  there  blows 
Every  thing  that  lives  or  grows  : 
Love  doth  make  the  Heav'ns  to  move. 
And  the  Sun  doth  burn  in  love  : 
Love  the  strong  and  weak  doth  yoke. 
And  makes  the  ivy  climb  the  oak  ; 
Under  whose  shadows  lions  wild. 
Soften' d  by  love,  grow  tame  and  mild  : 
Love  no  med'cine  can  appease, 
He  burns  the  fishes  in  the  seas ; 
Not  all  the  skill  his  Avounds  can  stench, 
Not  all  the  sea  his  fire  can  quench : 
Love  did  make  the  bloody  spear 
Once  a  leavy  coat  to  wear, 
WTiile  in  his  leaves  there  shrouded  lay 
Sweet  birds,  for  love,  that  sing  and  play: 
And  of  all  love's  joyful  flame, 
I  the  bud  and  blossom  am. 
Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me. 
Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be. 

"  See,  see  the  flowers  that  below. 
Now  as  fresh  as  morning  blow, 
And  of  all,  the  virgin  rose, 
That  as  bright  Aurora  shows  : 
How  they  all  unleaved  die, 
Losing  their  virginity  ; 
Like  unto  a  summer- shade. 
But  now  born,  and  now  they  fade. 


Giles  Fletcher.] 


A  HYMN. 


[Third  Period. — 


Every  thing  doth  pass  away, 
There  is  danger  in  delay  : 
Come,  come,  gather  then  the  rose, 
Gather  it,  or  it  you  lose. 
All  the  sand  of  Tagus'  shore 
Into  my  bosom  casts  his  ore  : 
All  the  valleys'  swimming  corn 
To  my  house  is  yearly  borne  : 
Every  grape  of  every  vine 
Is  gladly  bruis'd  to  make  me  wine  : 
While  ten  thousand  kings,  as  proud, 
To  carry  up  my  train  have  bow'd. 
And  a  world  of  ladies  send  me 
In  my  chambers  to  attend  me. 
All  the  stars  in  Heav'n  that  shine. 
And  ten  thousand  more  are  mine  : 
Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me. 
Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be." 

Thus  sought  the  dire  enchantress  in  his  mind 
Her  guileful  bait  to  have  embosomed : 
But  he  her  charms  dispersed  into  wind, 
And  her  of  insolence  admonished. 
And  all  her  optic  glasses  shattered. 

So  with  her  sire  to  Hell  she  took  her  flight, 
(The   starting   air  flew   from  the   damned 
spright) 
Where  deeply  both  aggriev'd,  plunged  them- 
selves in  night. 

But  to  their  Lord,  now  musing  in  his  thought, 
A  heavenly  volley  of  light  angels  flew. 
And  from  his  Father  him  a  banquet  brought. 
Through  the  fine  element ;  for  well  they  knew. 
After  his  Lenten  fast,  he  hungry  grew  : 
And  as  he  fed,  the  holy  quires  combine 
To  sing  a  hymn  of  the  celestial  Trine  ; 
All  thought  to  pass,  and  each  was  past  all 
thought  divine. 

The  birds'  sweet  notes,  to  sonnet  out  their  joys, 
Attemper' d  to  the  lays  angelical ; 
And  to  the  birds  the  winds  attune  their  noise ; 
And  to  the  winds  the  waters  hoarsely  call, 
And  echo  back  again  revoiced  all ; 

That  the  whole  valley  rung  Avith  victory. 

But  now  our  Lord  to  rest  doth  homewards 
fly: 
See  how  the  night  comes  stealing  from  the 

mountains  high. 

Giles  Fletcher.— About  1610. 


312.— A  HYMN". 

Drop,    drop,    slow    tears,    and    bathe    those 

beauteous  feet, 
Which   brought  from  heaven   the   news  and 

Prince  of  Peace  ! 
Cease  not,  wet  eyes,  His  mercy  to  entreat ! 
To  cry  for  vengeance  sin  doth  never  cease. 
In  your  deep  floods  drown  all  my  faults  and 

fears  ; 
Nor  let  his  eye  see  sin  but  thro'  my  tears. 

Giles  Fletcher. — Ahoxit  1610. 


313.— THE   DEMAND  OF  JUSTICE. 

Upon  two  stony  tables,  spread  before  her,' 
She  lean'd   her   bosom,    more   than   stony 

hard. 
There  slept  th'  impartial  judge,  and  strict 

restorer 
Of  wrong,  or  right,  with  pain,  or  with  reward. 
There  himg  the  score  of  all  our  debts,  the 
card 
Where  good,  and  bad,  and  life,  and  death, 

were  painted  : 
Was  never  heart  of  mortal  so  untainted, 
But  when  that  scroll  was  read,  with  thousand 
terrors  fainted. 

Witness   the    thunder    that    Mount    Sinai 

heard. 
When  all  the  hill  with  fiery  clouds  did  flame. 
And  wand'ring  Israel  with  the  sight  afear'd. 
Blinded  with  seeing,  durst  not  touch  the 

same. 
But  like  a  wood  of  shaking  leaves  became. 

On  this  dread  Justice,  she,  the  living  law. 

Bowing  herself  with  a  majestic  awe. 
All   Heav'n,   to    hear   her   speech,    did    into 
silence  draw. 

"Dread   Lord  of   spirits,  well  thou  didst 

devise 
To  fling  the  world's  rude  dunghill  and  the 
dross 
'    Of  the  old  chaos,  farthest  from  the  skies 
And  thine  own  seat,  that  here  the  child  of 

loss. 
Of  aU  the  lower  heav'n  the  curse  and  cross. 
That   wretch,    beast,    captive,    monster, 

man,  might  spend 
(Proud  of  the  mire  in  which  his  soul  is 
pen'd). 
Clodded  ia  lumps  of  clay,  his  weary  life  to  end. 

"  His  body,  dust : — where  grew  such  cause 

of  pride  ? 
His  soul,  thy  image: — what  could  he  envy? 
Himself,  most  happy,  if  he  so  would  bide : 
Now    grown    most    wretched,  —  who    can 

remedy  ? 
He  slew  himself,  himself  the  enemy. 

That  his  own  soul  would  her  own  murder 
wreak, 

If  I  were  silent,  Heav'n  and  Earth  would 


And   if   all   fail'd,   these   stones   would   into 
clamours  break. 

"  How  many  darts  made  furrows  in  his  side. 
When  she,  that  out  of  his  own  side  was 

made, 
Gave  feathers  to  their  flight  ?  where  was 

the  pride 
Of  their  new  knowledge  ?  whither  did  it  fade. 
When,  running  from  thy  voice  into  the  shade 

He  fled  thy  sight,  himseK  of  light  be- 
reav'd ; 

And  for  his  shield  a  heavy  armour  weav'd. 
With  which,  vain  man,  he  thought  God's  eyes 

to  have  deceiv'd  ? 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  DEMAND  OF  JUSTICE. 


[Giles  Fletcher. 


"  And  well  he  might  delude  those  eyes  that 
see. 

And  judge  by  colours  ;  for  who  ever  saw 

A  man  of  leaves,  a  reasonable  tree  ? 

But  those  that  from  this  stock  their  life 
did  draw, 

Soon  made  their  father  godly,  and  by  law 
Proclaimed  trees  almighty :  gods  of  wood, 
Of   stocks  and   stories,   with   crowns  of 
laurel  stood, 
Templed,  and  fed  by  fathers  with  their  child- 
ren's blood, 

"  The  sparkling  fanes,  that  bum  in  beaten 

gold. 
And,  like  the  stars  of  Heav'n  in  midst  of 

night, 
Black  Egypt,  as  her  mirrors,  doth  behold, 
Are  but  the  dens  where  idol-snakes  delight 
Again  to  cover  Satan  from  their  sight : 

Yet  these  are  all  their  gods,  to  whom 
they  vie 

The  crocodile,  the  cock,  the  rat,  the  fly, 
Fit  gods,  indeed,  for  such  men  to  be  served  by. 

'•The  fire,  the  wind,  the  sea,  the  Sun,  and 

Moon, 
The  flitting  air,  and  the  swift- winged  hours. 
And  all  the  watchmen,  that  so  nimbly  run. 
And  sentinel  about  the  walled  towers 
Of    the    world's    city,    in    their    heavenly 

bowers ; 

And,   lest    their    pleasant    gods    should 
want  delight, 

Neptune  spues  out  the  Lady  Aphrodite, 
And  but  in  Heav'n  proud  Juno's   peacocks 

scorn  to  light. 

"  The  senseless  earth,  the  serpent,  dog,  and 

cat ; 
And,  worse  than  all  these,  man,  and  worst 

of  men. 
Usurping  Jove,  and  swelling  Bacchus  fat, 
And  drunk  vrith  the  vine's  purple  blood  ; 

and  then 
The  fiend  himself  they  conjure  from  his  den. 

Because  he  only  yet  remain' d  to  be 

Worse  than  the  worst  of  men ;  tkey  flee 
from  thee. 
And   wear   his    altar- stones    out   with    their 

pliant  knee. 

"  All  that  he  speaks  (and  all  he  speaks  are 

lies) 
Are  oracles  ;  'tis  he  (that  wounded  all) 
Cures  all  their  wounds  ;  he    (that  put  out 

their  eyes) 
That  gives  them  light ;  he  (that  death  first 

did  call 
Into  the  world)  that  with  his  orisal, 

Inspirits   earth :  he   Heav'n's   all-seeing 

6ye, 
He  Earth's  great  prophet,  he,  v/hom  rest 
doth  fly. 
That  on  salt  billows  doth,  as  pillows,  sleeping 
lie. 


"  But  let  him  in  his  cabin  restless  rest, 
The  dungeon  of  dark  flames,  and  freezing 

fire. 
Justice    in    Heav'n    against    man    makes 

request 
To  God,  and  of  his  angels  doth  require 
Sin's  punishment :  if  what  I  did^desire, 

Or  who,   or  against  whom,  or  why,   or 
where. 

Of,  or  before  whom  ignorant  I  were. 
Then  should  my  speech  their  sands  of  sins  to 

mountains  rear. 

"  Were   not   the   Heav'ns  pure,  in  whose 

courts  I  sue. 
The  judge,  to  whom  I  sue,  just  to  requite 

him. 
The  cause — for  sin,  the  punishment — most 

due. 
Justice  herself — the  plaintiff  to  endite  him, 
The  angels — holy,  before  whom  I  cite  him, 

He — against  whom,  wicked,  unjust,  im- 
pure ; 

Then  might  he  sinful  live,  and  die  secure, 
Or  trial  might  escape,  or  trial  might  endure. 

"The  judge  might  partial   be,    and   over- 
pray' d  ; 
The  place  appeal' d  from,  ia  whose  courts 

he  sues ; 
The  fault  excus'd  or  punishment  delay'd ; 
The  parties  seK-accus'd,  that  did  accuse ; 
Angels    for    pardon   might   their    prayers 
use  : 
But  now  no  star  can  shine,  no  hope  be 

got. 
Most  wretched  creature,  if  he  knew  his 
lot. 
And  yet  more  wretched  far,  because  he  knows 
it  not ! 

"  What  should  I  tell  how  barren  Earth  has 

grown. 
All  for  to  starve  her  children  ?  didst  not 

thou 
Water   with   heav'nly   show'rs   her   womb 

unsown. 
And  drop  down  clods  of  flow'rs  ?  didst  not 

thou  bow 
Thine  easy  ear  unto  the  ploughman's  vow  ? 

Long  might  he  look,  and  look,  and  long  in 
vain. 

Might  load  his  harvest  in  an  empty  wain^ 
And  beat  the  woods,  to  find  the  poor  oak's 

hungry  grain. 

"  The  swelling  sea  seethes  in  his  angry 
waves. 

And  smites  the  earth  that  dares  the  traitors 
nourish ; 

Yet  oft  his  thunder  their  light  cork  out- 
braves, 

Mowing  the  mountains,  on  whose  temples 
flourish 

Whole  woods  of  garlands ;  and,  their  pride 
to  cherish, 


Giles  Fletcher.] 


THE  DEMAND  OF  JUSTICE. 


[Third  Peei  dd. 


Plough  through  the  sea's  green  fields,  and 

nets  display- 
To   catch    the   flying  winds,    and    steal 

away, 
Coz'ningthe  greedy  sea,  pris'ning  their  nimble 
prey. 

"  Would  not  the  air  be  fill'd  with  streams 

of  death, 
To  poison  the  quick  rivers  of  their  blood, 
Did  not  thy  winds  fan,  with  their  panting 

breath. 
The  flitting  region  ?   would  not  th'   hasty 

flood 
Empty  itself  into  the  sea's  wide  wood  ? 
Did'st  not  thou  lead  it  wand' ring  from 

his  way. 
To  give  men  drink,  and  make  his  waters 
stray. 
To  fresh  the  flow'ry  meadows,  through  whose 
fields  they  play  ? 

"  Who  makes  the  sources  of  the  silver  foun- 
tains 
From  the  flint's  mouth,  and  rocky  valleys 

slide. 
Thick' ning  the   airy  bowels  of  the  moun- 
tains ? 
Who  hath  the  wild  herds  of  the  forest  ty'd 
In  their  cold  dens,  making  them   hungry 
bide, 
Till  man  to  rest  be  laid  ?  can,  beastly,  he. 
That  should  have  most  sense,  only  sense- 
less be. 
And  all  things  else,  beside  himself,  so  aweful 
see? 

"Were  he   not  wilder    than    the    savage 

beast, 
Prouder  than   haughty  hills,  harder  than 

rocks, 
Colder  than  fountains  from  their  springs 

releas'd, 
Lighter   than   air,   blinder  than   senseless 

stocks. 
More   changing  than  the    river's    curling 
locks ; 
If  reason  would  not,   sense  would  soon 

reprove  him. 
And  unto  shame,  if  not  to  sorrow  move 
him, 
To  see  cold  floods,  wild  beasts,  dull  stocks, 
hard  stones  out-love  him. 

*'  Under  the  weight  of   sin  the  earth  did 

fall, 
And   swallow' d    Dathan,   and    the   raging 

wind. 
And  stormy  sea,  and  gaping  whale,  did  call 
For  Jonas  :  and  the  air  did  bullets  find. 
And  shot  from  Heav'n  a  stony  show'r  to 
grind 
The  five  proud  kings  that  for  their  idols 

fought. 
The  Sim  itself  stood  still  to  fight  it  out, 
And  fire  from  Heav'n  flew  down,  when  sin  to 
Heav'n  did  shout. 


"  Should  any  to  himself  for  safety  fly, 
The  way  to  save  himself,  if  any  were, 
Were  to  fly  from  himself  :  should  he  rely 
Upon  the  promise  of  his  wife  ? — ^but  there 
What  can  he  see,  but  that  he  most  may 
fear, 
A  Siren,  sweet  to  death  ?  upon  his  friends  ? 
Who  that  he  needs,  or  that  he  hath  not 
lends  ? 
Or  wanting  aid  himself,  aid  to  another  sends? 

"  His  strength  ? — ^but  dust :  his  pleasure  ? — 

cause  of  pain  : 
His  hope  ? — false  courtier :  youth  or  beauty  ? 

— brittle  : 
Entreaty  ? — fond  :    repentance  ? — ^late   and 

vain : 
Just  recompence  ? — the  world  were  all  too 

Httle : 
Thy  love  ? — he  hath  no  title  to  a  tittle  : 

HeU's   force  ? — in   vain   her   furies  Hell 
shall  gather  : 

His    servants,  kinsmen,  or   his  children 
rather  ? — 
His  child,  if  good,  shall  judge ;  if  bad,  shall 

curse  his  father. 

"  His  life  ? — ^that  brings  him  to  his  end, 

and  leaves  him  : 
His  end  ? — that  leaves   liim  to   begin  his 

woe  : 
His  goods  ? — what  good   in   that,  that  so 

deceives  him  ? 
His  gods  of  wood? — their  feet,  alas!  are 

slow- 
To  go  to  help,  that  must  be  help'd  to  go  : 

Honour,  great  worth  ? — ah  !  little  worth 
they  be 

Unto  their   owners  :   wit  ? — that   makes 
him  see 
He  wanted  wit,  that  thought  he  had  it,  want- 
ing thee. 

"  The  sea  to  drink  him  quick  ? — ^that  casts 

his  dead : 
Angels  to  spare  ? — they  punish  :  night  to 

hide?— 
The  world  shall  burn  in  light :  the  Heav'ns 

to  spread 
Their  mngs  to  save  him  ? — Heav'n  itself 

shall  slide. 
And  roll  away  like  melting  stars  that  glide 

Along  their  oily  threads  :  his  mind  pur- 
sues him  : 

His  house  to  shroud,  or  hills  to  fall,  and 
bruise  him  ? 
As    Serjeants    both    attach,    and    witnesses 

accuse  him. 

"  What  need  I  urge,  what  they  must  needs 

confess, 
Sentence  on  them,  condemn'd  by  their  own 

lust? 
I  crave  no  more,  and  thou  can'st  give  no  loss. 
Than  death  to  dead  men,  justice  to  unjust ; 
Shame  to  most  shameful,  and  most  shame- 
less dust : 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


INSTABILITY  OF  HUMAN  GEEATNESS. 


[P.  Fletcher. 


But  if  thy  mercy  needs  will   spare  her 

friends, 
Let  mercy  there  begin,  where  justice  ends. 
'Tis  cruel  mercy,  that  the  wrong  from  right 
defends." 

She  ended,  and  the  heav'nly  hierarchies. 
Burning  in  zeal,  thickly  imbranded  were ; 
Like  to  an  army  that  alarum  cries. 
And  every  one  shakes  his  ydreaded  spear, 
And  the  Almighty's  self,  as  he  would  tear 
The  Earth,  and  her  firm  basis  quite  in 

sunder, 
Flam'd  all  in  just  revenge,  and  mighty 
thunder : 
Heav'n  stole  itself  from  Earth  by  clouds  that 
moisten' d  under. 

Giles  Fletcher.— Ahout  1610. 


3i4.~HAPPINESS  OF  THE  SHEPHERD'S 
LIFE. 

Thrice,  oh  thrice  happy,   shepherd's  life  and 

state  ! 
When  courts  are  happiness'  unhappy  pawns  ! 
His  cottage  low  and  safely  humble  gate 
Shuts  out  proud  Fortune,  with  her  scorns  and 

fawns : 
No  feared  treason  breaks  his  quiet  sleep  : 
Singing  all  day,  his  flocks  he  learns  to  keep ; 
Himself  as  innocent  as  are  his  simple  sheep. 

No  Syrian  worms  he  knows,  that  with  their 

thread 
Draw  out  their  silken  lives  :  nor  silken  pride  : 
His  lambs'  warm  fleece  weU  fits  his  little  need, 
Not  in  that  proud  Sidonian  tincture  dyed : 
No  empty  hopes,  no  courtly  fears  him  fright ; 
Nor  begging  wants  his  middle  fortune  bite  : 
But  sweet  content  exiles  both  misery  and  spite. 

Instead  of  music,  and  base  flattering  tongues, 
AVhich  wait  to  first  salute  my  lord's  uprise  ; 
The  cheerful  lark  wakes  him  with  early  songs. 
And  birds'  sweet  whistling  notes  unlock  his 

eyes  : 
In  country  plays  is  all  the  strife  he  uses  ; 
Or  sing,  or  dance  unto  the  rural  Muses  ; 
And  but  in  music's  sports  all  difference  refuses. 

His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him. 
Is  full  of  thousand  sweets,  and  rich  content : 
The  smooth- leaved  beeches  in  the  field  receive 

him 
With   coolest   shades,   tiU  noon-tide   rage  is 

spent ; 
His  life  is  neither  toss'd  in  boist'rous  seas 
Of  troublous  world,  nor  lost  in  slothful  ease  : 
Pleas' d  and  full  blest  he  lives,  when  he  his 

God  can  please. 

His  bed  of  wool  yields  safe  and  quiet  sleeps, 
WTiile   by  his   side   his  faithful  spouse  hath 

place ; 
His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 
The  lively  picture  of  his  father's  face  : 


Never  his  humble  house  nor  state   torment 

him  : 
Less  he  could  like,  if  less  his  God  had  sent 

him  ; 
And  when  he  dies,  green  turfs,  with  grassy 

tomb,  content  him. 

PMneas  Fletcher.— Mout  1633. 


315.— INSTABILITY  OF  HUMAN 

GEEATNESS. 
Fond  man,  that  looks  on  earth  for  happiness, 
And  here  long  seeks  v/hat  here  is  never  found ! 
For  aU  onx  good  we  hold  from  Heav'n  by 


With  many  forfeits  and  conditions  bound ; 
Nor  can  we  pay  the  fine  and  rentage  due  : 
Though  now  but  writ  and  seal'd,  and  giv'n 

anew, 
Yet  daUy  we  it  break,  then  daily  must  renew. 

Why  should' st  thou  here  look  for  perpetual 

good. 
At  every  loss  against  Heav'n' s  face  repining  ? 
Do  but  behold  where  glorious  cities  stood. 
With  gilded  tops,  and  silver  turrets  shining ; 
Where  now  the  hart   fearless  of   greyhound 

feeds. 
And  loving  pelican  in  safety  breeds ; 
Where    screeching    satyrs    fiU    the    people's 

empty  steads. 

Where  is  the  Assyrian  lion's  golden  hide. 

That  all  the  east  once  grasp'd  in  lordly  paw  ? 

Where  that  great  Persian  bear,  whose  swell- 
ing pride 

The  lion's  seK  tore  out  with  ravenous  jaw  ? 

Or  he  which,  'twixt  a  lion  and  a  pard. 

Through  all  the  world  with  nimble  pinicHis 
fared. 

And  to  his  greedy  whelps  his  conquer' d  king- 
doms shared  ? 

Hardly  the  place  of  such  antiquity, 
Or  note  of  these  g^eat  monarchies  we  find : 
Only  a  fading  verbal  memory, 
An  empty  name  in  writ  is  left  behind  : 
But  when  this  second  life  and  glory  fades, 
And  sinks  at  length  in  time's  obscurer  shades, 
A  second  faU  succeeds,  and  double  death  in- 
vades. 

That  monstrous  Beast,  which  nursed  in  Tiber's 

fen, 
Did  all  the  world  with  hideous  shape  affray ; 
That  fill'd  with  costly  spoil  his  gaping  den. 
And  trode  down  all  the  rest  to  dust  and  clay : 
His  battering  horns  puU'd  out  by  civil  hands, 
And  iron  teeth  lie  scatter' d  on  the  sands  ; 
Back'd,  bridled  by  a  monk,  with  seven  heads 

yoked  stands. 

And  that  black  Vulture,  which  with  deathful 

wing 
O'ershadows   half  the   earth,    whose   dismal 

sight 
Frighten'd  the  Muses  from  their  native  spring, 
Already  stoops,  and  flags  with  weary  flight : 


p.  Fletcher.] 


TO  EOSES  IK  THE  BOSOM  OF  CASTAEA. 


[Third  Period. — 


Who  then  shall  look  for  happiness  beneath  ? 
"Where  each  new  day  proclaims  chance,  change, 

and  death, 
And  life  itself' s  as  flit  as  is  the  air  we  breathe. 

Phineas  Fletcher.— About  1633. 


316.— TO  EOSES  IN  THE  BOSOM  OF 
CASTAEA. 

Yee  blushing  virgins  happie  are 
In  the  chaste  nunn'ry  of  her  brests, 
For  hee'd  prophane  so  chaste  a  faire, 
"Who  ere  should  call  them  Cupid's  nests. 

Transplanted  thus  how  bright  yee  grow, 
How  rich  a  perfume  doe  yee  yeeld  ? 
In  some  close  garden,  cowslips  so 
Are  sweeter  than  i'  the  open  field. 

In  those  white  cloysters  live  secure 
From  the  rude  blasts  of  wanton  breath, 
Each  houre  more  innocent  and  pure, 
Till  you  shall  wither  into  death. 

Then  that  which  living  gave  you  roome, 
Your  glorious  sepulcher  shall  be  : 
There  wants  no  marble  for  a  tombe, 
"Whose  brest  hath  marble  beene  to  me. 

WilUam  Hahington. — J.bowi.1640. 


317.— TO   CASTAEA. 

Softly  singing  to  Herself. 

Sing  forth,  sweete  cherubin  (for  we  have  choice 
Of  reasons  in  thy  beauty  and  thy  voyce, 
To  name  thee  so,  and  scarce  appeare  prophane) 
Sing  forth,  that  while  the  orbs  celestiall  straine 
To  eccho  thy  sweet  note,  our  humane  eares 
May  then  receive  the  musicke  of  the  spheares. 
But  yet  take  heede,  lest  if  the  swans  of  Thames, 
That  adde  harmonious  pleasure  to  the  streames, 
O'  th'  sudden  heare  thy  well-divided  breath, 
Should  listen,  and  in  silence  welcome  death  : 
And  ravisht  nightingales,  striving  too  high 
To  reach  thee,  in  the  emulation  dye. 

And  thus  there  will  be  left  no  bird  to  sing 
Farewell  to   th'    waters,    welcome   to   the 
spring. 

Williamt'  Hahington. — About  1640. 


318.— TO   CASTAEA, 

Inquiring  why  I  loved  her. 

"Why  doth  the  stubbome  iron  prove 
So  gentle  to  th'  magnetique  stone  ? 
How  know  you  that  the  orbs  doe  move ; 
With  musicke  too  ?  since  heard  of  none  ? 
And  I  will  answer  why  I  love. 
'Tis  not  thy  vertues,  each  a  starre 
"Which  in  thy  soules  bright  spheare  doe  shine, 
Shooting  their  beauties  from  a  farre. 
To  make  each  gazer's  heart  like  thine  ; 
Our  vertues  often  meteors  are. 


'Tis  not  thy  face,  I  cannot  spie, 

"Wlien  poets  weepe  some  virgin's  death. 

That  Cupid  wantons  in  her  eye. 

Or  perfumes  vapour  from  her  breath, 

And  'mongst  the  dead  thou  once  must  lie. 

Nor  is't  thy  birth.     For  I  was  ne're 

So  vaine  as  in  that  to  delight : 

"Which,  ballance  it,  no  weight  doth  beare, 

Nor  yet  is  object  to  the  sight, 

But  onely  fils  the  vulgar  eare. 

Nor  yet  thy  fortunes  :  since  I  know 

They,  in  their  motion  like  the  sea, 

Ebbe  from  the  good,  to  the  impious  flow  : 

And  so  in  flattery  betray, 

That  raising  they  but  overthrow. 

And  yet  these  attributes  might  prove 
FueU  enough  t'onflame  desire  ; 
But  there  was  something  from  above. 
Shot  without  reason's  guide,  this  fire  : 
I  know,  yet  know  not,  why  I  love. 

William  Hahington. — About  1640. 


;i9.— A   DIALOGUE    BETWEEN  HOPE 
AND  FEAE. 

Checke  thy  forward  thoughts,  and  know 
Hymen  only  joynes  their  hands  ; 
Who  with  even  paces  goe, 
Shee  in  gold,  he  rich  in  lands. 

But  Castara's  purer  fire, 
"When  it  meetes  a  noble  flame  ; 
Shuns  the  smoke  of  such  desire, 
loynes  with  love,  and  burnes  the  same. 

Yet  obedience  must  prevaile  ; 
They,  who  o're  her  actions  sway, 
Would  have  her  in  th'  ocean  saile, 
And  contemne  thy  narrow  sea. 

Parents'  lawes  must  beare  no  weight 
When  they  happinesse  prevent, 
And  our  sea  is  not  so  streight. 
But  it  roome  hath  for  content. 

Thousand  hearts  as  victims  stand, 
At  the  altar  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  will  partiall  she  command, 
Onely  thine  for  sacrifice  ? 

Thousand  victims  must  returne  : 
She  the  purest  will  designe  : 
Choose  Castara  which  shall  burne, 
Choose  the  purest,  that  is  mine. 

William  Hahington. — About  1640. 


320.— TO  THE  SPEING, 

Upon  the  Uncertainty  of  Castara's  Abode. 

Faire  mistresae  of  the  Earth,  with  garlands 

crown' d, 
Eise,  by  a  lover's  charme,  from  the  partcht 

ground, 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


TO  MY  NOBLEST  FEIEND. 


[William  Habingtoiv. 


And  shew  thy  flowry  wealth  :  that  she,  where 

ere 
Her     starres     shall    guide   her,    Eieete    thy 

beauties  there. 
Should  she  to  the  cold  northeme  climates  goe, 
Force  thy  affrighted  lillies  there  to  grow, 
Thy  roses  in  those  gelid  fields  t'appeare  ; 
She  absent,  I  have  all  their  winter  here. 
Or  if  to  th'  torrid  zone  her  way  she  bend, 
Her  the  coole  breathing  of  Favonius  lend. 
Thither  command  the  birds   to   bring   their 

quires ; 
That  zone  is  temp'rate,  I  have  all  his  fires. 

Attend  her,  courteous  Spring,  though  we 
should  here 

Lose  by  it  aU  the  treasures  of  the  yeere. 

William  Hahington. — About  1G40. 


321.— TO  SEYMORS, 

The  House  in  which  Castara  lived. 

Blest  temple,   haile,  where  the  chast   altar 

stands. 
Which  Nature  built,  but  the  exacter  hands 
Of  vertue  polisht.     Though  sad  Fate  deny 
My  prophane  f eete  accesse, '  my  vowes  shall 

flye. 
May  those  musitians,  which  divide  the  ayre 
With   their   harmonious   breath,  their  flight 

prepare 
For  this  glad  place,  and  all  their  accents  frame. 
To  teach  the  eccho  my  Castara' s  name. 
The  beautious  troopes  of  Graces,  led  by  Love 
In  chaste  attempts,  possesse  the  neighb'ring 

grove, 
Where   may  the    spring    dwell    stni.      May 

every  tree 
Turne  to  a  laurell,  and  propheticke  be. 

Which  shall  in  its  first  oracle  divine. 

That  courteous  Fate  decrees  Castara  mine. 

William  Ho.bington. — About  1640. 


322.— DESCRIPTION   OF  CASTAEA. 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone 

Prospers  in  some  happy  shade  ; 

My  Castara  lives  unknowne. 

To  no  looser  eye  betray'd, 

For  shee's  to  her  selfe  untrue, 
V/ho  delights  i'  th'  publicke  view. 

Such  is  her  beauty,  as  no  arts 
Have  enricht  with  borrowed  grace. 
Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts. 
For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 

Folly  boasts  a  glorious  blood, 

She  is  noblest  being  good. 

Cautious  she  knew  never  yet 

What  a  wanton  courtship  meant ; 

Not  speaks  loud  to  boast  her  wit,     s 

In  her  silence  eloquent. 

Of  herself  survey  she  takes. 

But  'tweene  men  no  difference  maker;:. 


She  obeyes  with  speedy  will 

Here  grave  parents'  wise  commands. 

And  so  innocent,  that  iD, 

She  nor  acts,  nor  understands. 
Women's  feet  runne  still  astray, 
If  once  to  ill  they  know  the  way. 

She  sailes  by  that  rocke,  the  court, 
Where  oft  honour  splits  her  mast : 
And  retir'dnesse  thinks  the  port, 
Where  her  fame  may  anchor  cast. 
Vertue  safely  cannot  sit. 
Where  vice  is  enthron'd  for  wit. 
She  holds  that  daye's  pleasure  best, 
Where  sinne  waits  not  on  deKght ; 
Without  maske,  or  ball,  or  feast, 
Sweetly  spends  a  winter's  night. 

O're  that  darknesse  whence  is  thrust. 
Prayer  and  sleepe  oft  governs  lust. 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climbe. 

While  wild  passions  captive  lie ; 

And  each  article  of  time. 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  Heaven  flie  : 
All  her  vowes  religious  be. 
And  her  love  she  vowes  to  me. 

William  Hahington. — About  1640. 


323.— TO  CASTARA. 

The  Reward  of  innocent  Love. 
We  saw  and  woo'd  each  other's  eyes, 
My  soule  contracted  then  with  thine, 
And  both  burnt  in  one  sacrifice, 
By  which  our  marriage  grew  divine. 

Let  wilder  youth,  whose  soul  is  sense, 
Prophane  the  temple  of  delight. 
And  purchase  endless  p^  "litence. 
With  the  stolne  pleasuio  of  one  night. 

Time's  ever  ours,  while  we  despise 
The  sensuall  idol  of  our  clay. 
For  though  the  Sunne  doe  set  and  rise. 
We  joy  one  everlasting  day. 

Whose  light  no  jealous  clouds  obscure, 
While  each  of  us  shine  innocent. 
The  troubled  stream  is  still  imxDure, 
With  vertue  flies  away  content. 
And  though  opinions  often  erre, 
Wee'le  court  the  modest  smile  of  fame. 
For  sinne' s  black  danger  circles  her, 
Who  hath  infection  in  her  name. 

Thus  when  to  one  darke  silent  roome. 
Death  shall  our  loving  coffins  thrust : 
Fame  will  build  columnes  on  our  tombe, 
And  adde  a  perfume  to  our  dust. 

William  Hahington. — About  1640. 


324.— TO  MY  NOBLEST  FRIEND, 
I.  C,  ESQUIRE. 

Sir, 
I  hate  the  countrie's  durt  and  manners,  yet 
I  love  the  silence  ;  I  embrace  the  v/it 


Wm.  Habington.] 


NOMINE  LABIA  MEA  APEEIES. 


[Third  Period. 


And  courtship,  flowing  here  in  a  full  tide. 
But  loathe  the  expence,  the  vanity,  and  pride. 
No  place  each  way  is  happy.     Here  I  hold 
!        Commerce  with  some,  who  to  my  eare  unfold 
!        (After  due  oath  ministred)  the  height 

And  greatnesse  of  each  star  shines  in  the  state, 
The  brightnesse,  the  eclypse,  the  influence. 
With  others  I  commune,  who  tell  me  whence 
The  torrent  doth  of  forraigne  discord  flow  : 
Eelate  each  skirmish,  battle,  overthrow, 
Soone  as  they  happen  ;  and  by  rote  can  tell 
Those  Germane  townes,even  puzzle  me  to  spell. 
The  crosse  or  prosperous  fate  of  princes,  they 
Ascribe  to  rashnesse,  cunning,  or  delay  : 
And  on  each  action  comment,  with  more  skill 
Than  upon  Livy  did  old  Matchavill. 
O  busie  folly  :  Why  doe  I  my  braine 
Perplex  with  the  dull  poUicies  of  Spaine, 
Or  quick  designes  of  France  ?  Why  not  repaire 
To  the  pure  innocence  o'  th'  country  ayre  : 
And  neighbour  thee,  deare  friend  ?     Who  so 

dost  give 
Thy  thoughts  to  worth  and  vertue,  that  to  live 
Blest,  is  to  trace  thy  wayes.     There  might 

not  we  ' 

Anne  against  passion  with  philosophic  ; 
And,  by  the  aide  of  leisure,  so  controule 
What-ere  is  earth  in  us,  to  grow  aU  soule  ? 
Knowledge  doth  ignorance  ingender  when 
We  study  mysteries  of  other  men 
And  forraigne  plots.  Doe  but  in  thy  owne  shade 
(Thy  head  upon  some  flowry  piUow  laide, 
Kind  Nature's  huswifery)  contemplate  all 
His  stratagems  who  labours  to  inthral 
The  world  to  his  great  master,  and  yoide  finde 
Ambition  mocks  it  selfe,  and  grasps  the  wind. 
Not  conquest  makes  us  great.     Blood  is  too 

deare 
A  price  for  glory  :  honour  doth  appeare 
To  statesmen  like  a  vision  in  the  night, 
And  jugler-like  workes  o'  th'  deluded  sight. 
Th'  unbusied  onely  wise  :  for  no  respect 
Indangers  them  to  errour ;  they  affect 
Truth  in  her  naked  beauty,  and  behold 
Man  with  an  equaU  eye,  nor  bright  in  gold 
Or  tall  in  title  ;  so  much  him  they  weigh 
As  vertue  raiseth  him  above  his  clay. 
Thus  let  us  value  things  :  and  since  we  find 
Time  bends  us  toward  death,  let's  in  our  mind 
Create  new  youth  ;  and  arm  against  the  ruc'e 
Assaults  of  age  ;  that  no  dull  soHtude 
O'  th'  country  dead  our  thoughts,  nor  busie  care 
0'  th'  towne  make  us  not  thinke,  where  now 

we  are 
And  whether  we  are  bound.    Time  nere  forgot 
His  journey,  though  his  steps  we  numbred  not. 
William  Habington. — About  1640. 


325.— NOMINE  LABIA  MEA  APEEIES. 

Noe  monument  of  me  remaine, 
My  mem'orie  rust 
In  the  same  marble  with  my  dust, 
Ere  I  the  spreading  laurell  gaine, 
By  writing  wanton  or  prophane. 


Ye  glorious  wonders  of  the  skies, 
Shine  still,  bright  starres, 
Th'  Almightie's  my  stick  characters  ! 
He  not  your  beautious  lights  surprize, 
T'  illuminate  a  woman's  eyes. 

Nor,  to  perfiime  her  veines,  will  I 
In  each  one  set 
The  purple  of  the  violet : 
The  untoucht  flowre  maj'  grow  and  dye 
Safe  from  my  f ancle's  injurie. 

Open  my  lippes,  great  God  !  and  then 
He  scare  above 
The  humble  flight  of  carnall  love. 
Vpward  to  thee  He  force  my  pen, 
And  trace  no  path  of  vulgar  men. 

For  what  can  our  unbounded  soulea 
Worthy  to  be 
Their  object  finde,  excepting  thee  ? 
Where  can  I  fixe  ?  since  time  controules 
Our  pride,  whose  motion  all  things  roules. 

Should  I  my  selfe  ingratiate 
T'  a  prince's  smile, 
How  soone  may  death  my  hopes  beguile  ? 
And  should  I  farme  the  proudest  state, 
I'me  tennant  to  uncertaine  fate. 

If  I  court  gold,  -sviU  it  not  rust  ? 
And  if  my  love 
Toward  a  female  beauty  move, 
How  will  that  surfet  of  our  lust 
Distast  us,  when  resolv'd  to  dust  ? 

But  thou,  iEternall  banquet !  where 

For  ever  we 
•  May  feede  without  satietie  ! 
Who  harmonic  art  to  the  eare, 
Who  art,  while  all  things  else  appeare ! 

While  up  to  thee  I  shoote  my  flame, 
Thou  dost  dispence 
A  holy  death,  that  murders  sence. 
And  makes  me  scorne  all  pompes,  that  ayma 
At  other  triumphes  than  thy  name. 

It  crownes  me  with  a  victory 
So  heavenly,  all 
That's  earth  from  me  away  doth  fall. 
And  I,  from  my  corruption  free. 
Grow  in  my  vowes  even  part  of  thee. 

WilUami  Habington. — About  1640. 


326.— PAUCITATEM  DIEEUM  MEOEUM 
NUNCIA  MIHI. 

TeU  me,  O  great  All-knowing  God ! 

What  period 
Hast  thou  unto  my  dayes  assign'd  ? 
Like  some  old  leafelesse  tree,  shall  I 
Wither  away,  or  violently 
Fall  by  the  axe,  by  lightning,  or  the  wind  ? 

Heere,  where  I  first  drew  vitall  breath. 

Shall  I  meete  death  ? 
And  finde  in  the  same  vault  a  roome 
Where  my  fore-fathers'  ashes  sleepe  ? 
Or  shall  I  dye,  where  none  shall  weepe 
My  timelesse  fate,  and  my  cold  earth  intombe  ? 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


CUPIO  DISSOLVI. 


[William  Habington. 


Shall  I  'gainst  the  swift  Parthians  fight, 

And  in  their  flight 
Receive  my  death  ?  Or  shall  I  see 
That  envied  peace,  in  which  we  are 
Triumphant  yet,  disturb' d  by  warre, 
And  perish  by  th'  invading  enemie  ? 

Astrologers,  who  calculate 

Vncertaine  fate, 
AflBrme  my  scheme  doth  not  presage 
Any  abridgement  of  my  dayes  : 
And  the  physitian  gravely  sayes, 
I  may  enjoy  a  reverent  length  of  age. 

But  they  are  jugglers,  and  by  slight 

Of  art  the  sight 
Of  faith  delude  :  and  in  their  schoole 
They  onely  practise  how  to  make 
A  mistery  of  each  mistake. 
And  teach  strange  words  credulity  to  foole. 

For  thou  who  first  didst  motion  give, 

Whereby  things  live, 
And  time  hath  being  !  to  conceale 
Future  events  didst  thinke  it  fit 
To  checke  th'  ambition  of  our  wit. 
And  keepe  in  awe  the  curious  search  of  zoale. 

Therefore,  so  I  prepar'd  still  be, 

My  God,  for  thee  : 
0'  th'  sudden  on  my  spirits  may 
Some  killing  apoplexie  seize, 
Or  let  me  by  a  dull  disease. 
Or  weakened  by  a  feeble  age,  decay. 

And  so  I  in  thy  favour  dye, 

Ko  memorie 
For  me  a  weU-wrought  tombe  prepare, 
For  if  my  soule  be  'mong  the  blest, 
Though  my  pooro  ashes  want  a  chest, 
I  shall  forgive  the  trespasse  of  my  heire. 

William  Habington. — About  1640. 


327.— ET  EXALTAVIT  HUMILES. 

Hov/  cheerfully  th'  unpartiall  Sunne 

Gilds  with  his  beames 

The  narrow  streames 
0'  th'  brooke  which  silently  doth  runne 

Without  a  name  ? 

And  yet  disdaines  to  lend  his  flame 
To  the  wide  channel!  of  the  Thames  ? 

The  largest  mountaines  barren  lye. 

And  lightning  feare, 

Though  they  appeare 
To  bid  defiance  to  the  skie  ; 

Which  in  one  houre 

W'  have  seen  the  opening  earth  devoure. 
When  in  their  height  they  proudest  were. 

But  th'  humble  man  heaves  up  his  head 

Like  some  rich  vale 

Whose  fruites  nere  faile 
With  fiowres,  with  come,  and  vines  ore-spread. 

Nor  doth  complaine 

Ore-flowed  by  an  ill-season'd  raine 
Or  batter' d  by  a  storme  of  haile. 


Like  a  tall  barke  treasure  fraught. 

He  the  seas  cleere 

Doth  quiet  steere : 
But  when  they  are  t'  a  tempest  wrought ; 

More  gallantly 

He  spreads  his  saile,  and  doth  more  high. 
By  swelling  of  the  waves,  appeare.    ~     ~ 

For  the  Almighty  joyes  to  force 

The  glorious  tide 

Of  humane  pride 
To  th'  lowest  ebbe ;  that  ore  his  course 

(Which  rudely  bore 

Downe  what  oppos'd  it  heretofore) 
His  feeblest  enemie  may  stride. 

But  from  his  ill-thatcht  roofe  he  brings 

The  cottager, 

And  doth  preferre 
Him  to  th'  adored  state  of  kings  : 

He  bids  that  hand 

Which  labour  hath  made  rough  and  tan'd 
The  all-commanding  scepter  beare. 

Let  then  the  mighty  cease  to  boast 

Their  boundlesse  sway  • 

Since  in  their  sea 
Few  sayle,  but  by  some  storme  are  lost. 

Let  them  themselves 

Beware  for  they  are  their  owne  shelves  : 
Man  still  himselfe  hath  cast  away. 

William  Habington. — About  1640'. 


328.— CUPIO  DISSOLVL 

The  soule  which  doth  with  God  unite. 
Those  gayities  how  doth  she  slight 

Which  ore  opinion  sway  ? 
Like  sacred  virgin  wax,  which  shines 
On  altars  or  on  martyrs'  shrines. 

How  doth  she  burne  away  ? 

How  violent  are  her  throwes  till  she 
From  envious  earth  delivered  be. 

Which  doth  her  flight  restraine  ? 
How  doth  she  doate  on  whips  and  raclces, 
On  fires  and  the  so  dreaded  axe, 

And  every  murd'ring  paine  ? 

How  soone  she  leaves  the  pride  of  wealth. 
The  flatteries  of  youth  and  health, 

And  fame's  more  precious  breath; 
And  every  gaudy  circumstance 
That  doth  the  pompe  of  life  advance 

At  the  approach  of  death  ? 

The  cunning  of  astrologers 
Observes  each  motion  of  the  starres, 

Placing  all  knowledge  there  : 
And  lovers  in  their  mistresse'  eyes 
Contract  those  wonders  of  the  skies, 

And  seeke  no  higher  sphere. 

The  wandring  pilot  sweates  to  find 
The  causes  that  produce  the  wind 

Still  gazing  on  the  pole. 
The  politician  scornes  all  art 
But  what  (^oth  pride  and  power  impart, 

And  swells  the  ambitious  soule, 

j4* 


Sir  John  Suckling.] 


SONG. 


Third  Period. 


But  lie  wliom  heavenly  fire  doth  warme, 
And  'gainst  these  powerfull  follies  arme, 

Doth  soberly  disdaine. 
All  these  fond  humane  misteries, 
As  the  deceitfull  and  unwise 

Distempers  of  our  braine. 

He  as  a  burden  beares  his  clay, 
Yet  vainelj'  throwes  it  not  away 

On  every  idle  cause  : 
But  with  the  same  untroubled  eye 
Can  or  resolve  to  live  or  dye, 

Eegardlesse  of  th'  applause. 

My  God  !    If  'tis  thy  great  decree 
That  this  must  the  last  moment  be 

Wherein  I  breathe  this  ayre  ; 
My  heart  obeyes,  joy'd  to  retreate 
From  the  false  favours  of  the  great 

And  treachery  of  the  faire. 

When  thou  shalt  please  this  soule  t'   en- 
throne 

Above  impure  corruption ; 

What  should  I  grieve  or  feare, 

To  thinke  this  breathlesse  body  must 

Become  a  loathsome  heape  of  dust, 
And  nere  againe  appeare. 

For  in  the  fire  when  ore  is  tryed, 
And  by  that  torment  purified, 

Doe  we  deplore  the  losse  ? 
And  when  thou  shalt  my  soule  refine, 
That  it  thereby  may  purer  shine, 

Shall  I  grieve  for  the  drosse  ? 

William  Ilahington. — About  1640. 


329.— S  0  N  G. 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover ! 

Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
.  Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ! 

Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her. 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit  for  shame  !  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her  : — 

The  devil  take  her  ! 

Sir  John  Suclding. — About  1640. 


330.— A  BALLAD  UPON  A  WEDDING. 

I  tell  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been. 
Where  I  the  rarest  things  have  seen  : 

O,  things  without  compare  ! 
Such  sights  again  cannot  be  found 
In  any  place  on  English  ground. 

Be  it  at  wake,  or  fair. 


At  Charing- Cross,  hard  b3'^  the  way 
Where  we  (thou  know'st)  do  sell  our  hay, 

There  is  a  house  with  stairs  :   ' 
And  there  did  I  see  coming  down 
Such  folks  as  are  not  in  our  town, 

Vorty  at  least,  in  pairs. 

Amongst  the  rest,  one  post'lent  fine, 
(His  beard  no  bigger  though  than  thine,) 

Walk'd  on  before  the  rest : 
Our  landlord  looks  like  nothing  to  him  : 
The  king  (God  bless  him)  'twou'd  undo  him, 

Shou'd  he  go  still  so  drest. 

At  Course-a-park,  without  all  doubt, 
He  should  have  first  been  taken  out 

By  all  the  maids  i'  the  toAvn : 
Though  lusty  Roger  there  had  been. 
Or  little  George  upon  the  Green, 

Or  Vincent  of  the  Crown. 

But  wot  you  what  ?  the  youth  was  going 
To  make  an  end  of  all  his  wooing ; 

The  parson  for  him  staid  •• 
Yet  by  his  leave,  for  all  his  haste. 
He  did  not  so  much  wish  all  past 

(Perchance)  as  did  the  maid. 

The  maid — and  thereby  hangs  a  tale — 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitson  ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  : 
No  grape  that's  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she. 

Nor  haK  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Wou'd  not  stay  on  which  they  did  bring,, 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck  : 
And  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must) 
It  look'd  like  the  great  collar  (just) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  fear'd  the  light : 
But  oh  !  she  dances  such  a  way  ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

He  wou'd  have  kiss'd  her  once  or  twice. 
But  she  wou'd  not,  she  was  so  nice, 

She  wou'd  not  do't  in  sight ; 
And  then  she  look'd  as  who  shou'd  say 
I  will  do  Avhat  I  list  to-daj^ ; 

And  you  shall  do''t  at  night. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on. 
No  daisy  makes  comparison, 

(Who  sees  them  is  undone) 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Katherine  pear, 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin. 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly. 
But  (Dick)  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze, 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 


From  1558  to  1640.]     DESCEIPTION  OF  THE  PRIESTESS  OF  DTANA.       [J.  Chalkhill. 


Her  mouth  so  small,  ■vrhen  she  does  speak, 
Thou'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break, 

That  they  might  passage  get ; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better, 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 

If  wishing  shou'd  be  any  sin, 

The  parson  himself  had  guilty  been, 

She  look'd  that  day  so  purely : 
And  did  the  youth  so  oft  the  feat 
At  night,  as  some  did  in  conceit, 

It  would  have  spoU'd  him,  surely. 

Passion  o'  me  !  how  I  run  on ! 

There's  that  that  wou'd  be  thought  upon, 

I  trow,  besides  the  bride  : 
The  bus'ness  of  the  kitchen's  great, 
For  it  is  fit  that  men  should  eat ; 

Nor  was  it  there  denied. 

Just  in  the  nick  the  cook  knock' d  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey  ; 
Each  serving  man  \vith  dish  in  hand, 
March'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train'd  band, 

Presented,  and  away. 

When  all  the  meat  was  on  the  table, 
What  man  of  knife,  or  teeth,  was  able 

To  stay  to  be  entreated : 
And  this  the  very  reason  was, 
Before  the  parson  could  say  grace, 

The  company  were  seated. 

Now  hats  fly  off,  and  youths  carouse ; 
Healths  first  go  round,  and  then  the  house. 

The  brides  came  thick  and  thick ; 
And  when  'twas  named  another's  health, 
Perhaps  he  made  it  hcr's  by  stealth, 

And  who  could  help  it,  Dick  ? 

O'  the  sudden  up  they  rise  and  dance ; 
Then  sit  again,  and  sigh  and  glance  : 

Then  dance  again  and  kiss. 
Thus  sev'ral  ways  the  time  did  pass. 
Whilst  every  woman  wish'd  her  place. 

And  every  man  wish'd  his. 

By  this  time  all  were  stolen  aside 
To  counsel  and  undress  the  bride  ; 

But  that  he  must  not  know  : 
But  yet  'twas  thought  he  guest  her  mind, 
And  did  not  mean  to  stay  behind 

Above  an  hour  or  so. 

When  in  he  came  (Dick)  there  she  lay. 
Like  new-fal'n  snow  melting  away, 

'Twas  time,  I  trow,  to  part. 
Kisses  were  now  the  only  stay, 
Which  soon  she  gave,  as  who  wou'd  say. 

Good  b'ye,  with  all  my  heart. 

But  just  as  heavens  wou'd  have  to  cross  it, 
In  came  the  brideraaids  with  the  posset ; 

The  bridegroom  eat  in  spite  ; 
For  had  he  left  the  women  to  't 
It  v/ou'd  have  cost  two  hours  to  do  't, 

Which  were  too  much  that  night. 


At  length  the  candle'  s  out,  and  now 
All  that  they  had  not  done,  they  do  ! 

What  that  is,  who  can  tell  ? 
But  I  believe  it  was  no  more 
Than  thou  and  I  have  done  before 

With  Bridget  and  with  NeU ! 

Sir  John  Suckling. — MiouE  1640. 


331.— CONSTANCY. 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  lov'd 
Three  whole  days  together ; 

And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 
If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  Vvings, 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  ^\A^LQ  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me  ; 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she 

And  that  very  face. 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  in  her  place. 

Sir  John  Suckling. — About  1640. 


332.— SONG. 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart. 

Since  I  can  not  have  thine  ; 
For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  part, 

Why  then  should' st  thou  have  mine  ? 

Yet  now  I  think  on't,  let  it  lie. 

To  find  it  were  in  vain ; 
For  thou'st  a  thief  in  either  eye 

Would  steal  it  back  again. 

Why  should  two  hearts  in  one  breast  lie, 
And  yet  not  lodge  together  ? 

Oh  love  !  where  is  thy  sympathy, 
If  thus  our  breasts  thou  sever  ? 

But  love  is  such  a  mystery, 

I  cannot  find  it  out ; 
For  when  I  think  I'm  best  resolv'd, 

I  then  am  in  most  doubt. 

Then  farewell  care,  and  farewell  woe, 

I  will  no  longer  pine  ; 
For  I'll  believe  I  have  her  heart 

As  much  as  she  has  mine. 

Sir  John  Suckling. — Aho^ii  164<0. 


333.— DESCEIPTION  OF  THE  PEIESTESS 
OF  DIANA. 

Within  a  little  silent  grove  hard  by, 
Upon  a  small  ascent,  he  might  espy 
A  stately  chapel,  richly  gilt  without, 
Beset  with  shady  sycamores  about ; 


John  Chalkhill.] 


THE  IMAGE  OF  JEALOUSY. 


[Thikd  Period. 


And  ever  and  anon  he  might  well  hear 

A  sound  of  music  steal  in  at  his  ear, 

As  the  wind  gave  it  being.     So  sweet  an  air 

Would  strike  a  siren  mute,  and  ravish  her. 

He  sees  no  creature  that   might   cause   the 

same, 
But  he  was  sure  that  from  the  grove  it  came, 
And  to  the  grove  he  goes  to  satisfy 
The  curiosity  of  ear  and  eye. 
Thorough  the  thick-leaved  boughs  he  makes  a 

way, 
Nor  could  the  scratching  brambles  make  him 

stay, 
But  on  he  rushes,  and  climbs  up  a  hill, 
Thorough  a  glade.     Ho  saw  and  heard   his 

mi— 

A  hundred  virgins  there  he  might  espy, 

Prostrate  before  a  marble  deity, 

Which,  by  its  portraiture,  appear' d  to  be 

The  image  of  Diana.     On  their  knee 

They  tended  their  devotions  Avith  sweet  airs. 

Offering    the    incense    of    their    praise    and 

prayers, 
Their  garments  all  alike.         *         *         # 

And    cross    their    snowy   silken   robes   they 

wore 
An  azure  scarf,  with  stars  embroider' d  o'er; 
Their  hair  in  curious  tresses  was  knot  up, 
Crown' d  with  a  silver  crescent  on  the  top  ; 
A  silver  bow  their  left  hand  held,  their  right. 
For  their  defence,  held  a  sharp-headed  flight 
Of  arrows.         #         #         #         #         # 
Under    their     vestments,     something    short 

before. 
White  buskins,  laced  with  ribbanding,  they 

wore ; 
It  was  a  catching  sight  to  a  young  eye. 
That  Love  had  fix'd  before.     He  might  espy 
One  whom  the  rest  had,  sphere-like,  circled 

round. 
Whose  head  was  with  a  golden  chaplet  crown' d: 
He  could  not  see  her  face,  only  his  ear 
Was  blest  with  the  sweet  words  that  came 

from  her. 

John  ChalTiMll. — About  1649. 


After  her  flew  a  sigh  between  two  springs 
Of  briny  waters.  On  her  dove-like  wings 
She  bore  a  letter  seal'd  -with  a  half  mooii. 
And  superscribed — this  from  Suspicion. 

John  Chanchill. — About  1649. 


334.— THE  IMAGE  OF  JEALOUSY  IN 
THE  CHAPEL  OF  DIANA. 

*         *         A  curious  eye 
Might  see  some  relics  of  a  piece  of  art 
That  Psyche  made,  when  Love  first  fired  her 

heart ; 
It  was  the  story  of  her  thoughts,  that  she 
Curiously  wrought  in  lively  imagery  ; 
Among  the  rest  she  thought  of  Jealousy, 
Time  left  untouch' d  to  grace  antiquity, 
She  was  decypher'd  by  a  tim'rous  dame. 
Wrapt  in  a  yellow  mantle  lined  mth  flame  ; 
Her  looks  were  pale,  contracted  with  a  frown. 
Her  eyes  suspicious,  wandering  up  and  downj 
Behmd  her  Fear  attended,  big  with  child. 
Able  to  fright  Presumption  if  she  smiled ; 


335.— THE  WITCH'S  CAVE. 

Her  ceU  was  hewn  out  in  the  marble  rook 
By   more   than    human   art.     She   need   not 

knock — 
The  door  stood  always  open,  large  and  wide, 
Grown  o'er  with  woolly  moss  on  either  side, 
And  interwove  with  ivy's  flattering  twines. 
Through  which  the  carbuncle   and  diamond 

shines ; 
Not  set  by  art,  but  there  by  Nature  sown 
At  the  world's  birth ;  so  star  like  bright  they 

shone. 
They  served  instead  of  tapers,  to  give  light 
To  the  dark  entry.         *         *         *         # 

*  *         *         *         In  they  went : 
The  ground  was  strev/n  with  flowers,  whose 

sweet  scent, 
Mixt  with    the  choice    perfumes  from  India 

brought. 
Intoxicates  his  brains,  and  quickly  caught 
His  credulous  sense.    The  walls  were  gilt,  and 

set 
With  precious  stones,  and  all  the  roof  was  fret 
With  a  gold  viae,  whose  straggling  branches 

spread 
O'er  all  the  arch — the  swelUng  grapes  were 

red ; 
This  art  had  made  of  rubies,  cluster'd  so. 
To  the  quickest  eye  they  more  than  seem'd  to. 

grow. 
About  the  walls  lascivious  pictures  hung. 
Such  as  whereof  loose  Ovid  sometimes  sung  j 
On  either  side  a  crew  of  dwarfish  elves 
Held  waxen  tapers  taller  than  themselves, 
Yet  so  well  shaped  unto  their  little  stature. 
So  angel-like  in  face,  so  sweet  in  feature, 
Their  rich  attire  so  differing,  yet  so  well 
Becoming  her  that  wore  it,  none  could  tell 
Which  was  the  fairest.         #         *         * 
After  a  low  salute  they  all  'gan  sing, 
And  circle  in  the  stranger  in  a  ring ; 
Orandra  to  her  charms  was  stept  aside, 
Leaving  her  guest  half  won,  and  wanton  ejed : 
He  had  forgot  his  herb — cunning  delight 
Had  so  bewitch'd  his  ears,  and  blear'd  his 

sight. 
That  he  was  not  himself.     *         *         * 

*  *         *         *     Unto  his  riQW 
She  represents  a  banquet,  usher' d  in 

By  such  a  shape  as  she  was  sure  would  win 
His  appetite  to  taste — so  like  she  was 
To  his  Clarinda  both  in  shape  and  face. 
So  voiced,  so  habited, — of  the  same  gait 
And  comely  gesture.  #         *         # 

*  #         *     Hardly  did  he  refrain 
From  sucking  in  destruction  at  her  lip  ; 
Sin's  cup  will  poison  at  the  smallest  sip. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


TO  CHLOE. 


[William  Caetwright. 


She  weeps  and  woos  again  with  subtleness, 
And  Avith  a  frown  she  chides  his  backward- 
ness : 
Have  you  (said  she),   sweet  prince,   so  soon 

forgot 
Your  own  beloved  Clarinda  ?     Are  you  not 
The  same  you  were,  that  you  so  slightly  set 
By  her  that  once  you  made  the  cabinet 
Of  your  choice  counsel  ?    Hath  some  worthier 

love 
Stole  your   affections?      What  is  it  should 

move 
You  to  dislike  so  soon  ?     Must  I  still  taste 
No  other  dish  but  sorrow  ?     When  we  last 
Emptied  our  souls  into  each  other's  breast 
It  was  not  so.         *         *         * 

*  *     *  With  that  she  wept  afresh  *  * 

*  *     She  seem'd  to  fall  into  a  swound  ; 
And  stooping  do^vn   to   raise   her   from  the 

ground, 
He  puts  his  herb  into  his  mouth,  whose  taste 
Soon  changed  his  mind  ••  he  lifts  her — but  in 

vain. 
His  hands  feU  off,  and  she  feU  down  again  : 
With  that  she  leant  him   such   a   frown  as 

would 
Have  kUl'd  a  common  lover,  and  made  cold 
Even  lust  itself.     *         *         * 

*  #         #     The  lights  went  out, 
And  darkness  hung  the  chamber  round  about : 
A  yelling,  hellish  noise  was  each  where  heard. 

John  Chalhliill.— About  1G49. 


336.— THE  VOTAHESS  OF  DIANA. 


Clarinda  came  at  last 


With  all  her  train,  who,  as  along  she  pass'd 
Thorough  the  inward  court,  did  make  a  lane. 
Opening  their  ranks,  and,  closing  them  again 
As  she  went  forward,  with  obsequious  gesture. 
Doing  their  reverence.     Her  upward  vesture 
Was  of  blue  sUk,  glistering  with  stars  of  gold, 
Girt  to  her  waist  by  serpents,  that  enfold 
And  ^vrap  themselves  together,  so  well  wrought 
And  fashion' d  to   the   life,  one  would  have 

thought 
They  had  been  real.     Underneath  she  wore 
A  coat  of  silver  tinsel,  short  before. 
And  fring'd  about  with  gold  :  white  buskins 

hide 
The  naked  of  her  leg  ;  they  were  loose  tied 
With  azure  ribands,  on  whose  knots  were  seen 
Most  costly  gems,  fit  only  for  a  queen. 
Her  hair  bound  up  like  to  a  coronet. 
With  diamonds,  rubies,  and  rich  sapphires  set ; 
And  on  the  top  a  silver  crescent  plac'd. 
And  all  the  lustre  by  such  beauty  grac'd, 

I        As  her  reflection  made  them  seem  more  fair ; 

I        One  would  have  thought  Diana's  self  were 

I  there ; 

For  in  her  hand  a  silver  bow  she  held. 
And  at  her  back  there  hung  a  quiver  fill'd 
With  turtle-feather' d  arroAvs. 

John  Chalkhill— About  1649. 


337._A  VALEDICTION. 

Bid  me  not  go  where  neither  suns  nor  showers 

Do  make  or  cherish  ; 
Where  discontented  things  in  sadness  lie, 
And  nature  grieves  as  I ; 
When  I  am  parted  from  those  eyes-  — 
From  which  my  better  day  doth  rise. 
Though  some  propitious  power 
Should  plant  me  in  a  bower, 
Where,  amongst  happy  lovers,  I  might  see 
How  showers  and  sunbeams  bring 
One  everlasting  spring ; 
Nor  would  those  fall,  nor  these  shine  forth 
to  me. 
Nature  herself  to  him  is  lost. 
Who  loseth  her  he  honours  most. 
Then,  fairest,  to  my  parting  view  display 

Your  gTaces  all  in  one  full  day  ; 
Whose  blessed  shapes  I'll  snatch  and  keep, 
till  when 
I  do  retium  and  view  again : 
So  by  this  art,  fancy  shaU  fortune  cross. 
And  lovers  live  by  thinking  on  their  loss. 

William  Cartwright. — About  1640. 


338.— TO  CHLOE, 
Who  wished  herself  young  enough  for  me. 

Chloe,  why  wish  you  that  your  years 

Woidd  backwards  run,  till  they  met  mine  ? 

That  perfect  likeness,  which  endears 
Things  unto  things,  might  us  combine. 

Our  ages  so  in  date  agree, 

That  twins  do  differ  more  than  we. 

There  are  two  births  ;  the  one  when  light 
First  strikes  the  new  awakened  sense ; 

The  other  when  two  souls  unite  : 

And  we  must  count  our  life  from  thence  : 

When  you  lov'd  me,  and  I  lov'd  you, 

Then  both  of  us  were  born  anew. 

Love  then  to  us  did  new  souls  give. 

And  in  those  souls  did  plant  new  pow'rs  : 

Since  when  another  life  we  live, 

The  breath  we  breathe  is  his,  not  ours  ; 

Love  makes  those  young  whom  age  doth  chill, 

And  whom  he  finds  young  keeps  young  still. 

Love,  like  that  angel  that  shall  call 
Our  bodies  from  the  silent  grave, 

Unto  one  age  doth  raise  us  all ; 

None  too  much,  none  too  little  have ; 

Nay,  that  the  difference  may  be  none. 

He  makes  two  not  alike,  but  one. 

And  now  since  you  and  I  are  such. 

Tell  me  what's  yours,  and  what  is  mine  ? 

Our  eyes,  our  ears,  our  taste,  smell,  touch. 
Do,  like  our  souls,  in  one  combine ; 

So,  by  this,  I  as  well  maj^  be 

Too  old  for  you,  as  you  for  me. 

William  Cartwricjht. — Aboui  1640. 


William  Cabtwbight.] 


LOVE'S  DAETS. 


[Third  Period — 


339.— LOVE'S  DAETS. 

Where  is  that  learned  wretch  that  knows, 
What  are  those  darts  the  veil'd  god  throws  ? 

0  let  him  tell  me  ere  I  die 

When  'twas  he  saw  or  heard  them  fly ; 
Whether  the  sparrow's  plumes,  or  dove's, 
Wing  them  for  various  loves  ; 
And  whether  gold,  or  lead. 
Quicken,  or  dull  the  head  : 

1  will  anoint  and  keep  them  warm, 
And  make  the  weapons  heal  the  harm. 

Fond  that  I  am  to  ask  !  whoe'er 
Did  yet  see  thought  ?  or  silence  hear  ? 
Safe  from  the  search  of  human  eye 
These  arrows  (as  i^eiv  ways  are)  fly ; 

The  flights  of  angels  part 

Not  air  with  so  much  art ; 

And  snows  on  streams,  we  may 

Say,  louder  fall  than  they. 
So  hopeless  I  must  now  endure. 
And  neither  know  the  shaft  nor  cure. 

A  sudden  fire  of  blushes  shed 
To  die  white  paths  with  hasty  red ; 
A  glance's  lightning  swiftly  thrown, 
Or  from  a  true  or  seeming  frown ; 

A  subtle  taking  smile 

From  passion,  or  from  guile  ; 

The  spirit,  life,  and  grace 

Of  motion,  limbs,  and  face  : 
These  misconceit  entitles  darts. 
And  tears  the  bleedings  of  our  hearts. 

But  as  the  feathers  in  the  wing 
Unblemish'd  are,  and  no  wounds  bring, 
And  harmless  twigs  no  bloodshed  know, 
Tin  art  doth  fit  them  for  the  bow ; 

So  lights  of  flowing  graces 

Sparkle  in  several  places, 

Only  adorn  the  parts. 

Till  that  we  make  them  darts  ; 
Themselves  are  only  twigs  and  quills  : 
We  give  them  shape,  and  force  for  ills. 

Beauty's  our  grief,  but  in  the  ore. 
We  mint,  and  stamp,  and  then  adore : 
Like  heathen  we  the  image  crown, 
And  indiscreetly  then  fall  down  : 

Those  graces  all  were  meant 

Our  joy,  not  discontent ; 

But  with  untaught  desires 

We  turn  those  lights  to  fires. 
Thus  Nature's  healing  herbs  we  take, 
And  out  of  cures  do  poisons  make. 

William  Ca/rtwright — About  1640. 


340.— THE  KISS— A   DIALOGUE. 

Among  thy  fancies.tell  me  this  : 
Wliat  is  the  thing  we  call  a  kiss  ? — 
I  shall  resolve  ye  what  it  is  : 


It  is  a  creature  born,  and  bred 
Between  the  lips,  all  cherry  red  ; 
By  love  and  warm  desires  fed  ; 
And  makes  more  soft  the  bridal  bed  : 

It  is  an  active  flame,  that  flies 

First  to  the  babies  of  the  eyes. 

And  charms  them  there  with  luUabies  ; 

And  stills  the  bride  too  when  she  cries  : 

Then  to  the  chin,  the  cheek,  the  ear, 
It  frisks,  and  flies  :  now  here,  now  there ; 
'Tis  now  far  off,  and  then  'tis  near  ; 
And  here,  and  there,  and  everyv/here. 

Has  it  a  speaking  virtue  ? — Yes. 

How  speaks  it,  say  ? — Do  yon  but  this, 

Part  your  join'd   lips,   then    speaks   your 

kiss; 
And  this  love's  sweetest  language  is. 

Has  it  a  body  ? — Ay,  and  wings. 
With  thousand  rare  encolourings  ; 
And  as  it  flies,  it  gently  sings, 
Love  honey  yields,  but  never  stings. 

Robert  Herrick. — About  1648. 


341.— TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree. 

Why  do  you  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past. 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile, 

To  blush  and  gently  smile. 
And  go  at  last. 

What !  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 

'Tis  pity  nature  .brought  ye  forth 
Merely  to  show  your  worth. 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  : 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 
Like  you  a  while,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

Bobert  Herrick. — About  1648. 


342. 


-TO  DAFFODILS. 


Fair  daff'odils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attain' d  his  noon  : 
Stay,  stay. 

Until  the  hast'ning  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song ; 
And  having  pray'd  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along  ! 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE. 


[Robert  Herkick. 


We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you ; 
We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you  or  anything  : 
We  die, 
As  your  hours  do  ;  and  dry 

Away 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

Robert  Herrick—Ahoxit  1648. 


343--S  O  N  G. 

Gather  ye  rose-buds,  vv^hile  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he's  a  getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

The  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer  ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time. 
And,  whilst  ye  may,  go  marry ; 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime. 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

Bolcrt  Herrick. — About  1648. 


344.— TO  MEADOWS. 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green, 
Ye  have  been  fill'd  with  flowers ; 

And  ye  the  walks  have  been, 

Where  maids  have*  spent  their  hours. 

Ye  have  beheld  where  they 

With  wicker  arks  did  come, 
To  kiss  and  bear  away 

The  richer  cowslips  home. 
You've  heard  them  sweetly  sing, 

And  seen  them  in  a  round. 
Each  virgin  like  a  Spring 

With  honeysuckles  crown'd. 

But  now  we  see  none  here, 
Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread. 

And,  with  dishevell'd  hair, 
Adorn' d  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifts,  having  spent 
YoTir  stock,  and  needy  grown, 

Ye' re  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poor  estates  alone. 

Bobert  HerricJc. — Ahotit  1648. 


345.— THE  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

Sweet  country  life,  to  such  unknown 
Whose  lives  are  others',  not  their  own  ! 


But  serving  courts  and  cities,  be 

Less  happy,  less  enjoying  thee  ! 

Thou  never  plough' st  the  ocean's  foam 

To  seek  and  bring  rough  j)epper  home  ; 

Nor  to  the  Eastern  Ind  dost  rove. 

To  bring  from  thence  the  scorched  clove  : 

Nor,  with  the  loss  of  thy  loved  rest?     - 

Bring' st  home  the  ingot  from  the  West. 

No  :  thy  ambition's  master-piece 

Flies  no  thought  higher  than  a  fleece ; 

Or  how  to  pay  thy  hinds,  and  clear 

All  scores,  and  so  to  end  the  year ; 

But  walk'st  about  thy  own  dear  bounds,* 

Not  envying  others'  larger  grounds  : 

For  well  thou  know'st,  'tis  not  th'  extent 

Of  land  makes  life,  but  sweet  content. 

When  now  the  cock,  the  ploughman's  horn, 

Calls  forth  the  Hly-wristed  morn. 

Then  to  thy  corn-fields  thou  dost  go, 

Which    though    well-soil' d,    yet     thou    dost 

know 
That  the  best  compost  for  the  lands 
Is  the  wise  master's  feet  and  hands. 
There  at  the  plough  thou  find'st  thy  team. 
With  a  hind  whistling  there  to  them ; 
And  cheer' st  them  up  by  singing  how 
The  kingdom's  portion  is  the  plough. 
This  done,  then  to  th'  enamell'd  meads 
Thou  go'st ;  and  as  thy  foot  there  treads, 
Thou  see'st  a  present  godlike  power 
Imprinted  in  each  herb  and  flower  ; 
And  smell' st  the  breath  of  great-eyed  kine, 
Sweet  as  the  blossoms  of  the  vine. 
Here  thou  behold' st  thy  large  sleek  neat, 
Unto  the  dewlaps  up  in  meat ; 
And,  as  thou  look'st,  the  wanton  steer. 
The  heifer,  cow,  and  ox,  draw  near, 
To  make  a  pleasing  pastime  there. 
These  seen,  thou  go'st  to  view  thy  fiocka 
Of  sheep,  safe  from  the  wolf  and  fox  ; 
And  find'st  their  bellies  there  as  fiill 
Of  short  sweet  grass,  as  backs  with  wool ; 
And  leavest  them  as  they  feed  and  fill ; 
A  shepherd  piping  on  a  hill. 
For  sports,  for  pageantry,  and  plays. 
Thou  hast  thy  eves  and  holidays  ; 
On  which  the  young  men  and  maids  meet. 
To  exercise  their  dancing  feet ; 
Tripping  the  comely  country  round. 
With  daffodils  and  daisies  cro^ra'd. 
Thy  wakes,  thy  quintels,  here  thou  hast ; 
Thy  may-poles  too,  with  garlands  graced ; 
Thy  morris-dance,  thy  Whitsun-ale, 
Thy  shearing-feast,  which  never  fail ; 
Thy  harvest-home,  thy  wassail  bowl. 
That's  tost  up  after  fox  i'  th'  hole  ; 
Thy  mummeries,  thy  Twelfth-night  kings 
And  queens,  thy  Christmas  revellings  ; 
Thy  nut-brown  mirth,  thy  russet  wit ; 
And  no  man  pays  too  dear  for  it. 
To  these  thou  hast  thy  times  to  go, 
And  trace  the  hare  in  the  treacherous  snow ; 
Thy  ^vittj  wiles  to  draw,  and  get 
The  lark  into  the  trammel  net ; 
Thou  hast  thy  cockrood,  and  thy  glade 
To  take  the  precious  pheasant  made ; 


EoBEEx  Heerick.]     PEIMEOSES  FILLED  WITH  MOENING  DEW.     [Tiiikd  Pekiod.— 


Thy  lime-twigs,  snares,  and  pit-falls,  then 
To  catch  the  pilfering  birds,  not  men. 

O  happy  Hfe,  if  that  their  good 
The  husbandmen  but  understood  ! 
Who  all  the  day  themselves  do  please, 
And  younglings,  with  such  sports  as  these ; 
And,  lying  down,  have  nought  to  affright 
Sweet  sleep,  that  makes  more  short  the  night. 

Robert  Herrick. — Ahout  1648. 


346.— TO  PEIMEOSES,   FILLED  WITH 
MOENING  DEW. 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  ?     Can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you, 
Who  were  but  bom 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teem'd  her  refreshing  dew  ? 
Alas  !  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower. 
Nor  felt  the  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind  ; 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years, 

Or  warp'd  as  we,  j 

Who  think  it  strange  to  see  j 

Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

Speak,    whimp'ring    younglings,     and    make 
known 

The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep ; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 
Or  childish  lullaby  ? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet  ? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweet  heart  to  this  ? 
No,  no ;  this  sorrow  shown 

By  your  tears  shed. 
Would  have  this  lecture  read — 
"  That   things   of    greatest,    so    of   meanest 

worth, 
Conceived  with   grief   are,    and    with    tears 
brought  forth." 

Robert  Herriclc. — About  1648. 


347.— JULIA. 

Some  ask'd  me  where  the  rubies  grew, 

And  nothing  did  I  say, 
But  with  my  finger  pointed  to 

The  lips  of  Julia. 

Some  ask'd  how  pearls  did  grow,  and  where, 

Then  spake  I  to  my  girl, 
To  part  her  Ups,  and  show  me  there 

The  quarelets  of  pearl. 

One  ask'd  me  where  the  roses  grew, 

I  bade  him  not  go  seek  ; 
But  forthwith  bade  my  Julia  show 

A  bud  in  either  cheek. 

Robert  Herriclc. — About  1648. 


348.— CHEEEY  EIPE. 
Cherry  ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry. 
Full  and  fair  ones — come  and  buy  ; 
If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 
They  do  grow  ? — I  answer.  There, 
Where  my  Jiilia's  lips  do  smile — 
There's  the  land,  or  cherry-isle  ; 
Whose  plantations  fully  show 
All  the  year  where  cherries  grow. 

Robert  Herrick. — About  1648. 


349- 


-A  THANKSGIVn^G  FOE  HIS 
HOUSE. 


Lord,  Thou  hast  given  me  a  cell, 

"Wherein  to  dwell ; 
A  little  house,  whose  humble  roof 

Is  weatherproof ; 
Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie 

Both  soft  and  dry. 
Where  Thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward. 

Hast  set  a  guard 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me  while  I  sleep. 
Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate, 

Both  void  of  state ; 
And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  the  poor, 
AVho  hither  come,  and  freely  get 

Good  words  or  meat. 
Like  as  my  parlour,  so  my  hall, 

And  kitchen  small ; 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  little  bin, 
Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Unchipt,  unflead. 
Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  or  brier 

Make  me  a  fire. 
Close  by  whose  K^nng  coal  I  sit. 

And  glow  like  it. 
Lord,  I  confess,  too,  when  I  dine. 

The  pulse  is  Thine, 
And  all  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  Thee. 
The  worts,  the  purslain,  and  the  mess 

Of  water-cress. 
Which  of  Thy  kindness  Thou  hast  sent : 

And  my  content 
Makes  those,  and  my  beloved  beet, 

To  be  more  sweet. 
'TisThou  that  crown' st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth  ; 
And  giv'st  me  wassail  bowls  to  drink. 

Spiced  to  the  brink. 
Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  sows  my  land  : 
All  this,  and  better,  dost  Thou  send 

Me  for  this  end  : 
That  I  should  render  for  my  part 

A  thankful  heart. 
Which,  fir'd  with  incense,  I  resign 

As  wholly  thine : 
But  the  acceptance — that  must  be, 

O  Lord,  by  Thee. 

Robert  Herriclc. — About  1648. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


SONG. 


[EiCHARD  Lovelace. 


350.— TO  FIND  GOD. 

Weigli  me  the  fire  ;  or  canst  thou  find 
A  way  to  measure  out  the  wind  ; 
Distinguish  all  those  floods  that  are 
Mixt  in  that  watery  theatre, 
And  taste  thou  them  as  saltless  there, 
As  in  their  channel  first  they  were. 
Tell  me  the  people  that  do  keep 
Within  the  kingdoms  of  the  deep  ; 
Or  fetch  me  back  that  cloud  again, 
Beshiver'd  into  seeds  of  rain. 
Tell  me  the  motes,  dusts,  sands,  and  spears 
Of  corn,  when  summer  shakes  his  ears ; 
Show  me  that  world  of  stars,  and  whence 
They  noiseless  spill  their  influence  : 
This  if  thou  canst,  then  show  me  Him 
That  rides  the  glorious  cherubim. 

Robert  Herrick. — About  1648. 


351.— TO   CORINNA,   TO   GO  A-MAYING. 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 

Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air ; 
Get  up,  sweet  slug  a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 

Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bow'd  toward  the 
east, 

Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  are  not  drest, 
Nay,  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ; 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said. 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns  :  'tis 

sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 

When  as  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day, 

Spring  sooner  than  the  lark  to  fetch  in  May. 

Eiise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come  forth,  like  the  spring  time,  fresh  and 
green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair  ; 
Fear  not,  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  ; 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept. 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night  : 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Tni  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 

praying ; 
Few  beads  are  best,  when    once   we   go   a- 
Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come  ;  and,  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a 
park 

Made  green,   and  trimm'd  "v\^ith  trees  ; 

see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough. 
Or  branch  ;  each  porch,  each  door,  ere 

this, 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 


Made  up  of  white  thorn  neatly  interwove  ; 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street, 
And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't  ? 
Come,  we'll  abroad,  and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  Mayj 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying. 

But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May, 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white  thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatch' d  their  cakes  and 

cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream ; 
And  some  have  wept,  and  woo' d,  and  plighted 

troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off 
sloth : 

Many  a  green  gown  has  been  given  ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  ; 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament : 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  key's  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  pick'd  j  yet  w'are  not  a- 
Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime. 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
Before  we  know  our  liberty. 
Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun  ; 
And  as  a  vapour,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again  ; 
So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 
A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade  ; 
All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drown'd  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then,  while  time  serves,  and  wo  are  but  de- 
caying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  lets  go  a-Maying. 

PMbert  Herrick. — About  1648. 


352.— SONG. 

Why  should  you  swear  I  am  forsworn, 

Since  thine  I  vow'd  to  be  ? 
Lady,  it  is  already  morn, 

And  'twas  last  night  I  swore  to  thee 

That  fond  impossibility. 

Have  I  not  lov'd  thee  much  and  long, 
A  tedious  twelve  hours'  space  ? 

I  must  all  other  beauties  wi-ong, 
And  rob  thee  of  a  new  embrace, 
Could  I  still  dote  upon  thy  face. 

Not  but  all  joy  in  thy  brown  hair 
By  others  may  be  found ; 

But  I  must  search  the  black  and  fair, 
Like  skilful  mineralists  that  sound 
For  treasure  in  unplough'd-up  gi-ound. 


Richard  Lovelace.] 


TO  LUCASTA. 


[Third  Period. — 


Then,  if  when  I  have  lov'd  my  round, 
Thou  prov'st  the  pleasant  she  ; 

With  spoils  of  meaner  beauties  cro^vn'd, 
I  laden  will  return  to  thee, 
Even  sated  with  variety. 

Richard  Lovelace. — About  1649. 


353._TO    LUCASTA, 
Going  to  the  Wars. 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast,  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True  :  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 
Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such, 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Lov'd  I  not  honour  more. 

Bicha/rd  Lovelace. — About  1649. 


354- 


-TO    LTCASTA. 
From  Prison. 


Long  in  thy  shackles,  liberty, 
I  ask  not  from  these  walls,  but  thee ; 
Left  for  a  while  another's  bride 
To  fancy  all  the  world  beside. 

Yet  e'er  I  do  begin  to  love. 
See  !  how  I  all  my  objects  prove ; 
Then  my  free  sorJ  to  that  confine, 
'Twere  possible  I  might  call  mine. 

First  I  would  be  in  love  with  peace, 
And  her  rich  swelling  breasts  increase ; 
But  how,  alas !  how  may  that  be. 
Despising  earth,  she  wiU  love  me  ? 

Fain  would  I  be  in  love  with  war, 
As  my  dear  just  avenging  star ; 
But  war  is  lov'd  so  ev'ry  where, 
Ev'n  ho  disdains  a  lodging  here. 

Thee  and  thy  wounds  I  would  bemoan 
Fair  thorough- shot  religion ; 
But  he  lives  only  that  kills  thee. 
And  whoso  binds  thy  hands  is  free. 

I  would  love  a  parliament 

As  a  main  prop  from  heav'n  sent ; 

But,  ah  !  who's  he  that  would  be  wedded, 

To  th'  fairest  body  that's  beheaded  ! 

Next  would  I  court  my  liberty. 

And  then  ray  birthright,  property ; 

But  can  that  be,  when  it  is  known 

There's  nothing  you  can  call  your  own  ? 

A  reformation  I  would  have. 
As  for  our  griefs  a  sov' reign  salve; 
That  is,  a  cleansing  of  each  wheel 
Of  state,  that  yet  som<:)  rust  doth  feel 


But  not  a  reformation  so. 
As  to  reform  were  to  overthrow  ; 
Like  watches  by  unskilful  men 
Disjointed,  and  set  ill  again. 

The  public  faith  I  would  adore, 
But  she  is  bankrupt  of  her  store  ; 
Nor  how  to  trust  her  can  I  see. 
For  she  that  cozens  all,  must  mo. 

Since  then  none  of  those  can  be 
Fit  objects  for  my  love  and  me  ; 
What  then  remains,  but  th'  only  spring 
Of  all  our  loves  and  joys  ?  The  King. 

He,  who  being  the  whole  baU. 
Of  day  on  earth,  lends  it  to  all ; 
When  seeking  to  eclipse  his  right. 
Blinded,  we  stand  in  our  own  light. 

And  now  an  universal  mist 

Of  error  is  spread  o'er  each  breast, 

With  such  a  fury  edged,  as  is 

Not  found  in  th'  inwards  of  th'  abyss. 

Oh,  from  thy  glorious  starry  wain 
Dispense  on  me  one  sacred  beam. 
To  light  me  where  I  soon  may  see 
How  to  serve  you,  and  you  trust  me. 

Richard  Lovelace. — About  1649. 


355.— TO    ALTHEA. 

From  Prison. 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates  ; 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates  ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fetter' d  to  her  eye  ; 
The  gods  that  wanton  in  the  air, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  \vith  loyal  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  (like  committed  linnets)  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King  ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud,  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be  ; 
Enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  ; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free  ; 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Richard  Lovelace. — About  1649. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  MUSE'S  LOOKING-GLASS. 


[Thomas  RANDOiiPH. 


356.— S  O  N  G. 

Amarantha,  sweet  and  fair, 
Forbear  to  braid  that  shining  liair  ; 
As  my  curious  hand  or  eye, 
Hovering  round  thee,  let  it  fly : 

Let  it  fly  as  unconfined 
As  its  ravisher  the  wind, 
Who  has  left  his  darling  east 
To  wanton  o'er  this  spicy  nest. 

Every  tress  must  be  confess'd 
But  neatly  tangled  at  the  best, 
Like  a  clew  of  golden  thread 
Most  excellently  ravelled : 

Bo  not  then  wind  up  that  light 

In  ribands,  and  o'ercloud  the  night ; 

Like  the  sun  in  his  early  ray, 

But  shake  your  head  and  scatter  day. 

Richard  Lovelace. — Ahoid  1649. 


357.— A  LOOSE  SAEABAND. 

Ah  me,  the  little  tyrant  thief, 
As  once  my  heart  was  playing, 

He  snatch' d  it  up,  and  flew  away, 
Laughing  at  all  my  praying. 

Proud  of  his  purchase,  he  surveys. 

And  curiously  sounds  it ; 
And  though  he  sees  it  full  of  wounds. 

Cruel  still  on  he  wounds  it. 

And  now  this  heart  is  all  his  sporfc, 
Which  as  a  ball  he  boundeth, 

Erom  hand  to  hand,  from  breast  to  lip, 
And  all  its  rest  confoundeth. 

Then  as  a  top  he  sets  it  up, 

And  pitifully  whips  it ; 
Sometimes  he  clothes  it  gay  and  fine, 

Then  straight  again  he  strips  it. 

He  cover' d  it  with  false  belief. 

Which  gloriously  show'd  it ; 
And  for  a  morning  cushionet 

On's  mother  ho  bestow' d  it. 

Each  day  with  her  small  brazen  stings 
A  thousand  times  she  raced  it ; 

But  then  at  night,  bright  with  her  gems, 
Once  near  her  breast  she  placed  it. 

Then  warm  it  'gan  to  throb  and  bleed, 

She  knew  that  smart  and  grieved ; 
At  length  this  poor  condemned  heart, 

With  these  rich  drugs  reprieved. 
She  wash'd  the  wound  with  a  fresh  tear. 

Which  my  Lucasta  dropped  ; 
And  in  the  sleeve  silk  of  her  hair 

'Twas  hard  bound  up  and  wrapped. 

She  probed  it  with  her  constancy, 
And  found  no  rancour  nigh  it ; 

Only  the  anger  of  her  eye 

Had  wroiight  some  proud  flesh  nigh  it 


Then  press'd  she  hard  in  every  vein, 
Which  from  her  kisses  thrilled, 

And  with  the  balm  heal'd  all  its  pa,in 
That  from  her  hand  distilled. 

But  yet  this  heart  avoids  me  still. 

Will  not  by  me  be  owned ; 
But,  fled  to  its  physician's  breast^ 

There  proudly  sits  enthroned. 

Richard  Lovelace. — Ahoiit  1649. 


358.— TO  A  LADY  ADMIRING  HEESELF 
IN  A  LOOKING-GLASS. 

Fair  lady,  when  you  see  the  grace 
Of  beauty  in  your  looking-glass  ; 
A  stately  forehead,  smooth  and  high, 
And  full  of  princely  majesty ; 
A  sparkling  eye,  no  gem  so  fair, 
Wliose  lustre  dims  the  Cyprian  star ; 
A  glorious  cheek,  divinely  sweet, 
Wherein  both  roses  kindly  meet ; 
•     A  cherry  lip  that  would  entice 
Even  gods  to  kiss  at  any  price  ; 
You  think  no  beauty  is  so  rare 
That  with  your  shadow  might  compare ; 
That  your  reflection  is  alone 
The  thing  that  men  most  dote  upon. 
Madam,  alas  !  your  glass  doth  lie, 
And  you  are  much  deceived ;  for  I 
A  beauty  know  of  richer  grace  ; 
(Sweet,  be  not  angry)  'tis  your  face. 
Hence,  then,  O  learn  more  mild  to  be, 
And  leave  to  lay  your  blame  on  me  : 
If  me  your  real  substance  move, 
"When  you  so  much  your  shadow  love. 
Wise  nature  would  not  let  your  eye 
Look  on  her  own  bright  majesty ; 
Which,  had  you  once  but  gazed  upon, 
You  could,  escept  yourself,  love  none  : 
What  then  you  cannot  love,  let  me, 
That  face  I  can,  you  cannot  see. 

Now  you  have  what  to  love,  you'll  say. 
What  then  is  left  for  me,  I  pray  ? 
My  face,  sweet  heart,  if  it  j)lease  thee  ; 
That  which  you  can,  I  cannot  see  : 
So  either  love  shall  gain  his  due, 
Yours,  sweet,  in  me,  and  mine  in  you. 

Thomas  Randolj^h. — Ahout  1630. 


359.— FEOM  THE  MUSE'S  LOOKING- 
GLASS. 

See,  brother,  how  the  wicked  throng  and 
crowd 
To  works  of  vanity !  not  a  nook  or  comer 
In  all  this  house  of  sin,  this  cave  of  filthiness, 
This  den  of  spiritual  thieves,  but  it  is  stuflfd, 
Stuff'd,  and  stuff'd  full,  as  is  a  cushion, 
With  the  lewd  reprobate. 

Sister,  were  there  not  before  inns — 
Yes,  I  will  say  inns  (for  my  zeal  bids  me 
Say  filthy  inns  ;  enough  to  harbour  such 


TH03IAS  EANDOLPH.] 


TO  MY  PICTUEE. 


[Third  PESior. — 


As  travell'd  to  destruction  the  broad  way, 
But  they  build  more  and  more — more  shops 
of  Satan  ? 

Iniquity  aboundeth,  though  pure  zeal 
Teach,  preach,  huff,  puff,  and  snuff  at  it ;  yet 

still, 
Still  it  aboundeth !     Had  we  seen  a  church, 
A  new-built  church,  erected  north  and  south, 
It  had  been  something  worth  the  wondering  at. 

Good  works  are  done. 

I  say  no  works  are  good ; 
Go  )d  works  are  merely  popish  and  apocryphal. 

i3ut  the   bad  abound,   surround,  yea,   and 
confound  us. 
No  marvel  now  if  playhouses  increase, 
For  they  are  all  grown  so  obscene  of  late. 
That  one  begets  another. 

Flat  fornication ! 
I  wonder  anybody  takes  delight 
To  hear  them  prattle. 

Nay,  and  I  have  heard. 
That  in  a — ^tragedy,  I  think  they  call  it, 
They  make  no  more  of  killing  one  another, 
Than  you  sell  pins. 

Or  you  sell  feathers,  brother ; 
But  are  they  not  hang'd  for  it  ? 

Law  grows  partial. 
And  finds  it  but   chance-medley  :   and  their 

comedies 
Will  abuse  you,  or  me,  or  anybody  ; 
We  cannot  put  our  monies  to  increase 
By  lawful  usury,  nor  break  in  quiet, 
Nor  put  off  our  false  wares,  nor  keep  our  wives 
Finer  than  others,  but  our  ghosts  must  walk 
Upon  their  stages. 

Is  not  this  flat  conjuring, 
To  make  our  ghosts  to  walk  ere  we  be  dead  ? 

That's  nothing,  Mrs.  Flowerdew  !   they  will 
play 
The  knave,  the   fool,  the  devil  and  all,  for 

money. 

Impiety  !  O,  that  men  endued  with  reason 
Should  have  no  more  grace  in  them  ! 

Be  there  not  other 
Tocations  as  thriving,  and  more  honest  ? 
Bailiffs,  promoters,  jailers,  and  apparitours. 
Beadles  and  martials-men,  the  needful  instru- 
ments 
Of  the  republic  ;  but  to  make  themselves 
Such  monsters  !  for  they  are  monsters — th'  are 

monsters — 
Base,  sinful,  shameless,  ugly,  vile,  deform'd. 
Pernicious  monsters ! 

I  have  heard  our  vicar 
Call  play-houses  the  colleges  of  transgression, 
Wherein  the  seven  deadly  sins  are  studied. 

Why  then  the  city  will  in  time  be  made 
An  university  of  iniquity. 
Wo  dwell  by  Black-Friars  college,    where  I 

wonder 
How  that  profane  nest  of  pernicious  birds 
Dare  roost  themselves  there  in  the  midst  of  us. 
So  many  good  and  well-disposed  persons. 

0  impudence ! 

It  was  a  zealous  prayer 

1  heard  a  brother  make  concerning  play-houses. 


For  charity,  what  is't  ? 
That  the  Globe 

Wherein  (quoth  he)  reigns  a  Avholo  world  -  of 
vice, 

Had  been   consumed;    the  Phoenix   burnt  to 
ashes  ; 

The  Fortune  whipt  for  a  blind  whore  ;  Black- 
Friars 

He  wonders  how  it  'scaped  demolishing 

I'  th'  time  of  reformation :  lastly,  he  wish'd 

The  Bull  might  cross  the  Thames  to  the  Bear- 
garden, 

And  there  be  soundly  baited. 
A  good  prayer ! 
Indeed,  it  something  pricks  my  conscience, 

I  come  to  sell  'em  pins  and  looking-glasses. 
I   have    their    custom,    too,    for   all    their 
feathers  ; 

'Tis  fit  that  we,  which  are  sincere  professors. 

Should  gain  by  infidels. 

Thomas  Randolph. — Alout  1630. 


360.— TO  MY. PICTUEE. 

When  age  hath  made  me  what  I  am  not  now. 
And  every  wrinkle  tells  me  where  the  plough 
Of  Time  hath  furrow' d,  when  an  ice  shall  flow 
Through  every  vein,  and  all  my  head  be  snow ; 
When  Death  displays  his  coldness  in  my  cheek, 
And  I,  myself,  in  my  own  picture  seek. 
Not  finding  what  I  am,  but  what  I  was  ; 
In  doubt  which  to  believe,  this  or  my  glass  ; 
Yet  though  I  alter,  this  remains  the  same 
As  it  was  draAvn,  retains  the  primitive  frame. 
And  first  complexion  ;  here  wiU  still  be  seen, 
Blood  on  the  cheek,  and  down  upon  the  chin  : 
Here  the  smooth  brow  will  stay,  the  lively  eye. 
The  ruddy  lip,  and  hair  of  youthful  dye. 
Behold  what  frailty  we  in  man  may  see. 
Whose  shadow  is  less  given  to  change  than  he. 
Thomas  Randolph. — About  1630. 


361.— TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

Sweet  bird  !  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 
Of  winters  past,  or  coming,  void  of  care  ; 
Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are. 
Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling 

flowers : 
To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers. 
Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare, 
And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare, 
A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  low'rs. 
What  soul  can  be  so  sick  which  by  thy  songs 
(Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not  driven 
Quite  to  forget  earth's  turmoils,   spites,  and 

wrongs. 
And  lift  a  reverend  eye  and  thought  to  heaven  ? 
Sweet  artless  songster !    thou  my  mind  dost 

raise 
To  airs  of  spheres — yes,  and  to  angels'  lays. 
William  Drummond. — About  1640. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  DEATH  OF  EOSAMOND. 


[Thomas  Mat. 


362.— TO  HIS  LUTE. 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst  grow 
With  thy  green  motber  in  some  shady  grove, 
When  immelodious  winds  but  made  thee  move, 
And  birds  their  ramage  did  on  thee  bestow. 
Since  that  dear  voice  which  did  thy  sounds 

approve, 
Which  wont  in  such  harmonious  strains  to  flow, 
Is  reft  from  earth  to  tun6  the  spheres  above, 
What  art  thou  but  a  harbinger  of  woe  ? 
Thy  pleasing  notes  be  pleasing  notes  no  more. 
But  orphan  wailings  to  the  fainting  ear, 
Each  stroke  a  sigh,  each  sound  draws  forth  a 

tear  ; 
For  which  be  silent  as  in  woods  before : 
Or  if  that  any  hand  to  touch  thee  deign, 
Like  widow' d  turtle  still  her  loss  complain. 

William  Drummond. — About  1640. 


363.— SPRING. 
Sweet  Spring,  thou  com'st  with  all  thy  goodly 

train. 
Thy  head  with  flames,  thy  mantle  bright  with 

flow'rs, 
The  zephyrs  curl  the  green  locks  of  the  plain. 
The  clouds  for  joy  in  pearls  weep  down  their 

show'rs. 
Sweet    Spring,   thou    com'st — ^but,    ah !    my 

pleasant  hours. 
And  happy  days,  with  thee  come  not  again  ; 
The  sad  memorials  only  of  my  pain 
Do  with  thee  come,  which  turn  my  sweets  to 

sours. 
Thou  art  the  same  which  still  thou  wert  before, 
Delicious,  lusty,  amiable,  fair  ; 
But  she  whose  breath  embalm' d  thy  wholesome 

air 
Is  gone  ;  nor  gold  nor  gems  can  her  restore. 
Neglected  virtue,  seasons  go  and  come. 
When  thine  forgot  lie  closed  in  a  tomb  ! 

William  Drummond. — About  1640, 


364.— THINK  ON  THY  HOME. 

Look,  how  the  flower  which  ling'ringly  doth 

fade, 
The  morning's   darlfhg    late,    the    summer's 

queen, 
Spoil' d  of  that  juice  which  kept  it  fresh  and 

green. 
As  high  as  it  did  raise,  bows  low  the  head : 
Right  so  the  pleasures  of  my  life  being  dead. 
Or  in  their  contraries  but  only  seen, 
With  swifter  speed  declines  than  erst  it  spread. 
And  (blasted)  scarce  now  shows  what  it  hath 

been. 
As  doth  the  pUgrim,  theref  ore^  whom  the  night 
By  darkness  would  imprison  on  his  way. 
Think  on  thy  home  (my  soul)  and  think  aright, 
Of  what's  yet  left  thee  of  life's  wasting  day; 

Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn, 

And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born. 
William  Drummond. — About  1640. 


365.— JOHN   THE   BAPTIST. 

The  last  and  greatest  herald  of  heaven's  King, 
Girt  with  rough  skins,  hies  to  the  deserts  wild. 
Among  that  savage   brood  the   woods  foi-th 

bring, 
Which  he  more  harmless  found  1^a»-nian,  and 

mild  ; 
His  food  was  locusts,  and  what  there  doth 

spring. 
With  honey  that  from  virgin  hives  distOl'd, 
Parch'dbody,  hoUow  eyes,  some  uncouth  thing. 
Made  him  appear,  long  since  from  earth  exiled, 
There  burst  he  forth ;  all  ye  whose  hopes  rely 
On  God,  with  me  amidst  these  deserts  mourn. 
Repent,  repent,  and  from  old  errors  turn  ! 
Who  listen' d  to  his  voice,  obey'd  his  cry  ? 

Only  the  echoes,  which  he  made  relent. 

Rung  from  their  flinty  caves.  Repent,  repent ! 

William  Drummond. — About  1640. 


366.— THE  PRAISE  OP  A  SOLITARY 
LIFE. 

Thrice  happy  he  who  by  some  shady  grove, 
Far  from  the  clamorous  world,  doth  live  his 

own. 
Thou  solitary,  who  is  not  alone, 
But  doth  converse  with  that  eternal  love. 
O  how  more  sweet  is  bird's  harmonious  moan. 
Or  the  hoarse  sobbings  of  the  widow' d  dove, 
Than  those  smooth  whisperings  near  a  prince's 

throne. 
Which  good  make  doubtful,  do  the  evil  approve  ! 
O  how  more  sweet  is  Zephyr' s  wholesome  breath. 
And  sighs  embalm' d  which  new-born  flowers 

unfold, 
Than  that  applause  vain  honour  doth  bequeath ! 
How  sweet  are  streams  to  poison  drank  in  gold  ! 
The  world  is  full  of  horror,  troubles,  slights  : 
Woods'  harmless  shades  have  only  true  de- 
lights. 

William  Drummond. — About  1640. 


367.— THE  DEATH  OF  ROSAMOND. 

Fair  Rosamond  within  her  bower  of  late 
(While  these  sad  storms  had  shaken  Henry's 

state, 
And  he  from  England  last  had  absent  been) 
Retired  herself  ;  nor  had  that  star  been  seen 
To  shine  abroad,  or  with  her  lustre  grace 
The  woods  or  walks  adjoining  to  the  place. 

About  those  places,  while  the  times  were 
free. 
Oft  with  a  train  of  her  attendants  she 
For  pleasure  walk'd ;    and  like  the  huntress 

queen. 
With  her  light  nymphs,  was  by  the  people  seen. 
Thither  the  country  lads  and  swains,  that  near 
To  Woodstock  dwelt,  would  come  to  gaze  on 

her. 


Sir  E.  F^nshawe.] 


THE  SPEING. 


[Third  Period. — 


Their  jolly  May-games  there  would  they  pre- 
sent, 
Their  harmless  sports  and  rustic  merriment, 
To  give  this  beauteous  paragon  delight. 
Nor  that  officious  service  would  she  slight ; 
But  their  rude  pastimes  gently  entertain. 

*  #  *  * 
Now  came  that  fatal  day,  ordain' d  to  see 

The  eclipse  of  beauty,  and  for  ever  be 
Accursed  by  woeful  lovers, — all  alone 
Into  her  chamber  Eosamond  was  gone ; 

*  #  #  # 
While  thus  she  sadly  mused,  a  ruthful  cry 
Had  pierced  her  tender  ear,   and  in  the  sound 
Was  named  (she  thought)  unhappy  Eosamond. 
(The  cry  was  utter' d  by  her  grieved  maid, 
From  whom  that  clew  was  taken,  that  betray' d 
Her  lady's  life),  and  while  she  doubting  fear'd. 
Too  soon  the  fatal  certainty  appear' d  : 

For  with  her  train  the  wrathful  queen  was 

there : 
Oh !  who  can  tell  what  cold  and  killing  fear 
Through  every  part  of  Eosamond  was  struck? 
The  rosy  tincture  her  sweet  cheeks  forsook. 
And  like  an  ivory  statue  did  she  show  - 
Of  life  and  motion  reft.     Had  she  been  so 
Transform' d  in  deed,  how  kind  the  Fates  had 

been. 
How  pitiful  to  her  I  nay  to  the  queen  ! 
Even  she  herseK  did  seem  to  entertain 
Some   ruth;    but   straight   revenge   return' d 

again, 
And   fill'd  her  furious   breast.      "  Strumpet 

(quoth  she), 
I  need  not  speak  at  all ;  my  sight  may  be 
Enough  expression  of  my  -svrongs,  and  what 
The  consequence  must  prove  of  such  a  hate. 
Here,  take  this  poison'd  cup  "  (for  in  her  hand 
A  poison'd  cup  she  had),  "  and  do  not  stand 
To  parley  now  :  but  drink  it  presently. 
Or  else  by  tortures  be  resolved  to  die  ! 
Thy  doom  is  set."    Pale  trembHng  Eosamond 
Eeceives  the  cup,  and  kneeling  on  the  ground. 
When  dull  amazement  somewhat  had  forsook 
Her  breast,  thus  humbly  to  the   queen  she 

spoke : 
"  I  dare  not  hope  you  should  so  far  relent, 
Great  queen,  as  to  forgive  the  punishment 
That  to  my  foul  offence  is  justly  due. 
Nor  will  I  vainly  plead  excuse,  to  show 
By  what  strong  arts  I  was  at  first  betray' d, 
Or  tell  how  many  subtle  snares  were  laid 
To  catch  mine  honour.     These  though  ne'er 

so  true. 
Can  bring  no  recompense  at  all  to  you. 
Nor  just  excuse  to  my  abhorred  crime. 
Instead  of  sudden  death,  I  crave  but  time, 

*  *  *  # 

,'  No  more  (replied  the  furious  queen) ;  have 

done  ; 
Delay  no  longer,  lest  thy  choice  be  gone, 
And  that  a  sterner  death  for  thee  remain." 
No  more  did  Eosamond  entreat  in  vain ; 
But,  forced  to  hard  necessity  to  yield, 
Drank  of  the  fatal  potion  that  she  held, 


And  with  it  enter' d  the  grim  tyrant  Death  : 
Yet  gave  such  respite,  that  her  dying  breath 
Might    beg   forgiveness   from  the    heavenly 

throne. 
And  pardon  those  that  her  destruction 
Had  doubly  wrought.       ''Forgive,    O  Lord 

(said  she,), 
Him  that  dishonour'd,  her  that  murder'd  me. 
Yet  let  me  speak,    for   truth's  sake,    angry 

queen  ! 
If  you  had  spared  my  life,  I  might  have  been 
In  time  to  come  the  example  of  your  glory  ; 
Not  of  your  shame,  as  now ;  for  when  the 

story 
Of  hapless  Eosamond  is  read,  the  best 
And  lioHcst  people,  as  they  will  detest 
My  crime,  and  call  it  foul,  they  will  abhor, 
And  call  unjust,  the  rage  of  Eleanor. 
And  in  this  act  of  yours  it  will  be  thought 
King    Henry's    sorrow,    not    his    love,    you 

sought." 
And  now  so  far  the  venom's  force  assail'd 
Her  vital  parts,  that  life  with  language  fail'd. 
That  well-built  palace  where  the  Graces  made 
Their  chief   abode,    where   thousand   Cupids 

play'd 
And  couch' d  their  shafts,  whose  structure  did 

delight 
Even  nature's  self,  is  now  demolish' d  quite. 
Ne'er  to  be  raised  again  ;  the  untimely  stroke 
Of  death  that  precious  cabinet  has  broke, 
That  Henry's  pleased  heart  so  long  had  held. 
With  sudden  mourning  now  the  house  is  fill'd; 
Nor  can  the  queen's  attendants,  though  they 

fear 
Her  wrath,  from  weeping  at  that  sight  forbear. 
By  rough  north  blasts  so  blooming  roses  fade ; 
So  crushed  falls  the  lily's  tender  blade. 
*  *  *  * 

Thomas  May. — About  1G40. 


368.— THE  SPEING. 

Those  whiter  Lilies  which  the  early  morn 
Seems  to  have  newly  woven  of  sleaved  silk. 

To  which,  on  banks  of  wealthy  Tagus  born. 
Gold  was  their  cradle,    liquid  pearl  their 
milk. 

These   blushing    Eoses,    with    whose   virgin 
leaves. 
The  wanton  wind  to  sport  himself  presumes, 
Whilst  from  their  rifled  wardrobe  he  receives 
For  his  wings  purple,  for  his  breath  per- 
fumes. 

Both  those  and  these  my  Celia's  pretty  foot 
Trod  up — ^but  if  she  should  her  face  dis- 
play, 
And  fragrant  breast — they'd  dry  again  to  the 
root, 
As  with  the  blasting  of  the  mid-day's  ray; 
And  this  soft  ^vind,  which  both  perfumes  and 

cools, 
Pass  like  the  unregarded  breath  of  fools. 

Sir  Richard  Fanshawe, — About  1648. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


A  EICH  FOOL. 


[Sib  E.  Fanshawe. 


369.— A  ROSE. 

Thou  blushing  rose,  within  whose  virgin  leaves 
The  wanton  wind  to  sport  himself  presumes, 
Whilst  from  their  rifled  wardrobe  he  receives 
For  his  wings  purple,  for  his  breath  perfumes  ! 

Blown  in  the  morning,  thou  shalt  fade  ere  noon  : 
What  boots  a  life  which  in  such  haste  forsakes 

thee? 
Thou'rt  wondrous  frolic  being  to  die  so  soon  : 
And  passing  proud  a  little  colour  makes  thee. 

If  thee  thy  brittle  beauty  so  deceives, 
Know,  then,  the  thing  that  swells  thee  is  thy 

bane ; 
For  the  same  beauty  doth  in  bloody  leaves 
The  sentence  of  thy  early  death  contain. 

Some   clown's  coarse  lungs  will  poison   thy 

sweet  flower. 
If  by  the  careless  plough  thou  shalt  be  torn  : 
And  many  Herods  lie  in  wait  each  hour 
To  murder  thee  as  soon  as  thou  art  born  ; 
Nay,  force  thy  bud  to  blow  ;  their  tyrant  breath 
Anticipating  life,  to  hasten  death. 

Sir  Rlcliard  Fanahaivc. — About  1G48. 


70.— THE  SAINT'S  ENCOUEAGEMENT. 

Fight  on,  bravo  soldiers,  for  the  cause  ; 

Fear  not  the  cavaliers ; 
Their  threat'nings  are  as  senseless,  as 

Our  jealousies  and  fears. 
'Tis  j^ou  must  perfect  this  great  work, 

And  all  malignants  slay, 
Yoii  rauttt  bring  back  the  king  again 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

"iiri  for  Eeligion  that  you  fight. 

And  for  the  kingdom's  good, 
Ey  robbing  churches,  plundering  men, 

And  shedding  guiltless  blood. 
Down  with  the  orthodoxal  train. 

All  loyal  subjects  slay ; 
When  these  arc  gone,  we  shall  be  blest, 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

When  Charles  we've  bankrupt  made  like  us, 

Of  crown  and  power  bereft  him, 
And  all  his  loyal  subjects  slain, 

And  none  but  rebels  left  him, 
When  we've  beggar"!  i.ll  the  land, 

And  sent  our  tnwk.-;  away, 
We'll  make  him  tlion  a  glorious  prince, 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

'Tis  to  preserve  his  majesty. 

That  we  against  him  fight, 
Xor  are  we  ever  beaten  back. 

Because  our  cause  is  right : 
If  any  make  a  scruple  on't, 

Our  declarations  say, 
Who  fight  for  us,  fight  for  the  king 

The  clean  contrary  way. 


At  Keynton,  Branford,  Plymouth,  York, 

And  divers  places  more, 
Wliat  victories  wo  saints  obtain' d. 

The  like  ne'er  seen  before  ! 
How  often  we  Prince  Rupert  kill'd, 

And  bravely  won  the  day ; 
The  wicked  cavaliers  did  run       —    — 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

The  true  religion  we  maintain, 

The  kingdom's  peace  and  plenty  ; 
The  privilege  of  parliament 

Not  known  to  one  of  twenty  ; 
The  ancient  fundamental  laws  ; 

And  teach  men  to  obey 
Their  lawful  sovereign  ;  and  all  those 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

We  subjects'  liberties  preserve. 

By  prisonments  and  plunder. 
And  do  enrich  ourselves  and  state 

By  keeping  the  wicked  under. 
We  must  preserve  mechanics  now, 

To  lecturise  and  pray ; 
By  them  the  Gospel  is  advanced 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

And  though  the  king  be  much  misled 

By  that  malignant  crew  ; 
He'U  find  us  honest,  and  at  last 

Give  all  of  us  our  due. 
For  we  do  msely  plot,  and  plot, 

EebeUion  to  destroy, 
Ho  sees  we  stand  for  peace  and  trath. 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

The  public  faith  shall  save  our  souls, 

And  good  out-works  together  ; 
And  ships  shall  save  our  lives,  that  stay 

Only  for  wind  and  weather. 
But  when  our  faith  and  works  fall  down. 

And  all  our  hopes  decay, 
Our  acts  will  bear  us  up  to  heaven, 

The  clean  contrary  way. 

Sir  Richard  Fanshaive. — Ahcict  1648. 


371.— A  EICH  FOOL. 

Thee,  sonselesa  stock,  because  thou'rt  richly 

gilt, 
The  blinded  people  without  cause  admire, 
And  superstition  impiously  hath  built 
Altars  to  that  which  should  have  been  the  fire. 

"Where  shall  my  tongue  consent  to  worship. 

thee. 
Since  all's  not  gold  that  glisters  and  is  fair  ; 
Carving  but  makes  an  image  of  a  tree  : 
But  gods  of  images  are  made  by  prayer. 

Sabean  incense  in  a  fragrant  cloud 
Illustriously  suspended  o'er  thy  crown 
Like  a  king's  canopy,  makes  thee  allow' d 
For  more  than  man.     But  let  them  take  thco 

down,        • 
And  thy  true  value  be  once  understood. 
Thy  dull  idolaters  will  find  thou'rt  wood. 

Sir  Richard  Fanshaive. — About  1648. 
15 


Sir  W.  Davenant.] 


GOKDIBEET. 


[Third  Period. 


372.— GONDIBEET. 

THE   ARGUITENT. 

The  king  to  Gondibert  is  groAvn  so  kinde, 
That  he  prevents  the  beauteous  Ehodalind 
In  giving  of  her  love  ;  and  Gondibert 
Laments  his  breast  holds  but  a  single  heart ; 
Which  Birtha  grieves  her  beauty  did  subdue, 
Since  he  undoes  the  world  in  being  true. 


Full  grows  the   presence  now,   as   when  all 
know 
Some  stranger  prince  must  be  receiv'd  with 
state ; 
When  courts  shew  those,  who  come  to  see  the 
show; 
And  all  gay  subjects  like  domesticks  waite. 

Nor  Ulfinore  nor  Goltho  absent  were ; 

Whose  hopes  expect  what  iist'ning  Birtha 
(hid 
In  the  adjoyning  closet)  fears  to  hoare ; 
And  beggs  Idnde  Heav'n   in  pitty. would 
forbid. 

The  king  (who   never  time  nor  pow'r  mis- 
spent 
In    subjects'    bashfulness,     whiling    great 
deeds 
Like  coward  councels,  who  too  late  consent) 
Thus  to  his  secret  will  aloud  proceeds. 

"If  to  thy  fame,"  (brave  youth)   "  I  could 
add  wings. 
Or  make  her  trumpet  louder  by  my  voice, 
I  would  (as  an  example  drawn  for  kings) 
Proclaim  the  cause,  why  thou  art  now  my 
choice. 

"  But  this  were  to  suspect  the  world  asleep, 
Or  all  our  Lombards  with  their  envy  blinde, 

Or  that  the  Huns  so  much  for  bondage  weep, 
As  their  droAvn'd  eies  cannot  thy  trophies 
finde. 

"  When  this  is  heard,  none  dare  of  vrhat  I 
give 
Presume    their    equal    merit    might    have 
shar'd; 
And    to    say  more,    might  make    thy  foes 
believe, 
Thy  dang'rous  worth  is  grown  above  re- 
ward. 

"  Eeward  even  of  a  crown,  and  such  a  crown, 

As  by  Heav'n' s  model  ancient  victors  wore; 

When  they,  as  by  their  coyn,  by  laws  were 

known; 

For  laws  but  made  more  currant  victors' 

pow'r. 

"  A  crown  soon  taught,  by  wh^m  pow'r  first 
was  given ; 

When  victors  (of  dominion  cautious  made 
By  hearing  of  that  old  revolt  in  Heav'n) 

Kept  pow'r  too  high  for  subjects  to  invade. 


"  A  crovv'n,  which  ends  by  armies  their  de- 
bate. 
Who  question  height  of  pow'r ;  who  by  the 
law 
(TiU  plain  obedience  they  make  intricate) 
Would  not  the  people,  but  their  rulers  aw. 

"  To  pow'r  adoption  makes  thy  title  good  ; 
Preferring  worth,    as  birth   gives   princes 
place  ; 
And    vertue's    claim   exceeds    the    right    of 
blood. 
As  soul's  extraction  does  the  bodie's  race. 

"  Yet   for   thy    blood's    long  walk   through 
princes'  veins. 
Thou   maist   with   any   Lombard   measure 
time; 
Though  he  Ms  hidden  house  in  Ilium  feigns ; 
And   not   step  short,  when  Hubert's   self 
would  climbe. 

"  And  Hubert  is  of  highest  victors'  breed ; 

Whose  worth  I   shall   for  distant   empire 
choose ; 
If  he  will  learn,  that  you  by  fate  procede, 

And  what  he  never  had,  he  cannot  lose; 

''  His    valour    shall    the    Gothick    conquest 


And  would  to  Heaven  that  all  your  mighty 
mindes 
As  soon  were  pleas'd,  as  infants  are  with  sleep, 
And  you  had  musick  common  as  the  windes. 

"  That  all  the  year  your  seasons  were  like 
spring; 

All  joy'd  as  birds,  and  all  as  'vers  kinde  ; 
That  ev'ry  famous  fighter  were  a  king. 

And  each  like  you  cordd  have  a  Ehodalind. 

"  For  she  is  yours,  as  your  adoption  free ; 

And  in  that  gift  my  remnant  life  I  give ; 
But  'tis  to  you,  brave  youth !  who  now  are 
she; 

And  she  that  Heav'n  where  secondly  I  live. 

"  And  richer  than  that  crown  (which  shall  be 
thine. 
When  life's  long  progress  I  am  gone  with 
fame) 
Take  all  her  love ;  which  scarce  forbears  to 
shine 
And  OAvn  thee,  through  her  virgin-curtain, 
shame." 

Thus  spake  the  king ;  and  Ehodalind  appear'd 
Through  publish'd  love,  with  so  much  bash- 
fulness. 
As  young  kings  shew,  when  by  surprise  o're- 
heard 
Moaning  to  fav'rite  eares  a  deep  distress. 

Tor  love  is  a  distress,  and  would  be  hid 
Like  monarchs'  griefs,  by  which  they  bash- 
ful grow ; 
And  in  that  shame  beholders  they  forbid ; 
Since   those  blush  most,   who   most  their 
blushes  show. 


From  1558  to  1G49.] 


GONDIBERT. 


[SiE,  ^Y.  Davsnant. 


And  Gondibert  -with  dying-  eies  did  grieve 

At  her  vail'd  love  (a  wound  he  cannot  heal) 
As   great  mindes   mourn,   who   cannot  then 
relieve 
The  vertuous,  when  through  shame  they 
want  conceal. 

And  now  cold  Birtha's  rosy  looks  decay ; 
Who  in  fear's  frost  had  like  her  beauty 

But  that  attendant  hope  perswades  hor  stay 
A  while,  to  hear  her  duke ;  who  thus  reply' d. 

"  Victorious  king !  Abroad  your  subjects  are 
Like  legates  safe  ;  at  home  like  altars  free ! 

Even  by  your  fame  they  conquer  as  by  warre; 
And  by  your  laws  safe  from  each  other  be. 

"  A  king  you  are  o'ro  subjects,  so  as  wise 
And  noble  husbands  seem  o're  loyal  Avives  : 

Who  claim  not,  yet  confess  their  liberties, 
And  brag  to  strangers  of  their  happy  lives. 

"  To  foes  a  winter  storm  ;  whilst  your  friends 
bow. 
Like  summer  trees,  beneath  your  bounty's 
load; 
To  me  (next  him  whom  your  great  self,  with  low 
And  cheerful  duty  serves)  a  giving  God. 

"  Since  this  is  you,  and  Ehodalind  (the  light 
By  which  her  sex  fled  vertue  finde)  is  yours ; 

Your  diamond,  with  tests  of  jealous  sight, 
The  stroke,  and  fire,  and  oisel's  juice  en- 
dures; 

"  Since  she  so  precious  is,  I  shall  appear 
All  counterfeit,  of  art's  disguises  made; 

And  never  df  i-e  approach  her  lustre  near ; 
Who  scarco  can  hold  my  value  in  the  shade. 

"  Forgive  me  that  I  am  not  what  I  seem, 
But  falsly  have  dissembled  an  excess 

Of  all  such  vertues  as  you  most  esteem ; 
But  now  grow  good  but  as  I  ills  confess. 

"  Far  in  ambition's  feaver  am  I  gone ! 

Like  raging  flame  aspiring  is  my  love ; 
Like  flame  destructive  too,  and  like  the  Sun 

Does  round  the  world  tow'rds  change  of 
objects  move. 

"  Nor  is  this  now  through  vertuous  shame 
confess'd ; 
But  Ehodalind    does    force    my  conjur'd 
feare, 
As  men  whom  evil  spirits  have  possess'd, 
Tell  all  when  saintly  votaries  appeare. 

"  When  she  will  grace  the  bridal  dignitie, 
It   will  be   soon  to    all   young   monarchs 
known ; 
Who  then  by  posting  through  the  world  will 
trie 
Who  first  can  at  her  feet  present  his  crown. 

"  Then  will  Verona  seem  the  inn  of  kings ; 

And  Ehodalind  shall  at  her  palace  gate 
Smile,    when   great   love   these   royal  sutors 
brings  ; 
Who  for  that  smile  would  as  for  empire 
waito. 


"  Amongst  this  ruling  race  she  choyce  may 

take 

For   warmth   of  valour,    coolness    of   the 

minde, 

Eies  that  in  empire's  drowsie  calms  can  wake, 

In  storms  look  out,  in  darkness  dangerj  find. 

"  A   prince   who   more  inlarges   pow'r   than 
lands : 
Whose  greatness  is  not  what  his  map  con- 
tains ; 
But  thinks  that  his,  where  he  at  full  com- 
mands ; 
Not  where  his  coyn  does  pass,  biit  pow'r 
remains. 

"  Who  knows  that  pow'r  can  never  be  too  high 

When  by  the  good  possest ;  for  'tis  in  them 

The  swelling  Nylc  ;  from  which  though  people 

They  prosjjer  most  by  rising  of  the  stream. 

"  Thus  (princess)  you  should  choose ;  and  you 
■will  nnde  ; 
Even  he,  since  men  are  wolves,  must  civi- 
lize 
(As  Kght  does  tame  some  beasts  of  savage 
kinde) 
HimseK  yet  more,  by  dwelling  in  your  eies." 

Such  was  the  duke's  reply;  which  did  pro- 
duce 
Thoughts  of  a  diverse  shape  through  sev'ral 
eares : 
His  jealous  rivals  mourn  at  his  excuse ; 
But  Astragon  it  cures  of  all  his  feares. 

Birtha  his  praise  of  Ehodalind  bewayles ; 

And  now  her  hoiDO  a  weak  physitian  seems, 
For  hope,  the  common  comforter,  prevailcs 

Like  common  med'cines,  slowly  in  extreams. 

The  king  (secure  in  offer' d  empire)  takes 
This  forc'd  excuse,  as  troubled  bashfulness, 

And  a  disguise  which  sodain  passion  makes, 
To  hide  more  joy   than   prudence   should 
express. 

And  Ehodalind  (who  never  lov'd  before, 
Nor  could  suspect  his  love  was  giv'n  away) 

Thought   not  the  treasure  of  his  breast  so 
poore. 
But  that  it  might  his  debts  of  honour  pay. 

To  hasten  the  rewards  of  his  desert. 

The  king  does  to  Verona  him  command ; 

And  kindness  so  impos'd,  not  all  his  art 
Can  now  instruct  his  duty  to  withstand. 

Yet  whilst  the  king  does  now  his  time  dispose 
In  seeing  wonders,  in  this  palace  shown, 

He  would  a  parting  kindness  pay  to  those 
Who  of  their  wounds  are  yet  not  perfect 
grown. 

And  by  this  fair  pretence,  whilst  on  the  king 
Lord  Astragon  through  aU  the  house  at- 
tends, 
Young  Orgo  does  the  duke  to  Birtha  bring ; 
Who  thus  her  sorrows  to  his  bosomo  sends. 

15* 


Sib  W.  Davenant.] 


GONDIBERT. 


[Third  Period.- 


"  Why  should  my  storm  your  life's  calm  voy- 
age vex  ? 

Destroying  wholly  vertue's  race  in  one ; 
So  by  the  first  of  my  unlucky  sex, 

All  in  a  single  mine  were  undone. 

"  Make     heav'nly    Rhodalind    your    bride  1 
Whilst  I, 
Your  once  lov'd  maid,  excuse  you,  since  I 
know 
That  vertuous  men  forsake  so  willingly 

Long  cherish'd  life,  because  to  Heav'n  they 
go. 

"  Let  me  her  servant  be  !  A  dignity, 
Which  if  your  pity  in  my  fall  procures ; 

I  still  shall  value  the  advancement  high, 
Not  as  the  crown  is  hers,  but  she  is  yours." 

E're  this  high  sorrow  up  to  dying  grew, 
The   duke   the   casket   op'ned,     and   from 
thence 

(Form'd  like  a  heart)  a  cheerf  ull  emrauld  drew ; 
Cheerful,  as  if  the  lively  stone  had  sence. 

The  thirti'th  carract  it  had  doubled  twice ; 

Not  tak'n  from  the  Attick  silver  mine, 
Nor  from  the  brass,  though  such  (of  nobler 
price) 

Did  on  the  necks  of  Parthian  ladies  shine  : 

Nor  yet  of  those  which  make  the  Ethiop  proud ; 

Nor  taken  from  those  rocks  where  Bactrians 
climb ; 
But  from  the  Scjiihian,  and  without  a  cloud; 

Not  sick  at  fire,  nor  languishing  with  time. 

Then  thus  he  spake  !  "  This  (Birtha)  from  my 
male 

Progenitors,  was  to  the  loyal  she 
On  whose  kinde  heart  they  did  in  love  prevail, 

The  nuptial  pledge,  and  this  I  p,ive  to  thee ! 

"  Seven  centuries  have  pass'd,  since  it  from 
bride 
To  bride  did  first  succeed ;  and  though  tis 
known 
From  ancient  lore,  that  gemms  much  vertue 
hide. 
And  that  the  emrauld  is  the  bridal  stone  ; 

"  Though  muchrenown'd  because  it  chastness 
loves. 

And  will  when  wor:i  by  the  ncjflected  wife, 
Show  Avhcn  her  absent  lord  disloyal  proves, 

By  faintness,  and  a  pale  decay  of  life  ; 

"  Though  emraulds  serve  as  spies  to  jealous 
brides, 
Yet  each  compar'd  to   this   does   councel 
lc*3p; 
Like  a  false  stone,  the  husband's  falsehood 
hides, 
Or  seems  born  blinde,   or  feigns  a  dying 


«  With  this  take  Orgo,  as  a  better  spy ; 

Who  may  in  all  yoiu-  kinder  foares  bo  sent 
To  watch  at  court,  if  I  deserve  to  die 

By  making  this  to  fade,  and  you  lament." 


Had  now  an  artfuU  pencil  Birtha  drawn 

(With  grief  all  dark,  then  straight  with  joy 
all  light) 

He  must  have  fancy' d  first,  in  early  daA\-n, 
A  sudden  break  of  beauty  out  of  night. 

Or  first  he  must  have  mark'd  what  paleness, 
fear, 

Like  nipping  frost,  did  to  her  visage  bring ; 
Then  think  he  sees,  in  a  cold  backward  year, 

A  rosy  morn  begin  a  sadden  spring. 

Her  joys  (too  vaste  to  be  contain' d  in  speech) 
Thus  she  a  little  spake  !  "  Why  stoop  you 
dovm, 

My  plighted  lord,  to  lowly  Birtha' s  reach, 
Since  Ehodalind  would  lift  you  to  a  crown  ? 

"  Or  why  do  I,  when  I  this  plight  imbrace, 
Boldly  aspire  to  take  what  you  have  given? 

But  that  your  vertue  has  with  angels  place, 
And  'tis  a  vertue  to  aspire  to  Heav'n. 

"  And  as  tow'rds  Heav'n  all  travail  on  their 
knees ; 
So  I  tow'rds  you,  though  love  aspire,  will 
move  : 
And  were  you  crown' d,  what  could  you  better 
please 
Than  aw'd  obedience  led  by  bolder  love  ? 

"  If  I  forget  the  depth  from  whence  I  rise, 
Far  from  your  bosome  banish' d  be  my  heart ; 

Or  claim  a  right  by  beauty  to  your  eyes  ; 
Or  proudly  think,  my  chastity  desert. 

"  But  thus  ascending  from  your  humble  maid 
To  be  your  plighted  bride,  and  then  your 
wife. 

Will  be  a  debt  that  shall  be  hourly  paid, 
TiU.  time  my  duty  cancel  with  my  life. 

"  And  fruitfully  if  Heav'n  ere  make  me  bring 

Your  image  to  the  world,  you  then  my  jiride 

No  more  shall  blame,  than  you  can  tax  the 

Spring 

For  boasting  of  those  llowres  she  cannot 

hide. 

"  Orgo^  I  so  receive  as  I  am  taught 
By  duty  to  esteem  what  ere  you  love ; 

And  hope  the  joy  he  in  this  jewel  brought, 
Will    luckyer    than    his    former  triumphs 
prove. 

"  For  though  but  twice  he  has  approach' d  my 
sight, 
He  twice  made  haste  to  di-own  me  in  my 
tears : 
B-at  now  I  am  above  his  planet's  spite, 
And  as  for  sin  beg  pardon  for  my  fears." 

Thus    spake   she ;   and    Avith   fix'd  continu'd 
sight, 
The  duke  did  all  her  bashful  beauties  view ; 
Then   they   with   kisses    soal'd   their   sacred 
plight ; 
Like   floAvres  still  sweeter  as  they  thicke 
5?rew. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


GONDIBEET. 


[Sir  W.  Davenant. 


Yet  must  these  pleasures  feel,  though  inno- 
cent, 

The  sickness  of  extreames,  and  cannot  last; 
Por  pow'r  (love's  shun'cl  impediment)  has  sent 

To  tell  the  duke,  his  monarch  is  in  hast : 

And  calls  him  to  that  triumph  which  he  fears 
So  as  a  saint  forgiven  (whose  breast  does  all 
Heav'n'a  joys  contain)  wisely  lov'd  pomp  for- 
bears ; 
Lest  tempted  nature  should  from  blessings 
fall. 

He  often  takes  his  leave,  with  love's  delay ; 

And  bids  her  hope,  ho  with  the  king  shall 
finde. 
By  now  appearing  forward  to  obay, 

A  means  to  serve  him  less  in  Ehodalind. 

She  weeping  to  her  closet-window  hies  ; 

"Where  she  with  tears  docs  Ehodalind  survey; 
As    dying  men,  who  grieve  that  they  have 
eyes. 
When  they  through  curtains  spy  the  rising 
day. 

The  king  has  now  his  curious  sight  suffis'd 

With  all  lost  arts,  in  their  revival  view'd ; 
W^hich  when  restor'd,  our  pride  thinks  new 
devis'd : 
Fashions  of  mindes,   call'd  new  when  but 
renew' d ! 

The  busie  court  prepares  to  move,  on  whom 
Their  sad  offended  eyes  the  country  caste ; 

Who  never  see  enough  where  monarchs  come ; 
And  nothing  so  uncivil  seems  as  haste. 

As  men  move  slow,  who  knovr  they  lose  their 
way. 
Even  so  the  duke  tow'rds  Ehodalind  does 
move ; 
Yet  he  does  dutious  fears,  and  wonder  pay. 
Which  are  the  first,  and  dangerous  signes 
of  love. 

All  his  addresses  much  by  Goltho  were 

And  Ulfinore  observ'd;  who  distant  stand; 

Not  daring  to  approach  his  presence  noer ; 
But  shun  his  eyes  to  scape  from  his  com- 
mand: 

Least  to  Verona  he  should  both  require  ; 
I  For  by  remaining  here,  both  hope  to  light 

Their  Hymen's  torches  at  his  parting  fire ; 
And  not  despaire  to  kindle  them  to-night. 

The  king  his  golden  chariot  now  ascends ; 

Wliich  neer  fair  Ehodalind  the  duke  con- 
!  taines ; 

Though  to  excuse  that  grace  he  lowly  bends  ; 

But  honour  so  refus'd,  more  honour  gaines. 

And  nov*-  their  chariots  (ready  to  take  wing) 
Are   oven  by  weakest   breath,    a  whisper 
stay'd  : 

And  but  such  whisper  as  a  page  does  bring 
To  Laura's  woman  from  a  household  maid. 


But  this  low  voice  did  raise  in  Laura's  eare 
An  eccho,  which  from  all  redoubled  soon ; 

Proclaiming  such  a  country  beauty  here. 
As  makes  them  look,  like  ev'ning  to  her 
noon. 

And  Laura  (of  her  own  high  beauty j^roud, 
Yet  not  to  others  cruel)  softly  prays, 

She  may  appear  !  but  Gartha,  bold,  and  loud, 
With  eyes  impatient  as  for  conquest,  stays. 

Though  Astragon  now  owns  her,  and  excus'd 
Her  presence,  as  a  maid  but  rudely  taught, 

Liiirm  in  health,  and  not  to  greatness  us'd  ; 
Y"et    Gartlia   still   calls   out,  to   have   her 
brought ! 

But  Ehodalind  (in  whose  relenting  breast 
Compassion's  self  might  sit  at  school  and 
learn) 
Knew  bashful  maids  with  publick  view  dis- 
trest ; 
And  in  their  glass,   themselves  with  fear 
discern  ; 

She  stopt  this  challenge  which  court-beauty 
made 
To  country  shape;  not  knowing  Nature's 
hand 
Had  Birtha  dve.3.s"d  ;  nor  that  herself  obay'd 
In  vain,  whom  conqu'ring  Birtha  did  com- 
mand. 

The  duke  (whom  vertuous  kindness  soon  sub- 
dues) 
Though  him  liis  bonds  from  Birtha  highly 
please, 
Yet  seems  to  think,  that  lucky  he,  Avho  sues 
To  wear  this  royal  mayd's,  will  walk  at  ease. 

Of  these  a  brief  survey  sad  Birtha  takes ; 
And  Orgo's  help  directs  her  eye  to  all ; 
Sliows   her   for   whom  grave  Tybalt  nightly 
wakes ; 
Then  at  whose  feet  wise  Hermegild  does 
fan. 

And  when  calm  Oma  with  the  count  she  saw, 
Hope  (who  though  weak,  a  willing  painter  is, 

And  busily  does  ev'ry  pattern  draw) 
By  that  example  could  not  work  amiss. 

For  soon  she  shap'd  her  lord  and  her  so  kinde, 
So  all  of  love  ;  till  fancy  wrought  no  more 

When  she  perceiv'd  him  sit  with  Ehodalind  ; 
But  froward-painter-like  the  copy  tore. 

And   now  they   move;  aid  she  thus  rob'd, 
believes 
(Since  with  such  haste  they  bear  her  wealth 
away) 
That  they  at  best,  are  but  judicious  thieves, 
And  know  the  noble  valine  of  their  prey. 

And  then  she  thus  complain' d !  "  Why  royal 

maid ! 

Injurious  greatness  !  did  you  hither  come 

Where  pow'r's  strong  nets  of  wyrewere  never 

laid  ? 

But  childish  love  took  cradle  as  at  home. 


Sir  W.  Davenant.] 


SONG. 


[Third  Period. — 


"  "Where  can  wo  safe  our  harmless  blessings 
keep, 
Since  glorio-as  courts  our  solitude  invade  ? 
Eells  which  ring-  out,  when  th'  unconcern' d 
would  sleep  ; 
False  lights  to  scare  poor  birds  in  country- 
shade  ! 

"  Or  if  our  joys  their  own  discov'ry  make, 
Envy  (whose  tong-ue  first  kills  whom  she 
devours) 
Calls  it  our  pride ;  envy,  the  poys'nous  snake. 
Whose  breath  blasts  maids,  as  innocent  as 
flo"^vres  ! 

"  Forgive  me,  beautious  greatness,  if  I  grow 
Distemper' d  with  my  fears,  and  rudely  long 

To  be  secm'c  ;  or  praise  your  beauty  so 
As  to  believe,  that  it  may  do  me  wrong ; 

"  And  you,    my    iplighted    lord,    forgive  me 
too, 
If,  since  your  worth  and  my  defects  I  find, 
I  fear  what  you  in  justice  ought  to  do  ; 

And  praise  your  judgment  when  I  doubt 
you  kind." 

Now  sudden  fear  o'er  all  her  beauty  wrought 
The  pale  appearance  of  a  killing  frost ; 

And  careful!  Orgo,  when  she  started,  thought 
She  had  her  pledge,  the  precious  emrauld, 
lost. 

But  that  kinde  heart,  as  constant  as  her  own. 
She   did  not   miss;  'twas   from  a  sudden 
sence. 
Least  in  her  lover's  heart  some  change  was 
grown. 
And  it  grew  pale  with  that  intelligence. 

Soon  from  her  bosome  she  this  emrauld  took : 
"If  now"   (said  she)  "my  lord  my  heart 
deceaves, 
This  stone  will  by  dead  paleness  make  me 
look 
Pale  as  the  snowy  skin  of  lilly  lea,ves." 

But  such  a  cheerful  green  the  gemm  did  fling 
Where  she  oppos'd  the  rayes,  as  if  she  had 

Been  dy'de  in  the  complexion  of  the  spring. 
Or  were  by  nimphs  of  Brittain  valleys  clad. 

Soon  she  with  earnest  passion  kist  the  stone ; 

Which  ne'er  till  then  had  suffer'd  an  eclipse ; 
But  then  the  rayes  retird,  as  if  it  shone 

In  vain,  so  neer  ij^e  rubies  of  her  lips. 

Yet  thence  remov'd,  with  publick  glory  shines  ! 

She   Orgo    blest,    who    had    this    relique 

brought ; 

And    kept    it   like  those  reliques   lock'd  in 

shrines, 

By  which  the  latest  miracles  were  wrought. 

For  soon  respect  was  up  to  rev'rence  grown ; 
-     WTiich  fear  to  superstition  would  sublime. 
But  that  her  father  took  fear's  ladder  do^vn ; 
Lose  steps,  by  which  distress  to  Heav'n 
would  climbe. 


He  knew,  v.'hen  fear  shapes  heav'nly  pow'r  so 
just, 
And  terrible,   (parts  of  that  shape  drp.wn 
true) 
It  vailes  Heav'n' s  beauty,  love ;  which  when 
we  trust, 
Our  courage  honours  him  to  whom  we  sue ! 
Sir  William  Bavenant. — About  1640. 


373--SONCT. 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest, 
And  climbing  shakes  his  de^vy  ^vings ; 

He  takes  his  window  for  the  east, 
And  to  implore  your  light,  he  sings, 

Awake,  awake,  the  moon  will  never  rise, 

Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your  eyes. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star, 
The  ploughman   from  the  sun  his  season 
takes ; 
But  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are. 

Who  look  for  day  before  his  mistress  wakes ; 
Awake,  awake,  break  tlu-ough  your  veils  of 

lawn ! 
Then  draw  yonr  curtains  and  begin  the  dawn. 
;8'iV  William  Bavenant. — About  1640. 


374.— TO  THE  QUEEN". 

Fair  as  unshaded  light,  or  as  the  day 
In  its  first  birth,  when  all  the  year  was  May ; 
Sweet  as  the  altar's  smoke,  or  as  the  new 
"Unfolded  bud,  swell' d  by  the  early  dew ; 
Smooth  as  the  face  of  waters  first  appear' d. 
Ere  tides  began  to  strive  or  winds  were  heard ; 
Kind  as  the  willing  saints,  and  calmer  far 
Than  in  their  sleeps  forgiven  hermits  are. 
You  that  are  more  than  our  discreeter  fear 
Dares  praise,  v/ith  such  full  art,  what  make 

you  here  ? 
Here,  where  the  summer  is  so  little  seen. 
That  leaves,  her  cheapest  wealth,  scarce  reach 

at  green ; 
You  come,  as  if  the  silver  planet  were 
Misled  a  while  from  her  much  injured  sphere  ; 
And,  t'ease  the  travels  of  her  beams  to-night. 
In  this  small  lanthorn  would  contract  her  light. 
8ir  William  Bavenant. — About  1640. 


375.— THE   MOENING   STAE. 

StiU  Herald  of  the  Morn  !  whose  ray. 

Being  page  and  usher  to  the  day. 

Doth  mourn  behind  the  sun,  before  him  play ; 

Who  set't'st  a  golden  signal  ere 

The  bark  retire,  the  lark  appear, 

The  early  cocks  cry  comfort,  screech-owls  fear. 

Who  wink'st  while  lovers  plight  their  troth, 

Then  falls  asleep,  while  they  are  loth 

To  part  without  a  more  engaging  oath ; 

Steal  in  a  message  to  the  eyes 

Of  Julia,  tell  her  that  she  lies 

Too  long, — thy  lord,  the  Sun,  will  quickly  rise. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


UPON  HIS  MISTEESS  SAD. 


[James  Shirley. 


Yet  it  is  midniglit  still  with  lue, 
Nay  worsG,  unless  that  kinder  she 
Smile  day,  and  in  my  zenith  seated  be ! 
But  if  she  will  obliquely  run, 
I  needs  a  calenture  must  shun, 
And,  like  an  Ethiopian,  hate  my  sun. 

John  Hall— About  1646. 


376.— SONG  BY  LOVE  TO  PHYSANDEE 
AND  BELLANIMA. 

Welcome,  welcome,  happy  pair, 

To  these  abodes,  where  spicj'-  air 

Breathes  perfumes,  and  every  sense 

Doth  find  his  object's  excellence  ; 

Where's  no  heat,  nor  cold  extreme, 

No   winter's   icQ,   no    summer's    scorching 

beam  ; 
Where's  no  sun,  yet  never  nijrht, 
Day  always  springing  from  eternal  light. 

All  mortal  sufferings  laid  aside, 
Here  in  endless  bliss  abide. 

Welcome  to  Love,  my  new-loved  heir, 

Elysium's  thine,  ascend  my  chair : 

Eor  following  sensuality 

I  thought  to  disinherit  thee  ; 

But  being  now  reform' d  in  life, 

And  reunited  to  thy  wife. 

Mine  only  daughter,  fate  allows 

That  Love  with  stars  should  cro-svn  your 

brows. 
Join  ye  that  were  his  guides  to  this. 
Thus  I  enthrone  you  both — now  kiss ; 
Whilst  you  in  endless  measures  move, 
Led  on  to  endless  joys  by  Love. 

Thomas  Nabhes.— About  1637. 


Had  Cain  been  Scot,  God  would  have  changed 

his  doom ; 
Not  forced  him  to  wander,  but  confined  him 

home. 

John  Cleveland. — About  1647. 


378.— ON  PHILLIS,  WALKENG  BEFOEE 

SUNEISE. 

The  sluggish  morn  as  yet  undress  ^, 
My  Phillis  brake  from  out  her  rest. 
As  if  she'd  made  a  match  to  run 
With  Venus,  usher  to  the  sun. 
The  trees  (like  yeomen  of  her  guard 
Serving  more  for  pomp  than  ward, 
Bank'd  on  each  side  with  loyal  duty). 
Wave  branches  to  enclose  her  beauty. 
The  plants,  whose  luxury  was  lopp'd, 
Or  age  with  crutches  underpropp'd, 
Whose  wooden  carcasses  are  grown 
To  be  but  coffins  of  their  own, 
Revive,  and  at  her  general  dole, 
Each  receives  his  ancient  soid. 


The  winged  choristers  began 
To  chirp  their  matins  ;  and  the  fan 
Of  wliistling  winds,  like  organs  jilay'd 
Unto  their  voluntaries,  made 
The  waken' d  earth  in  odours  rise 
To  be  her  morning  sacrifice  ; 
The  flowers,  call'd  out  of  their  tJWdH, 
Start  and  raise  up  their  drowsy  heads  ; 
And  he  that  for  their  colour  seeks. 
May  find  it  vaulting  in  her  cheeks, 
Where  roses  mix  ;  no  civil  war 
Between  her  York  and  Lancaster. 
The  marigold,  whose  courtier's  face 
Echoes  the  sun,  and  doth  unlace 
Her  at  his  rise,  at  his  full  stop 
Packs  and  shuts  up  her  gaudy  shop. 
Mistakes  her  cue,  and  doth  display ; 
Thus  Phillis  antedates  the  day. 

These  miracles  had  cramp'd  the  sun, 
Who,  thinking  that  his  kingdom's  won, 
Powders  with  light  his  frizzled  locks, 
To  see  what  saint  his  lustre  m.ocks. 
The   trembling    leaves   through   which   he 

play'd, 
Dappling  the  walk  with  light  and  shade, 
(Like  lattice  windows),  give  the  spy 
Eoom  but  to  peep  with  half  an  eye, 
Lest  her  full  orb  his  sight  should  dim, 
And  bid  us  all  good  night  in  him : 
Till  she  would  spend  a  gentle  ray. 
To  force  us  a  new-fashion' d  day. 

But  what  new-fashioned  palsy's  this, 
Which  makes  the  boughs  divest  their  bliss  ? 
And  that  they  might  her  footsteps  straw, 
Drop  their  leaves  with  shivering  awe ; 
Phillis  perceives,  and  (lest  her  stay 
Should  wed  October  unto  May, 
And  as  her  beauty  caus'd  a  spring, 
Devotion  might  an  avitumn  bring). 
Withdrew  her  beams,  yet  made  no  night, 
But  left  the  sun  her  curate  light. 

John  Cleveland. — About  1647. 


379.— LTPON  HIS  MISTEESS  SAD. 

Melancholy,  hence,  and  get 
Some  piece  of  earth  to  be  thy  seat, 
Here  the  air  and  nimble  fire 
Would  shoot  up  to  meet  desire  : 
Sullen  humour  leave  her  blood, 
Mix  not  mth  the  purer  flood, 
But  let  pleasures  swelling  here, 
Make  a  spring-tide  aU  the  year. 

Love  a  thousand  sweets  distilling. 
And  with  pleasure  bosoms  filling. 
Charm  aU  eyes  that  none  may  find  ua. 
Bo  above,  before,  behind  us  ; 
And  while  we  thy  raptures  taste. 
Compel  time  itself  to  stay, 
Or  by  forelock  hold  him  fast, 
Lest  occasion  sKp  away. 

James  Shirley. — About  1G4G. 


James  Shirley.] 


ECHO  AND  NAECISSUS. 


[Third  Period. — 


380.— ECHO  AND  NAECISSUS. 

Fair  Echo,  rise !  sick-thoughted  nymph,  awake, 
Leave  thy  green  couch,  and  canopy  of  trees  ! 

Long  since  the  choristers  of  the  wood  did  shake 
Their  wings,  and  sing  to  the  bright  sun's 
uprise : 

Day  hath  wept  o'er  thy  couch,  and,  progressed, 

Blusheth  to  see  fair  Echo  still  in  bed. 

If  not  the  birds,  who  'bout  the  coverts  fly, 
And  with  their  warbles  charm  the  neigh- 
bouring air ; 
If  not  the  sun,  whose  new  embroidery 

Makes  rich  the  leaves  that  in  thy  arbours 
are, 
Can   make  thee  rise ;   yet,  love-sick  nymph, 

away, 
The  young  Narcissus  is  abroad  to-day. 

Pursue  him,  timorous  maid :  he  moves  apace ; 
Favonius  waits  to  play  with  thy  loose  hair, 
And  help  thy  flight;   see  hoAv  the  drooping 
grass 
Courts  thy  soft  tread,  thou  child  of  sound 
and  air ; 
Attempt,  and  overtake  him  ;  though  he  be 
Coj  to  all  other  nymphs,  he'll  stoop  to  thee. 

If  thy  face  move  not,  let  thy  eyes  expi'css 
Some  rhetoric  of  thy  tears  to   make   him 
stay; 

He  must  be  a  rock  that  mil  not  melt  at  these, 
Dropping  these  native  diamonds  in  his  Avay ; 

IVIistaken  he  may  stoop  at  them,  and  this, 

Who  knows  how  soon  ?  may  help  thee  to  a  Idss. 

If  neither  love,  thy  beauty,  nor  thy  tears. 
Invent  some  other  way  to  make  him  know 

He  need  not  hunt,  that  can  liave  such  a  deer : 
The  Queen  of  Love  did  once  Adonis  v/oo, 

But,  hard  of  soul,  with  no  persuasions  won, 

He  felt  the  curse  of  his  disdain  too  soon. 

In  vain  I  counsel  her  to  put  on  wing ; 

Echo  hath  left  her  solitary  grove  ; 
And  in  the  vale,  the  palace  of  the  spring. 

Sits  silently  attending  to  her  love ; 
But  round  about,  to  catcli  his  voice  with  care, 
In  every  shade  and  tree  she  hid  a  snare. 

Now  do  the  huntsmen  fill  the  air  with  noise, 
And  their  shrill  horns  chafe  her  delighted 
ear, 
Which,  with  loud  accents,  give  the  v/oods  a 
voice 
Proclaiming  parley  to  the  /earful  deer : 
She  hears  the  jolly  tunes  ;  but  every  strain. 
As  high  and  musical,  she  retiirns  again. 

Eons' d  is  the  game ;  pursuit  doth  put  onviings  ; 
The  sun  doth  shine,  and  gild  them  out  their 
way; 
The  deer  into  an  o'crgrown  thicket  springs, 
Through  which  he  quaintly  steals  his  shine 
away  ; 
The  hunters  scatter  ;  but  the  boy,  o'erthrown 
In  a  dark  part  of  the  wood,  complains  alone. 


Him,  Echo,  led  by  her  affections,  found, 
Joy'd,  you  may  guess,  to  reach  him  with  her 
eye ; 

But  more,  to  see  him  rise  without  a  wound — 
Who  yet  obscures  herself  behind  some  tree  ; 

He,  vexed,  exclaims,  andasking, "  Where  am  I  ? " 

The  unseen  virgin  answers,  "  Here  am  I !  " 

"  Some  guide  from  hence  !  Will  no  man  hear  ?  " 
he  cries : 
She  answers,  in  her  passion,  "Ohman,hea:r'. " 
"  I  die,  I  die,"  say  both  ;  and  tlms  she  tric;5. 

With  frequent  answers,  to  entice  his  car 
And  person  to  her  court,  more  fit  for  love  ; 
He  tracks  the  sound,  and  finds  her  odorous 
grove. 

The  way  he  trod  was  paved  with  violets. 
Whose  azure  leaves  do  warm  their  ndcod 
stalks ; 

In  their  white  double  ruffs  the  daisies  jet, 
And  primroses  are  scattered  in  the  walks, 

IVhose  pretty  mixture  in  the  ground  declares 

Another  galaxy  emboased  with  stars. 

Two  rows  of  elms  ran  with  proportioned  grace. 
Like  nature's  arras,  to  adorn  the  sides  ; 

The  friendly  vines  their  loved  barks  embrace, 
While  folding-tops  the  chequered  ground- 
work hides ; 

Here  oft  the  tired  sun  himself  would  rest. 

Eliding  his  glorious  circuit  to  the  west. 

From  hence  delight  conveys  him  unawares 
Into  a  spacious  green,  whose  either  side 

Ahill  did  guard,  whilst  with  his  trees, like hair^, 
The  clouds  were  busy  binding  up  his  head  ; 

The  flowers  here  smile  upon  him  as  he  treads, 

And,  but  when  he  looks  up,  hang  down  ihcir 
heads. 

Not  far  from  hence,  near  an  harmonious  brook, 
Within  an  arbour  of  conspiring  trees, 

W}iose  wilder  boughs  into  the  stream  did  look, 
A  place  more  suitable  to  her  distress. 

Echo,  suspecting  that  her  love  was  gone, 

Herself  had  in  a  careless  posture  throAvn. 

But  Time  upon  his  wings  had  brought  the  boy 
To  see  this  lodging  of  the  airy  queen. 

Whom  the  dejected  nymph  espies  with  joy 
Through  a  small  window  of  eglantine  ; 

And  that  she  might  be  worthy  his  embrace, 

Forgets  not  to  new-dress  her  blubber'd  face. 

With  confidence  she  sometimes  would  go  out. 
And  boldly  meet  Narcissus  in  the  way  ; 

But  then  her  fears  present  her  with  new  doubt. 
And  chide  her  over-rash  resolve  away. 

Her  heart  -with  overcharge  of  love  must  break  ; 

Great  Juno  will  not  let  poor  Echo  speak. 
#  #  ^  #  # 

James  Shh'lcy. — Ahoid  164G. 


381.— THE  EESOLVE. 

Toll  me  not  of  a  face  that's  fair. 
Nor  lip  and  cheek  that's  red, 

Nor  of  the  tresses  of  her  hair. 
Nor  curls  in  order  laid  ; 


•o;;;  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  INQUIRY. 


[Katherine  Philips. 


Nor  of  a  rare  seraphic  voics, 

That  like  an  angel  sing-s  ; 
Though  if  I  were  to  take  ray  choice, 

1  -woukl  have  all  these  thing's. 
But  if  that  thou  wilt  have  mc  love, 

And  it  must  be  a  she ; 
The  only  argument  can  move 

Is,  that  she  will  love  me. 

The  glories  of  your  ladies  be 

But  metaphors  of  things, 
And  but  resemble  what  we  seo 

Each  common  object  brings, 
Eoses  out-red  their  lips  and  checks^ 

Lilies  their  whiteness  stain  : 
What  fool  is  he  that  shadows  seeks, 

And  may  the  substance  gain  I 
Then  if  thou'lt  have  me  love  a 

Let  it  be  one  that's  kind, 
Else  I'm  a  servant  to  the  glass 

That's  with  Canary  lined. 

Alexander  Bromc. — Ahoitt  1649. 


382.— THE  MAD  LOVER. 

I  have  been  in  love,  and  in  debt,  and  in  drink, — 

This  many  and  many  a  year  ; 
And  those  three  are  plagues  enough,  one  would 
think, 

For  one  poor  mortal  to  bear. 
'Twas  drink  made  me  fall  into  love, 

And  love  made  me  run  into  debt ; 
And  though  I  have  struggled  and  struggled 
and  strove, 

I  cannot  get  out  of  them  yet. 

There's  nothing  but  money  can  cure  me, 
And  rid  me  of  all  my  pain  ; 
'Twill  pay  all  my  debts. 
And  remove  all  my  lets ! 
And  my  mistress  that  cannot  endure  mo. 

Will  love  me,  and  love  me  again  : 
Then  I'll  fall  to  loving  and  drinking  again. 

Alexander  Brome. — Aho-ut  1649. 


3S3.— TO  A  COY  LADY. 

I  prithee  leave  this  peevish  fashion, 
Don't  desire  to  be  high  prized ; 

Love's  a  princely  noble  passion, 
And  doth  scorn  to  be  despised. 

Though  we  say  you're  fair,  you  know 

We  your  beauty  do  bestow. 

For  our  fancy  makes  you  so. 

Don't  be  proud  'cause  we  adore  you. 
We  do't  only  for  our  pleasure  ; 

And  those  parts  in  which  you  glory 
We  l)y  fancy  weigh  and  mea.^are. 

When  for  deities  you  go. 

For  angels  or  for  queens,  pray  know 

'Tis  our  own  fancy  makes  you  so. 


Don't  suppose  your  Majesty 

By  tyranny's  best  signified, 
And  your  angelic  Natures  be 

Distinguish' d  only  by  your  pride. 
Tyrants  make  subjects  rebels  grow, 
And  pride  makes  angels  devils  below, 
And  your  j)ride  may  make  you^go  !_ 

Alexander  Bromc. — About  1649. 


384.— THE   INQUIRY. 

If  we  no  old  historian's  name 

Authentic  will  admit, 
But  think  all  said  of  friendship's  fame 

But  poetry  or  wit ; 
Yet  what's  revered  by  minds  so  pure 
Must  be  a  bright  idea  sure. 

But  as  our  immortality 

By  inward  sense  we  find. 
Judging  that  if  it  could  not  be, 

It  would  not  be  design' d  : 
So  here  how  could  such  copies  fall, 
If  there  were  no  original  ? 

But  if  truth  be  in  ancient  song. 

Or  story  we  believe  ; 
If  the  inspired  and  greater  throng 

Have  scorned  to  deceive  ; 
There  have  been  hearts  whoso  friendship 

gave 
Them  thoughts   at   once  both  soft  and 

grave. 
Among  that  consecrated  crew 

Some  more  seraphic  shade 
Lend  me  a  favourable  clew. 

Now  mists  my  eyes  invade. 
Why,  having  fiU'd  the  world  with  fame, 
Left  you  so  little  of  your  fianie  i:* 

Why  is't  so  difficult  to  see 

Two  bodies  and  one  mind  ? 
And  why  are  those  who  else  agreo 

So  difficultly  kind  h 
Hath  nature  such  fantastic  art. 
That  she  can  vary  every  heart  i* 

Why  are  the  bands  of  friendship  tied 

With  so  remiss  a  knot, 
Tliat  by  the  most  it  is  defied. 

And  by  the  most  forgot  ? 
Why  do  we  step  with  so  light  senso 
From  friendship  to  indiiference  ? 

If  friendship  sympathy  impart, 

Wliy  this  ill-shuffled  game, 
That  heart  can  never  meet  witli  heart, 

Or  flame  encounter  flame  ? 
What  does  this  cruelty  create  ? 
Is't  the  intrigue  of  love  or  fate  ? 

Had  friendship  ne'er  been  known  to  nicn, 

(The  ghost  at  last  confest) 
The  world  had  then  a  stranger  been 

To  all  that  heaven  poasest. 
]^ut  could  it  all  be  hero  acquired, 
Not  heaven  itself  would  bo  desired, 

Katherine  Fldlips. — About  1640. 


Katherine  Philips.] 


A  FRIEND. 


[Thisd  Period. — 


3S5.— A  FEIE]ND. 

Love,  nature's  plot,  this  ^eat  creation's  soul, 

The  being'  and  the  harmony  of  things, 
Doth  still  preserve  and  propagate  the  whole, 
From  whence  man's  happiness  and  safety- 
springs  : 
The   earliest,   whitest,    blessed' st   times    did 

draw 
From  her  alone  their  universal  law. 

Friendship's  an  abstract  of  this  noble  flame, 
'Tis  love  refined  and  purged  from  all  its 
dross, 
The  next  to  angel's  love,  if  not  the  same. 

As  strong  in  passion  is,  though  not  so  gross  : 
It  antedates  a  glad  eternity. 
And  is  an  heaven  in  epitome. 

#         *         *         *         * 
Essential  honour  must  be  in  a  friend, 

Not  such  as  every  breath  fans  to  and  fro  ; 
But  born  within,  is  its  own  judge  and  end. 
And  dares  not  sin  though  sure  that  none 
should  know. 
Where  friendship  's  spoke,  honesty  's  under- 
stood ; 
For  none  can  be  a  friend  that  is  not  good. 
***** 

Thick  waters  show  no  images  of  things ; 

Friends  are  each  other's  mirrors,  and  should 
be 
Clearer  than  crystal  or  the  mountain  springs, 

And  free  from  clouds,  design  or  flattery. 
For  vulgar  souls  no  part  of  friendsliip  share  ; 
Poets  and  friends  are  bom  to  what  they  are. 

Katherine  Pldlips. — About  1649. 


386.— TO  HIS  HEAET. 

Hence,  heart,  with  her  that  must  depart, 

And  hald  thee  with  thy  soverain, 
For  I  had  lever  want  ane  heart. 

Nor  have  the  heart  that  does  me  pain ; 

Therefore  go  with  thy  luve  remain, 
And  let  me  live  thus  unmolest ; 

Sec  that  thou  come  not  back  again, 
But  bide  with  her  thou  luvis  best. 

Sen  she  that  1  have  servit  lang. 

Is  to  depart  so  suddenly, 
Address  thee  now,  for  thou  sail  gang 

And  beir  thy  lady  company. 

Fra  she  be  gone,  heartless  am  I ; 
For  why  ?  thou  art  with  her  possest. 

Therefore,  my  heart !  go  hence  in  hy, 
And  bide  with  her  thou  luvis  best. 

Though  this  belappit  body  here 

Be  bound  to  servitude  and  thrall, 
My  faithful  heart  is  free  inteir, 

And  mind  to  serve  my  lady  at  all. 

Yv''ald  God  that  I  were  perigall 
Under  that  redolent  rose  to  rest ! 

Yet  at  the  least,  my  heart,  thou  sail 
Abide  with  her  thou  luvis  best. 


Sen  in  your  garth  the  lily  whyte 

May  not  remain  amang  the  lave, 
Adieu  the  flower  of  haill  delyte ; 

Adieu  the  succour  that  may  me  save ; 

Adieu  the  fragrant  balmie  suaif , 
And  lamp  of  ladies  lustiest ! 

My  faithful  heart  she  sail  it  have, 
To  bide  with  her  it  luvis  best. 

Deplore,  ye  ladies  clear  of  hue. 

Her  absence,  sen  she  must  depart, 
And  specially  ye  luvers  true, 

That  wounded  be  with  lu^-is  dart. 

For  ye  sail  want  you  of  ane  heart 
As  weil  as  I,  therefore  at  last 

Do  go  with  mine,  with  mind  inwart. 
And  bide  with  her  thou  luvis  best. 

Alexander  Scot. — About  1649. 


387.— EONDEL  OF  LOVE. 

Lo  what  it  is  to  luve. 

Learn  ye  that  list  to  pruve. 
By  me,  I  say,  that  no  waj's  may. 

The  grund  of  greif  romuvc. 
But  still  decay,  both  nicht  and  day ; 

Lo  what  it  is  to  luve  ! 

Luve  is  ane  fer^^ent  fire, 

Kendillit  without  desire, 
Short  plesour,  lang  displesour ; 

Eepentance  is  the  hire  ; 
Ane  pure  tressour,  withoiit  messour ; 

Luve  is  ane  fervent  fire. 

To  luve  and  to  be  wise. 

To  rege  with  gude  adwise  ; 
Now  thus,  now  than,  so  goes  the  game, 

Incertain  is  the  dice  ; 
There  is  no  man,  I  say,  that  can 

Both  luve  and  to  be  wise. 

Flee  alwayis  from  the  snare, 

Learn  at  me  to  beware ; 
It  is  ane  pain  and  dowble  train 

Of  endless  woe  and  care ; 
For  to  refrain  that  denger  plain. 

Flee  always  from  the  snare. 

Alexander  Scot. — Aboiit  1649. 


388.— THE  TOWN  LADIES. 

Some  wifis  of  the  borowstoun 
Sae  wonder  vain  are,  and  wantoun, 
In  v/arld  they  wait  not  what  to  weir : 
On  claithis  they  ware  mony  a  croun ; 
And  all  for  newfanglencss  of  geir. 

And  of  fine  silk  their  furrit  clokis. 
With  hingan  sleeves,  like  geil  pokis ; 
Nae  preaching  will  gar  them  forbeir 
To  weir  all  thing  that  sin  provokis ; 
And  all  for  newfangleness  of  geir. 

Their  wilicoats  maun  weel  be  hewit, 
Broudred  richt  braid,  with  pasments  sewit. 
I  trow  wha  wald  the  matter  speir, 
That  their  gudemen  had  cause  to  mo  it, 
That  evir  their  wifis  wore  sic  geir. 


1 

From  1558  to  1649.]                         NIGHT  IS  NIGH  GONE.                   [Alex.  Motttgomery. 

■         Their  woven  hose  of  silk  are  shawin, 

I  saw  the  hurcheon  and  the  hare 

Barrit  aboon  mth  taisels  drawin ; 

In  hidlings  hirpling  here  and  there. 

With  gartens  of  ane  new  nianoir, 

To  make  their  morning  mauge. 

To  gar  their  courtliness  be  knawdn ; 

The  con,  the  cuning,  and  tho  cat, 

And  all  for  newfangleness  of  geir. 

Whose  dainty  downs  vnih  dew  wore  wat. 
With  stiff  moustachios  s^traI!ge. 

Sometime  they  vail  beir  up  their  gown. 

The  hart,  the  hind,  the  dae,  tlie  rae,   - 

To  shaw  their  Avilicoat  hingan  do^vn ; 

The  foumart  and  false  fox ; 

And  sometime  baith  they  will  upbeir, 

The  bearded  buck  clamb  up  the  brae 

To  shaw  their  hose  of  black  or  brown ; 

With  birsy  bairs  and  brocks  ; 

And  aU  for  newfangleness  of  geir. 

Some  feeding,  some  dreading 

Their  collars,  carcats,  and  hause  beidis  ! 
With  velvet  hat  heigh  on  their  heidis, 
Cordit  Avith  gold  like  ane  younkeir. 

The  hunter's  subtle  snares. 
With  skipping  and  tripping. 
They  play'd  them  all  in  pairs. 

Braidit  about  %vith  golden  threidis ; 

The  air  was  sober,  saft,  and  sweet, 

And  all  for  newfangleness  of  geir. 

Nae  misty  vapours,  wind,  nor  weet, 
But  quiet,  calm,  and  clear, 

Their  shoon  of  velvet,  and  their  miulis ! 

To  foster  Flora's  fragrant  flowers, 

In  kirk  they  are  not  content  of  stuihs, 

Whereon  Apollo's  paramours 

Tlie  sermon  Avhen  they  sit  to  heir, 

Had  trinkled  mony  a  tear  ; 

But  carries  cusheons  like  vain  fulis  ; 

Tlio  which  like  silver  shakers  sdiined, 

And  all  for  newfangleness  of  geir. 

Embroidering  Beauty's  bed, 
Wherewith  their  heavy  heads  declined 

And  some  will  spend  mair,  I  hear  say, 

In  May's  colours  clad. 

In  spice  and  drugis  in  ane  day, 

Some  knoping,  some  dropping 

Nor  wald  their  mothers  in  ane  yoir. 

Of  balmy  liquor  sweet, 

Whilk  will  gar  mony  pack  decay, 

Excelling  and  smelling 

When  they  sae  vainly  waste  their  geir. 

Through  Phoebus'  wholesome  heat. 

Leave,  burgess  men,  or  all  bo  lost, 

Alexander  Montgomerij. — About  1597. 

On  your  vd&s  to  male  sic  cost, 

WhUk  may  gar  all  your  bairnis  bleir. 
She  that  may  not  want  wine  and  roast, 

390.— NIGHT  iS  NIGH  GONE. 

Is  able  for  to  waste  some  geu*. 

Hey,  now  the  day's  dawning ; 

Between  them,  and  nobles  of  blude, 

The  jolly  cock's  crowing ; 
Tho  Eastern  sky's  glowing; 

Nao  difference  but  ane  velvet  hude ! 

Stars  fade,  one  by  one  ; 

Their  camrock  curchies  are  as  deir, 

The  thistle-cock's  crying 

Their  other  claithis  are  as  gude, 

On  lovers  long  lying, 

And  they  as  costly  in  other  geir. 

Cease  vowing  and  sighing ; 

Of  burgess  wifis  though  I  speak  plain, 

The  night  is  nigh  gone. 

Some  landwart  ladies  are  as  vain, 

The  fields  are  o'er  flowing 

As  by  their  claithing  may  appoir. 

With  gowans  all  glowing. 

Wearing  gayer  nor  them  may  gain, 

And  white  lilies  growing. 

On  ower  vain  claithis  wasting  geir. 

A  thousand  as  one ; 

Tho  sweet  ring-dove  cooing, 

Sir  Bichanl  rLaitland.^Ahout  1580. 

His  love-notes  renewing. 
Now  moaning,  now  suing ; 
The  night  is  nigh  gone. 

389.— THF.  CHEEEY  AND  THE  SLAE. 

Tho  season  excelling. 

In  scented  flowers  smelling, 

The  cushat  crouds,  the  corbie  cries, 

To  kind  love  compelling 

The  cuckoo  couks,  the  prattling  pyes 

To  geek  there  they  begin ; 
The  jargon  of  the  jangling  jays. 

Our  hearts  every  one ; 
With  sweet  ballads  moving 
The  maids  we  are  loving, 

The  craiking  craws  and  keckling  kays, 

'Mid  musing  and  roving 

.                  They  deave't  me  with  their  din. 

The  night  is  nigh  gone. 

I 

■         The  painted  pawn  with  Argus  eyes 

Of  war  and  fair  women 

II 

1                   Can  on  his  May-cock  call ; 

The  young  knights  are  dreaming. 

The  turtle  walls  on  -wither' d  trees, 

With  bright  breastplates  gleaming 

And  Echo  answers  all. 

And  plumed  helmets  on ; 

Eepeating,  with  greeting. 

The  barbed  steed  neighs  lordly. 

How  fair  Narcissus  fell, 

And  shakes  his  mane  proudly, 

By  lying  and  spying 

For  war-trumpets  loudly 

His  shadow  in  the  well. 

Say  night  is  nigh  gone. 

Alexander  Hume.] 


EAELY  DAWX. 


[Third  Period. 


I  see  the  Hags  flowing-, 
The  -warriors  all  glowing*, 
And,  snorting  and  blowing, 
The  steeds  rushing  on  ; 
The  lances  are  crashing, 
Out  broad  blades  come  flashing, 
'Mid  shouting  and  dashing — 
The  night  is  nigh  gone. 
Alexander  Montgomery. — About  1597. 


391.— EAELY  DAWN. 
0  perfect  light,  which  shed  aAvay 

The  darkness  from  the  light. 
And  set  a  ruler  o'er  the  day. 

Another  o'er  the  night. 

Thy  glory,  when  the  day  forth  flies, 

More  vively  does  appear, 
Nor  at  mid-day  unto  our  eyes 

The  shining  sun  is  clear. 

The  shadow  of  the  earth  anon 

Eemoves  and  drawis  by, 
Syne  in  the  east,  when  it  is  gone. 

Appears  a  clearer  sky. 

Whilk  soon  perceive  the  little  larks. 

The  lapwing  and  the  snipe  ; 
And  tune  their  song  like  Nature's  clerks, 

O'er  meadow,  mtiir,  and  stripe. 

Alexander  Hume. — Ahout  1599. 


392. 


-THE  NOON-TIDE  OE  A  STOIMEE'S 
DAY. 
The  time  so  tranquil  is  and  clear, 

That  nowhere  shall  ye  find. 
Save  on  a  high  and  barren  hill, 
An  air  of  passing  wind. 

All  trees  and  simples,  great  and  small, 

That  balmy  leaf  do  bear. 
Than  they  were  painted  on  a  wall. 

No  more  they  move  or  steir. 

Tlie  rivers  fresh,  the  caller  streams, 

O'er  rocks  can  swiftly  rin, 
The  water  clear  like  crystal  beams. 

And  makes  a  pleasant  din. 

Alcxand.er  Hume. — Ahout  1599. 


393.— EVENING. 

What  pleasure,  then,  to  walk  and  see 

End-lang  a  river  clear. 
The  perfect  form  of  every  tree 

Within  the  deep  appear. 

The  salmon  out  of  cruives  and  creels, 

Uphailed  into  scouts, 
The  bells  and  circles  on  the  weills 

Through  leaping  of  the  trouts. 
O  sure  it  were  a  seemly  thing, 

While  all  is  still  and  calm, 
The  praise  of  God  to  play  and  sing. 

With  trumpet  and  with  shalm. 


Through  all  the  land  great  is  the  gild 

Of  rustic  folks  that  cry  ; 
Of  bleating  sheep  fra  they  be  kiU'd, 

Of  calves  and  rowting  kye. 

All  labourers  draw  hame  at  even. 

And  can  to  others  say. 
Thanks  to  the  gracious  God  of  heaven, 

Whilk  sent  this  summer  day. 

Alexander  Hmne. — About  1599. 


394.— ANE  SCHOET  POEME  OE  TYME. 

As  I  was  pausing  in  a  morning  aire, 

And  could  not  sleip  nor  nawyis  take  mo 
rest, 

Furth  for  to  walk,  the  morning  was  so  faire, 
Athort  the  fields,  it  seemed  to  me  the  best. 
The  East  was  cleare,  whereby  belyve  I  gest 

That  fyrie  Titan  cumming  was  in  sight, 

Obscuring  chaste  Diana  by  his  light. 

Who  by  his  rising  in  the  azure  skyes. 

Did  dewlie  helse  all   thame   on   earth   do 
dwell. 
The  balmie  dew  through  birning  drouth  he 
dryis, 
Which  made  the  soile  to  savour  sweit  and 

smell, 
By  dew  that  on  the  night  before  doAvne  fell, 
Which  then  Avas  soukit  up  by  the  Delphioiuis 

hcit 
Up  in  the  aire  :  it  was  so  light  and  weit. 

Wliose  hie  ascending  in  his  purpour  chere 
Provokit  all  from  Morpheus  to  flee  : 

As  beasts  to  feid,  and  birds  to  sing  with  bcir. 
Men  to  their  labour,  bissie  as  the  bee  : 
Yet  idle  men  devysing  did  I  see, 

How  for  to  drive  the  tyme  that  did  them  irk, 

By   sindrie    pastymes,    quhile    that   it   grow 
mirk. 

Then  woundred  I  to  see  them  seik  a  wyle, 
So  willingly  the  precious  tyme  to  tine  : 

And  how  they  did  themselfis  so  farr  begyle, 
To  fushe  of  tyme,  which  of  itself  is  fyiio. 
Fra  tyme  be  past  to  call  it  backwart  syne 

Is  bot  in  vaine  :  therefore  men  sould  bo  warr. 

To  sleuth  the  tyme  that  flees  fra  them  so  farr. 

For  what  hath  man  bot  tyme  into  this  Ij'fe, 
Wliich  gives  him  dayis  his  God  aright  to 
know  ? 
Wherefore  then  sould  we  be  at  sic  a  stryfe, 
So  spedelie  oiu-  selfis  for  to  withdraw 
Evin  from  the  tyme,  which  is  on  nowayea 
slaw 
To  flie  from  us,  suppose  we  fled  it  noght  ? 
More   wyso   Ave   were,  if  Ave   the   tyme   had 
soght. 

But  sen  that  tyme  is  sic  a  precious  thing, 
I  Avald  Ave  sould  bestoAV  it  into  that 

Which  Avere  most  pleasour  to  our  heavenly 
King. 
Floe  ydilteth,  which  is  the  greatest  !afc  j 
Bot,  son  that  death  to  all  is  destinat. 


From  1558  to  1640.] 


THE  WORK-GIRL'S  SONG. 


[Nicholas  Udall. 


Let  us  employ  that  tyme  that  God  hath  send 

us, 
In  doing  weill,  that  good  men  ma,j  commend 

Kin-g  James  VI, — About  1584. 


395.— SOLITARY  LIFE. 

Sweet  solitary  life  '.  lovely,  dumb  joy, 

That   need'st   no   warnings   how   to   grow 
more  wise 
By  other  men's  mishaps,  nor  the  annoy 

Which  from  sore  \vrongs  done  to  one's  self 
doth  rise. 
The  morning's  second  mansion,  truth's  first 
friend, 
Never   acquainted   with   the   v/orld's   vain 
broils, 
When   the   whole   day  to   our   own   iise   we 
spend, 
And    our    dear    time    no    fierce    ambition 
spoils. 
Most  happy  state,  that  never  tak'st  revenge 

For  injuries  received,  nor  dost  fear 
The    court's    great    earthquake,    the  grieved 
truth  of  change, 
Nor  none  of  falsehood's  savoury  lies  dost 
hear; 
Nor  knows  hope's  svreet  disease  that  charms 
our  sense, 
Nor  its  sad  cure — dear-bonght  experience ! 
Earl  of  Ancrum. — About  1624. 


396.— SONNET. 

I  swear,  Aurora,  by  thy  starry  eyes, 

And  by  those  golden  locks,  whose  lock  none 

slips. 
And  by  the  coral  of  thy  rosy  lips, 
And  by  the  naked  snows  which  beauty  dyes ; 
I  swear  by  all  the  jewels  of  thy  mind, 
Whose  like  yet  never  worldly  treasure  bought, 
Thy  solid  judgment,  and  thy  generous  thought. 
Which   in   this    darken'd    age    have    clearly 

shin'd ; 
I  swear  by  those,  and  by  my  spotless  love, 
And  by  my  secret,  yet  most  fervent  fires. 
That  I  have  never  nurst  but  chaste  desires, 
And  such  as  modesty  might  \^]1  approve. 
Then,  since  I  love  those  virtuous  parts  in  thee, 
Shouldst  thou  not  love  tliis  virtuous  mind  in 

me? 

Earl  oj  Stirling.— About  1637. 


397.— MY  FANTASY  WILL  NEVER 
TURN. 

Spite  of  his  spite,  which  that  in  vain, 
Doth  seek  to  force  my  fantasy, 
I  am  professed  for  loss  or  gain, 
To  be  thine  own  assuredly ; 

Wherefore  let  my  father  spite  and  spurn, 

My  fantasy  Avill  never  turn ! 


Although  my  father  of  busy  wit, 
Doth  babble  still,  I  care  not  though  ; 
I  have  no  fear,  nor  yet  will  flit, 
As  doth  the  water  to  and  fro  ; 
Wherefore,  &c. 

For  I  am  set,  and  will  not  swerv'Or-    - 
Whom  spiteful  speech  removeth  nought ; 
And  since  that  I  thy  grace  deserve, 
I  count  it  is  not  dearly  bought ; 
Wherefore,  &c. 

Who  is  afraid,  let  you  him  fly. 
For  I  shall  well  abide  the  brunt : 
Maugre  to  his  lips  that  listeth  to  lie, 
Of  busy  brains  as  is  the  wont ; 
Wherefore,  &c. 

"Who  listeth  thereat  to  laugh  or  lour, 
I  am  not  he  that  aught  doth  reach ; 
There  is  no  pain  that  hath  the  power 
Out  of  my  breast  your  love  to  fetch ; 
Wherefore,  &c. 

For  whereas  he  moved  me  to  the  school, 
And  only  to  follow  my  book  and  learning, 
He  could  never  make  me  such  a  fool, 
With  all  his  soft  words  and  fair  speaking ; 
Wherefore,  &c. 

This  minion  here,  this  mincing  trull. 
Doth  please  me  more  a  thousand  fold, 
Than  all  the  earth  that  is  so  full 
Of  precious  stones,  silver,  and  gold ; 
Wherefore,  &c. 

Whatsoever  I  did  it  was  for  her  sa,ke. 
It  was  for  her  love  and  only  pleasure  ; 
I  count  it  no  labour  such  labour  to  take 
In  getting  to  me  so  high  a  treasure; 
Wherefore,  &c. 

This  day  I  intended  for  to  be  merry. 
Although  my  hard  father  be  far  hence, 
I  know  no  cause  for  to  be  heavy, 
For  all  this  cost  and  great  expense ; 
Wherefore,  &c. 

Thomas  Ingeland. — Ahoid  1560. 


398.— THE  WORK-GIRL'S  SONG. 

Pipe,  merry  Annot ; 

TriUa,  Trilla,  TriUarie. 
Work,  Tibet ;  w^ork,  Annot ;  work,  Margerie ; 
Sevv%  Tibet ;  knit,  Annot ;  spin,  Margerie  ; 
Let  us  see  v/ho  will  win  the  victor3^ 

Pipe,  merry  Annot ; 

TriUa,  Trilla,  Trillarie. 
"Wliat,  Tibet !  what,  Annot !  what,  Margerie  I 
Ye  sleep,  but  we  do  not,  that  shall  we  try  ; 
Your  fingers  be  numb,  our  work  will  not  lie. 

Pipe,  merry  Annot ; 

Trilla,  Trilla,  Trillarie. 
Now  Tibet,  now  Annot,  now  Margerie ; 
Now  whippet  apace  for  the  maystrie  ; 
|But  it  will  not  be,  our  mouth  is  so  dry. 


Nicholas  Udall.] 


THE  MINION  WIFE. 


[Third  Period. — 


Pipe,  merry  Annot  ; 

Trilla,  TriUa,  Trillarie. 
When,  Tibet  ?  when,  Annot  ?  when,  Margerie  ? 
I  will  not, — 1  can  not, — no  more  can  I ; 
Then  give  we  all  over,  and  there  let  it  lie  ! 

Nicholas  Udall. — About  1566. 


399.— THE  MINION  WIFE. 

Who  so  to  marry  a  minion  wife, 
Hath  had  good  chance  and  hap, 

Must  love  her  and  cherish  her  all  his  life, 
And  dandle  her  in  his  lap. 

If  she  will  fare  well,  if  she  will  go  gay, 

A  good  husband  ever  still. 
Whatever  she  list  to  do  or  to  say,  ' 

Must  let  her  have  her  own  will. 

About  "what  affairs  so  ever  he  go, 
He  must  show  her  all  his  mind ; 

None  of  his  counsel  she  may  be  kept  fro, 
Else  is  ho  a  man  unkind. 

Nicliolas  Udall. — About  1566. 


400.— IDLENESS. 

What  heart  can  think,  or  tongue  express. 
The  harm  that  groweth  of  idleness  ? 

This  idleness  in  some  of  us 

Is  seen  to  seem  a  thing  but  slight ; 

But  if  that  sum  the  sums  discuss, 
The  total  sum  doth  show  us  straight 
This  idleness  to  weigh  such  weight 

That  it  no  tongue  can  well  express, 

The  harm  that  groweth  of  idleness. 

This  vice  I  liken  to  a  weed 

That  husbandmen  have  named  tyne. 

The  which  in  corn  doth  root  or  breed ; 
The  grain  to  ground  it  doth  incline 
It  never  ripeth,  but  rotteth  in  fine ; 

And  even  a  like  thing  is  to  guess 

Against  all  virtue,  idleness. 

The  proud  man  may  be  patient, 
The  ireful  may  be  liberal. 

The  gluttonous  may  be  continent. 
The  covetous  may  give  alms  all, 
The  lecher  may  to  prayer  fall ; 

Each  vice  bideth  some  good  business. 

Save  only  idle  idleness. 

As  some  one  virtue  may  by  grace 

Suppress  of  vices  many  a  one. 
So  is  one  vice  once  taken  place 

Destroyeth  all  virtues  every  one  ; 

Where  this  vice  cometh  all  virtues  axe 
gone. 
In  no  kind  of  good  business 
Can  company  with  idleness. 
An  ill  wind  that  bloweth  no  man  good 

The  blower  of  which  blast  is  she  ; 
The  lyther  lusts  bred  of  her  brood 

Can  no  way  breed  good  property ; 

V/hereforo  I  say,  as  we  now  see 


No  heart  can  think,  or  tongue  express 
The  harm  that  groweth  of  idleness  ! 

To  cleanse  the  com,  as  men  at  need 
Weed  out  all  weeds,  and  tyne  for  chief, 

Let  diligence,  our  weed-hook,  weed 
All  vice  from  us  for  like  relief  ; 
As  faith  may  faithfully  show  proof 

By  faithful  fruitful  business. 

To  weed  out  fruitless  idleness. 

John  Heyivood. — About  1576. 


401.— BE  MEEEY,  FEIENDS  ! 

Be  merry,  friends,  take  ye  no  thought, 
For  worldly  cares  care  ye  right  nought ; 
For  whoso  doth,  when  all  is  sought, 
Shall  find  that  thought  availeth  nought ; 
Be  merry,  friends ! 

All  such  as  have  all  wealth  at  will, 
Their  wills  at  will  for  to  fulfil. 
From  grief,  or  grudge,  or  any  ill, 
I  need  not  sing  this  them  until, 

Be  merry,  friends ! 

But  unto  such  as  wish  and  want 
Of  worldly  wealth  wrought  them  so  scant. 
That  wealth  by  work  they  cannot  plant, 
To  them  I  sing  at  this  instant. 

Be  merry,  friends  ! 

And  such  as  when  the  rest  seem  next, 
Then  they  be  straight  extremely  vexed  ; 
And  such  as  be  in  storms  perplexed, 
To  them  I  sing  this  short  sweet  text. 
Be  merry,  friends ! 

To  laugh  and  win  each  man  agrees. 
But  each  man  cannot  laugh  and  lose. 
Yet  laughing  in  the  last  of  those 
Hath  been  allowed  of  sage  decrees ; 
Be  merry,  friends  ! 

Be  merry  with  sorrow  wise  men  have  said. 
Which  sajdng,  being  wisely  weighed, 
It  seems  a  lesson  truly  laid 
For  those  whom  sorrows  stni  invade. 
Be  merry,  friends  1 

Make  ye  not  two  sorrows  of  one. 
For  of  one  grief  grafted  alone 
To  graft  a  sorrow  thereupon, 
A  sourer  crab  we  can  graft  none  ; 
Be  merry,  friends ! 

Taking  our  sorrows  sorrowfully. 
Sorrow  augmenteth  our  malady ; 
Taking  our  sorrows  merrily. 
Mirth  salveth  sorrows  most  soundly ; 
Be  merry,  friends ! 

Of  griefs  to  come  standing  in  fray. 
Provide  defence  the  best  we  may  ; 
Which  done,  no  more  to  do  or  say. 
Come  what  come  shall,  come  care  away  ! 
Be  merry,  friends  I 


From  1558  to  1C49.] 


SONG  OF  HONEST  EECEEATION. 


[John  Eedfoed. 


In  such  things  as  we  cannot  flee, 
But  needs  they  must  endured  be. 
Let  wise  contentment  be  decree, 
Make  -virtue  of  necessity ; 

Be  merry,  friends ! 
To  lack  or  lose  that  we  would  win, 
So  that  our  fault  be  not  therein, 
What  woe  or  want  end  or  begin, 
Take  never  sorrow  but  for  sin ! 

Be  merry,  friends ! 
In  loss  of  friends,  in  lack  of  health, 
In  loss  of  goods,  in  lack  of  wealth, 
Where  liberty  restraint  expelleth. 
Where  all  these  lack,  yet  as  this  telleth, 

Be  merry,  friends ! 
Man  hardly  hath  a  richer  thing 
Than  honest  mirth,  the  which  well-spring 
Watereth  the  roots  of  rejoicing, 
Feeding  the  flowers  o?  floui-isliing ; 

Be  meriy,  friends ! 
[The  loss  of  wealth  is  loss  of  dirt, 
As  sages  in  all  times  assert ; 
The  happy  man  's  without  a  shirt, 
And  never  comes  to  maim  or  hurt. 

Be  merry,  friends ! 
All  seasons  are  to  him  the  spring, 
In  flowers  bright  and  flourishing ; 
With  birds  upon  the  tree  or  wing, 
Who  in  their  fashion  always  sing 

Be  merry,  friends ! 
If  that  thy  doublet  has  a  hole  in, 
Why,  it  cannot  keep  the  less  thy  soul  in, 
Which  rangeth  forth  beyond  controlling 
Whilst  thou  hast  nought  to  do  but  trolling 

Bo  merry,  friends  !] 
Be  merry  in  God,  Saint  Paul  saith  plain. 
And  yet,  saith  he,  be  merry  again ; 
Since  whose  advice  is  not  in  vain, 
The  fact  thereof  to  entertain, 

Be  merry,  friends  ! 
[Let  the  world  slide,  let  the  world  go  ; 
A  fig  for  care,  and  a  fig  for  woe  ! 
If  I  can't  pay,  why  I  can  owe. 
And  death  makes  equal  the  high  and  low. 

Be  merry,  friends !] 

John  Heywood. — Ahoiut  157C. 


402.— DEINKING  SONG. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare. 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold  : 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat, 

My  stomach  is  not  good  ; 
But  sure  I  think,  that  I  can  drink 

With  him  that  wears  a  hood.       ' 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  am  nothing  a  cold  ; 
I  stuff  my  sldn  so  full  within 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  &c. 


I  love  no  roast  but  a  nut-brown  toast, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire ; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead, 

Much  bread  I  do  not  desire. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow. 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold, 
I  am  so  wrapt,  and  throwly  lapt,—    — 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  &c. 

And  Tyb,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek ; 
Full  oft  drinks  she,  tiU  ye  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek. 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl, 

Even  as  a  malt-worm  should  ; 
And  saith,  Sweetheart,  I  took  my  part 

Of  this  joUy  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  &c. 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and  wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do  ; 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to  : 
And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured  bowls. 

Or  have  them  lustily  trowled, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  young  or  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  &c. 

Bishop  Still. — About  1575. 


403.— SONG  OF  HONEST  EECEEATION. 

When  travels  grete  in  matters  thick 
Have  dulled  your  wits  and  made  them  sick, 
What  medicine,  then,  your  wits  to  quick. 
If  ye  wUl  know,  the  best  physic, 

Is  to  give  place  to  Honest  Eecreation — 
Give  place,  we  say  now,  for  thy  consolation. 

Where  is  that  Wit  that  we  seek  than  ? 

Alas  !  he  lyeth  here  pale  and  wan : 

Help  him  at  once  now,  if  we  can. 

0  Wit  !  how  doest  thou  ?     Look  up  !  man. 
O  Wit !  give  place  to  Honest  Eecreation — 
Give  place,  we  say  now,  for  thy  consolation. 

After  place  given  let  ear  obey : 

Give  an  ear,  O  Wit !  now  we  thee  pray, 

Give  ear  to  what  wo  sing  and  say  ; 

Give  an  ear  and  help  will  come  straightway  : 

Give  an  ear  to  Honest  Eecreation  ; 

Give  an  ear  now,  for  thy  consolation. 

After  ear  given,  now  give  an  eye : 
Behold,  thy  friends  about  thee  lie, 
Eecreation  I,  and  Comfort  I, 
Quickness  am  I,  and  Strength  here  bye. 

Give  an  eye  to  Honest  Eecreation  ; 

Give  an  eye  now,  for  thy  consolation. 

After  an  eye  given,  an  hand  give  ye : 
Give  an  hand,  O  Wit !  feel  that  ye  see  ; 
Eecreation  feel,  feel  Comfort  free. 
Feel  Quickness  here,  feel  Strength  to  thee. 

Give  an  hand  to  Honest  Eecreation ; 

Give  an  hand  now,  for  thy  consolation. 


John  Ltly.] 


CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE. 


[Third  Period. — 


Upon  his  feet,  would  God  he  were ! 

To  raise  him  now  we  need  not  fear  ; 

Stay  you  his  hand,  while  we  here  bear  : 

Now  all  at  once  upright  him  rear. 

O  Wit !  give  place  to  Honest  Recreation  : 
Give  place,  we  say  now,  for  thy  consolation. 

John  ReJford. — About  1576. 


404.— CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE. 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses — Cupid  paid  ; 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow  and  arrows. 

His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows  ; 

Loses  them,  too,  then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how), 

With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin ; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes, — 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love  !  hath  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 

What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me  ? 

John  Lyhj.— About  1584. 


405.— THE  SONGS  OF  BIRDS. 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  ? 
O  'tis  the  ravished  nightingale. 
"  Jug,  jug,  jug,  jug,  tereu,"  she  cries, 
And  stUl  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 
Brave  prick  song  !  who  is"t  now  we  hoar  ? 
None  but  the  lark  so  shriU  and  clear  ; 
Now  at  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings, 
The  mom  not  waking  till  she  sings. 
Hark,  hark  !  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin  redbreast  tunes  his  note  ; 
Hark  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing, 
Cuckoo  to  welcome  in  the  spring  ! 
Cuckoo  to  welcome  in  the  spring ! 

John  Lyhj.— About  1584. 


406.— COMPLAINT  AGAINST  LOVE. 

O  cruel  Love,  on  thee  I  lay 
My  curso,  which  shall  strike  blind  the  day ; 
Never  may  sleep  with  velvet  hand 
Charm  these  eyes  with  sacred  wand  ; 
Thy  jailers  shall  be  hopes  and  fears, 
Thy  prison  mates  groans,  sighs,  and  tears, 
Thy  play  to  wear  out  weary  times, 
Fantastic  passions,  vows,  and  rhymes. 
Thy  bread  be  frowns,  thy  drink  be  gall, 
Such  as  when  you  Phaon  call ; 
Thy  sleep  fond  dreams,  thy  dreams  long  care, 
Hope,  like  thy  fool  at  thy  bed's  head. 
Mock  thee  till  madness  strike  thee  dead, 
As  Phaon  thou  dost  me  with  thy  proud  eyes, 
In  thee  poor  Sappho  lives,  for  thee  she  dies. 
John  Lyhj. — About  1584. 


407.— APOLLO'S  SONG  OF  DAPHNE. 

My  Daphne's  hair  is  twisted  gold, 
Bright  stars  a-piece  her  eyes  do  hold ; 
My  Daphne's  brow  enthrones  the  graces, 
My  Daphne's  beauty  stains  aU  faces  ; 
On  Daphne's  cheek  grow  rose  and  cherry, 
But  Daphne's  lip  a  sweeter  berry ; 
Daphne's  snowy  hand  but  touched  does  melt, 
And  then  no  heavenlier  warmth  is  felt ; 
My  Daphne's  voice  tunes  all  the  spheres. 
My  Daphne's  music  charms  all  ears  ; 
Fond  am  I  thus  to  sing  her  praise, 
These  glories  now  are  turned  to  bays. 

John  Lyhj.— About  1592. 


408.— SONG  TO  APOLLO. 

Sing  to  Apollo,  god  of  Day, 

Wliose  golden  beams  with  morning  play, 

And  make  her  eyes  so  brightly  shine, 

Aurora's  face  is  called  divine. 

Sing  to  Phoebus  and  that  throne 

Of  diamonds  which  he  sits  upon. 

lo  Paeans  let  us  sing 

To  Physic  and  to  Poesy's  king. 

Crown  all  his  altars  with  bright  fire, 
Laurels  bind  about  his  lyre  ; 
A  Daphnean  coronet  for  his  head, 
The  Muses  dance  about  his  bed  ; 
When  on  his  ravishing  lute  he  plays, 
Strew  his  temple  round  with  bays, 
lo  Pasans  let  us  sing 
To  the  glittering  Delian  king. 

John  Lyly.— About  1592. 


•    409.— (ENONE'S  COMPLAINT. 

Melpomene,  the  muse  of  tragic  songs, 
With  mournful  tunes,  in  stole  of  dismal  hue. 
Assist  a  silly  nymph  to  wail  her  woe. 
And  leave  thy  lusty  company  behind. 

Thou  luckless  wreath  !   becomes    not   me  to 

wear 
The  poplar  tree  for  triumph  of  my  love  : 
Then  as  my  joy,  my  pride  of  love  is  left, 
Be  thou  unclothed  of  thy  lovely  green ; 

And  in  tliy  leaves  my  fortunes  %vritton  bo, 
And  then  some  gentle  wind  let  blow  abroad, 
That  all  the  world  may  see  how  false  of  love 
False  Paris  hath  to  his  (Enone  been. 

Geonje  Pccle. — About  1584. 


410.— THE  SONG  OF  THE  ENAMOURED 
SHEPHERD. 

0  gentle  Love,  ungentle  for  thy  deed, 

Thou  makest  my  heart 

A  bloody  mark 
With  iiiercing  shot  to  bleed. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


JOAB'S  ADDBESS  TO  DAVID. 


[George  Peele. 


Shoot  soft,  sweet  Love,  for  fear  thou  shoot 


For  fear  too  keen 
Thy  arrows  been, 
And  hit  the  heart  where  my  belovt'd  is. 

Too  fair  that  fortune  were,  nor  never  I 

Shall  be  so  blest, 

Among  the  rest. 
That  Love  shall  seize  on  her  bj^  sj^mpathy. 
Then  since  with  Love  my  prayers  bear  no  boot, 

This  doth  remain 

To  ease  my  pain, 
I  take  the  wound,  and  die  at  Venus'  foot. 

George  Fcelc. — About  1584. 


I 


411.— THE  AGED  MAN-AT-AEMS. 

Kis  g-olden  locks  time  hath  to  silver  turned ; 

■    O  time  too  swift,  O  swiftness  never  ceasing! 

His  youth  'gainst  time  and    ago  hath   ever 
spumed, 
But  spurned  in  vain ;  youth  waneth  by  en- 
creasing. 

Beauty,  strength,  youth,  are  flowers  but  fading 
seen ; 

Duty,  faith,  love,  are  roots,  and  ever  green. 

His  helmet  now  shall  make  a  hive  for  bees, 
And  lovers'  songs  be  turned  to  holy  psalms ; 

A  man-at-arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees, 
And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  old  age's  alms : 

But  though  from  court  to  cottage  he  depart. 

His  saint  is  sure  of  his  unspotted  heart. 

And  when  he  saddest  sits  in  homely  cell, 

He'll  teach  his  swains  this  carol  for  a  song: 
"  Bless' d  be  the  hearts  that  wish  my  Sove- 
reign well. 
Cursed  be   the   souls   that   think  her  any 
wrong." 
Goddess,  allow  this  aged  man  his  right. 
To  be   your   beadsman   now   that  was  yoiu' 
knight. 

GeorcjG  PqcIc— About  1590. 


412.— ENGLAKD. 

Illu.-^trious  England,  ancient  seat  of  kings, 
Whose  chivalry  hath  royalis'd  thy  fame, 
That,    sounding  bravely  through   terrestrial 

vale. 
Proclaiming  conquests,  spoils,  and  victories, 
Eings  glorious  echoes  through   the   farthest 

world ! 
AVliat  warlike  nation,  train'd  in  feats  of  arms. 
What  barbarous  people,  stubborn  or  untam'd, 
What  climate  under  the  meridian  signs, 
Or  frozen  zone  under  his  brumal  stage. 
Erst  have  not  quak'd  and  trembled  at  the  name 
Of  Britain  and  her  mighty  conquerors  ? 
Her  neighbour  realms,  as  Scotland,  Denmark, 

France, 
Awed  with  their  deeds,  and  jealous  of  her  arms. 
Have  begg'd  defensive  and  oJBFensive  leagues. 


Thus  Europe,  rich  and  mighty  in  her  kings, 
Hath  fear'd  brave  England,  dreadful  in  her 

kings. 
And  now,  to  eternise  Albion's  champions, 
Equivalent  with  Trojan's  ancient  fame, 
Comes  lovely  Edward  from  Jerusalem, 
Veering  before  the  wind,  ploughing  the  sea ; 
His  stretched   sails  fill'd  with  the  breath  of 

men. 
That  through  the  world  admire  his  manliness. 
And  lo,  at  last  arrived  in  Dover  road, 
Longshank,  your  king,  yoiir  glory,  and  our  son, 
With  troops  of  conquering  lords  and  warlike 

knights, 
Like  bloody- crested  Mars,  o'erlooks  his  host, 
Higher  than  all  his  army  by  the  head, 
Marching  along  as  bright  as  Phoebus'  eyes  ! 
And  we,  his  mother,  shall  behold  our  son. 
And  England's  peers  shall  see  their  sovereign. 
George  Peelc. — About  159^. 


413.— JOAB'S   DESCEIPTION  OF  DAVID. 

Beauteous  and  bright  is  he  among  the  tribes  ; 
As  when  the  sun,  attired  in  glistering  robe. 
Comes  dancing  from  his  oriental  gate. 
And,    bridegroom-like,    hurls     through     the 

gloomy  air 
His  radiant  beams :    such  doth  King  David 

show, 
Crown'd  with  the  honour  of  his  enemies'  town. 
Shining  in  riches  like  the  firmament, 
The  starry  vault  that  overhangs  the  earth ; 
So  looketh  David,  King  of  Israel. 

George  Peele. — About  1595. 


414.— JOAB'S   ADDEESS  TO   DAVID  ON 
DEATH   OF  ABSALOM. 

What !  irks  it  David,  that  he  victor  breathes, 

That  Juda,  and  the  fields  of  Israel 

Should  cleanse  their  faces  from  their  children's 

blood  ? 
What !  art  thou  weary  of  thy  royal  rule  ? 
Is  Israel's  throne  a  serpent  in  thine  eyes. 
And  he  that  set  thee  there,  so  far  from  thanks, 
That  thou  must  curse  his  servant  for  his  sake  ? 
Hast  thou  not  said,  that,  as  the  morning  light, 
The  cloudless  morning,   so   should  be  thine 

house. 
And  not  as  flowers,  by  the  brightest  rain, 
Which  grow  up  quickly,  and  as  quickly  fade  ? 
Hasfc  thou  not  said,  the  wicked  are  as  thorns. 
That  cannot  be  preserved  with  the  hand  ; 
And  tliat  the  man  shall  touch  them  mxist  be 

ann'd 
With  coats  of  iron,  and  garments  made  of  steel, 
Or  with  the  shaft  of  a  defenced  spear  ? 
And  art  thou  angry  he  is  now  cut  off. 
That  led  the  guiltless  swarming  to  their  deaths, 
And  was  more  wicked  than  an  host  of  men  ? 
Advance  thee  from  thy  melancholy  den, 
And  deck  thy  body  with  thy  blissful  robes, 

16 


Geoege  Peele.] 


KING  DAVI1>. 


[Third  Peiiiod.- 


Or,  by  the  Lord  that  sways  the  Heaven,  I 

swear, 
I'll  lead  thine  armies  to  another  king-, 
Shall  cheer  them  for  their  princely  chivalry  ; 
And  not  sit  daunted,  frowning-  in  the  dark, 
When  his  fair  looks  with  oil  and  wine  refresh' d, 
Should  ddrt  into  their  bosoms  gladsome  beams, 
And  fill  their  stomachs  with  triumphant  feasts ; 
That,  when  elsewhere  stern  War  shall  sound 

his  trump, 
And  call  another  battle  to  the  field, 
Fame  still  may  bring  thy  valiant  soldiers  home, 
And  for  their  service  happily  confess 
She  wanted  worthy  trumps   to  sound  their 

prowess : 
Take  thou  this  course  and  live :   refuse  and 

die. 

George  Pcelc. — Ahout  1595. 


415.— KING  DAVID. 

Of  Israel's  sweetest  singer  now  I  sing, 
His  holy  style  and  happy  victories ; 
Whose  muse  was  dipt  in  that  inspiring  dew, 
Archangels  'stilled  from  the  breath  of  Jove, 
Decking  her  temples  with  the  glorious  flowers 
Heaven  rain'd  on  tops  of  Sion  and  Mount  Sinai. 
Upon  the  bosom  of  his  ivory  lute 
The  cherubim  and  angels  laid  their  breasts ; 
And  when  his  consecrated  fingers  struck 
The  golden  wires  of  his  ravishing  harp, 
He  gave  alarum  to  the  host  of  heaven, 
That,  wing'd  with  lightning,  brake  the  clouds, 

and  cast 
Their  crystal  armour  at  his  conquering  feet. 
Of  this  sweet  poet,  Jove's  musician, 
And  of  his  beauteous  son,  I  press  to  sing ; 
Then  help,  divine  Adonai,  to  conduct 
Upon  the  wings  of  my  well-temper'd  verse, 
The  hearers'  minds  above  the  towers  of  heaven 
And  guide  them  so  in  this  thrice  haughty  flight, 
Their  mounting  feathers  scorch  not  with  the 

fire 
That  none  can  temper  but  thy  holy  hand : 
To  thee  for  succour  flies  my  feeble  muse, 
And  at  thy  feet  her  iron  pen  doth  use, 

George  Peelc. — Ahout  1599. 


416.— BETHSABE  BATHING. 

Hot  sun,  cool  fire,  tempered  with  sweet  air, 
Black  shade,  fair  nurse,  shadow  my  white  hair : 
Shine,  sun ;  bum,  fire  ;  breathe  air,  and  ease 

me  ; 
Black  shade,  fair  nurse,  shroud  me,  and  please 

me  ; 
Shadow,  my  sweet  nurse,  keep  me  from  burning, 
Make  not  my  glad  cause  cause  of  mourning. 
Let  not  my  beauty's  fire 
Inflame  unstayed  desire. 
Nor  pierce  any  bright  eye 
That  wanderoth  lightly. 

George  Pcele. — About  1599. 


417.— BETHSABE'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE 
ZEPHYE. 

Come,  gentle  zephyr,  trick'd  with  those  per- 
fumes 
That  erst  in  Eden  sweeten'd  Adam's  love, 
And  stroke  my  bosom  with  the  silken  fan  : 
This  shade  (sun  proof)  is  yet  no  proof  for  thee  ; 
Thy  body,  smoother  than  this  waveless  spring. 
And  purer  than  the  substance  of  the  same, 
Can   creep   through  that  his  lances   cannot 

pierce. 
Thou  and  thy  sister,  soft  and  sacred  air. 
Goddess  of  life  and  governess  of  health. 
Keeps  every  fountain  fresh  and  arbour  sweet ; 
No  brazen  gate  her  passage  can  repulse, 
Nor  bushy  thicket  bar  thy  subtle  breath. 
Then  deck  thee  with  thy  loose  delightsome 

robes, 
And  on  thy  wings  bring  delicate  perfumes. 
To  play  the  wantons  with  us  through  the 
leaves. 

George  Peele. — Ahout  1599. 


418. 


-DAVID  ENAMOURED  OF  BETH- 
SABE. 


What  tunes,   what  Vv'orde-,   what  looks,  what 

wonders  pierce 
My  soul,  incensed  with  a  sudden  fire  ! 
"\Vhat  tree,  what  shade,  what  spring,  what 

paradise, 
I    Enjoys  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  dame ! 
Fair  Eva,  placed  in  perfect  happiness, 
Lending  her  praise-notes  to  the  liberal  heavens. 
Struck  with  the  accents  of  archangels'  tunes. 
Wrought  not  more  pleasure  to  her  husband's 

thoughts 
Than  this  fair  woman's  words  and  notes  to 

mine. 
May  that  sweet  plain  that  bears  her  pleasant 

weight, 
Be  still  enameli'd  with  discolour' d  flowers  ; 
That  precious  fount  bear  sand  of  purest  gold  ; 
And  for  the  pebble,  let  the  silver  streams 
That  pierce  earth's  bowels  to  maintain  the 

source, 
Play  upon  rubies,  sapphires,  chrysolites ; 
The  brim  let  bo  embraced  with  golden  curls 
Of  moss  that  sleeps  with  sound  the  waters 

make 
For  joy  to  feed  the  foiint  with  their  recourse  ; 
Let  all  the  grass  that  beautifies  her  bower. 
Bear  manna  every  morn,  instead  of  dew  ; 
Or  let  the  dew  be  sweeter  far  than  that 
That  hangs  like  chains  of  i^earl  on  Hermon 

hill, 
Or  balm   which    trickled  from   old  Aaron's 

beard. 

*  *  *  # 

See,  Cusay,  see  the  flower  of  Israel, 
The  fairest  daughter  that  obeys  the  king, 
In  aU  the  land  the  Lord  subdued  to  me, 
Fairer  than  Isaac's  lover  at  the  well, 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  SHEPHEED  AND  HIS  WIPE. 


[Robert  Greene 


Brighter  than  inside  bark  of  new-hewn  cedar, 
Sweeter  tha,n  flames  of  fine  perfumed  myrrh  ; 
And  comelier  than  the  silver  clouds  that  dance 
On  zephyr's  wings  before  the  King  of  Heaven. 

#  #  #  «- 
Bright  Bethsabe  shall  wash  in  Da^-id's  bower 
In  water  mix'd  -with  purest  almond  flower, 
And  bathe  her  beauty  in  the  milk  of  kids  ; 
Bright  Bethsabe  gives  earth  to  my  desires, 
Verdure  to  earth,  and  to  that  verdure  flowers, 
To  flowers  sweet  odours,  and  to  odours  wings, 
That  carries  pleasures  to  the  hearts  of  kings. 

*  #  *  * 
Now  comes  my  lover  tripping  like  the  roe, 
And  brings  my  longings  tangled  in  her  hair ; 
To  'joy  her  love  I'll  build  a  kingly  bower, 
Seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundred  streams. 
That,  for  their  homage  to  her  sovereign  joys, 
Shall,  as  the  serpents  fold  into  their  nests. 
In  oblique  turnings  wind  the  nimble  waves 
About  the  circles  of  her  curious  walks, 

And  -with  their  murmur  summon  easeful  sleep, 
To  lay  his  golden  sceptre  on  her  brows. 

George  Fecle. — About  1599. 


419.— BEAUTY  SUING  FOR  LOVE, 

Beauty,  alas  !  where  wast  thou  bom, 
Thus  to  hold  thyseK  in  scorn  ? 
Whenas  Beauty  kissed  to  woo  thee, 
Thou  by  Beauty  dost  undo  me  : 

Heigh-ho  !  despise  me  not. 

I  and  thou  in  sooth  are  one, 

Fairer  thou,  I  fairer  none  ; 

Wanton  thou,  and  ^vilt  thou,  wanton, 

Yield  a  cruel  heart  to  plant  on  ? 

Do  me  right,  and  do  me  reason ; 

Cruelty  is  cursod  treason  : 

Heigh-ho  !  I  love,  heigh-ho !  I  love, 
Heigh-ho  !  and  yet  he  eyes  me  not. 

Eohcrt  Greene. — About  1590. 


420.— SAMELA. 

Like  to  Diana  in  her  summer  weed. 

Girt  with  a  crimson  robe  of  brightest  dye, 

Goes  fair  Samela ; 
Wliiter  than  be  the  flocks  that  straggling  feed. 
When  washed  by  Arethusa  faint  they  lie. 

Is  fair  Samela ; 
As  fair  Aurora  in  her  morning  grey. 
Decked  with  the  ruddy  glister  of  her  love. 

Is  fair  Samela ; 
Like  lovely  Thetis  on  a  calmed  day, 
Whenas  her  brightness  Neptune's  fancy  move, 

Shines  fair  Samela ; 
Her  tresses  gold,  her  eyes  like  glassy  streams. 
Her  teeth  are  pearl,  the  breasts  are  ivory 

Of  fair  Samela ; 
Her   cheeks,    like   rose   and  lily   yield  forth 

gleams. 
Her  brows'  bright  arches  framed  of  ebony ; 

Thus  fair  Samela 


Pa>;;=;oth  fair  Venus  in  her  bravest  hue, 
And  Juno  in  the  show  of  majesty. 

For  she's  Samela  : 

Pallas  in  "svit,  all  three,  if  you  will  view, 
For  beauty,  wit,  and  matchless  dignity 

Yield  to  Samela. _ 

Eohert  Greene. — About  1590. 


421.— CONTENT. 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  con- 
tent : 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown : 

Sweet  are  the    nights    in  careless  slnmber 
spent : 

The  poor  estate  scorns  Fortune's  angry  frown. 

Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep, 
such  bliss. 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest. 

The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care. 

The  mean,   that  'grees  with   country  music 
best, 

The  sweet  consort  of  mirth's  and  music's  faro. 

Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss ; 

A  mind  content  botli  crown  and  kingdom  is. 
Robert  Greene.— About  1590. 


422.— SEPHESTIA'S  SONG  TO  HER 
CHILD. 

Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 

When  thy  father  first  did  see 

Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me. 

He  was  glad,  I  was  woe, 

Fortune  changed  made  him  so  ; 

When  he  had  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee ; 
When  thou  art  old,  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 

Mother  cried,  baby  leap'd ; 

More  he  crow'd,  more  he  cried. 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide  ; 

He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 

Child  and  mother,  baby  bless  ; 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  ; 
When  thou  art  old,  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 

Robert  Greene— About  1590. 


423.— THE  SHEPHERD  AND  HIS  WIFE. 

It  was  near  a  thicky  shade. 
That  broad  leaves  of  beech  had  made, 
Joining  all  their  tops  so  nigh. 
That  scarce  Phoebus  in  could  pry : 

IG* 


RoBSST  Greene.] 


A  EOUNDELAY. 


[Third  Period. — 


Where  sat  the  swain  and  his  wife. 

Sporting  in  that  pleasing  life, 

That  Corydon  commcndeth  so, 

All  other  lives  to  over-go. 

Ho  and  she  did  sit  and  keep 

Flocks  of  kids  and  flocks  of  sheep : 

He  iipon  his  pipe  did  play, 

She  tuned  voice  mito  his  la^y. 

And,  for  you  might  her  housewife  know, 

Voice  did  sing  and  fingers  sew. 

He  was  young,  his  coat  was  green. 

With  welts  of  white  seamed  between, 

Tiirned  over  with  a  flap, 

That  breast  and  bosom  in  did  wrap, 

Skirts  side  and  plighted  free, 

Seemly  hanging  to  his  knee, 

A  whittle  with  a  silver  chape  ; 

Cloak  was  russet,  and  the  cape 

Served  for  a  bonnet  oft, 

To  shroud  him  from  the  w-ot  aloft : 

A  leather  scrip  of  colour  red. 

With  a  button  on  the  head ; 

A  bottle  full  of  country  whig, 

By  the  shepherd's  side  did  lig  ; 

And  in  a  little  bush  hard  by 

There  the  shepherd's  dog  did  lie, 

Who,  while  his  master  'gan  to  sleep, 

Well  could  watch  bo{;h  kids  and  sheep. 

The  shepherd  was  a  frolic  swain, 

For,  though  his  'parel  was  but  phiin, 

Yet  doon  the  authors  soothly  say, 

His  colour  was  both  fresh  and  gay ; 

And  in  their  writs  plain  discuss, 

Fairer  was  not  Tityrus, 

Nor  Menalcas,  whom  they  call 

The  alderleefest  swain  of  all  1 

Seeming  him  was  his  wife, 

Both  in  line  and  in  life. 

Fair  she  was,  as  fair  might  be, 

Like  the  roses  on  the  tree  ; 

Buxom,  blithe,  and  young,  I  ween, 

Beauteous,  like  a  summer's  queen ; 

For  her  cheeks  were  ruddy  hued, 

As  if  lilies  were  imbrued 

With  drops  of  blood,  to  make  the  white 

Please  the  eye  \vith  more  delight. 

Love  did  lie  within  her  eyes. 

In  ambush  for  some  wanton  prize ; 

A  leefer  lass  than  this  had  been, 

Corydon  had  never  seen. 

Nor  was  Phyllis,  that  fair  may, 

Half  so  gaudy  or  so  gay. 

She  wore  a  chaplet  on  her  head ; 

Her  cassock  was  of  scarlet  red, 

Long  and  large,  as  straight  as  bent ; 

Her  middle  was  both  small  and  gent. 

A  neck  as  white  as  whale's  bone, 

Compast  with  a  lace  of  stone  ; 

Fine  she  was,  and  fair  she  was. 

Brighter  than  the  brightest  glass  ; 

Such  a  shepherd's  wife  as  ^e, 

Was  not  more  in  Thessaly. 

Jlnhcrt  Greene. — Alout  1590. 


424.— A  ROUNDELAY. 

Ah !  what  is  love  !  It  is  a  j)retty  thing. 
As  sweet  unto  a  shepherd  as  a  king. 

And  sweeter  too : 
For  kings  have  cares  that  wait  upon  a  cro"WTi, 
And  cares  can  make  the  sweetest   cares  to 
frown : 

All  then,  ah  then. 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain. 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

His  flocks  are  folded  ;  he  comes  home  at  night 
As  merry  as  a  king  in  his  delight, 

And  merrier  too : 
For  kings  bethink  them  what  the  state  re- 
quire, 
Wliere  shepherds,  careless,  carol  by  the  fire  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain. 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

He  kisseth  first,  then  sits  as  blithe  to  eat 
His  cream  and  curd,  as  doth  the  king  his  meat, 

And  blither  too  ; 
For  kings  have  often  fears  when  they  sup, 
Where  shepherds  dread  no   poison  in  their 
cup : 

Ah  then,  ah  then. 
If  country  loves  such  sAveet  desires  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Upon  his  couch  of  straw  he  sleeps  as  sound 
As  doth  the  king  ui)on  his  beds  of  down, 

More  sounder  too  : 
For  cares  cause  kings  full  oft  their  sleep  to 

spill, 
Where  wearj''  shepherds  lie  and  snort  their  fill : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 
If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  svrain  ? 

Thus  with  his  wife  he  spends  the  year  as 

blithe 
As  doth  the  king  at  every  tide  or  syth. 

And  blither  too : 
For  kings  have  wars  and  broils  to  take  in 

hand. 
When  shepherds  laugh,   and  love  upon  the 

land: 

Ah  then,  ah  then. 
If  country  love  such  sweet  desires  gain. 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

Eohert  Greene.— Ahout  1590. 


425.— PHILOMELA'S  ODE. 

Sitting  by  a  riA'or's  side. 
Where  a  silent  stream  did  glide, 
Muse  I  did  of  many  things 
That  the  mind  in  quiet  brings. 
I  'gan  think  how  some  men  deem 
Gold  their  god  :  and  some  esteem 
Honour  is  the  chief  content 
That  to  man  in  life  is  lent ; 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


EOSALIND'S  MADRIGAL. 


[iBOMAS  liODUE. 


And  some  others  do  contend 

Quiet  none  like  to  a  friend. 

Others  hold  there  is  no  wealth 

Compared  to  a  perfect  health  ; 

Some  man's  mind  in  quiet  stands 

When  he  's  lord  of  many  lands. 

But  I  did  sig-h,  and  said  all  this 

Was  but  a  shade  of  perfect  bliss  ; 

And  in  my  thoughts  I  did  approve 

Nought  so  sweet  as  is  true  love. 

Love  'twixt  lovers  passeth  these, 

When  mouth  kisseth.  and  heart  'grees, — 

With  folded  arms  and  lips  meeting, 

Each  soul  another  sweetly  greeting  ; 

For  by  the  breath  the  soul  fleeteth, 

And  soul  with  soul  in  kissing  meeteth. 

If  love  be  so  sweet  a  thing, 

That  such  happy  bliss  doth  bring, 

Happy  is  love's  sugared  thrall ; 

But  unhappy  maidens  all 

Who  esteem  your  virgin  blisses 

Sweeter  than  a  wife's  sweet  kisses. 

No  such  quiet  to  the  mind 

As  true  love  with  kisses  kind ; 

But  if  a  kiss  prove  unchaste, 

Then  is  true  love  quite  disgraced. 

Though  love  be  sweet,  learn  this  of  me. 

No  sweet  love  but  honesty. 

Rohcrt  Greene— About  1590.   ! 


426.— JEALOUSY. 

Wlien  gods  had  framed  the  sweets  of  woman's 

face, 
And  lockt  men's  looks  within  her  golden  hair, 
That  Phoebus  blush' d  to  see   her  matchless 

grace. 
And  heavenly  gods  on  earth  did  make  repair. 
To  quip  fair  Venus'  overweening  pride. 
Love's  happy  thoughts  to  jealousy  were  tied. 

Then  grew  a  wrinkle  on  fair  Venus'  brow. 
The  amber  sweet  of  love  is  turn'd  to  gall! 
Gloomy  was  Heaven  ;  bright  Phoebus  did  avow 
He  would  be  coy,  and  would  not  love  at  all : 
Swearing  no  greater  mischief  could  be  ^vrought, 
Than  love  united  to  a  jealous  thought. 

Rolert  Greene— About  1590. 


427.— DORASTUS  ON  FAWNIA. 

Ah,  were  she  pitiful  as  she  is  fair, 
Or  but  as  mild  as  she  is  seeming  so, 
Then  were  my  hopes  greater  than  my  despair, 
Then  all  the  world  were  Heaven,  nothing  Avoe. 
Ah,  were  her  heai*t  relenting  as  her  hand. 
That  seems  to  melt  e'en  with  the  mildest  touch. 
Then  knew  I  where  to  seat  me  in  a  land, 
Under  the  wide  Heavens,  but  yot  not  such. 
So  as  she  shows,  she  seems  the  budding  rose. 
Yet  sweeter  far  than  is  an  earthly  flower ; 
Sovereign  of  beauty,  like  the  spray  she  grows ; 
Compass'd  she  is  with  thorns  and  canker'd 
flower ; 


Yet,  were  she  willing  to  be  pluck'd  and  worn. 
She  would  be  gather' d,  though  she  grew  on 

thorn. 
Ah,  when  she  sings,  all  music  else  be  still, 
For  none  must  be  compared  to  her  note  ; 
Ne'er  breathed  such  glee  from  Philcmela's^bill, 
Nor  from  the  morning  singer's  swelling  throat. 
And  when  she  riseth  from  her  blissful  bed. 
She  comforts  all  the  world,  as  doth  the  sun. 
Robert  Greene.— About  1590. 


428.--BEAUTY. 
Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere, 

Where  all  imperial  glory  shines, 
Of  self-same  colour  is  her  hair. 

Whether  ur.folded  or  in  twines  : 

Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow. 
Refining  heaven  b}'^  every  wink  ; 

The  gods  do  fear,  when  as  they  glow. 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think. 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud. 
That  beautifies  Aurora's  face  ; 

Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud. 

That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace. 

Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses, 
V/hom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbour  nigh  ; 

Within  which  bounds  she  balm  encloses. 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity. 

Her  neck  like  to  a  stately  tower, 

Where  Love  himself  imprison' d  lies. 

To  watch  for  glances,  every  hour. 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyeS. 

With  orient  pearl,  Avdth  ruby  red. 

With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  l:)lue, 

Her  bodj'-  everywhere  is  fed. 

Yet  soft  in  touch,  and  sweet  in  view. 

Nature  herself  her  shape  admires. 
The  gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight ; 

And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires, 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light. 

Tliomas  LoJge. — About  1590. 


429.— ROSALIND'S  MADRIGAL. 
Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee, 
Doth  suck  his  sweet ; 
Now  Avith  his  wings  he  plays  with  me. 
Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast ; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast. 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest : 
Ah,  wanton,  will  ye  ? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  ho 
With  pretty  flight. 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee. 
The  live-long  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string ; 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing ; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heai*t  doth  sting  : 
"Wist,  wanton,  still  ve  ? 


Thomas  Lodge.] 


KOSADEE'S  SONETTO. 


[Thisd  Period. 


Else  I  with  roses  every  day 
Will  whip  you  hence, 
And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 
Eor  your  offence ; 
I'U  shut  naine  eyes  to  keep  you  in, 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin, 
I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin ; 
Alas  I  what  hereby  shall  I  win, 
If  he  g-ainsay  me  ? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 
With  many  a  rod  ? ' 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 
Because  a  god. 

Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be  ; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee, 
0,  Cupid  !  so  thou  pity  me, 
Spare  not,  but  play  thee. 

Thomas  Lodge. — About  1590. 


430.— ROSADEE'S  SONETTO.- 

Turn  I  my  looks  unto  the  skies, 

Love  mth  his  arrows  wounds  mine  eyes; 

If  so  I  look  upon  the  ground, 

Love  then  in  every  flower  is  found  ; 

Search  I  the  shade  to  flee  my  pain. 

Love  meets  me  in  the  shades  again ; 

Want  I  to  walk  in  secret  grove, 

E'en  there  I  meet  with  sacred  love  ; 

If  so  I  bathe  me  in  the  spring, 

E'en  on  the  brink  I  hear  him  sing ; 

If  so  I  meditate  alone. 

He  vnll  be  partner  of  my  moan ; 

If  so  I  mourn,  he  Aveeps  with  me 

And  where  I  am  there  will  he  be ; 

When  as  I  talk  of  Eosalind, 

The  God  from  coyness  waxeth  kind. 

And  seems  in  self-same  frame  to  fly. 

Because  he  loves  as  well  as  I. 

Sweet  Rosalind,  for  pity  rue. 

For  why,  than  love  I  am  more  true  : 

He,  if  he  speed,  will  quickly  fly, 

But  in  thy  love  I  live  and  die. 

TJiomas  Lodge. — Ahout  1590. 


431.— ANOTHER. 

First  shall  the  heavens  want  r,tarry  light. 
The  seas  be  robbed  of  their  waves, 
The  day  want  sun,  and  sun  want  bright, 
The  night  Avant  shade,  the  dead  men  graves, 
The  April  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  tree, 
Before  I  false  my  faith  to  thee. 

First  shall  the  top  of  highest  hill 
By  humble  plains  be  overpry'd. 
And  poets  scorn  the  Muses'  quill, 
And  fish  forsake  the  Avater  glide. 
And  Iris  lose  her  colour'd  weed. 
Before  I  false  thee  at  thy  need. 


First  direful  Hate  shall  turn  to  peace, 

And  Love  relent  in  deep  disdain. 

And  Death  his  fatal  stroke  shall  cease, 

And  Envy  pity  every  pain, 

And  Pleasure  mourn,  and  Sorrow  snule, 

Before  I  talk  of  any  guile. 

First  Time  shall  stay  lus  stayless  race, 
And  Winter  bless  his  broAvs  Avith  com. 
And  Snow  bemoisten  July's  face, 
And  Winter  spring,  and  Summer  mourn, 
Before  my  pen,  by  help  of  Fame, 
Cease  to  recite  th    sacred  name. 

TUonias  Lodge— About  1590. 


432.— THE  SUMMEE'S  QUEEN. 

O,  the  month  of  May,  the  merry  month  of  May, 
So  frolick,  so  gay,  and  so  green,  so  green,  so 

green, 
O,  and  then  did  I  unto  my  true  love  say. 
Sweet  Peg,  thou  shalt  be  my  Svunmer's  Queen. 

Now  the  nightingale,  the  pretty  nightingale. 
The  sweetest  singer  in  all  the  forest's  quire, 
Entreats  thee,  sweet  Peggy,  to  hear  thy  true 

love's  tale  : 
Lo,  yonder  she  sitteth,  her  breast  a-gainst  a 

brier. 

But  O,   I  spy  the  cuckoo,   the  cuckoo,   the 

cuckoo ; 
See  where  she  sitteth ;  come  away,  my  joy  : 
Come  away,  I  prithee,  I  do  not  like  the  cuckoo 
Should  sing  where  my  Peggy  and  I  kiss  and  toy. 

0,  the  month  of  May,  the  merry  month  of  May, 
So  frolick,  so  gay,  and  so  green,  so  green,  so 

green; 
And  then  did  I  unto  my  true  love  say, 
SAveet  Peg,  thou  shalt  be  my  Summer's  Queen. 

T.  Delclccr  and  R.  Wilson.— About  1594 


433._SA^^ET  CONTENT. 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 
Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed  ? 

Oh,  punishment ! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers  ? 
Oh,  sweet  content !  Oh,  sweet,  &c. 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovelj^  face  ; 
Then  hey  nonej',  noney,  hey  noney,  noney. 

Canst  drink  the  Avaters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 
Oh,  SAveet  content ! 
Swimmest  thou  in  Avealth,  yet  sinkest  in 
thine  OAvn  tears  ? 

Oh,  punishment ! 
Then  he  that  patiently  Avant's  burden  bears. 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king ! 
Oh,  sAveet  content !  <fcc. 
i.  Work  apace,  apace,  &c, 

I     Del-lccr,  Chettlc,  and  Bang  Man. —About  1599. 


iYom  1558  to  lW.y.J' 


SPEING. 


[Thomas  Nash. 


434.— LULLABY. 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  03-es, 
Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons  ;  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby : 
Kock  tbem,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleej)  you ; 
You  are  care,  and  care  must  keei)  you. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons ;  do  not  cry, 
And  I  win  sing  a  lullaby : 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 
Lt'lcker,  Chcttle,  ,^'  Haughton.— About  1599. 


435.— VIETUE  AND  VICE. 

Vii'tue's  branches  wither,  virtue  pines, 
O  pity !  pity  !  and  alack  the  time  ! 
Vice  doth  flourish,  vice  in  glory  shines, 
Her  gilded  boughs  above  the  cedar  climb. 

Vice  hath  golden  cheeks,  O  pity,  pity ! 
She  in  every  land  doth  monarchize  : 
Virtue  is  exiled  from  every  city, 
Virtue  is  a  fool,  Vice  only  wise. 

O  pity,  pity  !  Virtue  weeping  dies  ! 
Vice  laughs  to  see  her  faint,  alack  the  time  ! 
This  sinks  ;  with  painted  wings  the  other  flies ; 
Alack,  that  best  should  fall,   and  bad  should 
climb. 

O  pity,  pity,  pity !  mourn,  not  sing ; 
Vice  is  a  saint,  Virtue  an  underling ; 
Vice  doth  flourish.  Vice  in  glory  shines. 
Virtue's  branches  wither,  Virtue  pines. 

Thomas  Dekker.— About  1600. 


436.— PATIENCE. 

Patience  !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace  : 
Of  all  the  virtues,  'tis  nearest  kin  to  heaven  : 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.  The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  suftorer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit : 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breath' d. 

Thomas  Dekker.— About  1600. 


.137.— A  CONTRAST  BETWEEN  FEMALE 
HONOUR  AND   SHAME. 

Nothing  did  make  mo,  when  I  loved  them  best, 
To  loathe  them  more  than  this  :  when  in  the 

streco 
A  fair,  young,  modest  damsel  I  did  meet ; 
She  seem'd  to  all  a  dove  when  I  pass'd  by, 
And  I  to  all  a  raven  :  every  eye 
Thit  f ollow'd  her,  went  with  a  bashful  glance : 
At  me  each  bold  and  jeering  countenance 
Darted  forth  scorn  :  to  her,  as  if  she  had  been 
Some  tower  unvanquish'd,  would  they  all  vail : 
'Gainst  me  swoln  rumour  hoisted  every  sail ; 
She,  crown' d  \r\X\\  reverend  praises,  pass'd  by 

them  ; 


I,  though  with  face  mask'd,  could  not  'scape 

the  hem ; 
For,  as  if  heaven  had  set  strange  marks  on 

such. 
Because  the3'  should  be  pointing-stocks  to  man, 
Drest  up  in  civHest  shape,  a  courtesan. 
Let  her  walk  saint-like,  noteless,  andrmknown. 
Yet  she's  betray' d  by  some  trick  of  her  own. 

Thomas  Dekker. —About  1600. 


438.— A  DESCRIPTION  OF  A  LADY  BY 
HER  LOVER. 

My  Inf dice's  face,  her  brow,  her  eye. 

The  dimple  on  hor  cheek :  and  such  sweet  skill 

Hath   from   the   cunning  workman's    pencil 

flown. 
These  lips  look  fresh  and  lively  as  her  own : 
Seeming  to  move  and  speak.    Alas !  now  I  see 
The  reason  why  fond  women  love  to  buy 
Adulterate  complexion  :  here  'tis  read ; 
False  colours  last  after  the  true  be  dead. 
Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks, 
Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes, 
Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue. 
Of  all  that  was  past  woman's  excellence. 
In  her  white  bosom  ;  look,  a  painted  board 
Circumscribes  all !    Earth  can  no  bliss  afford ; 
Nothing  of  her  but  this  !     This  cannot  speair; 
It  has  no  lap  for  me  to  rest  upon  ; 
No  lip  worth  tasting.      Here  the  worms  will 

feed, 
As  in  her  coffin.     Hence,  then,  idle  art, 
True  love's  best  pictured  in   a   true    love's 

heart. 
Here  art  thou  drawn,  sweet  maid,  till  this  be 

dead, 
So  that  thou  livest  twice,  twice  art  buried. 
Thou  figure  of  my  friend,  lie  there  ! 

Thomas  Dekker.— About  1600. 


439.— SPRING. 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  plea- 
sant king ; 

Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in 
a  ring. 

Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing. 

Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu  we,  to  witta  woo. 

The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all 

day, 
And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay. 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu  we,  to  witta  woo. 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our 

feet, 
Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a  sunning  sit, 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet, 
Cookoo,  jug,  jug,  pu  we,  to  witta  woo. 
Spring,  the  sweet  Spring. 

Tliovias  Nash. — About  1600. 


Thomas  Nash.] 


THE  DECAY  OF  SUMMEE. 


[Third  Period.- 


440.— THE  DECAY  OF  SUMMER. 

Fair  summer  droops,  droop  men  and  beasts 

therefore, 
So  fair  a  summer  look  for  never  more : 
All  good  tilings  vanish  less  than  in  a  day, 
Peace,  plenty,  pleasure,  suddenly  decay. 
Go  not  yet  away,    bright  soul  of  the  sad 

year. 
The  earth  is  hell  when  thou  leavest  to  ap- 
pear. 
What,  shall  those  flowers  that   decked   thy 

garland  erst, 
Upon  thy  grave  be  wastefully  dispersed  ? 
O  trees  consume  your  sap  in  sorrow's  source. 
Streams  turn  to  tears  your  tributary  course. 
Go  not  yet  hence,  bright    soul  of  the  sad 

year, 
The  earth  is  hell  when  thou  leavest  to  ap- 
pear. 

Thomas  Nash.— About  1600. 


441.— THE  COMING  OF  WINTEE. 

Autumn  hath  all  the  summer's  fruitful  trea- 
sure; 

Gone  is  our  sport,  fled  is  our  Croydon's  plea- 
sure ! 

Short  days,  sharp  days,  long  nights  come  on 
apace : 

Ah,  who  shall  hide  us  from  the  winter's  face  ? 

Cold  doth  increase,  the  sickness  will  not  cease, 

And  here  we  lie,  God  knows,  with  little  ease. 
From  winter,  plague,  and  pestilence,  good 
Lord  deliver  us ! 

London  doth  mourn,  Lambeth  is  quite  forlorn  1 
Trades  cry,  woe  worth  that  ever  they  were 

bom! 
The  want  of  term  is  town  and  city's  harm  ; 
Close  chambers  we  do  want  to  keep  us  warm. 
Long  banished  must  we  live  from  our  friends  : 
This  low-built  house  will  bring  us  to  our  ends. 

From  winter,  plague,  und  pestilence,  good 
Lord  deliver  us ! 

Thomas  Nash.— About  1600. 


442.— APPROACHING  DEATH. 

Adieu ;  farewell  earth's  bliss. 
This  world  uncertain  is  : 
Fond  are  life's  lustful  joys, 
Death  proves  them  all  but  toys. 
None  from  his  darts  can  fly  : 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercj^  on  us  ! 

Rich  men,  trust  not  in  wealth ; 
Gold  cannot  buy  you  health  ; 
Physic  himself  must  fade  ; 
All  things  to  end  are  made  ; 
The  plague  full  swift  goes  by  ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us ! 


Beauty  is  but  a  flower, 
Which  wrinkles  will  devour  : 
Brightness  falls  from  the  air  ; 
Queens  have  died  young  and  fair ; 
Dust  hath  closed  Helen's  eye  ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Strength  stoops  unto  the  grave  : 
Worms  feed  on  Hector  brave. 
Swords  may  not  fight  with  fate  : 
Earth  still  holds  ope  her  gate. 
Come,  come,  the  hells  do  cry ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us ! 

Wit  with  his  wantonness, 
Tasteth  death's  bitterness. 
Hell's  executioner 
Hath  no  ears  for  to  hear 
What  vain  heart  can  reply ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Haste,  therefore,  each  degree 
To  welcome  destiny : 
Heaven  is  our  heritage. 
Earth  but  a  player's  stage. 
Mount  we  unto  the  sky  ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Thomas  Nash.— About  IGOO. 


443.— CONTENTMENT. 

I  never  loved  ambitiously  to  climb. 
Or  thrust  my  hand  too  far  into  the  fire. 
To  be  in  heaven  sure  is  a  blessed  thing, 
But,  Atlas-like,  to  prop  heaven  on  one's  back 
Cannot  but  be  more  labour  than  delight. 
Such  is  the  state  of  men  in  honour  placed : 
They  are  gold  vessels  made  for  servile  uses  ; 
High  trees  that  keep  the  weather  from  low 

houses. 
But  cannot  shield  the  tempest  from  themselves. 
I  love  to  dwell  betwixt  the  hills  and  dales, 
Neither  to  be  so  great  as  to  be  envied, 
Nor  yet  so  poor  the  world  should  pity  mo. 

Thomas  Nash.— About  1600. 


444.— DESPAIR  OF  A  POOR  SCHOLAR. 

WTiy  is't  damnation  to  despair  and  die. 
When  life  is  my  true  happiness'  disease  ? 
My  soul,  my  soul,  thy  safety  makes  me  fly 
The  faulty  means  that  might  my  pain  appease : 
Divines  and  dying  men  may  talk  of  hell, 
But  in  my  heart  her  several  torments  dwell. 

Ah,  worthless  wit !  to  train  me  to  this  woe  : 
Deceitful  arts  !  that  nourish  discontent : 
I'll  thrive  the  folly  that  bewitched  me  so  ! 
Vain  thoughts,  adieix  !  for  now  I  \vill  repent, — 
And  yet  my  wants  persuade  me  to  proceed, 
For  none  take  pity  of  a  scholar's  need. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  PREPAEATION  FOR  EXECUTION. 


[John  Webster. 


Forgive  me,  God,  although  I  curse  my  birth, 
And  ban  the  air  wherein  I  breathe  a  wretch, 
Since  misery  hath  daunted  all  my  mirth, 
And  I    am  quite    undone    through    promise 

breach ; 
Ah  friends! — no  friends  that   then  ungentle 

fro^^^l, 
When   changing   fortune   casts    us   headlong 

down. 
Without  redress  complains  my  careless  verse, 
And  Midas'  ears  relent  not  at  my  moan, 
In  some  far  land  ^vill  I  my  griefs  rehearse, 
Mongst  them   that   wUl   be  moved   when   I 

shall  groan. 
England,  adieu!    the   soil   that   brought  me 

fortli, 
Adieu !  unkind,  where  skill  is  nothing  worth. 
Tliomas  Nash. — About  1600. 


445.— THE  CONFESSION. 

Walking  in  a  shady  grove, 

Near  silver  streams  fair  gliding, 

Where  trees  in  ranks  did  grace  the  banks. 

And  nymphs  had  their  abiding ; 

Here  as  I  strayed  I  saw  a  maid, 

A  beauteous  lovely  creature, 

With  angel's  face  and  goddess  grace, 

Of  such  exceeding  feature. 

Her  looks  did  so  astonish  me, 
And  set  my  heart  a-quaking. 
Like  stag  that  gazed  was  I  amazed; 
And  in  a  stranger  taking. 
Yet  roused  myself  to  sec  this  elf. 
And  lo  a  tree  did  hide  me  ; 
AVliere  I  unseen  beheld  this  queen 
Awhile,  ere  she  espied  me. 

Her  voice  was  sweet  melodionslj^. 
She  sung  in  perfect  measure  ; 
And  thus  she  said  with  trickling  tears  ; 
'■  Alas,  my  joy,  my  treasure. 
I'll  be  thy  wife,  or  lose  my  life, 
"^Chere's  no  man  else  shall  have  me ; 
If  God  so,  I  will  say  no, 
Although  a  thousand  crave  me. 

"  Oh  I  stay  not  long,  but  come,  my  dear. 

And  knit  our  marriace  knot ; 

Each  hour  a  day,  each  month  a  year, 

Thou  knowest,  I  think,  God  wot. 

Delay  not  then,  like  worldly  maiden. 

Good  Avorks  till  withered  age  ; 

'Bove  other  things,  the  King  of  kings 

Blessed  a  lawful  marriage. 

"  Thou  art  my  choice,  I  constant  am, 

I  mean  to  die  unspotted ; 

With  thee  I'll  live,  for  thee  I  love, 

And  keep  my  name  unblotted. 

A  virtuous  life  in  maid  and  wife. 

The  Spirit  of  God  commends  it ; 

Accursed  he  for  ever  be, 

That  seeks  with  shame  to  offend  it." 


With  that  she  rose  like  nimble  roe. 
The  tender  grass  scarce  bending, 
And  left  me  then  perplexed  with  fear 
At  this  her  sonnet's  ending. 
I  thought  to  move  this  dame  of  love, 

But  she  Avas  gone  already  ;     ^ 

Wherefore  I  pray  that  those  that  stay 
May  find  their  loves  as  steady. 

Dahi'id'jecourt  Belclder. — About  1618. 


446.— A  DIEGE. 

Call  for  the  Eobin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 

Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 

And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 

The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 

Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole, 

To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm, 

And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robbed)  sustain  no 

harm  ; 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to 

men. 
For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 

John  Webster.— About  1610. 


447.— THE  MADMAN'S  SONG. 

O,  let  us  howl  some  heavy  note, 

Some  deadly  dogged  howl, 
Sounding,  as  from  the  threat'ning  throat 

Of  beasts  and  fatal  fowl ! 
As  ravens,  screech-owls,  bulls,  and  bears. 

We'll  bell,  and  bawl  our  parts. 
Till  irksome  noise  have  cloyed  your  ears, 

And  corrosived  your  hearts. 
At  last,  whenas  oixr  quire  wants  breath, 

Our  bodies  being  blessed. 
We'll  sing,  like  swans,  will  welcome  death, 

And  die  in  love  and  rest. 

John  Webstcv.— About  1623. 


448.— THE   PREPAEATION  FOE  EXECU- 
TION. 

Hark,  now  everything  is  still 

The  screech-owl  and  the  whistler  shrill, 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 

And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud  ! 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent : 

Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent : 

A  long  war  disturbed  your  mind  ; 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  signed. 

Of  what  is't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  ? 

Since  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping, 

Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error, 

Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 

StreAv  your  hair  with  poAvders  SAveet, 

Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet, 

And  (the  foul  fiend  more  to  check) 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck  : 


John  Webster.] 


DEATH. 


[Thikd  Pekiod. — 


'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day ; 
End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 

John  Webster.— About  1623. 


449.— DEATH. 

What  would  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat 

cut 
With  diamonds  ?  or  to  be  smothered 
With  cassia?    or  to  be  shot  to  death  with 

pearls  ? 
I  know  death  hath  ten  thousand  several  doors 
For  men  to  take  their  exits  :  and  'tis  found 
They  go  on  such  strange  geometrical  hinges, 
You  may  open  them  both  ways :  any  way  (for 

heav'n  sake) 
So  I  were  out  of  your  whispering :   tell  my 

brothers 
That  I  perceive  death  (now  I'm  well  awake) 
Best  gift  is  they  can  give  or  I  can  take. 
I  would  fain  put  off  my  last  woman's  fault ; 
I'd  not  be  tedious  to  you. 
Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 
Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. 
Yet  stay,  heaven  gates  are  not  so  highly  arch'd 
As  princes'  palaces ;  they  that  enter  there 
Must  go  upon  their  knees.      Come,   violent 

death. 
Serve  for  Mandragora  to  make  me  sleep. 
Go  tell  my  brothers,  when  I  am  laid  out, 
They  then  may  feed  in  quiet. 

John  Webster. — About  1623. 


450.— THE  THEEE  STATES  OF  WOMAN. 

In  a  maiden-time  professed, 
Then  we  say  that  life  is  blessed ; 
Tasting  once  the  married  life, 
Then  we  only  praise  the  Avife ; 
There's  but  one  state  more  to  try, 
Wliich  makes  women  laugh  or  cry — 
Widow,  widoAv  :  of  these  three 
The  middle  's  best,  and  that  give  me. 

Thomas  Middlcton. — About  1623. 


451 —WHAT  LOVE  IS  LIKE. 

Love  is  like  a  lamb,  and  love  is  like  a  lion  ; 

Fly  from  love,  he  fights ;  fight,  then  does  he 
fly  on; 

Love  is  all  on  fire,  and  yet  is  ever  freezing ; 

Love    is    much  in  Avinning,  yet  is  more  in 
leesing. 

Love  is  ever  sick,  and  yet  is  never  dying ; 

Love  is  over  true,  and  yet  is  ever  lying ; 

Love   does    dote   in  liking,    and   is   mad  in 
loathing ; 

Love  indeed  is   anything,   yet  indeed  is  no- 
thing. 

Thomas  Middlcton.-^ About  1C02. 


452.— HAPPINESS  OF  MiiEEIED  LIFE. 

How  near  am  I  now  to  a  happiness 
That  earth  exceeds  not !  not  another  like  it : 
The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  kg  precious, 
As  are  the  conceal' d  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  tip  in  woman's  love.     I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth ! 
The  violet  bed 's  not  sweeter.    Honest  wedlock 
Is  like  a  banqueting-house  built  in  a  garden,  . 
On  which  the  spring's  chaste  flowers  take  do- 
light 
To  cast  their  modest  odours ;  when  base  lust, 
With  aU  her  powders,   paintings,    and   best 

pride, 
Is  but  a  fair  house  built  by  a  ditch  side. 

Now  for  a  welcome. 

Able  to  draw  men's  en\T.es  upon  man ; 
A  kiss  now  that  will  hang  upon  my  lip 
As  sweet  as  morning  dew  upon  a  rose, 
And  full  as  long ! 

Thomas  Middlcton. — About  1G23. 


453.— DEVOTION  TO  LOVE. 

0,  happy  persecution,  I  embrace  thee 
With  an  unfetter' d  soul ;  so  sweet  a  thing 
It  is  to  sigh  upon  the  rack  of  love, 
Where  each  calamity  is  groaning  witness 
Of  the  poor  martyr's  faith.     I  never  heard 
Of  any  true  affection  but  'twas  nipt 
With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats 
The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  tho 

rose. 
Love,  bred  on  earth,  is  often  nursed  in  heU ; 
By  rote  it  reads  woe  ere  it  learn  to  spell. 


When  I  call  back  my  vows  to  Violctta, 
May  I  then  slip  into  an  obscure  grave, 
Wliose  mould,  unpress'd  with  stony  monument 
Dwelling  in  open  air,  may  drink  the  tears 
Of  the  inconstant  clouds  to  rot  me  soon ! 


He  that  truly  loves, 
Burns  out  the  day  in  idle  fantasies ; 
And  when  the  lamb,  bleating,  doth  bid  good 

night 
Unto  the  closing  day,  then  tears  begin 
To  keep  quick  time  unto  the  owl,  whose  voice 
Shrieks  like  the  bellman  in  the  lover's  ear. 
Love's  eye  the  jewel  of  sleep,  oh,  seldom  wears  ! 
The  early  lark  is  waken' d  from  her  bed, 
Being  only  by  love's  pains  disquieted  ; 
But,  singing  in  the  morning's  ear,  she  weeps. 
Being  deep  in  love,  at  lovers'  broken  sleeps  : 
But  say,  a  golden  slumber  chance  to  tie. 
With  silken  strings,  the  cover  of  love's  eye, 
Then  dreams,  magician-like,  mocking  present 
Pleasures,  whose  fading  leaves  more  discontent. 
Thomas  3Iiddteton.— About  1623. 


From  1558  to  1649.]        BEAUTY  BEYOND  THE  EEACH  OF  AET. 


[John  Ford. 


454.— INDIGNATION  AT  THE  SALE   OF 
A  WIFE'S   HONOUE. 

Of  all  deeds  yet  this  strikes  the  deepest  wound 
Into  my  apprehension, 
Eeverend  and  honourable  matrimony, 
Mother  of  lawful  sweets,  unshamed  mornings, 
Both  pleasant  and  legitimately  fruitful,  without 

thee 
All  the  whole  world  were  soiled  bastardy ; 
Thou  art  the  only  and  the  greatest  form 
That  put'st  a  difference  betwixt  our  desires 
And  the  disorder' d  appetites  of  beasts. 
*  *  *     But,  if  chaste  and  honest, 

There  is  another  devil  that  haunts  marriage 
(None  fondly  loves  but  knows  it),  jealousy, 
That  wedlock's  yellow  sickness. 
That  whispering  separation  every  minute, 
And  thus  the  curse  takes  his  effect  or  progress. 
The  most  of  men,  in  their  first  sudden  furies, 
Eail  at  the  narrow  bounds  of  marriage, 
And  call't  a  prison  ;  then  it  is  most  just 
That  the  disease  of  the  prison,  jealousy, 
Should  thus  affect  'em — but,  oh !  here  I'm  fix'd 
To  make  sale  of  a  wife  !  monstrous  and  foul ! 
An  act  abhorr'd  in  nature,  cold  in  soul ! 

TJiomas  Middleton. — About  1623. 


455--LAW. 

Thou  angel  sent  amongst  us,  sober  Law, 
Made  with  meek  eyes,  persuading  action ; 
No  loud  immodest  tongue — voiced  like  a  virgin. 
And  as  chaste  from  sale, 
Save  only  to  be  heard,  but  not  to  rail — 
How  has  abuse  deform'd  thee  to  all  eyes  ! 
Yet  why  so  rashly  for  one  villain's  fault 
Do  I  arraign  whole  man  ?     Admired  Law  I 
Thy  upper  parts  must  needs  be  wholly  pure. 
And  incorruptible — th'  are  grave  and  wise  ; 
'Tis   hwt   the   dross  beneath  them,   and  the 

clouds 
That  get  between  thy  glory  and  their  praise. 
That  make  the  "visible  and  foul  eclipse  ; 
For  those  that  are  near  to  thee  are  upright. 
As  noble  in  their  conscience  as  their  birth  ; 
Know  that  damnation  is  in  every  bribe. 
And  rarely  put  it  from  them — rate  the  pre- 
senters, 
And   scourge  'em  with  five  years'  imprison- 
ment 
For  offering  but  to  tempt  'em : 
This  is  true  justice,  exercised  and  used ; 
Woe  to  the  giver,  when  the  bribe  's  refused. 
'Tis  not   their  will  to  have  law  worse  than 

war. 
Where  still  the  poorest  die  first. 
To  send  a  man  without  a  sheet  to  his  grave, 
Or  bury  him  in  his  papers  ; 
'Tis  not  their  mind  it  should  be.  nor  to  have 
A  suit  hang  longer  than  a  man  in  chains. 
Let  him  be  ne'er  so  fasten' d. 

Tlwmas  Middleton.— About  1623. 


456.— THE  EEAL  AND  THE  IDEAL. 

Fancies  are  but  streams 

Of  vain  pleasure  ; 
They,  who  by  their  dreams 
True  joys  measure, 
"Feasting  starve,  laughing  wenp,— 
Playing  smart ;  whilst  in  sleep 
Fools,  with  shadows  smiling, 
Wake  and  find 
Hopes  like  wind, 
Idle  hopes,  beguiling. 
Thoughts  fly  away ;  Time  hath  passed  them  : 
Wake  now,  awake !  see  and  taste  them  I 

John  Ford. — About  1023. 


457.— SUMMEE  SPOETS. 

Haymakers,  rakers,  reapers,  and  mowers, 

Wait  on  your  Summer- queen  ; 
Dress  up  with  musk-rose  her  eglantine  bowers, 
Daffodils  strove  the  g^reen  ; 
Sing,  dance,  and  play, 
'Tis  holiday'' ; 
The  Sun  does  bravely  shine 
On  our  ears  of  com. 
Eich  as  a  pearl 
Comes  every  girl, 
This  is  mine,  this  is  mine,  this  is  mine ; 
Let  us  die,  ere  away  they  be  borne. 

Bow  to  the  Sun,  to  our  queen,  and  that  fair 
one 
Come  to  behold  our  sports  ; 
Each  bonny  lass  here  is  counted  a  rare  one, 
As  those  in  a  prince's  courts. 
These  and  we 
With  country  glee, 
Will  teach  the  woods  to  resound, 
And  the  hills  with  echoes  hollow  : 
Skipping  lambs 
Their  bleating  dams, 
'Mongst  kids  shall  trip  it  round  ; 
For  joy  thus  our  wenches  we  follow. 

Wind,  jolly  huntsmen,  your  neat  bugles  shrilly, 

Hounds  make  a  lusty  cry  ; 
Spring  up,  you  falconers,  the  partridges  freely, 
Then  let  yoiu'  brave  hawks  fly. 
Horses  amain. 
Over  ridge,  over  plain. 
The  dogs  have  the  stag  in  chase  : 
'Tis  a  sport  to  content  a  king. 
So  ho  ho  !  through  the  skies 
How  the  proud  bird  flies. 
And,  sousing,  kills  with  a  grace  ! 
Now  the  deer  falls  ;  hark  !  how  the}'-  ring  ! 

John  Ford.— About  1623. 


458. 


-BEAUTY  BEYOND  THE  EEACH 
OF  AET. 

Can  you  paint  a  thought  ?  or  number 
Every  fancy  in  a  slumber  ? 


John  Ford.j 


IJRIDAL  SONG. 


[Third  Period. 


Can  you  count  soft  minutes  ro\-ing 
From  a  dial's  point  by  moving  ? 
Can  you  grasp  a  sigh  ?  or,  lastly, 
Rob  a  virgin' s  honour  chastely  r 

No,  oh  no  !  yet  you  may 

Sooner  do  botli  that  and  this, 
This  and  that,  and  never  miss, 
Than  by  any  praise  display 
Beauty's  beauty  ;  such  a  glory, 
As  beyond  all  fate,  all  story, 

All  arms,  all  arts. 

All  loves,  all  hearts, 
Greater  than  tho?je,  or  they. 
Do,  shall,  and  must  obey. 

John  Ford.— About  1633. 


459.— BRIDAL  SONG. 

Comforts  lasting,  loves  encreasing, 
Like  soft  hours  never  ceasing : 
Plenty's  pleasure,  peace  compljdng, 
Without  jars,  or  tongues  envying  ; 
Hearts  by  holy  union  wedded, 
More  than  theirs  by  custom  bedded ; 
Fruitful  issues  ;  life  so  graced, 
Not  by  age  to  be  defaced  ; 
Budding  as  the  year  ensu'th. 
Every  spring  another  youth  : 
All  what  thought  can  add  beside. 
Crown  this  bridegToom  and  this  bride  I 

John  Ford.— About  1633. 


4CX).— SHEPHERDS  AND  SHEPHERD- 

ESSES. 

Woodmen,  shepherds,  come  away, 
This  is  Pan's  great  holiday, 

Throw  off  cares. 
With  your  heaven-inspiring  airs 

]Help  us  to  sing, 
While  valleys  with  your  echoes  ring. 

N;y'mphs  that  dwell  within  these  groves 
Leave  your  arbours,  bring  your  loves, 

Gather  posies, 
Crown  your  golden  hair  with  roses ; 

As  you  pass 
Foot  like  fairies  on  the  grass. 

Joy  crown  our  bowers !     Philomel, 
Leave  of  Tereus'  rape  to  tell. 

Let  trees  dance, 
As  they  at  Thracian  lyre  did  once  ; 

Mountains  play, 
Tliis  is  the  shepherd's  holiday. 

James  Shirley. — About  1624. 


461.— THE  COMMON  DOOM. 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 

Proclaim  how  wide  your  empires  are  ; 

Though  you  bind  in  every  shore, 
And  your  triumphs  reach  as  far 


As  night  or  day, 
Tot  you,  proud  monarchs,  must  obey. 
And  mingle  with  forgotten  ashes,  when  - 
Death  calls  ye  to  the  crowd  of  common  men. 

Devouring  Famine,  Plague,  and  War, 

Each  able  to  undo  mankind, 
Death's  servile  emissaries  are  ; 

Nor  to  these  alone  confined. 
He  hath  at  Avill 

More  quaint  and  subtle  ways  to  kill ; 
A  smile  or  kiss,  as  he  will  use  the  art, 
Shall  have  the  cunning  skill  to  break  a 

heart. 

James  Shirley. — About  1653. 


462.— THE  EQUALITY  OF  THE  GRAVE. 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate  ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings  : 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield  ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
^Vhen  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow. 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds  ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor- victim  bleeds  : 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb. 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

James  Slurlcy. — About  1659. 


463.— WELCOME  TO  THE  FOREST'S 
QUEEN. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  this  shady  green. 
Our  long- wished  Cynthia,  the  forest's  queen, 
The  trees  begin  to  bud,  the  glad  birds  sing 
In  winter,  changed  by  her  into  the  spring. 

We  know  no  night. 

Perpetual  light 

Dawns  from  your  eye. 

You  being  near. 

We  cannot  fear. 

Though  death  stood  by. 

From  you  our  swords  take  edge,  our  heart 

grows  bold  : 
From   you  in  fee   their   lives  youi*  liegemen 

hold; 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


LOVE  WITHOUT  EETUEN. 


[Thomas  Goffe. 


These  groves  your  kingdom,  and  our  laws  your 

wiU ; 
Smile,  and  we  spare  ;  but  if  you  frown,  we  kill. 
Bless  then  the  hour 
That  gives  the  power 
In  which  you  may, 
At  bed  and  board, 
Embrace  your  lord 
Both  night  and  day. 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome  to  this  shady  green. 
Our  long- wished  Cynthia,  the  forest's  queen  ! 
Philip  Massingcr. — About  1633. 


464.— THE  SWEETS  OF  BEAUTY. 

The  blushing  rose  and  purple  flower, 
Let  grow  too  long  are  soonest  blasted ; 

Dainty  fruits,  though  sAvect,  will  sour, 
And  rot  in  ripeness,  left  untasted. 

Yet  here  is  one  more  sweet  than  these  : 

The  more  you  taste  the  more  she'll  please. 

Beauty  that's  enclosed  with  ice, 

Is  a  shadow  chaste  as  rare  ; 
Then  how  much  those  sweets  entice, 

That  have  issue  full  as  fair  ! 
Earth  cannot  yield,  from  all  her  powers, 
One  equal  for  dame  Venus'  bowers. 

PJdli^j  Massinrjer. — About  1629. 


465.— DEATH. 

"Wliy  art  thou  slow,  thou  rest  of  trouble,  Death, 

To  stop  a  wretch's  breath, 
That  calls  on  thee,  and  offers  her  sad  heart 

A  prey  unto  thy  dart  ? 
I  am  nor  young  nor  fair  ;  be,  therefore,  bold  : 

Sorrow  hath  made  me  old. 
Deformed,  and  wrinkled  ;  aU  that  I  can  crave. 

Is  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Such  as  live  happy,  hold  long  life  a  jewel ; 

But  to  me  thou  art  cruel. 
If  thou  end  not  my  tedious  misery ; 

And  I  soon  cease  to  be. 
Strike,  and  strike  home,  then !  pity  unto  me, 
j  In  one  short  hoiu-'s  delay,  is  tyranny. 

rhilip  Massinger. — Aboiit  1631. 


And  still  I  held  converse  with  Zabareil, 

Aquinas,  Scotus,  and  the  musty  saw 

Of  Antick  Donate  :  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

Still  on  went  I ;  first,  an  sit  anima  ; 

Then,  an  it  were  mortal.    O  hold,  hold ;  at  that 

They're  at  brain  buffets,  feU  by  the  ears  amain 

Pell-mell  together ;  still  my  spaniel  slei5t. 

Then,  whether  'twere  corporeal,  local,  fixt, 

Vj<  trach(ce,  but  whether  't  had  free  will 

Or  no,  hot  philosophers 

Stood  banding  factions,  all  so  strongly  propt ; 

I  stagger'd,  knew  not  which  was  firmer  part, 

But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observ'd,  and  pried, 

Stufft  noting-books  :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

At  length  he  wak'd,  and  yawn'd ;  and  by  yon 

sky, 
For  aught  I  know,  he  knew  as  much  as  I. 

John  Ma.rston.—Aboitt  1030. 


466.— A  SCHOLAE  AISTD  HIS  DOG. 

I  was  a  scholar  :  seven  useful  springs 

Did  I  deflower  in  quotations 

Of  cross' d  opinions  'bout  the  soul  of  man ; 

The  more  I  learnt,  the  more  I  learnt  to  doubt. 

TxAujht,    my  spaniel,    slept,  whilst  I  baus'd 

Icsives, 
Toss'd  o'er  the  dunces,  pored  on  the  old  print 
Of  titled  words  ;  and  still  my  spaniel  slept, 
Whilst  I  wasted  lamp-oil,  baited  my  flesh. 
Shrunk  up  my  veins :    and  still  my  spaniel 

slept. 


467.— THE  MADNESS  OF  OEESTES. 

Weep,  weep,  you  Argonauts, 

Bewail  the  day 

That  first  to  fatal  Troy 

You  took  your  way. 

Weep,  Greece,  weep,  Greece, 

Two  kings  are  dead 

Argos,  thou  Argos,  now  a  grave 

Where  kings  are  buried ; 

No  heir,  no  heir  is  left, 

But  one  that's  mad. 

See,  Argos,  hast  not  thou 

Cause  to  be  sad  ? 

Sleep,  sleep,  wild  brain, 

Eest,  rock  thy  sense. 

Live  if  thou  canst 

To  grieve  for  thy  offence. 

Weep,  weep,  you  Argonauts ! 

Thomas  Goffc— About  1633. 


468.— LOVE  WITHOUT  EETUEN. 

Grieve  not,  fond  man,  nor  let  one  tear 
Steal  from  thine  eyes  ;  she'll  hear 
No  more  of  Cupid's  shafts  ;  they  fly 
For  wounding  her,  so  let  them  die. 

For  why  shouldst  thou  nourish  such  flames  as 
bum 

Thy  easy  breast,  and  not  have  like  return  ? 
Love  forces  love,  as  flames  expire 
If  not  increased  by  gentle  fire. 

Let  then  her  frigid  coolness  move 
Thee  to  withdraw  thy  purer  love  : 
And  since  she  is  resolved  to  show 
She  will  not  love,  do  thou  so  too  : 
For  why  should  beauty  so  charm  thine  eyes. 
That  if  she  frown,  thou'lt  prove  her  sacrifice? 
Love  forces  love,  as  flames  expire 
If  not  increased  by  gentle  fire. 

Thomas  Goffe. — About  1633. 


Thomas  Heywood."! 


THE  DEATH  BELL. 


[Third  Period. 


469.— THE  DEATH  BELL. 

Come,  list  and  hark,  the  bell  doth  toll 
For  some  but  now  departing  soul. 
And  was  not  that  some  ominous  fowl, 
The  bat,  the  night-crow,  or  screech-owl  ? 
To  these  I  hear  the  vrild  wolf  howl, 
In  this  black  night  that  seems  to  scowl. 
All  these  my  black-book  death  enroll, 
For  hark,  still,  still,  the  beU  doth  toll 
For  some  but  now  departing  soul. 

Tliomas  Hey^vood. — About  1640. 


470.— WHAT  IS  LOVE. 

Now  what  is  love  I  wiU  thee  tell, 

It  is  the  fountain  and  the  well, 

Where  pleasure  and  repentance  dwell : 

It  is  perhaps  the  sansing  bell. 

That  rings  all  in  to  heaven  or  hell, 

And  this  is  love,  and  this  is  love,  as  I  hear  tell. 

Now  what  is  love  I  will  you  show : 
A  thing  that  creeps  and  cannot  go  ; 
A  prize  that  passeth  to  and  fro ; 
A  thing  for  me,  a  thing  for  mo' : 
And  he  that  proves  shall  find  it  so, 
And  this  is  love,  and  this  is  love,  sweet  friend, 
I  trow. 

Tliomas  Heywood. — Ahov.t  1640. 


471.— GO,  PEETTY  BIEDS. 

Ye  little  birds  that  sit  and  sing 

Amidst  the  shady  valleys. 
And  see  how  Phillis  sweetly  walks, 

Within  her  garden  alleys ; 
Go,  pretty  birds,  about  her  bower ; 
Sing,  pretty  birds,  she  may  not  lower ; 
Ah,  me  !  methinks  I  see  her  frown  ! 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Go,  tell  her,  through  your  chirping  bills, 

As  you  by  me  are  bidden, 
To  her  is  only  known  my  love. 

Which,  from  the  world  is  hidden. 
Go,  pretty  birds,  and  tell  her  so  ; 
See  that  your  notes  strain  not  too  low, 
For  still,  methinks,  I  see  her  frown, 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Go,  tune  your  voices'  harmony, 

And  sing,  I  am  her  lover ; 
Strain  loud  and  sweet,  that  every  note 

With  sweet  content  may  move  her. 
And  she  that  hath  the  sweetest  voice. 
Tell  her  I  will  not  change  my  choice ; 
Yet  stiU,  methinks,  I  see  her  frown. 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Oh,  fly  !  make  haste  !  see,  see,  she  falls 

Into  a  pretty  slumber. 
Sing  round  about  her  rosy  bed, 

That  waking,  she  may  wonder. 


Say  to  her,  'tis  her  lover  true 
Tliat  sendetli  love  to  you,  to  j'^ou  ; 
And  when  you  hear  her  kind  reply, 
Return  with  pleasant  warblings. 

Thomas  Hey  wood. —About  1640. 


472.— DIANA'S  NYMPHS. 

Hail,  beauteous  Dian,  queen  of  shades, 
That  dwell' st  beneath  these  shadowy  glades, 
Mistress  of  all  those  beauteous  maids 

That  are  by  her  allowed. 
Virginity  we  all  profess, 
Abjure  the  worldly  vain  excess. 
And  will  to  Dian  yield  no  less 

Than  wo  to  her  have  vowed. 
The  shepherds,  satyrs,  nymphs,  and  fawns, 
*  For  thee  will  trip  it  o'er  the  lawns. 

Come,  to  the  forest  let  us  go. 
And  trip  it  like  the  barren  doe  ; 
The  fawns  and  satyrs  still  do  so. 

And  freely  thus  they  may  do. 
The  fairies  dance  and  satyrs  sing, 
And  on  the  grass  tread  many  a  ring, 
And  to  their  caves  their  venison  bring ; 

And  we  will  do  as  they. 
The  shepherds,  satyrs,  nymphs,  and  fawns. 
For  thee  will  trip  it  o'er  the  laAvns. 

Our  food  is  honey  from  the  bees, 

And  mellow  fruits  that  drop  from  trees ; 

In  chace  we  climb  the  high  degrees 

Of  every  steepy  mountain. 
And  when  the  weary  day  is  past. 
We  at  the  evening  hie  us  fast. 
And  after  this,  our  field  repast, 

We  drink  the  pleasant  fountain. 
The  shepherds,  satyrs,  nymphs,  and  fawns, 
For  thee  will  trip  it  o'er  the  lawns. 

Thomas  Heywood. — About  1640. 


473.— THE  LAEK. 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day; 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow  : 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  lark  aloft, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow  : 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow  : 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  red-breast. 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  li^met,  and  cock-sparrow. 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves. 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 

Thomas  Heyivood. — About  1635. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


SEAECH  AFTER  GOD. 


[Thomas  Heywood. 


474.— SHEPI-IEED'S  SONG. 

"We  that  have  known  no  greater  state 
Than  this  we  live  in,  praise  our  fate  ; 
For  courtly  silks  in  cares  are  spent, 
When  country's  russet  breeds  content. 
The  power  of  sceptres  we  admire, 
But  sheep-hooks  for  our  use  desire. 
Simple  and  low  is  our  condition, 
For  here  with  us  is  no  ambition  : 
Wo  with  the  sun  our  flocks  unfold, 
Wliose  rising-  makes  their  fleeces  gold ; 
Our  music  from  the  birds  we  borrow, 
They  bidding  us,  wc  them,  good  morrow. 
Our  habits  are  but  coarse  and  plain, 
Yet  they  defend  from  wind  and  rain ; 
As  warm  too,  in  an  equal  eye, 
As  those  be-stain'd  in  scarlet  dye. 
The  shepherd,  with  his  home-spun  lass, 
As  many  merry  hours  doth  pass, 
As  courtiers  with  their  costly  girls, 
Though  richly  deck'd  in  gold  and  pearls  ; 
And,  though  but  plain,  to  purpose  woo, 
Nay,  often  vvith  less  danger  too. 
Those  that  delight  in  dainties'  store, 
One  stomach  feed  at  once,  no  more  ; 
And,  when  with  homely  fare  we  feast, 
With  us  it  doth  as  well  digest ; 
And  many  times  we  better  speed. 
For  our  wild  fruits  no  surfeits  breed. 
If  we  sometimes  the  willow  wear. 
By  subtle  swains  that  dare  forswear. 
We  wonder  whence  it  comes,  and  fear 
They've  been  at  court  and  learnt  it  there. 

Thomas  Hcijicood.— About  1635. 


475.— SHIP^VEECK  BY  DEINK. 
-This  gentleman  and  I 


Pass'd  but  just  now  by  your  next  neighbour's 

house, 
Wliere,  as  they  say,  dwells  one  young  Lionel, 
An  unthrift  youth  ;  his  father  now  at  sea  : 
And  there  this  night  was  held  a  sumptuous 

feast. 
In  the  height   of  their  carousing,    all  their 

brains 
Warm'd  with  the  heat  of  ^vine,  discourse  was 

offer' d 
Of  ships  and  storms  at  sea :  when  suddenly. 
Out  of  his  giddy  wildness,  one  conceives 
The  room  wherein  they  quaff' d  to  be  a  pinnace 
Moving  and  floating,  and  the  confus'd  noise 
To  be  the  miu-muring  winds,  gusts,  mariners  : 
That  their  unstoadfast  footing  did  proceed 
From  rocking  of  the  vessel.     This  conceiv'd, 
Each  one  begins  to  apprehend  the  danger. 
And  to  look  out  for  safety.     Fly,  saith  one. 
Up  to  the  main-top,  and  discover.     He 
Climbs  by  the  bed-post  to  the  tester,  there 
Eeports  a  turbulent  sea  and  tempest  towards  ; 
And  -tt-ills  them,  if  they'll  save  their  ship  and 

lives, 
To  cast  their  lading  Qverboard,    At  thia 


All  fall  to  work,  and  hoist  into  the  street, 
As  to  the  sea,  what  next  came  to  their  hand, 
Stools,   tables,  tressels,  trenches,  bedsteads, 

cups. 
Pots,    plate,    and   glasses.      Here    a    fellow 

whistles  ; 
They  take  him  for  the  boastwain^-  ^me  lies 

struggling 
Upon  the  floor,  as  if  he  swam  for  life  : 
A  third  takes  the  bass-viol  for  the  cock -boat. 
Sits  in  the  bellow  on't,  labours,  and  rows  ; 
!    His   oar  the    stick   with  which    the   fiddler 

play'd : 
A  fourth  bestrides  his  fellow,  thinking  to  'scape 
(As  did  Arion)  on  the  dolphin's  back. 
Still  fumbling  on  a  gittern.     The  rude  multi- 
tude, 
Watching  without,  and  gaping  for  the  spoil 
Cast  from  the  windows,   went   by  th'    ears 

about  it : 
The  constable  is  call'd  t'  atone  the  broil ; 
AVlaich  done,  and  hearing  such  a  noise  v,dthin 
Of  imminent  shipwreck,  enters  the  house,  and 

finds  them 
In  this  confusion :  they  adore  his  staff. 
And  think  it  Neptune's  trident ;  and  that  he 
Comes  with  his   Tritons  (so  they  call'd   his 

watch) 
To  calm  the  tempest,  and  appease  the  waves  : 
And  at  this  point  we  left  them. 

Thomas  Heyicood. — About  1649. 


476.— SEARCH  AFTER  GOD. 

I  sought  thee  round  about,  0  Thou  my  God ! 

In  Thine  abode. 
I  said  unto  the  earth,  "Speak,  art  thou  He?" 

She  ansvv^ered  me, 
"  I  am  not."     I  inquired  of  creatures  all, 

In  general, 
Contain'd  therein.     They  v/ith  one  voice  pro- 
claim 
That  none  amongst  them  challenged  such  a 
name. 

I  asked  the  seas  and  all  the  deeps  bclov^. 

My  God  to  know  ; 
I  asked  the  reptiles  and  whatever  is 

In  the  abyss — 
Even  from  the  shrimp  to  the  leviathan 

Enquiry  ran ; 
But  in  those  deserts  which  no  line  can  souu'l, 
The  God  I  sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 

I  ask'd  the  air  if  that  were  He  !  but 

It  told  me  no. 
I  from  the  towering  eagle  to  the  wren 

Demanded  then 
If  any  feather' d  fowl  'mongst  them  were  such 

But  they  all,  much 
Offended  with  my  question,  in  full  choir, 
Answer' d,  "  To  find  thy  God  thou  must  look 
higher." 


George  Sandys,] 


A  THANKSGIVING. 


[Thikd  Period. — 


I  ask'd  the  heavens,  sun,  moon,  and  stars  ; 
but  they 

Said,  "  We  obey 
The  God  thou  seekest."     I  asked  what  eye  or 
ear 

Could  see  or  hoar 
"What  in  the  world  I  might  descry  or  know 

Above,  below  ; 
With  an  unanimous  voice,  all  these  things  said, 
'■  We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  Him  were  made." 

I  ask'd  the  world's  great  universal  mass 

If  that  God  was  ; 
Which  with  a  mighty  and  strong  voice  replied. 

As  stupitied, — 
"  I  am  not  He,  O  man  !  for  know  that  I 

By  Him  on  high 
Was  fashion' d  first  of  nothing :  thus  instated 
And  sway'd  by  Him  by  Avhom  I  was  created." 

I  sought  the  court ;  but  smooth-tongued  flat- 
tery there 

Deceived  each  ear ; 
In  the  throng' d  city  there  was  selling,  buying. 

Swearing,  and  lying ; 
I'  the  country,  craft  in  simpleness  array' d, 

And  then  I  said — 
"  Vain  is  my  search,  although  my  pains  be 

great ; 
Where  my  God  is  there  can  be  no  deceit." 

A  scrutiny  within  myself,  I,  then, 

Even  thus  began  : 
"  O  man,  what  art  thou  ? "    What  more  could 
I  say 

Than  dust  and  clay — 
Frail,  mortal,  fading,  a  mere  puff,  a  blast, 

That  cannot  last ; 
Enthroned  to-day,  to-morrow  in  an  urn, 
Form'd  from   that   earth  to   which   I   must 
return? 

I  asked  myself  what  this  great  God  might  be 

That  fashioned  me  ? 
I  answered :  The  all-potent,  solely  immense, 

Surpassing  sense ; 
Unspeakable,  inscrutable,  eternal, 

Lord  over  all ; 
The  only  terrible,  strong,  just,  and  true, 
Who  hath  no  end,  and  no  beginning  knew. 

He  is  the  well  of  life,  for  He  doth  give 

To  all  that  live 
Both  breath  and  being ;  He  is  the  Creator 

Both  of  the  water, 
Earth,  air,  and  fire.     Of  all  things  that  subsist 

He  hath  the  list — 
Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  earth  claims. 
He  keeps  the  scroll,  and  calls  them  by  their 
names. 

And  now,  my  God,  by  Thine  illuminating  grace, 

Thy  glorious  face 
(So  far  forth  as  it  may  discovered  be), 

Methinks  I  see ; 
And  tliough  invisible  and  infinite, 

To  human  sight 


Thou,  in  Thy  mercy,  justice,  truth  appearest, 
In   which,   to  our  weak   sense,  thou  comost 
nearest. 

O  make  us  apt  to  seek,  and  quick  to  find, 

Thou,  God,  most  kind  ! 
Give  us  love,  hope,  and  faith,  in  Thee  to  trust. 

Thou,  God,  most  just ! 
Eemit  all  our  offences,  we  entreat, 

Most  good  !  most  great ! 
Grant  that  our  willing,  though  unworthy  quest. 
May,  through  Thj  grace,  admit  us  'mongst  the 
blest. 

Tlwmas  Hei/ivood. — Ahoi.it  IGIO. 


477.— A  THANKSGIVING. 

Oh !  who  hath  tasted  of  Thy  clemency 

In  greater  measure,  or  more  oft  than  I  ? 

My  grateful  verse  Thy  goodness  shall  display, 

0  Thou  who  went'st  along  in  all  my  way — 
To  where  the  morning,  with  perfumed  wings. 
From  the  high  mountains  of  Panchroa  springs, 
To   that   new-found-out-world,    where    sober 

night 
Takes  from  the  antipodes  her  silent  flight ; 
To  those  dark  seas  where  horrid  winter  reigns. 
And  binds  the  stubborn  floods  in  icy  chains  ; 
To  Libian  wastes,  whose  thirst  no  showers 

assuage. 
And  where  swoll'n  Nilus  cools  the  lion's  rage. 
Thy  wonders  on  the  deep  have  I  beheld. 
Yet  all  by  those  on  Judah's  hills  excell'd  : 
There  where  the  Virgin's  Son  His  doctrine 

taught. 
His  miracles  and  our  redemption  wrought : 
Where  I,  by  Thee  inspired.  His  praises  simg. 
And  on  his  sepulchre  my  offering  hung ; 
Wliich  way  soe'er  I  turn  my  face  or  feet, 

1  see  Thy  glory  and  Thy  mercy  meet ; 

Met  on  the  Thracian  shores,  when  in  the  strife 
Of  frantic  Simoans  Thou  preserved' st  my  life — 
So  when  Arabian  thieves  belaid  us  round. 
And  when  by  all  abandon'd  Thee  I  foilnd. 

Then  brought' st  me  home  in  safety,  that  this 

earth 
Might  bury  me,  which  fed  me  from  my  birth. 

George  Sandys. — About  1G20- 


478.— PSALM  XLII. 

Lord !  as  the  hart  embost  with  heat 
Brays  after  the  cool  rivulet, 

So  sighs  my  soul  for  Thee. 
My  soul  thirsts  for  the  li\'ing  God  : 
WTien  shall  I  enter  His  abode. 

And  there  His  beauty  see  ? 
Tears  are  my  food  both  night  and  day ; 
While  Where's  thy  God  ?  they  daily  say  ; 

My  soul  in  plaints  I  shed  ; 
When  I  remember  how  in  throngs 
We  fill'd  Thy  house  with  praise  and  songs 

How  I  their  dances  led. 


Fivm  1558  to  1649.] 


PSALM  LXVIII. 


[George  Sandys. 


My  soul,  why  art  tliou  s<j  deprest  ? 
Why,  oh  !  thus  troubled  in  my  breast, 

With  grief  so  overthrown  ? 
AVith  constant  hope  on  God  await : 
I  yet  His  name  shall  celebrate, 

For  mercy  timely  shown. 
My  fainting  heart  within  me  pants ; 
My  God,  consider  my  complaints  ; 

My  songs  shall  praise  Thee  still, 
Even  from  the  A^ale  where  Jordan  flows, 
"VMiere  Hermon  his  high  forehead  shows, 

From  Mitzar's  humble  hill. 

Deeps  unto  deeps  enraged  call, 
When  thy  dark  spouts  of  waters  fall, 

And  dreadful  tempest  raves  : 
For  all  thy  floods  upon  me  burst. 
And  billows  after  billows  thrust 

To  swallow  in  their  graves. 

But  yet  by  day  the  Lord  will  charge 
His  ready  mercy  to  enlarge 

My  soul,  surprised  with  cares  ; 
He  gives  my  songs  their  argument ; 
God  of  my  life,  I  will  present 

By  night  to  thee  my  prayers. 

And  say,  my  God,  my  rock,  oh,  why 
Am  I  forgot,  and  mourning  die. 

By  foes  reduced  to  dust  ? 
Their  words,  like  weapons,  pierce  my  bones. 
While  still  they  echo  to  my  groans, 

Wliere  is  the  Lord  thy  trust  ? 

My  soul,  why  art  thou  so  deprest  ? 
O  why  so  troubled  in  my  breast  ? 

Sunk  underneath  thy  load ! 
With  constant  hope  on  God  await ; 
For  I  his  name  shall  celebrate. 

My  Saviour  and  my  God. 

George  Sandys. — About  1636. 


479.— PSALM  LXVIII. 

Lot  God,  the  God  of  battle,  rise. 

And  scatter  his  proud  enemies  : 

O  let  them  flee  before  his  face, 

Like  smoke  which  driving  tempests  chase ; 

As  wax  dissolves  with  scorching  fire, 

So  perish  in  his  burning  ire. 

But  let  the  just  with  joy  abound  ; 

In  joyful  songs  his  praise  resound. 

Who,  riding  on  the  rolling  spheres. 

The  name  of  great  Jehovah  bears. 

Before  his  face  your  joys  express, 

A  father  to  the  fatherless  ; 

He  wipes  the  tears  from  widows'  eyes. 

The  single  plants  in  families  ; 

Enlarging  those  who  late  were  bound, 

WhUe  rebels  starve  on  thirsty  ground. 

When  he  our  numerous  army  led. 
And  march'd  through  deserts  full  of  dread, 
Heav'n  melted,  and  earth's  centre  shook, 
With  his  majestic  presence  struck. 
When  Israel's  God  in  clouds  came  down. 
High  Sinai  bow'd  his  trembling  crown  ; 


He,  in  th'  approach  of  meagre  dearth, 
With  showers  refresh' d  the  fainting  earth. 
Where  his  own  flocks  in  safety  fed, 
The  needy  unto  plenty  led. 
By  him  we  conquer. — Virgins  sing 
Our  victories,  and  timbrels  ring :  —   _ 
He  kings  with  their  vast  armies  foils, 
While  women  share  their  wealthy  spoils. 

Wlien  he  the  kings  had  overthrown, 

Our  land  like  snowy  Salmon  shone. 

God's  mountain  Bashan' amount  transcends, 

Though  he  his  many  heads  extends. 

Why  boast  ye  so,  ye  meaner  hills  ? 

God  with  his  glory  Zion  fills, 

This  his  beloved  residence, 

Nor  ever  will  depart  from  hence. 

His  chariots  twenty  thousand  were. 

Which  myriads  of  angels  bear, 

He  in  the  midst,  as  when  he  crown' d 

High  Sinai's  sanctified  ground. 

Lord,  thou  hast  raised  thyself  on  high, 

And  captive  led  captivity. 

*  *  i*  * 

0  praised  be  the  God  of  Gods, 
"Who  -with  his  daily  blessings  loads ; 
The  God  of  our  salvation, 

On  whom  our  hopes  depend  alone ; 
The  controverse  of  life  and  death 
Is  arbitrated  by  his  breath. 

Thus  spoke  Jehovah  :  Jacob's  seed 

1  will  from  Bashan  bring  again, 
And  through  the  bottom  of  the  main. 
That  dogs  may  lap  their  enemies  blood, 
And  they  wade  through  a  crimson  flood. 
We,  in  thy  sanctuary  late. 

My  God,  my  King,  beheld  thy  state  ; 

The  sacred  singers  march'd  before. 

Who  instmments  of  music  bore. 

In  order  follow' d — every  maid 

Upon  her  pleasant  timbrel  play'd. 

His  praise  in  your  assemblies  sing, 

You  who  from  Israel's  fountain  spring, 

Nor  little  Benjamin  alone. 

But  Judah,  from  his  mountain  throne  ; 

The  far-removed  Zebulon, 

And  Napthali,  that  borders  on 

Old  Jordan,  where  his  stream  dilates, 

Join'd  all  their  powers  and  potentates. 

For  U.S  his  winged  soldiers  fought ; 

Lord,   strengthen  what    thy   hand  hath 

wrought ! 
He  that  supports  a  diadem 
To  thee,  divine  Jerusalem  ! 
Shall  in  devotion  treasure  bring. 
To  build  the  temple  of  his  King. 


Far  off  from  sun-burnt  Meroe, 
From  falling  Mlus,  from  the  sea 
Which  beats  on  the  Egyptian  shore, 
Shall  princes  come,  and  here  adore. 
Ye  kingdoms  through  the  world  renown'd. 
Sing  to  the  Lord,  his  praise  resound ;   -in 


Geokge  Sandys.] 


CHOEUS  OF  JEWISH  WOMEN. 


[Third  Period.' 


He  who  heaven's  upper  heaven  bestrides, 

And  on  her  aged  shoulders  rides  ; 

Whose  voice  the  clouds  asunder  rends, 

In  thunder  terrible  descends. 

O  praise  his  strength'  whose  majesty 

In  Israel  shines — his  power  on  high  ! 

He  from  his  sanctuary  throws 

A  trembling  horror  on  his  foes, 

While  us  his  power  and  strength  invest ; 

O  Israel,  praise  the  ever-blest  I 

Ocorge  Sandys. — Ahoiit  1636. 


480.— CHOEUS  OF  JEWISH  WOMEN. 

The  rapid  motion  of  the  spheres 

Old  night  from  our  horizon  bears, 

And  now  declining  shades  give  way 

To  the  return  of  cheerful  day. 

And  Phosphorus,  who  leads  the  stars. 

And  day's  illustrious  path  prepares, 

Who  last  of  all  the  host  retires. 

Nor  yet  withdraws  those  radiant  fires ; 

Nor  have  our  trumpets  summon' d 

The  morning  from  her  dewy  bed : 

As  yet  her  roses  are  unblown, 

Nor  by  her  purple  mantel  known. 

All  night  we  in  the  temple  keep. 

Not  yielding  to  the  charms  of  sleep  ; 

That  so  we  might  vriih.  zealous  prayer 

Our  thoughts  and  cleansed  hearts  prepare, 

To  celebrate  the  ensuing  light. 

This  annual  feast  to  memory 

Is  sacred,  nor  with  us  must  die. 

What  numbers  from  the  sun's  up-rise. 

From  Avhere  he  leaves  the  morning  skies, 

Of  our  dispersed  Abrahamites, 

This  Vesper  to  their  homes  invites. 

Yet  we  in  yearly  triumph  still 

A  lamb  for  our  deliverance  kill. 

Since  liberty  our  confines  fled. 

Given  with  the  first  unleaven'd  bread. 

She  never  would  return  ;  though  bought 

With  wounds,  and  in  destruction  sought ; 

Some  stray  to  Libya's  scorched  sands. 

Where  horned  Hammon's  temple  stands  : 

To  Nilus  some,  where  Philip's  son, 

Who  all  the  rifled  Orient  won, 

Built  his  proud  city ;  others  gone 

To  their  old  prison,  Babylon  : 

A  part  to  freezing  Taurus  fled. 

And  Tiber  now  the  ocean's  head 

Our  ruins  all  the  world  have  filled : 

But  you,  by  use  in  suffering  skill' d, 

Forgetting  in  remoter  climes 

Our  vanisht  glory,  nor  those  times, 

Those  happy  times,  compare  with  these, 

Your  burdens  may  support  with  ease. 

More  justly  we  of  fate  complain 

Who  ser\dtude  at  home  sustain ; 

We  to  perpetual  woes  designed, 

In  our  own  coixntry  Egypt  find. 


Yet  this  no  less  our  grief  provokes, 

Our  kindred  bear  divided  yokes  ; 

One  part  by  Eoman  bondage  wrung, 

The  other  two  by  brothers  sprung 

From  savage  Idumteans,  whom 

Our  fathers  have  so  oft  o'ercome. 

O  Thou,  the  Hope,  the  only  One 

Of  our  distress,  and  ruin'd  throne  ; 

Of  whom  with  a  prophetic  tongue. 

To  Judah  dying  Jacob  sung  : 

The  crowned  muse  on  ivory  lyre, 

His  breast  inflamed  with  holy  fire, 

This  oft  foretold, — that  Thou  should' st  free 

The  people  consecrate  to  Thee  ; 

That  Thou,  triumphing,  should' st  revoke 

Sweet  peace,  then  never  to  be  broke  ; 

When  freed  Judiea  should  obey 

Our  Lord,  and  all  affect  His  sway. 

O  when  shall  we  behold  Thy  face, 

So  often  promised  to  our  race  ? 

If  prophets,  who  have  won  belief. 

By  our  mishaps  and  flowing  grief, 

Of  joyful  change,  as  tridy  sung ; 

Thy  absence  should  not  now  be  long. 

Thee,  by  Thy  \'irtue,  we  entreat ; 

The  temple's  veil,  the  mercy's  seat. 

That  name  by  which  our  fathers  sware, 

Which  in  our  vulgar  speech  we  dare 

Not  utter  to  compassionate 

Thy  kindred's  tears,  and  ruined  state. 

Hast  to  our  great  redemption,  hast, 

O  thou  most  Holy  !  and  at  last 

Bless  with  Thy  presence,  that  wo  may 

To  Thee  our  vows  devoutly  pay. 

George  Sandys. — Ahout  1642. 


481.— LOVE. 

'Tis  affection  but  dissembled, 
Or  dissembled  liberty. 

To  pretend  thy  passion  changed 
With  changes  of  thy  mistress'  eye. 
Following  her  inconstancy. 

Hopes,  which  do  from  favour  flourish, 
May  perhaps  as  soon  expire 

As  the  cause  which  did  them  nourish, 
And  disdain' d  they  may  retire ; 
But  love  is  another  fire. 

For  if  beauty  cause  thy  passion, 

If  a  fair  resistless  eye 
Molt  thee  -with  its  soft  expression. 

Then  thy  hopes  will  never  die, 

Nor  be  cured  by  cruelty. 

'Tis  not  scorn  that  can  remove  thee, 
For  thou  either  wilt  not  see 

Such  loved  beauty  not  to  love  thee, 
Or  will  else  consent  that  she 
Judge  not  as  she  ought  of  thee. 

Thus  thou  either  canst  not  sever 
Hope  from  what  appears  so  fair, 

Or,  unhappier,  thou  canst  never 
Find  contentment  in  despair, 
Nor  make  love  a  trifling  care. 


Frovi  1558  to  1&19.] 


LOVE'S  DAETS. 


[William  Cartwkight. 


There  are  seen  but  few  retiring 

Steps  in  all  the  paths  of  love, 
Made  by  such  who  in  aspiring 

Meeting  scorn  their  hopes  remove  ; 

Yet  even  these  ne'er  change  their  love. 

Sidney  Godolphin. — About  1640. 


482.— ON   THE   DEATH   OF   SIR   BEVIL 
GRENVILLE. 

Not  to  be  wrought  by  malice,  gain,  or  pride, 
To  a  compliance  with  the  thriving  side ; 
Not  to  take  arms  for  love  of  change,  or  spite, 
But  only  to  maintain  aiHicted  right ; 
Not  to  die  vainly  in  pursuit  of  fame, 
Perversely  seeking  after  voice  and  name  ; 
Is  to  resplve,  fight,  die,  as  martyrs  do, 
And  thus  did  he,  soldier  and  martyr  too. 
#  *  #  % 

When  now  th'  incensed  legions  proudly  came 
Down  like  a  torrent  without  bank  or  dam  : 
When  undeserved  success  urged  on  their  force ; 
That  thimder  must  come  down  to  stop  their 

course, 
Or  Gren\'illo   mxist  step   in;    then   Grenville 

stood. 
And  with  himself  opposed,  and  check' d  the 

flood. 
Conquest  or  death  was  all  his  thought.    So  fire 
Either  o'ercomes,  or  doth  itself  expire  : 
His   courage   work'd  Like   flames,    cast  heat 

about, 
Here,  there,  on  this,  on  that  side,  none  gave 

out; 
Not  any  pike  in  that  renowned  stand, 
But  took  new  force  from  his  inspiring  hand : 
Soldier  encouraged  soldier,  man  urged  man, 
And  he  lu-god  all ;  so  much  example  can ; 
Hurt  upon  hurt,  wound  upon  woiind  did  call. 
He  was  the  butt,  the  mark,  the  aim  of  all : 
His  soul  this  while  retired  from  cell  to  cell, 
At  last  flew  up  from  all,  and  then  ho  fell. 
But  the  devoted  stand  enraged  more 
From  that  his  fate,  plied  hotter  than  before, 
And  proud  to  fall  with  him,  sworn  not  to  yield, 
Each  sought  an  honour'd  grave,  so  gain'd  the 

field. 
Thus  ho  being  fallen,  his  action  fought  anew  : 
And  the  dead  conquer' d,  whiles  the  living  slew. 

This  was  not   nature's   courage,   not  that 
thing 
We  valour  call,  which  time  and  reason  bring  ; 
But  a  diviner  fury,  fierce  and  high. 
Valour  transported  into  ecstacy. 
Which  angels,  looking  on  us  from  above, 
Use  to  convey  into  the  souls  they  love. 
You  now  that  boast  the  spirit,  and  its  sway. 
Show  us  his  second,  and  we'll  give  the  day : 
We  know  your  politic  axiom,  lurk,  or  fly  ; 
Ye  cannot  conquer,  'cause  you  dare  not  die  : 
And  though  you  thank  God  that  you  lost  none 

there, 
'Cause  they  were   such  who  lived  not  when 

the}'  were ; 


Yet  your  great  general  (who  doth  rise  and  fall, 
As  his  successes  do,  whom  you  dare  call. 
As  fame  unto  you  doth  reports  dispense. 

Either  a or  his  excellence) 

Howe'er  he  reigns  now  by  unheard-of  laws, 
Could  wish  his  fate  together  with  his^cause. 

And  thou  (blest  soul)  whose  clear  compactecl 
fame, 
As  amber  bodies  keeps,  preserves  thy  name. 
Whose  life  affords  what  doth  content  both 

eyes, 
Glory  for  people,  substance  for  the  wise, 
Go  laden  up  with  spoils,  possess  that  seat 
To   which   the  valiant,   when   they've   done, 

retreat : 
And  when  thou  seest  an  happy  period  sent 
To  these  distractions,   and   the   storm  quite 

spent. 
Look  down  and  say,  I  have  my  share  in  all. 
Much  good  grew  from  my  life,  much  from  my 

fall. 

William  CartiurigM. — About  1640. 


483.— LOVE'S   DAETS. 

Where  is  that  learned  wretch  that  knows 
What  are  those  darts  the  veil'd  god  throws? 

0  let  him  tell  me  ere  I  die 

When  'twas  he  saw  or  heard  them  fly  ; 
Whether  the  sparrow's  plumes,  or  dove's, 
Wing  them  for  various  loves ; 
And  whether  gold,  or  lead, 
Quicken,  or  dull  the  head  : 

1  will  anoint  and  keep  them  warm. 
And  make  the  weapons  heal  the  harm. 

Fond  that  I  am  to  ask  !  whoe'er 
Did  yet  see  thought  ?  or  silence  hear  i' 
Safe  from  the  search  of  human  eye 
These  arrows  (as  their  ways  are)  fly : 

The  flights  of  angels  part 

Not  air  with  so  much  art ; 

And  snows  on  streams,  we  may 

Say,  louder  fall  than  they. 
So  hopeless  I  must  now  endure, 
And  neither  know  the  shaft  nor  cure. 

A  sudden  fire  of  blushes  shed 
To  dye  white  paths  with  hasty  red  ; 
A  glance's  lightning  swiftly  thrown. 
Or  from  a  true  or  seeming  frown  ; 

A  subtle  taking  smile 

From  passion,  or  from  guile  ; 

The  spirit,  life,  and  gi-ace 

Of  motion,  limbs,  and  face  ; 
These  misconceit  entitles  darts. 
And  tears  the  bleedings  of  our  hearts. 

But  as  the  feathers  in  the  wing 
Unblemish'd  are,  and  no  wounds  bring. 
And  harmless  twigs  no  bloodshed  know, 
Till  art  doth  fit  them  for  the  bow  ; 

So  lights  of  flowing  graces 

Sparkle  in  several  places, 

Only  adorn  the  parts, 

Till  that  v/o  make  them  darts  ;      ^7* 


WILLIAM  WARNER. J 


TALE  OF  AUGENTILE  AND  CUBAN. 


[Third  Period. — 


Themselves  are  only  tvngs  and  quills  : 
"We  give  them  shape,  and  force  for  ills. 
Beauty's  our  grief,  but  in  the  ore, 
We  mint,  and  stamp,  and  then  adore : 
Like  heathen  we  the  image  crown, 
And  indiscreetly  then  fall  down: 

Those  graces  all  were  meant 

Our  joy,  not  discontent ; 

But  with  untaught  desires 

We  turn  those  lights  to  fires. 
Thus  Nature's  healing  herbs  we  take, 
And  out  of  cures  do  poisons  make. 

WilUaiu  CartwrigUt.— About  1640. 


484.— TALE  OF  AEGENTILE  AND 
CUBAN. 

The  Brutons  thus  departed  hence,  seven  king- 
doms here  begone. 
Where  diversely  in  diverse  broils  the  Saxons 

lost  and  won. 
King   Edell    and    King  Adelbright   in-  Divia 

jointly  reign  : 
In  loyal  concord  during  life  these  kingly  friends 

remain. 
Wlicn   Adelbright    sho\ild   leave   his  life,   to 

Edell  thus  he  says  : 
By  those  same  bonds  of  happy  love,  that  held 

us  friends  always, 
By  oar  byparted  crown,  of  which  the  moiety 

is  mine, 
By  God,  to  whom  my  soul  must  pass,  and  so 

in  time  may  thine, 
I  pray  thee,  nay,  conjure  thee,  too,  to  nourish 

as  thine  own 
Thy  niece,  my  daughter  Argentile,  till  she  to 

age  be  grown. 
And  then,  as  thou  receivest,  resign  to  her  my 

throne. 
A  promise  had  for  this  bequest,  the  testator 

he  dies, 
But  all  that  Edell  undertook  he  afterward  de- 
nies. 


And  ^till   against    the    king's   restraint   did 

secretly  inveigh. 
At  length  the   high  controller.    Love,  ^vliom 

none  may  disobey, 
Irabased  him  from  lordliness  unto  a  kitchen 

drudge. 
That  so,  at  least,  of  life  or  death  she  might 

become  his  judge. 
Access  so  had  to  see,   and  speak,  he  did  his 

love  bewray. 
And   tells   his   birth :    her   answer   was,   she 

husbandless  would  stay. 
Meanwhile,  the  king  did  beat  his  brains,  his 

booty  to  achieve, 
Not  caring  what  became  of  her,  so  he  by  her 

might  thrive  : 
At   last    his    resolution   was,    some    peasant 

should  her  wive. 
And,  which  was  working  to  his  wish,  he  did 

observe  with  joy 
How  Curan,  whom  he  thought  a  drudge,  scapt 

many  an  amorous  toy. 
The  king,  perceiving  such  his  vein,  promotes 

his  vassal  still. 
Lest  that  the  baseness  of  the  man,  should  let, 

perhaps,  his  will. 
Assured  therefore  of   his  love,  but  not  sus- 
pecting who 
The  lover  was,  the  king  himself  in  his  behalf 

did  woo. 
The  lady,  resolute  from  love,  unkindly  takes 

that  he 
Should  bar  the  noble,  and  unto  so  base  a  match 

agree ; 
And  therefore,  shifting  out  of  doors,  departed 

thence  by  stealth. 
Preferring  poverty  before  a  dangerous  life  in 

wealth. 
"WTien  Curan  heard  of  her  escape,  the  anguish 

in  his  heart 
Was  more  than  much,  and  after  her  from  court 

he  did  depart : 
Forgetful  of  hini.self,  his  birth,  his  country, 

friends,  and  all. 
And     only     minding     whom     he     mist — the 

foundress  of  his  thrall ! 


Yet  well  he  fosters  for  a  time  the  damsel,  that   j   ]s^or  means  he  after  to  frequent,  or  court,  or 

stately  towns, 
But  solitarily  to   live   amongst   the  country 


was  grown 
The  fairest  lady  under  heaven ;  whose  beauty 

being  known, 
A  many  princes  seek  her  love,  but  none  might 

her  obtain. 
For  Grippel   Edell   to  himself   her  kingdom 

sought  to  gain ; 
By  chance  one  Curan,  son  unto  a  prince  in 

Danske,  did  see 
The  maid,  with  whom  he  fell  in  love,  as  much 

as  one  might  be. 
Unhappy  youth  !  what  should  he  do  ?  his  saint 

was  kept  in  mew. 
Nor  he,  nor  any  noble  man  admitted  to  her 

view. 
One  while  in  melancholy  fits  he  pines  himself 

away  ; 
Anon  he  thought  by  force  of  arms  to  win  her 
if  he  may, 


grownes. 
A  brace  of  years  he  lived  thus ;   well-pleased 

so  to  live  ; 
And  shepherd-like  to  feed  a  flock,  himself  did 

wholly  give. 
So  wasting,   love,   by  work  and  want,  gi-ew 

almost  to  the  wane  : 
But  then  began  a  second  love,  the  worser  of 

the  twain ! 
A  country  v/ench,  a  neatherd's  maid,  where 

Curan  kept  his  sheep, 
Did  feed  her  drove  ;    and  now  on  her  was  all 

the  shepherd's  keep. 
He  borrow' d  on  the  working  days,  his  holly 

rufFets  oft : 
And  of  the  bacon's  fat,  to  make  his  startups 

black  and  soft : 


¥rovi  1558  to  1649.]  TALE  OF  AEGENTILE  AND  CUEAN. 


[William  Warnek. 


And  lest  his  tar-box  should  offend,  lie  left  it 

at  the  fold ; 
Sweet  growt  or  whig,  his  bottle  had  as  much 

as  it  would  hold  ; 
A  sheave  of  bread  as  brown  as  nut,  and  cheese 

as  white  as  snow, 
And  wildings,  or  the  season's  fruit,  he  did  in 

scrip  bestow  : 
And   whilst  his   piebald   cur    did   sleep,  and 

sheep-hook  lay  him  by. 
On  hollow  quills   of    oaten   straw  he   piped 

melody. 
But  when  he  spied  her,  his  saint,  he  ^^dp'd  his 

greasy  shoes, 
And  clear'd  the  drivel  from  his  beard,  and 

thus  the  shepherd  woos  ; 
'  I  have,  sweet  wench,  a  piece  of  cheese,  as 

good  as  tooth  may  chaw, 
And  bread  and  wildings,  souling  well;'  and 

thei-ewithal  did  draw 
His  lardry ;  and,  in  eating, '  See  yon  crumpled 

ewe,'  qvioth  he, 
'  Did  twin  this  fall ;  faith  thou  art  too  elfish, 

and  too  coy ; 
Am  I,  I  pray  thee,  beggarly,  that  such  a  flock 

o^ioy, 
I  wis  I  am  not ;  yet  that  thou  dost  hold  me  in 

disdain 
Is  brim  abroad,  and  made  a  gibe  to  all  that 

keep  this  plain. 
There  be  as  quaint,  at  least  that  think  them- 
selves as  quaint,  that  crave 
The  match  which  thou  (I  wot  not  why)  may'st, 

but  mislik'st  to  have. 
How  would' st  thou  match  ?  (for  well  I  wot  thou 

art  a  female) ;  I, 
I  know  not  her,  that  \villingly,  in  maidenhood 

would  die. 
The  ploughman's  labour  hath  no  end,  and  he 

a  churl  Avill  prove  ; 
The  craftsman  hath  more  work  in  hand  than 

fitteth  on  to  love  ; 
The  merchant,  trafiicking  abroad,  suspects  his 

wife  at  home  ; 
A  youth  will  play  the  wanton,  and  an  old  man 

prove  a  mome  ; 
Then  choose  a  shepherd ;  with  the  sun  he  doth 

his  flock  unfold, 
And  all  the  day  on  hill  or  plain  he  merry  chat 

can  hold  : 
And   with   the    sun   doth   fold   again :    then 

jogging  home  betime, 
He  turns  a  crab,  or  tunes  a  round,  or  sings 

some  merry  rhyme ; 
Nor  lacks  he  gleeful  tales  to  tell,  whilst  that 

the  bowl  doth  trot : 
And  sittoth  singing  care  away,  till  he  to,  bed 

hath  got. 
There  sleeps  he  soundly  all  the  night,  forgetting 

morrow  cares, 
Nor  fears  he  blasting  of  his  corn,  or  uttring 

of  his  wares, 
Or  storms  by  sea,  or  stirs  on  land,  or  crack  of 

credit  lost. 
Nor  spending  franklier  than  his  flock  shall  still 

defray  the  cost. 


Well  wot  I  sooth  they   say,  that  say,  more 

quiet  nights  and  days 
The  shepherd  sleeps  and  wakes  than  he  whoso 

cattle  he  doth  graze. 
Believe  me,  lass,  a  king  is  but  a  man,  and  so 

am  I ;  _ 

Content  is  worth  a  monarchy,  and  mischiefs 

hit  the  high. 
As  late  it  did  a  king  and  his,  not  dying  far 

from  hence. 
Who  left  a  daughter  (save  thyself)  for  fair,  a 

matchless  wrench.' 
Here  did  he  pause,  as  if  his  tongue  had  made 

his  heart  offence. 
The  neatress,  longing  for  the  rest,  did  Qg^  him 

on  to  tell 
How  fair  she  was,  and  who  she  was.     '  She 

bore,'  quoth  he,  '  the  bell 
For   beauty :    though  I  clo^vnish  am  I  know 

what  beauty  is. 
Or  did  I  not,  yet  seeing  thee,  I  senseless  were 

to  miss. 
Suppose  her  beauty  Helen's  like,  or  Helen's 

somewhat  less, 
I   And  every  star  consorting  to  a  pure  complexion 
!  guess. 

j   Her  stature  comely  tall,  her  gait  well  graced, 

and  her  wit 
i    To  m.arvel  at,  not  meddle  with,  as  matchless, 

I  omit. 
A  globe-like  head,  a  gold-like  hair,  a  forehead 

smooth  and  high. 
An  even   nose,   on   either   side    stood  out   a 

grayish  eye  : 
Two  rosy  cheeks,  round  ruddy  lips,  with  just 

Fct  teeth  -v^ithin, 
A  mouth  in  mean,  and  underneath  a  round  and 

dimpled  chin. 
Her  snowy  neck,  with  bluish  veins,  stood  bolt 

upright  upon 
Her  portly  shoulders ;  beating  balls,  her  veined 

breasts,  anon, 
Add    more    to    beauty ;     wand-like    was    her 

middle,  fjilling  still  *  * 

And  more,  her  long  and  limber  arms  had  vrhitc 

and  azure  wrists, 
And  iilender  fingers  answer  to  her  smooth  and 

lily  fists ! 
A  leg  in  print,  and  pretty  foot ;  her  tongue  of 

speech  was  spare ; 
But  speaking,  Venus  secm'd  to  speak,  the  ball 

from  Ide  to  bear  ! 
With  Pallas,    Juno,    and  with   both,   licrself 

contends  in  face  ; 
Wliere  equal  mixture  did  not  want  of  mild 

and  stately  grace  : 
Her  smiles  were  sober,  and  her  looks  were 

cheerful  unto  all. 
And  such  as  neither  wanton  seem,  nor  way- 
ward ;  mell,  nor  gall. 
A  quiet  mind,  a  patient  mood,  and  not  dis- 
daining smy. 
Not  gibing,  gadding,  gawdy  ;  and  her  faculties 

were  many. 
A  nymph,  no  tongue,  no  heart,  no  eye,  might 

praise,  might  wish,  might  see, 


Geoege  Chapman.] 


SOKNTET. 


[Thied  Peeiod.- 


For  life,  for  love,  for  form,  more  good,  more 

worth,  more  fair  than  she  ! 
Yet  such  an  one,  as  such  was  none,  save  only 

she  was  such : 
Of  Argentile,  to  say  the   most,  were  to  be 

silent  much.' 
'  I  knew  the  lady  very  well,  but  worthless  of 

such  praise,' 
The  neatress  said  ;  '  and  muse  I  do,  a  shepherd 

thus  should  blaze 
The  coat  of  beauty.     Credit  me,  thy  latter 

speech  bewrays 
Thy   clownish  shape,    a   coined  show.      But 

wherefore  dost  thou  weep  ?  ' 
(The  shepherd  wept,   and  she  was  woe,  and 

both  did  silence  keep). 
'  In  troth,'  quoth  he,  '  I  am  not  such  as  seeming 

I  profess ; 
But  then  for  her,  and  now  for  thee,  I  from 

myself  digress. 
Her  loved  I,  -svretch  that  I  am,  a  recreant  to 

be; 
I  loved  her,  that  hated  love ;  but  now  I  die  for 

thee. 
At  Kirkland  is  my  father's  court,  and  Curan 

is  my  name ; 
In  Edell's  court  sometimes  in  pomp,  till  love 

controll'd  the  same : 
But  now  ;  what  now  ?  dear  heart !  how  now  ? 

what  ailest  thou  to  weep  ?  ' 
(The  damsel  wept,  and  he  was  woe,  and  both 

did  silence  keep). 
'  I  grant,'  quoth  she,   '  it  was  too  much,  that 

you  did  love  so  much  ; 
But  whom  your  former  could  not  move,  your 

second  love  doth  touch. 
Thy  twice  beloved  Argentile  submitteth  her  to 

thee : 
And  for  thy  double  love  presents  herself  a 

single  fee ; 
In  passion,  not  in  person  chang'd,  and  I,  my 

lord,  am  she.' 
They  sweetly  surfeiting  in  joy,  and  silent  for 

a  space, 
Whereas  the   ecstasy  had  end,  did  tenderly 

embrace ! 
And  for  their  wedding,  and  their  wish,  got 

fitting  time  and  place. 

William  Warner. — About  1586. 


485.— SONNET. 

Muses,  that  sing  Love's  sensual  empiric. 
And  lovers  kindling  your  enraged  fires 
At  Cupid's  bonfires  burning  in  the  eye. 
Blown  with  the  empty  breath  of  vain  desires  ; 
You,  that  prefer  the  painted  cabinet 
Before  the  wealthy  jewels  it  doth  store  ye. 
That  all  your  joys  in  dying  figures  set, 
And  stain  the  living  substance  of  your  glory  ; 
Abjure  those  joys,  abhor  their  memory ; 
And  let  my  love  the  honour' d  subject  be 


Of  love  and  honour's  complete  history  ! 
Yonr  eyes  were  never  yet  let  in  too  see 
The  majesty  and  riches  of  the  mind, 
That  dweU  in  darkness;  for  your  god  is  blind. 

George  Chapman. — About  1595. 


486.— THEEE  IS  A  GAEDEN  IN  HER 

FACE. 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face. 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  grow ; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place. 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow ; 

There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  inclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row. 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  fiU'd  with  snow. 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  ciy. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still : 
Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 

Threat'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 

These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 

Tni  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Richard  Alison. — About  1606. 


487.— ABSTRACT  OF  MELANCHOLY. 

When  I  go  musing  all  alone. 
Thinking  of  divers  things  foreknown. 
When  I  build  castles  in  the  air. 
Void  of  sorrow,  void  of  fear. 
Pleasing  myself  with  phantasms  sweet, 
Methinks  the  time  runs  very  fleet. 

All  my  joys  to  this  are  folly  ; 

Nought  so  sweet  as  Melancholy. 

WTien  I  go  walking  all  alone, 
Recounting  what  I  have  ill-done, 
My  thoughts  on  me  then  tyrannize ; 
Fear  and  sorrow  me  surprise  ; 
Whether  I  tarry  still,  or  go, 
Methinks  the  time  moves  very  slow. 

All  my  griefs  to  this  are  jolly  ; 

Nought  so  sad  as  Melancholy. 

When  to  myself  I  act  and  smile. 
With  pleasing  thoughts  the  time  beguile, 
By  a  brook  side,  or  wood  so  green. 
Unheard,  unsought  for,  or  unseen  ; 
A  thousand  pleasures  do  me  bless. 
And  crown  my  soul  with  happiness. 

All  my  joys  besides  are  folly ; 

None  so  sweet  as  Melancholy. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


WOLSEY'S  AMBITION. 


[Thomas  Storer. 


Wlien  I  lie,  sit,  or  walk  alone, 

I  sigh,  I  grieve,  making  great  moan ; 

In  a  dark  grove,  or  irksome  den, 

With  discontents  and  furies  then, 

A  thousand  miseries  at  once 

My  heavy  heart  and  soul  ensconce. 

AH  my  griefs  to  this  are  jolly ; 

None  so  sour  as  Melancholy. 

Methinks  I  hear,  methinks  I  see, 
Sweet  music,  wondrous  melody ; 
Towns,  palaces,  and  cities  fine, 
Here  now,  then  the;:e  ;  the  world  is  mine ; 
Bare  beauties,  gallant  ladies  shine  ; 
Whate'er  is  lovely  is  divine. 

All  other  joys  to  this  are  folly ; 

None  so  sweet  as  Melancholy. 

Methinks  I  hear,  methinks  I  see, 
Ghosts,  goblins,  fiends  :  my  phantasie 
Presents  a  thousand  ugly  shapes — 
Headless  bears,  black  men,  and  apes ; 
Doleful  outcries  and  fearful  sights 
My  sad  and  dismal  soul  affrights. 

All  my  griefs  to  this  are  jolly  ; 

None  so  damned  as  Melancholy. 

Eohert  Burton.—Ahout  1621. 


488.— SONG. 

Else,  lady !  mistress,  rise  ! 

The  night  hath  tedious  been, 
No  sleep  hath  fallen  into  my  eyes, 

Nor  slumbers  made  me  sin  : 
Is  not  she  a  saint  then,  say, 
Thought  of  whom  keeps  sin  away  ? 

Eise,  madam !  rise,  and  give  me  light, 
Whom  darkness  stiU  will  cover, 

And  ignorance,  darker  than  night. 
Till  thou  smile  on  thy  lover  : 

All  want  day  till  thy  beauty  rise, 

For  the  gray  morn  breaks  from  tliine  eyes. 

Nathaniel  Field. — About  1618. 


489.— SONNETS. 

Some  men  delight  huge  buildings  to  behold, 
Some  theatres,  mountains,  floods,  and  famous 

springs, 
Some  monuments  of  monarchs,  and  such  things 
As  in  the  books  of  fame  have  been  enroll' d, 
Those  stately  towns  that  to  the  stars  were 

raised ; 
Some  would   thoii-  ruins  see    (their  beauty's 

gone), 


Of  which  the  world's  three  parts  each  boasts 

of  one : 
Though  none  of  those,  I  love  a  sight  as  rare, 
Even  her  that  o'er  my  life  as  queen  doth  sit ; 
Juno  in  majesty,  Pallas  in  wit. 
As  Phoebe  chaste,  than  Venus  fa^-more  fair ; 
And  though  her  looks  even  threaten  death  to 

me. 
Their  threat'nings  are  so  sweet  I  cannot  flee. 


I  chanced,  my  dear,  to  come  upon  a  day 
Whilst  thou  wast  but  arising  from  thy  bed. 
And  the  warm  snows,  with  comely  garments 

cled, 
More  rich  than  glorious,  and  more  fine  than 

gay. 

Then,  blushing  to  be  seen  in  such  a  case, 
O  how  thy  cui-led  locks  mine  ej'^es  did  please ; 
And  well  become  those  waves  thy  beauty's  seas. 
Which  by  thy  hairs  were  framed  upon  thy  face ; 
Such  was  Diana  once,  when  being  spied 
By  rash  Actreon,  she  was  much  commoved  : 
Yet,  more  discreet   than  th'   angry  goddess 

proved, 
Thou  knew'st  I  came  through  error,  not  of 

pride, 
And  thought  the  wounds  I  got  by  thy  sweet 

sight 
Were  too  great  scourges  for  a  fault  so  liglit. 


Awake,  my  muse,  and  leave  to  dream  of  loves. 
Shake  off  soft  fancy's  chains — I  must  be  free; 
I'll  perch  no  more  upon  the  myrtle  tree. 
Nor  glide  through  th'  air  with  beauty's  sacred 

doves ; 
But  with  Jove's  stately  bird  I'll  leave  my  nest, 
And  try  my  sight  against  Apollo's  rays. 
Then,    if    that    ought   my    vent'rous   course 

dismays, 
Upon  th'  olive's  boughs  I'll  light  and  rest; 
I'll  tune  my  accents  to  a  trumpet  now, 
And  seek  the  laurel  in  another  field. 
Thus  I  that  once  (as  Beauty's  moans  did  yield) 
Did  divers  garments  on  my  thoughts  bestow. 
Like  Icarus,  I  fear,  unwisely  bold, 
Am  purposed  other's  passions  now  t'  unfold. 

William  Alexander,  Earl  of  Sterlinc. — 
About  1630. 


490.— WOLSEY'S  AMBITION. 
#  *  #  * 

Y^et,    as    through    Tagus'    fair    transparent 

streams. 
The  wand' ring  merchant  sees  the  wealthy  gold, 
Or  like  in  Cynthia's  half -obscured  beams, 
Through  misty  clouds  and  vapours  manifold ; 
So  through  a  mirror  of  my  hoped-for  gain, 
I  saw  the  treasure  which  I  should  obtain. 

Thomas  Storer. — Aho^it  1595. 


Thomas  Stober.] 


WOLSEY'S  VISION. 


[Third  Period. — 


49i._WOLSEY'S  VISION. 

From  that  rich  valley,  where  the  angels  laid 

him, 
His  iinkno^via  sepulchre  in  Moab's  land, 
Moses,  that  Israel  led,  and  they  obey'd  him. 
In  glorious  view  before  my  face  did  stand, 
Bearing  the  folded  tables  in  his  hand, 
Wherein  the  doom  of  life,  and  death's  despair, 
By  God's  own  finger  was  engraven  there. 

Then  passing  forth,  a  joyful  troop  ensued 
Of  worthy  judges  and  triumphant  kings. 


In  chariot  framed  of  celestial  mould. 

And  simple  pureness  of  the  purest  sky, 

A  more  than  heavenly  nymph  I  did  behold, 

Who  glancing  on  me  with  her  gracious  eye, 

So  gave  me  leave  her  beauty  to  esjiy ; 

For  sure  no  sense  such  sight  can  comprehend, 

Except  her  beams  their  fair  reflection  lend. 

Her  beauty  with  Eternity  began. 

And  only  unto  God  was  ever  seen  ; 

When  Eden  was  possess' d  with  sinful  man. 

She  came  to  him  and  gladly  would  have  been 

The  long  succeeding  world's  eternal  Queen ; 

But  they  refused  her.  Oh,  heinous  deed  ! 

And  from  that  garden  banish' d  was  their  seed. 

Since  when,  at  sundry  times  in  sundry  ways, 
Atheism  and  blended  ignorance  conspire, 
How  to  obscure  those  holy  burning  rays. 
And  quench  that  zeal  of  heart — inflaming  fire 
That   makes   our   souls   to    heavenly   things 

aspire  ; 
But  all  in  vain,  for,  maugre  all  their  might, 
She  never  lost  one  sparkle  of  her  light. 

Thomas  Store;'. — About  1595. 


So  in  the  May-tide  of  his  summer  age 
Valour  enmoved  the  mind  of  vcnt'rous  Drake 
To  lay  his  life  with  mnds  and  waves  in  gage, 
And  bold  and  hard  adventures  t'  undertake, 
Leaving  his  country  for  his  country's  sake  ; 
Loathing  the  life  that  cowardice  doth  stain, 
Preferring   death,   if   death  might   honour 
gain. 
#  *  *  * 

Charles  Fitzgofrey.—Ahout  1596. 


492.— SIE  FEANCIS  DEAKE. 


Look  how  the  industrious  bee  in  fragrant  May, 
When  Flora  gilds  the  earth  with  golden  flowers, 
Inveloped  in  her  sweet  perfumed  array. 
Doth  leave  his  honey-limed  delicious  bower rJ, 
More   richly  wrought   than   prince's   stately 
towers, 
Waving  his  silken  wings  amid  the  air. 
And  to  the  verdant  gardens  makes  repair. 

First  falls  he  on  a  branch  of  sugar' d  thyme, 
Then  from  the  marygold  he  sucks  the  sweet, 
And  then  the  mint,   and  then  the  rose  doth 

climb, 
Then  on  the  budding  rosemary  doth  light, 
Till  with  sweet  treasure  having  charged  his 
feet, 
Late  in  the  evening  home  he  turns  again. 
Thus  profit  is  the  guerdon  of  his  pain. 


493.— TO  POSTEEITY. 

Daughter  of  Time,  sincere  Posterity, 
Always  new-born,  yet  no  man  knows  thy  birth, 
The  arbitress  of  pure  sincerity, 
Yet  changeable  (Like  Proteus)  on  the  earth. 
Sometime   in    plenty,    sometime    join'd   with 
dearth : 
Always  to  come,  yet  always  present  here. 
Whom  all  run  after,  none  come  after  near. 

Unpartial  judge  of  all,  save  present  state, 
Truth's  idioma  of  the  things  are  past, 
But  still  pursuing  present  things  with  hate. 
And  more  injurious  at  the  first  than  last, 
Preserving  others,  while  thine  own  do  waste  : 
True  treasurer  of  all  antiquity. 
Whom  all  desire,  yet  never  one  could  see. 

Charles  Fitzrjeffrey.— About  1600. 


494.— FANCY  AND   DESIEE. 

When  wert  thou  bom.  Desire  ?     In  pride  and 

pomp  of  May. 
By  whom,  sweet  boy,  wert  thou  begot  ?     By 

fond  conceit  men  say. 
Tell  me  who  was  thy  nurse  ?    Fresh  Youth,  in 

sugar' d  joy. 
I   What  was  thy  meat  and  daily  food  ?    Sad  sighs 

with  great  annoy. 

What  hadst  thou  then  to  drink  ?     Unsavoury 

lovers'  tears. 
What  cradle  wert  thou  rock'd  in?     In  hope 

devoid  of  fears. 
WTiat  luU'd  thee,  then,  asleep  ?  Sweet  sleep, 

which  likes  me  best. 
Tell  me  where  is  thy  dwelling-place  ?  In  gentle 

hearts  I  rest. 

What  thing  doth  please  thee  most  ?  To  ga^.e 

on  beauty  still. 
What  dost  thou  think  to  be  thy  foe  ?  Disdain 

of  my  good  will. 
Doth  company  displease?  Yes,  surely,  many 

one. 
Where  doth  Desire  delight  to  live  ?  He  loves 

to  live  alone. 


From  1558  to  1G49.J 


ROBEET,  DUKE  OF  NORMANDY. 


[RlCHAKD  NiCCOLS. 


Doth   either   Time   or   Age    bring  him  into 

decay  ? 
No,  no,  Desire  both  lives  and  dies  a  thousand 

times  a  day. 
Then,  fond  Desire,  farewell !  thou  art  no  mate 

for  me  : 
I  should,  methinks,  be  loth  to  dwell  with  such 

a  one  as  thee. 

Edward,  Earl  of  Oxford.— About  1600. 


495.— THE   WIFE. 
*  #  #  « 

Then  may  I  trust  her  body  with  her  mind, 
And,  thereupon  secure,  need  never  know 
The  pangs  of  jealousy  :  and  love  doth  find 
More  pain  to  doubt  her  false  than  find  her  so ; 
For  patience  is,  of  evils  that  are  knoAvn, 
The  certain  remedy ;  but  doubt  hath  none. 

And  be  that  thought  once  stirr'd,  'twill  never 

die, 
Nor  will  the  grief  more  mild  by  custom  prove, 
Nor  yet  amendment  can  it  satisfy ; 
The  anguish  more  or  less  is  as  our  love ; 
This  misery  doth  from  jealousy  ensue, 
That  we  may  prove  her  false,  but  cannot  true. 

^  *  #  * 

Give  me,  next  good,  an  understanding  wife, 
V>y  nature  wise,  not  learned  by  much  art ; 

I       Some  knowledge  on  her  part  will,  all  her  life, 

I       More  scope  of  conversation  impart ; 

!       Besides  her  inborn  \'irtue  fortify  ; 

1       They,  are  most  firmly  good  that  best  know  why. 

i       A  passive  understanding  to  conceive, 

j       And  judgment  to  discern,  I  wish  to  find  ; 

;       Beyond  that  all  as  hazardous  I  leave  ; 

Learning  and  pregnant  wit,  in  womankind, 
What  it  finds  malleable  (it)  makes  frail, 
And  doth  not  add  more  ballast,  but  more  sail. 

Books  are  a  part  of  man's  prerogative ; 
In  formal  ink  they  thoughts  and  voices  hold, 
That  we  to  them  our  solitude  may  give. 
And  make  time  present  travel  that  of  old ; 
Our  life  fame  pieceth  longer  at  the  end, 
And  books  it  farther  backward  do  extend. 


So  fair  at  least  let  me  imagine  her  ; 
That  thought  to  me  is  truth.     Opinion 
Cannot  in  matters  of  opinion  err ; 
And  as  my  fancy  her  conceives  to  be, 
Ev'n  such  my  senses  both  do  feel  and  see. 

*  #  #  * 

Beauty  in  decent  shape  and  colour  lies ; 
Colours  the  matter  are,  and  shape  the  soul ; 
Tlie  sotd — which  from  no  single  part  doth  rise, 
But  from  the  just  proportion  of  the  whole ; — 
And  is  a  mere  spiritual  harmony 
Of  every  part  united  in  the  eye. 


No  circumstance   doth  beauty  fortify 
Like  graceful  fashion,  native  comeliness ; 
*  #  *  * 

But  lot  that  fashion  more  to  modesty 
Tend  than  assurance — Modesty  doth  set 
The  face  in  her  just  place,  from  passion  free ; 
'Tis  both  the  mind's  and  body's  beauty  met. 

All  these  good  parts  a  perfect  woman  make  ; 
Add  love  to  me,  they  make  a  perfect  wife ; 
Without  her  love,  her  beauty  I  should  take 
As  that  of  pictures  dead — tliat  gives  it  life ; 
Till  then  her  beauty,  like  the  sun,  doth  shine 
Alike  to  all ; — that  only  makes  it  mine. 

Sir  Thomas  Overhury. — About  1610. 


496.— ROBERT,  DUKE  OF  NORMANDY, 
PREVIOUSLY  TO  HIS  EYES  BEING 
PUT  OUT. 

As  bird  in  cage  debarr'd  the  use  of  wings, 
Her  captived  life  as  nature's  chief  est  -wrong, 
In  doleful  ditty  sadly  sits  and  sings 
And  mourns  her  thralled  liberty  so  long. 
Till  breath  bo  spent  in  many  a  sitful  song  : 
So  here  captived  I  many  days  did  spend 
In  sorrow's  plaint,  till  death  my  days  did 
end. 

Where  as  prisoner  though  I  did  remain ; 

Yet  did  my  brother  grant  this  liberty, 

To    quell    the    common    speech,    which    did 

complain 
On  my  distress,  and  on  his  tyrann}"-,   • 
That  in  his  parks  and  forests  joining  by. 
When  I  did  plcarso  I  to  and  fro  might  go, 
Which  in  the  end,  was  cause  of  all  my  woe. 

For  on  a  time,  when  as  Aurora  bright 
Began  to  scale  heaven's  steepy  battlement. 
And  to  the  world  disclose  her  cheerful  lighfc. 
As  was  my  wont,  I  with  my  keeper  went 
To  put  away  my  sorrow's  discontent : 
Thereby  to  ease  me  of  my  captive  care, 
And  solace  my  sad  thoughts  in  th'  open  air. 

Wand' ring  through  forest  wide,  at  length  wo 

gain 
A   steep    cloud-kissing    rock,    wdiose   horned 

crown 
With  proud  imperial  look  beholds  the  main, 
"^-Vhero  Severn's  dangerous  waves  run  rolling 
!  down, 

j   From  th'  Holmes  into  the  seas,  by  Cardiff  town, 
i       Whose  qiiick-devouring  sands  so  dangerous 
been 
To  those  that  wander  Amphitrite's  gTeen  : 

As  there  we  stood,  the  country  round  we  eyed 
To  view  the  workmanship  of  nature's  hand, 
There  stood  a  mountain,  from  whose  weeping 

side 
A  brook  breaks  forth  into  the  low-lying  land. 
Here  lies  a  plain,  and  there  a  wood  doth  stand. 
Here  pastures,  meads,  corn-fields,  a  vale  do 

crown, 
A  castle  here  shoots  up,  and  there  a  town. 


John  Dowland.] 


SLEEP. 


Thiiid  Period. 


Hero  one  mtli  angle  o'er  a  silver  stream 
With  baneful  tait  the  nibbling  fish  doth  feed; 
There  in  a  plough' d  land  with  his  painful  team, 
The  ploughman  sweats,  in  hope  for  labour's 

meed: 
#  *  *  * 

Here  sits  a  goatherd  on  a  craggy  rock, 
And  there  in  shade  a  shepherd  with  his  flock. 

The  sweet  delight  of  such  a  rare  prospect 
Might  jdeld  content  uixto  a  careful  eye  ; 
Yet  down  the  rock  descending  in  neglect 
Of  such  delight,  the  sun  now  mounting  high, 
I  sought  the  shade  in  vale,  which  low  did  lie. 
Where  we  reposed  us  on  a  green-wood  side, 
A' front  the  which  a  silver  stream  did  glide. 

There  dwelt  sweet  Philomel,  who  never  more 
May  bide  the  abode  of  man's  society. 
Lest  that  some  sterner  Tereus  than  before, 
Who  cropt  the  flower  of  her  virginity, 
'Gainst  her  should  plot  some  second  villany  ; 

Whose  doeful  tunes  to  mind  did  cause  me 
call 

The  woful  story  of  her  former  fall. 

The  redbreast  who  in  bush  fast  by  did  stand 
As  partner  of  her  woes,  his  part  did  ply, 
For  that  the  gifts,  with  which  Autumnus'  hand 
Had  graced  the  earth,  by  winter's  v.Tath  should 

die. 
From  whose  cold  cheeks  bleak  blasts  began  to 

"Which  made  me   think  upon  my  summer 

past 
And  winter's  woes,  which  all  my  life  should 

last. 

My  keeper,  with  compassion  moved  to  see 
How  grief's  impulsions  in  my  breast  did  beat, 
Thus  silence  broke :  "  Would  God  (my  Lord)," 

quoth  he, 
"  This  pleasant  land,  which  nature's  hand  hath 

set 
Before  your  eyes,  might  cause  you  to  forget 
Your  discontent,  the  object  of  the  eye 
Oftimes  gives  ease  to  woes  which  inward  lie. 

"  Behold  upon  that  mountain's  top  so  steep, 
Which  seems  to  pierce  the  clouds  and  kiss  the 

sky. 
How  the  grey  shepherd  drives  his  flock  of  sheep 
Down  to  the  vale,  and  how  on  rocks  fast  by 
The  goats  frisk  to  and  fro  for  jollity  ; 

Give  ear  likewise  unto  these  birds'  sweet 

songs. 
And  let  them   cause   you   to  forget  your 
wrongs." 

To  this  I  made  reply :  "  Fond  man,"  said  I, 
"What  under  heaven  can  slack  th'  increasing 

woe, 
Which  in  my  grieved  heart  doth  hidden  lie  ? 
Of  choice  delight  what  object  canst  thou  show. 
But  from  the  sight  of  it  fresh  grief  doth 

grow? 
What  thou  didst  whilome  point  at  to  behold, 
The  same  the  sum  of  soitow  doth  enfold. 


"  That  grey-coat  shepherd,  whom  from  far  we 

see, 
I  liken  unto  thee,  and  those  his  sheep 
Unto  my  wretched  self  compared  may  be : 
And  though  that  careful  pastor  will  not  sleep, 
Vv^hen   he    from    ravenous   wolves    his   flock 
should  keep ; 
Yet  here  alas  !  in  thrall  thou  keepest  me, 
Untn  that  wolf,  my  brother,  hungry  be. 

"  Those  shag-hair' d  goats  upon  the  craggy  hill, 
Which  thou  didst  show,  see  how  they  frisk 

and  play. 
And  everywhere  do  run  about  at  will : 
Yea,  when  the  lion  marks  them  for  his  prey, 
Tliey  over  liiUs  and  rocks  can  fly  away  : 
But  when  that  lion  fell  shall  follow  me 
To  shed  my  blood,  O  whither  shall  I   flee  ? 

"  Those  sweet-voiced  birds,  whose  airs  thou 

dost  commend. 
To  which  the  echoing  woods  return  replj^ 
Though  thee   they  please,   yet   me  they  do 

offend : 
For  when  I  see  how  they  do  mount  on  high 
Waving  their  outstretch' d  wings  at  liberty, 
Then  do  I  think  how  bird-like  in  a  cage 
My  life  I  lead,  and  grief  can  never  suage." 

Richard  Niccols. — About  1610. 


497.— SLEEP. 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains, 

Wliat  need  you  flow  so  fast  ? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 
Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste, 
But  my  sun's  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping, 
That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleeping. 

Sleep  is  a  reconciling — 

A  rest  that  peace  begets  ; 
Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling, 
When  fair  at  even  he  sets  ? 
Best  you  then,  rest,  sad  eyes. 
Melt  not  in  weeping, 
While  she  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleeping. 

John  Doivland. — About  1600. 


498.— PSALM  XXX. 

I. 

Lord,  to  Thee,  while  I  am  living. 

Will  I  sing  hymns  of  thanksgiving ; 

For  thou  hast  drawn  me  from  a  gulf  of  woes. 

So  that  my  foes 

Do  not  deride  me. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


PSALM  XXllI. 


'bancis  Davison. 


When  Thine  aid,  Lord,  I  implored, 
Then  by  Thee  was  I  restored, 
My  mournful  heart  with  joy   Thou   straight 
didst  fiU, 

So  that  none  iU 
Doth  now  betide  me. 

III. 
My  soul,  grievously  distressed, 
And  with  death  well-nigh  oppressed, 
From    death's  devouring  jaws.   Lord,  Thou 
didst  save, 

And  from  the  grave 
My  soul  deliver. 

IV. 

O,  all  ye  that  e'er  had  savor 
Of  God's  everlasting  favor, 
Come  !  come  and  help  me  grateful  praises  sing 

To  the  world's  Iving, 

And  my  life's  giver. 


For  His  anger  never  lasteth, 

And  His  favor  never  wasteth  ; 
Though  sadness  be  thy  guest  in  sullen  night, 
The  cheerful  light 
Will  cheerful  make  thee. 

VI. 

Lull'd  asleep  with  charming  pleasures, 
And  base,  earthly,  fading  treasures, 
Eest,  peaceful  soul,  said  I,  in  happy  state, 
No  storms  of  fate 
Shall  ever  shake  thee ! 


For  Jehovah's  grace  unbounded, 
Hath  my  greatness  surely  founded ; 
And  hath  my  state  as  strongly  fortified, 
On  every  side. 
As  rocky  mountains. 


But  away  His  face  God  turned, 
I  was  troubled  then  and  mourned ; 
Then  thus  I  pour'd  forth  prayers  and  doleful 

cries, 


With  weepmg  eyes. 
Like  watery  fountains. 


In  my  blood  there  is  np  profit ; 
If  I  die,  what  good  comes  of  it  ? 
Shall  rotten  bones  or  senseless  dust  express 
Thy  thankfulness, 
And  works  of  wonder  ? 


O  then  hear  me,  prayers  forthpouring, 
Drowned  in  tears,  from  moist  eyes  shower- 
ing; 
Have  mercy,  Lord,  on  mc,  my  burden  ease, 
If  Thee  it  please, 
Wliich  I  groan  under  ! 


XI. 

Thus  pray'd  I,  and  God,  soon  after. 
Changed  my  mourning  into  laughter ; 
Mine  ashy  sackcloth,  mark  of  mine  annoy. 
To  robes  of  joy 
Eftsoons  He  turned.  

XII. 

Therefore,  harp  and  voice,  cease  never. 
But  sing  sacred  lays  for  ever 
To  great  Jehovah,  mounted  on  the  skies, 
Who  dried  mine  eyes 
When  as  I  mourned, 
Francis  Davison. — About  IGIO. 


499. 


-PSALM  XXIII. 
I. 


God, 


who  the  universe  doth  hold 

In  his  fold, 
Is  my  shepherd,  kind  and  heedful, 
Is  my  shepherd,  and  doth  keep 

Me,  His  sheep. 
Still  supplied  with  all  things  needful. 


Ho  feeds  me  in  his  fields,  which  been 

Fresh  and  green. 
Mottled  with  Spring's  flowery  painting, 
Through  which   creep,  with   murmuring 
crooks, 

Crystal  brooks. 
To  refresh  my  spirit's  fainting. 

III. 
When  my  soul  from  Heaven's  way 

Went  astray, 
With  earth's  vanities  seduced, 
For  His  name's  sake,  kindly,  He 

Wandering  me 
To  His  holy  fold  reduced. 

IV. 

Yea,  though  I  stray  through  death's  vale. 

Where  his  pale 
Shades  did  on  each  side  enfold  me, 
Dreadless,  having  Thee  for  g-uide. 

Should  I  bide ; 
For  Thy  rod  and  staff  uphold  me. 


Thou  my  hoard  with  messes  large 

Dost  surcharge  ; 
My  bowls  full  of  wine  Thou  pourest 
And  Taefore  mine  enemies' 

Envious  eyes 
Balm  upon  my  head  Thou  showerest. 

VI. 

Neither  dures  Thy  bounteous  grace 

For  a  space  ; 
But  it  knows  nor  bound  nor  measure  : 
So  toy  days,  to  ray  life's  end, 

I  shaU  spend 
In  Thy  courts  with  heavenly  pleasure. 

FroMcis  Davison. — About  1602. 


Pkancis  Davison.] 


PSALM  xin. 


[Third  Peeiob. — 


500.— PSALM  XIII. 
I. 
Lord,  how  long,  how  long  wilt  Thou 
Quite  forget  and  quite  neglect  me  ? 
How  long,  with  a  frowning  brow, 
Wilt  Thou  from  Thy  sight  reject  me  ? 

II. 
How  long  shall  I  seek  a  way 
Forth  this  maze  of  thoughts  perplexed. 
Where  my  grieved  mind,  night  and  day, 
Is  with  thinking  tired  and  vexed  ? 
How  long  shall  my  scornful  foe, 
On  my  fall  his  greatness  placing, 
Build  upon  my  overthrow, 
And  be  graced  by  my  disgracing  ? 


Hoar,  O  Lord  and  God,  my  cries  ! 
Mark  my  foes'  unjust  abusing, 
And  illuminate  mine  eyes. 
Heavenly  beams  in  them  infusing ; 
Lest  my  wees,  too  great  to  bear, 
And  too  infinite  to  number, 
Rock  me  soon,  'twixt  hope  and  fear, 
Into  death's  eternal  slumber. 


Lest  my  foes  their  boasting  make. 
Spite  of  right,  on  him  we  trample  ; 
And  a  pride  in  mischief  take, 
Hastened  by  my  sad  example. 


As  for  me,  111  ride  secure 
At  Thy  mercy's  sacred  anchor  ; 
And,  undaunted,  ^vill  endure 
Fiercest  storms  of  wrong  and  rancour. 


These  black  clouds  will  overblow. 
Sunshine  shall  have  his  returning ; 
And  my  grief-dull'd  heart,  I  knoAV, 
Into  mirth  shall  change  his  moiUTiing. 
Therefore  I'll  rejoice  and  sing 
Hymns  to  God  in  sacred  measure, 
Who  to  happy  pass  will  bring 
My  just  hopes  at  His  good  pleasure. 

Francis  Davison. — About  1610. 


Like  to  the  grass  that  's  newly  sprung, 
Or  like  a  tale  that's  new  begun, 
Or  like  the  bird  that's  here  to-day, 
Or  like  the  pearled  dev^  of  May, 
Or  like  an  hour,  or  like  a  span, 
Or  lilce  the  singing  of  a  swan — 
E'en  such  is  man,  who  lives  by  breath. 
Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death. 
The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended, 
The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew's  ascended. 
The  hour  is  short,  the  span  is  long. 
The  swan's  near  death — man's  life  is  done  ! 

Simon  Wastcll.—Aho^lt  1610. 


501. —MAN'S  MORTALITY. 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see, 
Or  like  the  blossom  on  the  tree. 
Or  like  the  dainty  flower  in  May, 
Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day, 
Or  like  the  sun,  or  like  the  shade. 
Or  like  the  gourd  which  Jonas  had — 
E'en  such  is  man,  whose  thread  is  spun, 
Drawn  out,  and  cut,  and  so  is  done  ! 
The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  blasteth, 
The  flower  fades,  the  morning  hasteth. 
The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flies. 
The  goiu'd  consumes — and  man  ho  dies  I 


502.— SAD]!^ESS. 

The  gentle  season  of  the  year 

Hath  made  my  blooming  branch  appear. 

And  beautified  the  land  with  flowers  ; 

The  air  doth  savour  with  delight, 

Tlie  heavens  do  smile  to  see  the  sight. 

And  yet  mine  eyes  augment  their  showers. 

The  meads  are  mantled  all  with  greon. 
The  trembling  leaves  hath  clothed  the  treen, 
The  birds  with  feathers  new  do  sing ; 
But  I,  j)oor  soul,  whom  wrong  doth  rack, 
Attire  myself  in  mourning  black. 
Whose  leaf  doth  fall  amidst  his  spring. 

And  as  you  sec  the  scarlet  rose 
In  his  sweet  prime  his  buds  disclose, 
Whose  hue  is  with  the  sun  revived : 
So,  in  the  April  of  mine  age. 
My  lively  colours  do  assuage, 
Because  my  sunshine  is  deprived. 

My  heart,  that  wonted  was  of  yore. 

Light  as  the  winds,  abroad  to  soar 

Amongst  the  buds,  when  beauty  springs. 

Now  only  hovers  over  you, 

As  doth  the  bird  that's  taken  new. 

And  mourns  when  all  her  neighbours  sings. 

Wlion  every  man  is  bent  to  sport 

Then,  pensive,  I  alone  resort 

Into  some  solitary  walk, 

As  doth  the  doleful  turtle-dove, 

Who,  having  lost  her  faithful  love, 

Sits  mourning  on  some  wither' d  stalk. 

There  to  myself  I  do  roconnt 
How  far  my  -svoes  my  joys  surmount. 
How  love  rcquiteth  me  with  hate, 
How  all  my  pleasures  end  in  pain. 
How  hate  doth  say  my  hope  is  vain. 
How  fortune  frowns  upon  my  state. 

And  in  this  mood,  charged  with  despair. 
With  vapour' d  sighs  I  dim  the  air. 
And  to  the  Gods  make  this  request. 
That  by  the  ending  of  my  life, 
I  may  have  truce  with  this  strange  strife. 
And  bring  my  soul  to  better  rest. 

Uncertain. — About  1503. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  WOODMAN'S  WALK. 


[Uncertain. 


503.— THE   SOUL'S   EEEAND. 

Oo,  Soul,  the  body's  guest, 
Upon  a  thankless  errand. 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best, 
The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant ; 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  Court  it  glows, 
And  shines  like  rotten  wood ; 
Go,  tell  the  Church  it  shows 
What's  good  and  doth  no  good : 
If  Church  and  Court  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates  they  live, 

Acting  by  others'  actions, 

Not  loved,  unless  they  give, 

Not  strong  but  by  their  factions  ; 

If  potentates  reply, 

Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 
That  rule  affairs  of  state, 
Their  purpose  is  ambition, 
Their  practice  only  hate  ; 
And  if  they  once  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most, 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who  in  their  greatest  cost. 
Seek  nothing  but  commending ; 
And  if  they  make  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  Zeal  it  lacks  devotion, 
Tell  Love  it  is  but  lust, 
Tell  Time  it  is  but  motion. 
Tell  Flesh  it  is  but  dust ; 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  Age  it  daily  v,^asteth, 
Tell  Honour  how  it  alters, 
Tell  Beauty  how  she  blasteth, 
Tell  Favour  hoAV  she  falters  ; 
And  as  they  shall  reply. 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  Wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  treble  points  of  niceuess, 
Tell  Wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  ovcrwiseness  ; 
And  when  they  do  reply, 
Straight  give,  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  Physic  of  her  boldness, 
Tell  Skill  it  is  pretension 
Tell  Charity  of  coldness, 
Tell  Law  it  is  contention  ; 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  Fortune  of  her  blindness, 

Tell  Nature  of  decay, 

Tell  Friendship  of  unkindness, 

Tell  Justice  of  delay  ; 

And  if  they  wiU  reply. 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 


Tell  Arts  they  have  no  soundness. 

But  vary  by  esteeming, 

Tell  Schools  they  want  profoundness, 

And  stand  too  much  on  seeming ; 

If  Arts  and  Schools  reply. 

Give  Arts  and  Schools  the  lie. 

Tell  Faith  it's  fled  the  city,       -     - 
Tell  how  the  country  erreth, 
Tell  manhood  shakes  cff  pity. 
Tell  Virtue  least  pref  erreth  ; 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

And  when  thou  hast,  as  I 
Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing. 
Although  to  give  the  lie, 
Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing ; 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kiU. 

Uncertarii. — About  1593. 


504.— CONTENT. 

There  is  a  jewel  which  no  Indian  mine  can  buy, 
No  chemic  art  can  counterfeit ; 
It  makes  men  rich  in  greatest  poverty. 
Makes  water  wine,  turns  wooden  cups  to  gold. 
The  homely  whistle  to  sweet  music's  strain; 
Seldom  it  comes,  to  few  from  heaven  sent. 
That  much  in  little — all  in  nought — Content. 
Uncertain. — About  1598. 


505.— THE  WOODMAN'S  Wi'iXK. 

Through  a  fair  forest  as  I  went, 

Upon  a  summer's  day, 
I  mot  a  woodman,  quaint  and  gent. 

Yet  in  a  strange  array. 

I  marvell'd  much  at  his  disguise, 

Whom  I  did  know  so  well : 
But  thus,  in  terms  both  gi-ave  and  wise. 

His  mind  he  'gan  to  tell ; 

Friend !  muse  not  at  this  fond  array. 

But  list  a  while  to  me  : 
For  it  hath  holpe  me  to  survey 

What  I  shall  show  to  thee. 

Long  lived  I  in  this  forest  fair, 

Till,  weary  of  my  weal, 
Abroad  in  walks  I  would  repair. 

As  now  I  will  reveal. 

My  first  day's  walk  was  to  the  court. 

Where  beauty  fed  mine  eyes ; 
Yet  found  I  that  the  courtly  sport 

Did  mask  in  sly  disguise  : 

For  falsehood  sat  in  fairest  looks. 

And  friend  to  friend  was  coy  : 
Court  favour  fill'd  but  empty  rooks, 

And  then  I  found  no  joy. 

Desert  went  naked  in  the  cold. 
When  crouching  craft  was  fed  : 

Sweet  words  were  cheaply  bought  and  sold, 
But  none  that  stood  in  stead. 


XIncertain.] 


CANZONET. 


[Third  Period.' 


Wit  was  employed  for  eaeli  man's  o-sm  ; 

Plain  meaning  came  too  short ; 
All  these  devices,  seen  and  known, 

Made  me  forsake  the  cotu't. 

Unto  the  city  next  I  went, 

In  hope  of  better  hap  ; 
■\Vliere  liberally  I  launcht  and  spent. 

As  set  on  Fortune's  lap. 

The  little  stock  I  had  in  store, 
Methought  would  ne'er  be  done  ; 

Friends  flock' d  about  me  more  and  more, 
As  quickly  lost  as  won. 

For,  when  I  spent,  then  they  were  kind ; 

Btit  when  my  purse  did  fail. 
The  foremost  man  came  last  behind : 

Thus  love  with  wealth  doth  quail. 

Once  more  for  footing  yet  I  strove, 
Although  the  world  did  frown  : 

But  they,  before  that  held  me  up, 
Together  trod  nie  down. 

And,  lest  once  more  I  should  arise, 
They  sought  my  quite  decay : 

Then  got  I  into  this  disguise. 
And  thence  I  stole  away. 

And  in  my  mind  (methought)  I  said, 

Lord  bless  me  from  the  city  : 
Where  simpleness  is  thus  betray'd 

Without  remorse  or  pity. 

Yet  would  I  not  give  over  so. 

But  once  more  try  my  fate  ; 
And  to  the  country  then  I  go, 

To  live  in  quiet  state. 

There  did  appear  no  subtle  shows, 
But  yea  and  nay  went  smoothly  : 

But,  lord  !  how  coiintry  folks  can  gloze, 
When  they  speak  most  untruly  ! 

More  craft  was  in  a  buttoned  cap, 

And  in  an  old  ^vife's  rail, 
Than  in  my  life  it  was  my  hap 

To  see  on  down  or  dale. 

There  was, no  open  forgery 

But  underhanded  gleaning. 
Which  they  call  country  policy, 

But  hath  a  worser  meaning. 

Some  good  bold  face  bears  out  the  wrong, 

Because  he  gains  thereby ; 
The  poor  man's  back  is  crack'd  ere  long. 

Yet  there  he  lets  him  lie. 

And  no  degree,  among  them  all. 
But  had  such  close  intending, 

That  I  upon  my  knees  did  fall, 
And  pray'd  for  th-eir  amending. 

Back  to  the  woods  I  got  again. 

In  mind  perplexed  sore ; 
Where  I  found  ease  of  all  my  pain. 

And  moan  to  fstray  no  more. 


Th  ere  city,  court,  nor  country  too, 

Can  any  way  annoy  mo  ; 
But  as  a  woodman  ought  to  do, 
I  freely  may  employ  me  ; 

There  live  I  quietly  alone, 

And  none  to  trip  my  talk  : 
Wherefore,  when  I  am  dead  and  gone, 

Think  on  the  woodman's  walk  ! 

UnceHain. — Aboztt  1600. 


506.— CA^nZO^^ET. 

The  golden  sun  that  brings  the  day, 
And  lends  men  light  to  see  withal, 
In  vain  doth  cast  his  beams  away, 
When  they  are  blind  on  whom  they  fall ; 
There  is  no  force  in  all  his  light 
To  give  the  mole  a  perfect  sight. 

But  thou,  my  sun,  more  brig-ht  than  he 
That  shines  at  noon  in  summer  tide. 
Hast  given  me  light  and  power  to  see 
With  perfect  skill  my  sight  to  giude ; 
Till  now  I  lived  as  blind  as  mole 
That  hides  her  head  in  earthly  hole. 

I  heard  the  praise  of  Beauty's  grace, 
Yet  deem'd  it  nought  but  poet's  skill ; 
I  gazed  on  many  a  lovely  face, 
Yet  found  I  none  to  bend  my  will ; 
Which  made  me  think  that  beauty  bright 
Was  nothing  else  but  red  and  white. 

But  now  thy  beams  have  clear' d  my  sight, 
I  blush  to  think  I  was  so  blind, 
Thy  flaming  eyes  afford  me  light. 
That  beauty's  blaze  each  where  I  find  ; 
And  yet  those  dames  that  shine  so  bright. 
Are  but  the  shadows  of  thy  light. 

JJnceHain. — Abcnit  1G08. 


507.— THE  OXFOED  EIDDLE. 

There  dwells  a  people  on  the  earth, 
That  reckons  true  allegiance  treason. 
That  makes  sad  war  a  holy  mirtli, 
Calls  madness  zeal,  and  nonsense  reason  ; 
That  finds  no  freedom  but  in  slavery, 
That  makes  lies  truth,  religion  knavery. 
That  rob  and  cheat  with  yea  and  nay  : 
Riddle  me,  riddle  me,  who  are  they  ? 

They  hate  the  flesh,  yet  kiss  their  dames. 
That  make  kings  great  by  curbing  crowns, 
That  quench  the  fire  by  kindling  flames, 
That  settle  peace  by  plund'ring  towns. 
That  govern  with  implicit  votes. 
That  'stablish  truth  by  cutting  throats, 
That  kiss  their  master  and  }j9tray  : 
Riddle  me,  riddle  mo,  who  are  th'^y  ? 


From  1558  to  1849.] 


EOBIN  GOODFELLOW. 


[Anonymous. 


That  make  Heaven  speak  by  their  com- 
mission, 
That  stop  God's  peace,  and  boast  his  power, 
That  teach  bold  blasphemy  and  sedition, 
And  pray  high  treason  by  the  hour, 
That  damn  all  saints  but  such  as  they  are, 
That  wish  all  common  except  prayer, 
That  idolize  Pym,  Brooks,  and  Say : 
Eiddle  me,  riddle  me,  who  are  they  ? 

That  to  enrich  the  commonwealth, 
Transport  large  gold  to  foreign  parts ; 
That  house't  in  Amsterdam  by  stealth. 
Yet  lord  it  here  within  our  gates ; 
That  are  staid  men,  yet  only  stay 
For  a  light  night  to  run  away  ; 

That  borrow  to  lend,  and  rob  to  pay : 
Eiddle  me,  riddle  me,  who  are  they  ? 

Uncertain. — About  1643. 


508.— AMBITIO  FEMININI  GENEEIS. 

Mistress  Matrossa  hopes  to  be  a  lady, 
Not  as  a  dignity  of  late  expected  ; 
But  from  the  time  almost  she  was  a  baby, 
That  hath  your  richest  gentlemen  rejected ; 
But  yet  not  dubb'd  at  present  as  she  should  be, 
Lives  in  expectance  still — my  Lady  Would-be. 

Uncertain. — About  1613. 


509.— NEC  SUTOE  ULTEA. 

A  cobbler  and  a  curate  once  disputed. 
Before  a  judge,  about  the  king's  injunctipns. 
Wherein  the  curate  being  still  confuted. 
One   said  'twere   good  if  they  two  changed 

functions : 
Nay,  quoth  the  judge,  I  thereto  would  be  loth, 
But,  an  you  like,  we'll  make  them  cobblers 

both. 

Uncertain. — About  1613. 


510. 


-EOBIN  GOODFELLOW. 


From  Oberon,  in  fairy  land, 

The  king  of  ghosts  and  shadows  there, 
Mad  Eobin  I,  at  his  command. 

Am  sent  to  view  the  night-sports  here. 
What  revel  rout 
Is  kept  about. 
In  every  corner  where  I  go, 
I  will  o'ersee. 
And  merry  be. 
And  make  good  sport,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


More  swift  than  lightning  can  I  fly 

About  this  airy  welkin  soon. 
And,  in  a  minute's  space,  descry 

Each  thing  that's  done  below  the  moon. 

There's  not  a  hag 

Or  ghost  shall  wag. 
Or  cry,  'ware  goblins !  where  I  goT    ~ 

But  Eobin  I 

Their  feasts  will  spy. 
And  send  them  home  Avith  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Whene'er  such  wanderers  I  meet. 

As   from    their    night-sports   they   trudge 
home, 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greet. 
And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roam  : 
Through  woods,  through  lakes  ; 
Through  bogs,  through  brakes ; 
Or  else,  unseen,  with  them  I  go. 
All  in  the  nick, 
To  play  some  trick, 
And  frolic  it,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Sometimes  I  meet  them  like  a  man. 

Sometimes  an  ox,  sometimes  a  hound ; 
And  to  a  horse  I  turn  me  can, 

To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round. 

But  if  to  ride 

My  back  they  stride. 
More  swift  than  wind  away  I  go, 

O'er  hedge  and  lands. 

Through  pools  and  ponds, 
I  hurry,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  lads  and  lasses  merry  be. 

With  possets  and  with  junkets  fine ; 
Unseen  of  all  the  company, 

I  eat  their  cakes  and  sip  their  wine  ! 

And,  to  make  sport, 

I  puff  and  snort : 
And  out  the  candles  I  do  blow  : 

The  maids  I  kiss, 

They  shriek— Who's  this  ? 
I  answer  nought  but  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Yet  now  and  then,  the  maids  to  please, 

At  midnight  I  card  up  their  wool ; 
And,  while  they  sleep  and  take  their  ease. 
With  wheel  to  threads  their  flax  I  puU. 

I  grind  at  mill 

Their  malt  up  still ; 
I  dress  their  hemp ;  I  spin  their  tow ; 

If  any  wake. 

And  would  me  take, 
I  wend  me,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

When  any  need  to  borrow  aught, 

We  lend  them  what  they  do  require  : 
And,  for  the  use  demand  we  nought ; 
Our  own  is  all  we  do  desire. 

If  to  repay 

They  do  delay, 
Abroad  amongst  them  then  I  go, 

And  night  by  night, 

I  them  afiright, 
AVith  pinchings,  dreams,  and  ho,  ho.  ho ! 


Anonymous.] 


THE  OLD  AND  YOUNG  COURTIER. 


[Third  Period. — 


When  lazy  queans  have  nought  to  do, 

But  study  how  to  cog-  and  lie  ; 

To  make  debate  and  mischief  too, 

'Twixt  one  another  secretly  : 

I  mark  their  gloze. 

And  it  disclose 
To  them  whom  they  have  wronged  so : 

When  I  have  done 

I  get  me  gone, 
And  leave  them  scolding,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  men  do  traps  and  engines  set 

In  loop-holes,  where  the  vermin  creep, 
Who  from  their  folds  and  houses  get 

Their  ducks  and  geese,  and  lambs  and  sheep ; 

I  spy  the  gin. 

And  enter  in, 
And  seem  a  vermin  taken  so  ; 

But  when  they  there 

Approach  me  near, 
I  leap  out  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

By  wells  and  rills,  in  meadows  green. 

We  nightly  dance  our  heyday  guise  ; 
And  to  our  fairy  king  and  queen, 

We  chant  our  moonlight  minstrelsies. 

When  larks  'gin  sing, 

Away  we  fling ; 
And  babes  new  born  steal  as  we  go ; 

And  elf  in  bed 

We  leave  in  stead, 
And  wend  us  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin's  time,  have  I 
Thus  nightly  revelled  to  and  fro  ; 
And  for  my  pranks  men  call  me  by 
The  name  of  Robin  Good-fellow. 

Fiends,  ghosts,  and  sprites, 

Who  haunt  the  nights, 
The  hags  and  goblins  do  me  know ; 

And  beldames  old 

My  feats  have  told, 
So  vale,  vale  ;  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Anonymous. — Before  1G49. 


511.— THj:  OLD  AND  YOUNG  COURTIER. 

An  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 

Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman,  who  had  a 

groat  estate, 
That  kept  abravo  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate. 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's, 

And  the  queen's  old  courtier. 

With  an   old  lady,   whose   anger   one   word 

assuages  ; 
They  every  quarter  paid  their  old  servants 

their  wages, 
And  never  knew  what  belong'd  to  coachmen, 

footmen,  nor  pages, 
But  kept  twenty  old  follows  with  blue  coats 

and  badges ; 

Like  an  old  courtier,  &o. 


AVith  an  old  study  fiU'd  full  of  learned  old 

books, 
With  an   old  reverend  chaplain,   you  might 

know  him  by  his  looks. 
With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  off  the 

hooks. 
And  an  old  kitchen,  that  maintain" d  half  a 

dozen  old  cooks  ; 

Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

With  an  old  hall,-  hung  about  with  jiikes,  guns, 

and  bows, 
With  old  swords  and  bucklers,  that  had  borne 

many  shrewd  blows, 
And  an  old  frieze  coat,  to  cover  his  worship's 

trunk  hose, 
And  a  cuid  of  old  sherry,  to  comfort  his  copper 

nose ; 

Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  good  old  fashion,  when  Christmas  v.'as 

come, 
To  call  in  all  his  old  neighbours  ^^ith  bagpipe 

and  drum, 
With  good  cheer  enough  to  furnish  every  old 

room. 
And  old  liquor  able  to  make  a  cat  speak,  and 

man  dumb  ; 

Like  an  old  courtier,  &c. 

With  an  old  falconer,  huntsman,  and  a  kennel 

of  hounds, 
That  never  hav/k'd,  nor  hunted,  but  in  his  own 

grounds ; 
Who,  like  a  wise  man,  kept  himself  mthin  his 

own  bounds. 
And  when  he  died,  gave  every  child  a  thousand 

good  pounds  ; 

Like  an  old  coTirtier,  &c. 

But  to  his  eldest  son  his  house  and  lands  ho 

assign' d, 
Charging  him  in  his  will  to  keep  the  old  boun- 
tiful mind. 
To  be  good  to  his  old  tenants,    and   to  his 
j.       neighbours  be  kind  ; 

1   But  in  the  ensuing  ditty  jow  shall  hear  how 
I        he  was  inclined  ; 

Like  a  young  courtier  of  the  king's. 
And  the  king's  young  courtier. 

Like  a  flourishing  young  gallant,  newly  come 

to  his  land, 
■Who  keeps  a  brace  of  painted  madams  at  his 

command, 
And  takes  up  a  tho-asand  pounds  upon  his 

father's  land, 
And  gets  drunk  in  a  tavern  till  ho  can  neither 

go  nor  stand ; 

Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

"With  a  ncAvfangled  lady,  that  is  dainty,  nice, 
and  spare, 

Who  never  know  what  belong'd  to  good  house- 
keeping or  care, 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


TIME'S  ALTEEATION. 


[Anonymous, 


Who  buys  gaudy  colour'd  fans  to  play  with 

wanton  air, 
And  seven  or  ;ight  different  dressings  of  other 

women's  hair : 

like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new-fashion' d  hall,   built  where  the 

old  one  stood, 
Hung  round  with  new  pictures  that  do  the 

poor  no  good, 
With  a  fine  marble  chimney,  wherein  bums 

neither  coal  nor  wood, 
And  a  new  smooth  shovel  board,  whereon  no 

victuals  ne'er  stood : 

Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new  study,  stuff' d  f\ill  of  pamphlets 
and  plays, 

And  a  new  chaplain,  that  swears  faster  than 
he  prays. 

With  a  new  buttery  hatch,  that  opens  once  in 
four  or  five  days, 

And  a  new  French  cook,  to  devise  fine  kick- 
shaws and  toys  : 

Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new  fashion,  when  Christmas  is  draw- 
ing on. 

On  a  new  journey  to  London  straight  we  all 
must  be-gone, 

And  leave  none  to  keep  house,  but  our  new 
porter  John, 

Who  relieves  the  poor  with  a  thump  on  the 
back  with  a  stone  ; 

Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  a  new  gentleman  usher,  whose  carriage 
is  complete. 

With  a  new  coachman,  footmen,  and  pages  to 
carry  up  the  meat, 

With  a  waiting  gentlewoman,  whose  dressing 
is  very  neat. 

Who,  when  her  lady  has  dined,  lets  the  ser- 
vants not  eat ; 

Like  a  young  courtier,  &c. 

With  new  titles  of  honour,  bought  with  his 

father's  old  gold. 
For  which  sundry  of  his  ancestors'  old  manors 

are  sold ; 
And  this  is  the  course  most  of  our  new  gallants 

hold. 
Which  makes  that  good  housekeeping  is  now 
grown  so  cold 

Among  the  young  courtiers  of  the  king, 
Of  the  king's  young  courtiers. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


512.— TIME'S  ALTERATION. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new, 

'Tis  since  two  hundred  year ; 
No  malice  then  we  knew 

But  all  things  plenty  were  : 
All  friendship  now  decays 

(Believe  me  this  is  true) ; 
Which  was  not  in  those  days. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 


The  nobles  of  our  land, 

Were  much  delighted  then, 
To  have  at  their  command 

A  crew  of  lusty  men. 
Which  by  their  coats  were  known, 

Of  tawny,  red,  or  blue, 
With  crests  on  their  sleeves  shown,  _ 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Now  pride  hath  banish'd  all, 

Unto  our  land's  reproach. 
When  he  whose  means  is  small, 

Maintains  both  horse  and  coach : 
Instead  of  a  hundred  men. 

The  coach  allows  but  two  ; 
This  was  not  thought  on  then. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Good  hospitality 

Was  cherish' d  then  of  many  : 
Now  poor  men  starve  and  die. 

And  are  not  help'd  by  any  ^ 
For  charity  waxeth  cold,        * 

And  love  is  found  in  few ; 
This  v/as  not  in  time  of  old, 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Where'er  you  travelled  then, 

You  might  meet  on  the  way 
Bravo  knights  and  gentlemen. 

Clad  in  their  country  grey  ; 
That  courteous  would  appear. 

And  kindly  welcome  you ; 
No  puritans  then  were. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Our  ladies  in  those  days 

In  civil  habit  went ; 
Broad  cloth  was  then  worth  praise, 

And  gave  the  best  content : 
French  fashions  then  were  scorn' d ; 

Fond  fangles  then  none  knew : 
Then  modesty  women  adorn' d. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

A  man  might  then  behold, 

At  Christmas  in  each  hall. 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small  t 
The  neighbours  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcomo  true  ; 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Black  jacks  to  every  man 

Were  fill'd  with  wine  and  beer ; 
No  pewter  pot  nor  can 

In  those  days  did  appear  : 
Good  cheer  in  a  nobleman's  house 

Was  counted  a  seemly  show ; 
We  wanted  no  brawn  nor  souse. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

We  took  not  such  delight 

In  cups  of  silver  fine  ; 
None  under  the  degree  of  a  knight 

In  plate  drank  beer  or  wine  :        18 


Anonymous.] 


LOYALTY  CONFINED. 


[Third  Period.— 


Now  each  mechanical  man 

Hath  a  cupboard  of  plate  for  a  show ; 
Which  was  a  rare  thing  then. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Then  bribery  was  unborn 

No  simony  men  did  use  ; 
Christians  did  usury  scorn, 

Devis'd  among  the  Jews. 
The  lawyers  to  be  fee'd 

At  that  time  hartily  knew ; 
For  man  with  man  agreed, 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

No  captain  then  caroused, 

Nor  spent  poor  soldier's  pay  ; 
They  were  not  so  abused 

As  they  are  at  this  day : 
Of  seven  days  they  make  eight. 

To  keep  from  them  their  due  ; 
Poor  soldier's  had  their  right, 

When  thi|  old  cap  was  new : 

Which  made  them  forward  still 

To  go,  although  not  prest ; 
And  going  with  good  will, 

Their  fortunes  were  tlio  best. 
Our  English  then  in  fight. 

Did  foreign  foes  subdue, 
And  forced  them  all  to  fiight. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

God  save  our  gracious  king, 

And  send  him  long  to  live  : 
Lord,  mischief  on  them  bring 

That  will  not  their  alms  give, 
But  seek  to  rob  the  poor 

Of  that  which  is  their  due  : 
This  was  not  in  time  of  yore. 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Anonymo  ui^. — Before  1649. 


5I3. 


-LOYALTY  CONPmED. 


Beat  on,  proud  billows  :  Boreas,  blow ; 

Swell,  curl'd  waves,  high  as  Jove's  roof ; 
Your  incivility  doth  show 

That  innocence  is  tempest-proof ; 
Though  surly  Nereus  frown,  my  thoughts  are 

calm  ; 
Then  strike,   affliction,   for  thy  wounds  are 
balm. 

That  which  the  world  miscalls  a  jail, 

A  private  closet  is  to  me  : 
Whilst  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail. 
And  innocence  my  liberty : 
Locks,  bars,  and  solitude,  together  met, 
Make  me  no  prisoner,  but  an  anchoret. 

I,  whilst  I  wish'd  to  be  retired, 

Into  this  private  room  was  turned  ; 
As  if,  their  wisdoms  had  conspired 
The  salamardar  should  be  burned  ; 
Or  like  those  sophists,  that  would  drown  a  fish, 
I  am  constrained  to  suffer  what  I  wish. 


Tlie  cynic  loves  his  poverty, 

The  i)elican  her  Avilderness, 

And  'tis  the  Indian's  pride  to  bo 

Naked  on  frozen  Caucasus  : 

Contentment  cannot  smart,  stoics  we  see 

Make  torments  easy  to  their  apathy. 

These  manacles  upon  my  arm 

I,  as  my  mistress'  favours,  wear ; 

And  for  to  keep  my  ankles  warm, 

I  have  some  iron  shackles  there  • 

These  walls  are  but  my  garrison ;  this  cell, 

Which  men  call  jail,  doth  prove  my  citadel. 

I'm  in  the  cabinet  lock'd  up 

Like  some  high-prized  margarite ; 
Or  like  the  great  Mogul  or  Pope, 
Am  cloister' d  up  from  public  sight : 
Retiredness  is  a  piece  of  majesty, 
And  thus,  proud  sultan,  I'm  as  great  as  thee. 

Here  sin  for  want  of  food  must  starve, 

Where  tempting  objects  are  not  seen ; 
And  these  strong  walls  do  only  serve 
To  keep  vice  out,  and  keep  me  in : 
Malice  of  late's  grown  charitable  sure, 
I'm  not  committed,  but  am  kept  secure. 

So  he  that  struck  at  Jason's  life, 

Thinking  t'  have  made  his  purpose  sure, 
By  a  malicious  friendly  knife 
Did  only  wound  him  to  a  cure  : 
Malice,  I  see,  want's  wit ;  for  what  is  meant 
Mischief,  ofttimes  proves  favour  by  th'  event. 

'^^^len  once  my  prince  affliction  hath, 

Prosperity  doth  treason  seem ; 
And  to  make  smooth  so  rough  a  path, 
I  can  learn  patience  from  him : 
Now  not  to  suffer  shows  no  loyal  heart — 
When  kings  want  ease,   subjects  must  bear  a 
part. 

What  though  I  cannot  see  my  king, 

Neither  in  person,  or  in  coin ; 
Yet  contemplation  is  a  thing 

That  renders  what  I  have  not,  mine  : 
My  king  from  me  what  adamant  can  part. 
Whom  I  do  wear  engraven  on  my  heart. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale 
A  prisoner  like,  coop'd  in  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale, 
In  that  her  narrow  hermitage  ! 
Even  then  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  bars  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove. 

I  am  that  bird  whom  they  combine 

Thus  to  deprive  of  liberty  ; 
But  though  they  do  my  corpse  confine. 
Yet,  niaugre  hate,  my  soul  is  free : 
And,  though  immur'd,  yet  can  I  chirp  and  sing 
Disgrace  to  rebels,  glory  to  my  king. 


rrom  1558  to  1649.] 


ADAM  BELL. 


[Anonymous. 


My  soiil  is  free  as  ambient  air, 

Although  my  baser  part's  immew'cl; 
WhiLst  lo;/al  thoughts  do  still  repair 
T'  accompany  my  KoUtude  : 
Although  rebellion  do  my  body  bind, 
My  king  alone  can  captivate  my  mind. 

Anouymoitn. — Before  1649. 


514.— ADAM  BELL. 

FYTTE  THE  FIRST. 

Merry  it  was  in  the  green  forest 

Among  the  leves  green, 
Where  that  men  hunt  east  and  west 

With  bows  and  arrows  keen ; 

To  raise  the  deer  out  of  their  den  ; 

Such  sights  hath  oft  been  seen ; 
As  by  three  yeomen  of  the  north  oountrie, 

By  them  it  is  I  mean. 

The  one  of  them  hight  Adam  Bell, 
The  other,  Clym  of  the  Clough, 

The  third  was  William  of  Cloudesly, 
An  archer  good  enough. 

They  were  outlawed  for  venison, 

These  yeomen  everychone ; 
They  swore  them  brethren  upon  a  day, 

To  English-wood  for  to  gone. 

Now  Kth  and  listen,  gentlemen, 
That  of  mirthes  loveth  to  hear ; 

Two  of  them  were  single  men. 
The  third  had  a  wedded  fere. 

William  was  the  wedded  man. 
Much  more  then  was  his  care  ; 

He  said  to  his  brethren  upon  a  day, 
To  Carlisle  he  would  fai-e, 

For  to  speak  with  fair  Alice  his  wife, 

And  "with  his  children  three. 
"  By  my  troth,"  said  Adam  Bell, 

"  Not  by  the  counsel  of  me : 

*'  For  if  3^ou  go  to  Carlisle,  brother, 
And  from  this  wild  wood  wend. 

If  that  the  justice  may  you  take, 
Your  life  were  at  an  end." 

*'If  that  I  come  not  to-morrow,  brother, 

By  prime  to  you  again. 
Trust  you  then  that  I  am  taken. 

Or  else  that  I  am  slain." 

He  took  his  leave  of  his  brethren  two, 

And  to  Carlisle  he  is  gone  : 
There  he  knocked  at  his  own  window 

Shortly  and  anon. 

"  Where  be  you,  fair  AHce,"  he  said, 
"  My  wife  and  children  three  ? 

Lightly  let  in  thine  own  husband," 
William  of  Cloudesly." 


"  Alas  1  "  then  sayde  fair  Alice, 

And  sighed  wondrous  soro  ; 
"  This  place  has  been  beset  for  you 

This  half  a  year  and  more." 

"Now  I  am  here,"  said  Cloudesly, 
"  I  would  that  in  I  were  ;       ~     ~ 

Now  fetch  us  meat  and  drink  enough, 
And  let  us  make  us  good  cheer." 

She  fetched  him  meat  and  drink  plenty, 

Like  a  true  wedded  Avife  ; 
And  pleased  him  with  that  she  had, 

Whom  she  loved  as  her  life. 

There  lay  an  old  wife  in  that  place, 

A  little  beside  the  fire, 
Which  William  had  found  of  charity 

More  than  seven  year. 

Up  she  rose,  and  walked  full  still, 
Evil  mote  she  speed  therefore  ; 

For  she  had  set  no  foot  on  ground 
In  seven  year  before. 

She  went  unto  the  justice  hall. 

As  fast  as  she  could  hie  : 
"  This  night,"  she  said,  "  is  come  to  town, 

William  of  Cloudesly." 

Thereof  the  justice  was  full  fain, 

And  so  was  the  sheriff  also ; 
"  Thou  shalt  not  travaile  liither,  dame,  for 
nought. 

Thy  meed  thou  shalt  have  ere  thou  go." 

They  gave  to  her  a  right  good  go^vn, 
Of  scarlet  it  was  as  I  heard  sayne ; 

She  took  the  gift,  and  home  she  went. 
And  couched  her  down  again. 

They  raised  the  to^vn  of  merry  Carlisle 

In  all  the  haste  that  they  can. 
And  came  thronging  to  William's  house. 

As  fast  as  they  might  gone. 

There  they  beset  that  good  yeoman 

Round  about  on  every  side ; 
William  heard  great  noise  of  folkg, 

That  thitherward  fast  hied. 

Alice  opened  a  back  window, 

And  looked  all  about, 
She  was  ware  of  the  justice  and  sheriff  both. 

With  a  full  great  rout. 

"  Alas  !  treason,"  cried  [fair]  Alice, 

"  Ever  woe  may  thou  be  ! 
Go  into  my  chamber,  my  husband,"  she  said^ 

"  Sweet  William  of  Cloudesly." 

He  took  his  sword  and  his  buckler, 
His  bow  and  his  children  three, 

And  went  into  his  strongest  chamber, 
Wliere  he  thought  surest  to  be. 

Fair  Alice  followed  him  as  a  lover  true, 

With  a  poleaxe  in  her  hand ; 
"  He  shall  be  dead  that  here  cometh  in. 

This  door,  while  I  may  stand." 

18* 


Anonymous.] 


ADAM  BELL. 


[Third  Period.- 


Cloudesly  bent  a  right  good  bow, 

That  was  of  a  trusty  tree, 
He  smote  the  justice  on  the  breast, 

That  his  arrow  burst  in  three. 

"A  curse  on  his  heart,"  said  William, 

"  This  day  thy  coat  did  on  ! 
If  it  had  been  no  better  than  mine, 

It  had  gone  near  thy  bone." 

"Yield  thee,  Cloudesly,"  said  the  justice, 
"And  thy  bow  and  thy  arrows  thee  fro." 

"A  curse  on  his  heart,"  said  the  fair  Alice, 
"  That  my  husband  counselleth  so." 

"  Set  fire  on  the  house,"  said  the  sheriff; 

"  Sith  it  will  no  better  be, 
And  brenne  we  therein,  William,"  he  said, 

"  His  wife  and  his  children  three." 

They  fired  the  house  in  many  a  place, 

The  fire  flew  up  on  high : 
"  Alas  !  "  then  cried  fair  Alice, 

"  I  see  we  here  shall  die." 

William  opened  a  back  window, 

That  was  in  his  chamber  high. 
And  there  with  sheets  he  did  let  down 

His  wife  and  his  children  three. 

"  Have  here  my  treasure,"  sayde  William, 

"  My  wife  and  children  three  ; 
For  Christe's  love  do  them  no  harm, 

But  wreak  you  all  on  me." 

William  shot  so  wondrous  well, 

Till  his  arrows  were  all  ygo  ; 
And  the  fire  so  fast  upon  him  fell. 

That  his  bowstring  brent  in  two. 

The  sparkles  brent,  and  fell  him  upon, 

Good  William  of  Cloudesly  : 
Then  was  he  a  woeful  man,  and  said, 

"  This  is  a  coward's  death  to  me. 

"  Lever  had  I,"  sayde  William, 

"  With  my  SAVord  in  the  rout  to  renne, 

Than  here  among  mine  enemies'  wood 
Thus  cruelly  to  bren." 

He  took  his  sword  and  his  buckler, 

And  among  them  all  he  ran. 
Where  the  people  were  most  in  prese, 

He  smote  down  many  a  man. 

There  might  no  man  abide  his  strokes. 

So  fiercely  on  them  he  ran ; 
Then  they  threw  windows  and  doors  on  him, 

And  so  took  that  good  yeoman. 

There  they  bound  him  both  hand  and  foot, 
And  in  a  deep  dungeon  him  cast ; 

"  Now  Cloudesly,"  said  the  justice, 
"  Thou  shalt  be  hanged  in  haste." 

"  A  pair  of  new  gallows,"  said  the  sheriff, 

"  Now  shall  I  for  thee  make  ; 
And  the  gates  of  Carlisle  shall  be  shut. 

No  man  shall  come  in  thereat. 


"  Then  shall  not  help  Clym  of  the  Clough, 

Nor  yet  shall  Adam  Bell, 
Though  they  came  mth  a  thousand  mo, 

Nor  all  the  devils  in  hell." 

Early  in  the  morning  the  justice  uprose. 

To  the  gates  first  gan  he  gone, 
And  commanded  to  be  shut  full  close, 

Lightily  everychone. 

Then  went  he  to  the  market-place. 

As  fast  as  he  could  hie  ; 
A  pair  of  now  gallows  there  did  he  sot  up 

Beside  the  pillory. 

A  little  boy  among  them  asked, 

"  "What  meaned  that  gallows-tree  ?  " 

They  said,  "  To  hang  a  good  yeoman, 
William  of  Cloudesly." 

That  little  boy  was  the  town  swine-herd, 

And  kept  fair  Alice's  SAvine  ; 
Oft  he  had  seen  Cloudesly  in  the  wood. 

And  given  him  there  to  dine. 

He  went  out  at  a  crevice  in  the  wall. 
And  lightly  to  the  wood  did  gone  ; 

There  met  he  with  those  wightie  yeomen 
Shortly  and  anon, 

"  Alas  !  "  then  said  the  little  boy, 

"  Ye  tarry  here  too  long  ; 
Cloudesly  is  taken,  and  dampned  to  death, 

And  ready  for  to  hang." 

"  Alas  !  "  then  said  good  Adam  Bell, 

"  That  ever  we  saw  this  day  1 
He  had  better  have  tarried  here  with  us, 

So  oft  as  we  did  him  pray. 

"  He  might  have  dwelt  in  green  forest. 

Under  the  shadows  green. 
And  have  kept  both  him  and  us  in  rest. 

Out  of  all  trouble  and  teen !  " 

Adam  bent  a  right  good  bow, 
A  great  hart  soon  he  had  slain  : 

"  Take  that,  child,"  he  said,  "to  thy  dinner, 
And  bring  me  mine  arrow  again." 

"Now  go  we  hence,"   said  those  wightie 
yoemen, 

"  Tarry  we  no  longer  here  ; 
We  shall  him  borrow  by  God  his  grace, 

Though  we  buy  it  full  dear." 

To  Carlisle  went  these  bold  yeomon. 

All  in  a  morning  of  May. 
Here  is  a  fytte  of  Cloudesly, 

And  another  is  for  to  say. 


FYTTE  THE    SECOND. 

And  when  they  came  to  merry  Carlisle, 

In  a  fair  morning  tide. 
They  found  the  gates  shut  them  until 

Eound  about  on  every  side. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


ADAM  BELL. 


rANONTMOUS. 


"Alas  !  "  then  said  good  Adam  Bell, 
"  That  ever  wo  were  made  men  ! 

These  gates  be  shut  so  wondrous  well, 
We  may  not  come  therein." 

Then  bespake  him  Clym  of  the  Clough, 
"  With  a  wile  we  Avill  us  in  bring  ; 

Let  us  saye  we  be  messengers, 

Straight  come  now  from  our  king." 

Adam  said,  "  I  have  a  letter  written, 

Now  let  us  wisely  work. 
We  will  say  we  have  the  kinges  seal ! 

I  hold  the  porter  no  clerk." 

Then  Adam  Bell  beat  on  the  gates 
With  strokes  great  and  strong ; 

The  porter  marvelled  who  was  thereat, 
And  to  the  gates  he  throng. 

"  Who  is  there  now,"  said  the  porter, 
"  That  maketh  all  tliis  knocking  ?  " 

"We  be  two  messengers,"  quoth  Clym  of 
the  Clough, 
"  Be  come  right  from  our  king." 

"  We  have  a  letter,"  said  Adam  Bell, 
"  To  the  justice  we  must  it  bring ; 

Let  us  in  our  message  to  do, 

That  we  were  again  to  the  king." 

"  There  cometh  none  in,"  said  the  porter, 

"  By  him  that  died  on  a  tree. 
Till  a  false  thief  be  hanged. 

Called  WUliam  of  Cloudesly." 

Then  spake  the  good  yeoman  Clym  of  the 
Clough, 

And  swore  by  Mary  free, 
"  And  if  that  we  stand  long  without. 

Like  a  thief  hanged  thou  shalt  be. 

"  Lo  !  here  we  have  the  kinges  seal : 
What,  lurden,  art  thou  wode  ?  " 

The  porter  went  it  had  been  so. 
And  lightl}'  did  off  his  hood. 

"  Welcome  is  my  lord's  seal,"  he  said ; 

"  For  that  ye  shaU  come  in." 
He  opened  the  gate  full  shortly  : 

An  evil  opening  for  him. 

"  Now  are  we  in,"  said  Adam  Bell, 

"  "Whereof  we  are  full  fain ; 
But  Christ  he  knows,  that  harrowed  hell, 

How  we  shall  come  out  again." 

'•Had  we  the  keys,"  said  Clym  of  the  Clough, 
*'  Eight  well  then  should  we  speed ; 

Then  might  we  come  out  well  enough 
When  we  see  time  and  need." 

They  called  the  porter  to  council, 

And  wrang  his  neck  in  two, 
And  cast  him  in  a  deep  dungeon. 

And  took  his  keys  him  fro. 

"  Now  am  I  porter,"  said  Adam  Bell, 
"  See,  brother,  the  keys  are  here  ; 

The  worst  porter  to  merry  Carlisle 
That  it  had  this  hundred  year. 


bend. 


"  And  now  will  we  our  bo  we 

Into  the  tower  will  we  go, 
For  to  deliver  our  dear  brother 

That  lieth  in  care  and  woe." 

And  thereupon  they  bent  their  bows, 
And  looked  their  strings  were  round, 

The  market-place  in  merry  Carlisle 
They  beset  that  stound. 

And  as  they  looked  them  beside, 

A  pair  of  new  gallows  there  they  see. 

And  the  justice  with  a  quest  of  squires, 
That  had  judged  William  hanged  to  be. 

And  Cloudesly  lay  ready  there  in  a  cart, 
Fast  bound  both  foot  and  hand ; 

And  a  strong  rope  about  his  neck. 
All  reeidy  for  to  hang. 

The  justice  called  to  him  a  lad, 

Cloudesly' s  clothes  he  should  have, 

To  take  the  measure  of  that  yeoman. 
Thereafter  to  make  his  grave. 

"I   have   seen   as   great   a   marvel,"    said 
Cloudesly, 

"As  between  this  and  prime. 
He  that  maketh  a  grave  for  me. 

Himself  may  lie  therein." 

"  Thou  speakest  proudly,"  said  the  justice, 
"  I  will  thee  hang  with  my  hand ;  " 

Full  well  heard  this  his  brethren  two, 
There  still  as  they  did  stand. 

Then  Cloudesly  cast  his  eyes  aside, 
And  saw  his  two  brethren  stand 

At  a  corner  of  the  market-place, 

With  their  good  bows  bent  in  their  hand. 

"I  see  comfort,"  said  Cloudesly, 

"  Yet  hope  I  well  to  fare, 
If  I  might  have  my  hands  at  will 

Eight  little  would  I  care." 

Then  spake  good  Adam  BeU 
To  Clym  of  the  Clough  so  free, 

"  Brother,  see  you  mark  the  justice  well ; 
Lo,  yonder  you  may  him  see  *, 

"And  at  the  sheriff  shoot  I  will, 

Strongly  with  arrow  keen ; " 
A  better  shot  in  merry  Carlisle 

This  seven  year  was  not  seen. 

They  loosed  their  arrows  both  at  once. 

Of  no  man  had  they  dread  ; 
The  one  hit  the  justice,  the  other  the  sheriff, 

That  both  their  sides  gan  bleed. 

All  men  voided,  that  them  stood  nigh. 
When  the  justice  fell  to  the  ground, 

And  the  sheriff  fell  nigh  him  by  j 
Either  had  his  death  wound. 

All  the  citizens  fast  gan  fly,  . 

They  durst  no  longer  abide  : 
Then  lightly  they  loosed  Cloudesly, 

Where  he  with  ropes  lay  tied. 


Anonymous.] 


ADAM  BELL. 


[Third  Psriod. — 


William  start  to  an  officer  of  the  town, 
His  axe  from  his  hand  he  wronge  ; 

On  eche  side  he  smote  them  down. 
He  thought  he  tarried  too  long. 

William  said  to  his  brethren  two, 

"  This  day  let  us  live  and  die, 
If  ever  you  have  need,  as  I  have  now, 

The  same  shall  you  find  by  me." 

Thev  shot  so  well  in  that  tide, 

Their  strings  were  of  silk  full  sure. 

That  they  kept  the  streetes  on  every  side  ; 
That  battle  did  long  endure. 

Thoy  fought  together  as  brethren  true, 

Like  hardy  men  and  bold, 
Many  a  man  to  the  ground  they  threw, 

And  many  a  heart  made  cold. 

But  when  their  arrows  were  all  gone. 

Men  pressed  to  them  full  fast, 
Thoy  drew  their  swordes  then  anon. 

And  their  bowes  from  them  cast. 

They  went  lightly  on  their  way, 
With  swordes  and  bucklers  round ; 

By  that  it  was  mid  of  the  day. 
They  made  many  a  wound. 

There  was  an  out-horn  in  Carlisle  blown, 
And  the  bells  backward  did  ring ; 

Many  a  woman  said,  "  Alas  1  " 
And  many  their  hands  did  wring. 

The  mayor  of  Carlisle  forth  come  was, 

With  him  a  full  great  rout ; 
These  yeomen  dreaded  him  full  sore, 

Por  of  their  lives  they  stood  in  great  doubt. 

The  mayor  came  armed  a  full  great  pace, 

With  a  poleaxe  in  his  hand ; 
Many  a  strong  man  with  him  was. 

There  in  that  stowre  to  stand. 

The  mayor  smote  at  Cloudesly  with  his  bill, 

His  buckler  he  bi-ast  in  two, 
Full  many  a  yeoman  with  great  evil, 

"  Alas  !  Treason !  "  they  cried  for  woe ; 
"Keep  well  the  gates  fast,"  they  bad, 

"  That  these  traitors  there  out  not  go." 

But  all  for  nought  was  that  they  Avrought, 
For  so  fast  they  down  were  laid, 

Till  they  all  three  that  so  mp.nful  fought, 
Were  gotten  without  abraide. 

"  Have  here  your  keys,"  said  Adam  Bell, 

"  Mine  office  I  here  forsake. 
And  if  you  do  by  my  ooimsM, 

A  new  porter  do  ye  make." 

He  threw  their  keyes  at  theii-  heads, 

And  bade  them  well  to  thrive. 
And  all  that  lettoth  any  good  yeoman 

To  come  and  comfort  his  wife. 

Thus  be  these  good  yeomen  gone  to  the  wood, 

As  lightly  as  leaf  on  lynde  ; 
They  laugh  and  bo  merry  in  their  mood. 

Their  enemies  ])o  far  behind. 


When  they  came  to  the  English- wood, 

Under  the  trusty  tree. 
There  they  found  bowes  full  good, 

And  arrows  full  great  plenty. 

"  So  God  me  help,"  said  Adam  Bell, 
And  Clym  of  the  Clough  so  free, 

"  I  would  we  were  in  merry  Carlisle, 
Before  that  fair  meyne." 

They  set  them  down,  and  made  good  cheer, 

And  eat  and  drank  full  well. 
A  second  fytte  of  these  wightie  yeomen ; 

Another  I  will  you  well. 

FYTTE    THE   THIRD. 

As  they  sat  in  English-Avood, 

Under  the  green-wood  tree, 
They  thought  they  heard  a  woman  weep, 

But  her  they  mought  not  see. 

Sore  then  sighed  the  fair  Alice  : 

"  That  ever  I  saw  this  day  ! 
For  now  is  my  dear  husband  slain ; 

Alas  !  and  well-a-day  ! 

"  Might  I  have  spoken  Avith  his  dear  brethren 

Or  with  either  of  them  twain, 
To  let  them  knovv^  what  him  befell, 

My  heart  were  put  out  of  pain  I  " 

Cloudesly  walked  a  little  beside. 

And  looked  under  the  green- wood  lynde. 

He  was  ware  of  his  wife  and  children  three, 
Full  woe  in  heart  and  mind. 

"  Welcome  wife,"  then  said  William, 

"  Under  this  trusty  tree  : 
I  had  wende  yesterday,  by  sweet  Saint  John, 

Thou  shouldest  me  never  have  see." 

"  Now  well  is  me  that  ye  be  here, 

My  heart  is  out  of  woe." 
"Dame,"  he  said,  "be  merry  and  glad, 

And  thank  my  brethren  two." 

"  Hereof  to  speak,"  said  Adam  Bell, 

"  I- wis  it  is  no  ))oot ; 
'•  The  meat  that  you  must  sup  Avithal, 

It  runneth  yet  fast  on  foot." 

Then  went  they  down  into  a  land. 

These  noble  archers  all  three  ; 
Each  of  them  slow  a  hart  of  gi'ecce, 

The  best  that  they  could  see. 

"  Have  hero  the  best,  Alice,  my  wife," 

Said  William  of  Cloudesly, 
"  By  cause  ye  so  boldly  stood  by  me 

When  I  was  slain  full  nigh." 

Then  went  they  to  supper, 

With  such  meat  as  they  had  : 
And  thanked  God  of  their  fortune  ; 

They  were  both  merry  and  glad. 

And  when  they  had  supped  well. 

Certain  withonten  lease, 
Cloudesly  said,  '  Wo  will  to  onr  king, 

To  get  us  a  charter  of  peace. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


ADAM  BELL. 


[ANONYMOrs. 


* 'Alice  shall  be  at  our  sojourning. 

In  a  nunnery  here  beside  ; 
My  two  sonnes  shaU  with  her  g-o, 

And  there  they  shall  abide. 

"  Mine  eldest  son  shall  go  with  me. 

For  him  have  I  no  care ; 
And  he  shall  bring  you  word  again 

How  that  we  do  fare." 

Thus  be  these  yeomen  to  London  gone, 

As  fast  as  they  might  hie, 
Till  they  came  to  the  king's  palace, 

AVhere  they  would  needes  be. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  Idngo's  court. 

Unto  the  palace  gate, 
Of  no  man  woidd  they  ask  no  leave, 

But  boldly  went  in  thereat. 

They  preced  prestly  into  the  hall, 

Of  no  man  had  they  dread  ; 
The  porter  came  after,  and  did  them  call, 

And  with  them  began  to  chide. 

The  usher  said,  "Yeomen,  whut  woiUd  ye 
have? 

I  pray  yon  tell  to  me ; 
You  might  thus  make  officers  shent : 

Good  sirs,  of  whence  be  ye  ?  " 

"  Sir,  we  be  outlaws  of  the  fort'st, 

Certain  withouten  leace, 
And  hither  we  be  come  to  our  king. 

To  get  us  a  charter  of  peace." 

And  when  they  came  before  the  king. 

As  it  was  the  law  of  the  land, 
They  kneeled  down  without  letting. 

And  each  held  up  his  hand. 

They  said,  "  Lord,  we  beseech  thee  here, 
That  ye  will  grant  us  grace  ;     ■ 

For  we  have  slain  your  fat  fallow  deer, 
In  many  a  sundry  place." 

"  What  be  your  names  ?  "  then  said  our  king, 

"Anon  that  you  tell  me  :  " 
They  said,  "Adam  Bell,  Clym  of  the  Clough, 

Ajid  William  of  Cloudesly." 

"Be  ye  those  thieves,"  then  said  our  king, 
"  That  men  have  told  of  to  me  ? 

Here  to  God  I  make  an  avow, 
Ye  shall  be  hanged  all  three. 

"  Ye  shall  be  dead  without  mercy, 

As  I  am  king  of  this  land." 
He  commanded  his  officers  everychone 

Fast  on  them  to  lay  hand. 

There  they  took  these  good  yeomen, 

And  arrested  them  all  three  : 
"  So  may  I  thrive,"  said  Adam  Bell, 

"  This  game  liketh  not  me. 

"But,  good  lord,  we  beseech  you  now. 

That  you  grant  us  grace. 
Inasmuch  as  freely  we  be  to  you  come. 

As  freely  we  may  fro  you  pass. 


With  such  weapons  as  v/e  have  here, 

Till  we  be  out  of  your  place ; 
And  if  we  live  this  hundred  year, 

We  win  ask  you  no  grace." 

"  Ye  speak  proudly,"  said  the  king ; 

"  Ye  shall  be  hanged  all  three."    ~ 
"  That  were  great  pity,"  then  said  the  queen, 

"  If  any  gauce  might  be. 

'•  My  lord,  when  I  came  first  into  this  land, 

To  be  your  wedded  wife, 
The  first  boon  that  I  would  ask. 

Ye  would  grant  it  me  belyfe  : 

"  And  I  asked  you  never  none  tiU  now : 
Therefore,  good  lord,  grant  it  me." 

"  Now  ask  it,  madam,"  said  the  king, 
"  And  granted  it  shall  be." 

"  Then,  good  my  lord,  I  you  beseech, 

These  yeomen  grant  ye  me." 
"  Madam,  ye  might  have  asked  a  boon. 

That  should  have  been  worth  all  three. 

"  Ye  might  have  asked  towers  and  towns. 

Parks  and  forests  plenty." 
"  None  so  pleasant  to  my  pay,"  she  said ; 

"  Nor  none  so  lefe  to  me." 

"  Madam,  sith  it  is  your  desire. 

Your  asking  granted  shall  be ; 
But  I  had  lever  had  given  you 

Good  market  toM-nes  three." 

The  queeno  was  a  glad  woman. 
And  said,  "  Lord,  grammercy  : 

I  dare  undertake  for  them. 
That  true  men  shall  they  be. 

"But,  good  my  lord,  speak  some  merry  word. 

That  comfort  they  may  see." 
"  I  grant  you  grace,"  then  said  our  king : 

"  Wash,  fellows,  and  to  meat  go  ye." 

They  had  not  sitten  but  a  while 

Certain  without  lesygnc, 
There  came  messengers  out  of  the  north 

With  letters  to  our  king. 

And  when  they  came  before  the  king. 
They  kneeled  down  on  their  knee, 

And  said,  "Lord,  j'our  officers  greet  you  well. 
Of  Carlisle  in  the  north  coimtrie." 

"  How  fareth  my  justice  ?  "  said  the  king, 

"  And  my  sheriff  also  ?  " 
"  Sir,  they  be  slain,  without  leasing, 

And  many  an  officer  mo." 

"  Who  hath  them  slayne  ?  "  said  the  king, 

"Anon  that  thou  tell  me." 
"Adam  BeU,  and  Clym  of  the  Clough, 

And  William  of  Cloudesly." 

"Alas,  for  ruth !  "  then  said  our  king  : 

"  My  heart  is  wondrous  sore  ; 
I  had  lever  than  a  thotisand  pound, 

I  had  known  of  this  before ; 


Anonymous.] 


ADAM  BELL. 


[Third  Period. — 


"  For  I  have  granted  them  grace, 

And  that  forthinketh  me  ; 
But  had  I  known  all  this  before, 

They  had  been  hanged  all  three." 

The  king  he  opened  the  letter  anon, 

Himself  he  read  it  through, 
And  found  how  these  outlaws  had  slain 

Three  hundred  men  and  mo  ; 

First  the  justice  and  the  sheriff, 
And  the  mayor  of  Carlisle  town, 

Of  all  the  constables  and  catchipolls 
Alive  were  left  not  one. 

The  bailies  and  the  beadles  both, 
And  the  sergeaunts  of  the  law, 

And  forty  fosters  of  the  fe. 
These  outlaws  had  yslaw  ; 

And  broke  his  parks  and  slain  liis  deer, 

Of  all  they  chose  the  best ; 
So  perilous  outlaws,  as  they  were, 

Walked  not  by  east  nor  west. 

When  the  king  this  letter  had  read,    - 

In  his  heart  he  sighed  sore  : 
"Take  up  the  tables  anon,"  he  said, 

"  For  I  may  eat  no  more." 

The  kinge  called  his  best  archers. 
To  the  butts  with  him  to  go  : 

"I  will  see  these  fellows  shoot,"  he  said, 
"  In  the  north  have  wrought  this  woe.'' 

•The  kinge' s  horsemen,  buske  them  blyve, 
And  the  queen's  archers  also, 

So  did  these  three  wightie  yeomen ; 
With  them  they  thought  to  go. 

There  twice,  or  thrice  they  shot  about, 

For  to  assay  their  hand  ; 
There  was  no  shot  these  yeomen  shot, 

That  any  prycke  might  them  stand. 

Then  spake  William  of  Cloudesly : 

"  By  him  that  for  me  died, 
I  hold  him  never  no  good  archer, 

That  shooteth  at  butts  so  wide." 

"At  what  a  butt  now  would  ye  shoot, 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me  ?  " 
"At  suche  a  butt,  sir,"  he  said, 

"As  men  use  in  my  countrie." 

William  went  into  a  field. 

And  with  him  his  two  brethren ; 

There  they  set  up  two  hazel  rods, 
Twenty  score  paces  between. 

"  I  hold  him  an  archer,"  said  Cloudesly, 
"  That  yonder  wand  cleaveth  in  two." 

"  There  is  none  suche,"  said  the  king, 
"  Nor  no  man  can  so  do." 

"  I  shall  assay,  sir,"  said  Cloudesly, 

"  Or  that  I  farther  go." 
Cloudesly  with  a  bearing  arrow 

Clave  the  wand  in  two. 


'•Thou  art  the  best  archer,"  then  said  the 
king, 

"  Forsooth  that  ever  I  see  :  " 
"And  yet  for  your  love,"  said  William. 

"  I  will  do  more  maystery. 

"  I  have  a  son  is  seven  year  old. 

He  is  to  me  full  dear  : 
I  will  him  tie  to  a  stake  ; 

Ail  shall  see  that  be  here. 

"And  lay  an  apple  upon  his  head 
And  go  six  score  paces  hira  fro. 

And  I  myself  with  a  broad  arrow 
Shall  cleave  the  apple  in  two." 

"  Now  haste  thee,"  then  said  the  king, 

"  By  him  that  died  on  a  tree, 
But  if  thou  do  not,  as  thou  hast  said, 

Hanged  shalt  thou  be. 

"An  thou  touch  his  head  or  gown. 

For  sight  that  men  may  see. 
By  all  the  saints  that  be  in  heaven, 

I  shall  hang  you  all  three." 

"  That  I  have  promised,"  said  William, 

"  That  I  will  never  forsake." 
And  there  even  before  the  king 

In  the  earth  he  drove  a  stake : 

And  bound  thereto  his  eldest  son. 
And  bad  him  stand  still  thereat ; 

And  turned  the  child's  face  him  fro. 
Because  he  should  not  start. 

An  apple  upon  his  head  he  set. 

And  then  his  bow  he  bent : 
Six  score  paces  thej^  were  out  met, 

And  thither  Cloudesly  went. 

There  he  drew  out  a  fair  broad  arrow 

His  bow  was  great  and  long. 
He  set  that  arrow  in  his  bow, 

That  was  both  stiff  and  strong. 

He  prayed  the  people  that  were  there, 
That  they  would  all  still  stand, 

For  he  that  shooteth  for  such  a  wager, 
Behoveth  a  stedfast  hand. 

Much  people  prayed  for  Cloudesly, 

That  his  life  saved  might  be. 
And  when  he  made  him  ready  to  shoot, 

There  was  many  a  weeping  eye. 

But  Cloudesly  cleft  the  apple  in  two. 

That  man}-  a  man  might  see ; 
"Over  Gods  forbode,"  said  the  king, 

"  That  thou  should  shoot  at  me. 

"  I  give  thee  eighteen  pence  a  day, 

And  my  bowe  shalt  thou  bear, 
And  over  all  the  north  countrie 

I  make  thee  chief  rydere." 

"And  I  give  thee  seventeen  pence  a  day," 
said  the  queen, 

"  By  God,  and  by  my  fay ; 
Come  fetch  thy  payment  when  thou  wilt. 

No  man  shall  say  thee  nay. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


A  TALE  OF  -ROBIN  HOOD. 


[Anonymous. 


"  William,  I  make  thee  a  gentleman 

Of  clotliing,  and  of  fee : 
And    thy    two    brethi*en,    yeomen    of    my 
chamber, 

For  they  are  so  seemly  to  see. 

"  Your  son,  for  he  is  tender  of  age, 

Of  my  wine-cellar  he  shall  be ; 
And  when  he  cometh  to  man's  estate. 

Better  advanced  shall  he  be. 

"And,  William,  bring  me  your  wife,"  said 
the  queen, 

"  Me  longeth  her  sore  to  see  : 
She  shall  bo  my  chief  gentlewoman, 

To  govern  my  nursery." 

The  yeomen  thanked  them  all  courteously, 
And  said,  "  To  some  bishop  will  we  wend, 

Of  all  the  sins  that  we  have  done, 
To  be  assoiled  at  his  hand." 

So  forth  be  gone  these  good  yeomen. 

As  fast  as  they  might  hie. 
And  after  came  and  dwelled  with  the  king. 

And  died  good  men  all  three. 

Thus  endeth  the  lives  of  these  good  yeomen, 

God  send  them  eternal  bliss ; 
And  all,  that  with  hand-bow  shooteth. 

That  of  heaven  may  never  miss. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


515- 


-THE  BIETH  OF  EOBIN  HOOD. 


O  Willie's  large  o'  limb  and  lith, 

And  come  o'  high  degree  ; 
And  he  is  gone  to  Earl  Eichard 

To  serve  for  meat  and  fee. 

Earl  Eichard  had  but  ae  daughter, 

Fair  as  a  lily  flower 
And  they  made  up  their  love-contract 

Like  proj)er  paramom*. 

It  fell  upon  a  simmer's  nicht, 

Whan  the  leaves  were  fair  and  green, 
That  Willie  met  his  gay  ladie 

Intil  the  wood  alane. 

*'  O  narrow  is  my  gown,  Willie, 

That  wont  to  he  sae  -wide, 
And  gane  is  a'  my  fair  colour, 

That  wont  to  be  my  pride. 

"  But  gin  my  father  should  get  word 
What's  past  between  us  twa. 

Before  that  he  should  eat  or  drink. 
He'd  hang  you  o'er  that  wa'. 

*'  But  5'e'll  come  to  my  bower,  Willie, 

At  the  setting  o'  the  sun  ; 
And  kep  me  in  your  arms  twa. 

And  latna  me  fa'  down." 

O  whan  the  sun  was  near  gane  down. 
He's  doen  him  till  her  bower  ; 

And  there,  by  the  lee  licht  o'  the  moon, 
Her  window  she  lookit  o'er. 


Intill  a  robe  o'  red  scarlet 

She  lap,  and  caught  nae  harm  ; 
Willie  was  large  o'  lith  and  limb. 

And  keepit  her  in  his  arm. 

And  they've  gane  to  the  gude  greenwood, 
And  ere  the  night  was  dune,      —   _ 

She's  borne  to  him  a  bonny  young  son, 
Amang  the  leaves  sae  green. 

When  night  was  gane  and  day  was  come, 

And  the  sun  began  to  peep, 
Up  and  raise  the  Earl  Eichard 

Out  o'  his  drowsy  sleep. 

He's  ca'd  upon  his  merry  young  men, 

By  ane,  by  twa,  and  bj'  three, 
"  O  what's  come  o'  my  daughter  dear, 

That  she's  na  come  to  me  ? 

"  I  dreamt  a  dreary  dream  last  night — 

God  grant  it  come  to  gude  ! 
I  dreamt  I  saw  my  daughter  dear 

Drown  in  the  saut  sea  flood. 

"  My  daughter,  maybe,  is  dead  or  sick ; 

Or  gin  she  be  stown  awa', 
I  mak'  a  vow,  and  I'll  keep  it  true, 

I'll  hang  ye  ane  and  a' !  " 

Tliey  sought  her  back,  they  sought  her  fore, 
They  sought  her  up  and  down  ; 

They  got  her  in  the  gude  greenwood 
Nursing  her  bonny  young  son. 

He  took  the  bonny  boy  in  his  arms, 

And  kist  him  tenderlie  ; 
Says,  "  Though  I  would  your  father  hang, 

Your  mother's  dear  to  me." 

He  kist  him  o'er  and  o'er  again ; 

"  My  grandson  I  thee  claim  ; 
And  Eobin  Hood  in  gude  greenwood, 

'Tis  that  shall  be  your  name." 

There's  mony  ane  sings  o'  grass,  o'  grass. 

And  mony  ane  sings  o'  com ; 
And  monj^  ane  sings  o'  Eobin  Hood, 

Kens  little  whar'  he  was  born. 

It  was  na  in  the  ha',  the  ha', 

Nor  in  the  painted  bower  ; 
But  it  was  in  the  gude  greenwood, 

Amang  the  lily  flower. 

Anoni/mous. — Bejore  1649. 


516.— A  TALE  OF  EOBIN  HOOD. 

In  summer  when  the  shawes  be  shene, 
And  leaves  be  large  and  long, 

It  is  full  merry  in  the  fair  forest 
To  hear  the  fowle's  song; 

To  see  the  deer  draw  to  the  dale, 

And  leave  the  hilles  hee. 
And  shadow  them  in  the  leves  green, 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 


Anonymous.] 


A  TALE  OF  EOBIN  HOOD. 


[Third  Period. — 


It  befel  on  Whitsuntide, 

Early  in  a  May  morning, 
The  sun  tip  fair  did  shine, 

And  the  birdes  merry  did  sing. 

"  This  is  a  meriy  morning,"  said  Little  John, 

"  By  him  that  died  on  tree  ; 
A  more  merry  man  than  I  am  one 

Lives  not  in  Christiante. 

"  Pluck  up  thy  heart,  my  dear  mayster," 

Little  John  did  say  ; 
"  And  think  it  is  a  full  fair  time, 

In  a  morning  of  May." 

"  Yes,  one  thing  grieves  me,"  said  Sobin, 
"  And  does  my  heart  much  woe  ; 

That  I  may  not  so  solemn  day 
To  mass  nor  matins  go,    . 

"  It  is  a  fortnight,  and  more,"  said  he, 

"  Sin  I  my  Saviour  see  ; 
To-day  I  will  to  Nottingham,"  said  Kobin, 

"  With  the  might  of  mild  Mary." 

Then  spoke  Moche,  the  miller's  son, 

Ever  more  well  him  betide ; 
"  Take  twelve  of  thy  wight  yeomen, 

Well  weaponed  by  their  side. 

*'  Such  on  wolde  thyself  slon 

That  twelve  dare  not  abide." 
"  Of  all  my  merry  men,"  said  Eobin, 

"  By  my  faith  I  will  none  have. 

"  But  Little  John  shall  bear  my  bow. 

Till  that  me  list  to  draw — 
*  *  *  *  ' 

#  *  *  # 

"  Thou   shalt  boar  thine  OAvn,"    said  Little 
John, 

"  Mayster,  and  I  will  bear  mine  ; 
And  we  will  shoot  a  penny,"  said  Little  John, 

"  Under  the  greenwood  lyne." 

"I  will  not  shoot  a  penny,"  said  Hobin  Hood, 
"  In  faith,  Little  John,  with  thee ; 

But  ever  for  one  as  thou  shootst,"  said  Eobin, 
"  In  faith  I  hold  thee  three." 

Thus  shot  they  forth  these  yeomen  two, 

Bothe  at  bush  and  brome, 
TUl  Little  John  won  of  his  mayster 

Five  shillings  to  hose  and  shone. 

A  ferly  strife  fell  them  between, 

As  they  went  by  the  way ; 
Little  John  said  he  had  won  five  shilling^;. 
•    And  Eobin  Hood  said  shortly,  "  Nay  !  " 

With  that  Eobin  Hood  lied  Little  John, 

And  smote  him  with  his  honde  ; 
Little  John  Avaxed  wroth  therevrith, 

And  puUed  out  his  bright  bronde. 

"  Wert  thoti  not  my  mayster,"    said  Little 
John, 

"  Thou  shouldst  bye  it  full  sore  ; 
Get  thee  a  man  where  thou  vdlt,  Eobin, 

For  thou  getst  mc  no  more." 


Then  Eobin  goes  to  Nottingham, 

Himself  mornynge  alone ; 
And  Little  John  to  merry  Sherwood, 

The  paths  he  know  alkoiio. 

When  Eobin  came  to  Nottingham, 

Certainly  withouten  layne. 
He  prayed  to  God  and  mild  Mary, 

To  bring  him  out  safe  again. 

He  goes  into  St.  Mary's  Church, 
And  kneeled  down  before  the  rood  ; 

All  that  ever  were  the  church  within 
Beheld  well  Eobin  Hood. 

Beside  hun  stood  a  great  hooded  monk, 

I  pray  to  God  woo  he  be  ; 
Full  soon  he  knew  good  Eobin  Hood, 

As  soon  as  he  him  see. 

Out  at  the  door  he  ran, 

Full  soon  and  anon  ; 
All  the  gates  of  Nottingham 

He  made  to  be  sparred  evory  one. 

"Eise  up,"  he  said,  "thoii  proud  sheriff, 
Buske  thoe  and  make  theo  bovrnc  ; 

I  have  spied  the  king's  felon. 
For  sooth  he  is  in  this  town. 

"  I  have  spied  the  false  felbn, 

As  he  stands  at  his  mass ; 
It  is  longo  of  thee,"  said  the  monk, 

"  An  ever  he  fro  us  pass. 

"  This  traitor's  name  is  Eobin  Hood, 

Under  the  green-wood  lynde  ; 
Ho  robbed  me  once  of  an  hundred  pound, — 

It  shall  never  out  of  my  mind." 

Up  then  rose  this  proud  sheriif, 

And  went  towards  him  there ; 
Many  was  the  mother  i>on 

To  the  kirk  with  him  did  faro. 

In  at  the  doors  they  throly  thrust. 

With  staves  full  good  ilkone  ; 
'•  Alas  !  alas  !  "  said  Eobin  Hood, 

"  Now  miss  I  Little  John." 

But  Eobin  took  out  a  two-hand  s\vord, 

That  hanged  down  by  his  knee  ; 
Then  as  the  sheriff  and  his  men  stood  thickest, 

Thitherward  would  he. 

Thrice  thorow  at  them  he  ran. 

Then  for  sooth  as  I  you  say. 
And  wounded  many  a  mother  son  ; 

And  twelve  ho  slcv,-  that  day. 

His  sword  upon  the  sheriff's  hoad 

Certainly  ho  brake  in  two  ; 
"  The  smith  that  thee  made,"  said  Eobin, 

"  I  pray  God  wj^rke  him  woo  ; 

"  Tov  now  am  I  weaponless,"  said  Eobin, 

"  Alas  !  against  my  will ; 
But  if  I  may  floo  thcs^e  traitors  fro, 

I  >7ot  they  will  mo  kill." 


I'Tom  1558  to  1649. 


A  TALE  OF  EOBIN  HOOD. 


[Anonymous. 


Robin's  men  to  the  churche  ran, 
Throughout  them  ever  ilkone  ; 

Some  fell  in  swooning  as  if  they  were  dead, 
And  lay  still  as  any  stone. 


None  of  them  were  in  their  mind. 
But  only  Little  John. 

'•  Let  be  your  ride,"  said  Little  John, 
"  For  his  love  that  died  on  tree  ; 

Ye  that  should  be  doughty  men, 
It  is  great  shame  to  see. 

"  Our  mayster  has  been  hard  bystode. 

And  yet  'scaped  away  ; 
Pluck  tip  your  hearts,  and  leave  this  moan. 

And  hearken  what  I  shall  say. 

"  He  has  served  our  Lady  many  a  day. 

And  yet  will  securely, 
.Therefore  I  trust  in  her  specially. 

No  wicked  death  shall  he  die. 

'•  Therefore  be  glad,"  said  Little  John, 

"  And  let  this  morning  be ; 
And  I  shall  be  the  monke's  guide. 

With  the  might  of  mild  Mary. 

*'  And  I  win  meet  him,"  said  Little  John, 
"  We  will  go  but  we  two " 

*  #  *  *  # 

#  #  *  *  . 

*'  Look  that  ye  keep  well  the  trystil  tree, 

Under  the  levys  smale  ; 
And  spare  none  of  this  venison. 

That  go  in  this  vale." 

Forth  they  went,  these  yeomen  two. 

Little  John  and  Moche  infere, 
And  looked  on  Moch  emy's  house  ; — 

The  highway  lay  full  near. 

Little  John  stood  at  a  window  in  the  morning-. 

And  looked  forth  at  a  stage ; 
Ho  was  'ware  where  the  monk  came  riding. 

And  Avith  him  a  little  page. 

"  By  my  faith,"  said  Little  John  to  Moche, 

"  I  can  tell  thee  tidings  good  ; 
I  see  where  the  monk  comes  riding, 

I  know  him  by  his  wide  hood." 

They  went  into  the  way  these  yeomen  both, 

As  courteous  men  and  hende  ; 
They  spyrred  tithyngus  to  the  monk, 

As  they  had  been  his  friend. 

"  From  whence  come  ye  ?  "  said  Little  John  ; 

"  Tell  us  tithyngus  I  you  pray. 
Of  a  false  outlaw,  called  Eobin  Hood, 

Was  taken  yesterday. 

"  He  robbed  me  and  my  fellows  both 

Of  twenty  marks  in  certain ; 
If  that  false  outlaw  be  taken, 

For  sooth  wo  would  bo  fain." 


"  So  did  he  me,"  said  the  monke, 
"Of  an  hundred  pound,  and  more  ; 

I  laid  first  hande  him  upon, 
Ye  may  thank  me  therefore." 

"  I  pray  God  thank  you,"  said  Little  John, 

"  And  we  will  when  Ave  may  7^   — 

We  will  go  with  you,  with  your  leave, 
.   And  bring  j-ou  on  your  Avay. 

"  For  Eobin  Hood  has  many  a  wild  fellow, 

I  tell  you  in  certain ; 
If  they  Avist  ye  rode  this  Avay, 

In  faith  ye  shoidd  be  slain." 

As  they  Avent  talking  by  the  Avay, 

The  monk  and  Little  John, 
John  took  the  monk's  horse  by  the  head. 

Full  soon  and  anon. 

John  took  the  monk's  horse  by  the  head. 

For  sooth  as  I  you  say ; 
So  did  Moche,  the  little  page. 

For  he  should  not  stir  aAvay. 

By  the  gullet  of  the  hood, 

John  jjulled  the  monke  down  ; 
John  Avas  nothing  of  liim  aghast. 

He  let  him  fall  on  his  crown. 

Little  John  was  sore  aggricA^ed, 
And  drcAv  out  his  SAVord  on  high  ; 

The  monke  saAV  he  should  be  dead. 
Loud  mercy  did  he  cry. 

"  He  was  my  mayster,"  said  Little  John, 
"  That  thou  hast  broAvzed  in  bale  ; 

Shalt  thou  ncA'er  come  at  our  king, 
For  to  toll  him  tale." 

John  smote  off  the  monke's  head. 

No  longer  Avould  he  dAvell ; 
So  did  Moche,  the  little  page. 

For  fear  lest  ho  should  tell. 

There  they  biu'ied  them  both, 

In  neither  moss  nor  lynge  ; 
And  Little  John  and  Moche  infero 

Bare  the  letters  to  our  kiu"-. 


He  kneeled  doAvn  upon  his  knee ; 
"  God  you  save  my  liege  lord, 
Jesus  you  save  and  see. 

"  God  you  save  my  liege  king  !  " 

To  speak  John  Avas  full  bold ; 
He  gaA'e  him  the  letters  in  lii;;  hand. 

The  king  did  it  unfold. 

The  king  read  the  lettors  anon. 

And  said,  so  mot  I  tlice, 
'•  There  was  never  yeoman  in  merry  England 

I  longed  so  sore  to  see." 

"  Where  is  the  monk  that  thou  should  have 
brought  ?  " 

Our  king  gan  say  ; 
'•  By  my  troth,"  said  Little  John, 

"  He  died  upon  the  way." 


Anonymous. 


A  TALE  OF  ROBIN  HOOD. 


Third  Pekiod. — 


The  king  gave  Mocha  and  Little  John 

Twenty  pound  in  certain  ; 
And  made  them  yeomen  of  the  crown, 

And  bade  them  go  again. 

He  gave  to  John  the  seal  in  hand, 

The  sheriff  for  to  bear. 
To  bring  Eobin  him  to, 

And  no  man  do  him  dere. 

John  took  his  leave  of  ora*  king, 

The  sooth  as  I  you  say ; 
The  next  day  to  Nottingham, 

To  take  he  went  the  way. 

When  John  came  to  Nottingham, 
The  gates  were  sparred  ichone  ; 

John  called  up  the  porter, 
He  answered  soon  anon. 

"  What  is  the  cause,"  said  Little  John, 
"  Thou  sparrest  the  gates  so  fast  P  " 

"  Because  of  Robin  Hood,"  said  the  porter, 
"  In  deep  prison  i:3  cast. 

"  John,  and  Moche,  and  Will  Scathlok, 

For  woU  as  I  you  say. 
They  slew  our  men  upon  our  walls, 

And  sawtene  us  every  day." 

Little  John  spyrred  after  the  sheriff 

And  soon  he  him  fonde  ; 
He  opened  the  king's  privy-seal, 

And  gave  him  in  his  honde. 

AVhen  the  sheriff  saw  the  king's  seal, 

He  did  off  his  hood  anon  ; 
"  Where  is  the  monke  that  bore  the  letters; 

He  said  to  Little  John. 

'•  He  is  so  fain  of  him,"  said  Little  John, 

"  For  woU  as  I  you  say  ; 
He  has  made  him  Abbot  of  Westminster, 

A  lord  of  that  abbey." 

The  sheriff  he  made  John  good  cheer, 
And  gave  him  wine  of  the  best ; 

At  night  they  went  to  their  bed, 
And  every  man  to  his  rest. 

When  the  sheriff  was  asleep. 

Drunken  of  wine  and  ale. 
Little  John  and  Moche  for  sooth. 

Took  the  way  unto  the  jail. 

Little  John  called  up  the  jailor. 

And  bade  him  rise  anon  ; 
He  said  Robin  Hood  had  broken  prison, 

And  out  of  it  was  gone. 

The  porter  rose  anon  ccrtriin. 
As  soon  as  he  heard  John  call ; 

Little  John  was  ready  with  a  sword, 
And  bare  him  to  the  wall. 

"  Now  will  I  be  porter,"  said  Little  John, 
"  And  take  the  keys  in  honde  ;  " 

He  took  the  way  to  Robin  Hood, 
And  soon  he  him  nnbonde. 


He  gave  him  a  good  sword  in  his  hand, 
HiG  head  therewith  for  to  keep  ; 

And  there  where  the  wall  was  lowest, 
Anon  down  did  they  leap. 

By  that  the  cock  began  to  crow. 

The  day  began  to  spring ; 
The  sheriff  found  the  jailor  dead. 

The  common  bell  made  he  ring. 

He  made  a  cry  throxigliout  all  the  town, 
Wliether  he  be  yeoman  or  knave. 

That  could  bring  him  Robin  Hood, 
His  warison  he  should  have. 

"  For  I  dare  never,"  said  the  sheriff, 
j        "  Come  before  our  king ; 
For  if  I  do  I  wot  certain, 
For  sooth  he  will  me  hang." 

The  sheriff  made  to  seek  Nottingham, 

Both  by  street  and  stye  ; 
And  Robin  was  in  merry  Sherwood, 

As  light  as  leaf  on  lynde. 

Then  bespake  good  Little  John, 

To  Robin  Hood  did  he  say, 
"  I  have  done  thee  a  good  turn  for  an  evil, 

Requite  me  when  you  may. 

"  I  have  done  thee  a  good  turn,"  said  Little 
John, 
"  "^or  sooth  as  I  j^ou  say ; 
I  have  broiight  thee   under  the    greemvood 

Farewell,  and  have  good  day." 

"  Nay,  by  my  troth,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  So  shall  it  never  be  ; 
I  make  thee  mayster,"  said  Eobin  Hood, 

"  Of  all  my  men  and  me." 

"Nay,  by  my  troth,"  said  Little  John. 

"  So  shall  it  never  be  ; 
But  let  me  be  a  fellovr,"  said  Little  John, 

"  No  other  kepe  I'll  be." 

Thus  John  got  Robin  Hood  out  of  prisone, 

Certain  withouten  layne  ; 
When  his  men  saw  him  whole  and  sound, 

For  sooth  they  were  full  fain. 

They  filled  in  wine,  and  made  him  glad, 

Under  the  leves  small ; 
And  set  pasties  of  venir-on. 

That  good  was  withal. 

Then  Avord  came  unto  our  king, 

How  Robin  Hood  was  gone, 
And  how  the  sheriff  of  Nottingham, 

Durst  never  look  him  upon. 

Then  bespoke  our  comely  king. 

In  an  aiijrer  high, 
"  Little  Jolm  has  beguiled  the  sheriff, 

In  faith  so  has  he  me. 

"  Little  John  has  beguiled  us  both, 

And  that  full  well  I  sec, 
Or  else  the  sheriff  of  Nottingham 

High  hanged  should  he  be. 


From  1558  to  liMO. 


EOBIN  HOOD  AND  ALLEN-A-DALE. 


[Anonymous. 


"  I  made  him  yeoman  of  the  crown, 
And  gave  him  fee  with  my  hand ; 

I  gave  him  grithe,"  said  oni*  king, 
'•  Throughout  all  merry  England. 

"  I  gave  him  grithe,"  then  said  our  king, 

'  I  gay,  so  mot  I  thee, 
For  sooth  such  a  yeoman  as  he  is  one, 

In  all  England  are  not  throe. 

"  He  is  true  to  his  maystcr,"  said  our  king, 

"  I  say,  by  sweet  Saint  John, 
He  loves  better  Eobin  Hood 

Than  he  does  us  yohone. 

"  Eobin  Hood  is  ever  bound  to  him, 

Both  in  street  and  stall ; 
Speak  no  more  of  this  matter,"  said  our  king, 

"  But  John  has  beguiled  us  all." 

Thus  ends  the  talking  of  the  monk, 

And  Eobin  Hood,  I  Avis ; 
God,  that  is  ever  a  crowned  king, 

Bring  us  all  to  His  bliss. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


517.— EOBIN  HOOD  AND  ALLEN-A- 
DALE. 

Come  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free, 
All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear. 

And  I  will  tell  j'ou  of  a  bold  outlaw, 
That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 

As  Eobin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood, 

All  under  the  gi'eenwood  tree. 
There  he  was  aware  of  a  brave  young  man, 

As  fine  as  fine  might  be. 

The  youngster  was  clad  in  scarlet  red, 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay; 
And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain, 

And  chaunted  a  roundelay. 

As  Eobin  Hood  next  morning  stood 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 
There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 

Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 

It  was  clean  cast  away  ; 
And  at  every  step  he  fetched  a  sigh, 

"  Alas  I  and  a  wcll-a-day !  " 

Then  stepped  forth  bravo  Little  John, 

And  Midge,  tho  miller's  son  ; 
"Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow, 

When  as  he  see  them  come. 

"  Stand  off!  stand  off !  "  the  young  man  said, 

"  AVhat  is  your  wiU  with  me  ?  " 
"  You  must  come  before  our  master  straight. 

Under  yon  greenwood  tree." 


And  when  he  came  bold  Eobin  before, 

Eobin  asked  him  courteously, 
"  O,  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare. 

For  mj''  merry  men  and  me  ?  " 

'•  I  have  no  money,"  the  young  man  said, 
"  But  five  shillings  and  a  ring  ; 

And  that  I  have  kept  this  seven  long  years. 
To  have  at  my  wedding. 

"  Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid. 

But  she  was  from  me  ta'en, 
And  chosen  to  bo  an  old  knight's  delight. 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain." 


thy 


then    said    Eobin 


"What    is 
Hood, 

"  Come  toll  me,  without  any  fail." 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  bodj^"  then  said  the 
young  man, 
"  My  name  it  is  Allen-a-Dale." 

"  What  wilt  thou  give  me,"  said  Eobin  Hood, 

"  In  read}''  gold  or  fee. 
To  help  thee  to  thy  true  love  again, 

And  deliver  her  unto  thee  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  then  quoth  tho  young 
man, 

"  No  ready  gold  nor  fee. 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 

Thy  true  servant  for  to  be." 

"  How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true  love  ? 

Come  tell  me  without  guile." 
"By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the 
young  man, 

"  It  is  but  five  little  mile." 

Then  Eobin  he  hasted  over  the  plain, 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  lin. 
Until  he  came  unto  the  church 

Where  Allen  should  keep  his  weddin'. 

"  What  hast  thou  here  ?  "    the  bishop  then 
said, 

"  I  prithee  now  tell  unto  me." 
"  I  am  a  bold  harper,"  qixoth  Eobin  Hood, 

"  And  the  best  in  the  north  country." 

"  0  v/elcome,  O  welcome,"  the  bishop  he  said, 
"  That  music  best  pleaseth  me." 

"You   shall   have   no   music,"    quoth  Eobin 
Hood, 
"  Till  tho  bride  and  bridegroom  I  see." 

With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 

■\Yhich  was  both  grave  and  old ; 
And  after  him  a  finikin  lass, 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 

"  This  is  not  a  fit  match,"  quoth  Eobin  Hood, 
"  That  you  do  seem  to  make  here  ; 

For  since  we  are  come  into  the  church. 
The  bride  shall  chuse  her  own  dear." 


Anonymous.]        ROBIN  HOOD  EESCUING  THE  WIDOW'S  SONS.       [Third  Period. 


Then  Robin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  and  three ; 
'When  four- and- twenty  yeomen  bpld 

Came  leaping  over  the  lea. 

And  when  they  came  into  the  church-yard, 

Marching  all  in  a  row, 
The  first  man  was  AUen-a-Dale, 

To  give  bold  Robin  his  bow. 

"  This  is  thj'  true  love,"  Robin  he  said, 

"  Young  Allen,  as  I  hear  say  ; 
And  you  shall  be  married  this  same  time, 

Before  we  depart  awa3^■' 

"  That  shaU  not  be,"  the  bishop  he  cried, 

"  For  thy  word  shall  not  stand  ; 
They  shall  be  three  times  asked  in  the  church, 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land." 

Robin  Hood  pulled  off  the  bishop's  coat, 

And  put  it  upon  Little  John  ; 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  Robin  said, 

"This  cloth  doth  make  thee  a  man." 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  quire,  - 

The  people  began  to  laugh ; 
He  asked  them  seven  times  into  church, 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 

"Who    gives   me    this    maid?"    said   Little 
John, 

Quoth  Robin  Hood,  "  That  do  I ; 
And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allen-a-Dale, 

Fidl  dearly  he  shall  her  buy." 

And  then  having  ended  this  merry  wedding. 

The  bride  looked  like  a  queen  ; 
And  so    they  returned  to  the  merry  green- 
wood. 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


518.— ROBIN  HOOD  RESCUING  THE 
WIDOW'S  THREE  SONS. 

There  are  twelve  months  in  all  the  year, 

As  I  hear  many  say, 
But  the  merriest  month  in  all  the  year 

Is  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone, 

With  a  linlc  a  down,  and  a  day, 
And  there  he  met  a  siUy  old  weman. 

Was  weeping  on  the  way. 

"What  news?    what  news?    thou  silly  old 
woman, 
Wlaat  news  hast  thou  for  me  ? " 
Said  she,  "  There's  my  three  sons  in  Notting- 
ham town 
To-day  condemned  to  die." 


"  O,  have  they  parishes  burnt  ?  "  he  said, 

"  Or  have  they  ministers  slain  ? 
Or  have  they  robbed  any  virgin  ? 

Or  other  men's  wives  have  ta'en  ?  " 

"  They  have  no  parishes  burnt,  good  sir, 

Nor  yet  have  niiuisters  slain. 
Nor  have  they  robbed  any  virgin. 

Nor  other  men's  wives  have  ta'en." 

"  O,    what   have   they   done  ? "    said    Robin 
Hood, 

"  I  pray  thee  tell  to  me." 
"It's  for  slaying  of  the  king's  fallow  deer, 

Bearing  their  long  bows  with  thee." 

"  Dost  thou  not  mind,  old  woman,"  he  said, 
"  How  tiiou  madest  me  sup  and  dine  ? 

B}^  the  truth  of  my  body,'  quoth  bold  Robin 
Hood, 
"  You  could  not  tell  it  in  better  time." 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone. 

With  a  linlc  a  dovjn,  and  a  day, 
And  there  he  met  with  a  silly  old  palmer. 

Was  walking  along  the  highway. 

"  What  news  ?    what  news  ?    thou  silly  old 
man. 

What  news  ?  I  do  thee  pray." 
Said  he,   "  Three  squires  in  Nottingham  town 

Are  condemn' d  to  die  this  day." 

"  Come  change  thy  apparel  with  mc,  old  man, 
Come  change  thj-  apparel  for  mine  ; 

Here  is  ten  shillings  in  good  silver, 
Go  drink  it  in  beer  or  wine." 

"  0,  thine  apparel  is  good,"  he  said, 

"  And  mine  is  ragged  and  torn  ; 
Wherever  you  go.  wherever  you  ride. 

Laugh  not  an  old  man  to  scorn." 

"  Come    change    thy    apparel   with   me,    old 
churl. 

Come  change  thy  apparel  with  mine  ; 
Here  is  a  piece  of  good  broad  gold, 

Go  feast  thy  brethren  with  wine." 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  hat. 
It  stood  full  high  on  the  cro^vn  : 

"  The  first  bold  bargain  that  I  come  at, 
It  shall  make  thee  come  down." 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  cloak, 
Was  patch' d  black,  blue,  and  red  ; 

He  thought  it  no  shame,  all  the  day  long, 
To  wear  the  bags  of  bread. 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  breeks, 

Was  patch' d  from  leg  to  side  : 
"  By  the  truth  of  my  body,"   bold  Robin  can 
say, 

"  This  man  loved  little  pride." 


From,  1558  to  ie49.1 


EOBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GISBORKE. 


[Anonymous. 


Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  hose, 
Were  patch' d  from  knee  to  wrist : 

"  By  the  truth  of  my  body,"  said  bold  Robin 
Hood, 
"  I'd  laugh  if  I  had  any  list." 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  shoes. 
Were  patch'd  both  beneath  and  aboon  ; 

Then  Robin  Hood  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
"It's  good  habit  that  makes  a  man." 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone, 
With  a  link  a  down  and  a  down, 

And  there  he  met  with  the  proud  sheriff. 
Was  walking  along  the  town. 

"  Save  you,  save  you,  sheriff!  "  he  said  ; 

"Now  heaven  you  save  and  see  ! 
And  what  will  you  give  to  a  silly  old  man 

To-day  wiU  your  hangman  be  ?  " 

"  Some  suits,  some  suits,"  the  sheriff  he  said, 

"  Some  suits  I'll  give  to  thee  ; 
Some  suits,  some  suits,  and  pence  thii-teen. 

To-day's  a  hangman's  fee," 

Then  Robin  ho  turns  him  round  about. 
And  jumps  from  stock  to  stone  : 

"By  the  truth  of  my  body,"  the  sheriff  he 
said, 
"  That's  well  jumpt,  thou  nimble  old  man." 

"  I  was  ne'er  a  hangman  in  all  my  life, 

Nor  yet  intends  to  trade ; 
"  But  curst  be  he,"  said  bold  Robin, 

"  That  first  a  hangman  was  made  ! 

"  I've  a  bag  for  meal,  and  a  bag  for  malt, 

And  a  bag  for  barley  and  corn  ; 
A  bag  for  bread,  and  a  bag  for  beef. 

And  a  bag  for  my  little  small  horn. 

"  I  have  a  horn  in  my  pocket, 

I  got  it  from  Robin  Hood, 
And  still  when  I  set  it  to  my  mouth, 

For  thee  it  blows  little  good. 

"  0,  wind  thy  horn,  thou  proud  fellbw  ! 

Of  thee  I  have  no  doubt. 
I  wish  that  thou  give  such  a  blast, 

Till  both  thy  eyes  fall  out." 

The  first  loud  blast  that  he  did  blow, 

He  blew  both  loud  and  slirill ; 
A  hundred  and  fifty  of  Robin  Hood's  men 

Came  riding  over  the  hUl. 

The  next  loud  blast  that  he  did  give, 

He  blew  both  loud  and  amain. 
And  quickly  >.ixty  of  Robin  Hood's  men 

Came  shining  over  the  plain. 

"  O,  who  are  those  ?  "  the  sheriff  he  said, 

"  Come  tripping  over  the  lee  ?  " 
"They're   my  attendants,"  brave  Robin  did 
say; 

"  They'll  pay  a  visit  to  thee." 


They  took  the  gallows  from  the  slack. 

They  set  it  in  the  glen, 
They  hanged  the  proud  sheriff  on  that, 

Released  their  o^vn  three  men. 

Anonynwus. — Before  1649. 


519.— ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF 
GISBORNE. 

When  shaws  be  sheen,  and  swards  full  fair. 

And  leaves  both  large  and  long. 
It  is  merry  walking  in  the  fair  forest 

To  hear  the  small  birds'  song. 

The  Avoodweel  sang,  and  would  not  cease, 

Sitting  upon  the  spray, 
So  loud,  he  wakened  Robin  Hood, 

In  the  greenv/ood  where  ho  lay, 

"  Now  by  my  faith,"  said  jollj^  Robin, 

"  A  sweaven  I  had  this  night ; 
I  dreamt  me  of  two  wight  yeomen. 

That  fast  with  me  can  fight. 

"  Methought  they  did  me  beat  and  bind, 

And  took  my  bow  me  fro' ; 
If  I  be  Robin  alive  in  this  land, 

I'll  be  wroken  on  them  two." 

"  Sweavens  are  swift,  master,"  quoth  John, 
"  As  the  wind  that  blows  o'er  a  hill ; 

For  if  it  be  never  so  loud  this  night. 
To-morrow  it  may  be  still." 

"Busk  ye,  bowne  ye,  my  merry  men  all, 

And  John  shall  go  with  me. 
For  I'll  go  seek  yon  wight  yeomen. 

In  the  greenwood  where  they  be," 

Then  they  cast  on  their  gowns  of  green, 

And  took  their  bows  each  one, 
And  they  away  to  the  green  .forest, 

A  shooting  forth  are  gone ; 

Until  they  came  to  the  merry  greenwood, 

Where  they  had  gladdust  be, 
There  were  they  aware  of  a  wight  yeoman, 

His  body  leaned  to  a  tree, 

A  sword  and  a  dagger  he  wore  by  his  side, 

Of  many  a  man  the  bane ; 
And  he  was  clad  in -his  capull  hide 

Top  and  tail  and  mane. 

"Stand  you  still,  master,"  quoth  Little  John, 

"  Under  this  tree  so  green. 
And  I  will  go  to  yon  wight  yeoman 

To  know  what  he  doth  mean," 

"  Ah  !  John,  by  me  thou  settest  no  store, 

And  that  I  fairly  find  ; 
How  oft  send  I  my  men  before, 

And  tarry  myself  behind  ? 

"  It  is  no  cunning  a  knave  to  ken. 

An  a  man  but  hear  him  speak  ; 
An  it  were  not  for  bursting  of  my  bow, 

John,  I  thy  head  would  break." 


Anonymous.] 


EOBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GISBORNE. 


[Third  Period. — 


As  often  words  they  brceden  bale, 
So  they  parted,  Eobin  and  John  ; 

And  John  is  gone  to  Barnesdalo  : 
The  gates  he  knoweth  each  one. 

But  when  he  came  to  Barnesdale, 

Great  heaviness  there  he  had, 
For  he  found  two  of  his  own  follows 

Were  slain  both  in  a  glade. 

And  Scarlett  he  was  fljdng'  a-f  oot 

Fast  over  stock  and  stone, 
For  the  proud  sheriff  with  seven  score  men 

Fast  after  him  is  gone. 

"  One  shot  now  I  will  shoot,"  quoth  John, 
"  (With  Christe  his  might  and  main ;) 

I'll  make  yon  fellow  that  flies  so  fast, 
To  stop  he  shall  be  fain." 

Then  John  bent  up  his  long  bcnde-bow, 

And  fettled  him  to  shoot : 
The  bow  was  made  of  tender  bough, 

And  fell  down  to  his  foot. 

Woe  worth,  woe  worth  thee,  wicked  wood 

That  ere  thou  grew  on  a  tree  ; 
For  now  this  day  thou  art  my  bale, 

My  boote  when  thou  shouldst  be. 

His  shoot  it  was  but  loosely  shot, 

Yet  flew  not  the  arrow  in  vain, 
For  it  met  one  of  the  sheriff's  men, — 

Good  William-a-Trent  was  slain. 

It  had  been  better  for  William-a-Trent 
To  have  been  a-bed  with  sorrow. 

Than  to  be  that  day  in  the  greenwood  glade 
To  meet  with  Little  John's  arroAV. 

But  as  it  is  said,  when  men  be  met, 

Five  can  do  more  than  three. 
The  sheriff  hath  taken  Little  John, 

And  bound  him  fast  to  a  tree. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  drawn  by  dale  and  do^vn, 

And  hang'd  high  on  a  hill." 
"But  thou  mayst  fail  of  thy  purpose,"  quoth 
John, 

"If  it  be  Christe  his  will." 

Let  us  leave  talking  of  Little  John, 

And  think  of  Eobin  Hood, 
How  he  is  gone  to  the  wight  j'-eoman, 

"Where  under  the  leaves  he  stood. 

"Good  morrow,  good  fellow,"  said  Eobin  so 
fair, 
"  Good  morrow,  good  fellow,"  quoth  he : 
"  Mothinks  by  this  bow  thou  bear'st  in  thy 
hand, 
A  good  archer  thou  shouldst  ba." 

"  I  am  wilful  of  my  way,"  quo'  the  yeoman, 

"And  of  my  morning  tide." 
"  I'll  lead  thee  through  the  wood,"  said  Eobin; 

"  Good  fellow,  I'll  be  thy  guide." 


"  I  seek  an  outlaw,"  the  stranger  said, 

"  Men  call  him  Eobin  Hood  ; 
Eather  I'd  meet  with  that  proud  outlaw 

Than  forty  pounds  so  good." 

"  Now  come  with  me,  thou  wighty  yeoman. 

And  Eobin  thou  soon  shalt  see  : 
But  first  let  us  some  pastime  find 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

"  First  let  us  some  mastery  make 

Among  the  woods  so  even, 
We  may  chance  to  meet  with  Eobin  Hood 

Here  at  some  unset  steven." 

They  cut  them  down  two  summer  shoggs. 

That  grew  both  under  a  briar, 
And  set  them  threescore  rod,  in  twain, 

To  shoot  the  pricks  y-fere. 

"  Lead  on,  good  fellow,"  quoth  Eobin  Hood, 

"  Lead  on,  I  do  bid  thee." 
"  Nay,  by  my  faith,  good  fellow,"  he  said, 

"My  leader  thou  shalt  be." 

The  first  time  Eobin  shot  at  the  prick. 

He  miss'd  but  an  inch  it  fro'  ; 
The  yeoman  he  was  an  archer  good, 

But  he  coidd  never  shoot  so. 

The  second  shoot  had  the  Avighty  yeoman. 

Ho  shot  within  tlie  garland  ; 
But  Eobin  he  shot  far  better  than  he, 

For  he  clave  the  good  prick-wand. 

'•'  A  blessing  upon  thy  heart,"  he  said, 
"  Good  fellow,  thy  shooting  is  good  ; 

For  an  thy  heart  be  as  good  as  thy  hand, 
Thou  wert  better  than  Eobin  Hood. 

"  Now  tell  me  thy  name,  good  fellow,"  said  he, 

"  Under  the  leaves  of  lyne." 
"  Nay,  by  my  faith,"  quoth  bold  Eobin, 

"  Until  thou  hast  told  me  thine." 

"  I  dwell  by  dale  and  down,"  quoth  he, 
"  And  Eobin  to  take  I'm  sworn  ; 

And  when  I  am  called  by'Sny  right  name, 
I  am  Guy  of  good  Gisborne." 

"  My  dwelling  is  in  this  wood,"  says  Eobin, 

"  By  thee  I  set  right  nought ; 
I  am  Eobin  Hood  of  Barnesdale, 

Whom  thou  so  long  hast  sought." 

He  that  had  neither  been  kith  nor  kin, 
Might  have  seen  a  full  fair  sight, 

To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went 
With  blades  both  brown  and  bright. 

To  see  how  these  yeomen  together  they  fought 

Two  hours  of  a  summer's  day  : 
Yet  neither  Eobin  Hood  nor  sir  Guy 

Them  fettled  to  fly  away. 

Eobin  was  reachles  of  a  root, 

And  stumbled  at  that  tide  ; 
And  Guy  Avas  quick  and  nimble  withal, 

And  hit  him  o'er  the  left  side. 


From  1558  <ol649.]         ROBIN  HOOD  AND  THE  CUETAL  FEIAR. 


[Anonymous. 


"  Ah,  dear  Lad^^"  said  Robin  Hood,  "thou. 
Thou  art  both  mother  and  may, 

I  think  it  was  never  man's  destiny 
To  die  before  his  da3\" 

Robin  thought  on  our  Lady  dear, 

And  soon  leapt  up  again, 
And  straight  he  came  with  a  backward  stroke, 

And  he  sir  Guy  hath  slain. 

He  took  sir  Guy's  head  by  the  hair, 
And  struck  it  upon  his  bow's-end  : 

"  Thou  hast  been  a  traitor  all  thy  life, 
Which  thing  must  have  an  end." 

Robin  pull'd  forth  an  Irish  knife, 

And  nick'd  sir  Guy  in  the  face, 
That  he  was  never  of  woman  bom, 

Could  tell  whose  head  it  was. 

Says,  "  Lie  there,  lie  there  now,  sir  Guy, 

And  with  me  be  not  wroth ; 
If  thou  have  had  the  worst  strokes  at  my 
hand, 

Thou  shalt  have  the  better  cloth." 

Robin  did  off  his  gown  of  green, 

And  on  sir  Guy  did  throw, 
And  he  put  on  that  capuU  hide, 

That  clad  him  tip  to  toe. 

"  The  bow,  the  arrows,  the  little  horn, 

Now  with  me  I  will  bear ; 
For  I  will  away  to  Barnesdale, 

To  see  how  my  men  do  fare." 

Robin  Hood  set  Guy's  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  a  loud  blast  in  it  did  blow, 
That  beheard  the  sheriff  of  Nottingham, 

As  he  leaned  under  a  lowe. 

"Hearken,  hearken,"  said  the  sheriff, 

"  I  hear  now  tidings  good, 
For  yonder  I  hear  sir  Guy's  horn  blow. 

And  he  hath  slain  Robin  Hood. 

"  Yonder  I  hear  sir  Guy's  horn  blow, 

It  blows  so  well  in  tide. 
And  yonder  comes  that  wighty  yeoman, 

Clad  in  his  capuU  hide. 

"  Come  hither,   come  hither,   thou  good   sir 
Guy, 

Ask  what  thou  wilt  of  me." 
"01  will  none  of  thy  gold,"  said  Robin, 

"  Nor  I  will  none  of  thy  fee. 


"  But  now  I  have  slain  the  master, 
"  Let  me  go  strike  the  knave  ; 

For  this  is  all  the  reward  I  ask ; 
Nor  no  other  will  I  have." 


he  says. 


"  Thou  art  a  madman,"  said  the  sheriff, 
"  Thou  shouldst  have  had  a  knight's  fee 

But  seeing  thy  asking  hath  been  so  bad, 
Well  granted  it  shall  be." 


When  Little  John  heard  his  master  speak, 
Well  knew  he  it  was  his  steven  : 

"  Now  shall  I  be  loosed,"  quoth  Little  John, 
"  With  Christe  his  might  in  heaven." 

Fast  Robin  he  hied  him  to  Little  Jolin,  _ 
He  thought  to  loose  him  belive  ; 

The  sheriff  and  all  his  company 
Fast  after  him  did  drive. 

"  Stand  back,  stand  back,"  said  Robin; 

"  Why  draw  you  me  so  near  ? 
It  was  never  the  use  in  our  country, 

One's  shrift  another  should  hear." 

But  Robin  pull'd  forth  an  Irish  knife. 

And  loosed  John  hand  and  foot, 
And  gave  him  sir  Guy's  bow  into  his  hand, 
And  bade  it  be  his  boote. 

Then  John  he  took  Guy's  bow  in  his  hand. 

His  bolts  and  arrows  each  one  : 
When  the  sheriff  saw  Little  John  bend   his 
bow, 

He  fettled  him  to  be  gone. 

Towards  his  house  in  Nottingham  toAvn, 

He  fled  full  fast  away ; 
And  so  did  all  the  company : 

Not  one  behind  would  stay. 

But  he  could  neither  run  so  fast. 

Nor  away  so  fast  could  ride. 
But  Little  John  with  an  arrow  so  broad, 

He  shot  him  into  the  back-side. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


520.— ROBIN  HOOD  AND  THE  CURTAL 
FRIAR. 

In  the  summer  time,  when  leaves  grow  green, 

And  flowers  are  fresh  and  gay, 
Robin  Hood  and  his  merry  men 

Were  all  disposed  to  play. 

Then  some  would  leap,  and  some  woidd  run, 

And  some  would  use  artillery  ; 
"  Which  of  you  can  a  good  bow  draw, 

A  good  archer  for  to  be  ? 

"  Which  of  you  can  kill  a  buck ; 

Or  Avho  can  kill  a  doe  ? 
Or  who  can  kill  a  hart  of  grease. 

Five  hundred  foot  him  fro'  ?" 

Will  Scarlet  he  kill'd  a  buck. 

And  Midge  he  kiU'd  a  doe ; 
And  Little  John  kill'd  a  hart  of  grease. 

Five  hundred  foot  him  fro'. 

"  God's  blessing  on  thy  heart,"  said  Robin 
Hood, 
i        "  That  shot  such  a  shot  for  me  ; 
I    I  would  ride  my  horse  an  hundred  miles 
I        To  find  one  to  match  thee."  ^ 


Anonymous.] 


EOBIN  HOOD  AND  THE  CURTAL  FEIAE.         [Third  Period. - 


That  caused  Will  Scarlet  to  laugh, 

He  laugh' d  full  heartily; 
"  There  lives  a  friar  in  Fountain's  Abbey 

Will  beat  both  him  and  thee. 

*'  The  curtal  friar  in  Fountain's  Abbey 
Well  can  draw  a  good  strong  bow ; 

He  will  beat  both  you  and  your  yeomen, 
Set  them  all  on  a  row."  • 

Robin  Hood  took  a  solemn  oath, 

It  was  by  Mary  free, 
That  he  would  neither  eat  nor  drink. 

Till  the  friar  he  did  see. 

Robin  Hood  put  on  his  harness  good. 

On  his  head  a  cap  of  steel : 
Broad  sword  and  buckler  by  his  side, 

And  they  became  him  well. 

He  took  his  bow  into  his  hand, 

(It  was  of  a  trusty  tree) 
With  a  sheaf  of  aiTows  by  his  side 

And  to  Fountain  Dale  went  he. 

And  coming  unto  fair  Fountain  Dale, 

No  farther  would  he  ride  : 
There  was  he  'ware  of  a  curtal  friar, 

Walking  by  the  water-side. 

The  friar  had  on  a  harness  good, 

On  his  head  a  cap  of  steel ; 
Broad  sword  and  buckler  by  his  side. 

And  they  became  him  well. 

Robin  Hood  lighted  off  his  horse, 

And  tied  him  to  a  thorn  : 
"  Carry, me  over  the  water,  thou  curtal  friar, 

Or  else  thy  life  's  forlorn." 

The  friar  took  Robin  Hood  on  his  back, 

Deep  water  he  did  bestride, 
And  spake  neither  good  word  nor  bad 

Till  he  came  to  the  other  side. 

Lightly  leap'd  Robin  off  the  friar's  back. 

The  friar  said  to  him  again, 
"  Carry  me  over  the  water,  fine  fellow, 

Or  it  shall  breed  thee  pain." 

Robin  Hood  took  the  friar  on  his  back. 

Deep  water  ho  did  bestride, 
And  spake  neither  good  nor  bad 

Till  he  came  to  the  other  side. 

Lightly  leap'd   the   friar   off    Robin   Hood's 
back ; 

Robin  said  to  him  again, 
"  Carry  mo  over  the  water,  thou  curtal  friar. 

Or  it  shall  breed  thee  pain." 

The  friar  he  took   Robin  Hood  on  his  back 
again, 

And  stepp'd  up  to  his  knee  ; 
Till  he  came  to  the  middle  of  the  stream 

Neither  good  nor  bad  spake  he  ; 


And  coming  to  the  middle  of  the  stream, 

There  he  throw  Robin  in  ; 
"  And  choose  thee,  choose  thee,  fine  fellov^-, 

Whether  thou  wilt  sink  or  swim." 

Robin  Hood  swam  to  a  bush  of  broom, 

The  friar  to  the  Avillow  wand  ; 
Bold  Robin  Hood  lie  got  to  the  shore, 

And  took  his  bow  in  his  hand. 

One  of  the  best  arrows  under  his  belt, 

To  the  friar  he  let  fly  : 
The  curtal  friar  with  hi.s  steel  buckler 

Did  put  that  arrow  by. 

"  Shoot  on,  shoot  on,  thou  fine  fellow. 

Shoot  as  thou  hast  begun  ; 
If  thou  shoot  here  a  summer's  day, 

Thy  mark  I  ■^^•ill  not  shun." 

Robin  Hood  shot  so  passing  well, 

Till  his  arroAvs  all  were  gone  ; 
Tliey  took  their  swords  and  steel  bucklers, 

They  fought  wdth  might  and  main. 

From  ten  o'clock  that  very  day, 

Till  four  i'  the  afternoon  ; 
Then  Robin  Hood  came  on  his  knees, 

Of  the  friar  to  beg  a  boon. 

"  A  boon,  a  boon,  thou  curtal  friar, 

I  beg  it  on  my  knee  ; 
Give  me  leave  to  set  my  horn  to  my  mouth. 

And  to  blow  blasts  tlirec." 

*'  That  I  Avill  do,"  said  the  curtal  friar, 
"  Of  thy  blasts  I  have  no  doubt ; 

I  hope  thou  wilt  blow  so  passing  well, 
Till  both  thy  eye&  drop  out." 

Robin  Hood  sot  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  he  blew  out  blasts  three. 
Half  a  hundred  yeomen,  -svith  their  bows  bent, 

Came  ranging  over  the  lea. 

"  Wliose  men  are  these,"  said  the  friar, 

"  That  come  so  hastily  ?  " 
"  These  men  are  mine,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  Friar,  what's  that  to  thee  ?  " 

"  A  boon,  a  boon,"  said  the  curtal  friar, 

"  The  like  I  gave  to  thee  ; 
Give  me  leave  to  put  my  fist  to  my  mouth, 

And  Avhute  whutes  three." 

"  That  I  will  do,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  Or  else  I  wore  to  blame  ; 
Three  whutes  in  a  friar's  fist 

Would  make  me  glad  and  fain." 

The  friar  he  set  his  fist  to  his  mouth. 
And  he  whuted  him  whutes  three ; 

Half  an  hundred  good  ban  dogs 
Came  running  over  the  lea. 

"  Here  is  for  every  ma,n  a  dog. 

And  I  myself  for  thee  ;  " 
"  Nay,  hj  my  faith,"  said  Robin  Hoo'I, 

"  Friar,  that  may  not  be." 


Frcym  1558  to  1649.] 


HOW  EOBIN  HOOD  LENDS,  &c. 


[Anonymous. 


Two  dogs  at  once  to  Robin  did  go, 
The  one  behind,  and  the  other  before ; 

Robin  Hood's  mantle  of  Lincoln  green 
Off  from  his  back  they  tore. 

And  whether  his  men  shot  east  or  west. 

Or  they  shot  north  or  south, 
The  curtal  dogs,  so  taught  they  were. 

They  caught  the  arrows  in  their  mouth. 

"  Take  up  thy  dogs,"  said  Little  John, 

"  Friar,  at  my  bidding  thee  ; 
*'  "Whose  man  art  thou,"  said  the  curtal  friar, 

"  That  comes  here  to  prate  to  me  ?" 

"  I  am  Little  John,  Robin  Hood's  man. 

Friar,  I  will  not  lie  ; 
If  thou  take  not  up  thy  dogs  anon, 

I'll  take  them  up  and  thee." 

Little  John  had  a  bow  in  his  hand, 

He  shot  with  might  and  main; 
Soon  half  a  score  of  the  friar's  dogs 

Lay  dead  upon  the  plain. 

"  Hold  thy  hand,  good  fellow,"  said  the  curtal 
friar, 

"  Thy  master  and  I  will  agree ; 
And  we  ^vill  have  new  orders  taken, 

With  all  haste  that  may  be. 

'•  If  thou  wilt  forsake  fair  Fountain  Dale, 

And  Fountain  Abbey  free ; 
Every  Sunday  throughout  the  year 

A  noble  shall  be  thy  fee. 

"  Every  Sunday  throughout  the  year, 

Chang' d  shall  thy  garments  be, 
If  thou  Avilt  to  fair  Nottingham  go, 

And  there  remain  mth  me." 

The  curtal  friar  had  kept  Fountain  Dale, 

Seven  long  years  and  more  ; 
There  was  neither  knight,  lord,  nor  earl. 

Could  make  him  yield  before. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


521.— HOW  ROBIN  HOOD  LENDS  A 
POOR  KNIGHT  FOUR  HUNDRED 
POUNDS. 

Lithe  and  lysten,  gentylmen, 

That  be  of  frebore  blode  ; 
I  shall  you  tell  of  a  gude  yeman, 

His  name  was  Robyn  Hode. 

Robyn  was  a  proude  outlawo, 

Whyles  he  walked  on  grounde,       « 

So  curteyse  an  outlawe  as  he  was  one 
Was  never  none  yfounde. 

Robyn  stode  in  Bamysdale, 

And  lened  hym  to  a  tree, 
And  by  hym  stode  LyteU  Johan, 

A  good  yeman  was  he; 


And  also  dyd  good  Scathelock, 

And  Much  the  miller's  sone  ; 
There  was  no  ynche  of  his  body, 

But  it  was  worthe  a  grome. 

Then  bespake  him  LyteU  Johan         _ 

All  unto  Robyn  Hode, 
"  Mayster,  yf  ye  wolde  dyne  betyme. 

It  wolde  do  you  moch  good." 

Then  bespake  good  Robyn, 

■•'  To  dyne  I  have  no  lust, 
Tyll  I  have  some  bolde  baron, 

Or  some  unketh  guest, 

"  [Or  els  some  byshop  or  abbot] 

That  may  paye  for  the  best ; 
Or  some  knyght  or  some  squyere 

That  dweUeth  here  by  west." 

A  good  maner  than  had  Robyn, 

In  londe  where  that  he  were  : 
Every  daye  or  he  woulde  djoie 

Thre  messes  wolde  he  here. 

Robyn  loved  Our  Dere  Lady  ; 

For  doute  of  dedely  synne 
Wolde  he  never  do  company  harme 

That  ony  woman  was  ynne. 

"  Mayster,"  then  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 
"  And  we  our  borde  shall  sprede, 

Tell  us  whither  we  shall  gone, 
And  what  lyfe  we  shall  lede  ; 

"  Where  we  shall  take,  where  we  shall  leve, 

Where  we  shall  abide  behynde. 
Where  we  shall  robbe,  where  we  shall  reve, 

Where  we  shaU.  bete  and  bynde." 

"  Thereof  no  fors,"  sayd  Robyn, 

"  We  shall  do  well  enow ; 
But  loke  ye  do  no  housbonde  harme 

That  tylleth  with  his  plough ; 

"  No  more  ye  shall  no  good  yeman, 
That  walketh  by  grene  wode  shawe, 

Ne  no  knyght,  ne  no  squyer, 
That  wolde  be  a  good  felawe. 

"  These    bysshoppes,    and    these     archebys- 
shoppes, 

Ye  shall  them  bete  and  bynde ; 
The  hye  sheryfe  of  Notynghame, 

Hym  holde  in  your  mynde." 

"  This   worde    shall  be   holde,"    said   Lj-tyll 
Johan, 

"  And  this  lesson  shall  we  lere ; 
It  is  ferre  dayes,  god  sende  us  a  guest. 

That  we  were  at  our  dynere." 

'•  Take  thy  good  bowe   in   thy  hande,"  said 
Robyn, 

*'  Let  Moohe  wende  with  thee, 
And  so  shall  Wyllyam  Soathelocke, 

And  no  man  abyde  with  me :  5^9* 


Anonymous.]                          HOW  ROBIN"  HOOD  LENDS,  &c.                  [Third  Period.— 

"  And  walke  up  to  the  Sayles, 

They  washed  togydcr  and  wyped  both. 

And  so  to  Watlynge-strete, 

And  set  tyll  theyr  dj-nere  ; 

And  wayte  after  some  unketh  guest, 

Brede  and  wjme  they  had  ynough,                 -     ^ 

Up-chaunce  ye  mowe  them  mete. 

And  nombles  of  the  dere ; 

.    "  Be  he  erle  or  ony  baron, 

Swannes  and  fesauntes  they  had  full  good. 

Abbot  or  ony  knyght, 

And  foules  of  the  rivcre  ; 

Brynge  hym  to  lodge  to  me, 

There  fayled  never  so  lytell  a  byrde, 

Hys  dyner  shall  be  dyght" 

That  ever  was  bred  on  brere. 

They  wente  unto  the  Sayles, 

"  Do  gladly,  syr  knyght,"  sayd  Eobyn. 

These  yemen  all  thre, 

"  Gramercy,  syr,"  sayd  he. 

They  loked  est,  they  loked  west. 
They  myght  no  man  see. 

"  Such  a  dyner  had  I  not 
Of  all  these  wekes  thre  : 

But  as  they  loked  in  Barnysdale, 

"  If  I  come  agaync,  Eobyn, 
Here  by  this  countiv, 

By  a  derne  strete 

As  good  a  dyner  I  shall  thee  make. 

Then  came  there  a  knyght  rydynge, 

As  thou  hast  made  to  me." 

Full  sone  they  gan  hj^m  mete. 

All  dreri  then  was  his  semblaunte, 

"  Gramercy,  knyght,"  sayd  Eobyn, 
"  My  dyner  whan  I  have. 

And  lytell  was  hys  pryde. 

I  was  never  so  gredy  [I  swear  to  thee], 

Hys  one  fote  in  the  sterope  stode, 

My  dyner  for  to  crave. 

That  other  waved  besyde. 

"  But  pay  or  ye  wende,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

Hys  hode  hangynge  over  hys  eyen  two,- 

"  Me  thynketh  it  is  good  ryght ; 

He  rode  in  symple  aray  : 

It  was  never  the  maner,  by  my  troth. 

A  soryer  man  than  he  was  one 

A  yeman  to  pay  for  a  knyght." 

Eode  never  in  somers-day. 

"  I  have    naught    in    my   cofers,"    sayd  the 

LyteU  Johan  was  curteyse. 

knyght. 

And  set  hym  on  hys  kne  : 

"  That  I  may  profer  for  shame." 

"  Welcome  be  ye,  gentyll  knyght, 

"  Lytell  Johan,  go  lokc,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

Welcome  are  you  to  me  ; 

"  No  let  not  for  no  blame. 

"  Welcome  be  thou  to  grene  wood, 

"  Tell  me  trouth,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

Hende  knyght  and  fre  ; 

'•'  So  god  have  parte  of  thee." 

My  mayster  hath  abyden  you  fastynge, 

"  I  have  no  more  but  ten  shillings,"  sayd  the 

Syr,  aU  these  oures  thre." 

knyght, 

"  So  god  have  parte  of  me." 

"  Wlio  is  your  mayster  ?  "  sayd  the  knyght. 
Johan  sayde,  "Robyn  Hode." 

"  Yf  thou  have  no  more,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  I  wyll  not  one  peny  ; 
And  ji  thou  have  nede.of  ony  more, 

More  shall  I  len  thee. 

"  He  is  a  good  yeman,"  sayd  the  knyght, 
"  Of  hym  T  have  herde  moch  good. 

"  I  graunte,"  he  sayd,  "  with  you  to  wende, 

"  Go  now  forth,  Lytell  Johan, 

My  brethren  all  in-f ere ; 

The  trouthe  tell  thou  me  : 

]\Iy  purpose  was  to  have  deyned  to  day 

Yf  there  be  no  morrf  but  ten  shillings, 

At  Blythe  or  Dankastere." 

Not  one  peny  than  I  se." 

Forthe  than  went  this  gentyll  knyght, 

Ljiiell  Johan  spred  downe  his  mantell 

With  a  careful!  chere. 

Full  fayre  upon  the  grounde, 

The  teres  out  of  his  eyen  ran. 

And  there  he  founde  in  the  knyghtes  cofer 

And  fell  downe  by  his  lere. 

But  even  halfe  a  pounde. 

They  brought  hym  unto  the  lodge  dore  ; 

Lytyll  Johan  let  it  lye  full  styll, 

AVhen  Eobyn  gan  hym  se, 

And  went  to  his  mayster  full  lowe. 

Full  curteysly  dyd  of  his  hode, 

"  What  tydynge,  Johan  ?  "  sayd  Eobyn. 

And  set  hym  on  his  kne. 

"  Syr,  the  knyght  is  trewc  inough." 

"  Welcome,  syr  knyght,"  then  said  Eobyn, 

"  Fyll  of  the  best  wyne,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Welcome  thou  art  to  me ; 

"  The4cnyght  shall  begjTine ; 

I  haue  abyde  you  fastynge,  syr, 

Moch  wonder  thynketh  me 

All  these  houres  thre." 

Thy  clothynge  is  so  thynne. 

Then  answered  the  gentyll  knyght. 

"  Tell  me  one  worde,"  sayd  Eobj'n, 

With  wordes  fayre  and  fre. 

"  And  couusell  shall  it  be  ; 

*'  God  thee  save,  good  Eobyn, 

I  trowe  thou  were  made  a  knyght  of  forse, 

And  all  thy  fayre  mejme  !  " 

Or  eUes  of  yemanry  ; 

From  1558  to  1649.] 


HOW  EOBIN  HOOD  LENDS,  &c. 


[ANONYMOc-S. 


"  Or  elles  thou  hast  ben  a  sory  housbaud, 
And  leved  in  stroke  and  stryfe  ; 

An  okerer,  or  elles  a  lechoure,"  sayd  Eobyn, 
"  With  wronge  hast  thou  lede  thy  lyfe." 

"  I  am  none  of  them,"  sayd  the  knj'ght, 

■*  By  [him]  that  made  me  : 
An  hondreth  wjoiter  here  before, 

Mjne  aunsetters  knyghtes  have  be. 

'  •  But  ofte  it  hath  befal,  Eobyn, 

A  man  hath  be  dysgrate  ; 
But  [he]  that  syteth  in  heven  above 

May  amend  his  state. 

••  Within  two  or  thre  yere,  Eobyn,"  he  sayd, 

"  My  neyghbores  well  it  kende, 
Foure  hondreth  pounde  of  good  money 

Full  wel  than  myght  I  spende. 

"  Now  have  I  no  good,"  say(i  the  knyght, 
"  But  my  chyldren  and  my  wyfe ; 

God  hath  shapen  such  an  ende, 
Tyll  it  may  amende  my  lyfe." 

'•  In  what  maner,"  sayd  EobjTi, 

"  Hast  thou  lore  thy  riches  ?  "^ 
"  For  my  grete  foly,"  he  sayd, 

"  And  for  my  kindenesse. 

"  I  had  a  sone,  for  soth,  Eobyn, 

That  sholde  have  ben  my  eyre, 
Wlien  he  was  twenty  wj^nter  olde. 

In  felde  wolde  juste  full  feyra  ; 

"  He  slewe  a  knyght  of  Lancastshyre, 

And  a  sqajTc  bold  ; 
For  to  save  hym.  in  his  ryght 

My  goodes  both  sette  and  solde  ; 

"  My  londes  beth  set  to  wedde,  Eobyn, 

Untyll  a  certayne  dayc, 
To  a  ryche  abbot  here  besj-de, 

Of  Saynt  Mary  abbay." 

"  What  is  the  somme  ?  "  sayd  Eobjm, 

"  Trouthe  than  tell  thou  me." 
"  Syr,"  he  sayd,  "  foure  hondred  pounde, 

The  abbot  tolde  it  to  mc." 

'•  Now,  and  thou  lese  thylonde,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  What  shall  fall  of  thee  ?  " 
"  Hastely  I  wjll  mo  buske,"  sayd  the  knyght, 

"  Over  the  salte  see, 

"  And  se  where  Cryst  was  quj'-cko  and  deed, 

On  the  mounte  of  Calvare. 
Fare  well,  frende,  and  have  good  daye, 

It  may  noo  better  be — " 

Teeres  fell  out  of  his  eyen  two. 

He  wolde  haue  gone  his  way — 
"Farewell,  frendes,  and  have  good  day  ; 

I  no  have  more  to  say." 

"  Where  be  thy  frendes  ?  "  sayd  Eobyn. 

''  Syr,  never  one  wyll  me  know  ; 
Whyle  I  was  ryche  inow  at  home, 

Grete  bost  then  wolde  they  blowe, 


"  And  now  they  renne  awaye  fro  me, 

As  bestes  on  a  rawe  ; 
They  take  no  more  heed  of  me 

Than  they  me  never  sawe." 

For  ruthe  then  wepte  Lytell  Johan, 
Scathelocke  and  Much  in  fere. 

"Fyll  of  the  best  wyne,"  sayd  Eobyn, 
"  For  here  is  a  symple  chere. 

"  Hast  thou  ony  frendes,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Thy  borowes  that  wjdl  be  ?  " 
"  [None  other]  but  Our  Dere  Lady  : 

She  [never  hath]  fay  led  nie." 

"  Now  by  my  hand,"  sayd  Eobyn, 
"  To  serche  all  Englond  thorovre, 

Yet  founde  I  never  to  my  pay, 
A  moch  better  borowe. 

"  Come  now  forthe,  Lj^tell  Johan, 

And  goo  to  my  tresoure, 
And  brynge  me  foure  hondred  ponnde. 

And  loke  that  it  well  tolde  be." 

Forthe  then  wente  Lytell  Johan, 
•  And  Scathelocke  went  before. 
He  tolde  out  foure  hondred  pounde, 
By  two  and  twenty  score. 

"  Is  this  well  tolde  ?  "  said  lytell  Much. 

Johan  sayd,  "  What  greveth  thee  ? 
It  is  almes  to  helpe  a  gentyll  knyght 

That  is  fall  in  poverte." 

"  Mayster,"  than  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

"  His  clothynge  is  full  thynne  ; 
Ye  must  gyve  the  knyght  a  lyveray. 

To  lappe  his  body  ther  in. 

"  For  ye  have  scarlet  and  gi-ene,  mayster. 

And  many  a  ryche  aray  ; 
There  is  no  marchaunt  in  mery  Englonde 

So  ryche,  I  dare  well  saye." 

'•  Take  hym  thre  yerdes  of  every  coloure. 
And  loke  that  M'ell  mete  it  be." 

Lytell  Johan  toke  none  other  mesuro 
But  his  bowe  tre. 

And  of  every  handfull  that  he  met 

He  lept  over  fotes  thre. 
"  What  devilkyns  draper,"  sayd  litell  Much, 

"  Thynkyst  thou  to  be  ?  " 

Scathelocke  stoode  full  stj'll  and  lough, 

[And  swore  it  was  but  right]  ; 
Johan  may  give  hym  the  better  mesure, 

It  costeth  him  but  lyght. 

"  Maj'ster,"  saj'^d  Lytell  Johan, 

All  unto  Eobyn  Hode, 
"  Ye  must  gyve  that  knyght  an  hors, 

To  lede  home  al  this  good." 

"  Take  hym  a  gray  courser,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  And  a  sadell  newe  ; 
He  is  our  ladyes  messengere, 

[I  hope]  that  he  be  true."- 


Anonymous.] 


THE  KNIGHT  EELEASES  HIS  LANDS,  &c.         [Third  Pebiod.- 


"  And  a  good  palfraye,"  sayd  lyteU  Moch, 
"  To  mayntayne  hym  in  his  ryght." 

"And  a  payre  of  botes,"  sayd  Scatheloeke, 
"  For  he  is  a  gentyll  knyght." 

"  What  shalt  thou  gyve  hym,  Lytel  Johan  r  " 
sayd  Robyn. 

"  Syr,  a  payre  of  gylte  spurres  clene, 
To  pray  for  all  this  company — 

God  brynge  hym  out  of  tene  !  " 

"  Whan  shall  my  daye  be,"  sayd  the  knyght, 

"  Syr,  and  your  wyll  be  ?  " 
"  This  daye  twelve  moneth,"  sayd  EobjTi, 

"  Under  this  grene  wode  tre." 

"It  were  grete  shame,"  sayd  Eobj^n, 

"  A  knyght  alone  to  ryde, 
Without  squyer,  yeman,  or  page, 

To  walke  by  hys  syde. 

"  I  shall  thee  lene  Lytell  Johan  my  man, 

For  he  shall  be  thy  knave  ; 
In  a  yeman' s  steed  he  may  thee  stonde, 

Yf  thou  grete  nede  have." 

Ananymous. — Before  1649. 


522. —  THE    KNIGHT     EELEASES    HIS 
LANDS,    AND    SUCCOUES    A    YEO- 

MAN. 

Nowe  is  the  knyght  went  on  his  way  : 
This  game  he  thought  f  uU  good ; 

Whan  he  loked  on  Barnysdale, 
He  blyssed  Eobyn  Hode  ; 

And  whan  he  thought  on  Barnysdale, 
On  Scathelock,  Much,  and  Johan, 

He  blyssed  them  for  the  best  comijany 
That  ever  he  in  come. 

Then  spake  that  gentyll  knyght, 

To  Lytel  Johan  gan  he  saye, 
"  To  morowe  I  must  to  Yorke  tonne, 

To  Saynt  Maiy  abbay  ;  • 

"And  to  the  abbot  of  that  place 
Foure  hondred  pounde  I  must  pay  : 

And  but  I  be  there  upon  this  nyght 
My  londe  is  lost  for  ay." 

The  abbot  sayd  to  his  covent. 

There  he  stode  on  grounde, 
"  This    day    twelfe    moneth    came    there    a 
knyght 

And  borowed  foure  hondred  pounde. 

"  [He  borowed  foure  hondred  pounde] 

Upon  all  his  londe  fre. 
But  he  come  this  ylke  day 

Disheryted  shall  he  be." 

"  It  is  full  erely,"  sayd  the  pryoure, 

"  The  day  is  not  yet  ferre  gone  ; 
I  had  lever  to  pay  an  hondred  pounde, 

And  lay  it  downe  a  none. 


"  The  knyght  is  ferre  beyonde  the  see, 

In  Englonde  is  his  ryght, 
And  suffreth  honger  and  colde 

And  many  a  sory  nyght : 

"  It  were  grete  pyte,"  sayd  the  pryoure, 

"  So  to  have  his  londe  ; 
And  ye  be  so  lyght  of  your  conseyence, 

Ye  do  to  him  moch  wronge." 

"Thou   arte   ever   in   my    berde,"    sayd   the 
abbot, 

"  By  our  saynt  Eycharde." 
With  that  cam  in  a  fat-heded  monke, 

The  high  cellarer : 

"  He  is  dede  or  hanged,"  sayd  the  monke 

"  By  him  that  bought  me  dere  ; 
And  we  shall  have  to  spende  in  this  place 

Foure  hondred  pounde  by  yere." 

The  abbot  and  the  high  cellarer, 

Sterte  forthe  full  bolde  ; 
The  High  Justyce  of  Englonde 

[With]  the  abbot  there  dyd  holde. 
1 
The  High  Justj'-ce  and  many  mo 

Had  take  into  their  honde 
Wholly  all  the  knyghtes  det. 

To  put  that  knyght  to  wronge. 

They  demed  the  knyght  wonder  sore, 

The  abbot  and  hys  meyne  : 
"  But  he  come  this  ylke  day 

Disheryted  shall  he  be." 

"  He  wyll  not  come  yet,"  sayd  the  justyce, 

"  I  dare  well  undertake." 
But  in  sorry  tyme  for  them  all. 

The  knyght  came  to  the  gate. 

Than  bespake  that  gentyll  knyght 

Untyll  his  meyne, 
"  Now  put  on  your  simple  wedes 

That  ye  brought  fro  the  see." 

[They  put  on  their  simple  wedes,] 

And  came  to  the  gates  anone. 
The  porter  was  redy  hymselfe. 

And  welcomed  them  everychone. 

"  Welcome,  syr  knyght,"  sayd  the  porter, 

"  My  lord  to  mete  is  he, 
And  so  is  many  a  gentyll  man, 

For  the  love  of  thee." 

The  porter  swore  a  full  grete  othe, 

[When  he  his  horse  did  see]  : 
"  Here  be  the  best  coresed  horse 

That  ever  yet  sawe  I  me. 

"  Lede  them  into  the  stable,"  he  sayd, 

"  That  eased  myght  they  be." 
"  They   shall    not    come   therin,"    sayd   the 
knyght 

["  Thy  stable  liketh  not  me."] 


From  1558  to  1649.]          THE  KNIGHT  EELEASES  HIS  LANDS,  <^:c.              [Anonymous. 

Lordes  were  to  mete  isette 

"  In  joustes  and  in  tournement 

Ih  that  abbotes  hall, 

FuU  ferre  than  have  I  be. 

The  knyght  went  forth  and  kneled  downe, 

And  put  myselfe  as  ferre  in  prees 

And  salved  them  grete  and  small. 

As  ony  that  ever  I  se." 

'•  Do  gladly,  syr  abbot,"  sayd  the  knyght, 

"  TNTiat  wyll  ye  gyve  more  ?  "  said  the  justyce. 

"  I  am  come  to  holde  my  day." 

"  And  the  knyght  shall  make  a  reley^e  ; 

The  fyrst  word  the  abbot  spake, 

And  elles  dare  I  safely  swere 

"  Hast  thou  brought  my  pay  ?  " 

Ye  holde  never  your  londe  in  pees." 

"  Not  one  peny,"  sayd  the  knyght, 

"  An  hondred  pounde,"  sayd  the  abbot. 

["  Alas  !  it  might  not  be."] 

The  justyce  sayd,  "  Gyve  him  two." 

"Thou    art   a   shrewed    dettour,"    sayd  the 

"  Nay,  be  heaven,"  sayd  the  knyght, 

abbot ; 

"  Yet  gete  ye  it  not  soo  : 

"  Syr  justyce,  drynke  to  me. 

"  Though  ye  wolde  gyve  a  thousande  more, 

"  What  doost  thou  here,"  sayd  the  abbot, 

Yet  were  ye  never  the  nere  ; 

"  But  thou  haddest  brought  thy  pay  ?  " 

Shall  there  never  be  myn  eyre, 

"Fore  heaven,"  than  sayd  the  knyght, 

Abbot,  justyse,  ne  frere." 

"  To  pray  of  a  lenger  daye." 

He  sterte  hym  to  a  bordo  anone, 

"*rhy  daye  is  broke,"  sayd  the  justyce. 

Tyll  a  table  roiinde. 

"  Londe  getest  thou  none." 

And  there  he  shoke  out  of  a  bagge 

"  Now,  good  syr  justyce,  be  my  frende. 

Even  foure  hondred  pounde. 

And  fende  me  of  my  fone." 

1 

"Have  here  thy  golde,  syr  abbot,"  sayd  the 

"I    am    holde   with    the   abbot,"    saj^d    the 

Icnyght, 

justyce, 

"  Wliich  that  thou  lentest  me  ; 

"  Bothe  with  cloth  and  fee." 

Haddest  thou  ben  curteys  at  my  comynge, 

"  Now,  good  syr  sheryf,  be  my  frende  !  " 

Eewarde  sholdest  thou  have  be." 

"Nay,  fore  heaven,"  sayd  he. 

The  abbot  sat  styll,  and  ete  no  more. 

"  Now,  good  syr  abbot,  be  my  frende, 

For  all  his  ryall  chore. 

For  thy  curteyse, 

He  cast  his  hede  on  his  sholder, 

i       And  holde  my  londes  in  thy  honde 

And  fast  began  to  stare. 

Tyll  I  have  made  thee  gree  ; 

"  [Bring]   me   my   golde   agayne,"  sayd  the 

"  And  I  wyll  be  thy  true  servaunte, 

abbot, 

And  trewely  servo  the. 

"  Syr  justyce,  that  I  toke  thee." 

Tyl  ye  have  foure  hondred  pouiide 

"Not  a  peny,"  sayd  the  justyce,                           ^ 
["  Thou  diddest  but  pay  my  fee."] 

Of  money  good  and  free." 

The  abbot  sware  a  full  grete  othe, 

"  Syr  abbot,  and  ye  men  of  lawe. 

[A  solemn  othe  sware  he  :] 

Now  have  I  holde  my  daye, 

"  Get  the  londe  where  thou  may, 

Now  shall  I  have  my  londe  agayne. 

For  thou  getest  none  of  me." 

For  aught  that  you  can  saye." 

["  Now  by  our  Lady,"]  sayd  the  knyght, 

The  knyght  stert  out  of  the  dore, 

["  Whose  aidance  have  I  besought,] 

Awaye  was  all  his  care. 

But  I  have  my  londe  agayne, 

And  on  he  put  his  good  clothynge, 

Full  dere  it  shall  be  bought." 

The  other  he  lefte  there. 

The  abbot  lothely  on  hym  gan  loke, 

He  wente  hym  forthe  full  mery  syngynge, 

And  vylaynesly  hym  gan  call : 

As  men  have  tolde  in  tale. 

"  Out,"  he  sayd,  "  thou  false  knyght. 

His  lady  met  hym  at  the  gate, 

Spede  thee  out  of  my  hall !  " 

At  home  in  "  Wierysdale." 

"  Thou  lyest,"  then  sayd  the  gentj'll  knyght, 

"  Welcome,  my  lorde,"  sayd  his  lady ; 

"  Abbot  in  thy  hal ; 

"  Syr,  lost  is  all  your  good  't  " 

False  knyght  was  I  never. 

"  Be  mery,  dame,"  sayd  the  knyght, 

1           By  him  that  made  us  all." 

"  And  praye  for  Eobyn  Hode, 

Up  then  stode  that  gentyll  knyght, 

"  That  ever  his  soule  be  in  blysse, 

To  the  abbot  sayd  he. 

He  holpe  me  out  of  my  tene  ; 

"  To  suffre  a  knyght  to  knele  so  longe, 

Ne  had  not  be  his  kyndenesse. 

Thou  canst  no  curteysye  ; 

Beggars  had  we  bene. 

A.NONYMOUS.]                LITTLE  JOHN  IN  THE  SERVICE  OF,  &c.           [Third  Period.— 

"  The  abbot  and  I  acordyd  bone  ; 

Thus  longe  taryed  this  gentyll  knyght, 

Ho  is  served  of  his  pay ; 

Tj-U  that  playe  was  done, — 

The  good  yeman  lent  it  me, 

So  longe  abode  Eobyn  fastynge, 

As  I  came  by  the  way." 

Thre  houres  after  the  none. 

This  knyght  than  dwelled  fayre  at  home, 

Anonymous. — Before  1649.      * 

The  soth  for  to  say, 
Tyll  he  had  got  foure  hondreth  pounde. 

All  rody  for  to  paye. 

523.— LITTLE  JOHN    IN  THE   SEEVICE 

He  pirrveyed  hym  an  hondred  bowes, 

OF    THE    SHEEIFF    OF    NOTTING- 

The strenges  [were]  welle  dyght, 

HAM. 

An  hondred  shefe  of  arowes  good, 

The  hedes  burnyshed  full  bryght. 

Lyth  and  lysten,  gentyll  men, 

And  every  arowe  an  elle  longe, 

All  that  now  be  here. 

With  pecocke  well  ydyght, 

Of  Lytell  Johan,  that  was  the  knyghtes  man. 

Inocked  all  with  whyte  sylver, 

Good  myrthe  shall  ye  here. 

It  was  a  semly  syght. 

It  was  upon  a  mery  day, 

He  pxxrveyed  hym  an  hondreth  men, 

That  yonge  men  wolde  go  shete, 

Well  harneysed  in  that  stede, 

Lytell  Johan  fet  his  bowe  anone, 

And  hymselfe  in  that  same  sete, 

And  sayd  he  wolde  them  mete. 

And  clothed  in  whyte  and  rede. 

Thre  tymes  LyteU  Johan  shot  aboixt. 

He  bare  a  launsgay  in  his  honde, 

And  alway  cleft  the  wando, 

And  a  man  leddo  his  male, 

Tho  proude  sheryf  of  Notyngham 

And  reden  with  a  lyght  songe, 

By  the  markes  gan  stando. 

Unto  Barnysdale. 

The  sheryf  saw  how  Johan  shot, 

As  he  went  at  a  brydge  ther  was  a  wrastelyng, 

And  a  great  oath  sware  he  : 

And  there  taryed  was  he, 

"  This  man  is  the  best  archere 

And  there  was  all  the  best  yemen 

That  yet  sawe  I  me. 

Of  aH  the  west  countreo. 

"  Say  me  now,  wyght  yonge  man, 

A  full  fayre  game  there  was  upset. 

Thy  name  now  tell  to  me, 

A  whyte  bull  up  ii^j'ght ; 

In  what  countre  were  thou  born. 

A  grete  courser  with  sadle  and  brydil, 

And  where  may  thy  wonnynge  be  ?  ** 

With  golde  burneyshed  full  bryght ; 

'■'  In  Holdernesse  I  was  bore. 

A  pa3Tre  of  gloves,  a  rede  golde  rynge, 

I  wys,  all  of  my  dame  ; 

A  pype  of  wyne,  in  good  fay  : 

Men  call  me  Eeynolde  Grcnclofe, 

^     Wliat  man  bcreth  him  best,  I  wys, 

Whan  I  am  at  hame." 

The  pryce  shall  bere  away. 

"  Say  me,  Eeynaud  Gronelefe, 

There  was  a  yeman  in  that  place, 

Wolte  thou  dwell  witli  mo  ? 

And  best  worthy  was  ho  ; 

And  every  yere  I  wyll  the  gyve 

And  for  he  was  ferre,  [without]  frend  bestad, 

Twenty  marke  to  thy  fee." 

Islayno  he  sholde  have  bo. 

"  I  have  a  mayster,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

The  knyghb  had  ruth  of  this  yeman. 

"  A  curteys  knyght  is  he  ; 

In  place  where  that  he  stode. 

May  ye  goto  love  of  hym, 

He  said  that  yoman  sholde  have  no  harmo. 

The  better  may  it  bee." 

For  love  of  Eobyn  Hode. 

The  sherj'-fe  gate  Lytoll  Johan 

The  knyght  presed  into  the  place. 

Twelve  monethes  of  the  knyght, 

An  hondred  folowed  hym  fro, 

Therfore  he  gave  him  ryght  anone 

With  bowes  bent,  and  arowes  sharpe, 

A  good  hors  and  a  wyght. 

For  to  shende  that  companv. 

" 

Now  is  Lytell  Johan  tho  sheryffos  man. 

They  sholdred  all,  and  made  hym  rome. 

Heaven  gyre  us  well  to  spede  ; 

To  wete  Avhat  he  wolde  say, 

But  alway  thought  Lytell  Johan 

He  toke  the  yeman  by  the  honde, 

To  quyte  hym  well  his  mode. 

And  gave  hym  all  tho  playe  ; 

"Now   so    heaven    me    helpe,"    sayd    Lytcl 

Ho  gave  hym  fyvc  marke  for  his  wync 

Johan, 

There  it  laye  on  the  molde, 

"  And  by  mj'  trewe  lewtr% 

And  bad  it  sholde  be  sette  a-broche, 

I  shall  bo  the  worsto  servatinte  to  hym 

Drynko  who  so  wolde. 

That  ever  yet  had  he." 

From  1558  to  IGiO.]         LITTLE  JOHN  IN  THE  SERVICE  OF,  <tc.                 [Anonymous. 

It  befell  upon  a  Avednesday, 

The  sheryfe  on  hontynge  was  gone, 
And  Lytel  Johan  lay  in  his  bed, 

And  was  foryete  at  home. 

"Coowdest  thou  shote  as  well  in  a  bowo, 
To  grene  wood  thou  sholdest  with  mo, 

And  two  tymes  in  the  yere  thy  clothynge 
Ichaunged  sholde  be ; 

Therfore  he  was  fastynge 

Tyl  it  was  past  the  none. 
'•  Good  syr  stuard,  I  pray  thee, 

Geve  me  to  dyne,"  sayd  Lytel  Johan. 

"  And  every  yere  of  Eobyn  Hodo 
Twenty  marke  to  thy  fee." 

"  Put  up  thy  swerde,"  sayd  the  coke, 
"  And  felowes  wyll  we  be." 

"  It  is  too  long  for  Grenelefe, 
Fastynge  so  long  to  be  ; 

Therfore  I  pray  the,  stuarde, 
My  dyner  gyve  thou  me." 

Then  he  fette  to  Lytell  Johan 
Tho  numbles  of  a  doe, 

Good  brede  and  full  good  wyne, 
They  ete  and  dranke  thorto. 

"  Shalt  thou  never  ete  ne  drynke,"  sayd  the 
stuarde, 

"  Tyll  my  lord  be  come  to  towne." 
'•  I  make  myn  avowe,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

•'  I  had  lever  to  cracke  thy  crovv'ne." 

The  butler  was  ful  uncurteys, 

There  he  stode  on  flore, 
Ho  sterte  to  the  buttery. 

And  shet  fast  the  dore. 

Lytell  John.n  gave  the  buteler  such  a  rap, 

His  backo  yede  nygh  on  tvro  ; 
Tho  he  lyved  an  hundreth  wynter, 

The  wors  he  sholde  go. 

And  whan  they  had  dronken  well, 
Ther  trouthes  togyder  they  plyght. 

That  they  wolde  be  with  Eobyn 
That  ylke  same  day  at  nyght. 

The  dyde  them  to  the  tresure-hous. 
As  fast  as  they  myght  gone. 

The  lockes  that  were  of  good  stele 
They  brake  them  everychone ; 

They  toke  away  the  sylvor  vessell, 
And  all  that  they  myght  got, 

Feces,  masars,  and  spones, 
Wolde  they  non  forgete ; 

Ho  spomed  the  dore  with  his  fote, 
It  went  up  wel  and  fyne, 

And  there  he  made  a  large  lyvcray 
Both  of  ale  and  wyno. 

Also  they  toke  the  good  pence, 
Thre  hondred  pounde  and  three ; 

And  dyd  them  strayt  to  Eobyn  Hode, 
Under  the  grene  wode  tre. 

"  Syth  ye  wyl  not  dyne,"  sayd  Lytel  Johan, 

"  I  shall  gyve  you  to  drynke. 
And  though  ye  lyve  an  hondred  wynter. 

On  LytoU  Johan  ye  shall  thynk," 

"  God  the  save,  my  dere  mayster," 

[Little  Johan  said  he,] 
And  than  sayd  Eobyn  to  Lytell  Johan, 

"  Welcome  myght  thou  be  ; 

Lytell  Johan  ete,  and  Lytell  [Johan]  dronke, 

The  whyle  that  he  wolde. 
The  sheryfe  had  in  his  kechyn  a  coke, 

A  stoute  man  and  a  bolde. 

"  And  also  be  that  fayre  yeman 
Thou  bryngest  there  with  thee. 

What  tydynges  fro  Notyngham  ? 
Lytell  Johan,  tell  thou  me." 

"  I  make  myn  avowe,"  sayd  the  coke, 
"  Thou  arte  a  shrewde  hynde. 

In  an  housholde  to  dwel. 
For  to  ask  thus  to  dyne." 

"  Well  thee  greteth  tho  proude  sheryfe. 
And  sonde  thee  here  by  me 

His  coke  and  his  sylvcr  vessell, 

And  thre  hondred  poxmde  and  thre." 

And  there  he  lent  Lytel  Johan, 

Good  strokes  thre. 
"  I  make  myn  avowe,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

"  These  strokes  lyketh  well  me. 

"  I  make  myn  avow,"  sayd  EobjTi, 
"  However  the  thing  may  be. 

It  was  never  by  his  good  wyll, 
This  good  is  come  to  me  !  " 

'=  Thou  arte  a  bolde  man  and  an  hardy, 

And  so  thynketh  me  ; 
And  or  I  passe  fro  this  place, 

Asayed  better  shalt  thou  be." 

Lytell  Johan  hym  there  bethought 

On  a  shrewed  wyle. 
Fyve  myle  in  tho  forest  he  ran, 

Hym  happed  at  his  wyll ; 

Lytell  Johan  drewe  a  good  swerde, 
The  coke  toke  another  in  honde  ; 

They  thought  nothynge  for  to  fie, 
But  styfly  for  to  stonde. 

Than  he  met  the  proud  sheryf , 
Huntyngo  with  hounde  and  home, 

Lytell  Johan  coud  his  curteysye, 
And  kneled  hym  befomo  : 

"  I  make  myn  avowe,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

"'  And  be  my  trcwo  lewte. 
Thou  art  one  of  the  best  swerdemen 

That  ever  yet  sawe  I  me. 

"  God  thee  save,  my  dere  mayster. 

Keep  thee  well,"  sayd  ho. 
''  Eaynolde  Grenelefe,"  sayd  the  sheryfe, 

"  Where  hast  thou  no  wo  be  ?  " 

Anonymous.]             EOBIN  HOOD  REIMBURSES  HIMSELF,  &c.          [Third  Period.— 

"  I  hare  be  in  this  forest, 

"  This  is  harder  order,"  sayd  the  sheryf e, 

A  fayre  syght  can  I  se, 

"  Than  ony  anker  or  frere  ; 

It  was  one  of  the  fayrest  s^-ghtcs 

For  al  the  golde  in  mery  Englondo 

That  ever  yet  sawe  I  me  ; 

I  wolde  not  longe  dwell  here." 

"  Yonder  I  se  a  ryght  faj-re  liart, 

"AU  these  twelve  monethes,"  sayd  Robyn, 

His  colonre  is  [full  shene], 

"  Thou  shalte  dwell  with  me  ; 

Seven  score  of  dere  upon  an  herde 

I  shall  thee  teche,  proud  sherj^fe. 

Be  all  with  hj-m  bedene  ; 

An  outiaAve  for  to  be." 

"  His  tynde  are  so  sharp,  niayst«:r, 

"Or  I  here   another  nyglit  l.yo,"    sayd   the 

Of  sexty  and  well  nio, 

sheryfe, 

Til  at  I  durst  not  shote  for  dredo 

"  Robj^n,  no  we  I  praye  thee, 

Lest  they  wolde  me  sloo." 

Smj'te  of  my  hede  rather  to-morne, 

And  I  forgyve  it  thee. 

"  I  make  myn  avowe  !  "  sayd  the  shcryf. 

"  That  syg-ht  wolde  I  fayn  se." 

"  Lcte  me  go,"  then  sayd  the  sheryf, 

"  Buske  you  thyderwarde,  my  dcre  mayster, 

"  For  sajTit  Charyte, 

Anone,  and  v/ende  with  me." 

And  I  wyll  be  thy  best  frende 

That  ever  yet  had  thee." 

The  sherj-fe  rode,  and  Lytell  Johan 

Of  fote  he  was  full  smarte, 

"  Thou  shalt  swere  me  an  othe,"  sayd  Robyn, 

And  whan  they  came  afore  Robyn  : 

"  On  my  bryght  bronde, 

"  Lo,  here  is  the  mayster  harte  !  " 

Thou  shalt  never  awayte  me  scathe, 

By  water  ne  by  londe  ; 

Styll  stode  the  proude  sheryf , 

A  sory  man  was  he  : 

"  And  if  thou  fynde  ony  of  my  men, 

"  Wo  worth  the,  Raynolde  Grenelefe  I 

By  nyght  or  by  day, 

Thou  hast  now  betrayed  me  !  " 

Upon  thyno  othe  thou  shalt  swere, 

To  helpe  them  that  thou  may." 

"  I  make  m3'n  avowe,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

"  Mayster,  ye  be  to  blame  ; 

Now  have  the  sheryf  iswore  his  othej 

I  was  mysserved  of  my  dj-nere, 

And  home  he  began  to  gone. 

^Vhen  I  Avas  with  you  at  hame." 

He  was  as  full  of  grene  wode 

As  ever  Avas  [haw]  of  stone. 

Soone  he  was  to  supper  sette. 

And  served  with  sylver  Avhyte ; 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 

And  whan  the  sher^rf  se  his  vessel!, 

For  sorowe  he  myght  not  ete. 

"  Make  good  chere,"  sayd  Eobyn  Hode, 
"  Sheryf e,  for  charyte, 

524.--ROBIN  HOOD   REIMBURSES  HIM- 

And  for  the  love  of  Lytell  Johan, 

SELF  OF  HIS  LOAN. 

Thy  lyfe  is  graunted  to  the." 

, 

The  sheryf  dwelled  in  Notynghame, 

When  they  had  supped  well, 

He  was  fajoie  that  he  was  gone, 

The  day  was  all  agone, 

And  Robyn  and  his  mery  men 

Robyn  commaunded  Lytell  Johan 

Went  to  wode  anone. 

To  drawe  off  his  hosen  and  his  shone, 

"  Go  we  to  dyner  ?  "  sayd  Lytell  Johan. 

His  kyrtell  and  his  cote  a  pye. 

Robyn  Hode  sayd,  "  Nay ; 

That  was  furred  well  fyne. 

For  I  drede  our  lady  be  wroth  with  me, 

And  take  him  a  grcne  mantell, 

For  she  sent  me  not  my  pay." 

To  lappe  his  body  therin. 

Robyn  commaunded  his  wyght  yoiig  men. 

"Have  no  dout,  mayster,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 
"  Yet  is  not  the  sonne  at  rest ; 

Under  the  gi'ene  wood  tre, 

For  I  dare  saye,  and  saufly  swere, 

They  shall  lay  in  that  same  sorte 
That  the  sherj'f  myght  them  se. 

The  knyght  is  trewe  and  trust." 

All  nyght  laye  that  proud  sheryf, 
In  his  breche  and  in  his  sherte, 

"  Take  thy  bowe  in  thy  hande,"  sayd  Robyn, 
"  Let  Moch  wende  AA-ith  thee. 

No  wonder  it  was,  in  gi-ene  wode, 

And  so  shall  Wyllyam  Scathelock, 

Tho  his  sydes  do  smerte. 

And  no  man  abyde  Avith  me. 

"Make  glad  chere,"  sayd  Robjai  Hode, 

"  And  walke  up  into  the  Sayles, 

"  Sheryf e,  for  charyte, 

And  to  Watlynge-strete, 

For  this  is  our  order  I  wys, 

And  wayte  after  some  unketh  gest, 

Under  the  grene  wood  tre." 

Up-chaunce  ye  may  them  mete. 

From  1558  to  1G49.]  EOEIN  HOOD  EEIMBUESES  HIMSELF,  6:e. 


[Anonymous 


"  Whether  he  be  messeiigere, 

Or  a  man  that  myrthes  can, 
Or  yf  he  be  a  pore  man, 

Of  my  good  he  shall  have  some." 

Forth  then  stert  Lj'tel  Johan, 

Half  in  tray  and  tene, 
And  gyrde  hym  with  a  full  good  swcrde, 

Under  a  mantel  of  grene. 

They  went  up  to  the  Sayles, 

These  yemen  all  thre  ; 
They  loked  est,  they  lols:ed  west, 

They  mj'ght  no  man  se. 

But  as  they  loked  in  Barnysdalo, 

By  the  hye  wave, 
Than  were  they  ware  of  two  blacke  monkes, 

Echo  on  a  good  palferay. 

Then  bespake  Lj-tell  Johan, 

To  Much  he  gan  say, 
"  I  dare  lay  my  lyfe  to  wedde, 

That  these  monkes  have  brought  our  pay. 

'•  Make  glad  chere,"  saj'd  Lytell  Johan, 

"  An^  freso  our  bowes  of  ewe, 
And  loke  your  hertes  be  seker  and  sad, 

Yoiir  strynges  trusty  and  ti-ewe. 

"  The  monke  hath  fiftj'  two  men, 

And  seven  somers  full  stronge  ; 
There  rydeth  no  bysshop  in  this  londe 

So  ryally,  I  understond. 

"Brethern,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 
"  Here  are  no  more  but  wo  thre  ; 

But  we  bryngo  them  to  dyner. 
Our  mayster  dare  we  not  so. 

"  Bende  your  bowes,"  sa3^d  Lytell  Johan, 
"  Make  all  3* on  prese  to  stonde  ; 

The  formost  monke,  his  lyfe  and  his  deth 
Is  closed  in  my  honde. 

"  Abyde,  chorle  monke,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

"  No  ferther  that  thou  gone ; 
"Yf  thou  doost,  by  dero  worthy  god. 

Thy  deth  is  in  my  honde. 

"And  ovj'U  thryfte  on  thj'  hcde,"  saj'd  Lj'tell 
Johan, 

"  Rj'-ght  under  thy  hattes  bonde, 
For  thou  hast  made  our  mayster  wroth, 

He  is  fastynge  so  longe." 

"  VTho  is  your  mayster  ?  "  sayd  the  monke. 

Lytell  Johan  sayd,  "  Robyn  Hode." 
"  He  is  a  stronge  thefe,"  sayd  the  monke, 

"  Of  hym  herd  I  never  good." 

"  Thou  lyest,"  than  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

"  And  that  shall  rewe  thee ; 
He  is  a  yeman  of  the  forest, 

To  dyne  he  hath  bode  thee." 

Much  was  redy  with  a  bolte, 

Eeddily  and  a-none, 
He  set  the  monke  to  fore  the  brest, 

To  the  grounde  that  he  can  gone. 


Of  fyfty  two  wyght  yonge  men, 

There  abode  not  one, 
Saf  a  lytell  page,  and  a  grome 

To  lede  the  somers  with  Johan. 

They  brought  the  monke  to  the  lodge  dore, 
Whether  he  were  loth  or  lefe, 

For  to  speke  with  Eobyn  Hode, 
Maugre  in  theyr  tethe. 

Robyn  dyd  adowne  his  hode, 

The  monke  whan  that  he  see  ; 
The  monke  was  not  so  curteyse, 

His  hode  then  let  he  be. 

"  He  is  a  chorle,  mayster,  I  swere," 

Than  sayd  Lj'tell  Johan. 
"Thereof  no  force,"  sayd  Robyn, 

"  For  curteysy  can  he  none. 

"  How  many  men,"  sayd  Rob^Ti, 

"  Had  this  monke,  Johan  ?  " 
"  Fyfty  and  two  whan  that  we  met. 

But  many  of  them  be  gone." 

"  Let  blowe  a  home,"  saj'd  E,ob\'n, 
"  That  felaushyp  may  us  knowe." 

Seven  score  of  wyght  yemen 
Came  pryckj-nge  on  a  ro\ve, 

And  everych  of  them  a  good  mantoU, 

Of  scarlet  and  of  raye. 
All  thej^  came  to  good  Eobyu, 

To  wyte  what  he  wolde  say. 

They  made  the  monke  to  wasshe  and  wype. 

And  syt  at  his  denere. 
Eobyn  Hode  and  Lytel  Johan 

They  served  liJm  bothe  in  fcrc. 

"  Do  gladly,  monke,"  sayd  Eobyn. 

"  Gramercy,  syr,"  sayd  he. 
"  Where  is  your  abbay,  whan  ye  arc  at  home, 

And  who  is  your  avovre  ?  " 

"  Saynt  Mary  abbay,"  sayd  the  monke, 

"  Though  I  be  symple  here." 
"  In  what  offyoe  ?  "  sayd  Eobyn. 

"  Syr,  the  hye  selerer." 

"  Ye  be  the  more  welcome,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  So  ever  mote  I  the. 
Fyll  of  the  best  wyne,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  This  monke  shall  drynke  to  me. 

"But  I  have  gretc  mervayle,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Of  all  this  longe  day, 
I  drede  our  lady  be  wroth  with  me, 

She  sent  me  not  my  pay." 

"  Have  no  doute,  mayster,"  sayd  Lytell  Johan, 

"  Ye  have  no  nede  I  saye. 
This  monke  it  hath  brought,  I  dare  well  swere, 

For  he  is  of  her  abbay." 

"  She  Avas  a  borowe,"  sayd  Robyn, 

"  Betwene  a  knyght  and  me, 
Of  a  Ij'tell  money  that  I  hym  lent. 

Under  the  grene  wode  tree  ; 


Anonymous.] 


KOBIN  HOOD  KEIMBUESES  HIMSELF,  i^o.         [Third  Pekiod.— 


"  And  yf  thou  hast  that  sylver  ibroughte, 

I  praye  the  let  me  se, 
And  I  shall  helpe  thee  eftsones, 

Yf  thou  have  nede  of  me." 

The  monke  swore  a  full  grete  othe, 

With  a  sory  chere  : 
"  Of  the  borowehode  thou  spekest  to  me, 

Herde  I  never  ere." 

"  I  make  myn  avowe,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Monke,  thou  arte  to  blame, 
For  g-od  is  holde  a  ryghtwys  man, 

And  so  is  his  dame, 

"  Thou  toldest  with  thyn  owne  tonge, 

Thou  may  not  say  nay, 
How  thou  arte  her  servaunt. 

And  servest  her  every  day  : 

* '  And  thou  art  made  her  messengerc. 

My  money  for  to  pay, 
Therfore  I  con  thee  more  thanko, 

Thou  art  come  at  thy  day. 

"  What  is  in  your  cofers  ?  "  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Trewe  then  tell  thou  me." 
*'  Syr,"  he  sayd,  "  twenty  marko, 

Al  so  mote  I  the." 

"  Yf  there  be  no  more,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  I  wyll  not  one  peny  ; 
Yf  thou  hast  myster  of  ony  more, 

Syr,  more  I  shall  lende  to  the  ; 

"  And  yf  I  fynde  more,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  I  wys  thou  shalto  it  forgone  ; 
For  of  thy  spendynge  sylver,  monk, 

Thereof  wyll  I  ryght  none. 

"  Go  nowe  forthe,  Lytell  Johan, 

And  the  trouth  tell  thou  me ; 
If  there  be  no  more  but  twenty  marke. 

No  peny  that  I  se." 

Lytell  Johan  spred  his  mantell  downe. 

As  he  had  done  before, 
And  he  tolde  out  of  the  monkes  male, 

Eyght  hundreth  pounde  and  more. 

Lytell  Johan  let  it  lye  full  styll. 
And  went  to  his  mayster  in  hast : 

"Syr,"  he  sayd,  "the  monke  is  trewe  ynowe, 
Our  lady  hath  doubled  your  cost." 

"  I  make  myn  avowe,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  (Monke,  what  tolde  I 'thee  ?) 
Our  lady  is  the  trewest  woman 

That  ever  yet  founde  I  mo. 

"By  all  that's  good,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  To  seche  all  Englond  thorowe, 
Yet  founde  I  never  to  ray  pay 

A  mocho  better  borowe. 

"  Fyll  of  the  best  wyne,  do  hym  drynke,"  sayd 
Eobyn ; 

"And  grete  well  thy  lady  hende, 
And  yf  she  have  node  of  Eobyn  Hode, 

She  .shall  hym  fynde  a  frende ; 


"  And  yf  she  nedeth  ony  more  sylver, 

Come  thou  agayne  to  me. 
And,  by  this  token  she  hath  me  sent. 

She  shall  have  such  thre." 

The  monke  was  going  to  London  ward. 

There  to  holde  grete  mote, 
The  knyght  that  rode  so  hye  on  hors. 

To  brynge  hym  under  fote. 

"  Whither  be  ye  away  ?  "  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Syr,  to  manors  in  this  londe. 
To  reken  with  our  reves. 

That  have  done  moch  wronge." 

The  monke  toke  the  hors  with  spurre, 

No  longer  wolde  he  abyde. 
"  Aske  to  drynke,"  than  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Or  that  ye  forther  ryde." 

"  Nay,  fore  heaven,"  than  sayd  the  monko, 

"  Mo  rewoth  I  cam  so  nere  ; 
For  better  chepe  I  myght  have  dyned 

In  Blythe  or  in  Dankestere." 

"  Grete  well  your  abbot,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"And  your  pry  our,  I  you  pray, 
And  byd  hym  sendo  me  such  a  monke 

To  dyner  every  day." 

Now  lete  we  that  monke  be  sijll. 

And  speke  we  of  that  knyght. 
Yet  ho  came  to  holde  his  day 

Whyle  that  it  was  lyght. 

He  dyde  him  streyt  to  Barnysdale, 

Under  the  grene  wode  tre, 
And  he  founde  there  Eobyn  Hode, 

And  all  his  mory  meyne. 

The  knyght  lyght  downe  of  his  good  palfray, 

Eobyn  whan  he  gan  see. 
So  curteysly  he  dyde  adoune  his  hode, 

And  set  hym  on  his  knee. 

"  God  the  save,  good  Eobyn  Hode, 

And  al  this  company." 
"  Welcome  bo  thou,  gentyll  knyght. 

And  ryght  welcome  to  me." 

Than  bespake  hym  Eobjni  Hode 

To  that  knyght  so  fre  : 
"  What  nede  dryvoth  the  to  grono  wodo  ? 

I  pray  the,  syr  knyght,  toll  mo. 

"  And  welcome  be  thou,  gentyl  knyght, 

W^hy  hast  thou  bo  so  longe  ?  " 
"  For  the  abbot  and  the  hye  .iustyco 

Vrolde  have  had  my  londe." 

"  Hast  thou  thy  londe  agayno  ?  "  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Treuth  than  tell  thou  mo." 
"  Yo,  truly,"  sard  the  knyght, 

"  And  that  thanko  1  god  and  the. 

"  But  take  not  a  grcfe,  I  havo  bo  so  longe ; 

I  came  by  a  wrastelynge, 
And  there  I  dyd  holpo  a  pore  yomnn. 

With  wronge  was  piit  behyndc' ' 


From- 1558  to  1640. 


EOBIN  HOOD'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAL. 


[Anonymous. 


"  Nay,  that  is  well,'  sayd  Eobyn, 
"  Syr  knyght,  that  thanke  I  the  ; 

Vrhat  man  that  helpeth  a  good  yeman, 
His  frende  than  wyll  I  be." 

"  Have  hei'e  foure  hondred  pounde,"  sajnl  the 
knyght, 

"  The  whiche  ye  lent  to  me  ; 
And  here  is  also  an  hondred  more 

For  3'our  curtcysy." 

"  Nay,  syr  knyght,"  then  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Thou  broke  it  well  for  ay ; 
For  our  lady,  by  her  selerer, 

Hath  sent  to  me  my  pay ; 

•'And  yf  I  toke  it  twyse, 

A  shame  it  were  to  me  • 
But  trewely,  gentyll  knyght, 

Welcom  arte  thou  to  me." 

"Whan  Eobyn  had  tolde  his  tale, 

He  leugh  and  had  good  chere. 
"  By  my  trouthe,"  then  sayd  the  knyght, 

"  Your  monej'  is  redy  here." 

"Broke  it  well,"  sayd  Eobyn, 

"  Thou  gentyll  knyght  so  fre ; 
And  welcome  be  thou,  gentyll  knyght, 

Under  my  try.stcll  tree. 

"  But    what   shall   these   bowes   do  P "    sayd 
Eobyn, 

"  And  these  aro^ves  ifedered  fre  r  " 
"By  my  troth,"  than  sayd  the  knyght, 

"  A  pore  present  to  thee." 

"  Come  now  forth,  Lytell  Johan, 

And  go  to  my  treasure. 
And  brj^nge  me  there  foure  hondred  pounde, 

The  monke  over-tolde  it  to  me. 

"  Have  here  foure  hondred  pounde, 

Thou  gentyll  knyght  and  trewe, 
And  bye  hors  and  harnes  good, 

And  gylte  thy  spurres  all  newe  : 

"  And  yf  thou  fayle  ony  spendynge, 

Come  to  Eobyn  Hode, 
And  by  my  trouth  thou  shalt  none  fayle 

The  whyles  I  have  any  good. 

"  And  broke  well  thy  four  hondred  pounde 

Whiche  I  lent  to  the. 
And  make  thy  selfe  no  more  so  bare. 

By  the  counsell  of  me." 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


525- 


-EOBIN   HOOD'S   DEATH  AND 
BUEIAL. 


When  Eobin  Hood  and  Little  John 

Down  a  down,  a  down,  a  down, 
Went  o'er  yon  bank  of  broom, 
Said  Eobin  Hood  to  Little  John, 
"  We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound : 
Hey  down,  a  down,  a  down. 


"  But  I  am  not  able  to  shoot  one  shot  more, 

My  arrows  will  not  flee  ; 
But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below. 

Please  God,  she  will  bleed  me." 

Now  Eobin  is  to  fair  Kirkley  gone. 
As  fast  as  he  can  wen  ;  -     - 

But  before  he  came  there,  as  we  do  hear, 
He  was  taken  very  ill. 

And  when  that  he  came  to  fair  Kirkley  Hall, 

He  knocked  all  at  the  ring. 
But  none  was  so  ready  as  his  cousin  herself 

For  to  let  bold  Eobin  in. 

"Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  cousin  Eobin," 
she  said, 

"  And  drink  some  beer  with  me  ?  " 
"  No,  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink, 

Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee." 

"Well,  I  have  a  room,   cousin  Eobin,"  she 
said, 

"  Which  you  did  never  see  ; 
And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein. 

You  blooded  by  me  shall  be." 

She  took  him  by  the  lily-white  hand, 

And  led  him  to  a  private  room  ; 
And  there  she  blooded  bold  Eobin  Hood, 

Whilst  one  drop  of  blood  would  run. 

She  blooded  him  in  the  vein  of  the  arm, 
And  locked  him  up  in  the  room  : 

There  did  he  bleed  all  the  live-long  day. 
Until  the  next  day  at  noon. 

I    He  then  bethought  him  of  a  casement  door, 
Thinking  for  to  begone  ; 
He  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap. 
Nor  he  could  not  get  down. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  his  bugle-horn, 
Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee. 

He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth, 
And  blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 

Then  Little  John,  when  hearing  him, 

As  he  sat  under  the  tree, 
"  I  fear  my  master  is  near  dead. 

He  blows  so  wearily." 

Then  Little  John  to  fair  Kirkley  is  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  dree  : 
And  when  he  came  to  Kirkley  Hall, 

He  broke  locks  two  or  three  ; 

Until  he  came  bold  Eobin  to, 

Then  he  fell  on  his  knee ; 
"  A  boon,  a  boon,"  cries  Little  John, 

"  Master,  I  beg  of  thee." 

"  What  is  that  boon,"  quoth  Eobin  Hood, 
"  Little  John,  thou  begst  of  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  to  burn  fair  Kirldej'  Hall, 
And  all  their  nunnery." 


Anontmous.I 


PATIENT  GEISSELL. 


THIRD  PeKIOD. 


"  Now  nay,  now  nay,"  quoth  Eobin  Hood, 
"  That  boon  I'll  not  grant  thee  ; 

I  never  hurt  woman  in  all  my  life. 
Nor  man  in  woman's  company. 

"  I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time, 

Nor  at  my  end  shall  it  be  ; 
But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand. 

And  a  broad  arrow  I'll  let  flee  ; 
And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up, 

There  shall  my  grave  digged  be. 

"  Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head. 

And  another  under  my  feet ; 
And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side, 

"Which  was  my  music  sweet ; 
And  make  my  grave  of  gravel  and  green, 

Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 

"  Let  me  have  length  and  breadth  enoug-h, 
With  a  green  sod  under  my  head; 

That  they  may  say  when  I  am  dead, 
Here  lies  bold  Eobin  Hood." 

These  words  they  readily  promised  him, 

Which  did  bold  Eobin  please  ; 
And  there  they  buried  bold  Eobin  Hood, 

Neax  to  the  fair  Kirkleys. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


526.— PATIENT  GEISSELL. 


A  noble  marquess. 

As  he  did  ride  a  hunting, 

Hard  by  a  forest  side, 
A  fair  and  comely  maiden. 
As  she  did  sit  a  spinning. 

His  gentle  eye  espied. 

Most  fair  and  lovely, 

And  of  comely  grace  was  she, 

Although  in  simple  attire : 
She  sung  full  sweetly. 
With  pleasant  voice  melodiously, 

Which  set  the  lord's  heart  on  fire. 
The  more  he  looked,  the  more  he  might ; 
Beauty  bred  his  heart's  deKght, 
And  to  'this  comely  damsel 

Then  he  went : — 
"  God  speed,"  quoth  he,  "thou  famous  flower, 
Fair  mistress  of  this  homely  bower, 
Where  love  and  virtue 

Dwell  with  sweet  coiitent." 

With  comely  gesture, 

And  modest  mild  behaviour, 

She  bid  him  welcome  then ; 
She  entertained  him 
In  faithful  friendly  manner, 

And  all  his  gentlemen. 


The  noble  marquess 

In 's  heart  felt  svich  a  flame. 

Which  set  his  senses  all  at  strife : 
Quoth  he,  "  Fair  maiden, 
Show  me  soon  what  is  thy  name  : 

I  mean  to  make  thee  my  wife." 
"  Grissell  is  mj^  name,"  quoth  she, 
"  Far  unfit  for  your  degree, 
A  sDly  maiden, 

And  of  parents  poor." 
"Nay,  Grissell,  thou  art  rich,"  he  said, 
"  A  virtuous,  fair,  and  comely  maid  j 
Grant  me  thy  love, 

And  I  will  ask  no  more." 


At  length  she  consented, 
And  being  both  contented. 

They  married  were  with  speed  ; 
Her  country  russet 
Was  changed  to  silk  and  velvet. 

As  to  her  state  agreed ; 
And  v^^hen  that  she 
Was  trimly  tired  in  the  same. 

Her  beauty  shone  most  bright. 
Far  staining  every 
Other  fair  and  princely  dame. 

That  did  appear  in  sight. 
Many  en-\ded  her  therefore. 
Because  she  was  of  parents  poor. 
And  'twixt  her  lord  and  she. 

Great  strife  did  raise. 
Some  said  this,  and  some  said  that. 
And  some  did  call  her  beggar's  brat. 
And  to  her  lord 

They  would  her  oft  dispraise. 

"  O  !  noble  marquess," 

Quoth  they,  "  why  dost  thou  wrong  us, 

Thus  basely  for  to  wed, 
That  might  have  gotten 
An  honourable  lady 

Into  your  princely  bed  ? 
Who  will  not  now 
Your  noble  issue  still  deride, 

Which  shall  hereafter  be  born,   ' 
That  are  of  blood  so  base. 
Bom  by  the  mother's  side. 

The  which  will  bring  them  in  scorn, 
Put  her,  therefore,  quite  away. 
And  take  to  you  a  lady  gay. 
Whereby  your  lineage 

May  reno-^vned  be." 
Thus  every  day  they  seemed  to  prate 
That  maliced  Grissell' s  good  estate; 
Wlio  all  this  while 

Took  it  most  patiently. 


When  that  the  marquess 

Did  see  that  they  were  bent  thus 

Against  his  faithful  wife, 
Wliom  he  most  dearly, 
Tenderly,  and  entirely, 

Beloved  as  his  life ; 


From  1558  to  1649.]                               PATIENT  GRISSELL.                                ^Anonymous 

Minding  in  secret 

Then  to  fair  Grissell, 

For  to  prove  lier  patient  heart, 

With  a  heavy  heart  he  goes, 

Thereby  her  foes  to  disgrace  ; 

Where  she  sat  mildly  all  alone  : 

Thinking  to  show  her 

A  pleasant  gesture, 

A  hard  discourteous  part, 

And  a  lovely  look  she  shows. 

That  men  might  pity  her  case. 

As  if  no  grief  she  had  known. 

Great  with  chihi  this  lady  was, 

Quoth  he,  "  My  children  now  arc^lain  ; 

And  at  last  it  came  to  pass, 

What  thinks  fair  Grissell  of  the  same  ? 

Two  goodly  children 

Sweet  Grissell,  now 

At  one  birth  she  had  : 

Declare  thy  mind  to  me." 

A  son  and  daughter  God  had  sent, 

"  Sith  you,  my  lord,  are  pleased  with  it. 

Which  did  their  father  well  content. 

Poor  Grissell  thinks  the  action  fit : 

And  which  did  make 

Both  I  and  mine 

Their  mother's  heart  fidl  glad. 

At  your  command  will  be." 

•      Great  royal  feasting, 

V. 

Was  at  these  children's  christening, 

"  My  nobles  murmur. 

And  princely  triumph  made  ; 

Faii*Grissell,  at  thy  honour, 

Six  weeks  together, 

And  I  no  joy  can  have. 

All  nobles  that  came  thither, 

Till  thou  be  banished, 

Were  entertained  and  stayed  ; 

Both  from  the  court  and  presence 

And  when  all  these  pleasant 

As  they  unjustly  crave. 

Sportings  were  quite  done, 

Thou  must  be  stripped 

The  marquess  a  messenger  sent 

Out  of  thy  stately  garments  all ; 

For  his  young  daughter, 

And  as  thou  cam'st  to  me, 

And  his  pretty  smiling  son  ; 

In  homely  gray. 

Declaring  his  full  intent. 

Instead  of  bisse  and  purest  pall, 

How  that  the  babes  must  murdered  be  ; 

Now  all  thy  clothing  must  be  : 

For  so  the  marquess  did  decree. 

My  lady  thou  must  be  no  more, 

"  Come,  let  me  have 

Nor  I  thy  lord,  which  grieves  me  sore. 

The  children,"  then  he  said. 

The  poorest  life 

With  that  fair  Grissell  wept  full  sore, 

Must  now  content  thy  mind. 

She  wnuig  her  hands,  and  said  no  more, 

A  gToat  to  thee  I  must  not  give 

"  My  gracious  lord 

Thee  to  maintain  while  I  do  live ; 

Must  ha,ve  his  will  obeyed." 

Against  my  Grissell 

Such  great  foes  I  find." 

rv. 

When  gentle  Grissell 

She  took  the  babies, 

Did  hear  these  woeful  tidings. 

Even  from  the  nursing  ladies, 

The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

Between  her  tender  arms  ; 

Nothing  she  answered, 

She  often  wishes 

No  words  of  discontentment 

With  many  sorrowful  kisses, 

Did  from  her  lips  arise. 

That  she  might  ease  their  harms. 

Her  velvet  gown 

"  Farewell,  farewell. 

Most  patiently  she  stripped  off, 

A  thousand  times,  my  children  dear. 

Her  kirtle  of  silk  with  the  same  : 

N^ever  shall  I  see  you  again  ; 

Her  russet  gown 

'Ti.s  long  of  me, 

Your  sad  and  woeful  mother  here. 

Was  brought  again  with  many  a  scoff, 

To  bear  them  herself  she  did  frame. 

For  whose  sake  both  must  be  slain. 

When  she  was  dressed  in  this  array. 

Had  I  been  born  of  royal  race, 

And  was  ready  to  part  away. 

You  might  have  lived  in  happy  ca^c ; 
But  you  must  die 

For  my  unworthiness. 

"  God  send  long  life 

Unto  my  lord,"  quoth  she  ; 

"  Let  no  offence  be  found  in  this. 

Come,  messenger  of  death,"  quoth  she, 

To  give  my  love  a  parting  kiss." 

'•  Take  my  dearest  babea  to  thee, 

With  watery  eyes. 

And  to  their  father 

"  Farewell,  my  dear,"  said  he. 

My  complaints  express." 

VI. 

He  took  the  children, 

From  princely  palace                         *• 

And  to  his  noble  master. 

Unto  her  father's  cottage 

He  bore  them  thence  with  si^eed ; 

Poor  Grissell  tiow  is  gone. 

Who  in  secret  sent  them 

Full  sixteen  mnters 

Unto  a  noble  lady. 

She  lived  there  contented  : 

To  be  brought  up  in  deed. 

No  wrong  she  thought  upon. 

Anonymous."] 


THE  TWA  SISTEES  O'  BINNORIE. 


[Third  Period. — 


And  at  that  time  through 

All  the  land  the  speeches  went, 

The  marquess  should  married  be 
Unto  a  noble  lady  great, 
Of  high  descent ; 

And  to  the  same  all  parties  did  agree. 
The  marquess  sent  for  Grissell  fair, 
The  bride's  bed-chamber  to  prepare 
That  nothing  therein 

Might  be  found  awry. 
The  bride  was  with  her  brother  come, 
Which  was  great  joy  to  all  and  some ; 
But  Grissell  took 

All  this  most  patiently. 

And  in  the  morning, 

When  as  they  should  be  wedded, 

Her  patience  there  was  tried : 
Grissell  was  charged  * 

Herself  in  friendly  manner 

For  to  attire  the  bride. 
Most  willingly 
She  gave  consent  to  do  the  same  ; 

The  bride  in  bravery  was  dressed, 
And  presently 
The  noble  marquess  thither  came 

With  all  his  lords  at  his  request. 
"  O !  Grissell,  I  would  ask  of  thee, 
If  to  this  match  thou  wilt  agree  ? 
Methinks  thy  looks 

Are  waxed  wondrous  coy." 
With  that  they  all  began  to  smile, 
And  Grissell  she  replied  the  while, 
"  God  send  lord  marquess 

Many  years  of  joy." 

VII. 

The  marquess  was  moved 
To  see  his  best  beloved 

Thus  patient  in  distress  ; 
He  stept  unto  her, 
And  by  the  hand  he  took  her. 

These  words  he  did  express  : — 
"  Thou  art  my  bride. 
And  all  the  bride  I  mean  to  have : 

These  two  thy  own  children  be." 
The  youthful  lady 
On  her  knees  did  blessing  crave, 

Her  brother  as  well  as  she. 
"  And  you  that  envied  her  estate, 
^Vliom  I  have  made  my  loving  mate, 
Now  blush  for  shame. 

And  honour  virtuous  life. 
The  chronicles  of  lasting  fame 
Shall  evermore  extol  the  name 
Of  patient  Grissell, 

My  most  constant  wife." 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


527.— ♦the  TWA  SISTERS  0'  BINNOEIE. 

There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bow'r ; 

(Binnorie,  0  Binnorie  .') 
A  knight  cam'  there,  a  noble  wooer, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


He  courted  the  eldest  wi'  glove  and  ring, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  !) 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  aboon  a'  thing, 

By  the  bonny  miU-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 

(Binnorie,  0  Binnorie  !) 
And  sair  envied  her  sister  fair, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Upon  a  morning  fair  and  clear, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
She  cried  upon  her  sister  dear, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"  0  sister,  sister,  tak'  my  hand," 

(Binnorie,  0  Binnorie!) 
"  And  let's  go  down  to  the  river-strand, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie." 

She's  ta'en  her  by  the  lily  hand, 

(Binnorie,  0  Binnorie  !) 
And  down  they  went  to  the  river-strand, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
The  eldest  cam'  and  pushed  her  in. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"  O  sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand  I 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  !) 
"  And  ye  sail  be  heir  o'  half  my  land  " — 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"  O  sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove  !  " 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
"  And  sweet  William  sail  be  your  love  " — 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Sometimes  she  sank,  sometimes  she  swam, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
Till  she  cam'  to  the  mouth  o'  yon  mill-dam. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Out  then  cam'  the  miller's  son 

(Binnorie,  0  Binnorie !) 
And  saw  the  fair  maid  soummin'  in. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

"  0  father,  father,  draw  your  dam  !  " 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
"  There's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  swan," 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

The  miller  quickly  drew  the  dam, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
And  there  he  found  a  drown'd  woman. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Round  about  her  middle  sma' 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
There  went  a  gouden  girdle  bra'. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

All  amang  her  yellow  hair 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
A  string  o'  pearls  was  twisted  rare, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 


From  1558  to  1G49. 


THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT. 


[Anonymous. 


On  her  fingers  lily-white, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
The  jewel-rings  were  shining  bright, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  by  there  cam'  a  harper  fine, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  I) 
Harped  to  nobles  when  they  dine. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  when  he  looked  that  lady  on, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  !) 
He  sigh'd  and  made  a  heavy  moan. 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He's  ta'en  three  locks  o'  her  yellow  hair, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
And  wi'  them  strung  his  harp  sae  rare, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

He  went  into  her  father's  hall, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
And  played  his  harp  before  them  all, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  sune  the  harp  sang  loud  and  clear 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  !) 
"  Fareweel,  my  father  and  mither  dear  I  " 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  neist  when  the  harp  began  to  sing, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie !) 
'Twas    "  Fareweel,    sweetheart !  "     said    the 
string, 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

And  then  as  plain  as  plain  could  be, 

(Binnorie,  O  Binnorie  !) 
"  There  sits  my  sister  wha  drowned  me  !  " 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  o'  Binnorie. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


528.  — THE    HUNTING    OF    THE 
CHEVIOT. 

The  Percy  out  of  Northumberland, 

And  a  vow  to  God  made  he, 
That  ho  would  hunt  in  the  mountains 

Of  Cheviot  within  days  three, 
In  the  maugre  of  doughty  Douglas, 

And  all  that  with  him  be.  « 

The  fattest  harts  in  all  Cheviot 

He  said  he  would  kill  and  carry  away ; 

"By  my  faith,"  said  the  doughty  Douglas 
again, 
"  I  will  let  that  hunting  if  I  may." 

Then  the  Percy  out  of  Bamborough  came. 
And  with  him  a  mighty  meyne. 

Fifteen  hundred  archers,  of  blood  and  bone, 
They  were  chosen  out  of  shires  three. 


This  began  on  a  Monday  at  mom. 

In  Cheviot  the  hUls  so  hie  ; 
The  child  may  rue  it  that  is  unborn ; 

It  was  the  more  pitie. 

The  drivers  thorough  the  woodes  went. 
For  to  raise  the  deer  ;  _      

Bowmen  bicker'd  upon  the  bent  ~ 

With  their  broad  arrows  clear. 

Then  the  wild  thorough  the  woodes  went, 

On  every  side  shear ; 
Greyhounds  thorough  the  greves  glent 

For  to  kill  their  deer. 

They  began  in  Cheviot,  the  hills  above. 

Early  on  Monanday ; 
By  that  it  drew  to  the  hour  of  noon, 

A  hundred  fat  hartes  dead  there  lay. 

They  blew  a  mort  upon  the  bent. 
They  assembled  on  sides  shear ; 

To  the  quarry  then  the  Percy  went. 
To  the  brittling  of  the  deer. 

He  said,  "  It  was  the  Douglas's  promise 

This  day  to  meet  me  hero  : 
But  I  wist  he  would  fail,  verament," — 

A  great  oath  the  Percy  sware. 

At  last  a  squire  of  Northumberland 

Looked  at  his  hand  full  nigh  ; 
He    was    ware    of    the    doughty    Douglas 
coming. 

With  him  a  mighty  meyne  ; 

Both  with  spear,  bill,  and  brand ; 

It  was  a  mighty  sight  to  see  ; 
Hardier  men,  both  of  heart  and  hand. 

Were  not  in  Christiantio. 

They  were  twenty  hmidrcd  spearmen  good, 

Withouten  any  fail ; 
They   were   bom   along  by  the   Water  of 
Tweed, 

In  the  bounds  of  Tivydale. 

"  Leave  off  brittling  the  deer,"  he  said, 
"  To  your  bows  look  ye  take  gocd  heed ; 

For  since  ye  were  of  your  mothers  born 
Had  ye  never  so  mickle  need." 

The  doughty  Douglas  on  a  steed 

He  rode  all  his  men  beforne ; 
His  armour  glittered  as  a  glede  ; 

A  bolder  barne  was  never  bom. 

"  Tell  me  who  ye  are,"  he  says, 

"  Or  whose  men  that  ye  be  ; 
Who  gave  you  leave  to  hunt  in  this  chace 

In  the  spite  of  me  ? " 

The  first  man  that  ever  him  answer  made. 

It  was  the  good  Lord  Percy ; 
"  We  will  not  tell  thee  who  we  are. 

Nor  whose  men  that  we  be ; 
But  wo  will  hunt  here  in  this  cbace. 

In  spite  of  thine  and  thee. 

20 


Anonymous.] 


THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT.  [Third  Period.— 


"  The  fattest  harts  in  all  Cheviot 

We  have  kill'd,  and  cast  to  carry  away." 
"  By  my  troth,"  said  the  doughty  Douglas 

again, 
"  Therefor  shall  one  of  us  die  this  day." 

Then  said  the  doughty  Douglas 

IJnto  the  Lord  Percy, 
"  To  kiU  all  these  guiltless  men, 

Alas,  it  were  great  pitie  ! 

"  But,  Percy,  thou  art  a  lord  of  land, 
And  I  am  earl  called  in  my  countrie ; 

Let  all  our  men  apart  from  us  stand, 
And  do  the  battle  off  thee  and  me." 

*'  Now,  curse  on  his  crown,"  said  the  Lord 
Percy, 

"  Whosoever  thereto  says  nay  ! — 
By  my  troth,  doughty  Douglas,"  he  says, 

"  Thou  never  shalt  see  that  day. 

"  Neither  in  England,  Scotland,  nor  France, 

Of  woman  born  there  is  none, 
But,  an  fortune  be  my  chance, 

r  dare  meet  him,  one  man  for  one." 

Then  spake  a  squire  of  Northumberland, 
Eichard  Witherington  was  his  name  : 

"It  shall  never  be  told  in  South-England," 
he  says, 
"  To  King  Harry  the  Fourth,  for  shame  ! 

"  I  wot  ye  bin  great  lordes  two, 

I  am  a  poor  squire  of  land ; 
I'll  ne'er  see  my  captain  fight  on  a  field, 

And  a  looker-on  to  stand  : 
But  while  I  may  my  weapon  wield 

I  will  fail  not,  heart  and  hand." 

That  day,  that  day,  that  dreadful  day ! — 

The  first  fytte  here  I  find. 
An  ye  will  hear  more  of  the  Hunting  of 
Cheviot, 

Yet  more  there  is  behind. 


THE   SECOND  FYTTE. 

The  Englishmen  had  their  bowes  bent. 

Their  hearts  were  good  enow ; 
The  first   [flight]  of  arrows  that  they  shot 
off. 

Seven  score  spearmen  they  sloughe. 

Yet  bides  Earl  Douglas  upon  the  bent, 

A  captain  good  enow, 
And  that  was  soon  seen,  verament, 

For  he  wrought  [the  English  wo]. 

The  Douglas  parted  his  host  in  three. 
Like  a  chieftain  [full]  of  pride ; 

With  sure  spears  of  mighty  tree 
They  came  in  on  every  side. 

Thorough  our  English  archery, 

And  gave  many  a  wound  full  wide  ; 

Many  a  doughty  they  gar'd  to  die, 
Which  gained  them  no  [small]  pride. 


The  Englishmen  let  their  bowes  be, 

And  pull'd  out  brands  that  were  bright ; 

It  was  a  heavy  sight  to  see 

Bright  swords  on  basnets  light. 

Thorough  rich  mail  and  maniple 
Stern  they  struck  down  straight ; 

Many  a  freke  that  was  full  free, 
There  under-foot  did  light. 

At  last  the  Douglas  and  Percy  met. 
Like  two  captains  of  might  and  main  ; 

They  swapt  together  till  they  both  swat, 
With  swords  of  the  fine  Milan. 

These  worthy  frekes  for  to  fight 

Thereto  they  were  full  fain, 
Tni  the  blood  out  of  their  basnets  eprent 

As  ever  did  hail  or  rain. 

"  Hold  thee,  Percy!  "  said  the  Douglas, 
"  And  i'  faith  I  shall  thee  bring 

Where  thou  shalt  have  an  earl's  wages 
Of  Jamie  our  Scottish  king. 

"  Thou  shalt  have  thy  ransom  free  ; 

I  hight  thee  here  this  thing  ; 
For  the  manfuUest  man  yet  art  thou 

That  ever  I  conquered  in  fighting." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  Lord  Percy, 

"  I  told  it  thee  befome. 
That  I  would  never  yielded  be 

To  no  man  of  a  woman  born." 

With  that  came  an  arrow  hastily 

Forth  of  a  mighty  wane  ; 
And  it  hath  stricken  the  Earl  Douglas 

In  at  the  breast  bane. 

Thorough  liver  and  lungs  both 

The  sharp  arrow  is  gone, 
Tliat  never  after  in  all  his  life-days 

He  spake  more  words  but  one  : 
That  was,  "  Fight  ye,  my  merry  men,  while 
ye  may ! 

For  my  life-days  be  done." 

The  Percy  leaned  on  his  brand, 

And  saw  the  Douglas  die  ; 
He  took  the  dead  man  by  the  hand. 

And  said,  "  Wo  is  me  for  thee  ! 

"  To  have  saved  thy  life,  I  would  have  given 

My  landes  for  years  three ; 
For  .a  better  man,  of  heart  por  of  hand. 

Was  not  in  the  north  countrie." 

Of  all  that  saw  a  Scottish  kn%ht, 

Sir  Hugh  the  Montgomerie  ; 
He  saw  the  Douglas  to  death  was  dight ; 

He  spended  a  spear,  a  trusty  tree  ; 

He  rode  upon  a  courser 

Through  a  hundred  archery  ; 
He  never  stinted,  nor  never  blan, 

Till  he  came  to  good  Lord  Percy. 


From.  1558  to  1649.]      KING  JOHN  AND  THE  ABBOT  OF  CANTERBUBY.     [Anonymous. 


He  set  upon  the  Lord  Percy 

A  (lint  that  was  full  sore  ; 
With  a  sure  spear  of  a  mighty  tree 

Clean  thorough  his  body  he  bore. 

On  the  other  side  that  a  man  might  see 

A  larpe  cloth-j'ard  and  mair. 
Two  better  captains  in  Christentie 

Were  not,  than  the  two  slain  there. 

An  archer  of  Northumberland 
Saw  slain  was  the  Lord  Percy : 

He  bare  a  bend-bow  in  his  hand 
Was  made  of  trusty  tree. 

An  arrow,  that  was  a  cloth-yard  long, 

To  the  hard  steel  haled  he  ; 
A  dint  he  set,  was  both  sad  and  sore, 

On  Sir  Hugh  the  Montgomerie. 

The  dint  it  was  both  sad  and  sore 

Tliat  he  on  Montgomerie  set ; 
The  swan-feathers  the  arrow  bore 

With  his  heart' s-blood  they  were  wet. 

There  was  never  a  freke  one  foot  would 
flee, 
But  still  in  stour  did  stand, 
Heaving  on  each   other,  while  they  might 
dree, 
With  many  a  baleful  brand. 

This  battle  began  in  Cheviot 

An  hour  before  the  noon, 
And  still  when  even-song  bell  was  rung 

The  battle  was  not  half  done. 

They  took  [off]  on  either  hand 

By  the  light  of  the  moon ; 
Many  had  no  strength  for  to  stand, 

In  Cheviot  the  hills  aboon. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  archers  of  England, 
Went  away  but  fifty  and  three  ; 

Of  twenty  hundred  spearmen  of  Scotland, 
But  even  five  and  fiftie, 

That  were  not  slain  in  Cheviot ; 

They  had  no  strength  to  stand  on  hie. 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn  : 

It  was  the  more  pitie. 

There  was  slain  with  Lord  Percy, 

Sir  John  of  Agerstone  ; 
Sir  Roger,  the  hynde  Hartley ; 

Sir  William,  the  bold  Heron. 

Sir  George,  the  worthy  Lovel, 

A  knight  of  great  renown  ; 
Sir  Ralph,  the  rich  Rugby ; 

With  dints  were  beaten  down. 

For  Witherington  my  heart  was  wo, 

That  ever  he  slain  shotdd  be  ; 
For  when  both  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two, 

Yet  he  kneeled  and  fought  on  his  knee. 


There  was  slain  with  the  doughty  Douglas, 

Sir  Hugh  the  Montgomerie ; 
Sir  Davy  Liddale,  that  worthy  was, 

His  sister's  son  was  he  ; 

Sii*  Charles  a  Murray  in  that  place, 

That  never  a  foot  would  flee ; 
Sir  Hugh  Maxwell,  a  lord  he  was, 

With  the  Douglas  did  he  dee. 

So  on  the  morrow  they  made  them  biers 

Of  birch  and  hazel  gray ; 
Many  widows  Avith  weeping  tears 

Came  to  fetch  their  makes  away. 

Tivydale  may  carp  of  care, 

Northumberland  make  great  moan  ; 
For  two  such  captains  as  there  were  slain 

On  the  Marches  shall  never  be  none. 

Word  is  come  to  Edinborough, 

To  Jamie  the  Scottish  King, 
Doughty  Douglas,  lieutenant  of  the  Marches, 

Lay  slain  Cheviot  within. 

His  handes  did  he  weal  and  wring : 

"  Alas,  and  wo  is  me  ! 
Such  another  captain  in  Scotland  wide 

There  is  not  left,"  said  he. 

Word  is  come  to  lovely  London, 
To  Harry  the  Fourth  our  King, 

Lord  Percy,  lieutenant  of  the  Marches, 
Lay  slahi  Cheviot  within. 

"  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul,"  said  King 

Harry, 

"  Good  Lord,  if  Thy  will  it  be  ! 
Tve  a  hundred  captains  in  England,"  he 
said, 

*'  As  good  as  ever  was  he  : 
But,  Percy,  an  I  brook  my  life. 

Thy  death  well  quit  shall  be."^ 

And  now  maj^  Heaven  amend  us  all. 

And  into  bliss  us  bring ! 
This  was  the  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot  r 

God  send  us  aU  good  ending ! 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


529-- 


-KING  JOHN  AND  THE  ABBOT  OF 
CANTERBURY. 


An  ancient  gtory  I'll  tell  you  anon, 

Of   a  notable   prince,   that  was  called  King 

John  ; 
He  ruled  over  England  with  main  and  might, 
But  he  did  great  wrong,  and  maintain' d  little 

right. 

And  I'll  tell  you  a  story,  a  story  so  merry. 
Concerning  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury  ; 
How  for  his  housekeeping  and  high  renown. 
They  rode  post  to  bring  him  to  London  town. 

20* 


Anonymous.]       KING  JOHN  AND  THE  ABBOT  OF  CANTEEBUEY.     [Third  Period. 


A  himdred  men,  as  the  Kinj?  heard  say, 

The  Abbot  kept  in  his  house  every  day ; 

And  fifty  gold  chains,  wthout  any  doubt, 

In  velvet  coats  waited  the  Abbot  about.  } 

"  How  now.  Father  Abbot  ?   I  hear  it  of  thee,    I 
Thou  keepest  a  far  better  house  than  me  ; 
And  for  thy  housekeeping  and  high  renown, 
I  fear  thou  work'st  treason  against  my  crown." 

"  My  Liege,"  quoth  the  Abbot,    "  I  would  it 

were  known, 
I  am  spending  nothing  but  what  is  my  own  ; 
And  I  trust   your  Grace  will  not  put  me  in 

fear. 
For  spending  my  own  true-gotten  gear." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Father  Abbot,  thy  fault  is  high. 
And  now  for  the  same  thou  needest  must  die ; 
And  except  thou  canst  answer  me  questions 

three. 
Thy  head  struck  off  from  thy  body  shall  be. 

"And  first,"  quo'  the  King,  " as  I  sit  here, 
With  my  crown  of  gold  on  my  head  so  fair, 
Among  all  my  liegemen  of  noble  birth, — 
Thou  must  tell  to  one  penny  what  I  am  worth. 

"  Secondly,  tell  me,  beyond  all  doubt, 
How  soon  I  may  ride  the  whole  world  about ; 
And  at  the  third  question  thou  must  not  shrink. 
But  tell  me  here  truly,  what  do  I  think  ?  " 

"  0,  these  are  deep  questions  for  my  shallow 

■wit, 
And  I  cannot  answer  your  Grace  as  yet : 
But  if  you  will  give  me  a  fortnight's  space, 
111  do  my  endeavour  to  answer  your  Grace." 

"  Now  a  fortnight's  space  to  thee  will  I  give, 
And  that  is  the  longest  thou  hast  to  live  ; 
For  unless  thou  answer  my  questions  three, 
Thy  life  and  thy  lands  are  forfeit  to  me." 

Away  rode  the  Abbot  all  sad  at  this  word ; 
He  rode  to  Cambridge  and  Oxenf ord ; 
But  never  a  doctor  there  was  so  wise, 
That  could  by  his  learning  an  answer  devise. 

Then  home  rode  the  Abbot,  with  comfort  so 

cold, 
And  he  met  his  Shepherd,  a-going  to  fold : 
"Now,   good   Lord  Abbot,  you  are  welcome 

home; 
^Vliat  news  do  you  bring  us  from  great  King 

John  ?  " 

"  Sad  news,  sad  news.  Shepherd,  I  must  give ; 
That  I  have  but  three  days  more  to  live.  ' 

I  must  answer  the  King  his  questions  three. 
Or  my  head  struck  off  from  my  body  shall  be. 

"  The  first  is  to  tell  him,  as  he  sits  there. 
With  his  crown  of  gold  on  his  head  so  fair 
Among  all  his  liegemen  of  noble  birth, 
To  within  one  penny,  what  he  is  worth. 


"  The  second  to  tell  him,  beyond  all  doiibt, 
How  soon  he  may  ride  this  whola  v/orld  about ; 
And  at  question  the  third  I  must  not  shrink, 
But  tell  him  there  truly,  what  does  he  think  ?  " 

"  O  cheer  up,  my  Lord  ;  did  you  never  hear  yet 
That  a  fool  may  teach  a  wise  man  -wit  ? 
Lend  me  your  serving-men,  horse,  and  apparel. 
And  I'll  ride  to  London  to  answer  your  quarrel. 

"  With  your  pardon,  it  oft  has  been  told  to 

mo 
That  I'm  like  your  Lordship  as  ever  can  be  : 
And  if  you  will  but  lend  me  your  gown. 
There  is  none  shall  know  us  at  London  town." 

"Now  horses    and    serving-men   thou    shalt 

have, 
With  sumptuous  raiment  gallant  and  brave  ; 
With  crozier,  and  mitre,  and  rochet,  and  cope. 
Fit  to  draw  near  to  our  Father  the  Pope." 

"  Now  welcome,   Sir  Abbot,"  the  King  he  did 

say, 
"  Tis  well  thou'rt  come  back  to  keep  thy  day; 
For  and  if  thou   canst  answer  my  questions 

three, 
Thy  life  and  thy  living  both  saved  shall  be. 

'•'  And  first,  as  thou  seest  me  sitting  here. 
With  my  crown  of  gold  on  ray  head  so  fair, 
Among  my  liegemen  of  noble  birth, — 
Tell  to  one  penny  what  I  am  worth." 

"  For  thirty  pence  our  Saviour  was  sold 
Among  the  false  Jcavs,  as  I  have  been  told ; 
And  twenty -nine  is  the  worth  of  thee  ; 
For,  I  think,  thou  art  one  penny  worse  than 
he." 

The  King  he  laugh' d,  and  swore  by  St,  Bittle, 
"  I  did  not  think  I  was  worth  so  little  ! 
Now  secondly  tell  me,  beyond  all  doubt. 
How  soon  I  may  ride  this  world  about." 

"  You  must  rise  with  the  sun,  and  ride  with  the 

same, 
Until  the  next  morning  he  riseth  again ; 
And  then  your  Grace  need  never  doubt 
But  in  twenty-four  hours  you'll  ride  it  about." 

The  King  he  laugh' d,  and  swore  by  St.  Jone, 

"  I  did  not  think  I  could  do  it  so  soon  ! 

Now  from  question  the  third  thou  must  not 

shrink. 
But  tell  me  truly,  what  do  I  think  ?  " 

"  Yea,  that  I  shall  do,  and  make  your  Grace 

merry  : 
Yovi  think  I'm  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury ; 
But  I'm  his  poor  shepherd,  as  plain  you  may 

see, 
That  am  come  to  beg  pardon  for  him  and  for 

me." 


From  1558  to  1G49.] 


EDOM  O'  GORDON. 


[Anonymous. 


The  King  he  laug-h'd,  and  swore  by  the  mass, 
"  111  make  thee  Lord  Abbot  this  day  in  his 

place  ! " 
"  Now  nay,  my  Liege,  be  not  in  such  speed ; 
For,  alas  !  I  can  neither  -write  nor  read." 

"  Four  nobles  a  week,  then,  I'll  give  to  thee, 
For  this  merry  jest  thou  hast  shown  to  me  ; 
And   tell  the  old  Abbot,  when  thou  gettest 

home, 
Thou  hast  brought  him  freq  pardon  from  King 

John." 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


530.— EDOM  O'  GORDON. 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 

When  the  vnnd  blew  shrill  and  cauld, 
Said  Edom  o'  Gordon  to  his  men, 

"  We  maun  draw  to  a  hauld. 

"  And  whatna  hauld  sail  me  draw  to. 

My  merry  men  and  me  ? 
Wo  Avill  gae  to  the  house  of  the  Rodes, 

To  see  that  fair  ladye." 

The  lady  stood  on  her  castle  wa', 
Beheld  baith  dale  and  down ; 

There  she  was  aware  of  a  host  of  men 
Came  riding  towards  the  town. 

"  0  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men  a', 

0  see  ye  not  Avhat  I  see  ? 
Methinks  I  see  a  host  of  men ; 

1  marvel  who  they  be." 

She  ween'd  it  had  been  her  lovely  lord, 

As  he  cam'  riding  hame  ; 
It  was  the  traitor,  P'dom  o'  Gordon, 

Wha  reck'd  nor  sin  nor  shame. 

She  had  nae  sooner  buskit  hersell, 

And  putten  on  her  gown, 
Till  Edom  o'  Gordon  an'  his  men 

AVere  round  about  the  town. 

Thoy  had  nae  sooner  supper  set, 

Nae  sooner  said  the  grace. 
But  Edom  o'  Gordon  an'  his  men 

Wertt  lighted  about  the  place. 

The  lady  ran  u^)  to  her  tower-head. 

As  fast  as  she  could  hie, 
To  see  if  by  her  fair  speeches 

She  could  wi'  him  agree. 

"  Come  doun  to  me,  ye  lady  gay, 
Come  doun,  come  doun  to  me ; 

This  night  sail  ye  lig  within  mine  arms, 
To-morrow  my  bride  sail  be." 

"  I  winna  come  down,  ye  fause  Gordon, 

I  winna  come  down  to  thee  ; 
I  winna  forsake  my  ain  dear  lord, — 

And  he  is  na  far  frae  me." 


"  Gie  o-svre  your  house,  ye  lady  fair, 

Gie  o\vre  your  house  to  me  ; 
Or  I  sail  burn  yoursell  therein. 

But  and  your  babies  three." 

"  I  winna  gie  owre,  ye  fause  Gordon, 

To  nae  sic  traitor  as  thee ;        — 

j       And  if  ye  burn  my  ain  dear  babes, 
I  My  lord  sail  mak'  ye  dree. 

j        "  Now  reach  my  pistol,  Glaud,  my  man, 

!  And  charge  ye  weel  my  gun ; 

i        For,  but  an  I  pierce  that  bluidy  butcher, 

I  My  babes,  we  been  xindone  !  " 

I 

j        She  stood  upon  her  castle  wa', 

i  And  let  twa  bullets  flee  : 

She  miss'd  that  bluidy  butcher's  heart. 
And  only  razed  his  knee. 

"  Set  fire  to  the  house !  "  quo'  fause  Gordon, 

Wud  wi'  dule  and  ire  : 
*'  Fause  ladye,  ye  sail  rue  that  shot 

As  ye  burn  in  the  fire  I  " 

"  Wae  worth,  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man  ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  fee ; 
"Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 

Lets  in  the  reek  to  me  ? 

"  And  e'en  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  hire ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 

To  me  lets  in  the  fire  ?  " 

"  Ye  paid  me  weel  my  hire,  ladye, 

Ye  paid  me  weel  my  fee  : 
But  now  I'm  Edom  o'  Gordon's  man, — 

Maun  either  do  or  dee." 

O  then  bespake  her  little  son. 

Sat  on  the  nurse's  knee  : 
Says,  "  O  mither  dear,  gie  owre  this  liouse, 

For  the  reek  it  smothers  me." 

"  I  wad  gie  a'  my  goud,  my  bairn, 

Sae  wad  I  a'  my  fee, 
For  ae  blast  o'  the  western  wind, 

To  blaw  the  reek  frae  thee." 

O  then  bespake  her  daughter  dear, — 
She  was  baith  jimp  and  sma' ; 

"  O  row'  me  in  a  pair  o'  sheets. 
And  tow  me  o'er  the  wa'  !  " 

Tliey  row'd  her  in  a  pair  o'  sheets, 

And  tow'd  her  owre  the  wa' ; 
But  on  the  point  o'  Gordon's  spear 

She  gat  a  deadly  fa'. 

O  bonnie,  bonnie  was  her  mouth. 

And  cherry  were  her  cheeks, 
And  clear,  clear  was  her  yellow  hair. 

Whereon  the  red  blood  dreeps. 

Then  vrV  his  spear  he  turn'd  her  owre  ; 

0  gin  her  face  was  wan  ! 
He  said,  "  Ye  are  the  first  that  e'er 

1  wish'd  alive  again." 


Anonymous.] 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMEE. 


[Third  Period. — 


He  cam'  and  lookit  aguin  at  her ; 

0  gin  her  skin  was  white  ! 

"  I  might  hae  spared  that  bonnie  face 
To  hae  been  some  man's  delight." 

•'  Busk  and  bonn,  my  merry  men  a'. 

For  ill  dooms  I  do  guess  ; — 
I  cannot  look  on  that  bonnie  face 

As  it  lies  on  the  grass." 

"  Wha  looks  to  freits,  my  master  dear, 

Its  freits  will  follow  them  ; 
Let  it  ne'er  be  said  that  Edom  o'  Oordon 

Was  daunted  by  a  dame." 

But  when  the  ladye  saw  the  fire 

Come  flaming  o'er  her  head, 
She  wept,  and  kiss'd  her  children  twain. 

Says,  "  Bairns,  we  been  but  dead." 

The  Gordon  then  his  bugle  blew, 

And  said,  "  Awa',  awa' ! 
This  house  o'  the  Rodes  is  a'  in  a  flame  ; 

1  hauld  it  time  to  ga'." 

And  this  way  lookit  her  ain  dear  lord. 

As  he  came  o\VTe  the  lea  ; 
He  saw  his  castle  a'  in  a  lowe, 

Sae  far  as  he  coidd  see. 

"  Put  on,  put  on,  my  wighty  men. 

As  fast  as  ye  can  dri'e  ! 
For  ho  that's  hindmost  o'  the  thrang 

Sail  ne'er  get  good  o'  me." 

Then  some  they  rade,  and  some  they  ran, 

Out-owre  the  grass  and  bent ; 
But  ore  the  foremost  could  win  up, 

Baith  lady  and  babes  were  brent. 

And  after  the  Gordon  he  is  gane, 

Sae  fast  as  he  might  dri'e  ; 
And  soon  i'  the  Gordon's  foul  heart's  blude 

He's  wroken  his  fair  ladye, 

Anomjmous. — Before  1640. 


531.— THOMAS  THE  EHYMEE. 

True  Thomas  lay  on  Huntley  bank  ; 

A  ferlie  spied  he  \vi'  his  ee ; 
There  he  saw  a  lady  bright 

Come  riding  doun  by  the  Eildon  Tree. 

Her  skirt  was  o'  the  grass-green  silk. 
Her  mantle  o'  the  velvet  fine ; 

At  ilka  tett  o'  her  horse's  mane, 
Hung  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine. 

True  Thomas  he  pu'd  aff  his  cap. 
And  louted  low  doun  on  his  knee ; 

"  Hail  to  thee,  Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven  ! 
For  thy  peer  on  earth  could  never  be.' 

"0  no,  O  no,  Thomas,"  she  said, 
"  That  name  does  not  belong  to  me ; 

I'm  but  the  Queen  o'  fair  Elfland, 
That  hither  have  come  to  visit  thee. 


"Harp  and  earp,  Thomas,"  she  said; 

"  Harp  aaid  carp  along  wi'  me  ; 
And  if  ye  dare  to  kiss  my  lips, 

Sure  of  your  body  I  shall  be." 

"  Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe. 
That  weird  shall  never  daunten  me." 

Syne  he  has  kiss'd  her  on  the  lips. 
All  underneath  the  Eildon  Tree. 

"  Now  ye  maun  go  wi'  me,"  she  sadd, 
"  Now,  Thomas,  ye  maun  go  wi'  me ; 

And  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years, 

Through  weal  or  woe  as  may  chance  to  be." 

She's  mounted  on  her  milk-white  steed, 
And  she's  ta'en  Thomas  up  behind  : 

And  aye,  whene'er  her  bridle  rang. 
The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind. 

0  they  rade  on,  and  fai-ther  on, 

The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind ; 

Until  they  reach' d  a  desert  wide. 
And  living  land  Avas  left  behind. 

"Now,  Thomas,  light  doun,  light  doun," 
she  said, 

"  And  lean  your  head  upon  my  knee ; 
Abide  ye  there  a  little  space, 

And  I  will  show  you  ferlies  three. 

"  0  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road. 

So  thick  beset  wi'  thorns  and  briars  ? 

That  is  the  Path  of  Edghteousness, 
Though  after  it  but  few  enquires. 

"  And  see  ye  not  yon  braid,  braid  road, 
That  lies  across  the  lily  loven  ? 

That  is  the  Path  of  Wickedness, 

Though  some  call  it  the  road  to  Heaven. 

"  And  see  ye  not  yon  bonny  road 
That  winds  about  the  ferny  brae  ? 

That  is  the  road  to  fair  Elfland, 

Where  thou  and  I  this  night  maun  gae. 

"  But,  Thomas,  ye  sail  hand  your  tongue, 

Whatever  je  may  hear  or  see ; 
For  speak  ye  word  in  Elfin-land, 

Ye'U  ne'er  win  back  to  your  ain  countrie." 

O  they  rade  on,  and  further  on. 

And  they  waded  rivers  abune  the  knee  ; 

And  they  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon. 
But  they  heard  the  roaring  of  a  sea. 

It  was   mirk,  mirk  night,  there   was   nao 
starlight. 
They  waded   throiigh   red   blude  to  the 
knee  ; 
For  a'  the  blude  that's  shed  on  the  earth 
Eins  through  the  springs  o'  that  countrie. 

Syne  they  came  to  a  garden  green, 

And  she  pu'd  an  apple  frae  a  tree: 
"  Take  this  for  thy  Avages,   Thomas,"    she 
said : 
"It  will  give  thee  the  tongue  that  can 
never  lee." 


From  1558  to  1649.]                                LOED  BEICHAN.                                      [Anonymous. 

"  My  tongue  is  my  ain,"  then  Thomas  he 

"  Seven  king's  dochters  I've  drouned  there. 

said; 

I'  the  water  o'  Wearie's  Well ; 

"A  gudely  gift  ye  wad  gie  to  me  I 

An'  I'll  mak'  ye  the  eight  o'  them, 

I  neither  dought  to  buy  or  sell 

An'  ring  the  common  bell." 

At  fair  or  tryst  where  I  might  be. 

"  Sin'  I  am  standin'  here,"  she  says. 

"  I  dought  neither  speak  to  prince  or  peer, 

"  This  dowie  death  to  dee  ; 

Nor  ask  of  grace  from  fair  ladye  !  " — 

One  kiss  o'  your  comelie  mouth 

"Now  hand  thy  peace,  Thomas,"  she  said, 

I'm  sure  wad  comfort  me." 

"  For  as  I  say,  so  must  it  be." 

He  louted  him  o'er  his  saddle  bow, 

He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth, 

To  kiss  her  cheek  an'  chin  ; 

And  a  pair  o'  shoon  of  the  velvet  green ; 

She's  ta'en  him  in  her  arms  twa, 

And  till  seven  years  were  come  and  gane, 

An'  throun  him  headlong  in. 

True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 

"Sin'  seven  king's  daughters  ye' ve  drouned 

Anonynuyus. — Befmv  1649. 

there. 

I'  the  water  o'  Wearie's  WeU, 

I'll  mak'  ye  the  bridegroom  to  them  a'. 
An'  ring  the  bell  my  sell." 

532.— THE  WATER  0'  WEARIE'S  WELL. 

An'  aye  she  warsled,  and  aye  she  swam. 

There  cam'  a  bird  out  o'  a  bush, 

An'  she  swam  to  dry  Ian' ; 
An'  thankit  God  most  cheerfullie, 

On  water  for  to  dine ; 
An'  siching  sair,  says  the  king's  dochter, 

For  the  dangers  she  o'ercam. 

"  0  wae's  this  heart  o'  mine." 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 

He's  ta'en  a  harp  into  his  hand. 
He's  harpit  them  a'  asleip ; 

Exsept  it  was  the  king's  dochter, 

"VMia  ae  wink  coudna  get. 

533.— LOED  BEICHAN. 

He's  loupen  on  his  berry-brown  steed. 

Lord  Beichan  was  a  noble  lord. 

Ta'en  her  behin'  himsel ; 

A  noble  lord  of  high  degree  ; 

Then  baith  rade  dotm  to  that  water 

He  shipped  himself  on  board  a  ship, 

That  they  ca'  Weai-ie's  Well. 

He  longed  strange  countries  for  to  see. 

"  Wade  in,  wade  in,  my  ladye  fair, 

He  sailed  east,  and  he  sailed  west, 

No  harm  shall  thee  befall ; 

Until  he  came  to  proud  Turkey  ; 

Oft  times  hae  I  watered  my  steed 

Where  he  was  ta'en  by  a  savage  Moor, 

Wi'  the  water  o'  Weario's  Well." 

Who  handled  him  right  cruellie. 

The  first  step  that  she  steppit  in. 

For  he  viewed  the  fashions  of  that  land  ; 

She  steppit  to  the  knee ; 

Their  way  of  worship  viewed  he  ; 

And,  sichin'  says  this  ladye  fair, 

But  to  Mahound,  or  Termagant, 

"  This  water's  nae  for  me." 

Would  Beichan  never  bend  a  knee. 

"  Wade  in,  wade  in,  my  ladye  fair. 

So  on  each  shoulder  they've  putten  a  bore. 

No  harm  shall  thee  befall ; 

In  each  bore  they've  putten  a  tye  ; 

Oft  times  hae  I  watered  my  steed 

And  they  have  made  him  trail  the  wine 

Wi'  the  water  o'  Wearie's  Well." 

And  spices  on  his  fair  body. 

The  next  step  that  she  steppit  in, 

They've  casten  him  in  a  donjon  deep. 

She  steppit  to  the  middle ; 

Where  he  could  neither  hear  nor  see  ; 

0,  sichin'  says  this  ladye  fair, 

For  seven  long  year  they've  kept  him  there, 

"  I've  wat  my  gowden  girdle." 

Till  he  for  hunger's  like  to  dee. 

"  Wade  in,  wade  in,  my  ladye  fair. 

And  in  his  prison  a  tree  there  grew, 

No  harm  shall  thee  befall ; 

So  stout  and  strong  there  grew  a  tree, 

Oft  times  hae  I  watered  my  steed 

And  unto  it  was  Beichan  chained, 

Wi'  the  water  o'  Wearie's  WeU." 

Until  his  life  was  most  weary. 

The  next  step  that  she  steppit  in, 

This  Turk  he  had  one  only  daughter — 

She  steppit  to  the  chin ; 

Fairer  creature  did  eyes  ne'er  see  ; 

0,  sichin'  says  this  ladye  fair. 

And  every  day,  as  she  took  the  air. 

"  They  sud  gar  twa  luves  twin." 

Near  Beichan's  prison  passed  she. 

Anonymous.] 


LORD  BEICHAN. 


[Third  Period. — 


And  bonny,  meek,  and  mild  was  she, 
Tho'  she  was  come  of  an  ill  kin ; 

And  oft  she  sighed,  she  knew  not  why, 
For  him  that  lay  the  donjon  in. 

O !  so  it  fell  upon  a  day. 

She  heard  young  Beichan  sadly  sing  ; 
And  aye  and  ever  in  her  ears, 

The  tones  of  hapless  sorrow  ring. 

My  hounds  they  all  go  masterless  ; 
My  hawks  they  flee  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
My  younger  brother  will  heir  my  land ; 
Fair  England  again  I'll  never  see." 

And  all  night  long  no  rest  she  got. 

Young  Beichan' s  song  for  thinking  on : 

She's  stown  the  keys  from  her  father's  head, 
And  to  the  prison  strong  is  gone. 

And  she  has  oped  the  prison  doors, 

I  wot  she  opened  two  or  three, 
Ere  she  could  come  young  Beichan  at, 

He  was  locked  up  so  curiouslie. 

But  when  she  came  young  Beichan  before, 
Sore  wondered  he  that  maid  to  see ! 

He  took  her  for  some  fair  captive, — 

"  Fair  Ladye,  I  pray  of  what  countrie  ?  " 

"  Have  you  got  houses  ?  have  you  got  lands  ? 

Or  does  Northumberland  'long  to  thee  r 
What  would  ye  give  to  the  fair  young  ladye 

That  out  of  prison  would  set  you  free  ?  " 

"  I  have  got  houses,  I  have  got  lands, 

And  half  Northumberland  'longs  to  mo, — 

I'll  give  them  all  to  the  ladye  fair. 
That  out  of  prison  will  set  me  free. 

"  Near  London  town  I  have  a  hall, 
With  other  castles,  two  or  three ; 

I'll  give  them  all  to  the  ladye  fair. 
That  out  of  prison  will  set  me  free.". 

"  Give  me  the  troth  of  your  right  hand, 

The  troth  of  it  give  unto  me ; 
That  for  seven  years  ye'll  no  lady  wed. 

Unless  it  be  along  with  me." 

"I'll  give  thee  the  troth  of  my  right  hand, 

The  troth  of  it  I'll  freely  gie  ; 
That  for  seven  j'cars  I'll  stay  unwed, 

For  kindness  thou  dost  shew  to  me." 

And  she  has  bribed  the  proud  warder. 
With  golden  store  and  white  money ; 

She's  gotten  the  keys  of  the  prison  strong, 
And  she  has  set  young  Beichan  free. 

She's  gi'en  him  to  eat  the  good  spice  cake. 
She's  gi'en  him  to  drink  the  blood-red  wine ; 

And  every  health  she  drank  unto  him, — 
"I   wish,   Lord    Beichan,    that   you   were 
mine." 

And  she's  bidden  him  sometimes  think  on  her. 
That  so  kindly  freed  him  out  of  pine. 


She's  broken  a  ring  from  her  finger, 
And  to  Beichan  half  of  it  gave  she, — 

"  Keep  it  to  mind  you  of  that  love 
The  lady  bore  that  set  you  free." 

O  !  she  took  him  to  her  father's  harbour. 
And  a  ship  of  fame  to  him  gave  she  ; 

"  Farewell,  farewell,  to  you,  Lord  Beichan, 
Shall  I  e'er  again  you  see  ? 

"  Set  your  foot  on  the  good  ship  board, 
And  haste  ye  back  to  your  own  countrie ; 

And  before  seven  years  have  an  end. 
Come  back  again,  love,  and  marry  me." 

Now  seven  long  years  are  gone  and  past. 
And  sore  she  longed  her  love  to  see  ; 

For  ever  a  voice  within  her  breast 

Said,    "  Beichan   has    broken   his   vow   to 
thee! " 

So  she's  set  her  foot  on  the  good  ship  board. 
And  turned  her  back  on  her  own  countrie. 

She  sailed  east,  she  sailed  west. 

Till  to  fair  England's  shore  came  she ; 

Wliere  a  bonny  shepherd  she  espied. 
Feeding  his  sheep  upon  the  lea. 

"  What  news,  what  news,  thou  bonnie  shep- 
herd? 

What  news  hast  thou  to  tell  me  ?  " 
"  Such  news  I  hear,  ladye,"  he  said, 

"  The  like  was  never  in  this  countrie. 

"  There  is  a  weddin'  in  yonder  hall. 
Has  lasted  thirty  days  and  three  ; 

But  young  Lord  Beichan  Avon't  bed  with  his 
bride. 
For  love  of  one  that's  a3'oiid  the  sea." 

She's  putten  her  hand  in  her  pocket, 
Gi'en  him  the  gold  and  white  money  ; 

"  Here,  tak'  ye  that,  my  bonnie  bo}^ 
For  the  good  news  thou  tell'st  to  me." 

When  she  came  to  Lorct  Beichan' s  gate. 

She  tirled  softlj'-  at  the  pin ; 
And  ready  was  the  proud  warder 

To  open  and  let  this  ladye  in. 

Wlien  she  came  to  Lord  Beichan' s  castle, 

So  boldly  she  rang  the  bell ; 
'  'Who's  there  .^  who's  there?"  cried  the  proud 
porter, 

"  Who's  there  ?  unto  me  come  tell  ?  " 

"  0 !  is  this  Lord  Beichan's  castle  ? 

Or  is  that  noble  lord  within  ?  " 
'  Yea,  he  is  in  the  hall  among  them  all, 
And  this  is  the  day  of  his  weddin'." 

"  And  has  he  Avcd  anither  love  ? — 
And  has  he  clean  forgotten  me  ?  " 

And,  sighing,  said  that  ladye  gay, 
"  I  wish  I  was  in  my  own  countrie." 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


LOVE  WILL  FIND  OUT  THE  WAY. 


[Anonymous. 


And  she  has  ta'en  her  gay  gold  ring, 
That  with  her  love  she  brake  so  free, 

"  Gie  hiin  that,  ye  proud  porter, 

And  bid  the  bridegroom  speak  to  me. 

"  Tell  him  to  send  me  a  slice  of  bread, 

And  a  cup  of  blood-red  wine, 
And  not  to  forget  the  fair  j'^oung  ladj'e 

That  did  release  him  out  of  pine." 

Away,  and  away  went  the  proud  porter, 
Away,  and  away,  and  away  went  he. 

Until  he  came  to  Lord  Beichan's  presence, 
Down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 

"  What  aileth  thee,  my  proud  porter, 
Thou  art  so  full  of  courtesie  ?  " 

"  I've  been  porter  at  your  gates, — 
It's  thirty  long  years  now,  and  three. 

But  there  stands  a  ladye  at  them  now, 
The  like  of  her  I  ne'er  did  see. 

"  For  on  every  finger  she  has  a  ring. 
And  on  her  mid-finger  she  has  three  ; 

And  as  much  gay  gold  above  her  brow 
As  would  an  earldom  buy  to  me  ; 

And  as  much  gay  clothing  round  about  her 
As  would  buy  all  Northumberlea." 

It's  out  then  spak'  the  bride's  mother, — 
Aye,  and  an  angry  woman  was  she, — 

"  Ye  might  have  excepted  the  bonnie  bride, 
And  two  or  three  of  our  companie." 

"  0  !  hold  your  tongue,  3'^e  silly  frow, 

Of  all  your  folly  let  me  be  ; 
She's  ten  times  fairer  than  the  bride, 

And  all  that's  in  yoiu-  companie. 

*'  She   asks   one   sheave  of   my  lord's   white 
bread. 

And  a  cup  of  his  red,  red  Avine ; 
And  to  remember  the  lady's  love 

That  kindly  freed  him  out  of  pine." 

Lord  Beichan  then  in  a  passion  flew, 
And  broke  his  aword  in  splinters  three ; 

"  O,  weU  a  day  !  "  did  Beichan  say, 
"  That  I  so  soon  have  married  thee  ! 

For  it  can  be  none  but  dear  Saphia, 

That's  cross'd  the  deep  for  love  of  me  !  " 

And  quickly  hied  he  down  the  stair. 
Of  fifteen  steps  he  made  but  three  ; 

He's  ta'en  his  bonnie  love  in  his  arms, 
And  kist,  and  kist  her  tenderlie. 

"  O  !  have  ye  taken  another  bride  ? 

And  have  ye  quite  forgotten  me  ? 
And  have  ye  quite  forgotten  one 

That  gave  you  life  and  libertie  ?  " 


She  looked  o'er  her  left  shoulder 
To  hide  the  tears  stood  in  her  ee  ; 

"  Now   fare-thee-well,    young   Beichan," 
says, 
"I'll  try  to  think  no  more  on  thee." 


she 


"  O  !  never,  never,  my  Saphia, 

For  surely  this  can  never  be  ; 
Nor  ever  shall  I  wed  but  Aer 

That's  done  and  dreed  so  much  for  me." 

Then  out  and  spak'  the  forenoon  bride  : 
"  My  Lord,  your  love  is  changed-soon  ; 

At  morning  I  am  made  your  bride. 

And  another's  chose,  ere  it  be  noon  !  " 

"  O  !  sorrow  not,  thou  forenoon  bride 
Our  hearts  could  ne'er  united  be ; 

Ye  must  return  to  your  own  countrie, 
A  double  dower  I'll  send  with  thee." 

And  up  and  spak'  the  3''0ung  bride's  mother, 
^Vho  never  was  heard  to  speak  so  free, — 

"  And  so  you  treat  my  only  daughter. 
Because  Saphia  has  crossed  the  sea." 

"  I  own  I  made  a  bride  of  your  daughter, 
She's  ne'er  a  whit  the  worse  for  me. 

She  came  to  me  with  her  horse  and  saddle. 
She  may  go  back  in  her  coach  and  three." 

He's  ta'en  Saphia  by  the  white  hand. 
And  gently  led  her  up  and  down  ; 

And  aye  as  he  kist  her  rosy  lips, 

"  Ye're  welcome,  dear  one,  to  j'-our  own." 

He's  ta'en  her  by  the  milk-white  hand. 
And  led  her  to  yon  fountain  stane  ; 

Her  name  he's  changed  from  Saphia, 

And  he's  called  his  bonnie  love  Lady  Jane. 

Lord  Beichan  prepared  another  marriage, 
And  sang  AWth  heart  so  full  of  glee, 

"  I'll  range  no  more  in  foreign  countries. 
Now  since  mj^  love  has  crossed  the  sea." 

Anonyuioits. — Before  1649. 


534.— LOVE  WILL  FIND  OUT  THE  WAY. 

FIRST    PART. 

Over  the  mountains. 

And  under  the  waves, 
Over  the  fountains, 

And  under  the  graves, 
Under  floods  which  are  deepest, 

Wliich  do  Neptune  obey, 
Over  rocks  which  are  steepest, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie, 
Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  receipt  of  a  fly, 
Where  the  gnat  dares  not  venture, 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay, 
But  if  Love  come  he  will  enter, 

And  find  out  the  way. 


Anonymous.]                                 THE  CHILDE  OF  ELLE.                       [Tsikd  Pesiod.— 

You  may  esteem  liim 

Love  hath  power  over  princes, 

A  child  of  his  force, 

And  greatest  emperors, 

Or  you  may  deem  him 

In  any  provinces. 

A  coward,  which  is  worse ; 

Such  is  Love's  power. 

But  if  he  whom  Love  doth  honour, 

There  is  no  resisting, 

Be  concealed  from  the  day, 

But  him  to  obey  ; 

Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  him. 

In  spite  of  all  contesting, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Some  think  to  lose  him, 

If  that  he  were  hidden, 

Which  is  too  unkind, 

And  all  men  that  are, 

And  some  do  suppose  him, 

Were  strictly  forbidden 

Poor  heart,  to  be  blind ;   * 

That  place  to  declare  ; 

But  if  he  were  hidden, 

Winds  that  have  no  abidings, 

Do  the  best  you  may, 

Pitying  their  delay, 

Blind  Love,  if  you  so  call  hira, 

Would  come  and  bring  Mm  tidings. 

WiU  find  out  the  way. 

And  direct  him  the  way. 

Well  may  the  eag'le 

Stoop  down  to  the  fist, 
Or  you  may  inveigle 

The  Phcenix  of  the  east  ; 
With  fear  the  tiger's  moved. 

To  give  over  her  prey ; 

If  the  earth  should  part  him, 

He  would  gallop  it  o'er; 
If  the  seas  should  o'erthwart  him, 

He  would  swim  to  the  shore. 
Should  his  love  become  a  swallow. 

Through  the  air  to  stray, 
Love  will  lend  wings  to  f  ollovr, 

But  never  stop  a  lover. 

He  will  find  out  the  way. 

And  wiU  find  out  the  way. 

There  is  no  striving 

From  Dover  to  Berwick, 

To  cross  his  intent. 

And  nations  thereabout, 

There  is  no  contriving 

Brave  Guy,  Earl  of  Warwick, 

His  plots  to  prevent ; 

That  champion  so  stout, 

But  if  once  the  message  greet  him. 

With  his  warlike  behaviour, 

That  his  true  love  doth  stay, 

Through  the  world  he  did  stray. 

If  death  should  come  and  meet  him, 

To  win  his  Phillis'  favour, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Anonymons. — Before  1649, 

In  order  next  enters 

Bevis  so  brave, 
After  adventures 

And  policy  brave, 

To  see  whom  he  desired. 

535.— THE  CHILDE  OF  ELLE. 

His  Josian  so  gay. 

J  J  J 

For  whom  his  heart  was  fired. 

On  yonder  hill  a  castle  stands, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

With  walls  and  towers  bedight, 

And  yonder  lives  the  Childo  of  Elle, 

A  young  and  comely  knight. 

SECOiSTD   PART, 

^ 

The  Childe  of  Elle  to  his  garden  went. 

The  Gordian  knot. 

And  stood  at  his  garden-pale, 

Which  true  lovers  knit. 

When,  lo  !  he  beheld  fair  Emmeline's  pago 

Undo  it  you  cannot, 

Come  tripping  down  the  dale. 

Nor  yet  break  it ; 
Make  use  of  7/our  inventions. 

The  Childe  of  Elle  he  hied  him  thence. 

Their  fancies  to  beti-ay. 

I  wist  he  stood  not  still, 

To  frustrate  their  intentions. 

And  soon  he  met  fair  Emmoline'a  page 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Come  climbing  up  the  hill. 

"  Now  Christe  thee  save,  thou  little  foot-i)age, 

From  court  to  the  Gotta<r«, 

Now  Christe  thee  save  and  see  I 

In  bower  and  in  hall. 

Oh  tell  me  how  does  thy  lady  gay, 

From  the  king  unto  the  beggar, 

And  what  may  thy  tidings  be  ?  " 

Love  conquers  all. 

Though  ne'er  so  stout  and  lordly. 

"  My  lady  she  is  all  woe-begone,                                 ; 

Strive  or  do  what  you  may, 

And  the  tears  they  fall  from  her  03^0  ;                 I 

Yet  bo  you  ne'er  so  hardy, 

And  aye  she  laments  the  deadly  feud 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Between  her  house  and  thine. 

From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  CHILDE  OF  ELLE. 


[Anontmotts. 


"  And  here  she  sends  thee  a  silken  scarf 

Bedewed  with  many  a  tesir, 
And  bids  thee  sometimes  think  on  her, 

Who  loved  thee  so  dear. 

"  And  hexe  she  sends  thee  a  ring  of  gold, 
The  last  boon  thou  may'st  have, 

And  bids  thee  wear  it  for  her  sake. 
When  she  is  laid  in  grave. 

"  For,  ah  !  her  gentle  heart  is  broke. 

And  in  grave  soon  must  she  be. 
For  her  father  hath  chose  her  a  new  new  love, 

And  forbid  her  to  think  of  theo. 

"  Her  father  hath  brought  her  a  carlish  knight. 

Sir  John  of  the  north  countrey. 
And  ^vithin  three  days  she  must  him  wed, 

Or  he  vows  he  will  her  slay." 

"  Now  hie  thee  back,  thou  little  foot-page. 

And  greet  thy  lady  from  me, 
And  tell  her  that  I,  her  own  true  love. 

Will  die,  or  set  her  free. 

"  Now  hie  thee  back,  thou  little  foot-page. 

And  let  thy  fair  lady  know, 
This  night  will  I  be  at  her  bower-window. 

Betide  me  weal  or  woe." 

The  boy  he  tripped,  the  boy  he  ran, 

He  neither  stint  nor  stay'd 
Untn  he  came  to  fair  Emmeline's  bower. 

When,  kneeling  down,  he  said, 

"  0  lady,  I've  been  with  thine  ovm  true  love, 

And  he  greets  thee  well  by  me  ; 
This  night  will  he  be  at  thy  bower- window. 

And  die  or  set  thee  free." 

Now  day  was  gone,  and  night  was  come, 

And  all  were  fast  asleep, 
All  save  the  lady  Emmeline, 

Who  sate  in  her  bower  to  weep. 

And  soon  she  heard  her  true  love's  voice 

Low  whispering  at  the  wall ; 
*'  Awake,  awake,  my  dear  lady, 

'Tis  I,  thy  true  love,  call. 

"  Awake,  awake,  my  lady  dear, 

Come,  mount  this  fair  pMfrey  : 
This  ladder  of  roj^os  will  let  thee  down, 

I'll  carry  thee  hence  away." 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,  thou  gentle  knight. 

Now  nay,  this  may  not  bo  ; 
For  aye  should  I  tint  my  maiden  fame. 

If  alone  I  should  wend  Avith  thee." 

*'0  lady,  thou  with  a  knight  so  true 

May'st  safely  wend  alone  ; 
To  my  lady  mother  I  will  thee  bring. 

Where  marriage  shall  make  us  one." 

' '  My  father  ho  is  a  baron  bold, 

Of  lineage  proud  and  high  ; 
And  what  would  ho  say  if  his  daughter 

Away  with  a  knight  should  fly  ? 


"  Ah  !  well  I  wot,  he  never  would  rest. 
Nor  his  meat  should  do  him  no  good, 

THl  ho  had  sLiin  thee,  Childe  of  EUe, 
And  seen  thy  dear  heart's  blood." 

"  O  lady,  wert  thou  in  thy  saddle  set. 
And  a  little  space  him  fro',  -_    _ 

I  would  not  care  for  thy  cruel  father. 
Nor  the  worst  that  he  could  do. 

"  O  lady,  wert  thou  in  thy  saddle  set. 

And  once  without  this  Avail, 
I  would  not  care  for  thy  cruel  father. 

Nor  the  worst  that  might  befall." 

I   Fair  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Emmeline  wept, 
i       And  aye  her  heart  was  woe  : 
I  At  length  he  seized  her  lily-white  hand, 
j       And  down  the  ladder  ho  drew  : 

And  thrice  he  clasp' d  her  to  his  breast, 
I       And  kiss'd  her  tenderly  : 

The  tears  that  fell  from  her  fair  eyes, 
j       Ean  like  the  fountain  free. 

j  He  mounted  himself  on  Ms  steed  so  tall, 

I  And  her  on  a  fair  palfrey; 

I  And  slung  his  bugle  about  his  neck, 

'  And  roundly  they  rode  away. 

.   All  this  beheard  her  own  damsel. 
In  her  bed  Avherein  she  lay ; 
Quoth  she,  "  My  lord  shall  know  of  this. 
So  I  shall  have  gold  and  fee. 

"  Awake,  awake,  thou  baron,  bold ! 

Awake,  my  noble  dame  ! 
Your  daughter  is  fled  with  the  Childe  of  Elle, 

To  do  the  deed  of  shame." 

The  baron  he  woke,  the  baron  he  rose. 

And  called  his  merry  jnen  all : 
"  And  come  thou  foi-th,  Sir  John  tho  knight, 

Thy  lady  is  carried  to  thrall." 

Fair  Emmeline  scarce  had  ridden  a  mile, 

A  mile  forth  of  the  town. 
When  slie  was  aware  of  her  father's  vacax 

Come  galloping  over  the  down  : 

And  foremost  came  the  carlish  knight. 
Sir  John  of  tho  north  countrey  : 

"  Now  stop,  now  stop,  thou  false  traitor,. 
Nor  carry  that  lady  away. 

"  For  she  is  come  of  high  lineage. 

And  was  of  a  lady  bom, 
And  ill  it  beseems  thee,  a  false  churl's  son. 

To  carry  her  hence  to  scorn." 

"  Now  loud  thou  liest,  Sir  John  the  knight. 

Now  thou  dost  lie  of  me  ; 
A  knight  me  got,  and  a  lady  me  bore. 

So  never  did  none  by  thee. 

"  But  light  now  down,  my  lady  fair, 
Light  down,  and  hold  my  steed,   ' 

While  I  and  this  discourteous  knight 
Do  try  this  arduous  deod. 


Anonymous.] 


KING  EDWARD  IV.  AND  THE  TANNER. 


[Third  Period. — 


"  But  light  now  down,  my  dear  lady, 
Light  down,  and  hold  my  horse  : 

While  I  and  this  discourteous  knight 
Do  try  our  valour's  force." 

Fair  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Emmeliae 

And  aye  her  heart  was  woe. 
While  'twixt  her  love  and  the  carlish  knight 

Past  many  a  baleful  blow. 

The  Child  of  Elle  he  fought  so  well, 
As  his  weapon  he  waved  amain, 

That  soon  he  had  slain  the  carlish  knight, 
And  laid  him  upon  the  plain. 

And  now  the  baron  and  all  his  men 

Full  fast  approacliod  nigh  : 
Ah  !  what  may  lady  Emmeline  do  ! 

'Twere  now  no  boote  to  fly. 

Her  lover  he  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  both  loud  and  f^hrill. 
And  soon  he  saw  his  own  merry  men 

Come  riding  over  the  hill. 

"  Now  hold  thy  hand,  thou  bold  baron,    . 

I  pray  thee,  hold  thy  hand, 
Nor  ruthless  rend  two  gentle  hearts, 

Fast  knit  in  true  love's  band. 

"  Thj'-  daughter  I  have  dearly  loved 

Full  long  and  many  a  day ; 
But  with  such  love  as  holy  kirk 

Hath  freely  said  we  may. 

"  O  give  consent  she  may  be  mine, 

And  bless  a  faithful  pair  : 
My  lands  and  livings  are  not  small, 

My  house  and  lineage  fair  : 

"  My  mother  she  was  an  earl's  daughter. 
And  a  noble  knight  my  sire  " — 

The  baron  he  frowned,  and  turned  away 
With  micklo  dole  and  ire. 

Fair  Emmeline  sighed,  fair  Emmeline  wept, 

And  did  all  trembling  stand  : 
At  length  she  sprang  upon  her  knee, 

And  held  his  lifted  hand. 

"  Pardon,  my  lord  and  father  dear, 
This  fair  young  knight  and  me  : 

Trust  me,  but  for  the  carlish  knight, 
I  never  had  fled  from  thee. 

"  Oft  have  you  called  your  Emmeline 

Your  darling  and  your  joy  ; 
O  let  not  then  your  harsh  resolves 

Your  Emmeline  destroy." 

The  baron  he  stroked  his  dark-brown  cheek, 

And  turned  his  head  aside 
To  wipe  away  the  starting  tear 

He  proudly  strove  to  hide. 

In  deep  revolving  thought  ho  stood, 

And  mused  a  little  space  : 
Tlien  raised  fair  Emmeline  from  the  ground, 

With  many  a  fond  embrace. 


"  Here,  take  her,  Childe  of  Elle,"  he  said, 

And  gave  her  lily  hand  ; 
"  Here,  take  my  dear  and  only  child. 

And  with  her  half  my  land  : 

"  Thy  father  once  mine  honour  wronged 

In  days  of  youthful  pride  ; 
Do  thou  the  injury  repair 

In  fondness  for  thy  bride. 

"  And  as  thou  love  her,  and  hold  her  dear, 
Heaven  prosper  thee  and  thine  : 

And  now  my  blessing  wend  wi'  thcc, 
My  lovely  Emmeline." 

Anonyiaous. — Before  1649. 


'   536.— KING    EDWAED    lY.    AND    THE 
■  TANNER  OF  TAMWORTH. 

1   In  summer  time,  when  leaves  grow  green, 
j       And  blossoms  bedeck  the  tree. 
King  Edward  would  a  limiting  ride, 
Some  pastime  for  to  see. 

With  hawk  and  hound  he  made  him  boA\Tie, 

With  horn,  and  eke  Avith  bow  ; 
To  Drayton  Basset  he  took  his  Avar, 

AVith  all  his  lords  in  a  row. 

And  he  had  ridden  o'er  dale  and  down 

By  eight  of  clock  in  the  day, 
When  he  Avas  'ware  of  a  bold  tanner, 

Come  riding  along  the  Avay. 

A  fair  russet  coat  the  tanner  had  on, 

Fast  buttoned  under  his  chin  ; 
And  under  him  a  good  coAv-hide, 

And  mare  of  four  shilling. 

"  NoAv  stand  yon  still,  my  good  lords  all, 

Under  the  greeiiAVOod  spray  ; 
And  I  will  wend  to  yonder  fellow, 

To  Aveet  Avhat  he  Avill  say. 

"God  speed,  God  speed  thee,"  said  our  king, 
"Thou  art  welcome,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  The  readiest  way  to  Drayton  Basset 
I  pray  thee  to  shoAV  to  me." 

"  To  Drajiion  Basset  wouldst  thou  go, 
Fro'  the  place  Avhere  thou  dost  stand  ? 

The  next  pair  of  gallows  thou  comest  unto, 
Turn  in  upon  thy  right  hand." 

"  That  is  an  unready  way,"  said  our  king, 

"  Thou  dost  but  jest,  I  see; 
NoAv  shoAv  me  out  the  nearest  Avay, 

And  I  praj-  thee  Avend  Avith  me." 

"  Away  AA^th  a  vengeance  !  "  quoth  tlie  tanner 

"  I  hold  thee  out  of  thy  Avit : 
AU  day  have  I  ridden  on  Brock  my  mare,     • 

And  I  am  fasting  yet." 


From  1558  to  1640.] 


KINO  EDWAKD  IV.  AND  THE  TANNEE. 


"Anonymous. 


"  Go  with  me  down  to  Drayton  Basset, 

No  dainties  we  will  spare  ; 
All  day  shalt  thou  eat  and  drink  of  the  best, 

And  I  will  pay  thy  fare." 

"  Gramercy  for  nothing,"  the  tanner  replied, 

"  Thou  pay  est  no  fare  of  mine  : 
I  trow  I've  more  nobles  in  my  purse. 

Than  thou  hast  pence  in  thine." 

"  God  give  thee  joy  of  them,"  said  the  king, 
"  And  send  them  well  to  x^riefe." 

The  tanner  v^^ould  fain  have  been  away, 
For  he  weened  he  had  been  a  thief. 

"What  art  thou,"  he  said,  "  thou  fine  fellow, 

Of  thee  I  am  in  great  fear, 
For  the  clothes  thou  wearest  upon  thy  back, 

Might  beseem  a  lord  to  wear." 

"  I  never  stole  them,"  quoth  our  king, 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  by  the  rood." 
"  Then  thou  playest,  as  many  an  unthrift  doth. 

And  standest  in  midst  of  thy  good." 

""What  tidings  hear  you,"  said  the  king, 

As  you  ride  far  and  near  ?  " 
"  I  hear  no  tidings,  sir,  by  the  mass. 

But  that  cow-hides  are  dear." 

' '  Cow-hides !  cow-hides !  what  things  are  those  ? 

I  marvel  what  they  be !  " 
"  What  art  thou  a  fool  ?  "  the  tanner  replied ; 

"  I  carry  one  under  me." 

"  What  craftsman  art  thou  ?  "  said  the  king, 

"  I  pray  thee  tell  me  true." 
"  I  am  a  barker,  sir,  by  my  trade ; 

Now  tell  me  what  art  thou  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  poor  courtier,  sir,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  am  forth  of  sersdce  worn ; 

And  fain  I  would  thy  prentice  be. 
Thy  cunning  for  to  learn." 

"Marry  heaven  forfend,"  the  tanner  roplied, 

"  That  thou  my  prentice  were  : 
Thou  wouldst  spend  more  good  than  I  should 
win 

By  forty  shilling  a  year." 

"  Yet  one  thing  would  I,"  said  our  king, 

"  If  thou  wilt  not  seem  strange  : 
Though  my  horse  be  better  than  thy  mare. 

Yet  with  thee  I  fain  would  change." 

"  Why  if  with  me  thou  fain  wilt  change, 

As  change  full  well  may  we. 
By  the  faith  of  my  body,  thou  proud  fellow, 

I  will  have  some  boot  of  thee." 

"  That  were  against  reason,"  said  the  king, 

"  I  swear,  so  mote  I  thee  : 
My  horse  is  better  than  thy  mare. 

And  that  thou  Avell  mayst  see." 

"  Yea,  sir,  but  Brock  is  gentle  and  mild. 

And  softly  she  will  fare  ; 
Thy  horse  is  unruly  and  wild.  I  wiss ; 

Aye  skipping  here  and  there." 


' '  What  boot  wilt  thou  have  ? ' '  our  king  replied, 

"  Now  tell  me  in  this  stound." 
"  No  pence,  nor  halfpence,  by  my  faith, 

But  a  noble  in  gold  so  round." 

"  Here's  twenty  groats  of  white  money, 
Sith  thou  -svilt  have  it  of  me."    —    — 

"  I  would  have  sworn  now,"  quoth  the  tanner, 
"  Thou  hadst  not  had  one  penny. 

"  But  since  we  two  have  made  a  change, 

A  change  we  must  abide, 
Although  thou  hast  gotten  Brock  my  mare, 

Thou  gettest  not  my  cow-hide." 

"  I  will  not  have  it,"  said  the  king, 

"  I  swear,  so  mote  I  thee  ; 
Thy  foul  cow-hide  I  would  not  bear. 

If  thou  wouldst  give  it  to  me." 

The  tanner  he  took  his  good  cow-hide, 

That  of  the  cow  was  hilt ; 
And  threw  it  upon  the  king's  saddle, 

That  was  so  fairly  gilt. 

"  Now  help  me  up,  thou  fine  fellow, 
'Tis  time  that  I  were  gone  ; 
j   When  I  come  home  to  Gyllian  my  wife, 
j       She'll  say  I  am  a  gentleman." 

!  "When  the  tanner  he  was  in  the  king's  saddle, 
;        And  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  was  ; 

I  He  marvelled  greatly  in  his  mind, 
\       Whether  it  were  gold  or  brass. 

But  when  his  steed  saw  the  cow's  tail  wag. 

And  eke  the  black  cow-horn  ; 
He  stamped,  and  stared,  and  away  he  ran, 

As  the  devil  had  him  borne. 

The  tanner  he  pulled,  the  tanner  he  sweat. 

And  held  by  the  pummel  fast, 
At  length  the  tanner  came  tumbling  down  ; 

His  neck  he  had  well-nigh  brast. 

"  Take  thy  horse  again  with  a  vengeance,"  ho 
said, 

"  With  me  he  shall  not  bide." 
"  My  horse  would  have  borne  thee  well  enough. 

But  he  knew  not  of  thy  cow-hide. 

"  Yet  if  again  thou  fain  wouldst  change. 

As  change  full  well  may  we, 
By  the  faith  of  my  body,  thou  jolly  tanner, 

I  will  have  some  boot  of  thee." 

"  What  boot   wilt   thou   have,"    the   tanner 
replied, 

"  Now  tell  me  in  this  stound  ?  " 
"  No  pence  nor  half -pence,  sir,  by  my  faith, 

But  I  will  have  twenty  pound." 

"  Here's  twenty  gi'oats  out  of  my  purse ; 

And  twenty  I  have  of  thine  : 
And  I  have  one  more,  which  we  will  spend 

Together  at  the  wine." 


ANONYMOUS. 


THE  HEIR  OF  LINNE. 


"Third  Pebiod.— 


The  king-  set  a  bncrle  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill : 
And  soon  came  lords,  and  soon  came  knights, 

Fast  riding  over  the  hill. 

*'  Now,  out,  alas  I  "  the  tanner  he  cried, 

"  That  ever  I  saw  this  day  ! 
Thou  art  a  strong  thief,  yon  come  thy  fellows 

Will  bear  my  cow-hide  away." 

*'  They  are  no  thieves,"  the  king  replied, 

"  I  swear,  so  mote  I  thee  : 
But  they  are  the  lords  of  the  north  country, 

Here  come  to  hunt  with  me." 

And  soon  before  our  king  they  came. 

And  knelt  down  on  the  ground  : 
Then  might  the  tanner  have  been  away, 

He  had  lever  than  twenty  pound. 

"  A  collar,  a  collar,  hei*e  -."  said  the  king, 

"  A  collar,"  he  loud  'gan  cry : 
Then  would  he  lever  than  twenty  pound, 

He  had  not  been  so  nigh. 

"  A  collar,  a  collar,"  the  tanner  he  said, 

"  I  trow  it  will  bx-eed  sorrow  : 
After  a  collar  cometh  a  halter, 

I  trow  I  shall  be  hang'd  to-morrow." 

"  Be  not  afraid,  tanner,"  said  our  king ; 

"  I  tell  thee,  so  mote  I  thee, 
Lo  here  I  make  thee  the  best  esquire 

That  is  in  the  north  country. 

*'  For  Plumpton-park  I  will  give  thee, 

With  tenements  fair  beside  : 
'Tis  worth  three  hundred  marks  by  the  year, 

To  maintain  thy  good  cow-hide." 

"  Gramercy,  my  liege,"  the  tanner  replied, 
"  For  the  favour  thou  hast  me  shown : 

If  ever  thou  comest  to  merry  Tamworth, 
Neat's  leather  shall  clout  thy  shoen." 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


537.— THE  HEIE  OF  LINNE. 

PART  THE   FIRST. 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen, 

To  sing  a  song  I  mil  begin  : 
It  is  of  a  lord  of  fair  Scotland, 

Which  was  the  unthrifty  heir  of  Linne. 

His  father  was  a  right  good  lord. 
His  mother  a  lady  of  high  degree; 

But  they,  alas  !  were  dead,  him  fro'. 
And  he  lov'd  keeping  company. 

To  spend  the  day  with  merry  cheer. 
To  drink  and  revel  every  night. 

To  card  and  dice  from  eve  to  morn. 
It  was,  I  ween,  his  heart's  delight. 


To  ride,  to  run,  to  rant,  to  roar. 
To  alway  spend  and  never  spare, 

I  know,  an'  it  were  the  king  himself, 
Of  gold  and  fee  he  might  be  bare. 

So  fares  the  unthrifty  lord  of  Linne 
Till  all  his  gold  is  gone  and  spent ; 

And  he  maun  sell  his  lands  so  broad, 
His  house,  and  lands,  and  all  his  rent. 

His  father  had*  a  keen  steward, 

And  John  o'  the  Scales  was  called  he  : 

But  John  is  become  a  gentleman, 
And  John  has  got  both  gold  and  fee. 

Says,  *'  Welcome,  welcome,  lord  of  Linne, 
Let  nought  disturb  th}'  meriy  cheer  ; 

If  thou  wilt  sell  thy  lands  so  broad. 
Good  store  of  gold  I'll  give  tliee  here." 

"  My  gold  is  gone,  my  money  is  spent ; 

My  land  now  take  it  unto  thee  : 
Give  me  the  gold,  good  John  o'  the  Scales, 

And  thine  for  aye  my  land  shall  be." 

Tlien  John  he  did  him  to  record  draw. 
And  John  he  cast  him  a  gods-pennie  ; 

But  for  evers^  pound  that  John  agreed, 
The  land  I  wis,  was  well  worth  three. 

He  told  him  the  gold  upon  the  board, 
He  was  right  glad  his  land  to  win  ; 

"  The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine. 
And  now  I'll  be  the  lord  of  Linne." 

Thus  he  hath  sold  his  land  so  broad, 
Both  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and  fen. 

All  but  a  i)oor  and  lonesome  lodge. 
That  stood  far  off  in  a  lonely  glen. 

For  so  be  to  his  father  hight, 

"  My  son,  when  I  am  gone,"  said  he, 

"  Then  thou  wilt  spend  thy  land  so  broad, 
And  thou  wilt  spend  thy  gold  so  free  : 

"  But  swear  me  now  upon  the  cross, 

That  lonesome  lodge  thou'lt  never  spend ; 

For  when  all  the  world  doth  fi-own  on  thee. 
Thou  there  shalt  find  a  faithful  friend." 

The  heir  of  Linne  is  full  of  gold  : 

"And  come  with  me,  my  friends,"  said  he, 
"  Let's  drink,  and  rant,  and  merry  make. 

And  he  that  spares,  ne"er  mote  he  thee." 

They  ranted,  drank,  and  merry  made. 

Till  all  his  gold  it  waxed  thin ; 
And  then  his  friends  they  slunk  away  ; 

They  left  the  unthrifty  heir  of  Linne. 

He  had  never  a  penny  left  in  his  purse, 

Never  a  penny  left  but  three, 
And  one  was  brass,  another  was  lead, 
'  And  another  it  was  white  money. 

"  Now  well-a-day,"  said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
"  Now  well-a-day,  and  woe  is  me, 

For  when  I  was  the  lord  of  Linne, 
I  never  wanted  gold  nor  fee. 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  HEm  OF  LINNE. 


[Anonymous. 


"  But  many  a  trusty  friend  have  I, 
And  why  should  I  feel  grief  or  care  ? 

I'll  borrow  of  them  all  by  turns, 
So  need  I  not  be  never  bare." 

But  one,  I  wis,  was  not  at  home ; 

Another  had  paid  his  gold  away ; 
Another  called  him  thriftless  loon, 
And  bade  him  sharply  wend  his  way. 

"  Now  well-a-day,"  said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
"  Now  well-a-day,  and  woe  is  me ; 

For  when  I  had  my  lands  so  broad, 
On  mo  they  liv'd  right  merrily. 

"  To  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door, 
I  wis,  it  were  a  burning  shame  : 

To  rob  and  steal  it  were  a  sin : 
To  Avork  my  limbs  I  cannot  frame. 

"  Now  I'll  away  to  lonesome  lodge, 
For  there  my  father  bade  me  wend ; 

When  all  the  world  should  fro^vn  on  me, 
I  there  should  find  a  trusty  friend." 


PART  THE   SECOND. 

Away  then  hied  the  heir  of  Linne 
O'er  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and  fen, 

Until  he  came  to  lonesome  lodge, 
That  stood  so  low  in  a  lonely  glen. 

He  looked  up,  he  looked  down, 
In  hope  some  comfort  for  to  win  : 

But  bare  and  loathly  were  the  walls. 

"  Here's  sorry  cheer,"   quo'   the  heir  of 
Linne. 

The  little  window  dim  and  dark 

Was  hung  with  ivy,  brier,  and  yew  •, 

No  shimmering  sun  here  ever  shone ; 
No  wholesome  breeze  here  ever  blew. 

No  chair  nor  table  he  mote  spy. 

No  cheerfid  hearth,  no  welcome  bed. 

Nought  save  a  rope  with  running  noose. 
That  dangling  hung  up  o'er  his  head. 

And  over  it  in  broad  letters, 

These  words  were  written  plain  to  see  : 
"  Ah !  graceless  wretch,  hast  spent  thine  all, 

And  brought  thyself  to  penury  ? 

"All  this  my  boding  mind  misgave, 
I  therefore  left  this  trusty  friend : 

Let  it  now  shield  thy  foul  (Hsgrace, 
And  all  thy  shame  and  sorrows  end." 

Sorely  shent  wi'  this  rebuke. 

Sore  shent  was  the  heir  of  Linne, 

His  heart,  I  wis,  was  near  to  burst 
With  guilt  and  sorrow,  shame  and  sin. 

Never  a  word  spake  the  heir  of  Linne, 
Never  a  word  he  spake  but  three  : 

"  This  is  a  trusty  friend  indeed. 
And  is  right  welcome  unto  me." 


Then  round  his  neck  the  cord  he  drew. 
And  sprang  aloft  with  his  body: 

When  lo  !  the  ceiling  burst  in  twain, 
And  to  the  ground  came  tumbling  he. 

Astonished  lay  the  heir  of  Linne, 
Nor  knew  if  he  were  live  or  dead  : 

At  length  he  looked,  and  saw  a  bUl, 
And  in  it  a  key  of  gold  so  red. 

He  took  the  bill,  and  looked  it  on, 

Straight  good  comfort  found  he  there  : 

It  told  him  of  a  hole  in  the  wall. 

In  which  theie  stood  three  chests  in-fere. 

Two  were  full  of  beaten  gold. 

The  tiiird  was  full  of  white  money ; 

And  over  them  in  broad  letters 

These  words  were  written  so  plain  to  see : 

"  Once  more,  my  son,  I  set  thee  clear  ; 

Amend  thy  life  and  follies  past ; 
For  but  thou  amend  thee  of  thy  life. 

That  rope  must  be  thy  end  at  last." 

"  And  let  it  be,"  said  the  heir  of  Linne ; 

"  And  let  it  be,  but  if  I  amend : 
For  hero  I  will  make  my  vow. 

This  reade  shall  guide  me  to  the  end." 

Away  then  went  with  a  merry  cheer. 
Away  then  went  the  heir  of  Linne ; 

I  wis,  he  neither  ceas'd  nor  blanne, 

Till  John  o'  the  Scales'  house  he  did  win. 

And  when  he  came  to  John  o'  the  Scales^ 
Up  at  the  speere  then  looked  he  : 

There  sat  three  lords  upon  a  row. 
Were  drinking  of  the  wine  so  free. 

And  John  himself  sat  at  the  board-head, 

Because  now  lord  of  Linne  was  he. 
"  I  pray  thee,"    he  said,  "  good  John  o'  the 


One  forty  pence  for  to  lend  me." 

"  Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loon ; 

Away,  away,  this  may  not  be  ; 
For  Christ's  curse  on  my  head,"  he  said, 

"  If  ever  I  trust  thee  one  pennie." 

Then  bespake  the  heir  of  Linne, 

To  John  o'  the  Scales'  wife  then  spake  he 
"  Madame,  some  alms  on  me  bestow, 

I  pray  for  sweet  saint  Charity." 

"Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loon, 
I  swear  thou  gettest  no  alms  of  me  ; 

For  if  we  should  hang  any  losel  here. 
The  first  we  would  begin  with  thee." 

Then  bespake  a  good  fellow. 

Which  sat  at  John  o'  the  Scales  his  board ; 
Said,  "  Turn  again,  thou  heir  of  Linne  ; 

Some  time  thou  wast  a  well  good  lord : 

"  Some  time  a  good  fellow  thou  hast  been, 
And  sparedst  not  thy  gold  and  fee  ; 

Tlierefore  I'll  lend  thee  forty  pence, 
And  other  forty  if  need  be. 


AxONYilOUS. 


THE  SPANISH  LADY  S  LOVE. 


[Third  Period. — 


"  And  ever,  I  pray  thee,  John  o'  the  Scales, 

To  let  him  sit  in  thy  company : 
For  well  I  wot  thou  hadst  his  land, 

And  a  good  bargain  it  was  to  thee." 

Up  then  spake  him  John  o'  the  Scales, 
All  wood  he  answer' d  him  again  : 

"Now  Christ's  curse  on  my  head,"  he  said, 
"  But  I  did  lose  by  that  bargain. 

"  And  here  I  proffer  thee,  heir  of  Linne, 
Before  the^e  lords  so  fair  and  free, 

Thou  shalt  have  it  back  again  better  cheap. 
By  a  hundred  marks,  than  I  had  it  of  thee. 

"  I  draw  j'^ou  to  record,  lords,"  he  said. 
With  that  he  cast  him  a  gods-pennie  : 

"  Now  by  my  fay,"  said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
"  And  here,  good  John,  is  thy  money." 

And  he  pull'd  forth  three  bags  of  gold. 
And  laid  them  down  upon  the  board  : 

All  woe  begone  was  John  o'  the  Scales, 
So  shent  he  could  say  never  a  word. 

He  told  him  forth  the  good  red  gold. 
He  told  it  forth  with  mickle  din. 

*'  The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine, 
And  now  again  I'm  the  lord  of  Linne." 

Says,  "  Have  thou  here,  thou  good  fellow, 
Forty  pence  thou  didst  lend  me  : 

Now  I  am  again  the  lord  of  Linne, 
And  forty  pounds  I  will  give  thee. 

"  I'll  make  thee  keeper  of  my  forest. 
Both  of  the  wild  deer  and  the  tame ; 

For  but  I  reward  thy  bounteous  heart, 
I  wis,  good  fellow,  I  were  to  blame." 

"  Now  well-a-day !"  saith  Joan  o'  the  Scales  : 
*'  Now  well-a-day !  and  woe  is  my  life  ! 

Yesterday  I  was  lady  of  Linne, 

Now  I'm  but  John  o'  the  Scales  his  wife." 

*'  Now  fare  thee  well,"  said  the  heir  of  Linne; 

"Farewell  now,  John  o'  the  Scales,"  said 
he : 
"  Christ's  curse  light  on  me,  if  ever  again 

I  bring  my  lands  in  jeopardy." 

Anonymoios. — Before  1649. 


538— THE  SPANISH  LADY'S  LOVE. 

Will  you  hear  a  Spanirsh  lady, 

How  she  wooed  an  English  man  ? 

Garments  gay  and  rich  as  may  be, 
Decked  with  jewels  she  had  on. 

Of  a  comely  countenance  and  grace  was  she, 

And  by  birth  and  parentage  of  high  degree. 

As  his  prisoner  there  he  kept  her, 

In  his  hands  her  life  did  lie  ; 
Cupid's  bands  did  tie  them  faster 

By  the  liking  of  an  eye. 
In  his  courteous  company  was  all  her  joy. 
To  favour  him  in  anything  she  was  not  co'y. 


But  at  last  there  came  commandment 

For  to  set  the  ladies  free. 
With  their  jewels  still  adorned, 

None  to  do  them  injury. 
Then  said  this  lady  mUd,  "  Full  woe  is  me ; 
O,  let  me  still  sustain  this  kind  captivity ! 

"  Gallant  captain,  show  some  pity 

To  a  lady  in  distress  ; 
Leave  me  not  within  this  city. 

For  to  die  in  heaviness. 
Thou  hast  set  this  present  day  my  body  free. 
But  my  heart  in  prison   still   remains   with 
thee." 

'•  How  shouldst  thou,  fair  lady,  love  me, 

Whom  thou  know'st  thy  country's  foe  ? 

Thy  fair  words  make  me  suspect  thee  : 
Serpents  lie  where  flowers  grow." 

"  All  the  harm  I  wish  to  thee,  most  courteous 
knight, 

God  grant  the  same  upon  my  head  may  fully 
light ! 

"  Blessed  be  the  time  and  season. 

That  you  came  on  Spanish  ground ; 
If  our  foes  you  may  be  termed, 

Gentle  foes  we  have  j^ou  found : 
With  our  city,  you  have  won  our  hearts  each 

one. 
Then  to  your  country  bear  away,  that  is  your 
own." 

"  Eest  you  still,  most  gallant  lady  ; 

Eest  you  still,  and  weep  no  more ; 
Of  fair  lovers  there  is  plenty, 

Spain  doth  yield  a  wondrous  store." 
"  Spaniards  fraught   with  jealousy  we  often 

find, 
But  Englishmen  through  all   the   world  are 
counted  kind. 

"  Leave  me  not  unto  a  Spaniard, 
You  alone  enjoy  my  heart ; 
I  am  lovely,  young,  and  tender, 
Love  is  likewise  my  desert : 
Still  to  serve  thee  day  and  night  my  mind  is 

pressed, 
Tho   wife   of    every   Englishman   is   counted 
blessed." 

"  It  would  be  a  shame,  fair  lady, 

For  to  bear  a  woman  hence  ; 
English  soldiers  never  carry 

Any  such  without  offence." 
"  I'll  quickly  change  myself,  if  it  be  so. 
And  like  a  page  I'll  follow  thee,  where'er  thou 
go." 

"  I  have  neither  gold  nor  silver 

To  maintain  thee  in  this  case. 
And  to  travel  is  great  charges. 

As  you  know  in  every  place." 
"  My  chains  and  jewels  every  one   shall  be 

thine  own, 
And  eke  five  hundred  pounds  in  gold  that  lies 
unknown." 


From  1558  to  1649.] 


THE  LASS  OF  LOCHEOYAN. 


[Anonymous. 


"  On  the  sea  are  many  dangers, 

Many  storms  do  there  arise, 
Which  will  be  to  ladies  dreadful, 

And  force  tears  from  watery  eyes." 
*'  Well,  in  troth,  I  shall  endure  extremity. 
For  I  could  find  in  heart  to  lose  my  life  for 
thee." 

"  Courteous  lady,  leave  this  fancy, 

Here  comes  all  that  breeds  this  strife ; 

I  in  England  have  already 

A  sweet  woman  to  my  ■wife  : 

I  will  not  falsify  my  vow  for  gold  nor  gain, 

Nor  yet  for  all  the  fairest  dames  that  live  in 
Spain." 

"  0  !  how  happy  is  that  woman 

That  enjoys  so  true  a  friend  ! 
Manj--  happy  days  God  send  her ! 

Of  my  suit  I  make  an  end  : 
On  my  knees  I  pardon  crave  for  my  oflfence, 
Which  did  from  love,  and  true  affection  first 
commence. 

"  Commend  me  to  thy  lovely  lady. 
Bear  to  her  this  chain  of  gold, 
And  these  bracelets  for  a  token  ; 
Grieving  that  I  was  so  bold  : 
All  my  jewels   in  like  sort  take   thou   with 

thee. 
For  they  are  fitting  for  thy  wife,  but  not  for 
me. 

"  I  will  spend  my  days  in  prayer, 
Love  and  all  her  laws  defy ; 
In  a  nunnery  will  I  shroiid  me. 

Far  from  any  company  : 
But  ere  my  prayers  have  an  end,  be  sure  of 

this, 
To  pray  for  thee  and  for  thy  love  I  Avill  not 
miss. 

"  Thus  farewell,  most  gallant  captain ! 
Farewell  too  my  heart's  content! 
Count  not  Spanish  ladies  wanton, 

Though  to  thee  my  love  was  bent : 
Joy  and  true  prosperity  go  still  Avith  thee  !  " 
"  The  like  fall  ever  to  thy  share,  most  fair 
kdy!" 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


539.— THE  LASS  OF  LOCHROYAN. 

*'  0  wha  will  shoe  my  bonny  foot  ? 

And  wha  vnll  glove  my  hand  ? 
And  wha  will  lace  my  middle  jimp 

Wi'  a  lang,  lang  linen  band  ? 

"  0  wha  will  kame  my  yellow  hair, 
With  a  new-made  silver  kame  ? 

And  wha  will  father  my  young  son. 
Till  Lord  Gregory  come  hame  ?  " 

"  Thy  father  will  shoe  thy  bonny  foot, 
Thy  mother  wdll  glove  thy  hand, 

Thy  sister  will  lace  thy  middle  jimp, 
Till  Lord  Gregory  come  to  land. 


"  Thy  brother  will  kame  thy  yellow  hair 
With  a  new-made  silver  kame, 

And  God  will  be  thy  bairn's  father 
Till  Lord  Gregory  come  hame." 

"  But  I  will  get  a  bonny  boat, 

And  I  will  sail  the  sea  ;  —  — 

And  I  will  gang  to  Lord  Gregory, 
Since  he  canna  come  hame  to  me." 

Syne  she's  gar'd  buUd  a  bonny  boat. 

To  sail  the  salt,  salt  sea  ; 
The  sails  were  o'  the  light  green  silk, 

The  tows  o'  taffety. 

She  hadna  sailed  but  twenty  leagues, 
But  twenty  leagues  and  three, 

When  she  met  wV  a  rank  robber, 
And  a'  his  company. 

"  Now  whether  are  ye  the  queen  her  sell, 

(For  so  ye  weel  might  be,) 
Or  are  ye  the  Lass  of  Lochroyan, 

Seekin'  Lord  Gregory." 

"01  am  neither  the  queen,"  she  said, 

"  Nor  sic  I  seem  to  be, 
But  I  am  the  Lass  of  Lochroyan, 

Seekin'  Lord  Gregory." 

"  O  see  na  thou  yon  bonny  bower. 

It's  a'  covered  o'er  wi'  tin  ? 
When  thou  hast  sailed  it  round  about, 

Lord  Gregory  is  within." 

And  when  she  saw  the  stately  tower 

Shining  sae  clear  and  bright, 
"Wliilk  stood  aboon  the  jawing  wave, 

Built  on  a  rock  of  height ; 

Says — "  Eow  the  boat,  my  mariners, 

And  bring  me  to  the  land  ! 
For  yonder  I  see  my  love's  castle 

Close  by  the  salt-sea  strand." 

She  sailed  it  round,  and  sailed  it  round, 

And  loud,  loud  cried  she — 
"  Now  break,  now  break,  ye  fairy  charms. 

And  set  my  true  love  free  !  " 

She's  ta'en  her  young  son  in  her  arms. 

And  to  the  door  she's  gane  : 
And  long  she  knocked,  and  sair  she  ca'd, 

But  answer  got  she  nane. 

"  0  open  the  door.  Lord  Gregory ! 

0  open  and  lot  me  in ! 
For  the  wind  blows  through  my  yellow 
hair. 

And  the  rain  draps  o'er  my  chin." 

"  Awa,  awa,  ye  ill  woman  ! 

Ye're  no  come  here  for  good ! 
Ye're  but  some  witch,  or  wil  warlock, 

Or  mermaid  o'  the  flood." 

"  I  am  neither  witch,  nor  wil  warlock, 

Nor  mermaid  o'  the  sea  ; 
But  I  am  Annie  of  Lochroyan  ; 

O  open  the  door  to  me  !  " 

<2l 


Anonymous.] 


THE  LASS  OF  LOCHEOYAN. 


[Third  Period. 


"  Gin  thou  be  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

(As  I  trow  thou  binna  she,) 
Now  tell  me  some  o'  the  love  tokens 

That  past  between  thee  and  me." 

"  0  dinna  ye  mind,  Lord  Gregory, 

As  we  sat  at  the  wine, 
We  changed  the  rings  frae  our  fingers. 

And  I  can  show  thee  thine  ? 

"  O  yours  was  gude,  and  gude  enough, 

But  aye  the  best  was  mine  ; 
For  yours  was  o'  the  gude  red  gowd, 

But  mine  o'  the  diamond  fine. 

"  And  has  na  thou  mind,  Lord  Gregory, 

As  we  sat  on  the  hill, 
Thou  twined  me  o'  my  maidenheid 

Eight  sair  against  my  will  ? 

"  Now,  open  the  door,  Lord  Gregory, 

Open  the  door,  I  pray  I 
For  thy  young  son  is  in  my  arms, 

And  will  be  dead  ere  day." 

*'  If  thou  be  the  Lass  o'  Lochroyan, 

(As  I  kenna  thou  be,) 
Tell  me  some  mair  o'  the  love  tokens 

Past  between  me  and  thee." 

Fair  Annie  turned  her  round  about— 

"  Weel !  since  that  it  be  sae, 
May  never  a  woman  that  has  borne  a  son, 

Hae  a  heart  sae  fou  o'  wae  ! 

"  Take  down,  take  down,  that  mast  o'  gowd ! 

Set  up  a  mast  o'  tree  ! 
It  disna  become  a  forsaken  lady 

To  sail  sae  royallie." 

"When  the  cock  had  crawn,  and  the  day  did 
dawn. 

And  the  sun  began  to  peep, 
Then  up  and  raise  him  Lord  Gregory, 

And  sair,  sair  did  he  weep. 

"  Oh  I  hae  dreamed  a  dream,  mother, 

I  wish  it  may  prove  true  ! 
That  the  bonny  Lass  o'  Lochroyan 

Was  at  the  gate  e'en  now. 

"01  hae  dreamed  a  dream,  mother, 
The  thought  o't  gars  me  greet ! 

That  fair  Annie  o'  Lochroyan 
Lay  cauld  dead  at  my  feet." 


"  Gin  it  be  for  Annie  of  Lochroyan 

That  ye  make  a'  this  din, 
She  stood  a'  last  night  at  your  door, 

But  I  true  she  wad  na  in." 

*'  0  wae  betide  ye,  ill  woman ! 

An  ill  deid  may  ye  die  ! 
That  wadna  open  the  door  to  her, 

Nor  yet  wad  waken  me." 

O  he's  gane  down  to  yon  shore  side 

As  fast  as  he  could  fare  ; 
He  saw  fair  Annie  in  the  boat, 

But  the  wind  it  tossed  her  sair. 

"And  hey,  Annie,  and  how,  Annie, 

O  Annie,  winna  ye  bide  !  " 
But  aye  the  mair  he  cried  Annie, 

The  braider  grew  the  tide. 

"  And  hey,  Annie,  and  how,  Annie  ! 

Dear  Annie,  speak  to  me  !  " 
But  aye  the  louder  he  cried  Annie, 

The  louder  roared  the  sea. 

The  wind  blew  loud,  the  sea  grew  rough. 
And  dashed  the  boat  on  shore  ; 

Fair  Annie  floated  through  the  faem. 
But  the  babie  rose  no  more. 

Lord  Gregory  tore  his  yellow  hair, 

And  made  a  heavy  moan ; 
Fair  Annie's  corpse  lay  at  his  feet, 

Her  bonny  young  son  was  gone. 

O  cherry,  cherry  was  her  cheek, 

And  go w  den  was  her  hair ; 
But  clay-cold  were  her  rosy  lips — 

Nae  spark  o'  life  was  there. 

And  first  he  kissed  her  cherry  cheek, 
And  syne  he  kissed  her  chin, 

And  syne  he  kissed  her  rosy  lips- 
There  was  nae  breath  within. 

"  0  wae  betide  my  cruel  mother  ! 

An  ill  death  may  she  die  ! 
She  turned  my  true  love  frae  my  door, 

Wha  came  sae  far  to  me. 

"  O  wae  betide  my  cruel  mother  ! 

An  ill  death  may  she  die  ! 
She  turned  fair  Annie  frae  my  door, 

"VX^a  died  for  love  o'  me." 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


THE    FOURTH    PERIOD, 

FROM    1649    TO    1689. 


a  npHE  forty  years  comprehended  in  this  period,"  says  Chambers,  in  his  admirable 
X  "  Cyclopedia  of  Enghsh  Literature,"  "  produced  some  great  names  ;  but  considering 
the  mighty  events  which  then  agitated  the  country,  and  must  have  influenced  the  national 
feelings — such  as  the  abolition  of  the  ancient  monarchy  of  England,  and  the  establishment  of 
the  Commonwealth — there  was  less  change  in  the  taste  and  literature  of  the  nation  than  might 
have  been  anticipated.  Authors  were  still  a  select  class,  and  literature,  the  delight  of  the 
learned  and  ingenious,  had  not  become  food  for  the  multitude.  The  chivalrous  and  romantic 
spirit  which  prevailed  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  had  even,  before  her  death,  begun  to  yield  to 
more  sober  and  practical  views  of  human  life  and  society :  a  spirit  of  inquiry  was  fast 
spreading  among  the  people.  The  long  period  of  peace  under  James,  and  the  progress  of 
commerce,  gave  scope  to  domestic  improvement,  and  fostered  the  reasoning  faculties  and 
mechanical  powers,  rather  than  the  imagination.  The  reign  of  Charles  I.,  a  prince  of  taste 
and  accomplishments,  partially  revived  the  style  of  the  Elizabethan  era,  but  its  lustre  ex- 
tended little  beyond  the  court  and  the  nobility.  During  the  civil  war  and  the  protectorate, 
poetry  and  the  drama  were  buried  under  the  strife  and  anxiety  of  contending  factions.  Crom- 
well, with  a  just  and  generous  spirit,  boasted  that  he  would  make  the  name  of  an  Englishman 
as  great  as  ever  that  of  a  Roman  had  been.  He  realized  his  wish  in  the  naval  victories  of 
Blake,  and  the  unquestioned  supremacy  of  England  abroad  ;  but  neither  the  time  nor  inclina- 
tion of  the  Protector  permitted  him  to  be  a  patron  of  literature.  Charles  II,  was  better  fitted 
for  such  a  task,  by  natural  powers,  birth,  and  education ;  but  he  had  imbibed  a  false  and 
perverted  taste,  which,  added  to  his  indolent  and  sensual  disposition,  was  as  injurious  to  art 
and  literature  as  to  the  public  morals.  Poetry  declined  from  the  date  of  the  Eestoration,  and 
was  degraded  from  a  high  and  noble  art  to  a  mere  courtly  amusement,  or  pander  to  immorality. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  genius  was  not,  however,  tainted  by  this  public  degeneracy.  Science 
was  assiduously  cultivated,  and  to  this  period  belong  some  of  the  proudest  triumphs  of  English 
poetry,  learning,  and  philosophy.  Milton  produced  his  long-cherished  epic,  the  greatest  poem 
which  our  language  can  boast ;  Butler  his  inimitable  burlesque  of  Hudibras  ;  and  Dryden  his 
matchless  satire  and  versification.  In  the  department  of  divinity,  Jeremy  Taylor,  Barrow, 
and  Tillotson,  laid  the  sufe  foundations  of  Protestantism,  and  the  best  defences  of  revealed 
religion.  In  spectdative  philosophy,  we  have  the  illustrious  name  of  Locke  ;  in  history  and 
polite  literature.  Clarendon,  Burnet,  and  Temple.  In  this  period,  too,  Bunyan  composed  his 
inimitable  religious  allegory,  and  gave  the  first  conspicuous  example  of  native  force  of  mind 
and  powers  of  imagination  rising  successful  over  all  the  obstructions  caused  by  a  low  station 
in  life,  and  a  miserably  defective  education.  The  world  has  never  been,  for  any  length  of 
time,  without  some  great  men  to  guide  and  illuminate  the  onward  course  of  society ;  and, 
happily,  some  of  them  were  found  at  this  period  to  serve  as  beacons  to  their  contemporaries 
and  to  all  future  ages." 

Professor  Spalding,  in  reference  to  this  i)eriod  and  a  few  years  afterwards,  states 
that  "whether  we  have  regard  to  the  political,  the  moral,  or  the  literary  state  of  the 
nation,  England  resembled  a  fine  antique  garden  neglected  and  falling  into  decay.  A 
few  patriarchal  trees  still  rose  green  and  stately;  a  few  chance-sown  flowers  began  to 
blossom  in  the  shade :  but  lawn,  and  parterre,  and  alley  were  matted  with  noisome  weeds, 
and  the  stagnant  waters  breathed  out  pestilential  damps.  When,  after  the  Eevolution,  the 
attempt  was  made  to  re-introduce  order  and  productiveness,  many  of  the  wild  plants  were 
allowed  still  to  encumber  the  ground ;  and  there  were  compartments  which,  worn  out  by  the 
rank  vegetation  they  had  borne,  became,  for  a  time,  altogether  barren.  In  a  word,  the 
"Restoration  brou<i:lit  in  evils  of  all  kinds,  many  of  which  lingered  through  the  age  that 
succeeded,  and  others  were  not  eradicated  for  several  generations.  '  oi# 


THE  FOURTH  PEEIOD.—FEOM  1649—1689. 

"  Of  all  the  social  mischiefs  of  the  time,  none  infected  literature  so  deeply  as  that  deprava- 
tion of  morals  into  which  the  court  and  the  aristocracy  plunged,  and  into  which  so  many  of  the 
people  followed  them.  The  lighter  kinds  of  composition  mirrored  faithfully  the  surrounding 
blackness.  The  drama  sank  to  a  frightful  grossness  :  the  tone  of  thinking  was  lowered  also 
in  other  walks  of  poetry.  The  coarseness  of  speech  survived  the  close  of  the  century :  the 
cool,  selfish,  calculating  spirit,  which  had  been  the  more  tolerable  form  of  the  degradation, 
survived,  though  in  a  mitigated  degree,  very  much  longer.  This  bad  morality  was  in  part 
attributable  to  a  second  characteristic  of  the  time,  which  produced,  likewise,  other  consequences. 
The  reinstated  courtiers  imported  a  mania  for  foreign  models,  especially  French.  The  favourite 
literary  works,  instead  of  continuing  to  obey  native  and  natural  impulses,  were  anxiously 
moulded  on  the  tastes  of  Paris.  This  prevalence  of  exotic  predilections  endured  for  more 
that  a  century.  Amidst  all  these  and  other  weaknesses  and  blots,  there  was  not  wanting  either 
strength  or  brightness.  The  literary  career  of  Dryden  covers  the  whole  of  our  period,  and 
marks  a  change  which  contained  improvement  in  several  features.  Locke  was  the  leader  of 
philosophical  speculation ;  and  mathematical  and  physical  science,  little  dependent  on  the 
political  or  moral  state  of  the  times,  had  its  active  band  of  distinguished  votaries  headed  by 
Newton : — 

"  '  a  mind  for  ever 
Voyaging  through  strange  seas  of  thought,  alone.' 

That  philosophy  and  science  did  not  even  then  neglect  goodness  or  despise  religion,  is  proved 
by  the  names  which  we  have  last  read  ;  and  in  many  other  quarters  there  were  uttered,  though 
to  inattentive  ears,  stern  protests  against  evil,  which  have  echoed  from  age  to  age,  till  they 
reached  ourselves.  Those  voices  issued  from  not  a  few  of  the  high  places  of  the  Church ;  and 
others  were  lifted  up,  sadly  but  firmly,  in  the  midst  of  persecution.  The  Act  of  Uniformity, 
by  silencing  the  Puritan  clergy,  actually  gave  to  the  ablest  of  them  a  greater  power  at  the 
time,  and  a  power  which,  but  for  this,  would  not  so  probably  have  bequeathed  to  us  any  record. 
The  Nonconformists  wrote  and  printed  when  they  were  forbidden  to  speak.  A  younger  gene- 
ration was  growing  up  among  them ;  and  some  of  the  elder  race  still  survived — such  as  the 
fiery  Baxter,  the  calm  Owen,  and  the  prudent  Calamy.  Greatest  of  all,  and  only  now  reaching 
the  climax  of  his  strength,  Milton  sat  in  the  narrow  chamber  of  his  neglected  old  age,  bating 
no  jot  of  hope,  yielding  no  point  of  honesty,  abjuring  no  word  or  syllable  of  faith,  but  consoling 
himself  for  the  disappointments  which  had  darkened  a  weary  life,  by  consecrating  its  waning 
years,  with  redoubled  ardour  of  devotion,  to  religion,  to  truth,  and  to  the  service  of  a  remote 
posterity.'* 


BIOGHAPHICAL   NOTICES. 


ABEAHAIVI  COWLEY. 

In  Allan's  "  Select  Works  of  the  British 
Poets,"  we  have  the  following :  "  Abraham 
Cowley,  a  poet  of  considerable  distinction,  was 
bom  at  London,  in  1618.  His  father,  who  was 
a  grocer  by  trade,  died  before  his  birth  ;  but 
his  mother,  through  the  interest  of  her  friends, 
procured  his  admission  into  Westminster 
school,  as  a  king's  scholar.  He  has  repre- 
sented himself  so  deficient  in  memory,  as  to 
have  been  unable  to  retain  the  common  rules 
of  grammar :  it  is,  however,  certain  that,  by 
some  process,  he  became  an  elegant  and  correct 
classical  scholar.  He  early  imbibed  a  taste  for 
poetry  ;  and  so  soon  did  it  germinate  in  his 
youthful  mind,  that,  while  yet  at  school,  in  his 
fifteenth  or  sixteenth  year,  he  published  a  collec- 
tion of  verses,  under  the  appropriate  titlje  of 
'  Poetical  Blossoms.' 


."  In  1636  he  was  elected  a  scholar  of  Trinity 
college,  Cambridge.  In  this  favourable  situa- 
tion he  obtained  much  praise  for  his  academ- 
ical exercises  ;  and  he  again  appeared  as  an 
author,  in  a  pastoral  comedy,  caUed  '  Love's 
Eiddle,'  and  a  Latin  comedy,  entitled,  '  Nau- 
fragium  Joculare '  ;  the  last  of  which  was 
acted  before  the  university,  by  the  members 
of  Trinity  college.  He  continued  to  reside  at 
Cambridge  till  1643,  and  was  a  Master  of 
Arts  when  he  was  ejected  from  the  university 
by  the  puritanical  visitors.  He  thence  re- 
moved to  Oxford,  and  fixed  himself  in  St. 
John's  college.  It  was  here  that  he  engaged 
actively  in  the  royal  cause,  and  was  present 
in  several  of  the  king's  journeys  and  expedi- 
tions, but  in  what  quality  does  not  appear. 
He  ingratiated  himself,  however,  with  the 
principal  persons  about  the  court,  and  was . 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  ^'0■^CES. 


particularly  honoured  with  the  friendship  of 
Lord  Falkland. 

"  When  the  events  of  the  war  obliged  the 
queen-mother  to  quit  the  kingdom,  Cowley 
accompanied  her  to  France,  and  obtained  a 
settlement  at  Paris,  in  the  family  of  the  Earl 
or  St.  Alban's.  During  an  absence  of  nearly 
ten  years  from  his  native  country,  he  took 
various  journeys  into  Jersey,  Scotland,  Hol- 
land, and  Flanders ;  and  it  was  principally 
through  his  instrumentality  that  a  corre- 
spondence Avas  maintained  between  the  king 
and  his  consort.  The  business  of  cypher- 
ing and  decyphering  their  letters  was  en- 
trusted to  his  care,  and  often  occupied 
his  nights,  as  well  as  his  days.  It  is  no 
wonder  that,  after  the  Restoration,  ho  long 
complained  of  the  neglect  with  which  he  was 
treated.  In  1656,  having  no  longer  any 
affairs  to  transact  abroad,  he  returned  to 
England  ;  still,  it  is  supposed,  engaged  in  the 
service  of  his  party,  as  a  medium  of  secret 
intelligence.  Soon  after  his  arrival,  he  pub- 
lished an  edition  of  his  poems,  containing 
most  of  those  which  now  appear  in  his  works. 
In  a  search  for  another  person,  he  was  appre- 
hended by  the  messengers  of  the  ruling  powers, 
and  committed  to  custody ;  from  which  he 
was  liberated,  by  that  generous  and  learned 
physician,  Dr.  Scarborough,  who  bailed  him 
in  the  sum  of  a  thousand  pounds.  This, 
however,  was  possibly  the  sum  at  which  he 
was  rated  as  a  physician,  a  character  he 
assumed  by  virtue  of  a  degree  which  he 
obtained,  by  mandamus,  from  Oxford,  in 
December,  1657, 

"After  the  death  of  Cromwell,  Cowley  re- 
turned to  France,  and  resumed  his  station 
as  an  agent  in  the  royal  cause,  the  hopes  of 
which  now  began  to  revive.  The  Restoration 
reinstated  him,  with  other  royalists,  in  his 
own  country  ;  and  ho  naturally  expected  a 
reward  for  his  long  services.  He  had  been 
promised,  both  by  Charles  I.  and  Charles  II., 
the  Mastership  of  the  Savoy,  but  was  unsuccess- 
ful in  both  his  applications.  He  had  also  the 
misfortune  of  displeasing  his  party,  by  his 
revived  comedy  of  The  Cutter  of  Coleman- 
street,'  which  was  construed  as  a  satire  on 
the  cavaliers.  At  length,  through  the  interest 
of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  and  the  Earl  of 
St.  Alban's,  he  obtained  a  lease  of  a  farm  at 
Chertsey,  held  under  the  queen,  by  which  his 
income  was  raised  to  about  .£300  per  annum. 
From  early  youth  a  country  retirement  Jiad 
been  a  real  or  imaginary  object  of  his 
wishes;  and,  though  a  late  eminent  critic 
and  moralist,  who  had  himself  no  sensibility 
to  rural  pleasures,  treats  this  taste  with 
severity  and  ridicule,  there  seems  little  reason 
to  decry  a  propensity,  nourished  by  the 
favourite  strains  of  poets,  and  natural  to  a 
mind  long  tossed  by  the  anxieties  of  business, 
and  the  vicissitudes  of  an  unsettled  condition. 

"  Cowley  took  up  his  abode  first  at  Barn- 
elms,  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames ;  but  this 


place  not  agreeing  with  his  health,  he  removed 
to  Chertsey.  Here  his  life  was  soon  brought 
to  a  close.  According  to  his  biographer, 
Dr.  Sprat,  the  fatal  disease  was  an  affection 
of  the  lungs,  the  consequence  of  staying  too 
late  in  the  fields  among  his  labourers. _  Dr. 
Warton,  however,  from  the  authority  of 
Mr.  Spence.  gives  a  different  account  of  the 
matter.  He  says,  that  Cowley,  with  his 
friend  Sprat,  paid  a  visit  on  foot  to  a 
gentleman  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Chertsey, 
which  they  prolonged,  in  free  conviviality, 
till  midnight ;  and  that  missing  their  way  on 
their  return,  they  were  obliged  to  pass  the 
night  under  a  hedge,  which  gave  to  the  poet 
a  severe  cold  and  fever,  which  terminated  in 
i  his  death.  He  died  on  July  28,  1667,  and 
was  interred,  with  a  most  honourable  attendance 
of  persons  of  distinction,  in  Westminster- 
abbey,  near  the  remains  of  Chaucer  and  Spen- 
ser. King  Charles  II.  pronounced  his  eulogy, 
by  declaring,  '  that  Mr.  Cowley  had  not  left 
a  better  man  behind  him  in  England.' 

"At the  time  of  his  death,  Cowley  certainly 
ranked  as  the  first  poet  in  England;  for 
Milton  lay  under  a  cloud,  nor  was  the  age 
qualified  to  taste  him.  And  although  a  large 
portion  of  Cowley's  celebrity  has  since 
vanished,  there  still  remains  enough  to  raise 
him  to  a  considerable  rank  among  the 
British  poets.  It  may  be  proper  here  to 
add,  that  as  a  prose-writer,  particularly  in 
the  department  of  essays,  there  are  few 
who  can  compare  with  him  in  elegant 
simpUcity,"  See  Baxter's  Prefatory  Address 
to  his  "Poetical  Fragments";  Dr.  Johnson's 
"  Lives  of  the  English  Poets  "  ;  Macaulay's 
"Miscellanies";  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet. 
Eng.  Lit.";  Dr.  Angus's  "Handbook  of 
English  Lit."  ;  Chambers's  "  Cycl.  Eng.  Lit." 


BISHOP  JEREMY   TAYLOR. 

He  was  by  far  the  greatest  writer  of  the 
Anglican  Church  at  this  period.  Shaw  thus 
speaks  the  unanimous  opinion  of  all  scholars 
and  all  Christian  men  and  women.  "He 
was  of  good  but  decayed  family,  his  father 
having  .exercised  the  humble  calling  of  a 
barber  at  Cambridge,  where  his  illustrious 
son  was  born  in  1613.  The  boy  received  a 
sound  education  at  the  Grammar- School 
founded  by  Perse,  then  recently  opened  in 
that  town,  and  afterwards  studied  at  Caius 
College,  where  his  talents  and  learning  soon 
made  him  conspicuous.  He  took  holy  orders 
at  an  unusually  early  age,  and  is  said  to  have 
attracted  by  his  youthful  eloquence,  and  by 
his  '  graceful  and  pleasant  air,'  the  notice  of 
Archbishop  Laud,  the  celebrated  Primate  and 
Minister,  to  whose  narrow-minded  bigotry  and 
tyrannical  indifference  to  the  state  of  religious 
opinion  among  his  countrymen  so  much  of  the 
confusion  of  those   days   is   to   be   ascribed. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fourth  Period.— 


Laud,  wlio  was  struck  with  Taylor's  merits  at 
a  sermon  preached  by  the  latter,  made  the 
young  priest  one  of  his  chaplains,  and  pro- 
cured for  him  a  fellowship  in  All  Souls  College, 
Oxford.  His  career  during  the  Civil  War 
bears  some  resemblance  to  that  of  Fuller, 
but  he  stood  higher  in  the  favour  of  the 
Cavaliers  and  the  Court.  He  served,  as 
chaplain,  in  the  Eoyalist  army,  and  was  taken 
prisoner  in  1644  at  the  action  fought  under 
the  walls  of  Cardigan  Castle ;  but  he  confesses 
that  on  this  occasion,  as  well  as  on  several 
others  when  he  fell  into  the  power  of  the 
triumphant  party  of  the  Parliament,  he  was 
treated  with  generosity  and  indulgence.  Such 
traits  of  mutual  forbearance,  during  the  heat  of 
civil  strife,  are  honourable  to  both  parties 
and  as  refreshing  as  they  are  rare.  Our 
great  national  struggle,  however,  offered 
many  instances  of  such  noble  magnanimity. 
The  King's  cause  growing  desperate,  Taylor  at 
last  retired  from  it,  and  Charles,  on  taking 
leave  of  him,  made  him  a  present  of  his  watch. 
Taylor  then  placed  himself  under  the  protec- 
tion of  his  friend  Lord  Carbery,  and  resided 
for  some  time  at  the  seat  of  Golden  Grove, 
belonging  to  that  nobleman,  in  Carmarthen- 
shire. Taylor  was  twice  married;  first  to 
Phoebe  Langdale,  who  died  early,  and  after- 
wards to  Joanna  Bridges,  a  natural  daughter 
of  Charles  L,  with  whom  he  received  some 
fortune.  He  was  unhappy  in  his  children, 
his  two  sons  having  been  notorious  for  their 
profligacy,  and  he  had  the  sorrow  of  surviving 
them  both.  During  part  of  the  time  which 
he  passed  in  retirement,  Taylor  kept  a 
school  in  Wales,  and  continued  to  take  an 
active  part  in  the  religious  controversies  of 
the  day.  The  opinions  he  expressed  were 
naturally  distasteful  to  the  dominant  party, 
and  on  at  least  three  occasions  subjected  him 
to  imprisonment  and  sequestrations  at  the 
hands  of  the  Government.  In  1658,  for 
example,  he  was  for  a  short  time  incarcerated 
in  the  Tower,  and  on  his  liberation  migrated 
to  Ireland,  where  he  performed  the  pastoral 
functions  at  Lisbum.  On  the  Restoration 
his  services  and  sacrifices  were  rewarded  with 
the  Bishopric  of  Down  and  Connor,  and 
during  the  short  time  he  held  that  preferment 
he  exhibited  the  brightest  qualities  that  can 
adorn  the  episcopal  dignity.  He  died  at 
Lisburn  of  a  fever,  in  1667,  and  left  behind 
him  a  high  reputation  for  courtesy,  charity, 
and  zeal — aU  the  virtues  of  a  Christian 
Bishop. 

"Taylor's  works  are  very  numerous  and 
varied  in  subject :  I  will  content  myseK  with 
mentioning  the  principal,  and  then  endeavour 
to  give  a  general  appreciation  of  his  genius. 
In  the  controversial  department  his  best-known 
work  is  the  treatise  '  On  the  Liberty  of  Prophe- 
sying,' which  must  be  understood  to  refer  to 
the  general  profession  of  religious  principles 
and  the  right  of  all  Christians  to  toleration  in 
the  exercise  of  their  worship.    This  book  is 


the  first  complete  and  systematic  defence  of 
the  great  principle  of  religious  toleration  ;  and 
in  it  Taylor  shows  how  contrary  it  is  not  only 
to  the  spirit  of  Christianity  but  even  to  the 
true  interests  of  government  to  interfere  with 
the  profession  and  practice  of  religious  sects. 
Of  course  the  argument,  though  of  universal 
application,  was  intended  by  Taylor  to  secure 
indulgence  for  what  had  once  been  the  domin- 
ant Church  of  England,  but  which  was  now 
proscribed  and  persecuted  by  the  rampant 
violence  of  the  sectarians.  An  '  Apology  for 
Fixed'  and  Set  Forms  of  Worship,'  was  an 
elaborate  defence  of  the  noble  ritual  of  the 
Anglican  Church,  Among  his  works  of  a 
disciplinary  and  practical  tendency  I  may 
mention  his  '  Life  of  Christ,  the  Great  Exem- 
plar,' in  which  the  details  scattered  through 
the  Evangelists  and  the  Fathers  are  co- 
ordinated in  a  continuous  narrative.  But  the 
most  popular  of  Taylor's  writings  are  the  two 
admirable  treatises,  '  On  the  Rule  and  Exercise 
of  Holy  Living,'  and  '  On  the  Rule  and 
Exercise  of  Holy  Dying,'  which  mutually 
correspond  to  and  complete  each  other,  and 
which  form  an  Institute  of  Christian  life  and 
conduct,  adapted  to  every  conceivable  circum- 
stance and  relation  of  human  existence.  This 
devotional  work  has  enjoyed  in  England  a 
popularity  somewhat  similar  to  that  of  the 
'  Imitation  of  Jesus  Christ,'  among  Catholics ; 
a  popularity  it  deserves  for  a  similar  eloquence 
and  unction.  The  least  adjoiirable  of  his 
numerous  writings,  and  his  only  one  .  in 
which  he  derogated  from  Ms  usual  tone  of 
courtesy  and  fairness,  was  his  '  Ductor 
Dubitantium,'  a  treatise  of  questions  of  casu- 
istry. His  '  Sermons '  are  very  numerous, 
and  are  among  the  most  eloquent,  learned, 
and  powerful  that  the  whole  rang;e  of  Protes- 
tant— nay,  the  whole  range  of  Christian — 
— ^literature  has  produced.  As  in  his  character, 
so  in  his  writings,  Taylor  is  the  ideal  of  an 
Anglican  pastor.  Our  Church  itself  being 
middle  terra  or  compromise  between  the 
gorgeous  formalism  of  Catholicism  and  the 
narrow  fanaticism  of  Calvinistic  theology, 
so  our  great  ecclesiastic  writers  exhibit  the 
union  of  consummate  learning  with  practical 
simplicity  and  fervour. 

"Taylor's  style,  though  occasionally  over- 
charged with  erudition  and  marked  by  that 
abuse  of  quotation  which  disfigures  a  great 
deal  of  the  prose  of  that  age,  is  uniformly 
magnificent.  The  materials  are  drawn  from 
the  whole  range  of  profane  as  well  as  sacred 
literature,  and  are  fused  together  into  a  rich 
and  gorgeous  unity  by  the  fire  of  an  amequalled 
imagination.  No  prose  is  more  melodious 
than  that  of  this  great  writer;  his  periods, 
though  often  immeasurably  long,  and  evolving, 
in  a  series  of  subordinate  clauses  and  illus- 
trations, a  train  of  images  and  comparisons, 
one  springing  out  of  another,  roll  on  with  a 
soft  yet  mighty  swell,  which  has  often  some- 
thing of  the  enchantment  of  verse.     He  has 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


been  called  by  the  critic  Jeffrey,  '  the  most 
Shaksperian  of  ovir  great  divines';  but  it 
would  be  more  appropriate  to  compare  him 
with  Spenser.  He  has  the  same  pictorial 
fancy,  the  same  voluptuous  and  languishing 
harmony ;  but  if  he  can  in  any  respect  be  Hkened 
to  Shakspere,  it  is  firstly  in  the  vividness  of 
intellect  which  leads  him  to  follow,  digressively, 
the  numberless  secondary  ideas  that  spring 
up  as  he  writes,  and  often  lead  him  apparently 
far  away  from  his  point  of  departure,  and, 
secondly,  the  preference  he  shows  for  drawing 
his  illustrations  from  the  simplest  and  most 
familiar  objects,  from  the  opening  rose,  the 
infant  streamlet,  'the  little  rings  and  wanton 
tendrils  of  the  vine,'  the  morning  song  of  the 
soaring  lark,  or  the  '  fair  cheeks  and  full  eyes 
of  childliood.'  Like  Shakspere,  too,  he  knows 
how  to  paint  the  terrible  and  the  sublime  no 
less  than  the  tender  and  the  affecting ;  and 
his  description  of  the  horrors  of  the  Judgment- 
Day  is  no  less  powerful  than  his  exquisite 
portraiture  of  married  love.  Nevertheless, 
with  Spenser's  sweetness  he  has  occasionally 
something  of  the  luscious  and  enervate  languor 
of  Spenser's  style.  He  had  studied  the 
Fathers  so  intensely  that  ho  had  become 
infected  with  something  of  that  lavish  and 
Oriental  imagery  which  many  of  those  great 
writers  exhibited — many  of  whom,  it  should 
be  remembered,  were  Orientals  not  only  in 
their  style,  but  in  their  origin.  Taking  his 
personal  character  and  his  writings  together, 
Jeremy  Taylor  may  be  called  the  English 
Fenelon ;  but  in  venturing  to  make  this 
parallel,  we  must  not  forget  that  each  of  these 
excellent  ^vriters  and  admirable  men  possessed 
the  characteristic  features  of  his  respective 
country;  if  Fenelon' s  productions,  like  those 
of  Taylor,  are  distinguished  by  their  sweet- 
ness, that  sweetness  is  allied  in  the  former  to 
the  neat,  clear,  precise  expression  which  the 
French  literature  derives  not  only  from  the 
classical  origin  of  the  language,  but  from  the 
antique  writers  who  have  always  been  set  up 
as  models  for  French  imitation ;  while  Jeremy 
Taylor,  with  a  sweetness  not  inferior,  owes 
that  quality  to  the  same  rich  and  poetic 
susceptibility  to  natural  beauty  that  gives 
«nch  a  matchless  colouring  to  the  English 
poetry  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries." 


HENRY  VAUGHAN. 

"  Vaughan  was  bom  in  Wales,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Uske,  in  Brecknockshire,  in  1614.  His 
father  was  a  gentleman,  but,  we  presume, 
poor,  as  his  son  was  bred  to  a  profession. 
Young  Vaughan  became  first  a  lawyer,  and 
then  a  physician ;  and  we  suppose,  had  it  not 
been  for  his  advanced  life,  he  would  have 
become  latterly  a  clergyman,  since  he  grew, 
when  old,  exceedingly  devout.     In  life,  he  was 


not  fortunate,  and  we  find  him,  like  Chamber- 
layne,  complaining  bitterly  of  the  poverty  of 
the  poetical  tribe.  In  1651,  he  published  a 
volume  of  verse,  in  which  nascent  excellence 
struggles  with  dim  obscurities,  like  a  young 
moon  with  heavy  clouds.  But  his  'Silex 
Scintillans,'  or  '  Sacred  Poems,'  produced  in 
later  life,  attests  at  once  the  depth  of  his 
devotion,  and  the  truth  and  originality  of  his 
genius.     He  died  in  1695. 

"  Campbell,  always  prone  to  be  rather  severe 
on  pious  poets,  and  whose  taste,  too,  was 
finical  at  times,  says  of  Vaughan — *He 
is  one  of  the  harshest  even  of  the  inferior 
order  of  the  school  of  conceit;  but  he  has 
some  few  scattered  thoughts  that  meet  the 
eye  amidst  his  harsh  pages,  like  wild  flowers 
on  a  barren  heath.'  Surely  this 'is  rather 
'harsh'  judgment.  At  the  same  time,  it  is 
not  a  little  laughable  to  find  that  Campbell 
has  himself  appropriated  one  of  these  '  wild 
flowers.'  In  his  beautiful  'Ainbow,'  he 
cries — 

'  How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers 
forth 
To  mark  thy  sacred  sign ! ' 

Vaughan  had  said — 

'  How    bright  wert  thou  when  Shem's 

admiring  eye 
Thy   burnished    flaming   arch   did    first 

descry ; 
"When  Terah,  Nahor,   Haran,  Abraham, 

.Lot, 
The  youthful  world's  gray  fathers  in  one 

knot, 
Did   with   intentive  looks   watch   every 

hour 
For  thy  new  light,  and  trembled  at  each 

shower ! ' 

Indeed,  all  Campbell's  'Eainbow'  is  just 
a  reflection  of  Vaughan' s,  and  reminds  you  of 
those  faint,  pale  shadows  of  the  heavenly 
bow  you  sometimes  see  in  the  darkened  and 
disarranged  skies  of  spring.  To  steal  from, 
and  then  strike  down,  the  victim,  is  more 
suitable  to  robbers  than  to  poets. 

"  Perhaps  the  best  criticism  on  Vaughan 
may  be  found  in  the  title  of  his  own  poems, 
'  Silex  ScintiUans.'  He  had  a  good  deal  of  the 
dulness  and  hardness  of  the  flint  about  his 
mind,  but  the  influence  of  poverty  and 
suffering, — for  true  it  is  that 

'  Wretched  men 
Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong ; 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach 
in  song,' — 

and  latterly  the  power  of  a  genuine,  though 
somewhat  narrow  piety,  struck  out  glorious 
scintillations  from  the  bare  but  rich  rock.  He 
ranks  with  Crashaw,  Quarles,  and  Herbert,  as 
one  of  the  best  of  our  early  religious  poets  ; 
like  them  in  their  faults,  and  superior  to  all 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fourth  Period. 


of  them  in  refinement  and  beauty,  if  not  in 
strength  of  genius." — Gilfillan's  "  Specimens 
with  Memoirs  of  the  Less-known  British 
Poets,"  vol.  ii.,  pp.  231-2.  See  E.  Aris 
Willmott's  "  Lives  of  the  Sacred  Poets  "  ;  Dr. 
Angus's  "Handbook  of  Eng.  Lit." 


THOMAS  STANLEY. 

Thomas  Stanley,  born  1625,  died  1678,  the 
learned  editor  of  iEschylus,  and  author  of 
the  "  History  of  Philosophy."  He  made 
poetical  versions  of  considerable  neatness 
from  Anacreon,  Bion,  and  Moschus,  and  the 
"Kisses"  of  Secundus.  He  also  translated 
from  Tristan,  Marino,  Boscan,  and  Gongora. 
Campbell's  "  Spec.  Eng.  Poets,"  p.  267. 


EICHAED  BAXTEE. 

Eichard  Baxter,  born  1615,  died  1691.  We 
cannot  do  better  than  give  the  admirable 
article  on  this  great  and  good  man,  written 
by  the  Eev.  Dr.  Angus  in  the  "  Handbook  of 
English  Literature," 

"  Baxter  was  born  in  Shropshire,  and  was 
educated  in  the  free  school  of  Wroxeter,  and 
afterwards  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Wickstead, 
of  Ludlow.  There,  a  large  library  was  ac- 
cessible to  him — the  only  advantage  he  seems 
to  have  gained  from  Mr.  Wickstead' s  tuition. 
After  receiving  ordination  from  the  Bishop  of 
Worcester,  he  obtained  employment  as  school- 
master at  Dudley,  and  there  he  preached  his 
first  sermon.  He  was  never  at  college :  like 
Erasmus  and  Scaliger,  and  Andrew  Fuller 
and  Carey,  he  was  his  own  teacher :  '  my 
faults,'  said  ho  to  Anthony  Wood,  who  had 
written  to  ask  whether  he  was  an  Oxonian, 
'  are  no  disgrace  to  any  university,  for  I  was 
of  none  :  weakness  and  pain  helped  me  to 
study  how  to  die :  that  set  me  on  studying 
how  to  live,  and  that  on  studying  the  doctrine 
from  which  I  must  fetch  my  motives  and 
comforts :  beginning  with  necessities,  I  pro- 
ceeded by  degrees,  and  am  now  going  to  see 
that  for  which  I  have  lived  and  studied.'  To 
feeble  health  and  protracted  suffering  he  was 
indebted  for  much  of  his  earnestness  and 
wisdom. 

"  In  1640  he  removed  to  Kidderminster, 
where  he  laboured,  with  a  slight  interruption 
caused  by  the  Civil  War,  for  sixteen  years. 
In  that  town  ho  illustrated  by  his  life  his 
own  book,  '  The  Eeformed  Pastor,'  '  teaching 
men  from  house  to  house,'  and  warning  them 
day  and  night  with  tears  :  his  memory  is  still 
fragrant  there. 

"  At  the  outset  of  the  Civil  War  he  sided 
on    the  whole  with  the   parKament  :    more 


accurately  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  the 
friend  of  the  Constitution,  against  both  the 
great  parties,  and,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, he  was  blamed  by  both.  After  the 
battle  of  Edgehill,  during  which  he  was 
preaching  for  his  friend  Samuel  Clarke,  of 
Alcester,  he  accepted  the  chaplaincy  of  Colonel 
Whalley's  regiment,  and  continued  to  discharge 
the  duties  of  his  office  with  earnestness  and 
popularity.  He  soon  found  it,  however,  no 
congenial  post :  he  distrusted  Cromwell,  and 
was  grieved  with  the  narrow  views  of  some  of 
the  leaders.  At  length  his  health  failed  :  '  it 
pleased  God  to  take  him  from  all  public  em- 
ployments.' The  leisure  which  his  illness 
secured  him  he  used  in  collecting  and  writing 
down  his  thoughts  of  that  country  upon  the 
borders  of  which  he  seemed  to  stand.  How 
touching  is  the  whole  scene  !  The  wo  i  en- 
feebled man  gathers  up  his  feet  expecting  to 
die;  the  din  of  battle  is  still  in  his  ears, 
around  him  is  a  suffering  country  and  a  dis- 
tracted Church  :  he  turns  his  thoughts  to  the 
better  land.  The  whole  picture  is  a  repetition 
of  the  Pilgrim's  visit  to  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains, where  the  eye  could  trace  the  outlines 
of  the  New  Jerusalem,  and  the  ear  already 
caught  the  music  of  the  harping  of  the  many 
harpers.  The  sights  he  saw  and  the  sounds 
he  heard  he  has  recorded  in  the  '  Saint's 
Everlasting  Eest,'  one  of  the  most  useful  and 
popular  of  his  works. 

"  Soon  after  this  illness  he  visited  London 
for  medical  advice,  and  preached  before  the 
Parliament  on  the  day  preceding  the  vote  that 
was  to  bring  back  King  Charles.  At  the 
Eestoration  he  was  offered  a  bishopric,  but 
felt  compelled,  on  conscientious  grounds,  to 
decline  it.  He  preached  for  some  time  under 
the  protection  of  a  licence  granted  by  Sheldon, 
and  at  length  a  chapel  was  built  for  him  in 
Oxendon  Street :  there  he  ministered  but 
once,  when  the  arm  of  the  law  closed  the 
place.  Under  the  various  Acts  of  Parliament 
passed  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  he  was 
several  times  imprisoned,  his  library  was 
sold,  and  he  was  driven,  a  feeble  aged  man, 
from  place  to  place,  without  a  home.  In 
1685  he  was,  on  frivolous  grounds,  condemned 
by  the  infamous  Jeffreys  for  sedition,  but  by 
the  king's  favour  the  fine  inflicted  by  the 
sentence  was  remitted.  The  last  years  of  his 
life  were  spent  more  peacefully :  he  died 
in  Charter-house  Yard,  in  1691,  reckoning 
among  his  personal  friends  Barrow,  Wilkins, 
and  Hale.  A  few  years  after  his  death  there 
was  published  '  A  Narrative  of  the  most  Me- 
morable Passages  of  his  Life  and  Times,'  a 
highly  instructive  volume,  and  a  great 
favourite  with  Dr.  Johnson  and  with  Coleridge, 
both  of  whom  praise  its  sincerity  and  sub- 
stantial truthfulness. 

"  Besides  the  works  already  mentioned, 
Baxter  is  the  author  of  '  A  Call  to  the  Un- 
converted to  Turn  and  Live,'  one  of  the  most 
impressive    volumes    ever    written :    twenty 


F.'O'.n  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


thousand  copies  are  said  to  have  been  sold 
in  the  first  year  after  it  was  published. 

"  Baxter's  example  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
structive in  our  literature.  With  him  activity 
was  a  passion.  Sometimes  the  devoted  friend, 
oftener  the  victim,  of  the  ruling  powers,  he 
was  at  the  same  time  a  voluminous  writer 
and  a  laborious  pastor.  Three-and-twenty 
octavo  volumes  of  practical  writings,  such, 
Barrow  says,  as  were  ijever  mended,  forty 
more  of  controversy  and  personal  history, 
attest  his  diligence  in  one  department ;  hun- 
dreds of  visits  paid  to  his  parishioners,  and 
prolonged  conversations  with  each  of  them, 
attest  it  in  another.  He  did  the  work  of  a 
city  missionary  at  Kidderminster,  and  wrote 
more  pages  than  many  students  now  read. 

'•  And  all  this  was  done  amid  great  bodily 
weakness.  Ho  entered  the  ministry  with 
what  would  now  be  called  the  symptoms  of  a 
confirmed  consumption  :  he  seemed  ever  living 
upon  the  brink  of  the  grave.  Great  energy 
or  noble  achievement  was  hardly  to  be  looked 
for  from  such  a  suiferer  :  had  he  spent  his 
time  in  telling  his  ailments,  had  he  even  re- 
tired from  the  field  to  the  hospital,  it  would 
be  ea^y  to  find  circumstances  to  excuse,  if  not 
to  justify,  such  a  course.  But  instead  of 
yielding  to  selfish  complaint  or  valetudinarian 
indolence,  he  manfully  held  on  his  way,  a 
cheerful  traveller  to  the  very  close.  '  In 
deaths  oft '  he  was  also  '  in  labours  more 
abundaTit.'  There  is  a  shorter  road  to  repose 
amid  bodily  afflictions  than  talking  of  them, 
and  that  road  Baxter  found. 

"  His  books  have  been  warmly  praised  by 
Flavel  and  Usher,  by  Manton  and  Doddridge, 
by  Addison  and  Johnson.  Wilberforce  deemed 
them  '  a  treasury  of  Christian  wisdom,'  and 
the  man  himself  among  'the  highest  orna- 
ments of  the  Church  of  England.'  The  style 
is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  direct  mas- 
culine English,  and  is  a  model  for  all  who 
^vish  to  talk  to  people  instead  of  talking  at 
them  or  before  them  :  eyery  sentence  strikes 
home.  His  life,  written  by  Orme,  has  been 
prefixed  to  the  last  collected  edition  of  his 
practical  works,  and  a  genial  review  of  his 
character  and  labours  may  be  seen  in  the 
'  Essays '  of  Sir  James  Stephen." 

See  an  article  in  AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet. 
Eng.  Lit."  of  very  great  merit,  and  which 
places  the  subject  in  every  point  of  view.  All 
we  know  of  Baxter  redounds  to  his  praise :  a 
more  godly  man  never  lived. 


^  GEORGE  DIGBY. 

George  Digby,  Earl  of  Bristol,  bom  1612, 
died  1676.  His  father  was  first  ambassador  to 
Spain,  and  our  poet  was  born  at  Madrid.  He 
seems  to  have  published  speeches  ;  "  Elvira," 
a  comedy,  and  a  few  other  works.     Horace 


Walpole  says  of  him  that  he  was  "  a  singular 
person,  whose  life  was  a  contradiction."  See 
Walpole' s  "Eoyal  and  Noble  Authors"; 
"Athen.  Oxon.  "  ;  "Biog.  Brit.  "  ;  Bp.  War- 
burton's  "  Introduc.  to  Julian." 


HENEY  MORE. 

Henry  More,  born  1614,  died  1687.  "  Dr. 
Henry  More  was  the  son  of  a  respectable 
gentleman  at  Grantham,  in  Lincolnshire.  He 
spent  the  better  part  of  a  long  and  intensely 
studious  life  at  Cambridge,  refusing  even  the 
mastership  of  his  college,  and  several  offers  of 
preferment  in  the  Church,  for  the  sake  of  un- 
broken leisure  and  retirement.  In  1640  he 
composed  his  Psychozoia,  or  Life  of  the  Soul, 
wliich  he  afterwards  republished  with  other 
pieces,  in  a  volume  entitled  '  Philosophical 
Poems.'  Before  the  appearance  of  the  former 
work  he  had  studied  the  Platonic  writers  and 
mystic  divines,  till  his  frame  had  become 
emaciated,  and  his  faculties  had  been  strained 
to  such  enthusiasm,  that  he  began  to  talk  of 
holding  supernatural  communications,  and 
imagined  that  his  body  exhaled  the  perfume 
of  violets.  With  the  exception  of  these 
innocent  reveries,  his  life  and  literary  cha- 
racter were  highly  respectable.  He  corre- 
sponded with  Des  Cartes,  was  the  friend  of 
Cud  worth,  and  as  a  divine  and  moralist  was 
not  only  popular  in  his  own  time,  but  has 
been  mentioned  with  admiration  both  by 
Addison  and  Blair.  In  the  heat  of  rebellion 
he  was  spared  even  by  the  fanatics,  who, 
though  he  refused  to  take  the  covenant,  left 
him  to  dream  with  Plato  in  his  academic 
bower.  As  a  poet  he  has  woven  together  a 
singular  texture  of  Gothic  fancy  and  GrecK 
philosophy,  and  made  the  Christiano-Platonic 
system  of  metaphysics  a  ground-work  for  the 
fables  of  the  nursery.  His  versification, 
though  he  tells  us  that  he  was  won  to  the 
Muses  in  his  childhood  by  the  melody  of 
Spenser,  is  but  a  faint  echo  of  the  Spenserian 
tune.  In  fancy  he  is  dark  and  lethargic. 
Yet  his  '  Psychozoia '  is  not  a  common-place 
production :  a  certain  solemnity  and  earnest- 
ness in  his  tone  leaves  an  impression  that  he 
'  believed  the  magic  wonders  which  he  sung.' 
His  poetry  is  not,  indeed,  like  a  beautiful 
landscape  on  which  the  eye  can  repose,  but 
may  be  compared  to  some  curious  grotto, 
whose  gloomy  labyrinths  we  might  be  curious 
to  explore  for  the  strange  and  mystic  associa- 
tions they  excite." — Campbell's  "Specimens," 
p.  297. 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM. 

Sir  John  Denham,  bom  1615,  died  1668. 
"  He  was  the  son  of  the  Chief  Baron  of  the 
Exchequer   in   Ireland,    and   a   supporter   of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fourth  Pebiod.- 


Charles  I.  Thoug-li  a  poet  of  the  secondary- 
order,  when  regarded  in  connection  with 
Cowley,  one  work  of  his,  *  Cooper's  Hill,' 
will  always  occupy  an  important  place  in  any 
account  of  the  English  literature  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  This  place  it  owes  not 
only  to  its  specific  rsrits,  but  also  in  no  mean 
degree  to  the  circumstance  that  this  poem 
was  the  first  work  in  a  peculiar  department 
which  English  writers  afterwards  cultivated 
with  great  success,  and  which  is,  I  believe, 
almost  exclusively  confined  to  our  literature. 
This  department  is  what  may  be  called  local 
or  topographic  poetry,  and  in  it  the  writer 
chooses  some  indi\adual  scene  as  the  object 
round  which  he  is  to  accumulate  his  descrip- 
tive or  contemplative  passages.  Denham 
selected  for  this,  purpose  a  beautiful  spot 
near  Richmond  on  the  Thames,  and  in  the 
description  of  the  scene  itself,  as  well  as  in 
the  reflections  it  suggests,  he  has  risen  to  a 
noble  elevation.  Four  lines,  indeed,  in  which 
he  expresses  the  hope  that  his  own  verse  may- 
possess  the  qualities  which  he  attributes  to 
the  Thames,  -will  be  quoted  again  and  again 
as  one  of  the  finest  and  most  felicitous 
passages  of  verse'  in  any  language." — Shaw's 
"  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  184-5.  He  was  re- 
garded with  great  esteem  by  Waller,  Prior, 
Dryden,  Watson,  and  Johnson. 


WILLIAM   CHAMBEELAYNE. 

William  Chamberlayne,  bom  1619,  died 
1689.  Ho  was  a  native  of  Dorsetshire,  a 
soldier,  physician,  and  poet.  He  x)ublished 
"  Love's  Victory,"  a  tragi-comedy,  in  1658. 
A  portion  of  this  api^eared  on  the  stage  in 
1678,  under  the  title  of  "  Wits  Led  by  the 
Nose,  or  a  Poet's  Revenge."  In  1659  appeared 
his  "  Pharonnida,"  a  heroic  poem.  Campbell 
writes  of  this  work — 

"  His  '  Pharonnida,'  which  Langbaine  says 
has  nothing  to  recommend  it,  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  stories  that  was  ever  told  in 
verse,  and  contained  so  much  amusing  matter 
as  to  be  made  into  a  prose  novel  in  the  reign 
of  Charles  II.  What  Dr.  Johnson  said 
unjustly  of  Milton's  Comus,  that  it  was  like 
gold  hid  under  a  rock,  may  unfortunately  be 
applied  with  too  much  propriety  to  '  Pharon- 
nida.' Never,  perhaps,  was  so  much  beautiful 
design  in  "poetry  marred  by  infelicity  of 
execution:  his  ruggedness  of  versification, 
abrupt  transitions,  and  a  style  that  is  at  once 
slovenly  and  quaint,  perpetually  interrupt 
in  enjoying  the  splendid  figures  and  spirited 
passions  of  -fchis  romantic  tablet,  and  make  us 
catch  them  only  by  glimpses.  I  am  well  aware 
that  from  a  story  so  closely  interwoven  a  few 
selected  passages,  while  they  may  be  more 
than  sufficient  to  exemplify  the  faults,  are  not 


enough  to  discover  the  full  worth  of  Chamber- 
layne. His  sketches,  already  imperfect,  must 
appear  still  more  so  in  the  shape  of  frag- 
ments; we  must  peruse  the  narrative  itseK 
to  appreciate  the  rich  breadth  and  variety  of 
its  scenes,  and  we  must  perhaps  accustom 
our  vision  to  the  thick  medium  of  its  uncouth 
style  to  enjoy  the  power  and  pathos  of  his 
characters  and  situations.  Under  all  the 
defects  of  the  poem,  the  reader  will  then 
indeed  feel  its  unfinished  hints  affect  the  heart 
and  dilate  the  imagination.  From  the  fate 
of  ChamberlajTie  a  young  poet  may  learn  one 
important  lesson,  that  he  who  neglects  the 
subsidiary  graces  of  taste  has  every  chance  of 
being  neglected  by  posterity,  and  that  the 
pride  of  genius  must  not  prompt  him  to 
disdain  the  study  of  harmony  and  of  style." 


EDMUND  WALLER. 

"  Edmund  Waller,  born  at  ColeshiU,  Hert- 
fordshire, in  March,  1605,  was  the  son  of 
Robert  Waller,  Esq.,  a  gentleman  of  an  ahcient 
family  and  good  fortune,  who  married  a  sister 
of  the  celebrated  John  Hampden.  The  death 
of  his  father  during  his  infancy  left  him  heir 
to  an  estate  of  j63,500  a  year,  at  that  period 
an  ample  fortune.  He  was  educated  first  at 
Eton,  whence  he  was  removed  to  King's 
College,  Cambridge.  His  election  to  Parlia- 
ment was  as  early  as  between  his  sixteenth  or 
seventeenth  year  ;  and  it  was  not  much  later 
that  he  made  his  appearance  as  a  poet :  and  it 
is  remarkable  tha,t  a  copy  of  verses  which  he 
addressed  to  Prince  Charles,  in  his  eighteenth 
3'ear,  exhibits  a  style  and  character  of  versifi- 
cation as  perfectly  formed  as  those  of  his 
maturest  productions.  He  again  served  in 
Parliament  before  he  was  of  age ;  and  he  con- 
tinued his  services  to  a  later  i^eriod.  Not 
insensible  of  the  value  of  wealth,  he  augmented 
his  paternal  fortune  by  marriage  with  a  rich 
city  heiress.  In  the  long  intermissions  of 
Parliament  which  occurred  after  1628,  he 
retired  to  his  mansion  of  Beaconsfield,  where 
he  continued  his  classical  studies,  under  the 
direction  of  his  kinsman  Morley,  afterwards 
bishop  of  Winchester;  and  he  obtained  ad- 
mission to  a  society  of  able  men  and  poKte 
scholars,  of  whom  Lord  Falkland  was  the  con- 
necting medium. 

"  Waller  became  a  widower  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five ;  he  did  not,  however,  spend  much 
time  in  mourning,  but  declared  himself  the 
suitor  of  Lady  Dorothea  Sydney,  eldest 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  whom  he 
has  immortalized  under  the  poetical  name  of 
Saccharissa,  She  is  described  by  him  as  a 
majestic  and  scornful  beauty ;  and  he  seems 
to  delight  more  in  her  contrast,  the  gentler 
Amoret,  who  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  Lady 
Sophia  JMurray.     Neither  of  these  ladies,  how- 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


ever,  was  won  by  his  poetic  strains ;  and,  like 
another  man,  he  consoled  himself  in  a  second 
marriage. 

"  "When  the  king's  necessities  compelled 
him,  in  1640,  once  more  to  apply  to  the  repre<- 
sentatives  of  the  people,  "Waller,  who  was 
returned  for  Agmondesham,  decidedly  took 
part  with  the  members  who  thought  that  the 
redress  of  grievances  should  precede  a  vote 
for  supplies ;  and  he  made  an  energetic  speech 
on  the  occasion.  He  continued  during  three 
years  to  vote  in  general  with  the  Opposition  in 
the  Long  Parliament,  but  did  not  enter  into 
all  their  measures.  In  particular,  he  employed 
much  cool  argument  against  the  proposal  for 
the  abolition  of  Episcopacy;  and  he  spoke 
with  freedom  and  severity  against  some  other 
plans  of  the  House.  In  fact,  he  was  at 
length  become  a  zealous  loyalist  in  his  inclina- 
tions ;  and  his  conduct  under  the  difficulties 
into  which  this  attachment  involved  him 
became  a  source  of  his  indelible  disgrace.  A 
short  narrative  will  suffice  for  the  elucidation 
of  this  matter. 

"  Waller  had  a  brother-in-law,  named  Tom- 
kyns,  who  was  clerk  of  the  queen's  council, 
and  possessed  great  influence  in  the  city 
among  the  warm  loyalists.  On  consulting 
together,  they  thought  it  would  be  possible  to 
raise  a  powerful  party,  which  might  oblige  the 
Parliament  to  adopt  pacific  measures,  by  re- 
sisting the  pajinent  of  the  taxes  levied  for  the 
support  of  the  war.  About  this  time  Sir 
Nicholas  Crispe  formed  a  design  of  more 
dangerous  import,  which  was  that  of  exciting 
the  king's  friends  in  the  city  to  an  open 
resistance  of  the  authority  of  Parliament ;  and 
for  that  purpose  he  obtained  a  commission  of 
array  from  his  majesty.  This  plan  appears  to 
have  been  originally  unconnected  with  the 
other ;  yet  the  commission  was  made  known 
to  Waller  and  Tomkyns,  and  the  whole  was 
compoimded  into  a  horrid  and  dreadful  plot. 
Waller  and  TomkjTis  were  apprehended,  when 
the  pusillanimity  of  the  former  disclosed  the 
whole  secret.  '  He  was  so  confounded  with 
fear,'  (says  Lord  Clarendon,)  '  that  he  con- 
fessed whatever  he  had  heard,  said,  thought, 
or  seen,  all  that  he  knew  of  himself,  and  all 
that  he  suspected  of  others,  without  concealing 
any  person,  of  what  degree  or  quality  soever, 
•or  any  discourse  which  he  had  ever  upon  any 
occasion  entertained  with  them.*  The  con- 
clusion of  this  business  was,  that  Tomkyns, 
and  Chaloner,  another  conspirator,  were 
hanged,  and  that  Waller  was  expelled  the 
House,  tried,  and  condemned;  but  after  a 
year's  imprisonment,  and  a  fine  of  ten  thou- 
sand pounds,  was  suflFered  to  go  into  exile. 
He  chose  Rouen  for  his  first  place  of  foreign 
exile,  where  he  hved  with  his  wife  till  his 
removal  to  Paris.  In  that  capital  he  main- 
tained the  appearance  of  a  man  of  fortune, 
and  entertained  hospitably,  supporting  this 
style  of  living  chiefly  by  the  sale  of  his  wife's 
jewels.    At  length,   after  the  lapse   of  ten 


years,  being  reduced  to  what  he  called  his 
rump  jewel,  he  thought  it  time  to  apply  for 
permission  to  return  to  his  own  country.  He 
obtained  this  licence,  and  was  also  restored  to 
his  estate,  though  now  diminished  to  half  its 
former  rental.  Here  he  fixed  his  abode,  at  a 
house  built  by  himself,  at  Beaconsfield;  and 
he  renewed  his  courtly  strains  by  adulation  to 
Cromwell,  now  Protector,  to  whom  his  mother 
was  related.  To  this  usurper  the  noblest 
tribute  of  his  mnse  was  paid. 

"When  Charles  II.  was  restored  to  the 
crown,  and  past  character  was  lightly  re- 
garded, the  stains  of  that  of  Waller  were  for- 
gotten, and  his  wit  and  poetry  procured  him 
notice  at  court,  and  admission  to  the  highest 
circles.  He  had  also  sufficient  interest  to 
obtain  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  all 
the  parliaments  of  that  reign.  The  king's 
gracious  manners  emboldened  him  to  ask  for 
the  vacant  place  of  provost  of  Eton  College, 
which  was  granted  him ;  but  Lord  Clarendon, 
then  Lord  Chancellor,  refused  to  set  the  seal 
to  the  grant,  alleging  that  by  the  statutes 
laymen  were  excluded  from  that  provostship. 
This  was  thought  the  reason  why  Waller 
joined  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  in  his  hostility 
against  Clarendon. 

"  On  the  accession  of  James  XL,  Waller,  then 
in  his  80th  year,  was  chosen  representative 
for  Saltash.  Having  now  considerably  passed 
the  usual  limit  of  human  life,  he  turned  his 
thoughts  to  devotion,  and  composed  some 
divine  poems,  the  usual  task  in  which  men  of 
gaiety  terminate  their  career.  He  died  at 
Beaconsfield  in  October,  1687,  in  the  83rd  year 
of  his  age.  He  left  several  children  by  his 
second  wife,  of  whom  the  inheritor  of  his 
estate,  Edmund,  after  representing  Agmondes- 
ham  in  Parhament,  became  a  convert  to 
Quakerism. 

"  Waller  was  one  of  the  earliest  poets  who 
obtained  reputation  by  the  sweetness  and 
sonorousness  of  his  strains ;  and  there  are 
perhaps  few  masters  at  the  present  day  who 
surpass  him  in  this  particular."  —  Aikin'a 
"Select  Works  of  the  British  Poets,"  pp.  142-3. 


JOHN  MILTON. 

"  John  Milton,  a  poet  of  the  first  rank  in 
eminence,  was  descended  from  an  ancient 
famUy,  settled  at  Milton,  in  Oxfordshire.  His 
father,  whose  desertion  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith  was  the  cause  of  his  disinheritance, 
settled  in  London  as  a  scrivener,  o.nd  marrying 
a  woman  of  good  family,  had  two  sons  and  a 
daughter.  John,  the  eldest  son,  was  bom  in 
Bread  Street,  on  December  9,  1608.  He 
received  the  rudiments  of  learning  from  a 
domestic  tutor,  Thomas  Young,  afterwards 
chaplain  to  the  English  merchants  at  Hamburg, 
whose  merits  are  gratefully  commemorated  by 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


his  pnpil  in  a  Latin  elegy.  At  a  proper  age 
he  was  sent  to  St.  Paul's  School,  and  there 
began  to  distinguish  himself  by  his  intense 
apphcation  to  study,  as  well  as  by  his  poetical 
talents.  In  his  sixteenth  year  he  was  re- 
moved to  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  where 
he  was  admitted  a  pensioner,  under  the  tuition 
of  Mr.  W.  Chappel. 

"  Of  his  course  of  studies  in  the  university, 
little  is  known ;  but  it  appears,  from  several 
exercises  preserved  in  his  works,  that  he  had 
acquired  extraordinary  skill  in  writing  Latin 
verses,  which  are  of  a  purer  taste  than  any 
preceding  compositions  of  the  kind  by  English 
scholars.  He  took  the  degrees  both  of  Bachelor 
j  and  Master  of  Arts  ;  the  latter  in  1632,  when 
'  he  left  Cambridge.  He  renounced  his  original 
intention  of  entering  the  Church,  for  which  he 
has  given  as  a  reason,  that,  '  coming  to  some 
maturity  of  years,  he  had  perceived  what 
tyranny  had  invaded  it ' ;  which  denotes  a  man 
early  habituated  to  think  and  act  for  himself. 
"  He  now  returned  to  his  father,  who  had 
retired  from  business  to  a  residence  at  Horton, 
in  Buckinghamshire  ;  and  he  there  passed  five 
years  in  the  study  of  the  best  Koman  and 
Grecian  authors,  and  in  the  composition  of 
some  of  his  finest  miscellaneous  poems.  This 
was  the  period  of  his  '  Allegro '  and  '  Pense- 
roso  ' ;  his  '  Comus  '  and  '  Lycidas.'  That  his 
learning  and  talents  had  at  this  time  attracted 
considerable  notice,  appears  from  an  applica- 
tion made  to  him  from  the  Bridgewater 
family,  which  produced  his  admirable  masque 
of  '  Comus,'  performed  in  1634  at  Ludlow 
Castle,  before  the  Earl  of  Bridgewater,  then 
Lord  President  of  Wales;  and  also  by  his 
'  Arcades,'  part  of  an  entertainment  presented 
to  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Derby,  at  Hare- 
field,  by  some  of  her  family. 

"In  1638  he  obtained  his  father's  leave  to 
improve  himself  by  foreign  travel,  and  set  out 
for  the  Continent.  Passing  through  France, 
he  proceeded  to  Italy,  and  spent  a  consider- 
able time  in  that  seat  of  the  arts  and  of 
literature.  At  Naples  he  Avas  kindly  received 
by  Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa,  who  had  long 
before  deserved  the  gratitude  of  poets  by  his 
patronage  of  Tasso ;  and,  in  return  for  a  lau- 
datory distich  of  Manso,  Milton  addressed  to 
him  a  Latin  poem  of  great  elegance.  He  left 
Italy  by  the  way  of  Geneva,  where  he  con- 
tracted an  acquaintance  with  two  learned 
divines,  John  Diodati  and  Frederic  Spanheim  ; 
and  he  returned  through  France,  having  been 
absent  about  a  year  and  three  months. 

"On  his  arrival,  Milton  found  the  nation 
agitated  by  civil  and  religious  disputes,  which 
threatened  a  crisis  ;  and  as  he  had  expressed 
himself  impatient  to  be  present  on  the  theatre 
of  contention,  it  has  been  thought  extraor- 
dinary that  he  did  not  immediately  jjlace  him- 
self in  some  active  station.  But  his  turn  was 
not  military ;  hi.s  fortune  precluded  a  seat  in 
Parliament  ;  the  pulpit  he  had  declined ;  and 
for  the  bar  he  had  made  no  preparation.     His 


taste  and  habits  were  altogether  literary ;  for 
the  present,  therefore,  he  fixed  himself  in  the 
metropolis,  and  undertook  the  education  of 
his  sister's  two  sons,  of  the  name  of  Phillips. 
Soon  after,  he  was  applied  to  by  several  parents 
to  admit  their  children  to  the  benefit  of  his 
tuition.  He  therefore  took  a  commodious 
house  in  Aldersgate  Street,  and  opened  an 
academy.  Disapproving  the  plan  of  education 
in  the  public  schools  and  universities,  he  de- 
viated from  it  as  widely  as  possible.  He  put 
into  the  hands  of  his  scholars,  instead  of  the 
common  classics,  such  Greek  and  Latin  authors 
as  treated  on  the  arts  and  sciences,  and  on 
philosophy ;  thus  expecting  to  instil  the  know- 
ledge of  things  with  that  of  words.  We  are 
not  informed  of  the  result  of  his  plan  ;  but  it 
will  appear  singular  that  one  who  had  himself 
drunk  so  deeply  at  the  Muses'  fount  should 
withhold  the  draught  from  others.  We  leara, 
however,  that  he  performed  the  task  of  in- 
struction with  great  assiduity. 

"Milton  did  not  long  suffer  himself  to  lie 
under  the  reproach  of  having  neglected  the 
public  cause  in  his  private  pursuits  ;  and,  in 
1641,  he  pubhshed  four  treatises  relative  to 
church  government,  in  which  he  gave  the  pre- 
ponderance to  the  presbyterian  form  above 
the  episcopalian.  Eesuming  the  same  con- 
troversy in  the  following  year,  he  numbered 
among  his  antagonists  such  men  as  Bishop 
Hall  and  Archbishop  Usher.  His  father,  who 
had  been  distui-bed  by  the  king's  troops,  now 
came  to  live  with  him  ;  and  the  necessity  of  a 
female  head  of  such  a  house,  caused  Milton, 
in  1643,  to  form  a  connection  with  the 
daughter  of  Eichard  Powell,  Esq.,  a  magis- 
trate of  Oxfordshire.  This  was,  in  several 
respects,  an  unhappy  marriage  ;  for  his  father- 
in-law  was  a  zealous  royahat,  and  his  wife  had 
accustomed  herself  to  the  jovial  hospitality  of 
that  party.  She  had  not,  therefore,  passed 
above  a  month  in  her  husband's  house,  when, 
having  procured  an  invitation  from  her  father, 
she  went  to  pass  the  summer  in  his  mansion. 
Milton's  invitations  for  her  return  were  treated 
Avith  contempt ;  upon  which,  regarding  her 
conduct  as  a  desertion  which  broke  the  nuptial 
contract,  he  determined  to  punish  it  by  repu- 
diation. In  1644  he  published  a  work  on 
'  The  Doctrine  and  DiscipUne  of  Divorce ' ; 
and,  in  the  next  year,  it  was  followed  by 
'  Tetrachordon,  or  Expositions  upon  the  four 
chief  Places  in  Scripture  which  treat  of 
Marriage.'  He  further  reduced  his  doctrine 
into  practice,  by  paying  his  addresses  to  a 
■  young  lady  of  great  accomplishments  ;  but,  as 
he  was  paying  a  visit  to  a  neighbour  and  kins- 
man, he  was  surprised  with  the  sudden  entrance 
of  his  -wife,  who  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  and 
implored  forgiveness.  After  a  short  struggle 
of  resentment,  he  took  her  to  his  bosom  ;  and 
he  sealed  the  reconciliation  by  opening  his 
house  to  her  father  and  brothers,  when  they 
had  been  driven  from  home  by  the  triumph  of 
the  republican  arms. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


"  In  the  progress  of  Milton's  prose  works,  it 
will  be  right  to  mention  his  '  Areopagitica ;  a 
Speech  of  Mr.  John  Milton,  for  the  Liberty  of 
Unlicensed  Printing,' — a  work  published  in 
1644,  -svritteu  with  equal  spirit  and  ability, 
and  which,  when  reprinted  in  1738,  was 
affirmed  by  the  editor  to  be  the  best  defence 
that  had  ever  then  appeared  of  that  essential 
article  of  public  liberty.  In  the  following 
year  he  took  care  that  his  poetical  character 
should  not  be  lost  to  the  world,  and  published 
his  '  Juvenile  Poems,'  Latin  and  English. 

"  Milton's  principles  of  the  origin  and  end  of 
government  carried  him  to  a  full  approbation 
of  the  trial  and  execution  of  the  king ;  and, 
in  order  to  conciliate  the  minds  of  the  people 
to  that  act,  he  published,  early  in  1649,  a 
work,  entitled,  '  The  Tenure  of  Kings  and 
Magistrates ;  proving  that  it  is  la^vf  ul,  and 
hath  been  so  held  through  all  ages,  for  any 
who  have  the  power,  to  call  to  account  a 
tyrant  or  -wicked  king ;  and,  after  due  convic- 
tion, to  depose  and  put  him  to  death,  if  the 
ordinary  magistrate  have  neglected  or  denied 
to  do  it.'  Certainly,  it  would  not  be  easy  to 
express,  in  stronger  terms,  an  author's  resolu- 
tion to  leave  no  doubts  concerning  his  opinion 
on  this  important  topic.  His  appointment  to 
the  Latin  Secretaryship  to  the  Council  of 
I        State  was,  probably,  the  consequence  of  liis 

decision. 
j  ' '  The  learned  Frenchman,  Salmasius,  or  Sau- 

1  maise,  having  been  hired  by  Charles  II.,  while 
j  in  HoUand,  to  write  a  work  in  favour  of  the 
royal  cause,  which  he  entitled  '  Defensio 
Regia,'  Milton  was  employed  to  answer  it; 
which  he  did  in  1651,  by  his  celebrated  *  De- 
fensio pro  Populo  Anglicano,'  in  wliich  he 
exercised  all  his  powers  of  Latin  rhetoric,  both 
to  justify  the  republican  party,  and  to  con- 
found and  vilify  the  famous  scholar  against 
whom  he  took  up  the  pen.  By  this  piece  he 
acquired  a  high  reputation  both  at  home  and 
abroad ;  and  he  received  a  present  of  a  thou- 
sand pounds  from  the  English  government. 
His  book  went  through  several  editions ;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  work  of  Salmasius  was 
suppressed  by  the  States  of  Holland,  in  whose 
service  he  lived  as  a  professor  at  Leyden. 

"  Milton's  intense  application  to  study  had, 
for  some  years  preceding,  brought  on  an  affec- 
tion of  the  eyes  which  gradually  impaired  his 
sight ;  and,  before  he  wrote  his  '  Defensio,' 
he  was  warned  by  his  physicians  that  the 
effort  would  probably  end  in  total  blindness. 
This  opinion  was  soon  after  justified  by  a 
gutta  serena  which  seized  both  his  eyes,  and 
subjected  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  those 
privations  which  he  has  so  feelingly  described 
in  some  passages  of  his  poems.  His  intel- 
lectual powers,  however,  suffered  no  eclipse 
from  this  loss  of  his  sensitive  faculties  ;  and 
he  pursued  without  intermission  both  his 
official  and  his  controversial  occupations, 
Cromwell,  about  this  time,  having  assumed 
the  supreme  power,  with  the  title  of  Pro- 
i 


tector,  Milton  acted  with  a  subservience 
towards  this  usurper  which  is  the  part  of  his 
conduct  that  it  is  the  most  difficult  to  justify. 
It  might  have  been  expected,  that  when  the 
Avisest  and  most  conscientious  of  the  repub- 
licans had  become  sensible  of  his  arts,  and 
opposed  his  ambitious  projects,  the  mind  of 
Milton  would  neither  have  been  blinded  by 
his  hypocrisy,  nor  overawed  by  his  power. 
Possibly  the  real  cause  of  his  predilection 
for  Cromwell,  was  that  he  saw  no  refuge 
from  the  intolerance  of  the  Presbyterians, 
but  in  the  moderation  of  the  Protector.  And, 
in  fact,  the  very  passage  in  which  he  addresses 
him  with  the  loftiest  encomium,  contains  a 
free  and  noble  exhortation  to  him  to  respect 
that  public  liberty,  of  which  he  appeared  to 
be  the  guardian. 

"  Cromwell  at  length  died ;  and  so  zealous 
and  sanguine  was  Milton,  to  the  very  last, 
that  one  of  his  latest  political  productions 
was,  '  A  ready  and  easy  Way  to  establish  a 
free  Commonwealth.*  It  was  in  vain,  how- 
ever, to  contend,  by  pamphlets,  with  the 
national  inclination  ;  and  Charles  II.  returned 
in  triumph.  Milton  was  discharged  from  his 
office,  and  lay  for  some  time  concealed  in  the 
house  of  a  friend.  The  House  of  Commons 
desired  that  his  Majesty  would  issue  a  pro- 
clamation to  call  in  Milton's  '  Defence  of  the 
People,*  and  '  Iconoclastes,'  together  with  a 
book  of  Goodwyn's.  The  books  were  accord- 
ingly burnt  by  the  common  hangman ;  but  the 
authors  were  returned  as  having  absconded; 
nor,  in  the  act  of  indemnity,  did  the  name  of 
Milton  appear  among  those  of  the  excepted 
persons. 

"  He  now,  in  reduced  circumstances,  and 
under  the  discountenance  of  power,  removed 
to  a  private  habitation  near  his  former  resi- 
dence. He  had  buried  his  first  wife  ;  and  a 
second,  the  daughter  of  a  Captain  Woodcock, 
in  Hackney,  died  in  childbed.  To  solace  his 
forlorn  condition,  he  desired  his  friend,  Dr. 
Paget,  to  look  out  a  third  wife  for  him,  who 
recommended  a  relation  of  his  own,  named 
Elizabeth  Minshull,  of  a  good  family  in 
Cheshire.  His  powerful  mind,  now  centered 
in  itself,  and  undisturbed  by  contentions  and 
temporary  topics,  opened  to  those  great  ideas 
which  were  continually  filHng  it,  and  the 
result  v^as,  '  Paradise  Lost.'  Much  discussion 
has  taken  place  concerning  the  original  con- 
ception of  tliis  grand  performance  ;  but  what- 
ever hint  may  have  suggested  the  rude  outline, 
it  is  certain  that  all  the  creative  powers  of  a 
strong  imagination,  and  all  the  accumulated 
stores  of  a  life  devoted  to  learning,  were  ex- 
pended in  its  completion.  Though  he  appears, 
at  an  early  age,  to  have  thought  of  some 
subject  in  the  heroic  times  of  English  history, 
as  peculiarly  calculated  for  English  verse,  yet 
his  religious  turn,  and  assiduous  study  of  the 
Hebrew  Scriptures,  produced  a  final  preference 
of  a  story  derived  from  the  Sacred  Writings, 
and  giving  scope  to  the  introduction  of  his 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


theological  system.  It  would  be  superfluous, 
at  tills  time,  to  weigh  the  merits  of  Milton's 
great  work,  which  stands  so  much  beyond 
competition;  but  it  may  be  affirmed,  that 
whatever  his  other  poems  can  exhibit  of  beauty 
in  some  parts,  or  of  grandeur  in  others,  may 
all  be  referred  to  '  Paradise  Lost '  as  the  most 
perfect  model  of  both. 

"  Milton,  not  exhausted  by  this  great  effort, 
followed  it  in  1670  by  '  Paradise  Eegained,' 
written  upon  a  suggestion  of  the  Quaker 
Elwood's,  and  apparently  regarded  as  the 
theological  completion  of  the  '  Paradise  Lost.' 
Although,  in  point  of  invention,  its  inferiority 
is  plainly  apparent,  yet  modem  criticism  has 
pronounced  that  there  are  passages  in  it  by  no 
means  unworthy  of  the  genius  of  Milton, 
allowance  being  made  for  the  small  compass 
of  the  subject,  and  his  purpose  in  writing  it. 
Together  with  it  appeared  his  tragedy  of 
'  Sampson  Agonistes,'  composed  upon  the 
model  of  antiquity,  and  never  intended  for  the 
stage. 

"  With  this  work  his  poetical  account  closes : 
and  a  few  pieces  in  prose  can  scarcely  claim 
particular  notice.  He  sunk  tranquilly  under 
an  exhaustion  of  the  vital  powers  in  November, 
1674,  when  he  had  nearly  completed  his  66th 
year.  His  remains  were  carried  from  his  house 
in  Bunhill  Fields  to  the  church  of  St.  Giles, 
Cripplegate,  with  a  numerous  and  splendid 
attendance.  No  monument  marked  the  tomb 
of  this  great  man,  but  his  memory  was  ho- 
noured with  a  tomb  in  1737,  in  "Westminster 
Abbey,  at  the  expense  of  Auditor  Benson.  The 
only  family  whom  he  left  were  daughters." — 
See  Aikin's  "  British  Poets"  ;  "  Handbook  of 
Eng.  Lit.,"  by  Eev.  Dr.  Angus;  Shaw's  "  Hist, 
of  Eng.  Lit." ;  Chambers's  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 
vol.  i. ;  Scrymgeour's  "  Poetry  and  Poets  of 
Britain";  Campbell's  "Specs.";  Professor 
Spalding's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." ;  GilfiUan's 
"  EugHsh  Poets." 


ANDEEW  MARVELL. 

"This  noble-minded  patriot  and  poet,  the 
friend  of  Milton,  the  Abdiel  of  a  dark  and 
corrupt  age, — '  faithful  found  among  the  faith- 
less, faithful  only  he,' — was  bom  in  Hull  in 
1620.  He  was  sent  to  Cambridge,  and  is  said 
there  to  have  nearly  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
proselytising  Jesuits,  who  enticed  him  to 
London.  His  father,  however,  a  clergyman  in 
Hull,  went  in  search  of  and  brought  him  back 
to  his  university,  where  speedily,  by  extensive 
culture  and  the  vigorous  exercise  of  his  power- 
ful faculties,  he  emancipated  himself  for  ever 
from  the  dominion,  and  the  danger  of  the 
dominion,  of  superstition  and  bigotry.  We 
know  little  more  about  the  early  days  of  our 
poet.     Wiien  only  twenty,  he  lost  his  father 

remarkable  circumstances.  In  1640  he  had 
embarked   on  the  Humber,  in  company  with 


a  youthful  pair  whom  he  was  to  marry  at 
Barrow,  in  Lincolnshire.  The  weather  was 
calm  ;  but  Marvell,  seized  with  a  sudden  jMre- 
sentiment  of  danger,  threw-  his  staff  ashore, 
and  cried  out,  '  Ho  for  heaven  I '  A  storm 
came  on,  and  the  whole  company  perished. 
In  consequence  of  this  sad  event,  the  gentle- 
man, whose  daughter  was  to  have  been  married, 
conceiving  that  the  father  had  sacrificed  his 
life  while  performing  an  act  of  friendship, 
adopted  young  Marvell  as  his  son.  Owing  to- 
this,  he  received  a  better  education,  and  was 
sent  abroad  to  travel.  It  is  said  that  at  Rome- 
he  met  and  formed  a  friendship  with  Milton, 
then  engaged  on  his  immortal  continental  tour. 
We  find  Marv^ell  next  at  Constantinople,  as 
Secretary  to  the  English  Embassy  at  that 
Court.  We  then  lose  sight  of  him  till  1653, 
when  he  was  engaged  by  the  Protector  to 
superintend  the  education  of  a  Mr.  Dutton  at 
Eton.  For  a  year  and  a  half  after  Cromwell's 
death  Marvell  assisted  Milton  as  Latin  Secre- 
tary to  the  Protector.  Our  readers  are  all 
familiar  with  the  print  of  Cromwell  and  Milton 
seated  together  at  the  council-table — ^the  one 
the  express  image  of  active  power  and  rugged 
grandeur,  the  other  of  thoughtful  majesty  and 
ethereal  grace.  Marvell  might  have  been 
added  as  a  third,  and  become  the  emblem  of 
strong  English  sense  and  incorruptible  inte- 
grity, A  letter  of  Milton's  was,  not  long 
since,  discovered,  dated  February,  1652,  in 
which  he  speaks  of  Marvell  as  fitted,  by  his 
knowledge  of  Latin  and  his  experience  of 
teaching,  to  be  his  assistant.  He  was  not 
appointed,  however,  till  1657.  In  1660  he 
became  member  for  Hull,  and  was  re-elected 
as  long  as  he  lived.  He  was  absent,  however, 
from  England  for  two  years,  in  the  beginning 
of  the  reign,  in  Germany  and  Holland.  After- 
wards he  sought  leave  from  his  constituents 
to  act  as  Ambassador's  Secretary  to  Lord 
Carlisle  at  the  Northern  Courts ;  but  from  the 
year  1665  to  Ms  death,  his  attention  to  his 
parliamentary  duties  was  unremitting.  He 
constantly  corresponded  with  his  constituents ; 
and  after  the  longest  sittings  he  used  to  write 
out  for  their  use  a  minute  account  of  public 
proceedings  ere  he  went  to  bed  or  took  any 
refreshment.  He  was  one  of  the  last  members 
who  received  pay  from  the  town  he  repre- 
sented (2s.  a-day  was  probably  the  sum) ;  and 
his  constituents  were  wont,  besides,  to  send 
him  barrels  of  ale  as  tokens  of  their  regard. 
Marvell  spoke  little  in  the  House;  but  his 
heart  and  vote  were  always  in  the  right  place. 
Even  Prince  Rupert  continually  consulted  him, 
and  was  sometimes  persuaded  by  him  to  sup- 
port the  popular  side ;  and  King  Charles, 
having  met  him  once  in  private,  was  so  de- 
lighted with  his  wit  and  agreeable  manners, 
that  he  thought  him  worth  trying  to  bribe. 
He  sent  Lord  Danby  to  offer  him  a  mark  of 
his  Majesty's  consideration.  Marvell,  who 
was  seated  in  a  dingy  room  up  several  flights 
of  stairs,  declined  the  proffer,  and,  it  is  said, 


Froin  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


called  Ids  servant  to  witness  that  he  had  dined 
for  three  successive  days  on  the  same  shoulder 
of  mutton,  and  was  not  likely,  therefore,  to 
care  for  or  need  a  bribe.  When  ihe  Treasurer 
was  gone,  he  had  to  send  to  a  friend  to  borrow 
a  guinea.  Although  a  silent  senator,  Marvell 
was  a  copious  and  popular  writer.  He  attacked 
Bishop  Parker  for  his  slavish  principles,  in  a 
piece  entitled  'The  Rehearsal  Transposed,' 
in  which  he  takes  occasion  to  vindicate  and 
panegyrise  his  old  colleague  Milton.  His  ano- 
nymous '  Account  of  the  Growth  of  Arbitrary 
Power  and  Popei^^  in  England '  excited  a  sen- 
sation, and  a  reward  was  offered  for  the  ap- 
prehension of  the  author  and  printer.  Marvell 
had  many  of  the  elements  of  a  first-rate  poli- 
tical pamphleteer.  He  had  wit  of  a  most 
pungent  kind,  great  though  coarse  fertility  of 
fancy,  and  a  spirit  of  independence  that 
nothing  could  subdue  or  damp.  He  was  the 
undoubted  ancestor  of  the  Defoes,  Swifts, 
Steeles,  Juniuses,  and  Burkes,  in  whom  this 
kind  of  authorship  reached  its  perfection, 
ceased  to  be  fugitive,  and  assumed  classical 
rank. 

"  Marvell  had  been  repeatedly  threatened 
with  assassination,  and  hence,  when  he  died 
suddenly  on  the  16th  of  August,  1678,  it  was 
surmised  that  he  had  been  removed  by  poison. 
The  Corporation  of  Hull  voted  a  sum  to  defray 
his  funeral  expenses,  and  for  raising  a  monu- 
ment to  his  memory ;  but  owing  to  the  inter- 
ference of  the  Court,  through  the  rector  of  the 
parish,  this  votive  tablet  was  not  at  the  time 
erected.  He  was  buried  in  St.  Giles-in-the- 
Fields. 

"  '  Out  of  the  strong  came  forth  sweetness,' 
saith  the  Hebrew  record.  And  so  from  the 
sturdy  Andrew  Marvell  have  proceeded  such  . 
soft  and  lovely  strains  as  '  The  Emigrants,' 
'The  Nymph  complaining  for  the  death  of 
her  Fawn,'  '  Yoimg  Love,'  &c.  The  statue 
of  Memnon  became  musical  at  the  dawn ;  and 
the  stem  patriot,  whom  no  bribe  could  buy 
and  no  flattery  melt,  is  found  sympathising  in 
song  with  a  boatful  of  banished  Englishmen  in 
the  remote  Bermudas,  and  inditing  '  Thoughts 
in  a  Garden,'  from  which  you  might  suppose 
that  he  had  spent  his  Ufe  more  with  melons 
than  with  men,  and  was  better  acquainted 
with  the  motions  of  a  bee-hive  than  with  the 
contests  of  Parliament  and  the  distractions 
of  a  most  distracted  age.  It  was  said  (not 
with  thorough  truth)  of  Milton,  that  he  could 
cut  out  a  Colossus  from  a  rock,  but  could  not 
carve  heads  upon  cherry-stones — a  task  which 
his  assistant  may  be  said  to  have  performed 
in  his  stead,  in  his  small  but  delectable  copies 
of  verse." — GilfiUan's  "  Less-known  British 
Poets,"  vol.  ii.,  p.  174. 


SAMUEL  BUTLEE. 

Samuel  Butler,  born  1612,  died  1680.    "  The 
partieulars  of  the  life  of  the  author  of  *  Hudi- 


bras '  are  scanty  and  obscure.  He  was  th© 
son  of  a  farmer  in  Worcestershire.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  he  received  a  university 
education ;  for,  though  alleged  to  have  resided 
some  years  at  Cambridge,  he  is  not  known  to 
have  matriculated  at  any  college.  He  ia  after- 
wards found  in  the  family  of  the  Countess  of 
Kent,  and  enjoying  the  friendship  of  the 
learned  Selden.  He  appears  again,  probably 
in  the  capacity  of  tutor,  in  the  service  of  Sir 
Samuel  Luke,  one  of  Cromwell's  officers,  who 
is  considered  to  be  the  prototype  of  Hudibras. 
The  Eestoration  brought  to  his  fortunes  a 
gleam  of  hope.  He  obtained  employment  as 
secretary  to  the  Earl  of  Carbery.  Having  lost 
his  wife's  fortune  through  bad  securities,  he 
became  an  author,  and  published,  in  1663,  the 
first  part  of  his  Satire.  It  was  received  with 
unbounded  popularity,  and  was  made  knoAvn 
at  court  through  the  kindness  of  the  Earl  of 
Dorset.  The  author,  however,  was  unrewarded. 
The  king  is  said  to  have  given  him  jB300,  but 
of  this  there  is  no  proof.  In  the  subsequent 
years  he  published  the  second  and  third  parts 
of  his  poem;  and  died  in  indigence  in  1680. 
The  neglect  of  the  king  is  the  more  criminal, 
since  the  Satire  must  be  viewed  as  a  valuable 
piece  of  good  service  to  the  royalist  cause. 
Broad  caricature  and  miraculous  force  of  wit 
exert  their  united  strength  to  hold  up  the 
Puritan  party  to  contempt  and  ridicule.  The 
idea  of  the  piece  is,  of  course,  borrowed  from 
Cervantes;  but  there  is  no  resemblance  be- 
tween the  two  works.  '  Hudibras '  isthoroughly 
English.  The  whole  poem  is  a  continual 
sparkle  of  brilliancy,  adorned  by  the  resources 
of  immense  learning ;  language,  character,  and 
imagery  are  moulded  at  the  author's  will.  No 
rhyme  is  so  complicated  that  he  wants  words 
to  form  its  counterpart ;  no  image  so  remote 
that  his  hand  cannot  compel  it  into  his  service. 
The  work  is  unfinished,  and  from  the  range  of 
years  over  which  it  was  published,  the  plan  is 
desultory  and  incompact.  The  perusal  of 
'  Hudibras '  is  diet  so  solid,  that  it  should  be 
taken  by  little  at  a  time.  It  is  one  of  those 
works  whose  epigrammatic  practical  wisdom 
has  woven  itseK  into  the  phraseology  of  the 
language.  The  popularity  of  '  Hudibras ' 
caused  forgeries  of  the  author's  style  after  his 
death.  'Genuine  Remains,'  in  prose  and 
verse,  were  pu.blished  in  1759,  by  Mr.  Thyer, 
from  manuscripts  left  in  possession  of  Butler's 
friend  Mr.  Longueville."  —  (Scrymgeour's 
"  Poetry  and  Poets  of  Britain,"  pp.  222,  223.) 
See  Dibdin's  "Library  Companion";  Pre- 
face to  "  Hudibras,"  by  Eev.  Dr.  Nash ; 
HaUam's  "Introduct.  to  Lit.  History  "j  Alli- 
bone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


CHARLES  COTTON. 

Charles  Cotton,  bom  1630,  died  1687,  best 
known  as  the  friend  of   Izaak  Walton,  had 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fourth  Period , 


an  estate  in  Perbyshire  upon  the  river  Dove,    ! 
celebrated  for  its  trout.    He  wrote  several  hu-    j 
morons  poems,  and  his  "  Voyage  to  Ireland,"    ; 
Campbell  remarks,   seems   to   anticipate   the    I 
manner   of    Anstey   in   the    "Bath    Guide." 
Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  p.  187.     See  Alli- 
bone's   "Crit.    Die,    Eng.    Lit.";    Gilfillan's 
"  Less-known  British  Poets." 


EAEL  OF  EOSCOMMON. 

Earl  of  Roscommon,  born  1634,  died  1685,  | 
the  nephew  of  the  famous  Strafford,  produced  i 
a  poetical  "  Essay  on  Translated  Verse  "  and  | 
a  version  of  t/ie  "Art  of  Poetry"  from  ' 
Herace,  which  were  received  by  the  public  •, 
and  the  men  of  letters  with  an  extravagance  ; 
of  praise  attributable  to  the  respect  then  i 
entertained  for  any  intellectual  accomplish-  ] 
ment  in  a  nobleman. — Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng 
Lit." 


EARL  OF  ROCHESTER. 

Earl  of  Rochester,  bom  1647,  died  1680,  so 
celebrated  for  his  insane  debaucheries  and  the 
witty  eccentricities  which  made  him  one  of 
the  most  prominent  figures  in  the  profligate 
court  of  Charles  II.,  produced  a  number  of 
poems,  cliiefly  songs  and  fugitive  lyrics,  which 
proved  how  great  were  the  natural  talents  he 
had  wasted  in  the  most  insane  extravagance  : 
his  deathbed  conversion  and  repentance  pro- 
duced by  the  arguments  of  Bishop  Burnet, 
who  has  left  an  interesting  and  edifying 
account  of  his  penitent's  last  moments,  show 
that,  amid  all  his  vices,  Rochester's  mind 
retained  the  capacity  for  better  things.  Many 
©f  his  i^roductions  are  unfortunately  stained 
with  such  profanity  and  indecency,  that  they 
deserve  the  oblivion  into  which  they  are  now  j 
fallen. 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 

"  John  Dryden  was  bom,  probably  in  1631, 
in  the  parish  of  Aldwincle-Allsaints,  in  Nor- 
thamptonshire. His  father  possessed  a  small 
estate,  acted  as  a  justice  of  the  peace  during 
the  usurpation,  and  seems  to  have  been  a 
Presbyterian.  John,  at  a  proper  age,  was 
sent  to  Westminster  school,  of  which  Busby 
was  then  master  ;  and  was  thence  elected  to 
a  scholarship  in  Trinity  CoUege,  Cambridge. 
He  took  his  degrees  of  bachelor  and  master  of 
arts  in  the  university;  but  though  he  had 
written  two  short  copies  of  verses  about  the 
time  of  hia  admission,  his  name  does  not  occur 


among  the  academical  poets  of  this  period. 
By  his  father's  death,  in  1654,  he  succeeded 
to  the  estate,  and,  removing  to  the  metropolis, 
he  made  his  entrance  into  public  life,  undor 
the  auspices  of  his  kinsman.  Sir  Gilbert 
Pickering,  one  of  Cromwell's  council  and  house 
of  lords,  and  staunch  to  the  principles  then 
predominant.  On  the  death  of  Cromwell, 
Dryden  wrote  some  '  Heroic  Stanzas,' 
strongly  marked  by  the  loftiness  of  expression 
and  variety  of  imagery  which  characterised 
his  more  mature  efforts.  They  were,  how- 
ever, criticised  with  some  severity. 

"  At  the  Restoration,  Dryden  lost  no  time  in 
obliterating  former  stains  ;  and,  as  far  as  it 
was  possible,  rendered  himself  peculiarly  dis- 
tinguished for  the  base  servility  of  his  strains. 
He  greeted  the  king's  return  by  a  poem, 
entitled  '  Astraea  Redux,'  which  was  followed 
by  '  A  Panegyric  on  the  Coronation  : '  nor 
did  Lord  Chancellor  Clarendon  escape  his 
encomiastic  lines.  His  marriage  with  Lady 
Elizabeth  Howard,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Berk- 
shire, is  supposed  to  have  taken  place  in  1665. 
About  this  time  he  first  appears  as  a  writer 
for  the  stage,  in  which  quality  he  composed 
several  pieces ;  and  though  he  did  not  display 
himself  as  a  prime  favourite  of  the  dramatic 
muse,  his  facility  of  harmonious  versification, 
and  his  splendour  of  poetic  diction,  gained 
him  admirers.  In  1667  he  published  a  sin- 
gular  poem,  entitled  'Annus  Mirabilis,'  the 
subjects  of  which  were,  the  naval  war  with 
the  Dutch,  and  the  fire  of  London.  It  was 
written  in  four-line  stanzas,  a  form  which  has 
since  gone  into  disuse  in  heroic  subjects  ;  but 
the  piece  abounded  in  images  of  genuine 
poetry,  though  intermixed  with  many  extra- 
vagances. 

"  At  this  period  of  his  life  Dryden  became 
professionally  a  writer  for  the  stage,  having 
entered  into  a  contract  with  the  patentees  of 
the  King's  Theatre,  to  supply  them  with 
three  plays  in  a  year,  upon  the  condition  of 
being  allowed  the  profit  of  one  share  and  a 
quarter  out  of  twelve  shares  and  three  quar- 
ters, into  which  the  theatrical  stock  Avas 
divided.  Of  the  plays  written  upon  the  above 
contract,  a  small  proportion  only  have  kept 
their  place  on  the  stage  or  in  the  closet.  On 
the  death  of  Sir  W.  Davenant,  in  1668, 
Dryden  obtained  the  post  of  poet-laureate,  to 
which  was  added  the  sinecure  place  of  his- 
toriographer royal ;  the  joint  salaries  of  which 
amounted  to  .£200. 

"  The  tragedies  composed  by  Dryden  were 
written  in  his  earlier  periods  in  rhyme,  which 
circumstance  probably  contributed  to  the 
poetical  rant  by  which  they  were  too  much 
characterised.  For  the  correction  of  this 
fault,  Villiers  Duke  of  Buckingham,  in  con- 
junction with  other  wits,  wrote  the  celebrated 
burlesque  drama,  entitled  '  The  Rehearsal,* 
of  which  Dryden,  under  the  name  of  Bayes, 
was  made  the  hero ;  and,  in  order  to  point 
the  ridicule,  his  dress,  phraseology,  and  mode  of 


Fi-om  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


recitation,  were  exactly  imitated  by  the  actor. 
It  does  not,  however,  appear  that  his  solid 
reputation  as  a  poet  was  injured  by  this 
attack.  He  had  the  candour  to  acknowledge 
that  several  of  the  strokes  were  just,  and  he 
wisely  refrained  from  making  any  direct  reply. 

"  In  1681,  and,  as  it  is  asserted,  at  the 
king's  express  desire,  he  wrote  his  famous 
political  poem  entitled  '  Absolom  and  Achi- 
tophel ' ;  m  which  the  incidents  in  the  life 
of  David  were  adapted  to  those  of  Charles  II. 
in  relation  to  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  and  the 
Earl  of  Shaftesbury.  Its  poetry  and  its 
severity  caused  it  to  be  read  with  great 
eagerness ;  and  as  it  raised  the  author  to 
high  favour  mth  the  court  party,  so  it  in- 
volved him  in  irreconcilable  enmity  with  its 
opponents.  These  feelings  were  rendered 
more  acute  by  his  '  Medal,  a  Satire  on 
Sedition,'  written  in  the  same  year,  on  oc- 
casion of  a  medal  struck  by  the  Whigs,  when  a 
grand  jury  returned  Ignoramus  to  an  indict- 
ment preferred  against  Lord  Shaftesbury,  for 
high  treason.  The  rancour  of  this  piece  is 
not  easily  to  be  paralleled  among  party  poems. 
In  1682,  he  pubHshed  '  Mac-Flecknoe,'  a 
short  piece,  throwing  ridicule  upon  his  very 
unequal  rival,  Shadwell.  In  the  same  year, 
one  of  his  most  serious  poems,  the  '  Eeligio 
Laici,'  made  its  appearance.  Its  purpose 
was  to  give  a  compendious  view  of  the  argu- 
ments for  revealed  religion,  and  to  ascertain 
in  what  the  authority  of  revelation  essentially 
consists. 

"  Soon  after  this  time  he  ceased  to  write 
for  the  stage.  His  dramatic  vein  was  probably 
exhausted,  and  his  circumstances  were  dis- 
tressed. To  this  period  Mr.  Malone  refers  a 
letter  written  by  him  to  Hyde,  Earl  of 
Eochester,  in  which,  with  modest  dignity,  he 
pleads  merit  enough  not  to  deserve  to  starve, 
and  requests  some  small  employment  in  the 
customs  or  excise,  or,  at  least,  the  payment 
of  half  a  year's  pension  for  the  supply  of  Ins 
present  necessities.  He  never  obtained  any  of 
the  requested  places,  and  was  doomed  to  find 
the  booksellers  his  best  patrons. 

^'  Charles  II.  died  in  1685,  and  was  succeeded 
by  his  brother  James  XL,  who  openly  declared 
his  attachment  to  the  religion  of  Eome.  It 
was  not  long  before  Dryden  conformed  to  the 
same  religion.  This  step  has  been  the  cause 
of  much  obloquy  on  one  side,  and  has  found 
much  excuse  on  the  other ;  but  if  it  be  con- 
sidered, from  a  view  of  his  past  life,  that,  in 
changing  his  religious  profession,  he  could 
have  had  little  difficulty  to  encounter,  it  will 
appear  no  breach  of  candour  to  suppose  that 
his  immediate  motive  was  nothing  more  than 
personal  interest.  The  reward  he  obtained 
from  his  compliance  was  an  addition  to  his 
pension  of  .£100  per  annum.  Some  time 
after  he  was  engaged  in  a  work  which  was 
the  longest  single  piece  he  ever  composed. 
This  was  hiy  elaborate  controversial  poem  of 
'  The  Hind  and  Panther.'     When  completed, 


notwithstanding  its  unpromising  subject,  and 
signal  absurdity  of  plan,  such  was  the  power 
of  Dryden' s  verse,  that  it  was  read  with 
avidity,  and  bore  every  mark  of  occupying  the 
public  attention.  The  birth  of  a  prince  called 
forth  a  congratulatory  poem  from  Dryden, 
entitled  '  Britannia  Eediviva,'  in  which  he 
ventured  to  use  a  poet's  privilege  of  prophecy, 
foretelling  a  commencing  era  of  prosperity  to 
the  nation  and  the  church  from  this  auspi- 
cious event ;  but  in  vain  !  for  the  Eevolution 
took  place  within  a  few  months,  and  the  hopes 
of  the  party  were  blasted  for  ever. 

"  Dryden  was  a  severe  sufferer  from  the 
change :  his  posts  and  pensions  were  taken 
away,  and  the  poetical  laurel  was  conferred 
upon  his  insignificant  rival,  Shadwell.  He 
was  now,  in  advanced  life,  to  depend  upon 
his  own  exertions  for  a  security  from  absolute 
indigence.  His  faculties  were  equal  to  the 
emergency  ;  and  it  wiU  surprise  some  theorists 
to  be  told,  that  the  ten  concluding  years  of 
his  life,  in  which  he  wrote  for  bread,  and 
composed  at  a  certain  rate  per  line,  were 
those  of  many  of  the  pieces  which  have  most 
contributed  to  immortalise  his  name.  They 
were  those  of  his  translation  of  Juvenal  and 
Persius ;  of  that  of  Virgil  entire,  a  work 
which  enriches  the  English  language,  and  has 
greatly  promoted  the  author's  fame ;  of  his 
celebrated  '  Alexander's  Feast ' ;  and  of  his 
Fables,  containing  some  of  the  richest  and 
most  truly  poetical  pieces  which  he  ever  com- 
posed. Of  these,  several  will  appear  in  the 
subsequent  collection  of  his  works.  Nor 
ought  his  prose  writings  to  be  neglected, 
which,  chiefly  consisting  of  the  critical  essays 
prefixed  to  his  poems,  are  performances  of 
extraordinary  vigour  and  comprehension  of 
mind,  and  afford,  perhaps,  the  best  specimens 
of  genuine  English. 

"  Dryden  died  of  a  spreading  inflammation 
in  one  of  his  toes,  on  the  first  of  May,  1700, 
and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  next 
to  the  tomb  of  Chaucer.  No  monument 
marked  his  grave,  till  a  plain  one,  with  his 
bust,  was  erected,  at  the  expense  of  Sheffield, 
Duke  of  Buckingham.  He  left  behind  him 
three  sons,  all  brought  up  to  letters.  His 
own  character  was  cold  and  reserved,  back- 
ward in  personal  advances  to  the  great,  and 
rather  heavy  in  conversation.  In  fact,  he 
was  too  much  engaged  in  literature  to  devote 
much  of  his  time  to  society.  Few  writers  of 
his  time  delighted  so  much  to  approach  the 
verge  of  profaneness  ;  whence  it  may  be 
inferred,  that  though  religion  was  an  in- 
teresting topic  of  discussion  to  him,  he  had 
very  little  of  its  spirit  in  his  heart." — Aikin's 
"  Select  Brit.  Poets,"  pp.  148-9.  See  Camp- 
bell's "  Spec."  ;  AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit.";  Sir  Walter  Scott;  Holland's  "In- 
troduc.toLit.  Hist.";  Dr.  Beattie's  "Essays"; 
Dr.  Garth's  "Pref.  to  the  Translation  of 
Ovid's  Metamorphoses";  Lord  Brougham; 
Pope's  Pref.  to  his  Translation  of  Homer. 

22 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[FouBTH  Period. — 


JOHN  PHILIPS. 

"  Brampton  in  Oxfordshire  was  tlie  birthplace 
of  this  poet.  He  was  born  on  the  30th  of 
December,  1676.  His  father,  Dr.  Stephen 
Philips,  was  archdeacon  of  Salop,  as  well  as 
minister  of  Bampton.  John,  after  some  pre- 
liminary training  at  home,  was  sent  to 
Winchester,  where  he  distinguished  himself 
by  diligence  and  good-nature,  and  enjoyed 
two  great  luxuries, — the  reading  of  Milton, 
and  the  having  his  head  combed  by  some  one 
while  he  sat  still  and  in  rapture  for  hours 
together.  This  pleasure  he  shared  with 
Vossius,  and  with  humbler  persons  of  our 
acquaintance ;  the  combing  of  whose  hair, 
they  tell  us, 

'  Dissolves  them  into  ecstasies. 
And  brings  ail  heaven  before  their  eyes.' 

"  In  1694,  he  entered  Christ  Church,  Cam- 
bridge. His  intention  was  to  prosecute  the 
study  of  medicine,  and  he  took  great  delight 
in  the  cognate  pursuits  of  natural  history  and 
botany.  His  chief  friend  was  Edmund  Smith, 
(Rag  Smith,  as  he  was  generally  called,)  a 
kind  of  minor  Savage,  well  known  in  these 
times  as  the  author  of  'Phaedra  and  Hip- 
polytus,'  and  for  his  cureless  dissipation.  In 
1703,  Philips  produced  'The  Splendid  Shil- 
ling,' which  proved  a  hit,  and  seems  to  have 
diverted  his  aspirations  from  the  domains  of 
^sculapius  to  those  of  Apollo.  Bolingbroke 
sought  him  out,  and  employed  him,  after  the 
battle  of  Blenheim,  to  sing  it  in  opposition 
to  Addison,  the  laureate  of  the  Whigs.  At 
the  house  of  the  magnificent  but  unprincipled 
St  John,  Philips  wrote  his  '  Blenheim,'  which 
was  published  in  1705.  The  year  after,  his 
*  Cider,'  a  poem  in  two  books,  appeared,  and 
was  received  with  great  applause.  Encouraged 
by  this,  he  projected  a  poem  on  the  Last  Day, 
which  all  who  are  aware  of  the  difficulties  of 
the  subject,  and  the  limitations  of  the  author's 
genius,  must  rejoice  that  he  never  wrote. 
Consumption  and  asthma  removed  him  pre- 
maturely on  the  15th  of  February,  1708,  ere 
he  had  completed  his  thirty-third  year.  He 
was  buried  in  Hereford  Cathedral,  and  Sir 
Simon  Harcourt,  afterwards  Lord  Chancellor, 
erected  a  monument  to  his  memory  in  West- 
minster Abbey. 

"  Bulwer  somewhere  records  a  story  of  John 
Martin  in  his  early  days.  He  was,  on  one 
occasion,  reduced  to  his  last  shilling.  He  had 
kept  it,  out  of  a  heap,  from  a  partiality  to  its 
appearance.  It  was  very  bright.  He  was 
compelled,  at  last,  to  part  with  it.  He  went 
out  to  a  baker's  shop  to  purchase  a  loaf  with 
his  favourite  shilling.  He  had  got  the  loaf 
into  his  hands,  when  the  baker  discovered 
that  the  shilling  was  a  bad  one,  and  poor 
Martin  had  to  resign  the  loaf,  and  take  back  his 
dear,  bright,  bad  shilling  once  more.  Length 
of  time  and  cold  criticism  in  like  manner  have 
reduced  John  Philips  to  his  solitary  '  Splendid 
Shilling.'      But,  though  bright,  it  is  far  from 


bad.  It  is  one  of  the  cleverest  of  parodies, 
and  is  perpetrated  against  one  of  those  colossal 
works  which  the  smiles  of  a  thousand  carica- 
tures were  unable  to  injure.  No  great  or 
good  poem  was  ever  hurt  by  its  parody  : — 
'  Paradise  Lost '  was  not  by  '  The  Splendid 
Shilling ' ;  '  The  Last  Man '  of  Campbell 
was  not  by  '  The  Last  Man '  of  Hood ;  nor 
the  '  Lines  on  the  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore ' 
by  their  witty,  well-known  caricature ;  and 
if  '  The  Vision  of  Judgment '  by  Southey 
was  laughed  into  oblivion  by  Byron's  poem 
with  the  same  title,  it  was  because  Southey' s 
original  was  neither  good  nor  great.  Philips' 
poem,  too,  is  the  first  of  the  kind  ;  and  surely 
we  should  be  thankful  to  the  author  of  the 
earliest  effort  in  a  style  which  has  created  so 
much  innocent  amusement.  Dr.  Johnson 
speaks  as  if  the  pleasure  arising  from  such 
productions  implied  a  malignant  '  momentary 
triumph  over  that  grandeur  which  had 
hitherto  held  its  captives  in  admiration.'  We 
think,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  springs  from 
our  deep  interest  in  the  original  production, 
making  us  alive  to  the  strange  resemblance 
the  caricature  bears  to  it.  It  is  our  love  that 
provokes  our  laughter,  and  hence  the  admirers 
of  the  parodied  poem  are  more  delighted  than 
its  enemies.  At  all  events,  it  is  by  'The 
Splendid  Shilling'  alone — and  that  principally 
from  its  connection  with  Milton's  great  work 
— that  Philips  is  memorable.  His  '  Cider  ' 
has  soured  with  age,  and  the  loud  echo  of  his 
Blenheim  battle-piece  has  long  since  died 
away." — Gilfillan's  "  Less-known  Brit.  Poets," 
vol.  iii.,  pp.  11-13. 


SIR  CHARLES  SEDLEY. 

"  Sedley  was  one  of  those  characters  who 
exert  a  personal  fascination  over  their  own 
age  without  leaving  any  works  behind  them 
to  perpetuate  the  charm  to  posterity.  He 
was  the  son  of  Sir  John  Sedley  of  Aylesford, 
in  Kent,  and  was  born  in  1639.  When  the 
Restoration  took  place  he  repaired  to  London, 
and  plunged  into  aU  the  licence  of  the  time, 
shedding,  however,  over  the  putrid  pool  the 
sheen  of  his  wit,  manners,  and  genius.  Charles 
was  so  delighted  with  him,  that  he  is  said  to 
have  asked  him  whether  he  had  not  obtained 
a  patent  from  Nature  to  be  Apollo's  vicevoj. 
He  cracked  jests,  issued  lampoons,  wrote 
poems  and  plays,  and,  despite  some  great 
blunders,  was  universally  admired  and 
loved.  When  his  comedy  of  '  BeUamira ' 
was  acted,  the  roof  fell  in,  and  a  few,  includ- 
ing the  author,  were  slightly  injured.  When 
a  parasite  told  him  that  the  fire  of  the  play 
had  blown  up  the  poet,  house,  and  aU,  Sedley 
replied,  '  No  ;  the  play  was  so  heavy  that  it 
broke  down  the  house,  and  buried  the  poet  in 
his  own  rubbish,'  Latterly  he  sobered  down, 
entered  parliament,  attended  closely  to  public 
business,  and  became  a  determined  opponent 
of  the  arbitrary  measures  of  James  II.     To 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


this  he  was  stimulated  by  a  personal  reason. 
James  had  seduced  Sedley's  daughter,  and 
made  her  Countess  of  Dorchester.  '  For 
making  my  daughter  a  countess,'  the  father 
said,  '  I  have  helped  to  make  his  daughter ' 
(Mary,  Princess  of  Orange,)  '  a  queen.' 
Scdley,  thus  talking,  acting,  and  writing, 
lived  on  till  he  was  sixty-two  years  of  age. 
He  died  in  1701. 

"  He  has  left  nothing  that  the  world  can 
cherish,  except  some  light  and  graceful  songs, 
sparkling  rather  with  point  than  with  poetry." 
— Gilfillan's  "Less-known  Brit.  Poets,"  vol. 
iii.,  pp.  1,  2. 


THOMAS  FLATMAN. 

Thomas  Flatman,  bom  1633,  died  1672, 
was  a  native  of  Loudon,  educated  at  Oxford, 
skilled  in  law,  painting,  and  poetry.  In  1674 
appeared  a  collection  of  his  poems  and  songs. 
He  composed  Pindaric  Odes  on  the  Earl  of 
Ossory,  Prince  Eupert,  and  Charles  II.  For 
that  on  the  Earl  of  Ossory,  the  Duke  of 
Ormond,  his  father,  presented  the  author  with 
a  diamond  ring  worth  .£100.  It  appears  from 
the  following  bit  of  gossip  of  old  Anthony 
a  Wood,  who  dearly  loves  a  sly  joke,  that 
Master  Flatman,  like  many  bachelors  of 
modem  times,  sometimes  amused  himself  with 
ridiculing  the  connubial  happiness  which  he 
afterwards  gladly  embraced  :  "  This  person  was 
in  his  younger  days  much  against  marriage, 
to  the  dislike  of  his  father,  and  made  a  song 
describing  the  cumbrances  with  it,  beginning 
thus : — 

'  Like  a  dog  with  a  bottle  tyed  close  to  the 

tail. 
Like  a  Tory  in  a  bog,  or  a  thief  in  a  jayle,'  &c. 

But  being  afterwards  smitten  with  a  fair 
virgin  and  more  with  her  fortune,  (unkind 
Anthony !)  did  espouse  her,  Nov.  26,  1672, 
whereupon  his  ingenious  comrades  did  serenade 
him  that  night  with  the  said  song."  Athen. 
Oxon.  Allibone  adds,  "  This  is  just  such  a 
story  as  we  m.ight  expect  from  such  a  crusty  old 
bachelor  as  Anthony  a  Wood."  See  Allibone' s 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


JOHN  QUARLES. 

Of    Francis     Quarles's   numerous    family, 

John  is  alone  remembered.     He  was  a  member 

i        of  Exeter  College,  Oxford ;  he  bore  arms  for 

'        the  king  in  the  garrison  of  the  city.       He 

j        seems  to  have  been  indebted  for  his  education 

to   Archbishop   Usher,   in    whose    house    he 

resided.     Upon  the   decease  of  this  prelate, 

whom  he    loved    sincerely,  he   composed  an 

Elegy  beginning  with  these  beautifixl  lines  : — 

"  Then  weep  no  more :  See  how  his  peaceful 

breast, 
Rock'd  by  the  hand  of  death,  takes  quiet  rest. 
Disturb  him  not ;  but  let  him  sweetly  take 
A  full  repose !  he  hath  been  long  awake." 


The  feet  of  Sion's  watchman  must  have  been 
weary,  says  the  sweet-worded  R.  Aris  Will- 
mott,  and  his  eyes  heavy  with  sleep.  He 
stood  by  his  sovereign  till  the  strength  of  the 
royalists  was  exhausted,  when  he  retired  to 
London  in  a  mean  condition,  and  about  1649 
bade  farewell  to  England  and  weni  abroad. 
Upon  his  return  he  hved  by  literature.  He 
died  in  1665  of  the  plague.  He  wrote  much, 
and  by  many  he  was  esteemed  a  good  poet, 
though  deficient  in  the  power  and  originality 
of  his  father.  But,  says  Willmott  again,  if  he 
had  less  energy  he  had  more  grace.  See  E. 
A.  Willmott's  "  Lives  of  the  Sacred  Poets," 
vol.  i.,  pp.  240,  241. 


JOHN  POMFEET. 

John  Pomfret,  bom  1667,  died  1703,  "  was 
a  clergyman,  and  the  only  work  by  which  he 
is  now  remembered  is  his  poem  of  '  The 
Choice,'  giving  a  sketch  of  such  a  life  of  rural 
and  literary  retirement  as  has  been  the  hoc 
erat  in  votis  of  so  many.  The  images  and 
ideas  are  of  that  nature  that  will  always  come 
home  to  the  heart  and  fancy  of  the  reader ; 
and  it  is  to  this  naturalness  and  accordance 
with  universal  sympathy,  rather  than  to 
anything  very  original  either  in  its  conception 
or  its  execution,  that  the  poem  owes  the  hold 
it  has  so  long  retained  upon  the  attention." 
—Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  267,  268. 


THOMAS  BROWN. 

His  birth  unknown,  but  died  1704. 
"Thomas,  usually  called  Tom  Brown,  was  the 
son  of  a  farmer  at  Shipnel,  in  Sloropshire,  was 
for  some  time  a  schoolmaster  at  Kingston- 
upon- Thames,  but  left  the  ungenial  vocation 
for  the  Hfe  of  a  wit  and  author,  in  London. 
He  was  a  good  linguist,  and  seems  to  have 
rather  wasted  than  wanted  talent." — Camp- 
bell's "  Specimens,"  p.  315.  See  Allibone' s 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  Dr.  Johnson's  "  Life 
of  Dry  den." 


EAEL  OF   DOESET. 

Ear.  of  Dorset,  bom  1637,  died  1706, 
"  wrote  little,"  says  Chambers,  "  but  was  ca- 
pable of  doing  more,  and  being  a  liberal  patron 
of  poets,  was  a  nobleman  highly  popular  in 
his  day.  Coming  very  young  to  the  pos- 
session of  two  plentiful  estates,  and  in  an  age 
when  pleasure  was  more  in  fashion  than  busi- 
ness, he  applied  his  talents  rather  to  books 
and  conversation  than  to  pohtics.  In  the 
first  Dutch  war  he  went  a  volunteer  under  the 
Duke  of  York,  and  wrote  or  finished  a  song 
(his  best  composition,  '  one  of  the  prettiest 
that  ever  was  made,'   according  to  Prior)  the 

night  before  the  naval  engagement  iir  which 

92  * 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fourth  Period.- 


Opdam,  the  Dutch  admiral,  was  blown  up, 
Avith  all  his  crew.  He  was  a  lord  of  the  bed- 
chamber to  Charles  II.,  and  was  chamberlain 
of  the  household  to  WiUiam  and  Mary.  Prior 
relates,  that  when  Dorset,  as  lord  chamber- 
lain, was  obliged  to  take  the  king's  pension 
from  Dryden,  he  allowed  him  an  equivalent 
out  of  his  own  estate.  He  introduced  Butler's 
'  Hudibras '  to  the  notice  of  the  court,  was 
consulted  by  Waller,  and  almost  idolised  by 
Dryden.  Hospitable,  generous,  and  refined, 
we  need  not  wonder  at  the  incense  which  was 
heaped  upon  Dorset  by  his  contemporaries. 
His  works  are  trifling ;  a  few  satires  and  songs 
make  up  the  catalogue.  They  are  elegant, 
and  sometimes  forcible  ;  but  when  a  man  like 
Prior  writes  of  them,  '  there  is  a  lustre  in  his 
verses  like  that  of  the  sun  in  Claude  Lorraine's 
landscapes,'  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck 
with  that  gross  adulation  of  rank  and  fashion 
which  disgraced  the  literature  of  the  age." 


JOHN   SHEFFIELD,    DUKE    OF 
BUCKINGHAMSHIEE. 

"  He  was  associated  in  his  latter  days  with 
the  wits  and  poets  of  the  reign  of  Queen 
Anne,  but  he  properly  belongs  to  the  previous 
age.  He  went  with  Prince  Eupert  against 
the  Dutch,  and  was  afterwards  colonel  of  a 
regiment  of  foot.  In  order  to  learn  the  art  of 
war  under  Marshal  Turenne,  he  made  a  cam- 
paign in  the  French  service.  The  Uterary 
taste  of  Sheffield  was  never  neglected  amidst 
the  din  of  arms,  and  he  made  himself  an  ac- 
complished scholar.  He  was  a  member  of  tlie 
privy  council  of  James  II.,  but  acquiesced  in 
the  Eevolution,  and  was  afterwards  a  member 
of  the  cabinet  council  of  WiUiam  and  Mary, 
Avith  a  pension  of  .£3,000,  Sheffield  is  said 
to  have  '  made  love '  to  Queen  Anne  when 
they  were  both  young,  and  her  majesty  heaped 
honours  on  the  favourite  immediately  on  her 
accession  to  the  throne.  He  was  an  opponent 
of  the  court  of  George  I.,  and  continued  ac- 
tively engaged  in  public  affairs  till  his  death. 
Sheffield  wrote  several  poems  and  copies  of 
verses.  Among  the  former  is  an  '  Essay  on 
Satire,'  which  Dryden  is  reported  to  have 
revised.  His  principal  work,  however,  is  his 
'  Essay  on  Poetry,'  which  received  the  praises 
of  Eoscommon,  Dryden,  and  Pope.  It  is 
written  in  the  heroic  couplet,  and  seems  to 
have  suggested  Pope's  '  Essay  on  Criticism.' 
It  is  of  the  style  of  Denham  and  Eoscommon, 
plain,  perspicuous,  and  sensible,  but  contains 
as  little  true  poetry,  or  less,  than  any  of 
Dryden's  prose  essays." — Chambers's  "  Cyc. 
Eng.  Lit.,"  i.,  378. 


GEOEGE  STEPNEY. 
George    Stepney,   bom    1663,    died 


1707, 


Halifax,  and  owed  his  preferments  to  that 
nobleman.  It  appears,  from  his  verses  on  the 
burning  of  Monmouth's  picture,  that  his 'first 
attachment  was  to  the  Tory  interest,  but  he 
left  them  in  sufficient  time  to  be  rewarded  as 
a  partisan  by  the  Whigs,  and  was  nominated 
to  several  foreign  embassies.  In  this  capacity 
he  went  successively  to  the  Imperial  Court,  to 
that  of  Saxony,  Poland,  and  the  States 
General ;  and  in  all  his  negociations  is  said  to 
have  been  successful.  Some  of  his  political 
tracts  remain  in  Lord  Somers'  collection.  As 
a  poet.  Dr.  Johnson  justly  characterizes  him 
as  equally  deficient  in  the  grace  of  wit  and  the 
vigour  of  nature." — Campbell's  "  Specimens," 
317. 


WILLIAM  WALSH. 

WiUiam  Walsh,  born  1663,  died  1709.  "  He 
was  a  knight  for  his  native  county,  Worces- 
tershire, in  several  parliaments,  and  gentleman 
of  the  horse  to  Queen  Anne,  under  the  Duke 
of  Somerset.  Though  a  friend  to  the  Eevo- 
lution, he  was  kind  to  Dryden,  who  praised 
him,  as  Pope  must  have  done,  merely  from  the 
motive  of  personal  gratitude ;  for  except  his 
encouragement  of  the  early  genius  of  Pope,  he 
seems  to  have  no  claim  to  remembrance.'" 
— Campbell's  "Specimens,"  p.  320. 


EOBEET  GOULD. 

Little  is  known  of  this  Avriter  beyond  his 
having  been  a  domestic  of  the  Earl  of  Dorset 
and  afterwards  a  schoolmaster.  He  wrote 
two  dramas,  "  The  Eival  Sisters,"  and  "  In- 
nocence Distressed." 


DE.  WALTEE  POPE. 

His  birth-day  is  unknown.  "  He  was  the 
junior  proctor  of  Oxford  in  1658,  when  a  con- 
troversy took  place  respecting  the  wearing  of 
hoods  and  caps,  which  the  reigning  party 
considered  as  the  relics  of  Popery.  Our 
proctor,  however,  so  stoutly  opposed  the 
revolutionists  on  this  momentous  point,  that 
the  venerable  caps  and  hoods  continued  to  be 
worn  till  the  Eestoration.  This  affair  he  used 
to  caU  the  most  glorious  action  of  his  life. 
Dr.  Pope  was,  however,  a  man  of  wit  and  in- 
formation, and  one  of  the  first  chosen  fellows 
of  the  Eoyal  Society.  He  succeeded  Sir 
Christopher  Wren  as  Professor  of  Astronomy 
in  Gresham  College." — CampbeU's  "  Speci- 
mens," p.  322. 


was  the  youthful  friend  of  Montague,  Earl  of 


Thomas 
Shaw    correctly 


THOMAS  OTWAY. 
Otway,    born    1G51, 


states    that. 


died    1685. 
"  among    the 


Fi'om  1649  to  1689.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


exclusive    tragic     dramatists      of     the    age 
of     Dryden     the     first     place     belongs     to 
Thomas   Otway,   who    died,    after   a  life   of 
wretchedness  and  irregularity,  at  the   early 
age  of   thirty-four.      He   received   a  regular 
education  at  Winchester  School  and  Oxford, 
and  very  early  embraced  the  profession  of  the 
actor,  for  which  he  had  no  natural  aptitude, 
but  v/liich  familiarized    him    with   the  tech- 
nical requirements  of  theatrical  ^vriting.     He 
produced  in  the   earlier  part  of   his    career 
three   tragedies,  '  Alcibiades,'  '  Don   Carlos,' 
and    '  Titus  and    Berenice,'    which   may   be 
regarded  as  his  first  trial-pieces ;  and  about 
1677  he  served  some   time  in  a  dragoon  re- 
giment in  Flanders,   to   which  he  had  been 
appointed    by  the   protection    of    a   patron. 
Dismissed  from  his  post   in  consequence  of 
irregularities  of  conduct,  he  returned  to  the 
stage,  and  in  the  j^ears  extending  from  1680 
to  his  death,  he  wrote  four  more  tragedies, 
'  Caius   Marcius,'    the  /Orphan,'    the    'Sol- 
dier's    Fortune,'     and    '  Venice    Preserved.' 
All  these  works,  with  the  exception  of  the 
'  Orphan '  and  '  Venice  Preserved,'   are  now 
nearly  forgotten ;  but  the  glory  of  Otway  is 
so  firmly  established  upon  these  latter,  that 
it  will  probably  endure  as  long  as  the  language 
itself.       The  life  of  this  unfortunate  poet  was 
an  uninterrupted  series  of  poverty  and  dis- 
tress  ;    and   his  death   has   frequently  been 
cited  as  a  striking  instance  of   the  miseries 
of   a    literary   career.      It    is   related    that, 
when  almost   starving,  the   poet   received    a 
guinea  from  a  charitable  friend,  on  which  he 
rushed  off  to  a  baker's  shop,  bought  a  roll, 
and  was  choked  while  ravenously  sav  allowing 
the  first  mouthful.      It  is  not  quite  certain 
whether  this  painful  anecdote  is  strictly  true, 
but  it  is  incontestable  that  Otway' s  end,  like 
his  life,  was  miserable.     How  far  his  misfor- 
tunes were  unavoidable,  and  how  far  attribu- 
table to  the  poet's  own  improvidence,  it  is 
now  impossible  to  determine.      Otway,    like 
Chatterton,  like  Gilbert,  like  Tasso,  and  like 
Cervantes,  is  generally  adduced  as  an  example 
of  the   miserable  end  of  genius,  and  of  the 
world's    ingratitude    to    its    greatest    bene- 
factors. 

"  As  a  tragic  dramatist  Otway' s  most 
striking  merit  is  his  pathos ;  and  he  pos- 
sesses in  a  high  degree  the  power  of  uniting 
pathetic  emotion  with  the  expression  of  the 
darker  and  more  ferocious  passions.  The 
distress  in  his  pieces  is  carried  to  that  intense 
and  almost  hysterical  pitch  which  we  see 
so  frequently  in  Ford  and  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  and  so  rarely  in  Shakspere.  The 
suflferings  of  Monimia  in  the  '  Orphan '  and 
the  moral  agonies  inflicted  upon  Belvidera  in 
'  Venice  Preserved,'  are  carried  to  the  highest 
pitch,  but  we  see  tokens  of  the  essentially 
second-rate  quality  of  Ot way's  genius  the 
moment  he  attempts  to  delineate  madness. 
Belvidera' s  ravings  are  the  expression  of  a 
disordered  fancy,  and  not,  like  those  of  Lear 


or  of  Ophelia,  the  lurid  flashes  of  reason  and 
consciousness  lighting  up  for  an  instant  the 
tossings  of  a  mind  agitated  to  its  profoundest 
depths.      In  'Venice  Preserved'   Otway  has 
not  attempted  to  preserve  historical  accuracy, 
but  he  has   succeeded   in   producing  a  very 
exciting  and  animated  plot,  in  which  the  weak' 
and  uxorious  Jaffier  is  well  contrasted  with 
the  darker  traits  of  his  friend  and  fellow-con- 
spirator Pierre,  and  the  inhuman  harshness       | 
and  cruelty  of  the  Senator  Priuli  with  the       I 
ruffianly    thirst   for    blood    and   plunder    in 
Eenault.     The  frequent  declamatory  scenes, 
reminding    the    reader    of     Dryden,    as   for 
instance  the   quarrels    and    reconciliation  of 
Pierre  and  Jaffier,  the  execution  of  the  two 
friends,    and   the   despair   of   Belvidera,    are 
worked  up  to  a  high  degree   of   excellence ; 
and  Otway,  with  the  true  instinct  of  dramatic 
fitness,  has  introduced,   as   elements   of  the 
deep  distress  into  which  he  has  plunged  his 
principal  characters,  many  of  those  familiar 
and  domestic    details    from  which  the   high 
classical  dramatist  would  have  shrunk  as  too 
ignoble.     Otway  in  many  scenes  of  this  play 
has  introduced   what  may  be  almost   called 
comic  matter,  as  in  the  amorous  dotage  of  the 
impotent    old    senator    and    the    courtesan 
Aquilina;  but  these,  though  powerfully  and 
naturally  delineated,    are   of   too   disgusting 
and  odious  a  nature  to  be  fit  subjects  for  re- 
presentation.    Otway' s  style  is  vigorous  and 
racy  ;  the  reader  will  incessantly*  be  reminded 
of   Dryden,  though   the   author   of    'Venice 
Preserved '  is  far  superior  to  his  great  master 
in  the  quality  of  pathos ;  and  in  reading  his 
best  passages  we  are  perpetually  struck  by  a 
sort  of  flavour  of  Ford,  Heywood,  Beaumont, 
and  other  great  masters  of  the  Elizabethan 
era,"     See  Chambers,  vol.  i.,  p.  386  ;   Camp- 
bell's "  Specimens." 


NATHANIEL  LEE. 

"  A  tragic  poet  who  not  only  had  the  honour 
of  assisting  Dryden  in  the  composition  of 
several  of  his  pieces,  but  who,  in  spite  of 
adverse  circumstances,  and  in  particular  of 
several  attacks  of  insanity,  one  of  which 
necessitated  his  confinement  during  four  years 
in  Bedlam,  possessed  and  deserved  a  high 
reputation  for  genius.  He  was  educated  at 
Westminster  School  and  Cambridge,  and  was 
by  profession  an  actor :  he  died  in  extreme 
poverty  in  1692.  His  original  dramatic 
works  consist  of  eleven  tragedies,  the  most 
celebrated  of  which  is  '  The  Eival  Queens,' 
or  '  Alexander  the  Great,'  in  which  the 
heroic  extravagance  of  the  Macedonian  con- 
queror is  relieved  by  amorous  complications 
arising  from  the  attachment  of  the  two 
strongly-opposed  characters  of  Eoxana  and 
Statira.  Among  his  other  works  may  be 
enumerated       '  Theodosius,'      '  Mithridatas,' 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


and  the  pathetic  drama  of  '  Lucius  Junius 
Brutus,'  the  interest  of  which  turns  on  the 
condemnation  of  the  son  by  the  father.  In  all 
these  plays  we  find  a  sort  of  Avild  and  exag'ge- 
rated  tone  of  imag-ery,  sometimes  reminding 
us  of  Marlow ;  but  Lee  is  far  superior  in  ten- 
derness to  the  author  of  Faustus,  nay  in  this 
respect  he  surpasses  Dryden.  In  the  beau- 
tiful but  feverish  bursts  of  declamatory 
eloquence  which  are  frequent  in  Lee's  plays, 
it  is  possible  to  trace  something  of  that 
violence  and  exaggeration  which  are  perhaps 
derived  from  the  tremendous  malady  of  which 
he  was  so  long  a  victim." — Shaw's  "  Hist. 
Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  262,  263;  See  CampbeU's 
"  Specimens." 


JOHN  CEOWNE. 

Was  patronized  by  Eochester.  He  wrote 
seventeen  pieces,  two  of  which,  says  Cham- 
bers, "  evince  considerable  talent." 


THOMAS  SHADWELL. 

A  popular  rival  and  enemy  of  Dryden,  who 
wrote  many  plays  in  which  he  took  for  his 
model  Ben  Jonson.  He  possessed  consi- 
derable comic  powers.  When  the  revolution 
was  in  the  ascendant  and  threw  Dryden  into 
the  shade,  ShadweU  received  the  office  of 
Poet  Laureate.  See  Chambers,  "  Cycl.  Eng. 
Lit.,"  vol.  i.,  p.  392. 


SIE  GEOEGE  ETHEEEGE. 
Sir  George  Etherege,  born  1636,  died  1694, 
^vrote  a  very  sprightly  comic  drama,  "  Man  of 
Mode,  or  Sir  Fopling  Flutter."  He  was  a  gay 
libertine,  and  whilst  leaving  a  festive  party 
one  evening  at  his  house  in  Eatisbon,  where 
he  resided  as  British  plenipotentiary,  he  fell 
down  the  stairs  and  killed  himself.  See 
Chambers,  vol.  i.,  pp.  392,  393.  * 


WILLIAM  WYCHEELEY. 

"  The  greatest  of  the  comic  dramatists  was 
William  Wycherley,  bom  in  the  year  1640, 
in  Shropshire,  where  his  father  possessed  a 
handsome  property.  Though  bred  to  the  law, 
Wycherley  did  not  practise  his  profession,  but 
lived  gaily  '  upon  town.'  Pope  says  he  had 
a  '  true  nobleman  look,'  and  he  was  one  of 
the  favourites  of  the  abandoned  Duchess  of 
Clevoland,  He  wrote  various  comedies,  '  Love 
in  a  Wood,'  1672  ;  the  '  Gentleman  Dancing 
Master,'  1673;  the  'Country  Wife,'  1675; 
and  the  'Plain  Dealer,'  1677.  In  1704  he 
published  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems, 
of  which  it  has  been  said,  '  the  style  and  ver- 
sification are  beneath  criticism;  the  morals 
are  those  of  Eochester.*       In  advanced  age, 


Wycherley  continued  to  exhibit  the  follies  and 
vices  of  youth.  His  name,  however,  stood 
high  as  a  dramatist,  and  Pope  was  pro  ad  to 
receive  the  notice  of  the  author  of  the 
'  Country  Wife.'  Their  published  corre- 
spondence is  well  known,  and  is  interesting 
from  the  marked  superiority  maintained  in 
their  intercourse  by  the  boy-poet  of  sixteen 
over  his  mentor  of  sixty-four.  The  pupil 
grew  too  great  for  his  master,  and  the  unna- 
tural friendship  was  dissolved.  At  the  age 
of  seventy-five,  Wycherley  married  a  young 
girl,  in  order  to  defeat  the  expectations  of  his 
nephew,  and  died  ten  days  afterwards,  in 
December,  1715.  The  subjects  of  most  of 
Wycherley' s  plays  were  borrowed  from  the 
Spanish  or  French  stage.  He  wrought  up  his 
dialogues  and  scenes  with  great  care,  and 
with  considerable  liveliness  and  wit,  but 
without  sufficient  attention  to  character  or 
probability.  Destitute  himself  of  moral  feel- 
ing or  propriety  of  conduct,  his  characters  are 
equally  objectionable,  and  his  once  fashionable 
plays  may  be  said  to  be  '  quietly  inurned '  in 
their  own  corruption  and  profligacy." — Cham- 
bers, "Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  i.,  p.  393. 


MES.  APHEA  BEHN. 

Chambers  rightly  says  in  the  first  volume 
of  his  excellent  "  Cyclopsedia,"  p.  393,  that "  a 
female  Wycherley  appeared  in  Mrs.  Aphra 
Behn,  celebrated  in  her  day  under  the  name 
of  Astraea. 

"  The  comedies  of  Mrs.  Behn  are  grossly 
indelicate  ;  and  of  the  whole  seventeen  which 
she  wrote  (besides  various  novels  and  poems), 
not  one  is  now  read  or  remembered.  The  his- 
tory of  Mrs.  Behn  is  remarkable.  She 
was  daughter  of  the  governor  of  Surinam, 
where  she  resided  some  time,  and  became 
acquainted  with  Prince  Oroonoko,  on  whose 
story  she  founded  a  novel,  that  supplied 
Southeme  with  materials  for  a  tragedy  on  the 
unhappy  fate  of  the  African  prince.  She  was 
employed  as  a  political  spy  by  Charles  II., 
and,  while  residing  at  Antwerp,  she  was 
enabled,  by  the  aid  of  her  lovers  and  admirers, 
to  give  information  to  the  British  government 
as  to  the  intended  Dutch  attack  on  Chatham. 
She  died  in  1689."  Pope,  by  no  means  fas- 
tidious, yet  rebukes  Mrs.  Behn  in  a  well- 
known  couplet : — 

"  The  stage  how  loosely  does  Astrsea  tread," 
&c. 

The  "  Biog.  Dram."  says  :  "  It  is  no  wonder 
that  her  wit  should  gain  her  the  esteem  of 
Mr.  Dryden,  Mr.  Southeme,  and  other  men 
of  genius.     Cotton  sings : 

'  But  when  you  write  of  love,  Astraea,  then 
Love  dips  his  arrows  where  you  wet  your  pen. 
Such  charming  lines  did  never  paper  grace ; 
Soft  asyour  sex,and  smooth  as  beauty's  face.' " 


1 

^                      rOFETH 

< 

PEEIOD. 

i' 

From  1649  to  1689. 

540.— OF  MYSELF. 

Eliza  till  this  hour  might  reign. 

Had  she  not  evil  counsels  ta'en. 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie 

Fundamental  laws  she  broke, 

Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

And  still  new  favourites  she  chose, 

Some  honour  I  would  have. 

Till  up  in  arms  my  passions  rose, 

Not  from  great  deeds,  but  good  alone ; 

And  cast  away  her  yoke. 

Th'  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known  : 

Rumour  can  ope  the  grave. 

Mary  then,  and  gentle  Anne, 

AcqufiiTitance    I    would    have,    but    when't 

Both  to  reign  at  once  began; 

depends 

Alternately  they  sway'd. 

Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice,  of  friends. 

And  sometimes  Mary  was  the  fair, 

And  sometimes  Anne  the  crown  did  wear, 

Books  should,  not  business,  entertain  the  light, 

And  sometimes  both  I  obey'd. 

And  sleep,  as  undisturb'd  as  death,  the  night. 

My  house  a  cottage  more 

Another  Mary  then  arose, 

Than  palace  ;  and  should  fitting  be 

And  did  rigorous  laws  impose  j 

For  all  my  use,  no  luxu^3^ 

A  mighty  tyrant  she  ! 

My  garden  painted  o'er 

Long,  alas  !  should  I  have  been 

With  Nature's  hand,  not  Art's ;  and  pleasures 

Under  that  iron-sceptred  queen, 

yield, 

Had  not  Rebecca  set  me  free. 

Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 

Thus  would  I  double  my  life's  fading  space ; 

'Twas  then  a  golden  time  with  me : 

For  he,  that  runs  it  well,  twice  runs  his  race. 

But  soon  those  pleasures  fied ; 

And  in  this  true  delight. 

For  the  gracious  princess  dy'd, 

These  unbought  sports,  this  happy  state. 

In  her  youth  and  beauty's  pride, 

I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish,  my  fate  ; 

And  Judith  reigned  in  her  stead. 

But  boldly  say  each  night, 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display. 

One  month,  three  days,  and  half  an  hour. 

Or  in  clouds  hide  them ;  I  have  liyd  to-day. 

Judith  held  the  sovereign  pOwer  : 
Wondrous  beautiful  her  face ; 

Abraham  Cowley.— Born  1618,  Died  1667. 

But  so  wgak  and  small  her  wit. 
That  she  to  govern  was  unfit, 

And  so  Susanna  took  her  place. 

541.— THE  CHRONICLE. 

But  when  Isabella  came, 

Arm'd  with  a  resistless  flame, 

A    BALTiAD. 

And  th'  artillery  of  her  eye  ; 
Whilst  she  proudly  march' d  about. 

Margarita  first  possest, 

Greater  conquests  to  find  out, 

If  I  remember  well,  my  breast, 
Margarita  first  of  aU ; 

She  beat  out  Susan  by  the  by. 

But  when  awhile  the  wanton  maid 

But  in  her  place  I  then  obey'd 

With  my  restless  heart  had  play'd, 

Black-ey'd  Bess,  her  viceroy-maid. 

Martha  took  the  flying  ball. 

To  whom  ensued  a  vacancy : 
Thousand  worse  passions  then  possest 

Martha  soon  did  it  resign 

The  interregnum  of  my  breast ; 

To  the  beauteous  Catharine. 

Bless  me  from  such  an  anarchy  ! 

Beauteous  Catharine  gave  place 

(Though  loth  and  angry  she  to  part 

Gentle  Henrietta  then, 

With  the  possession  of  my  heart) 

And  a  third  Mary,  next  began  ; 

To  Eliza's  conquering  face. 

Then  Joan,  and  Jane,  and  Audria ; 

Abraham  Cowley.] 


ANACREONTICS. 


[Fourth  jb*ERioD. 


And  then  a  pretty  Thomasine, 
And  then  another  Catharine, 
And  then  a  long  et  ccvtera. 

But  should  I  now  to  you  relate 

The  strength  and  riches  of  their  state 
The  powder,  patches,  and  the  pins, 
The  ribbons,  jewels,  and  the  rings, 
The  lace,  the  paint,  and  warlike  things, 
That  make  up  all  their  magazines  ; 

If  I  should  tell  the  politic  arts 

To  take  and  keep  men's  hearts  ; 
The  letters,  embassies,  and  spies, 
The  frowns,  and  smiles,  and  flatteries, 
The  quarrels,  tears,  and  perjuries, 

Numberless,  nameless,  mysteries  ! 

And  all  the  little  lime-twigs  laid. 

By  Machiavel  the  waiting-maid  ; 
I  more  voluminous  should  grow 
(Chiefly  if  I  like  them  should  tell 
All  change  of  weathers  that  befell) 
Than  Holinshed  or  Stow. 

But  I  \nll  briefer  Avith  them  be, 

Since  few  of  them  were  long  with  me. 
An  higher  and  a  nobler  strain 

Tvly  present  empress  does  claim, 

Heleonora,  first  o'  th'  name  ; 

Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign  ! 

Ahrana7n  Coivlcy. — Born  1618,  Died  1667. 


542.— ANACREONTICS, 

OR   SOME    COPIES    OF   VERSES,     TRANSLATED 
PARAFHRASTICALLY   OUT  OF  ANACREON. 

DRINKING. 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain. 
And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again, 
The  plants  suck-in  the  earth,  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and  fair ; 
The  sea  itself  (which  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink) 
Drinks  twice  ten  thousand  rivers  jip, 
So  fiU'd  that  they  o'erflow  the  cup. 
The  busy  Sun  (and  one  would  guess 
By's  drunken  fiery  face  no  less) 
Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he  'as  done, 
The  Moon  and  Stars  drink  up  the  Sun  : 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light ; 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 
Nothing  in  nature  's  sober  found, 
But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 
Fill  up  the  bowl,  then,  fill  it  high, 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there  ;  for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I ; 
Wliy.  man  of  morals,  tell  me  why  ? 

AGE. 

Oft  am  I  by  the  women  told, 
Poor  Anacreon  !  thou  grow'st  old  : 
Look  how  thy  hairs  are  falling  all : 
Poop  Anacreon,  how  they  fall : 


Whether  I  grow  old  or  no, 
By  th'  effects,  I  do  not  know ; 
This,  I  know,  without  being  told, 
'Tis  time  to  live,  if  I  grow  old ; 
'Tis  time  short  pleasures  now  to  take, 
Of  little  life  the  best  to  make, 
And  manage  wisely  the  last  stake. 

GOLD. 

A  mighty  pain  to  love  it  is. 

And  'tis  a  pain  that  pain  to  miss  ; 

But,  of  all  pains,  the  greatest  pain 

It  is  to  love,  but  love  in  vain. 

Virtue  now,  nor  noble  blood. 

Nor  wit  by  love  is  understood  ; 

Gold  alone  does  passion  move, 

Gold  monopolizes  love. 

A  curse  on  her,  and  on  the  man 

Who  this  traffic  first  began  ! 

A  curse  on  him  who  found  the  ore  ! 

A  curse  on  him  who  digg'd  the  store  ! 

A  curse  on  him  who  did  refine  it ! 

A  curse  on  him  who  first  did  coin  it ! 

A  curse,  all  curses  else  above, 

On  him  who  us'd  it  first  in  love  ! 

Gold  begets  in  brethren  hate ; 

Gold  in  families  debate ; 

Gold  does  friendships  separate ; 

Gold  does  civil  wars  create. 

These  the  smallest  harms  of  it ! 

Gold,  alas  !  does  love  beget. 

THE  EPICURE. 

Fill  the  bowl  with  rosy  wine ! 
Around  our  temples  roses  tAvine  ! 
And  let  us  cheerfully  awhile, 
Like  the  wine  and  roses,  smile. 
Crown' d  with  roses,  we  contemn 
Gj'ges'  wealthy  diadem. 
To-day  is  ours,  what  do  we  fear  ? 
To-day  is  ours ;  we  have  it  here  : 
Let's  treat  it  kindly,  that  it  may 
Wish  at  least,  with  us  to  stay. 
Let's  banish  business,  banish  sorrow ; 
To  the  gods  belongs  to-morrow. 

ANOTHER. 

Underneath  this  myrtle  shade, 

On  flowery  beds  supinely  laid, 

With  odorous  oils  my  head  o'er-flowing, 

And  around  it  roses  growing. 

What  should  i'  do  but  drink  away 

The  heat  and  troubles  of  the  day.-* 

In  this  more  than  kingly  state 

Love  himself  shall  on  me  wait. 

Fill  to  me.  Love  ;  nay  fill  it  up  ; 

And  mingled  cast  into  the  cup 

Wit,  and  mirth,  and  noble  fires, 

Vigorous  health  and  gay  desii-es. 

The  wheel  of  life  no  less  will  stay 

In  a  smooth  than  rugged  way  : 

Since  it  equally  dotli  floe, 

Let  the  motion  pleasant  be. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


AGAINST  HOPE. 


[Abraham  Cowley. 


Why  do  we  precious  ointments  show'r  ? 

AU  thy  art  could  never  pay 

Nobler  wines  why  do  we  pour  ? 

What  thou  hast  ta'en  from  me  away. 

Beauteous  flowers  why  do  we  spread, 

Cruel  bird  !  thou'st  ta'en  away 

Upon  the  monuments  of  the  dead  ? 

A  dream  out  of  my  arms  to-day : 

Nothing  they  but  dust  can  show, 

A  dream,  that  ne'er  must  equaU'd  be 

Or  bones  that  hasten  to  be  so. 

By  aU  that  waking  eyes  may  see. 

Crown  me  with  roses  whilst  I  live, 

Thou,  this  damage  to  repair,           —    — 

Now  your  wines  and  ointments  give  ; 

Nothing  half  so  sweet  or  fair. 

After  death  I  nothing  crave, 

Nothing-  half  so  good,  canst  bring, 

Let  me  alive  my  pleasures  have, 

Though  men  say  thou  bring' st  the  Spring. 

All  are  Stoics  in  the  grave. 

Abraham  Coidey.—Born  1618,  Died  1667. 

THE   GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  Insect !  what  can  be 

In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine. 

The  dewy  Morning's  gentle  wine  ! 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 

'Tis  fiU'd  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 

Nature's  self  's  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing; 

Happier  than  the  happiest  king ! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants,  belong  to  thee  ; 

All  that  summer-hours  produce, 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plow  ; 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 

Thou  dost  innocently  joy ; 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy ; 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripen' d  year  1 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth. 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect,  happy  thou  ! 

Dost  neither  age  nor  ^vinter  know  ; 

But,  when  thou'st   drunk,   and  danced,  and 

sung 
Thy  fiU,  the  flow'ry  leaves  among, 
(Voluptuous,  and  wise  withal, 
Epicurean  animal !) 
Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 
Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 


THE  SWALLOW. 

Foolish  Prater,  what  dost  thou 
So  early  at  my  window  do, 
With  thy  tuneless  serenade  ? 
WeU  't  had  been  had  Tereus  made 
Thee  as  dumb  as  Philomel ; 
There  his  knife  had  done  but  well. 
In  thy  undiscovered  nest 
Thou  dost  all  the  winter  rest. 
And  dreamest  o'er  thy  summer  joys. 
Free  from  the  stormy  seasons'  noise. 
Free  from  th'  iU  thou'st  done  to  me  : 
Who  disturbs  or  seeks-out  thee  ? 
Hadst  thou  aU  the  charming  notes 
Of  the  wood's  poetic  throats. 


543.— AGAINST  HOPE. 

Hope  !  whose  weak  being  ruin'd  is, 
Alike,  if  it  succeed,  and  if  it  miss ; 
Whom  good  or  iU  does  equally  confound, 
And  both  the  horns  of  Fate's  dilemma  wound : 
Vain  shadow !  which  does  vanish  quite, 
Both  at  full  noon  and  perfect  night ! 
The  stars  have  not  a  possibility 

Of  blessing  thee ; 
If  things  then  from  their  end  we  happy  call, 
'Tis  hope  is  the  most  hopeless  thing  of  all. 

Hope  !  thou  bold  taster  of  delight, 

Who,  whilst  thou  shouldst  but  taste,  devour' st 
it  quite ! 

Thou  bring' st   us   an   estate,  yet  leav'st   us 
poor. 

By  clogging  it  with  legacies  before  ! 

The  joys  which  we  entire  should  wed. 
Come  deflower' d  virgins  to  our  bed ; 

Good  foi-tunes  without  gain  imported  be, 

Such  mighty  custom 's  paid  to  thee. 

For  joy,  like  wine,  kept  close  does  better  taste  ; 

If  it  take  air  before,  its  spirits  waste. 

Hope  !  Fortune's  cheating  lottery ! 
Where  for  one  prize  an  hundred  blanks  there 

be; 
Fond  archer,  Hope  !  who  tak'st  thy  aim  so  far, 
That  still  or  short  or  wide  thine  arrows  are  ! 

Thin,  empty  cloud,  which  th'  eye  deceives 

With  shapes  that  our  own  fancy  gives  ! 
A  cloud,  which  gilt  and  painted  now  appears. 

But  must  drop  presently  in  tears  ! 
When   thy   false   beams   o'er   Reason's   light 

prevail. 
By  ignes  fatui  for  north-stars  we  sail. 

Brother  of  Fear,  more  gayly  clad ! 
The  merrier  fool  o'  th'  two,  yet  quite  as  mad : 
Sire  of  Eepentance  !  child  of  fond  Desire ! 
That   blow'st  the  chymics',  and  the   lovers' 
fire, 

Leading  then  stiU  insensibly  on 

By  the  strange  witchcraft  of  "  anon !  " 
By  thee  the  one  does  changing  Nature,  through 

Hor  endless  labyrinths  pursue  ; 
And  th'  other  chases  woman,  whilst  she  goes 
More   ways  and  turns   than   hunted   Nature 
knows. 

Ahraham  Cov:ley. — Born  1618,  Bled  1667. 


Abeaham  CoWLfeY.] 


FOR  HOPE. 


[FoTJKTH  Period. — 


544.— FOE  HOPE. 

Hope  !  of  all  ills  that  men  endure, 

The  only  cheap  and  universal  cure  ! 

Thou  captive's  freedom,  and  thou  sick  man's 

health  ! 
Thou  loser's  victory,  and  thou  beg-gar's  wealth ! 
Thou  manna,  which  from  Heaven  we  eat, 
To  every  taste  a  several  meat ! 
Thou  strong-  retreat !  thou  sure-entail'd  estate, 
Which  nought  has  power  to  alienate  ! 
Thou  pleasant,  honest  flatterer  !  for  none 
Flatter  unhappy  men,  but  thou  alone ! 

Hope  !  thou  first-fniits  of  happiness  ! 
Thou  gentle  dawning  of  a  bright  success  ! 
Thou  good  preparative,  without  which  our  joy 
Does   work  too  strong,  and,  whilst  it  cures, 
destroy ! 

Who  out  of  Fortune's  reach  dost  stand, 

And  art  a  blessing  stni  m  hand  ! 
Wliilst  thee,  her  earnest-money,  we  retain, 

We  certain  are  to  gain, 
Wliether  she  her  bargain  break  or  else  fulfil ; 
Tliou  only  good,  not  worse  for  ending  ill ! 

Brother  of  Faith !  't\vixt  whom  and  thee 
The  joys  of  Heaven  and  Earth  divided  be  ! 
Though  Faith  be  heir,  and  have  the  fixt  estate, 
Thy  portion  yet  in  moveables  is  great. 

Happiness  itseK  's  all  one 

In  thee,  or  in  possession  ! 
Only  the  future's  thine,  the  present  his  ! 

Tliine's  the  more  hard  and  noble  bliss  : 
Best  apprehender  of  our  joys  !  which  hast 
So  long  a  reach,  and  yet  canst  hold  so  fast ! 

Hope  !  thou  sad  lover's  only  friend ! 
Thou  Way,  that  mayst  dispute  it   with  the 

End! 
For  love,  I  fear,  's  a  fruit  that  does  dehght 
The  taste  itself  less  than  the  smell  and  sight. 

Fruition  more  deceitful  is 

Than  thou  canst  be,  when  thou  dost  miss  ; 
Men  leave  thee  by  obtaining,  and  straight  flee 

Some  other  way  again  to  thee  ; 
And  that's  a  pleasant  country,  without  doubt. 
To  which  all  soon  return  that  travel  out. 

Abraham  Cowley. — Boroi  1618,  Died  1667. 


545-  — CLAUDIAN'S  OLD    MAN  OF 
VERONA. 

BE  BENE    VERONENSI,    QUI    SUBUEBIUM 
NUNQUAM  EQRESSUS  EST. 

Felix,  qui  patriis,  &c. 

Happy  the  man,   who  his  whole   time   doth 

bound 
Within  th'  enclosure  of  his  little  ground. 
Happy  the  man,  whom  the  same  humble  place 
(Th'  hereditary  cottage  of  his  race) 
From  his  first  rising  infancy  has  known, 
And  by  degrees  sees  gently  bending  down, 


With  natural  propension,  to  that  earth 
Which  both  preserv'd  his  life,  and  gave  hiir 

birth. 
Him  no  false  distant  lights,  by  fortunes  set, 
Could  ever  into  fooHsh  wanderings  get. 
He  never  danger  either  saw  or  fear'd ; 
The  dreadful  storms  at  sea  he  never  heard. 
He  never  heard  the  shrill  alarms  of  war, 
Or  the  worse  noises  of  the  lawyers'  bar. 
No  change  of  consuls  marks  to  him  the  year, 
The  change  of  seasons  is  his  calendar. 
The  cold  and  heat,  winter  and  summer  shows ; 
Autumn  by  fruits,  and  spring  by  flowers,  ho 

knows 
He   measures  time  by  land-marks,   and  has 

found 
For  the  whole  day  the  dial  of  his  ground. 
A  neighbouring  wood,  bom   with  himself,  he 

sees. 
And  loves  his  old  contemporary  trees. 
He  'as  only  heard  of  near  Verona's   name, 
And  knows  it,  Hke  the  Indies,  but  by  fame. 
Does  with  a  like  concernment  notice  take 
Of  the  Red-sea,   and  of  Benacus'  lake. 
Thus   health   and  strength  he  to  a  third  age 

enjoys. 
And  sees  a  long  posterity  of  boys. 
About  the  spacious  world  let  others  roam. 
The  voyage,  life,  is  longest  made  at  home. 

Abraham  Cowley.— Born  1618,  Died  1667. 


546.— THE  WISH. 

Well,  then ;  I  now  do  plainly  see 

This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree  ; 

The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 

Does  of  all  meats  the  soonest  cloy  ; 

And  they,  methinks,  deserve  my  pity, 
Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings, 
The  crowd,  and  buzz,  and  murmurings, 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city. 

Ah,  yet,  ere  I  descend  to  th'  grave, 
May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have  ! 
And  a  few  friends,  and  many  books,  both  true, 

Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too  ! 

And,  since  love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, 
A  mistress  moderately  fair 
And  good,  as  guardian-angels  are, 

Only  belov'd,  and  loving  me ! 

Oh,  fountains  !  when  in  you  shall  I 
Myself,  eas'd  of  unpeaceful  thoughts,  espy  ? 
Oh  fields  !  oh  woods !    when,  when  shall  I  bo 
made 

The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade  ? 

Here's  the  spring-head  of  Pleasure's  flood; 
Where  all  the  riches  lie,  that  she 

Has  coin'd  and  stamp'd  for  good. 

Pride  and  ambition  here 
Only  in  far-fetch' d  metaphors  appear  ; 
Hero  nought  but  winds  can  hurtful  mui-murs 
scatter. 

And  nought  but  Echo  flatter. 


I 

I 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


FEOM  THE  PINDAEIC  ODES. 


[Abraham  Cowley. 


The  gods,  when  they  descended  hither 
From  Heaven,  did  ahvays  chuse  their  way ; 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say, 

That  'tis  the  way  too  thither. 

How  happy  here  should  I, 
And  one  dear  she,  live,  and  embracing  die  ! 
She,  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude 

In  deserts  solitude. 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear — 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see, 
Should  hither  throng  to  Hve  like  me, 

And  so  make  a  city  here. 

Abraham  Coivley.—Bom  1618,  Died  1667. 


547.— FEOM  THE   "  HYMN  TO  LIGHT." 

#  #  « 

Say,  from  what  golden  quivers  of  the  sky 
Do  all  thy  winged  arrows  fly  ? 
Swiftness    and    Power    by    birth    are 
thine: 
From  thy  great  sire  they  came,  thy  sire,  the 
Word  Divine. 


Thou  in  the  Moon's  bright  chariot,  proud 
and  gay. 
Dost  thy  ijright  wood  of  stars  survey ; 
And  all  the  year  dost  with  thee  bring 
Of  thousand  flowery  lights   thine  own  noc- 
turnal spring. 

Thou,  Scythian-like,  dost  round  thy  lands 
above 
The  Sun's  gilt  tent  for  ever  move. 
And  still,  as  thou  in  pomp  dost  go. 
The  shining  pageants  of  the  world  attend  thy 
show. 

Nor  amidst  all  these  triumphs  dost  thou 
scorn 
The  humble  glow-worms  to  adorn, 
And  -svith  those  living  spangles  gild 
(0  greatness  without  pride  !)  the  bushes  of 
the  field. 

Night   and  her    ugly   subjects  thou  dost 
fright, 
And  Sleep,  the  lazy  owl  of  night ; 
Asham'd,  and  fearful  to  appear. 
They  screen  their  horrid  shapes  with  the  black 
hemisphere. 

With  them  there  hastes,  and  wildly  takes 
th'  alarm. 
Of  painted  dreams  a  busy  swarm  : 
At  the  first  opening  of  thine  eye 
The  various  clusters  break,  the  antic  atoms 

fly. 


At  thy  appearance,  Grief  itself  is  said 

To   shake   his   wings,    and   rouse    his 

head : 
And  cloudy  Care  has  often  took 
A   gentle   beamy   smile,   reflected    from   thy 
look. 


When,  goddess!  thou  lift' st  up  thy  waken'd 
head, 
Out  of  the  morning's  pxirple  bed, 
Thy  quire  of  birds  about  thee  play. 
And  all  the  joyful  world  salutes  the  rising 
day. 


All  the  world's  bravery,  that  delights  our 
eyes. 
Is  but  thy  several  liveries ; 
Thou  the  rich  dye  on  them  bestow' st. 
Thy  nimble  pencil  paints   this  landscape  as 
thou  go'st. 

A  crimson  garment  in  the  rose  thou  wear'st; 
A  cro•^^^l  of  studded  gold  thou  bear'st ; 
The  virgin-lilies,  in  their  wliite, 
Are  clad  but  with  the  lawn  of  almost  naked 
light. 

The  violet,  Spring's  little  infant,  standa 
Girt  in  thy  purple  swaddling-bands ; 
On  the  fair  tulip  thou  dost  dote  ; 
Thou  cloth' st  it  in  a,  gay  and  party-colour' d 
coat. 


Through  the  soft  ways  of  Heaven,  and  air, 
and  sea. 
Which  open  all  their  pores  to  thee. 
Like  a  clear  river  thou  dost  glide. 
And  with  thy  living  stream  through  the  close 
channels  slide. 


But  the  vast  ocean  of  unbounded  day, 
In.th'  empyrasaii  Heaven  does  stay. 
Thy  rivers,  lakes,  and  springs,  below. 
From  thence  took  first  their  rise,  thither  at 
last  must  flow. 
Abraham  Coivley.—Born  1618,  Died  1667. 


548.— FEOM  THE  PINDAEIC  ODES. 

DESTRUCTION    OF    THE   FITfST-BOKN,   IN  THE 
"PLAGUES   OF   EGYPT." 


It  was  the  time  when  the  still  moon 
Was  motinted  softly  to  her  noon, 
And  dewy  sleep,  which  from  night's  secret 
springs  arose. 


Abraham  Cowley.] 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Gently  as  Nile  the  land  o'erflows ; 
When,  lo,  from  the  high  countries  of  refined 
day, 
The  golden  heaven  without  allay, — 
Whose  dross  in  the  creation  purged  away. 

Made  up  the  sun's  adulterate  ray, — 
Michael,  the  warlike  prince,  does  downward 

fly, 

Swift  as  the  journeys  of  the  sight, 
Swift  as  the  race  of  light, 
And  with  his  winged  will  cuts  through  the 
yielding  sky. 
He  passed  thro'  many  a  star,  and,  as  he 

passed. 
Shone  (like  a  star  in  them)  more  brightly 
there 
Than  they  did  in  their  sphere. 
On  a  tall  pyramid's  pointed  head  he  stopped 
at  last, 
And  a  mild  look  of  sacred  pity  cast 
Down   on  the   sinful  land  where   he   was 
sent 
To  inflict  the  tardy  punishment. 
"Ah,  yet,"  said  he,  "yet,  stubborn  king, 
repent, 
While  thus  unarmed  I  stand. 
Ere  the  keen  sword  of  God  fill  my  commanded 
hand. 
Suffer  but  yet  thyself  and  thine  to  live  ; 
Who  Avould,  alas,  believe, 
That  it  for  man,"  said  he, 
"  So  hard  to  be  forgiven  should  be. 
And  yet  for  God  so  easy  to  forgive." 


He  spoke,  and  downwards  flew. 
And  o'er  his  shining  form  a  well-cut  cloud  he 
threw, 
Made  of  the  blackest  fleece  of  night, 
And  close  wrought  to  keep  in  the  powerful 

light ; 
Yet  wrought  so  fine,  it  hindered  not  his 

flight. 
But  thro'   the  keyholes  and  the  chinks  of 

doors. 
And  thro'  the  narrowest  walks  of  crooked 
pores, 
He  passed  more  swift  and  free 
Than  in   wide    air    the   wanton    swallows 

flee. 
He  took  a  pointed  Pestilence  in  his  hand ; 
The   spirits   of    thousand    mortal    poisons 
made 
The  strongly  tempered  blade  : 
The  sharpest  sword  that  e'er  was  laid 
Up  in  the  magazines  of   God   to  scourge  a 
wicked  land. 
Thro'  Egypt's  wicked  land   his   march  he 

took. 
And  as  he  marched  the  sacred  first-bom 
strook 
Of  every  womb  ;  none  did  he  spare. 
None  from  the  meanest  beast  to  Cenchre's 
t)urple  heir. 


The  swift  approach  of  endless  night 
Breaks  ope  the  wounded  sleepers'  rolling 
eyes. 

They  wake  the  rest  with  dying  cries, 

And  darkness  doubles  the  affright. 
The  mixed  sounds  of  scattered  deaths  they 

hear; 
And  lose  their  parted  souls  'twixt  grief  and 

fear: 
Louder    than   all,   the   shrieking  women's 

voice 
Pierces  this  chaos  of  confused  noise ; 
As  brighter  lightning  cuts  a  way 
Clear  and  distinguished  thro'  the  day  : 
With   less   complaints    the    Zoan   temples 
sound 

When  the  adored  heifer's  drowned. 
And  no  true  marked  successor  to  be  found. 
While  health,   and  strength,  and  gladness 
does  possess 

The  festal  Hebrew  cottages  ; 

The  blest  destroyer  comes  not  there. 

To  interrupt  the  sacred  cheer 
That  new  begins  their  well  reformed  year. 
Upon  their  doors  he  read  and  understood 

God's  protection  writ  in  blood. 
Well  was  he  skilled  i'  th'  character  divine  ; 

And  tho'  he  passed  by  it  in  haste. 

He  bowed  and  worshipped  as  he  pass'd, 
The  mighty  mystery  thro'  its  humble  sign. 

AhraJiam  Cowley.— Born  1618,  Bled  1G67. 


549.— THE  COMPLAINT. 

In  a  deep  vision's  inteUectnal  scene. 

Beneath  a  bower  for  sorrow  made, 

Th'  uncomfortable  shade 

Of  the  black  yew's  unlucky  green, 

Mix'd   with   the   mourning   willow's    careful 

gray. 
Where  rev' rend  Cam  cuts  out  his  famous  way. 
The  melancholy  Cowley  lay ; 
And,  lo  !   a  Muse  appear' d  to  his  closed  sight 
(The  Muses  oft  in  lands  of  vision  play,) 
Bodied,  array'd,  and  seen  by  an  internal  light : 
A  golden  harp  Avith  silver  strings  she  bore, 
A  wondrous  hieroglyphic  robe  she  wore. 
In  which  all  colours  and  all  figures  were 
That  Nature  or  that  Fancy  can  create. 
That  Art  can  never  imitate, 
And  with  loose  pride  it  wanton' d  in  the  air. 
In  such  a  dress,  in  such  a  well-clothed  dream, 
She  used  of  old  near  fair  Ismenus'  stream 
Pindar,  her  Theban  favourite,  to  meet ; 
A  crown  was  on  her  head,  and  wings  were  on 

her  feet. 

She  touch' d  him  with  her  harp  and  raised  him 

from  the  ground ; 
The  shaken  strings  melodiously  resound. 


From  1(549  to  1689.] 


THE  COMPLAINT. 


[Abraham:  Cowley. 


"  Art  thoii  retum'd  at  last,"  said  she, 

"  To  this  forsaken  place  and  me  ? 

Thou  prodigal  I  who  didst  so  loosely  waste 

Of  all  thy  youthful  years  the  good  estate ; 

Art  thou  return' d,  here  to  repent  too  late  ? 

And  gather  husks  of  learning  up  at  last, 

Now  the  rich  harvest-time  of  life  is  past, 

And  winter  marches  on  so  fast  ? 

But  when  I  meant  t'  adopt  thee  for  my  son, 

And  did  as  learn' d  a  portion  assign 

As  ever  any  of  the  mighty  nine 

Had  to  their  dearest  children  done  ; 

When  I  resolved  t'  exalt  thy  anointed  name 

Among  the  spiritual  lords  of  peaceful  fame ; 

Thou  changeling  !    thou,  bewitch' d  with  noise 

and  show, 
Wouldst  into  courts  and  cities  from  me  go, 
Wouldst   see  the  world  abroad,  and  have  n 

share 
In  all  the  follies  and  the  tumults  there  ; 
Thou  wouldst,  forsooth,   be   something   in  a 

state, 
And  business  thou  wouldst  find,  and  wouldst 

create : 
Business  !  the  frivolous  pretence, 
Of  human  lusts,  to  shake  off  imiocence  ; 
Business  !  the  grave  impertinence  ; 
Business !    the  thing  which  I  of    all  things 

hate. 
Business  !  the  contradiction  of  thy  fate. 

Go,  renegado  I  cast  up  thy  account, 

And  see  to  what  amount 

Thy  foolish  gains  by  quitting  me  : 

The  sale  of  knowledge,  fame,  and  liberty, 

The  fruits  of  thy  unlearn' d  apostasy. 

Thou  thoughtst,  if  once  the  public  storm  were 

past. 
All  thy  remaining  life  should  sunshine  be  : 
Behold  the  public  storm  is  spent  at  last. 
The  sovereign  is  toss'd  at  sea  no  more, 
And  thou,  with  all  the  noble  company, 
Art  got  at  last  to  shore  : 
But  whilst  thy  fellow-voyagers  I  see. 
All  march' d  up  to  possess  the  promised  land. 
Thou  still  alone,  alas  !  dost  gaping  stand. 
Upon  the  naked  beach,  upon  the  barren  sand. 
As  a  fair  morning  of  the  blessed  spring, 
After  a  tedious  stormy  night. 
Such  was  the  glorious  entry  of  our  king  ; 
Enriching  moisture  dropp'd  on  every  thing  : 
Plenty  he  sow'd  below,  and  cast  about  him 

Hght. 
But  then,  alas  !  to  thee  alone 
One  of  old  Gideon's  miracles  was  shown, 
For  ev'ry  tree,  and  ev'ry  hand  around, 
With  pearly  dew  was  crown' d. 
And  upon  all  the  quicken' d  ground 
The  fruitful  seed  of  heaven  did  brooding  lie. 
And  nothing  but  the  Muse's  fleece  was  dry. 
It  did  aU  other  threats  surpass. 
When  God  to  his  own  people  said, 
(The  men  whom  thro'  long  wanderings  he  had 

led,) 
That  he  would  give  them  even   a  heaven  of 

brass : 


They  look'd  up  to  that  heaven  in  vain. 

That  bounteous  heaven !   which  God  did  not 

restrain 
Upon  the  most  unjust  to  shine  and  rain. 

The  Eachel,  for  which  twice  seyen_jears  and 

more,  ~ 

Thou  didst  with  faith  and  labour  serve, 
And  didst  (if  faith  and  labour  can)  deserve, 
Though  she  contracted  was  to  thee, 
Given  to  another,  thou  didst  see, 
Given  to  another,  who  had  store 
Of  fairer  and  of  richer  wives  before. 
And  not  a  Leah  left,  thy  recompense  to  be. 
Go  on,  twice  seven  years  more,  thy  fortune 

tiy, 
Twice  seven  years  more  God  in  his  bounty 

may 
Give  thee  to  fiing  away 
Into  the  court's  deceitful  lottery  : 
But  think  how  likely  'tis  that  thou. 
With  the  dull  work  of  thy  unwieldy  plough, 
Shouldst  in  a  hard  and  barren  season  thrive, 
Shouldst  even  able  be  to  live  ; 
Thou  !  to  whose  share  so  little  bread  did  fall 
In  the  miraculous  year,  when  manna  rain'd  on 

all." 


Thus  spake  the  Muse,  and  spake  it  with  a 
smile. 

That  seem'd  at  once  to  pity  and  revile : 
I   And  to  her  thus,  raising  his  thoughtful  head, 
I   The  melancholy  Cowley  said  : 

"Ah,  wanton  foe  !  dost  thou  upbraid 
;   The  ills  which  thou,  thyself  hast  made  ? 
j   When  in  the  cradle  innocent  I  lay, 

Thou,  wicked  spirit !  stolest  me  av/ay. 

And  my  abused  soul  didst  bear 

Into  thy  new-found  worlds,  I  know  not  where, 

Thy  golden  Indies  in  the  air ; 

And  ever  since  I  strive  in  vain 

My  ravish' d  freedom  to  regain  ; 

StiU  I  rebel,  still  thou  dost  reign  ; 

Lo,  still  in  verse,  against  thee  I  complain. 

There  is  a  sort  of  stubborn  weeds. 

Which,  if  the  earth  but  once  it  ever  breeds, 

No  wholesome  herb  can  near  them  thrive. 

No  useful  plant  can  keep  alive  : 

The  foolish  sports  I  did  on  thee  bestow 

Make  all  my  art  and  labour  fruitless  now  : 

Where  once  such  fairies  dance,  no  grass  doth 
ever  grow. 

When  my  new  mind  had  no  infusion  known. 

Thou  gavest  so  deep  a  tincture  of  thine  ov/n, 

That  ever  since  I  vainly  try 

To  wash  away  th'  inherent  dye  : 

Long  work,   perhaps,  may  spoil  thy  colours 

quite. 
But  never  will  reduce  the  native  white. 
To  all  the  ports  of  honour  and  of  gain 
I  often  steer  my  course  in  vain  ; 
Thy  gale  comes  cross,    and  drives   me  baok 

again. 
Thou  slacken' st  all  my  nerves  of  industry. 


ABiiAHAii  Cowley. 


FEOM  "  FEIENDSHIP  IN  ABSENCE.' 


[Fourth  Pekiod. — 


By  making  them  so  oft  to  be 

The  tinkling  strings  of  thy  loose  minstrelsy. 

Whoever  this  world's  happiness  would  see 

Must  as  entirely  cast  off  thee, 

As  they  who  only  heaven  desire 

Do  from  the  world  retire. 

This  was  my  error,  this  my  gross  mistake, 

Myself  a  demi-votar}^  to  make. 

Thus,  with  Sapphira  and  her  husband's  fate, 

(A  fault  which  I,  like  them,   am  taught  too 

late,) 
For  all  that  I  gave  up  I  nothing  gain, 
And  perish  for  the  part  which  I  retain. 

Teach  me  not  then,  O  thou  fallacious  Muse  ! 
The  court  and  better  king  t'  accuse  ; 
The  heaven  under  wliich  I  live  is  fair. 
The  fertile  soil  wiU  a  full  harvest  bear  : 
Thine,  thine  is  all  the  barrenness,  if  thou 
Mak'st  me  sit  still  and  sing  when  I  should 

plough. 
When  I  but  think  how  many  a  tedious  year 
Our  patient  sovereign  did  attend 
His  long  misfortunes'  fatal  end  ; 
How  cheerfully,  and  how  exempt  from  fear, 
On  the  Great  Sovereign's  will  he  did  depend, 
I  ought  to  be  accurst  if  I  refuse 
To  wait  on  his,  O  thou  fallacious  Muse  ! 
Kings  have  long  hands,  they  say,  and  though 

I  be 
So  distant,  they  may  reach  at  length  to  me. 
However,  of  all  princes  thou 
Should' st  not  reproach  rewards  for  being  small 

or  slow ; 
Thou !  who  rewardest  but  with  popular  breath. 
And  that,  too,  after  death !  " 

Alraham  Coidey.—Born  1618,  Died  1667. 


550.  — FEOM    "FEIENDSHIP    IN 
ABSENCE." 

A  thousand  pretty  ways  we'll  think  upon 

To  mock  our  separation. 

Alas  !  ten  thousand  will  not  do ; 

My  heai*t  wiU  thus  no  longer  stay, 

No  longer  'twill  be  kept  from  you. 

But  knocks  against  the  breast  to  get  away. 

And  when  no  art  affords  me  help  or  ease, 
I  seek  with  verse  my  griefs  t'  appease : 
Just  as  a  bird  that  flies  about. 
And  beats  itself  against  the  cage, 
Finding  at  last  no  passage  out. 
It  sits  and  sings,  and  so  o'ercomes  its  rage. 
Ahraha7n  Coivley. — Born  1618,  Died  1667. 


551.— THE  WAITING-MAID. 

Thy  maid  !     Ah  !  find  some  nobler  theme 
Whereon  thy  doubts  to  place, 

Nor  by  a  low  suspect  blaspheme 
The  glories  of  thy  face. 


Alas  !  she  makes  thee  shine  so  fair. 

So  exquisitely  bright. 
That  her  dim  lamp  must  disappear 

Before  thy  potent  light. 

Three  hours  each  morn  in  dressing  thee 

Maliciously  are  spent, 
And  make  that  beauty  tyranny. 

That's  else  a  civil  government. 

Th'  adorning  thee  with  so  much  art 

Is  but  a  barb'rous  skill ; 
'Tis-like  the  pois'ning  of  a  dart. 

Too  apt  before  to  kiU. 

The  min'st'ring  angels  none  can  see; 

'Tis  not  their  beauty  or  their  face, 
For  which  by  men  they  worshipp'd  be, 

But  their  high  ofSce  and  their  place. 
Thou  art  my  goddess,  my  saint  she  ; 

I  pray  to  her  only  to  pray  to  thee. 

Abraham  Coidey.—Born  1681,  Died  1667. 


552.— HONOUE. 

She  loves,  and  she  confesses  too  ; 
There's  then,  at  last,  no  more  to  do : 
The  happy  work  's  entirely  done  ; 
Enter  the  town  which  thou  hast  won ; 
The  fruits  of  conquest  now  begin ; 
16,  triumphe  ;    enter  in. 

What's  this,  ye  gods  !  what  can  it  be  ? 

Eemains  there  still  an  enemy  ? 

Bold  Honour  stands  up  in  the  gate, 

And  would  yet  capitulate  ; 

Have  I  o'ercome  aU  real  foes. 

And  shall  this  phantom  me  oppose  ? 

Noisy  nothing  !    stalking  shade  ! 
By  what  witchcraft  wert  thou  made  ? 
Empty  cause  of  soM  harms  1 
But  I  shall  find  out  counter- charms 
Thy  airy  devilship  to  remove 
From  this  circle  here  of  love. 

Sure  I  shall  rid' myself  of  thee 

By  the  night's  obscurity, 

And  obscurer  secrecy  : 

Unlike  to  every  other  sprite, 

Thou  attempt' st  not  men  to  fright,' 

Nor  appear'st  but  in  the  light. 

Ahrahar>i  Cowley.— Born  1618,  Died  1667. 


553.— OF  SOLITUDE. 

Hail,  old  patrician  trees,  so  great  and  good  ! 

Hail,  ye  plebeian  underwood  ! 

Where  the  poetic  birds  rejoice. 

And  for  their  quiet  nests  and  plenteous  food 

Pay  with  their  grateful  voice. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


OF  HEAVEN. 


[Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor. 


Hail  the  poor  Muse's  richest  manor-seat ! 

Ye  country  houses  and  retreat, 

Which  all  the  happy  gods  so  love, 

That  for  you  oft  they  quit  their  bright  and 

great 
Metropolis  above. 

Here  Nature  does  a  house  for  me  erect, 
Nature  !    the  fairest  architect, 
Who  those  fond  artists  does  despise 
That  can  the  fair  and  living  trees  neglect, 
Yet  the  dead  timber  prize. 

Here  let  me,  careless  and  unthoughtful  lying, 
Hear  the  soft  winds  above  me  flying, 
With  all  their  wanton  boughs  dispute, 
And  the  more  tuneful  birds  to  both  replying, 
Nor  be  myself,  too,  mute. 

A  silver  stream  shaU  roll  his  waters  near, 
Gilt  with  the  sunbeams  here  and  there, 
On  whose  enamcll'd  bank  I'U  walk. 
And  see  how  prettily  they  smile, 
And  hear  how  prettily  they  talk. 

Ah  !  wretched,  and  too  solitary  he, 
Who  loves  not  his  own  company  ! 
He'U  feel  the  weight  of  it  many  a  day, 
Unless  he  calls  in  sin  or  vanity 
To  help  to  bear  it  away. 

Oh,  Solitude  !  first  state  of  humankind ! 
Which  bless'd  remain'd  till  man  did  find 
Even  his  own  helper's  company : 
As  soon  as  two,  alas  !  together  join'd, 
The  serpent  made  up  three. 

Though  God  himself,  through  countless  ages, 

thee 
His  sole  companion  chose  to  be, 
Thee,  sacred  Solitude  !  alone. 
Before  the  branchy  head  of  number's  tree 
Sprang  from  the  trunk  of  one  ; 

Thou  (though  men  think  thine   an  unactive 

part) 
Dost  break  and  tame  th'  unruly  heart. 
Which  else  would  know  no  settled  pace, 
Making  it  move,  well  managed  by  thy  art, 
With  swiftness  and  with  grace. 

Thou  the  faint  beams  of  reason's  scatter'd 

light 
Dost,  like  a  burning  glass,  unite, 
Dost  multiply  the  feeble  heat, 
And  fortify  the  strength,  till  thou  dost  bright 
And  noble  fires  beget. 

Whilst  this  hard  truth  I  teach,  methinks  I 

see 
The  monster  London  laugh  at  me  ; 
I  should  at  thee,  too,  foolish  city  ! 
If  it  were  fit  to  laugh  at  misery  j 
But  thy  estate  I  pity. 


Let  but  thy  wdcked  men  from  out  thee  go. 
And  all  the  fools  that  crowd  thee  so. 
Even  thou,  who  dost  thy  millions  boast, 
A  village  less  than  Islington  wilt  grow, 
A  sohtude  almost. 

Abraham  Cowley.— Born  1618,  Died  1667. 


554.— EPITAPH  ON  A  LIVING  AUTHOR. 

Here,  stranger,  in  this  humble  nest. 
Here  Cowley  sleeps  ;  here  lies. 

Scaped  all  the  toils  that  life  molest, 
And  its  superfluous  joys. 

Here,  in  no  sordid  poverty, 

And  no  inglorious  ease, 
He  braves  the  world,  and  can  defy 

Its  frowns  and  flatteries. 

The  little  earth,  he  asks,  survey ; 

Is  he  not  dead  indeed  ? 
"  Light  lie  that  earth,"  good  stranger,  pray, 

"  Nor  thorn  upon  it  breed !  " 

With  flowers,  fit  emblem  of  his  fame. 

Compass  your  poet  round ; 
With  flowers  of  every  fragrant  name. 

Be  his  warm  ashes  crown' d ! 

AbroMm  Coidey.—Born  1618,  Died  1667. 


555.— OF  HEAVEN. 

O  Beauteous  God !  uncireumscribed  treasure 

Of  an  eternal  pleasure ! 

Thy  throne  is  seated  far 

Above  the  highest  star, 

Where  Thou  preparest  a  glorious  place, 

Within  the  brightness  of  Thy  face, 

For  every  spirit 

To  inherit 

That  builds  his  hopes  upon  Thy  merit, 

And  loves  Thee  with  a  holy  charity. 

What  ravished  heart,  seraphic  tongue,  or  eyes 

Clear  as  the  morning  rise. 

Can  speak,  or  think,  or  see 

That  bright  eternity. 

Where  the  great  King's  transparent  throne 

Is  of  an  entire  jasper  stone  ? 

There  the  eye 

O'  the  chrysolite. 

And  a  sky 

Of  diamonds,  rubies,  chrysoprase — 

And  above  all,  Thy  holy  face — 

Makes  an  eternal  charity. 

When  Thou  Thy  jewels  up  dost  bind,  that  day 

Remember  us,  we  pray — 

That  where  the  beryl  lies, 

And  the  crystal  'bove  the  skies. 

There  Thou  mayest  appoint  us  place 

Within  the  brightness  of  Thy  face — 

And  our  soul 

In  the  scroll 


Hknky  Vauuhan.] 


EARLY  RISING  AND  PRAYEli. 


^  OUliTH  PebIOD.- 


Of  life  and  blissfulness  enroll. 

That  we  may  praise  Thee  to  eternity.     Aile- 

lujah ! 
Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor.— Born  1613,  Died  1667. 


556.— EAELY  RISING  AND  PRAYER. 

When  first  thy  eyes  unyeil,  give  thy  soul  leave 
To  do  the  like ;  our  bodies  but  forerun 
The  spirit's  duty  :  true  hearts  spread  and  heave 
Unto  their  God  as  flowers  do  to  the  sun  ; 
Give  Him  thy  first  thoughts  then,  so  shalt  thou 


Him  company  all  day,  and  in  Him  sleep. 

Yet  never  sleep  the  sun  up,  prayer  should 
Dawn  -with  the  day ;  there  are  set  awful  hours 
'T^nxt  heaven  and   us ;  the   manna  was  not 

good 
After  sun-rising ;  far-day  sullies  flowers  ; 
Rise  to  prevent  the  sun ;  sleep  doth  sins  glut. 
And  heaven's  gate  opens  when  the  world's  is 

shut. 

"Walk  -svith  thy  fellow-creatures  :  note  the  hush 
And  whisperings  among  them.  Not  a  spring. 
Or  leaf  but  hath  his  morning  hymn  ;  each  bush 
And  oak  doth  know  I  AM.     Canst  thou  not 

sing? 
0,  leave  thy  cares  and  follies !  go  this  way, 
And  thou  art  sure  to  prosper  all  the  day. 

Serve  God  before  the  world ;  let  Him  not  go 
Untn  thou  hast  a  blessing ;  then  resign 
The  whole  unto  Him,  and  remember  who 
Prevailed  by  wrestling  ere  the  sun  did  shine  : 
Pour  oil  upon  the  stones,  weep  for  thy  sin, 
Then  journey  on,  and  have  an  eye  to  heaven. 
Mornings   are   mysteries :    the    first    world's 

youth, 
Man's  resurrection,  and  the  future's  bud. 
Shroud   in  their  births ;    the  crown  of   life, 

light,  truth,  ■ 
Is  styled  their  star — the  stone  and  hidden  food, 
Three  blessings  wait  upon  them,  one  of  which 
Should  move — they  make  us  holy,  happy,  rich. 

"When  the  world 's  up,  and  every  swarm  abroad. 
Keep  well  thy  temper,  mix  not  with  each  clay ; 
Despatch  necessities  ;  life  hath  a  load 
"Which  must  be  carried  on,  and  safely  may  : 
Yet  keep  those  cares   without  thee;  let  the 

heart 
Be  God's  alone,  and  choose  the  better  part. 

Henry  Vav.ghan — Born  1621,  Died  1695. 


557-— THE  FEAST. 

0  come  away  I 

Make  no  delay — 
Come  while  my  heart  is  clean  and  steady ! 

"While  faith  and  grace 

Adorn  the  place, 
Making  dust  and  ashes  ready ! 


No  bliss  here  lent 

Is  permanent — 
Such  triumphs  poor  flesh  cannot  merit  , 

Short  sips  and  sights 

Endear  delights  ; 
"Who  seeks  for  more  he  would  inherit. 

Come  then,  true  bread, 

Quick'ning  the  dead, 
"Whose  eater  shall  not,  cannot  dj'e  I 

Come  antedate 

On  me  that  state 
"Which  brings  poor  dust  the  victory  '. — 

Aye  victory  ! 

Which  from  Thine  eye 
Breaks  as  the  day  doth  from  the  east. 

When  the  si)ilt  dew, 

Like  tears,  doth  show 
The  sad  world  wept  to  bo  releast. 

Spring  up,  0  mine  ! 

And  springing  shine 
With  some  glad  message  from  His  heart. 

Who  did,  when  slain, 

These  means  ordain 
For  me  to  have  in  Him  a  part  I — 

Such  a  sure  part 

In  His  blest  heart, 
The  well  where  living  waters  spring. 

That,  with  it  fed, 

Poor  dust,  though  dead. 
Shall  rise  again,  and  live,  and  smg, 

O  drink  and  bread. 

Which  strikes  death  dead, 
The  food  of  man's  immortal  being ; 

Under  veils  here 

Thou  art  my  cheer. 
Present  and  sure  without  my  seeing. 

How  dost  Thou  fly, 

And  search  and  pry 
Through  all  my  parts,  and,  like  a  quick 

And  knowing  lamp. 

Hunt  out  each  damp 
Whose  shadow  makes  me  sad  or  sick  I 

O  what  high  joys  ! 

The  turtle's  voice 
And  songs  I  hear !  0  quick'ning  showers 

Of  my  Lord's  blood. 

You  make  rocks  bud, 
And  crown  dry  hills  with  wells  and  flowers 

For  this  true  ease, 

This  healing  peace, 
For  tliis  brief  taste  of  living  glory, 

My  soul  and  all. 

Kneel  down  and  fall, 
And  sing  His  sad  victorious  story  ! 

O  thorny  crown, 

More  soft  than  down! 
0  painful  cross,  my  bed  of  rest ! 

O  spear,  the  key 

Opening  the  way  ! 
0  Thy  worst  state  my  only  best  I 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  BEE. 


[Henry  Vaughan. 


O  all  Thy  griefs 

Are  my  reliefs, 
As  all  my  sins  Thy  sorrows  were ! 

And  what  can  I 

To  this  reply  ? 
"VVliat,  0  God !  but  a  silent  tear  ? 

Some  toil  and  sow 

That  wealth  may  flow, 
And  dress  this  earth  for  next  year's  meat : 

But  let  me  heed 

Why  thou  didsted, 
And  what  in  the  next  world  to  eat. 

Henry  Vaurjlian.— Born  1621,  Died  1695. 


j  558.— THE  BEE. 

From  fruithful  beds  and  flowery  borders, 
Parcelled  to  wasteful  ranks  and  orders, 
Where  state  grasps  more   than   plain   truth 

needs, 
And  wholesome  herbs  are  starved  by  weeds, 
To  the  wild  woods  I  will  be  gone. 
And  the  coarse  meals  of  great  Saint  John. 

When  truth  and  piety  are  missed, 
Both  in  the  rulers  and  the  priest ; 
When  pity  is  not  cold,  but  dead, 
j       And  the  rich  eat  the  poor  like  bread  ; 
While  factious  heads,  with  open  coil 
And  force,  first  made,  then  share  the  spoil : 
To  Horeb  then  Elias  goes, 
And  in  the  desert  grows  the  rose. 
Hail,  crystal  fountains  and  fresh  shades, 
Where  no  proud  look  invades, 
No  busy  worldling  hunts  away 
The  sad  retirer  all  the  day  ! 
Hail,  happy,  harmless  solitude  ! 
<)ur  sanctuary  from  the  rude 
And  scornful  world :  the  calm  recess 
Of  faith,  and  hope,  and  holiness  ! 
Here  something  still  like  Eden  looks — 
Honey  in  woods,  juleps  in  brooks ; 
And  flowers  whose  rich,  unrifled  sweets 
With  a  chaste  kiss  the  cool  dew  greets, 
When  the  toils  of  the  day  are  done. 
And  the  tired  world  sets  with  the  sun. 
Here  flying  winds  and  flowing  wells 
Are  the  mse,  watchful  hermit's  bells  ; 
Their  busy  murmurs  all  the  night 
To  praise  or  prayer  do  invite  ; 
And  Avith  an  awful  sound  arrest, 
And  piously  employ  his  breast. 

When  in  the  East  the  dawn  doth  blush, 
Here  cool,  fresh  spirits  the  air  brush ; 
Herbs  straight  get  up;  flowers  peep  and  spread  3 
Trees  whisper  praise,  and  bow  the  head ; 
Birds,  from  the  shades  of  night  released. 
Look  round  about,  then  quit  the  nest, 
And  with  united  gladness  sing 
The  glory  of  the  morning's  King. 


The  hermit  hears,  and  with  meek  voice 
Offers  his  own  up,  and  their  joys  ; 
Then  prays  that  all  the  world  might  bo 
Blest  with  as  sweet  an  unit3\ 

If  sudden  storms  the  day  invade,      ~    - 
They  flock  about  him  to  the  shade, 
^  Where  wisely  they  expect  the  end, 
''  Giving  the  tempest  time  to  spend ; 
And  hard  by  shelters  on  some  bough 
Hilarion's  servant,  the  sage  crow. 
O  purer  years  of  light  and  grace ! 
Great  is  the  difference,  as  the  space, 
'Twixt  you  and  us,  wht)  blindly  run 
After  false  fires,  and  leave  the  sun. 
Is  not  fair  nature  of  herself 
Much  richer  than  dull  paint  and  pelf  ? 
And  are  not  streams  at  the  spring  head 
More  sweet  than  in  carved  stone  or  lead  ? 
But  fancy  and  some  artist's  tools 
Frame  a  religion  for  fools. 


The  truth,  which  once  was  plainly  taught, 
With  thorns  and  briars  now  is  fraught. 
Some  part  is  with  bold  fables  spotted. 
Some  by  strange  comments  wildly  blotted ; 
And  discord,  old  corruption's  crest. 
With  blood  and  blame  have  stained  the  rest. 
So  snow,  which  in  its  first  descents 
A  whiteness  like  pure  heaven  presents, 
When  touched  by  man  is  quickly  soiled. 
And  after  trodden  down  and  spoiled. 

0  lead  me  where  I  may  be  free 

In  truth  and  spirit  to  serve  Thee  ! 
Where  undisturbed  I  may  converse 
With  Thy  great  self ;  and  there  rehearse 
Thy  gifts  with  thanks  :  and  from  Thy  store, 
Who  art  all  blessings,  beg  much  more. 
Give  me  the  wisdom  of  the  bee. 
And  her  unwearied  industry ! 
That  from  the  wild  gourds  of  these  days, 

1  may  extract  health,  and  Thy  praise. 
Who  canst  turn  darkness  into  light, 
And  in  my  weakness  show  Thy  might. 
Suffer  me  not  in  any  want 

To  seek  refreshment  from  a  plant 
Thou  didst  not  set,  since  all  must  bo 
Plucked  up  whose  growth  is  not  from  Thee. 
'Tis  not  the  garden  and  the  bowers, 
Nor  sense  and  forms,  that  give  to  flowers 
Their  wholesomeness ;  but  Thy  good  wiU, 
Which  truth  and  purene.-"'5'-  purchase  still. 

Then,  since  corrupt  man  hath  driven  hence 

Thy  kind  and  saving  influence. 

And  balm  is  no  more  to  be  had, 

In  aU  the  coasts  of  Gliead — 

Go  with  me  to  the  shade  and  cell 

Where  Thy  best  servants  once  did  dwell. 

There  let  me  know  Thy  wiU,  and  see 

Exiled  religion  owned  by  Thee  ; 

For  Thou  canst  turn  dark  grots  to  haUs. 

And  make  hills  blossom  like  the  vales,      „o 


Henry  Vaughan.J 


PEACE. 


[Fourth  Period.— 


Decking  their  untilled  heads  with  flowers, 
And  fresh  delights  for  all  sad  hours  ; 
Till  from  them,  like  a  laden  bee, 
I  may  fly  home,  and  hive  with  Thee  ! 

Henry  Vaugha7i.—Born  1621,  Died  1695. 


559.— PEACE. 

My  soul,  there  is  a  country 

Afar  beyond  the  stars. 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentry, 

All  skilful  in  the  wars. 
There,  above  noise  and  danger. 

Sweet  Peace  sits  crowned  with  smiles, 
And  one  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  thy  gracious  friend. 

And  (O  my  soul  awake  !) 
Did  in  pure  love  descend. 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 
K  thou  canst  get  but  thither. 

There  grows  the  flower  of  peace — 
The  rose  that  cannot  wither — 

Thy  fortress,  and  thy  ease. 
Leave,  then,  thy  foolish  ranges  ; 

For  none  can  thee  secure, 
But  One  who  never  changes — 

Thy  God,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure. 
Henry  Vauglian. — Born  1621,  Died  1695. 


560.— THEY  AEE  ALL  GONE. 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove — 

Or  those   faint   beams  in  which  this  hiU  is 
drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
Wliose  life  doth  trample  on  my  days — 

My  days  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  hope !  and  high  humility — 

High  as  the  heavens  above ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed 
them  me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  death — the  jewel  of  the  just — 
Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 

What  mysteries  do  He  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest 
may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flowii ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now. 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 


And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep. 

So    some    strange    thoughts    transcend    our 
wonted  themes. 
And  into  glory  laeep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb. 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  bum  there ; 

But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gives 
room, 
She'U  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

0  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  Thee ! 
Eesume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thraU 

Into  true  Hberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fiU 
My  perspective  still  as  they  pass  ; 

Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 

Henry  Vaughan. — Born  1621,  Died  1695. 


561.— THE  TIMBEE. 

Sure    thou    didst   flourish    once,    and    many 
springs. 
Many  bright  mornings,   much   dew,   many 
showers, 
Pass'd  o'er  thy  head ;   many  light  hearts  and 
wings. 
Which  are  now  dead,  lodged  in  thy  living 
towers. 

And  stiU  a  new  succession  sings  and  flies, 
Fresh    groves    grow    up,    and   their  green 
branches  shoot 
Towards  the  old  and  stiU  enduring  skies, 
While  the  low  violet  thrives  at  their  root. 
#  *  # 

Henry  Van glian.— Born  1621,  Died  1695. 


562.— THE  EAINBOW. 

Still  young  and  fine,  but  what  is  stiU  in  view 
We  slight  as  old  and  soil'd,  though  fresh  and 

new. 
How  bright  wert  thou  when  Shem's  admiring 

eye 
Thy  bumish'd  flaming  arch  did  first  descry ; 
When  Zerah,  Nahor,  Haran,  Abram,  Lot, 
The  youthful  world's  gray  fathers,  in  one  knot 
Did  with  intentive  looks  watch  every  hour 
For  thy   new  light,    and   trembled   at   each 

shower ! 
Wlien  thoii  dost  shine,  darkness  looks  white 

and  fair ; 
Forms  turn  to  music,   clouds  to  smiles  and 

air; 
Eain  gently  spends  his  honey-drops,  and  pours 
Balm  on  the  cleft  earth,  mUk  on  grass  and 

flowers. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


CELIA  SINGING. 


[Thomas  Stanley. 


Bright  pledge  of  peace  and  sunsliine,  the  sui'e 

tie 
Of  thy  Lord's  hand,  the  object  of  His  eye 
When  I  behold  thee,  though  my  light  be  dim, 
Distant  and  low,  I  can  in  thine  see  Him, 
Who  looks  upon  thee  from  His  glorious  throne, 
And  minds  the  covenant  betwixt  all  and  One, 
#  #  # 

Henry  Vauglian.—Born  1621,  Died  1695. 


563.  — THE    WEEATH. 

(to  the  redeeiiek.) 

Since  I  in  storms  most  used  to  be, 

And  seldom  yielded  flowers, 
How  shall  I  get  a  wreath  for  thee 

From  those  rude  barren  hours  ? 

The  softer  dressings  of  the  spring, 

Or  summer's  later  store, 
I  will  not  for  thy  temples  bring, 

Wliich  thorns,  not  roses,  wore  : 

But  a  twined  wreath  of  grief  and  praise, 

Praise  soil'd  with  tears,  and  tears  again 
Shining  with  joy,  like  dewy  days. 

This  day  I  bring  for  all  thy  pain. 
Thy  causeless  pain  ;  and  as  sad  death, 

Which  sadness  breeds  in  the  most  vain, 
O  not  in  vain  !  now  beg  thy  breath, 
Thy  quick'ning  breath,  which  gladly  bears 

Through  saddest  clouds  to  that  glad  place, 
Where  cloudless  quires  sing  without  tears. 

Sing  thy  just  praise,  and  see  thy  face. 

Henry  YaugTian. — Bom  1621,  Died  1695. 


564.— THE  EETEEAT. 

Happy  those  ea.rly  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  angel-infancy. 
Before  I  understood  this  place. 
Appointed  for  my  second  race. 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white  celestial  thought, — 
When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And  looking  back  (at  that  short  space) 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face. 
"VNTien  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour ; 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  travel  back. 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain. 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train, 
From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palm  Trees. 

Henry  Vaughan.—Born  1621,  Bled  1695. 


565.— THE  TOMB. 

When,  cruel  fair  one,  I  am  slain 

By  thy  disdain, 
And,  as  a  trophy  of  thy  scorn, 

To  some  old  tomb  am  borne,     _ 
Thy  fetters  must  their  power  bequeatE^ 
To  those  of  Death  ; 
Nor  can  thy  flame  immortal  bum, 
Like  monumental  fires  within  an  urn  : 
Thus   freed  from  thy  proud  empire,   I 

prove 
There  is  more  liberty  in  Death  than  Love 


shall 


And  when  forsaken  lovers  come 

To  see  my  tomb, 
Take  heed  thou  mix  not  with  the  crowd, 

And  (as  a  victor)  proud. 
To  view  the  spoils  thy  beauty  made. 
Press  near  my  shade. 

Lest  thy  too  cruel  breath  or  name 
Should  fan  my  ashes  back  into  a  flame, 
And  thou,  devour' d  by  this  revengeful  fire, 
His  sacrifice,  who  died  as  thine,  expire. 

But  if  cold  earth,  or  marble,  must 

Conceal  my  dust. 
Whilst  hid  in  some  dark  ruins,  I, 

Dumb  and  forgotten,  lie, 
The  pride  of  all  thy  victory 
Will  sleep  with  me ; 

And  they  who  should  attest  thy  glory, 
Will,  or  forget,  or  not  believe  this  story. 
Then  to  increase  thy  triumph,  let  me  rest, 
Since  by  thine  eye  slain,  buried  in  thy  breast. 

Thomas  Stanley.— Born  1625,  Died  1678. 


566.— CELIA  SINGING. 

Roses  in  breathing  forth  their  scent, 

Or  stars  their  borrow' d  ornament : 

Nymphs  in  their  wat'ry  sphere  that  move, 

Or  angels  in  their  orbs  above  ; 

The  winged  chariot  of  the  light, 

Or  the  slow  silent  wheels  of  night ; 

The  shade  which  from  the  swifter  sun 

Doth  in  a  swifter  motion  nm, 

Or  souls  that  their  eternal  rest  do  keep, 

Make  far  less  noise   than   Celia's   breath  in 

sleep. 
But  if  the  angel  which  inspires 
Tlais  subtle  flame  with  active  fires,  , 
Should  mould  this  breath  to  words,  and  those 
Into  a  harmony  dispose. 
The  music  of  this  heavenly  sphere 
Would  steal  each  soul  (in)  at  the  ear, 
And  into  plants  and  stones  infuse 
A  Hfe  that  cherubim  would  chuse. 
And  with  new  powers  invert  the  laws  of  fate. 
Kill  those  that  hve,  and  dead  things  animate. 

Thomas  Stanley.— Born  1625,  Died  1678. 

23* 


Thomas  Stanley.] 


SPEAKING  AND  KISSING. 


[Fourth  Peeiod. — 


567.— SPEAKING  AND  KISSING. 

The  air  which  thy  smooth  voice  doth  break, 
Into  ray  soul  hke  lightning  Hies  ; 

My  life  retires  while  thou  dost  speak, 
And  thy  soft  breath  its  room  supplies. 

Lost  in  this  pleasing  ecstacy, 

I  join  my  trembling  lips  to  thine, 

And  back  receive  that  life  from  thee 
Which  I  so  gladly  did  resign. 

Forbear,  Platonic  fools  !  t'  inquire 
Wliat  numbers  do  the  soul  compose  ; 

No  harmony  can  life  inspire, 

But  that  which  from  these  accents  flows. 

Thomas  Stanley  .—Born  1625,  Died  167{ 


568.— LA  BELLE  CONFIDANTE. 

You  earthly  souls  that  court  a  wanton  flame 

Whose  pale,  weak  influence 
Can  rise  no  higher  than  the  humble  name 

And  narrow  laws  of  sense. 
Learn  by  our  friendship  to  create 

An  immaterial  fire, 
Wliosc  brightness  angels  may  admire, 

But  cannot  emulate. 
Sickness  may  fright  the  roses  from  her  cheek. 

Or  make  the  lilies  fade, 
But  all  the  subtle  ways  that  death  doth  seek 
Cannot  my  love  invade. 

Thomas  Stanley.— Bom  1G25,  Dietl  1678. 


509.— NOTE   TO  MOSCHUS. 

Along  the  mead  Europa  walks. 
To  choose  the  fairest  of  its  gems, 

Which,  plucking  from  their  slender  stalks, 
She  weaves  in  fragrant  diadems. 

Where'er  the  beauteous  virgin  treads. 
The  common  people  of  the  field, 

To  kiss  her  feet  bowing  their  heads, 
Homage  as  to  their  goddess  yield. 

'Twixt  whom  ambitious  wars  arise, 
^Vhich  to  the  queen  shall  first  present 

A  gift  Arabian  spice  outvies. 

The  votive  offering  of  their  scent. 

Wlien  deatliless  Amaranth,  this  strife. 

Greedy  by  dying  to  decide, 
Begs  she. would  her  green  thread  of  life, 

As  love's  fair  destiny,  divide. 

Pliant  Acanthus  now  the  vine 

And  ivy  enviously  beholds, 
Wisliing  her  odorous  arms  might  t^vine 

About  this  fair  in  such  strict  folds. 

The  Violet,  by  her  foot  opprest, 

Doth  from  that  touch  enamour'd  rise, 

But,  losing  straight  what  made  her  blest. 
Hangs  down  her  head,  looks  pale,  and  dies. 


Clitia,  to  new  devotion  won, 

Doth  now  her  former  faith  deny, 

Sees  in  her  face  a  double  sun. 
And  glories  in  apostacy. 

The  Gillyflower,  which  mocks  the  skies, 
(The  meadow's  painted  rainbow)  seeks 

A  brighter  lustre  from  her  eyes. 
And  richer  scarlet  from  her  cheeks. 

The  jocund  Flower-de-luce  appears, 
Because  neglected,  discontent ; 

The  morning  furnish' d  her  vnth  tearc ; 
Her  sighs  expiring  odours  vent. 

Narcissus  in  her  eyes,  once  more. 
Seems  his  own  beauty  to  admire  ; 

In  water  not  so  clear  before. 
As  represented  now  in  fire. 

The  Crocus,  who  would  gla^dly  claim 

A  privilege  above  the  rest. 
Begs  mtli  his  triple  tongue  of  flame. 

To  be  transplanted  to  her  breast. 

The  Hyacinth,  in  whose  pale  leaves 
The  hand  of  Nature  writ  his  fate. 

With  a  glad  smile  his  sigh  deceives 
In  hopes  to  be  more  fortunate. 

His  head  the  drowsy  Poppy  rais'd, 
Avvak'd  by  this  approaching  morn, 

And  view'd  her  purple  light  amaz'd, 
Though  his,  alas  !  was  but  her  scorn. 

None  of  this  aromatic  crowd, 

But  for  their  kind  death  humbly  caU, 

Courting  her  hand,  like  martyjs  proud, 
By  so  divine  a  fate  to  faU. 

The  royal  maid  th'  applause  disdains 
Of  vulgar  flowers,  and  only  chose 

The  bashful  glory  of  the  plains, 

Sweet  daughter  of  the  Spring,  the  Eose. 

She,  like  herself,  a  queen  appears, 
Rais'd  on  a  verdant  thorny  throne. 

Guarded  by  amorous  winds,  and  wears 
A  purple  robe,  a  golden  cro^^^l. 

Thomas  Stanley  .—Born  1625,  Died  1678. 


570.— THE  VALEDICTION. 

Vain  world,  what  is  in  thee  ? 
What  do  poor  mortals  see 
Wliich  should  esteemed  be 

Worthy  their  pleasure  ? 
Is  it  the  mother's  womb, 
Or  sorrows  which  soon  come, 
Or  a  dark  grave  and  tomb  ; 

Wliich  is  their  treasure  ? 
How  dost  thou  man  deceive 

By  thy  vain  glory  ? 
Why  do  they  still  believe 

Thy  false  history  ? 


From  1649  to  1G89.] 


THE  VALEDICTION. 


[KicHARD  Baxter. 


Is  it  cliildren's  book  and  rod, 

Malignant  world,  adieu ! 

The  labourer's  heavy  load, 

Wliere  no  foul  vice  is  new — 

Poverty  undertrod. 

Only  to  Satan  true. 

The  world  desireth  ? 

God  still  offended  ; 

Is  it  distracting  cares. 

Though  taught  and  warned  by  God, 

Or  heart-tormenting  fears, 

And  His  chastising  rod, 

Or  pining  grief  and  tears, 

Keeps  still  the  way  that's  broad,  ~     - 

Which  man  requireth  ? 

Never  amended. 

Or  is  it  youthful  rage. 

Baptismal  vows  some  make. 

Or  childish  toying  ? 

But  ne'er  perform  them ; 

Or  is  decrepit  age 

If  angels  from  heaven  spake. 

Worth  man's  enjoying  ? 

'Twould  not  reform  them. 

Is  it  deceitful  wealth, 

They  dig  for  hell  beneath, 

Got  by  care,  fraud,  or  stealth, 

They  labour  hard  for  death, 

Or  short,  uncertain  health. 

Eun  themselves  out  of  breath 

Which  thus  befool  men  ? 

To  overtake  it. 

Or  do  the  serpent's  lies, 

Hell  is  not  had  for  nought, 

By  the  world's  flatteries 

Damnation  's  dearly  bought, 

And  tempting  vanities. 

And  Avith  great  labour  sought — 

Still  overrule  them  ? 

They'll  not  forsake  it. 

Or  do  they  in  a  dream 

Their  soxds  are  Satan's  fee — 

Sleep  out  their  season  ? 

He'll  not  abate  it. 

Or  borne  down  by  lust's  stream. 

Grace  is  refused  that's  free — 

Which  conquers  reason  ? 

Mad  sinners  hate  it. 

The  silly  lambs  to-day 

Vile  man  is  so  perverse, 

Pleasantly  skip  and  play, 

It's  too  rough  work  for  verse 

Whom  butchers  mean  to  slay, 

His  madness  to  rehearse. 

Perhaps  to-morrow  ; 

And  show  his  folly ; 

In  a  more  brutish  sort 

He'll  die  at  any  rates — 

Do  careless  sinners  sport. 

Ho  God  and  conscience  hates. 

Or  in  dead  sleep  stiU  snort, 

Yet  sin  he  consecrates, 

As  near  to  son-ow  ; 

And  calls  it  holy. 

Till  hfe,  not  well  begun, 

The  grace  he'U  not  endure 

Be  sadly  ended, 

Which  would  renew  him — 

And  the  web  they  have  spun 

Constant  to  all,  and  sure, 

Can  ne'er  be  mended. 

Which  will  undo  him. 

What  is  the  time  that's  gone, 
And  what  is  that  to  come  ? 
Is  it  not  now  as  none  ? 

The  present  stays  not. 
Time  posteth,  O  how  fast ! 
Unwelcome  death  makes  haste : 
None  can  call  back  what's  past — 

Judgment  delays  not ; 
Though  God  bring  in  the  light, 

Sinners  awake  not ; — 
Because  hell's  out  of  sight, 

They  sin  forsake  not. 

Man  walks  in  a  vain  show ; 
They  know,  yet  will  not  know  ; 
Sit  still  when  they  should  go — 

But  run  for  shadows, 
WhUe  they  might  taste  and  know 
The  living  streams  that  flow. 
And  crop  the  flowers  that  gi'ow 

In  Christ's  sweet  meadows. 
Life's  better  slept  away 

Than  as  they  use  it ; 
In  sin  and  drunken  play 

Vain  men  abuse  it. 


His  head  comes  first  at  birth. 
And  takes  root  in  the  earth — 
As  Nature  shooteth  forth. 

His  feet  grow  highest, 
To  kick  at  aU  above, 
And  spurn  at  saving  love ; 
His  God  is  in  his  grove. 

Because  it's  nighest ; 
He  loves  this  world  of  strife, 

Hates  that  would  mend  it ; 
Loves  death  that's  called  life, 

I'ears  what  would  end  it. 

All  that  is  good  he'd  crush, 
Blindly  on  sin  doth  rush — 
A  pricking,  thorny  bush, 

Such  Christ  was  crowned  with 
Their  worship's  like  to  this — 
The  reed,  the  Judas  kiss : 
Such  the  religion  is 

That  these  abound  with  ; 
They  mock  Christ  with  the  knee 

^Vhene'er  they  bow  it — 
As  if  God  did  not  see 

The  heart  and  know  it. 


Lord  Bkistol.] 


SONG. 


[Fourth  Fekiod. — 


Of  good  they  choose  the  least, 
Despise  that  which  is  best — 
The  joyful,  heavenly  feast 

Which  Clirist  would  give  them  ; 
Heaven  hath  scarce  one  cold  -wish ; 
They  live  unto  the  flesh  ; 
Like  swine  they  feed  on  wash — 

Satan  doth  drive  them. 
Like  weeds  they  grow  in  mire, 

Which  vices  nourish — 
Where,  warmed  by  Sata,n's  fire, 

All  sins  do  flourish. 

Is  this  the  world  men  choose, 
For  which  they  heaven  refuse, 
And  Christ  and  grace  abuse, 

And  not  receive  it  ? 
Shall  I  not  guilty  be 
Of  this  in  some  degree. 
If  hence  God  would  me  free, 

And  I'd  not  leave  it  ? 
My  soul,  from  Sodom  fly, 

Lest  wrath  there  find  thee ; 
Thy  refuge — rest  is  nigh — 

Look  not  behind  thee  ! 

There's  none  of  this  ado. 
None  of  the  hellish  crew ; 
God's  promise  is  most  true — 

Boldly  believe  it. 
My  friends  are  gone  before. 
And  I  am  near  the  shore. 
My  soul  stands  at  the  door — 

O  Lord,  receive  it ! 
It  trusts  Christ  and  His  merits — 

The  dead  He  raises  ; 
Join  it  with  blessed  spirits 

Who  sing  Thy  praises. 

Richard  Baxter. — Born  1615,  Died  1691. 


571.— SONG. 

See,  0  see ! 

How  every  tree. 

Every  bower, 

Every  flower, 
A  new  life  gives  to  others'  joys  ; 

WhHe  that  I 

Grief-stricken  lie. 

Nor  can  meet 

With  any  sweet 
B.ut  what  faster  mine  destroys. 
What  are  all  the  senses'  pleasures. 
When  the  mind  has  lost  all  measures  P 

Hear,  0  hear ! 
How  sweet  and  clear 
The  nightingale 
And  water's  fall 
In  concert  join  for  others'  ear  j 
While  to  me. 
For  harmony. 


Every  air 

Echoes  despair. 
And  every  drop  provokes  a  tear. 
What  are  all  the  senses'  pleasures. 
When  the  soul  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

Lord  Bristol— Born  1612,  Died  1676. 


572.— THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  DEVOTION. 

Sing  aloud  !  His  praise  rehearse, 
Wlio  hath  made  the  universe. 
He  the  boundless  heavens  lias  spread, 
AH  the  vital  orbs  has  kned  ; 
He  that  on  Olympus  high 
Tends  His  flock  with  watchful  eye ; 
And  this  eye  has  multiplied 
Midst  each  flock  for  to  reside. 
Thus,  as  round  about  they  sti-ay, 
Toucheth  each  mth  outstretched  ray  : 
Nimbly  they  hold  on  their  way. 
Shaping  out  their  night  and  day. 
Never  slack  they ;  none  respires, 
Dancing  round  their  central  fires. 

In  due  order  as  they  move, 
Echoes  sweet  be  gently  drove 
Through  heaven's  vast  hoUowness, 
Which  unto  all  comers  press — 
Music,  that  the  heart  of  Jove 
Moves  to  joy  and  sportful  love. 
Fills  the  listening  sailor's  ears. 
Riding  on  the  wandering  spheres. 
Neither  speech  nor  language  is 
Where  their  voice  is  not  transmiss. 

God  is  good,  is  wise,  is  strong — 
Witness  all  the  creature  throng — 
Is  confessed  by  every  tongue. 
All  things  back  from  whence  they  sprung. 
As  the  thankful  rivers  pay 
Wliat  they  borrowed  of  the  sea. 

Now,  myself  I  do  resign ; 
Take  me  whole,  I  all  am  Thine. 
Save  me,  God !  from  self-desire, 
Death's  pit,  dark  hell's  raging  fire, 
Envy,  hatred,  vengeance,  ire  ; 
Let  not  lust  my  soul  bemire. 

Quit  from  these.  Thy  praise  I'll  sing, 
Loudly  sweep  the  trembhng  string. 
Bear  a  part,  O  -wisdom's  sons, 
Freed  from  vain  religions  ! 
Lo  !  from  far  I  you  salute. 
Sweetly  warbling  on  my  lute- 
India,  Egypt,  Araby, 
Asia,  Greece,  and  Tartary, 
Carmel-tracts  and  Lebanon, 
With  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon, 
From  whence  muddy  Nile  doth  run ; 
Or,  wherever  else  you  won. 
Breathing  in  one  vital  air — 
One  we  are  though  distant  far. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  PEE-EXISTENCY  OF  THE  SOUL. 


[Henry  More. 


Else  at  once — let's  sacrifice  ! 
Odours  sweet  perfume  the  skies. 
See  how  heavenly  lightning  fires 
Hearts  inflamed  with  high  aspires  ; 
AU  the  substance  of  our  souls 
Up  in  clouds  of  incense  rolls  ! 
Leave  we  nothing  to  ourselves 
Save  a  voice — what  need  we  else  ? 
Or  a  hand  to  wear  and  tire 
On  the  thankfid  lute  or  lyre. 

Sing  aloud !  His  praise  rehearse 
Who  hath  made  the  universe. 

Henry  More.— Born  1614,  Died  1687. 


573.— CHAEITY  AND  HUMILITY. 

Par  have  I  clambered  in  my  mind, 
But  naught  so  great  as  love  I  find  ; 
Deep-searching  wit,  mount-moving  might. 
Are  naught  compared  to  that  good  spright. 
Life  of  delight,  and  soul  of  bliss  ! 
Sure  source  of  lasting  happiness  ! 
Higher  than  heaven,  lower  than  heU ! 
What  is  thy  tent  r  Where  mayst  thou  dwell?   i 

My  mansion  hight  Humility, 
Heaven's  vastest  capabihty — 
The  further  it  doth  downward  tend, 
The  higher  up  it  doth  ascend ; 
If  it  go  down  to  utmost  naught. 
It  shall  return  with  that  it  sought. 

Lord,  stretch  Thy  tent  in  my  straight 
breast — 
Enlarge  it  downward,  that  sure  rest 
May  there  be  pight ;  for  that  pure  fire 
Where^vith  thou  wontest  to  inspire 
AU  seK-dead  souls.     My  life  is  gone — 
Sad  solitude  's  my  irksome  wonne. 
Cut  off  from  men  and  all  this  world. 
In  Lethe's  lonesome  ditch  I'm  hurled. 
Nor  might  nor  sight  doth  aught  me  move, 
Nor  do  I  care  to  be  above. 
O  feeble  rays  of  mental  light, 
That  best  be  seen  in  this  dark  night ! 
What  are  you  ?  What  is  any  strength 
If  it  be  not  laid  in  one  length 
With  pride  or  love  ?  I  naught  desire 
But  a  new  life,  or  quite  t' expire. 
Could  I  demolish  with  mine  eye 
Strong  towers,  stop  the  fleet  stars  in  sky, 
Bring  down  to  earth  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Or  turn  black  midnight  to  bright  noon — 
Though  aU  things  were  put  in  my  hand — 
As  parched,  as  dry  as  the  Libyan  sand 
Would  be  my  life,  if  Charity 
Were  wanting.     But  humility 
Is  more  than  my  poor  soul  durst  eravej 
That  lies  intombed  in  lowly  grave. 
But  if  'twere  lawful  up  to  send 
My  voice  to  heaven,  this  should  it  rend  : 

Lord,  thrust  me  deeper  into  dust 
That  Thou  mayest  raise  me  with  the  just ! 

Henry  More— Born  1614,  Died  1687. 


574.— THE  SOUL  AND  BODY. 

Like  to  a  light  fast  lock'd  in  lanthom  dark, 
Whereby  by  night  our  wary  steps  we  guide 
In  slabby  streets,  and  dirty  channels  mark, 
Some  weaker  rays  through  the  black  top  do 

glide,  _ 

And   flusher   streams   perhaps   from  iomy 

side. 
But  when  we've  passed  the  peril  of  the  way, 
Arriv'd  at  home,  and  laid  that  case  aside, 
The  naked  light  how  clearly  doth  it  ray. 
And   spread  its  joyful  beams   as   bright   as 

summer's  day. 

Even  so  the  soul,  in  this  contracted  state, 
Confin'd  to  these  strait  instruments  of  sense, 
More  dull  and  narrowly  doth  operate  ; 
At  this  hole  hears,  the  sight  must  ray  from 

thence, 
Here  tastes,  there  smeUs :  but  when  she's 

gone  from  hence, 
Like  naked  lamp  she  is  one  shining  sphere, 
And  round  about  has  perfect  cognosccnce 
Whate'er  in  her  horizon  doth  appear  : 
She  is  one  orb  of  sense,  all  eye,  all  airy  ear. 

He^vry  More. — Born  1614,  Died  1687. 


575.— THE  PEE-EXISTENCY  OF  THE 
SOUL. 

Eise  then,  Aristo's  son,  assist  my  Muse  ; 

Let  that   high  sprite,   which  did  enrich  thy 

brains 
With  choice  conceits,  some  worthy  thoughts 

infuse, 
Worthy  thy  title  and  the  reader's  pains. 
And  thou,  O  Lycian  sage  !  whose  pen  contains 
Treasui'es  of  heavenly  Hght  with  gentle  fire, 
Give  leave  awhile  to  warm  me  at  thy  flames. 
That  I  may  also  kindle  sweet  desire 
In  holy  minds  that  unto  highest  things  aspire. 

For  I  would  sing  the  pre-existency 
Of  human  souls,  and  live  once  o'er  again, 
By  recollection  and  quick  memory. 
All  that  is  past  since  first  we  all  began ; 
But  all  too  shallow  be  my  wits  to  scan 
So  deep  a  point,  and  mind  too  duU  to  clear 
So  dark  a  matter.     But  thou,  more  than  man, 
Aread,  thou  sacred  soul  of  Plotin  dear. 
Tell  me  what  mortals  are — teU  what  of  old 
they  were. 

A  spark  or  ray  of  the  divinity, 

Clouded  with  earthy  fogs,  yclad  in  clay, 

A  precious  drop  sunk  from  eternity, 

Spilt  on  the  ground,  or  rather  slunk  away  ; 

For  then  we  fell  when  we  'gan  first  t' assay, 

By  stealth  of  our  ovra.  selves,  something  to 

been 
Uncentering  ourselves  from  our  great  stay. 


Henky  Moee.] 


THE  PEE-EXISTENCY  OF  THE  SOUL.         [Fourth  Perioi^.- 


Which  fondly  we  new  liberty  did  ween, 
And  from  that  prank  right  iohy  wits  ourselves 
did  deem. 


Show  fitly  how  the  pre-existent  soul 

Enacts  and  enters  bodies  here  below, 

And  then  entire  unhurt  can  leave  this  moul, 

And  thence  her  airy  vehicle  can  draw. 

In  which  by  sense  and  motion  they  may  know. 

Better  than  we,  what  things  transacted  be 

Upon  the  earth,  and  when  they  list  may  show 

Themselves  to  friend  or  foe,  their  phantasie 

Moulding  their  airy  orb  to  gross  consistency. 


Wherefore  the  soul  possess'd  of  matter  meet, 
If  she  hath  power  to  operate  thereon, 
Can  eath  transform  this  vehicle  to  sight, 
Dight  with  due  colour  figuration, 
Can  speak,  can  walk,  and  then  dispear  anon, 
Spreading  herself  in  the  dispersed  air. 
Then,  if  she  please,  recall  again  what's  gone : 
Those  th'  uncouth  mysteries  of  fancy  are — 
Than  thunder  far   more  strong,  more  qxiick 
than  lightning  far. 

Some  heaving  toward  this  strange  activity 
We  may  observe  ev'n  in  this  mortal  state ; 
Here  health  and  sickness  of  the  phantasie 
Often  proceed,  which  working  minds  create, 
And  pox  and  pestilence  do  malleate, 
Their  thoughts  stiU  beating  on  those  objects  ill. 
Which  doth  the  master' d  blood  contaminate, 
And  with  foul  poisonous  impressions  fill. 
And  last,  the  precious  life  v/ith  deadly  dolour 

km. 


All  these  declare  the  force  of  phantasie. 
Though  working  here  upon  this  stubborn  clay  ; 
But  th'  airy  vehicle  yields  more  easily. 
Unto  her  beck  more  nimbly  doth  obey. 
Which  truth  the  joint  confessions  bewray 
Of  damned  hags  and  masters  of  bold  sldll, 
Whose  hellish  mysteries  fuUy  to  display, 
The  earth  would  groan,  trees  sigh,  and  horror 
aU  o'erspiU. 

But  he  that  out  of  darkness  giveth  light, 
He  guide  my  steps  in  this  so  uncouth  way  ; 
And  iU-done  deeds  by  children  of  the  night 
Convert  to  good,  while  I  shall  hence  assay 
The  noble  soul's  condition  ope  to  lay. 
And  show  her  empire  on  her  airy  sphere. 
By  what  of  sprites  and  spectres  stories  say ; 
For  sprites  and  spectres  that  by  night  appear 
Be,  or  aU  with  the  soul,  or  of  a  nature  near. 

Up  then,  i-enowsed  wizard,  hermit  sag©, 
That  twice  ten  years  didst  in  the  desert  v/on. 
With  sprites  conversing  in  thy  hermitage, 
Since   thou   of   mortals    didst  the  commerce 

shun  ; 
Well  seen  in  these  foul  deeds  that  have  fore- 
done 


Many  a  bold  wit.     Up,  Marcus,  tell  again 
That  story  to  thy  Thrax,  who  has  thee  won 
To   Christian   faith;    the   guise   and    haunts 

explain 
Of  all  air-trampling  ghosts  that  in  the  v/orld 


There  be  six  sorts  of  sprites  :  Lelurion 
Is  the  first  kind,  the  next  are  named  from  air ; 
The  first  aloft,  yet  far  beneath  the  moon. 
The  other  in  this  lower  region  fare ; 
The  third  terrestrial,  the  fourth  watery  are  ; 
The  fifth  be  subterranean ;  the  last 
And  worst,  light-hating  ghosts,  more  cruel  far 
Than  bear  or  wolf  with  hunger  hard  oppress'd. 
But  doltish  yet,  and  dull,  like   an   umvieldy 
beast. 


Cameleon-like  they  thus  their  colour  change. 
And  size  contract,  and  then  dilate  again, 
Like  the  soft   earth-worm   hurt   by  heedless 

chance. 
Shrinks  in  herself  to  shun  or  ease  her  pain. 
Nor  do  they  only  thus  themselves  constrain 
Into  less  bulk,  but  if  with  courage  bold, 
And  flaming  brand,  thou  strike  these  shades  in 

twain 
Close  quick  as  cloven  air.  So  sang  that  wizard 

old. 

And  truth  he  said,  whatever  he  has  told, 
As  even  this  present  age  may  verify, 

j    If  any  lists  its  stories  to  unfold, 

I   Of  Hugo,  of  hobgoblins,  of  incubi, 

j   Abhorred  dugs  by  devils  sucken  dry ; 

I   Of  leaping  lamps,  and  of  fierce  flying  stones, 
Of  living  wool  and  such  like  vdtchery  ; 
Or  proved  by  sight  or  self-confessions. 
Which  things  much  credence  gain  to  past  tra- 
ditions. 

Wherefore  with  boldness  we  will  now  relate 
Some  few  in  brief ;  as  of  th'  Astorgan  lad 
Whose  peevish  mother,  in  fell  ire  and  hate, 
With  execration  bold,  the  devil  bad 
Take  him  aUve.     Which  mood  the  boy  n'ote 

bear. 
But  quits  the  room — walks  out  with  spirit  sad, 
Into  the  court,  where  lo !  by  night  appear 
Two  giants  with  grim  looks,  rough  limbs,  black 

grisly  hair. 


The  walking  skeleton  in  Bolonia, 

Laden  with  rattUng  chains,  that  show'd  his 

grave 
To  the  watchful  student,  who  without  dismay 
Bid  tell  his  wants  and  speak  what  he  would 

have, 
Thus  cleared  he  the  house  by  courage  brave. 
Nor  may  I  pass  the  fair  Cerdinian  maid 
Whose  love  a  jolly  swain  did  kindly  crave. 
And  oft  with  mutual  solace  with  her  staid. 
Yet  he  no  joUy  swain,  but  a  deceitful  shade. 


Froui  1649  to  1689.J 


COOPER'S  HILL. 


[Sir  John  Denham. 


In  arctic  climes  an  isle  that  Thnle  hight, 
Famous  for  snowy  monts,  whose  hoary  heads 
Sure  sign  of  cold ;  yet  from  their  fiery  feet 
They  strike  out  burning  stones  with  thunders 

dread, 
And  all  the  land  with  smoke  and  ashes  spread ; 
Here  wand'ring  ghosts  themselves  have  often 

sho'svn, 
As  if  it  were  the  region  of  the  dead, 
And  met  departed,  met  with  whom  they've 

known, 
In   seemly   sort    shake    hands,    and    ancient 

friendship  own. 

A  world  of  wonders  hither  might  be  thrown 
Of  sprites  and  spectres,  as  that  frequent  noise 
Oft  heard  upon  the  plain  of  Marathon, 
Of  neigliing  horses  and  of  martial  boys ; 
The  Greek  the  Persian  nightly  here  destroys 
In  hot  assault  embroil'd  in  a  long  war ; 
Four  hundred   years  did  last  those  dreadful 

toys, 
As  doth  by  Attic  records  plain  appear. 
The  seeds  of  hate  by  death  so  little  slaked  are. 

Hcnni  More.— Born  1614,  Died  1687. 


576.— COOPER'S  HILL. 

Sure  tliere  are  poets  which  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassits,  nor  did  taste  the  stream 
Of  Helicon  :  we  therefore  may  suppose 
Those  made  not  poets,  but  the  poets  those,         j 
And  as  courts  make  not  kings,  but  kings  the    j 

court,  I 

So  Avhere  the  Muses  and  their  train  resort, 
Parnassus  stands  ;  if  I  can  be  to  thee 
A  poet,  thou  Parnassus  art  to  mo. 
Nor  v/onder  if  (advantaged  in  my  flight, 
By  taking  ^ving  from  thy  auspicious  height) 
Through  untraced  ways  and  airy  paths  I  fly, 
More  boundless  in  my  fancy  than  my  eye ; 
My  eye,  which  s^vift  as  thought  contracts  the 

space 
That,  lies  between,  and  first  salutes  the  place 
Crown'd  with  that  sacred  pile,  so  vast,  so  high, 
That  whether  'tis  a  i)art  of  earth  or  sky 
Uncertain  seems,  and  may  be  thought  a  proud 
Aspiring  mountain,  or  descending  cloud  ; 
Paul's  the  late  theme  of  such  a  Muse,  whose 

flight 
Has   bravely   reach' d   and   scar'd   above   thy 

height ; 
Now  shalt  thou  stand,  though  sword,  or  time, 

or  fire, 
Or  zeal,  more  fierce  than  they,  thy  fall  conspire. 
Secure,  whilst  thee  the  best  of  poets  sings, 
Preserved  from  ruin  by  the  best  of  kings. 
Under  his  proud  survey  the  city  lies. 
And  like  a  mist  beneath  a  hill  doth  rise. 
Whose  state  and  wealth,  the  business  and  the 

crowd. 
Seems  at  this  distance  but  a  darker  cloud, 


And  is,  to  him  who  rightly  things  esteems. 
No  other  in  effect  than  what  it  seems  ; 
Where,  with  like  haste,  though  several  ways 

they  run. 
Some  to  undo,  and  some  to  be  undone  ; 
While  luxury  and  wealth,  like  war  and  peace, 
Are  each  the  other's  ruin  and  increase  ; 
As  rivers  lost  in  seas,  some  secret  vein 
Thence  reconveys,  there  to  be  lost  again. 
Oh  !  happiness  of  sweet  retired  content ! 
To  be  at  once  secure  and  innocent. 
Windsor   the   next  (where   Mars  mth  Venus 

dwells, 
Beauty  wth  strength)  above  the  valley  swells 
Into  mj'  eye,  and  doth  itself  present 
With  such  an  easy  and  unforced  ascent, 
That  no  stupendous  precipice  denies 
Access,  no  horror  turns  away  our  eyes  ; 
But  such  a  rise  as  doth  at  once  in\ate. 
A  pleasure  and  a  reverence  from  the  sight : 
Thy  mighty  master's  emblem,  in  whose  face 
Sat  meekness,  heighten'd  with  majestic  grace  : 
Such  seems  thy  gentle  height,  made  only  proud 
To  be  the  basis  of  that  pomi>ous  load, 
Than   which  a  nobler  weight   no    mountain 

bears. 
But  Atlas  only,  which  supports  the  spheres. 
When  Nature's  hand   this   ground   did  thus 

advance, 
'Twas  guided  by  a  wiser  power  than  Chance  : 
Mark'd  out  for  such  an  use,  as  if  'twere  meant 
T'  invite  the  builder,  and  his  choice  prevent. 
Nor  can  we  call  it  choice,  v/hen  what  we  choo.^e 
FoUy  or  blindness  only  could  refuse. 
A  crown  of  such  majestic  towers  doth  grace 
The   gods'    great   mother,  when  her  heav'nly 

race 
Do  homage  to  her ;  yet  she  cannot  boast, 
Among  that  num'rous  and  celestial  host, 
More   heroes   than   can   Windsor ;    nor  doth 

Fame's 
Immortal  book  record  more  noble  names. 
Not  to  look  back  so  far,  to  whom  this  isle 
Owes  the  first  glory  of  so  brave  a  pile, 
Whether  to  Caisar,  Albanact,  or  Brute, 
The  British  Arthur,  or  the  Danish  C'nute : 
(Though  this  of  old  no  less  contest  did  move 
Than   when   for   Homer's   birth   seven   cities 

strove) 
(Like  him  in  birth,  thou  should' st  be  like  in 

fame, 
As  thine  his  fate,  if  mine  had  been  his  flame) 
But  whosoe'er  it  was,  Nature  design'd 
First  a  brave  place   and  then  as  brave  a  mind. 
Not  to  recount  those  sev'ral  kings  to  whom 
It  gave  a  cradle,  or  to  whom  a  tomb  ; 
But  thee,  great  Edward  I  and  thy  greater  son, 
(The  lilies  which  his  father  wore  he  won) 
And  thy  Bellona,  who  the  consort  came 
Not  only  to  thy  bed  but  to  thy  fame. 
She  to  thy  triumph  led  one  captive  king. 
And  brought  that  son  which  did  the  second 

bring  ; 
Then  didst  thou  found   that  Order    (whether 

love 
Or  victory  thy  royal  thoughts  did  move  :) 


Sir  John  Denham.] 


COOPEE'S  HILL. 


[FouKTH  Period. — 


Each  was  a  noble  cause,  and  nothing  le?s 
Than  the  design  has  been  the  great  sncce^s, 
\Vhich  foreign  kings  and  emperors  esteem 
The  second  honour  to  their  diadem. 
Had  thy  great  destiny  but  given  thee  skill 
To  know,  as  well  as  pow'r  to  act  her  will. 
That  from  those  kings,  who  then  thy  captives 

were. 
In  after-times  should  spring  a  royal  pair 
Who  should  possess  all  that  thy  mighty  pow'r, 
Or  thy  desires  more  mighty,  did  devour  ; 
To  whom  their  better  fate  reserves  whate'er 
The  victor  hopes  for  or  the  vanquish' d  fear  ; 
That  blood  which  thou  and  thy  great  grandsire 

shed. 
And  all  that  since  these  sister  nations  bled. 
Had  been  unspilt,  and  happy  Edward  known 
That  all  the  blood  he  spilt  had  been  liis  own. 
When  he  that  patron  chose  in  whom  are  join' d 
Soldier  and  martyr,  and  his  arms  confined 
Within  the  azure  circle,  he  did  seem  • 
But  to  foretel  and  prophecy  of  him 
Who  to  his  realms  that   azure   round  hath 

join'd. 
Which  nature  for  their  bound  at  first  design'd  ; 
That  bound  which  to  the  world's  extremest 

ends, 
Endless  itself,  its  liquid  arms  extends, 
Nor  doth  he  need  those  emblems  which  we 

paint. 
But  is  himself  the  soldier  and  the  saint. 
Here  should  my  wonder  dwell,  and  here   my 

praise  ; 
But   my   fix'd    thoughts    my    wand'ring    eye 

betrays. 
Viewing  a  neighb'ring  hill,  whose  top  of  late 
A  chapel  crown'd,  till  in  the  common  fate 
Th'   adjoining    abbey    fell.      (May    no    such 

storm 
Fall  on  our  times,  where  ruin  must  reform  !) 
Tell    me,    my    Muse !    what   monstrous   dire 

offence. 
What  crime,  could  any  Christian  king  incense 
To  such  a  rage  ?  Was't  luxury  or  lust  ? 
Was  he  so  temperate,  so  chaste,  so  just  ? 
Were  these  their  crimes  ?  they  were  his  own 

much  more  ; 
But  wealth  is  crime  enough  to  him  that's  poor, 
Wlio  having  spent  the  treasures  of  his  crown, 
Condemns  their  luxury  to  feed  his  own ; 
And  yet  this  act,  to  varnish  o'er  the  shame 
Of  sacrilege,  must  bear  devotion's  name. 
No  crime  so  bold  but  would  be  understood 
A  real,  or  at  least  a  seeming  good. 
Wlio  fears  not  to  do  ill,  yet  fears  the  name. 
And,  free  from  conscience,  is  a  slave  to  fame. 
Thus  he  the   chm-ch  at   once   protects    and 

spoils ; 
But  princes'  swords  are  sharper  than   their 

styles ; 
And  thus  to  th'  ages  past  he  makes  amends, 
Their  charity  destroys,  their  faith  defends. 
Tlien  did  Eeligion  in  a  lazy  ceU, 
In  empty  airy  contemplations  dwell. 
And  like  the  block  unmoved  lay  ;  but  ours, 
As  much  too  active,  like  the  stork  devours. 


Is  there  no  temp' rate  region  can  be  known 
Betwixt  their  frigid  and  our  torrid  zone  ? 
Could  we  not  wake  from  that  lethargic  dream, 
But  to  be  restless  in  a  worse  extreme  ? 
And  for  that  lethargy  was  there  no  cure 
But  to  be  cast  into  a  calenture  ? 
Can   knowledge   have    no    bound,   but    must 

advance 
So  far,  to  make  us  wish  for  ignorance. 
And  rather  in  the  dark  to  grope  our  way. 
Than  led  by  a  false  guide  to  en-  by  day  ? 
Who    sees    these    dismal    heaps    but    would 

demand 
What  barbarous  invader  sack'd  the  land  ? 
But  when   he   hears  no  Goth,  no  Turk,  did 

bring 
This  desolation,  but  a  Christian  king  ; 
When  nothing  but  tlie  name  of  zeal  appears 
'Twixt  our  best  actions  and  the  worst  of  theirs ; 
What  does  he  think  our  sacrilege  would  spare, 
When  such  th'  effects  of  our  devotions  are  ? 
Parting  from  thence  'twixt  anger,  shame,  and 

fear, 
Those  for  what's  past,  and  this  for  what's  too 

near, 
My  eye  descending  from  the  HiU,  surveys 
WTiere  Thames   among   the    wanton    valleys 

strays. 
Thames !  the  most  loved  of  aUthe  Ocean's  sons, 
By  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs, 
Hasting  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea. 
Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity ; 
Though  with  those  streams  he  no  resemblance 

hold. 
Whose  foam  is  amber,  and  their  gravel  gold : 
His  genuine  and  less  guilty  wealth  t'  explore. 
Search  not  his  bottom,  but  survey  his  shore, 
O'er  which  he  kindly  spreads  his  spacious  wing 
And  hatches  plenty  for  th'  ensuing  spring  ; 
Nor  then  destroys  it  with  too  fond  a  stay, 
Like  mothers  which  their  infants  overlay ; 
Nor  with  a  sudden  and  impetuous  wave. 
Like  profuse  kings,  resumes  the  wealth  he 

gave. 
No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 
The  mower's  hopes,  nor  mock  the  ploughman's 

toil; 
But  godlike  his  unwearied  bounty  flows  ; 
First  loves  to  do,  then  loves  the  good  he  does. 
Nor  are  his  blessings  to  his  banks  confined, 
But  free  and  common  as  the  sea  or  wind ; 
When  he,  to  boast  or  to  disperse  his  stores, 
Full  of  the  tributes  of  his  grateful  shores, 
Visits  the  world,  and  in  his  flying  tow'rs 
Brings  home  to  us,  and  makes  both  Indies 

ours; 
Finds  wealth  where  'tis,  bestows  it  where   it 

wants, 
Cities  in  deserts,  woods  in  cities,  plants. 
So  that  to  us  no  thing,  no  place,  is  strange. 
While  his  fair  bosom  is  the  world's  Exchange. 
O,  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme  ! 
Though  deep  yet  clear,  though  gentle  yet  not 

dull; 
Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full. 


From  1^9  to  1689.] 


COOPEE'S  HILL. 


[Sir  John  Denham. 


Heav'n  lier  Eridamis  do  more  shall  boast, 
Whose   fame  in  thine,  Kko   lesser  current,  's 

lost ; 
Thy  nobler  streams  jj^hall  visit  Jove's  abodes, 
To  shine  among  the  stars,  and  bathe  the  gods. 
Here  Nature,  whether  more  intent  to  please 
Us  for  herself  with  strange  varieties, 
(For  things  of  wonder  give  no  less  delight 
To  the  wise  Maker's  than  beholder's  sight ; 
Though   these   delights   from   several    causes 

move. 
For  so  our  children,  thus  our  friends,  we  love) 
Wisely  she  knew  the  harmony  of  things, 
As  well  as  that  of  sounds,  from  discord  springs. 
Such  was  the  discord  which  did  first  disperse 
Form,  order,  beauty,  through  the  universe ; 
While  dryness  moisture,  coldness  heat  resists, 
All  that  wo  have,  and  that  we  are,  subsists ; 
While  the  steep  horrid  roughness  of  the  wood 
Strives  with  the  gentle  calmness  of  the  flood. 
Such  huge  extremes  when  Nature  doth  unite, 
Wonder    from    thence    results,    from    thence 

delight. 
The  stream  is  so  transparent,  pure,  and  clear. 
That  had  the  self-enamour'd  youth  gazed  here, 
So  fatally  deceived  he  had  not  been. 
While  he  the  bottom,  not  his  face  had  seen. 
But  his  proud  head  the  airy  mountain  hides 
Among  the  clouds  ;  his  shoulders  and  his  sides 
A  shady  mantle  clothes ;  his  curled  brows 
Frown    on  the  gentle   stream,  which  calmly 

flows, 
Wliile   winds  and  storms  his  lofty  forehead 

beat; 
The  common  fate  of  all  that's  high  or  great. 
Low  at  his  foot  a  spacious  plain  is  placed, 
Between  the   mountain   and  the  stream  em- 
braced, 
^Vhieh  shade  and  shelter  from  the  HiU  derives, 
While  the  kind  river  wealth  and  beauty  gives, 
And  in  the  mixture  of  all  these  appears 
Variety,  which  all  the  rest  endears. 
This  scene  had  some  bold  Greek  or  British  bard 
Beheld  of  old,  what  stories  had  we  heard 
Of  fairies,  satyrs,  and  the  nymphs  their  dames, 
Their  feasts,  their  revels,   and  their  am'rous 

flames  ? 
'Tis  still  the  same,  although  their  airy  shape 
All  but  a  quick  poetic  sight  escape. 
There  Faunus  and  Sylvanus  keep  their  cotirts, 
And  thither  all  the  homed  host  resorts 
To  graze  the  ranker  mead ;  that  noble  herd 
On  whose  subHme  a.nd  shady  fronts  is  rear'd 
Nature's  great  masterpiece,  to  show  how  soon 
Great  things  are  made,  but  sooner  are  undone. 
Here  have  I  seen  the  King,  when  great  affairs 
Gave  leave  to  slacken  and  unbend  his  cares, 
Attended  to  the  chase  by  all  the  flow'r 
Of  youth,  whose  hopes  a  nobler  prey  devour ; 
Pleasure  with  praise  and  danger  they  would  buy. 
And  wish  a  toe  that  would  not  only  fly. 
The  stag  now  conscious  of  his  fatal  growth. 
At  once  indulgent  to  his  fear  and  sloth. 
To  some  dark  covert  his  retreat  had  made. 
Where   nor   man's   eye,   nor  heaven's  should 
invade 


His  soft  repose ;  when  th'  unexpected  sound 
Of  dogs  and  men  his  wakeful  ear  does  wound. 
Eoused  with  the  noise,  he  scarce  beheves  his 

ear. 
Willing  to  think  th'  illusions  of  his  fear 
Had  given  this  false  alarm,  but  straight  his 

view  -     - 

Confirms  that  more  than  all  he  fears  is  true. 
Eetray'd  in  all  his  strengths,  the  wood  beset, 
All  instruments,  all  arts  of  ruin  met, 
He  calls  to  mind  his  strength,  and  then  his 

speed. 
His  winged  heels,  and  then  his  armed  head  ; 
With  these  t'  avoid,  with  that  his  fate  to  meet; 
But  fear  prevails,  and  bids  him  trust  his  feet. 
So  fast  he  flies,  that  his  re\'iewing  eye 
Has  lost  the  chasers,  and  his  ear  the  cry  ; 
Exulting,  till  he  finds  their  nobler  sense 
Their  disproportion'd  speed  doth  recompenpc  ; 
Then  curses  his  conspiring  feet,  whose  scent 
Betrays  that  safety  which  their  swiftness  lent : 
Then  tries  his  friends  ;  among  the  baser  herd, 
Where  he  so  lately  was  obey'd  and  fear'd, 
His  safety  seeks  ;  the  herd,  unkindly  wise. 
Or  chases  liim  from  thence  or  from  him  flies. 
Like  a  declining  statesman,  left  forlorn 
To  his  friends'  "pity,  and  pursuers'  scorn, 
With  shame  remembers,  while  himself  was  one 
Of  the  same  herd,  himseK  the  same  had  done. 
Thence    to    the    coverts    and   the   conscious 

groves. 
The  scenes  of  his  past  triumphs  and  his  loves, 
Sadly  surveying  where  he  ranged  alone. 
Prince  of  the  soil,  and  all  the  herd  his  own, 
And  like  a  bold  knight-errant  did  proclaim 
Combat  to  all,  and  bore  away  the  dame. 
And  taught  the  woods  to  echo  to  the  stream 
His  dreadful  challenge,  and  his  clashing  beam ; 
Yet  faintly  now  declines  the  fatal  strife. 
So  much  his  love  was  dearer  than  his  life. 
Now  ev'ry  leaf,  and  ev'ry  moving  breath 
Presents  a  foe,  and  ev'iy  foe  a  death. 
Wearied,  forsaken,  and  pursued,  at  last 
All  safety  in  despair  of  safety  placed. 
Courage  he  thence  resumes,  resolved  to  bear 
AU  their  assaults,  since  'tis  in  vain  to  fear. 
And  now,  too  late,  he  wishes  for  the  fight 
That  strength  he  wasted  in  ignoble  flight ; 
But  when  he  sees  the  eager  chase  renew'd. 
Himself  by  dogs,  the  dogs  by  men  pursued. 
He  straight  revokes  his  bold  resolve,  and  more 
Repents  his  courage  than  his  fear  before ; 
Finds  that  uncertain  ways  unsafest  are. 
And  doubt  a  greater  mischief  than  despair. 
Then  to  the  stream,  when  neither  friends,  nor 

force. 
Nor  speed,  nor  art,  avail,  he  shapes  his  course  ; 
Thinks  not  their  rage  so  desp'rate  to  essay 
An  element  more  merciless  than  they. 
But  fearless  they  pursue,  nor  can  the  flood 
Quench  their  dire  thirst ;  alas  !  they  thirst  for 

blood. 
So  t'wards  a  ship  the  oar-finn'd  galleys  ply, 
T\Tiich  wanting  sea  to  ride,  or  wind  to  fly, 
Stands  but  to  fall  revenged  on  those  that  dare 
Tempt  the  last  fury  of  extreme  despair. 


Sir  John  Denham.]    EAEL  STRAFFOED'S  TRIAL  AND  DEATH.     [Fourth  Period.— 


So  fares  the  stag  ;  among  th'  enraged  hounds 
Repels  their  force,   and  wounds   retui-ns   for 

wounds : 
And  as  a  hcx'o,  whom  his  baser  foes 
In  troops  surround, nowthese assails,  nowthose, 
Though  prodigal  of  life,  disdains  to  die 
By  common  hands ;  but  if  he  can  descry- 
Some  nobler  foe  approach,  to  him  he  calls, 
And  begs  his  fate,  and  then  contented  falls. 
So  when  the  king  a  mortal  shaft  lets  fly 
From  his  unerring  hand,  then  glad  to  die, 
Proud  of  the  wound,  to  it  resigns  his  blood, 
And  stains  the  crystal  with  a  purple  flood. 
This  a  more  innocent  and  happy  chase 
Than  when  of  old,  but  in  the  self-same  place, 
Fair  Liberty  pursued,  and  meant  a  prey 
To  lawless  power, here  turn'd,  and  stood  at  bay; 
When  in  that  remedy  all  hope  was  placed 
Which  was,  or  should  have  been  at  least,  the 

last. 
Here  was  that  Charter  seal'd  wherein  the  crown 
All  marks  of  arbitrary  power  lays  down ; 
Tyrant  and  slave,  those  names  of  hate  and  fear, 
The  happier  style  of  king  and  subject  bear : 
Happy  when  both  to  the  same  centre  move, 
When  kings  give  liberty  and  subjects  love. 
Tlierefore  not  long  in  force  this  Charter  stood  ; 
Wanting  that  seal,  it  must  be  seal'd  in  blood. 
The  subjects   arm'd,   the  more  their  princes 

gave, 
Th'  advantage  only  took  the  more  to  crave  ; 
Till  kings,  by  giving,  give  themselves  away, 
And  ev'n  that  power  that  should  deny  betray. 
"  Who   gives    constrain'd,  but  liis  own  fear 

reviles. 
Not  thank'd,  but  scorn' d  ;  nor  are  they  gifts, 

but  spoils." 
Thus  kings,  by  grasping  more  than  they  could 

hold, 
First  made  their  subjects  by  oppression  bold ; 
And  popular  sway,  by  forcing  kings  to  give 
More  than  was  fit  for  subjects  to  receive, 
Ran  to  the  same  extremes ;  and  one  excess 
Made  both,  by  striving  to  be  greater,  less. 
When  a  calm  river  raised  with  sudden  rains, 
Or  snows   dissolved,   o'erflows   th'    adjoining 

plains. 
The  husbandmen  with  high-raised  banks  secure 
Their  greedy  hopes,  and  this  he  can  endure  ; 
But  if  with  bays  and  dams  they  strive  to  force 
His  channel  to  a  new  or  narrow  course. 
No  longer  then  within  his  banks  he  dwells, 
First  to  a  torrent,  then  a  deluge,  swells  ; 
Stronger  and  fiercer  by  restraint,  he  roars. 
And  knows  no  bound,  but  makes  his  pow'r  his 

shores. 

Sir  John  Denham.— Bor. 1 1615,  Died  1668. 


577.— ON  THE  EARL  OF  STRAFFORD'S 
TRIAL  AND  DEATH. 

Great  StraflFord  !  worthy  of  that  name,  though 

aU 
Of  thee  could  be  forgotten  but  thy  fall. 


Crush' d  by  imaginary  treason's  weight. 
Which  too  much  merit  did  accumulate. 
As  chemists  gold  from   brass  by  fire  would 

draw. 
Pretexts  are  into  treason  f  otged  by  law. 
His  wisdom  such,  at  once  it  did  appear 
Three  kingdoms'  wonder,  and  three  kingdoms' 

fear. 
Whilst   single   he   stood   forth,   and    seem'd, 

although 
Each  had  an  army,  as  an  equal  foe  ; 
Such  was  his  force  of  eloquence,  to  make 
The   hearers  more    concern' d  than    he    that 

spake. 
Each   seem'd   to  act  that   part   he   came   to 

see. 
And  none  was  more  a  looker-on  than  he. 
So   did  he   move   our    passions,    some    were 

known 
To  wish,    for  the   defence,   the   crime   their 

own, 
Now  private  pity  strove  with  public  hate. 
Reason  with  rage,  and  eloquence  with  fate. 
Now  they  could  him,  if  he  could  them  for- 

^  give; 
He's  not  too  guilty,  but  too  wise,  to  live  : 
Less  seem  those  facts  which  treason's  nickname 

bore 
Than  such  a  fear'd  ability  for  more. 
They  after  death  their  fears  of  him  express, 
His  innocence  and  their  own  guilt  confess. 
Their  legislative  frenzy  they  repent, 
Enacting  it  should  make  no  precedent. 
This   fate  he  could  have  'scaped,  but   would 

not  lose 
Honour  for  life,  but  rather  nobly  chose 
Death  from  their  fears  than  safety  from  his 

own, 
Tliat  liis  last  action  all  the  rest  might  cro)vn. 

Sir  John  Denham. — Born  1615,  Died,  1668. 


578.— SONG  TO  MORPHEUS. 

Morpheus,  the  humble  god,  that  dweils 
In  cottages  and  smoky  cells. 
Hates  gilded  roofs  and  beds  of  down  ; 
And,  though  he  fears  no  prince's  frown, 
FKes  from  the  circle  of  a  crown. 

Come,  I  say,  thou  powerful  god. 
And  thy  leaden  charming  rod. 
Dipt  in  the  Lethean  lake. 
O'er  his  wakeful  temples  shake, 
Lest  he  should  sleep  and  never  wake. 

Nature,  alas !  why  art  thou  so 
Obliged  to  thy  greatest  foe  ? 
Sleep,  that  is  thy  best  repast. 
Yet  of  death  it  bears  a  taste. 
And  both  are  the  same  thing  at  last. 

Sir  John  Denham.— Born  1615,  Died  1668. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


ARGALIA  CONDEMNED.  [William  Chamberlayne. 


579.— A  SUMMER  MORNING. 

The  morning  hath  not  lost  her  virgin  bkish, 
Nor  step,  but  mine,  soil'd  the  earth's  tinsell'd 

robe. 
How  full  of  heaven  this  solitude  appears. 
This  healthful  comfort  of  the  happy  swain ; 
Wlio  from  his  hard  but  peaceful  bed  roused 

up, 
In 's  morning  exercise  saluted  is 
By  a  fuU  quire  of  feather'd  choristers. 
Wedding  their  notes  tO  the  enamour'd  air  ! 
Here  nature  in  her  unaffected  dress 
Plaited  with  valleys,  and  emboss'd  with  hiUs 
Enchased  with  silver  streams,  and  fringed  with 

woods. 
Sits  lovely  in  her  native  russet. 

WiUia-.n  Chamberlayne.— Bom  lG19,I>/cta689. 


580.— VIRGIN  PURITY. 

The  morning  pearls, 
Dropt  in  the  lily's  spotless  bosom,  are 
Less  chastely  cool,  ere  the  meridian  sim 
Hath  kiss'd  them  into  heat. 

William  Chamberlayne.— Bom  1619,  DicdlGS9. 


581.— ARGilLIA  CONDEMNED  ON  FALSE 
EVIDENCE. 

High  mounted  on  an  ebon  throne  on  which 
Th'  embeUish'd  silver  show'd  so  sadly  rich 
As  if  its  varied  form  strove  to  delight 
Those  solemn  souls  which  death-pale  fear  did 

fright, 
In  Tyrian  purple  clad,  the  princess  sato,     , 
Between  two  sterner  ministers  of  fate, 
Impartial  judges,  whose  distinguish'd  tasks 
Their  various  habit  to  the  view  unmasks. 
One,  in  whose  looks,  as  pity  strove  to  draw 
Compassion  in  the  tablets  of  the  law, 
Some  softness  dwelt,  in  a  majestic  vest 
Of   state-like    red    was    clothed;    the   other, 

dress'd 
In  dismal  black,  whose  terrible  aspect 
Declared  his  office,  served  but  to  detect 
Her  slow  consent,  if,  when  the  first  forsook 
The  cause,  the  law  so  far  as  death  did  look. 
Silence   proclaim'd,   a  harsh   command    calls 

forth 
Th'  undaunted  prisoner,  whose  excelling  worth 
In  this  low  ebb  of  fortune  did  appear 
Such  as  we  fancy  virtues  that  come  near 
The  excellence  of  angels — fear  had  not 
Rifled  one  drop  of  blood,  nor  rage  begot 
More  colom*  in  his  cheeks — Ms  soul  in  state, 
Throned  in  the   medium,  constant  virtue  sat. 


Yet,  though  now  depress'd 
Even  in  opinion,  which  oft  proves  the  best 
Support  to  those  whose  i)ubhc  virtues  we 
Adore  before  their  private  guilt  we  see. 
His  noble  soul  stiU  wings  itself  above 
Passion's  dark  fogs  ;  and  like  that  prosperous 

dove  ~     - 

The  world's  first  pilot,  for  discovery  sent, 
When  all  the  floods  that  bound  the  firmament 
O'erwhelm'd  the  earth,  conscience'  calm  joys 

to  increase, 
Returns,  freight  with  the  olive  branch  of  peace, 
Thus  fortified  from  all  that  tyrant  fear 

]    O'erawed  the  guilty  with,  he  doth  appear. 
*  *  *  Not  all 

His  virtues  now  protect  him,  he  must  fall 
A  guiltless  sacrifice,  to  expiate 

!   No  other  crime  but  their  envenom' d  hate. 

i   An  ominous  silence — such  as  oft  precedes 
The  fatal  sentence — v»^hile  the  accuser  reads 
His   charge,   possess'd  the   pitying   coui-t   in 

which 
Presaging  calm  Pharonnida,  too  rich 
In  mercy,  heaven's  supreme  prerogative. 
To  stifle  tears,  did  with  her  passion  strive 
So  long,  that  what  at  first  assaulted  in 
Sorrow's  black  armour,  had  so  often  been 
For  pity  cherish'd,  that  at  length  her  eyes 
Found  there  those  spirits  that  did  sympathise 
With  those  that  warm'd  her  blood,  and  unseen, 

move 
That  engine  of  the  v/orld,  mysterious  love. 


I   The  beauteous  princess,  whose   free  soul  had 
been 
Yet  guarded  in  her  virgin  ice,  and  now 
A  stranger  is  to  what  she  doth  allow 
Such  easy  entrance.     By  those  rays  that  fall 
From  cither's  eyes,  to  make  reciprocal 
Their  yielding  passions,  bravo  Argaha  felt, 
Even  in  the  grasp    of    death,  his  functions 

melt 
To  flames,  which  on  his  heart  an  onset  make 
For  sadness,  such  as  weary  mortals  take 
Eternal  farewells  in.     Yet  in  this  high 
Tide  of  his  blood,  in  a  soft  calm  to  die. 
His  yielding  spirits  now  prepare  to  meet 
Death,  clothed  in  thoughts  white  as  his  winding- 
sheet. 
That  fatal  doom,  which  unto  heaven  affords 

:   The  sole  appeal,  one  of  the  assisting  lords 

I   Had  now  pronounced   whose   horrid   thunder 

'  could 

i   Not  strike  his  laureU'd  brow  ;  that  voice  which 

'  would 

Have  petrified  a  timorous  soul,  he  hears 
With  calm  attention.     No  disorder'd  fears 
Ruffled  his  fancy,  nor  domestic  war 
Raged  in  his  breast ;  his  every  look  so  far 
From  vulgar  passions,  that,  unless  amazed 
At  beauty's  majesty  he  sometime  gazed 
Wildly  on  that  as  emblems  of  more  great 
Glories  than  earth  afforded,  from  the  seat 
Of  resolution  his  fix'd  soul  had  not 
Been  stirr'd  to  passion,  which  had  now  begot 


William  Chambeblayne.]    THE  ATTACHMENT  DISCOVEEED.       [Fourth  Pei::ob.- 


Wonder,    not   fear,   within   liim.      No   harsli 

frown 
Contracts  his  brow ;  nor  did  his  thoughts  pnll 

down 
One  fainting  spirit,  wrapt  in  smother'd  groans. 
To  clog  his  heart.     From  her  most  eminent 

thrones 
Of  sense,  the  eyes,  the  lightning  of  his  soul 
Flew,  with  such  vigour  forth,  it  did  control 
All  weaker  passions,  and  at  once  include 
With  Roman  valour  Christian  fortitude. 

William  Chamherlayne. — Born  1619,  DietZ  1689. 


582.— THE  FATHER  OF  PHARONNIDA 
DISCOVERS  HER  ATTACHMENT  TO 
ARGALIA. 

Silent  with  passion,  which  his  eyes  inflamed, 
The  prince  awhile  beholds  her  ere  he  blamed 
The  frailty  of  affection ;  but  at  length, 
Through  the  quick  throng  of  thoughts,  arm'd 

with  a  strength, 
Which  crush' d   the   soft   paternal   smiles   of 

love. 
He   thus  begins — "And  must,  O  must  that 

prove 
My  greatest  curse  on  which  my  hopes  ordain'd 
To  raise  my  happiness  ?  Have  I  refrain'd 
The  pleasures  of  a  nuptial  ^ed,  to  joy 
Alone  in  thee,  nor  trembled  to  destroy 
My  name,  so  that  advancing  thine  I  might 
Live  to  behold  my  sceptre  take  its  flight 
To  a  more  spacious  empire  ?  Have  I  spent 
My  youth  till,  grown  in  debt  to  age,  she  hath 

sent 
Diseases  to  arrest  me  that  impair 
My  strength  and  hopes  e'er  to  enjoy  an  heir, 
Wliich  might  preserve  our  name,  which  only 

now 
Must  in  our  dusty  annals  live ;  whilst  thou 
Transfer' st  the  glory  of  our  house  on  one. 
Which  had  not  I  warm'd  into  life,  had  gone, 
A  wretch  forgotten  of  the  world,  to  th'  earth 
From    whence    he    sprung?     But   tear    this 

monstrous  birth 
Of  fancy  from  thy  soul,  quick  as  thou'dst  fly 
Descending  wrath  if  visible,  or  I 
Shall  blast  thee  with  my  anger  tiU.  thy  name 
Rot  in  my  memory ;  not  as  the  same 
That  once  thou  wert  behold  thee,  but  as  some 
Dire  prodigy,  which  to  foreshow  should  come 
All  ills  which  through  the  progress  of  my  life 
Did  chance  were  sent.     I  lost  a   queen  and 

Avife, 
Tliy  vii-tuous  mother,  who  for  goodness  might 
Have  here  supplied,  before  she  took  her  flight 
To  heaven,   my   better   angel's   place ;   have 

since 
Stood  storms  of  strong  affliction  ;  still  a  prince 
Over  ray  passions  until  now,  but  this 
Hath   proved  me   coward.       Oh !    thou   dost 

amiss 


To  grieve  me  thus,  fond  girl." — ^With  that  he 

shook 
His  reverend  head  ;  beholds  her  with  a  look 
Composed  of  grief  and  anger,  wliich  she  sees 
With  melting  sorrow ;  but  resolved  love  frees 
Her  from  more  yielding  pity — 

She  f  aUs 
Prostrate  at's  feet ;  to  his  remembrance  calls 
Her  dying  mother's  will,  by  whoso  pale  dust 
She  now  conjures  him  not  to  be  unjust 
Unto  that  promise,  with  which  her  pure  soul 
Fled  satisfied  from  earth — as  to  control 
Her  freedom  of  affection. — 

She  then 
Calls  to  remembrance  who  reheved  him  when 
Distress' d  within  Aleythius'  walls ;  the  love 
His  subjects  bore  Argaha,  which  miglit  i)rove 
Her  choice  her  happiness  ;  with  all,  how  great 
A  likelihood,  it  was  but  the  retreat 
Of  royalty  to  a  more  safe  disguise 
Had  show'd  him  to  their  state's  deluded  eyes 
So  mean  a  thing.     Love's  boundless  rhetoric 
About  to  dictate  more,  he,  with  a  quick 
And  furious  haste,  forsakes  the  room,  his  rage 
Thus  boiling  o'er — "And  must  my  -svretched 

age 
Be  thus  by  thee  tormented  ?  but  take  heed. 
Correct   thy   passions,   or    their   cause   miist 

bleed. 
Until  he  quench  the  flame — " 

#  *  Her  soul,  oppross'd. 

Sinks  in  a  pale  swoon,  catching  at  the  rest 
It  must  not  yet  enjoy  ;  swift  help  lends  light, 
Thougk  faint  and  glimmering,  to  behold  what 

night 
Of  grief  o'ershadow'd  her.      You  that   have 

been 
Upon  the  rack  of  passion,  tortured  in 
The  engines  of  forbidden  love,  that  have 
Shed  fruitless  tears,   spent  hopeless   righs,  to 

crave 
A  rigid  parent's  fair  aspect,  conceive 
What   wild   distraction   seized  her.      I  must 

leave 
Her  passions'  volume  only  to  be  read 
Within  the  breasts  of  such  whose  hearts  have 

bled 
At  the  like  dangeroiTS  wounds. 

William  Chamherlayne. — Born  lG19',DicdlGSd. 


58: 


-ARGALIA  TAKEN  PRISONER  BY 
THE  TURKS. 


*  *         The  Turks  had  ought 

Made  desperate  onslaughts  on  the  isle,  but 

brought 
Nought  back  but  woands  and  infamy ;    but 

now. 
Wearied  with  toil,  they  are  resolved  to  bow 
Their  stubborn  resolutions  with  the  strength 
Of  not-to-be-resisted  want :  the  length 
OF  the  chronical  disease  extended  had 
To  HomQ  few  months,  since  to  oppress  the  sad 


From  1649  to  1G89.] 


AEQALIA  TAKEN  PEISONEE.      [William  Chamberlayne. 


But  constant  islanders,  the  army  lay, 
Circling  their  confines.      Whilst  this  tedious 

stay 
From  battle  rusts  the  soldier's  valour  in 
His  tainted  cabin,  there  had  often  been, 
With  all  variety  of  fortune,  fought 
Brave    single    combats,   whose    success    had 

brought 
Honour's  un wither' d  laurels  on  the  brow 
Of  either  party  ;  but  the  balance,  now 
Forced  by  the  hand  of  a  brave  Turk,  inclined 
Wholly  to  them.  Thrice  had  liis  valour  shined 
In  victory's  refulgent  rays,  thrice  heard 
The  shouts  of  conquest ;  thrice  on  his  lance 

appear' d 
The  heads  of  noble  Ehodians,  which  had  struck 
A  general  sorrow  'mongst  the  knights.      AU 

look 
Who  next  the  lists  should  enter  ;  each  desires 
The  task  were  his,  but  honour  now  requires 
A  spirit  more  than  vulgar,  or  she  dies 
The  next  attempt,  their  valour's  sacrifice  ; 
To  prop  whose  ruins,  chosen  by  the  free 
Consent  of  all,  Argaha  comes  to  be 
Their  happy   champion.       Truce   proclaim'd, 

untU 
The  combat  ends,  th'  expecting  people  fill 
The  spacious  battlements  ;  the  Turks  forsake 
Their  tents,  of  whom  the  city  ladies  take 
A  dreadful  view,  till  a  more  noble  sight 
Diverts  their  looks  ;  each  part  behold  their 

knight 
With  various  wishes,  whilst  in  blood  and  sweat 
They  toil  for  victory.     The  conflict's  heat 
Eaged  in   their  veins,    which    honour    more 

inflamed 
Than   burning    calentures    could,   do ;    both 

blamed 
The  feeble  influence  of  their  stars,  that  gave 
No  speedier  conquest ;  each  neglects  to  save 
Himself,  to  seek  advantage  to  offend 
His  eager  foe.  *  *  * 

*  *  *     But  now  so  long 

The  Turks'  proud  champion  had  endured  the 

strong 
Assaults  of  the  stout  Christian,  till  his  strength 
Cool'd,  on  the  ground,  with  his  blood — ^he  feU 

at  length. 
Beneath  his  conquering  sword.  Tlie  barbarous 

crew 
0'  the  villains  that  did  at  a  distance  view 
Their  champion's  fall,  all  bands  of  truce  forgot, 
Eunning  to  succour  liim,  begin  a  hot 
And  desperate  combat  with  those  knights  that 

stand 
To  aid  Argalia,  by  whose  conquering  hand 
Whole   squadrons  of  them   fall,  but  here  he 

spent 
His  mighty  spirit  in  vain,  their  cannons  rent 
His  scatter' d  troops. 


Argalia  lies  in  chains,  ordain' d  to  die 

A  sacrifice  unto  the  cruelty 

Of  the  fierce  bashaw,  whose  loved  favourite  in 

Tlie  combat  late  he  slew  ;  yet  had  not  been 


In  tliat  so  much  unhappy,  had  not  he. 

That  honour' d  then  his  sword  with  victory, 

Half-brother  to  Janusa  been,  a  bright 

But  cruel  lady,  whose  refined  delight 

Her  slave  (though  husband),  Ammurat,  durst 

not 

Euffle   with  discontent ;    wherefore,   to    cool 

that  hot 
Contention  of  her  blood,  which  he  foresaw 
That  heavy  news  would  from  her  anger  draw. 
To  quench  with  the  brave  Christian's  death,  he 

sent 
Him  living  to  her,  that  her  anger,  spent 
In  flaming  torments,  might  not  settle  in 
The  dregs  of  discontent.     Staying  to  win 
Some  Ehodian  castles,  all  the  prisoners  were 
Sent  with  a  guard  into  Sardinia,  there 
To  meet  their  wretched  tliraldom.      From  the 

rest 
Argalia  sever' d,  soon  hopes  to  be  blest 
With  speedy  death,  though  waited  on  by  all 
The  hell-instructed  torments  that  could  fall 
Within  invention's  reach  ;  but  he's  not  yet 
Arrived  to  his  period,  his  unmoved  stars  sit 
Thus  in  their  orbs  secured.  It  was  the  use 
Of  th'  Turkish  pride,  which  triumphs  in  th' 

abuse 
Of  suffering  Christians,  once,  before  they  take 
The  ornaments  of  nature  off,  to  make 
Their  prisoners  public  to  the  view,  that  all 
Might  mock  their  miseries  :  tliis  sight  did  call 
Janusa  to  her  palace- window,  where. 
Whilst  she  beholds  them,  love  resolved  to  bear 
i   Her  ruin  on  her  treacherous  eye-beams,  tUl 
Her  heart  infected  grew  ;  their  orbs  did  fiU, 
As  the  most  pleasing  object,  with  the  sight 
Of  him  whose  sword  open'd  a  way  for  the 

flight 
Of  her  loved  brother's  soul.     At  the  first  view 
Passion  had  struck  her  dumb,  but   when   it 

grew 
Into  desire,  she  speedily  did  send 
To  have  his  name — which  kiioAvn,    hate   did 

defend 
Her  heart ;  besieged  with  love,  she  sighs,  and 

straight 
Commands  him  to  a  dungeon  :  but  love's  bait 
Cannot  be  so  cast  up,  though  to  efface 
His   image  from  her  soul   she   strives.     The 

place 
For  execution  she  commands  to  be 
'Gainst  the  next  day  prepared  ;  but  rest  and 

she 
Grow  enemies  about  it :  if  she  steal 
A  slumber  from  her  thoughts,  that  doth  reveal 
Her    passions    in    a    dream,    sometimes    she 

thought 
She  saw  her  brother's  pale  grim  ghost,  that 

brought 
His   grisly   wounds  to  show  her,   smear'd  m 

blood. 
Standing  before  her  sight  ;  and  by  that  flood 
Those  red  Bti'eams  wept,  imploring  vengeance, 

then, 
Enraged,  she  cries,   "0,  let  dim  die  !  "     Bit 

when 


William  Ohamberlatne.J     ARGALIA  TAKEN  PEISONER. 


[Fourth  Pekiod. — 


Her  sleep-imprison' d  fancy,  wandering  in 
The  shades  of  darken'd  reason,  did  begin 
To  draw  Argalia's  image  on  her  soul. 
Love's  sovereign  power  did  suddenly  controul 
The   strength    of    those    abortive    embryos, 

sprung 
From  smother'd  anger.     The  glad  birds  had 

sung 
A  lullaby  to  night,  the  lark  was  fled, 
.On  dropping  ^vings,  up  from  his  dewy  bed. 
To  fan  them  in  the  rising  sxmbeams,  ere 
Whose  early  reign  Janusa,  that  could  bear 
No  longer  lock'd  Avithin  her  breast  so  great 
An  army  of  rebellious  passions,  beat 
From  reason's  conquer'd  fortress,  did  unfold 
Her  thoughts  to  Manto,  a  stout  wench ;  whose 

bold 
Wit,  join'd  with  zeal   to  serve  her,  had  en- 
dear'd 
Her  to  her  best  affections.     Having  clear' d 
All  doubts  with  hopeful  promises,  her  maid, 
By  whose  close  wiles  this  plot  must  be  con- 
vey'd, 
To  secret  action  of  her  council  makes 
Two  eunuch  pandars,  by  whose  help  she  takc.^ 
Argalia  from  his  keeper's  charge,  as  to 
Suffer  more  torments  than  the  rest  should  do. 
And  lodged  him  in  that  castle  to  affright 
And  soften  his  great  soul  with  fear.     The  light, 
"Which  lent  its  beams  into  the  dismal  place 
In  which  he  lay,  without  presents  the  face 
Of  hoiTor  smear' d  in  blood ;  a  scaffold  built 
To  be  the  stage  of  murder,  blush' d  with  gxiilt 
Of  Christian  blood,  by  several  torments  let 
From  th'  imprisoning  veins.     This  object  set 
To  startle  his  resolves  if  good,  and  make 
His  future  joys  more  welcome,  could  not  shake 
The  heaven-built  pillars  of  his  soul,  that  stood 
Steady,  though  in  the  slippery  paths  of  blood. 
The  gloomy  night  now  sat  enthroned  in  dead 
And  silent  shadows,  midnight  curtains  spread 
The  earth  in  black  for  what  the  falling  day 
Had  blush'd  in  fire,  whilst  the  brave  pris'ner 

lay, 
Circled  in  darkness,  yet  in  those  shades  spends 
The  hours  with  angels,  whose  assistance  lends 
Strength  to  the  wings  of  faith. 


He  beholds 
A    glimmering    light,    whose    near    approach 

unfolds 
The   leaves   of   darkness.     While  his  wonder 

grows 
Big  with  amazement,  the  dim  taper  shows 
False  Manto  enter' d,  who,  prepared  to  be 
A  bawd  unto  her  lustful  mistress,  came. 
Not  with  persuasive  rhetoric  to  inflame 
A  heart  congeal'd  with  death's  approach. 


Most  blest  of  men  ! 
Compose  thy  wonder,  and  let  only  joy 
Dwell  in  thy  soul.     My  coming's  to  destroy, 
Not  nurse  thy  trembling  fears  :  be  but  so  v,isc 
To  follow  thy  swift  fate,  and  thou  mayst  rise 


Above  the  reach  of  danger.     In  thy  arms 
Circle   that   power   whose  radiant  brightness 

charms 
Fiei'ce  Ammurat's   anger,  when  his  crescents 

shine 
In  a  frdl  orb  of  forces ;  what  was  tliine 
Ere   made   a  prisoner,   though  the   doubtful 

state 
Of  her  best  Christian  monarch,  will  abate 
Its   splendour,    when   that    daughter  of    the 

night, 
Thy  feeble  star,  sliines  in  a  heaven  of  light. 
If   life  or  liberty,  then,  bear  a  shape 
Worthy  thy  courting,  swear  not  to  escape 
By  the  attempts  of  strength,  and  I  will  free 
The  iron  bonds  of  thy  captivity. 
A  solemn  oath,  by  that  great  povver  he  served. 
Took,  and  believed  :  his  hopes  no  longer  starved 
In  expectation.     From  that  swarthy  seat 
Of  sad  despair,  his  narrow  jail,  replete 
With  lazy  damps,  she  leads  him  to  a  room 
In   whose    delights  joy's   summer   seem'd   to 

bloom, 
There  left  him  to  the  brisk  society 
Of  costly  baths  and  Corsic  wines,  whose  high 
And    sprightly    tempers    from   cool    sherbets 

found 
A  calm  ally  ;  here  his  harsh  thoughts  unwound 
Themselves  in  pleasure,  as  not  fearing  fate 
So  much,  but  that  he  dares  to  recreate 
His  spirit,  by  unwieldy  action  tired. 
With  all  that  lust  into  no  crime  had  fired. 
By  mutes,  those  silent  ministers  of  sin. 
His  sullied  garments  were  removed,  and  in 
Their  place  such  various  habits  laid,  as  pride 
Wovdd  clothe  her  favourites  \rith.         * 


Unruffled  here  by  the  rash  wearer,  rests 
Fair  Persian  mantles,  rich  Sclavonian  vests. 


Though  on  this  swift  variety  of  fate 
He  looks  with  wonder,  yet  his  brave  soul  sate 
Too  safe  within  her  guards  of  reason  to 
Be   shook   with  passion :  that  there's  some- 
thing new 
And  strange  approaching  after  such  a  storm. 
This  gentle  calm  assures  him.  * 


His  limbs   from   wounds   but  late  recover'd, 

now 
Refresh'd  with  liqtdd  odours,  did  allow 
Their  suppled  nerves  no  softer  rest,  but  in 
Such  robes  as  wore  their  ornament  within, 
Veil'd  o'er  their  beauty.  *  * 


His  guilty  conduct  now  had  brought  him  near 
Janusa' s  room,  the  glaring  Kghts  appear 
Thorough   the    window's    crystal    walls,    the 

strong 
Perfumes  of  balmy  incense  mix'd  among 
The  wandering  atoms  of  the  air  did  fly. 

*  *  The  open  doors  a:  low 


From  1649  to  1689.]     DEATH  OF  JANITSA  AND  AMMURAT.    [William  Chamberlayne. 


A  free  access  into  the  room,  whore  come, 
Such  real  forms  he  saw  as  would  strike  dumb 
The  Alcoran's  tales  of  Paradise,  the  fair 
And  sparkling  gems  i'  the  gilded  roof  impair 
Their  taper's  fire,  yet  both  themselves  confess 
Weak  to  those  flames  Janusa's  eyes  possess 
With  such  a  joy  as  bodies  that  do  long 
For  souls,  shall  meet  them  in  the  doomsday 

throng. 
She  that  ruled  princes,  though  not  passions, 

sate 
Waiting  her  lover,  on  a  throne  whose  state 
Epitomized  the  empire's  wealth ;  her  robe, 
With  costly  pride,  had  robb'd  the  chequer' d 

globe 
Of  its  most  fair  and  orient  jewels,  to 
Enhance  its  value  ;  captive  princes  who 
Had  lost  their  crowns,  might  there  those  gems 

have  seen. 


Placed  in  a  seat  near  her  bright  throne,  to 

stir 
His  settled  thoughts  she  thus  begins  :  "  From 

her 
Your  sword  hath  so  much  injured  as  to  shed 
Blood  so  near  kin  to  mine,  that  it  was  fed 
By  the  same  mUky  fountains,  and  within 
One  womb  warm'd  into  life,  is  such  a  sin 
I  could  not  pardon,  did  not  love  commit 
A  rape  upon  my  mercy  :  all  the  wit 
Of  man  in  vain  inventions  had  been  lost, 
Ere   thou  redeem' d ;  which  now,  although  it 

cost 
The  price  of  all  my  honours,  I  will  do : 
Be  but  so  full  of  gratitude  as  to 
Eepay   my  care  with  love.     Why  dost  thou 

thus 
Sit  dumb  to  my  discourse  ?  it  lies  in  us 
To  raise  or  ruin  thee,  and  make  my  way 
Thorough    their    bloods    that    our    embraces 

stay." 


To  charm  those  sullen  spirits  that  within 
The  dark  cells  of  his  conscience  might  have 

been 
Yet  by  religion  hid — that  gift  divine, 
The  soul's  composure,  music,  did  refine 
The  lazy  air,  whose  polish' d  harmony, 
"SVhilst  dancing  in  redoubled  echoes,  by 
A  wanton  song  was  answer'd,  whose  each  part 
Invites  the  hearing  to  betray  the  heart. 
Having  with  all  these  choice  flowers  strew'd  the 

way 
That  leads  to  lust,  to  shun  the  slow  decay 
Of  his  approach,  her  sickly  passions  haste 
To  die  in  action.     "  Come,"    she   cries,    "  we 

waste 
The  precious  minutes.     Now  thou  know'st  for 

what 
Thou'rt  sent  for  hither." 

Brave  Argalia  sits, 
With  virtue  cool'd.        #  *  * 

*  *      «« And  must  my  freedom  then 

At  such  a  rate  be  purchased  ?  rather,  when 


My  life  expires  in  torments,  let  my  name 
Forgotten    die,    than    live   in   black-mouth'd 

fame, 
A  servant  to  thy  lust.     Go,  tempt  thy  ovm 
Damn'd  infidels  to  sin,  that  ne'er  had  known 
The  way  to  virtue  :  not  this  cobweb  veil 
Of  beauty,  which  thou  wear'st  but  as  a  jail 
To  a  soul  pule  with  guilt,  can  cover  o'er 
Thy  mind's  deformity.    #  *  * 


Rent  from  these  gilded  pleasures,  send  me  to 
A  dungeon' dark  as  hell,  where  shadows  do 
Reign  in  eternal  silence ;  let  these  rich    • 
And  costly  robes,  the  gaudy  trappings  which 
Thou  mean'st  to  clothe  my  sin  in,  be  exchanged 
For  sordid  rags.     When  thy  fierce  spleen  hath 

ranged 
Through  all  invented  torments,   choose    the 

worst 
To  punish  my  denial ;  less  accurst 
I  so  shall  perish,  than  if  by  consent 
I  taught  thy  guilty  thoughts  how  to  augment 
Their  sin  in  action,  and,  by  giving  ease 
To  thy  blood's  fever,  took  its  loath'd  disease." 

*  *  *         Her  look, 

Cast  like  a  felon's *  *  * 

Was  sad ;  with  silent  grief  the  room  she  leaves, 

William  Chamhedayne. — Born  1619,  Died  1689. 


584.— THE    DEATH    OF    JANUSA     AND 
AMMURAT. 

Placed,  by  false'  Manto,  in  a  closet,  which, 
Silent  and  sad,  had  only  to  enrich 
Its  roof  with  hght,  some  few  neglected  beams 
Sent  from  Janusa's  room,  which  serve  as  streams 
To  watch  intelligence  ;  here  he  beheld, 
While  she  who  with  his  absence  had  expell'd 
All  thoughtful  cares,  was  with  her  joy  swell'd 

high, 
As  captives  are  when  call'd  to  liberty. 
Perfumed  and  costly,  her  fair  bed'  was  more 
Adorn' d  than  shrines  which  costly  kings  adore ; 
Incense,  in  smoky  curls,  climbs  to  the  fair 
Roof,  whilst  choice  music  rarefies  the  air ; 
Each  element  in  more  perfection  here. 
Than  in  the  first  creation  did  appear. 
Yet  lived  in  harmony  :  the  wing'd  fire  lent 
Perfumes  to  the  air,  that  to  moist  cordials  pent 
In  crystal  vials,  strength ;  and  those  impart 
Their  vigour  to  that  ball  of  earth,  the  heart. 
The  nice  eye  here  epitomized  might  see 
Rich  Persia's  wealth,  and  old  Rome's  luxury. 

But  now,  like  Nature's  new-madfe  favourite, 
Who,  until  all*  created  for  delight 
Was  framed,  did  ne'er  see  Paradise,  comes  in 
Deceived  Argalia,  thinking  he  had  been 
Call'd  thither  to  behold  a  penitent. 

*  #  #  *         94 


William  Chamberlayne.]    DEATH  OF  JANUSA  AND  AMMUEAT.     [Fourth  Period.— 


*  *  With  such  a  high 

Heroic  scorn  as  aged  saints  that  die, 
Heaven's  fav'rites,  leave  the  trivial  world — he 

slights 
That  gilded  pomp  ;  no  splendent  beam  invites 
His  serious  eye  to  meet  their  objects  in 
An  amorous  glance,  reserved  as  he  had  been 
Before  his  grave  confessor  :  he  beholds 
Beauty's  bright  magic,  while  its  art  iinfolds 
Great  love's  mysterious  riddles,  and  commands 
Captive  Janusa  to  infringe  the  bands 
Of  matrimonial  modesty.     When  all 
Temptation  fails,  she  leaves  her  throne  to  fall, 
The  gcorn  of  greatness,  at  his  feet :  but  prayer, 
Like  flattery,  expires  in  useless  air, 
Too  weak  to  batter  that  firm  confidence 
Their    torment's    thunder    could    not    shake. 

From  hence 
Despair,  love's  tyrant,  had  enforced  her  to 
More  wild  attempts,  had  not  her  Ammurat, 

who. 
Unseen,  beheld  all  this,  prevented,  by 
His  sight,  the  death  of  bleeding  modesty. 


Made  swift  with  rage,  the  ruffled  curtain  flies 
His  angry  touch — he  enters — fix'd  his  eyes, 
From  whence  some  drops  of  rage  distil,  on  her 
Whose  heart  had  lent  her  face  its  character. 
Whilst  he  stood  red  with  flaming  anger,  she 
Looks  pale  with  fear — passion's  disparity 
Dwelt  in  their  troubled  breasts  ;  his  wild  eyes 

stood 
Like  comets,  when  attracting  storms  of  blood 
Shook   with   portentous  sad,  the   whilst  hers 

sate 
Like   the  dull  earth,  when  trembling  at  the 

fate 
Of  those  ensniag  evils — heavy  fitjc'd 
Within  their  orbs.     PassioBB  thus   strangely 

mix'd. 
No  various  fever  e'er  creat€>d  in 
The  phrenried  brain,  when  sleep's  sweet  calm 

had  been 
From  her  soft  throne  deposed. 


So  having  paused,  his  dreadful  voice  thus  broke 

The  dismal  silence  : — 

"  Thou  curse  of  my  nativity,  that  more 

Affects  me  than  eternal  wrath  can  do — 

Spirits  condemn'd,  some  fiends,  instruct  me  to 

Heighten  revenge  to  thy  desert ;  but  so 

I  should  do  more  than  mortals  may,  and  throw 

Thy  spotted  soul  to  flames.     Yet  I  will  give 

Its  passport  henee  ;  for  think  not  to  outlive 

This  hour,  this  fatal  hour,  ordain' d  to  see 

More  than  an  age  before  of  tragedy." 


*  *    Fearing  tears  should  win 

The  victoiy  of  ang«r,  Ammurat  draws 
His  scimitar,  which  had  in  Hood  v^ant  laws 
For  conquer' d  provinces,  and  with  a  s.vift 
And  cruel  rage,  ere  penitence  could  lift 
Her  burthen' d  soul  in  a  repentant  thought 


Tow'rds  heaven,  sheathes  the  cold  steel  in  her 

soft 
And  snowy  breast :  with  a  loud  groan  she  falls 
Upon  the  bloody  floor,  half  breathless,  calls 
For  his  untimely  pity ;  but  perceiving 
The    fleeting    spirits,   with   her   blood,   were 

leaving 
Her  heart  unguarded,  she  implores  that  breath 
Which  yet  remain'd,  not  to  bewail  her  death. 
But  beg  his  life  that  caused  it — on  her  knees. 
Struggling  to  rise.     But  now  calm'd  Ammurat 


Her  from  disturbing  death,  in  his  last  great 

work. 
And  thus  declares  some  virtue  in  a  Turk. 


"  I  have,  brave  Christian,  by  perusing  thee 
In  this  great  art  of  honour,  learnt  to  be, 
Too  late,  thy  follower :  this  ring  (with  that 
Gives  him  his  signet)  shall,  when  question' d  at      I 
The  castle  guards,  thy  safety  be.     And  now 
I  see  her  blood's  low  water  doth  allow 
Me  only  time  to  launch  my  soul's  black  bark 
Into  death's  rubric  sea — for  to  the  dark 
And  silent  region,  though  we  here  were  by 
Passion  divorced,  fortune  ehaU  not  deny 
Our  souls  to  sail  together.     From  thy  eyes 
Eemove  death's  load,  and  see  what  sacrifice 
My  love  is  offering."  With  that  word,  a  stroke 
Pierces  his  breast,  whose  speedy  pains  invoke 
Death's   opiates   to  appease  them  :   he  sinks 

down 
By's  dying  -svife,  who,  ere  the  cold  flood  drown 
Life  in  the  deluge  of  her  wounds,  once  more 
Betrays  her  eyes  to  the  Hght ;  and  though  they 

wore 
The  weight  of  death  upon  their  lids,  did  keep 
Them  so  long  open,  till  the  icy  sleep 
Began  to  seize  on  him,  and  then  she  cries — 
"  O  see,  just  heaven !  see,  see  my  Ammurat  dies, 
To  wander  with  me  in  the  unknown  shade 
Of  immortality — But  I  have  made 
The  wounds  that  murther'd  both  :   his  hand 

that  gave 
Mine,  did  but  gently  let  me  blood  to  save 
An  everlasting  fever.     Pardon  me, 
My  dear,  my  dying  lord.     Eternity 
Shall  see  my  soul  white-wash' d  in  tears ;  but 

oh! 
I  now  feel  time's  dear  want — they  will  not  flow 
Fast  as  my  stream  of  blood.     Christian,  fare- 

weU! 
Whene'er  thou  dost  our  tragic  story  tell, 
Do  not  extenuate  my  crimes,  but  let 
Them  in  their  own  black  characters  be  set. 
Near  Ammurat' s  bright  virtues,  that,  read  by 
Th'  unpractised  lover,  which  posterity. 
Whilst  wanton  winds  play  with  our  dust,  shall 

rpise 
On  beauties ;  that  the  good  may  justice  praise 
By  his  example,  and  the  bad  by  mine 
From    vice's    throne    be   scared    to    virtue's 

shrine. 

*  *  *  This, 

She  cries,  is  our  last  interview  " — a  kiss 


From  1C49  to  1689.] 


A  PANEGYRIC. 


[Edmund  Waller. 


Then  joins  their  bloodless  lips — each  close  the 

eyes 
Of  the  other,  whilst  the  parting  spirit  flies. 

William  Chamhcrlaync.—Boni  1G19, Died  1689. 


585._ON  A  GIEDLE. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confinci 
ShaU  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  ; 
It  was  my  heav'n's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer ; 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  aU  within  this  circle  move ! 
A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  aU  that's  fair. 
Oive  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


586.— ON  LOVE. 

Anger,  in  hasty  words  or  blows. 
Itself  discharges  on  our  foes  ; 
And  sorrow,  too,  finds  some  relief 
In  tears,  which  wait  upon  our  grief : 
So  ev'ry  passion,  but  fond  love, 
Unto  its  own  redress  does  move  ; 
But  that  alone  the  wretch  inclines 
To  what  prevents  his  own  designs  ; 
Makes  him  lament,  and  sigh,  and  weep, 
Disorder' d,  tremble,  fawn,  and  creep; 
Postures  which  render  him  des^jised, 
"Where  he  endeavours  to  be  prized, 
Por  women  (born  to  be  controU'd) 
Stoop  to  the  forward  and  the  bold ; 
Affect  the  haughty  and  the  proud, 
The  gay,  the  frolic,  and  the  loud, 
"Who  first  the  gen'rous  steed  opprest, 
Not  kneeling  did  salute  the  beast ; 
But  with  high  courage,  life,  and  force, 
Approaching,  tam'd  th'  unruly  horse. 

Unwisely  we  the  wiser  East 
Pity,  supposing  them  opprest 
"With  tyrants'  force,  whose  law  is  wiU, 
By  which  they  govern,  spoil,  and  kill ; 
Each  nymph,  but  moderately  fair. 
Commands  with  no  less  rigour  here. 
Should  som.c  brave  Turk,  that  walks  amono 
His  twenty  lasses,  bright  and  young, 
Behold  as  many  gallants  here, 
"With  modest  guise  and  silent  fear, 
All  to  one  female  idol  bend, 
"While  her  high  pride  does  scarce  descend 
To  mark  their  follies,  he  would  swear 
That  these  her  guard  of  eunuchs  were, 
And  that  a  more  majestic  queen, 
Or  humbler  slaves,  he  had  not  seen. 

AU  this  with  indignation  spoke. 
In  vain  I  struggled  ^vith  the  yoke 
Of  mighty  Love  :  that  con qu' ring  look, 
"When  next  beheld,  Hke  lightning  strook 


My  blasted  soul,  and  made  me  bow 
Lower  than  those  I  pitied  now. 

So  the  taU  stag,  upon  the  brink 
Of  some  smooth  stream,  about  to  drink, 
Surveying  there  his  armed  head, 
With  shame  remembers  that  he  fled 
The  scorned  dogs,  resolves  to  tryi     _ 
The  combat  next ;  but  if  their  cry 
Invades  again  his  trembling  ear, 
He  straight  resumes  his  wonted  care ; 
Leaves  the  untasted  spring  behind, 
And,  wing'd  with  fear,  outflies  the  -svind. 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


587.— A    PANEGYEIC    TO     THE     LOED 
PROTECTOR. 

While  with  a  strong  and  yet  a  gentle  hand, 
You  bridle  faction,  and  our  hearts  command, 
Protect  us  from  ourselves,  and  from  the  foe, 
Make  us  unite,  and  make  us  conquer  too  : 

Let  partial  spirits  still  aloud  comj^ain, 
Think   themselves   injur' d   that   they  cannot 

reign. 
And  own  no  liberty,  but  where  they  may 
Without  control  upon  their  fellows  prey. 

Above  the  waves  as  Neptune  show'd  his  face, 
To  chide  the  \\'inds,  and  save  the  Trojan  race ; 
So  has  your  highness,  rais'd  above  the  rest, 
Storms  of  ambition,  tossing  us,  represt. 

Your  drooping  country,  torn  with  civil  hate, 
Restor'd  by  you,  is  made  a  glorious  state , 
The  seat  of  empire,  where  the  Irish  come, 
And  the  unwilling  Scots,  to  fetch  th^ir  doom. 

The  sea  's  our  own :  and  now  all  nations  greet, 
With  bending  sails,  each  vessel  of  our  fleet : 
Yom'  power  extends  as  far  as  winds  can  blow, 
Or  swelling  sails  upon  the  globe  may  go. 

Heaven  (that  hath  plac'd  this  island  to  give 

law. 
To  balance  Europe,  and  her  states  to  awe) 
In  this  conjunction  doth  on  Britain  smile. 
The  greatest  leader,  and  the  greatest  isle  ! 

"Wliether  this  portion  of  the  world  were  rent, 
By  the  rude  ocean,  from  the  continent. 
Or  thus  created  ;  it  was  sure  design'd 
To  be  the  sacred  refuge  of  mankind. 

Hither  th'  oppress' d  shall  henceforth  resort, 
Justice  to  crave,  and  succour,  at  your  court ; 
And  then  your  highness,  nol  for  our's  alone, 
But  for  the  world's  protector  shall  be  known. 

Fame,  swifter  than  your  winged  navy,  flies 
Through  every  land,  that  near  the  ocean  lies ; 
Sounding    your    name,   and    teUing    dreadful 

news 
To  all  that  piracy  and  rapine  use.  ,,  .^ 


Edmund  Waller. 


A  PANEGYRIC. 


[Fourth  Pebiod.- 


With  such  a  chief  the  meanest  nation  blest, 
Might  hope  to  Uft  licr  head  above  the  rest : 
Wliat  may  be  thought  impossible  to  do 
By  us,  embraced  by  the  sea  and  you  ? 

Lords  of  the  world's  great  waste,  the  ocean, 

we 
Whole  forests  send  to  reign  upon  the  sea ; 
And  every  coast  may  trouble,  or  relieve  : 
But  none  can  visit  us  without  your  leave. 

Angels  and  we  have  this  prerogative. 
That  none  can  at  our  happy  seats  arrive  : 
While  we  descend  at  pleasure,  to  invade 
The  bad  with  vengeance,  and  the  good  to  aid. 

Our  little  world,  the  image  of  the  great, 
lake  that,  amidst  the  boundless  ocean  set, 
Of  her  own  growth  hath  all  that  nature  craves, 
And  all  that's  rare,  as  tribute  from  the  waves. 

As  Egypt  does  not  on  the  clouds  rely, 

But  to  the  Nile  owes  more  than  to  the  sky  ; 

So,  what  cur  Earth,  and  what  our  Heaven, 

denies, 
Our  ever-constant  friend,  the  sea,  supplies. 

The  taste  of  hot  Arabia's  spice  we  know. 
Free  from  the  scorching  sun  that  makes  it 

grow  : 
Without  the  worm,  in  Persian  silks  we  shine  ; 
And,  without  planting,  drink  of  every  vine. 

To  dig  for  wealth,  we  weary  not  our  limbs ; 
Gold,  though  the  heaviest  metal,  hither  swims. 
Ours  is  the  harvest  where  the  Indians  mow. 
We  plough  the  deep,  and  reap  what  others 


Things  of  the  noblest  kind  our  own  soil  breeds, 
Stout  are  our  men,  and  warlike  are  our  steeds  : 
Eome,   though  her  eagle  through  the  world 

had  flown, 
Could  never  make  this  island  all  her  own. 

Here  the  third  Edward,  and  the  Black  Prince 

too, 
France-conquering  Henry  flourish' d,  and  now 

you ;     . 
For  whom  we  stay'd,  as  did  the  Grecian  state. 
Till  Alexander  came  to  urge  their  fate. 

When  for  more  worlds  the  Macedonian  cry'd. 
He  wist  not  Thetis  in  her  lap  did  hide 
Another  yet :  a  world  resefv'd  for  you, 
To  make  more  great  than  that  he  did  subdue. 

He  safely  might  old  troops  to  battle  lead. 
Against  th'  unwarlike  Persian  and  the  Mede, 
Whose  hasty  flight  did,  from  a  bloodless  field, 
More  spoils  than  honour  to  the  victor  yield. 

A  race  unconquer'd,  by  their  clime  made  bold, 
The  Caledonians,  arm'd  with  want  and  cold. 
Have,  by  a  fate  indulgent  to  your  fame, 
Been  from  all  ages  kept  for  you  to  tame. 


Whom  the  old  Eoman  wall  so  ill  confin'd, 
With  a  new  chain  of  garrisons  you  bind  : 
Here  foreign  gold  no  more  shall  make  them 

come  ; 
Our  English  iron  holds  them  fast  at  home. 

They,   that  henceforth   must   be   content   to 

know 
No  warmer  region  than  their  hills  of  snow. 
May  blame  the  sun ;  but  must  extol  your  grace, 
Which  in  our  senate  hath  allow' d  them  place. 

Prefer'd  by  conquest,  happily  o'erthrown, 
Falling  they  rise,  to  be  with  ns  made  one  : 
So   kind   dictators   made,    when    they    came 

home. 
Their  vanquish'd  foes  free  citizens  of  Eome. 

Like  favour  find  the  Irish,  -with  like  fate 
Advanced  to  be  a  portion  of  our  state ; 
While  by  your  valour,   and  your  bounteous 

mind. 
Nations  divided  by  the  sea  are  join'd. 

Holland  to  gain  your  friendship,  is  content 
To  be  our  out-guard  on  the  continent : 
She  from  her  fellow-provinces  would  go, 
Eathcr  than  hazard  to  have  you  her  foe. 

In  our  late  fight,  when  cannons  did  diffuse, 
Preventing  posts,  the  terrour  and  the  news, 
Our  neighbour  princes  trembled  at  their  roar  ; 
But   our   conjunction    makes    them    tremble 
more. 

Your  never-failing  sword  made  war  to  cease, 
And  now  you  heal  us  with  the  acts  of  peace  ; 
Our  minds  with  bounty  and  with  awe  engage. 
Invite  affection,  and  restrain  our  rage. 

Less  pleasure  take  brave  minds  in  battles  won, 
Than  in  restoring  such  as  are  undone  : 
Tigers  have  courage,  and  the  rugged  bear. 
But  man  alone  can,  whom  he  conquers,  spare. 

To  pardon,  willing,  and  to  punish,  loth. 

You  strike  with  one  hand,  but  you  heal  with 

both; 
Lifting  up  all  that  prostrate  lie,  you  grieve 
You  cannot  make  the  dead  again  to  live. 

When  Fate  or  errour  had  our  age  misled. 
And  o'er  this  nation  such  confusion  spread ; 
The  only  cure,  which  could  from  Heaven  come 

down. 
Was  so  much  power  and  piety  in  one. 

One  !  whose  extraction  from  an  ancient  line 
Gives   hope   again,   that   well-bom  men  may 

shine  ; 
The  meanest  in  your  nature,  mild  and  good : 
The  noblest  rest  secured  in  your  blood. 

Oft  have  we  wonder'd,  how  you  hid  in  peace 
A  mind  proportion' d  to  such  things  as  these  ; 
How  such  a  ruling  sp'rit  you  could  restrain, 
And  practise  first  over  yourself  to  reign. 


l\o„i  1640  to  1689.] 


AT  PENSHUEST. 


[Edmund  Waller. 


Your  private  life  did  a  just  pattern  give, 
How   fathers,    husbands,    pious    sons,  should 

live  ; 
Born  to  command,  your  princely  virtues  slept, 
Like  humble  David's,  while  the  flock  he  kept. 

But  when  vour  troubled  country  call'd  you 

forth, 
Your   flaming   courage    and   your    matchless 

worth. 
Dazzling  the  eyes  of  all  that  did  pretend, 
To  fierce  contention  gave  a  prosperous  end. 

Still,  as  you  rise,  the  state,  exalted  too, 
Finds  no  distemper  while  'tischang'd  by  you  ; 
Chang'd  like  the  world's  great  scone  I   when 

without  noiiiic, 
The  rising  sun  night's  viilgar  lights  destroys. 

Ha.d  3'ou,  some  ages  past,  this  race  of  glory 
Run,    Avith   amazement  avo  should  read  j^our 

st®ry : 
But  living  virtue,  all  achievements  jiast. 
Meets  envy  still,  to  grapple  with  at  last. 

This  Cae.sar  found ;  and  that  ungrateful  age. 
With  losing    him,    went   back    to  blood  and 

rage; 
Mistaken  Brutus  thought  to  break  tlieir  yoke, 
But  cut  the  bond  of  union  with  that  stroke. 

That  sun  once  set,  a  thousand  meaner  stars. 
Gave  a  dim  light  to  violence  and  wars  ; 
To  such  a  tempest  as  noAV  threatens  all, 
Did  not  your  mighty  arm  prevent  the  fall. 

If  Eome's  great  senate  could  not  wield  that 

sword. 
Which  of  the  conquer' d  world  had  made  them 

lord ; 
"NMiat  hope  had  ours,  while  yet  their  poAver 

Avas  new. 
To  rule  victorious  armies,  but  by  you  ? 

You  1  that  had  taught  them  to   subdue  their 

foes. 
Could    order    teach,  and    their    high    spirits 

compose  : 
To  every  duty  could  their  minds  engage. 
Provoke   their   courage,   and  command   their 

rage. 

So,  Avhen  a  lion  shakes  his  dreadfiil  mane, 
And  angry  grows,  if  he  that  first  took  pain 
To  tame   his   youth,    approach   the   haughty 

beast, 
He  bends  to  him,  but  frights  away  the  rest. 

As  the  vex'd  world,  to  find  repose,  at  last 
Itself  into  Augustus'  arms  did  cast  ; 
So  England  now  does,  Avith  like  toil  opprest, 
Her  Aveary  head  upon  your  bosom  rest. 

Then  let  the  Muses,  with  such  notes  as  these, 

Instruct  us  what  belongs  unto  our  peace  !  I 

Your  battles  they  hereafter  shall  indite,  ! 

And  draw  the  image  of  our  IMars  in  fight ;  j 


Tell  of  towns  storm' d,  of  armies  over-run. 
And  mighty  kingdoms  by  your  conduct  won  ; 
How,  while  you  thunder' d,  clouds  of  dust  did 

choke 
Contending  troops,  and  seas  lay  hid  in  smoke. 

Illustrious  acts  high  raptures  do  infuse, 
And  every  conqueror  creates  a  Muse  : 
Here  in  low  strains  your  milder  deeds  we  sing : 
But   there,    my   lord !    we'll   bays   and   olive 
bring 

To  croAvn  your  head,Avhile  you  in  triumph  ride 
O'er  A^anquish'd  nations,  and  the  sea  beside ; 
While  all  your  neighbour  princes  unto  you. 
Like  Joseph's  sheaves,  pay  rcA'crence  and  bow. 

Edmund  Waller. —Burn  1605,  Died  1687. 


588.— AT  PENSHUEST. 

While  in  this  park  I  sing,  the  list'ning  deer 
Attend  my  passion,  and  forget  to  fear  ; 
When  to  the  beeches  I  report  my  flame, 
They  bow  their  heads,  as  if  they  felt  the  same. 
To  gods  appealing,  when  I  reach  their  bowers 
With  loud   complaints,    they   ansAver   me   in 

showers. 
To  thee  a  wild  and  cruel  soul  is  given, 
More  deaf  than  trees,  and  prouder  than  the 

heav'n  ! 
LoA'e's  foe  profess' d  I    Avhy  dost  thou  falsely 

feign 
Thyself  a  Sidney  ?  from  Avhich  noble  strain 
He  sprung,  that  could  so  far  exalt  the  name 
Of  Love,  and  warm  our  nation  Avith  his  flame ; 
That  all  we  can  of  love  or  high  desire, 
Seems  but  the  smoke  of  amorous  Sidney's  fire. 
Nor  caU  her  mother  who  so  Avell  does  proA'e 
One  breast  may  hold  both  chastity  and  loA^e. 
Never  can  she,  that  so  exceeds  the  spring 
In  joy  and  bounty,  be  supposed  to  bring 
One  so  destructive.     To  no  human  stock 
We  owe  this  fierce  unkindness,  but  the  rock  ; 
That  cloven  rock  produced  thee,  by  whose  side 
Nature,  to  recompense  the  fatal  pride 
Of   such  stem  beauty,  placed   those  healing 

springs 
Which  not  more  help  than  that  destruction 

brings. 
Thy  heart  no  ruder  than  the  rugged  stone, 
I  might,  like  Orpheus,  Avith  my  num'rous  moan 
Melt  to  compassion ;  now  my  trait' rous  song 
With  thee  conspires  to  do  the  singer  wrong ; 
While  thus  I  suffer  not  myself  to  lose 
The  memory  of  A^hat  augments  my  woes  ; 
But  Avith  my  OAvn  breath  still  foment  the  fire. 
Which  flames  as  high  as  fancy  can  aspire  ! 
This  last  complaint  the  indulgent  ears  did 
pierce 
Of  just  Apollo,  president  of  verse  ; 
Highly  concern' d  that  the  Muse  should  bring 
Damage  to  one  whom  he  had  taught  to  sing : 


Edmund  Wallee.] 


THE  BUD. 


[Fourth  Pekiod. 


Thus  he  advised  me  :  "On  yon  aged  tree 
Hang  np  thy  kite,  and  hie  thee  to  the  sea, 
That  there  with  wonders  thy  diverted  mind 
Some  truce,   at  least,  may  with  this  passion 

find." 
Ah,   cruel  nymph !    from   whom   her   humble 

swain 
Flies  for  relief  unto  the  raging  main, 
And  from  the  winds  and  tempests  does  expect 
A  milder  fate  tlian  from  her  cold  neglect ! 
Yet  there  he'll  pray  that  the  unkind  may  prove 
Blest  in  her  choice  ;   and  vows  this  endless 

love 
Springs  from  no  hope  of  what  she  can  confer, 
But  from  those  gifts  which  Hoav'n  has  heap'd 

on  her. 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


589.— THE  BUD. 

Lately  on  yonder  swelling  bush. 
Big  with  many  a  coming  rose, 
This  early  bud  began  to  blush. 
And  did  but  half  itself  disclose  ; 
I  pluck' d  it  though  no  better  grown. 
And  now  you  see  how  full  'tis  blown. 

Still,  as  I  did  the  leaves  inspire, 
With  such  a  purple  light  they  shone. 
As  if  they  had  been  made  of  fire. 
And  spreading  so  would  flame  anon. 
All  that  was  meant  by  air  or  sun, 
To  the  young  flow'r  my  breath  has  done. 

If  our  loose  breath  so  much  can  do, 
What  may  the  same  in  forms  of  love. 
Of  purest  love  and  music  too, 
When  Flavia  it  aspires  to  move  ? 
When  that  which  lifeless  buds  persuades 
To  wax  more  soft,  her  youth  invades  ? 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


590.— SAY,  LOVELY  DEEAM 


Say,  lovely  dream  !  where  couldst  thou  find 
Shades  to  counterfeit  that  face  ? 

Colours  of  this  glorious  kind 

Come  not  from  any  mortal  place. 

In  heav'n  itself  thou  sure  wert  dress'd 

With  that  angel-like  disguise  ; 
Thus  deluded,  am  I  bleat, 

And  see  my  joy  with  closed  eyes. 

But,  ah  !  this  image  is  too  kind 

To  be  other  than  a  dream ; 
Cruel  Sacharissa's  mind 

Ne'er  put  on  that  sweet  extreme. 


Fair  dream  !  if  thou  intend' st  me  grace. 
Change  that  heavenly  face  of  thine  ; 

Paint  despised  love  in  thy  face. 
And  make  it  t'  appear  like  mine. 

Pale,  wan,  and  meagre,  let  it  look, 

With  a  pity-moving  shape. 
Such  as  wander  by  the  brook 

Of  Lethe,  or  from  graves  escape. 

Then  to  that  matchless  nymph  r.ppear, 
In  whose  shape  thou  shinest  so ; 

Softly  in  her  sleeping  ear 

With  humble  words  express  my  woe. 

Perhaps  from  greatness,  state,  and  pride. 

Thus  surprised,  she  may  faU ; 
Sleep  does  disproportion  hide. 

And,  death  resembling,  equals  aU. 

Edmu7id  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


591.— GO,  LOVELY  EOSE! 


Go,  lovely  rose  ! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows. 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee. 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

TeU  her,  that's  young, 

And  shims  to  have  her  graces  spied. 

That,  hadst  thou  sprung 

In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide. 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired  ; 

Bid  her  come  forth. 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die  !  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  tilings  rare 

May  read  in  thee, 

How  smaU  a  part  of  time  they  share 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair  ! 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


592.— OLD  AGE  AND  DEATH. 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  -winds  give  o'er  ; 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more. 
]p'or  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  too  certain  to  be  lost. 
Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries. 

The  soul's  dark  cottage,  batter'd  and  decay'd, 
Lets  in  new  light   through  chinks  that  time 
has  made : 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


OF  THE  QUEEN". 


[Edmund  Waller. 


Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become, 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds   at   once  they 

view. 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 

Edmv.ml  Waller.— Bom  1605,  Died  1687. 


593.— TO  AMOEET. 

Fair !  that  you  may  truly  know, 
What  you  unto  Thyrsis  owe  ; 
I  will  tell  you  h6w  I  do 
Sacharissa  love,  and  you. 

Joy  salutes  me,  when  I  set 
My  blest  eyes  on  Amoret : 
But  with  wonder  I  am  strook, 
While  I  on  the  other  look. 

If  sweet  Amoret  complains, 
I  have  sense  of  all  her  pains  : 
But  for  Sacharissa  I 
Do  not  only  grieve,  but  die. 

All  that  of  myself  is  mine, 
Lovely  Amoret !  is  thine, 
Sacharissa' 3  captive  fain 
Would  untie  his  iron  chain  ; 
And,  those  scorching  beams  to  shun 
To  thy  gentle  shadow  run. 

K  the  soul  had  free  election 
To  dispose  of  her  affection  ; 
I  would  not  thus  long  have  borne 
Haughty  Sacharissa' s  scorn  : 
But  'tis  sure  some  power  above. 
Which  controls  our  wills  in  love  I 

K  not  a  love,  a  strong  desire 
To  create  and  spread  that  fire 
In  my  brea.st  solicits  me. 
Beauteous  Amoret !  for  thee. 

'Tis  amazement  more  than  love. 
Which  her  radiant  eyes  do  move  : 
If  less  splendour  wait  on  thine, 
Yet  they  so  benignly  shine, 
I  would  turn  my  dazzled  sight 
To  behold  their  milder  light. 
But  as  hard  'tis  to  destroy 
That  high  flame,  as  to  enjoy  : 
Which  how  eas'ly  I  may  do, 
Heaven  (as  eas'ly  scaled)  does  know  I 

Amoret !  as  sweet  and  good 
As  the  most  dehcious  food. 
Which,  but  tasted,  does  impart 
Life  and  gladness  to  the  heart. 

Sacharissa' s  beauty  's  wine, 
Which  to  madness  doth  incline  : 
Such  a  liquor,  as  no  brain 
That  is  mortal  can  sustain. 

•  Scarce  can  I  to  Heaven  excuse 
The  devotion,  which  I  use 
Unto  that  adored  dame  : 
For  'tis  not  unlike  the  same, 
Which  I  thither  ought  to  send. 
So  that  if  it  could  take  end, 
'Twould  to  Heaven  itself  be  due, 
To  succeed  her,  and  not  you : 


Who  already  hare  of  me 

All  that's  not  idolatry  : 

Wliich,  though  not  so  fierce  a  flame. 

Is  longer  Hke  to  be  the  same. 

Then  smile  on  me,  and  I  will  prove 
Wonder  id  shorter-lived  tlian  love. 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,^Di£id  1687. 


594- 


-TO  PHYLLIS. 


Phyllis  !  why  should  we  delay 
Pleasures  shorter  than  the  day  ? 
Could  we  (which  we  never  can  !) 
Stretch  our  lives  beyond  their  span. 
Beauty  like  a  shadow  flies, 
And  our  youth  before  us  dies. 
Or,  would  youth  and  beauty  stay, 
Love  hath  wings,  and  will  away. 
Love  hath  swifter  wings  than  Time  ; 
Change  in  love  to  Heaven  does  chmb^ 
Gods,  that  never  change  their  state, 
Vary  oft  tlieir  love  and  hate. 

PhyUis  !  to  this  truth  we  owe 
All  the  love  betwixt  us  two : 
Let  not  you  and  I  inquire, 
What  has  been  our  past  desire  ; 
On  what  shepherd  you  have  smiled, 
Or  what  nymphs  I  have  beguiled : 
Leave  it  to  the  planets  too. 
What  we  shall  hereafter  do : 
For  the  joys  we  now  may  prove. 
Take  advice  of  present  love. 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


595._OF  THE  QUEEN. 

The  lark,  that  shuns  on  lofty  boughs  to  build 
Her  humble  nest,  lies  silent  in  the  field ; 
But  if  (the  promise  of  a  cloudless  day) 
Aurora,  smiling,  bids  her  rise  and  play, 
Then  straight  she  shows  'twas  not  for  want  of 

voice 
Or  power  to  climb,  she  made  so  low  a  choice  : 
Singing    she    mounts ;    her    airy    wings    are 

stretch' d 
Tow'rds  heaven,  as  if  from  heaven  her  note 

she  fetch' d. 

So  we,  retiring  from  the  busy  throng. 
Use  to  restrain  th'  ambition  of  our  song ; 
But  since  the  light  which  now  informs  our  age 
Breaks  from  the  court,  indulgent  to  her  rage. 
Thither  my  Muse,  like  bold  Prometheus,  flies> 
To  light  her  torch  at  Gloriana's  eyes. 


For  Mercy  has,  could  Mercy's  self  be  seen. 
No  sweeter  look  than  this  propitious  queen. 
Such  guard  and  comfort  the  distressed  find. 
From  her  large  power,   and  from  her  larger 
mind. 


Edmund  Waller.] 


ON  MY  LADY  SYDNEY'S  PICTURE.  [Fourth  Period.— 


That  whom  ill  Fate  would  ruin,  it  prefers, 
For  all  the  miserable  are  made  hers. 
So  the  fair  tree  whereon  the  eagle  builds, 
Poor  sheep  from  tempests,    and  their  shep- 
herds, shields  : 
The  ro.Yal  bird  possesses  all  the  boughs, 
But  shade  and  shelter  to  the  flock  allows. 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


596.— ON  MY  LADY  SYDNEY'S  PICTUEE. 

Such  was  Philoclea,  and  such  Dorus'  flame  ! 
The  matchless  Sydney,  that  immortal  frame 
Of  perfect  beauty,  on  two  pillars  placed, 
Not  his  high  fancy  could  one  pattern,  gi'aced 
With  such  extremes  of  excellence,  compose 
Wonders  so  distant  in  one  face  disclose  ! 
Such  cheerful  modesty,  such  humble  state. 
Moves  certain  love,  but  with  as  doubtful  fate 
As  when,  beyond  our  greedy  reach,  we  see 
Inviting  fruit  on  too  sublime  a  tree. 
All  the  rich  flowers  through  his  Arcadia  found, 
Amazed  we  see  in  this  one  garland  bound*^ 
Had  but  this  copy  (which  the  artist  took 
From  the  fair  picture  of  that  noble  book) 
Stood  at  Kalander's,  the  brave  friends  had 

jarr'd. 
And,  rivals  made,  th'  ensuing  story  marr'd. 
Just  Nature,  first  instructed  by  his  thought, 
In  his  own  house  thus  practised  what  he  taught. 
This  glorious  piece  transcends  what  he  could 

think, 
So  much  his  blood  is  nobler  than  his  ink ! 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


597- 


-OF  MY  LADY  ISABELLA  PLAYING 
THE  LUTE. 


Such   moving   sounds   from   such   a  careless 

touch  ! 
So  unconcern'd  herself,  and  we  po  much ! 
What  art  is  this,  that  with  so  little  pains 
Transports  us  thu.s,  and  o'er  our  spirits  reigns  ? 
The  trembling  strings  about  her  fingers  crowd, 
And  tell  their  joy  for  ev'ry  kiss  aloud. 
Small  force  there  needs  to  make  them  tremble 

^so; 
Touch' d  by  that  hand,  who  would  not  tremble 

too? 
Here  love  takes  stand,  and  while  she  charms 

the  car, 
Empties  his  quiver  on  the  list'ning  deer. 
Music  so  softens  and  disarms  the  mind. 
That  not  an  arrow  does  resistance  find. 
Thus  the  fair  tyrant  celebrates  the  prize, 
And  acts  herself  the  triumph  of  her  eyes  ; 
So  Nero  once,  with  harp  in  hand,  survey' d 
His  flaming  Rome,  and  as  it  burn'd  he  play'd. 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


598.— TO  A  LADY 

SINGING  A  SONG   OF   HIS   COMPOSING. 

Chloris,  yourself  you  so  excel, 

When  you  vouchsafe  to  breathe  my  thought, 
That,  like  a  spirit,  with  this  speU 

Of  my  own  teaching,  I  am  caught. 

That  eagle's  fate  and  mine  are  one, 

Which,  on  the  shaft  that  made  Ixim  die, 

Espy'd  a  feather  of  his  own. 

Wherewith  he  wont  to  soar  so  high. 

Had  Echo  with  so  sweet  a  grace 
Narcissus'  loud  complaints  return' d. 

Not  for  reflection  of  his  face, 

But  of  his  voice,  the  boy  had  burn'd. 

Edmund  Waller.-Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


599.— LOVE'S  FAREWELL. 

Treading  the  path  to  nobler  ends, 

A  long  farewell  to  love  I  gave, 
Resolved  «iy  country  and  my  friends 

All  that  remain' d  of  me  should  have. 

And  this  resolve  no  mortal  dame, 

Nonebutthose  eyes  could  have  o'erthrown  j 

The  nymph  I  dare  not,  need  not  name. 
So  high,  so  like  herself  alone. 

Thus  the  tall  oak,  which  now  aspires 
Above  the  fear  of  private  fires. 

Grown  and  design' d  for  nobler  use. 

Not  to  make  warm  ;  but  build  the  house, 

Though  from  our  meaner  flames  secure, 

Must  that  which  falls  from  heaven  endure. 

Edmund  Waller.-Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


6oo.-~0N  LOVING  AT  FIRST  SIGHT. 

Not  caring  to  observe  the  wind, 
Or  the  new  sea  explore. 
Snatch' d  from  myself  how  far  behind 
Already  I  behold  the  .'^hore  ! 

May  not  a  thousand  dangers  sleep 
In  the  smooth  bosom  of  this  deep  ? 
No  :  'tis  so  reckless  and  so  clear, 
That  the  rich  bottom  does  appear 
Paved  all  with  precious  things  ;  not  torn 
From  shipwreck'd  vessels,  but  there  bom. 

Sweetness,  truth,  and  every  grace, 
Which  time  and  use  are  wont  to  teach, 
The  eye  may  in  a  moment  reach 
And  read  distinctly  in  her  face. 


From  lb4y  to  H5ii\}.j 


L'ALLEGEO. 


[Milton. 


Some  other  nymphs  with  colours  faint, 
And  pencil  slow,  may  Cuj^id  paint, 
And  a  weak  heart  in  time  destroy  ; 
She  has  a  stamp,  and  prints  the  boy ; 
Can  with  a  single  look  inflame 
The  coldest  breast,  the  rudest  tame. 

Edmuml  Waller.— Born  1G05,  Died  1687. 


60 1. —THE  SELF-BANISHED. 

It  is  not  that  I  love  you  less, 

Than  when  before  your  feet  I  lay ; 

JBut  to  prevent  the  sad  increase 
Of  hopeless  love,  I  keep  away. 

In  vain,  alas  !  for  everything 

Which  I  have  known  belong  to  you 

Your  form  does  to  my  fancy  bring. 

And  makes  my  old  wounds  bleed  anew. 

Who  in  the  spring,  from  the  new  sim, 

Already  has  a  fever  got. 
Too  late  begins  those  shafts  to  shun, 

Wliich  Phcebus  through  his  veins  has  shot. 

Too  late  he  would  the  pain  assuage. 
And  to  thick  shadows  does  retire  ; 

About  with  him  he  bears  the  rage. 
And  in  his  tainted  blood  the  fire. 

But  vow'd  I  have,  and  never  must 
Your  banish' d  servant  trouble  you ; 

For  if  I  break,  you  may  mistrust 
The  vow  I  made — to  love  jou  too. 

Edmund  Waller.— Bom  1605,  Died  1687. 


602. 


-THE  NIGHT-PIECE,  OR  A  PICTUEE 
DRAWN  IN  THE  DARK. 


Darkness,  which  fairest  nymphs  disarms, 
Defends  us  ill  from  Mira's  charms  : 
Mira  can  lay  her  beauty  bj', 
Take  no  advantage  01  the  eye, 
Quit  all  that  Lely's  art  can  take. 
And  yet  a  thousand  captives  make. 

Her  speech  is  graced  with  sweeter  sound 
Than  in  another's  song  is  found ; 
And  all  her  well-placed  words  are  darts. 
Which  need  no  light  to  reach  our  hearts. 

As  the  bright  stars  and  Milky-way, 
Show'd  by  the  night,  are  hid  by  day  ; 
So  we,  in  that  accomplish' d  mind, 
Help'd  by  the  night,  new  graces  find, 
Which  by  the  splendour  of  her  view,     - 
Dazzled  before,  we  never  knew. 

While  we  converse  with  her,  we  mark 
No  want  of  day,  nor  think  it  dark  : 
Her  shining  image  is  a  light 
Fix'd  in  our  hearts,  and  conquers  night. 

Like  jewels  to  advantage  set. 
Her  beauty  by  the  shade  does  get ; 


There  blushes,  frowns,  and  cold  disdain, 
AU  that  our  passion  might  restrain, 
Is  hid,  and  our  indulgent  mind 
Presents  the  fair  idea  kind. 

Y'et  friended  by  the  night,  we  dare 
Only  in  whispers  tell  our  care  : 
He  that  on  her  his  bold  hand  lays, —  — 
With  Cupid's  pointed  arrows  plays  ; 
They  with  a  touch  (they  are  so  keen  ! ) 
WoUnd  us  unshot,  and  she  unseen. 
AU  near  approaches  threaten  death  ; 
We  may  be  ship-ivi-eck'd  by  her  breath  : 
Love  favour'd  once  with  that  sweet  gale, 
Doubles  his  haste,  and  fills  his  sail. 
Till  he  arrive  where  she  must  prove 
The  haven  or  the  rock  of  love. 

So  we  th'  Arabian  coast  do  know 
At  distance,  when  the  spices  blow  1 
By  the  rich  odour  taught  to  steer. 
Though  neither  day  nor  stars  appear. 

Edmund  Waller.— Born  1605,  Died  1687. 


603.— L'ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  JVIldnight  bom. 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst   horrid   shapes,   and  shrieks,   and 
sights  unholy ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous 
wings. 
And  the  night-raven  sings ; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-brow'd 
rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  Heaven  yclop'd  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth  ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth. 
With  two  si.ster  Graces  more. 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore : 
Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 
The  frolic  vand,  that  breathes  the  spring. 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing. 
As  he  met  her  once  a-majdng ; 
There  on  beds  of  violets  blue, 
And  fresh-blown  roses  wash'd  m  dew, 
FiU'd  her  Avith  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair.  . 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  ydth  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips,  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods,  and  Becks,  and  AA-reathed  Smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go. 
On  the  Ught  fantastic  toe  ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  vnth.  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty  ; 


Milton.]                                               IL  PENSEROSO.                             [Fourth  Pekiod.— 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honour  due. 

She  was  pinch'd,  and  pull'd,  she  said  ; 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led, 

To  live  Avith  her,  and  live  -vvith  thee, 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free. 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

And  singing  startle  the  dull  Night, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh'd  the  com, 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end ; 

TUl  the  dappled  Dawn  doth  rise  ; 

Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 

Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 

And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

And  at  my  window  bid  good  mon-ow, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 

Through  the  sweetbrier,  or  the  vine, 

And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine  : 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Wlule  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep. 

Scatters  the  rear  of  Darkness  thin. 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lull'd  asleep. 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn  door, 

Tower' d  cities  please  ua  then, 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn      ' 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  Morn, 

In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill. 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 

Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 

Some  time  walking,  not  unseen. 

Of  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 

To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state. 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 

Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 

With  ma.sk,  and  antique  pageantry ; 

While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land, 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy's  child. 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  mid. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 

Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures ; 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydia,n  airs. 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray. 

Married  to  immortal  verse  ; 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 

Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 

In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 

The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Of  linked  SAveetness  long  drawn  out, 

Meadows  trim  ■svith  daisies  pied. 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning  ; 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide  : 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running. 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

Bosom' d  high  in  tufted  trees. 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony  ; 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 

The  Cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 

Of  heap'd  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met. 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 

His  half-regain'd  Eurydice. 

Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes, 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

V\/"hich  the  neat-handed  Phyllis  dresses ; 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 

Milton. — Born  1G08,  Died  1674. 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves  ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 

To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes  with  secure  delight 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 

604.— IL  PENSEROSO. 

When  the  merry  beUs  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

To  many,  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 

The  bro6d  of  FoUy,  without  father  bred  I 

Dancing  in  the  chequer' d  shade  ; 

How  little  you  bested. 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  aU  your  toys  ! 

On  a  sun-aVyne  holiday, 

Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

Till  the  live-long  daylight  fail : 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  sliapes  possess. 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 

As  tliick  and  numberless 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams ; 

How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  oat ; 

Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

From  1649  to  1689.J 


IL  PENSEEOSO. 


[Milton. 


The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  di'v'inest  Melancholy ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  ihe  sense  of  human  sight. 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  stair' d  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended  : 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 
Thee  bright-hair' d  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 
His  daughter  she  ;  in  Saturn's  reign. 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain  : 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 
Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure. 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Plowing  with  majestic  train. 
And  sable  stole  of  Cyprus  lawn. 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait  ; 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soitl  sitting  in  thine  eyes  : 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still. 
Forget  tliyself  to  marble,  tiU 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Tliou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast  : 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing : 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure  : 
But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  theo  bring, 
Him  that  von  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  thi-one, 
The  cherub  Contemplation  ; 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 
'Less  Philomel  ^vill  deign  a  song. 
In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight, 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke, 
Gently  o'er  the  accustom' d  oak  : 
Sweet    bird,    that    shunn'st  the    noise    of 

folly. 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 
Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song  ; 
And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green,      » 
To  behold  the  wandering  Moon, 
Hiding  near  her  highest  noon. 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  Heaven's  wide  pathless  v/'ay; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 
Stooping  through  a  fieecy  cloud. 
Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  Curfeu  sound, 


Over  some  wide- water 'd  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar : 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Wnhere  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 
Ear  from  all  resort  of  mirth,  ~ 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Or  the  belman's  drowsy  charm. 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 
Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour. 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear, 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hatb  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fieshly  nook  : 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  fiood,  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  scepter' d  pall  come  sweeping  hj. 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelopa'  line. 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  ; 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskin'd  stage. 

But,  0  sad  virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musasus  from  his  bower ! 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes,  as,  warbled  to  the  string. 
Brew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek. 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek ! 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half -told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 
That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass ; 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  : 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 
Of  tumeys,  and  of  trophies  hung. 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear. 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  trick' d  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 
But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud. 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 
Or  usher' d  with  a  shower  still 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 
With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And,  when  the  Sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bi-ing 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves. 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves. 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak. 
Where  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke. 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallo w'd  haunt 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 


Milton.] 


LYCIDAS. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 

While  the  bee  with  honey' d  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep. 

Entice  the  dewy-feather' d  Sleep ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  aery  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  display' d, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid. 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortal  good. 

Or  the  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale. 
And  love  the  high-embow^ed  roof, 
With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  windows  riclily  dight. 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light : 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow. 
To  tiie  full- voiced  quire  belov,% 
In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  car, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 
And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  Aveary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairj^  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightlj'"  spell 
Of  every  star  that  Heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew  ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attam 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


605.— LYCIDAS. 

Yet  once  more,  0  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never-sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude : 
And,  with  forced  fingers  rude, 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year : 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  : 
For  Lj'cidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer  : 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  Avind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from   beneath   the  seat   of    Jove   doth 

spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse  : 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn  ; 
And,  as  he  passes,  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 


For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,   by  fountain,  shade,  and 

rill. 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appear' d 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn,, 
We  drove  afield,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  hora. 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of 

night, 
Oft  till  the  star,  that  rose,  at  evening  bright. 
Toward    Heaven's    descent    had    sloped   his 

westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Temper' d  to  the  oaten  flute  ; 
Eough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven 

heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not   be  absent 

long; 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 
But,    O  the  heavy   change,  now  thou   art 
gone. 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  shepherd,  thee  the  woods,   and  desert 

caves 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'er- 

grown. 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn  : 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or  taint-worm   to   the    weanling   herds   that 

graze. 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe 

wear, 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 
Stich,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when  the  remorse- 
less deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 
Where  your  old  bards,    the   famous  Druids, 

lie. 
Nor  on  the  sliaggy  top  of  Mona  high. 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream: 
,Ay  me  !  I  fondly  dream  ! 
Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that  have 

done  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus 

bore. 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
'Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament, 
!    "\Mien,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 
i    His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
i    Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  slioro  ? 

Alas !  what  boots  it  Avith  incessant  care 
I    To    tend    the    homely,    slighted,    shepherd's 
I  trade„ 

I    And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
j    To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
i    Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera's  hair  ? 
I    Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth 
I  raise 

j    (That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
i    To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days ; 


From  16^19  to  H>.s'j. 


LYCIDAS. 


[Milton. 


But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes   the   blind    Fury    with   the    abhorred 

shears, 
And  slit3  the  thin-spun  life.      "  But  not  the 

praise," 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touch' d   my   trembling 

ears ; 
"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies : 
But   lives   and  spreads   aloft   by  those  pure 

eyes. 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven  expect  thy  meed." 
O    fountain    Arethuse,     and    thou    honour'd 

flood. 
Smooth- sliding  Mincius,  cro-\vn'd  with   vocal 

reeds ! 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood  : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea; 
He   ask'd   the   waves,   and   ask'd    the    felon 

winds, 
What  hard  mirthap  hath  doom'd  this  gentle 

swain  ? 
And  question' d  eveiy  gust  of  rugged  Avings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  stray' d ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Pan  ope  -with  all  her  sisters  play'd. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  "svith  curses 

dark. 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 
Next   Camus,  reverend   sire,  went   footing 

slow. 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with 

woe. 
"  Ah  I  who  hath  reft "  (quoth  he)  "  my  dearest 

pledge  ?  " 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake  ; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain, 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain,) 
He  shook  his  miter'd  locks,  and  stem  bespake : 
"  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee, 

young  swain. 
Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ? 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make. 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearer's  feast. 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 
Blind  mouths !   that  scarce  themselves  know 

how  to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  Icam'd  aught  else  the 

least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs  ! 
What  recks  it  them  ?  What  need  they  ?  They 

are  sped ; 


And,  when  they  list,  their  lean   and   flashy 

songs 
Grate   on   their  scrannel  pipes  of   wretched 

straw. 
The  hungi-y  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed. 
But,  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank^mist  they 

draw, 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  : 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  fed  : 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands   ready   to  smite  once,   and   smite  no 

more." 
Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 
That   shrunk   thy   streams ;    return,    Sicilian 

Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells,  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and   gushing 

brooks. 
On  whose   fresh   lap  the   swart- star  sparely 

looks ; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell'd  eyes, 
That  *on  the    green   turf   suck   the  honey' d 

showers. 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,   and  the  pansy  freak' d  with 

jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The   musk-rose,   and   the   well-attired  wood- 
bine. 
With   cowslips   wan  that   hang  the   pensive 

head. 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears  : 
Bid  Amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shod, 
And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears. 
To  strew  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease. 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  sur- 
mise ; 
Ay  me  !   whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding 

seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurl'd, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where   thou,    perhaps,   under  the  whelming 

tide, 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold ; 
Look  homeward,  angel,  now,  and  melt  with 

ruth  : 
And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 
Weep  no  more,  woful  shepherds,  weep  no. 

more. 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead. 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor ; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in.the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  -with  new- spangled 

ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 


Milton.] 


HYMN  ON  THE  NATIVITY. 


[FouKTH  Period. — 


So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  higli, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  him  that  walk'd 

the  waves ; 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 
That  sing,  and,  singing  in  their  glory,  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more  ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore. 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks 

and  rilis, 
"While  the  still  Morn  went  out  mth  sandals 

gray; 
He  touch' d  the  tender  stops  of  vai-ious  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay  ; 
And  now  the  Sun  had  stretch' d  out  all  the 

hills. 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay  : 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitch' d  his  mantle  blue  : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

Milton.— 'Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


606.— HYMN  ON  THE  NATIVITY. 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
"\'\1iile  the  heaven-born  cliild 

All  meanly  ^vrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies ; 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him, 
Had  doff'd  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize  : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  vnth.  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  ^^'ith  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air. 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  mth  innocent  snow  ; 
And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame. 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  wlaite  to  throw ; 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease. 

Sent  down  the  meek -eyed  Peace  ; 

She,  crown' d  with  olive  green,  came  softly 

sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere. 
His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing ; 
And,  waving  -wide  her  myrtle  wand. 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and 

land. 

No  war  or  battle's  sound, 
Was  heard  the  world  around  : 

The   idle   spear   and   shield   were   high  up 
hung; 


The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Un stain' d  with  hostile  blood ; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng ; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  thoy  surely  knew  their  sov'reign  lord  was 
by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night. 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began : 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist. 
Smoothly  the  waters  kiss'd, 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  Ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed 


The  stars,  ^vith  deep  amaze. 
Stand  fix'd  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence  ; 
And  will  not  take  their  flight. 
For  all  the  morning  light,  ' 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  Avarn'd  them  tkence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow. 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them 
go. 

And,  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  giA'-en  day  her  room, 

The. sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new  enlighten' d  world  no  more  should 
need; 
He  saw  a  greater  sun  appear 
Than   his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletrce, 
could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn. 

Sat  simplj^  chatting  in  a  rustic  row ; 
Full  little  thought  they  then 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below  ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep. 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy 
keep. 

"When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet. 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook, 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise. 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took  : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose. 
With    thousand    echoes    still    prolongs    each 
heavenly  close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  hoUov/  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  airy  region  thrilling. 
Now  was  almost  won. 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling ; 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could   hold  all  Heaven  and  Earth  in  happier 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


HYMN  ON  THE  NATIVITY. 


[Milton. 


At  last  surrounds  their  sight 

A  globe  of  circular  light, 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night 
array' d ; 

The  helmed  cherubim, 

And  sworded  seraphim, 

Are   seen  in   glittering   ranks   with    wings 
display' d, 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire. 

With  unexpressive  notes,   to  Heaven's  new- 
bom  heir. 


Such  music,  as  'tis  said. 
Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel 


Ring  out,  ye  crj^stal  spheres, 
Once  bless  our  human  ears. 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time  ; 

And  let  the  base  of  Heaven's  deep  organ 
blow ; 
And,  vdth.  your  ninefold  harmony, 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  symphony. 

For,  if  such  holy  song 
En^vrap  our  fancj-  long. 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of 

gold; 
And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And   leprous   Sin   will   melt    from   earthly 

mould  ; 
And  Hell  itself  mil  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering 

day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orb'd  in  a  rainbow ;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between, 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down 
steering ; 
And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival. 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace 
haU. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  no. 
This  must  not  yet  be  so, 

The  babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy. 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss. 

So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify  : 
Yet  first,  to  those  ychain'd  in  sleep, 
The   wakeful   trump  of   doom  mvist  thunder 
through  the  deep. 


With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang. 

While  the  red  fire  and  smould'ring  clouds 

outbrake ; 
The  aged  earth  aghast. 
With  terror  of  that  blast. 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake ; 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session. 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread 

his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss. 
Full  and  perfect  is. 

But  now  begins  ;  for,  from  this  happy  day, 
The  old  dragon,  under  ground, 
In  straiter  limits  bound. 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway  ; 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail. 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb  ; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Euns    through   the   arched   roof  in   words 

deceiving, 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine. 

With  hollow   shriek  the  steep  of  Delphoa 

leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell. 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic 

ceU. 


The  lonelj'^  mountains  o'er. 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale. 
Edged  with  poplar  pale. 

The  parting  Genius  is  mth  sighing  sent ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn. 
The    nymphs    in  twilight    shade   of   tangled 
thickets  movum. 


In  consecrated  earth. 
And  on  the  holy  hearth. 

The  Lars  and  Lemurs  mourn  with  midnight 
plaint ; 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Aff'rights    the    Flamens    at    their    service 
quaint ; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat. 
While  each  peculiar  power  foregoes  his  wonted 
seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 

Forsake  their  temples  dim, 

With  that  twice  batter' d  god  of  Palestine  ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both. 

Now  sits  not  girt  "wdth  tapers'  holy  shine ; 
The  Libyac  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn  ; 
In   vain    the    Tyrian    maids    their    wounded 
Thammuz  moiu-n. 


Milton.] 


PRAISE  OF  CHASTITY. 


[Fourth  Period.— 


And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue  ; 
In  vain  with  cymbals*  ring- 
They  caU  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue : 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 

Trampling  the  unshower'd  grass  with  low- 

ings  loud  : 
Nor  can  he  bo  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest : 

Nought   but   profoundest    heU   can  be  his 

shroud ; 
In  vain  Avith  timbrell'd  anthems  dark 
The  sablo-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipp'd 

ark. 

He  feels  from  Judah's  land 
The  dreaded  infant's  hand, 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn  ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snalcy  twine  : 
Our  babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned 
crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtain' d  -with  cloudy  red, 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale, 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 

Each  fetter' d  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave  ; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon- 
loved  maze. 

But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest ; 

Time  is,  our  tedious  song  should  here  have 
ending  : 
Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 
Hath  fix'd  her  polish' d  car, 

Her  sleeping   Lord   with    handmaid    lamp 
attending  ; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harness' d  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

Milton.— Bom  1608,  Died  1674. 


607.— PRAISE  OF  CHASTITY. 

'Tis  Chastity,  my  brother.  Chastity ; 
She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete  steel, 
And  like  a  quiver'  d  nymph  Avith  arrows  keen. 
May  trace    huge    forests,    and    unharbour'd 

heaths. 
Infamous  hills,  and  sandy  perilous  wilds, 
Where,  through  the  sacred  rays  of  Chastity, 
No  savage  fierce,  bandit,  or  mountaineer, 


Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity  : 

Yea,  there,  where  very  desolation  dwells, 

By  grots  and   caverns   shagg'd   with   horrid 

shades. 
She  may  pass  on  with  unblench'd  majesty. 
Be  it  not  done  in  pride,  or  in  presumption. 
Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night 
In  fog  or  fire,  by  lake  or  moorish  fen. 
Blue  meagre  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid  ghost, 
That  breaks  his  magic  chains  at  curfew  time; 
No  goblin  or  swart  fairy  of  the  mine. 
Hath  hurtful  power  o'or  true  virginity. 
Do  ye  believe  me  yet,  or  shall  I  call 
Antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of  Greece 
To  testify  the  arms  of  Chastity  ? 
I   Hence  had  the  huntress  Dian  her  dread  bow, 
(   Fair  silver-shafted  queen,  for  ever  chaste, 
1   Wherewith  she  tamed  the  brinded  lioness 
And  spotted  mountain-pard,  but  set  at  nought 
The  frivolous  bolt  of  Cupid ;  gods  and  men 
Fear'd  her  stern  frown,  and  she  was  queen 

o'  th'  woods. 
What  was  that  snaky-headed  Gorgon  shield 
That  wise  Minerva  wore,  unconquer'd  virgin, 
Wherewith  she  freezed  her  foes  to  congeal'd 

stone. 
But  rigid  looks  of  chaste  austerity. 
And  noble  gi-ace  that  dash'd  brute  violence 
With  sudden  adoration  and  blank  awo  ? 
So  dear  to  heaven  is  saintly  Chastity, 
That  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 
A  thousand  liveried  angels  lacquey  her, 
{    Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt. 
And  in  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear, 
Till  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habitants 
Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  th'  outward  shape, 
The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind. 
And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's  essence. 
Till  all  be  made  immortal. 

Milton.— Born  1603,  Died  1674. 


608.— THE  LADY'S  SONG  IN  "COMUS." 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen 
Within  thy  aery  shell, 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet-embroider' d  vale, 

Wliere  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well ! 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are  ? 
O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave. 

Tell  me  but  where. 
Sweet   queen   of    parley,   daughter   of    the 

sphere  ! 
So  may'st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies. 
And   give  resounding  grace   to   all  Heaven's 
harmonies. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


From  1649  to  1680.' 


SONNET  ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 


[Milton. 


609.— THE  SPIEIT'S  EPILOGUE  IN 
COMUS. 

To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky : 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  air 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree  : 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Eevels  the  spruce  and  jocund  sj)ring; 
The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosora'd  hours, 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring  ; 
There  eternal  summer  dwells. 
And  west-winds,  with  musky  wing. 
About  the  cedar' d  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  Cassia's  balmy  smells. 
Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 
FloAvers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  shew ; 
And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 
(List,  moi-tals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 
Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses, 
^Vlaere  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 
In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  queen  : 
But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  fam'd  son,  advanc'd 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  entranc'd, 
After  her  wandering  labours  long. 
Till  free  consent  the  gods  among' 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride. 
And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  bom, 
Youth  and  Joy ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run. 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end. 
Where  the  bow'd  Avelkin  sIoav  doth  bend; 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me. 
Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free  : 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb  ; 
Higher  than  the  sphery  clime ; 
Or  if  Virtue  feeble  were. 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


610. 


ON  MAY  MORNING. 

A  SONG. 


Now  the  bright  morning  Star,  day's  harbinger. 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with 

her 
The   flow'ry   May,   who   from   her  green  lap 

throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May  I  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire; 


Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing. 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing  ! 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song. 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


611.— SONNET  TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

O  nightingale,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 
Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are 

still. 
Thou   with    fresh   hope  the    lover's  heart 
dost  fill. 
While  the  jolly  Hours  load  on  propitious  May. 
Thy  liquid  notes  that  close  the  eye  of  day. 
First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckow's  bill. 
Portend  success  in  love  ;  O  if  Jove's  will 
Have  Hnk'd  that  amorous  power  to  thy  soft 
lay, 
Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 
Foretell  my  hopeless  doom  in  some  grove  nigh  ; 
As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too  late 
For  my  relief,  yet  hadst  no  reason  whj^ : 
Whether   the  Muse   or  Love   call    thee  his 
mate. 
Both  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


612.— SONNET  ON  AGE  OF  TWENTY- 
THEEE. 

How   soon  hath    Time,   the    subtle   thief  of 
youth. 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth 

year ! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career. 
But   my   late   spring  no   bud    or    blossom, 
showeth. 
Perhaps    my    semblance    might    deceive    the 
trath. 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near. 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear. 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  endu'th. 
Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high. 
Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  mil  of 
Heaven ; 
Ail  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Taskmaster's  eye. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


613.— SONNET  ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and 

wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodged  \vith  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more 
bent  25 


iMiLTON.] 


SONNET  ON  HIS  DECEASED  WIFE. 


[Fourth  Period. 


To  serve  therewith,  mj^  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide  ; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?" 
i  fondly  ask  :  but  Patience  to  prevent 

That  muriniu;,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not 
need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts  :  who  best 
Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best ; 

His  state 
Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed, 
And  pest  o'er  land  and  ocean  without' rest ; 
They  also  serve*who  only  stand  and  wait," 
Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


614.- 


-SONNET  ON  HIS  DECEASED 
WIFE. 


Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 
Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  husband 
gave 
Eescued  from  death  by  force,  though  pale  and 

faint. 
Mine,  as  whom  wash'd  from  spot  of  child-bed 
taint. 
Purification  in  the  old  Law  did  save, 
And  such,  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 
FuU  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint. 
Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind : 
Her  face  was  veil'd,  yet  to  my  fancied  sight 
Love,   sweetness,    goodness,  in  her  person 
shined, 
So  clear,  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 
But,  O  !  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 
I  waked,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back  my 
night. 

Milton.— Bom  1608,  Died  1674. 


615.— SONNET  ON  THE  LATE  MASSACEE 
IN  PIEDMONT. 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughter' d  saints,  whose 
bones 
Lie  scatter' d  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of 

old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipp'd  stocks  and 
stones, 
Forget  not !  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their   ancient 

fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  roU'd 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their 
moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyr' d  blood  and  ashes 

sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth 
sway 
The  triple  tyrant :  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred  fold,  who,    having  learned   thy 

way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


616.— SAMSON    BEWAILING    HIS 
BLINDNESS  AND  CAPTIVITY. 

A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  further  on ; 
For  yonder  bank  hath  choice  of  sun  or  shade  ; 
There  I  am  wont  to  sit,  when  any  chance 
Relieves  me  from  my  task  of  servile  toil, 
Daily  in  the  common  prison  else  enjoin'd  nic, 
Where  I  a  prisoner  chain' d,  scarce  freely  draw 
The  air  imprison' d  also,  close  and  damp. 
Unwholesome  draught :  but  here  I  feel  amends. 
The  breath  of  heaven  fresh  blovring,  pure  and 
I  sweet. 

With    day-spring    born ;    here    leave   me   to 

respire. — 
This  day  a  solemn  feast  the  people  hold 
To  Dagon  their  sea-idol,  and  forbid 
Laborious  works  ;  unwillingly  this  rest 
Their   superstition    yields    me;    hence    with 

leave 
Eetiring  from  the  popular  noise,  I  seek 
This  unfrequented  place  to  find  some  ease. 
Ease  to  the  body  some,  none  to  the  mind, 
From  restless  thoughts,  that  like  a  deadly 

swarm 
Of  hornets  arm'd,  no  sooner  found  alone, 
But  rush  upon  me  thronging,  and  present 
Times  past,  what  once  I  was,  and  what  am 

now. 
0  wherefore  was  my  birth  from  Heaven  fore- 
told 
Twice  by  an  angel,  who  at  last  in  sight 
Of  both  my  parents  aU  in  flames  ascended 
From  off  the  altar,  where  an  offering  burn'd, 
As  in  a  fiery  column,  charioting 
His  godlike  presence,  and  from  some   great 

act 
Or  benefit  reveal' d  to  Abraham's  race  ? 
Why  was  my  breeding  order' d  and  prescribed 
As  of  a  person  separate  to  God, 
Design' d  for  great  exploits  ;  if  I  must  die 
Betray'd,  captived,  and  both  my  ejes  put  out, 
Made  of  my  enemies  the  scorn  and  gaze ; 
To  grind  in  brazen  fetters  under  task 
With  this  heaven-gifted  strength  ?     O  glorious 

strength, 
Put  to  the  lai)our  of  a  beast,  debased 
Lower  than  bond  slave !  Promise  was  that  I 
Should  Israel  from  Philistian  yoke  deliver ; 
Ask   for  this   great   deliverer  now,  and  find 

him 
Eyeless  in  Gaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves, 
HimseK  in  bonds,  under  Philistian  yoke. 

#  #  #  # 

■  O  loss  of  sight,  of  thee  I  most  complain  ! 

I  Blind  among  enemies,  O  worse  than  chains, 

I  Dungeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrepit  age  ! 

i  Light,   the   prime    work   of    God,   to   me   is 

i  extinct, 

;  And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 

'  Annull'd,  which  might  in  part  my  grief  have 


j  Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  become 

I  Of  man  or  worm  :  the  vilest  here  excel  me  ; 

!  They  creep,  yet  see  ;  I,  dark  in  light,  exposed 


From  1649  to  1689.1 


INTEODUCTION  TO  PAEADISE  LOST. 


'MlLTOX. 


To  daily  fraud,  contempt,  abuse,  and  wrong, 

Within  doors  or  without,  still  as  a  fool, 

In  power  of  others,  never  in  my  own  ; 

Scarce  half  I  seem  to  live,  dead  more   than 
half. 

O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon. 

Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse 

Without  all  hope  of  day ! 

O  first-created  Beam,  and  thou  great  Word, 

"  Let  there  be  light,  and  light  was  over  all ;" 

Why  am  I  thus  bereaved  thy  prime  decree  ? 

The  sun  to  me  is  dark 

And  silent  as  the  moon, 

Wlien  she  deserts  the  night, 

Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave. 

Since  light  so  necessary  is  to  life, 

And  almost  life  itself,  if  it  be  true 

That  light  is  in  the  soul, 

She  all  in  eveiy  part ;  why  was  the  sight 

To  such  a  tender  ball  as  the  eye  confined, 

So  obvious  and  so  easy  to  be  quench' d  ? 
And  not  as  feeling  through  all  parts  diffused, 

That   she   might  look  at  will  through   every 

pore  ? 
Then  had  I  not  been  thus  exiled  from  light, 
As  in  the  land  of  darkness  yet  in  light, 
To  live  a  life  half  dead,  a  living  death. 
And  buried  :  but,  O  yet  more  miserable  ! 
Myself  my  sepulchre,  a  moving  grave, 
Buried,  yet  not  exempt 
By  privilege  of  death  and  burial, 
From  worst  of  other  evils,  pains,  and  ^vrongs ; 
But  made  hereby  obnoxious  more 
To  all  the  miseries  of  life, 
Life  in  captivity 
Among  inhuman  foes.     ■ 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


617.— TEANSLATION    OF    HORACE 
ODES,  I.  5. 

What   slender    youth,   bedewed    with    liquid 

odours, 
Courts  thee  on  roses  in  some  pleasant  cave, 

Pyrrha  ?     For  whom  bind'st  thou 

In  Avreaths  thy  golden  hair, 
Plain  in  thy  neatness  ?  Oh,  hoAV  oft  shall  he 
On  faith  and    changed    gods    complain,    and 
seas 

Eough  with  black  winds  and  storms, 

Unwonted,  shall  admire ! — 
Who  now  enjoys  thee, — credulous, — all  gold. 
Who,  always  vacant,  always  amiable, 

Hopes  thee,  of  flattering  gales 

Unmindfid.     Hapless  they. 
To  whom  thou  untried  seem'st  fair !     Me,  in 

my  vow'd 
Picture,  the  sacred  wall  declares  to  have  hung 

My  dank  and  dropping  weeds 

To  the  stern  God  of  sea. 

2Illtom—Born  1608,  Dial  1674. 


618.— ATHENS. 

Look   once  more  ere  we  leave   this   specular 

mount, 
Westward,  much  nearer  by  south-west  behold 
^^n.\eTe  on  the  ^gean  shore  a  city  stands 
Built  nobly,  pure  the  air  and  light  the  soil, 
Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  mother  of  arts 
And  eloquence,  native  to  famous  wits 
Or  hospitable,  in  her  sweet  recess. 
City  or  surburban,  studious  walks  and  shades  ; 
See  there  the  oHve  grove  of  Academe, 
Plato's  retirement,  where  the  Attic  burd 
Trills   her  thick-warbled   notes  the  summer 

long; 
There,  flowery  hill,  Hymettus,  with  the  sound 
Of  bees'  industrious  murmur,  oft  invites 
To  studious  musing ;  there  liissus  rolls 
His  whispering  stream  :  within  the  walls  then 

view 
The  schools  of  ancient  sages ;  his,  who  bred 
Great  Alexander  to  subdue  the  world, 
Lyceum  there,  and  painted  Stoa  next : 
There  shalt  thou  hear  and  learn  the  secret 

power 
Of  hai-mony,  in  tones  and  numbers  hit 
By  voice  or  hand,  and  various-measured  verse, 
^olian  charms,  and  Dorian  lyric  odes. 
And  his  who  gave  them   breath,    but  higher 

sung, 
Blind  Melesigenes,  thence  Homer  call'd, 
Wliose  poem  Phoebus  challenged  for  his  own. 
Thence  what  the  lofty  gi-ave  tragedians  taught 
In  chorus  or  iambic,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 
In    brief    sententious    precepts,    while    they 

treat 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  change  in  human 

life; 
High  actions  and  high  passions  best  describing; 
Thence  to  the  famous  orators  repair. 
Those  ancient,  whose  resistless  eloquence 
Wielded  at  will  that  fierce  democratie, 
Shook  the  arsenal,  and  fulmined  over  Greece, 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes'  throne. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


619.— THE    INVOCATION    AND    INTEO- 
DUCTION TO  PAEADISE  LOST. 

Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought   death  into  the  world,  and   all   our 

woe. 
With  loss  of  Eden,  tiU  one  greater  Man 
Eestore  us,  and  regain  the  bhssful  seat, 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  Shepherd,  who  first  taught  the   chosen 

seed. 
In  the  beginning,  how  the  Heavens  and  Earth 
Eose  out  of  Chaos :  Or,  if  Sion  hill 
Delight  the  more,  and   SHoa's    brook   that 

flow'd  otsj 


Milton.] 


SATAN'S  ADDEESS  TO  THE  SUN. 


[Fourth  Period. 


Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God ;  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song, 
That  Avith  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhj^me. 
And  chiefly  thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  piire, 
Instruct  me,  for  thou  know'st ;  thou  from  the 

first 
TVast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  out- 
spread. 
Dove-like  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant :  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine ;  what  is  low  raise  and  support  ; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say  first,  for  Heaven  hides   nothing  from 

thy  view, 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  Hell ;  say   first,   what 

cause 
Mov'd  our  grand  parents,  in  that  happy  state, 
Favour' d  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  besides  ? 
Who  first  seduc'd  them  to  that  foul  revolt  ? 
The  infernal  Serpent ;  he  it  was,  whose  guile, 
Stirr'd  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceiv'd 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  Heaven,  with  all  his 

host 
Of  rebel  angels  :  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers. 
He  trusted  to  have  equall'd  the  Most  High, 
If  he  oppos'd  ;  and,  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God, 
Eais'd  impious   war   in  Heaven,   and   battle 

proud, 
With    vain    attempt.       Him    the    Almighty 

power 
Hurl'd  headlong   flaming   from   the   ethereal 

sky, 
With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition  ;  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 

Milton.^Boni  1608,  Died  1674. 


620.— SATAN'S  ADDEESS  TO  THE  SUN. 

O  thou,  that,  -with  surpassing  glory  crown'd, 
Look'st  from  thy  sole  dominion  like  the  God 
Of  this  new  world ;    at  whose  sight  all  the 

stars 
Hide  their  diminish' d  heads  ;  to  thee  I  call, 
But   with  no  friendly  voice;     and   add  thy 

name, 

0  Sun,  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams. 
That   bring  to  my  remembrance  from  what 

state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once — above  thy  sphere  ; 
Till  pride  and  worse  ambition  threw  me  down. 
Warring  in  heaven  against  heaven's  matchless 

king. 


Ah,  wherefore  ?     He  deserv'd  no  such  return 
From  me,  whom  he  created  what  I  was 
In  that  bright  eminence,  and  with  his  good 
Upbraided  none,  nor  was  his  service  hard. 
What  could  be  less  than  to  afford  him  praise, 
The  easiest  recompense,  and  pay  him  thanks  ? 
How  due  ! — yet  all  his  good  prov'd  ill  in  me, 
And  wrought  but  malice  ;  lifted  up  so  high, 
I  'sdained  subjection,  and   thought  one  step 

higher 
Would  set  rile  highest,  and  in  a  moment  quit 
The  debt  immense  of  endless  gratitude. 
So  burdensome  still  paying,  still  to  owe  : 
Forgetful  what  from  him  I  still  received  ; 
And  understood  not  that  a  grateful  mind 
By  owing  owes  not,  but  still  pays,  at  once 
Indebted  and  discharged :  what  burden  then  ? 
O,  had  his  powerful  destiny  ordain' d 
Me  some  inferior  angel,  I  had  stood 
Then  happy  ;  no  unbounded  hope  had  raised 
Ambition  !    Yet  why  not  ? — some  other  power 
As  great  might  have  aspir'd,  and  me,  though 

mean, 
Drawn  to  his  part ;  but  other  powers  as  gi*eat 
Fell  not,  but  stand  unshaken,  from  within 
Or  from  without,  to  all  temptations  ai-m'd, 
Hadst  thou  the  same  free  will  and  power  to 

stand  ? 
Thou  hadst :  whom  hast  thou,  then,  or  what 

to  accuse, 
But  heaven's  free  love  dealt  equally  to  all  ? 
Be  then  his  love  accurst ;  since  love  or  hate, 
To  me  alike,  it  deals  eternal  woe  : 
Nay,  curs' d  be  thou ;    since  against  his  thy 

will 
Chose  freely  what  it  now  so  justly  rues. 
Me  miserable  ! — wliich  way  shall  I  fly 
Infinite  wrath  and  infinite  despair  ? 
Which  Avay  I  fly  is  hell ;  myself  am  hell ; 
And,  in  the  lowest  deep  a  lower  deep 
Still  threatening  to  devour  me  opens  wide  ; 
To  which  the  hell  I  suffer  seems  a  heaven. 
0,  then  at  last  relent ;  is  there  no  i^lace 
Left  for  repentance,  none  for  jiardon  left  ? 
None  left  but  by  submission  ;  and  that  word 
Disdain  forbids  me,  and  my  dread  of  shame 
Among  the  spirits  beneath,  whom  I  seduced 
With  other  promises  and  other  vaunts 
Than  to  submit,  boasting  I  could  subdue 
The  Omnipotent.     Ay  me  !  they  little  know 
How  dearly  I  abide  that  boast  so  vain  ; 
Under  what  torments  inwardly  I  groan, 
While  they  adore  me  on  the  throne  of  hell. 
With  diadem  and  sceptre  high  advanced, 
The  lower  still  I  fall ;  only  supreme 
In  misery  :  such  joy  ambition  finds. 
But  say  I  could  repent,  and  could  obtain 
By  act  of  grace  my  former  state ;  how  seon 
Would  height  recall  high  thoughts,  how  soon 

unsay 
What  feign' d  submission  swore  !     Ease  would 

recant 
Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void. 
For  never  can  true  reconcilement  grow 
Where  wounds  of  deadly  hate  have  nierc'd  so 

deep ; 


From  1649  to  1689.]  ASSEMBLING  OF  THE  FALLEN  ANGELS. 


[Milton. 


"^Miicli  would  but  lead  me  to  a  worse  relapse 
And  heavier  fall :  so  should  I  purehaee  dear 
Short  intermission  bought  with  double  smart. 
This  knows  my  Punisher ;  therefore  as  far 
From  granting-  he,  as  I  from  begging-  peace : 
All  hope  excluded  thus,  behold,  instead 
Of  us  outcast,  exil'd,  his  new  delight, 
Mankind,  created,  and  for  him  this  world. 
So  farewell  hope ;   and   with   hope,   farewell 

fear  ; 
Farewell  remorse  :  all  good  to  me  is  lost ; 
Evil,  be  thou  my  good  ;  by  thee  at  least 
Divided  empire  with  heaven's  king  I  hold, 
By  thee,  and  more  than   half   perhaps   will 

reign ; 
As  man  ere  long  and  this  new  world  shall 

know. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


621. 


-ASSEMBLING  OF  THE  FALLEN 

ANGELS. 


All  these  and  more  came  flocking  ;  but  v/ith 
looks 
Downcast  and  damp,  yet   such  wherein  ap- 
pear'd 
Obscure  some  glimpse  of  joy,  t'  have  found 

their  chief 
Not  in  despair,  t'  have  found  themselves  not 

lost 
In  loss  itself :  which  on  his  countenance  cast 
Like  doubtful  hue  :  but  he,  his  wonted  pride 
Soon  recollecting,  with  high  words  that  bore 
Semblance   of    worth,  not  substance,   gently 

raised 
Their   fainting   courage,    and   dispell' d   their 

fears. 
Then  straight  commands  that,  at  the  warlike 

sound 
Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions,  be  uprear'd 
His   mighty   standard;    that    proud    honour 

claim"  d 
Azazel  as  his  right,  a  chei-ub  tall ; 
Who  forthwith  from  the  glitt'ring  staff  un- 
furl'd 
Th'  imperial  ensign,  which,  full -high  advanc'd, 
Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind. 
With  gems  and  golden  lustre  rich  emblaz'd 
Seraphic  arms  and  trophies,  all  the  while 
Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds  : 
At  which  the  universal  host  up  sent 
A  shout,  that  tore  Hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  in  a  moment  through  the  gloom  were  seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air 
With  orient  colours  waving :  with  them  rose 
A  forest  huge  of  spears  ;  and  thronging  helms 
Appear' d,  and  serried  shields  in  thick  array. 
Of  depth  immeasurable  :  anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Doi-ian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders  ;  such  as  rais'd 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle  ;  and,  instead  of  rage, 


Deliberate  valour  breath' d,  firm  and  unmov'd, 
With  dread  of  death,  to  flight  or  foul  retreat ; 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  'suage, 
With  solemn  touches,  troubled  thoughts,  and 

chase 
Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and-ae^ow,  and 

pain. 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.     Thus  they, 
Breathing  united  force,  with  fixed  thought 
Mov'd    on   in    silence   to    soft    pipes,    that 

charm' d 
Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil ;    and 

now 
Advanc'd  in  view,  they  stand,  a  horrid  front 
Of   dreadful  length,    and   dazzling   arms,   in 

guise 
Of  warriors  old  with  order' d  spear,  and  shield, 
Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  chief 
Had  to  impose :  he  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienc'd  eye,  and  soon  traverse 
The  whole  battalion,  views  their  order  due, 
Their  visages  and  statures  as  of  Gods ; 
Their   number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his 

heart 
Distends   with   pride,    and   hard'ning  in  his 

strength 
Glories  ;  for  never  since  created  man 
Met   such   embodied  force    as,    nam'd    vnth. 

these. 
Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry 
Warr'd  on  by  cranes ;   though  all  the  giant 

brood 
Of  Phlegra  with  th'  heroic  race  were  join'd, 
That  fought  at  Thebes    and  Ilium,  on  each 

side 
Mix'd  with  auxiliar  gods ;    and  what  resounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son. 
Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights  j 
And  all  who.  since,  baj)tis'd  or  infidel. 
Jousted  in  Aspramont  or  Montalban, 
Damasco  or  Morocco,  or  Trebisond ; 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore, 
When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabia.     Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observ'd     • 
Their  dread  commander ;  he,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent. 
Stood  hke  a  tow'r  ;  his  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appear'd 
Less  than  Archangel  ruin'd,  and  th'  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd  :  as  when  the  sun  new  risen 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air, 
Shorn  of  his  beams  ;  or  from  behind  the  moon 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.      Darken'd  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  th'  Archangel :  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrench' d,  and 

care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  imder  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage  and  considerate  pride. 
Waiting  revenge  :  cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion  to  behold 
The  feUows  of  his  crime,  the  followers  rather, 
(Far  other  once  beheld  in  bli^s)  condemn'd 
For  ever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain  j 


Milton. 


SATAN  MEETS  SIN  AND  DEATH. 


[Fourth  Period.- 


Millions  of  spirits  for  his  fault  amerc'd 
Of  Heav'n,  and  from  eternal  splendours  flung 
For  hi?;  revolt,  yet  faithful  how  they  stood, 
Their  glory  wither'd  :  as  when  Heav'n's  fire 
Hath  scatli'd  the  forest  oaks,    or   mountain 

pines, 
With  singed  top  their  stately  growth,  though 

bare, 
Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.      He  now'pre- 

par'd 
To  speak :   whereat  their  doubled  ranks  they 

bend 
From  wing  to   wing,  and  half    enclose   him 

round 
With  all  his  peers  :  attention  held  them  mute. 
Thrice  he  assay' d  ;    and  thrice,  in    spite    of 

scorn. 
Tears,  such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth ;  at 

last 
Words,  interwove  with  sighs,  found  out  their 

way. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


622.— SATAN  MEETS  SIN  AND  DEATH. 

Meanwhile,  the  adversary  of  God  and  man, 
Satan,    with    thoughts    inflam'd    of    highest 

design. 
Puts  on  swift  wings,  and  towards  the  gates  of 

Hell 
Explores  his  solitary  flight :  sometimes 
He  scours  the  right  hand  coast,  sometimes  the 

left; 
Now  shaves  with  level  ^ving  the  deep,  then 

soars 
Up  to  the  fiery  concave  towering  high. 
As,  when  far  off  at  sea,  a  fleet  descried 
Hangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 
Of   Temate   and   Tidore,    whence   merchants 

bring 
Their  spicy  drugs ;  they,  on  the  trading  flood, 
Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape, 
Ply   stemming  nighly    toward  the  pole :    so 

seem'd. 
Far  off  the  flying  fiend.     At  last  appear 
Hell  bounds,  high  reaching  to  the  horrid  roof, 
And  thrice  threefold  the  gates;  three  folds 

were  brass 
Three  iron,  three  of  adamantine  rock 
Impenetrable,  impal'd  with  circling  fire, 
Yet  unconsum'd.     Before  the  gates  there  sat 
On  either  side  a  formidable  shape ; 
The  one  seem'd  woman  to  the  waist  and  fair; 
But  ended  foul  in  many  a  scaly  fold 
Voluminous  and  vast ;  a  serpent  arm'd 
With  mortal  sting  :  about  her  middle  round 
A  cry  of  Hell-hounds,  never  ceasing,  bark'd 
With  wide  Cerberean  mouths  full  loud,  and 

rung 
A  hideous  peal;  yet,  when  they  list,   would 

creep, 
I^  aught  disturb' d  their  noise,  into  her  womb. 


And  kennel  there ;  yet  there  still  bark'd  and 

ho"nd['d,' 
Within  unseen.     Far  less  abhorr'd  than  these 
Vex'd  Scylla,  bathing  in  the  sea  that  parts 
Calabria  from  the  hoarse  Trinacrian  shore  ; 
Nor  uglier  follow  the  night-hag,  when,  call'd 
In  secret,  riding  through  the  air  she  comes, 
Lur'd  with  the  smell  of  infaaat  blood,  to  dance 
With  Lapland  witches,  while   the   labouring 

Moon 
Eclipses  at  their  charms.     The  other  shape. 
If  shape  it  might  be  call'd  that   shape  had 

none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb  ; 
Or   substance  might   be   caU'd  that  shadow 

seem'd. 
For   each   seem'd   either :   black   it   stood  as 

night, 
Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  Hell, 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart ;  what  seem'd  his 

head 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast 
With   horrid  strides ;    Hell   trembled   as    he 

strode. 
The   undaunted   fiend    what    this    might    be 

admir'd, 
Admir'd,  not  fear'd  ;  God  and  his  Son  except, 
Created  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  slmnn'd  ; 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began  : 
"  Whence   and   what   art   thou,   execrable 

shape. 
That  dar'st,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates  ?   thi-ough  them  I  mean  to 

pass, 
That  be  assur'd,  without  leave  ask'd  of  thee  • 
Retire,  or  taste  thy  folly,  and  learn  by  proof 
Hell-born,    not   to   contend    with    spirits    of 

Heaven." 
To  whom  the  goblin  full  of  wrath  replied  : 
"  Art  thou  that  traitor-angel,  art  thou  he. 
Who  first  broke  peace  in  Heaven,  and  faith, 

till  then 
Unbroken ;  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drew  after   him  the  third  part  of   Heaven's 

sons 
Conjur'd  against  the  Highest ;  for  which  both 

thou 
And   they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  con- 
demn'd 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  woe  and  pain  ? 
And  reckon' st  thou   thyself   with   spirits   of 

Heaven, 
Hell-doom' d,  and  breath' st  defiance  here  and 

scorn, 
WTiere  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more. 
Thy  king  and  lord  ?     Back  to  thy  punishment, 
False  fugitive,  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings, 
Lost  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 
Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart 
Strange   horror   seize  thee,  and  pangs  unfelt 

before." 
So  spake  the  grisly  terror,  and  in  shape, 
So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  tenfold 


From  1G4B  to  1689.] 


ADDEESS  TO  LIGHT. 


[Milton. 


More   dreadful   and   deform.     On  the   other 

side, 
Incens'd  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burn'd, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war.     Each  at  the  head 
Levell'd  his  deadly  aim  ;  their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend ;  and  such  a  frown 
Each   cast  at  the  other,  as  when  two  black 

clouds. 
With  Heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling 

on 
Over  the  Caspian,  then  stand  front  to  front, 
"Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air  : 
So  frown'd  the  mighty  combatants,  that  Hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown ;  so  match' d  they 

stood ; 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe ;  and  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achiev'd,  whereof  all  Hell  had  rung. 
Had  not  the  snaky  sorceress,  that  sat 
Fast  by  Hell-gate,  and  kept  the  fatal  key, 
Eis'n,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rush'd  between. 


From  her  side  the  fatal  key, 
Sad  instrument  of  aU  our  woe,  she  took  ; 
And,  towards  the  gate  roUing  her  bestial  train 
Forthwith  the  huge  portcullis  high  up-di-ew, 
Which  but  herself,  not  aU  the  Stygian  powers 
Could  once  have  mov'd  ;  then  in  the  key-hole 

turns 
The  intricate  wards,  and  every  bolt  and  bar 
Of  massy  iron  or  solid  rock  vrith  ease 
Unfastens.     On  a  sudden  open  fly, 
With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound, 
The  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder,  that  the  lowest  bottom  shook 
Of  Erebus.     She  open'd,  but  to  shut 
ExceU'd  her  power ;  the  gates  wide  open  stood, 
That  with  extended  wings  a  banner' d  host. 
Under   spread  ensigns  marching,  might  pass 

through 
With  horse  and  chariots  rank'd  in  loose  array ; 
So  wide  they  stood,  and  like  a  furnace  mouth 
Cast  forth  redounding  smoke  and  ruddy  flame. 
Before  their  eyes  in  sudden  view  appear 
The  secrets  of  the  hoary  deep ;  a  dark 
Illimitable  ocean,  without  bound. 
Without  dimension,    where   length,   breadth, 

and  height, 
And  time,  and  place,  are  lost;   where  eldest 

Night 
And  Chaos,  ancestors  of  Nature,  hold 
Eternal  anarchy,  amidst  the  noise 
Of  endless  wars,  and  by  confusion  stand. 
For  Hot,  Cold,  Moist,  and  Dry,  four  champions 

fierce, 
Strive  hero  for  mastery,  and  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryon  atoms ;  they  around  the  flag 
Of  each  his  faction,  in  their  several  clans. 
Light-arm' d  or  heavy,  sharp,  smooth,   swift, 

or  sk»VY', 
Swarm  populous,  unnumber'd  as  the  sands 


Of  Barca  or  Cyrene's  torrid  soil. 

Levied  to  side  with  warring  winds,  and  poise 

Their  lighter  wings.     To   whom  these  most 

adhere. 
He  rules  a  moment :  Chaos  umpire  sits, 

■  And  by  decision  more  embroils  the-f  ray^ 

j   By  v»?^hich  he  reigns  :  next  him  high  arbiter 
'   Chance  governs  all.     Into  this  wild  abyss 

■  The  womb  of  Nature,  and  perhaps  her  grave, 
j   Of  neither  sea,  nor  shore,  nor  air,  nor  fire, 

;   But  all  these  in  their  pregnant  causes  mix'd 
:    Confus'dly,  and  which  thus  must  ever  fight, 
;   Unless  the  Almighty  Maker  them  ordain 
I   His  dark  materials  to  create  more  worlds  ; 
I   Into  this  wild  abyss  the  wary  fiend 

Stood   on   the   brink   of   Hell,    and  look'd  a 
while, 

Pondering  his  voyage :  for  no  narrow  frith 

He  had  to  cross. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


623.— ADDRESS  TO  LIGHT. 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven,  first- 
born, 
Or  of  the  Eternal  coetemal  beam. 
May  I  express  thee  unblam'd?    since  God  is 

light, 
And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee. 
Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate. 
Or  hear'st  thou  rather,  pure  etherial  stream. 
Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  ?     Before  the 

Sun, 
Before  the  Heavens   thou  wert,  and  at  the 

voice 
Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest 
The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep. 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 
Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing, 
Escap'd  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detain' 3 
In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while,  in  my  flight. 
Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness 

borne. 
With  other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre, 
I  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night ; 
Taught    by   the   heavenly   Muse  to  venture 

down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  re-ascend, 
Though  hard  and  rare ;   thee  I  revisit  safe, 
And  feel  thy  sovran  vital  lamp  :  but  thou 
Revisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn  ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath   quench' d   their 

orbs. 
Or  dim  suffusion  veil'd.     Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander,  where  the  Muses  haunt 
Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hiU, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song  ;  but  chief 
Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath. 
That  wash  thy  hallow' d  feet,  and   warbhng 

flow. 
Nightly  I  visit ;  nor  sometimes  forget 


Milton.] 


THE  ANGELIC  WOESHIP. 


[Fourth  Period.- 


Those  other  two,  equall'd  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equall'd  ^vith  them  in  renown, 
Blind  Tharayris,  and  blind  Mseonides, 
And  Tiresias,  and  Phineus,  prophets  old  : 
Then  feed  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers  ;  as  the  wakefid  bird 
Sing's  darkhng,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid, 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.     Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return  ;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose. 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  ; 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  Avays  of  men 
Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  Nature's  works,  to  me  expung'd  and  ras'd, 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 
So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her 

powers 
Irradiate :   there   plant   eyes,    all   mist   from 

thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1G74. 


624— THE  ANGELIC  WOESHIP. 

No  sooner  had  the  Almighty  ceas'd,   but 

aU 
The  multitude  of  angels,  with  a  shout 
Loud  as  from  numbers  without  number,  sweet 
As  from  blest  voices,  uttering  joy,   Heaven 

rung 
With  jubilee,  and  loud  Hosannas  fill'd 
The  eternal  regions  :  lowly  reverent 
Towards  either  throne  they  bow,  and  to  the 

ground 
With  solemn  adoration  down  they  cast 
Their  crowns  inwove  with  amarant  and  gold  ; 
Immortal  amarant,  a  flower  which  once 
In  Paradise,  fast  by  the  tree  of  life, 
Began  to  bloom  ;  but  soon  for  man's  offence 
To  Heav'ri  removed  where  first  it  grew,  there 

grows, 
And  flowers  aloft  shading  the  fount  of  life, 
And  where  the  river  of  bliss  through  midst  of 

Heaven 
BoUs  o'er  Elysian  flowers  her  amber  stream : 
With  these  that  never  fade  the  spirits  elect 
Bind  their  resplendent  locks  inwreath'd  with 

beams ; 
Now  in  loose  garlands  thick  thrown  off,  the 

bright 
Pavement,  that  like  a  sea  of  jasper  shone, 
Impurpled  with  celestial  roses  smil'd. 
Then,  crown'd  again,  their  golden  harps  they 

took, 
Harps  ever  tun'd,  that  glittiering  by  their  side 
Like  quivers  hung,  and  with  preamble  sweet 
Of  oharming  symphony  they  introduce 


Their  sacred  song,  and  waken  raptures  high  ; 
No  voice  exemi^t,  no  voice  but  well  could  join 
Melodious  part,  such  concord  is  in  Heaven. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


625.— PAEADISE. 

So  on  he  fares,  and  to  the  border  comes 

Of  Eden,  where  delicious  Paradise, 

Now  nearer,  crowns  with  her  inclosure  green, 

As  with  a  rural  mound,  the  champaign  head 

Of  a  steep  wilderness,  whose  hairy  sides 

With  thicket  overgown,  grotesque  and  wild, 

Access  denied  ;  and  overhead  upgrew 

Insuperable  height  of  loftiest  shade, 

Cedar  and  pine,  and  fir,  and  branching  palm, 

A  sylvan  scene,  and  as  the  ranks  ascend, 

Shade  above  shade,  a  woody  theatre 

Of   stateliest  view.      Yet  higher   than   their 

tops 
The  verd'rous  wall  of  Paradise  up-sprung  : 
Which  to  our  general  sire  gave  prospect  large 
Into  his  nether  empire  neighb'ring  round. 
And  higher  than  that  wall  a  circling  row 
Of  goodliest  trees,  loaden  with  fairest  fruit, 
Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  of  golden  hue, 
Appear'd,  with  gay  enamel'd  colours  inix'd  : 
Of  which  the  sun   more   glad  imprcss'd  his 

beams 
Than  in  fair  evening  cloud,  or  humid  bow, 
When  God  hath  shov/er'd  the  earth  :  so  lovely 

seem'd 
That  landscape  ;  and  of  pure,  now  purer  air 
Meets  his  approach,  and  to  the  heart  inspires 
Vernal  delight  and  joy,  able  to  drive 
All  sadness  but  despair  ;  now  gentle  gales 
Fanning  their  odoriferous  wings,  dispense 
Native  iDerfumes,  and  whisper  whence  they 

stole 
Those  balmy  spoils  :    as  when  to  them  who 

sail 
Beyond  the  Capo  of  Hope,  and  now  arc  past 
Mozambic,  off  at  sea  north-west  winds  blow 
Sabean  odours  from  the  spicy  shore 
Of  Araby  the  blest ;  with  such  delay 
Well   pleas' d  they  slack   their    course,    and 

many  a  league, 
Cheer'd  with  the  grateful  smell,    old  Ocean 

smiles. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674.- 


626.— ADAM  AND  EVE. 

Two  of  far  nobler  shape,  erect  and  tall, 
Godlike  erect,  with  native  honour  clad 
In  naked  majesty,  seem'd  lords  of  all : 
And  worthy  seem'd  ;  for  in  their  looks  divino 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


EVE'S  EECOLLECTIONS. 


[Milton. 


The  image  of  their  glorious  Maker  shone, 
Truth,  wisdom,  sanctitude  severe  and  pure, 
(Severe,  but  in  true  filial  freedom  plac'd,) 
"Whence  true  authority  in  men ;  though  both 
Not  equal,  as  their  sex  not  equal  seem'd  ; 
For  contemplation  he  and  valour  form'd ; 
For  softness  she  and  sweet  attractive  grace ; 
He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him : 
His  fair  large  front  and  eye  sublime  declar'd 
Absolute  rule  ;  and  hyacinthine  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 
Clustering,    but    not  beneath    his    shoulders 

broad  ; 
She,  as  a  veU,  down  to  the  slender  waist 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore 
Dishevell'd,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  wav'd. 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils,  which  impHed 
Subjection,  but  requir'd  mth  gentle  sway, 
And  by  her  yielded,  by  him  best  receiv'd, 
Yielded  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride, 
And  sweet,  reluctant,  amorous  delay. 
Nor   those   mysterious  parts  were  then  con- 
ceal'd; 
Then  was  not  guilty  shame  :  dishonest  shame 
Of  Nature's  works,  honour  dishonourable, 
Sin-bred,  how  have  ye  troubled  all  mankind 
^Vith  shows  instead,  mere  shows  of  seeming 

pure. 
And  banish'd  from  man's  life  his  happiest  life. 
Simplicity  and  spotless  innocence  ! 
So   pass'd   they   naked  on,  nor  shunn'd   the 

sight 
Of  God  or  angel ;  for  they  thought  no  ill : 
So  hand  in  hand  they  pass'd,  the  loveliest  pair, 
That  ever  since  in  love's  embraces  met : 
Adam  the  goodliest  man  of  men  since  born 
His  sous,  the  fairest  of  her  daughters  Eve. 
Under  a  tuft  of  shade  that  on  a  green 
Stood  whispering  soft,  by  a  fresh   fountain 

side 
They  sat  them  down  :  and,  after  no  more  toil 
Of  their  sweet  gardening  labour  than  suffic'd 
To  recommend  cool  Zephyr,  and  made  ease 
More  easy,  wholesome  thirst  and  appetite 
More   grateful,    to    their   supper-fruits   they 

fell, 
Nectarine  fruits  which  the  compliant  boughs 
Yielded  them,  side-long  as  they  sat  recline 
Onthe  soft  downy  bank  damask'd  with  flowers : 
The   savoury    pulp    they   chew,    and  in   the 

rind, 
Still  as  they  thirsted,    scoop   the   brimming 

stream ; 
Nor  gentle  purpose,  nor  endearing  smiles 
Wanted,  nor  youthful  dalliance,  as  beseems 
Fair  couple,  link'd  in  happy  nuptial  league, 
Alone  as  they.     About  them  frisking'  play'd. 
All  beasts  of  the  Earth,  since  wild,  and  of  all 

chase 
In  wood  or  wilderness,  forest  or  den  ; 
Sporting  the  lion  ramp'd,  and  in  his  paw 
Dandled  the  kid  ;  bears,  tigers,  ounces,  pards, 
GamboU'd  before   them  ;    the  unwieldly  ele- 
phant, 
To  make  them  mirth,  us'd  all  his  might,  and 
wreath'd 


His  lithe  proboscis ;  close  the  serpent  sly, 
Insinuating,  wove  with  Gordian  twine 
His  braided  train,  and  of  his  fatal  guile 
Gave  proof  unheeded ;  others  on  the  grass 
Couch'd,  and  noy/  fill'd  with  pasture  gazing 

sat,  .  _     __ 

Or  bedward  ruminating ;  for  the  Sun,    ~ 
Declin'd,  was  hastening  now  with  prone  careec 
To  the  ocean  isles,  and  in  the  ascending  scale 
Of  Heaven  the  stars  that  usher  evening  rose. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


627.— EVE'S  EECOLLECTIONS. 

Thus  Eve  replied  :  "  O  thou  for  whom 
And  from  whom  I  was  form'd,  flesh  of  thy 

flesh. 
And  without  whom  am  to  no  end,  my  guide 
And   head !    what  thou  hast  said  is  just  and 

right. 
For  we  to  Him  indeed  all  praises  owe, 
And  daily  thanks  ;  I  chiefly,  who  enjoy 
So  far  the  happier  lot,  enjoying  thee 
Pre-eminent  by  so  much  odds,  while  thou 
Like  consort  to  thyself  canst  no  where  find. 
That  day  I  oft  remember,  when  from  sleep 
I  first  awak'd,  and  found  myself  repos'd 
Under  a  shade  on   flow'rs,    much   wond'ring 

where 
And  what  I  was,  whence  thither  brought,  and 

how. 
Not   distant  far  from   thence    a    murm'ring 

sound 
Of  waters  issued  from  a  cave,  and  spread 
Into  a  liquid  plain,  then  stood  unmov'd, 
Pure  as   the   expanse  of   Heav'n;    I  thither 

went 
With  unexperienc'd    thought,    and    laid    me 

down 
On  the  green  bank,  to  look  into  the  clear 
Smooth  lake,  that  to  me  seem'd  another  sky. 
As  I  bent  down  to  look,  just  opposite 
A  shape  within  the  wat'ry  gleam  appear' d. 
Bending  to  look  on  me  :  I  started  back. 
It  started  back ;  but  pleas'd  I  soon  return'd, 
Pleas'd  it  return'd  as  soon   Avith   answ'ring 

looks 
Of  sympathy  and  love  :  there  I  had  fix'd 
Mine  eyes  till  now,  and  pin'd  with  vain  desire, 
Had  not  a  voice   thus    warn'd  me :    '  What 

thou  seest. 
What  there  thou  seest,  fair  creature,  is  thy- 
self: 
Yv^'ith  thee  it  came  and  goes  ;  but  follow  me. 
And  I  -will  bring  thee  where  no  shadow  stays 
Thy  coming,  and  thy  soft  embraces ;  he 
Whose  image  thou  art ;  him  thou  shalt  enjoy, 
Inseparably  thine  ;  to  him  shalt  bear 
Multitudes  like  thyself,  and  thence  be  call'd 
Mother  of  human  race.'     What  could  I  do. 
But  follow  straight,  invisibly  thus  led  ? 


Milton.] 


MORNING  IN  PAEADISE. 


[Fourth  Period, 


Till  I  espied  thee,  fair  indeed  and  toll, 
Under  a  plantain  ;  yet  methonglit  lesa  fair, 
Less  winning  soft,  less  amiably  mUd, 
Than    that    smooth  wat'ry    image:    back    I 

turn'd ; 
Thou  following  cry'dst  aloud,    'Eeturn,  fair 

Eve, 
"Whom  fly'st  thou  ?    whom  thou  fiy'st  of  him 

thou  art, 
His  flesh,  his  bone  :  to  give  thee  being  I  lent, 
Out  of  my  side  to  thee,  nearest  my  heart, 
Substantial  life,  to  have  thee  by  my  side 
Henceforth  an  individual  solace  dear ; 
Part  of  my  soul  I  seek  thee,  and  thee  claim 
My  other  half.'     With  that  thy  gentle  hand 
Seiz'd  mine ;    I  yielded,  and  from  that  time 

see 
How  beauty  is  excell'd  by  manly  grace 
And  wisdom,  which  alone  is  truly  fair." 

So  spake  our  general  mother,  and  with  eyes 
Of  conjugal  attraction,  unreprov'd, 
And  meek  surrender,  half  embracing,  lean'd 
On  our  first  father  ;  half  her  swelling  breast 
Naked  met  his,  tpider  the  flowing  gold 
Of  her  loose  tresses  hid  ;  he  in  delight 
Both  of  her  beauty  and  submissive  charms, 
Smil'd  with  superior  love,  as  Jupiter 
On  Juno  sjniles,  when  he  impregns  the  clouds 
That  shed  May  flow'rs;  and  press' d  her  matron 

lip 
With  kisses  pure. 

Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


62S.— MORN^NG  IN  PAEADISE. 

Now  mom  her  rosy  stops  in  th'  eastern  clime 
Advancing,  sow'd  the  earth  with  orient  pearl, 
Wlien    Adam    waked,    so    custom'd,   for  his 

sleep 
Was  aery-light  from  pure  digestion  bred, 
And  temperate  vapours  bland,  which  the  only 

sound 
Of  leaves  and  fuming  rills,  Aurora's  fan. 
Lightly  dispers'd,  and  the  shrill  matin  song 
Of  birds  on  ev'ry  bough  ;  so  much  the  more 
His  wonder  was  to  find  unawaken'd  Eve, 
With  tresses  discompos'd  and  glo-vving  cheek, 
As  through  iinquiet  rest :  he  on  his  side 
Leaning    half   rais'd.    with    looks  of   cordial 

love, 
Hung  over  her  enamour' d,  and  beheld 
Beauty,  which,  whethei  waking  or  asleep. 
Shot  forth  peculiar  graces  ;  then  vnth  voice 
Mild  as  when  Zephyrus  or  Flora  breathes, 
Her    hand    soft    touching,    whispcr'd    thus  : 

"  Awake, 
My  fairest,  my  ospous'd,  my  latest  found, 
Heav'n's  last  best  gift,  my  ever  new  delight. 
Awake:   the  morning  shines,  and  the  fresh 

field 
Calls  us;    we  lose  the  prime,  to  mark  how 

spring 


Our    tender    plants,    how    blows    the  citron 

grove, 
■\Vliat  drops  the  myrrh,  and  wliat  the  balmy 

reed. 
How  nature  paints  her  colours,  how  the  bee 
Sits  on  the  bloom  extracting  liquid  sweet." 


To  the  field  they  haste. 
But  first,  from  under  shady  arb'rous  roof 
Soon  as  they  forth  were  come  to  open  sight 
Of  day-spring,  and  the  sun,  who  scarce  up- 
risen, 
With  wheels  yet    hovering    o'er   the   ocean 

brim, 
Shot  parallel  to  th'  earth  his  dewy  ray, 
Discovering  in  wide  landscape  all  the  east 
Of  Paradise  and  Eden's  happy  plains. 
Lowly  they  bow'd  adoring,  and  began 
Their  orisons,  each  morning  duly  paid 
In  various  style  ;  for  neither  various  style 
Nor  holy  rapture  wanted  they  to  praise 
Their  Maker,  in   fit   strains    pronounced    or 

sung 
Unmeditated,  such  prompt  eloquence 
Flow'd  from  their  lips,  in  prose  or  numerous 

verse. 
More  tunable  than  needed  lute  or  harp 
To  add  more  sweetness  :  and  they  thus  began  : 
"  These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of 

good. 
Almighty  !  thine  this  universal  frame. 
Thus  wond'rous  fair ;   thyself  how  wondrous 

then! 
Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heav'ns 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works  ;  yet  these  declare 
Thy   goodness   beyond   thought,    and    power 

divine. 
Speak  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels  !  for  ye  behold  Him,  and  with  songs, 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
Circle  His  throne  rejoicing ;  ye  in  heav'n. 
On  earth  join,  all  ye  creatures,  to  extol 
Him  first,  Him  last,  Him  midst,  and  without 

end  ! 
Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 
If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn. 
Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown' st  the  smiling 

morn 
With   thy  bright  circlet,   praise  Him  in  thy 

sphere 
While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 
Thou  sun  !  of  this  world  both  eye  and  soul. 
Acknowledge  Him  thy  greater  ;    sound  His 

praise 
In     thy    eternal     course,     both    when    thou 

climb' st, 
And  when  high  noon  hast  gain'd,  and  when 

thou  fall'st. 
Moon !  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now 

fly'st 
With  the  fix'd  stars,   fix'd  in  their  orb  that 

flies  • 
And  ye  five  other  wand' ring  fires  !   that  move 
In  my3l}ic  dance  not  without  song,  resound 


From,  1649  to  1689.] 


EVENING  IN  PAEADISE. 


[Milton. 


His   praise,    who  out  of   darkness   call'd  up 

light. 
Air,  and  ye  elements !  the  eldest  birth 
Of  nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 
Perpetual  circle,  multiform  ;  and  mix, 
And  nourish   aU  things  ;    let  your  ceaseless 

change 
Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 
Ye  mists  and  exhalations  !  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray. 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honour  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise  ; 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncolour'd 

sky, 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  show'rs, 
Eising  or  falling,  still  advance  His  praise. 
His  praise,  ye  winds !  that  from  four  quarters 

blow. 
Breathe  soft  or  loud  ;  and  Avave  your  tops,  ye 

Pines  1 
With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble  as  yc  flow, 
Melodious     murmiu's,     warbling    tune     His 

praise. 
Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls  ;  ye  birds 
That  singing  up  to  Heav'n-gate  ascend, 
Bear  on  your  -svings  and  in  your  notes  His 

praise. 
Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 
The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep, 
Witness  if  I  be  silent,  mom  or  even. 
To  hill,  or  valley,  fountain,  or  fresh  shade, 
Made  vocal   by   my  song,   and  taught  His 

praise. 
Hail,  universal  Lord  !  be  bounteous  still 
To  give  us  only  good  ;  and,  if  the  night 
Have  gather' d  aught  of  evil  or  conceal' d, 
Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark." 
So    pray'd   they    innocent,    and    to    their 

thoughts 
Firm  peace  recover'd  soon  and  wonted  calm. 
On  to  their  morning's  rural  work  they  haste 
Among  sweet  dews  and  flow'rs;   where  any 

row 
Of  fruit-trees  over-woody  reach'd  too  far 
Their  pamper' d  boughs,  and  needed  hands  to 

check 
Fruitless  embraces  :  or  they  led  the  vine 
To  wed  her  elm;   she,  'spoused,  about  him 

twines 
Her  marriageable  arms,  and  with  her  brings 
Her  dow'r,  th'  adopted  clusters,  to  adorn 
His  barren  leaves. 

Milton.— Bom  1608,  Died  1674. 


629.— EVENING  IN  PAEADISE. 

Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad  ; 
Silence  accompanied  :  for  beast  and  bird. 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,   these   to  their 
nests, 


Were  slunk,  all  but  the  v.'akeful  nightingale  ; 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung  ; 
Silence  was  pleas'd :   now  glow'd  the  firma- 
ment 
With  living  sapphires ;  Hesperus  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  moon, 
Eising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  queen,  unveil'd  her  peerless  light. 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 
When  Adam  thus  to  Eve  :    "  Fair  Consort, 

th'  hour 
Of  night,  and  all  things  now  rctir'd  to  rest, 
Mind  us  of  like  repose,  since  God  hath  set 
Labour  and  rest,  as  day  and  night,  to  men 
Successive  ;  and  the  timely  dew  of  sleep 
Now  falling  with  soft  slumb'rous  weight,  in- 
clines 
Our  eye-lids  :  other  creatures  all  day  long 
Eove  idle  unemploy'd,  and  less  need  rest ; 
Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  body  or  mind 
Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity. 
And  the  regard  of  Heav'n  on  all  his  ways  ; 
While  other  animals  unactive  range, 
And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 
To-morrow,  ere  fresh  morning  streak  the  east 
With  first  approach  of  light,   we  must  be 

risen, 
And  at  our  pleasant  labour,  to  reform 
Yon  flow'ry  arbours,  yonder  alleys  green. 
Our  walk  at  noon,  with  branches  overgrown. 
That  mock  our  scant  manuring,  and  require 
More  hands  than  ours  to  lop  their  wanton 

growth : 
Those    blossoms    also,    and    those    dropping 

gums, 
That  lie  bestrewn,  unsightly  and  unsmooth. 
Ask  riddance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  with  ease  : 
Meanwhile,   as   Nature  "svills,   night   bids   us 

rest." 
To   whom  thus   Eve,   with  perfect  beauty 

adorn' d : 
"  My  Author  and  Disposer  ;  what  thou  bidst 
Unargued  I  obey  :  so  God  ordains ; 
Crod  is  thy  law,  thou  mine :   to  know  no  more 
Is  woman's  happiest  knowledge  and  her  praise. 
With  thee  conversing  I  forget  all  time  : 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  mom,  her  rising  sweet. 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds;   pleasant  the 

sun. 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,   fruit,  and 

flower, 
Glist'ring    with    dew ;    fragrant    the    fertile 

earth 
After  soft  show'rs  ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild ;  then  silent  night. 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these  the  gems  of   Heav'n,   her  starry 

train  ; 
But  neither  breath  of  morn,  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds,  nor  rising  sun 
On    this   delightful    land,     nor    herb,    fruit, 

flower, 
Glist'ring    with    dow,     nor    fragrance    after 

showers, 


MiLTOX.] 


THE  MESSIAH. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Xor  grateful  evening  mild,  nor  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon, 
Or  glitt'ring  starlight,  Avithout  thee  is  sweet. 
But  wherefore  all  night  long  shine  these  ?  for 

whom 
This  glorious  sight,  when  sleep  hath  shut  all 

eyes?  " 
To  whom  our  general  ancestor  replied  : 
"  Daughter  of   God  and   Man,   accomplish' d 

Eve, 
These  have  their  course  to  finish  round  the 

earth 
By  morrow  evening,  and  from  land  to  land 
In  order,  though  to  nations  yet  unborn, 
Minist'ring  light  prepared,  they  set  and  rise  ; 
Lest  total  darkness  should  by  night  regain 
Her  old  possession,  and  extinguish  life 
In  nature  and  all  things,   which  these  soft 

fires 
Not  only  enlighten,  but  with  kindly  heat 
Of  various  influence,  foment  and  warm, 
Temper  or  nourish,  or  in  part  shed  down 
Their  stellar  virtue  on  all  kinds  that  grow 
On  earth,  made  hereby  apter  to  receive 
Perfection  from  the  sun's  more  potent  i*ay. 
These,  then,  though  unbeheld  in  deep  of  night, 
Shine  not  in  vain ;    nor  think,  tho'  men  were 

none, 
That  Heav'n  would  want  spectators,  God  want 

praise. 
Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake   and  when  we 

sleep : 
All  these  with  ceaseless  praise  His  works  be- 
hold 
Both  daj'^  and  night.      How  often  from  the 

steep 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air. 
Sole  or  responsive  each  to  other's  note, 
Singing  their  great  Creator  ?  oft  in  bands, 
While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding 

walk, 
With  Heav'nly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds 
In  full  harmonic  number  join'd,  their  songs 
Divide    the    night,     and    lift    our    souls    to 

Heaven." 
Thus  talking  hand  in  hand  alone  they  pass' d 
On  to  their  blissful  bow'r ;  it  was  a  place 
Chos'n  by  the   sov'reign    Planter,    when    he 

fram'd 
All  things  to  man's  delightful  use ;  the  roof 
Of  thickest  covert  was  inwoven  shade 
Laurel  and  myrtle,  and  what  higher  grew 
Of  firm  and  fragrant  leaf  ;  on  either  side 
Acanthus,  and  each  odorous  bushy  shrub, 
Fenc'd  up  the  verdant  wall;  each  beauteous 

flower. 
Iris  aU.  hues,  roses,  and  jessamine, 
Rear'd  high  their   flourish'd  heads  between, 

and  wrought 
Mosaic ;  underfoot  the  violet. 
Crocus,  and  hyacinth,  mth  rich  inlay 
Broider'd  the  ground,  more  colour' d  than  with 

stone 
Of  costliest  emblem :  other  creatures  here, 


Beast,    bird,    insect,    or    worm,    durst  enter 

none  ; 
Such  was  their  awe   of    Man.      In  shadier 

bow'r, 
More    sacred    and    sequester' d,    though    but 

feign' d, 
Pan  or  Sylvanus  never  slept,  nor  nymph, 
ISTor  Faunus  haunted.     Here  in  close  recess. 
With   flowers,    garlands,  and  sweet-smelling 

herbs. 
Espoused  Eve  deck'd  first  her  nuptial  bed, 
And  heav'nly  choirs  the  hymen tean  sung, 
What  day  the  genial  Angel  to  our  sire 
Brought  her,  in  naked  beauty  more  adorn' d. 
More  lovely  than  Pandora,  whom  the  gods 
Endow'd  with  all  their  gifts,  and,  O  too  like 
In  sad  event,  when  to  the  unwiser  son 
Of  Japhet,  brought  by  Hermes,  she  ensnar'd 
Mankind  with  her  fair  looks,  to  be  aveng'd 
On  him  who  had  stole  Jove's. authentic  fire. 
Thus,  at  their  shady   lodge   arriv'd,   both 

stood, 
Both  turu'd,  and  iiudor  open  sky  ador'd 
The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and 

heaven, 
"Which  they  beheld,  the  moon's  resplendent 

globe. 
And  starry   pole  :    "  Thou   also    mad'st  the 

night. 
Maker  omnipotent,  and  thou  the  day. 
Which  we  in  our  appointed  work  employ' d 
Have  finish' d  happy  in  our  mutual  help 
And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bliss 
Ordain'd  by  thee,  and  this  delicious  place 
For  us  too  large,  where  thy  abundance  Avants 
Partakers,  and  uncropt  falls  to  the  ground. 
But  thou  hast  promis'd  from  us  two  a  race 
To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 
Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 
And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thj'  gift  of  sleep." 
Milton.— Born  1608,  Died  1674. 


630.— THE  MESSIAH. 

He,  o'er  his  sceptre  bowing,  rose 
From  the  right  hand  of  glory  where  he  sat ; 
And  the  third  sacred  morn  began  to  shine, 
Dawning  through  Heaven.     Forth  rush'd  with 

whirlwind  sound 
The  chariot  of  Paternal  Deity, 
Flashing  thick   flames,    wheel   within    wheel 

undraAvn, 
Itself  instinct  with  spirit,  but  convoy' d 
By  four  cherubic  shapes  ;  four  faces  each 
Had  wondrous ;  as  -with  stars,  their  bodies  all 
And  wings  were  set  with  eyes  ;  with  eyes  the 

wheels 
Of  beryl,  and  careering  fires  between ; 
Over  their  heads  a  crystal  firmament. 
Whereon  a  sapphire  throne,  inlaid  with  pure 
Amber,  and  colours  of  the  showery  arch. 
He,  in  celestial  panoply  ail  arm'd 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


EXPULSION  FEOM  PARADISE. 


[Milton. 


Of  radiant  Urim,  work  divinely  wrought, 
Ascended  ;  at  his  right  hand  Victory- 
Sat  ep.gle-wing'd,  beside  hung  him  his  bow 
And  qniver  with  three-bolted  thunder  stor'd; 
And  from  about  him  fierce  effusion  roll'd 
Of  smoke,  and  bickering  flame,  and  sparkles 

dire  : 
Attended  -with  ten  thousand  thousand  saints, 
He  onward  came  ;  far  off  his  coming  shone  : 
And  twenty  thousand  (I  their  number  heard) 
Chariots  of  God,  half  on  each  hand,  were  seen : 
He  on  the  wings  of  cherub  rode  sublime 
On  the  crystalline  sky,  in  sapphire  thron'd, 
Illustrious  far  and  wide. 

Milton.— Bom  1608,  Died  1674. 


63 1  .—TEMPERANCE. 

Well  observe 
The  rule  of  Not  too  much;  by  temperance 

taught, 
In  what  thou  eat'st   and   drink' st ;    seeking 

from  thence 
Due  nourishment,  not  gluttonous  delight ; 
Till  many  years  over  thy  head  return, 
So  may'st  thou  live  ;  till,  like  ripe  fruit,  thou 

drop 
Into  thy  mother's  lap,  or  be  with  ease 
Gather' d,    not    harshly    pluck' d;    for   death 

mature. 
This  is  Old  Age  ;  but  then,  thou  must  outlive 
Thy  youth,  thy  strength,  thy  beaxity,  which 

will  change 
To  wither' d,  weak,  and  gi*ay ;  thy  senses  then. 
Obtuse,  all  taste  of  pleasure  must  forego, 
To  what  thou  hast ;  and,  for  the  air  of  youth, 
Hopeful  and  cheerful,  in  thy  blood  ■s\'ill  reign 
A  melancholy  damp  of  cold  and  dry 
To  weigh  thy  spirits  down,  and  last  consume 
The  bairn  of  life. 

Jlilton.—Bor.i  1608,  Died  1674. 


632.— F^'PULSION  FROM  PARADISE. 

He  ended ;   and  the  Archangel  soon  drew 
nigh. 
Not  in  his  shape  celestial,  but  as  man 
Clad  to  meet  man ;  over  his  lucid  arms 
A  military  vest  of  purple  flow'd, 
Livelier  than  Melibaan,  or  the  grain 
Of  Sarrah,  worn  by  kings  and  heroes  old 
In  time  of  tnice  ;  Iris  had  dipt  the  woof  ; 
His  starry  helm  unbuckled  show'd  him  prime 
In  manhood  where  youth  ended  :  by  his  side. 
As  in  a  glist'ring  zodiac,  hung  the  sword, 
Satan's  dire  dread,  and  in  his  hand  the  spear. 
Adam  bow'd  low ;  he  kingly,  from  his  state 


Inclin'd  not,  but  his  coming  thus  declared  : — 
"Adam,  Heaven's  high  behest  no  preface 

needs : 
Sufficient   that   thy  pray'rs   are   heard,    and 

death 
Then  due  by  sentence  when  thou  didst  trans- 
gress, — 

Defeated  of  his  seizure  many  days, 

Giv'n  thee   of    grace,    wherein   thou   may'st 

repent, 
And  one  bad  act  with  many  deeds  well  done 
May'st  cover :    well  may  then  thy  Lord  ap- 

peas'd 
Redeem  thee  quite  from   Death's   rapacious 

claim : 
But  longer  in  this  Paradise  to  dwell 
Permits  not ;  to  remove  thee  I  am  come, 
And  send  thee  from  the  garden  forth  to  till 
The  ground  whence  thou  wast  taken,  fitter 

soil." 
He  added  not,  for  Adam  at  the  news 
Heart-struck  with  chilling  gripe    of    sorrow 

.stood, 
That  all  his  senses  bound  ;  Eve,  who  unseen, 
Yd  all  had  heard,  with  audible  lament 
Discover' d  soon  the  place  of  her  retire. 

"  O   unexpected   stroke  ;     worse    than   of 

death  ! 
Must  I   thus    leave  thee,   Paradise  ?      thus 

leave 
Thee,  native    soil !  these   happy  walks  and 

shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  gods?    where  I  had    hope    to 

spend, 
Quiet,  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
That  must  be  mortal  to  us  both.     O  flowers  ! 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow. 
My  early  visitation,  and  my  last 
At  even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From   the   first   opening    bud,   and   gave  ye 

names ! 
Wlio  now  shall  rear  ye  to  the  sun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,   and  water  from  the  ambrosial 

fount  ? 
Thee  lastly,  nuptial  bow'r,  by  me  adorn'd 
With  what  to  sight  or  smell  was  sweet,  from 

thee 
How  shall  I  part,  and  whither  wander  down 
Into  a  lower  world,  to  this  obscure 
And  wild  ?  how  shall  we  breathe  in  other  air 
Less  pure,  accustom'd  to  immortal  fruits  ?  " 
Whom  thus  the  Angel  interrupted  mild : — 
"  Lament  not.  Eve,  but  patiently  resign 
What   justly   thou   hast    lost ;    nor  sot  thy 

heart. 
Thus  over-fond,  on  that  which  is  not  thine  : 
Thy  going  is  not  lonely ;  with  thee  goes 
Thy  husband  ;  him  to  follow  thou  art  bound ; 
Where   he    abides,    think    there    thy  native 

soil." 
Adam  by  this  from  the  cold  sudden  damp 
Recovering,  and  his  scatter' d  spirits  return' d, 
To    Michael    thus    his     humble    words    ad- 
dress'd  : 
"  Celestial,  whether  among  the  thrones,  or 

nam'd 


Andrew  Marvell.] 


THOUGHTS  IN  A  GARDEN. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Of  them  the  highest,  for  such  of  shape  may 


Prince  above  princes,  gently  hast  thou  told 
Thy    message,  which  might    else    in   telling 

wound, 
And  in  performing  end  us  ;  what  besides 
Of  sorrow,  and  dejection,  and  despair, 
Our  frailty  can  sustain,  thy  tidings  bring ; 
Departure  from  that  happy  place,  our  sweet 
Eecess,  and  only  consolation  left 
Familiar  to  our  eyes,  all  places  else 
Inhospitable  appear  and  desolate, 
Nor  knowing  us,  nor  known  :  and  if  by  prayer 
Incessant,  I  could  hope  to  change  the  will 
Of  Him  who  all  things  can,  I  would  not  cease 
To  weary  Him  with  my  assiduous  cries  : 
But  pray'r  against  His  absolute  decree 
No  more  avails  than  breath  against  the  wind, 
Blo\vn  stifling  back   on  him  that  breathes  it 

forth: 
Therefore  to  His  great  bidding  I  submit. 
This  most  afflicts  me,  that,  departing  hence, 
As  from  His  face  I  shall  be  hid,  depriv'd 
His  blessed  count'nance;    here  I  could  fre- 
quent 
With  worship  place  by  place  where  He  vouch- 

safed 
Presence  divine,  and  to  my  sons  relate, 
"  On  this  mount  He  appear'd,  under  this  tree 
Stood  visible,  among  these  pines  His  voice 
I  heard,  here  withHini  at  this  fountain  talk'd :" 
So  many  grateful  altars  I  would  rear 
Of  grassy  turf,  and-  pile  up  every  stone 
Of  lustre  from  the  brook,  in  memory, 
Or  monument  to  ages,  and  thereon 
Offer   sweet- smelling   gums,   and   fruits,  and 

flowers. 
In  yonder  nether  world  where  shall  I  seek 
His  bright  appearances,  or  footstep  trace  .^ 
For  though  I  fled  Him  angry,  yet  recall' d 
To  life  prolong'd  and  promis'd  race,  I  now 
Gladly  behold  though  but  His  utmost  skirts 
Of  glory,  and  far  off  His  steps  adore." 


Now  too  nigh 
Th'  Archangel  stood,  and  from  the  other  lull 
To  their  fix'd  station,  all  in  bright  array. 
The  cherubim  descended ;  on  the  ground 
Gliding  meteorous,  as  evening  mist 
Eis'n  from  a  river  o'er  the  marish  glides. 
And  gathers  ground  fast  at  the  lab'rer's  heel 
Homeward    returning.       High    in    front   ad- 

vanc'd, 
The  brandish' d  sword  of   God  before   them 

blaz'd 
Fierce  as  a  comet ;  which  with  torrid  heat, 
And  vapours  as  the  Libyan  air  adust. 
Began  to  parch  that  temp'rate  cUme  :  whereat 
In  either  hand  the  hast'ning  Angel  caught 
Our  ling'ring  parents,  and  to  the  eastern  gate 
Led  them  direct,  and  down  the  cliff  as  fast 
To  the  subjected  plain  ;  then  disappear' d. 
They,  looking  back,  all  the  eastem  side  be- 
held 
Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  scat, 


Wav'd  over  by  that  flaming  brand,  the  gate 
With  dreadful  faces  throng' d  and  fijery  arms  : 
Some    natural  tears  they  dropt ;   but    wip'd 

them  soon. 
The  world    was  all  before    them,    where  to 

choose 
Their   place   of    rest,   and    Providence    their 

guide. 
They  hand  in  hand,  with  wand' ring  steps  and 

slow. 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary  way. 

.  Milton.— Bom  1608,  Died  1G74. 


633.— THOUGHTS  IN  A  GAEDSN. 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays : 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crown'd  from  some  single  herb,  or  tree, 
"Whose  shoi-t  and  narrow- verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid  ; 
WliUe  all  the  flow'rs,  and  trees,  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear  ? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  "svill  gvow. 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 


No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  am'rous  as  this  lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame. 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name. 

Little,  alas,  thej^  know  or  heed, 

How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed  ! 

Fair  trees  !  where'er  your  barks  I  wound, 

No  name  shall  but  your  o^vn  be  found. 

What  wond'rous  life  in  this  I  lead  ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head. 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  ^vine. 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach. 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach. 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnar'd ,with  flow'rs,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness. 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find; 

Yet  it  creates  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas  ; 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 


From  lii-xj  tu  1689,] 


THE  NYMPH  AKD  HER  FAWN. 


[Andrew  Marvell, 


Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then  whet^  and  claps  its  silver  -wings, 
And,  till  prepar'd  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  v,'as  the  happy  garden  state. 
While  man  there  walk'd  without  a  mate : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet ! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there  : 
Two  paradises  are  in  one,  - 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gard'ner  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  diiil  new  ! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run  : 
And,  as  it  works,  th'  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckon'd,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ? 

Andreiv  Marvdl.—Born  1G20,  Vied  1678. 


634.— THE  EMIGRANTS  IN  BERMUDAS. 

Wliere  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  th'  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  row'd  along, 
The  list'ning  winds  received  their  song. 
.  "  WTiat  shoTild  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Unto  an  i?le  so  long  unknown. 
And  j&i  far  kinder  than  cur  own  ? 
WTiere  He  the  huge  sea  monsters  racks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs ; 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage. 
Safe  from  the  storms  and  prelates'  rage. 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything. 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care, 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  i^omegranate's  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet. 
But  apples,  plants  of  sucli  a  price. 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars,  chosen  by  His  hand, 
From  Lebanon  He  stores  the  laud  ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar, 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 


Oh  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt, 
Till  it  arrive  at  Heaven's  vault, 
Wliich  then  perhaps  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexic  baj'." 
Thus  sang  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note, 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time:- 

Andrevj  Marvell— Born  1620,  Died  1678. 


635.— YOUNG  LOVE. 

Come,  little  infant,  love  me  now, 
While  thine  unsuspected  years 

Clear  thine  aged  father's  brow 
From  cold  jealousy  and  fears. 

Pretty,  surely,  'twere  to  see 

By.young  Love  old  Time  beguiled ; 

While  our  sportings  are  as  free 
As  the  nurse's  with  the  child. 

Common  beauties  stay  fifteen  ; 

Such  as  yours  should  swifter  move, 
Whose  fair  blossoms  are  too  green 

Yet  for  lust,  but  not  for  love. 

Love  as  much  the  snoviy  lamb, 
Or  the  wanton  kid,  does  prize. 

As  the  lusty  bull  or  ram, 
For  his  morning  sacrifice. 

Now  then  love  me  :  Time  may  take 

Thee  before  thy  time  iway  ; 
Of  this  need  we'll  virtue  make. 

And  learn  love  before  we  may. 

So  we  win  of  doubtful  fate ; 

And  if  good  to  us  she  meant. 
We  that  good  shall  antedate  ; 

Or,  if  ill,  that  ill  prevent. 

Thus  do  kingdoms,  frustrating 

Other  titles  to  their  cro\vn, 
In  the  cradle  crown  their  king. 

So  all  foreign  claims  to  drown 

So  to  make  all  rivals  vain. 

Now  I  crown  thee  with  my  love ; 

Crown  me  vnth.  thy  love  again, 

And  we  both  shall  monarchs  prove. 
Andrew  Marvdl.—Born  1620,  Died  1678. 


636.- 


-THE  NYMPH  COMPLAINING  FOB 
THE  DEATH  OF  HER  FAWN. 


Th€!  wanton  troopers  riding  by 
Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 
Ungentle  men  !     They  cannot  tlirive 
Who  kill'd  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst,  alive. 


Samuel  Butler.] 


ACCOMPLISHMENTS  OF  HUDIBEAS. 


[Fourth  Period.- 


Them  any  harm ;  alas  !  nor  could 
Thy  death  to  them  do  any  good. 
I'm  sure  I  never  wish'd  them  ill, 
Nor  do  I  for  all  this  ;  nor  will : 
But,  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 
Prevail  with  Heaven  to  forget 
Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears 
Eather  than  fail.     But  O  my  fears  ! 
It  cannot  die  so.     Heaven's  king 
Keeps  register  of  everything, 
And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain ; 
Ev'n  beasts  must  be  vnth  justice  slain  ; 
Else  men  are  made  their  deodands. 
Though  they  should  wash    their   guilty 

hands 
In  this  warm  life-blood,  which  doth  part 
From  thine,  and  wound  me  to  the  heart, 
Yet  could  they  not  be  clean  ;  their  stain 
Is  dyed  in  such  a  purple  grain, 
There  is  not  such  another  in 
The  world  to  offer  for  their  sin. 


Inconstant  Sylvio,  when  yet 
I  had  not  found  him  counterfeit. 
One  morning,  I  remember  well, 
Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell. 
Gave  it  to  me  :  nay,  and  I  know 
What  he  said  then — I'm  sure  I  do. 
Said  he,  "  Look  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a  fawn  to  hunt  his  deer." 
But  Sylvio  soon  had  me  beguiled : 
This  waxed  tame,  while  he  grew  wild, 
And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 
Left  me  his  fawn,  but  took  his  heart. 

Thenceforth  I  set  myself  to  play 
My  solitary  time  away 
With  this  ;  and  very  well  content 
Could  so  mine  idle  life  have  spent ; 
For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot  and  heart,  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game ;  it  seem'd  to  bless 
Itself  in  me.     How  could  I  less 
Than  love  it  ?     Oh,  I  cannot  be 
Unkind  to  a  beast  that  loveth  me  ! 


Had  it  liv'd  long,  I  do  not  know 
Whether  it,  too,  might  have  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did  ;   his  gifts  might  be 
Perhaps  as  false,  or  more,  than  he. 
For  I  am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a  time  espy. 
Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel  man. 

With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 

I  it  at  mine  own  fingers  nurs'd  ; 

And  as  it  grew  so  every  day. 

It  wax'd  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 

It  haa  so  sweet  a  breath  !  and  oft 

I  blush'd  to  see  its  foot  more  soft, 

Aud  white,  shall  I  say  ?   than  my  hand — 

Than  any  lady's  of  the  land  ! 


It  was  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet. 
With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race ; 
And  when  't  had  left  me  far  away, 
'Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay ; 
For  it  w^as  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own. 

But  so  with  roses  overgrown. 

And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 

To  be  a  little  wilderness  ; 

And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 

It  loved  only  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie ; 

Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 

Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes  ; 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies   shade, 

It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 

Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed, 

Until  its  lips  ev'n  seem'd  to  bleed ; 

And  then  to  me  't  would  boldly  trip. 

And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 

But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 

On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill : 

And  its  pure  virgin  lips  to  fold 

In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold. 

Had  it  liv'd  long,  it  would  have  been 

Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

Andrew  Marvell—Boni  1620,  IHed  1678. 


637. 


ACCOMPLISHMENTS    OF 
HUDIBEAS. 


When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 
And  men  fell  out,  they  knew  not  why  : 
When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears, 
Set  folks  together  by  the  ears, 
And  made  them  fight,  like  mad  or  drunk, 
For  Dame  Eeligion  as  for  punk ; 
Whose  honesty  they  all  durst  swear  for, 
Though  not  a  man  of  them  knew  v/hore- 

f  ore : 
"WTien  gospel-trumpeter,  surrounded 
With  long-ear' d  rout,  to  battle  sounded, 
And  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 
Was  beat  with  fist,  instead  of  a  stick  : 
Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  dwelling. 
And  out  he  rode  a-colonelling. 

A  wight  he  was,  whose  very  sight  would 
Entitle  him,  mirror  of  knighthood  ; 
That  never  bow'd  his  stubborn  knee 
To  anything  but  chivalry ; 
Nor  put  up  blow,  but  that  which  laid 
Eight-worshipful  on  shoulder-blade  : 
Chief  of  domestic  knights  and  errant, 
Either  for  chartel  or  for  warrant : 
Great  on  the  bench,  great  on  the  saddio. 
That  could  as  well  bind  o'er,  as  swaddle  : 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


EELIGION  OF  HUDIBEAS. 


[Samuel  Butler. 


Mighty  he  was  at  both  of  these, 
And  styled  of  war  as  well  as  peace 
(So  some  rats,  of  amphibious  nature. 
Are  either  for  the  land  or  water). 
But  here  our  authors  make  a  doubt, 
Whether  he  were  more  wise  or  stout ; 
Some  hold  the  one,  and  some  the  other  : 
But  howsoe'er  they  make  a  pother, 
The  diff 'rence  was  so  small,  his  brain 
Outweigh' d  his  rage  but  half  a  grain  ; 
Which  made  some  take  him  for  a  tool 
That  knaves  do  work  with,  call'd  a  fool. 
For  't  has  been  held  by  many,  that 
As  Montaigne,  playing  with  his  cat, 
Complains  she  thought  him  but  an  ass. 
Much  more  she  would  Sir  Hudibras 
(For  that 's  the  name  our  valiant  knight 
To  all  his  challenges  did  write). 
Bixt  they're  mistaken  very  much ; 
'Tis  plain  enough  he  was  no  such  : 
We  grant,  although  he  had  much  wit, 
He  was  very  shy  of  using  it ; 
A:;  being  loath  to  wear  it  out, 
And  therefore  bore  it  not  about ; 
Unless  on  hoHdays,  or  so, 
As  men  their  best  apparel  do  ; 
Beside,  'tis  known  he  could  speak  Greek 
As  naturally  as  pigs  squeak  ; 
That  Latin  was  no  more  difficile. 
Than  to  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle : 
Being  rich  in  both,  he  never  scanted 
His  bounty  unto  such  as  wanted ; 
But  much  of  either  would  afford 
To  many,  that  had  not  one  word. 


He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 
Profoundly  skill' d  in  analytic; 
He  could  distinguish  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side ; 
On  cither  which  he  would  dispute, 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute ; 
He'd  undertake  to  prove  by  force 
Of  argument  a  man 's  no  horse ; 
He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 
And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl, 
A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice. 
And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 
He'd  run  in  debt  by  dif^putation. 
And  pay  with  ratiocination  : 
All  this  by  syllogism,  true 
In  mood  and  figure,  he  would  do. 
For  rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope ; 
And  when  he  happen' d  to  break  off 
I'  th'  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough, 
H'  had  hard  words,  ready  to  show  why. 
And  teU  what  rules  he  did  it  by  : 
Else,  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke. 
You'd  think  he  talk'd  like  other  folk ; 
For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 
Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 
But,  when  he  pleased  to  show 't,  his  speech 
In  loftiness  of  sound  was  rich  ; 
A  Babylonish  dialeot, 
Which  learned  pedants  much  affect : 


It  was  a  party-colour'd  dress 

Of  pat^h'd  and  piebald  languages  ; 

'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 

Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin. 

It  had  an  odd  promiscuous  tone. 

As  if  he  had  talk'd  three  parts  in  one  ; 

Which  made  some  think,  when  ^e  4id 

gabble, 
Th'  had  heard  three  labourers  of  Babel ; 
Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 
A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 
This  he  as  volubly  would  vent 
As  if  his  stock  would  ne'er  be  spent ; 
And  truly,  to  support  that  charge, 
He  had  supplies  as  vast  and  large  : 
For  he  could  coin  or  counterfeit 
New  words,  with  little  or  no  wit ; 
Words  so  debased  and  hard,  no  stone 
Was  hard  enough  to  touch  them  on  ; 
And  when  with  hasty  noise  he  spoke  'em. 
The  ignorant  for  current  took  'em ; 
That  had  the  orator,  who  once 
Did  fill  his  mouth  with  pebble  stones 
When  he  harangued,  but  known  his  phrase, 
He  would  have  used  no  other  ways. 

Samuel  Butler.— Born  1612,  Died  1680. 


638.— RELIGION  OF  HUDIBRAS. 

For  his  religion,  it  was  fit 

To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit. 

'Twas  Presbyterian  true  blue ; 

For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 

Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 

To  be  the  true  church  militant ; 

Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 

The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun  ; 

Decide  all  controversies  by 

Infallible  artillery ; 

And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox 

By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks  ; 

Call  fire,  and  sword,  and  desolation, 

A  godly  thorough  reformation. 

Which  always  must  be  carried  on, 

And  still  be  doing,  never  done ; 

As  if  religion  were  intended 

For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended 

A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 

In  odd  perverse  antipathies ; 

In  falling  out  ^vith  that  or  this, 

And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss ; 

More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic. 

Than  dog  distraught  or  monkey  sick ; 

That  with  more  care  keep  holiday 

The  wrong,  than  others  the  right  way  ; 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to, 

By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to. 

Still  so  perverse  and  opposite. 

As  if  they  worshipp'd  God  for  spite  ; 

The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 

One  way,  and  long  another  for ; 

Freewill  they  one  way  disavow, 

Another,  nothing  else  allow ; 


Samuel  Butler.]        PEESONAL  APPEARANCE  OF  HUDIBEAS.     [Foueth  Period.— 


All  piety  consists  therein 
In  them,  in  other  men  all  sin ; 
Eather  than  fail,  they  will  defy 
That  which  they  love  most  tenderly ; 
Quarrel  with  minced  pies,  and  disparage 
Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum-por- 
ridge ; 
Fat  pig  and  goose  itself  oppose, 
And  blaspheme  custard  through  the  nose. 
Th'  apostles  of  this  fierce  religion, 
Like  Mahomet's,  were  ass  and  widgeon, 
To  whom  our  knight,  by  fast  instinct 
Of  wt  and  temper,  was  so  link'd. 
As  if  hypocrisy  and  nonsense 
Had  got  th'  advowson  of  his  conscience. 

Samuel  Butler.— Bom  1612.  Died  1680. 


639.— PEESONAL  APPEAEANCE  OP 
HUDIBEAS. 

His  tawny  beard  was  th'  equal  grace' 

Both  of  his  wisdom  and  his  face ; 

In  cut  and  dye  so  like  a  tile, 

A  sudden  view  it  would  beguile ; 

The  upper  part  thereof  was  whey. 

The  nether,  orange,  mix'd  with  gray. 

This  hairy  meteor  did  denounce 

The  fall  of  sceptres  and  of  crowns ; 

"With  grisly  type  did  represent 

Declining  age  of  government ; 

And  tell,  with  hieroglyphic  spade, 

Its  own  grave  and  the  state's  wei-e  made. 

Like  Samson's  heart-breakers,  it  grew 

In  time  to  make  a  nation  rue ; 

Though  it  contributed  its  own  fall, 

To  wait  upon  the  public  downfall ; 

It  was  monastic,  and  did  grow 

In  holy  orders  by  strict  vow  ; 

Of  rule  as  sullen  and  severe. 

As  that  of  rigid  Cordelier  ; 

'Twas  bound  to  suffer  persecution, 

And  martyrdom  with  resolution ; 

T'  oppose  itseK  against  the  hate 

And  vengeance  of  th'  incensed  state. 

In  whose  defiance  it  was  worn. 

Still  ready  to  be  pull'd  and  torn  ; 

With  red-hot  irons  to  be  tortured, 

Eeviled,  and  spit  upon,  and  martyr'd ; 

Maugre  all  which  'twas  to  stand  fast 

As  long  as  monarchy  should  last ; 

But  when  the  state  should  hap  to  reel, 

'Twas  to  submit  to  fatal  steel. 

And  fall,  as  it  was  consecrate, 

A  sacrifice  to  fall  of  state ; 

Whose  thread  of  life  the  fatal  sisters 

Did  twist  together  with  its  whiskers. 

And  twine  so  close,  that  Time  should  never, 

In  life  or  death,  their  fortunes  sever  j 

But  with  his  rusty  sickle  mow 

Both  down  together  at  a  blow. 


His  doublet  was  of  sturdy  buff, 
And  though  not  sword,  yet  cudgel  proof ; 
Whereby  'twas  fitter  for  his  use. 
Who  fear'd  no  blows  but  such  as  bruise. 

His  breeches  were  of  rugged  woollen. 
And  had  been  at  the  siege  of  BuUen ; 
To  old  king  Harry  so  well  known, 
Some  writers  held  they  were  his  o"\vn ; 
Though  they  were  lined  with  many  a  piece 
Of  ammunition,  bread  and  cheese. 
And  fat  black  puddings,  proper  food 
For  warriors  that  delight  in  blood ; 
For,  as  we  said,  he  always  chose 
To  carry  victual  in  his  hose, 
That  often  tempted  rats  and  mice 
Th'  ammunition  to  surprise ; 
And  when  he  put  a  hand  but  in 
The  one  or  t'  other  magazine, 
They  stoutly  on  defence  on't  stood. 
And  from  the  wounded  foe  drew  blood ; 
And  till  they  were  storm' d  and  beaten  out, 
Ne'er  left  the  fortified  redoubt ; 
And  though  knights-errant,  as  some  think. 
Of  old  did  neither  eat  nor  drink. 
Because  when  thorough  deserts  vast, 
And  regions  desolate  they  pass'd. 
Where  belly-timber  above  ground. 
Or  under,  was  not  to  be  found. 
Unless  they  grazed,  there's  not  one  word 
Of  their  provision  on  record ; 
Which  made  some  confidently  write 
They  had  no  stomachs  but  to  fight. 
'Tis  false  ;  for  Arthur  wore  in  hall 
Eound  table  like  a  f  arthingal ; 
On  which,  with  shirt  pull'd  out  behind. 
And  eke  before,  his  good  knights  dined  ; 
Though  'twas  no  table  some  suppose. 
But  a  huge  pair  of  round  trunk  hose, 
In  which  he  carried  as  much  meat 
As  he  and  all  the  knights  could  eat ; 
YHxen    laying    by     their     swords     and 

truncheons, 
They    took    their    breakfasts    or  their 

luncheons. 
But  let  that  pass  at  present,  lest 
We  should  forget  where  we  digress'd, 
As  learned  authors  use,  to  whom 
We  leave  it,  and  to  the  purpose  come. 

His  puissant  sword  unto  his  side, 
Near  his  undaunted  heart,  was  tied, 
With  basket  hilt  that  would  hold  broth. 
And  serve  for  fight  and  dinner  both ; 
In  it  he  melted  lead  for  bullets 
To  shoot  at  foes,  and  sometimes  puUets, 
To  whom  he  bore  so  fell  a  grutch, 
He  ne'er  gave  quarter  t'  any  such. 
The  trenchant  blade,  Toledo  trusty. 
For  want  of  fighting,  was  gro^vu  rusty. 
And  ate  into  itself,  for  lack 
Of  somebody  to  hew  and  hack : 
The  peaceful  scabbard  where  it  dwelt, 
The  rancour  of  its  edge  had  felt ; 
For  of  the  lower  end  two  handful 
It  had  devour'd,  it  was  so  manful. 
And  so  much  scorn' d  to  lurk  in  case. 
As  if  it  durst  not  show  its  face. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


HFDIBRAS  AND  THE  EABBLE , 


[Samuel  Butler. 


In  many  desperate  attempts 

Of  warrants,  exigents,  contempts, 

It  had  appear' d  with  courage  bolder 

Than  Serjeant  Bum  invading  shoulder : 

Oft  had  it  ta'en  possession, 

And  prisoners  too,  or  made  them  run. 

This  sword  a  dagger  had  his  page. 
That  was  but  little  for  liis  age ; 
And  therefore  waited  on  him  so 
As  dwarfs  upon  knights-errant  do : 
It  was  a  serviceable  dudgeon, 
Either  for  fighting,  or  for  drudging : 
When  it  had  stabb'd  or  broke  a  head, 
It  would  scrape  trenchers,  or  chip  bread ; 
Toast  cheese  or  bacon,  though  it  were 
To  bait  a  mouse-trap,  would  not  care : 
'Twould  make  clean  shoes,  and  in  the  earth 
Set  leeks  and  onions,  and  so  forth  : 
It  had  been  'prentice  to  a  brewer, 
"WTiere  this  and  more  it  did  endure, 
But  left  the  trade,  as  many  more 
Have  lately  done  on  the  same  score. 


Samuel  Butk 


-Bom  1612,  Died  1680. 


640.— HIJDIBRAS  COMMENCING  BATTLE 
WITH  THE  RABBLE. 

This  said,  with  hasty-rage  he  snatch'd 
His  gunshot,  that  in  holsters  watch'd, 
And  bending  cock,  he  levell'd  fvdl 
Against  th'  outside  of  Talgol's  skulF, 
Vo^ving  that  he  should  ne'er  stir  further, 
Nor  henceforth  cow  nor  bullock  murder : 
But  Pallas  came  in  shape  of  Rust, 
And  'twixt  the  spring  and  hammer  thrust 
Her  gorgon  shield,  which  made  the  cock 
Stand  stiff,  as  'twere  transform'd  to  stock. 
Meanwhile  fierce  Talgol,  gathering  might, 
With  rugged  truncheon  chai-ged  the  Knight ; 
But  he  with  petronel  upheaved. 
Instead  of  shield,  the  blow  received : 
The  gun  recoil' d,  as  well  it  might. 
Not  used  to  such  a  kind  of  fight, 
And  slirunk  from  its  great  master's  gripe, 
Knock'ddown  and  stunn'dwithmortal  stripe. 
Then  Hudibras,  with  fmious  haste, 
Drew  out  his  sword ;  yet  not  so  fast 
But  Talgol  first,  with  hardy  thwack, 
Twice  bruised  his  head,  and  twice  his  back  ; 
But  when  his  nut-brown  sword  was  out, 
With  stomach  huge  he  laid  about, 
Imprinting  many  a  wound  upon 
His  mortal  foe,  the  truncheon  ; 
The  trusty  cudgel  did  oppose 
ItseK  against  dead-doing  blows. 
To  guard  his  leader  from  fell  bane, 
And  then  revenged  itself  again. 
And  though  the  sword  (some  understood) 
In  force  had  much  the  odds  of  wood, 
'Twas  nothing  so  :  both  sides  were  balanc"t 
So  equal,  none  knew  which  was  valiant'st ; 
For  wood,  with  honour  b'ing  engaged, 


Is  so  implacably  enraged, 

Though  iron  hew  and  mangle  sore, 

Wood  wounds  and  bruises  honour  more. 

And  now  both  knights  were  out  of  breath, 

Tired  in  the  hot  pursuits  of  death. 

Whilst  all  the  rest  amazed  stood  still, 

Expecting  which  should  take,  or  Irillr 

This  Hudibras  observed  ;  and  fretting. 

Conquest  should  be  so  long  a-getting. 

He  drew  up  all  his  force  into 

One  body,  and  that  into  one  blow  ; 

But  Talgol  wisely  avoided  it 

By  cunning  sleight ;  for  had  it  hit 

The  upper  part  of  him,  the  blow 

Had  sht  as  sure  as  that  below. 

Meanwhile  the  incomparable  Colon, 

To  aid  his  friend,  began  to  fall  on ; 

Him  Ralph  encounter'd,  and  straight  grew 

A  dismal  combat  'twixt  them  two ; 

Th'  one  arm'd  with  metal,  th'  other  with 

wood, 

This  fit  for  bruise,  and  that  for  blood, 

With  many  a  stiff  thwack,  many  a  bang. 

Hard  crabtree  and  old  iron  rang. 

While  none  that  saw  them  could  divine 

To  which  side  conquest  would  incline ; 

Until  Magnano,  who  did  envy 

That  two  should  with  so  many  men  vie, 

By  subtle  stratagem  of  brain 

Perform' d  what  force  could  ne'er  attain ; 

For  he,  by  foul  hap,  having  found 

Where  thistles  grew  on  barren  ground, 

In  haste  he  drew  his  weapon  out. 

And  having  cropt  them  from  the  root, 

He  clapt  them  imderneath  the  tail 

Of  steed,  with  pricks  as  sharp  as  nail : 

The  angry  beast  did  straight  resent 

The  vrroTLg  done  to  his  fundament, 

Began  to  kick,  and  fling,  and  wince 

As  if  he'd  been  beside  his  sense,' 

Striving  to  disengage  from  thistle, 

That  gall'd  him  sorely  under  his  tail ; 

Instead  of  which,  he  threw  the  pack 

Of  Squire  and  baggage  from  his  back  : 

And  blundering  still,  with  smarting  rump, 

He  gave  the  Knight's  steed  such  a  thump 

As  made  him  reel.     The  Knight  did  stoop, 

And  sat  on  further  side  aslope ; 

This  Talgol  viewing,  who  had  now 

By  flight  escaped  the  fatal  blow, 

He  rallied,  and  again  fell  to't ; 

For  catching  foe  by  nearest  foot, 

He  lifted  with  such  might  and  strength. 

As  would  have  hurl'd  him  thrice  his  length, 

And  dash'd  his  brains  (if  any)  out ; 

But  Mars,  that  still  protects  the  stout, 

In  pudding-time  came  to  his  aid. 

And  under  him  the  Bear  convey'd ; 

The  Bear,  upon  whose  soft  fur-gown 

The  Knight  with  all  his  weight  fell  down. 

The  friendly  rug  preserved  the  ground. 

And  headlong  Knight,  from  bruise  or  wound ; 

Like  featherbed  betwixt  a  wall, 

And  heavy  brunt  of  cannon-ball. 

As  Sancho  on  a  blanket  fell. 

And  had  no  hurt,  ours  fared  as  well        - -^ 

26* 


Samuel  Butler.] 


HUDIBEAS  AND  THE  RABBLE. 


[Fourth  Period.— 


In  body,  though  his  mighty  spirit, 
B'ing  heavy,  did  not  so  well  bear  it. 
The  Bear  was  in  a  greater  fright, 
Beat  down,  and  worsted  by  the  Knight ; 
He  roar'd,  and  raged,  and  flung  about, 
To  shake  off  bondage  from  his  snout : 
His  wrath  inflamed,  boil'd  o'er,  and  from 
His  jaws  of  death  he  threw  the  foam  ; 
Fury  in  stranger  postures  threw  him, 
And  more  than  ever  herald  drew  him, 
He  tore  the  earth  which  he  had  saved 
From  squelch  of  Knight,  and  storm' d  and 

raved, 
And  vex'd  the  more,  because  the  harms 
He  felt  were  'gainst  the  law  of  arms  : 
For  men  he  always  took  to  be 
His  friends,  and  dogs  the  enemy ; 
Who  never  so  much  hurt  had  done  him, 
As  his  o^vn  side  did  falKng  on  him  : 
It  grieved  him  to  the  guts  that  they 
For  whom  he'd  fought  so  many  a  fray. 
And  served  with  loss  of  blood  so  long, 
Should  oflfer  such  inhuman  wrong  ; 
Wrong  of  unsoldier-like  condition, 
For  which  he  flung  down  his  commission ; 
And  laid  about  him  till  his  nose 
From  thrall  of  ring  and  cord  broke  loose. 
Soon  as  he  felt  himself  enlarged, 
Through  thickest  of  his  foes  he  charged. 
And  made  Way  through  th'  amazed  crew  ; 
Some  he  o'erran,  and  some  o'erthrcw. 
But  took  none  :  for  by  hasty  flight 
He  strove  t'  escape  pursuit  of  Knight, 
From  whom  he  fled  with  as  much  haste 
And  dread  as  he  the  rabble  chased : 
In  haste  he  fled,  and  so  did  they, 
Each  and  his  fear  a  sev'ral  way. 

Crowdero  only  kept  the  field, 
Not  stirring  from  the  place  he  held, 
Though  beaten  down,  and  wounded  sore 
I'  th'  Fiddle  and  a  leg  that  bore 
One  side  of  him,  not  that  of  bone, 
But  much  its  better,  th'  wooden  one. 
He  spjdng  Hudibras  lie  strew' d 
Upon  the  ground,  like  log  of  wood. 
With  fright  of  fall,  supposed  wound, 
And  loss  of  urine,  in  a  swound, 
In  haste  he  snatch' d  the  wooden  limb 
That,  hurt  i'  th'  ancle,  lay  by  him, 
And  fitting  it  for  sudden  fight, 
Straight  drew  it  up,  t'  attack  the  Knight ; 
For  getting  up  on  stump  and  huckle 
He  with  the  foe  began  to  buckle, 
Vowing  to  be  revenged  for  breach 
Of  Crowd  and  skin,  upon  the  wretch, 
Sole  author  of  all  detriment 
He  and  his  Fiddle  underwent. 

But  Ralpho  (who  had  now  begun 
T'  adventure  resurrection 
From  heavy  squelch,  and  had  got  up 
Upon  his  legs,  with  sprained  crup), 
Looking  about,  beheld  pernicion 
Approaching  Knight  from  fell  musician  ; 
He  snatch' d  his  whiuyard  up,  that  fled 
When  he  was  falling  off  his  steed 
(As  rats  do  from  a  falling  house), 


To  hide  itself  from  rage  of  blows ; 
And,  wing'd  with  speed  and  fury,  flew 
To  rescue  Knight  from  black  and  blue  5 
Which  ere  he  could  achieve,  his  sconce 
The  leg  encounter' d  twice  and  once, 
And  now  't  was  raised  to  smite  agen. 
When  Ralpho  thrust  himself  between : 
He  took  the  blow  upon  his  arm, 
To  shield  the  Knight  from  further  harm, 
And  joining  wrath  with  force,  bestow'd 
On  th'  wooden  member  such  a  load, 
That  down  it  fell,  and  with  it  bore 
Crowdero,  whom  it  propp'd  before. 
To  him  the  Squire  right  nimbly  run, 
And  setting  conqu'ring  foot  upon 
His  trunk,  thus  spoke  -.  What  desp'rate 

frenzy 
Made  thee,  thou  whelp  of  Sin,  to  fancy 
Thyself,  and  all  that  coward  rabble, 
T'  encounter  us  in  battle  able  ? 
How  durst  th',  I  say,  oppose  thy  Curship 
'Gainst  arms,  authority,  and  worship, 
And  Hudibras  or  me  provoke, 
Though  all  thy  limbs  were  heart  of  oak. 
And  th'  other  half  of  thee  as  good 
To  bear  out  blows  as  that  of  wood  ? 
Could  not  the  whipping-post  prevail, 
With  all  its  rhetoric,  nor  the  jail. 
To  keep  from  flaying  scourge  thy  skin 
And  ankle  free  from  iron  gin  ? 
Which  now  thou  shalt — but  first  our  care 
Must  see  how  Hudibras  docs  fare. 
This  said,  he  gently  raised  the  Knight, 
And  set  him  on  his  bum  upright. 
To  rouse  him  from  lethargic  dump, 
He  tweak'd  his  nose,  with  gentle  thump 
Knock'd  on  his  breast,  as  if 't  had  been 
To  raise  the  spirits  lodged  within ; 
They,  waken' d  with  the  noise,  did  fly 
From  inward  room  to  window  eye. 
And  gently  op'ning  lid,  the  casement, 
Look'd  out,  but  yet  with  some  amazement. 
This  gladded  Ralpho  much  to  see. 
Who  thus  bespoke  the  Knight.     Quoth  ho, 
Tweaking  his  nose.  You  are,  great  Sir, 
A  self-denying  conqueror ; 
As  high,  victorious,  and  groat. 
As  e'er  fought  for  tho  churches  yet, 
If  you  will  give  yourself  but  leave 
To  make  out  what  y'  already  have ; 
That's  victory.     The  foe,  for  dread 
Of  your  nine-worthiness,  is  fled. 
All  save  Crowdero,  for  whose  sake 
You  did  th'  espoused  cause  undertake  ; 
And  he  lies  pris'ner  at  your  feet. 
To  be  disposed  as  you  think  meet. 
Either  for  life,  or  death,  or  sale, 
The  gallows,  or  perpetual  jail ; 
For  one  wink  of  your  powerful  eye 
Must  sentence  him  to  live  or  die. 
His  fiddle  is  your  proper  purchase. 
Won  in  the  service  of  the  churches  ; 
And  by  your  doom  must  be  allow'd 
To  be,  or  be  no  more,  a  Crowd : 
For  though  success  did  not  confer 
Just  title  on  the  conqueror ; 


i 


From  1640  to  1689.]         HUDIBEAS  CONSULTING  THE  LAWYEE.         [Samuel  Butler. 


Though  dispensations  were  not  strong 

Conclusions,  whether  right  or  wrong ; 

Although  Outgoings  did  confirm, 

And  Owning  were  but  a  mere  term  ; 

Yet  as  the  wicked  have  no  right 

To  th'  creature,  though  usurp'd  by  might, 

The  propertj"^  is  in  the  saint. 

From  whom  th'  injuriously  detain  't ! 

Of  him  they  hold  their  luxuries, 

Their  dogs,  their  horses,  whores,  and  dice, 

Their  riots,  revels,  masks,  delights. 

Pimps,  buffoons,  fiddlers,  parasites; 

All  which  the  saints  have  title  to, 

And  ought  t'  enjoy  if  they  'ad  their  due. 

What  we  take  from  'em  is  no  more 

Than  what  was  ours  by  right  before  ; 

For  we  are  their  true  landlords  still, 

And  they  our  tenants  but  at  wiU. 

At  this  the  Knight  began  to  rouse, 

And  by  degrees  grow  valorous  : 

He  stared  about,  and  seeing  none 

Of  aU  his  foes  remain  but  one. 

He  snatch'd  his  weapon,  that  lay  near  him 

And  from  the  ground  began  to  rear  him. 

Vowing  to  make  Crowdero  pay 

For  all  the  rest  that  ran  away. 

But  Ralpho  now,  in  colder  blood, 

His  fury  mildly  thus  withstood  : 

Great  Sir,  quoth  he,  your  mighty  spirit 

Is  raised  too  high ,  this  slave  does  merit 

To  be  the  hangman's  bus'ness,  sooner 

Than  from  your  hand  to  have  the  honour 

Of  his  destruction  ;  I  that  am 

A  nothingness  in  deed  and  name, 

Did  scorn  to  hurt  his  forfeit  carcase, 

Or  ill  entreat  his  Fiddle  or  case  : 

WiU  you,  great  Sir,  that  glory  blot 

In  cold  blood,  which  you  gain'd  in  hot  ?  j 

Will  you  employ  your  conquering  sword         j 

To  break  a  Fiddle,  and  your  word  ?  \ 

Samuel  Butler.— Born  1612,  Died  1680.    i 


641.— VICARIOUS  JUSTICE. 

Ju&tice  gives  sentence  many  times 
On  one  man  for  another's  crimes ; 
Our  brethren  of  New  England  use 
Choice  malefactors  to  excuse. 
And  hang  the  guiltless  in  their  stead. 
Of  whom  the  churches  ,have  less  need ; 
As  lately  't  happened  :    In  a  town 
There  lived  a  cobbler,  and  but  one. 
That  out  of  doctrine  could  ciat  use, 
And  mend  men's  lives,  as  well  as  shoes. 
This  precious  brother  ha\ang  slain, 
In  times  of  peace,  an  Indian, 
Not  out  of  malice,  but  mere  zeal, 
(Because  he  was  an  Infidel,) 
The  mighty  Tottipottymoy 
Sent  to  our  elders  an  envoy, 
Complaining  sorely  of  the  breach 
Of  league,  held  forth  by  Brother  Patch, 


Against  the  articles  in  force 
Between  both  churches,  his  and  ours. 
For  which  he  cruA'ed  the  saints  to  render 
Into  his  hands,  or  hang  th'  offender  : 
But  they  maturely  having  weigh'd 
They  had  no  more  but  him  o'  th'  trad^, 
(A  man  that  served  them  in  a  double 
Capacity,  to  teach  and  cobble,) 
Resolved  to  spare  him  :  yet,  to  do 
The  Indian  Hoghan  Moghan  too 
Impartial  justice,  in  his  stead  did 
Hang  an  old  weaver  that  was  bedrid. 

Samuel  Butler.— Born  1612,  Died  1680. 


642.— HUDIBRAS    CONSULTING    THE 
LAWYER. 

An  old  dull  sot,  who  toU'd  the  clock 

For  many  years  at  Bridewell-dock, 

At  Westminster,  and  Hicks' s-hall, 

And  hicrit'-s  docthis  play'd  in  all ; 

Where  in  all  governments  and  times. 

He'd  been  both  friend  and  foe  to  crimes, 

And  used  to  equal  ways  of  gaining. 

By  hind'ring  justice,  or  maintaining : 

To  many  a  whore  gave  privilege, 

And  whipp'd,  for  want  of  quarterage. 

Cart-loads  of  bawds  to  prison  sent, 

For  being  behind  a  fortnight's  rent ; 

And  many  a  trusty  pimp  and  crony 

To  Puddle-dock,  for  want  of  money  ; 

Engaged  the  constable  to  seize 

All  those  that  would  not  break  the  peace ; 

Nor  give  him  back  his  own  foul  words, 

Though  sometimes  commoners,  or  lords, 

And  kept  'em  prisoners  of  course. 

For  being  sober  at  ill  hours  ; 

That  in  the  morning  he  might  free 

Or  bind  'em  over  for  his  fee  ; 

Made  monsters  fine,  and  puppet-plays. 

For  leave  to  practise  in  their  ways  ; 

Farm'd  out  all  cheats,  and  went  a  share 

With  th'  headborough  and  scavenger ; 

And  made  the  dirt  i'  th'  streets  compound 

For  taking  up  the  public  ground  ; 

The  kennel  and  the  king's  highway, 

For  being  unmolested,  pay ; 

Let  out  the  stocks,  and  whipping-post. 

And  cage,  to  those  that  gave  him  most ; 

Imposed  a  task  on  bakers'  ears. 

And,  for  false  weights,  on  chandelers  ; 

Made  victuallers  and  vintners  fine 

For  arbitrary  ale  and  wine  ; 

But  was  a  kind  and  constant  friend 

To  all  that  regularly  offend. 

As  residentiary  bawds. 

And  brokers  that  receive  stol'n  goods  ; 

That  cheat  in  lawful  mysteries. 

And  pay  church  duties  and  his  fees : 

But  was  implacable  and  awkward 

To  all  that  interloped  and  hawker'd. 

To  this  brave  man  the  knight  repairs 
For  counsel  in  his  law-affairs, 


Samuel  Butler.]         HUDIBRAS  CONSULTING  THE  LAWYER.      [Fourth  Period.- 


And  found  him  mounted  in  his  pew, 
With  books  and  money  placed,  for  shew, 
Like  nest-eggs  to  make  clients  lay, 
And  for  his  false  opinion  pay  : 
To  whom  the  Knight,  with  comely  grace. 
Put  off  his  hat,  to  put  his  case  ; 
Which  he  as  proudly  entertain' d 
As  th'  other  courteously  strain' d  ; 
And,  to  assure  him  't  was  not  that 
He  look'd  for,  bid  him  put  on 's  hat. 

Quoth  he,  there  is  one  Sidrophel, 
Whom  I  have  cudgell'd — Very  well. 
And  now  he  brags  to  've  beaten  me — 
Better  and  better  still,  quoth  he. 
And  vows  to  stick  me  to  a  wall, 
^Vhere'er  he  meets  me — Best  of  aU. 
'Tis  true  the  knave  has  taken  's  oath 
That  I  robb'd  him — Well  done,  in  troth. 
When  he's  confess' d  he  stole  my  cloak. 
And  pick'd  my  fob,  and  what  he  took  ; 
Which  was  the  cause  that  made  me  bang 

him, 
And  take  my  goods  again — Marry,  hang 

him. 
Now,  whether  I  should  beforehand 
Swear  he  robb'd  me  ? — I  understand. 
Or  bring  my  action  of  conversion 
And  trover  for  my  goods  ? — Ah,  whoreson  ! 
Or,  if  't  is  better  to  endite. 
And  bring  him  to  his  trial  ? — Right. 
Prevent  what  he  designs  to  do, 
And  swear  for  th'  state  against  him  ? — True. 
Or  whether  he  that  is  defendant 
In  this  case  has  the  better  end  on  't ; 
Who,  putting  in  a  new  cross-bill. 
May  traverse  th'  action  ? — Better  still. 
Then  there's  a  lady  too — Ay,  marry ! 
That's  easily  proved  accessary ; 
A  widow  who  by  solemn  vows 
Contracted  to  me,  for  ray  spouse, 
Combined  with  him  to  break  her  word, 
And  has  abetted  all — Good  Lord  ! 
Suborn'd  th'  aforesaid  Sidrophel 
To  tamper  with  the  dev'l  of  hell, 
Who  put  m'  into  a  horrid  fear, 
Fear  of  my  life — Make  that  appear. 
Made  an  assault  with  fiends  and  men 
Upon  my  body — Good  agen. 
And  kept  me  in  a  deadly  fright. 
And  false  imprisonment,  all  night. 
Meanwhile  they  robb'd  me,  and  my  horse. 
And  stole  my  saddle — Worse  and  worse. 
And  made  me  mount  upon  the  bare  ridge, 
T'  avoid  a  wretcheder  miscarriage. 

Sir,  (quoth  the  lawyer,)  not  to  flatter  ye, 
You  have  as  good  and  fair  a  battery 
As  heart  can  wish,  and  need  not  shame 
The  proudest  man  alive  to  claim ; 
For  if  they've  used  you  as  you  say, 
Marry,  quoth  I,  God  give  you  joy ; 
I  would  it  were  my  case,  I'd  give 
More  than  I'll  say,  or  you'll  believe : 
I  would  so  trounce  her,  and  her  purse, 
I'd  make  her  kneel  for  better  or  worse  : 
For  matrimony,  and  hanging  here, 
Both  go  by  destiny  so  clear, 


That  you  as  sure  may  pick  and  choose, 

As  cross  I  -win,  and  pile  you  lose  : 

And  if  I  durst,  I  would  advance 

As  much  in  ready  maintenance, 

As  upon  any  case  I've  known  ; 

But  we  that  practise  dare  not  own  : 

The  law  severely  contrabands 

Our  taking  bus'ness  oif  men's  hands 

'Tis  common  barratry,  that  bears 

Point-blank  an  action  'gainst  our  ears. 

And  crops  them  till  there  is  not  leather 

To  stick  a  pin  in,  left  of  either ; 

For  which  some  do  the  summer-sault, 

And  o'er  the  bar,  like  tumblers,  vault : 

But  you  may  swear,  at  any  rate. 

Things  not  in  nature,  for  the  state ; 

For  in  all  courts  of  justice  here 

A  witness  is  not  said  to  swear. 

But  make  oath  ;  that  is,  in  plain  terms, 

To  forge  whatever  he  aflBxms. 

I   thank  you  (quoth  the  Knight)  for 
that. 
Because  'tis  to  my  purpose  pat — 
For  Justice,  though  she's  painted  blind. 
Is  to  the  weaker  side  inclined, 
Like  Charity ;  else  right  and  wrong 
Could  never  hold  it  out  so  long. 
And,  like  blind  Fortune,  with  a  sleight, 
Conveys  men's  interest  and  right 
From  Stiles' s  pocket  into  Nokes's, 
As  easily  as  Hocus  Focus  ; 
Plays  fast  and  loose,  makes  men  obnoxious, 
And  clear  again  like  hiccius  doctius. 
Then,  whether  you  would  take  her  life. 
Or  but  recover  her  for  your  wife, 
Or  be  content  with  what  she  has. 
And  let  all  other  matters  pass, 
The  bus'ness  to  the  law's  alone. 
The  proof  is  all  it  looks  upon  ; 
And  you  can  want  no  Avitnesses 
To  swear  to  anything  you  please, 
That  hardly  get  their  mere  expenses 
By  th'  labour  of  their  consciences, 
Or  letting  out  to  hire  their  ears 
To  affidavit  customers. 
At  inconsiderable  values, 
To  serve  for  jurymen,  or  tallies, 
Although  retain' d  in  th'  hardest  matters 
Of  trustees  and  administrators. 

For  that  (quoth  he)  let  me  alone  ; 
We  've  store  ot  such,  and  all  our  own. 
Bred  up  and  tutor' d  by  our  Teachers, 
The  ablest  of  conscience-stretchers. 

That's    well,    (<]^uoth  he,)    but   I   should 


By  weighing  all  advantages. 

Your  surest  way  is  first  to  pitch 

On  Bongey  for  a  water- witch  ; 

And  when  ye  've  hang'd  the  conjurer, 

Ye  've  time  enough  to  deal  with  her. 

In  th'  int'rim  spare  for  no  trepans 

To  draw  her  neck  into  the  bans ; 

Ply  her  with  love-letters  and  billets. 

And  bait  'em  well,  for  quirks  and  quillets, 

With  trains  t'  inveigle  and  surprise 

Her  heedless  answers  and  replies ; 


From  1649  to  1689.J 


THE  ELEPHANT  IN  THE  MOON. 


[Samuel  Butler. 


And  if  she  miss  the  monse-trap  lines. 

They  '11  serve  for  other  by-designs ; 

And  make  an  artist  understand 

To  copy  out  her  seal,  or  hand  ; 

Or  find  void  places  in  the  paper 

To  steal  in  something  to  entrap  her ; 

Till  with  her  worldly  goods,  and  body, 

Spite  of  her  heart,  she  has  endow'd  ye  : 

Eetain  all  sorts  of  witnesses. 

That  ply  i'  th'  Temple,  under  trees, 

Or   walk   the  round,  with  Knights  o'   th' 

Posts, 
About  the  cross-legg'd  knights,  their  hosts; 
Or  wait  for  customers  between 
The  pillar-rows  in  Lincoln's  Inn ; 
Where  vouchers,  forgers,  common-bail. 
And  affidavit-men,  ne'er  fail 
T'  expose  to  sale  all  sorts  of  oaths, 
According  to  their  ears  and  clothes. 
Their  only  necessary  tools, 
Besides  the  Gospel  and  their  souls  : 
And  when  ye' re  furnish' d  with  all  purveys, 
I  shall  be  ready  at  your  service. 

I  would  not  give  (quoth  Hudibras) 
A  straw  to  understand  a  case, 
Without  the  admirable  skill 
To  wind  and  manage  it  at  will ; 
To  veer,  and  tack,  and  steer  a  cause 
Against  the  weathergage  of  laws. 
And  ring  the  changes  upon  cases, 
As  plain  as  noses  upon  faces. 
As  you  have  well  instructed  me. 
For  which   you've  eam'd  (here  'tis)  your 

fee. 

Samuel  Bittler.—Born  1612,  Died  1680. 


643.— THE  ELEPHANT  IN  THE  MOON. 

A  learn' d  society  of  late. 

The  glory  of  a  foreign  state, 

Agreed  upon  a  summer's  night, 

To  search  the  moon  by  her  own  light ; 

To  take  an  invent'ry  of  all 

Her  real  estate,  and  personal ; 

And  make  an  accurate  survey 

Of  all  her  lands,  and  how  they  lay, 

As  true  as  that  of  Ireland,  where 

The  sly  surveyors  stole  a  shire  ; 

T'  observe  her  country  how  'twas  planted. 

With  what  sh'  abounded  most,  or  wanted ; 

And  make  the  prop' rest  observations 

For  settling  of  new  plantations. 

If  the  society  should  incline 

T'  attempt  so  glorious  a  design. 

This  was  the  purpose  of  their  meeting. 
For  which  they  chose  a  time  as  fitting. 
When,  at  the  full,  her  radiant  light 
And  influence  too  were  at  their  height. 
And  now  the  lofty  tube,  the  scale 
AVith  which  they  heav'n  itself  assail, 
Was  mounted  full  against  the  moon. 
And  all  stood  ready  to  fall  on. 
Impatient  who  should  have  the  honour 
To  plant  an  ensig^n  first  upon  her. 


When  one,  who  for  his  deep  belief 
Was  virtuoso  then  in  chief, 
Approv'd  the  most  profound,  and  wise, 
To- solve  impossibilities. 
Advancing  gravely,  to  apply 
To  th'  optic  glass  his  judging  eye, 
Cried,  Strange  !  then  reinforc'd  his  sight 
Against  the  moon  with  all  his  might, 
And  bent  his  penetrating  brow 
As  if  he  meant  to  gaze  her  through  : 
When  all  the  rest  began  t'  admire, 
And,  like  a  train,  from  him  took  fire, 
Surpris'd  with  wonder,  beforehand. 
At  what  they  did  not  understand, 
Cried  out,  impatient  to  know  what 
The  matter  was  they  wonder' d  at. 
Quoth  he,  Th'  inhabitants  o'  th'  moon, 
Who,  when  the  sun  shines  hot  at  noon, 
Do  live  in  cellars  under  ground. 
Of  eight  miles  deep  and  eighty  round 
(In  which  at  once  they  fortify 
Against  the  sun  and  th'  enemy), 
Wliich  they  count  towns  and  cities  there, 
Because  their  people's  civiller 
Than  those  rude  peasants  that  are  found 
To  live  upon  the  upper  ground. 
Call'd  Prevolvans,  with  whom  they  are 
Perpetually  in  open  war  ; 
And  now  both  armies,  highly  enrag'd. 
Are  in  a  bloody  fight  engag'd. 
And  many  fall  on  both  sides  slain, 
As  by  the  glass  'tis  clear  and  plain. 
Look  quickly  then,  that  every  one 
May  see  the  fight  before  'tis  done. 

With  that  a  great  philosopher, 
Admir'd  and  famous  far  and  near. 
As  one  of  singular  invention. 
But  universal  comprehension. 
Applied  one  eye  and  half  a  nose 
Unto  the  optic  engine  close  ; 
For  he  had  lately  undertook 
To  prove  and  publish  in  a  book. 
That  men  whose  nat'ral  eyes  are  out, 
May,  by  more  powerful  art,  be  brought. 
To  see  with  th'  empty  holes,  as  plain 
As  if  their  e5'-es  were  in  again  ! 
And  if  they  chanc'd  to  fail  of  those. 
To  make  an  optic  of  a  nose, 
As  clearly  it  may,  by  those  that  wear 
But  spectacles,  be  made  appear, 
By  which  both  senses  being  united. 
Does  render  them  much  better  sighted. 
This  great  man,  having  fix'd  both  sights 
To  view  the  formidable  fights, 
Observ'd  his  best,  and  then  cried  out, 
The  battle's  desperately  fought; 
The  gallant  Subvolvani  rally, 
And  from  their  trenches  make  a  sally 
Upon  the  stubborn  enemy. 
Who  now  begin  to  route  and  fly. 
These  silly  ranting  Prevolvans 
Have  ev'ry  summer  their  campaigns, 
And  muster,  like  the  warlike  sons 
Of  Rawhead  and  of  Bloodybones, 
As  numerous  as  Solan  geese, 
I'  th'  islands  of  the  Orcades, 


Samuel  Butlek.]                 THE  ELEPHANT  IN  THE  MOON.              [Fourth  Pekiod.— 

Courageously  to  make  a  stand, 

And  that  those  monstrous  creatures  there, 

And  face  their  neighbours  hand  to  hand, 

Are  not  such  rarities  as  here. 

Until  the  long'd-for  winter's  come, 

Meanwhile  the  rest  had  had  a  sight 

And  then  return  in  triumph  home, 

Of  all  particulars  o'  the  fight, 

And  spend  the  rest  o'  th'  year  in  lies, 

And  ev'ry  man,  with  equal  care, 

I            And  vap'ring  of  their  victories  ; 

Perus'd  of  th'  elephant  his  share  ; 

1            From  th'  old  Arcadians  they're  believ'd 

When  one,  who,  for  his  excellence 

j           To  be,  before  the  moon,  deriv'd. 

In  height'ning  words  and  shad'wing  sense, 

And  when  her  orb  was  new  created. 

And  magnifjdng  all  he  writ. 

To  people  her  were  thence  translated  : 

With  curious  microscopic  wit, 

For  as  th'  Arcadia.us  were  reputed 

Was  magnified  himself  no  less 

Of  all  the  Grecians  the  most  stupid, 

In  home  and  foreign  colleges. 

Whom  nothing  in  the  world  could  bring 

Began,  transported  with  the  twang 

To  civil  life,  but  fiddling. 

Of  his  own  trillo,  thus  t'  harangue  : 

They  still  retain  the  antique  course 

"  Most  excellent  and  virtuous  friends, 

And  custom  of  their  ancestors, 

This  great  discov'ry  makes  amends 

And  always  sing  and  fiddle  to 

For  all  our  unsuccessful  pains. 

Things  of  the  greatest  weight  they  do. 

And  lost  expense  of  time  and  brains ; 

While  thus  the  learn'd  ma.Ti  entertains 

For,  by  this  sole  phenomenon. 

Th'  assembly  with  the  Prevolvans, 

We've  gotten  ground  upon  the  moon, 

Another,  of  as  great  renown. 

And  gain'd  a  pass,  to  hold  dispute 

And  solid  judgment,  in  the  moon. 

With  all  the  planets  that  stand  out ; 

That  understood  her  various  soils, 

To  carry  this  most  virtuous  war 

And  which  produc'd  best  gennet-moyles, 

Home  to  the  door  of  every  star, 

And  in  the  register  of  fame 

And  plant  the  artillery  of  our  tubes 

Had  enter' d  his  long-living  name, 

Against  their  proudest  magnitudes  : 

After  he  had  por'd  long  and  hard 

To  stretch  our  victories  beyond 

I'  th'  engine,  gave  a  start,  and  star'd — 

Th'  extent  of  planetary  ground. 

Quoth  he,  A  stranger  sight  appears 

And  fix  our  engines,  and  our  ensigns, 

Than  e'er  was  seen  in  all  the  spheres  ; 

Upon  the  fix'd  stars'  vast  dimensions 

A  wonder  more  unparallel'd 

(Which  Archimede,  so  long  ago. 

Than  erer  mortal  tube  beheld  ; 

Durst  not  presume  to  ^vish  to  do), 

An  elephant  from  one  of  those 

And  prove  if  they  are  other  suns, 

Two  mighty  armies  is  broke  loose. 

As  some  have  held  opinions, 

And  with  the  horror  of  the  fight 

Or  windows  in  the  empyreum. 

Appears  amaz'd,  and  in  a  fright : 

From  whence  those  bright  efiluvias  come 

Look  quickly,  lest  the  sight  of  us 

Like  flames  of  fire  (as  others  guess) 

Should  cause  the  startled  beast  t'  emboss. 

That  shine  i'  th'  mouths  of  furnaces. 

It  is  a  large  one,  far  more  great 

Nor  is  this  all  we  have  achiev'd. 

Than  e'er  was  bred  in  Afric  yet. 

But  more,  henceforth  to  be  believ'd. 

From  which  we  boldly  may  infer 

And  have  no  more  our  best  designs. 

The  moon  is  much  the  fruitfuller. 

Because  they're  ours,  believ'd  ill  signs. 

And  since  the  mighty  Pyrrhus  brought 

T'  out-throw,  and  stretch,  and  to  enlarge,         , 

Those  living  castles  first,  'tis  thought, 

Shall  now  no  more  be  laid  t'  our  charge  ; 

Against  the  Romans  in  the  field, 

Nor  shall  our  ablest  virtuosis 

It  may  an  argument  be  held 

Prove  arguments  for  coffee-houses  ; 

(Arcadia  being  but  a  piece, 

Nor  those  devices,  that  are  laid 

As  his  dominions  were,  of  Greece), 

Too  truly  on  us,  nor  those  made 

To  prove  what  this  illustrious  person 

Hereafter,  gain  belief  among 

Has  made  so  noble  a  discourse  on, 

Our  strictest  judges,  right  or  wrong  : 

And  amply  satisfied  us  all 

Nor  shall  our  past  misfortunes  more 

Of  th'  Prevolvans'  original. 

Be  charg'd  upon  the  ancient  score  ; 

That  elephants  are  in  the  moon, 

No  more  our  making  old  dogs  young 

Though  we  had  now  discover'd  none, 

Make  men  suspect  us  still  i'  th'  wrong ; 

Is  easily  made  manifest, 

Nor  new  invented  chariots  draw 

Since,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least, 

The  boys  to  course  us  without  law ; 

All  other  stars  and  constellations 

Nor  putting  pigs  t'  a  bitch  to  nurse. 

Have  cattle  of  all  sorts  of  nations, 

To  turn  'em  into  mongrel  curs. 

And  heaven,  like  a  Tartar's  hoard, 

Make  them  suspect  our  skulls  are  brittle, 

With  great  and  numerous  droves  is  stor'd  ; 

And  hold  too  much  ^vit,  or  too  little ; 

And  if  the  moon  produce  by  nature 

Nor  shall  our  speculations,  whether 

A  people  of  so  vast  a  stature, 

An  elder- stick  will  save  the  leather 

'Tia  consequent  she  should  bring  forth 

Of  schoolboy's  breeches  from  the  rod, 

Far  greater  beasts,  too,  than  the  earth 

Make  all  we  do  appear  as  odd. 

(As  by  the  best  accounts  appears 

This  one  discovery's  enough 

Of  all  our  great'st  discoverers), 

To  take  all  former  scandals  off  : 

From  1649  io  1689.] 


THE  ELEPHANT  IN  THE  MOON. 


i 


[Samuel  Butler. 


But  since  the  world  's  incredulous 

Of  all  our  scrutinies,  and  us, 

And  with  a  prejudice  prevents 

Our  best  and  worst  experiments 

(As  if  they  were  destin'd  to  miscarry, 

In  concert  tried,  or  solitary), 

And  since  it  is  uncertain  when 

Such  wonders  will  occur  again, 

Let  us  as  cautiously  contrive 

To  draw  an  exact  narrative 

Of  what  we  ev'ry  one  can  swear 

Our  eyes  themselves  have  seen  appear. 

That,  when  we  publish  the  account. 

We  all  may  take  our  oaths  upon't." 

This  said,  they  all  with  one  consent 
Agreed  to  draw  up  th'  instrument, 
And,'  for  the  gen'ral  satisfaction. 
To  print  it  in  the  next  transaction ; 
But  whilst  the  chiefs  were  drawing  up 
This  strange  memoir  o'  th'  telescope, 
One,  peeping  in  the  tube  by  chance. 
Beheld  the  elephant  advance, 
And  from  the  Avest  side  of  the  moon 
To  th'  east  was  in  a  moment  gone. 
This  being  related,  gave  a  stop 
To  what  the  rest  were  drawing  up  ; 
And  ev'ry  man,  amaz'd  anew 
How  it  could  possibly  be  true, 
That  any  beast  should  run  a  race 
So  monstrous,  in  so  short  a  space, 
Eesolv'd,  howe'er,  to  make  it  good, 
At  least  as  possible  as  he  could. 
And  rather  his  own  eyes  condemn, 
Than  question  what  he  'ad  seen  with  them. 

While  all  were  thus  resolv'd,  a  man 
Of  great  renoAvn  there,  thus  began  : — 
"  'Tis  .strange,  I  grant,  but  who  can  say 
What  cannot  be — what  can — and  may  ? 
Especially  at  so  hugely  vast 
A  distance  as  this  wonder's  plac'd. 
Where  the  least  error  of  the  sight 
May  show  things  false,  but  never  right ; 
Nor  can  we  try  them,  so  far  off, 
By  any  sublunary  proof : 
For  who  can  say  that  Nature  there 
Has  the  same  laws  she  goes  by  here  ? 
Nor  is  it  like  she  has  infus'd. 
In  ev'ry  species  there  produc'd, 
The  same  efiforts  she  does  confer 
Upon  the  same  productions  here, 
Since  those  with  us,  of  sev'ral  nations, 
Have  such  prodigious  variations, 
And  she  affects  so  much  to  use 
Variety  in  all  she  does. 
Hence  may  b'  inferr'd  that,  though  I  grant 
We've  seen  i'  th'  moon  an  elephant, 
That  elephant  may  differ  so 
From  those  upon  the  earth  below. 
Both  in  his  bulk,  and  force,  and  speed, 
As  being  of  a  diff'rent  breed, 
That  though  our  own  are  but  slow-pac'd. 
Theirs  there  may  fly,  or  run  as  fast, 
And  yot  be  elephants  no  less 
Than  those  of  Indian  pedigrees." 

This  said,  another  of  great  worth, 
Fam'd  for  his  learned  works  put  forth, 


Look'd  wise,  then  said  : — "All  this  is  true, 

And  learnedly  observ'd  by  you  ; 

But  there  's  another  reason  fpr  't, 

That  falls  but  very  little  short 

Of  mathematic  demonstration, 

Upon  an  accurate  calculation  ; 

And  that  is — as  the  earth  and  raomi  - 

Do  both  move  contrary  upon 

Their  axes,  the  rapidity 

Of  both  their  motions  cannot  be 

But  so  prodigiously  fast, 

That  vaster  spaces  may  be  past 

In  less  time  than  the  beast  has  gone, 

Though  he'd  no  motion  of  his  own. 

Which  we  can  take  no  measui-o  of. 

As  you  have  clear' d  by  learned  proof. 

This  granted,  we  may  boldly  thence 

Lay  claim  t'  a  nobler  inference. 

And  make  this  great  phenomenon 

(Were  there  no  other)  serve  alone 

To  clear  the  grand  hypothesis 

Of  th'  motion  of  the  earth  from  this." 

With  this  they  all  were  satisfied, 
As  men  are  wont  o'  th'  bias'd  side, 
Applauded  the  profound  dispute. 
And  grew  more  gay  and  resolute, 
By  having  overcome  all  doubt, 
Than  if  it  never  had  fall'n  out ; 
And,  to  complete  their  narrative, 
Agreed  t'  insert  this  strange  retrieve. 

But  while  they  were  diverted  all 
With  wording  the  memorial, 
The  footboys,  for  diversion  too, 
As  having  nothing  else  to  do, 
Seeing  the  telescope  at  leisure, 
Tum'd  virtuosis  for  their  pleasure  : 
Began  to  gaze  upon  the  moon, 
As  those  they  waited  on  had  done, 
With  monkeys'  ingenvuty. 
That  love  to  practise  what  they  see ; 
When  one,  whose  turn  it  was  to  peep, 
Saw  something  in  the  engine  creep. 
And,  viewing  well,  discover'd  more 
Than  all  the  learn' d  had  done  before. 
Quoth  he  : — "  A  little  thing  is  slunk 
Into  the  long  star-gazing  trunk, 
And  now  is  gotten  down  so  nigh, 
I  have  him  just  against  mine  eye." 

This  being  overheard  by  one 
Who  was  not  so  far  overgrown 
In  any  virtuous  speculation,    * 
To  judge  with  mere  imagination. 
Immediately  he  made  a  guess 
At  solving  all  appearances, 
A  way  far  more  significant 
Than  all  their  hints  of  th'  elephant, 
And  found,  upon  a  second  view. 
His  own  hj'pothesis  most  true ; 
For  he  had  scarce  applied  his  eye 
To  th'  engine,  but  immediately 
He  found  a  mouse  was  gotten  in 
The  hollow  tube,  and,  shut  betAveen 
The  two  glass  windows  in  restraint, 
Was  swell'd  into  an  elephant. 
And  prov'd  the  virtuous  occasion 
Of  all  this  learned  dissertation : 


Samuel  Butler.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  THOUGHTS. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


And,  as  a  mountain  heretofore 
Was  great  with  child  they  say,  and  bore 
A  silly  mouse  ;  this  mouse,  as  strange, 
Brought  forth  a  mountain  in  exchange. 

Meanwhile,  the  rest  in  consultation 
Had  penn'd  the  wonderful  narration, 
And  set  their  hands,  and  seals,  and  wit, 
T'  attest  the  truth  of  what  they  'ad  writ, 
When  this  accurs'd  phenomenon 
Confounded  all  they  'd  said  or  done  : 
For  'twas  no  sooner  hinted  at, 
But  they  all  were  in  a  tumult  straight, 
More  furiously  enrag'd  by  far, 
Than  those  that  in  the  moon  made  war. 
To  find  so  admirable  a  hint, 
"When  they  had  all  agreed  to  have  seen't, 
And  were  engag'd  to  make  it  out, 
Obstructed  with  a  paltry  doubt. 


This  being  resolv'd,  they,  one  by  one, 
Review'd  the  tube,  the  mouse,  and  moon 
But  still  the  narrower  they  pried, 
The  more  they  were  unsatisfied, 
In  no  one  thing  they  saw  agreeing, 
As  if  they  'ad  sev'ral  faiths  of  seeing ; 
Some  swore,  upon  a  second  Adew, 
That  all  they  'ad  seen  before  was  true, 
And  that  they  never  would  recant 
One  syllable  of  th'  elephant ; 
Avow'd  his  snout  could  be  no  mouse's, 
But  a  true  elephant's  proboscis. 
Others  began  to  doubt  and  waver. 
Uncertain  which  o'  th'  two  to  favour, 
And  knew  not  whether  to  espouse 
The  cause  of  th'  elephant  or  mouse. 
Some  held  no  way  so  orthodox 
To  try  it,  as  the  ballot-box. 
And,  like  the  nation's  patriots, 
To  find  or  make  the  truth  by  votes  : 
Others  conceiv'd  it  much  more  fit 
T'  unmount  the  tube  and  open  it. 
And,  for  their  private  satisfaction, 
To  re-examine  the  transaction, 
And  after,  explicate  the  rest 
As  they  should  find  cause  for  the  best. 

To  this,  as  th'  only  expedient, 
The  whole  assembly  gave  consent ; 
But  ere  the  tube  was  half  let  down. 
It  clear' d  tjie  first  phenomenon  ; 
For,  at  the  end,  prodigious  swarms 
Of  flies  and  gnats,  like  men  in  arms, 
Had  all  pass'd  muster,  by  mischance. 
Both  for  the  Sub-  and  Pre  vol  vans. 
This  being  discover' d,  put  them  all 
Into  a  fresh  and  fiercer  brawl, 
Asham'd  that  men  so  grave  and  wise 
Should  be  chaldes'd  by  gnats  and  flies, 
And  take  the  feeble  insects'  swarms 
For  mighty  troops  of  men  at  arms  ; 
As  vain  as  those  who,  when  the  moon 
Bright  in  a  crystal  river  shone, 
Threw  casting  nets  as  subtily  at  her, 
To  catch  and  pull  her  out  o'  the  water. 
But  when  they  had  unscrew' d  the  glass, 
To  find  out  where  the  impostor  was, 


And  saw  the  mouse  that,  by  mishap, 

Had  made  the  telescope  a  trap, 

Amaz'd,  confounded,  and  afflicted, 

To  be  so  openly  convicted, 

Immediately  they  get  them  gone, 

With  this  discovery  alone, 

That  those  who  greedily  pursue 

Things  wonderful,  instead  of  true. 

That  in  their  speculations  choose 

To  make  discoveries  strange  news, 

And  natural  history  a  gazette 

Of  tales  stupendous  and  far-fet ; 

Hold  no  truth  worthy  to  be  known. 

That  is  not  huge  and  overgrown. 

And  explicate  appearances. 

Not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  please  ; 

In  vain  strive  nature  to  suborn. 

And,  for  their  pains,  are  paid  with  scorn. 

Samuel  Butler.^Born  1612,  Died  1680. 


644.— MISCELLANEOUS  THOUGHTS. 

The  truest  characters  of  ignorance 
Are  vanity,  and  pride,  and  arrogance  ; 
As  blind  men  used  to  bear  their  noses  higher 
Than  those  that  have  their  eyes   and  sight 
entire. 


All  wit  and  fancy,  like  a  diamond. 
The  more  exact  and  curious  'tis  ground. 
Is  foro'd  for  every  carat  to  abate 
As  much  in  value  as  it  wants  in  weight. 


Love  is  too  great  a  happiness 
For  wretched  mortals  to  possess  ; 
For  could  it  hold  inviolate 
Against  those  cruelties  of  fate 
Which  all  felicities  below 
By  rigid  laws  are  subject  to, 
It  would  become  a  bliss  too  high 
For  perishing  mortality ; 
Translate  to  earth  the  joys  above. 
For  nothing  goes  to  Heaven  but  Love. 
All  love  at  first,  like  generous  ^vine. 
Ferments  and  frets  until  'tis  fine  ; 
For  when  'tis  settled  on  the  lee, 
And  from  the  impurer  matter  free. 
Becomes  the  richer  still  the  older. 
And  proves  the  pleasanter  the  colder. 


As  at  the  approach  .of  winter,  all 

The  leaves  of  great  trees  use  to  fall, 

And  leave  them  naked,  to  engage 

With  storms  and  tempests  when  they  rage, 

While  humbler  plants  are  found  to  wear 

Their  fresh  gi-een  liveries  all  the  year ; 


From  1^49  to  1G89.] 


INVITATION  TO  IZAAK  WALTON. 


[Charles  Cotton. 


So  when  their  glorious  season's  gone 
With  great  men,  and  hard  times  come  on, 
The  greatest  calamities  oppress 
The  greatest  still,  and  spare  the  less. 


In  Home  no  temple  was  so  low 
As  that  of  Honour,  built  to  show 
How  humble  honour  ought  to  be, 
Though  there  'twas  all  authority. 


All  smatterers  are  more  brisk  and  pert 
Than  those  that  understand  an  art ; 
As  little  sparkles  shine  more  bright 
Than  glowing  coals  that  give  them  light. 

Samuel  Bidlcr.—Born  1612,  Died  1680. 


645.— TO  HIS  MISTEESS. 

Do  not  Tinjustly  blame 

My  guiltless  breast, 
Por  venturing  to  disclose  a  flame 

It  had  so  long  supprest. 
In  its  own  ashes  it  design' d 

For  ever  to  have  lain  ; 
But  that  my  sighs,  like  blasts  of  wind, 

Made  it  break  out  again. 

Samuel  Butler.— Boryi  1612,  Died  1680. 


646.— THE  NEW  YEAE. 

Hark  !   the  cock  crows,  and  yon  bright  star 

Tells  us  the  day  himself  's  not  far ; 

And  see,  where,  breaking  from  the  night, 

He  gilds  the  western  hiUs  with  light. 

With  him  old  Janus  doth  appear, 

Peeping  into  the  future  year, 

With  such  a  look  as  seems  to  say 

The  prospect  is  not  good  that  way. 

Thus  do  we  rise  ill  sights  to  see," 

And  'gainst  ourselves  to  prophesy  ; 

When  the  prophetic  fear  of  things 

A  more  tormenting  mischief  brings. 

More  full  of  soul-tormenting  gall 

Than  direst  miscliiefs  can  befaU. 

But  stay  !  but  stay  !  methinks  my  sight, 

Better  inform' d  by  clearer  Hght, 

Discerns  sereneness  in  that  brow. 

That  all  contracted  seem'd  but  now. 

His  reversed  face  may  show  distaste. 

And  frown  upon  the  ills  are  past ; 

But  that  which  this  way  looks  is  clear, 

And  smiles  upon  the  New-bom  Year. 

He  looks,  too,  from  a  place  so  high, 

The  year  lies  open  to  his  eye  ; 

And  all  the  moments  open  are 

To  the  exact  discoverer. 


Yet  more  and  more  he  smiles  upon 

The  happy  revolution. 

■Why  should  we  then  suspect  or  fear 

The  influences  of  a  year, 

So  smiles  upon  us  the  first  mom, 

And  speaks  us  good  as  soon  as  born_?  _ 

Plague  on't  !  the  last  was  ill  enough, 

Tliis  cannot  but  make  better  proof  ; 

Or,  at  the  worst,  as  we  brush' d  through 

The  last,  why  so  we  may  this  too  ; 

And  then  the  next  in  reason  should 

Be  super-excellently  good : 

For  the  worst  ills,  we  daily  see, 

Have  no  more  perpetuity 

Than  the  best  fortunes  that  do  fall ; 

Which  also  brings  us  wherewithal 

Longer  their  being  to  support, 

Than  those  do  of  the  other  sort : 

And  who  has  one  good  year  in  three. 

And  yet  repines  at  destiny. 

Appears  ungrateful  in  the  case, 

And  merits  not  the  good  he  has. 

Then  let  us  welcome  the  new  guest 

With  lusty  brimmers  of  the  best : 

Mirth  always  should  good  fortune  meet. 

And  renders  e'en  disaster  sweet : 

And  though  the  princess  turn  her  back, 

Let  us  but  line  ourselves  with  sack, 

We  better  shall  hj  far  hold  out 

TiU  the  next  year  she  face  about. 

Charles  Qotton.—Born  1630,  Died  1687. 


647.— INA^ITATION  TO  IZAAK  WALTON. 

Whilst  in  this  cold  and  blustering  clime. 
Where  bleak  winds  howl,  and  tempests  roar, 

We  pass  away  the  roughest  time 
Has  been  of  many  years  before ; 

Whilst  from  the  most  tempestuous  nooks 
The  chillest  blasts  our  peace  invade. 

And  by  great  rains  our  smallest  brooks 
Are  almost  navigable  made  ; 

Whilst  aU  the  ills  are  so  improv'd 
Of  this  dead  quarter  of  the  year. 

That  even  you,  so  much  belov'd, 

We  would  not  now  wish  with  us  here: 

In  this  estate,  I  say,  it  is 

Some  comfort  to  us  to  suppose, 
That  in  a  better  clime  than  this. 

You,  our  dear  friend,  have  more  repose  ; 

And  some  dehght  to  me  the  while, 

Though  nature  now  does  weep  in  rain. 

To  think  that  I  have  seen  her  smile, 
And  haply  may  I  do  again. 

If  the  all-ruling  Power  please 

We  live  to  seq  another  May, 
We'll  recompense  an  age  of  these 

Foul  days  in  one  fine  fishing  day. 


Charles  Cotton.] 


THE  EETIREMENT. 


Fourth  Period. 


We  then  shall  have  a  day  or  two, 

Perhaps  a  week,  wherein  to  try 
What  the  best  master's  hand  can  do 

With  the  most  deadly  killing  fly. 

A  day  with  not  too  bright  a  beam  ; 

A  warm,  but  not  a  scorching  sun  ; 
A  southern  gale  to  curl  the  stream ; 

And,  master,  half  our  work  is  done. 

Then,  whilst  behind  some  bush  we  wait 

The  scaly  people  to  betray, 
We'U  prove  it  just,  with  treacherous  bait. 

To  make  the  preying  trout  our  prey ; 

And  think  ourselves,  in  such  an  hour, 
Happier  than  those,  though  not  so  high. 

Who,  like  leviathans,  devour 
Of  meaner  men  the  smaller  fry. 

This,  my  best  friend,  at  my  poor  home, 
Shall  be  our  pastime  and  our  theme  ; 

But  then — should  you  not  deign  to  come, 
You  make  all  this  a  flattering  dream. 

Charles  Cotton.— Born  1630,  ]>icd  1687. 


648.— THE  EETIREMENT. 

Farewell,  thou  busy  world,  and  may 
We  never  meet  again  ; 
Here  I  can  eat,  and  sleep,  and  pray, 
And  do  more  good  in  one  short  day 
Than  he  who  his  whole  age  out-wears 

Upon  the  most  conspicuous  theatres, 

AVliere  nought  but  vanity  and  vice  appears. 
Good  God !  how  sweet  are  all  things  here  I 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear  ! 

How  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie ! 
Lord !  what  good  hours  do  wje  keep  ! 
How  qiuetly  we  sleep ! 

What  peace,  what  unanimity  ! 
How  innocent  from  the  lewd  fashion, 

Is  all  our  business,  all  our  recreation ! 

Oh,  how  happy  here's  our  leisure ! 
Oh,  how  innocent  our  pleasure  ! 
O  ye  valleys  !     O  ye  mountains  ! 
O  ye  groves,  and  crystal  fountains  ! 
How  I  love,  at  liberty, 
By  turns  to  come  and  visit  ye ! 

Dear  Solitude,  the  soul's  best  friend, 
That  man  acquainted  with  himself  dost  make, 
And  all  his  Maker's  wonders  to  intend. 
With  thee  I  here  converse  at  wiU, 
And  would  be  glad  to  do  so  still. 
For   it  is  thou  alone  that  koep'st   the    soul 
awake. 

HoAv  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 

Is  it,  alone, 
To  read,  and  meditate,  and  write, 

By  none  offended,  and  offending  none  ! 


To  walk,  ride,  sit,  or  sleep  at  one's  own 
ease. 
And,   pleasing   a  man's  self,  none   other  to 
displease. 

0  my  beloved  nymph,  fair  Dove, 
Princess  of  rivers,  how  I  love 

Upon  thy  flowery  banks  to  lie, 
And  view  thy  silver  stream. 
When  gilded  by  a  summer's  beam  I 
And  in  it  all  thy  wanton  fry. 

Playing  at  liberty ; 
And  with  my  angle,  iipon  them 
The  all  of  treachery 

1  ever  learn' d,  industriously  to  try  ! 

Such   streams   Rome's   yellow   Tiber   cannot 

show  ; 
The  Iberian  Tagus,  or  Ligurian  Po, 
The  Maese,  the  Danube,  and  the  Rhine, 
Are  puddle  water  all  compared  with  thine  ; 
And  Loire's  pure  streams  yet  too  polluted  are 
With  thine,  much  purer  to  compare ; 
The  rapid  Garonne  and  the  winding  Seine 
Are  both  too  mean. 

Beloved  Dove,  with  thee 

To  vie  priority ; 
Nay,  Tame  and  Isis,  when  conjoin'd,  submit, 
And  lay  their  trophies  at  thy  silver  feet. 

0  my  beloved  rocks,  that  rise 

To  awe  the  earth  and  brave  the  skies, 

From  some  aspiring  mountain's  crown, 

How  dearly  do  I  love, 
Giddy  with  pleasure,  to  look  down ; 
And,  from  the  vales,  to  view  the  noble  heights 

above ! 
O  my  beloved  caves  !  from  dog-star's  heat, 
And  all  anxieties,  my  safe  retreat ; 
Wliat  safety,  privacy,  what  true  delight. 
In  the  artificial  night,    . 

Your  gloomy  entrails  make. 

Have  I  taken,  do  I  take  ! 
How  oft,  when  grief  has  made  me  fly, 
To  hide  me  from  society. 
E'en  of  my  dearest  friends,  have  I, 

In  your  recesses'  friendly  shade, 

All  my  sorrows  open  laid. 
And  my  most  secret  woes  intrusted  to   your 
privacy ! 

Lord  !  would  men  let  me  alone. 
What  an  over-happy  one 

ShoiUd  I  think  myself  to  be  ; 
Might  I  in  this  desert  place 
(Which  most  men  in  discourse  disgrace) 

Live  Imt  undisturb'd  and  free  ! 
Here,  in  this  despis'd  recess, 

Woidd  I,  maugre  winter's  cold. 
And  the  summer's  worst  excess, 
Try  to  live  out  to  sixty  full  years  old  ; 

And,  all  the  while, 

Without  an  envious  eye 

On  any  thriving  under  fortune's  smile. 
Contented  live,  and  then  contented  die. 

Charles  Cotton.— Bom  1630,  Bled  1687. 


From  1649  to  1689.]         A  VOYAGE  TO  IRELAND  IN  BURLESQE.         [Charles  Cotton. 


649.— A    VOYAGE    TO    IRELAND  IN 
BURLESQUE. 


The  lives  of  frail  men  arc  compared   by   the 

sages 
Or  unto  short  journies,  or  pilgrimages, 
As    men   to   their  inns   do   come   sooner    or 

later, 
That   is,  to   their   ends    (to  be  plain  in  my 

matter)  ; 
From  whence,  when  one  dead  is,  it  currently 

follows, 
He  has  run  his  race,  though  his  goal  be  the 

gallows  : 
And  this  'tis,  I  fancy,  sets  folks  so  a  madding, 
And    makes    men    and    women   so   eager   of 

gadding ; 
Truth   is,  in   my    youth  I  was  one  of  these 

people 
Would  have  gone  a  great  waj'  to  have  seen  an 

high  steeple, 
And  though  I  was  bred  'mongst  the  wonders 

o'  th'  Peak,' 
"Would  have  thrown  away  money,  and  A-entureJ 

my  neck 
To  have  seen  a  great  hill,  a  rock,  or  a  cave, 
And  though  there  was  nothing  so  pleasant  and 

brave  : 
But  at  forty  years  old  you  may  (if  you  please) 
Tlxink   me   wiser   than  run  such  errands  as 


Or  had  the  same  humour  still  ran  in  my  toes, 
A   voyage   to   Ireland   I   ne'er   should    have 

chose ; 
But  to  tell  you  the  truth  on't,  indeed  it  was 

neither 
Improvement   nor  pleasure  for  which  I  wont 

thither  ; 
1  know  then  you'll  presently  ask  me  for  what  ? 
Why,  faith,  it  was  that  makes  the  old  woman 

trot ; 
And   therefore   I   think  I'm  not  much  to  be 

blamed 
If   I   went   to   the   place   whereof  Nick  was 

ashamed. 
O  Coryate  !  thou  traveller  famed  as  Ulysses, 
In  such  a  stupendous  labour  as  this  is, 
Come  lend  me  the  aids  of  thy  hands  and  thy 

feet, 
Though  the  first  be  pedantic,  the  other   not 

sweet. 
Yet  both  are  so  restless  in  peregrination, 
They'll  help  both  my  journey,  and   eke   my 

relation. 
'Twas  now  the  most  beautiful  time  of  the 

year, 
The  days  were  now  long,  and  the  sky  was  now 

clear, 
And  IMay,  that  fair  lady  of  splendid  renown. 
Had  dress'd  herself  fine,  in  her  flower' d  tabby 

gown. 
When  about  some  two  hours  and  a  half  after 

noon, 
When  it  grew  something  late,  though  I  thought 

it  too  soon. 


With  a  pitiful  voice,  and  a  most  heavy  heart, 
I  tuned  up  my  pipes  to  sing  "  loth  to  depart ;" 
The  ditty  concluded,  I  call'd  for  my  horse, 
And  A\ith  a  good  pack  did  the  jument  en- 
dorse, 
TiU  he  groan' d  and  he  f — d  under  the  burden, 
Eor    sorrow    had    made    me    a    cumbersome 

lurden  : 
And  now  farewell  Dove,   where  I've  caught 

such  brave  dishes 
Of  over-grown,  golden,  and  silver-scaled  fishes  ; 
Thy  trout  and  thy   grailing   may   now   feed 

securely, 
I've   left   none   behind  me   can  take  'em  so 

surely  ; 
Feed  on  then,  and  breed  on,  until  the  next  year, 
But  if  I  return  I  expect  my  arrear. 

By   pacing    and    trotting   betimes    in    tlie 

even, 
Ere  the   sun  had  forsaken    one   half   of   the 

Heaven, 
We  all  at  fair  Congerton  took  up  our  inn, 
Where  the  sign  of  a  king  kept  a  king  and  his 

queen  : 
But  who  do  you  think  came  to  welcome  me 

there  ? 
No  worse  a  man,  marry,  than  good  master 

mayor, 
With  his  staff  of  command,  yet  the  man  was 

not  lame, 
But  he  needed  it  more  when  he  went,  than  lie 

came; 
After  three  or  four  hours  of  friendly  potation 
We  took   leave   each   of   other  in  courtoour* 

fashion, 
When  each  one,  to  keep  his  brains  fast  in  hiss 

head. 
Put  on  a  good  nightcap,  and  straightway  to 

bed. 
Next  mom,  having  jiaid  for  boil'd,  roasted, 

and  bacon. 
And  of   so»\-oreign  hostess  our  leaves  kindly 

taken, 
(For  her  king  (as  'twas  rumour'd)   by   lato 

pouring  down. 
This    morning   had   got   a   foul   flaw   in   his 

crown,) 
We  mounted  again,  and  full  soberly  riding, 
Three  miles  we  had  rid  ere   we  met  with  a 

biding ; 
But   there    (having   over-night  plied  the  tap 

well) 
We   now   must   needs   water  at  place  call'd 

Holmes  Chapel : 
"A  hay'"    quoth  the  foremost,    "ho!    who 

keeps  the  house  ?  " 
Which  said,  out  an  host  comes  as  brisk  as  a 

louse ; 
His   hair  comb'd  as  sleek  as  a  barber  he'd 

been, 
A   cravat  with  black  ribbon  tied  under  his 

chin  ; 
Though  by  what  I  saw  in  him,  I  straight  'gan 

to  fear 
That  knot  would  be  one  day  slipp'd  under  his 

ear. 


Charles  Cotton.]       A  VOYAGE  TO  IRELAND  IN  BURLESQUE.     [Fourth  Period. 


Quoth  he  (with  low  conge)  "  What  lack  you, 

my  lord  ?  " 
"  The  best  Hquor,"  quoth  I,  "  that  the  house 

will  afford." 
"You   shall   straight,"    quoth  he;   and  then 

calls  out,  "  Mary, 
Come  quickly,  and  biing  us  a  quart  of  Canary." 
"  Hold,  hold,  my  spruce  host !  for  'i  th'  morn- 
ing so  early 
I   never   drink  liquor  but    what's    made    of 

barley." 
"Which   words   were   scarce   out,   but,    which 

made  me  admire, 
My  lordship  was  presently  turn'd  into  'squire  : 
"Ale,  'squire,  you  mean  ?"  quoth  he  nimbly 

again, 
"  What,  must  it  be  purl'd  ?" — "  No,  I  love  it 

best  plain." 
"  Why,  if  you'll  drink  ale,  sir,  j)ray  take  my 

advice. 
Here's  the  best  ale  i'  th'  land,  if  j'ou'll  go  to 

the  price ; 
Better,  I  sure  am,  ne'er  blew  out  a  stopple  ; 
But   then,   in   plain   truth,  it  is  sixpence    a 

bottle." 
"  Wliy,  faith,"  quoth  I,  "  friend,  if  your  liquor 

be  such. 
For  the  best  ale  in  England   it   is  not  too 

much: 
Let's  have  it,  and  quickly." — "  O  sir !  you  may 

stay  J 
A  pot  in  your  pate  is  a  mile  in  your  way  : 
Come,  bring  out  a  bottle  here  presently,  wife, 
Of  the  best  Cheshire  hum  he  e'er  drank  in  liis 

life." 
Sti-aight  out  comes  the  mistress  in  waistcoat 

of  silk, 
As  clear  as  a  milkmaid,  as  white  as  her  milk. 
With  visage  as  oval  and  sleek  as  an  egg, 
As  straight  as  an  arrow,  as  right  as  my  leg  : 
A  curtsey  she  made,  as  demure  as  a  sister, 
I  could  not  forbear,  but  alighted  end   kiss'd 

her : 
Then  ducking  another  with  most  modest  mien. 
The  first  word  she  said,  was,  "  Will  't  please 

you  walk  in  ?" 
I  thank 'd  her ;  but  told  her,  I  then  could  not 

stay, 
For  the  haste  of  my  bus'ness   did  call  me 

away. 
She  said,  she  was  sony  it  feU  out  so  odd. 
But  if,  when  again  I  should  travel  that  road, 
I  would  stay  there  a  night,  she  assured  me  the 

nation 
Should  nowhere  afford  better  accommodation  : 
Meanwhile  my  spruce  landlord  has  broken  the 

cork. 
And   caU'd   for   a   bodkin,  though  he  had  a 

fork  ; 
But  I  Khow'd  him  a  screw,  which  I  told  my 

brisk  gull 
A   trepan  was  for  bottles  had  broken  their 

scull ; 
Which,  as   it  was  true,   he  believed  -svithout 

doubt. 
But  'twas  I  that  apply'd  it,   and   pull'd   the 

cork  out. 


Bounce,    quoth   the   bottle,   the   work   being 

done, 
It   roar'd,   and   it  smoked,   like   a   new-fired 

gun ; 
But  the  shot  miss'd  us  all,  or  else  we'd  been 

routed. 
Which   yet  was  a  wonder,  we  were  so  about 

it. 
Mine  host  pour'd  and  fiU'd,  till  ho  could  fill 

no  fuller : 
"Look  here,    sir,"    quoth  he,  "both  for  nap 

and  for  colour. 
Sans    bragging,   I   hate   it,    nor  will   I   e'er 

do't; 
I  defy  Leek,  and  Lambhith,  and  Sandwich  to 

boot." 
By  my  troth,  he  said  true,  for  I  speak  it  mth 

tears, 
Though  I  have  been  a  toss-pot  these  twenty 

good  years, 
And  have  drank  so  much  liquor  as  made  me 

a  debtor. 
In   my  days,  that  I  know  of,  I  never   drank 

better  : 
We  found  it  so  good,  and  we  drank  so  pro- 
foundly. 
That  four  good   round   shillings  were  whipt 

away  roundly  ; 
And  then  I   conceived  it  was   time    to    be 

jogging, 
For  our  work  had  been  done,  had  we  stay'd 

t'other  noggin. 
From  thence  we  set  forth  with  more  mettle 

and  spright. 
Our  horses  were  empty,  our  coxcombs  were 

light; 
O'er  Dellamore  forest  we,  tantivy,  posted, 
Till  our  horses  were  basted  as  if  they  were 

roasted : 
In  truth,  Ave  pursued  might  have  been  by  our 

haste, 
And  I  think  Sir  George  Booth  did  not  gallop 

so  fast, 
Till   about  two  o'clock  after   noon,  God   be 

blest. 
We  came,  safe  and  sound,  all  to  Chester  i'  th' 

west. 
And  now  in  high  time  'twas  to  call  for  some 

meat, 
Though  drinking  does  well,  yet  some  time  we 

must  cat ; 
And  i'  faith  we  had  victuals  both  plenty  and 

good. 
Where  we  all  laid  about  us  as  if   we  v/ere 

wood: 
Go  thy  ways,  mistress  Anderton,  for  a  good 

woman, 
Thy  guests  shall  by  thee  ne'er  be  turn'd  to  a 

common ; 
And  whoever  of  thy  entertainment  complains, 
Let  him  lie  with  a  drab,  and  be  pox'd  for  his 

pains. 
And   here   I   must   stop  the  career  of  my 

Muse, 
The  poor  jado  is  weary,  'las  !  how  should  she 

choose  ? 


From  1649  to  1689.]        A  VOYAGE  TO  IRELAND  IN  BURLESQUE.       [Charles  Cotton. 


And  if   I   should   farther   here  spur   on   my 

course, 
I  should,  questionless,  tii-e  both  my  wits  and 

my  horse : 
To-night  let  us  rest,  for  'tis  good  Sunday's 

even. 
To-morrow  to   church,   and    ask    pardon    of 

Heaven. 
Thus   far   we  our  time  spent,  as  here  I  have 

penn'd  it. 
And  odd  kind  of  life,  and  'tis  weU  if  we  mend 

it; 
But  to-morrow  (God  willing)  we'll  have  t'  other 

bout, 
And  better   or   worse  be't,   for  murder   will 

out, 
Our  future  adventures  we'll  lay  down  before 

ye, 

For  my  Muse  is  deep  sworn  to  use  trath  of  the 
story. 


CANTO   II. 


After  seven  hours'  sleep,  to  commute  for  pains 

taken, 
A  man  of  himself,  one  would  think,   might 

awaken ; 
But  riding,  and  drinking  hard,  were  two  such 

spells, 
I  doubt  I'd  slept  on,  but  for  jangling  of  bells. 
Which,  ringing  to  matins  all  over  the  town. 
Made  me  leap  out  of  bed,  and  put  on  my 

gown, 
With  intent  (so  God  mend  me)  I  have  gone  to 

the  choir. 
When  straight  I  perceived  myself  aU  on  a  fire ; 
Eor  the  two  fore-named  things  had  so  heated 

my  blood, 
That  a  little  phlebotomy  would  do  me  good : 
I  sent  for  chirurgion,  who  came  iu  a  trice. 
And  swift  to  shed  blood,  needed  not  be  called 

twice, 
But  tilted  stUetto  quite  thorough  the  vein. 
From    whence    issued    out    the    ill  humours 

amain  ; 
When  having  twelve  ounces,  he  bound  up  my 

arm. 
And  I  gave  him  two  Georges,  which  did  him 

no  harm  : 
But  after  my  bleeding,  I  soon  understood 
It   had   cool'd  my   devotion   as   weU   as   my 

blood ; 
For  I  had  no  more  mind  to  look  on  my  psalter. 
Than    (saving   your    presence)    I    had    to    a 

halter  ! 
But,  like  a  most  wicked  and  obstinate  sinner. 
Then  sat  in  my   chamber  till  folks  came  to 

dinner : 
I  dined  with  good   stomach,  and   very   good 

cheer. 
With  a  very  fine  woman,  and  good  ale   and 

beer ; 
When  myself  having  stuff' d  than   a  bagpipe 

more  full, 
I  fell  to  my  smoking  until  I  grew  dull ; 


And,  therefore,  to  take  a  fine  nap  thought  it 

best, 
For   when   beUy  full  is,  bones  would  be  at 

rest  : 
I  tumbled  me  down  on  my  bed  like  a  swad, 
Where,  O  !  the  delicious  dream  that  I  had  ! 
TUl   the   bells,  that   had   been   my-  morning 

molesters, 
Now    waked   me   again,    cliiming    aU    in    to 

vespers ; 
With   that   starting   up,  for  my  man  I  did 

whistle, 
And  comb'd  oiit  and  powder' d  my  locks  that 

were  grizzle ; 
Had  my  clothes  neatly  brush' d,  and  then  put 

on  my  sword ; 
Resolved  now  to  go  and  attend  on  the  word. 
Thus  trick'd,  and  thus  trim,  to  set  forth  I 

begin, 
Neat  and  cleanly  without,  but  scarce  cleanly 

within; 
For  why.  Heaven  knows  it,  I  long  time  had 

been 
A  most  humble  obedient  servant  to  sin  : 
And  now  in  devotion  was  even  so  proud, 
I  scorned  (forsooth)  to  join  pray'r  with   the 

crowd ; 
For  though  courted  by  all  the  bells  as  I  went, 
I  was  deaf,  and  regarded  not  the  compliment, 
But  to  the  cathedral  still  held  on  my  pace, 
As  'twere,  scorning  to  kneel  but  in  the  best 

place. 
I   there  made  myself  sure  of  good  music  at 

least, 
But  was  something  deceived,  for  'twas  none 

of  the  best ; 
But  however,  I  stay'd  at  the  church's  com- 
manding 
Till  we  came  to  the  "  Peace  passes  all  under- 
standing," 
Which  no  sooner  was  ended,   but  whir  and 

away,  ^ 
Like  boys  in  a  school  when  they've  leave  got 

to  play, 
AU   save   master   mayor,    who    still    gravely 

stays 
Till   the  rest  had  left   room  for  his  worship 

and  's  mace  : 
Then  he  and  his  brethren  in  order  appear, 
I  out  of  my  stall,  and  fell  into  his  rear ; 
For    why,     'tis    much    safer    appearing,    no 

doubt, 
In  authority's  taU,  than  the  head  of  a  rout. 
In   this  rev' rend  order   we  marched   from 

pray'r ; 
The   mace  before  me  borne  as  well   as   the 

may'r ; 
Who  looking  behind   him,   and  seeing  most 

plain 
A  glorious  gold  belt  in  the  rear  of  his  train, 
Made  such  a  low  conge,  forgetting  his  place, 
I  was  never  so  honour' d  before  in  my  days : 
But  then  off  went  my  scalp-case,  and  down 

went  my  fist. 
Till  the  pavement,  too  hard,  l^y  my  knuckles 

was  kiss'd  ; 


Charles  Cotton.]      A  VOYAGE  TO  IRELAND  IN  BURLESQUE.     [Fourth  Pbbiod.— 

— . — ____ 


By  which,  though  thick-skull'd,  he  must  under- 
stand this, 
That  I  was  a  most  humble  servant  of  his ; 
Which  also  so  wonderful  kindly  he  took, 
(As  I  well  perceived  both  b'  his  gesture  and 

look,) 
That  to  have  me  dogg'd  home  he  straightway 

appointed, 
Resolving,  it  seems,  to  be  better  acquainted. 
I  was  scarce  in  my  quarters,  and  set  down  on 

crupper, 
But  his  man  was  there  too,  to  invite  me   to 

supper : 
I  start  up,  and  after  most  respective  fashion 
Gave  his  worship  much  thanks  for  his  kind  in- 
vitation ; 
But   begg'd  his  excuse,  for  my  stomach  was 

small. 
And  I  never  did  eat  any  supper  at  aU  ; 
But  that  after  supper  I  would  kiss  his  hands. 
And    would    come   to   receive   his   worship's 

commands, 
Sure  no  one  "will  say,  but  a  patron  of  slander. 
That    this   was   not  pretty  well  for  a  Moor- 
lander  : 
And  since  on  such  reasons  to  sup  I  refused, 
I  nothing  did  doubt  to  be  holden  excused ; 
But   my   quaint    repartee    had    his    worship 

possess' d 
With   so   wonderful   good   a   conceit   of  the 

"rest. 
That   with   more   impatience  he  hop'd  in  his 

breeches 
To  see  the  fine    fellow   that  made  such  fine 

speeches : 
"  Go,   sirrah  !"   quoth  he,   "  get  you   to  him 

again. 
And  will  and  require,  in  his  Majesty's  name, 
That  he  come ;    and  tell  him,  obey  he  were 

best,  or 
I'll  teach  him  to  know  that  he's  now  in  West 

Chester." 
The  man,  upon  this,  comes  me  running  again. 
But  yet  minced  his  message,  and  was  not  so 

plain ; 
Saying  to  me  only,  "  Good  sir,  I  am  sorry 
To   tell   you  my  master  has  sent  again   for 

you; 
And  has  such  a  longing  to  have  you  his  guest. 
That  I,  with  these  ears,  heard  him  swear  and 

protest. 
He  would  neither  say  grace,  nor  sit  down  on 

his  bum. 
Nor  open  his  napkin,  until  you  do  come." 
With  that  I  perceived  no  excuse  would  avail. 
And,  seeing  there  was  no  defence  for  a  flail, 
I  !iaid  I  was  ready  master  may'r  to  obey. 
And  therefore   desired   him  to   lead  me   the 

way. 
We  went,  and  ere  Malkin  could  well  lick  her 

car, 
(For  it  but  the  next  door   was,  forsooth)  we 

were  there ; 
Wliero  lights  being  brought  me,   I  mounted 

the  stairs. 
The  worst  I  e'er  saw  in  my  life  at  a  mayor's  : 


But  every  thing  else  must   be  highly   com- 
mended. 
I   there   found   his   worship   most  nobly  at- 
tended. 
Besides  such  a  supper  as  well  did  convince, 
A  may'r  in  his  province  to  be  a  great  prince  ; 
As  he  sat  in  his  chair  he  did  not  much  vary 
In  state  nor  in  face  from  our  eighth  English 

Harry; 
But  whether  his  face  was  swell' d  up  with  fat. 
Or  puff'd  up  with  glory,  I  cannot  tell  that. 
Being  enter' d  the  chamber  half  length  of  a 

pike, 
And  cutting  of  faces  exceedingly  like 
One  of  those  little  gentlemen  brought  from 

the  Indies, 
And  screwing  myself  into  conges  and  cringes, 
By    then    I   was   halfway   advanced    in    the 

room, 
His  worship  most  rev'rendly   rose   from  his 

bum, 
And  with  the  more  honour  to  grace  and  to 

greet  me, 
Advanced  a  whole  step  and  a  half  for  to  meet 

me  ; 
Where  leisurely  doffing  a  hat  worth  a  tester. 
He  bade  me  most  heartily  welcome  to  Chester. 
I  thank' d  him  in  language  the  best  I  was 

able, 
And  so  we  forthwith  sat  us  all  doAvn  to  table. 
Now  here  you  must  note,  and  'tis  worth  ob- 
servation, 
That  as  his  chair  at  one  end  o'  th'  table  had 

station, 
So   sweet    mistress    may'ress,   in    just   such 

another. 
Like  the  fair  queen  of  hearts,  sat  in  state  at 

the  other ; 
By  which  I  perceived,    though   it   seemed  a 

riddle, 
The  lower  end  of   this  must  be  just  in  the 

middle  : 
But  perhaps  'tis  a  rule  there,  and  one  that 

would  mind  it 
Amongst  the  town- statutes  'tis  likely  might 

find  it. 
But  now  into  th'  pottage  each  deep  his  spoon 

claps. 
As  in  truth  one  might  safely  for  burning  one's 

chaps, 
"When  straight,  with  the  look  and  the  tone  of 

a  scold. 
Mistress  may'ress  complain'd  that  the  pottage 

was  cold  ; 
"  And  all  long  of  your  fiddle-faddle,"  quoth 

she. 
"  Why,  what  then.  Goody  Two-Shoes,  what  if 

it  be  ? 
Hold   you,   if    you    can,    your    tittle-tattle," 

(juoth  he. 
I  was  glad  she  was  snapp'd  thus,  and  guess' d 

by  th'  discourse, 
The  may'r,  not  the  gray  mare,  was  the  better 

horse, 
And  yet  for  all  that,  there  is  reason  to  fear, 
She  submitted  but  out  of  respect  to  his  year : 


From  1649  to  1689.]       A  VOYAGE  TO  IRELAND  IN  BUELESQUE.        [Charles  Cotton. 


However,  'twas  well  she  had  now  so  much 

grace, 
Though   not  to  the   man,    to    submit  to  his 

place  ; 
For  had  she  proceeded,  I  verily  thought 
My  turn  would  the  next  be,  for  I  was  in  fault : 
But  this  brush  being  past,  we  fell  to  our  diet, 
And  ev'ry  one  there  fill'd  his  belly  in  quiet. 

Supper  being  ended,  and  things  away  taken. 
Master  mayor's  curiosity  'gan  to  awaken  ; 
Wherefore,  making  me  draw  something  nearer 

his  chair. 
He  will'd  and  required  me  there  to  declare 
My  country,   my  birth,   my  estate,  and  my 

parts. 
And  whether  I  was  not  a  master  of  arts  ; 
And  eke  what  the  bus'ness  was  had  brought 

me  thither, 
"With   what  I   wag    going    about    now,    and 

whither  : 
Giving  me  caution  no  lie  should  escape  me. 
For  if  I  should  trip  he  should  certainly  trap 

me. 
I  answer'd,  my  country  was  famed  Stafford- 
shire ; 
That  in  deeds,  bills,  and  bonds,  I  was  ever 

writ  squire  ; 
That  of  land  I  had  both  sorts,  some  good,  and   j    With  his  rays  he  so  tickled  my  lids  that  I 

some  evil,  i  waked, 

But  that  a  great  part  on't  was  pawn'd  to  the    i   And  was  half  ashamed,  for  I   found  myself 


In  short,  then,  we  piped  and  we  tippled 
Canary, 

Till  my  watch  pointed  one  in  the  circle 
horary  ; 

When,  thinking  it  now  was  high  time  to  de- 
part, 

His  worship  I  thank' d  with  a  most  grateful 
heart ; 

And  because  to  great  men  presents  are  accept- 
able, 

I  presented  the  may'r,  ere  I  rose  from  the 
table, 

With  a  certain  fantastical  box  and  a  stopper ; 

And  ho  having  kindly  accepted  my  offer, 

I  took  my  fair  leave,  such  my  visage  adorning, 

And  to  bed,  for  I  was  to  rise  early  i'  th' 
morning. 


CANTO   III. 

The  Sun  in  the  morning  disclosed  his  light, 
With   complexion     as    ruddy   as   mine    over 

night ; 
And  o'er  the  eastern  mountains  peeping  up  's 

head, 
The  casement  being  open,  espied  me  in  bed  ; 


Devil; 
That  as  for  my  parts,  they  were  such  as  he 

saw; 
That,   indeed,  I   had   a  small   smatt'ring   of 

law. 
Which  I  lately  had  got  more  by  practice  than 

reading. 
By  sitting  o'  th'  bench  whilst  others  were 

pleading ; 
But  that  arms  I  had  ever  more  studied  than 

arts, 
And  was   now  to    a    captain   raised  by  my 

deserts ; 
That   the    bus'ness   which    led    me    through 

Palatine  ground 
Into  Ireland  was  whither  now  I  was  bound ; 
"^Vhere  his  worship's  great  favour  I  loud  will 

proclaim, 
And  in  all  other  places  wherever  I  came. 
He  said,  as  to  that,  I  might  do  what  I  list. 
But  that  I  was  welcome,  and  gave   me  his 

fist; 
WTien,  having  my  fingers  made  crack  with  his 

gripes. 
He  call'd  to  his  man  for  some  bottles  and 

pipes. 
To  trouble  you  here  with  a  longer  narra- 
tion 
Of  the  several  parts  of  our  confabulation. 
Perhaps  would  bo  tedious  ;  I'll  therefore  remit 

ye 

Even  to  the  most  rev'rend  records  of  the  city, 
Where,  doubtless,  the  acts  of  the  may'rs  are 

recorded. 
And    if    not   more   truly,    yet    much    better 

worded. 


naked ; 
But  up  I  soon  start,  and  was  dress' d  in  a 

trice. 
And  call'd  for  a  draught  of  ale,  sugar,  and 

spice ; 
Which  having  turn'd  off,  I  then  call  to  pay, 
And  packing  my  nawls,  whipp'd  to  horse,  and 

away. 
A  guide  I  had  got,  who  demanded  great  vails 
For   conducting  me   over  the   mountains   of 

Wales  : 
Twenty  good  shillings,  which  sure  very  large 

is  ; 
Yet  that  would  not  serve,  but  I  must  bear  his 

charges ; 
And  yet,  for  all  that,  rode  astride  on  a  beast. 
The  worst  that  e'er  went  on  three  legs,  I  pro- 
test : 
It  certainly  was  the  most  ugly  of  jades, 
His  hips  and  his  rump  made   a  right  ace  of 


His  sides  were  two  ladders,  well  spur-gall'd 

withal ; 
His  neck  was  a  helve,   and  his  head  was  a 

mall ; 
For  his  colour,  my  pains  and  your  trouble  I'll 

spare. 
For    the    creature   was    wholly    denuded    of 

hair ; 
And,  except  for  two  things,  as  bare  as  my 

nail, 
A  tuft  of  a  mane,  and  a  sprig  of  a  tail ; 
And  by  these  the  true  colour  one  can  no  more 

know. 
Than  by  mouse-skins  above  stairs,  the  merkin 


below. 


S7 


Charles  Cotton.]        A  VOYAGE  TO  IRELAND  IN  BURLESQUE.   [Fourth  Period.— 


Now  such  as  the  beast  was,  even  such  was  the 

ridei', 
With  a  head  like  a  nutmeg-,  and  leg's  like  a 

spider  ; 
A  voice  like  a  cricket,  a  look  like  a  rat, 
The  brains  of  a  goose,  and  the  heart  of  a  cat. 
Even  such  was  my  gnide  and  his  beast ;   let 

them  pass, 
The  one  for  a  horse,  and  the  other  an  ass. 
But  now  with  our   horses,  what  sound  and 

what  rotten, 
Down  to  the  shore,  you  must  know,  v.'^e  were 

gotten  ; 
And  there  we  were  told  it  concern' d  us  to 

ride, 
Unless  we  did  mean  to  encounter  the  tide  ; 
And  then,  my  gviide  lab'ring  Avith  heels  and 

with  hands. 
With  two  up  and  one  doAvn  hopp'd  over  the 

sands, 
Till  his  horse,  finding  the  labour  for  three  legs 

too  sore, 
Fol'd  out  a  new  leg,  and  then  he  had  four : 
And  now  by  plain  dint  of  hard  spurring  and 

whipping. 
Dry  shod  we  came  where  folks  sometimes  take 

shipping  ; 
And  where  the    salt  sea,  as  the  Devil  were 

in't, 
Came  roaring  t'  have  hinder' d  our  journey  to 

Fhnt; 
But  we,  by  good  luck,  before  him  got  thither, 
He  else  would  have  carried  us  no  man  knows 

whither. 
And  now  her  in  Wales  is,  saint  Taph  be  her 

speed, 
Gott  splutter  her  taste,  some  Welsh  ale  her 

had  need ; 

For  her  ride  in  great  haste,  and *         * 

For  fear  of    her    being   catch' d  up   by  the 

fishes : 
But  the  lord  of  Flint  castle's  no  lord  worth  a 

louse. 
For  he  keeps  ne'er  a  drop  of  good  drink  in  his 

house ; 
But  in  a  small  house  near  unto't  there  was 

store 
Of  such  ale  as  (thank  God)  I  ne'er  tasted  be- 
fore ; 
And  surely  the  Welsh  are  not  wise  of  their 

fuddle, 
For  this  had  the   taste    and   complexion   of 

puddle. 
From  thence  then  we  march' d,  fuU  as  dry  as 

we  came, 
My  guide  before  prancing,  his  steed  no  more 

lame, 
O'er  hills  and  o'er  valleys  uncouth  and  un- 
even, 
Until,  'twixt  the  hours  of  twelve  and  eleven. 
More  hungry  and  thirsty  than  tongue  can  well 

tell, 
We  happily  came  to  St.  Winifred's  well : 
I  thought  it  the  pool  of  Bethesda  had  been, 
By  the  cripples  lay  there  ;  but  I  went  to  my 

inn 


To  speak  for  some  meat,  for  so  stomach  did 

motion, 
Before  I  did  farther  proceed  in  devotion  : 
I   went   into  th'    kitchen,    where    victuals   ^ 

saw, 
Both  beef,  veal,  and  mutton,  but  all  on't  v.-as 

raw; 
And    some    on't    aHve,    but    soon    went    to 

slaughter, 
For  four  chickens  were  slain  hj  ray  dame  and 

her  daughter ; 
Of  which  to    saint  Win,   ere  mj'  vows  I  had 

paid, 
They  said  I  should  find  a  rare  fricassee  made  : 
I  thank' d  them,  and  straight  to  the  well  did 

repair, 
Where  some  I  found  cursing,   and  others  at 

pray'r ; 
Some  dressing,  some  stripping,  some  out,  and 

some  in. 
Some  naked,  where  botches  and  boils  might 

be  seen ; 
Of  which  some   were   fevers   of  Venus,  I'm 

sure, 
j   And  therefore  unfit  for  the  virgin  to  cure  : 
I   But  the  fountain,  in  truth,  is  well  worth  the 
I  sight, 

The   beautiful  virgin's  own   tears   not   more 

bright  ; 
Nay,  none  but  she  ever  shed  such  a  tear, 
Her  conscience,  her  name,  nor  herself  were 

more  clear. 
In  the  bottom  there  lie  certain  stones  that 

look  white, 
But  streak' d  with  pure  red,  as  the  morning 

with  light, 
Wliich  they  say  is  her  blood,  and  so  it  may 

be. 
But  for  that,  lot  who  shed  it  look  to  it  for 

me. 
Over  the  fountain  a  chapel  there  stands, 
Which  I  wonder  has  'scaped  master  Oliver's 

hands ; 
The  floor's  not  ill  paved,  and  the  margin  o'  th* 

spring 
Is  enclosed  with  a  certain  octagonal  ring ; 
From  each  angle  of  which  a  pillar  does  rise, 
Of    strength    and    of    thickness    enough   to 

suffice 
To  support  and  uphold  from  falling  to  ground 
A  cupola  wherewith  the  virgin  is  crown' d. 
Now  'twixt  the  two  angles  that  fork  to  the 

north, 
And  where  the  cold  nymph   does  her  basin 

pour  forth, 
Under  ground  is  a  place  where  they  bathe,  as 

'tis  said, 
And  'tis  true,  for  I  heard  folks'  teeth  hack  in 

their  head ; 
For  you  are  to  know  that   the  rogues  and 

the *         * 

Are  not  let  to  pollute  the  spring-head  with 

their  sores. 
But  one  thing  I  chiefly  admired  in  the  place, 
That  a  saint  and  a  virgin  endued  with  such 

grace. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


AGAINST  FALSE  PEIDE. 


[Eakl  op  Eoscommon. 


Should  yet  be  so  wonderful  kind  a  well-wilier 
To   that   whoring    and   filching    trade    of    a 

miller, 
As  within  a  few  paces  to  furnish  the  wheels 
Of  I  cannot  tell  how  many  water-mills  : 
I've    studied   that   point   much,   you    cannot 

guess  why, 
But  the  virgin  was,  doubtless,  more  righteous 

than  I. 
And  now,  for  my  welcome,  four,  five,  or  six 


With  as  many  crystalline,  liberal  glasses, 
Did  all  importune  me  to  drink  of  the  water 
Of    Saint    Winifreda,    good    Thewith's    fair 

daughter. 
A  while  I  was  doubtful,  and  stood  in  a  muse, 
Xot  knowing,  amidst  aU  that  choice,  where  to 

choose. 
Till  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  darting  full  in  my 

sight, 
From  the  rest  o'  th'  fair  maidens  did  carry 

me  quite ; 
I  took  the  glass  from  her,  and  whip,  off  it 

went, 
I  half  doubt  I  fancied  a  health  to  the  saint : 
Eut  he   was   a  great   villain   committed  the 

slaughter, 
For  St.  Winifred  made  most  delicate  water. 
I  slipp'd  a  hard  shilling  into  her  soft  hand, 
Which  had  like  to  have  made  me  the  place 

have  profaned ; 
And  giving  two  more  to  the  poor  tliat  were 

there. 
Did,  sharp  as  a  hawk,  to  my  quarters  repair. 

My  dinner  was  ready,  and  to  it  I  fell, 
I  never  ate  better  moat,  that  I  can  tell ; 
'\\Tien  having  half  dined,  there  comes  in  my 

host, 
A  catholic  good,  and  a  rare  drunken  toast : 
This  man,  by  his  drinking,  inflamed  the  scot, 
And  told  me   strange  stories,   which  I  have 

forgot ; 
But  this  I  remember,  'twas  much  on's  own 

life, 
And  one  thing,    that  he   had   converted   his 

wife. 
But  now  my  guide  told  me  it  time  was  to 

go, 
For  that  to  ciu'  beds  we  must  both  ride  and 

row ; 
Wherefore   calling  to  pay,   and   having    ac- 
counted, 
I   soon   was   down   stairs,   and   as   suddenly 

mounted. 
On  then  we  travell'd,  our  guide  still  before, 
Sometimes  on  three  legs,  and  sometimes  on 

four. 
Coasting  the  sea,  and  over  hills  crawling, 
Sometimes  on  all  four,  for  fear  we  should  fall 

in  ; 
For,    underneath,    Neptune   lay   skidking   to 

watch  us, 
And,  had  we  but  slipp'd  once,  v^as  ready  to    I 

catch  us. 
Thus  in  places  of  danger  taking  more  heed, 
And  in  safer  travelling  mending  our  speed, 


Eedland  Castle  and  Abergoney  we  pass'd, 
And  o'er  against  Connoway  came  at  the  last : 
Just  over  against  a  castle  there  stood, 
O'  th'  right  hand  the  town,  and  o'  th'  left 

hand  a  wood ; 
'Twixt  the  wood  and  the  castle  they  see  at 

high  water  ^  — 

The  storm,  the  place  makes  it  a  dangerous 

matter ; 
And  besides,  upon  such  a  steep  rock   it   is 

founded. 
As  would  break  a  man's  neck,  should  he 'scape 

being  drowned : 
Perhaps  though  in  time  one  may  make  them 

to  yield. 
But  'tis  pretti'st  Cob-castle  e'er  I  beheld. 
The  Sun  now  was  going  t'  unharness  his 

steeds. 
When  the  ferry-boat  brasking  her  sides  'gainst 

the  weeds. 
Came  in  as  good  time,  as  good  time  could  be, 
To  give  us  a  cast  o'er  an  arm  of  the  sea  ; 
And  bestowing  our  horses  before  and  abaft, 
O'er  god  Neptune's  wide  cod- piece  gave  us  a 

waft ; 
Where  scurvily  landing  at  foot  of  the  fort. 
Within  very  few  paces  we  enter' d  the  port, 
Where  another  King's  Head  invited  me  do^vn, 
For  indeed   I   have   ever   been    true    to  the 

crown. 

Charles  Cotton.— Born  1630,  Died  1687. 


650.— AGAINST  FALSE  PRIDE. 

On  sure  foundations  let  your  fabric  rise, 
And  with  attractive  majesty  surprise  ; 
Not  by  affected  meretricious  arts, 
But  strict  harmonious  symmetry  of  parts  ; 
Which    through   the  whole   insensibly   must 

pass 
With  vital  heat,  to  animate  the  mass. 
A  pure,  an  active,  an  auspicious  flame, 
And    bright    as    heaven,    from    whence    the 

blessing  came. 
But  few — O  few  !  souls  pre-ordain' d  by  fate, 
The  race  of  gods,  have  reach' d  that  envied 

height. 
No  rebel  Titan's  sacrilegious  crime, 
By  heaping  hills  on  hills,  can  hither  climb : 
The  grisly  ferryman  of  hell  denied 
^neas  entrance,  till  he  knew  his  guide. 
How  justly  then  ^vill  impious  mortals  fall. 
Whose  pride  would  soar  to  heaven  without  a 

call. 
Pride  (of   all  others   the   most    dangerous 

fault) 
Proceeds    from    want   of   sense,    or  want  of 

thought. 
The  men  who  labour  and  digest  things  most. 
Will  be  much  apter  to  despond  than  boast ; 
For  if  your  author  be  profoundly  good, 
'T\vill  cost  you  dear  before  he's  understood. 

27* 


Eabl  of  Eoscommon.]       an  AUTHOR  SHOULD  BE  SINCERE.         [Fourth  Period.— 


How  many  ages  since  has  Virgil  writ ! 
How  few  are  they  who  understand  him  yet ! 
Approach  his  altars  Avith  religions  fear  ; 
No  vulgar  deity  inhabits  there. 
Heaven  shakes  not  more  at  Jove's  imperial 

nod 
Than  poets  should  before  their  Mantuan  god. 
Hail  mighty  Maro  !  may  that  sacred  name 
Kindle  my  breast  -svith  thy  celestial  flame, 
Sublime  ideas  and  apt  words  infuse  ; 
The  Muse  instructs  my  voice,  and  thou  inspire 

the  Muse ! 

Earl  of  Roscommon.— Born  1633,  Died  1684 


651.— AN  AUTHOR  SHOULD  BE 
SINCERE. 

I  pity,  from  my  soul,  unhappy  men, 
Compell'd  by  want  to  prostitute  the  pen  ; 
Who   must,    like    lawyers,    either   starve   or 

plead, 
And  follow,  light  or   wrong,    where  guineas 

lead! 
Bvit  you,  Pompilian,  wealthy  pamper'd  heirs. 
Who  to  your  country  owe  your  swords  and 

cares  ; 
Let  no  vain  hope  your  easy  mind  seduce, 
For  rich  ill  poets  are  without  excuse. 
'Tis  very  dangerous  tampering  ^vith  the  Muse, 
The  profit's  small,  and  you  have  much  to  lose. 
For  though  true   wit  adorns  your   birth    or 

place, 
Degenerate  lines  degrade  the  attainted  race. 

No  poet  any  passion  can  excite, 
But  what  they  feel  transport  them  when  they 

write. 
Have  you  been  led  through  the  Cumsean  cave. 
And  heard  th'  impatient  maid  divinely  rave  ? 
I  hear  her  now ;  I  see  her  rolling  eyes  ; 
And   panting,    Lo,    the    god,   the   god !    she 

cries  : 
With  words  not  hers,  and  more  than  human 

sound, 
She  makes  th'  obedient  ghosts  peep  trembling 

through  the  ground. 
But  though  we  must  obey  when  Heaven  com- 
mands, 
And  man  in  vain  the  sacred  call  withstands, 
Beware  what  spirit  rages  in  your  breast ; 
For  ten  inspir'd,  ten  thousand  are  possess'd  : 
Thus  make  the  proper  use  of  each  extreme. 
And  write  with  fury,  but  correct  wdth  i^hlegm. 
As  when  the  cheerful  hours  too  freely  pass, 
And  sparkling  wine  smiles  in  the  tempting 

glass, 
Your  pulse  advises,  and  begins  to  beat 
Through  every  swelling  vein  a  loud  retreat : 
So  when  a  Muse  propitiously  invites. 
Improve  her  favours,  and  indulge  her  flights ; 
But  when  you  find  that  vigorous  heat  abate, 
Leave  oflF,  and  for  another  summona  wait. 


Before  the  radiant  sun,  a  glimmering  lamp, 
Adulterate  measures  to  the  sterling  stamp 
Appear  not  meaner  than  mere  human  lines, 
Compar'd  with  those  whose  inspiration  shines : 
These,    nervous,    bold ;    those,    languid   and 

remiss  ; 
There,  cold  salutes  ;  but  here,  a  lover's  kiss. 
Thus  have  I  seen  a  rapid,  headlong  tide, 
With  foaming  waves  the  passive  Saone  divide, 
Whose  lazy  waters  without  motion  lay, 
While  he  with  eager  force  urg'd  his  impetuous 
way! 
Earl  of  Roscommon.— Born  1633,  Died  1684. 


652.— A  QUACK. 

A  quack  (too  scandalously  mean  to  name) 
Had,     by    man-midwifery,    got    wealth   and 

fame; 
As  if  Lucina  had  forgot  her  trade, 
The  labousring  wife  invokes  his  surer  aid. 
Well-season'd  bowls  the  gossip's  spirits  raise, 
Who,   while  she  guzzles,  chats  the  doctor's 

praise  ; 
And  largely,  what  she  wants  m  words,  supplies 
With  maudlin  eloquence  of  trickling  eyes. 
But  what  a  thoughtless  animal  is  man  ! 
(How  very  active  in  his  o-svn  trepan  !) 
For,  greedy  of  physicians'  frequent  fees. 
From  female  mellow  praise  he  takes  degrees  ; 
Struts  in  a  new  unlicensed  go^vn,  and  then 
From  saving  women  falls  to  killing  men. 
Another  such  had  left  the  nation  thin, 
In  spite  of  all  the  children  he  brought  in. 
His  pills  as  thick  as  hand  grenadoes  flew, 
And  where  they  fell,  as  certainly  they  slew  : 
His  name  struck  everywhere  as  great  a  damp. 
As  Archimedes'  through  the  Roman  camp. 
With  this,  the  doctor's  pride  began  to  cool ; 
For  smarting  soundly  may  convince  a  fool. 
But  now  repentance  came  too  late  for  grace  ; 
And  meagre  famine  stared  him  in  the  face  : 
Fain  would  he  to  the  wives  be  reconciled. 
But  found  no  husband  left  to  own  a  child. 
The  friends,  that  got  the  brats,  were  poison'd 

too  ; 
In  this  sad  case,  what  could  our  vermin  do  ? 
Worried  with  debts,  and  past  all  hope  of  bail, 
Th'  unpitied  wretch  lies  rotting  in  a  jail  ; 
And  there  with  basket-alms,  scarce  kept  alive. 
Shows  how  mistaken  talents  ought  to  thrive. 

Earl  of  Roscommon.— Born  1633,  Died  1684. 


653.— ON  THE  DAY  OF  JUDGMENT. 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
Shall  the  whole  world  in  ashes  lay, 
As  David  and  the  Sibyls  say. 


From  1649  to  1689.-]                                          SONG.                                    [Eael  of  Eochester. 

What  horror  will  invade  the  mind, 

When  the  strict  Judge,  who  would  be  kind, 

65  5  .—CONSTANCY. 

Shall  have  few  venial  faults  to  find ! 

A  SONG. 

The  last  loud  trumpet's  wondrous  sound. 

I  cannot  change  as  others  do. 

Shall  through  the  rending  tombs  rebound, 

Though  you  unjustly  scorn ; 

And  wake  the  nations  under  ground. 

Since  that  poor  swain  that  sighs  foT  yorr, 

1 

For  you  alone  was  bom. 

Nature  and  Death  shall,  with  surprise, 

No,  Phillis,  no ;  your  heart  to  move 

Behold  the  pale  offender  rise, 

A  surer  way  I'll  try  ; 

And  view  the  Judge  with  conscious  eyes. 

And,  to  revenge  my  shghted  love. 

Then  shali,  with  universal  dread. 

Win  still  love  on — will  still  love  on,  and 
die. 

The  sacred  mystic  book  be  read. 

To  try  the  living  and  the  dead. 

WTien  kill'd  with  grief  Amyntas  lies, 

The  Judge  ascends  his  awfrd  throne  ; 
He  makes  each  secret  sin  be  known. 
And  all  with  shame  confess  their  own. 

And  you  to  mind  shall  call 
The  sighs  that  now  unpitied  rise. 

The  tears  that  vainly  f aU ; 
That  welcome  hour  that  ends  this  smart 

0  then,  what  interest  shall  I  make 

Will  then  begin  your  pain. 

To  save  my  last  important  stake, 

For  such  a  faithful,  tender  heart 

*     Wlien  the  most  just  have  cause  to  quake  ? 

Can  never  break — can  never  break  in 
vain. 

Thou  mighty  formidable  King, 
Thou  mercy's  unexhausted  spring, 

Em-l  of  Rochester.— Born  1647,  Bled  1680. 

Some  comfortable  pity  bring  ! 

Forget  not  what  my  ransom  cost. 

Nor  let  my  dear-bought  soul  be  lost 

In  storms  ©f  guilty  terror  tost. 

*                 *                 #                 * 

656.— SONG. 

Prostrate  my  contrite  heart  I  rend. 
My  God,  my  Father,  and  my  Friend, 
Do  not  forsake  me  in  my  end ! 

Too  late,  alas  !  I  must  confess. 
You  need  not  arts  to  move  me  ; 

Such  charms  by  nature  you  possess, 
'Twere  madness  not  to  love  you. 

Well  may  they  curse  their  second  breath, 
Who  rise  to  a  reviving  death. 
Thou  great  Creator  of  mankind, 

Then  spare  a  heart  you  may  surprise, 

And  give  my  tongue  the  glory 
To  boast,  though  my  imfaithfid  eyes 

Let  guUty  man  compassion  find. 

Betray  a  tender  story. 

Earl  of  Roscommon. — Bom  1633,  Died  1684. 

Earl  of  Rochester.— Born  1647,  Died  3680., 

654.— SONG. 

657.— SONG. 

While  on  those  lovely  looks  I  gaze, 

My  dear  mistress  has  a  heart 

To  see  a  wretch  pursuing, 

Soft  as  those  kind  looks  she  gave  me. 

In  raptures  of  a  bless' d  amaze, 

When,  with  love's  resistless  art. 

His  pleasing,  happy  ruin ; 

And  her  eyes,  she  did  enslave  me. 

'Tis  not  for  pity  that  I  move. 

But  her  constancy 's  so  weak. 

His  fate  is  too  aspiring. 

She's  so  wild  and  apt  to  wander, 

Whose  heart,  broke  with  a  load  of  love, 

That  my  jealous  heart  would  break. 

Dies  wishing  and  admiring. 

Should  we  live  one  day  asunder. 

But  if  this  murder  you'd  forego. 

Melting  joys  about  her  move. 

■|               Your  slave  from  death  removing. 

Killing  pleasures,  wounding  blisses  ; 

K           Let  me  your  art  of  charming  know. 

She  can  dress  her  eyes  in  love, 

f                Or  learn  you  mine  of  loving. 

And  her  lips  can  warm  with  kisses. 

f             But  whether  hfe  or  death  betide. 

Angels  listen  when  she  speaks ; 

In  love  'tis  equal  measure  ; 

She's  my  delight,  all  mankind's  wonder 

The  victor  lives  with  empty  pride, 

But  my  jealous  heart  would  break. 

The  vanquish' d  die  with  pleasure. 

Should  we  live  one  day  asunder. 

Ea/rl  of  Bochester.—Born  1647,  JXed  1680. 

ife- . 

Earl  of  Rochester.— Born  1647,  Died  1680. 

John  Dbyden.1 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[Fourth  Period.- 


658.— EEASON. 

Dim  as  the  borrow'd  beams  of  moon  and  stars 
To  lonely,  weary,  wandering  travellers, 
Is  Reason  to  the  sonl  ;  and  as  on  high 
Those  rolling  fires  discover  but  the  sky, 
Not  light  us  here;   so  Reason's  glimmering 

ray 
Was  lent,  not  to  assure  our  doubtful  way, 
But  guide  us  upward  to  a  better  day. 
And  as  those  nightly  tapers  disappear, 
When  day's  bright   lord  ascends   our   hemi- 


So  pale  grows  Reason  at  Religion's  sight ; 
So   dies,    and  so    dissolves,   in    supernatural 
Hght. 

John  I>ryden.—Bovn  1631,  Die^l700. 


659.— PALAMON  AND  ARCITE  ;   OR,  THE 
KNIGHT'S  TALE. 

BOOK  I. 

In  days  of  old,  there  liv'd,  of  mighty  fame, 
A  valiant  prince,  and  Theseus  was  his  name  ; 
A  chief,  who  more  in  feats  of  arms  excell'd. 
The  rising  nor  the  setting  Sun  beheld. 
Of  Athens  he  was  lord  ;  much  land  he  won, 
And  added  foreign  countries  to  his  crown 
In  Scythia  with  the  warrior  queen  he  strove, 
Whom  first  by  force  he  conquered,  then   by 

love; 
He  brought  in  triumph  back  the  beauteous 

dame, 
With  whom  her  sister,  fair  Emilia,  came. 
With  honour  to  his  home  let  Theseus  ride. 
With   Love   to   friend,  and  Fortune  for  liis 

guide, 
And  his  victorious  army  at  his  side. 
I  pass  their  warhke  pomp,  their  proud  array, 
Their   shouts,  their   songs,  their  welcome  on 

the  way : 
But,  were  it  not  too  long,  I  would  recite 
The  feats  of  Amazons,  the  fatal  fight 
Betwixt  the  hardy  queen  and  hero  knight ; 
The  town  besieg'd,  and  how  much  blood  it 

cost 
The  female  army  and  th'  Athenian  host ; 
The  spousals  of  Hippolita,  the  queen ; 
What   tilts   and   turneys   at   the  feast  were 

seen; 
The  storm  at  their  return,  the  ladies'  fear  : 
But  these,  and  other  things,  I  must  forbear. 
The  field  is  spacious  I  design  to  sow. 
With  oxen  far  unfit  to  draw  the  plow  : 
The  remnant  of  my  tale  is  of  a  length 
To    tire   your    patience,    and   to    waste    my 

strength ; 
And  trivial  accidents  shall  be  forbom, 
That   others   may  have  time   to   take   their 

turn ; 


As  was  at  first  enjoin'd  us  by  mine  host, 
That  he  whose  tale  is  best,  and  pleases  most, 
Should  win  his  supper  at  our  common  cost. 
And  therefore  whore  I  left,  I  will  pursue 
This  ancient  story,  whether  false  or  true, 
In  hope  it  may  be  mended  with  a  new. 
The  prince  I  mentioned,  full  of  high  renown, 
In  this  array  drew  near  th'  Athenian  town , 
When,  in  his  pomp  and  utmost  of  his  pride. 
Marching,  he  chanc'd  to  cast  his  eye  aside, 
And  saw  a  choir  of  mourning  dames,  who  lay 
By  two  and  two  across  the  common  way  : 
At  his  approach  they  rais'd  a  rueful  cry, 
And  beat  their  breasts,  and  held  their  hands 

on  high, 
Creeping  and  crying,  till  they  seiz'd  at  last 
His  courser's  bridle,  and  his  feet  embrac'd. 
"  Tell  me,"  said  Theseus,  "  what  and  whence 

you  are, 
And  why  this  funeral  j)agcant  you  prepare  t 
Is  this  the  welcome  of  rctj  worthy  deeds, 
To  meet  my  triumph  in  ill-omen'd  weeds  ? 
Or  envy  you  my  praise,  t-nd  would  destroy 
With  grief  my  pleasures,  and  pollute  my  joy  ? 
Or  are  you  injur'd,  and  demand  relief  ? 
Name   your  request,    and   I   will   ease   your 

grief." 
The  most  in  years  of  all  the  mourning  train 
Began  (but  swooned  first  away  for  pain) ; 
Then  scarce  recover'd  spoke  :  "  Nor  envj'  wo 
Thy  great  renown,  nor  gi'udge  thy  viqtorv ; 
'Tis  thine,  O  king,  th'  afflicted  to  redress. 
And    fame   has   fill'd    the    world    with    thy 

success : 
We,  wretched  women,  sue  for  that  alone, 
Which  of  thy  goodness  is  refus'd  to  none 
Let  fall  some  drops  of  pity  on  oiu*  grief, 
If   what   we  beg  be  just,   and    we    deserve 

relief: 
For  none  of  us,  who  now  thy  grace  implore, 
But  held  the  rank  of  sovereign  queen  before  ; 
TUl,   thanks   to   giddy  Chance,  which  never 

bears, 
That  mortal  bliss  should  last  for  length  of 

years, 
She  cast  us  headlong  from  our  high  estate. 
And  here  in  hope  of  thy  return  we  wait : 
And  long  have  waited  in  the  temple  nigh. 
Built  to  the  gracious  goddess  Clemency. 
But  reverence  thou  the  power  whose  name  it 


Relieve  th'  oppress'd,  and  wipe  the  widow's 

tears, 
I,  wretched  I,  have  other  fortune  seen, 
The  wife  of  Capaneus,  and  once  a  queen  : 
At  Thebes  he  fell,  curst  be  the  fatal  day  ! 
And  all  the  rest  thou  secst  in  this  array 
To  make  their  moan,  their  lords  in  battle  lost 
Before  that  town,  besieg'd  by  our  confederate 

host : 
But  Creon,  old  and  impious,  who  commands 
The  Theban  city,  and  usurps  the  lands, 
Denies  the  rites  of  funeral  fires  to  those 
Whose  breathless  bodies  yet  he  calls  his  foes. 
Unburn'd,  unbury'd,  on  a  heap  they  lie  ; 
Such  is  their  fate,  and  such  his  tyranny  ; 


From  1649  to  1G89.  j 


PALAMON  AND  ABCITE. 


[John  Detden. 


No  friend  has  leave  to  bear  away  the  dead, 
But  with  theu-  lifeless  limbs  his  hounds   arc 

fed." 
At   this    she    shriek'd   aloud;    the   mournful 

train 
Echo'd  her  grief,  and,  grovehng  on  the  plain, 
With  groans,  and  hands  upheld,  to  move  his 

.mind, 
Besought  his  pity  to  their  helpless  kind  ! 
The  prince  was  touch' d,  his  tears  began  to 

flow, 
And,  as  his  tender  heart  would  break  in  two, 
Ho    sigh'd,    and   could    not    but    their    fate 

deplore, 
So  wretched  now,  po  fortunate  before. 
Then  lightly  from  his  lofty  steed  he  flew, 
And  raising,  one  by  one,  the  suppliant  crew, 
To  comfort  each,  full  solemnly  he  swore, 
That  by  the  faith  which  knights  to  knighthood 

bore, 
And  whate'cr  else  to  chivalry  belongs. 
He   would   not   cease,   till  he  reveng'd  their 

wrongs : 
That  Greece  should  see   perform' d  what   he 

declar'd ; 
And  cruel  Creon  find  his  just  reward. 
He  said  no  more,  but,  shunning  all  delay. 
Rode  on  ;  nor  enter 'd  Athens  on  his  way  : 
But  left  his  sister  and  his  queen  behind. 
And  wav'd  his  royal  banner  in  the  wind : 
Where  in  an  argent  field  the  god  of  war 
Was  dra-vvn  triumphant  on  his  iron  car  ; 
Red   was  his  sword,   and  shield,  and  whole 

attire, 
And  all  the  godhead  seem'd  to    glow  with 

fire;^ 
Ev'n  the  ground  glitter'd  whore  the  standard 

flew, 
And  the  gTeen  grass  was  dy'd  to    sanguine 

hue. 
High  on  his  pointed  lance  his  pennon  bore 
His  Cretan  fight,  the  conquer' d  Minotaur  : 
The    soldiers    shout    around    with    generous 

rage, 
And  in  that  victory  their  own  presage. 
He  prais'd  their  ardour  ;  inly  pleas' d  to  see 
His  host  the  flower  of  Grecian  chivalry. 
All    day   he  march' d ;    and   all   th'    ensuing 

night ; 
And  saw  the  city  with  returning  light. 
The  process  of  the  war  I  need  not  tell, 
How    Theseus     conquer'd,    and   how    Creon 

fell: 
Or  after,  how  by  storm  the  walls  were  won. 
Or   how  the   victor   sack'd  and   bum'd  the 

town: 
How  to  the  ladies  he  restor'd  again 
The  bodies  of  their  lords  in  battle  slain  : 
And    with    what    ancient    rites    they    were 

interr'd ; 
All  these  to  fitter  times  shall  be  deferred  ; 
I  spare  the  widows'  tears,  their  woeful  cries, 
And  howling  at  their  husbands'  obsequies  ; 
How  Theseus  at  these  funerals  did  assist, 
And   with   wha,t   gifts   the   mourning  dames 

dismiss' d. 


Thus    when    the    victor   chief   had   Creon 

slain, 
And  conquer'd  Thebes,  he  pitch'd  upon  the 

plain 
His  mighty  camp,  and,  when  the  day  retnm'd, 
The  country  wasted,  and  the  hamlets  bum'd, 
And  left  the  pillagers,  to  rapine  brgrt,  — 
Without  control  to  strip  and  spoil  the  dead. 

There,  in  a  heap  of  slain,  among  the  rest 
Two  youthful  knights  they  found  beneath  a 

load  oppress'd 
Of  slaughter' d  foes,  whom  first  to  death  they 

sent, 
The    trophies    of    their    strength,    a    bloody 

monument. 
Both    fair,    and    both   of    roj^al   blood   they 

seem'd, 
Whom   kinsmen   to   the  crown    the    heralds 

deem'd ; 
That  day  in  equal  arms  they  fought  for  fame  ; 
Their  swords,    their    shields,   their  surcoats, 

were  the  same. 
Close  by   each   other  laid,  they  press'd  the 

ground. 
Their  manly  bosoms  pierc'd    with   many   a 

griesly  wound. 
Nor  well  alive,  nor  wholly  dead  they  were. 
But  some  faint  signs  of  feeble  life  appear : 
The  wandering  breath  was  on  the  -vving  to  part, 
Weak  was  the  pidse,  and  hardly  heav'd  the 

heart. 
These  two  were  sisters'  sons  ;  and  Arcite  one. 
Much  fam'd  in  fields,  with  valiant  Palamon. 
From   these   their  costly   arms   the    spoilers 

rent, 
And  softly  both  convey'd  to  Theseus'  tent : 
Whom,  known  of  Croon's  line,  and  cur'd  with 

care. 
He  to  his  city  sent  as  prisoners  of  the  war, 
Hopeless  of  random,  and  condem.n'd  to  lie 
In  durance,  doom'd  a  lingering  death  to  die. 
This   done,   he  march' d   away   -with   warlike 

sound, 
And  to  his  Athens  tum'd  with  laurels  crown'd. 
Where  happy  long  he  hv'd,  much  lov'd,  and 

more  renown'd. 
But  in  a  tower,  and  never  to  be  loos' d, 
The  woeful  captive  kinsmen  are  enclos'd. 
Thus  year  by  year  they  pass,  and  day  by 

day. 
Till  once,  'twas  on  the  mom  of  cheerful  May, 
The  young  Emilia,  fairer  to  be  seen 
Than  the  fair  lUy  on  the  flowery  green. 
More   fresh  than    May   herself    in   blossoms 

new, 
For  with  the  rosy  colour  strove  her  hue, 
Wak'd,  as  her  custom  Avas,  before  the  day, 
To  do  th'  observance  due  to  sprightly  May  : 
For  sprightly  May  commands  our  youth  to 


The   vigils  of   her  night,    and   breaks    their 

sluggard  sleep  ; 
Each  gentle  breast  with  kindly  warmth  she 

moves  ; 
Inspires    new    flames,     revives    extinguish' d 

loves. 


John  Dryden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


In  this  remembrance,  Emily,  ere  day, 
Arose,  and  dress' d  herself  in  rich  array ; 
Fresh  as  the  month,  and  as  the  morning"  fair, 
Adown  her  shoulders  fell  her  length  of  hair ; 
A  ribband  did  the  braided  tresses  bind. 
The  rest  was  loose,  and  wanton' d  in  the  wind. 
Aurora  had  but  newly  chas'd  the  night. 
And  purpled  o'er  the  sky  with  blushing  light, 
"When  to  the  garden  walk  she  took  her  way, 
To  sport  and  trip  along  in  cool  of  day. 
And   offer  maiden    vows  in  honour   of    the 

May. 
At  every  turn  she  made  a  little  stand. 
And  thrust  among  the  thorns  her  lily  hand, 
To  draw  the  rose ;  and  every  rose  she  drew, 
She  shook  the  stalk,   and  brush' d  away  the 

dew: 
Then  party-colour' d  flowers  of  white  and  red 
She  wove,  to  make  a  garland  for  her  head  : 
This  done,  she  sung  and  carol'd  out  so  clear, 
That  men  and  angels  might  rejoice  to  hear  : 
Ev'n  wondering  Philomel  forgot  to  sing, 
And    learn' d    from    her    to    welcome-in    the 

Spring, 
The  tower,    of    which   before    was    mention 

made, 
Within  whose  keep  the  captive  knights  were 

laid, 
Built  of  a  large  extent,  and  strong  withal. 
Was  one  partition  of  the  palace  wall : 
The  garden  was  enclos'd  within  the  square, 
Where  young  Emilia  took  the  morning  air. 

It  happen' d  Palamon,  the  prisoner  knight, 
Kestless  for  woe,  arose  before  the  light. 
And  with  his  gaoler's  leave  desir'd  to  breathe 
An  air  more  wholesome  than  the  damps  be- 
neath : 
This  granted,  to  the  tower  he  took  his  way. 
Cheer' d  with  the  promise  of  a  glorious  day ; 
Then  cast  a  languishing  regard  around. 
And    saw    with     hateful    eyes    the    temples 

crown' d 
With  golden  spires,  and  all  the  hostile  ground. 
He  sigh'd,  and  turn'd  his  eyes,  because  he 

knew 
'Twas  but  a  larger  gaol  he  had  in  view  : 
Then  look'd  below,  and,   from  the   castle's 

height. 
Beheld  a  nearer  and  more  pleasing  sight, 
The  garden,  which  before  he  had  not  seen, 
In  Spring's  new   livery   clad   of    white   and 

green. 
Fresh  flowers  in  wide  parterres,  and  shady 

walks  between. 
This   view'd,    but    not    enjoy'd,    with    arms 

across 
He  stood,  reflecting  on  his  country's  loss ; 
Himself  an  object  of  the  pubhc  scorn, 
And  often  wish'd  he  never  had  been  born. 
At  last,  for  so  his  destiny  requir'd. 
With  walking  giddy,  and  with  thinking  tir'd, 
He  through  a  little  window  cast  his  sight, 
Though  thick  of  bars,  that   gave   a   scanty 

light : 
But  ev'n  that  glimmering  serv'd  him  to  descry 
Th'  inevitable  charms  of  Emily. 


Scarce  had  he  seen,  but,  seiz'd  with  sudden 

smart. 
Stung  to  the  quick,  he  felt  it  at  his  heart ; 
Struck   blind    with    over-powering  light   he 

stood, 
Then  started  back  amaz'd,  and  cry'd  aloud. 
Young  Arcite  heard,   and  up  he  ran  with 

haste, 
To  help  his  friend,  and  in  his  arms  embrac'd ; 
And  ask'd  him  why  he  look'd  so  deadly  wan, 
And   whence   and  how  his   change  of   cheer 

began. 
Or  who  had  done  th'  ojffence  ?    "  But  if,"  said 

he, 
"  Your  grief  alone  is  hard  captivity, 
For  love  of  Heaven,  with  patience  undergo 
A  cureless  ill,  since  Fate  will  have  it  so  : 
So  stood  our  horoscope  in  chains  to  lie, 
And  Saturn  in  the  dungeon  of  the  sky. 
Or  other  baleful  aspect,  rul'd  our  birth. 
When    all    the    friendly    stars    were    under 

Earth  • 
Whate'er  betides,  by  Destiny  'tis  done ; 
And  better  bear  like  men  than  vainly  seek  to 

shun." 
"  Nor  of  my  bonds,"  said  Palamon  again, 
"  Nor  of  unhappy  planets  I  complain ; 
But  when  my  mortal  anguish  cans' d  me  cry, 
That  moment  I  was  hurt  through  either  eye  ; 
Pierc'd  with  a  random  shaft,  I  faint  away. 
And  perish  with  insensible  decay  : 
A  glance    of    some    new    goddess   gave  the 

wound. 
Whom,  like  Acteon,  unaware  I  found. 
Look  how  she  walks  along  yon  shady  space. 
Not  Juno  moves  with  more  majestic  grace ; 
And  all  the  Cyprian  queen  is  in  her  face. 
If  thou  art  Venus  (for  thy  charms  confess 
That  face  was  form'd  in  Heaven,  nor  art  thou 

less ; 
Disguis'd  in  habit,  undisguis'd  in  shape), 
O  help  us  captives  from  our  chains  t'  escape  ; 
But  if  our  doom  be  past,  in  bonds  to  lie 
For  life,  and  in  a  loathsome  dungeon  die, 
Then  be  thy  wrath  appeas'd  with  our  disgrace. 
And  show  compassion  to  the  Theban  race, 
Oppress'd  by  tyrant  power !  "     While  yet  he 

spoke, 
Arcite  on  Emily  had  fix'd  his  look  ; 
The  fatal  dart  a  ready  passage  found, 
And  deep  within  his  heart  infix' d  the  wound  : 
So  that  if  Palamon  were  wounded  sore, 
Arcite  was  hurt  as  much  as  he,  or  more. 
Then  from   his   inmost   soul   he   sigh'd,  and 

said, 
"  The  beauty  I  behold  has  struck  mo  dead  : 
Unknowingly  she  strikes,  and  kills  by  chance. 
Poison  is  in  her  eyes    and   death   in  every 

glance 
O,  I  must  ask,  nor  ask  alone,  but  move 
Her  mind  to  mercy,  or  must  die  for  love." 

Thus  Arcite,  and  thus  Palamon  replies 
(Eager  his  tone,  and  ardent  were  his  eyes), 
"  Speak' st  thou  in  earnest,  or  in  jesting  vein  ? " 
"Jesting,"   said  Arcite,   "suits  but  ill  with 

pain." 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


PALAMON  AND  ARCITE. 


[John  Dryden. 


i 


r 


"  It  suits  far  worse  "  (said  Palamon  again, 
And  bent  his  brows)  "  with  men  who  honour 

weigh, 
Their    faith    to    break,    their   friendship    to 

betray ; 
But  worst  -with  thee,  of  noble  lineage  born. 
My  kinsman,  and  in  arms  my  brother  sworn. 
Have  we  not  plighted  each  our  holy  oath, 
That  one  should  be  the  common  good  of  both ; 
One   soul   should   both  inspire,    and  neither 

prove 
His  fellow's  hindrance  in  pursuit  of  love  ? 
To  this  before  the  Gods  we  gave  our  hands, 
And  nothing   but   our   death   can  break  the 

bands. 
This  binds  thee,  then,  to  further  my  design. 
As  I  am  bound  by  vow  to  fiu'ther  thine  : 
Nor  canst,  nor  dar'st  thou,  traitor,  on  the 

plain 
Appeach  my  honour,  or  thine  own  maintain, 
Since  thou  art  of  my  council,  and  the  friend 
"Whose  faith  I  trust,  and  on  whose  care  de- 
pend : 
And   would' st   thou    court    ray    lady's    love, 

which  I 
Much  rather  than   release   would   choose  to 

die? 
But  thou,  false  Arcite,  never  shalt  obtain 
Thy  bad  pretence  ;  I  told  thee  first  my  pain. 
For  first  my  love  began  ere  thine  was  born  ; 
Thou,  as  my  council,  and  my  brother  sworn, 
Art  bound  t*  assist  my  eldersliip  of  right, 
Or  justly  to  be  deem'd  a  perjur'd  knight." 

Thus  Palamon  :  but  Arcite,  with  disdain. 
In  haughty  language,  thus  reply' d  agayi : 
"  Forsworn    thyself :      the     traitor's    odious 

name 
I  first  return,  and  then  disprove  thy  claim. 
If  love  be  passion,  and  that  passio*  nurst 
With  strong  desires,  I  lov'd  the  lady  first. 
Canst  thou  pretend  desire,  whom  zeal  inflam'd 
To  worship,  and  a  power  celestial  nam'd  ? 
Thine  was  devotion  to  the  blest  above, 
I  saw  the  woman,  and  desir'd  her  love  ; 
First  own'd  my  passion,  and  to  thee  commend 
Th'  important  secret,  as  my  chosen  friend. 
Suppose  (which  yet  I  grant  not)  thy  desire 
A  moment  elder  than  my  rival  fire  ; 
Can  chance  of  seeing  first  thy  title  prove  ? 
And  know'st  thou  not  no  law   is  made  for 

love  ? 
Law  is  to  things  which  to  free  choice  relate  ; 
Love  is  not  in  our  choice,  but  in  our  fate ; 
Laws  are  but  positive  ;  love's  power,  we  see. 
Is  Nature's  sanction,  and  her  first  decree. 
Each  day  we  break  the  bond  of  human  laws 
For  love,  and  vindicate  the  common  cause. 
Laws  for  defence  of  civil  rights  are  plac'd, 
Love  throws  the  fences  down,  and  makes  a 

general  waste ; 
Maids,    widows,    wives,    without    distinction 

fall: 
The   sweeping  deluge,   love,    comes   on,    and 

covers  all. 
If  then  the  laws  of  friendship  I  transgress, 
I  keep  the  greater,  while  I  break  the  less ; 


And  both  are  mad  alike,    since   neither  can 


Both  hopeless  to  be  ransom'd,  never  more 
To  see  the  Sun,  but  as  he  passes  o'er." 

Like   ^sop's   hounds   contending    for   the 

bone. 
Each  pleaded  right,  and  would  be  lord  aione  : 
The  fruitless  fight  continued  all  the  day, 
A  ciir  came  by  and  snatch'd  the  prize  away. 
"  As  courtiers  therefore  justle  for  a  grant. 
And,  when  they  break  their  friendship,  pleat* 

their  want. 
So  thou,  if  Fortune  will  thy  suit  advance. 
Love  on,  nor  envy  me  my  equal  chance ; 
For  I  must  love,  and  am  resolv'd  to  try 
My  fate,  or,  failing  in  th'  adventure,  die." 
Great  was  their  strife,   which  hourly  was 

renew' d. 
Till  each  with  mortal  hate  his  rival  view'd  : 
Now  friends  no  more,  nor  walking  hand  in 

hand, 
But  when  they  met  they  made  a  surly  stand, 
And  glar'd  like  angry  lions  as  they  pass'd. 
And  wish'd  that  every  look  might  be  their 

last. 
It  chanc'd  at  length,  Pirithous  came  t'  at- 
tend 
This  worthy  Theseus,  his  familiar  friend ; 
Their  love  in  early  infancy  began, 
And  rose  as  childhood  ripen' d  into  man  : 
Companions  of  the  war,  and  lov'd  so  well. 
That  when  one  died,  as  ancient  stories  tell. 
His  fellow  to  redeem  him  went  to  hell. 

But  to  pursue  my  tale.     To  welcome  home 
His  warlike  brother  is  Pirithous  come : 
Arcite  of  Thebes  was  known  in  arms  long 

since, 
And   honour'd    by     this     young     Thessalian 

prince. 
Theseus,  to  gratify  his  friend  and  guest, 
Who  made  our  Arcite' s  freedom  his  request, 
Eestor'd  to  liberty  the  captive  knight, 
But  on  these  hard  conditions  I  recite : 
That  if  hereafter  Arcite  should  be  found 
Within  the  compass  of  Athenian  ground, 
By  day  or  night,  or  on  whate'er  pretence, 
I   His  head  should  pay  the  forfeit  of  th'  offence. 
{   To  this  Pirithous  for  his  friend  agreed, 
And  on  his  promise  was  the  prisoner  freed. 
Unpleas'd  and  pensive  hence  he  takes  his 

way, 
At  his  own  peril ;  for  his  life  must  pay. 
Who  now  but  Arcite  mourns  his  bitter  fate, 
Finds   his   dear  purchase,    and   repents   too 

late  ? 
"What  have  I  gain'd,"  he  said,    "  in  prison 

pent, 
If  I  but  change  my  bonds  for  banishment  ? 
And,  banish' d  from  her  sight,  I  sutier  more 
In  freedom  than  I  felt  in  bonds  before  : 
Fore' d  from  her  presence,  and  condemn' d  to 

live : 
Unwelcome  freedom,  and  unthank'd  reprieve  : 
Heaven  is  not  but  where  Emily  abides. 
And  where  she's  absent  all  is  hell  besides. 
Next  to  my  day  of  birth,  was  that  accurst 


John  Deyden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[Fourth  Peeiod. — 


Which  bound  my  fi-iendship  to  Pirithous  first. 
Had  I  not  known  that  prince  I  still  had  been 
In  bondage,  and  had  still  Emilia  seen ; 
For,  though  I  never  can  her  grace  deserve, 
'Tis  recompense  enough  to  see  and  serve. 

0  Palamon,  my  kinsman  and  raj''  friend, 
How  much  more  happy  fates  thy  love  attend  I 
Thine  is  th'  adventure,  thine  the  victory  ; 
Well  has  thy  fortune  turn'd  the  dice  for  thoe. 
Thou  on  that  angel's  face  niay'st  feed  thine 

eyes, 
In  prison — no  ;  but  blissful  Paradise  ! 
Thou  daily  seest  that  sun  of  beauty  shine. 
And  lov'st  at  least  in  love's  extremest  line. 

1  mourn  in  absence,  love's  eternal  night. 
And  who  can  tell  but   since   thou   hast  her 

sight, 
And  art  a  comely,  yoiing,  and  valiant  knight, 
Fortune    (a    yarions    power)    may    cease    to 

frown, 
And    by    some  ways    unknown    thy    wishes 

ci'own  ? 
But  Ij  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind, 
Nor  help  can  ho^je,  nor  remedy  can  find  ; 
But,    doom'd  to  drag  my  loathsome  -life  in 

care. 
For  my  reward,  must  end  it  in  despair. 
Fire,  water,  air,  and  earth,  and  force  of  fates 
That  governs  all,  and  Heaven  that  all  creates, 
Nor   art,   nor  Nature's   hand    can    ease   my 

^ef ; 
Nothing  but  death,  the  wretch's  last  relief  : 
Then  farewoU  youth,  and  all  the  joys  that 

dwell 
With  youth  and  life,  and  life  itself  farewell ! 

'•  But  why,  alas  !  do  mortal  men  in  vain 
Of  Fortune,  Fate,  or  Providence  complain  ? 
God  gives  us  what  he  knows  our  wants  re- 
quire. 
And  better  things  than  those  whi<!h  we  desire. 
Some  pray  for  riches,  riches  they  obtain  ; 
But,  watch' d  by  robbers,  for  their  wealth  are 

slain.  ■ 
Some   pray  from   prison  to   be    freed ;    and 

come, 
When  guilty  of  their  vows,  to  fall  at  home ; 
Murder' d  by  those  they  trusted   with   their 

life, 
A  favour'd  servant,  or  a  bosom  wife. 
Such  dear-bought  blessings  happen  every  day. 
Because  we   know  not    for   what   things   to 

pray. 
Like  drunken  sots  about  the  street  we  roam  ; 
Well  knows  the  sot  he  has  a  certain  home, 
Yet   knows   not   how    to   find   th'  uncertain 

place, 
And  blunders  on,  and  staggers  every  pace. 
Thus  all  seek  happiness  ;  but  few  can  find, 
For  far  the  greater  part  of  men  are  blind. 
This  is  my  case,  who   thought   our   utmost 

good 
Was  in  one  word  of  freedom  understood : 
The  fatal  blessing  came,  from  prison  free, 
I  starve  abroad,  and  lose  the  sight  of  Emily," 

Thus  Arcite  :  but  if  Arcite  thus  deplore 
His  sufferings,  Palamon  yet  sulfers  more. 


For  when  he  knew  his  rival  freed  and  gone, 
He  swells  with  wrath — he  makes  outrageous 

moan  ; 
He  frets,  he  fumes,  he  stares,  he  stamps  the 

ground. 
The  hollow  tower  with  clamours  rings  around: 
With  briny  tears  he  bath'd  his  fetter'd  feet, 
And  dropt  all  o'er  wth  agony  of  sweat. 
"  Alas  !  "  he  cried,  '■  I  wretch  in  prison  pine, 
Too  happy  rival,  while  the  fruit  is  thine  : 
Thou  liv'st  at  large,  thou  draw'st  thy  native 

air, 
Pleas'd    with    thy    freedom,     proud    of    my 

despair : 
Tliou    mayst,     since    thou    hast    youth    and 

courage  join'd, 
A  sweet  behaviour,  and  a  solid  mind. 
Assemble  ours,  and  all  the  Theban  race, 
To  vindicate  on  Athens  thy  disgrace ; 
And  after,  by  some  treaty  made,  possess 
Fair  Emily,  the  pledge  of  lasting  peace. 
So  thine  shaU  be  the  beauteous  prize,  while  I 
Must  languish  in  despair,  in  prison  die. 
Thus  all  th'  advantage  of  the  strife  is  thine, 
Thy  portion  double  joys,  and  double  sorrows 

mine." 
The  rage  of  jealousjr  then  fir'd  his  soul, 
And  his  face  kindled  like  a  burning  coal : 
Now  cold  Despair,  succeeding  in  her  stead. 
To  livid  paleness  turns  the  glowing  red. 
His  blood,  scarce  liquid,    creeps  within   his 

veins, 
Like   water  which   the    freezing    wind    con- 
strains. 
Then  thus  ho  said  :    "  Eternal  deities. 
Who  rule  the  world  with  absolute  decrees, 
And  write  whatever  time  shall  bring  to  pass. 
With  pens  of  adamant,  on  plates  of  brass  ; 
What,  is  the  race  of  human  kind  your  care, 
Beyond  what  all  his  fellow-creatures  are  ? 
He  with  the  rest  is  liable  to  pain. 
And  like  the   sheep,    his   brother  beast,  is 

slain. 
Cold,  hunger,  prisons,  ills  without  a  cure. 
All  these  he  miist,  and  guiltless,  oft  endure  ; 
Or   does   your  justice,    power,   or  prescience 

fail. 
When  the  good  suffer,  and  the  bad  prevail  ? 
What  worse  to  wretched  Virtue  could  befall. 
If  Fate  or  giddy  Fortune  govern' d  all  ? 
Nay,  worse  than  other  beasts  is  our  estate  ; 
Them  to  pursue  their  pleasures  you  create  ; 
We,   bound   by  harder   laws,  must    curb   our 

will, 
And  your  commands,  not  our  desires,  fulfil ; 
Then  when  the  creature  is  unjustly  slain, 
Yet  after  death  at  least  he  feels  no  pain  ; 
But  man,  in  life  surcharg'd  with  woe  before, 
Not  freed  when   dead,    is   doom'd  to   suffer 

more. 
A  serpent  shoots  his  sting  at  unaware ; 
An  ambush' d  thief  forelays  a  traveller; 
The  man  lies  murder' d,  while  the  thief  and 

snake. 
One  gains  the  thickets,   and   one  thi-ids  the 

brake. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[John  Dryden. 


This  let  divines  decide ;  but  well  I  know, 
Just  or  unjust,  I  hare  my  share  of  woe. 
Through  Saturn  seated  in  a  hickless  place, 
And  Juno's  wrath,  that  persecutes  my  race  ; 
Or  Mars  and  Venus,  in  a  quartile,  move 
My  pangs  of  jealousy  for  Arcite's  love." 

Let  Palamon,  oppress' d  in  bondage,  mourn, 
While  to  his  exil'd  rival  we  return. 
By  this,  the  Sun,  declining  from  his  height, 
The  day  had  shorten' d,  to  prolong  the  night : 
The  lengthened  night  gave  length  of  misery 
Both  to  the  captive  lover  and  the  free  : 
For  Palamon  in  endless  prison  mourns, 
And  Arcite  forfeits  hfe  if  he  returns  : 
The  banish'd  never  hopes  his  love  to  see, 
Nor  hopes  the  captive  lord  his  liberty  : 
'Tis  hard  to  say  who  suffers  greater  pains. 
One   sees    his    love,   but    cannot    break    his 

chains. 
One  free,  and  all  his  motions  uncontroU'd, 
Beholds  whate'er  he  would,  but  what  he  would 

behold. 
Judge  as  you  please,  for  I  will  haste  to  tell 
What  fortune  to  the  banish'd  knight  befell. 
When  Arcite  was  to  Thebes  return'd  again, 
The  loss  of  her  he  lov'd  renew'd  his  pain; 
What  could  be  worse  than  never  more  to  see 
His  life,  his  soul,  his  charming  Emily  ? 
He  rav'd  -with  all  the  madness  of  despair, 
He  roar'd,  he   beat  his   breast,  ho   tore  his 

hair. 
Dry  sorrow  in  his  stupid  eyes  appears, 
For,  wanting  nourishment,  he  wanted  tears  : 
His  eye-balls  in  their  hollov;-  sockets  sink  : 
Bereft   of    sleep,    he    loathes   his   meat   and 

drink ; 
He  withers  at  his  heart,  and  looks  as  wan 
As  the  pale  spectre  of  a  murder'd  man, 
That  pale  turns  yellow,  and  his  face  receives 
The  faded  hue  of  sapless  boxen  leaves : 
In  solitary  groves  he  makes  his  moan. 
Walks  early  out,  and  ever  is  alone  : 
Nor,  mix'd  in  mirth,    in   youthful  x^le^sures 

shares. 
But   sighs   when   songs  and   instruments  he 


His  spirits  are  so  low,  his  voice  is  drown'd, 
He  hears  as  from  afar,  or  in  a  swoon. 
Like  the  deaf  murmurs  of  a  distant  sound : 
Uncomb'd  his  locks,  and  squalid  his  attire. 
Unlike  the  trim  of  Love  and  gay  Desire ; 
But  full  of  mitseful  mopings,  which  presage 
The  loss  of  reason,  and  conclude  in  rage. 
This  when  he  had  endur'd  a  year  and  more, 
Now  wholly  changed  from  what  he  was  be- 
fore, 
It  happen' d  once  that,  slumbering  as  ho  lay. 
He  dream'd  (his  dream   began   at   break  of 

day) 
That  Hermes  o'er  his  head  in  air  appear'd, 
And   with    soft   words    his    drooping   spirits 

cheer' d : 
His   hat,    adom'd  with  wings,    disclos'd  the 

god, 
And  in  his  hand  he  bore  the  sleep-compelling 
rod; 


Such  as  he  seem'd,  when,  at  his  sire's  com- 
mand, 
On  Argus'  head  he  laid  the  snaky  wand. 
"  Arise,"    he    said,    "  to   conquering  Athens 

SO, 
There  Fate  appoints  an  end  to  all  thy  woe." 
The  fright  awaken' d  Arcite  with  a^art, 
Against    his     bosom     bounced    his    heaving 

heart ; 
But    soon    he    said,     with    scarce    recover'd 

breath, 
"  And  thither  will  I  go,  to  meet  my  death, 
Sure  to  be  slain,  but  death  is  my  desire, 
Since  in  Emilia's  sight  I  shall  expire." 
By  chance  he  spy'd  a  mirror  while  he  spoke, 
And  gazing  there  beheld  his  alter' d  look ; 
Wondering,  he  saw  his  features  and  his  hue 
So  much  were  chang'd  that  scarce  himself  he 

knew, 
A  sudden  thought  then  starting  in  his  mind, 
"  Since  I  in  Arcite  cannot  Arcite  find, 
The  world  may  search  in  vain  with  all  their 

eyes. 
But  never  penetrate  through  this  disguise. 
Thanks  to  the  change  which  grief  and  sickness 

give, 
In  low  estate  I  may  securely  live, 
And  see,  unknown,  my  mistress  day  by  day." 
He  said,  and  clothed  himself  in  coarse  array  : 
A  labouring  hind  in  show  then  forth  he  went, 
And  to  th'  Athenian  towers  his  journey  bent : 
One  squire  attended  in  the  same  disguise, 
Made  conscious  of  his  master's  enterprise. 
Arriv'd  at  Athens,  soon  he  came  to  court, 
Unknown,  unquestion'd,  in  that  thick  resort : 
Proffering  for  hire  his  service  at  the  gate, 
To  drudge,  draw  water,  and  to  run  or  wait. 

So  fair  befell  him,  that  for  little  gain 
He  serv'd  at  first  Emilia's  chamberlain ; 
And,  watchful  all  advantages  to  spy. 
Was  still  at  hand,  and  in  his  master's  eye  : 
And  as  his  bones  were  big,  and  sinews  strong, 
Eefus'd  no  toil  that  could  to  slaves  belong  ; 
But  from  deep  wells  with  engines  water  drew, 
And  us'd  his  noble  hands  the  wood  to  how. 
He  pass'd  a  jeav  at  least  attending  thus 
On  Emily,  and  call'd  Philostratus. 
But  never  was  there  man  of  his  degree 
So  much  esteem'd,  so  well  belov'd  as  he. 
So  gentle  of  condition  was  he  known. 
That   through   the   court   his    courtesy    was 

blown  ; 
All  think  him  worthy  of  a  greater  place, 
And  recommend  him  to  the  royal  grace, 
That,  exercis'd  within  a  higher  sphere. 
His  virtues  more  conspicuous  might  appear. 
I   Thus  by  the  general  voice  was  Arcite  prais'd, 
And  by  great  Theseus  to  high  favour  rais'd  : 
Among  his  menial  servants  first  enroll' d. 
And  largely  entertain'd  with  sums  of  gold  : 
Besides  what  secretly  from  Thebes  was  sent, 
Of  his  own  income,  and  his  annual  rent ; 
This  well  employ'd,  he  purchas'd  friends  and 

fame. 
But    cautiously    conceal' d    from    whence    it 

came. 


John  Dryden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[Fourth  Period.- 


Thus  for  three  years  he  liv'd  mth  large  in- 


In  arms  of  honour,  and  esteem  m  peace  ; 
To  Theseus'  person  he  was  ever  near  ; 
And  Theseus  for  his  virtues  held  him  dear. 


book  II. 

While  Arcite  lives  in  bliss,  the  story  turns 
Where  hopeless  Palamon  in  prison  mourns. 
For   six   long   years   immur'd,    the    captiv'd 

knight 
Had  dragg'd  his  chains,  and  scarcely  seen  the 

light : 
Lost  liberty  and  love  at  once  he  bore  ; 
His  prison  pain'd  him  much,  his  passion  more. 
Nor  dares  he  hope  his  fetters  to  remove, 
Nor  ever  wishes  to  be  free  from  love. 

But  when  the  sixth  revolving  year  was  run, 
And  May  within  the  Twins  receiv'd  the  Sun, 
Were  it  by  Chance,  or  forceful  Destiny, 
Which  forms  in  causes  first  whate'er  shall  be. 
Assisted  by  a  friend,  one  moonless  night. 
This  Palamon  from  prison  took  his  flight : 
A  pleasant  beverage  he  prepar'd  before 
Of  wine  and  honey,  mix'd  with  added  store 
Of  opium  ;  to  his  keeper  this  he  brought, 
Who  swallow' d  unaware  the  sleepy  draught, 
And  snor'd  secure  till  morn,  his  senses  bound 
In  slumber,  and  in  long  oblivion  drown' d. 
Short  was  the  night,  and  careful  Palamon 
Sought  the  next  covert  ere  the  rising  Sun. 
A  thick- spread  forest  near  the  city  lay, 
To  this  with  lengthen'd  strides  he  took  his 

way 
(For  far  he  could  not  fly,  and  fear'd  the  day). 
Safe  from  pursuit,  he  meant  to  shun  the  light, 
Till  the  brown  shadows  of  the  friendly  night 
To  Thebes  might  favour  his  intended  flight. 
When  to  his  country  come,  his  next  design 
Was  all  the  Theban  race  in  arms  to  join. 
And  war  on  Theseus,  till  he  lost  his  life 
Or  won  the  beauteous  Emily  to  wife. 
Thus  while   his   thoughts   the  lingering  day 

beguile. 
To  gentle  Arcite  let  us  turn  our  style ; 
Who  little  dreamt  how  nigh  he  was  to  care, 
Till  treacherous  Fortune  caught  him  in  the 

snare. 
The  morning-lark,  the  messenger  of  Day, 
Saluted  in  her  song  the  morning  gray  ; 
And  soon  the  Sun  arose  with  beams  so  bright 
That  all  th'  horizon  Uugh'd  to  see  the  joyous 

sight ; 
He  with  his  tepid  rays  the  rose  renews, 
And  licks  the  drooping  leaves,  and  dries  the 

dews ; 
When  Arcite  left  his  bed,  resolv'd  to  pay 
Observance  to  the  month  of  merry  May  : 
Forth  on  his  fiery  steed  betimes  he  rode, 
Tliat   scarcely   prints  the  turf  on  which   he 

trod : 
At  ease   he  seem'd,    and,    prancing  o'er  the 

plains, 
Tum'd  only  to  the  grove  his  horse's  reins, 


The  grove  I  nam'd  before  ;  and,  lighted  there, 
A  woodbine  garland  sought  to  crown  his  hair ; 
Then  turn'd  his  face  against  the  rising  day. 
And  rais'd  his  voice  to  welcome  in  the  May. 
"  For  thee,  sweet  month,  the  groves  green 

liveries  wear, 
If  not  the  first,  the  fairest  of  the  year  : 
For  thee  the  Graces  lead  the  dancing  Hours, 
And  Nature's  ready  pencil  paints  the  flowers ; 
When   thy   short  reign  is  past,  the  feverish 

Sun 
The  sultry  tropic  fears,  and  moves  more  slowly 

on. 
So  may  thy  tender  blossoms  fear  no  blight. 
Nor   goats  with  venom' d  teeth  thy  tendrils 

bite, 
As   thou  shalt  guide  my  wandermg  feet   to 

find 
The   fragrant   greens    I    seek,  my   brows  to 

bind." 
His   vows   address' d,  within  the  gTove  he 

stray'd. 
Till  Fate,  or  Fortune,  near  the  place  convey'd 
His  steps  where  secret  Palamon  was  laid. 
Full  little  thought  of  him  the  gentle  knight, 
Who,  flying  death,  had  there  conceal' d  his 

flight. 
In   brakes  and  brambles   hid,  and   shunning 

mortal  sight : 
And  less  he  knew  him  for  his  hated  foe, 
But  fear'd  liim  as  a  man  he  did  not  know. 
But  as  it  has  been  said  of  ancient  years. 
That  fields  are  full  of  eyes,  and  woods  have 

ears ; 
For  this  the  wise  are  ever  on  their  guard, 
Foi',  unforeseen,  they  say,  is  unprepar'd. 
Uncautious  Arcite  thought  himself  alone. 
And  less  than  all  suspected  Palamon, 
"Who,  listening,  heard  him,  while  he  search' d 

the  grove, 
And  loudly  sung  liis  roundelay  of  love  : 
But  on  the  sudden  stopp'd,  and  silent  stood. 
As  lovers  often  muse,  and  change  their  mood ; 
Now  high  as  Heaven,   and  then   as   low   as 

heU; 
Now  up,  now  down,  as  buckets  in  a  well : 
For  Venus,    Uke   her   day,    will   change   her 

cheer. 
And  seldom  shall  we  see  a  Friday  clear. 
Thus  Arcite,  having  sung,  with  alter' d  hue 
Sunk  on  the   ground,    and   from   his  bosom 

drew 
A  desperate  sigh,  accusing  Heaven  and  Fate, 
And  angry  Juno's  unrelenting  hate. 
"  Curs' d  be  the  day  when  first  I  did  appear, 
Let  it  be  blotted  from  the  calendar, 
Lost  it  pollute  the  month,  and  poison  all  the 

year. 
Still  will  the  jealous  queen  pursue  our  race  ? 
Cadmus  is  dead,  the  Theban  city  was ; 
Yet  ceases  not  her  hate  •  for  all  who  come 
From  Cadmus  are  involv'd  in  Cadmus'  doom. 
I  suffer  for  my  blood  :  unjust  decree  ! 
That  jmnishes  another's  crime  on  me. 
In  mean  estate  I  serve  my  mortal  foe, 
The  man  who  cans' d  my  country's  overthrow. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[John  Dryden. 


This  is  not  all ;  for  Juno,  to  mj'-  shame, 
Has  forc'd  me  to  forsake  my  former  name  : 
Arcite  I  was,  Philostratus  I  am. 
That  side  of  Heaven  is  all  my  enemy  : 
Mars  ruin'd  Thebes,  his  mother  ruin'd  me. 
Of  all  the  royal  race  remains  but  one 
Besides  myself,  the  unhappy  Palamon, 
Whom  Theseus  holds  in  bonds,  and  will  not 

free ; 
Without  a  crime,  except  his  kin  to  me. 
Yet  these,  and  all  the  rest,  I  could  endure ; 
But  love's  a  malady  without  a  cure  : 
Fierce  love  has  pierc'd  me  with  his  fiery  dart, 
He  fires  within,  and  hisses  at  my  heart. 
Your  eyes,  fair  EmUy,  my  fate  pursue ; 
I  suffer  for  the  rest,  I  die  for  you. 
Of  such  a  goddess  no  time  leaves  record, 
Who  bum'd  the  temple  where  she  was  ador'd; 
And  let  it  burn,  I  nevei-  will  complain, 
Pleas' d  with  my  sufferings,  if  you  knev;-  my 

pain." 
At  this  a  sickly  qualm  his  heai-t  assail' d, 
His  ears  ring  inward,  and  his  senses  fail'd. 
No  word  miss'd  Palamon  of  all  he  spoke. 
But  soon  to  deadly  pale  he  chang'd  liis  look  : 
He  trembled  every  limb,  and  felt  a  smaii;, 
As  if  cold  steel  had  ghded  through  his  heart : 
No  longer  staid,  but  starting  from  his  place, 
Discover'd    stood,    and    show'd    liis    hostile 

face  : 
"  False  traitor,  Arcite ;  traitor  to  thy  blood, 
Bound  by  thy  sacred  oath  to  seek  my  good, 
Now  art  thou  found  forsworn,  for  Emily  ; 
And  dar'st  attempt  her  love  for  whom  I  die. 
So  hast  thou  cheated  Theseus  with  a  wile, 
Against  thy  vow,  returning  to  beguile 
Under  a  borrow' d  name  :  as  false  to  me, 
So  false  thou  art  to  him  who  set  thee  free  : 
But  rest  assur'd  that  either  thou  shalt  die. 
Or  else  renounce  thy  claim  in  Emily  : 
For  though   unarm' d  I   am,    and   (freed  by 

chance) 
Am  here  without  my  sword  or  pointed  lance  : 
Hope  not,  base  man,  unquestion'd  hence  to 

go, 
For  I  am  Palamon,  thy  mortal  foe." 

Arcite,  who  heard  his  tale,  and  knew  the 

man. 
His  sword  unsheath'd,  and  fiercely  thus  be- 
gan : 
"  Now  by  the  gods  who  govern  Heaven  above, 
Wert  thou  not  weak  with  hunger,  mad  with 

love. 
That  word  had  been  thy  last,  or  in  this  grove 
This  hand  should  force  thee  to  renounce  thy 

love. 
The  surety  which  I  gave  thee,  I  defy  : 
Fool,  not  to  know  that  love  endures  no  tie. 
And  Jove  but  laughs  at  lovers'  perjury. 
Know  I  will  serve  the  fair  in  thy  despite. 
But  since  thou  art  my  kinsman,  and  a  knight, 
Here,  have  my  faith,  to-morrow  in  this  grove 
Our  arms  shall  plead  the  titles  of  our  love  : 
And  Heaven  so  help  my  right,  as  I  alone 
Will  come,  and  keep  the  cause  and  quarrel 

both  unknown  : 


With   anns   of   proof    both    for  myself    and 

thee, 
Choose  thou  the  best,  and  leave  the  worst  to 

me. 
And,  that  a  better  ease  thou  may'st  abide, 
Bedding  and  clothes  I  will  this  night  provide, 
And  needful  sustenance,  that  thou  may^t  be 
A  conquest  better  won,  and  worthy  me." 
His  promise  Palamon  accepts  ;  but  pray'd 
To  keep  it  better  than  the  first  he  made. 
Thus  fair  they  parted  till  the  morrow's  dawn 
For  each  had  laid  his  plighted  faith  to  pawn, 
O  Love  !    thou  sternly  dost  thy  power  main- 
tain, 
And  wilt  not  bear  a  rival  in  thy  reign, 
Tyrants  and  thou  all  fellowship  disdain. 
This  was  in  Arcite  prov'd,  and  Palamon 
Both  in  despair,  yet  each  woiUd  love  alone. 
Arcite  return'd,  and,  as  in  honour  ty'd. 
His  foe  with  bedding  and  with  food  supply'd  ; 
Then,  ere  the  day,  two  suits  of  armour  sought, 
Which   borne    before   him   on    his   steed  he 

brought : 
Both  were  of  shining  steel,   and  wrought  so 

pure, 
As  might  the  strokes  of  two  such  arms  endure. 
Now,  at  the  time  and  in  th'  appointed  place, 
The  challenger  and  challeng'd,  face  to  face. 
Approach  ;  each  other  from  afar  they  knew, 
And  from  afar  their  hatred  chang'd  their  hue. 
So  stands  the  Thracian   herdsman  with   his 

spear. 
Full  in  the  gap,  and  hopes  the  hunted  bear. 
And  hears  liim  rustling  in  the  wood,  and  sees 
His  course  at  distance  by  the  bending  trees, 
And  thinks,  here  comes  my  mortal  enemy, 
And  either  he  must  fall  in  fight,  or  I : 
This  while  he  thinks  he  lifts  aloft  his  dart ; 
A  generous  chillness  seizes  every  part ; 
The  veins  pour  back  the  blood,  and  fortify  the 

heart. 
Thus  pale  they  meet ;   their  eyes  with  fury 

burn  ; 
None  greets ;    for  none  the  greeting  will  re- 
turn: 
But  in  dumb  surliness,  each  arm'd  with  care 
His  foe  protest,  as  brother  of  the  war  : 
Then  both,  no  moment  lost,  at  once  advance 
Against  each  other,  arm'd   with   sword   and 

lance : 
They  lash,  they  foin,  they  pass,  they  strive  to 

bore 
Their  corslets,  and  the  thinnest  parts  explore. 
Thus  two  long  hours  in  equal  arms  they  stood, 
And  wounded,   wound;  till  both  were  bath' d 

in  blood ; 
And  not  a  foot  of  ground  had  either  got 
As  if  the  world  depended  on  the  spot. 
Fell  Arcite  like  an  angry  tiger  far'd. 
And  like  a  lion  Palamon  appear' d : 
Or  as  two  boars  whom  love  to  battle  draws. 
With  rising  bristles,  and  with  frothy  jaws. 
Their  adverse  breasts  with  tusks  oblique  they 

wound, 
With   grunts   and    groans    the    forest   rings 

around : 


John  DkYDEN.] 


PALAMON"  AND  AECITE, 


[Fourth  Period. — 


So   fought   the    knights,    and    fighting  must 

abide, 
Till  fate  an  umpire  sends  their  difference  to 

decide. 
*rhe  power  that  ministers  to  God's  decrees, 
And  executes  on   earth   what    Heaven  fore- 
sees, 
Call'd  Providence,  or  Chance,  or  Fatal  Sway, 
Comes  with  resistless  force,  and  finds  or  makes 

her  way. 
Nor  kings,  nor  nations,  nor  united  power, 
One  moment  can  retard  th'  appointed  hour. 
And   some  one  day,  some  wondrous  chance 

appears. 
Which  happen' d  not  in  centuries  of  years  : 
For  sure,  whate'er  we  mortals  hate,  or  love. 
Or  hope,  or  fear,  depends  on  powers  above  ; 
They  move  our  appetites  to  good  or  ill, 
And  by  foresight  necessitate  the  will. 
In  Theseus  this  appears  ;  whose  j'outhful  joy 
Was  beasts  of  chase  in  forests  to  destroy. 
This  gentle  knight,  inspir'd  by  jolly  May, 
Forsook  his  easy  couch  at  early  day. 
And  to  the  w^ood  and  wilds  pursued  his  way. 
Beside  him  rode  Hippolita  the  queen, 
And  Emily  attir'd  in  lively  green. 
With  horns,  and  hounds,  and  all  the  tuneful 

cry. 
To  hunt  a  royal  hart  within  the  covert  nigh  : 
And  as  he  follow'd  Mars  before,  so  now 
He  serves  the  goddess  of  the  silver  bow. 
The  way  that  Theseus  took  was  to  the  wood 
Where  the  two  knights  in  cruel  battle  stood : 
The  lawn  on  which  they  fought  th'  appointed 

place 
In   which  th'    uncoupled  hounds   began  the 

chase. 
Thither  forth-right  he  rode  to  rouse  the  prey, 
That,  sliaded  by  the  fern,  in  harbour  lay ; 
And,  thence  dislodg'd,  was  wont  to  leave  the 

wood. 
For  open  fields,  and  cross  the  crystal  flood. 
Approach'd,  and  looking  underneath  the  Sun, 
He  saw  proud  Arcite  and  fierce  Palamon 
In  mortal  battle  doubling  blow  on  blow. 
Like  lightning  flam'd  their  faulchions  to  and 

fro. 
And  shot  a  dreadful  gleam :    so  strong  they 

strook, . 
There  seem'd  less   force  requir'd  to  fell  an 

oak: 
He  gaz'd  with  wonder  on  their  equal  might, 
Look'd  eager  on,  but  knew  not  either  knight : 
Uesolv'd  to  learn,  he  spurr'd  his  fiery  steed 
With  goring  rowels  to  provoke  his  speed. 
The  minute  ended  that  began  the  race. 
So  soon  he  was  betwixt  them  on  the  place  ; 
And  with  his  sword  unsheath'd,  on  pain  of 

Hfe, 
Commands  both  combatants  to   cease  their 

strife ; 
Then  with  imperious  tone  pursues  his  threat : 
"  What  are  you  ?  why  in  arms  together  met  ? 
How   dares  your  pride  presume  against   my 

laws, 
As  in  a  listed  field  to  fight  your  cause  ? 


Unask'd  the  royal  grant ;  no  marshal  by, 
As  knightly  rites  require  ;  nor  judge  to  try  ?" 
Then  Palamon,  with  scarce  recover' d  breath, 
Thus   hasty  spoke :    "  We  both  deserve  the 

death. 
And   both   would   die ;     for   look   the   \\^rld 

around, 
A  pair  so  wretched  is  not  to  be  found : 
Our  life's  a  load  ;  encumber'd  -with  the  charge, 
We  long  to  set  th'  imprison' d  soul  at  large. 
Now,  as  thou  art  a  sovereign  judge,  decree 
The  rightful  doom  of  death  to  him  and  me. 
Let  neither  find  thy  grace,  for  grace  is  cruelty. 
Me  first,  O  kill  me  first,  and  cure  my  woe  : 
Then  sheath  the  sword  of  justice  on  my  foe  : 
Or  kill  him  first ;  for  when  his  name  is  heard. 
He  foremost  will  receive  his  due  reward. 
Arcite  of  Thebes  is  he  ;  thy  mortal  foe  : 
On  whom  thy  grace  did  libei'ty  bestow  ; 
But  first  contracted,  that,  if  ever  found 
By  day  or  night  upon  th'  Athenian  ground. 
His  head  should  pay  the  forfeit ;  see  retiu-n'd 
The   perjur'd   knight,    his   oath    and  honour 

scorn' d ; 
For  this  is  he,  who,  Avith  a  borrow'd  name 
And  proffer' d  ser\ice,  to  thy  palace  came, 
Now  call'd  Philofitratiis  :  retain'd  by  thee, 
A  traitor  trusted,  and  in  high  degree, 
Aspiring  to  the  bed  of  beauteous  Emily. 
My  part  remains  :    from  Thebes  my  birth  I 

own. 
And  call  myself  th'  unhappy  Pala^mon. 
Think  me  not  like  that  man ;    since  no  dis- 
grace 
Can  force  me  to  renounce  the  honour  of  my 

race. 
Know  me  for  what  I  am  :  I  broke  my  chain. 
Nor  promis'd  I  thy  prisoner  to  remain  ; 
The  love  of  liberty  with  life  is  given. 
And  life  itself  th'  inferior  gift  of  heaven. 
Thus  without  crime  I  fled ;  but  farther  know, 
I,  Avith  this  Arcite,'  am  thy  mortal  foe  : 
Then  give  me  death,  since  I  thy  life  pursue  ; 
For  safeguard  of  thyself,  death  is  my  due. 
More   would' st   thou   know?     I   love   bright 

Emily, 
And  for  her  sake  and  in  her  sight  will  die  : 
But  kiU  my  rival  too  ;  foi  he  no  less 
Deserves ;    and   I   thy   righteous   doom   ^nll 

bless, 
Assur'd  that  what  I  lose,  he  never  shall  pos- 
sess." 
To  this  reply' d  the  stern  Athenian  prince, 
And  sourly  smil'd :  "  In  owning  your  offence 
You  judge  yourself  ;  and  I  but  keep  record 
In   place  of    law,    while  you   pronounce  the 

word. 
Take  your  desert,  the  death  you  have  decreed, 
I  seal  your  doom,  and  ratify  the  deed : 
By  Mars,  the  patron  of  my  arms,  you  die." 
He  said  :  dumb  Sorrow  seiz'd  the  standers-by. 
The  queen,  above  the  rest  by  nature  good 
(The  pattern  form'd  of  perfect  womanhood), 
For  tender  pity  wept :  when  she  began. 
Through  the  bright  quire  th'  infectious  virtue 


From  1649  to  16S9.J 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[John  Deyden 


All  dropt  their  tears,  ev'n  the  contended  maid, 
And  thus  among  themselves  they  softly  said  • 
"  What  eyes  can  suffer  this  unworthy  sight ! 
Two  youths  of  royal  blood,  renown' d  in  fight. 
The  mastership  of  Heaven  in  face  and  mind, 
And  lovers,  far  beyond  their  faithless  kind  : 
See  their  wide  streaming  wounds ;  they  neither 

came 
For  iiride  of  empire,  nor  desire  of  fame : 
Kings  for  kingdoms,  madmen  for  applause ; 
But  love  for  love  alone,  that  crowns  the  lover's 

cause." 
This  thought,  which  ever  bribes  the  beauteous 

kind, 
Such  pity  wrought  in  every  lady's  mind, 
They  left  their  steeds,  and  prostrate  on  the 

place, 
From  the  fierce  king,  implor'd  th'  offenders 

grace. 
He  paus'd  awhile,  stood  silent  in  his  mood 
(For  yet  his  rage  was  boihng  in  his  blood) ; 
But  soon  his  tender  mind  th'  impression  felt 
(As  softest  metals  are  not  slow  to  melt 
And  pity  soonest  runs  in  softest  minds) : 
Then   reasons   with    himself ;     and    first   he 

finds 
His  passion  cast  a  mist  before  his  sense, 
And  either  made,  or  magnify' d  th'  offence. 
"  Offence  I    of  what  ?   to  whom  ?  who  judg'd 

the  cause  ? 
The  prisoner  freed  himself  by  Nature's  laws : 
Born  free,  he  sought  his  right :    the  man  ho 

freed 
Was  perjur'd,  but  his  love  excus'd  the  deed." 
Thus   pondering,   he   look'd  under   with   his 

eyes, 
And  saw  the  women's  tears,  and  heard  their 

cries, 
"^Vhich  mov'd  compassion  more  :  he  shook  his 

head, 
And  softly  sighing  to  himself  he  said  : 

"  Curse  on  th'  tmpardoning  i^rince,  whom 

tears  can  draw 
To  no  remorse  ;  who  rules  by  lions'  law  ; 
And  deaf  to  prayers,  by  no  submission  bovr'dj 
Rends  all  alike  ;  the  penitent  and  proud." 
At  this,  with  look  serene,  he  rais'd  his  head ; 
Reason  resum'd  her  place,  and  passion  fled  : 
Then  thus  aloud  he  spoke  :    "  The  power  of 

Lpve, 
In  Earth,   and  seas,    and   air,    and   Heaven 

above. 
Rules,  unresisted,  with  an  awful  nod ; 
By  daily  miracles  declar'd  a  god : 
He  blinds   the  wise,   gives    eye-sight   to  the 

blind; 
And  moulds    and   stamps   anew  the    lover's 

mind. 
Behold  that  Arcite,  and  this  Palamon, 
Freed  from  my  fetters,  and  in  safety  gone, 
What  hinder' d  either  in  their  native  soil 
At  ease  to  reap  the  harvest  of  their  toil ; 
But  Love,  their  lord,  did  otherwise  ordain. 
And  brought  them  in  their  own  despite  again. 
To  suffer  death  deserv'd ;  for  weU  they  know, 
'Tis  in  my  power,  and  I  their  deadly  foe  ; 


The  proverb  holds,  that  to  be  wise  and  love, 
Is  hardly  granted  to  the  gods  above. 
See  how  the  madmen  bleed,  behold  the  gains 
With  which  their  master.  Love,  rewards  their 

pains ; 
For  seven  long  years,  on  duty  every  day, 
Lo  their  obedience,  and  their  monarch's  pay  : 
Yet,  as  in  duty  bound,  they  serve  him  on ; 
And,  ask  the  fools,  they  think  it  wisely  done; 
Nor  ease,  nor  wealth,  nor  life  itself  regard, 
For  'tis  their  maxim,  love  is  love's  reward. 
This  is  not  all :  the  fair  for  whom  they  strove 
Nor  knew  before,  nor  could  suspect  their  love, 
Nor  thought,  when  she  beheld  the  fight  from 

far, 
Her  beauty  was  th'  occasion  of  the  war. 
But  sure  a  general  doom  on  man  is  past. 
And  all  are  fools  and  lovers,  first  or  last : 
This  both  by  others  and  myself  I  know, 
For  I  have  serv'd  their  sovereign  long  ago  ; 
Oft   have   been    caught   within   the   winding 

train 
Of  female  snares,  and  felt  the  lover's  pain, 
And  learn'd  how  far  the  god  can  human  hearts 

constrain. 
To  this  remembrance,  and  the  prayers  of  those 
Who  for  th'  offending  warriors  interpose, 
I  give  their  forfeit  lives,  on  this  accord. 
To  do  me  homage  as  their  sovereign  lord ; 
And  as  my  vassals,  to  their  utmost  might, 
Assist  my  person,  and  assert  my  right." 
This  freely  sworn,  the  knights  their  grace  ob- 
tain'd. 
Then  thus  the  king  his  secret  thoughts  ex- 
plain'd  : 
"  If  wealth,  or  honour,  or  a  royal  race. 
Or  each,  or  all,  may  win  a  lady's  grace. 
Then  either  of  you  knights  may  well  deserve 
A  princess  born ;  and  such  is  she  you  serve  : 
For  Emily  is  sister  to  the  crown, 
And  but  too  well  to  both  her  beauty  known  ; 
But  should  you  combat   till  you  both  v.-ere 

dead. 
Two  lovers  cannot  share  a  single  bed : 
As  therefore  both  are  equal  in  degree, 
The  lot  of  both  be  left  to  Destin3\ 
Now  hear  th'  award,  and  happy  may  it  prove 
To  her,  and  him  who  best  deserves  her  love. 
Depart  from  hence  in  -peace,  and  free  as  air, 
Search  the  wide  world,  and  where  you  please 

repair ; 
But  on  the  day  when  this  returning  Sun 
To  the   same   point   through  every  sign  has 

run, 
Then  each  of  you  liis  hundred  knights  shall 

bring. 
In  royal  lists  to  figlit  before  the  king ; 
And  then  the  knight  whom  Fate  or  happy 

Chance 
Shall  with  his  friends  to  victory  advance. 
And  grace  his  arms  so  far  in  equal  fight, 
From  out  the  bars  to  force  his  opposite, 
Or  kill,  or  make  him  recreant  on  the  plain. 
The  prize  of  valour  and  of  love  shall  gain ; 
The  vanquish'd  party  shall  their  claim  release, 
And  the  long  jars  conclude  in  lasting  peace. 


John  Dbyden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[Fourth  Period. 


The  charge   bo   mine   t'    adorn    the    cnosen 

ground, 
The  theatre  of  war,  for  champions  so  renown' d ; 
And  take  the  patron's  place  of  either  knight, 
With  eyes  impartial  to  behold  the  fight ; 
And  Heaven  of  me  so  judge,  as  I  shall  judge 

aright. 
If  both  are  satisfied  with  this  accord. 
Swear   by   the   laws    of    knighthood    on   my 

sword.  " 
Who  now  but  Palamon  exults  with  joy  ? 
And  ravish' d  Arcite  seems  to  touch  the  sky ; 
The  whole   assembled  troop  was   pleas' d   as 

well. 
Extol  th'  award,  and  on  their  knees  they  fell 
To   bless   the   gracious   king.     The   knights, 

with  leave 
Departing  from  the  place,  his  last  commands 

receive ; 
On  Emily  with  equal  ardour  look, 
And  from  her  eyes  their  inspiration  took  : 
From  thence  to  Thebes'  old  walls  pursue  their 

way, 
Each  to  provide  his  champions  for  the  day. 
It   might  be   deem'd,    on    our    historian's 

part, 
Or  too  much  negligence  or  want  of  art, 
If  he  forgot  the  vast  magnificence 
Of  royal  Theseus,  and  his  large  expense. 
He  first  enclos'd  for  lists  a  level  ground, 
The  whole  circumference  a  mile  around ; 
The  form  was  circular ;  and  all  without 
A  trench  was  sunk,  to  moat  the  place  about. 
Within,  an  amphitheatre  appear' d, 
Eais'd  in  degrees,  to  sixty  paces  rear'd  ; 
That  when  a  man  was  plac'd  in  one  degree, 
Height  was  allow' d  for  him  above  to  see. 
Eastward  was  built  a  gate  of  marble  white  : 
The  like  adorn'd  the  western  opposite. 
A  nobler  object  than  this  fabric  was, 
Eome  never  saw  ;  nor  of  so  vast  a  space  : 
For,   rich   with   spoils  of  many  a  conquer' d 

land, 
AH  arts  and  artists  Theseus  could  command, 
Who  sold  for    hire,    or  wrought   for  better 

fame. 
The  master-painters,  and  the  carvers,  came. 
So  rose  within  the  compass  of  the  year 
An  age's  work,  a  glorious  theatre. 
Then  o'er  its  eastern  gate  was  rais'd,  above, 
A  temple,  sacred  to  the  Queen  of  Love ; 
An  altar  stood  below  ;  on  either  hand 
A  priest  with  roses  crown'd,  who  held  a  myrtle 
wand. 
The  dome  of  Mars  was  on  the  gate  oppos'd. 
And  on  the  north  a  turret  Avas  enclos'd. 
Within  the  wall,  of  alabaster  white, 
And  crmson  coral,  for  the  Queen  of  Night, 
"Who  takes  in  sylvan  sports  her  chaste  delight. 

Within  these  oratories  might  you  see 
Rich  carvings,  portraitures,  and  imagery  : 
Where  every  figure  to  the  life  express' d 
The     godhead's    power    to     whom     it    was 

address' d. 
In  Venus'  temple  on  the  sides  were  seen 
The  broken  slumbers  of  enamour'd  men. 


Prayers,  that  even  spoke,  and  pity  seem'd  to 

call, 
And  issuing  sighs,  that  smok'd  along  the  wall. 
Complaints,  and  hot  desires,  the  lover's  hell. 
And  scalding  tears,  that  wore  a  channel  where 

they  fell ; 
And  all  around  were  nuptial  bonds,  the  ties 
Of  love's  assurance,  and  a  train  of  lies, 

;    That,  made  in  lust,  conclude  in  perji^.ries. 
Beauty,  and  Youth,  and  Wealth,  and  Luxury, 

j   And  sprightly  Hope,  and  short-enduring  Joy  ; 

I   And  sorceries  to  raise  th'  infernal  powers, 

I   And  sigils,  fram'd  in  planetary  hours  • 
Expense,  and  Afterthought,  and  idle  Care, 
And  Doubts  of  motley  hue,  and  dark  Despair ; 
Suspicions,  and  fantastical  Surmise, 
And  Jealousy  suffus'd,  with  jaundice  in  her 

eyes. 
Discolouring  aU  she  view'd,  in  tawny  drcss'd, 
Down-look'd,  and  with  a  cuckoo  on  her  fist. 
Oppos'd  to  her,  on  t'other  side  advance 
The  costly  feast,  the  carol,  and  the  dance. 
Minstrels  and  music,  poetry  and  play. 
And  balls  by  nights,  and  tournaments  by  day. 
All  these   were    painted    on    the   wall,    and 

more. 
With  acts  and  monuments  of  times  before ; 
And  others  added  hj  prophetic  doom, 
And  lovers  yet  unborn,  and  loves  to  come ; 
For  there  th'  Idalian  mount,  end  Citheron, 
The  court  of  Venus,  was  in  colours  drav.'n  ; 

!   Before  the  palace-gate,  in  careless  dress, 

j   And  loose  array,  sat  portress  Idleness ; 

I   There,  by  the  fount.  Narcissus  pin'd  alone ; 
There  Samson  was,  with  wiser  Solomon, 
And  aU  the  mightj^  names  by  love  undone. 

}   Medea's  charms  were  there,  Circean  feasts, 

j   With  bowls  that  turn'd  enamour'd  youth  to 

j  beasts. 

Here  might  be  seen  that  beauty,  wealth,  and 

wit, 
And  prowess,  to  the  power  of  love  submit : 
The  spreading  snare  for  all  mankind  is  laid  : 
And  lovers  all  betray,  and  are  betray' d. 
The    goddess'    self    some     noble    hand    had 

wrought ; 
Smiling    she    seem'd,    and    full    of    pleasing 

thought : 
From  ocean  as  she  first  began  to  rise. 
And  smooth'd  the  ruffled  seas  and  clear'd  the 

skies. 
She  trod  the  brine,  all  bare  below  the  breast, 
And  the   green  waves    but  ill  conceal' d  the 

rest; 
A  lute  she  held,  and  on  her  head  was  seen 
A  wreath  of  roses  red  and  myrtles  green  ; 
Her  turtles  fann'd  the  buxom  air  above, 
And,  by  his  mother,  stood  an  infant  Love, 
With  wings  unfledg'd ;   his  eyes  were  banded 

o'er, 
His  hands  a  bow,  his  back  a  quiver  bore. 
Supply' d   with   arrows   bright    and    keen,    a 

deadly  store. 
But  in  the  dome  of  mighty  Mars  the  red 
With    different    figures    all    the    sides    were 
spread ; 


From  1649  to  1689,] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[John  Dryden. 


This  temple,  less  in  form,  with  equal  grace, 
Was  imitative  of  the  first  in  Thrace  : 
For  that  cold  region  was  the  lov'd  abode. 
And  sovereign  mansion  of  the  warrior  god. 
The  landscape  was  a  forest  wide  and  bare, 
Where  neither  beast,  nor  human  kind  repair ; 
The  fowl,  that  scent  afar,  the  borders  fly, 
And  shun  the  bitter  blast,  and  wheel  about 

the  skj. 
A  cake  of  scurf  lies  baking  on  the  ground. 
And    prickly    stubs,    instead    of    trees,    arc 

found  ; 
Or  woods  with  knots  and  knares  deform'd  and 

old; 
Headless  the  most,  and  hideous  to  behold  : 
A  rattling  tempest  through  the  branches  went, 
That  stripp'd  them  bare,  and  one  sole  way 

they  bent. 
Heaven  froze  above,  severe,  the  clouds  con- 
geal, 
And  through  the  crystal  vault  appear'd  the 

standing  hail. 
Such  was  the  face  without ;  a  mountain  stood 
Tlu"eatening  from  high,   and   overlook'd   the 

wood : 
Beneath  the  lowering  brow,  and  on  a  bent, 
The  temple  stood  of  Mars  armipotent : 
The  frame  of  burnish' d  steel,  that  cast  a  glare 
From  far,  and  seem'd  to  thaw  the   freezing 

air. 
A  straight  long  entry  to  the  temple  led, 
Blind    with    high   walls,    and    Honour  over 

head : 
Thence  issued  such  a  blast,  and  hollow  roar, 
As  threaten' d   from  the   hinge  to  heave  the 

door ; 
In  through  that  door  a  northern  light  there 

shone  ; 
'Twas  all  it  had,  for  windows  there  were  none ; 
The  gate  was  adama,nt,  eternal  frame  ! 
Which,  hew'd  by  Mars  himself,  from  Indian 

quarries  came. 
The  labour  of  a  god  ;  and  all  along 
Tough  iron  plates  were  clench'd  to  make  it 

strong, 
A  tun  about  was  every  pillar  there  ; 
A  pohsh'd  mirror  shone  not  haK  so  clear. 
There  saw  I  how  the  secret  felon  wrought, 
And  Treason  labouring  in  the  traitor's  thought : 
And  midwife  Time  the  ripen' d  plot  to  murder 

brought. 
There  the  red  Anger  dar'd  the  pallid  Fear ; 
'       Next  stood  Hypocrisy,  with  holy  leer, 
Soft  smiling,  and  demurely  looking  down, 
But  hid  the  dagger  underneath  the  gown  : 
Th'  assassinating  wife,  the  household  fiend. 
And,  far  the  blackest  there,  the  traitor-friend. 
On  t'other  side  there  stood  Destruction  bare, 
Unpunished  Rapine,  and  a  waste  of  war. 
Contest,  with  sharpen'd  knives,   in  cloisters 

drawn, 
And  all  Avith  blood  bespread  the  holy  lawn. 
Loud  menaces  were  heard,  and  foul  Disgrace, 
And  bawhng  infamy,  in  language  base  : 
Till  sense  was  lost  in  sound,  and  Silence  fled 

the  place. 


The  slayer  of  himself  yet  saw  I  there, 
The  gore  congeal' d  was  clotted  in  his  hair : 
With  eyes  half  clos'd,    'nd  gaping  mouth  he 

lay, 
And  grim,  as  when  he  breath' d  his  sudden  soul 

away.  —    _ 

In  midst  of  all  the  dolne.  Misfortune  sate. 
And  gloomy  Discontent,  and  fell  Debate, 
And  Madness  laughing  in  his  ireful  mood, 
And  arm'd  complaint  on  Theft,  and  cries  of 

Blood. 
There  was  the  murder' d  corpse,  in  covert  laid. 
And  violent   Death  in  thousand  shapes  dis- 

play'd ; 
The  city  to  the  soldiers'  rage  resign' d ; 
Successless  wars,  and  Poverty  behind ; 
Ships  burnt  in  fight,  or  forc'd  on  rocky  shores. 
And  the  rash  hunter  strangled  by  the  boars  : 
The  new-born  babe  by  nurses  overlaid, 
And  the  cook  caught  within  the  raging  fire  he 

made. 
All  ills  of  Mars's  nature,  flame  and  steel ; 
The  gasping  charioteer,  beneath  the  wheel 
Of  his  own  car  ;   the  ruin'd  house,  that  falls 
And  intercepts  her  lord  betwixt  the  walls ; 
The  whole  division  that  to  Mars  pertains. 
All  trades   of    death,  that  deal   in  steel  for 

gains. 
Were    there :      the    butcher,   armourer,    and 

smith, 
Who    forges    sharpen'd    faulchions,    or   the 

scythe. 
The  scarlet  Conquest  on  a  tower  was  plac'd. 
With    shouts,     and    soldiers'      acclamations 

grac'd : 
A  pointed  sword  hung   threatening  o'er  his 

head, 
Sustain' d  but  by  a  slender  twine  of  thread. 
There  saw  I  Mars's  ides,  the  Capitol, 
The  seer  in  vain  foretelling  Caesar's  fail ; 
The  last  triumvirs,  and  the  wars  they  move. 
And  Antony,  who  lost  the  world  for  love. 
These,  and  a  thousand  more,  the  fane  adorn  ; 
Their  fates  were  painted  ere  the  men  were 

born. 
All  copied  from  the  Heavens,  and  ruling  force 
Of  the  red  star  in  his  revolving  course. 
The  form  of  Mars  high  on  a  chariot  stood. 
All  sheath' d  in  arms,  and  gruffly  look'd  the 

god: 
Two  geomantic  figures  were  display' d 
Above  his  head,  a  warrior  and  a  maid : 
One  when  direct,  and  one  when  retrograde, 

Tir'd  with  deformities  of  death,  I  haste 
To  the  third  temple  of  Diana  chaste. 
A  sylvan  scene  with  -various  greens  was  drawn, 
Shades  on  the  sides,  aixd  on  the  midst  a  lawn : 
The  silver  Cynthia,  with  her  nymphs  around, 
Pursued  the  flying  deer,  the  woods  with  horns 

resound  : 
Calisto  there  stood  manifest  of  shame, 
And,  turn'd  a  bear,  the  northern  star  became  : 
Her  son  was  next,  and,  by  peculiar  grace. 
In  the  cold  circle  held  the  second  place  : 
The  stag  Acteon  in  the  stream  had  spy'd 
The  naked  huntress,  and,  for  seeing,  dy'd  : 

28 


John  Dbtden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[FouKTii  Peeiou. 


His  liounds,  unknowing  of  liis  change,  pursue 
The  chase,  and  their  mistaken  master  slew. 
Peneian  Daphne  too  was  there  to  see, 
Apollo's  love  before,  and  now  his  tree : 
Th'  adjoining  fane  th'  assembled  Greeks  ex- 
press'd, 
And  hunting  of  the  Calydonian  beast. 
Oenides'  valour,  and  his  envy'd  prize  ; 
The  fatal  power  of  Atalanta's  eyes; 
Diana's  vengeance  on  the  victor  shown, 
The  murdress  mother,  and  consuming  son  ; 
The  Volscian  queen  extended  on  the  plain ; 
The  treason  punish'd,  and  the  traitor  slain. 
The  rest  were  various  huntings,  weU  design' d. 
And  savage  beasts  destroy' d,  of  every  kind. 
Tlae  gracefvd  goddess  was  array 'd  in  green  ; 
About  her  feet  were  little  beagles  seen, 
That  watch' d  with  upward  eyes  the  motions 

of  their  queen. 
Her  legs  were  buskin' d,  and  the  left  before 
In  act  to  shoot,  a  silver  bow  she  bore, 
And  at  her  back  a  painted  quiver  wore. 
She  trod  a  wexing  moon,  that   soon  would 

wane, 
And  drinking  borrow' d  light,  be  fiU'd  a^ain  ; 
With  downcast  eyes,  as  seeming  to  survey 
The  dark  dominions,  her  alternate  sway. 
Before  her  stood  a  woman  in  her  throes, 
And  call'd  Lucina's  aid,  her  burden  to  disclose. 
All  these  the  painter  drew  with   such  com- 
mand. 
That   Nature   snatch' d  the   pencil    from  liis 

hand, 
Asham'd  and  angry  that  his  art  could  feign 
And  mend  the  tortures  of  a  mother's  pain. 
Theseus  beheld  the  fanes  of  every  god. 
And  thought  liis   mighty  cost  was  well  be- 
stow'd. 
So  princes  now  their  poets  should  regard  ; 
But  few  can  write,  and  fewer  can  reward. 

The  theatre  thus  rais'd,  the  lists  enclos'd, 
And  all  with  vast  magnificence  dispos'd, 
We  leave  the  monarch  pleas' d,  and  haste  to 

bring 
The  knights  to  combat,   and  their  arms   to 
sing. 


BOOK   HI. 

Tlie   day  approach' d  when  Fortune  should 
decide 
Th'  important  enterprize,  and  give  the  bride  ; 
For  now  the   rivals  round   the    world    had 

sought, 
And  each  his  rival,  well  appointed,  brought. 
The  nations,  far  and  near,  contend  in  choice, 
And  send  the  flower  of  war  by  public  voice  ; 
That  after,  or  before,  were  never  known 
Such  chiefs,  as  each  an  army  seem'd  alone  : 
Beside  the  champions,  all  of  high  degree, 
"VMio  knighthood  lov'd,  and  deeds  of  chivalry, 
Tlirong'd  to  the  lists,  and  envy'd  to  behold 
The  names  of  others,  not  their  own,  enroll' d. 
Nor  seems  it  strange ;  for  every  noble  knight 


Who  loves  the  fair,  and  is  endu'd  with  miglifc, 
In  such  a  quarrel  would  be  proud  to  fight. 
There  breathes  not  scarce  a  man  on  British 

ground 
(An  isle  for  love  and  arms  of  old  renown' d) 
But  would  have  sold  his  life  to  purchase  fame, 
To  Palamon  or  Arcite  sent  his  name  • 
And  had  the  land  selected  of  the  best. 
Half   had   come   hence,    and    let    the    world 

provide  the  rest. 
A  hundred  knights  with  Palamon  there  came. 
Appro v'd  in  fight,  and  men  of  mighty  name  , 
Their   arms  were   several,    as    their    natiouri 

were, 
But  fumish'd  aU  alike  with  sword  and  spear. 
Some  wore  coat  armour,  imitating  scale. 
And  next  their  skins  were  stubborn  shirts  of 

mail; 
Some  wore  a  breast-plate  and  a  light  jnppon, 
Their  horses  cloth'd  with  rich  caparison  ; 
Some    for    defence  would  leathern  bucklers 

use 
Of  folded  hides,  and  others  shields  of  pruce. 
One  hung  a  pole-axe  at  his  saddle-bow. 
And  one  a  heavy  mace  to  shun  the  foe. 
One  for  his  legs  and  knees  provided  weU, 
With  jambeaux  arm'd,  and  double  plates  of 

steel. 
This  on  his  helmet  wore  a  lady's  glove, 
And  that  a  sleeve  embroider'd  by  his  love. 
With  Palamon,  above  the  rest  in  place, 
Lycurgus  came,  the  surly  king  of  Thrace ; 
Black  was  Ins  beard,  and  manly  was  his  face  ;. 
The  balls  of  his  broad  eyes  roll'd  in  his  head, 
And  glar'd  betwixt  a  yellow  and  a  red  : 
He  look'd  a  lion  with  a  gloomy  stare. 
And  o'er  his  eyebrows  hung  his  matted  hair  : 
Big-bon'd,   and  large   of  limbs,  with  sinews 

strong, 
Broad- shoulder' d,  and  liis  arms  were   round 

and  long. 
Four   milkwhite   bulls    (the   Thracian  use  of 

old) 
Were  yok'd  to  draw  his  car  of  burnish' d  gold. 
Upright  he  stood,  and  bore  aloft  his  shield. 
Conspicuous   from   afar,    and  overlook' d  the 

field. 
His  surcoat  was  a  bear-skin  on  his  back  ; 
His  hair  hung  long  behind,  and  glossy  raven 

black. 
His  ample  forehead  bore  a  coronet, 
With   sparkling    diamonds    and  with   rubies 

set; 
Ten  brace,  and  more,  of  grey  hounds,  snowy 

fair. 
And  taU  as  stags,  ran  loose,  and  cours'd  around 

his  chair, 
A  match  for  pards  in  flight,  in  grapUng  for 

the  bear ; 
With   golden  muzzles  all  their  mouths  were 

bound. 
And  collars  of  ^le  same  their  necks  surround. 
Thus  through  the  fields  Lycurgus  took   his 

way: 
His  Imndred  knights  attend  in  pomp  and  proud^ 

arraj-. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


PALAMON  AND  ARCITE. 


[John  Dryden. 


To  matcli  this  monarch,  -with  strong  Arcite 

came 
Emetrius,  king  of  Inde,  a  mighty  name, 
On  a  bay  courser,  goodly  to  behold. 
The   trappings    of    his    horse   adorn' d    with 

barbarous  gold. 
Not  Mars  bestrode  a  steed  with  greater  grace  ; 
His  surcoat  o'er  his  arms  was  cloth  of  Thrace, 
Adorn' d   with   pearls,  aU  orient,  round,  and 

great : 
His  saddle  was  of  gold,  mth  emeralds  set. 
His  shoulders  large  a  mantle  did  attire, 
With  rubies  thick  and  sparkling  as  the  fire  : 
His  amber-colour'd  locks  in  ringlets  run, 
With  graceful  negligence,  and  shone  against 

the  Sun ; 
His  nose  was  aquiline,  his  eyes  were  blue, 
Ruddy  his  lips,  and  fresh  and  fair  his  hue  : 
Some  sprinkled  freckles  on  hia  face  were  seen. 
Whose    dusk   set   off  the  whiteness    of    the 

skin: 
His  awful  presence  did  the  crowd  surprise. 
Nor  durst  the  rash  spectator  meet  his  eyes, 
Eyes  that  confess'd  him  born  for  kingly  sway, 
So  fierce  they  flash' d  intolerable  day. 
His  age  in  Nature's  youthful  prime  appear' d, 
And  just  began  to  bloom  his  yeUow  beard. 
Whene'er  he    spoke,   hia    voice    was    heaid 

around, 
Loud  as  a  trumpet,  with  a  gdlyer  sound  : 
A  laurel  wreath' d  his  temples,  fresh  and  green; 
And  myrtle  sprigs,  the  marks  of  love,  were 

mix'd  between. 
Upon  his  fist  he  bore,  for  his  delight. 
An  eagle  well  reclaim' d,  and  hly  white. 

His  liundred  knights  attend  him  to  the  war, 
AU  arm'd  for  battle  j   save  their  heads  were 

bare. 
Words  and  devices  blaz'd  on  every  shield. 
And  pleasing  was  the  terror  of  the  field. 
For  kings,  and  dukes,  and  barons  you  might 

Like  sparkling  stars,  though  different  in  de- 
gree, 

All  for    th'    increase   of   arms,    and   love  of 
chivalry. 

Before  the  king  tame  leopards  led  the  way. 

And  troops  of  Uons  innocently  play. 

So    Bacchus    through    the    conquer'd  Indies 
rode. 

And   beasts    in    gambols   frisk'd   before  the 
honest  god. 
In  this  array  the  war  of  either  side 

Through  Athens  pass'd  with  military  pride. 

At  prime,  they  enter' d  on  the  Sunday  mom  ; 

Rich  tapestry  spread  the  streets,  and  flowers 
the  posts  adorn. 

The  town  was  all  a  jubilee  of  feasts ; 

So  Theseus  will'd,  in  honour  of  his  guests  ; 

Himself  with  open  arms  the  king  embrac'd. 

Then  all  the  rest  in  their  degrees  were  grac'd. 

No  harbinger  was  needful  for  a  night. 

For  every  house  was  proud  to  lodge  a  knight. 
I  pass  the  royal  treat,  nor  must  relate 

The  gifts  bestow' d,  nor  how  the  champions 
sate : 


Who  first,  or  last,  or  how  the   knights  ad- 
dress'd 
Their  vows,  or  who  was  fairest  at  the  feast ; 
"Wliose  voice,  whose  graceful  dance,  did  most 

surprise ; 
Soft  amorous  sighs,  and  silent  loye  of  eyes. 
Tlie  rivals  call  my  Muse  another  way^    ~ 
To  sing  their  vigils  for  th'  ensuing  day. 
'Twas  ebbing  darkness,  past  the  noon  of  night, 
And  Phosphor,  on  the  confines  of  the  light, 
Promis'd  the  Sun,  ere  day  began  to  spring ; 
The  tuneful  lark  already  stretch' d  her  vfing, 
And,  flickering  on  her  nest,  made  short  essays 

to  sing : 
Wlien  wakeful  Palamon,  preventing  day, 
Took  to  the  royal  lists  his  early  way. 
To  Venus  at  her  fane,  in  her  own  house,  to 

pray. 
There,  falling  on  his  knees  before  her  shrine. 
He    thus    implor'd    with  prayers  her  power 

divine. 
"  Creator  Venus,  genial  power  of  love. 
The  bhss  of  men  below  and  gods  above  ! 
Beneath  the  sliding  Sun  thou  runn'st  thy  race, 
Dost  fairest  shine,  and  best  become  thy  place. 
For  thee  the  winds  their  eastern  blasts  for- 
bear, 
Thy  month  reveals  the  spring,  and  opens  all 

the  year. 
Thee,  Goddess,  thee  the  storms  of  winter  fly. 
Earth  smiles  with  flowers  renewing,  laughs  the 

sky. 
And  birds  to  lays  of  love  their  tuneful  notes 

apply. 
For  thee  the  Hon  loaths  the  taste  of  blood, 
And  roaring   hunts  his  female   through   the 

wood : 
For  thee  the  bulls  rebellow  through  the  groves, 
And  tempt  the  stream,  and  snuff  their  absen 

loves. 
'Tis  thine,  whate'er  is  pleasant,  good,  or  fair : 
All  nature  is  thy  province,  life  thy  care  : 
Thou  mad'st  the  world,  and  dost  the  world 

repair. 
Thou  gladder  of  the  mount  of  Cy^bheron, 
Increase  of  Jove,  compardon  of  the  Sun  ; 
If  e'er  Adonis  touch'd  thy  tender  heart, 
Have    pity,   goddess,   for    thou   know'st  the 

smart. 
Alas !  I  have  not  words  to  tell  my  grief ; 
To  vent  my  sorrow  would  be  some  relief ; 
Light  sufferings  give  us  leisure  to  complain  ; 
We  groan,  but  cannot  speak,  in  greater  pain. 
O  goddess,  tell  thyself  what  I  would  say. 
Thou  know'st  it,  and  I  feel  too  much  to  pray. 
So  grant  my  suit,  as  I  enforce  my  might. 
In  love  to  be  thy  champion  and  thy  knight ; 
A  servant  to  thy  sex,  a  slave  to  thee, 
A  foe  profest  to  barren  chastity. 
Nor  ask  I  fame  or  honour  of  the  field, 
Nor  choose  I  more  to  vanquish  than  to  yield ; 
In  my  divine  Emiha  make  me  blest. 
Let  fate,  or  partial  Chance,  dispose  the  rest  • 
Find  thou  the  manner,   and  the  means  pre- 
pare. 
Possession,  more  than  conquest,  is  my  care. 

28* 


John  Dryden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Mars  is  the  warrior's  god ;  in  him  it  hes, 

On  whom  he  favours  to  confer  the  prize ; 

With  smiling  aspect  you  serenely  move 

In  your  fifth  orb,  and  rule  the  realm  of  love. 

The  Fates  but  only  spin  the  coarser  clue, 

The  finest  of  the  wool  is  left  for  you. 

Spare  me  but  one  small  portion  of  the  twine, 

And  let  the  sisters  cut  below  your  line  : 

The  rest  among  the  rubbish  may  they  sweep, 

Or  add  it  to  the  yarn  of  some  old  miser's  heap. 

But,  if  you  this  ambitious  prayer  deny 

(A  wish,  I  grant,  beyond  mortality), 

Then  let  me  sink  beneath  proud  Arcite's  arms, 

And  I,  once  dead,  let  him  possess  her  charms." 

Thus  ended  he ;  then,  with  observance  due, 

The  sacred  incense  on  her  altar  threw : 

The   curling  smoke  mounts   heavy  from  the 

fires  ; 
At  length  it  catches  flame,  and  in  a  blaze  ex- 
pires ; 
At  once  the  gracious  goddess  gave  the  sign, 
Her  statue  shook,  and  trembled  all  the  shrine : 
Pleas'd  Palamon  the  tardy  omen  took, 
For,    since    the   flames   pursu'd  the  trailing 


He  knew  his  boon  was  granted ;  but  the  day 
To  distance  driven,  and  joy  adjourn' d  with 

long  delay. 
Now  Morn  with  rosy  light  had  streak'd  the 

sky. 
Up  rose  the  Sun,  and  up  rose  Emily ; 
Address'd  her  early  steps  to  Cynthia's  fane. 
In  state  attended  by  her  maiden  train, 
Who  bore  the  vests  that  holy  rites  require. 
Incense,  and  odorous  gums,  and  cover'd  fire. 
The  plenteous  horns  with  pleasant  mead  they 

crown. 
Nor  wanted  aught  besides  in  honour  of  the 

Moon. 
Now  while  the  temple  smok'd  with  hallow' d 

steam, 
They  wash  the  virgin  in  a  hving  stream  : 
The  secret  ceremonies  I  conceal, 
Uncouth,  perhaps  unlawful,  to  reveal ; 
But  such  they  were  as  pagan  use  requir'd, 
Perform' d  by  women  when  the  men  retir'd. 
Whose  eyes  profane  their  chaste  mysterious 

rites 
Might  turn  to  scandal,  or  obscene  delights. 
WeU-meaners  think  no  harm  ;  but  for  the  rest. 
Things  sacred  they  pervert,  and  silence  is  the 

best. 
Her  shining  hair,  uncomb'd,  was  loosely  spread, 
A  crown  of  mastless  oak  adorn' d  her  head : 
WTien,  to  the  shrine  approach'd,  the  spotless 

maid 
Had  kindling  fires  on  either  altar  laid 
(The  rites  were  such  as  were  observ'd  of  old, 
By  Statins  in  his  Theban  story  told), 
Then  kneeling  with  her    hands    across    her 

breast, 
Thus  lowly  she  preferr'd  her  chaste  request : 
"O    goddess,    haunter    of    the    woodland 

green, 
To  whom  both  Heaven  and  Earth  and  Seas 

are  seen. 


Queen  of   the  nether   skies,    where   half  the 

year 
Thy  silver  beams  descend  and  light  the  gloomy 

sphere ; 
Goddess  of  maids,  and  conscious  of  our  hearts. 
So  keep  me  from  the  vengeance  of  thy  darts, 
Which  Niobe's  devoted  issue  felt, 
When  hissing  through  the  skies  the  feather'd 

deaths  were  dealt. 
As  I  desire  to  live  a  virgin  life. 
Nor  know  the  name  of  mother  or  of  wife. 
Thy  votress  from  my  tender  years  I  am. 
And   love,  like  thee,  the   woods   and  sylvan 


Like  death,  thou  know'st,  I  loathe  the  nuptial 

state. 
And  man,  the  tyrant  of  our  sex,  I  hate, 
A  lowly  servant,  but  a  lofty  mate. 
Where  love  is  duty  on  the  female  side, 
On  theirs  mere  sensual  gust,  and  sought  with 

surly  pride. 
Now  by  thy  triple  shape,  as  thou  art  seen 
In  Heaven,  Earth,   Hell,   and   everywhere  a 

queen, 
Grant  this  my  first  desire  : — ^let  discord  cease, 
And  make  betwixt  the  rivals  lasting  peace  ; 
Quench  their  hot  fire,  or  far  from  me  remove 
The  flame,  and  turn  it  on  some  other  love  ; 
Or,  if  my  frowning  stars  have  so  decreed, 
That  one  must  be  rejected,  one  succeed, 
Make    him   my  lord,   within    whose   faithful 

breast 
Is  fix'd  my  image,  and  who  loves  me  best. 
But,  oh!  ev'n  that  avert !  I  choose  it  not, 
But  take  it  as  the  least  unhappy  lot. 
A  maid  I  am,  and  of  thy  virgin  train  ; 
Oh  !   let  me  still  that  spotless  name  retain  ! 
Frequent  the  forests,  thy  chaste  wiU  obey, 
And    only    make    the    beasts    of    chase    my 

prey." 
The  flames  ascend  on  either  altar  clear. 
While  thus  the  blameless  maid  address'd  her 

prayer. 
I   When,  lo !    the   burning   fire   that    shone    so 

bright 
Flew  ofi',  all  sudden,  with  extinguish' d  light , 
And  left  one  altar  dark  a  little  space. 
Which  turn'd  seK-kindled,   and  renew'd  the 

blaze ; 
The  other  victor-flame  a  moment  stood, 
Then   fell,  and  lifeless  left   th'    extinguish' d 

wood  ; 
For  ever  lost,  th'  irrevocable  light 
Forsook  the  blackening  coals,  and   sunk   to 

night : 
At  either  end  it  whistled  as  it  flew, 
And  as  the  brands  were  green,  so  di'opp'd  the 

dew. 
Infected  as  it  fell  with  sweat  of  sanguine  hue. 
The  maid  from  that  ill   omen   turn'd  her 

eyes, 
And  with  loud  shrieks  and  clamours  rent  the 


Nor  knew  what  signified  the  boding  sign, 
But  found  the  powers  displeas'd,  and  fear'd 
the  wrath  divine. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[John  Dryden. 


Then  shook  the  sacred  shrine,  and  sudden 

Hght 
Sprang  through  the  vaulted  roof,  and  made 

the  temple  bright. 
The  power  behold !  the  power  in  glory  shone. 
By  her  bent  bow  and  her  keen  arrows  known; 
The  rest,  a  huntress  issuing  from  the  wood, 
Eeclining  on  her  cornel  spear  she  stood. 
Then    gracious   thus   began :     "  Dismiss  thy 

fear, 
And   Heaven's    unchang'd   decrees   attentive 

hear : 
More  powerful  gods  have  torn  thee  from  my 

side. 
Unwilling  to  resign,  and  doom'd  a  bride ; 
The    two    contending    knights    are    weigh'd 

above ; 
One  Mars   protects,    and   one   the   queen  of 

love; 
But  wliich  the  man,   is   in  the   Thunderer's 

breast ; 
This  he  pronounc'd,  'tis  he   who  loves  thee 

best. 
The  fire  that  once  extinct  reviv'd  again, 
Foreshows  the  love  allotted  to  remain. 
Farewell!"    she  said,  and  vanish' d  from  the 

place ; 
The  sheaf  of  arrows  shook  and  rattled  in  the 

case. 
Aghast  at  this  the  royal  virgin  stood 
Disclaim'd,  and  now  no  more  a  sister  of  the 

wood ; 
But  to  the  parting  goddess  thus  she  pray'd  : 
"  Propitious  still  be  present  to  my  aid, 
Nor  quite  abandon  your  once  favour'd  maid." 
Then  sighing  she  retum'd;    but   smil'd  be- 
twixt, 
With  hopes,  and  fears,  and  joys,  with  sorrows 

mixt. 
The  next  returning  planetary  hour 
Of  Mars,  who  shar'd  the  heptarchy  of  power. 
His  steps  bold  Arcite  to  the  temple  bent, 
T'   adore  with  pagan  rites  the   power  armi- 

potent ; 
Then  prostrate,  low  before  his  altar  lay, 
And  rais'd  his  manly  voice,  and  thus  began  to 

pray: 
"  Strong  god    of    arms,   whose   iron   sceptre 

sways 
The  freezing  north  and  Hyperborean  seas. 
And   Scythian   colds,     and   Thracia's   winter 

ooast. 
Where  stand  thy  steeds,  and  thou  art  honour 'd 

most : 
There   most,    but    every^vhere   thy  power  is 

known, 
The  fortune  of  the  fight  is  aU  thy  own ; 
Terror  is  thine,  and  ■wild  amazement,  flung 
From  out  thy  chariot,  withers  ev'n  the  strong; 
And  disarray  and  shameful  rout  ensue, 
And  force  is  added  to  the  fainting  crew. 
Acknowledg'd  as  thou  art,  accept  my  prayer. 
If  aught  I  have  achiev'd  deserve  thy  care  ; 
If  to  my  utmost  power  with  sword  and  shield 
I  dar'd  the  death,  unknowing  how  to  yield, 
And,  falling  in  my  rank,  still  kept  the  field  : 


Then  let  my  arms  prevail,  by  thee  sustain' d. 
That  Emily  by  conquest  may  be  gain'd. 
Have  pity  on  my  pains  ;  nor  those  unknown 
To  Mars,  which,  when  a  lover,  vrere  his  own, 
Venus,  the  public  care  of  all  above. 
Thy  stubborn  heart  has  softened  into  love  : 
Now    by    her    blandishments    and-  powerful 

charms. 
When  yielded  she  lay  curling  in  thy  arms, 
Ev'n  by  thy  shame,  if  shame  it  may  be  eall'd. 
When  Vulftan  had  thee  in  his  net  enthrall' d  : 
O  envy'd  ignominy,  sweet  disgrace. 
When  every  God  that  saw  thee   wish'd  thy 

place ! 
By  those  dear  pleasures  aid  my  arms  in  fight. 
And  make  me  conquer  in  my  patron's  right : 
For  I  am  young,  a  novice  in  the  trade. 
The  fool  of  love,  unpractis'd  to  persuade, 
And  want  the  soothing  arts  that  catch  the 

fair. 
But,    caught  myself,   lie    struggling    in  the 

snare  ; 
And  she  I  love,  or  laughs  at  all  my  pain. 
Or  knows  her  worth  too  well,  and  pays  me 

with  disdain. 
For  sure  I  am,  unless  I  win  in  arms, 
To  stand  excluded  from  Emiha's  charms  : 
Nor  can  my  strength  avail  unless  by  thee 
Endued  by  force  I  gain  the  victory ; 
Then  for  the  fire  which  warm'd  thy  gen' reus 

heart. 
Pity  thy  subject's  pains  and  equal  smart. 
So  be  the  morrow's  sweat  and  labour  mine. 
The  palm  and  honour  of  the  conquest  thine  : 
Then  shall  the  war,  and   stern  debate,  and 

strife 
Immortal,  be  the  business  of  my  life ; 
And  in  thy  fane,  the  dusty  spoils  among. 
High  on  the  burnish' d  roof  my  banner  shrJl 

be  hung, 
Rank'd    with    my  champion's  bucklers,   and 

below, 
With  arms  revers'd,  th'   achievements  of  my 

foe; 
And  while  these  limbs  the  vital  spirit  feods^ 
While  day  to  night  and  night  to  day  succeeds, 
Thy  smoking  altar  shall  be  fat  with  food 
Of  incense,  and  the  grateful  steam  of  blood  ; 
Burnt-offerings    morn   and   evening   shall  be 

thine, 
And  fires  eternal  in  thy  temple  shine. 
The  bush  of  yellow  beard,  this  length  of  hair. 
Which  from  my  birth  inviolate  I  bear, 
Guiltless  of  steel,  and  from  the  razor  free. 
Shall  fall  a  plenteous  crop,  reserv'd  for  thee. 
So  may  my  arms  with  victory  be  blest, 
I  ask  no  more  ;  let  Fate  dispose  the  rest." 
The  champion  ceas'd ;  there  follow' d  in  the 
close 
A  hollow  groan,  a  murmuring  wind  arose  ; 
The  rings   of    iron,  that  on   the  doors  were 

hung 
Sent  out  a  jarring  sound,  and  harshly  rung ; 
The  bolted  gates  flew  open  at  the  blast. 
The    storm    rushed     in,     and    Arcite    stood 
aghast ; 


John  Drtden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[Fourth  Period. 


The  flames  were  blown  aside,  yet  shone  they 

bright, 
Fann'd  by  the  wind,  and  gave  a  ruffled  Hght. 
Then  from  the  ground  a  scent  began  to  rise, 
Sweet-smelling  as  accepted  sacrifice  : 
This  omen  pleas'd,  and  as  the  flames  aspire 
With  odorous  incense  Arcito  heaj^s  the  fire : 
Nor    wanted    hymns    to   Mars,     or    heathen 

charms  ; 
At  length  the  nodding  statue  clash'd  his  arms, 
And  with  a  sullen  sound  and  feeble  cry 
Half  sunk,  and  half  pronounc'd,  the  word  of 

victory. 
For  this,  with  soul  devout,  he  thank'd  the 

god, 
And,  of  success  secure,  return'd  to  his  abode. 
These  vows,  thus  granted,  raised  a  strife 

above. 
Betwixt  the  god  of  war,  and  queen  of  love. 
She,    granting    first,    had  right   of    time  to 

plead : 
But  he  had  granted  too,  nor  would  recede. 
Jove  was  for  Venus  ;  but  he  fear'd  his  Avife, 
And  seem'd  unwilling  to  decide  the  strife  : 
Till  Saturn  from  his  leaden  throne  arose, 
And  found  a  way  the  difference  to  compose. 
Though   sparing   of    his   grace,    to    mischief 

bent. 
He  seldom  does  a  good  with  good  intent. 
Wajrward,  but  wise,  by  long  experience  taught 
To  please  both  parties,  for  ill  ends  he  sought ; 
For  this  advantage  age  from  youth  has  won, 
As  not  to  be  outridden,  though  outrun. 
By  Fortune  he  was  now  to  Venus  trin'd, 
And  with  stern  Mars  in  Capricorn  was  join'd ; 
Of  him  disposing  in  his  own  abode. 
He  sooth'd  the  goddess  while  he  -gull'd  the 

god: 
"  Cease,  daughter,  to  complain,  and  stint  the 

strife, 
Thy  Palamon  shall  have  his  promis'd  wife  ; 
And  Mars,  the  lord  of  conquest,  in  the  fight 
"With  palm  and  laurel  shall  adorn  his  knight. 
Wide  is  my  course,  nor  turn  I  to  my  place. 
Till  length  of  time,   and    move   with  tardy 

pace. 
Man  feels  me  when  I  press  th'  etherial  plains, 
My  hand  is  heavy  and  the  wound  remains. 
Inline  is  the  shipwreck  in  a  watery  sign, 
And  in  an  earthy,  the  dark  dungeon  mine. 
Cold,  shivering  agues,  melancholy  care, 
And  bitter,  blasting  winds,  and  poison'd  air. 
Are   mine,  and  wilful  death,  resulting  from 

despair. 
The  throtling  quinsey  'tis  my  star  appoints. 
And  rheumatisms  ascend  to  rack  the  joints  ; 
"When  churls  rebel  against  their  native  prince, 
I  arm  their  hands,  and  furnish  the  pretence ; 
And,  housing  in  the  lion's  hateful  sign. 
Bought    senates    and    deserting    troops    are 

mine. 
Mine  is  the  privy  poisoning ;  I  command 
Unkiiidly  seasons  and  ungrateful  land. 
By  me  kings'  palaces  are  push'd  to  ground, 
And  miners  crush'd  beneath  their  mines  are 

found. 


'Twas  I  slew  Samson  when  the  pillar' d  hall 
Fell  down,  and  crush'd  the  many  with  the 

fall. 
My  looking  is  the  fire  of  pestilence. 
That    sweeps    at    once    the    people   and  the 

prince. 
Now  weep  no  more,  but  trust  thy  graudsire's 
art, 
j   Mars  shall  be  pleas' d,  and  thou  perform  thy 
I  part. 

,    'Tis   ill,   though   different    your   complexions 
j  are, 

I    The  family  of  Heaven  for  men  should  war." 
I    Th'  expedient  pleas' d  where  neither  lost  his 

right, 
I    Mars  had  the  day,  and  Venus  had  the  night. 
The  management  they  left  to  Chronos'  care  ; 
I   Now  turn  we  to  th'  effect,  and  shig  the  war. 
j        In  Athens   all   was   pleasure,    mirth,   and 
i  play. 

All  proper  to  the  spring  and  sprightly  May, 
Which  every  soul  inspir'd  with  such  delight, 
'Twas  jesting  all  the  da}"-,  and  love  at  night. 
Heaven  smil'd,  and  gladded  was  the  heart  of 

man ; 
And  Venus  had  the    world  as  when  it  first 

began. 
At  length  in  sleep  their  bodies  they  compose, 
And  dreamt  the  future  fight,  and  early  rose. 
Now   scarce    the    dawning   day  began    to 
spring, 
As  at  a  signal  given  the  streets  with  clamours 

ring: 
At  once  the  crowd  arose ;  confus'd  and  high 
Ev'n  from  the  Heaven  was  heard  a  shouting 

cry; 
For  Mars  was  early  up,  and  rous'd  the  sky. 
The  gods    came    downward   to    behold   the 

wars. 
Sharpening  their  sights  and  leaning  from  their 

stars. 
The    neighing    of   the    generous    horse    was 

heard. 
For  battle  by  the  busy  groom  prepar'd ; 
Bustling  of  harness,  rattUng  of  the  shield, 
Clattering  of  armour,  furbish' d  for  the  field. 
Crowds  to  the  castle  mounted  up  the  street, 
Battering  the  pavement  with  their  coursers' 

feet; 
The  greedy  sight  might  there  devour  the  gold 
Of  glittering  arms,  too  dazzling  to  behold  ; 
And  polish' d  steel  that  cast  the  view  aside, 
And  crested  morions,  with  their  plumy  pride. 
Knights,  with  a  long  retinue  of  their  squires, 
In  gaudy  liveries  march,  and  quaint  attires. 
One  lac'd  the  helm,  another  held  the  lance, 
A  third  the  shining  buckler  did  advance. 
The  courser  paw'd  the  ground  with  restless 

feet, 
And  snorting  foam'd,  and  champ' d  the  golden 

bit. 
The  smiths  and  armourers  on  paKreys  xide, 
Files  in  their  hands,  and  hammers  at  their 

side. 
And  nails  for  loosen' d  spears,  and  thongs  for 
shields  provide. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[John  Urycen. 


The   3'-eomcn    guard    the    streets    in    seemly 

bands, 
And  clowns  come  crovrding  on,  with  cudgels 

in  their  hands. 
The    trumpets,    next    the     gate    in    order 

plac'd, 
Attend  the  sign  to  sound  the  martial  blast ; 
The  palace-yard  is  fill'd  with  floating  tides, 
And  the  last  comers  bear  the  former  to  the 

sides. 
The  throng  is  in  the  midst ;  the  common  crew 
Shut  out,  the  hall  admits  the  better  few  ; 
In  knots  they  stand,  or  in  a  raaik  they  walk, 
Serious  in  aspect,  earnest  in  their  talk, 
Factious,  and  favouring  this  or  t'  other  side. 
As  their  strong  fancy  or  weak  reason  guide ; 
Their   wagers   back  their   wishes ;     numbers 

hold 
"With  the  fair  freckled  king  and  beard  of  gold; 
So   vigorous   arc   his   eyes,     such   rays  they 

cast, 
So  prominent  his  eagle's  beak  is  plac'd. 
}>ut  most  their  looks  on  the  black  monarch 

bend,     •  - 
Kis  rising  muscles  and  his  brawii  commend ; 
His  double-biting  axe  and  beaming  spear, 
Each  asking  a  gigantic  force  to  rear. 
-\11  spoke  as  partial  favour  mov'd  the  mind. 
And,  safe  themselves,  at  others'  cost  divin'd. 
Wak'd   by  the    cries,    th'    Athenian   chief 

arose. 
The  knightly  forms  of  combat  to  dispose ; 
And  passing  through  th'  obsequious  guards,  he 

sate 
Conspicuous  on  a  throne,  sublime  in  state  ; 
There  for  the  two  contending  knights  he  sent : 
Arm'd   cap-a-pee,    with  reverence    low    the}' 

bent; 
He  smil'd  on  both,  and  with  superior  look, 
Alike  their  offer' d  adoration  took. 
The  people  press  on  every  side  to  see 
Their  awfid  prince,  and  hear  his  high  decree. 
Then,  signing  to  their  heralds  with  his  hand. 
They  gave  his  orders  from  their  lofty  stand. 
Silence  is  thrice  enjoin' d ;  then  thus  aloud 
The  king-at-arms  bespeaks   the   knights  and 

listening  crowd  : 
"  Our  sovereign  lord  has   ponder' d   in  his 

mind 
The  means  to  spare  the  blood  of  gentle  kind  ; 
And  of  his  grace  and  inborn  clemency, 
He  modifies  his  first  severe  decree. 
The  keener  edge  of  battle  to  rebate, 
The  troops  for  honoiu*  fighting,  not  for  hate. 
He  wills  not    death   should   terminate   their 

strife. 
And  wounds,    if  wounds  ensue,  be  short  of 

life; 
But  issues,  ore  the  fight,  his  dread  command, 
That  slings  afar,  and  poinards  hand  to  hand, 
Be  banish' d  from  the  field ;    that  none  shall 

dare 
With  shortened  sword  to  stab  in  closer  war  ; 
But  in  fair  combat  fight  with  manly  strength, 
Nor  push  v.ith  biting    point,    but   strike   at 

length. 


The  tourney  is  allow' d  but  one  career. 

Of    the    tough    ash   with    the   sharp-grinded 

spear ; 
But  knights  unhors'd  may  rise  from  off  the 

plain, 
And  fight  on  foot  their  honour  to  regain ; 
Nor,  it  at  mischief  taken,  on  the  ground 
Be  slain,  but  prisoners  to  the  pillar  bound, 
At  either  barrier  plac'd  ;  nor  (captives  made) 
Be  freed,  or  arm'd  anew  the  fight  invade. 
The  chief  of  either  side,  bereft  of  life. 
Or  yielded  to  liis  foe,  concludes  the  strife. 
Thus  dooms  the  lord:   now  vahant  knights 

and  young 
Fight   each   his  fill  with  swords  and  maces 

long." 
The  herald  ends.    The  vaulted  firmament 
"With   loud   acclaims   and   vast    applause    is 

rent: 
"  Heaven  guard  a  prince  so  gracious  and  so 

_  good, 
So  just,  and  yet  so  provident  of  blood !" 
This   was   the   general    cry.     The    trumpets 

sound, 
And  warlike  symphony  is  heard  around, 
The   marching  troops   through  Athens   take 

their  way, 
The  great  earl-marshal  orders  their  array. 
The  fair  from  high  the   passing  pomp  be- 
hold; 
A  rain  of  flowers  is  from  the  windows  roll'd. 
The  casements  are  mth  golden  tissue  spread. 
And  horses'  hoofs,  for  earth,  on  silken  tapestry 

tread ; 
The  king  goes  midmost,  and  the  rivals  ride 
In  equal  rank,  and  close  his  either  side. 
Next  after  these,  there  rode  the  royal  ^vife, 
With   Emily,   the   cause  and  the  reward  of 

strife. 
The  following  cavalcade,  by  three  and  three. 
Proceed  by  titles  mar  shall' d  in  degree. 
Thus   through  the   southern   gate  they  take 

their  way, 
And  at  the  List  arriv'd  ere  prime  of  day. 
There,    parting   from    the    king,    the   chiefs 

divide, 
And,  wheeKng  east    and   west,    before   their 

many  ride. 
Th'  Athenian  monarch  mounts  his  throne  on 

high. 
And  after  him  the  queen  and  Emily : 
Next  these   the    kindred   of    the   crown   arc 

grac'd 
With  nearer  seats,  and  lords  by  ladies  plac'd. 
Scarce  were  they  seated,  when,  with  clamours 

loud, 
In  rushed  at  once  a  rude,  promiscuous  crowd ; 
The  guards,  and  then  each  other,  overbear, 
And  in  a  moment  throng  the  spacious  theatre. 
Now  chang'd  the  jarring  noise  to  whispers 

low. 
As  winds  forsa,king  seas  more  softly  blow ; 
When  at  the  Avesterrv  gate,  on  which  the  car 
Is  plac'd  aloft  that  bears  the  god  of  war, 
Proud  Arcito  entering  arm'd  before  his  train, 
Stops  at  the  barrier,  and  divides  the  plain. 


John  Detden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Eed  was  his  banner,  and  display' d  abroad 
The  bloody  colours  of  his  patron  god. 

At  that  self  moment  enters  Palamon 
The  gate  of  Venus  and  the  rising  sun ; 
Wav'd  by  the  wanton  winds  his  banner  flies, 
All  maiden   white,    and   shares  the   people's 

eyes. 
From  east  to  west,  look  all  the  world  around, 
Two  troops   so   match' d    were   never   to  be 

found ; 
Such  bodies  built  for  strength,  of  equal  age, 
In  stature  siz'd  ;  so  proud  an  equipage  ; 
The  nicest  eye  could  no  distinction  make, 
"Where  lay  th'   advantage,  or   what   side   to 

take. 
Thus  rang'd,  the  herald  for  the  last  pro- 
claims 
A  silence  while  they  answer' d  to  their  names; 
For  so  the  king  decreed,  to  shun  the  care, 
The  fraud  of  musters  false,  the  common  bane 

of  war. 
The  tale  was  just,  and  then  the  gates  were 

clos'd. 
And  chief  to  chief,  and  troop  to  troop  op- 

pos'd. 
The  heralds  last  retir'd,  and  loudly  cry'd, 
The  fortune  of  the  field  be  fairly  try'd. 
At  this,  the  challenger  with  fierce  defy 
His  trumpet  sounds;    the  challeng'd  makes 

reply : 
With  clangor  rings  the    field,   resounds  the 

vaulted  sky. 
Their  vizors  closed,  their  lances  in  the  rest. 
Or  at  the  helmet  pointed,  or  the  crest ; 
They  vanish  from  the  barrier,  speed  the  race. 
And,  spurring,  see  decrease  the  middle  space. 
A  cloud  of  smoke  envelops  either  host. 
And  all  at  once  the  combatants  are  lost . 
Darkling  they  join  adverse,   and   shock  un- 
seen. 
Coursers   with   coursers  justling,   men  with 

men  ; 
As,  labouring  in  eclipse,  awhile  they  stay. 
Till  the  next  blast  of  wind  restores  the  day. 
They  look  anew  :   the  beauteous  form  of  fight 
Is  chang'd,  and  war  appears,  a  g^^izly  sight. 
Two  troops  in  fair  array  one  moment  show'd, 
The  next,  a  field  with  fallen  bodies  strow'd  : 
Not  half  the  number  in  their  seats  are  found; 
But    men   and   steeds  lie   groveling    on  the 

ground. 
The  points   of   spears  are  stuck  within  the 

shield, 
The   steeds   without  their    riders    scour  the 

field. 
The  knights  unhors'd,    on    foot    renew   the 

fight ; 
The  glittering    faulchions    cast    a    gleaming 

light; 
Hauberks  and  helms  are  hew'd  Tvith  many  a 

wound. 
Out  spins  the  streaming  blood,  and  dyes  the 

ground. 
The  mighty  maces  with  such  haste  descend, 
They  break  the  bones,   and  make  the  solid 

armour  bend. 


This  thrusts  amid  the    throng  with  furious 

force  ; 
Down   goes   at   once   the  horseman  and  the 

horse  ; 
That  courser  stumbles  on  the  fallen  steed, 
And,   floundering,  throws  the   rider  o'er  his 

head. 
One  rolls  along,  a  foot-baU  to  his  foes  ; 
One  with  a  broken  truncheon  deals  his  blows. 
This  halting,  this  disabled  with  his  wound, 
In  triumph  led,  is  to  the  pill^ir  bound ; 
Where,  by  the  king's  award,  he  must  abide, 
There  goes  a  captive  led  on  t'  other  side. 
By  flts  they  cease ;  and,  leaning  on  the  lance, 
Take  breath  awhile,   and  to   new   fight  ad- 
vance. 
Full  oft  the  rivals  met,  and  neither  spar'd 
His  utmost  force,  and  each  forgot  to  ward. 
The  head  of  this  was  to  the  saddle  bent, 
The  other  backward  to  the  crupper  sent : 
Both  were  by  turns  unhors'd;     the  jealous 

blows 
Fall  thick  and  heavy,  when  on  foot  they  close. 
So    deep    their    faulchions    bite    that    every 

stroke 
Pierc'd  to  the  quick,  and  equal  wounds  thoy 

gave  and  took. 
Borne  far  asunder  by  the  tides  of  men, 
Like  adamant  and  steel  they  meet  again. 

So  when  a  tiger  sucks  the  bullock's  blood, 
A  famish'd  lion,  issuing  from  the  wood, 
Eoars  lordly  fierce,  and  challenges  the  food  : 
Each  claims  possession,  neither  will  obey. 
But  both  their  paws  are  fasten' d  on  the  prey; 
They  bite,  they  tear,  and  while  in  vain  they 

strive, 
The  swains  come  arm'd  between,  and  both  to 

distance  drive. 
At   length,    as  Fate   foredoom'd,    and   all 

things  tend 
By  course  of  time  to  their  appointed  end : 
So  when  the  Sun  to  west  was  far  declin'd. 
And  both  afresh  in  mortal  battle  join'd, 
The  strong  Emetrius  came  in  Arcite's  aid. 
And  Palamon  with  odds  was  overlaid  : 
For,    turning   short,    he   struck  with  all  his 

might 
Full  on  the  helmet  of  th'  unwary  knight. 
Deep  was  the  wound ;  he  stagger' d  with  the 

blow, 
And  turn'd  him  to  his  unexpected  foe  ; 
Whom  with  such  force  he  struck,  ho   fell'd 

him  down, 
And  cleft  the  circle  of  his  golden  crown. 
But  Arcite's  men,  who  now  prevail' d  in  fight. 
Twice  ten  at  once  surround  the  single  knight : 
O'erpower'd,  at  length,  they  force  him  to  the 

ground, 
Unyielded  as  he  was,  and  to  the  pillar  bound  ; 
And  king  Lycurgus,  while  he  fought  in  vain 
His  friend  to  free,  was  tumbled  on  the  plain. 
Who  now  laments  but  Palamon,  compeU'd 
No  more  to  try  the  fortune  of  the  field  ! 
And,  worse  than  death,  to  view  with  hateful 

eyes 
His  rival's  conquest,  and  renounce  the  prize ! 


From  1649  fo  1689.] 


PALAMON  AND  ARCITE. 


[John  Dryden. 


Tlie  royal  judge  on  his  tribunal  plac'd, 
"Who  had  beheld  the  fight  from  first  to  last, 
Bad  cease  the  war ;  pronouncing  from  on  high, 
Arcite  of  Thebes  had  won  the  beauteous  Ennly. 
The  sound  of  trumpets  to  the  voice  reply' d. 
And  roimd  the  royal  lists  the  heralds  cry'd, 
' '  Arcite   of  Thebes  has  won  the  beauteous 

bride." 
The     people     rend    the    skies    with    vast 

applause ; 
All  own  the  chief,  when  Fortune  owns  the  cause. 
Arcite  is  own'd  ev'n  by  the  gods  above, 
And  conquering  Mars  insults  the  queen  of  love. 
So  laugh' d  he,  when  the  rightful  Titan  fail'd, 
And  Jove's  usurping  arms  in  Heaven  prevail' d ; 
Laugh' d  aU  the  powers  who  favour  tyranny  ; 
And  all  the  standing  army  of  the  sky. 
But  Venus  with  dejected  eyes  appears, 
And,  weeping,  on  the  lists  distill' d  her  tears  ; 
Her  will  refus'd,  which  gTieves  a  woman  most, 
And,    in   her  champion  foil'd,    the   cause   of 

Love  is  lost. 
Till  Saturn  said,  "  Fair  daughter,  now  be  stiU, 
The  blustering  fool  has  satisfy 'd  his  will ; 
His  boon  is  given  ;  his  knight  has  gain'd  the 

day, 
But  lost  the  prize,  th'  arrears  are  yet  to  pay. 
Thy  hour  is  come,  and  mine  the  care  shall  be 
To   please  thy  knight,  and  set  thy  promise 

free." 
Now  while  the  heralds  run  the  lists  around, 
And    Arcite,    Arcite,    Heaven    and    Earth 

resound ; 
A  miracle  (nor  less  it  could  be  call'd) 
Their  joy  with  unexpected  sorrow  pall'd. 
The  victor  knight  had  laid  his  helm  aside. 
Part  for  his  ease,  the  greater  part  for  pride  : 
Bare-headed,  popularly  low  he  bow'd, 
And  paid  the  salutations  of  the  crowd. 
Then,  spurring  at  full  speed,  ran  endlong  on 
Where  Theseus  sate  on  his  imperial  throne ; 
Furious  he  drove,  and  upward  cast  his  eye. 
Where  next  the  queen  was  plac'd  his  Emily; 
Then  passing  to  the  saddle-bow  he  bent : 
A  sweet  regard  the  gracious  virgin  lent 
(For  women,  to  the  brave  an  easy  prey, 
Still  follow  Fortune  where  she  leads  the  way)  : 
Just  then,  from  earth  sprung  out  a  flashing 

fire. 
By  Pluto  sent,  at  Saturn's  bad  desire  : 
The   startling  steed  was  seiz'd  with  sudden 

fright. 
And   bounding,    o'er    the    pummel   cast    the 

knight : 
Forward  he  flew,  and,  pitching  on  his  head. 
He  quiver'd  with  his  feet,  and  lay  for  dead. 
Black  was  his  count'nance  in  a  little  space. 
For  all  the  blood  was  gather' d  in  his  face. 
Help  was  at  hand  :  they  rear'd  him  from  the 

ground, 
And    from    his    cumbrous    arms    his    limbs 

unbound ; 
Then   lanc'd   a  vein,  and  watch'd  returning 

breath  ; 
It  came,  but  clogg'd  with  symptoms  of  his 

death. 


I   The  saddle-bow  the  noble  parts  had  prest* 
I  All  bruis'd  and  mortify'd  his  manly  breast. 
j   Him  still  entranc'd  and  in  a  litter  laid, 
j   They  bore  from  field  and  to  his  bed  convey' d. 
I  At  leng-th  he  wak'd,  and,  with  a  feeble  cry, 
I   The  word  he  first  pronounc'd  was  Emily. 

Meantime  the   king,    though  inwardly   he 

mourn'd,  ~ 

In  pomp  triumphant  to  the  town  return' d. 
Attended  by  the  chiefs  who  fought  the  field 
(Now  friendly  mix'd,  and  in  one  troop  com- 

pell'd). 
Compos'd  his  looks  to 'counterfeited  cheer. 
And  bade  them  not  for  Arcite' s  life  to  fear. 
But  that  which  gladded  all  the  warrior-train, 
Though  most  were  sorely  wounded,  none  were 

slain. 
The  surgeons  soon    despoil' d   them  of  their 

arms. 
And  some  with  salves  they  cure,  and  some 

with  charms  ; 
Foment  the  bruises,  and  the  pains  assuage. 
And  heal  their  inward  hurts  with  sovereign 

draughts  of  sage. 
The  king  in  person  visits  all  around, 
Comforts  the  sick,  congratulates  the  sound ; 
Honours  the  princely  chiefs,  rewards  the  rest. 
And  holds  for  thrice  three  days  a  royal  feast. 
None  was  disgrac'd ;  for  falling  is  no  shame. 
And  cowardice  alone  is  loss  of  fame. 
The   venturous    knight  is   from    the    saddle 

thrown ; 
But  'tis  the  fault  of  fortune,  not  his  own. 
If    crowds   and   palms   the    conquering   side 

adorn, 
The  victor  under  better  stars  was  born  : 
The  brave  man  seeks  not  popular  applause, 
Nor,    overpower' d    with    arms,    deserts    his 

cause ; 
Unsham'd,  though  foil'd,  he  does  the  best  he 

can : 
Force  is  of  brutes,  but  honour  is  of  man. 
Thus  Theseus  smU'd  on  all  with  equal  grace ; 
And  each  was  set  according  to  his  place. 
With  ease  were  reconcil'd  the  differing  parts. 
For  envy  never  dwells  in  noble  hearts. 
At  length  they  took  their  leave,  the  time  ex- 

pir'd, 
Well   pleas' d,    and    to    their   several  homes 

retir'd. 
Meanwhile  the   health  of  Arcite   still  im- 
pairs ; 
From  bad  proceeds  to  worse,  and  mocks  the 

leeches'  cares ; 
Swoln  is  his  breast,  his  inward  pains  increase; 
All  means  are  us'd,  and  all  without  success. 
The  clotted  blood  lies  heavy  on  his  heart. 
Corrupts,  and  there  remains  in  spite  of  art  : 
Nor  breathing  veins,  nor  cupping,  will  pre- 
vail ; 
All  outward  remedies  and  inward  fail ; 
The  mold  of  Nature's  fabric  is  destroy' d. 
Her  vessels  discompos'd,  her  virtue  void  ; 
The  bellows  of  his  lungs  begin  to  swell, 
All  out  of  frame  is  every  secret  cell, 
Nor  can  the  good  receive,  nor  bad  expel. 


John  Dryden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


FFouRTH  Period. — 


Those  breathing  organs,  thus  within  opprest, 
With  venom  soon  distend  the  sinews  of  his 

breast. 
Nought  profits  him  to  save  abandon' d  life, 
Nor  vomit's  upward  aid,  nor  downward  laxa- 
tive. 
The  midmost  region  batter' d  and  destroy' d. 
When  Nature  cannot  Avork,  th'  effect  of  art  is 

void. 
For  physic  can  but  mend  our  crazy  state, 
Patch  an  old  building,  not  a  new  create. 
Arcite  is  doom'd  to  die  in  all  his  pride, 
Must  leave  his  youth,  and  yield  his  beauteous 

bride, 
Gain'd  hardly,  against  right,  and  unenjoy'd. 
When  'twas  declar'd  all  hope  of  life  was  past. 
Conscience  (that  of  all  physic  works  the  last) 
Cans' d  him  to  send  for  Emily  in  haste. 
With  her,  at  his  desire,  came  Palamon : 
Then,  on  his  pillow  rais'd,  he  thus  begun  : 
"  No  language  can  express  the  smallest  part 
Of  what  I  feel  and  suffer  in  my  heart, 
For  you,  whom  best  I  love  and  value  most. 
But  to  your  service  I  bequeath  my  ghost ; 
Which,  from  this  mortal  body  when  unty'd. 
Unseen,  unheard,  shall  hover  at  your  side,  | 

Nor  fright  you  waking,  nor  your  sleep  offend. 
But  wait  officious,  and  your  steps  attend : 
How  I  have  lov'd,  excuse  my  faltering  tongue, 
My  spirits  feeble  and  my  pains  are  strong  : 
This  I  may  say,  I  only  grieve  to  die 
Because  I  lose  my  charming  Emily  : 
To   die,   when   Heaven   had  put  you  in  my 

power, 
Fate  could  not  choose  a  more  malicious  hour ! 
What  greater   curse  could   envious   Fortune 

give, 
Than  just  to  die  when  I  began  to  live  ! 
Vain  men  ;  how  vanishing  a  bliss  we  crave ; 
Now   warm  in  love,    now  withering  in  the 

grave. 
Never — O  never  more  to  see  the  Sun ; 
Still  dark,  in  a  damp  vault,  and  still  alone  ! 
This  fate  is  common ;  but  I  lose  my  breath 
Near  bliss,   and  yefc  not  bless' d  before   my 

death. 
Farewell !  but  take  me  dying  in  your  arms, 
'Tis  all  I  can  enjoj^  of  all  your  charms  : 
This  hand  I  cannot  but  in  death  resign  ; 
Ah,  could  I  live  !  but  while  I  live  'tis  mine. 
I  feel  my  end  approach,  and,  thus  embrac'd. 
Am  pleas'd  to  die ;    but  hear  me  speak  my 

last. 
Ah !  my  sweet  foe,  for  you,  and  you  alone, 
I  broke  my  faith  with  injur'd  Palamon. 
But  Love  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong  con- 
founds ; 
Strong  Love   and  proud  Ambition  have   no 

bounds. 
And  much  I  doubt,   should  Heaven  my  life 

prolong, 
I  should  retruTi  to  justify  my  wrong : 
For.  while  my  former  flames  remain  within, 
Repentance  is  but  want  of  power  to  sin. 
With  mortal  hatred  I  pursu'd  his  life, 
Nor  he,  nor  you,  were  guilty  of  the  strife  : 


Nor  I,  but  as  I  lov'd ;  yet  aU  combin'd. 
Your  beauty,  and  my  impotence  of  mind. 
And  his  concurrent  flame,  that  blew  my  fire  ; 
For  still  our  kindred  souls  had  one  desire. 
He  had  a  moment's  right  in  point  of  time ; 
Had  I  seen  first,  then  his  had  been  the  crime. 
Fate  made  it  mine,  and  justify'd  his  right, 
Nor  holds  this  Earth  a  more  deserving  knight. 
For  virtue,  valour,  and  for  noble  blood, 
Truth,  honour,  all  that  is  compris'd  in  good  ; 
So  help  me  Heaven,  in  all  the  world  is  none 
So  worthy  to  be  lov'd  as  Palamon. 
He  loves  you  too,  with  such  an  holy  fire, 
As  will  not,  cannot  but  with  life  expire : 
Our  vow'd  affections  both  have  often  try'd. 
Nor  any  love  but  yours  could  ours  divide. 
Then,  by  my  love's  inviolable  band, 
By  my  long  suffering,  and  my  short  command. 
If  e'er  you  plight  your  vows  when  I  am  gone, 
Have  pity  on  the  faithful  Palamon." 

This   was   his   last ;    for   Death   came   on 

amain, 
And  exercis'd  below  his  iron  reign  ; 
Then  upward  to  the  seat  of  fife  he  goes  : 
Sense  fled  before  him,   what  he   touch'd  he 

froze  : 
Yet  could  he  not  his  closing  eyes  withdraw, 
Though  less  and  less  of  Emily  he  saw ; 
So,  speechless,  for  a  little  space  he  lay, 
Then  grasp' d  the  hand  he  held,  and  sigh'd  his 

soul  away. 
But  whither  went  his  soul  let  such  relate 
Who  search  the  secrets  of  the  future  state  : 
Divines  can  say  but  what  themselves  believe, 
Strong  proofs  they  have,  but  not  demonstra- 
tive: 
For,  were  all  plain,  then  all  sides  must  agree, 
And  faith  itself  be  lost  in  certainty. 
To  live  uprightly  then  is  sure  the  best, 
To  save  ourselves,  and  not  to  damn  the  rest. 
The  soul  of  Arcite  went  where  heathens  go, 
Wlio  better  live  than  we,  though  less  they 

know. 
In  Palamon  a  manly  grief  appears ; 
Silent  he  wept,  asham'd  to  show  his  tears. 
Emilia  shriek'd  but  once,  and  then,  oppress'd 
,  "^Yith  sorrow,  sunk  upon  her  lover's  breast : 
Till  Theseus  in  his  arms  convey'd  with  care, 
Far  from  so  sad  a  sight  the  swooning  fair. 
'Twere  loss  of  time  her  sorrow  to  relate ; 
111  bears  the  sex  a  youthful  lover's  fate, 
V^Tien  just  approaching  to  the  nuptial  state  : 
But,  like  a  low -hung  cloud,  it  rains  so  fast. 
That  all  at  once  it  falls,  and  cannot  last. 
The  face  of  things  is  chang'd,  and  Athens  now. 
That  laugh'd  so  late,  becomes  the  scene  of  woe : 
Matrons  and  maids,  both  sexes,  every  state, 
With  tears  lament  the  knight's  untimely  fate. 
Nor  greater  grief  in  falling  Troy  was  seen 
For  Hector's  death  ;  but  Hector  was  not  then. 
Old  men  with  dust  deform'd  their  hoary  hair. 
The  women  beat  their  breasts,  their  cheeks 

they  tare. 
"  Why  would' st  thou  go,"  with  one  consent 

they  cry, 
"  When  thou  had'st  gold  enough,  and  Emily?" 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


PALAMON  AKD  AECITE. 


[John  Drtden. 


Theseus  himself,  who  should  have  cheer'd 

the  grief 
Of  others,  wanted  now  the  same  relief. 
Old  Egeus  only  could  re\'ive  liis  son, 
"VVho  various  changes  of  the  world  had  Icnown. 
And  strange  vicissitudes  of  human  fate, 
Still  altering,  never  in  a  steady  state  ; 
Good  after  ill,  and  after  pain  delight ; 
Alternate  like  the  scenes  of  day  and  night  : 
"  Since  every  man  who  lives  is  bom  to  die, 
And  none  can  boast  sincere  felicity. 
With  equal  mind  what  happens  let  ns  bear. 
Nor  joy  nor  grieve  too  much  for  things  beyond 

our  care. 
Like  pilgrims  to  th'  appointed  place  we  tend  ; 
The  world's  an  inn,  and  death  the  journey's 

end. 
Ev'n  kings  but  play  ;   and  when  their  part  is 

done, 
Some    other,    worse    or   better,    mount    the 

throne." 
With  words  like  these  the  crowd  was  satisfy' d. 
And  so  they  would  have  been  had  Theseus 

dy'd. 
But  he,  their  king,  was  labouring  in  his  mind, 
A  fitting  place  for  funeral  pomps  to  find, 
"Which  were  in  honour  of  the  dead  design' d. 
And,  after  long  debate,  at  last  he  found 
(As   Love   itself    had    mark'd    the    spot    of 

ground) 
That  grove  for  ever  green,  that   conscious 

land, 
Wliere  he  vnth.  Palamon  fought  hand  to  hand  : 
That  where  he  fed  his  amorous  desires 
With   soft   complaints,    and  felt  his  hottest 

fires. 
There  other  flames  might  waste  his  earthly 

part. 
And  burn  his  limbs  where  love  had  burn'd  his 

heart. 
This  once  resolv'd,  the  peasants  were  en- 
join'd 
Sore- wood,  and  firs,  and  dodder'd  oaks  to  find. 
AVith  sounding  axes  to  the  grove  they  go, 
Fell,  split,  and  lay  the  fuel  on  a  row, 
Vulcanian  food :  a  bier  is  next  prepar'd. 
On  which  the  lifeless  body  should  be  rear'd, 
Cover'd  with  cloth  of  gold,  on  which  was  laid 
The  corpse  of  Arcite,  in  like  robes  array'd. 
White  gloves  were  on  his  hands,  and  on  liis 

head 
A  wreath  of  laurel,  mix'd  with  myrtle  spread. 
A  sword  keen-edg'd  within  his  right  he  held, 
Tlie  warlike  emblem  of  the  conquer' d  field  : 
Bare  was  his  manly  visage  on  the  bier  : 
Menac'd    his    countenance ;     ev'n    in    death 

severe. 
Then  to  the  palace-hall  they  bore  the  knight, 
To  lie  in  solemn  state,  a  public  sight. 
Groans,  cries,  and  bowlings  fill  the  crowded 

place,    . 
And  unaffected  sorrow  sat  on  every  face. 
Sad  Palamon  above  the  rest  appears, 
In  sable  garments,  dew'd  with  gushing  tears  : 
His  auburn  locks  on  either  shoulder  flow'd, 
Which  to  the  funeral  of  his  friend  he  vow'd  : 


But  Emily,  as  chief,  was  next  his  side, 
A  virgin-widow,  and  a  mourning  bride. 
And,  that  the  princely  obsequies  might  be 
Perform'd  according  to  his  high  degree. 
The  steed,  that  bore  him  living  to  the  fight. 
Was  trapp'd  with  polish'd  steel,  all  shining 

bright,  —  — 

And    cover'd    with  th'  achievements  of   the 

knight. 
The  riders  rode  abreast,  and  one  his  shield, 
His  lance  of  cornel- wood  another  held ; 
The  third  his  bow,  and,  glorious  to  behold, 
The  costly  quiver,  all  of  burnish'd  gold. 
The  noblest  of  the  Grecians  next  appear. 
And,  weeping,   on   their  shoulders  bore   the 

bier ; 
With   sober   pace  they  mareh'd,   and    often 

staid. 
And   through   the   master- street  the   corpse 

convey' d. 
The  houses  to  their  tops  with  black  were  spread. 
And  ev'n  the  pavements  were  with  mourning 

hid. 
The  right  side  of  the  pall  old  Egeus  kept. 
And  on  the  left  the  royal  Theseus  wept ; 
Each  bore  a  golden  bowl,  of  work  divine, 
With  honey  fill'd,  and  milk,  and  mix'd  with 

ruddy  wine. 
Then  Palamon,  the  kinsman  of  the  slain 
And  after  him  appear' d  the  illustrious  train, 
To  grace  the  pomp,  came  Emily  the  bright 
With  cover'd  fire,  the  funeral  pile  to  light. 
With  high  devotion  was  the  service  made, 
And  all  the  rites  of  pagan-honour  paid  : 
So  lofty  was  the  pile,  a  Parthian  bow. 
With  vigour  drawn,   must   send   the    shaft 

below. 
The  bottom  was  full  twenty  fathom  broad, 
With  crackling  straw  beneath  in  due  proportion 

strow'd. 
The  fabric  seem'd  a  wood  of  rising  green, 
With  sulphur  and  bitumen  cast  between. 
To  feed  the  flames  :   the  trees  were  unctuous 

fir, 
And  mountain  ash,  the  mother  of  the  spear  ; 
The  mourner  yew  and  builder  oak  were  there  : 
The  beech,  the  swimming  alder,  and  the  plane. 
Hard  box,  and  linden  of  a  softer  grain, 
And  laurels,  which  the  gods  for  conquering 

chiefs  ordain. 
How  they  were  rank'd,  shall  rest  untold  by 

me; 
With  nameless  nymphs   that   iiv'd  in  every 

tree ; 
Nor  how  the  Dryads,  or  the  woodland  train, 
Disherited,  ran  howling  o'er  the  plain : 
Nor  how  the  birds  to  foreign  seats  repair'd. 
Or  beasts,  that  bolted  out,  and  saw  the  forest 

bar'd- 
Nor  how  the  ground,  now  clear'd,  with  ghastly 

fright 
Beheld  the  sudden  Sun,  a  stranger  to  the  light. 

The  straw,  as  first  I  said,  was  laid  below : 
Of  chips  and  sere- wood  was  the  second  row  ; 
The  third  of  greens,  and  timber  newly  fell'd 
The  fourth  high  stage  the  fragrant  odours  held. 


John  Dryden.] 


PALAMON  AND  AECITE. 


rFOUKTH  PeEIOD. 


And   pearls,  and  precious   stones,    and   rich 

array, 
In  midst  of  which,  embahn'd,  the  body  lay. 
The  service  sung,  the  maid  with   mourning 

eyes 
The    stubble    fir'd ;   the   smouldering   flames 

arise ; 
This  office  done,  she  sunk  upon  the  ground  ; 
Put   what    she    spoke,   recover'd    from   her 

swoon, 
I  want  the  wit  in  moving  words  to  dress  ; 
Put  by  themselves  the  tender  sex  may  guess. 
While  the  devouring  fire  was  burning  fast, 
Eich  jewels  in  the  flame  the  wealthy  cast ; 
And  some  their  shields,  and  some  their  lances 

threw, 
And  gave  their  warrior's  ghost,  a  warrior's 

due. 
Full  bowls  of  wine,  of  honey,  milk,  and  blood, 
Were  pour'd  upon  the  pile  of  burning  wood. 
And  hissing  flames  receive,  and  hungry  lick 

the  food. 
Then    thrice    the    mounted    squadrons    rido 

around 
The    fire,    and    Arcite's    name    they    thrice 

resound ; 
Hail,  and  farewell,  they  shouted  thrice  amain, 
Thrice   facing   to  the   left,   and   thrice   they 

turn'd  again  ; 
Still  as  they  turn'd,  they  beat  their  clattering 

shields  ; 
The  women  mix  their  cries  ;  and  Clamour  fiUs 

the  fields, 
The  warlike  wakes  continued  all  the  night, 
And  funeral  games  were  played  at  new  return- 
ing light, 
"Who,  naked,  wrestled  best,  besmear' d  with 

oil, 
Or  who  with  gauntlets  gave  or  took  the  foil, 
I  will  not  tell  you,  nor  would  you  attend  ; 
Put  briefly  haste  to  my  long  story's  end. 
I    pass   the    rest  :     the    year   was    fully 

mourn' d, 
And  Palamon  long  since  to  Thebes  return' d  : 
"When,  by  the  Grecians'  general  consent. 
At  Athens  Theseus  held  his  parliament : 
Among  the  laws  that  pass'd,  it  was  decreed, 
That  conquer' d  Thebes  from  bondage  should 

be  freed ; 
Reserving  homage  to  th'  Athenian  throne, 
To  which  the  sovereign  summon' d  Palamon. 
Unknowing  of  the  cause,  he  took  his  way. 
Mournful  in  mind,  and  still  in  black  array. 
The  monarch  mounts  the  throne,  and,  plac'd 

on  high. 
Commands    into    the    court    the    beauteous 

Emily  ; 
So  call'd,  she  came  ;  the  senate  rose,  and  paid 
Pecoming  reverence  to  the  royal  maid. 
And  first  soft  whispers  through  th'  assembly 

went : 
With  silent  wonder   then   they  watch' d  th' 

event : 
All  hush'd,  the  king  arose  with  awful  grace, 
Deep  thought  was  in  his  breast,  and  counsel  in 

his  face. 


At  length,  he  sigh'd ;   and,  having  first  pre- 

par'd 
Th'  attentive  audience,  thus  his  will  deelar'd. 
"  The  Cause  and  Spring  of  Motion,  from 

above. 
Hung  down  on  Earth  the  golden  chain  of  love : 
Great  was  th'  efi'ect,  and  high  was  his  intent. 
When  peace  among  the  jarring  seeds  he  sent. 
Fire,  flood,  and  earth,  and  air,  by  this  were 

bound, 
And  love,  the  common  Hnk,  the  now  creation 

crown' d. 
The  chain  still  holds ;  for,  though  the  forms 


Eternal  matter  never  wears  away : 

The    same   first   Mover  certain    bounds   has 

plac'd. 
How  long  those  perishable  forms  shall  last : 
Nor  can  they  last  beyond  the  time  assign' d 
Py  that  all-seeing  and  all-making  Mind  : 
Shorten  their  hours  they  may;  for  will  is  free; 
Put  never  pass  th'  appointed  destiny. 
So  men  oppress'd,  when  weary  of  their  breath, 
Throw  off  the  burden,  and  suborn  their  death. 
Then,  since  those  forms  begin,  and  have  their 

end, 
On  some  unalter'd  course  they  sure  depend : 
Parts   of  the   whole   are   we ;    but   God  the 

whole : 
Who  gives  us  life  and  animating  soul : 
For  nature  cannot  from  a  part  derive 
That  being,  which  the  whole  can  only  give  : 
He  perfect,  stable  ;  but  imperfect  we. 
Subject  to  change,  and  different  in  degree ; 
Plants,  beasts,  and  man ;  and,  as  our  organs 

are. 
We  more  or  less  of  his  perfection  share. 
Put  by  a  long  descent,  th'  etherial  fire 
Corrupts  ;  and  forms,  the  mortal  part  expire 
As  he  withdraws  his  virtue,  so  they  pass, 
And  the  same  matter  makes  another  mass  ; 
This  law  th'  Omniscient  power  was  pleas*  d  to 

give, 
That  every  kind  should  by  succession  live  ! 
That  individuals  die,  his  will  ordains. 
The  propagated  species  stiU  remains. 
The  monarch  oak,  the  patriarch  of  the  trees, 
Shoots  rising  up,  and  spreads  by  slow  degrees ; 
Three  centuries  he  grows,  and  three  he  stays 
Supreme  in  state,  and  in  three  more  decays  ; 
So  wears  the  paving  pebble  in  the  street, 
And  towns   and  towers   their  fatal   period-! 

meet ; 
So  rivers,  rapid  once,  now  naked  lie, 
Forsaken  of   their  springs ;   and  leave  their 

channels  dry. 
So  man,  at  first  a  drop,  dilates  with  heat, 
Then,  form'd,  the  httle  heart  begins  to  beat ; 
Secret  he  feeds,  unknowing  in  the  cell ; 
At  length,  for  hatching  ripe,  he   breaks  the 

sheU, 
And  struggles  into  breath,  and  cries  for  aid ; 
Then,  helpless,  in  his  mother's  lap  is  laid. 
He  creeps,  he  walks,  and,  issuing  into  man, 
Grudges   their    life,    from   whence   his    own 

began : 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


MAC-FLECKNOE. 


[John  Dryden. 


Eeckless  of  laws,  affects  to  rule  alone, 
Anxious  to  reign,  and  restless  on  the  throne  : 
First  vegetive,  then  feels,  and  reasons  last ; 
Eich   of   three  souls„  and  lives   all  three  to 

waste. 
Some  thus ;  but  thousands  more  in  flower  of 

age: 
For  few  arrive  to  run  the  latter  stage. 
Sunk  in  the  first,  in  battle  some  are  slain, 
And   others    whelm' d    beneath    the    stormy 

main. 
What  makes  all  this,  but  Jupiter  the  king", 
At    whose     command    we    perish,    and     we 

spring  ? 
Then  'tis  our  best,  since  thus  ordain'd  to  die. 
To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 
Take  what  he  gives,  since  to  rebel  is  vain ; 
The  bad  grows  better,  which  we  well  sustain ; 
And  could  we  choose   the  time,  and  choose 

aright, 
'Tis  best  to  die,  our  honour  at  the  height. 
When  we  have  done  our  ancestors  no  shame, 
But  serv'd  our  friends,  and  well  secm-'d  our 

fame ; 
Then. should  we  wish  our  happy  life  to  close, 
And  leave  no  more  for  Fortune  to  dispose : 
So  should  we  make  our  death  a  glad  relief 
From  future  shame,  from  sickness,  and  from 

_  grief: 
Enjoying  while  we  live  the  present  hour, 
And  dying  in  our  excellence  and  flower, 
Then  round  our  death-bed  every  friend  should 

run, 
And  joyous  of  cur  conquest  early  won  : 
While  the  malicious  world  with  envious  tears 
Should    grudge   our  happy  end,  and   wish  it 

theirs. 
Since  then  our  Arcitc  is  with  honour  dead. 
Why  should   we  mourn,  that  he   so   soon  is 

freed. 
Or  call  untimely  what  the  gods  decreed  ? 
With  grief  as  just,  a  friend  may  he  deplor'd, 
From  a  foul  prison  to  free  air  restor'd. 
Ought  he  to  thank  his  kinsman  or  his  wife, 
Could  tears  recall  him  into  wretched  life  ? 
Their    sorrow  hurt   themselves  5     on   him  is 

lost; 
And,   worse    than    both,    offends   his   happy 

ghost. 
What  then  remains,  but,  after  past  annoy, 
To  take  the  good  vicissitude  of  joy  ? 
To  thank  the   gracious  gods  for  what   they 

give, 
Possess  our  souls,  and,  while  we  live,  to  live  ? 
Ordain  we  then  two  sorrows  to  combine. 
And  in  one  point  th'  extremes  of  grief  to  join ; 
That  thence  resulting  joy  may  be  renew'd, 
As  jarring  notes  in  harmony  conclude. 
Then  I  propose  that  Palamon  shall  be 
In  marriage  joined  with  beauteous  Emily ; 
For  which  already  I  have  gain'd  th'  assent 
Of  my  free  people  in  full  parliament. 
Long    love   to    her   has    borne    the    faithful 

knight. 
And   well   deserv'd,   had   Fortune  done   him 

right : 


'Tis  time  to  mend  her  fault ;  since  Emily 
By  Arcite's  death  from  former  vows  is  free 
If  you,  fair  sister,  ratify  th'  accord. 
And  take   him   for   your   husband  and   your 

lord, 
'Tis  no  dishonour  to  confer  your  grace 

On  one  descended  from  a  royal  race  :  "~- 

And  were  he  less,  yet  years  of  service  past 
From  grateful  souls  exact  reward  at  last : 
Pity  is  Heaven's  and  yours ;  nor  can  she  find 
A  throne  so  soft  as  in  a  woman's  mind." 
He  said:  she  blush'd;    and,  as  o'eraw'd  by 

might, 
Seem'd    to  give  Theseus  what   she  gave  the 

knight. 
Then  turning  to  the  Theban  thus  he  said  : 
"  Small  arguments  are  needful  to  persuade 
Your  temper  to  comply  Avith  my  command ;  " 
And  speaking  thus,  he  gave  Emilia's  hand. 
Smil'd  Venus,  to  behold  her  own  true  knight 
Obtain  the  conquest,  though  he  lost  the  fight ; 
And   bless' d    with  nuptial    bliss    the    sweet 

laborious  night. 
Eros,  and  Anteros,  on  either  side, 
One  fir'd  the  bridegroom,  and  one  warm'd  the 

bride ; 
And  long- attending  Hymen,  from  above. 
Shower' d  on  the  bed  the  whole  Idalian  grove. 
All  of  a  tenour  was  their  after-life, 
No  day  discolour'd  with  domestic  strife ; 
No  jealousy,  but  mutual  truth  believ'd, 
Secure  repose,  and  kindness  undeceiv'd. 
Thus   Heaven,   beyond   the   compass   of   his 

thoiTght, 
Sent  him  the  blessing  he  so  dearly  bought. 

So  may  the  queen  of  love  long  duty  bless, 
And  aU  true  lovers  find  the  same  success. 

John  Dryden.—Born  1631,  Died  1700. 


660.— MAC-FLECKNOE. 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay  ; 
And,    when   Fate  summons,  monarchs  must 

obey. 
This   Flecknoe   found,   who,    Hke    Augustus, 

young 
Was  call'd  to  empire,  and  had  govern' d  long; 
In    prose    and    verse    was    own'd,    without 

dispute, 
Through  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense,  absolute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace. 
And  blest  mth  issue  of  a  large  increase, 
Worn  out  with  bus'ness,  did  at  length  debate 
To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state ; 
And  pond' ring  which  of  all  his  sons  was  fit 
To  reign,  and  wage  immortal  war  with  Wit, 
Cried,  'Tis  resolved ;  for  Nature  pleads,  thafc 

he 
Should  only  rule  who  most  resembles  me. 
ShadweU,  alone,  my  perfect  image  bears, 
Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years  : 
Shadwell,  alone,  of  all  my  sons,  was  ho 
Who  stands  confirm' d  in  full  stupidity. 


John  Detden,] 


MAC-FLECKNOE. 


[Fourth  Pekiod. — 


The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pretence ; 
But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense. 
Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall, 
Strike  through,,and  make  a  lucid  interval ; 
But  Shadwell' s  genuine  night  admits  no  ray ; 
His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 
Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye, 
And  seems  design' d  for  thoughtless  majesty  ; 
Thoughtless  as  monarch  oaks,  that  shade  the 

plain, 
And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign. 
Heywood  and  Shirley  were  but  types  of  thee, 
Thou  last  great  prophet  of  Tautology  ! 
Ev'n  I,  a  dunce  of  more  renown  than  they, 
Was  sent  before  but  to  prepare  thy  way  ; 
And,  coarsely  clad  in  Norwich  drugget,  came 
To  teach  the  nations  in  thy  greater  name. 
My  warbling  lute,  the  lute  I  whilom  strung, 
When  to  King  John  of  Portugal  I  sung, 
Was  but  the  prelude  to  that  glorious  day. 
When  thou  on  silver  Thames  didst  cut  thy 

way 
With  well-tim'd  oars  before  the  royal  barge, 
Swell' d  with  the  pride  of  thy  celestial  charge ; 
And,  big  with  hymn,  commander  of  a  host, 
The  like  was  ne'er  in  Epsom-blankets  toss'd. 
Methinks  I  see  the  new  Arion  sail, 
The  lute  still  trembling  underneath  thy  nail. 
At  thy  well-sharpen' d  thumb,  from  shore  to 

shore. 
The  trebles  squeak  for  fear,  the  bases  roar  ; 
About  thy  boat  the  httle  fishes  throng. 
As  at  the  morning  toast  that  floats  along. 
Sometimes,  as  prince  of  thy  harmonious  band, 
Thou   wield' st   thy  papers  in  thy  thrashing 

hand. 
St.  Andre's  feet  ne'er  kept  more  equal  time  ; 
Not  e'en  the  feet  of  thine    own    Psyche's 

rhyme  : 
Though  they  in  number  as  in  sense  excel ; 
So  just,  so  like  Tautology  they  fell, 
That,  pale  with  envy,  Singleton  forswore 
The   lute   and   sword,   which  he  in  triumph 

bore, 
And  vow'd  he  ne'er  would  act  Villerius  more. 
Here  stopp'd  the  good  old  sire,  and  wept 

for  joy. 
In  silent  raptures  of  the  hopeful  boy. 
All  arguments,  but  most  his  plays,  persuade, 
That  for  anointed  dulness  he  was  made. 

Close  to  the  walls  which  fair  Augusta  bind 
(The  fair  Augusta,  much  to  fears  incUn'd) 
An  ancient  fabric,  raised  t'  inform  the  sight. 
There  stood  of  yore,  and  Barbican  it  hight, 
A    watch-tower    once  ;     but    now,    so    fate 

ordains. 
Of  all  the  pile  an  empty  name  remains ;  *     * 
Near  these  a  nursery  erects  its  head, 
Where  queens  are  form'd,  and  future  heroes 

bred; 
Where   unfledg'd  actors  learn  to  laugh  and 

cry, 
Where  infant  punks  their  tender  voices  try. 
And  little  Maximins  the  gods  defy. 
Great  Fletcher  never  treads  in  buskins  here, 
Nor  greater  Jonson  dares  in  socks  appear ; 


But  gentle  Simkin  just  reception  finds 
Amidst  this  monument  of  vanish' d  minds  ; 
Pure  clinches  the  suburban  muse  affords. 
And  Panton  waging  harmless  war  with  words. 
Here    Flecknoe,    as   a  place    to    fame   well- 
known. 
Ambitiously  design' d  his  Shadwell' s  throne  : 
For  ancient  Dekker  prophesied,  long  since. 
That  in  this  pile  should  reign  a  mighty  prince, 
Bom  for  a  scourge  of  wit,  and  flail  of  sense  ; 
To  whom  true  dulness  sliould  some  Psyches 

owe; 
But   worlds  of   misers  from  his  pen  should 

flow  ; 
Humorists  and  hypocrites  it  should  produce  ; 
Whole     Eaymond    families,    and    tribes    of 
Bruce. 
Now    empress    Fame    had    publish' d    the 
renown 
Of  Shadwell' s  coronation  through  the  town. 
Rous' d  by  report  of  Fame,  the  nations  meet, 
From  near  Bun   Hill,    and  distant  Watling 

Street ; 
No  Persian  carpets  spread  th'  imperial  way, 
But  scatter' d  limbs  of  mangled  i^oets  lay  ;  *  * 
Bilk'd  stationers  for  yeomen  stood  prepar'd, 
And  Herringman  was  captain  of  the  guard. 
The  hoary  prince  in  majesty  appear' d. 
High  on  a  throne  of  his  own  labours  rear'd. 
At  his  right  hand  our  young  Ascanius  sat, 
Eome's  other  hope,  and  pillar  of  the  state ; 
His   brows  thick    fogs,    instead    of    glories, 

grace. 
And  lambent  dulness  play'd  around  his  face. 
As  Hannibal  did  to  the  altars  come. 
Sworn  by  his  sire  a  mortal  foe  to  Rome, 
So   Shadwell  swore,  nor  should  his  vow  bo 

vain. 
That  he,  till  death,  true  dulness  would  main- 
tain; 
And,  in  his  father's  right,  and  realm's  defence, 
Ne'er  to  have  peace  with  Wit,  nor  truce  with 

Sense. 
The  king  himself  the  sacred  unction  made, 
As  king  by  office,  and  as  priest  by  trade. 
In  his  sinister  hand,  instead  of  ball. 
He  placed  a  mighty  mug  of  potent  ale  ; 
"  Love's    Kingdom "    to    his    right    he    did 

convey 
At  once  his  sceptre  and  his  rule  of  sway ; 
Whose  righteous  lore  the  prince  had  practis'd 

young. 
And  from  whose  loins  recorded  Psyche  sprung : 
His  temples  last  with  poppies  were  o'erspread. 
That,  nodding,  seem'd  to  consecrate  his  head. 
Just  at  the  point  of  time,  if  fame  not  lie, 
On  his  left  hand  twelve  rev'rend  owls  did  fly. 
So  Romulus,  'tis  sung,  by  Tiber's  brook, 
Presage  of  sway  from  twice  six  vultures  took. 
Th'  admiring  throng  loud  acclamations  make, 
And  omens  of  his  future  empire  take. 
The  fire  then  shook  the  honours  of  his  head. 
And  from  his  brows  damps  of  oblivion  shed 
Full  on  the  filial  dulness  :  long  he  stood, 
Repelling  from  his  breast  the  raging  god ; 
At  length  burst  out  in  this  prophetic  mood : 


From  1649  to  1GS9.] 


ALEXANDEE'S  FEAST. 


[John  Dbydex. 


"  Heav'n  bless  my  son,  from  Ireland  let 

Mm  reign, 
To  far  Barbadoes  on  the  western  main  ; 
Of  his  dominion  may  no  end  be  known, 
And  greater  than  his  father's  be  his  throne  ; 
Beyond  Love's  Kingdom  let  him  stretch  his 

pen !" 
He  paus'd ;  and  all  the  people  cried,  Amen. 
Then  thus  continued  he  :  "  My  son,  advance 
Still  in  new  impudence,  new  ignorance, 
Success   let   others  teach ;  learn  thou,  from 

me, 
Pangs  without  birth,  and  fruitless  industry. 
Let  Virtuosos  in  five  years  be  writ ; 
Yet  not  one  thought  accuse  thy  toil  of  wit. 
Let   gentle    George    in    triiunph    tread    the 

stage, 
Make  Dorimant  betraj",  and  Loveit  rage ; 
Let  Cully,  Cockwood,  Fopling,  charm  the  pit, 
And,  in  their  folly,  show  the  writer's  wit. 
Yet  still  thy  fools  shaJl  stand  in  thy  defence, 
And  justify  their  author's  want  of  sense. 
Let  'em  be  all  by  thy  own  model  made 
Of  dulness,  and  desire  no  foreign  aid ; 
That  they  to  future  ages  may  be  known, 
Not  copies  drawn,  but  issue  of  thy  own. 
Nay,  let  thy  men  of  wit,  too,  be  the  same, 
All  full  of  thee,  and  diff'ring  but  in  name. 
But  let  no  alien  Sedley  interpose. 
To  lard  with  wit  thy  hungry  Epsom  prose. 
And,   when  false    flowers   of    rhet'ric    thou 

wouldst  cull, 
Trust  nature,  do  not  labour  to  be  dull ; 
But   write  thy  best,  and  top ;   and,  in  each 

line, 
Sir  Formal' s  oratory  vsdll  be  thine  : 
Sir  Formal,    though  tmsought,    attends   thy 

quill, 
And  does  thy  northern  dedications  fill. 
Nor   let  false   friends   seduce   thy   mind   to 

fame, 
By  arrogating  Jonson's  hostile  name. 
Let  father  Flecknoe  fire  thy  mind  with  praise. 
And  uncle  Ogleby  thy  envy  raise. 
Thou   art   my   blood,    where   Jonson  has  no 

part : 
What  share  have  we  in  nature  or  in  art  ? 
Where  did  his  wit  on  learning  fix  a  brand,  j 

And  ran  at  arts  he  did  not  understand  ? 
Where  made  he  love  in  Prince  Meander's  vein. 
Or  swept  the  dust  in  Psyche's  humble  strain  ? 
Wnen   did   his   muse   from   Fletcher    scenes 

purloin, 
As   thou  whole   Etherege   dost  transfuse  to 

thine  ? 
But  so  transfus'd  as  oil  and  waters  flow  ; 
His  always  floats  above,  thine  sinks  below. 
This  is  thy  province,  this  thy  wondrous  way, 
New  humours  to  invent  for  each  new  play  : 
This  is  that  boasted  bias  of  thy  mind, 
By  which  one  way  to  dulness  'tis  inclin'd ; 
Which   makes  thy  writings  lean  on  one  side 

stiU, 
And,  in  all  changes,  that  way  bends  thy  will. 
Nor  let  thy  mountain-belly  make  pretence 
Of  likeness  ;  thine' s  a  tympany  of  sense. 


A  tun  of  man  in  thy  large  bulk  is  writ ; 
But  sure  thou'rt  but  a  kilderkin  of  wit. 
Like  mine,  thy  gentle  numbers  feebly  creep  : 
Thy   tragic   muse   gives   smiles ;    thy  comic, 

sleep. 
With   whate'er   gall  thou  sett'at  thyself  to 

write,  ~^ 

Thy  inoffensive  satires  never  bite. 
In  thy  felonious  heart,  thou  venom  lies. 
It  does  but  touch  thy  Irish  pen,  and  dies. 
Thy  genius  calls  thee  not  to  purchase  fame 
In  keen  Iambics,  but  mild  Anagram. 
Leave    writing    plaj's,    and    choose   for   thy 

command 
Some  peaceful  province  in  Acrostic  land. 
There  thou  may'st  wings  display,  and  altars 

raise, 
And   torture   one   poor  word  ten    thousand 

ways. 
Or,  if  thou  wouldst  thy  diff'rent  talents  suit. 
Set  thy   own  songs,  and  sing  them  to  thy 

lute." 
He  said :  but  his  last  words  were  scarcely 

heard ; 
For  Bruce  and  Longvil  had  a  trap  prepar'd  ; 
And  down  they  sent  the  yet  declaiming  bard. 
Sinking,  he  left  his  drugget  robe  behind. 
Borne  upwards  by  a  subterranean  wind, 
The  mantle  feU  to  the  young  prophet's  part. 
With  double  portion  of  his  father's  art. 

John  Dryden.—Born  1631,  Died  1700. 


66i.— ALEXANDER'S  FEAST. 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won    v 
By  Philip's  warlike  son; 

Aloft  in  awful  state 

The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne  : 

His  valiant  peers  were  plac'd  around  ; 
Their    brows   with   roses   and   with   myrtles 
bound : 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crown' d) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side. 
Sate,  like  a  blooming  eastern  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 


Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair 


Timotheus,  plac'd  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire. 
With  flying  fingers  touch' ( 


the  lyre  s 


John  Dbyden.] 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love). 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  bely'd  the  god 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode. 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  press'd  : 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast : 
Then,  round  her  slender  waist  he  curl'd. 
And  stamp' d  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign 

of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity,  they  shout  around  : 
A  present  deity  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound : 

With  ravish' d  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god. 

Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

CHORUS. 

With  ravish' d  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  sphere?. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then,  the  sweet  musician 
sung : 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes.; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums  ; 
Flush' d  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face  ; 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath :   he  comes,  he 
comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Eich  the  treasure. 
Sweet  the  pleasure  ; 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 


Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 

Rich  the  treasure. 

Sweet  the  pleasure ; 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Sooth' d  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes ;    and  thrice 

he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise  ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes  ; 
And,  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defy'd, 
Chang'd  his  hand,  and  check'd  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 

Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 


Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate. 
And  weltring  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted,  at  liis  utmost  need. 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed  : 
On  the  bare  earth  expos'd  he  lies. 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor 
sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  tm-ns  of  Chance  below  ; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  ho  stole  ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 


Revolving  in  his  alter' d  soul 

The  various  turns  of  Chance  below ; 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole  ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smil'd,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree : 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures. 
Soon  he  sooth' d  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Honour  but  an  empty  bubble  ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning. 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying ; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning. 
Think,  O  think,  it  worth  enjoyiiig  : 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
Tlie  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause  ; 
So  Love  was  crown' d,  but   Music   won  the 
cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gaz'd  on  the  fair 
Who  cans' d  his  care, 
And    sigh'd    and    look'd,    sigh'd   and 
look'd, 
Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again  ; 
At    length,   with    love    and    wine    at    once 

oppress'd, 
The  vanquish'd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 


CHORUS. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gaz'd  on  the  fair 
Who  caus'd  his  care. 
And    sigh'd    and   look'd,    sigh'd    and 
look'd, 
Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again  : 
At    length,    with    love    and    wine    at     once 

oppress'd. 
The  vanquish'd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again : 
A  louder  yet,  and  y<jt  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And    rouse    him,    like    a    rattling    peal    of 
thunder. 


From  1649  to  1GS9.] 


CHAEACTEE  OF  SKAFTESBUEY. 


[John  Dryden. 


Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  rais'd  up  his  head  ! 
As  awak'd  from  the  dead, 
And  amaz'd,  he  stares  around. 
Eevenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  Furies  arise  : 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair ; 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  I 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were 
.slain. 

And  unbury'd  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  applaud,  ^^'ith  a  furious  joy  ; 
And  the  king  seiz'd  a  flambeau  Avith  zeal  to 
destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fir'd  another  Troy. 


And  the  king  seiz'd  a  flambeau  vnth  zeal  to 
destroy ; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fir'd  another  Troy. 

Thus,  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  leam'd  to  blow, 

While  organs  yet  were  mute  ; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 
And  sounding  lyre. 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 
desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarg'd  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  rais'd  a  mortal  to  the  skies  ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 


I 


GRAND   CHORUS. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  fi-om  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarg'd  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother- wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 


Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize. 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  rais'd  a  mortal  to  the  skies ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

John  Drydcn.—Bom  1631,  Died  1700. 


662.--CHAEACTEE    OF    SHAFTESBUEY. 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first, 

A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst ; 

For  close  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit ; 

Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit ; 

li«stless,  unfix'd  in  principles  and  place ; 

In  power  unpleas'd,  impatient  of  disgrace  : 

A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way, 

Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay. 

And  o'er-inform'd  the  tenement  of  clay. 

A  daring  pilot  in  extremity  ; 

Pleas'd  with  the  danger  when  the  waves  went 

high. 
He  sought  the  storms  ;  but,  for  a  calm  unfit, 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  hia 

wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied. 
And  thin  i)artitions  do  their  bounds  divide  ; 
Else  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honour 

blest, 
Eefuse  Ms  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest  ? 
Punish  a  body  which  ho  could  not  please ; 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease  ? 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won, 
To  that  unfeather'd  two-legg'd  thing,  a  son ; 
Got,  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try, 
And  bom  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy. 
In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate  ; 
Resolv'd  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state  : 
To  compass  this,  the  triple  bond  he  broke, 
The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook, 
And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign  yoke  : 
Then  seized  -with  fear,  yet  stiU  affecting  fame. 
Usurp' d  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 
So  easy  still  it  proves,  in  factious  times, 
With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes ; 
How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill 
Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people's  will ! 
Where   crowds  can   wink,  and  no  offence  be 

known. 
Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  own  ! 
Yet  fame  deserv'd  no  enemy  can  grudge ; 
The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  judge. 
In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  an  Abethdin 
With   more   discerning   eyes,  or  hands  more 

clean, 
Unbrib'd,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress, 
Swift  of  despatch,  and  easy  of  access. 
Oh !  had  he  been  content  to  serve  the  crown 
With  virtues  only  proper  for  the  gown  ; 
Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 
From  cockle,  that  oppress'd  the  noble  seed ; 
David  for  him  his  tuneful  harp  had  strung. 
And  heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal  song. 

29 


John  Drtden.]      CHAEACTER  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM.  [Foukth  PEiUuD.— 


But  wild  ambition  loves  to  sHde,  not  stand ; 
And  fortune's  ice  prefers  to  \TLrtue's  land. 
Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess 
A  lawful  fame,  and  lazy  happiness, 
Disdain' d  the  golden  fruit  to  gather  free, 
,And  lent  the  crowd  his  arm  to  shake  the  tree. 

John  Bnjden.—Born  16S1,  Died  1700. 


663.— CHARACTER  OF  VILLIEES,  DUKE 
OF  BUCKINGHAM. 

Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land : 
In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand ; 
A  man  so  various  that  he  seem'd  to  be, 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome  : 
Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong, 
"Was  ev'rything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long ; 
Bilt,  in  the  coiu-se  of  one  revolving  moon, 
"Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon; 
Then    all    for    women,    painting,    rhyming, 

drinking, 
Besides   ten   thousand   freaks  that    died    in 

thinking. 
Blest  madman !  who  could  ev'ry  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish,  or  to  enjoy. 
Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes  ; 
And  both,  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes ; 
So  over-violent,  or  over-civil. 
That  ev'ry  man  with  him  was  God  or  devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art ; 
Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert : 
Beggar' d  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too 

late. 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate ; 
He  laugh'd  himself  from  court,  then  sought 

relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief ; 
For,  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Absalom  and  wise  Achitophel : 
Thus,  wicked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft, 
He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 

John  Ih'yden.^Born  1631,  Died  1700. 


•664.—THEODORE  AND  HONORIA. 

Of  all  the  cities  in  Romanian  lands, 

The     chief,    and    most    renown'd,   Ravenna 

stands, 
Adorn' d  in  ancient  times  with  arms  and  arts, 
And  rich  inhabitants,  with  generous  hearts  ; 
But  Theodore  tho  brave,  above  the  rest. 
With  gifts  of  fortune  and  of  nature  bless'd. 
The   foremost  place   for  wealth  and  honour 

held, 
And  an  in  feats  of  chivalry  excell'd. 

This  iioble  youth  to  madness  lov'd  a  dame 
Of  high  degree,  Honoria  was  her  name : 


Fair  as  the  fairest,  but  of  haughty  mind, 
And  fiercer  than  became  so  soft  a  kind  ; 
Proud  of  her  birth  (for  equal  she  had  none), 
The  rest  she  scom'd,  but  hated  him  alone. 
His    gifts,   his    constant   courtship,    nothing 

gain'd ; 
For  she,  the  more  he  lov'd,  the  more  disdain'd. 
He  liv'd  with  all  the  pomp  he  could  devise. 
At  tuts  and  tournaments  obtain' d  the  prize, 
But  found  no  favour  in  his  lady's  eyes  : 
Relentless  as  a  rock,  the  lofty  maid 
Tum'd  all  to  poison  that  he  did  or  said ; 
Nor  prayers,  nor  tears,  nor  offer'd  vows,  coiild 

move  ; 
The  Avork  went  backward,  and  the  more  he 

strove 
T'    advance   his   suit,  the   farther   from   her 

love. 
Wearied  at  length,  and  wanting  remedy, 
He  doubted  oft,  and  oft  resolv'd  to  die  ; 
But  pride  stood  ready  to  prevent  the  blow  : 
For  who  would  die  to  gratify  a  foe  ? 
His  generous  mind  disdain'd  so  mean  a  fate  ; 
That  pass'd,  his  next  endeavour  was  to  hate. 
But  vainer  that  relief  than  all  the  rest. 
The  less  he  hop'd,  with  more  desire  possess'd  ; 
Love  stood  the  siege,  and  would  not  yield  liis 

breast. 
Change  was  the  next,  but  change  deceiv'd  his 

care  : 
He  sought  a  fairer,  but  found  none  so  fair. 
He  would  have  worn  her  out  by  slow  degrees, 
As  men  by  fa-sting  starve  th'  untam'd  disease  : 
But  present  love  requir'd  a  present  ease. 
Looking,  he  feeds  alone  his  famish'd  eyes, 
Feeds   lingering   death,  but  looking  not,  he 

dies. 
Yet  still  he  chose  the  longest  way  to  fate. 
Wasting  at  once  his  life  and  his  estate. 

His  friends  beheld  and  pitied  him  in  vain  : 
For  what  advice  can  ease  a  lover's  pain  ? 
Absence,  the  best  expedient  they  could  find, 
Might  save  the  fortune,  if  not  cure  the  mind  : 
This   means   they  long  propos'd,   but    little 

gain'd  ; 
Yet,  after  much  pursuit,  at  length  obtain'd. 

Hard  you  may  think  it  was  to  give  consent. 
But  struggling  with  his  own  desires  he  went, 
With  large   expense,    and   with    a   pompous 

train. 
Provided  as  to  visit  France  and  Spain, 
Or  for  some  distant  voyage  o'er  the  main. 
But  love  had  cHpp'd  his  wings,  and  cut  him 

short ; 
Confin'd  within  the  purlieus  of  the  court, 
Three  miles  he  went,  no  farther  could  retreat ; 
His  travels  ended  at  his  country-seat : 
To  Chassis'  pleasing  plains  he  took  his  way, 
There  pitch'd  his  tents,  and  there  resolv'd  to 

stay. 
The  spring  was  in  the  prime ;  the  neighbour- 

ing  grove 
Siipphed  with  birds,  the  choristers  of  love  ; 
Music  unbought,  that  minister'd  delight 
To   morning   walks,  and  lull'd  his   cares   by 

night 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THEODORE  AND  HONOHIA. 


[John  Dkyden. 


There  he  discharg'd  his  friends,  but  not  th' 

expense 
Of  frequent  treats  and  proud  magTiificence. 
He   liv'd   as   kings   retire,    though    more    at 

large 
From  public  business,  yet  with  equal  charge  ; 
With  house  and  heart  still  open  to  receive ; 
As   weU   content    as    love    would    give   him 

leave  : 
He  would  have  liv'd  more  free ;  but  many  a 

^est, 
Who  could  forsake   the   friend,    pursu'd   the 

feast. 
It  hapt  one  morning,  as  his  fancy  led, 
Before  his  usual  hour  he  left  his  bed  ; 
To  walk  within  a  lonely  lawn,  that  stood 
On  every  side  surrounded  by  a  wood  : 
Alone  he  walk'd,  to  please  his  pensive  mind, 
And  sought  the  deepest  soUtude  to  find. 
'Twas    in    a    grove   of    spreading    pines    he 

stray' d ; 
The  winds    within    the    quivering    branches 

play'd, 
And  dancing  trees  a  mournful  music  made. 
Tiie  place  itself  was  suiting  to  his  care, 
Uncouth  and  savage,  as  the  cruel  fair. 
He  wander'd  on,  unknowing  where  he  went, 
Lost  in  the  wood,  and  all  on  loVB  intent ; 
The  day  already  half  his  race  had  run, 
And  summon'd  him  to  due  repast  at  noon. 
But  love  could  feel  no  hunger  but  his  own. 
Whilst  listening  to  the  murmuring  leaves  he 

stood 
More  than  a  mile  immers'd  within  the  wood, 
At   once  the  wind  was  laid;  the  whispering 

sound 
Was  dumb ;  a  rising  earthquake   rock'd   the 

ground; 
With  deeper  brown    the    grove    was   over- 
spread ; 
A  sudden  horror  seiz'd  his  giddy  head. 
And  his  ears  tinkled,  and  his  colour  fled  •,• 
Nature  was  in  alarm  ;  some  danger  ixigh 
Seem'd  threaten' d,  though  tmseen  to  mortal 

eye. 
Unusd  to  fear,  he  summon'd  all  his  soul, 
And  stood  collected  in  himself,  and  whole  ; 
Not  long :  for  soon  a  whirhvind  rose  around, 
And  from  afar  he  heard  a  screaming  sound, 
As  of  a  dame  distress'd,  who  cried  for  aid. 
And  fiU'd  with  loud  laments  the  secret  shade. 
A  thicket    close    beside    the   grove    there 

stood, 
With  briers  and  brambles  chok'd,  and  dwarf- 
ish wood ; 
From  thence  the  noise,  which  now,  approaching 

near, 
With  more  distinguish'd  notes  invades  his  ear ; 
He   rais'd  his  head,   and   saw    a    beauteous 

maid, 
With   hair  dishevell'd,   issuing   through  the 

shade; 
Stripp'd  of  her  clothes,  and  ev'n  those  parts 

reveal'd 
Which  modest  nature  keeps  from  sight  con- 
ceal'd. 


Her  face,  her  hands,  her   naked   limbs  were 

torn, 
With  passing  through  the  brakes  and  prickly 

thorn; 
Two    mastiffs    gaunt    and    grim    her    flight 

pursu'd. 
And  oft  their  fastened  fangs  in  bloodimbru'd ; 
Oft   they   came  up,  and  pinch'd  her  tender 

side. 
Mercy,  O  mercy,  heaven !  she  ran  and  cried. 
When   heaven  was  nam'd,   they  loos'd  their 

hold  again, 
Then    sprang    she    forth,  they  foUow'd    her 

amain. 
Not  far  behind,  a  knight  of  swarthy  face, 
High  on  a  coal-black  steed,  pursu'd  the  chase  ; 
With   flashing    flames    his  ardent  eyes  were 

fill'd, 
And  in  his  hand  a  naked  sword  he  held ; 
He  cheer' d  the  dogs  to  follow  her  who  fled, 
And  vow'd  revenge  on  her  devoted  head. 

As  Theodore  was  bom  of  noble  kind. 
The  brutal  action  rous'd  his  manly  mind ; 
Mov'd  with  unworthy  usage  of  the  maid, 
He,  though  unarm'd,  resolv'd  to  give  her  aid. 
A   sapling   pine   he   wrench' d   from   out   the 

ground. 
The  readiest  weapon  that  his  fury  found. 
Thus  furnish' d  for  offence,  he  cross'd  the  way 
Betwixt  the  graceless  villain  and  his  prey, 
The  knight  came  thundering  on,  but,  from 

afar, 
Thus  in  imperious  tone  forbade  the  war  : 
Cease,  Theodore,  to  proffer  vain  rehef. 
Nor  stop  the  vengeance  of  so  just  a  grief ; 
But  give  me  leave  to  seize  my  destin'd  prey, 
And  let  eternal  justice  take  the  way  : 
I  but  revenge  my  fate,  disdain'd,  betray'd, 
And  suffering  death  for  this  ungrateful  maid. 
He   said,    at   once    dismounting  from   the 

steed ; 
For  now  the  heU-hounds  with  superior  speed 
Had  reach' d  the  dame,  and,  fastening  on  her 

side. 
The  ground  with  issuing  streams  of  purple 

dyed. 
Stood  Theodore,  surpris'd  in  deadly  fright, 
With    chattering    teeth,    and    bristling    hair 

upright ; 
Yet    arm'd    with    inborn    worth,    Whate'er, 

said  he. 
Thou  art,  who  know'st  me  better  than  I  thee, 
Or  prove  thy  rightfid  cause,  or  be  defied ! 
The  spectre,  fiercely  staring,  thus  replied : 

Know,  Theodore,  thy  ancestry  I  claim. 
And  Guido  Cavalcanti  was  my  name. 
One  common  sire  our  fathers  did  beget ; 
My  name  and  story  some  remember  yet. 
Thee,  then  a  boy,  within  my  arms  I  laid. 
When  for  my  sins  I  lov'd  this  haughty  maid ; 
Not  less  ador'd  in  Hfe,  nor  serv'd  by  me. 
Than  proud  Honoria  now  is  lov'd  by  thee. 
What  did  I  not  her  stubborn  heart  to  gain  ? 
But  aU  my  vows  were  answer'd  with  disdain : 
She   scom'd   my   sorrows   and    despis'd  my 

pain.  29* 


John  Dzjyden.] 


THEODOEE  AND  HONORIA. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Long  time  I  dragg'd  my   days   in   frmtless 

care ; 
Then,   loatiiing    life,    and    plung'd    in    deep 

despair, 
To  finish  my  unhappy  life,  I  fell 
On  tiiis  sharp  sword,  and  now  am  damn'd  in 

heU. 
Short  was  her  joy ;   for  soon  th'  insulting 

maid 
By  heaven's   decree   in  this  cold  grave  was 

laid. 
And  as  in  unreponted  sin  she  died, 
Doom'd  to  the  same  bad  place,  is  punish'd'for 

her  pride ; 
Because  she  deem'd  I  well  deserv'd  to  die, 
And  made  a  merit  of  her  cruelty. 
There,  then,  Ave  met ;    both  tried,  and   both 

were  cast, 
And  this  irrevocable  sentence  pass'd  : 
That  she,  whom  I  so  long  pursued  in  vain, 
Should  suffer  from  my  hands  a  lingering  pain  : 
Renew'd  to  Kfe,  that  she  might  daily  die, 
I  daily  doom'd  to  follow,  she  to  fly  ; 
No  more  a  lover,  but  a  mortal  foe, 
I  seek  her  life  (for  love  is  none  below) ; 
As  often  as  my  dogs  with  better  speed ' 
Arrest  her  flight,  is  she  to  death  decreed; 
Then  with  this  fatal  sword,  on  which  I  died, 
I  pierce  her  open  back  or  tender  side, 
And  tear  that  harden' d  heart  from  out  her 

breast, 
Which,  with  her  entrails,  makes  my  hungi-y 

hounds  a  feast. 
Nor  lies  she  long,  but,  as  her  fates  ordain, 
Springs  up  to  life,  and  fresh  to  second  pain, 
Is  sav'd  to-day,  to-morrow  to  be  slain. 

This,  vers'd  in  death,  th'  infernal   knight 

relates, 
And  then  for  proof  fulfill' d  the  common  fates  ; 
Her   heart  and  bowels  through  her  back  he 

drew, 
And   fed    the    hounds    that    help'd  him    to 

pursue  ; 
Stem   look'd   the   fiend,  as   frustrate  of   his 

AviU, 
Not  half  suffic'd,  and  greedy  yet  to  Idll. 
And  now    the    soul,    expiring    through    the 

wound, 
Had  left  the  body  breathless  on  the  ground, 
When  thus  the  grisly  spectre  spoke  again : 
Behold  the  fruit  of  ill-rewarded  pain  : 
As  many  months  as  I  sustain' d  her  hate, 
So  many  years  is  she*  condemn' d  by  fate 
To  daily  death  ;  and  every  several  place. 
Conscious  of  her  disdain  and  my  disgrace. 
Must  witness  her  just  punishment  and  be 
A  scene  of  triumph  and  revenge  to  me  ! 
As  in  this  grove  I  took  my  last  farewell. 
As  on  this  very  spot  of  earth  I  fell. 
As  Friday  saw  me  die,  so  she  my  prey 
Becomes  even  here,  on  this  revolving  day. 
Thus,  while  he  spoke,  the  virgin  from  the 

ground 
Upstarted  fresh,  already  clos'd  the  wound. 
And  unconcern'd  for  all  she  felt  before, 
Precipitates  her  flight  along  the  shore  ; 


The    hell-hounds,  as  ungorg'd  with  flesh  and 

blood. 
Pursue   their   prey,   and   seek    their    wonted 

food ; 
The   fiend   remounts  his  courser,  mends   his 

pace, 
And  all  the  vision  vanish' d  from  the  place. 
Long  stood  the  noble  youth  oppressed  with 
awe, 
And  stupid  at  the  wondrous  things  ho  saw, 
Surpassing     common      faith,      transgi-essing 

nature's  law. 
He  would  have  been  asleep,   and  wisli'd   to 

wake  ; 
But   dreams,    he   knew,    no   long   impi-cssion 

make. 
Though   strong  at   first;    if  vision,  to   what 

end 
But  such  as  must  his  future  state  portend  ? 
His  love  the  damsel,  and  himseH  the  fiend. 
But  yet,  reflecting  that  it  could  not  be 
From    heaven,   which    cannot    impious    acta 

decree, 
Eesolv'd  within  himself  to  shun  the  snare 
Which  heU  for  his  destruction  did  prepare  ; 
And,  as  his  better  genius  should  direct, 
From  an  ill  cause  to  draw  a  good  effect. 

Inspir'd  from  heaven,  he   homeward   took 
his  way. 
Nor  paU'd  his  new  design  with  long  delay  ; 
But  of  his  train  a  trusty  serv'ant  sent 
To  call  his  friends  together  at  his  tent. 
They  came,  and,  usual  salutations  paid, 
With  words  premeditated  thus  he  said  : 
What  you  have  often  counseU'd,  to  remove 
My  vain  pursuit  of  unregarded  love, 
By  thrift  my  sinking  fortune  to  repair. 
Though  late,  yet  is  at  last  become  my  care. 
My  heart  shall  be  my  OAvn :  my  vast  expense 
Eeduc'd  to  bounds  by  timely  providence. 
This  only  I  require  :  iuA-ite  for  me 
Honoiia,  with  her  father's  family, 
Her   friends,   and   mine ;    the   cause   I   shall 

display 
On  Friday  next,  for  that's  th'  appointed  day. 
Well  pleased  were  aU  his  friends,  the  task 
was  hght ; 
The  father,  mother,  daughter,  they  invite ; 
Hardly  the  dame  was  drawn  to  this  repast, 
But  yet  resolv'd,  because  it  was  the  last. 
The  day  was  come,  the  guests  invited  came, 
And  with  the  rest  th'  inexorable  dame. 
A  feast  prepar'd  with  riotous  expense. 
Much  cost,  more  care,  and  most  magnificence. 
The    place    ordain' d    was    in    that   haunted 

grove 
Where  the  revenging  ghost  pursu'd  his  love ; 
The  tables  in  a  proud  pavilion  spread. 
With  flowers  below,  and  tissue  overhead ; 
The  rest  in  rank,  Honoria  chief  in  place, 
Was  artfully  contriv'd  to  set  her  face 
To  front  the  thicket,  and  behold  the  chase. 
The  feast  was  serv'd,  the  time  so  well  fore- 
cast. 
That  just  when  the  desert  and  fruits   were 
plac'd, 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THEODORE  AND  HONORIA. 


[John  Dbyden. 


The  fiend's  alarm  began  :  the  hollow  sound 
Sung  in  the  leaves,  the  forest  shook  around, 
Air  blacken' d,  roll'd  the  thunder,  groan' d  the 

ground.  ^ 

Nor  long  before  the  loud  laments  arise 
Of    one     distress' d,    and    mastiffs'     mingled 

cries; 
And  first  the  dame  came  rushing  through  the 

wood. 
And   next   the  famish'd  hounds  that  sought 

their  food, 
And  grip'd  her  flanks,  and  oft  essay'd  their 

jaws  in  blood. 
Last  came  the  felon  on  his  sable  steed, 
Arm'd  with  his  naked  sword,  and  urg'd  his 

dogs  to  speed. 
She  ran,  and  cried,  her  flight  directly  bent 
(A  guest  unbidden)  to  the  fatal  tent, 
The  scene  of  death,  and  place  ordain'd  for 

punishment. 
Loud  was  the  noise,  aghast  was  every  guest  ; 
The   women   shriek' d,  the   men   forsook  the 

feast ; 
The    hounds    at    nearer    distance    hoarsely 

bay'd ; 
The  hunter  close  pursu'd  the  visionary  maid; 
She   rent   the    heaven    with    loud    laments, 

imploring  aid. 
The  gallants,  to  protect  the  lady's  right, 
Their    falchions    brandish' d    at    the     grisly 

sprite. 
High  on  his  stirrups  he  provok'd  the  fight ; 
Then  on  the  crowd  he  cast  a  furious  look. 
And    wither' d   all   their   strength   before   he 

spoke : 
Back,  on  your   lives  I    Lot  be,    said   he,   my 

prey, 
And    let    my   vengeance    take   the   destined 

way; 
Vain  are  your  arms,  and  vainer  your  defence. 
Against  th'  eternal  doom  of  Providence  : 
Mine    is    th'     ungrateful    maid    by    heaven 

design' d ; 
Mercy  she  would  not  give,  nor  mercy  shall 

she  find. 
At  this  the  former  tale  again  he  told 
With     thundering    tone,    and     dreadful     to 

behold. 
Sunk    were  their  hearts  with  horror  of  the 

crime. 
Nor  needed  to  be  warn'd  a  second  time. 
But  bore  each  other  back  ;    some  knew  the 

face, 
And  all  had  heard  the  much  lamented  case 
Of  him  who  fell  for  love,  and  this  the  fatal 

place. 
And  now  th'  infernal  minister  ad  vane' d, 
Seiz'd  the  due  victim,  and  with  fury  launch'd 
Her  back,  and,  piercing  through  her  inmost 

heart, 
Drew  backward,  as  before,  th'  offending  part ; 
The  reeking  entrails  next  he  tore  away, 
And  to  his  meagre  mastiffs  made  a  prey. 
The  pale  assistants  on  each  other  star'd, 
With  gaping  mouths  for  issuing  words  pre- 

par'd ; 


The  still-born  .'soundsxupon  the  "palate  hung, 
And  died  imperfect  on  the  faltering  tongue. 
The  fright  was  general ;  but  the  female  band 
(A  helpless  train)  in  more  confusion  stand  : 
With  horror  shuddering,  on  a  heap  they  run, 
Sick  at  the  sight  of  hateful  justice  done  j 
For  conscience  rung  th'  alarm,  and  made  the 

case  their  own. 
So,  spread  upon  a  lake  with  upward  eye, 
A  plump  of  fowl  behold  their  foe  on  high  : 
They   close   their  trembling  troop,    and   all 

attend 
On  whom  the  sousing  eagle  will  descend. 
But   most   the   proud   Honoria   fear'd   th' 

event. 
And  thought  to  her  alone  the  vision  sent. 
Her  guilt  presents  to  her  distracted  mind 
Heaven's  justice,  Theodore's  revengeful  kind  , 
And  the  same  fate  to  the  same  sin  assign'd ; 
Already  sees  herself  the  monster's  prey, 
And  feels  her  heart  and  entrails  torn  away. 
'Twas  a  mute  scene  of    sorrow  mix'd  with 

fear ; 
Still  on  the  table  lay  th*  unfinish'd  cheer  ; 
The  knight  and  hungry  mastiffs  stood  around; 
The   mangled   dame   lay   breathless    on    the 

ground : 
When  on  a  sudden,  re-inspir'd  with  breath, 
Again  she  rose,  again  to  suffer  death; 
Nor  staid  the  hell-hounds,    nor  the   hunter 

staid. 
But  follow'd,  as  before,  the  flying  maid  ; 
Th'    avenger  took   from   earth  th'  avenging 

sword. 
And  mounting  light  as  air,  his  sable  steed  he 

spurr'd. 
The    clouds   dispeU'd,   the   sky   resum'd   her 

light, 
And  nature  stood  recover'd  of  her  fright. 
But  fear,  the  last  of  ills,  rcmain'd  behind, 
And  horror  heavy  sat  on  every  mind. 
Nor  Theodore  encourag'd  more  the  feast. 
But  sternly  look'd,  as  hatching  in  his  breast 
Some   deep   designs;    which,   when   Honoria 

view'd, 
I'he  fresh  impulse  her  former  fright  renew' d  ; 
She  thought  herself  the  trembling  dame  who 

fled, 
And   him  the   grisly  ghost   that  spurr'd  th' 

infernal  stoed ; 
The  more  disniay'd  :  for  when  the  guests  with- 
drew, 
Their  courteous  host,  saluting  all  the  crew, 
Eegardless  pass'd  her  o'er,   nor  grae'd  with 

kind  adieu ; 
That  sting  infix' d  within  her  haughty  mind, 
The  downfall  of  her  empire  she  di\'in'd, 
And  her  proud  heart  with  secret  sorrow  pin'd. 
Home    as    they    went,    the    sad   discourse 

renew' d 
Of  the  relentless  dame  to  death  pursu'd. 
And  of  the  sight  obscene  so  lately  view'd. 
None    dost   arraign  the  righteous  doom   she 

bore ; 
Ev'n   they  who  pitied  most,  yet  blam'd  her 

more; 


John  Dryden.]  PEESENT  ENJOYMENT  EECOMMENDED.      [Fourth  Period.— 


The  parallel  they  needed  not  to  name, 

But   in   the   dead    they    damn'd   the    living' 
dame. 
At  every  little  noise  she  look'd  behind, 

For  still  the  knight  was  present  to  her  mind ; 

And  anxious  oft  she  started  on  the  way, 

And  thought  the  horseman  ghost  came  thund- 
ering for  his  prey. 

Return' d,  she  took  her  bed  with  little  rest. 

But  in   short  slumbers   dreamt   the   funeral 
feast ; 

Awak'd,  she  turn'd  her  side,  and  slept  again ; 

The   same   black  vapours    mounted    in    her 
brain, 

And   the  same  dreams  return' d  with  double 
pain. 
Now   forc'd   to   wake,   because    afraid    to 


Her  blood  all  fever'd,  with  a  furious  leap 
She  sprang  from  bed,  distracted  in  her  mind, 
And  fear'd,  at  every  step,  a  twitching  sprite 

behind. 
Darkling   and  desperate,   with   a   staggering 

pace, 
Of  death  afraid,  and  conscious  of  disgrace. 
Fear,    pride,    remorse,    at    once    her    heart 

assail' d ; 
Pride  put  remorse  to  flight,  but  fear  prevail'd. 
Friday,  the  fatal  dnj,  when  next  it  came, 
Her  soul  forethought  the  fiend  would  change 

his  game, 
And  her  pursue,  or  Theodore  be  slain. 
And  two  ghosts  join  their  packs  to  hunt  her 

o'er  the  plain. 
This  dreadful  image  so  possess'd  her  mind, 
That,  desperate  any  succour  else  to  find, 
She  ceas'd  all  farther  hope,  and  now  began 
To  make  reflection  on  th'  unhappy  man : 
Rich,  brave,  and  young,  who  past  expression 

lov'd ; 
Proof  to  disdain,  and  not  to  be  remov'd  ; 
Of  all  the  men  respected  and  admir'd, 
Of  all  the  dames,  except  herself,  desir'd  : 
Why  not  of  her  ?  preferr'd  above  the  rest 
By  him  with  knightly  deeds,  and  open  love 

profess'd  ? 
So  had   another  been,   where   he   his    vows 

address'd. 
This    quell' d    her    pride,   yet   other    doubts 

remain' d. 
That,  once  disdaining,  she  might  be  disdain'd. 
The  fear  was  just,  but  greater  fear  prevail'd  : 
Fear  of  her  life  by  hellish  hounds  assail' d. 
He  took  a  lowering  leave  :  but  who  can  tell 
Wliat    outward     hate     might     inward     love 

conceal ? 
Her  sex's  arts  she  knew  :  and  why  not,  then. 
Might    deep    dissembling    have   a    place    in 

men  ? 
Here  hope  began  to  da-svn  ;  resolv'd  to  try. 
She  fix'd  on  this  her  utmost  remedy  : 
Death  was  behind,  but  htu-d  it  was  to  die  ; 
'Twas  time  enough  at  last  on  death  to  call. 
The  precipice  in  sight ;  a  shrub  was  all 
That  kindly  stood  betwixt  to  break  the  fatal 

fall. 


One  maid  she  had,  belov'd  above  the  rest : 
Secure  of  her,  the  secret  slie  confess' d  ; 
And  now  the  cheerful  light  her  fears  dispell' d ; 
She   mtli  ^o   winding  turns  the  truth  con- 

ceal'd, 
But  put  thfe  woman  off,  and  stood  reveal'd. 
With   faults  confess'd   commission'd  her   to 

go, 
If  pity  yet  had  place,  and  reconcile  her  foe  ; 
The  welcome  message  made,   was   soon  re- 

ceiv'd  ; 
'Twas  to  be  wish'd,  and  hop'd,   but   scarce 

belie v'd  ; 
Fate  seem'd  a  fair  occasion  to  present ; 
He   knew   the    sex,    and    fear'd    she    might 

repent. 
Should  he  delay  the  moment  of  consent. 
There   yet   remain' d   to  gain  her  friends    (a 

care 
The  modesty  of  maidens  well  might  spare); 
But  she  with  such  a  zeal  the  cause  embrac'd 
(As  women,  where  they  will,  are  all  in  haste), 
The  father,  mother,  and  the  kin  beside. 
Were  overborne  by  fury  of  the  tide ; 
With  full  consent  of  all  she  chang'd  her  state ; 
Resistless  in  her  love,  as  in  her  hate. 
By  her  example  warn'd,  the  rest  beware  ; 
More  easy,  less  imperious,  were  the  fair ; 
And    that    one    hunting,    which    the    devil 

design'd 
For  one  fair  female,  lost  him  half  the  kind. 

John  Dryden.—Born  1631,  Died  1700. 


665.— ENJOYMENT   OF   THE  PEESENT 
HOUR  RECOMMENDED. 

Enjoy  the  present  smiling  hour, 
And  "put  it  out  of  Fortune's  pow'r : 
The  tide  of  business,  like  the  running  stream, 
Is  sometimes  high,  and  sometimes  low, 

And  always  in  extreme. 
Now  with  a  noiseless,  gentle  course 
It  keeps  within  the  middle  bed ; 
Anon  it  lifts  aloft  the  head. 
And  bears  down  all  before  it  with  impetuous 
force ; 
And  trunks  of  trees  come  rolling  down ; 
Sheep  and  their  folds  together  drown : 
Both  house  and  homestead  into  seas  are 

borne ; 
And  rocks  are  from  their  old  foundations 
torn; 
And   woods,   made    thin   with   winds,   their 
scatter' d  honours  mourn. 

Happy  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone. 
He  who  can  call  to-day  his  own : 
He  who,  secure  within,  can  say. 

To-morrow    do   thy  worst,   for  I   have    liv'd 
to-day. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING. 


[John  Philips. 


Be  fair  or  foul,  or  rain  or  shine, 
The  joj^s  I  have  possess'd,  in  spite  of  fate,  are 
mine. 
Not  heaven  itself  upon  the  past  .has  power; 
But  what  has  been,  has  been,  and  I  have  had 
my  hour. 

Fortune,  that  with  malicious  joy 

Does  man,  her  slave,  oppress, 
Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy, 

Is  seldom  pleas' d  to  bless  : 
Still  various,  and  inconstant  still, 
But  with  an  inclination  to  be  ill, 

Promotes,  degrades,  delights  in  strife, 
And  makes  a  lottery  of  life. 
I  can  enjoy  her  while  she  's  kind  ; 
But  when  she  dances  in  the  "wind, 

And  shakes  her  wings,  and  will  not  stay, 
I  puff  the  prostitute  away. 
The  little  or  the  much  she  gave  is  quietly 
resign'd  : 
Content  with  poverty,  my  soul  I  arm ; 
And  virtue,  though  in  rags,  will  keep  me 
warm. 

'vVhat  is  't  to  me, 
Wlio  never  sail  in  her  unfaithful  sea, 
If  storms  arise,  and  clouds  grow  black  ; 
If  the  mast  split,  and  threaten  wreck  ? 
Then  let  the  greedy  merchant  fear 
For  his  ill-gotten  gain  ; 
And  pray  to  gods  that  will  not  hear, 
While  the  debating  ■winds  and  billows  bear 
His  wealth  into  the  main. 
For  me,  secure  from  Fortune's  blows, 
Secure  of  what  I  cannot  lose, 
In  my  small  pinnace  I  can  sail, 
Contemning  all  the  blustering  roar  ; 

And  running  with  a  merry  gale, 
With  friendly  stars  my  safety  seek. 
Within  some  little  winding  creek, 
And  see  the  storm  ashore. 

John  Dnjden.—Born  1631,  Died  1700. 


666.— THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING. 

".     .     .     .     Sing,  heavenly  Muse ! 

Things  unattempted  yet,  in  prose  or  rhyme," 

A  shilling,  breeches,  and  chimeras  dire. 

Happy  the  man,  who,  void  of  cares  and  strife, 
In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 
A  Splendid  Shilling  :  he  nor  hears  with  pain 
New  oysters  cry'd,  nor  sighs  for  cheerful  ale  ; 
But    with   his    friends,    when   nightly  mists 

arise, 
To  Juniper's  Magpie,  or  Town-hall  repairs : 
Where,  mindful  of  the  nymph,  whose  wanton 

eye 
Transfix' d    his    soul,   and    kindled    amorous 

flames. 


Chloe,  or  Phillis,  he  each  circling  glass 
Wisheth  her  health,  and  joy,  and  equal  love. 
Meanwhile,  he  smokes,  and  laughs  at  merry 

tale, 
Or  pun  ambiguous,  or  conundrum  quaint. 
But  I,  whom  griping  Penury  sm-rounds,- 
And  Hunger,  sure  attendant  upon  Want, 
With  scanty  offals,  and  small  acid  tiff, 
(Wretched  repast !)  my  meagre  corpse  sustain : 
Then  solitary  walk,  or  doze  at  home 
In  garret  vile,  and  with  a  warming  puff 
Eegale  chill' d  fingers :  -or  from  tube  as  black 
As  winter  chimney,  or  well-polish' d  jet, 
Exhale  mundungus,  ill-perfuming  scent : 
Not  .blacker  tube,  nor  of  a  shorter  size, 
Smokes  Cambro-Briton  (vers'd  in  pedigree 
Sprung  from  Cadwallador  and  Arthur,  kings 
Full  famous  in  romantic  tale)  when  he 
O'er  many  a  craggy  hill  and  barren  cliff, 
Upon  a  cargo  of  fam'd  Cestrian  cheese. 
High  over- shadowing  rides,  with  a  design 
To  vend  his  wares,  or  at  th'  Arvonian  mart. 
Or  Maridunum,  or  the  ancient  town 
Yclep'd  Brechinia,  or  where  Vaga's  stream 
Encircles  Ariconium,  fruitful  soil ! 
Whence  flow  nectareous  wines,  that  well  may 

vie 
With  Massic,  Setin,  or  renown' d  Falern. 
Thus  while    my  joyless    minutes    tedious 

flow. 
With  looks  demure,  and  silent  pace,  a  Dun, 
Horrible  monster  !  hated  by  gods  and  men, 
To  my  aerial  citadel  ascends. 
With  vocal  heel  thrice  thundering  at  my  gare. 
With  hideous  accent  thrice  he  calls  ;  I  know 
The  voice  ill-boding,  and  the  solemn  sound. 
^Vhat     should    I    do  ?     or    whither    turn  ? 

Amaz'd, 
Confounded,  to  the  dark  recess  I  fly 
Of   wood-hole;    straight   my   bristling    hairs 

erect 
Through  sudden  fear ;  a  chilly  sweat  bedews 
My   shuddering    limbs,    and    (wonderful    to 

teU!) 
My  tongue  forgets  her  faculty  of  speech ; 
So  horrible  he  seems  !     His  faded  brow, 
Entrench'd  with  many  a    frown,    and   conic 

beard, 
And    spreading    band,   admir'd     by   modern 

saints. 
Disastrous  acts  forebode  ;  in  his  right  hand 
Long  scrolls  of  paper  solemnly  he  waves, 
With  characters  and  figures  dire  inscrib'd, 
Grievous  to  mortal  eyes  (ye  gods,  avert 
Such  plagues  from  righteous  men  !).     Behind 

him  stalks 
Another  monster,  not  unlike  himself. 
Sullen  of  aspect  by  the  vulgar  call'd 
A  catchpole,  whose  polluted  hands  the  gods, 
With  force  incredible,  and  magic  chiyrms. 
First  have  endued :  if  he  his  ample  palm 
Should  haply  on  ill-fated  shoulder  lay 
Of  debtor,  straight  his  body,  to  the  touch 
Obsequious  (as  whilom  knights  were  wont). 
To  some  enchanted  castle  is  convey' d. 
Where  gates  impregnable,  and  coercive  chains 


Sib  Charles  Sedley.] 


TO  A  VEEY  YOUNG  LADY. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


In  durance  strict  detain  him,  till,  in  form 
Of  money,  Pallas  sets  the  captive  free. 

Beware,  ye  debtors  !  when  ye  walk,  beware, 
Be  circumspect :  oft  with  insidious  ken 
The  caitiff  eyes  your  steps  aloof,  and  oft 
Lies  perdue  in  a  nook  or  gloomy  cave, 
Prompt  to  enchant  some  inadvertent  wretch 
With  his  unhallow'd  touch.     So  (poets  sing) 
Grimalkin,  to  domestic  vermin  sworn 
An  everlasting  foe,  with  watchful  eye, 
Lies  nightly  brooding  o'er  a  chinky  gap, 
Protending    her    fell    claws,   to    thoughtless 

mice 
Sure  ruin.     So  her  disembowell'd  web 
Arachne,  in  a  hall  or  kitchen,  spreads 
Obvious  to  vagrant  flies  :  she  secret  stands 
Within  her  woven  cell :  the  humming  prey, 
Eegardless  of  their  fate,  rush  on  the  toils 
Inextricable,  nor  will  aught  avail 
Their  arts,  or  arms,  or  shapes  of  lovely  hue  4 
The  wasp  insidious,  and  the  buzzing  drone, 
And  butterfly,  proud  of  expanded  wings, 
Distinct  with  gold,  entangled  in  her  snares. 
Useless  resistance  make ;  with  eager  strides, 
She  towering  flies  to  her  expected  spoils ; 
Then,  with  envenom'd  jaws,  the  vital  blood 
Drinks  of  reluctant  foes,  and  to  her  cave 
Their  bulky  carcasses  triumphant  drags. 
So  pass  my  days.      But   when   nocturnal 
shades 
This  world  envelop,  and  th'  inclement  air 
Persuades  men  to  repel  benumbing  frosts 
With  pleasant  wines,  and  crackling  blaze  of 

wood ; 
Me,  lonely  sitting,  nor  the  glimmering  light 
Of  make- weight  candle,  nor  the  joyous  talk 
Of  loving  friend,  delights  :  distress'd,  forlorn, 
Amidst  the  horrours  of  the  tedious  night. 
Darkling    I     sigh,    and     feed    with     dismal 

thoughts 
My  anxious   mind :    or    sometimes  mournful 

verse 
Indite,  and  sing  of  gi'oves  and  myrtle  shades, 
Or  desperate  lady  near  a  purling  stream, 
Or  lover  pendant  on  a  willow-tree. 
Meanwhile  I  labour  with  eternal  drought, 
And  restless  wish,    and   rave ;    my  parched 

throat 
Finds  no  relief,  nor  heavy  eyes  repose  : 
But  if  a  slumber  haply  does  invade 
My  weary  limbs,  my  fancy  's  still  awake. 
Thoughtful  of  drink,  and  eager,  in  a  dream, 
Tipples  imaginary  pots  of  ale, 
In  vain  ;  awake  I  find  the  settled  thirst 
Still   gnawing,   and    the    pleasant    phantom 
curse. 
Thus     do     I     live,     from    pleasure    quite 
debarr'd, 
Nor  taste  the    fruits   that  the   Sun's    genial 

rays 
Mature,  j«hn-apple,  nor  the  downy  peach, 
Nor  walnut  in  rough-furrow' d  coat  secure, 
Nor  medlar,  fruit  delicious  in  decay  ; 
Afflictions  great !  yet  greater  still  remain  : 
My  galligaskins,  that  have  long  withstood 
The  winter's  fury,  and  encroaching  frosts. 


j   By  time  subdued  (what  will  not  time  subdue?) 
!   A  horrid  chasm  disclos'd  with  orifice 
i   Wide,  discontinuous  ;  at  which  the  winds 
I    Eurus  and  Auster,  and  the  dreadful  force 
Of  Boreas,  that  congeals  the  Cronian  waves, 
Tumultuous  enter  with  dire  chilling  blasts, 
Portending  agues.     Thus  a  well-fraught  ship, 
Long  sail'd    secure,    or   through   th'  ^gean 


Or  the  Ionian,  till  cruising  near 
The  Lilybean  shore,  with  hideoiis  crush 
On  Scylla  or  Charybdis  (dangerous  rocks  !) 
She  strikes  rebounding ;  whence  the  shatter'd 

oak, 
So  fierce  a  shock  unable  to  withstand, 
Admits  the  sea  :  in  at  the  gaping  side 
The   crowding   waves    gush  with  impetuous 

rage, 
Eesistless,  overwhelming ;  horrors  seize 
The  mariners  ;  Death  in  their  eyes  appears, 
They  stare,  they  lave,  they  pump,  they  swear, 

they  pray : 
(Vain  efforts  !)  still  the  battering  waves  rush 

in. 
Implacable,  till,  delug'd  by  the  foam. 
The  ship  sinks  foundering  in  the  vast  abyss. 

John  FUilips.—Born  1676,  Died  1708. 


667.— TO  A  VEEY  YOUNG  LADY. 

Ah,  Chloris  !  that  I  now  could  sit 

As  unconcern' d,  as  Avhen 
Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  pleasure,  nor  no  pain. 

When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire. 
And  praised  the  coming  day  ; 

I  little  thought  the  growing  fire 
Must  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay. 

Like  metals  in  the  mine, 
Age  from  no  face  took  more  away, 

Than  youth  conceal' d  in  thine. 

But  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  their  perfection  prest. 
Fond  Love,  as  unperceived  did  fly, 

And  in  my  bosom  rest. 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 

And  Cupid  at  my  heart, 
Still  as  his  mother  favour' d  you. 

Threw  a  new  flaming  dart. 

Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part : 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employ 'd  the  utmost  of  his  art, 

To  make  a  Beauty,  she. 


1      From  1649  to  1689.]                        THE  SEEDS  OF  LOVE.  [Mrs.  Fleetwood  Habergham. 

Though  now  I  slowly  bend  to  love 

If  e'er,  in  eager  hopes  of  bliss. 

Uncertain  of  my  fate, 

Within  her  arms  you  fall. 

K  your  fair  seK  my  chains  approve, 

The  plaster' d  fair  returns  the  kiss — 

j               I  shall  my  freedom  hate. 

Like  Thisbe — through  a  wall. 

Lovers,  like  dying  men,  may  well 

Sir  Charles  Sedley.—Born  1639,  Died  1701. 

At  first  disorder' d  be. 



Since  none  alive  can  truly  tell 

What  fortune  they  must  see. 
Sir  Charles  Sedley.—Born  1639,  Died  1701- 

' 

670.— SONG. 

My  dear  mistress  has  a  heart 

Soft  as  those  kind  looks  she  gave  me. 

668.— SONG. 

When,  with  love's  resistless  art. 
And  her  eyes,  she  did  enslave  me. 

Love  still  has  something  of  the  sea, 

But  her  constancy  's  so  weak, 

From  whence  his  mother  rose  ; 

She's  so  wild  and  apt  to  wander, 

No  time  his  slaves  from  doubt  can  free, 

That  my  jealous  heart  would  break. 

Nor  give  their  thoughts  repose. 

Should  we  live  one  day  asunder. 

They  are  becalm 'd  in  clearest  days. 

Melting  joys  about  her  move. 

And  in  rough  weather  toss'd ; 

Killing  pleasures,  wounding  blisses  ; 

They  wither  iinder  cold  delays, 

She  can  dress  her  eyes  in  love. 

Or  are  in  tempests  lost. 

And  her  lips  can  warm  with  kisses. 

One  whUe  they  seem  to  touch  the  port, 
Then  straight  into  the  main 

Some  angry  wind,  in  cniel  sport. 
The  vessel  drives  again. 

Angels  listen  when  she  speaks ; 

She's  my  delight,  all  mankind's  wonder  ; 
But  my  jealous  heart  would  break, 

Should  we  live  one  day  asunder. 

At  first  Disdain  and  Pride  they  fear, 

Sir  Charles  Sedley.—Born  1639,  Died  1701. 

Which  if  they  chance  to  'scape, 

Eivals  and  Falsehood  soon  appear. 

j              In  a  more  cruel  shape. 

By  such  degrees  to  joy  they  come, 

And  are  so  long  withstood ; 

So  slowly  they  receive  the  sun, 

671.— THE  SEEDS  OF  LOVE. 

It  hardly  does  them  good. 

I  sowed  the  seeds  of  love,  it  was  all  in  the 

'Tis  cruel  to  prolong  a  pain ; 

spring, 

And  to  defer  a  joy, 

In  April,  May,  and  June,  likewise,  when  small 

Believe  me,  gentle  Celemene, 

birds  they  do  sing ; 

1               Offends  the  winged  boy. 

My  garden  's  well  planted  with  flowers  every- 
where. 
Yet  I  had  not  the  liberty  to  choose  for  myself 

An  hundred  thousand  oaths  your  fears, 

Perhaps,  would  not  remove  ; 

the  flower  that  I  loved  so  dear. 

And  if  I  gazed  a  thousand  years, 

I  could  not  deeper  love. 

My  gardener  he  stood  by,  I  asked   him  to 

Sir  Charles  Sedlcy.—Bo-ni  1639,  Died  1701. 

choose  for  me, 
He  chose  me  the  violet,  the  lily,  and  pink,  but 

those  I  refused  all  three  ; 

The  violet  I  forsook,  because  it  fades  so  soon. 
The  lily  and  the  pink  I  did  o'erlook,  and  I 

669.— COSMELLA^'S  CHAEMS. 

vowed  I  'd  stay  till  June. 

Cosmelia's  charms  inspire  my  lays, 

In  June  there  's  a  red  rose-bud,  and  that 's  the 

Who,  fair  in  Nature's  scorn, 

flower  for  me  ! 

1  r             Blooms  in  the  winter  of  her  days. 

But  often  have  I  plucked  at  the  red  rose-bud 

R                Like  Glastenbury  thorn. 

till  I  gained  the  willow-tree  ; 

m            Cosmelia  's  cruel  at  threescore  ; 

The  willow-tree  ^\'ill  twist,  and  the  willow-tree 

■                 Like  bards  in  modem  plays, 

f             Four  acts  of  life  pass  guiltless  o'er, 

1                  But  in  the  fifth  she  slays. 

will  twine, — 
Oh !    I  wish  I  was  in  the  dear  youth's  arms 
that  once  had  the  heart  of  mine. 

Thomas  Flatman.] 


FOR  THOUGHTS. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


My  gardener  he  stood  by,  he  told  me  to  take 

great  care, 
For   in   the  middle  of   a  red  rose-bud  there 

grows  a  sharp  thorn  there  ; 
I  told  him  I  'd  take  no  care  till  I  did  feel  the 

smart, 
And  often  I  plucked  at  the  red  rose-bud  till  I 

pierced  it  to  the  heart. 

I'  11  make  me  a  posy  of  hyssop, — no  other  I 

can  touch, — 
That  all  the  world  may  plainly  see  I  love  one 

flower  too  much  ; 
My  garden  is  run  wild !   where  shall  I  plant 

anew — 
For   my  bed,  that   once    was   covered   with 

thyme,  is  all  overrun  with  rue  ? 

Mrs.  Fleetwood  Hdbergham. — About  1689. 


672.— FOE  THOUGHTS. 

Thoughts  !  what  are  they  ? 

They  are  my  constant  friends  ; 

Who,  when  harsh  fate  its  dull  brow  bends, 

Uncloud  me  with  a  smiling  ray, 

And  in  the  depth  of  midnight  force  a  day. 

When  I  retire  and  flee  * 

The  busy  throngs  of  company, 

To  hug  myself  in  privacy, 

O  the  discourse,  the  pleasant  talk 

'Twixt  us,  my  thoughts,  along  a  lonely  walk  ! 

You  like  the  stupifying  wine. 

The  dying  malefactors  sip, 

With  shivering  lip, 

T',  abate  the  rigour  of  their  doom 

By  a  less  troublous  cut  to  their  long  home. 

Make  me  slight  crosses  though  they  piled  up 

lie, 
All  by  th'  enchantments  of  an  ecstacy. 

Do  I  desire  to  see 
The  throne  and  majesty 
Of  that  proud  one. 

Brother  and  uncle  to  the  stars  and  sun, 
Those  can  conduct  me  where  such  jojs  reside, 
And  waft  me  cross  the  main,  sans  wind  and 
tide. 

Would  I  descry 

Those  radiant  mansions  'bove  the  sky, 

Invisible  by  mortal  eye. 

My  thoughts,  my  thoughts  can  lay 

A  shining  track  there  to. 

And  nimbly  fleeting  go ; 

Through  all  the  eleven  orbs  can  shove  away ; 

These  too  like  Jacob's  ladder  are, 

A  most  angelic  thoroughfare. 

The  wealth  that  shines 

In  the  Oriental  mines, 

Those  sparkling  gems  which  nature  keeps 

Within  her  cabinet  the  deeps, 


The  verdant  fields, 

The  rarities  the  rich  world  yields, 

Rare  structures,  whose  each  gilded  spire, 

Glimmers   like   lightning,    which   while  men 

admire 
They  deem  the  neighb'ring  sky  on  fire : 
These  can  I  gaze  upon,  and  glut  mine  eyes 
With  myriads  of  varieties, 
As  on  the  front  of  Pisgah  I 
Can  th'  Holy  Land  through  these  my  optics 

spy. 

Contemn  we  then 

The  peevish  rage  of  men. 

Whose  ^'iolence  ne'er  can  divorce 

Our  mutual  amity, 

Or  lay  so  damn'd  a  curse 

As  non-addresses  'twixt  my  thoughts  and  me; 

For  though  I  sigh  in  irons,  they 

Use  their  old  freedom,  readily  obey. 

And  when  my  bosom  friends  desert  me  stay. 

Come  then,  my  darlings,  I'll  embrace 

My  privilege  :  make  known 

The  high  prerogative  I  own 

By  making  all  allurements  give  you  place ; 

Whose  sweet  society  to  me 

A  sanctuary  and  a  shield  shall  be 

'Gainst  the  full  quivers  of  my  destiny. 

Thomas  Flat laan.— Born  1635,  Died  1688. 


673.— DYING. 

When  on  my  sick-bed  I  languish. 
Full  of  sorrow,  full  of  anguish ; 
Fainting,  gasping,  trembling,  crying, 
Panting,  groaning,  speechless,  dying — 
Methinks  I  hear  some  gentle  spirit  say — 
"  Be  not  fearful,  come  away  !  " 

Thoraas  Flatman.—Born  1635,  Died  1688. 


674.— THE  THOUGHT  OF  DEATH. 

Oh  I  the  sad  day 
When  friends  shall    shako  their  heads,  and 
say — 

"  Oh,  miserable  me  !  " 
Hark  !  how  he  groans ;  look  how  he  pants  for 

breath ; 
See    how   he   struggles  with  the    pangs    of 
Death  ! 
When  they  shall  say  of  these  poor  eyes, 

How  hollow  and  how  dim  they  be  ; 
Mark  how  his  breast  doth  swell  and  rise 
Against  his  potent  enemy  ! 
When  some  old  friend  shall  Blip  to  my  bed- 
side, 
Touch  my  chill  face,  and  thence  shall  gently 
slide ; 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


CUSTOM. 


[John  Pomfri:-: 


And  when  his  next  companions  say — 

"  How  doth  he  do  ?  What  hopes  ?  "  shall  turn 

away; 
Answering  only  with  a  lift-up  hand — 
"  Who  can  his  fate  withstand  ?  " 
Then  shall  a  gasp  or  two  do  more 
Than  e'er  my  rhetoric  could  before  ; 
Persuade  the  peevish  world  to  trouble  me  no 

more. 

Thomas  Flatman.—Born  1635,  Died  1688. 


675.— AN  EVENING  HYMN. 

Sleep,  downy  sleep,  come  close  my  eyes, 
Tired  with  beholding  vanities  ; 

Welcome,  sweet  sleep,  that  drives  away 
The  toils  and  follies  of  the  day. 

On  thy.  soft  bosom  will  I  lie, 

Forget  the  world  and  learn  to  die  : 

O  Israel's  watchful  Shepherd,  spread 
Thine  angel  tents  around  my  bed. 

Clouds  and  thick  darkness  veil  thy  throne, 
Its  awful  glories  all  unknown : 

Oh  !  dart  from  thence  one  cheering  ray, 
And  turn  my  midnight  into  day. 

Thus,  when  the  morn,  in  crimson  di'cst, 
Breaks  from  the  chambers  of  the  east, 

My  grateful  songs  of  praise  shall  rise 
Like  fragrant  incense  to  the  skies. 

Thomas  Flatman.—Boni  1635,  Died  1688. 


676.-- HYMN  TO  THE  ALMIGHTY. 

Great  God,  whose  sceptre  rules  the  earth, 

Distil  Thy  fear  into  my  heart. 
That  being  wrapt  with  holy  mirth, 

I  may  proclaim  how  good  Thou  art : 
Open  my  lips,  that  I  may  sing 
Full  praises  to  my  God,  my  King. 

Great  God,  Thy  garden  is  defaced, 

The  weeds  thrive  there.  Thy  flowers  decay ; 
O  call  to  mind  Thy  promise  past, 

Eestore  Thou  them,  cut  these  away  : 
Till  then  let  not  the  weeds  have  power 
To  starve  or  stint  the  poorest  flower. 

In  all  extremes,  Lord,  Thou  art  still 
The  mount  whereto  my  hopes  do  flee ; 

O  make  my  soul  detest  all  ill, 

Because  so  much  abhorred  by  Thee  : 

Lord,  let  Thy  gracious  trials  show 

That  I  am  just,  or  make  me  so. 

Shall  mountain,  desert,  beast,  and  tree. 
Yield  to  that  heavenly  voice  of  Thine  ; 

And  shall  that  voice  not  startle  me, 

Nor  stir  this  stone — this  heart  of  mine  ? 

No,  Lord,  till  Thou  new  bore  mine  ear, 

Thy  voice  is  lost,  I  cannot  hear. 


Fountain  of  Light,  and  living  breath. 
Whose  mercies  never  fail  nor  fade. 

Fill  me  with  life  that  hath  no  death, 
Fill  me  with  life  that  hath  no  shade ; 

Appoint  the  remnant  of  my  days. 

To  see  Thy  power,  and  sing  Thy  praise ._ 

Lord,  God  of  Gods,  before  whose  throne 
Stand  storms  and  fire,  O  what  shall  wo 

Eeturn  to  heaven,  that  is  our  own, 
When  all  the  world  belongs  to  Thee  ? 

We  have  no  offering  to  impart, 

But  praises  and  a  wounded  heart. 

0  Thou,  that  sitt'st  in  heaven,  and  see' at 
My  deeds  without,  my  thoughts  within  ; 

Be  Thou  my  prince,  be  Thou  my  priest, — 

Command  my  soul,  and  cure  my  sin  : 
How  bitter  my  afflictions  be 

1  care  not,  so  I  rise  to  Thee. 

What  I  possess,  or  what  I  crave. 

Brings  no  content,  great  God,  to  mo, 

If  what  I  would,  or  what  I  have. 
Be  not  possest  and  blest  in  Thee  : 

What  I  enjoy,  oh,  make  it  mine. 

In  making  me — that  have  it — Thine. 

Where  winter  fortunes  cloud  the  brows 

Of     summer     friends — when     eyes     grow 
strange ; 

When  plighted  faith  forgets  its  vows — 
When  earth  and  aU  things  in  it  change  : 

O  Lord,  Thy  mercies  fail  me  never, — 

When  once  Thou  lov'st.  Thou  lov'st  for  ever 

Great  God,  whose  kingdom  hath  no  end, 
Into  whose  secrets  none  can  dive, 

Whose  mercy  none  can  apprehend. 
Whose  justice  none  can  feel,  and  live  : 

What  my  dull  heart  cannot  aspire 

To  know.  Lord,  teach  me  to  admire. 


John  Quarles. — Born 


Died  1G65. 


677.— CUSTOM. 

Custom,  the  world's  great  idol,  wo  adore , 
And  knowing  this,    we    seek    to    know   do 

more; 
"VN^iat  education  did  at  first  receive. 
Our  ripen'd  age  confirms  us  to  believe. 
The  careful  nurse,   and  priest,    are   all    wc 


To  learn  opinions,  ana  our  country's  creed  : 
The  parent's  precepts  early  are  instill'd, 
And  spoU'd  the  man,  while  they  instruct  the 

chUd. 
To  what  hard  fate  is  human  kind  betrny  :!, 
When  thus  implicit  fate  a  virtue  made  ; 
\Vhen  education  more  than  truth  prevail S; 
And  nought  is  current  but  what  custom  seals  ; 


John  Pomfret.] 


THE  WISH. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Thus,  from  the  time  we  first  began  to  know, 
We  live  and  learn,  but  not  the  wiser  grow. 

We  seldom  use  our  liberty  aright, 
Nor  judge  of  things  by  universal  light : 
Our  prepossessions  and  affections  bind 
The   soul   in   chains,    and  lord    it    o'er   the 

mind; 
And  if  self-interest  be  but  in  the  case. 
Our  unexamined  principles  may  pass  ! 
Good  Heavens  I  that  man  should  thus  himseK 

deceive. 
To  learn  on  credit,  and  on  trust  believe  ! 
{       Better  the  mind  no  notions  had  retain' d, 
I       But  still  a  fair,  unwritten  blank  remain' d  : 
j       For  now,  who   truth   from   falsehood  would 
i  discern, 

!       Must  first  disrobe  the  mind,  and  all  unlearn, 
j       Errors,  contracted  in  unmindful  youth, 
I       When  once  removed  will  smooth  the  way  to 
j  truth ; 

j       To  dispossess  the  child  the  mortal  lives, 
I       But  ileath  approaches  ere  the  man  arrives. 

Those  who  would  learning's  glorious  king- 
dom find. 
The   dear-bought   purchase    of    the    trading 

mind. 
From  many  dangers  must  themselves  acquit. 
And  more  than  Scylla  and  Charybdis  meet. 
Oh  !  what  an  ocean  must  be  voyaged  o'er, 
To  gain  a  prospect  of  the  shining  shore  ! 
Resisting  rocks  oppose  th'  inquiring  soul. 
And  adverse  waves  retard  it  as  they  roll. 
Does  not  that  foolish  deference  we  pay 
To  men   that   lived   long  since,  our  passage 

stay  ? 
What   odd,  preposterous  paths    at   first  we 

tread. 
And    learn   to   walk   by   stumbling   on    the 

dead! 
First  we  a  blessing  from  the  grave  implore. 
Worship  old  urns,  and  monuments  adore  ! 
The    reverend    sage    with   vast    esteem    we 

prize : 
He  lived  long  since,  and  must  be  wondrous 

wise! 
Thus  are  we  debtors  to  the  famous  dead, 
For   all    those    errors   which    their  fancies 

bred  ; 
Errors,  indeed  !  for  real  knowledge  staid 
With  those  first  times,  not  farther  was  con- 

vey'd : 
While  Ught  opinions  are  much  lower  brought, 
For  on  the  waves  of  ignorance  they  float : 
But  solid  truth  scarce  ever  gains  the  shore, 
So  soon  it  sinks,  and  ne'er  emerges  more. 

Suppose  those  many  dreadful  dangers  past, 
Will  knowledge  dawn,  and  bless  the  mind  at 

last? 
Ah !  no,  'tis  now  environ' d  from  our  eyes. 
Hides  all  its  charms,  and  undiscover'd  lies  ! 
Truth,  like  a  single  point,  escapes  the  sight, 
And  claims  attention  to  perceive  it  right ! 
But  what  resembles  truth  is  soon  descried, 
Spreads  like  a  surface,  and  expanded  wide  ! 
The  first  man  rarely,  very  rarely  finds 
The  tedious  search  of  long  inquiring  minds  : 


But  yet  what 's  worse,  wo  know  not  what  we 

err; 
What  mark  does  truth,  what  bright  distinction 

bear  ? 
How   do   we   know  that  what    we  know  is 

true? 
How    shall    we    falsehood    fly,    and    truth 

pursue  ? 
Let   none  then   here   his  certain   knowledge 

boast ; 
'Tis  all  but  probability  at  most : 
This  is  the  easy  purch^ise  of  the  mind. 
The   vulgar's  treasure,  which  we    soon  may 

find! 
The  truth  lies  hid,  and  ere  we  can  explore 
The  glittering  gem,  our  fleeting  life  is  o'er. 

John  Pom  fret. —Born  1667,  Died  1703. 


678.— THE  WISH. 

If  Heaven  the  grateful  liberty  would  give 
That  I  might  choose  my  method  how  to  live  ; 
And  all  those  hours  propitious  fate  should  lend. 
In  blissful  ease  and  satisfaction  spend ; 
Near  some  fair  town  I'd  have  a  private  seat, 
Built  uniform,  not  little,  nor  too  great ; 
Better,  if  on  a  rising  ground  it  stood ; 
On  this  side  fields,  on  that  a  neighbouring 

wood. 
It  should  within  no  other  things  contain 
But  what  are  useful,  necessary,  plain  ; 
Methinks  'tis  nauseous,  and  I'd  ne'er  endure, 
The  needless  pomp  of  gaudy  furniture. 
A  little  garden  grateful  to  the  eye. 
And  a  cool  rivulet  run  murmuring  by  ; 
On  whose  delicious  banks  a  stately  row 
Of  shady  limes  or  sycamores  should  grow ; 
At  th'  end  of  which  a  silent  study  placed, 
Should  be  with  all  the  noblest  authors  graced: 
Horace  and  Virgil,  in  whose  mighty  lines 
Immortal  wit  and  solid  leai-ning  shines  ; 
Sharp  Juvenal,  and  amorous  Ovid  too. 
Who  all  the  turns  of  love's  soft  passion  knew; 
He  that  with  judgment  reads  his  charming 

lines. 
In  which  strong  art  with  stronger  nature  joins. 
Must  grant  his  fancy  docs  the  best  excel ; 
His  thoughts  so  tender,  and  express'd  so  well; 
With  all  those  moderns,  men  of  steady  sense> 
Esteem'd  for  learning  and  for  eloquence. 
In  some  of  these,  as  fancy  should  advise, 
I'd  always  take  my  morning  exercise  ; 
For  sure  no  minutes  bring  us  more  content 
Than  those  in  pleasing  useful  studies  spent. 

I'd  have  a  clear  and  competent  estate, 
That  I  might  live  genteelly,  but  not  great ; 
As  much  as  I  could  moderately  spend, 
A  little  more  sometimes,  t'oblige  a  friend. 
Nor  should  the  sons  of  poverty  repine 
Too  much  at  fortune,  they  should   taste  of 

mine; 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


SONG. 


Earl  or  Dorset 


And  all  that  objects  of  true  pity  were, 
Should  be  relieved  with  what  my  wants  could 

spare  ; 
For  that  our  Maker  has  too  largely  given 
Should  be  return'd  in  gratitude  to  Heaven. 
A  frugal  plenty  should  my  table  spread  ; 
With  healthy,  not  luxurious,  dishes  spread ; 
Enough  to  satisfj^  and  something  more. 
To  feed  the  stranger  and  the  neighbouringjioor 
Strong  meat  indulges  vice,  and  pampering  food 
Creates  diseases,  and  inflames  the  blood. 
But  what  's  sufficient  to  make  nature  strong, 
And  the  bright  lamp  of  life  continue  long, 
I'd  freely  take  ;  and,  as  I  did  possess, 
The  bounteous  Author  of  my  plenty  bless. 

John  Pomfret—Borii  1667,  Died  1703. 


679.— SONG. 

Wine,  wine  in  a  morning, 
Makes  us  frolic  and  gay, 

That  like  eagles  we  soar. 
In  the  pride  of  the  day ; 

Gouty  sots  of  the  night 
Only  find  a  decay. 

'Tis  the  sun  i-ipes  the  grape. 
And  to  drinking  gives  light : 

We  imitate  him, 

Wlien  by  noon  we  're  at  height 

They  steal  wine,  who  take  it 
When  he  's  out  of  sight. 

Boy,  fill  all  the  glasses. 

Fill  them  up  now  he  sliines ; 

The  higher  he  rises 
The  more  he  refines. 

For  wine  and  "wit  fall 
As  their  maker  declines. 


Thomas  Brown. — Bom 


Died,  1704. 


680.— SONG. 

To  all  you  ladies  now  at  land, 

We  men  at  sea  indite ; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write  : 
The  Muses  how,  and  Neptune  too. 
We  must  implore  to  write  to  you, 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

For  though  the  Muses  should  prove  kind, 

And  fill  our  empty  brain  ; 
Yet  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind. 

To  wave  the  azure  main. 
Our  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and  we, 
Eoll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea. 
~  With  a  fa,  &c. 

Then  if  we  write  not  by  each  post, 

Think  not  we  are  unkind  ; 
Nor  5'ct  conclude  our  ships  are  lost. 

By  Dutchmen,  or  by  wind  : 


Our  tears  we  '11  send  a  speedier  way, 
The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a-day. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

The  king,  Avith  wonder  and  surf)rise. 

Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold ; 
Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise. 

Than  e'er  they  used  of  old  :  —     - 

But  let  him  know,  it  is  our  tears 
Bring  floods  of  grief  to  Whitehall  stairs. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story ; 
The  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a  foe, 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree  : 
For  what  resistance  can  they  find 
From  men  who  've  left  their  hearts  behind  ? 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst. 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind  ; 
Let  Dutchmen  vapour,  Spaniards  curse, 

No  sorrow  we  shall  find  : 
'Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go. 
Or  who  's  our  friend,  or  who 's  our  foe. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away, 

We  throw  a  merry  main  ; 
Or  else  at  serious  ombre  play ; 

But  why  should  Ave  in  vain 
Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue  ? 
We  were  undone  when  we  left  you. 
With  a  fa,  &r. 

But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow, 

And  cast  our  hopes  away  : 
y/hilst  you,  regardless  of  our  woe. 

Sit  careless  at  a  play : 
Perhaps,  permit  some  happier  man 
To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  j^our  fan. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear. 

That  dies  in  every  note  ; 
As  if  it  sigh'd  with  each  man's  care, 

For  being  so  remote ; 
Tliink  how  often  love  we  've  made 
To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  play'd. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

In  justice  you  cannot  refuse 

To  think  of  our  distress. 
When  we  for  hopes  of  honour  lose 

Our  certain  happiness  ; 
All  those  designs  are  but  to  prove 
Ourselves  more  worth}^  of  your  love. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

And  noAV  we  've  told  you  all  our  loves. 

And  likcAvise  all  our  fears. 
In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 

Some  pity  from  yoiir  tears ; 
Let  's  hear  of  no  inconstancy, 
AVe  have  too  much  of  that  vt  sea. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

Earl  of  Dorset. —Born  1637,  Died  1706; 


Duke  of  Buckinghamshire.]     HOMER  AND  YIEGIL. 


[Fourth  Period. — - 


681.--HOMEK  AND  VIEGIL. 

By  painful  steps  at  last  we  labour  up 

Parnassus'  hill,^  on  whose  bright  airy  top 

The  epic  poets  so  divinely  show, 

And  with  just  pride  behold  the  rest  below. 

Heroic  poems  have  just  a  pretence 

To  be  the  utmost  stretch  of  human  sense ; 

A  work  of  such  inestimable  worth, 

There  are  but  two  the  world  has  yet  brought 

forth— 
Homer  and  Virgil ;  with  what  sacred  awe 
Do  those  mere  sounds  the  world's  attention 

draw ! 
Just  as  a  changeling  seems  below  the  rest 
Of  men,  or  rather  as  a  two-legg'd  beast, 
So  these  gigantic  souls,  amaz'd  we  find 
As  much  above  the  rest  of  human  kind  ! 
Nature's  whole  strength  united  !  endless  fame, 
And  universal  shouts  attend  their  name ! 
Eead  Homer  once,  and  you  can  read  no  more, 
For  all  books  else  appear  so  mean,  so  poor. 
Verse  will  seem  prose ;  but  still  persist  to  read, 
And  Homer  will  be  all  the  books  you  need. 
Had  Bossu  never  writ,  the  world  had  stUl, 
Like  Indians,  view'd  this  wondrous  jiiece  of 

skiU; 
As  something  of  divine  the  work  admir'd, 
Not  hope  to  be  instructed,  but  inspir'd ; 
But  he,  disclosing  sacred  mysteries. 
Has  shown  Avhere  aU  their  mighty  magic  lies  ; 
Describ'd  the  seeds,  and  in  what  order  so-noi, 
That  have  to  such  a  vast  proportion  grown. 
Sure  from  some  angel  he  the  secret  knew. 
Who  through  this  labyrinth  has  lent  the  clue. 

But  what,  alas  !  avails  it,  poor  mankind. 
To  see  this  promis'd  land,  yet  stay  behind  ? 
The  way  is  shown,  but  who  has  strength  to  go  ? 
VvTio  can  all  sciences  profoundly  know  ? 
Whose  fancy  flies  beyond  weak  reason's  sight, 
And  yet  has  judgment  to  direct  it  right  ? 
Whose  just  discernment,  Virgil-like,  is  such, 
Never  to  say  too  little  or  too  much  ? 
Let  such  a  man  begin  without  delay  ; 
But  he  must  do  beyond  what  I  can  say ; 
Must  above  Tasso's  lofty  heights  prevail ; 
Succeed  when  Spenser,  and  ev'n  Milton  fail. 


Duke  of  Buckinghamshire.- 


-Sorn  1649,  Died 
1721. 


682.— TO  THE  EVENING  STAE. 

Bright  star  !  by  Venus  fix'd  above. 
To  rule  the  happy  realms  of  Love ; 
Who  in  the  dewy  rear  of  day, 
Advancing  thy  distinguish' d  ray, 
Dost  other  Hghts  as  far  outshine 
As  Cynthia's  silver  glories  thine ; 
Known  by  superior  beauty  there. 
As  much  as  Pastorella  here. 

Exei-t,  bright  Star,  thy  friendly  light, 
And  guide  me  through  the  dusky  night ! 


Defrauded  of  her  beams,  the  Moon 
Shines  dim,  and  will  be  vanish'd  soon. 
I  would  not  rob  the  shepherd's  fold ; 
I  seek  no  miser's  hoarded  gold ; 
To  find  a  nymph  I  'm  forced  to  stray. 
Who  lately  stole  my  heart  away, 

George  Stejpney.—Born  1663,  Died  1707. 


683.— SONG. 

Of  all  the  torments,  all  the  cares, 
With  which  our  lives  are  curst ; 

Of  all  the  plagues  a  lover  bears, 
Sure  rivals  are  the  worst. 

By  partners  in  each  other  kind 

Afflictions  easier  grow ; 
In  love  alone  we  hate  to  find 

Companions  of  our  woe. 

Sylvia,  for  all  the  pangs  you  see 

Are  lab'ring  in  my  breast, 
I  beg  not  you  would  favour  me. 

Would  you  but  sHght  the  rest. 

How  great  soe'er  your  rigours  are, 

With  them  alone  I  '11  cope  ; 
I  can  endure  my  own  despair, 

But  not  another's  hope. 

William  Walsh. — Born  1663,  Died  1709. 


6S4.— SONG. 

Fair  and  soft,  and  gay  and  young, 

All  charm — she  play'd,  she  danced,  she  sung ; 

There  was  no  way  to  'scape  the  dart. 

No  care  could  guard  the  lover's  heart. 

"  Ah,  why,"  cried  I,  and  dropp'd  a  tear, 

Adoring,  yet  despairing  e'er 

To  have  her  to  myself  alone, 

"  Wliy  was  such  sweetness  made  for  one  ?  '* 

But,  growing  bolder,  in  her  ear 
I  in  soft  numbers  told  my  care  : 
She  heard,  and  raised  me  from  her  feet, ' 
And  seera'd  to  glow  with  equal  heat. 
Like  heaven's,  too  mighty  to  express. 
My  joys  could  but  be  known  by  guess ; 
"  Ay,  fool,"  said  I,  "  what  have  I  done, 
To  wish  her  made,  for  more  than  one  !  '* 

But  long  she  had  not  been  in  view, 
Before  her  eyes  their  beams  withdrew; 
Ere  I  had  reckon' d  half  her  charms. 
She  sunk  into  another's  arms. 
But  she  that  once  could  faithless  be, 
WiU  favour  him  no  more  than  me  : 
He,  too,  wiU  find  he  is  undone. 
And  that  she  was  not  made  for  one. 

Robert  Gould.— About  1689. 


From  1G49  to-  1G89.] 


PICTUEE  OF  A  WITCH. 


[Thomas  Otway. 


6S5.— SONG. 

Cselia  is  cruel :  Sylvia,  thou, 

I  must  confess,  art  kind ; 
But  in  her  cruelty,  I  vow, 

I  more  repose  can  find. 
For,  oh  !  thy  fancy  at  all  games  docs  fly, 
Fond  of  address,  and  willing  to  comply. 

Thus  he  that  loves  must  be  tmdone. 

Each  way  on  rocks  we  fall ; 
Either  you  mil  be  kind  to  none, 

Or  worse,  be  kind  to  all. 
Vain  are  our  hopes,  and  endless  is  our  care  ; 
We  must  be  jealous,  or  we  must  despair. 

Robert  Gould.— About  1689. 


686.— THE  OLD  MAN'S  WISH. 

If  I  live  to  grow  old,  for  I  find  I  go  down, 
Let  this  be  my  fate  :  in  a  country  town, 
May  I  have  a   warm  house,  with  a  stone  at 

the  gate, 
And  a  cleanly  young  girl  to  rub  my  bald  pate. 
May   I    govern   my  jpassion  with   an 

absolute  sway. 
And    grow  wiser  and  better,  as  my 

-   strength  wears  away, 
Without   gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle 
decay. 

Near  a  shady  grove,  and  a  murmuring  brook, 
With  the  ocean  at  distance,  whereon  I  may 

look; 
With  a  spacious  plain,  without  hedge  or  stile. 
And  an  easy  pad-nag  to  ride  out  a  mile. 
May  I  govern,  &c. 

With  Horace  and  Petrarch,  and  two  or  three 

more 
Of  the  best  wits   that  reign'd   in    the   ages 

before ; 
With  roast  mutton,  rather  than  ven'son  or 

teal, 
And   clean,   though   coarse    linen,   at    every 

meal. 

May  I  govern,  &c. 

With  a  pudding  on  Sundays,  with  stout  hum- 
ming liquor, 
And  remnants  of  Latin  to  welcome  the  vicar ; 
With  Monte  Fiascone  or  Burgundy  wine, 
To  drink  the  king's  health  as  oft  as  I  dine. 
May  I  govern,  &c. 

With  a  courage  undaunted  may  I  face  my  last 

day, 
And  when  I   am  dead  may  the  better  sort 

say— 
"  In  the  morning  when  sober,  in  the  evening 

when  mellow, 
He  's  gone,  and  [has]  left  not  behind  him  his 

fellow 


For  he  govern' d  his  passion  with  an 

absolute  sway, 
And   grew   wiser   and  bettor,   as    his 

streng-th  wore  away, 
Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a   gentle 

decay." 

J}r.  Walter  Popc—AhQutlGSO. 


6S7.— A  BLESSING. 

Then  hear  me,  bounteous  Heaven, 

Pour  down  your  blessings  on  tliis  beauteous 

head, 
Where  everlasting  sweets  are  always  springing. 
With  a  continual  giving  hand  :  let  peace, 
Honour,  and  safety  always  hover  round  her  : 
Feed  her  with  plenty  ;  let  her  eyes  ne'er  see 
A  sight  of  sorrow,  nor  her  heart  know  mourn- 
ing ; 
Crown  all  her  days  with  joy,  her  nights  with 

r6st, 
Harmless  as  her  own  thoughts  ;  and  prop  her 

virtue. 
To  bear  the  loss  of  one  that  too  much  loved  ; 
And  comfort  her  with  patience  in  our  parting. 

Thomas  Otway. — Born  1651,  Died  1685. 


688.— PARTING. 

Where  am  I  ?    Sure  I  wander  'midst  enchant- 
ment, 

And  never  more  shall  find  the  way  to  rest. 

But  O  Monimia !  art  thou  indeed  resolved 

To  punish  me  with  everlasting  absence  ? 

Why  tum'st  thou  from  me  ?  I'm  alone  already ! 

Methinks  I  stand  upon  a  naked  beach 

Sighing  to  winds  and  to  the  seas  complaining; 

Whilst  afar  off  the  vessel  sails  away, 

Where  all  the  treasure  of  my  soul's  embark' d! 

Wilt  thou  not  turn  ?  O  cotdd  those  eyes  but 
speak ! 

I    should   know   all,  for  love  is  pregnant  in 
them  ! 

They  swell,  they  press  their  beams  upon  me 
still ! 

Wilt  thou  not  speak  ?    If  we  must  part  for 
ever. 

Give  me  but  one  kind  word  to  think  upon, 

And  please  myself  with,  while  my  heart  is 
breaking. 
Thomas  Otivay.—Born  1651,  Died  1685. 


689.— PICTURE  OF  A  WITCH. 

Through  a  close  lane  as  I  pursued  my  journey,, 
And  meditating  on  the  last  night's  vision, 
I   spied   a  wrinkled    hag,   with    age    grown 
double, 


Thomas  Otwat.] 


SONG. 


[Fourth  Period.— 


Picking  dry  sticks,  and  mumbling  to  herself ; 
Her  eyes  with  scalding  rheum  were  gall'd  and 

red, 
And  palsy  shook  her  head ;  her  hands  seemed 

wither' d ; 
And  on  her  crooked  shoulder  had  she  wrapp'd 
The     tatter' d    remnant    of    an    old    striped 

hanging, 
Wliich  served  to  keep  her  carcass  from  the 

cold.  ^ 

So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her. 
Her    lower    weeds    were    all    o'er    coarsely 

patched 
With    different    coloured    rags — ^black,    rod, 

white,  yellow, 
And  seem'd  to  speak  variety  of  wretchedness. 
I  ask'd  her  of  the  way,  which  she  informed 

me  ; 
Then  craved  my  charity,  and  bade  me  hasten 
To  save  a  sister. 

Thomas  Otway.—Born  1661,  Died  1685. 


690.--SONG. 

Come,  all  ye  youths  whose  hearts  e'er  bled 

By  cruel  beauty's  pride. 
Bring  each  a  garland  on  his  head,  — ■ 

Let  none  his  sorrows  hide  : 
But  hand  in  hand  around  me  move, 
Singing  the  saddest  tales  of  love  ; 
And  see,  when  your  complaints  ye  join. 
If  all  your  wrongs  can  equal  mine. 

The  happiest  mortal  once  was  I, 

My  heart  no  sorrow  knew  ; 
Pity  the  pain  with  which  T  die, 

But  ask  not  whence  it  grew  ; 
Yet  if  a  tempting  fair  you  find. 
That  's  very  lovely,  very  kind, 
Though  bright  as  heaven   whose   stamp   she 

bears,  . 
Think  on  my  fate  and  shun  her  snares. 

Thomas  Otivay.—Born  1651,  Died  1685. 


691.— DESCEIPTION  OF  MOENINO. 

Wish'd  Morning 's  come  ;  and  now  upon  the 

plains. 
And  distant  mountains,  where  they  feed  their 

flocks. 
The  happy  shepherds  leave  their  homely  huts. 
And  with  their  pipes  proclaim  the  new-born 

day. 
The   lusty   swain   comes   with   his   well-fill' d 

scrip 
Of    healthful    viands,    which,    when    hunger 

calls. 
With  much  content  and  appetite  he  eats. 
To  follow  in  the  field  his  daily  toil, 
And  dress  the  gi-ateful  glebe  that  yields  him 

fruits. 


The  beasts  that  under  the  warm  hedges  slept. 
And  weather' d  out  the  cold  bleak  night,  are 

up; 
And,     looking     towards     the     neighbouring 

pastures,  raise 
Their  voice,  and  bid  their  fellow-brutes  good 

morrow. 
The  cheerful  birds,  too,  on  the  tops  of  trees, 
Assemble  all  in  choirs  ;  and  with  their  notes 
Salute  and  welcome  up  the  rising  .sun. 

Thomas  Otway.— About  1689. 


692.— SPEECH. 

Speech  is  morning  to  the  mind ; 

It  spreads  the  beauteous  images  abroad, 

Which  else  lie  furled  and  clouded  in  the  soul. 

Nathaniel  Lee.— About  1689. 


693.— LOVE. 


All 


when   thou 


I  disdain 
art  by  :    far 


be  the 


pomp 

noise 
Of  kings   and   courts  from  us,  whose  gentle 

souls 
Our  kinder  stars  have  steer' d  another  way. 
Free  as  the  forest-birds  we'll  pair  together, 
Fly  to  the  arbours,  grots,  and  flowery  meads, 
And,  in  soft  murmurs,  interchange  our  souls  : 
Together  drink  the  crystal  of  the  stream, 
Or  taste  the  yellow  fruit  which  autumn  yields  ; 
And  when  the  golden  evening  calls  us  home, 
Wing  to  our  downy  nest,  and  sleep  till  mom. 

Nathaniel  Lee. — About  1689. 


694.— SELF-MUEDEE. 

What  torments  are  allotted  those  sad  spirits. 
Who,  groaning  with  the  burden  of  despair, 
No  longer  will  endure  the  cares  of  life, 
But  boldly  set  themselves  at  liberty, 
Through  the  dark  caves  of  death  to  wander 

on. 
Like  wilder' d  travellers,  without  a  guide  ; 
Eternal  rovers  in  the  gloomy  maze, 
Where  scarce  the  twilight  of  an  infant  morn. 
By  a   faint  glimmer  check'ring  through  the 

trees, 
Ecflects  to  dismal  view  the  walking  ghosts. 
That  never  hope  to  reach  the  blessed  fields. 

Nathaniel  Lee— About  1689. 


From  1649  to  1689.]                                        SONG.                                   [Sib  Geo.  Ethebeqe. 

695.— WISHES  FOR  OBSCUEITY. 

700.— INCONSTANCY  OF  LOVE. 

How  roiserable  a  thing  is  a  gi-eat  man, 

How  long  must  women  wish  in  vain 

Take  noisy  vexing  greatness  they  that  please  ; 

A  constant  love  to  find  ? 

Give  me  obscure  and  safe  and  silent  ease. 

No  art  can  fickle  man  reta.in, 

Acquaintance   and    commerce   let    me    have 

Or  fix  a  roving  mind. 

nono 
With  any  powerful  thing  but  Time  alone  : 

Yet  fondly  we  ourselves  deceive, 

My  rest  let  Time  be  fearful  to  offend, 

And  empty  hopes  pursue  : 

And  creep  by  me  as  by  a  slumbering  friend  ; 

Though  false  to  others,  we  believe 

Till,  with  ease  glutted,  to  my  bed  I  steal, 

They  will  to  us  prove  true. 

As  men  to  sleep  after  a  plenteous  meal. 

Oh,  wretched  he  who,  call'd  abroad  by  power, 

But  oh !  the  torment  to  discern 

To  know  himself  can  never  find  an  hour  ! 

A  perjured  lover  gone  ; 

Strange  to  himself,  but  to  all  others  known. 

And  yet  by  sad  experience  learn 

Lends  every  one  his  life,  but  uses  none  ; 

That  we  must  still  love  on. 

So,  e'er  he  tasted  life,  to  death  he  goes. 
And  himself  loses  ere  himself  he  knows. 

How  strangely  are  we  fool'd  by  fate, 
Who  tread  the  maze  of  love  ; 

John  Croinie. — About  1665. 

When  most  desirous  to  retreat, 

We  know  not  how  to  move. 
Thomas  Shadwell.—Born  1640,  Died  1692. 

696.— PASSIONS. 

We  oft  by  lightning  read  in  darkest  nights ; 

And  by  your  passions  I  read  all  your  natures, 

Though  you  at  other  times  can  keep  them 
dark. 

701.— SONG. 

John  Crowne. — About  1665. 

Ladies,  though  to  your  conquering  eyes 

Love  owes  his  chiefest  victories, 

And  borrows  those  bright  arms  from  you 
With  which  he  does  the  world  subdue  ; 

697.— LOVE  IN  WOMEN. 

Yet  you  yourselves  are  not  above 

The  empire  nor  the  griefs  of  love. 

These  are  great  maxims,  sir,  it  is  confess'd ; 

Too  stately  for  a  woman's  narrow  breast. 

Then  rack  not  lovers  with  disdain, 

Poor  love  is  lost  in  men's  capacious  minds ; 

Lest  love  on  you  revenge  their  pain  ; 

In  ours,  it  fiUs  up  all  the  room  it  finds. 

You  are  not  free  because  you're  fair. 

John  Crowne. — About  1665. 

The  boy  did  not  his  mother  spare  : 

Though  beauty  be  a  killing  dart, 

1 

It  is  no  armour  for  the  heart. 
Sir  Geo.  Ether  eg  c.— Born  1636,  IHed  1694. 

698.— INCONSTANCY    OF    THE 

MULTITUDE. 
I'll  not  such  favour  to  rebellion  show, 

•To  wear  a  crown  the  people  do  bestow ; 

Who,  when  their  giddy  violence  is  past, 

702.— SONG. 

Shall  from  the  king,  the  Adored,  revolt  at 

See,  how  fair  Corinna  lies, 

last; 

Kindly  calling  with  her  eyes  : 

And   then  the  throne  they  gave   they  shall 

In  the  tender  minute  prove  her ; 

invade, 

Shepherd,  why  so  dull  a  lover  ? 

And  scorn  the  idol   which  themselves  have 
made. 

John  Croxnie.^About  1665. 

Prithee,  why  so  dull  a  lover  ? 

In  her  blushes  see  your  shame, — 

Anger  they  with  love  proclaim ; 

You  too  coldly  entertain  her  : 
Lay  your  pipe  a  little  by ; 

If  no  other  charms  you  try, 

699.— WAEEIORS. 

You  wiU  never,  never  gain  her. 

I  hate  these  potent  madmen,  who  keep  all 

While  the  happy  minute  is, 

Mankind  awake,  while  they,  by  their  great 

Court  her,  you  may  get  a  kiss. 

deeds. 

May  be,  favours  that  are  greater  : 

Are  drumming  hard  upon  this  hoUow  world, 
Only  to  ma,ko  a  sound  to  last  for  ages. 

Leave  your  piping  ;   to  her  fly ; 
When  the  nymph  for  love  is  nigh. 

John  Crowne. — About  1665. 

Is  it  with  a  tune  you  treat  her  ? 
30 

Sib  Geo.  Etherege.] 


SONG. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Dull  Amlntor  !  fie,  O  !  fie  : 
Kow  your  Shepherdess  is  nigh 
Can  you  pass  your  time  no  better  ? 

Sir  Geo.  Etherege.—Born  1636,  Died  1694. 


703.— SOXG. 

^Vlien  Phillis  watch'd  her  harmless  sheep, 

Not  one  poor  lamb  was  made  a  prey ; 
Yet  she  had  cause  enoug-h  to  weep, 

Her  silly  heart  did  g-o  astray  : 
Then  flying  to  the  neighbouring  grove. 

She  left  the  tender  flock  to  rove, 
And  to  the  winds  did  breathe  her  love. 
She  sought  in  vain 
To  ease  her  jpain  ; 
The  heedless  winds  did  fan  her  fire  ; 
Venting  her  grief 
Gave  no  relief, 
But  rather  did  increase  desire. 
Then  sitting  with  her  arms  across, 

Her  sorrows  streaming  from  each' eye  ; 
.She  fix'd  her  thoughts  upon  her  loss, 
And  in  despair  resolved  to  die. 

Sir  Geo.  Etlicrcge.—Born  1636,  Died  1694. 


704.— SONG. 

A  curse  upon  that  faithless  maid 
Who  first  her  sex's  liberty  betray' d  ; 
Born  free  as  man  to  love  and  range, 
Till  nobler  nature  did  to  custom  change  ; 
Custom,  that  dull  excuse  for  fools, 
Who  think  all  virtue  to  consist  in  rules. 

From  love  our  fetters  never  sprung. 

That  smiling  god,  all  wanton,  gay,  and  young, 

Shows  by  his  wings  he  cannot  be 

Confined  to  artless  slavery  ; 

But  here  and  there  at  random  roves. 

Not  fix'd  to  glittering  courts  or  shady  groves. 

Then  she  that  constancy  profess' d 
Was  but  a  well  dissembler  at  the  best ; 
And  that  imaginary  sway 
She  seem'd  to  give  in  feigning  to  obey. 
Was  but  the  height  of  prudent  art 
To  deal  with  greater  liberty  her  heart. 

Ajphra  Behn. — Born  1630,  Died  16S9. 


705.— SONG. 
Love  in  fantastic  triumph  sat. 

Whilst  bleeding  hearts  around  him  flow'd, 
For  whom  fresh  pains  he  did  create, 

And  strange  tyrannic  power  he  show'd. 


From  thy  bright  eyes  he  took  his  fires. 
Which  round  about  in  sport  he  hurl'd ; 

But  'twas  from  mine  he  took  desires 
Enough  t'  undo  the  amorous  world. 

From  me  he  took  his  sighs  and  tears, 

From  thee  his  pride  and  cruelty ; 
From  me  his  languishment  and  fears. 

And  every  killing  dart  from  thee  : 
Thus  thou  and  I  the  god  have  arm'd, 

And  set  him  up  a  deity  ; 
But  my  poor  heart  alone  is  harm'd, 

■While  thine  the  victor  is,  and  free. 

Aplira  Behn.— Born  1630,  Died  1689. 


706.— FEOM    A    POEM    ENTITLED 
"AMANDA." 

I  have  an  eye  for  her  that's  fair, 
An  ear  for  her  that  sings  ; 
Yet  don't  I  care  for  goiden  hair, 
I  scorn  the  portion  lech'rj^  brings 
To  bawdy  Beaut3^     I'm  a  churl, 
And.  hate,  though  a  melodious  girl, 
Her  that  is  nought  but  air. 

I  have  a  heart  for  her  that's  kind, 
A  lip  for  her  that  smiles  ; 
But  if  her  mind  be  like  the  wind, 
I'd  rather  foot  it  tv/enty  miles. 


Is  thy  voice  mellow,  is  it  smart  P 

A  rt  Venus  for  thy  beauty  ? 

If  kind,  and  tart,  and  chaste  thou  art, 

I'm  bound  to  do  thee  duty. 

Though,  pretty  Mail,  or  bonny  Kate, 

Hast  thou  one  hair  adulterate, 

I'm  blind,  and  deaf,  and  out  of  heart. 

Amanda,  thou  art  kind,  well-bred, 

Harmonious,  sweetly  kind  ; 

If  thou  wilt  wed  my  virgin  bed. 

And  taste  my  love,  thou'rt  to  my  mind  ; 

Take  hands,  lips,  heart,  and  ej^es. 

Are  all  too  mean  a  sacrifice. 

N.  Roolc— About  1658. 


707.— TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Why,  little  charmer  of  the  air, 
Dost  thou  in  music  spend  the  morn. 
While  I  thus  languish  in  despair, 
Oppress'd  by  Cynthia's  hate  and  scorn  ? 
Why  dost  thou  sing  and  hear  me  cry  ? 
TcU,  wanton  songster,  tell  me  why. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MESSENGEE. 


[Anonymous. 


Great  to  the  ear,  though  small  to  sight, 

The  happy  lover's  dear  delight : 

Fly  to  the  bowers  where  such  ai'e  laid, 

And  there  bestow  thy  serenade  : 

Haste  thee  from  sorrow,  haste  away, 

Alas,  there's  danger  in  thy  stay, 

Lest  hearing  me  so  oft  complain 

Should  make  thee  change  thy  cheerful  strain. 


Then  cease,  thou  charmer  of  the  air, 
No  more  in  music  spend  the  morn 
With  me  that  languish  in  despair, 
Oppress'd  bj'  Cynthia's  hate  and  scorn ; 
And  do  not  this  poor  boon  deny, 
I  ask  but  silence  while  I  die. 

Philq)  Ayrcs.-^Ahout  1689. 


70S.— ON    THE    SIGHT    OF    HIS 
MISTRESS'S   HOUSE. 

To  view  these  walls  each  night  I  come  alone, 
And  pay  my  adoration  to  the  stone  ; 
Whence  joy  and  peace  are  influenced  on  me, 
For  'tis  the  temple  of  my  deity. 

As  nights  and  days  an    anxious  wretch   by 

stealth 
Creeps  out  to  view  the  place  which  hoards  his 

wealth, 
So  to  this   house,  that   keeps  from  me  my 

heart, 
I  couie,  look,  traverse,  weep,  and  then  depart. 

PJiilip  Ayres. — About  1689. 


709.— THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  WISH. 

If  I  could  but  attain  my  wish, 

I'd  have  each  day  one  wholesome  dish, 

Of  plain  meat,  or  fowl,  or  fish. 

A  glass  of  port,  with  good  old  beer. 
In  Avinter  time  a  fire  burnt  clear, 
Tobacco,  pipes,  an  easy  chair. 

In  some  clean  town  a  snug  retreat, 

A  little  garden  'fore  my  gate. 

With  thousand  pounds  a  year  estate. 

After  my  house  expense  was  clear, 

Whatever  I  could  have  to  spare. 

The  neighbouring  poor  should  freely  share. 

To  keep  content  and  peace  through  life, 
I'd  have  a  prudent  cleanly  wife. 
Stranger  to  noise,  and  eke  to  strife. 

Then  I,  when  blest  with  such  estate, 
With  such  a  house,  and  such  a  mate, 
Would  envy  not  the  worldly  great. 


Let  them  for  noisy  honours  try, 

Let  them  seek  worldly  praise,  while  I 

Unnoticed  would  live  and  die. 

But  since  dame  Fortune 's  not  thought  fit 
To  place  me  in  affluence,  yet  ~ 

I'll  be  content  with  what  I  get. 

j   He's  happiest  far  whose  humble  mind, 

I    Is  unto  Pro\ddence  resigned, 

i   And  thinketh  Fortune  always  kind. 

Then  I  will  strive  to  bound  my  wish. 
And  take,  instead  of  fowl  and  fish, 
Whate'er  is  thrown  into  my  dish. 

Instead  of  wealth  and  fortune  great, 
Garden  and  house  and  loving  mate, 
I'll  rest  content  in  ser\dle  state. 

I'll  from  each  foUy  strive  to  fly, 
Each  virtue  to  attain  I'll  try. 
And  live  as  I  would  wish  to  die. 

Anonymous. — Before  1689 


710.— THE  MIDNIGHT  MESSENGER. 


Thou  wealthy  man  of  large  possessions  here, 
Amounting  to  some  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
Extorted  by  oppression  from  the  poor. 
The  time  is  come  that  thou  shalt  be  no  more ; 
Thy  house  therefore  in  order  set  with  speed. 
And  call  to  mind  how  you  your  life  do  lead. 
Let  true  repentance  be  thy  chiefest  care. 
And  for  another  world  now,  note  prepare. 
For  not-withstanding  all  your  heaps  of  gold, 
Your  lands  and  lofty  buildings  manifold. 
Take  notice  you  must  die  this  very  day ; 
And  therefore  kiss  your  bags  and  come  away. 

RICH    MAN. 

(He   started   straight   and   turned   his    head 

aside. 
Where   seeing    pale-faced    Death,   aloud    he 

cried). 
Lean  famished  slave !    why  do   you   threaten 

so, 
Whence  come  you,  pray,  and  whither  must 

Igo? 


I  come  from  ranging  round  the  universe. 
Through  courts  and  kingdoms  far  and  near  I 

pase, 
Where   rich  and  poor,  distressed,  bond  and 

free. 
Fall  soon  or  late  a  sacrifice  to  mo. 
From    crowned   kings,  to  captives   bound   in 

chains 
My  power  reaches,  sir ;  the  longest  reigns 
That  ever  were,  I  put  a  period  to  ; 
And  now  I'm  come  in  fine  to  conquer  you. 

30* 


Anonymous.] 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MESSENGER. 


[Fourth  Pebiod. — 


RICH  MAN. 

I     can't    nor  won't  believe   that   you,    pale 

Death, 
Were  sent  this  day  to  stop  my  vital  breath, 
By  reason  I  in  perfect  health  remain, 
Free  from  diseases,  sorrow,  grief,  and  pain  ; 
No  heavy  heart,  nor  fainting  fits  have  I, 
And  do  you  say  that  I  am  drawing  nigh 
The  latter  minute  ?  sure  it  cannot  be  ; 
Depart,  therefore,  you  are  not  sent  for  me  ! 


Yes,  yes,  I  am,  for  did  you  never  know, 

The  tender  grass   and   pleasant  flowers  that 

grow 
Perhaps  one  minute,  are  the  next  cut  down  ? 
And   so  is   man,    though    famed   with    high 

renown. 
Have  you  not  heard  the  doleful  passing  bell 
Ring  out  for  those  that  were  alive  and  well 
The  other  day,  in  health  and  pleasure  too, 
And  had  as  little  thoughts  of  death  as  you  ? 
For  let   me    tell  you,   when    my    warrant 's 

sealed. 
The  sweetest  beauty  that  the    earth    doth 

yield 
At  my  approach  shall  turn  as  pale  as  lead  ; 
'Tis  I  that  lay  them  on  their  dying  bed. 
I  kill  with  dropsy,  phthisic,  stone,  and  gout ; 
But  when  my  raging  fevers  fly  about, 
I  strike  the  man,  perhaps,  but  over-night, 
Who  hardly  lives  to  see  the  morning  light ; 
I'm  sent  each  hour  like  to  a  nimble  page. 
To  infants,  hoary  heads,  and  middle  age  ; 
Time   after   time   I   sweep   the   world    quite 

through ; 
Then  it's  in  vain  to  think  I'll  favour  you. 

RICH   MAN. 

Proud  Death,  you  see  what  awful  sway  I  bear, 
For  when  I  frown  none  of  my  servants  dare 
Approach  my  presence,  but  in  corners  hide 
Until  I  am  appeased  and  pacified. 
Nay,  men  of  greater  rank  I  keep  in  awe 
Nor  did  I  ever  fear  the  force  of  law, 
But  ever  did  my  enemies  subdue. 
And  must  I  after  aU  submit  to  you  ? 


'Tis  very  true,  for  why,  thy  daring  soul, 
Wliich  never  could  endure  the  least  control, 
I'U  thrust  thee  from  this  earthly  tenement, 
And  thou  shalt  to  another  world  be  sent. 

RICH  MAN. 

What !  must  I  die  and  leave  a  vast  estate. 
Which,  with  my  gold,  I  purchased  but  of  late  ? 
Besides  what  I  had  many  years  ago  ? — 
Whai  !  must  my  wealth  and  I  be  parted  so  ? 
If  you  your  darts  and  arrows  must  let  fly, 
Go  search  the  jails,  where  mourning  debtors 

he; 
Release  them  from  their  sorrow,  grief,  and 

woe. 
For  I  am  rich  and  therefore  loth  to  go. 


I'll  search  no  jails,  but  the  right  mark  I'll 

hit ; 
And  though  you  are  unwilling  to  submit. 
Yet  die  you  must,  no  other  friend  can  do, — 
Prepare  yourself  to  go,  I'm  come  for  yovi. 
If  you  had  aU  the  world  aiid  ten  times  more, 
Yet   die    you   must, — there's    millions    gone 

before  ; 
The  greatest  kings  on  earth  yield  and  obey, 
And  at  my  feet  their  crowns  and  sceptres  lay  : 
If  crowned  heads  and  right  renowned  peers     • 
Die  in  the  prime  and  blossoms  of  their  years, 
Can  you  suppose  to  gain  a  longer  spa,ce  ? 
No  !  I  will  send  you  to  anotVj9r  place. 

RICH   MAN. 

Oh  !  stay  thy  hand  and  be  not  so  severe, 
I  have  a  hopeful  son  and  daughter  dear, 
All  that  I  beg  is  but  to  let  me  live 
That  I  may  them  in  lawful  marriage  give  : 
They  being   young  when   I   am  laid  in   the 

grave, 
I   fear  they  will   be  wronged   of   vrhat   they 

have  : 
xVlthough  of  me  you  wiU  no  pity  take, 
Yet  spare  me  for  my  little  infants'  sake. 


If  such  a  vain  excuse  as  this  might  do, 

It   would    be    long    ere    mortals    would    go 

through 
The  shades  of  death  ;  for  every  man  would  find 
Something  to  say  that  he  might  stay  behind. 
Yet,  if  ten  thousand  arguments  they'd  use. 
The  destiny  of  dying  to  excuse, 
They'll  find  it  is  in  vain  with  me  to  strive. 
For  why,  I  part  the  dearest  friends  aHve ; 
Poor   parents   die,  and  leave   their   children 

small 
With  nothing  to  support  them  here  withal, 
But  the  kind  hand  of  gracious  Providence, 
Who  is  their  father,  friend,  and  sole  defence. 
Though  I  have  held  you  long  in  disrepute, 
Yet  after  all  here  with  a  sharp  salute 
I'll  put  a  period  to  your  days  and  years. 
Causing  your  eyes  to  flow  with  dying  tears. 

RICH  MAN. 

[Then  with  a  groan  he  made  this  sad  com- 
plaint] : 

My  heart  is  dying,  and  my  spirits  faint ; 

To  my  close  chamber  let  me  be  conveyed ; 

Farewell,  false  world,  for  thou  hast  me  be- 
trayed. 

Would  I  had  never  wronged  the  fatherless. 

Nor  mourning  widows  wlien  in  sad  distress  ; 

Would  I  had  ne'er  been  guilty  of  that  sin, 

Would  I  had  never  known  what  gold  had 
been ; 

For  by  the  same  my  heart  was  drawn  away 

To  search  for  gold  :  but  now  this  very  day 

I  find  it  is  but  like  a  slender  reed, 

Which  fails  me  most  when  most  I  stand  in 
need  : 


From  1649  to  1689." 


THE  CATHOLICK. 


[Anonymous. 


For,  woe  is  me  !  the  time  is  come  at  last, 

Now  I  am  on  a  bed  of  sorrow  cast, 

Where  in  lamenting  tears  I  weeping  lie, 

Because  my  sins  make  me  afraid  to  die  : 

Oh  !  Death,  be  pleased  to  spare  me  yet  awhile. 

That  I  to  God  myself  may  reconcile, 

For  true  repentance  some  small  time  allow  ; 

I  never  feared  a  futm-e  state  till  now  ! 

My  bags  of  gold  and  land  I'd  freely  give, 

For  to  obtain  the  favour  here  to  live, 

Until  I  have  a  sure  foundation  laid. 

Let  me  not  die  before  my  peace  be  made ! 


Thou  hast  not  many  minutes  here  to  stay. 
Lift  up  your  heart  to  God  without  delay. 
Implore  his  pardon  now  for  what  is  past, 
"Who  knows  but  He  may  save  yo\ir  soul  at 
last? 

RICH   MAN. 

I'll  water  now  with  tears  my  dying  bed,  | 

Before  the  Lord  my  sad  complaint  I'U  spread,    I 
And  if  He  -will  vouchsafe  to  pardon  me,  i 

To  die  and  leave  this  world  I  could  be  free.        j 
False  world  !    false  world,  farewell !  farewell 

adieu ! 
I  find,  I  find,  there  is  no  trust  in  you ! 
For  when  upon  a  dying  bed  we  lie, 
Your  gilded  baits  are  naught  but  misery. 
Mj'  youthfvd  son  and  loving  daughter  dear. 
Take  warning  by  your  dying  father  here  ; 
Let  not  the  world  deceive  you  at  this  rate. 
For  fear  a  sad  repentance  comes  too  late. 
Sweet  babes,  I  little  thought  the  other  day, 
I  should  so  suddenly  be  snatched  away 
By  Death,  and  leave  you  weeping  here  behind 
But  Ufe  's  a  most  uncertain  thing,  I  find. 
When  in  the  grave  my  head  is  lain  full  low. 
Pray  let  not  folly  prove  your  ovei-throw  ; 
Serve  ye  the  Lord,  obey  his  holy  will. 
That  He  may  have  a  Ijlessing  for  you  still. 
^Having  saluted  them,  he  turned  aside, 
These  were  the  very  words  before  he  died]  : 


soul 


A  painful  life  I  ready  am  to  leave, 
AVherefore,    in    mercy,    Lord,    my 
receive. 

Anov  i/uioas. — Before  1689 


7 1 1  .—SMOKING  SPIRITUALIZED. 


This  Indian  weed,  now  withered  quite, 
Though  green  at  noon,  cut  down  at  night, 

Shows  thy  decay  ; 

All  flesh  is  hay  : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  pipe,  so  lily-like  and  weak. 
Does  thus  thy  mortal  state  bespeak  ; 

Thou  art  e'en  such, — 

Gone  with  a  touch  : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 


And  when  the  smoke  ascends  on  high, 
Then  thou  behold' st  the  vanity 

Of  worldly  stuff, 

Gone  with  a  puff : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  when  the  pipe  grows  foul  within, 
Think  on  thy  soul  defiled  Avith  sin-f    - 

For  then  the  fire 

It  does  require  : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  seest  the  ashes  cast  away. 
Then  to  thyself  thou  mayest  say. 

That  to  the  dust 

Keturn  thou  must. 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

Anonywous. — Before  1689. 


PART   II. 

Was  this  small  plant  for  thee  cut  down  ? 
So  was  the  plant  of  great  renowm. 

Which  Mercy  sends 

For  nobler  ends. 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

Doth  juice  medicinal  proceed 

From  such  a  naughty  foreign  weed  ? 

Then  what's  the  power 

Of  Jesse's  flower  ? 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  promise,  like  the  pipe,  allays, 
And  by  the  mouth  of  faith  conveys, 

What  virtue  flows 

From  Sharon's  rose. 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

In  vain  the  unlighted  pipe  you  blow. 
Your  pains  in  outward  means  are  so, 

THll  heavenly  fire 

Y'^our  heart  inspire. 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

Thus  smoke,  like  burning  incense,  towers, 
So  should  a  praying  heart  of  yours. 

With  ardent  cries. 

Surmount  the  skies. 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

Ralph  Erskine. — About  1750. 


7X2.— THE  CATHOLICK. 
I  hold  as  faith 


What  Rome's  church 

saith 
Where   the   King  's 

head 
The  flock  's   misled 


What  Enriland's  church 
allows 

My  conscience  dis- 
avows 

That  church  can  have 
no  shame 

That  holds  the  Pope 
supreme. 


Anonymous.] 


THE  THEEE   KNIGHTS. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


Where   the     altar 's     There's  service   scarce 

drest  divine 

The  people  's   blest     With  table,  bread,  and 

wine. 
He's  but  an  asse  Who    the    communion 

flies 
Who  shuns  the  masse     Is  catliolick  and  wise. 

Aiiomjmous. — 1655. 


713.— THE  THEEE  KNIGHTS. 

There  did  three  knights  come  from  the  west, 

With  the  high  and  the  lily  oh  ! 
And  these  three  knights  courted  one  ladye, 

As  the  rose  was  so  sweetly  blown. 

The  first  knight  came  was  all  in  white, 
And  asked  of  her  if  she'd  be  his  delight. 

The  next  knight  came  was  all  in  green. 
And  asked  of  her  if  she'd  be  his  queen. 

The  third  knight  came  was  all  in  red, 
And  asked  of  her  if  she  would  wed. 

"  Then  have  you  asked  of  my  father  dear  ? 
Likewise  of  her  who  did  me  bear  ? 

And  have  you  asked  of  my  brother  John  ? 
And  also  of  my  sister  Anne  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I've  asked  of  your  father  dear, 
Likewise  of  her  who  did  you  bear. 

And  I've  asked  of  your  sister  Anne, 

But  I  have  not  asked  of  your  brother  John." 

Far  on  the  road  as  they  rode  along. 

There  did  they  meet  with  her  brother  John. 

She  stooped  low  to  kiss  him  sweet. 
He  to  her  heart  did  a  dagger  meet. 

"  Bide  on,  ride  on,"  cried  the  servingman, 
"  Methinks  your  bride  she   looks    wondrous 
wan." 

"  I  wish  I  were  on  yonder  stile. 

For  there  I  would  sit  and  bleed  awhile. 

I  wish  I  were  on  yonder  hill, 

There  I'd  alight  and  make  my  will." 

"  What  would  you  give  to  your  father  dear  ?" 
"  The  gallant  steed  which  doth  me  bear." 

"  What    would    you    give    to    your    mother 

dear  ?  " 
•'  My  wedding  shift  which  I  do  wear  ; 

But  she  must  wash  it  veiy  clean, 

I'or  my  heart's  blood  sticks  in  every  seam." 

**  What  would  you  give  to  your  sister  Anne  ? " 
*♦  My  gay  gold  ring,  and  my  feathered  fan." 


What    would    you    give    to   your    brother 

John  ?  " 
A  rope,  and  a  gallows  to  hang  him  on." 

What  would  you  give  to  your  brother  John's 

Avife  ?  " 
A  widow's  weeds,  and  a  quiet  life." 

Anonymoxis. — Before  1G89, 


714.— THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  OF 
BEDNALL  GREEN. 


This  song  's  of  a  beggar  who  long  lost  his 

sight. 
And  had  a  fair  daughter,  most  pleasant  and 

bright. 
And  many  a  gallant  brave  suitor  had  she. 
And  none  was  so  comely  as-  pretty  Bessee. 

And  though  she  was  of  complexion  most  fair, 
And  seeing  she  was  but  a  beggar  his  heir. 
Of  ancient  housekeepers  despised  was  she, 
Whose  sons  came  as  suitors  to  pretty  Bessee. 

Wherefore  in   great    sorrow  fair  Bessee    did 

say: 
"  Good   father  and   mother,  lot  me   now   go 

away, 
To  seek  out  my  fortune,  whatever  it  be." 
This  suit  then  was  granted  to  pretty  Bessee. 

This  Bessee,  that  was  of  a  beauty  most  bright, 
They  clad   in  grey  russet ;    and    late  in  the 

night 
From  father  and  mother  alone  parted  she, 
Who  sighed  and  sobbed  for  pretty  Bessee. 

She  went  tiU  she  came  to  Stratford-at-Bow, 
Then    she    knew  not   whither  or  which  way 

to  go. 
With  tears  she  lamented  her  sad  destiny ; 
So  sad  and  so  heavy  was  pretty  Bessee. 

She  kept  on  her  journey  until  it  was  day, 
And  went  unto  Rumford,  along  the  highway  ; 
And     at    the  King's  Arms    entertained  was 

she, 
So  fair  and  well-favoured  was  pretty  Bessee. 

She  had  not  been  there  one  month  at  an  end. 
But    master  and    mistress   and    all  was    her 

friend  : 
And    every  brave  gallant  that  once  did   her 

see. 
Was  straightway  in  love  with  pretty  Bessee. 

Great  gifts  they  did  send  her  of   silver  and 

gold. 
And   in  their  songs  daily  her  love   they  ex- 

toUed  : 
Her  beauty  was  blazed  in  every  degree, 
So  fair  and  so  comely  was  pretty  Bessee. 


From  1649  to  1G89.]    THE  BLIND  BEGGAE  OF  BEDNALL  GEEEN.  [Anonymous. 


The  young  men  of  Eumf ord  in  her  had  their 

joy, 

She  showed  herseK  courteous,  but  never  too 

coy, 
And   at   their  commandment  still  she  would 

be, 
So  fair  and  so  comely  was  pretty  Bessee. 

Pour  suitors  at  once  unto  her  did  go, 

They  craved  her  favour,  but  still  she  said  no  ; 

"  I  would    not    have  gentlemen   marry  with 

me  !  " 
Yet  ever  they  honoured  pretty  Bessee. 

Now  one  of  them  was  a  gallant  young  knight. 
And  he  came  unto  her  disguised  in  the  night ; 
The  second,  a  gentleman  of  high  degree, 
Who  wooed  and  sued  for  pretty  Bessee. 

A  merchant  of  London,  whose  wealth  was  not 

small, 
"Was  then  the  third  suitor,  and  proper  withal ; 
Her  master's  own  son  the  fourth  man  must 

be, 
"Who  swore  he  would  die  for  pretty  Bessee. 

"  If  that  thou  ^vilt  many  with  me,"  quoth  the 

knight, 
"  I'U  make  thee  a  lady  with  joy  and  delight ; 
My  heart  is  enthralled  in  thy  fair  beauty. 
Then  grant  me  thy  favour,  my  pretty  Bessee." 

The  gentleman  said,  "  Come,  marry  with  me, 
In  silks  and  in  velvet  my  Bessee  shall  be ; 
My  heart  lies  distracted,  oh  !  hear  me,"  quoth 

he, 
"  And   grant   me   thy  love,    my  dear   pretty 

Bessee." 

"  Let  me  be  thy  husband,"  the  merchant  did 

say, 
"  Thou  shalt  Hve  in  London  most  gallant  and 

gay; 
My  ships    shall   bring  home  rich  jewels  for 

thee, 
And  I  will  for  ever  love  pretty  Bessee." 

Then  Bessee  she  sighed  and  thus  she  did  say: 
"  My  father  and  mother  I  mean  to  obey ; 
First  get  their  good  %vill,  and  be  faithfid  to 

me, 
And  you  shall  enjoy  your  dear  pretty  Bessee." 

To  every  one  of  them  that  answer  she  made, 
Therefore  unto  her  they  joyfully  said  : 
"  This  thing  to  fulfil  v^o  all  now  agree, 
But    where    dwells    thy   father,    my   pretty 
Bessee  ?  " 

'•My  father,"  quoth  she,  "is  soon  to  be  seen  : 
The  siUy  blind  beggar  of  BednaU  Green, 
That  daily  sits  begging  for  charity. 
He  is  the  kind  father  of  pretty  Bessee. 

His    marks   and    his    token  are  knowen  full 

well. 
He  always  is  led  by  a  dog  and  a  bell ; 
A  poor  silly  old  man,  God  knoweth  is  he. 
Yet  he's  the  true  father  of  pretty  Bessee." 


"Nay,  nay,"  quoth  the  merchant,  "  thou  art 

not  for  me." 
"  She,"  quoth  the  innholder,  "  my  wife  shall 

not  be." 
"  I  loathe,"  said  the  gentleman,  "a  beggar's 

degree, 
Therefore,  now  farewell,  my  pretty  Bessee." 

"  Why,  then,"  quoth  the  knight,  "  hap  better 

or  worse, 
I  weigh  not  true  love  by  the  weight  of   the 

purse, 
And  beauty  is  beauty  in  every  degree, 
Then  welcome  to  me,  my  dear  pretty  Bessee." 

With   thee    to    thy  father   forthwith    I   will 

SO." 
"  Nay,  forbear,"  quoth  his  kinsman,  "  it  must 

not  be  so  : 
A  poor  beggar's  daughter  a  lady  shan't  be  ; 
Then  take  thy  adieu  of  thy  pretty  Bessee." 

As  soon  then  as  it  was  break  of  the  day, 
The  knight  had   from  Eumford  stole  Bessee 

away  ; 
The  young  men  of  Eumford,  so  sick  as  may 

be, 
Eode  after  to  fetch  again  pretty  Bessee, 

As  swift  as  the  wind  to  ride  they  were  seen, 
Until  they  came  near  unto  BednaU  Green, 
And  as  the  knight  lighted  most  courteously. 
They  fought  against  him  for  pretty  Bessee. 

But  rescue  came  presently  over  the  plain. 
Or  else  the  knight  there  for  his  love  had  been 

slain ; 
The  fray  being  ended,  they  straightway  did 

see 
His  kinsman  come  railing  at  pretty  Bessee. 

Then  bespoke  the  blind  beggar,  "  Although  I 

be  poor, 
Eail  not  against  my  child  at  my  own  door. 
Though  she  be  not  decked  in  velvet  and  pearl, 
Yet  I  will  drop  angels  with  thee  for  my  girl ; 

And    then   if     my  gold    should    better   her 

birth, 
And  equal  the  gold  you  lay  on  the  earth. 
Then  neither  rail  you,  nor  gTudge  you  to  see. 
The  blind  beggar's  daughter  a  lady  to  be. 

But   first,   I    will    hear,    and   have    it   well 

known. 
The  gold    that  you  drop  it  shall  be  all  your 

own." 
With  that  they  replied,  "  Contented  we  be  !  " 
"  Then  here 's,"  quoth  the  beggar,  "  for  pretty 


With  that  an  angel  he  dropped  on  the  ground, 
And  dropped,   in  angels,  full  three  thousand 

pound ; 
And  oftentimes  it  proved  most  plain, 
For  the  gentleman's  one,  the  beggar  dropped 

twain : 


Anonymous.] 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  OF  BEDNALL  GREEN.  [Fourth  Period.- 


So  that  the  whole  place  wherein  they  did  sit, 
With  gold  was  covered  every  whit. 
The  gentleman  having  dropped  all  his  store, 
Said,  "  Beggar  !  your  hand  hold,  for  I  have  no 


"  Thou  haat  fulfilled  thy  promise  aright, 
Then    marry    my   girl,"    quoth     he    to    the 

knight ; 
"And  then,"    quoth   he,   '-I  wUl   throw  you 

down, 
An  hundred  pounds  more  to  buy  her  a  gown." 

The  gentlemen  all,  who  his  treasure  had  seen, 
Admired  the  beggar  of  Bednall  Green  ; 
And  those  that  had  been  her  suitors  before, 
Their  tender  flesh  for  anger  they  tore. 

Thus   was    the    fair   Bessee    matched    to    a 

knight, 
And  made  a  lady  in  others'  despite. 
A  fairer  lady  there  never  was  seen 
Than  the  blind  beggar's  daughter  of  Bednall 

Green. 

But  of  her  sumptuous  marriage  and  feast. 
And  what  fine  lords  and  ladies  there  pfest. 
The  second  i^art  shall  set  forth  to  your  sight, 
With    marvellous    pleasure    and    wished-for 
delight. 

Of  a  blind  beggar's  daughter  so  bright. 
That  late  was  betrothed  to  a  young  knight, 
All    the  whole  discourse  therefore  you  may 

see  : 
But  now  comes  the  wedding  of  pretty  Bessee. 


It  was  in  a  gallant  palace  most  brave. 
Adorned  with  all  the  cost  they  could  have, 
This  wedding  it  was  kept  most  sumptuous!}', 
And  all  for  the  love  of  pretty  Bessee. 

And  all  kind  of  dainties  and  delicates  sweet. 
Was  brought    to   their  banquet,    as   it   was 

thought  meet, 
Partridge,  and  plover,  and  venison  most  free, 
Against  the  brave  wedding  of  pretty  Bessee. 

The  wedding  through  England  was  spread  by 

report, 
So  that  a  great  number  thereto  did  resort 
Of  nobles  and  gentles  of  every  degree. 
And  all  for  the  fame  of  pretty  Bessee. 

To  church  then  away  went  this  gallant  young 

knight. 
His   bride    followed    after,    an    angel    most 

bright. 
With    troops    of    ladies,  the  like    was  ne'er 

seen. 
As  went  with  sweet  Bessee  of  Bednall  Green. 

This  wedding  being  solemnized  then, 
With  music  performed  by  skilfullest  men. 
The  nobles  and  gentlemen  down  at  the  side, 
Each  one  beholding  the  beautiful  bride. 


But  after  the  sumptuous  dinner  was  done, 

To  talk  and  to  reason  a  number  begun. 

And    of    the  blind   beggar's   daughter    most 

bright ; 
And  what  with  his  daughter  he  gave  to  the 

knight. 

Then  spoke  the  nobles,   "  Much  marvel  have 

we 
This  jolly  blind  beggar  we  cannot  yet  see  !  " 
"  My  lords,"  quoth  the  bride,   "  my  father  so 

base 
Is   loth   with   his   presence   these   states   to 

disgrace." 

"  The  praise  of  a  woman  in  question  to  bring, 
Before  her  own  face  is  a  flattering  thing  ; 
But  we  think  thy  father's  baseness,"  quoth 

they, 
"  Might  by  thy  beauty  be  clean  put  away." 

They  no  sooner  this  pleasant  word  spoke, 
But  in  comes  the  beggar  in  a  silken  cloak, 
A  velvet  cap  and  a  feather  had  he. 
And  now  a  musician,  forsooth,  he  would  be. 

And  being  led  in  from  catching  of  harm. 
He  had  a  dainty  lute  under  his  arm. 
Said,  "  Please  you  to  hear  any  music  of  me, 
A  song  I  will  sing  you  of  pretty  Bessee." 

With  that  his  lute  he  twanged  straightway. 
And  thereon  began  most  sweetly  to  play. 
And  after  a  lesson  was  played  two  or  three. 
He  strained  out  this  song  most  delicately  :— 

"  A  beggar's  daughter  did  dwell  on  a  green, 
Who  for  her  beautj^  may  well  be  a  queen, 
A  blithe  bonny  lass,  and  dainty  was  she. 
And  many  one  called  her  pretty  Bessee. 

Her  father  he  had  no  goods  nor  no  lands, 
But  begged  for  a  penny  all  day  with  his  hands. 
And  yet   for   her  marriage   gave  thousands 

three. 
Yet  still  he  hath  somewhat  for  pretty  Bessee. 

And  here  if  any  one  do  her  disdain, 
Her  father  is  ready  with  might  and  with  main 
To  prove  she  is  come  of  noble  degree. 
Therefore  let  none  flout  at  my  pretty  Bessee." 

With  that  the  lords  and  the  company  round 
With  a  hearty  laughter  were  ready  to  s  wound, 
At  last  said  the  lords,  "  Full  well  we  may  see, 
The  bride  and  the  bridegroom's  beholden  to 
thee." 

With  that  the  fair  bride  all  blushing  did  rise, 
With  crystal  water  all  in  her  bright  eyes, 
"  Pardon  my  father,  brave  nobles,"  quoth  she, 
'•  That  through   blind    aft'ection   thus    doats 
upon  me." 

"  If  this  be  thy  father,"  the  nobles  did  say, 
"  Well  may  ho  be  proud  of  this  happy  day, 
Yet  by  his  countenance  well  may  we  see. 
His  birth  with  his  fortune  could  never  agree  ; 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


LORD  DELAWARE. 


[Anonymous:. 


And  therefore,  blind  beggar,   we   pray  thee 

bewraj-, 
And  look  to  us  then  the  truth  thou  dost  sa3% 
Thy  birth  and  thy  parentage  what  it  may  be. 
E'en  for  the  love  thou  bearest  pretty  Bessee." 

"  Then  give  me  leave,  ye  gentles  each  one, 
A  ^ong  more  to  sing  and  then  I'll  begone, 
I       And  if  that  I  do  not  win  geod  report, 
i       Then  do  not  give  me  one  groat  for  my  sport : — 

When  first  our  king  his  fame  did  advance. 
And  sought  his  title  in  delicate  France, 
In  many  places  gi-eat  perils  passed  he  ; 
But  then  was  not  born  my  pretty  Bessee. 

j       And  at  those  wars  went  over  to  fight 
Many  a  brave  duke,  a  lord,  and  a  knight. 
And  with  them  young  Monford  of  courage  so 
free  ; 

i       But  then  was  not  born  my  pretty  Bessee. 

I       And  there  did  young  Monford  with  a  blow  on 

j  the  face 

Lose  both  his  eyes  in  a  very  short  space ; 
His  life  had  been  gone  away  with  his  sight. 
Had  not  a  young  woman  gone  forth  in  the 
night. 

Among  the  said  men,  her  fancy  did  move, 
To  search  and  to  seek  for  her  o^vn  true  love, 
Who  seeing  young  Monford  there  gasping  to 

die. 
She  saved  his  life  through  her  charity. 

And  then  all  our  victuals  in  beggar's  attire, 
At  the  hands  of   good  people   we  then  did 

require ; 
At  last  into  England,  as  now  it  is  seen, 
We  came,  and  remained  in  Bednall  Green. 

And  thus  we  have  lived  in  Fortune's  despite, 
Though   poor,    yet    contented    with    humble 

delight, 
And  in  my  old  years,  a  comfort  to  me, 
God  sent  me  a  daughter  called  pretty  Bessee. 

And  thus,  ye  nobles,  my  song  I  do  end. 
Hoping  by  the  same  no  man  to  offend  ; 
Full  forty  long  winters  thus  I  have  been 
A  silly  blind  beggar  of  Bednall  Green." 

Now  when  the  company,  every  one. 
Did  hear  the  strange  tale  he  told  in  his  song, 
They  were  amazod,  as  well  they  might  be. 
Both  at  the  blind  beggar  and  prett}^  Bessee. 

With  that  the  fair  bride  they  all  did  embrace, 
Saying,  "  You  are  come  of  an  honourable  race. 
Thy  father  likewise  is  of  high  degree, 
And  thou  art  right  worthy  a  lady  to  be." 

Thus   was   the    feast    ended   with    joy    and 

delight, 
A   happy  bridegroom  was    made  the   young 

knight, 
Who  lived  in  great  joy  and  feHcity 
With  his  fair  lady,  dear  pretty  Bessee. 

Anonymo^ls. — Before  1689. 


7 1 5  .—LORD  DELAWARE. 

In  the  Parliament  House,  a  great  rout  has 

been  there. 
Betwixt     our    good     King    and     the     Lord 

Delaware : 
Says  Lord  Delaware  to  his  Majesty  full  soon, 
"  Will  it  please  you,  my  liege,  to  grant  ~me  a 

boon?  " 

"What's  your  boon,"  says  the  King,   "now 

let  me  understand  ?  " 
"  It's,  give  me  all  the  poor  men  we've  starving 

in  this  land ; 
And  without  delay  I'll  hie  me  to  Lincolnshire, 
To  sow  hemp-seed   and  flax-seed,   and  hang 

them  all  there. 

For  with  hempen  cord  it's  better  to  stop  each 

poor  man's  breath. 
Than  with  famine  you  should  see  your  subjects 

starve  to  death." 
Up  starts  a  Dutch  Lord,  who  to  Delaware  did 

say, 
"  Thou  deserves   to  be   stabbed !  "    then   he 

turned  himself  away ; 

"  Thou  deserves  to  be  stabbed,  and  the  dogs 

have  thine  ears. 
For  insulting  our  King  in  this  Parliament  of 

peers." 
Up  sprang  a  Welsh  Lord,  the  brave  Duke  of 

Devonshire, 
"  In  young  Delaware's  defence,  I'll  fight  this 

Dutch  Lord,  my  sire  ; 

For  he  is  in  the  right,  and  I'll  make  it  so 

appear : 
Him  I  dare  to  single  combat,   for  insulting 

Delaware." 
A  stage  was  soon  erected,  and  to  combat  they 

went. 
For  to  kill,  or  to  be  killed,  it  was  cither's  full 

intent. 

But  the  very  first  flourish,  when  the  heralds 

gave  command, 
The  sword  of  brave  Devonshire  bent  backward 

on  his  hand ; 
In  suspense  he  paused  awhile,  scanned  his  foe 

before  he  strake, 
Then   against   the   King's   armour,   his  ben 

sword  he  brake. 

Then  he  sprang  from  the  stage,  to  a  soldier  in 

the  ring, 
Saying,  "  Lend   your  sword,  that  to  an  end 

this  tragedy  Ave  brin^  : 
Though  he's  fighting  me  in  armour,  while  I 

am  fighting  bare, 
Even  more  than  this   I'd  venture  for  joung 

Lord  Delaware." 

Leaping  back  on  the  stage,   sword  to  buckler 

now  resounds. 
Till  he  left  the  Dutch  Lord  a  bleeding  in  his 

wounds : 


Anonymous.] 


THE  GOLDEN  GLOVE. 


[FousTH  Period. — 


This    seeing,    cries  the   King    to  his  guards 

without  delay, 
"  Call  Devonshire  doAvn, — take  the  dead  man 

away! " 

"  No,"  saj'-s  brave  Devonshire,   "  I've  fought 

him  as  a  man, 
Since  he's  dead,  I  will  keep  the  trophies  I  have 

won ; 
For  he  fought  me   in  your  armour,    while  I 

fought  him  bare, 
And  the  same  you  must  win  back,  my  liege, 

if  ever  you  them  wear." 

God  bless  the  Church   of    England,  may   it 

prosper  on  each  hand, 
And  also  every  poor  man  now  starving  in  this 

land ; 
And   while   I    pray  success    may    crown  our 

King  iipon  his  throne, 
I'll  wish  that  every  poor  man  may  long  enjoy 

his  own. 

Anonymous. — Before  1689. 


716.— THE   GOLDEN  GLOVE. 

A  wealthy    young  squire  of    Tam worth,  we 

hear, 
He  courted  a  nobleman's  daughter  so  fair; 
And  for  to  marry  her  it  was  his  intent, 
All  friends  and  relations  gave  their  consent. 

The  time  was  appointed  for  the  wedding-day, 
A  young  farmer  chosen  to  give  her  away ; 
As  soon  as  the  farmer  the  young  lady  did  spy, 
He  inflamed  her  heart ;  "  O,  my  heart !  "  she 
did  cry. 

She  turned  from  the  sqiih-e,  but  nothing  she 

said. 
Instead  of  being  married  she  took  to  her  bed  ; 
The  thought  of  the  farmer  soon  run  in  her 

mind, 
A  way  for  to  have  him  she  quickly  did  find. 

Coat,  waistcoat,   and  breeches  she  then  did 

put  on, 
And  a  hunting  she  Avent  with  her  dog  and  her 

gun; 
She  hunted  all  round  where  the  farmer  did 

dwell. 
Because  in  her  heart  she  did  love  him  full 

well : 

She  oftentimes  fired,  but  nothing  she  killed, 
At  length  the    you]»g   farmer  came  into  the 

field; 
And  to  discourse  with  him  it  was  her  intent, 
With  her  dog  and  her  gun  to  meet  him  she 

went. 

"  I  thought  you  had  been  at  the  wedding," 

she  cried 
"  To  wait  on  the  squire,   and  give  him  his 

bride." 


"No,  sir,"   said  the  farmer,  "if  the  truth  I 

may  tell, 
I'll  not  give  her  away,  for  I  love  her  too  well." 

"  Suppose  that  the  lady  should  grant  you  her 

love. 
You  know    that  the    squire    your  rival   will 

prove." 
"  Why,  then,"    says  the  farmer,    "  I'll  take 

sword  in  hand, 
By    honour    I'll    gain    her    when  she    shall 

command." 

It  pleased  the  lady  to  find  him  so  bold  ; 

She  gave  him  a  glove  that  was  flowered  with 

gold, 
And  told  him  she  found  it  v/hen  coming  along. 
As  she  was  a  hunting  with  her  dog  and  gun. 

The  lady  went  home  with  a  heart  full  of  love, 
And  gave  oiat  a  notice  that  she'd  lost  a  glove  ; 
And  said,  "  Who  has  found  it,  and  brings  it 

to  me. 
Whoever  he  is,  he  my  husband  shall  be." 

The  farmer  was  pleased  when  he  heard  of  the 

news, 
With  heart  full  of  joy  to  the  lady  he  goes  : 
"  Dear  honoured  ladj^,    I've  picked   up  your 

glove. 
And  hope  you'U  bo  pleased  to  grant  mo  your 

love." 

"It's  already  gi-anted,  I  will  be  your  bride ; 
I  love  the  sweet   breath  of   a  farmer,"    she 

cried. 
"  I'll  be  mistress  of  my  dairy,  and  milking  my 

cow. 
While  my  jolly  brisk  farmer  is  whiatliag  at 

plough." 

And  when  she  was  married  she  told  of  her  fun. 
How  she  went  a  hunting  with  her  dog  and 

gun: 
"  And  now  I've  got  him  so  fast  in  my  snare, 
I'll  enjoy  him  for  ever,  I  vow  and  declare  !  " 

Anonymous. — Before  1G89.. 


717.— KING    JAMES    L   AND  THE 
TINKLEE. 

And  now,  to  be  brief,  let's  pass  over  the  rest. 
Who  seldom  or  never  were  given  to  jest. 
And  come    to  King   Jamie,  the  first  of   our 

throne, 
A  pleasanter  monarch  sure  never  was  known. 

As  he  was  a  hunting  the  swift  fallow-deer, 
He  dropped  all  his  nobles  ;  and  when  he  got 

clear, 
In  hope  of  some  pastime  awaj  he  did  ride, 
Till  he  came  to  an  alehouse,  hard  by  a  wood- 
side. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  KEACH  I'  THE  CEEEL. 


[Anonymous. 


And  there  with  a  tinkler  he  happened  to  meet, 
And  him  in  kind  sort  he  so  freely  did  greet : 
"  Pray  thee,  good  fello-sv,  what  hast  in  thy  jug, 
Which    under  thy  arm   thou    dost    lovingly 
hug?" 

"  By  the  mass  !  "    quoth    the  tinkler,    "it's 

nappy  brown  ale, 
And  for  to  drink  to  thee,  friend,  I  will  not 

fail ; 
For  although  thy  jacket  looks  gaUant  and  fine, 
I  think  that  my  twopence  as  good  is  as  thine." 

"  By  my  soul !  honest  fellow,  the  truth  thou 

hast  spoke," 
And  straight  he  sat  down  with  the  tinkler  to 

joke; 
They  drank  to  the  King,  and  they  pledged  to  . 

each  other ; 
Who'd  seen  'em  had  thought  they  were  brother 

and  brother. 

As  they  were  a-drinking  the  King  pleased  to 

say, 
"  What  news,  honest  fellow  ?  come  tell  me,  I 

pray." 
"  There's  nothing  of  news,  beyond  that  I  hear 
The  King's  on  the  border  a-chasing  the  deer. 

And  tnaly  I  wish  I  so  happy  may  be. 
Whilst  he  is  a-hunting,  the  King  I  might  see ; 
For  although   I've  travelled  the  land  many 

ways, 
I  never  have  yet  seen  a  King  in  my  days." 

The    King,   with   a   hearty  brisk    laughter, 

replied, 
"  I  tell  thee,  good  fellow,  if  thou  canst  but 

ride, 
Thou  shalt  get  up  behind  me,  and  I  will  thee 

bring 
To   the    presence  of    Jamie,    thy    sovereign 

King." 

"  But  he'U  be  surrounded  with  nobles  so  gay, 
And  how  shall  we  teU  him  from  them,  sir,  I 

pray  ?  " 
"  Thou'lt  easily  ken  him  when  once  thou  art 

there ; 
The  King  will  be  covered,  his  nobles  all  bare." 

He  got  up  behind  him,  and  likewise  his  sack, 

His  budget  of  leather,  and  tools  at  his  back  ; 

They  rode  tiU  they  camo  to  the  merry  green- 
wood, 

His  nobles  came  round  him,  bareheaded  they 
stood. 

The  tinkler  then  seeing  so  many  appear, 
He  slily  did  whisi^er  the  King  in  his  ear  : 
Saying,  "  They're  all  clothed  so  gloriously  gay. 
But  which  amongst  them  is  the  King,  sir,  I 
pray.?" 

The  King  did  with  hearty  good  laughter,  reply, 
"  By  my  soul !  my  good  fellow,   it's  thou  or 
it's  I ! 


The     rest     are    bareheaded,     uncovered    all 

round." — 
With  his  bag  and  his  budget  he  feU  to  the 

ground. 

Like  one  that  was  frightened  quite  out  of  liis 

wits,  - 

Then  on  his  knees  he  instantly  gets. 
Beseeching  for  mercy  ;  the  King  to  him  said, 
"  Thou  art  a  good  fellow,  so  be  not  afraid. 

Come  tell  thy  name  ?  "  "I  am  John  of  the 

Dale, 
A  mender  of  kettles,  a  lover  of  ale." 
"  Else  up,  Sir  John,  I  will  honour  thee  here, — 
I   make  thee  a  knight  of  three  thousand  a 

year !  " 

This  was  a  good  thing  for  the  tinkler  indeed ; 
Then  unto  the  court  he  was  sent    for  with 


Where  great    store  of    pleasure  and  pastime 

was  seen. 
In  the  royal  presence  of  King  and  of  Queen. 

Sir  John  of  the  Dale  he  has  land,  he  has  fee. 
At  the  court  of  the  king  who  so  happy  as  he  ? 
Yet  still  in  his  hall  hangs  the  tinkler's  old 

sack. 
And  the  budget  of  tools  which  he  bore  at  his 

back. 

Anonyuions. — Before  1689. 


718.— THE  KEACH  F  THE  CEEEL. 

A  fair  young  May  went  up  the  street. 

Some  white  fish  for  to  buy  ; 
And  a  bonny  clerk's  fa'n  i'  luve  wi'  her, 

And  he's  followed  her  by  and  by,  by, 
And  he's  followed  her  by  and  by. 

"  O  !  where  live  ye  my  bonny  lass, 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me ; 
For  gin  the  nicht  were  ever  sae  mirk, 

I  wad  come  and  visit  thee,  thee  ; 

I  wad  come  and  visit  thee." 

"  0  !  my  father  he  aye  locks  the  door, 

My  mither  keeps  the  key  ; 
And  gin  ye  were  ever  sic  a  Avily  wicht. 

Ye  canna  win  in  to  me,  me  ; 

Ye  canna  win  in  to  me." 

But  the  clerk  he  had  ae  true  brother, 

And  a  wily  wicht  was  he  ; 
And  he  has  made  a  lang  ladder. 

Was  thirty  steps  and  three,  three ; 

Was  thirty  steps  and  three. 

He  has  made  a  cleek  but  and  a  creel — 

A  creel  but  and  a  pin  ; 
And  he's  away  to  the  chimley-top, 

And  he's  letten  the  bonny  clerk  in,  in ; 

And  he's  letten  the  bonny  clerk  in 


Anonymous.] 


SIR  JOHN"  BARLEYCOEN. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


The  auld  wife,  being  not  asleep, 

Tho'  late,  late  was  the  hour ; 
"I'll  lay  my  life,"  quo'  the  silly  auld  wife, 

"There's  a  man  i'  our  dochter's  bower, 
bower ; 

There's  a  man  i'  our  dochter's  bower." 

The  auld  man  he  gat  owre  the  bed. 

To  see  if  the  thing  was  true ; 
But  she's  ta'en  the  bonny  clerk  in  her  arms, 

And  covered  him  owre  wi'  blue,  blue  ; 

And  covered  him  owre  m'  blue. 

"O!  where   are   ye   gaun   now,    father?" 
she  says, 

"  And  where  are  ye  gaun  sae  late  ? 
Ye've  disturbed  me  in  my  evening  prayers, 

And  O !  but  they  were  sweit,  sweit ; 

And  O  !  but  they  were  sweit." 

"  O  !  ill  betide  ye,  silly  auld  wife. 

And  an  ill  death  may  ye  dee ; 
She  has  the  muckle  bulk  in  her  arms. 

And  she's  prayin'  for  you  and  me,  me ; 

And  she's  prayin'  for  you  and  me." 

The  auld  wife  being  not  asleep, 
Then  something  mair  was  said ; 

"  I'll  lay  my  life,"  quo'  the  silly  auld  wife, 
"  There's  a  man   by  our  dochter's  bed, 

bed; 
There's  a  man  by  our  dochter's  bed." 

The  auld  wife  she  gat  owre  the  bed, 

To  see  if  the  thing  was  true  ; 
But  what  the  Avrack  took  the  auld  wife's  fit  ? 

For  into  the  creel  she  flew,  flew  ; 

For  into  the  creel  she  flew. 

The  man  that  was  at  the  chimley-top, 

Finding  the  creel  was  fu', 
He  wrappit  the  rape  round  his  left  shouther, 

And  fast  to  him  he  drew,  drew  ; 

And  fast  to  him  he  drew. 

"  0,  help !  0,  help  !  O,  hinny,  noo,  help  1 

O,  help  I  O,  hinny,  do  ! 
For  him  that  ye  aye  wished  me  at. 

He's  carryin'  me  off  just  noo,  noo  ; 

He's  carryin'  me  off  just  noo." 

"  O  !  if  the  ioT\l  thief's  gotten  ye, 

I  wish  he  may  keep  his  hand  ; 
For  a'  the  lee  lang  winter  nicht, 

Ye'U  never  lie  in  your  bed,  bed  ; 

Ye' 11  never  lie  in  j-^our  bed." 

He's  towed  her  up,  he's  towed  her  down, 
He's  towed  her  through  an'  through; 

"  O,  Gude  !  assist,"  quo'  the  silly  auld  wife, 
"  For  I'm  just  departin'  noo,  noo  ; 
For  I'm  just  departin'  noo." 

He's  towed  her  up,  he's  towed  her  down, 
He's  gien  her  a  richt  down  fa'. 

Till  every  rib  i'  the  auld. wife's  side, 
Played  nick  nack  on  the  wa',  wa'  ; 
Played  nick  nack  on  the  wa'. 


O  !  the  blue,  the  bonny,  bonny  blue, 
And  I  wish  the  blue  may  do  weel ; 
And  every  auld  wife  that's  sae  jealous  o' 
her  dochter, 
May  she  get  a  good  keach  i'   the  creel, 

creel ; 
May  she  get  a  good  keach  i'  the  creel ! 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


719.— SIR  JOHN  BARLEYCORN. 

There  came  three  men  out  of  the  West, 

Their  victory  to  try ; 
And  they  have  taken  a  solemn  oath, 

Poor  Barleycorn  should  die. 

They  took  a  plough  and  ploughed  him  in, 
And  harrowed  clods  on  his  head  ; 

And  then  they  took  a  solemn  oath, 
Poor  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

There  he  lay  sleeping  in  the  ground, 
Till  rain  from  the  sky  did  fall : 

Then  Barleycorn  sj)rung  up  his  head. 
And  so  amazed  them  all. 

There  he  remained  till  Midsummer, 
And  looked  both  pale  and  wan  ; 

Then  Barleycorn  he  got  a  beard. 
And  so  became  a  man. 

Then  they  sent  men  with  scythes  so  sharp, 

To  cut  him  off  at  knee  ; 
And  then  poor  little  Barleycorn, 

They  served  him  barbarously. 

Then  they  sent  men  with  pitchforks  strong 
To  pierce  him  through  the  heart ; 

And  like  a  dreadful  tragedy, 
They  bound  him  to  a  cart. 

And  then  they  brought  him  to  a  barn, 

A  prisoner  to  endure  ; 
And  so  they  fetched  him  out  again, 

And  laid  him  on  the  floor. 

Then  the.y  set  men  with  holly  clubs. 
To  beat  the  flesh  from  his  bones ; 

But  the  miller  he  served  him  worse  than 
that, 
For  he  ground  him  betwixt  two  stones. 

O  !  Barleycorn  is  the  choicest  grain 

That  ever  was  sown  on  land ; 
It  will  do  more  than  any  grain, 

By  the  turning  of  your  hand. 

It  will  make  a  boy  into  a  man, 

And  a  man  into  an  ass  ; 
It  will  change  your  gold  into  silver. 

And  your  silver  into  brass. 

It  will  make  the  huntsman  hunt  the  fox, 

That  never  wovmd  his  horn ; 
It  will  bring  the  tinker  to  the  stocks, 

That  people  may  him  scorn. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  BEAVE  EAEL  BRAND,  &c. 


[Anonymous. 


It  will  put  sack  into  a  glass, 

And  claret  in  the  can ; 
And  it  will  cause  a  man  to  drink 

TiU  he  neither  can  go  nor  stand. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


720. 


-THE  NOBLEMAN'S  GENEROUS 
KINDNESS. 

A  nobleman  lived  in  a  village  of  late, 

Hard  by  a  poor  thrasher,  whose  charge  it  was 

great; 
Eor  he  had  seven  children,  and  most  of  them 

small, 
And  nought  but  his  labour  to  support  them 

withal. 

He  never  was  given  to  idle  and  lurk, 

For  this  nobleman  saw  him  go  daily  to  work. 

With  his  flail  and  his  bag,  and  his  bottle  of 

beer,  i 

As  cheerful  as  those    that  have  hundreds  a   ! 

year.  j 

Thus  careful,  and  constant,  each  morning  he  j 

went,  j 

Unto  his  daily  labour  with  joy  and  content ;  I 
So  jocular  and  jolly  he'd  whistle  and  sing, 

As  blithe  and  as  brisk  as  the    birds  in  the  | 

spring.  i 

One  morning,  this  nobleman  talcing  a  walk,  | 

He  met  this  poor  man,  and  he  freely  did  talk  ;  1 

He  asked  him  [at  first]    many  questions  at  I 

large, 

And  then  began  talking  concerning  his  charge.  , 

"  Thou  hast  many  children,  I  very  well  know,  | 
Thy  labour  is  hard,  and  thy  wages  are  low,  j 
And   yet  thou  art    cheerful ;  I  pray  tell  me   j 

true,  I 

How  can  you  maintain  them  as  well  as  you 

do  ?  " 

"  I  carefully  carry  home  what  I  do  earn, 
My  daily  expenses  by  this  I  do  learn  ; 
And  find  it  is  possible,  though  we  be  poor. 
To  still  keep  the  ravenous  wolf  from  the  door. 

"  I  reap  and  I  mow,  and  I  harrow  and  sow, 

Sometimes  a  hedging  and  ditching  I  go ; 

No  work  comes    amiss,  for    I  thrash,  and  I 

plough, 
Thus  my  bread  I  do  earn  by  the  sweat  of  my 

brow. 

"  My  wife  she  is  willing  to  pull  in  a  yoke, 
We    live   hke    two    lambs,    nor   each   other 

provoke ; 
We  both  of  us  strive,  like  the  labouring  ant, 
And  do  our  endeavours  to  keep  us  from  want. 

"  And  when  I  come  home  from  my  labour  at 

night, 
To    my   wife  and    my  children,    in    whom    I 

delight ; 


To  see  them  come  round  me  with  prattling 

noise, — 
Now  these  are  the  riches  a  poor  man  enjoys. 

"  Though  I  am  as  weary  as  weary  may  be, 
The  youngest  I  commonly  dance  onjnyjinee ; 
I  find  that  content  is  a  moderate  feast, 
I  never  repine  at  my  lot  in  the  least." 

Now  the  nobleman  hearing  what  he  did  say, 
Was  pleased,  and  invited  him  home  the  next 

day; 
His  wife  and  his  children  he  charged  him  to 

bring ; 
In  token  of  favour  he  gave  him  a  ring. 

He  thanked  his  honour,  and  taking  his  leave, 
He   went    to    his    wife,    who    would   hardly 

believe 
But  this  same  story  himself  he  might  raise  ; 
Yet  seeing  the  ring  she  was  [lost]  in  amaze. 

Betimes  in  the    morning   the  good   wife  she 

arose. 
And  made  them  all  fine,  in  the  best  of  their 

clothes ; 
The  good  man  with  his  good  ■svife,  and  children 

small. 
They  all  went  to  dine  at  the  nobleman's  hall. 


But   when   they   came  there,   as  truth   does 

report, 
All  things  were  prepared  in  a  plentiful  sort ; 
And  they  at  the  nobleman's  table  did  dine. 
With  all  kinds  of  dainties,  and  plenty  of  wine. 

The  feast  being  over,  he  soon  let  them  know. 
That  he  then  intended  on  them  to  bestow 
A  farm-house,  with  thirty  good  acres  of  land  ; 
And  gave  them  the    writings  then^  with  his 
own  hand. 

"  Because  thou  art  careful,  and  good  to  thy 

wife, 
I'll  make  thy  days  happy  the  rest  of  thy  life  ; 
It  shall  be  for  ever,  for  thee  and  thy  heirs, 
Because  I  beheld  thy  industrious  cares." 

No  tongue  then  is  able  in  full  to  express 

The  depth  of  their  joy,  and  true  thankful- 
ness; 

With  many  a  curtsey,  and  bow  to  the 
ground, — 

Such  noblemen  there  are  but  few  to  be  found. 

Anonymous. — Before  1 649. 


721.— THE  BEAVE  EARL  BRAND  AND 
THE  KING  OF  ENGLAND'S 
DAUGHTER. 

O  did  you  ever  hear  of  the  brave  Earl  Brand, 

Hey  lillie,  ho  lillie  lallie ; 
He 's    courted  the    king's    daughter   o'    fair 
England, 

I'  the  brave  nights  so  early ! 


ANONYMOUS.] 


THE  JOVIAL  HUNTER  OF  BROMSGEOVE.     [Fourth  Peeiod.— 


She  was  scarcely  fifteen  years  that  tide, 
When  sae  boldly  she  came  to  liis  bed-side. 

"  O,  Earl  Brand,  how  fain  wad  I  see 
A  pack  of  hounds  let  loose  on  the  lea." 

"  O,  lady  fair,  I  have  no  steed  but  one, 
But  thou  shalt  ride  and  I  ynM  run." 

"  O,  Earl  Brand,  bxit  my  father  has  two, 
And  thou  shalt  have  the  best  of  tho'." 

Now  they  have  ridden  o'er  moss  and  moor, 
And  they  have  met  neither  rich  nor  poor  ; 

Till  at  last  they  met  with  old  Carl  Hood, 
He's  aye  for  ill,  and  never  for  good. 

"  Now  Earl  Brand,  an  ye  love  me, 
Slay  this  old  Carl  and  gar  him  dee." 

"  O,  lady  fair,  but  that  would  be  sair, 
To  slay  an  auld  Carl  that  wears  grey  hair. 

My  own  lady  fair,  I'll  not  do  that, 
I'll  pay  him  his  fee " 

•'  O,  where  have  ye  ridden  this  lee  lang  day. 
And   where   have   ye    stown   this    fair    lady 
away?  " 

"  I  have  not  ridden  this  lee  lang  day, 
Nor  yet  have  I  stown  this  lady  away  ; 

For  she  is,  I  trow,  my  sick  sister, 

Whom  I  have  been  bringing  fra'  Winchester." 

"  If  she's  been  sick,  and  nigh  to  dead, 
"What  makes  her  wear  the  ribbon  so  red  ? 

If  she's  been  sick,  and  like  to  die. 

What  makes  her  wear  the  gold  sae  high  ?  " 

"VAIien  came  the  Carl  to  the  lady's  yett, 
He  rudely,  rudely  rapped  thereat. 

"  Now  where  is  the  lady  of  this  hall  ?  " 
"  She's  out  with  her  maids  a  playing  at  the 
ball" 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  ye  are  all  mista'en. 

Ye  may  count  your  maidens  owre  again. 

I  met  her  far  beyond  the  lea 

"W^ith  the  young  Earl  Brand  his  leman  to  be." 

Her  father  of  his  best  men  armed  fifteen, 
And  they're  ridden  after  them  bidene. 

The  lady  looked  owre  her  left  shoulder  then. 
Says  "  O  Earl  Brand  we  are  both  of  us  ta'en." 

"  If  they  come  on  me  one  by  one. 

You  may  stand  by  till  the  fights  be  done  ; 

But  if  they  come  on  me  one  and  all. 
You  may  stand  by  and  see  me  faU." 

They  came  upon  him  one  by  one, 
Till  fourteen  battles  he  has  won  ; 

And  fourteen  men  he  has  them  slain, 
Each  after  each  upon  the  plain. 


But  the  fifteenth  man  behind  stole  round, 
And  dealt  him  a  deep  and  a  deadly  wound. 

Though  he  was  wounded  to  the  deid, 
He  set  his  lady  on  her  steed. 

They  rode  till  they  came  to  the  river  Doune, 
And  there  they  lighted  to  wash  his  wound. 

"  O,  Earl  Brand,  I  see  your  heart's  blood  !  " 
"It's  nothing  but  the  glent  and  my  scarlet 
hood." 

They  rode  till  they  came  to  his  mother's  yett. 
So  faint  and  feebly  he  rapped  thereat. 

'•  0,  my  son  's  slain,  he  is  falling  to  swoon, 
And  it's  all  for  the  sake  of  an  English  loon." 

"  O,  say  not  so,  my  dearest  mother, 
But  marry  her  to  my  youngest  brother — 

"  To  a  maiden  true  he'll  give  his  hand, 

Hej  lillie,  ho  lillie  lallie  ; 
To  the  king's  daughter  o'  fair  England, 
To  a  prize  that  was  won  by  a  slain  brother's 
brand, 

I'  the  brave  nights  so  early !  " 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


722. 


-THE    JOVIAL   HUNTER   OF 
BEOMSGROVE. 


Old  Sir  Robert  Bolton  had  three  sons, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 

And  one  of  them  was  Sir  Ryalas, 
For  he  was  a  jovial  hunter. 

He  ranged  all  round  down  by  the  wood  side, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter, 

Till  in  a  tree-top  a  gay  lady  he  spied. 
For  he  v/as  a  jovial  hunter. 

"  Oh,  what  dost  thee  mean,  fair  lady,"  said  he, 
Wind  well  tiiy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 

"The   Avild  boar's   killed   my  lord,  and  has 
thirty  men  gored. 
And  thou  beest  a  jovial  hunter." 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  this  wild  boar  for  to 
see  ?  " 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 
"  Oh,  thee  blow  a  blast  and  he'll  come  unto 
thee, 
As  thou  beest  a  jovial  hunter." 

Then  he  blowed  a  blast,  full  north,  east,  west, 
and  south, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 
And  the  wild  boar  then  heard  him  full  in  his 
den. 
As  he  ^vas  a  jovial  hunter. 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  USEFUL  PLOW. 


[Anoxymous. 


Then  he  made  the  best  of  his  speed  unto  him, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter ; 

[Swift  flew  the  boar,  with  his  tusks  smeared 
with  gore], 
To  Sir  Ryalas,  the  jovial  hunter. 

Then  the  wild    boar,  being  so  stout  and  so 
strong, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  Inmter  ; 
Thrashed  down  the  trees  as  he  ramped  him 
along, 
To  Sir  Eyalas,  the  jovial  hunter. 

"  Oh,  what  dost  thee  want  of  me  ? "   wild 
boar,  said  he, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter ; 
"  Oh,  I  think  in  my  heart  I  can  do  enough  for 
thee. 
For  I  am  the  jovial  hunter." 

Then  they  fought  four  hovirs  in  a  long  summer 
day. 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 
Till  the  wild  boar  fain  would  have -got  him 
aAvay 
From  Sir  Eyalas,  the  jovial  hunter. 

Then  Sir  Eyalas  drawed  his  broadsword  with 
might, 

Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 
And  he  fairly  cut  the  boar's  head  off  quite, 

For  he  was  a  jovial  hunter. 

Then  out  of  the  wood  the  wild  woman  flew, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter ; 

"  Oh,  my  pretty  spotted  pig  thou  hast  slew, 
For  thou  beest  a  jovial  hunter. 

"  There    are  three  things,  I  demand  them  of 
thee," 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 
"  It's  thy  horn,  and  thy  hound,  and  thy  gay 
lady, 
As  thou  beest  a  jovial  hunter." 

"  If  these  three  things  thou  dost  ask  of  me," 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 

"It's    just  as  my  sword    and   thy  neck  can 
agTce, 
For  I  am  a  jovial  hunter." 

Then  into  his  long  locks  the  wild  woman  flew, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 

Till  she  thought  in  her  heart  to    tear   him 
through. 
Though  he  was  a  jovial  hunter. 

Then  Sir  Eyalas  drawed  his  broadsword  again, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter ; 

And  he  fairly  split  her  head  into  twain, 
For  he  was  a  jovial  hunter. 

In  Bromsgrove  church,  the  knight  he  doth  lie, 
Wind  well  thy  horn,  good  hunter  ; 

And  the  wild  boar's  head  is  pictured  thereby, 
Sir  Eyalas,  the  jovial  hunter. 

Anonymous. — Before  1649. 


723.— LADY  ALICE. 

Lady  Alice  was  sitting  in  her  bower  window, 

At  midnight  mending  her  quoif  ; 
And  there  she  saw  as  fine  a  corpse 

As  ever  she  saw  in  her  life. 

"  What  bear  ye,   what  bear  ye,  ye  six  men 
tall.P 

What  bear  j^e  on  your  shoulders  ?  " 
"  We  bear  the  corpse  of  Giles  Collins, 

An  old  and  true  lover  of  yours." 

"  O  lay  him  down  gently,  ye  six  men  tall, 

All  on  the  grass  so  green. 
And  to-morrow  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

Lady  Alice  a  corpse  shall  be  seen. 

"And  bury  me  in  Saint  Mary's  Church, 

All  for  my  love  so  true  ; 
And  make  me  a  garland  of  marjoram. 

And  of  lemon  thyme,  and  rue." 

Giles  Collins  was  buried  all  in  the  east. 

Lady  Alice  all  in  the  west ; 
And  the   roses  that  grow  on  Giles  Collins' 3 
grave, 

They  reached  Lady  Alice's  breast. 

The  priest  of  the  parish  he  chanced  to  pass. 
And  he  severed  those  roses  in  twain. 

Sure  never  were  seen  such  true  lovers  before, 
Nor  e'er  will  there  be  again. 

Anonymous. — Before  1689. 


724.— THE  USEFUL  PLOW. 

A  country  life  is  sweet ! 
In  moderate  cold  and  heat, 

To  walk  in  the  air,  how  pleasant  and  fair  ! 
In  every  field  of  wheat. 

The  fairest  of  flowers  adorning  the  bov.'ers, 
And  every  meadow's  brow  ; 

To  that  I  say,  no  courtier  may 

Compare  with  they  who  clothe  in  grey, 
And  follow  the  useful  plow. 

They  rise  with  the  morning  lark. 
And  labour  till  almost  dark  ; 

Then  folding  their  sheep,  they  hasten  to 
sleep ; 
Wliile  every  iDleasant  park 

Next  morning  is  ringing  with  birds  that  are 
singing. 
On  each  green,  tender  bough. 

With  v/hat  content,  and  merriment, 

Their  days  are  spent,  whoso  minds  are  bent 
To  follow  the  useful  plow. 

The  gallant  that  dresses  fine, 
And  drinks  his  bottles  of  wine, 

Were  he  to  be  tried,  his  feathers  of  pride, 
Which  deck  and  adorn  his  back, 

Are  tailors'   and  mercers',  and  other  men 
dressers, 


Anonymous.] 


THE  FAEMEB'S  BOY. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


For  which  they  do  dun  them  now. 
But  Ralph  and  Will  no  compters  fill 
For  tailor's  bill,  or  garments  still, 

But  follow  the  useful  plow. 

Their  hundreds,  without  remorse. 
Some  spend  to  keep  dogs  and  horse, 

Who  never  would  give,  as  long  as  they  live, 
Not  two-pence  to  help  the  poor  ; 

Their    wives    are    neglected,    and  harlots 
respected  ; 
This  grieves  the  nation  now ; 

But  'tis  not  so  with  us  that  go 

Where  pleasures  flow,  to  reap  and  mow, 
And  follow  the  iiseful  plow. 

Ano7iyiiious. — Before  1689. 


725.— THE  FARMEE'S  BOY. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  yon  hills, 

Across  yon  dreary  moor, 
Weary  and  lame,  a  boy  there  came 

Up  to  a  farmer's  door : 
"  Can  you  tell  me  if  any  there  be 

That  will  give  me  employ, 
To  plow  and  sow,  and  reap  and  mow, 

And  be  a  farmer's  boy  ? 

"  My  father  is  dead,  and  mother  is  left 

With  five  children,  great  and  small ; 
And  what  is  worse  for  mother  still, 

I'm  the  oldest  of  them  all. 
Though  little,  I'll  work  as  hard  as  a  Turk, 

If  you'll  give  me  employ. 
To  plow  and  sow,  and  reap  and  mow, 

Ajid  be  a  farmer's  boy. 

"  And  if  that  you  won't  me  employ. 

One  favour  I've  to  ask, — 
Will  you  shelter  me  till  break  of  day, 

From  this  cold  winter's  blast  ? 
At  break  of  day,  I'U  trudge  away 

Elsewhere  to  seek  employ, 
To  plow  and  sow,  and  reap  and  mow, 

And  be  a  farmer's  boy." 

"  Come,  try  the  lad,"  the  mistress  said, 

"  Let  him  no  further  seek." 
"  O,  do,  dear  father  I  "  the  daughter  cried, 

While  tears  ran  down  her  cheek : 
"He'd  work  if  ho  could,  so  'tis  hard  to  want 
food. 

And  wander  for  employ  ; 
Don't  turn  him  away,  but  let  him  stay. 

And  be  a  farmer's  boy." 

And  when  the  lad  became  a  man, 

The  good  old  farmer  died, 
And  left  the  lad  the  farm  he  had. 

And  liis  daughter  for  his  bride. 
The  lad  that  was,  the  farm  now  has. 

Oft  smiles  and  thinks  with  joy 
Of  the  lucky  day  he  came  that  way. 

To  be  a  farmer's  boy. 

Anonymmis. — Before  1680. 


726.— THE  MOW. 

Now  our  woi:k  's  done,  thus  we  feast, 
After  labour  comes  our  rest ; 
Joy  shall  reign  in  every  breast. 
And  right  welcome  is  each  guest : 

After  harvest  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  wiU  we  sing  now. 
After  the  harvest  that  heaps  up  the  mow. 

Now  the  plowman  he  shall  plow, 
And  shall  whistle  as  he  go. 
Whether  it  be  fair  or  blow, 
For  another  barley  mow, 

O'er  the  furrow  merrily  : 
Merrily,  merrily,  will  we  sing  now. 
After  the  harvest,  the  fruit  of  the  plow- 
Toil  and  plenty,  toil  and  ease, 
Still  the  hvisbandman  he  sees  ; 
Whether  when  the  winter  freeze. 
Or  in  summer's  gentle  breeze  ; 

Still  he  labours  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  after  the  plow, 
He  looks  to  the  harvest,  that  gives  us  the 

mow. 

Anonymous. — Bcfo  re 


727.— THE  HITCHIN  MAY-DAY  SONG. 

Remember  us  poor  Mayers  all ! 

And  thus  do  we  begin 
To  lead  our  lives  in  righteousness, 

Or  else  we  die  in  sin. 

We  have  been  rambling  all  the  night. 

And  almost  all  the  day ; 
And  now  returned  back  again, 

We  have  brought  you  a  branch  of  May. 

A  branch  of  May  we  have  brought  you. 
And  at  your  door  it  stands  : 

It  is  but  a  sprout, 

But  it's  well  budded  out 
By 'the  v/ork  of  our  Lord's  hands. 

The  hedges  and  trees  they  are  so  green, 

As  green  as  any  leek  ; 
Our  heavenly  Father  he  watered  them 

With  his  heavenly  dew  so  sweet. 

The  heavenly  gates  are  open  wide. 

Our  paths  are  beaten  plain  ; 
And  if  a  man  be  not  too  far  gone, 

He  may  return  again. 

The  life  of  man  is  but  a  span, 

It  flourishes  like  a  flower ; 
We  are  here  to-day,  and  gone  to-morrow. 

And  we  are  dead  in  an  hour. 

The  moon  shines  bright,  and  the  stars  give  a 
light, 
A  little  before  it  is  day ; 
So  God  bless  you  all,  both  great  and  small. 
And  send  you  a  joyful  May  ! 

Anonymous. — Before  1689, 


From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  NEW-MOWN  HAY. 


[Anonymous. 


728.— THE  HAYMAKEE'S  SONG, 

In  the  merry  month  of  June, 

In  the  prime  time  of  the  year  ; 
Down  in  yonder  meadows 

There  runs  a  river  clear  : 
And  many  a  httle  fish 

Doth  in  that  river  play  ; 
And  many  a  lad,  and  many  a  lass, 

Go  abroad  a-making  hay. 

In  come  the  jolly  mowers. 

To  mow  the  meadows  down  ; 
With  budget  and  with  bottle 

Of  ale,  both  stout  and  bro^vn. 
All  labouring  men  of  courage  bold 

Come  here  their  strength  to  try  ; 
They  sweat  and  blow,  and  cut  and  mow, 

For  the  grass  cuts  very  dry. 

Here's  nimble  Ben  and  Tom, 

With  pitchfork,  and  with  rake  ; 
Here's  MoUj^  Liz,  and  Susan, 

Come  here  their  hay  to  make. 
While  sweet,  jug,  jug,  jug ! 

The  nightingale  doth  sing. 
From  morning  unto  even-song, 

As  they  are  haj'^-making. 

And  when  that  bright  day  faded, 

And  the  sun  was  going  down, 
There  was  a  merry  piper 

Approached  from  the  town : 
He  pulled  out  his  pipe  and  tabor, 

So  sweetly  he  did  play, 
Which  made  all  lay  down  their  rakes, 

And  leave  off  making  hay. 

Then  joining  in  a  dance. 

They  jig  it  o'er  the  green ; 
Though  tired  with  their  labour, 

No  one  less  was  seen. 
But  sporting  like  some  fairies. 

Their  dance  they  did  pursue. 
In  leading  up,  and  casting  off. 

Till  morning  was  in  view. 

And  when  that  bright  dayhght. 

The  morning  it  was  come. 
They  lay  down  and  rested 

Till  the  rising  of  the  sun : 
Till  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

When  the  merry  larks  do  sing, 
And  each  lad  did  rise  and  take  his  lass. 

And  away  to  hay-making. 

Anonymous. — Biff  ore  1689. 


729.— THE  GARDEN-GATE. 

Tlie  day  was  spent,  the  moon  shone  bright. 

The  village  clock  struck  eight ; 
Young  Mary  hastened  with  delight, 

Unto  the  garden-gate : 
But  what  was  there  that  made  her  sad  ? — 
The  gate  was  there,  but  not  the  lad. 
Which  made  poor  Mary  say  and  sigh, 
"  Was  ever  poor  girl  so  sad  as  I  ?  " 


She  traced  the  garden  here  and  there, 

The  village  clock  struck  nine  ; 
Which  made  poor  Mary  sigh,  and  say, 

"  You  shan't,  you  shan't  be  mine  ! 
You  promised  to  meet  at  the  gate  at  eight. 
You  ne'er  shaU  keep  me,  nor  make  mewait, 
For  I'll  let  all  such  creatures  see 
They  ne'er  shall  make  a  fool  of  me  !  " 

She  traced  the  garden  here  and  there. 

The  village  clock  struck  ten  ; 
Young  William  caught  her  in  his  arms, 

No  more  to  part  again  : 
For  he'd  been  to  buy  the  ring  that  day, 
And  O !  he  had  been  a  long,  long  way ; — 
Then,  how  could  Mary  cruel  prove,         • 
To  banish  the  lad  she  so  dearly  did  love  ? 

Up  with  the  morning  sun  they  rose. 

To  church  they  went  away. 
And  all  the  village  joyful  were. 

Upon  their  wedding-day : 
Now  in  a  cot,  by  a  river  side, 
William  and  Mary  both  reside  ; 
And  she  blesses  the  night  that  she  did  wait 
For  her  absent  swain,  at  the  garden-gate. 
Anonymous. — Before  1689. 


730.— THE  NEW-MOWN  HAY. 

As  I  walked  forth  one  summer's  morn. 

Hard  by  a  river's  side. 
Where  yellow  cowslips  did  adorn 

The  blushing  field  with  pride, 
I  spied  a  damsel  on  the  grass. 

More  blooming  than  the  may  ; 
Her  looks  the  Queen  of  Love  surpassed. 

Among  the  new-mown  hay. 

I  said,  "  Good  morning,  pretty  maid. 

How  came  you  here  so  soon  ?  " 
"  To  keep  my  father's  sheep,"  she  said, 

"  The  thing  that  must  be  done  : 
While  they  are  feeding  'mong  the  dew, 

To  pass  the  time  away, 
I  sit  me  down  to  knit  or  sew. 

Among  the  new-mown  hay." 

Delighted  with  her  simple  tale, 

I  sat  down  by  her  side  ; 
With  vows  of  love  I  did  prevail 

On  her  to  be  my  bride : 
In  strains  of  simple  melody, 

She  sung  a  rural  lay  ; 
The  little  lambs  stood  Hstening  by, 

Among  the  new-mo^vn  hay. 

Then  to  the  church  they  went  with  speed, 

And  Hymen  joined  them  there  ; 
No  more  her  ewes  and  lambs  to  feed, 

For  she's  a  lady  fair : 
A  lord  he  was  that  married  her, 

To  to^vn  they  came  straightway : 
She  may  bless  the  day  he  spied  her  there. 

Among  the  new-mown  hay. 

Anonyiuous. — Before  1689 


31 


Anonymous.] 


BEGONE  DULL  CAEE. 


[Fourth  Period. — 


731.— BEGONE   DULL  CARE. 

Begone  dull  care ! 

I  prithee  begone  from  me : 
Begone  duU  care ! 

Thou  and  I  can  never  agree. 
Long  while  thou  hast  been  tarrying  here, 

And  fain  thou  wouldst  me  kill ; 
But  i'  faith,  dull  care, 

Thou  never  shalt  have  thy  will. 

Too  much  care 

Will  make  a  young  man  grey ; 
Too  much  care 

Will  turn  an  old  man  to  clay. 
My  wife  shall  dance,  and  I  will  sing, 

3o  merrily  pass  the  day  ; 
For  I  hold  it  is  the  wisest  thing, 

To  drive  dull  care  away. 

Hence,  dull  care, 

I'll  none  of  thy  company ; 
Hence,  dull  care, 

Thou  art  no  pair  for  me. 
W^e'U  hunt  the  wild  boar  through  the  wold, 

So  merrily  pass  the  day ; 
And  then  at  night,  o'er  a  cheerful  bow 

We'll  drive  dull  care  away. 

Anonymous. — Before  1689. 


732.— WHEN  THE  KING  COMES  HOME 
IN  PEACE  AGAIN. 

Oxford  and  Cambridge  shall  agree, 
With  honour  crown' d,  and  dignity ; 
For  learned  men  shall  then  take  place, 
And  bad  be  silenced  with  disgrace  : 

They'll  know  it  to  be  but  a  casualty 

That  hath  so  long  disturb'd  their  brain  ; 

For  I  can  surely  tell  that  all  things  will  go 
weU 
WTien  the  King  comes  home  m  peace  again. 

Church  government  shall  settled  be, 

And  then  I  hope  we  shall  agree 

Without  their  help,  whose  high-brain'd  zeal 

Hath  long  disturb'd  the  common  weal ; 
Greed  out  of  date,  and  cobblers  that  do  prate 

Of  wars  that  still  disturb  their  brain  ; 
The  which  you  ^vill  see,  when  the  time  it  shall 
be 

That  the  King  comes  home  in  peace  again. 

Though  many  now  are  much  in  debt. 

And  many  shops  are  to  be  let, 

A  golden  time  is  draAving  near, 

Men  shops  shall  take  to  hold  their  ware ; 
And  then  all  our  trade  shall   flourishing  be 
made, 

To  which  ere  long  we  shall  attain ; 
For  still  I  can  tell  all  things  will  be  well 

AVhen  the  King  comes  home  in  peace  again. 


Maidens  shall  enjoy  their  mates. 
And  honest  men  their  lost  estates ; 
Women  shall  have  what  they  do  lack, 
Their  husbands,  who  are  coming  back. 

When  the  wars  have  an  end,  then  I  and  my 
friend 
All  subjects'  freedom  shall  obtain ; 

By  which  I  can  tell  all  things  will  be  well 
When  we  enjoy  sweet  peace  again. 

Though  people  noAv  walk  in  great  fear 
Along  the  country  everywhere, 
Thieves  shall  then  tremble  at  the  law. 
And  justice  shall  keep  them  in  awe  : 

The  Frenchies  shall  flee  with  their  treacherio, 
And  the  foes  of  the  King  ashamcid  remain  : 

The  which  you  shall  see,  when  the  time  it 
shall  bo 
That  the  King  comes  home  in  peace  again. 

The  Parliament  must  willing  be, 
That  aU  the  world  may  plainly  see 
How  they  do  labour  still  for  peace. 
That  now  these  bloody  wars  may  cease  ; 

For   they  will   gladly   spend    their  lives   to 
defend 
The  King  in  all  his  right  to  reign  : 

So  then  I  can  tell  all  things  will  be  well 
When  we  enjoy  sweet  peace  again. 

When  all  these  things  to  pass  shall  come 
Then  farewell  musket,  pick,  and  drum ; 
The  lamb  shall  with  the  lion  feed, 
Which  were  a  happy  time  indeed. 

O  let  us  pray  we  may  all  see  the  day 
That  peace  may  govern  in  his  name, 

For  then  I  can  tell  all  things  will  be  well 
When  the  King  comes  home  in  peace  again. 

Anonymous. — Between  1642  and  1684. 


733.— I  LOVE  MY  KING  AND  COUNTEY 
WELL. 

I  love  my  King  and  country  well, 

Eeligion  and  the  laws  : 
Which  I'm  mad  at  the  heart  that  e'er  we  did 
sell 
To  buy  the  good  old  cause. 
These  unnatural  wars 
And  brotherly  jars 
Are  no  delight  or  joy  to  me  ; 
But  it  is  my  desire 
That  the  wars  shoidd  expire. 
And  the  Bang  and  his  realms  agree. 

I  never  yet  did  take  up  arms. 

And  yet  I  dare  to  dye  ; 
But  I'll  not  bo  seduced  by  jjlianatical  charms 
Till  I  know  a  reason  why. 

Why  the  King  and  the  state 

Should  fall  to  debate 
I  ne'er  could  j'ct  a  reason  see, 

But  I  find  many  one 

"VVhy  the  wars  should  be  done, 
And  the  King  and  his  realms  agree. 


Front  1G49  to  1689.] 


THE  NEW  LITANY. 


[Anonymous. 


I  love  the  Xing'  and  the  Parliament, 
But  I  love  them  both  together : 
And  when  they  by  division  asunder  are  rent, 
I  know  'tis  good  for  neither. 
Whichsoe'er  of  those 
Be  victorious, 
I'm  sure  for  us  no  good  'twill  be. 
For  our  plagues  will  increase 
Unless  we  have  peace, 
And  the  King  and  his  realms  agree. 

The  King  without  them  can't  long  stand, 

Nor  they  without  the  King ; 
'Tis   they   must    advise,   and   'tis    he    mnst 
command, 
For  their  power  from  his  must  spring. 
'Tis  a  comfortless  sway 
"VVlien  none  will  obey  ; 
If  the  King  han't  his  right,  which  way 
shall  we? 
They  may  vote  and  make  laws, 
But  no  good  they  will  cause 
Till  the  King  and  his  realms  agree. 

A  pure  religion  I  would  have, 

Not  mixt  with  human  wit ; 
And    I  cannot  endure  that    each    ignorant 
knave 
Should  dare  to  meddle  with  it. 
The  tricks  of  the  law 
I  would  fain  withdraw, 
That  it  may  be  alike  to  each  degree  : 
And  I  fain  would  have  such 
As  do  meddle  so  much. 
When  the  King  and  the  Church  agree. 

We  have  pray'd  and  pray'd  that  the  wars 
might  cease, 
And  we  be  free  men  made ; 
I  would  fight,  if  my  fighting  would  bring  any 
peace, 
But  war  is  become  a  trade. 
Out  servants  did  ride 
With  swords  by  their  side, 
And  made  their  masters  footmen  be ; 
But  we'll  be  no  more  slaves 
To  the  beggars  and  knaves 
Now  the  King  and  the  realms  do  agree. 

Anonymous. — Between  1642  cwicZ  1684. 


734.— THE  TUB-PEEACHER. 

With  face  and  fashion  to  be  known, 
With  eyes  all  white,  and  many  a  groan. 
With  neck  awry  and  snivelling  tone. 
And  handkerchief  from  nose  new-blown, 
And  loving  cant  to  sister  Joan  ; 
'Tis  a  "new  teacher  about  the  town, 
Oh  !  the  town's  new  teacher  ! 

With  cozening  laugh,  and  hollow  cheek, 
To  get  now  gathering.s  every  week, 


With  paltry  sense  as  man  can  speak. 
With  some  small  Hebrew,  and  no  Greek, 
With  hums  and  haws  when  stuff 's  to  seek ; 
'Tis  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  hair  cut  shorter  than  the  brow. 
With  little  band,  as  you  know  how,  ~~     — 
With  cloak  like  Paul,  no  coat  I  trow. 
With  surplice  none,  nor  girdle  now, 
With  hands  to  thump,  nor  knees  to  bow ; 
'Tis  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  shop-board  breeding  and  intrusion, 
By  some  outlandish  institution. 
With  Calvin's  method  and  conclusion. 
To  bring  all  things  into  confusion. 
And  far-stretched  sighs  for  mere  illusion'; 
'Tis  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  threats  of  absolute  damnation, 
But  certainty  of  some  salvation 
To  his  new  sect,  not  every  nation, 
With  election  and  reprobation. 
And  with  some  use  of  consolation ; 
'Tis  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  troops  expecting  him  at  door 
To  hear  a  sermon  and  no  more. 
And  women  follow  him  good  store. 
And  with  great  Bibles  to  turn  o'er, 
Whilst  Tom  writes  notes,  as  bar-boys  score, 
'Tis  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  double  cap  to  put  his  head  in. 

That  looks  like  a  black  pot  tipp'd  with  tin ; 

While  with  antic  gestures  he  doth  gape  and 

grin; 
The  sisters  admire,  and  he  wheedles  them  in, 
Who  to  cheat  their  husbands  think  no  sin  ; 
'Tis  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  great  pretended  spiritual  motions. 
And  many  fine  whimsical  notions, 
With  blind  zeal  and  large  devotions. 
With   broaching  rebellion  and  raising   com- 
motions, 
And    poisoning     the    people    with    Geneva 
potions  ; 
'Tis  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

Samnel  Butler.— Beiv:een  1642  and  1684. 


735.— THE  NEW  LITANY. 

From  an  extempore  prayer  and  a  godly  ditty, 
From  the  churlish  government  of  a  city. 
From  the  power  of  a  country  committee, 
Libera  nos,  Domine. 

From  the  Turk,  the  Pope,  and  the  Scottish 

nation. 
From  being  govern' d  by  proclamation, 
And   from    an  old  Protestant,  quite  out   of 

fashion, 

Libera,  &c.  ^^^ 


Anonymous.] 


THE  OLD  PROTESTANT'S  LITANY.         [Fourth  Period.-? 


From  meddling  with  those  that  are  out  of  our 

reaches, 
From  a  fighting   priest,   and    a   soldier  that 

preaches, 
From  an  ignoramus  that  writes,  and  a  woman 

that  teaches, 

Libera,  &c. 

From  the  doctrine  of  deposing  of  a  king, 
From  the  Directory,  or  any  such  thing, 
From  a  fine  new  marriage  without  a  ring, 
Libera,  &c. 

From  a  city  that  yields  at  the  first  summons. 
From    plundering     goods,    either     man     or 

woman's. 
Or  having  to  do  with  the  House  of  Commons, 
Libera,  &c. 

From  a  stumbling  horse  that  tumbles  o'er  and 

o'er. 
From  ushering  a  lady,  or  walking  before. 
From  an  English-Irish  rebel,  newly  come  o'er, 
Libera,  &c. 

From  compounding,  or  hanging  in   a    silken 

altar, 
From  oaths  and  covenants,  and  being  pounded 

in  a  mortar, 
From  contributions,  or  free-quarter. 
Libera,  &c. 

From  mouldy  bread,  and  musty  beer. 
From  a  holiday's  fast,  and  a  Friday's  cheer, 
From  a  brother-hood,  and  a  she-cavalier. 
Libera,  &c. 

From  Nick  Neuter,  for  yon,  and  for  you. 
From  Thomas  Turn-coat,  that  will  never  prove 

true. 
From  a  reverend  Rabbi  that's  worse  than  a 

Jew, 

Libera,  &c. 

From  a  country  justice  that  still  looks  big, 
From  swallowing  up  the  Italian  fig, 
Or  learning  of  the  Scottish  jig. 
Libera,  &c. 

From  being  taken  in  a  disguise, 
From  believing  of  the  printed  lies. 
From  the  Devil  and  from  the  Excise, 
Libera,  &c. 

From  a  broken  pate  with  a  pint  pot, 
From  fighting  for  I  know  not  what, 
And  from  a  friend  as  false  as  a  Scot, 
Libera,  &c. 

From  one  that  speaks  no  sense,  yet  talks  all 

that  he  can, 
From  an  old  woman  and  a  Parliament  man. 
From  an  Anabaptist  and  a  Presbyter  man. 
Libera,  &c. 

From  Irish  rebels  and  Welsh  hubbub-men. 
From  Independents  and  their  tub-men. 
From  sheriffs'  bailiffs,  and  their  club-men, 
Libera,  &c. 


From  one  that  cares  not  what  he  saith. 
From  trusting  one  that  never  payeth, 
From  a  private  preacher  and  a  public  faith, 
Libera,  &c. 

From  a  vapouring  horse  and  a  Roundhead  in 

buff. 
From  roaring  Jack  Cavee,  with  money  little 

enough. 
From  beads  and  such  idolatrous  stuff, 
Libera,  &c. 

From  holydays,  and  aU  that's  holy. 

From  May-poles    and  fiddlers,  and  all  that's 

JoUy, 
From  Latin  or  learning,  since  that  is  folly, 
Libera,  &c. 

And  now  to  make  an  end  of  all, 
I  wish  the  Roundheads  had  a  fall, 
Or  else  were  hanged  in  Goldsmiths'  Hall. 
Amen.  Benedicat  Dominus. 

Ationymov^. — Between  1642  and  1G84. 


736.— THE  OLD  PROTESTANT'S  LITANY. 

That    thou    wilt    be   pleased    to    grant    our 

requests, 
And  quite  destroy  all  the  vipers'  nests. 
That  England  and  her  true  religion  molests, 
Te  rogamus,  audi  nos. 

That  thou  wilt  be  pleased  to  censure  with  pity 
The  present  estate  of  our  once  famous  city ; 
Let   her  still  be  govem'd   by  men  just  and 
-vvitty, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That   thou  wilt   be  pleased    to  consider  the 

Tower, 
And    all   other  prisons   in    the    Parliament's 

power, 
Where    King  Charles  his  friends    find    their 

welcome  but  sour, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  thou  wilt  be  pleased  to  look  on  the  grief 
Of  the  King's  old   servants,   and  send  them 

relief. 
Restore  to  the  yeomen  o'  th'  Guard  chines  of 

beef, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  thou  wilt  be  pleased  very  quickly  to  brin^. 
Unto    his   just    rights   our  so  much-wrong'd 

King, 
That  he  may  be  happy  in  everything, 
Te  rogamiis,  &c. 

Tliat  Wliitchall  may  shine  in  its  pristine  lustre, 
That  the   Parliament    may  make    a    general 

muster, 
That  knaves  may  be  punish' d  by  men  who  are 

juster, 

Te  rogamus,  &c.      ^ 


From  1649  to  1689.1 


HEY,  THEN,  UP  GO  WE. 


[Anonymous. 


That  now  the  dog-days  are  fully  expired, 
Tliat  those  cursed  curs,  which  our  patience 

have  tired, 
May  suffer  what  is  by  true  justice  required, 
Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  thou  wilt  be  pleased  to  incline  conqu'ring 
Thomas 

(Who  now  hath  both  city  and  Tower  gotten 
from  us), 

That  he  may  be  just  in  performing  his  pro- 
mise, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That   our  hopeful    Prince    and  our  gracious 

Queen 
(Whom  we  here  in  England  long  time  have 

not  seen) 
May  soon  be    restored    to  what    they  have 

been, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  the  rest  of  the  royal  issue  may  be 
From  their  Parhamentary  guardians  set  free. 
And  be  kept  according  to  their  high  degree, 
Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  our  ancient  Liturgy  may  be  restored, 
That  the  organs    (by  sectaries   so  much  ab- 

horr'd) 
May  sound  divine  praises,  according   to  the 

word, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

Tliat  the  ring  in  marriage,  the  cross  at  the 

font, 
Which  the  Devil  and  the  Roundheads  so  much 

affront. 
May  be  used  again,  as  before  they  were  wont, 
Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  Episcopacy,  used  in  its  right  kind. 

In    England   once    more    entertainment  may 

find. 
That  Scots  and  Iqwd  factions  may  go  down 

the  wind, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  thou  wilt  be  pleased  again  to  restore 
All  things  in  due  order,  as  they  were  before, 
That  the  Church  and  the  State  may  be  vex'd 
no  more. 

To  rogamus,  &c. 

That  all  the  King's  friends  may  enjoy  their 

estates. 
And  not  be  kept,  as  they  have  been,  at  low 

rates, 
That  the  poor  may  find  comfort  again  at  their 

gates, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  thou  wilt  all  our  oppressions  remove, 
And  grant  us  firm  faith  and  hope,  join'd  with 

true  love. 
Convert  or  confound  all  which  virtue  reprove, 
Te  rogamus,  &c. 


That  all  peevish  sects  that  would  live  tin- 

controll'd. 
And   will    not    be   govern'd,  as    all  subjects 

should, 
To  New  England  may  pack,  or  live  quiet  i'  th' 

Old, 

Te  rogamus,  &c.      —    _ 

That  gracious  King  Charles,  with  his  children 

and  wife, 
Who  long  time  have  suffer' d  through  this  civil 

strife. 
May  end  with  high  honour  their  natural  life, 
To  rogamus,  &c. 

That  they  who  have  seized  on  honest  men's 

treasure. 
Only  for  their  loyalty  to  God  and  to  Caesar, 
May   in   time    convenient    find    measure    for 

measure, 

Te  rogamus,  &c. 

That  thou  all  these  blessings   upon   us  wilt 

send, 
We  are  no  Inde^jeyidents,  on  Thee  we  depend. 
And  as  we  believe,  from  all  harm  us  defend ; 
Te  rogamus,  &c. 

Anoniimous. — Beticcen  1642  and  1684. 


737.— HEY,  THEN,  UP  GO  WE. 

Know  this,  my  brethren,  heaven  is  clear. 

And  all  the  clouds  are  gone  ; 
The  righteous  man  shall  flourish  now, 

Good  days  are  coming  on. 
Then  come,  my  brethren,  and  be  glad, 

And  eke  rejoice  with  me ; 
Lawn  sleeves  and  rochets  shall  go  down, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 

We'll  break  the  windows  which  the  whore 

Of  Babylon  hath  painted, 
And  when  the  Popish  saints  are  down 

Then  Barrow  shall  be  sainted  ; 
There's  neither  cross  nor  crucifix 

Shall  stand  for  men  to  see, 
Eome's  trash  and  trumpery  shall  go  down. 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 

Whate'er  the  Popish  hands  have  built 

Our  hammers  shall  undo ; 
We'll  break  their  pipes  and  burn  their  copes. 

And  pull  down  churches  too  ; 
We'll  exercise  within  the  groves, 

And  teach  beneath  a  tree  ; 
We'll  make  a  j)ulpit  of  a  cask, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 

We'll  put  down  universities. 

Where  learning  is  profest, 
Because  they  practise  and  maintain 

The  language  of  the  Beast ; 
We'll  drive  the  doctors  out  of  doors, 

And  all  that  learned  be  ; 
We'll  cry  all  arts  and  learning  down, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 


Anonymous.]                               THE  CAMERONIAX  CAT.                     [Fourth  Period.^ 

We'll  down  -vv-ith  deans  and  prebends  too, 

Assure  thyself  that  for  the  deed 

And  I  rejoyce  to  tell  ye 

Thou  blood  for  blood  shalt  pay, 

We  then  shall  get  our  fill  of  pig, 

For  killing  of  the  Lord's  own  mouse 

And  capons  for  the  belly. 

Upon  the  Sabbath-day." 

We'll  burn  the  Fathers'  weighty  tomes. 

And  make  the  School-men  flee  ; 

The  presbyter  laid  by  the  book. 

We'll  down  with  all  that  smells  of  wit, 

And  earnestly  he  pray'd 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 

That  the  great  sin  the  cat  had  done 

Might  not  on  him  be  laid. 

If  once  the  Antichristian  crew 
Be  crash' d  and  overthrown. 

And  straight  to  execution 

We'll  teach  the  nobles  how  to  stoop, 

Poor  Pussy  she  was  drawn, 

And  keep  the  gentry  down : 
Good  manners  have  an  ill  report. 

And  high  hang'd  up  upon  a  tree — 
The  preacher  sung  a  psalm. 

And  turn  to  pride,  we  see. 

And  when  the  work  was  ended. 

We'll  therefore  put  good  manners  dovm, 

They  thought  the  cat  near  dead. 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 

She  gave  a  paw,  and  then  a  mew, 

The  name  of  lords  shall  be  abhorr'd, 

And  stretched  out  her  head. 

For  every  man  's  a  brother ; 

"  Thy  name,"  said  he,  "  shall  certainly 

No  reason  why  in  Church  and  State 

A  beacon  still  remain, 

One  man  should  rule  another  ; 

A  terror  unto  evil  ones 

But  when  the  change  of  government 

For  evermore,  Amen." 

Shall  set  our  fingers  free, 

We'll  make  these  wanton  sisters  stoop. 

Anonymous. — Between  1642  and  1684. 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 
What  though  the  King  and  Parliament 

Do  not  accord  together. 

We  have  more  cause  to  be  content, 

This  is  our  sunshine  weather  : 

739.— I  THANK  YOU  TWICE. 

For  if  that  reason  should  take  place,               , 

The  hierarchy  is  out  of  date, 

And  they  should  once  agree, 

Our  monarchy  was  sick  of  late, 

"Who  would  be  in  a  Roundhead's  case, 

But  now  'tis  grown  an  excellent  state  : 

For  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 

Oh,  God  a-mercy.  Parliament ! 

What  should  we  do,  then,  in  this  case  . 

The  teachers  knew  not  what  to  say, 

Let's  put  it  to  a  venture ; 

The  'prentices  have  leave  to  play, 

If  that  we  hold  out  seven  years'  space 

The  people  have  all  forgotten  to  pray ; 

We'll  sue  out  our  indenture. 

Still,  God  a-mercy,  Parliament! 

A  time  may  come  to  make  us  rue, 

And  time  may  set  us  free, 

The  Roundhead  and  the  Cavalier 

Except  the  gaUows  claim  his  due. 

Have  fought  it  out  almost  seven  year, 

And  hey,  then,  up  go  we. 

And  yet,  methinks,  they  are  never  the  near : 

Francis  Quarles. — 1642. 

Oh,  God,  &c. 

The  gentry  are  sequester'd  all ; 

Our  wives  you  find  at  Goldsmith  Hall, 
For  there  they  meet  with  the  devil  and  all  ; 

StiU,  God,  &c. 

738.— THE  CAMERONIAN  CAT. 

The  Parliament  are  grown  to  that  height 

They  care  not  a  pin  what  his  Majesty  saith  ; 

There  was  a  Cameronian  cat 

And  they  pay  all  their  debts  with  the  public 

Was  hunting  for  a  prey, 

faith. 

And  in  the  house  she  catch' d  a  monae 

Oh,  God,  &c. 

Upon  the  Sabbath-day. 

Though   all    we    have    here    is    brought    to 

The  Whig,  being  offended 

nought. 

At  such  an  act  profane, 

In  Ireland  we  have  whole  lordships  bought, 

Lay  by  his  book,  the  cat  he  took, 

There  we  shall  one  day  be  rich,  'tis  thought : 

And  bound  her  in  a  chain. 

Stm,  God,  &c. 

"  Thou  damned,  thou  cursed  creature, 

We  must  forsake  our  father  and  mother, 

This  deed  so  dark  with  thee, 

And  for  the  State  undo  our  own  brother, 

Think' st  thou  to  bring  to  hell  below 

And  never  leave  murthering  one  another  : 

My  holy  wife  and  me  ? 

Oh,  God,  &c. 

From  1649  to  1689.] 


THE  ROUNDHEAD. 


[Anonymous. 


Now  the  King-  is  caught  and  the  devil  is  dead, 
Fairfax  must  be  disbanded, 
Or  else  he  may  chance  be  Hotham-ed. 
StiU,  God,  &c. 

They  have  made  King  Charles  a  glorious  king. 
He  was  told,  long  ago,  of  such  a  thing ; 
Now  he  and  his  subjects  have  reason  to  sing, 
Oh,  God,  &c. 

Anonymous. — Between  1642  and  1684. 


740.— THE  PURITAN. 

With  face  and  fashion  to  be  known, 
For  one  of  sure  election  ; 
With  eyes  all  white,  and  many  a  groan, 
With  neck  aside  to  draw  in  tone, 
With  harp  in  's  nose,  or  he  is  none  : 
See  a  new  teacher  of  the  town. 
Oh  the  town,  oh  the  town's  new  teacher 

With  pate  cut  shorter  than  the  brow. 
With  little  ruff  starch' d,  you  know  how, 
With  cloak  like  Paul,  no  cape  I  trow, 
With  surplice  none  ;  but  lately  now 
With  hands  to  thump,  no  knees  to  bow  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  coz'ning  cough,  and  hollow  cheek. 
To  get  new  gatherings  every  week, 
With  i^altry  change  of  and  to  ckc, 
With  some  small  Hebrew,  and  no  Greek, 
To  find  out  words,  when  stuff  's  to  seek : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  shop-board  breeding  and  intrusion, 
With  some  outlandish  institution. 
With  Ursine' s  catechism  to  muse  on. 
With  system's  method  for  confusion, 
With  grounds  strong  laid  of  mere  illusion  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &g. 

With  rights  indiflferent  all  damned, 
And  made  unlawful,  if  commanded  ; 
Good  works  of  POpery  down  banded. 
And  moral  laws  from  him  estranged. 
Except  the  sabbath  still  unchanged : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  speech  unthought,  quick  revelation, 
With  boldness  in  predestination, 
With  threats  of  absolute  damnation, 
Yet  yea  and  nay  hath  some  salvation 
For  his  own  tribe,  not  every  nation : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  after  license  cast  a  crown, 
"When  bishop  new  had  put  him  down ; 
With  tricks  call'd  repetition, 
And  doctrine  newly  brought  to  town 
Of  teaching  men  to  hang  and  drown  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  flesh-provision  to  keep  Lent, 
With  shelves  of  sweetmeats  often  spent, 


Which  new  maid  bought,  old  lady  sent, 
Though,  to  be  saved,  a  poor  present, 
Yet  legacies  assure  to  event : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &g. 

With  troops  expecting  laim  at  th'  door. 
That  would  hoar  sermons,  and  no  more  ; 
With  noting  tools,  and  sighs  great  itore, 
Vv^'ith  Bibles  great  to  turn  them  o'er, 
While  he  ^vrests  places  by  the  score : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  running  text,  the  name  forsaken. 
With /or  and  hut,  both  by  sense  shaken. 
Cheap  doctrines  forced,  wild  uses  taken. 
Both  sometimes  one  by  mark  mistaken ; 
With  anything  to  any  shapen  : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

With  new-wrought  caps  against  the  canon, 
For  taking  cold,  tho'  sure  he  have  none  ; 
A  sermon's  end,  where  he  began  one, 
A  new  hour  long,  when  's  glass  had  run  one, 
New  use,  new  points,  new  notes  to  stand  on : 
See  a  new  teacher,  &c. 

John  Cleveland. — Between  1642  and  1684. 


741.— THE  ROUNDHEAD. 

AVhat  creature  's  that,  with  his  short  hairs. 
His  little  band,  and  huge  long  ears, 

That  this  new  faith  hath  founded  ? 
The  saints  themselves  were  never  such, 
The  prelates  ne'er  ruled  half  so  much  ; 

Oh  !  such  a  rogue  's  a  Roundhead. 

"What's  he  that  doth  the  bishops  hate, 
And  counts  their  calling  reprobate, 

'Cause  by  the  Pope  propounded; 
And  thinks  a  zealous  cobbler  better 
Than  learned  Usher  in  ev'ry  letter  ? 

Oh !  such  a  rogue  's  a  Roundhead. 

What's  he  that  doth  high  treason  say. 
As  often  as  his  yea  and  nay, 

And  wish  the  King  confounded  ; 
And  dares  maintain  that  Mr.  Pirn 
Is  fitter  for  a  crown  than  him  ? 

Oh !  such  a  rogue  's  a  Roundhead. 

"SVhat's  he  that  if  he  chance  to  hear 
A  little  piece  of  Common  Prayer, 

Doth  think  his  conscience  wounded ; 
Will  go  five  miles  to  preach  and  pray, 
And  meet  a  sister  by  the  way  ? 

Oh !  such  a  rogue  's  a  Roundhead. 

What's  he  that  met  a  holy  sister. 
And  in  a  haycock  gently  kiss'd  her  ? 

Oh !  then  his  zeal  abounded  : 
'Twas  underneath  a  shady  willow. 
Her  Bible  served  her  for  a  pillow. 

And  there  he  got  a  Roundhead. 

Samuel  Butler.— Between  1642  and  1684. 


Anonymous.]         PRATTLE  YOUR  PLEASURE  UNDER  THE  ROSE.  [Fourth  Pekiod.— 


742.— PRATTLE  YOUR  PLEASURE 
UNDER  THE  ROSE. 

There  is  an  old  proverb  which  all  ^iie  wor.a 

knows, 
Anything  may  be  spoke,  if 't  be  under  the  rose  : 
Then  now  let  us  speak,  whilst  we  are  in  the  hint, 
Of   the  state  of  the  land,  and  th'  enormities 

in't. 

Under  the  rose  be  it  spoke,  there  is  a  number 

of  knaves. 
More  than  ever  were  known  in  a  State  before ; 
But  I  hope  that  their  mischiefs  have  digg'd 

their  own  graves. 
And  we'll  never  trust  knaves  for  their  sakes 

any  more. 

Under  the  rose  be  it  spoken,  the  city 's  an  ass 
So  long  to  the  public  to  let  their  gold  run, 
To  keep  the  King  out ;  but  'tis  now  come  to 

pass, 
I  am  sure  they  will  lose,  whosoever  has  won. 

Under  the  rose  be  it  spoken,  there's  a  company 
of  men. 

Trainbands  they  are  called — a  plague  con- 
found 'em  : — 

And  when  they  are  waiting  at  Westminster 
Hall, 

May  their  wives  be  beguiled  and  begat  with 
child  aU ! 

Under  the  rose  be  it  spoken,  there's  a  damn'd 

committee 
Sits  in  hell  (Goldsmiths'  Hall),  in  the  midst  of 

the  city, 
Only  to  sequester  the  poor  Cavaliers — 
The  devil  take  their  souls,  and  the  hangman 

their  ears. 

Under  the  rose  be  it  spoken,  if  you  do  not 

repent 
Of  that  horrible  sin,  your  pure  Parliament, 
Pray  stay  till  Sir  Thomas  doth  bring  in  the 

King, 
Then  Derrick  may  chance  have  'em  all  in  a 

string. 

Under  the  rose  be  it  spoken,  let  the  synod 

now  leave 
To  wrest  the  whole  Scripture,  how  souls  to 

deceive ; 
For  all  they  have  spoken  or  taught  will  ne'er 

save  'em, 
Unless  they  will  leave  that  fault,  hell 's  sure 

have  'em ! 

Anonymous. — Between  1642  and  1684. 


743.— THE  CAVALIER'S  FAREWELL  TO 
HIS  MISTRESS. 

Fair  Fidelia,  tempt  no  more, 
I  may  no  more  thy  deity  adore 
Nor  offer  to  thy  shrine, 
I  serve  one  more  divine 
.    And  farr  more  great  than  you  : 


I  must  go. 

Lest  the  foe 
Gaine  the  cause  and  win  the  day. 
Let's  march  bravely  on, 
Charge  ym  in  the  van, 
Our  cause  God's  is, 
Though  their  odds  is 

Ten  to  one. 

Tempt  no  more,  I  may  not  yeeld 
Altho'  thine  eyes 
A  kingdome  may  surprize  : 
Leave  off  thy  wanton  toiles. 
The  high-born  Prince  of  Wales 
Is  mounted  in  the  field. 

Where  the  royall  gentry  flocke. 

Though  alone 

Nobly  borne 
Of  a  ne'er  decaying  stocke. 

Cavaliers,  be  bold, 

Bravely  keep  your  hold. 

He  that  loyters 

Is  by  traytors 

Bought  and  sold. 

One  kisse  more,  and  then  farcAveU ; 

Oh  no,  no  more, 

I  prithee  give  me  o'er, — 
Why  cloudest  thou  thy  beames  ? 
I  see  by  these  extreames 
A  woman's  heaven  or  hell. 

Pray  the  King  may  have  his  owne, 

And  the  Queen 

May  be  seen 
With  her  babes  on  England's  throna, 
Rally  up  your  men. 
One  shall  vanquish  ten, 
Victory,  we 
Come  to  try  thee 

Once  agen. 

John  Adauison. — Between  1642  and  1684. 


744.— THE   COBBLER  AND   THE  VICAR 
OF  BRAY. 

In  Bedfordshire  there  dwelt  a  knight, 

Sir  Samuel  by  name, 
Who  by  his  feats  in  civil  broils 

Obtain' d  a  mighty  fame. 

Nor  was  he  much  less  wise  and  stout, 

But  fit  in  both  respects 
To  humble  sturdy  Cavaliers, 

And  to  support  the  sects. 

This  worthy  knight  was  one  that  swore 

He  would  not  cut  his  beard 
Till  this  langodly  nation  was 

From  kings  and  bishops  clear' d  : 

Which  holy  vow  he  firmly  kept, 

And  most  devoutly  wore 
A  grizly  meteor  on  his  face 

Till  they  were  both  no  more. 


From  1649  io  1689.]     THE  COBBLER  AND  THE  VICAR  OF  BRAY. 


[Anonymous. 


His  worship  was,  in  short,  a  man 

Of  such  exceeding  worth. 
No  pen  or  pencil  can  describe, 

Or  rhyming  bard  set  forth. 

Many  and  mighty  things  he  did 
Both  sober  and  in  liquor, — 

Witness  the  mortal  fray  between 
The  Cobbler  and  the  Vicar ; 

Which  by  his  wsdom  and  his  power 

He  wisely  did  prevent, 
And  both  the  combatants  at  once 

In  wooden  durance  pent. 

The  manner  how  these  two  fell  out 
And  quarrell'd  in  their  ale, 

I  shall  attempt  at  large  to  show 
In  the  succeeding  tale. 

A  strolling  cobbler,  who  was  wont 
To  trudge  from  town  to  town, 

Happen'd  upon  his  walk  to  meet 
A  vicar  in  his  gown. 

And  as  they  forward  jogg'd  along, 

The  vicai,  gi-owing  hot, 
First  ilsk'd  the  cobbler  if  he  knew 

Where  they  might  take  a  pot  ? 

'•  Yes,  mari-y  that  I  do,"  quoth  he  ; 

"  Here  is  a  house  hard  by. 
That  far  exceeds  all  Bedfordshire 

For  ale  and  landlady." 

"  Thither  let's  go,"  the  vicar  said  ; 

And  when  they  thither  came, 
He  liked  the  liquor  wondrous  well, 

But  better  far  the  dame. 

And  she,  who,  like  a  cunning  jilt, 
Knew  how  to  please  her  guest, 

Used  all  her  little  tricks  and  arts 
To  entertain  the  priest. 

The  cobbler,  too,  who  quickly  saw 

The  landlady's  design. 
Did  all  that  in  his  power  was 

To  manage  the  divine. 

With  smutty  jests  and  merry  songs 
They  charm'd  the  vicar  so. 

That  ho  determined  for  that  night 
No  further  he  would  go. 

And  being  fixt,  the  cobbler  thought 

'Twas  proper  to  go  try 
If  he  conl<l  get  a  job  or  two 

His  charges  to  supjily. 

So  going  out  into  the  street, 
He  bawls  with  all  his  might — 

"  If  any  of  you  tread  awry 
I'm  here  to  set  you  right. 

I  can  repair  youi*  leaky  boots, 
And  imderlay  j^our  soles  ; 

BacksUders,  I  can  underprop 
And  patch  up  all  your  holes." 


The  vicar,  who  unluckily 

The  cobbler's  outcry  heard. 
From  off  the  bench  on  which  he  sat 

With  mighty  fury  rear'd. 

Quoth  he,  "  What  priest,  what  holy  priest 
Can  hear  this  bawling  slave,        _    _ 

But  must,  in  justice  to  his  coat, 
Chastise  the  saucy  knave  ? 

What  has  this  wretch  to  do  with  souls, 

Or  with  backshders  either, 
Whose  business  only  is  his  awls, 

His  lasts,  his  thread,  and  leather  ? 

I  lose  my  patience  to  be  made 

This  strolling  varlet's  sport ; 
Nor  could  I  think  this  saucy  rogue 

Could  serve  me  in  such  sort." 

The  cobbler,  who  had  no  design 

The  vicar  to  displease, 
Unluckily  repeats  again — 

"  I'm  come  j'our  soals  to  ease  : 

The  inward  and  the  outward  too 

I  can  repair  and  mend  ; 
And  all  that  my  assistance  want. 

1 11  use  them  like  a  friend." 

The  country  folk  no  sooner  heard 

The  honest  cobbler's  tongue, 
But  from  the  village  far  and  near 

They  round  about  him  throng. 

Some  bring  their  boots,  and  some  their  shoes, 

And  some  their  buskins  bring : 
The  cobbler  sits  him  down  to  work, 

And  then  begins  to  sing. 

"  Death  often  at  the  cobbler's  stall 

Was  wont  to  make  a  stand, 
But  found  the  cobbler  singing  still, 

And  on  the  mending  hand  ; 

Until  at  length  he  met  old  Time, 

And  then  they  both  together 
Quite  tear  the  cobbler's  aged  sole 

From  off  the  upper  leather. 

Even  so  a  while  I  may  old  shoes 

By  care  and  art  maintain, 
But  when  the  leather  's  rotten  grown 

All  art  and  care  is  vain." 

And  thus  the  cobbler  stitch' d  and  sung. 

Not  thinking  any  harm  ; 
Till  out  the  vicar  angry  came 

With  ale  and  passion  warm. 

"  Dost  thou  not  know,  vile  slave  !  "  quoth  he, 

"  How  impious  'tis  to  jest 
With  sacred  things,  and  to  profane 

The  office  of  a  priest  ? 

How  dar'st  thou,  most  audacious  wretch! 

Those  vile  expressions  use, 
Which  make  the  souls  of  men  as  cheap 

As  soals  of  boots  and  shoes  ? 


Anonymous.]             THE  COBBLER  AND  THE  VICAR  OF  BRAY.  [Fourth  Period. — 

Such  reprobates  as  you  betray 

Our  character  and  gown, 
And  would,  if  you  had  once  the  power, 

The  Church  itself  pull  down." 

Or  else  some  spy  to  Cavaliers, 
And  art  by  them  sent  out 

To  carry  false  intelligence. 
And  scatter  lies  about." 

The  cobbler,  not  aware  that  he 
Had  done  or  said  amiss, 

Eeply'd,  "  I  do  not  understand 
What  you  can  mean  by  this. 

But  whilst  the  vicar  full  of  ire 
Was  raihng  at  this  rate, 

His  worship,  good  Sir  Samuel, 
O'erlighted  at  the  gate. 

Tho'  I  but  a  poor  cobbler  be, 
And  stroll  about  for  bread, 

None  better  loves  the  Church  than  I 
That  ever  wore  a  head. 

And  asking  of  the  landlady 

Th'  occasion  of  the  stir ; 
Quoth  she,  "  If  you  will  give  me  leave, 

I  will  inform  you,  sir. 

But  since  you  are  so  good  at  names. 
And  make  so  loud  a  pother, 

I'll  tell  you  plainly  I'm  afraid 

You're  but  some  cobbling  brother. 

This  cobbler  happening  to  o'ertake 

The  vicar  in  his  walk, 
In  friendly  sort  they  forward  march. 

And  to  each  other  talk. 

Come,  vicar,  tho'  you  talk  so  big, 
Our  trades  are  near  akin  ; 

I  patch  and  cobble  outAvard  seals 
As  you  do  those  within. 

Until  the  parson  first  proposed 
To  stop  and  take  a  whet ; 

So  cheek  by  jole  they  hither  came 
Like  travellers  well  met. 

And  I'll  appeal  to  any  man 
That  understands  the  nation, 

If  I  han't  done  more  good  than  you 
In  my  respective  station. 

A  world  of  healths  and  jests  went  rotmd, 

Sometimes  a  merry  tale  ; 
Till  they  resolved  to  stay  all  night, 

So  well  they  liked  my  ale. 

Old  leather,  I  must  needs  confess, 
I've  .sometimes  used  as  new. 

And  often  pared  the  soal  so  near 
That  I  have  spoil' d  the  shoe. 

Thus  all  things  lovingly  went  on, 
And  who  so  great  as  they  ; 

Before  an  ugly  accident 
Began  this  mortal  fray. 

You  vicars,  by  a  different  way, 
Have  done  the  very  same ; 

For  you  have  pared  your  doctrines  so 
You  made  rehgion  lame. 

The  case  I  take  it  to  be  this, — 

The  vicar  being  fixt, 
The  cobbler  chanced  to  cry  his  trade, 

And  in  his  cry  he  mixt 

Your  principles  you've  quite  disown'd. 
And  old  ones  changed  for  new, 

That  no  man  can  distinguish  right 
"Which  are  the  false  or  true. 

Some  harmless  words,  which  I  suppose 

The  vicar  falsely  thought 
Might  be  design'd  to  banter  bim, 

And  scandalize  his  coat." 

I  dare  be  bold,  you're  one  of  those 
Have  took  the  Covenant ; 

With  Cavaliers  are  Cavalier, 
And  with  the  saints  a  saint." 

"  If  that  be  all,"  quoth  he,  "  go  out 
And  bid  them  both  come  in ; 

A  dozen  of  your  nappy  ale 
Will  set  'em  right  again. 

The  vicar  at  this  sharp  rebuke 
Begins  to  storm  and  swear  ; 

Quoth  he,  "  Thou  vile  apostate  wretch ! 
Dost  thou  with  me  compare  ? 

And  if  the  ale  should  chance  to  fail, 
For  so  perhaps  it  may,    . 

I  have  it  in  my  powers  to  try 
A  more  effectual  way. 

I  that  have  care  of  many  souls, 
And  power  to  damn  or  save, 

Dar'st  thou  thyself  compare  with  me, 
Thou  vile,  ungodly  knave  ! 

These  vicars  are  a  wilful  tribe, 
A  restless,  stubborn  crew  ; 

And  if  they  are  not  humbled  quite, 
The  State  they  will  undo. 

I  wish  I  had  thee  somewhere  else, 
I'd  quickly  make  thee  know 

"What  'tis  to  make  comparisons, 
And  to  revile  me  so. 

The  cobbler  is  a  cunning  knave. 
That  goes  about  by  stealth, 

And  would,  instead  of  mending  shoes, 
Repair  the  Commonwealth. 

Thou  art  an  enemy  to  the  State, 
Some  priest  in  ma.squerade. 

That,  to  promote  the  Pope's  designs, 
Has  learnt  the  cobbling  trade : 

However,  bid  'em  both  come  in, 
This  fray  must  have  an  end  ; 

Such  little  feuds  as  these  do  oft 
To  greater  mischiefs  tend." 

From  1649  to  1689.]     THE  COBBLER  AND  THE  VICAR  OF  BRAY. 


[Anonymous. 


Without  more  bidding  out  she  goes 

And  told  them,  by  her  troth, 
"  There  was  a  magistrate  vrithin 

That  needs  must  see  'em  both. 

But,  gentlemen,  pray  distance  keep, 

And  don't  too  testy  be  ; 
111  words  good  manners  still  corrupt 

And  spoil  good  company." 

To  this  the  vicar  first  replies, 

"  I  fear  nr-magistrate  ; 
For  let  'em  make  what  laws  they  will, 

I'll  still  obey  the  State. 

Whatever  I  can  say  or  do, 

I'm  sure  not  much  avails  ; 
I  shall  stiU  be  Vicar  of  Bray 

Whichever  side  pre-^^ails. 

My  conscience,  thanks  to  Heaven,  is  come 

To  such  a  happy  pass, 
That  I  can  take  the  Covenant 

And  never  hang  an  ass. 

I've  took  so  many  oaths  before, 

That  now  mthout  remorse 
I  take  all  oaths  the  State  can  make, 

As  meerly  things  of  course. 

Go  therefore,  dame,  the  justice  tell 

His  summons  I'll  obey  ; 
And  further  you  may  let  him  know 

I  Vicar  am  of  Bray." 

"  I  find  indeed,"  the  cobbler  said, 

"  I  am  not  much  mistaken  ; 
This  vicar  knows  the  ready  way  • 

To  save  his  reverend  bacon. 

This  is  a  hopeful  priest  indeed. 

And  well  deserves  the  rope  ; 
Rather  than  lose  his  vicarage 

He'd  swear  to  Turk  or  Pope. 

For  gain  he  would  his  God  deny, 

His  country  and  his  King  ; 
Swear  and  forswear,  recant  and  lye, 

Do  any  wicked  thing." 

At  this  the  vicar  set  his  teeth, 

And  to  the  cobbler  flew  ; 
And  with  his  sacerdotal  fist 

Gave  him  a  box  or  two. 

The  cobbler  soon  return'd  the  blows. 

And  with  both  head  and  heel 
So  manfully  behaved  himself, 

He  made  the  vicar  reel. 

Great  was  the  outcrj^  that  v-as  made, 

And  in  the  woman  ran 
To  tell  his  worship  that  the  fight 

Betwixt  them  was  began. 

"  And  is  it  so  indeed?"  quoth  he  ; 

"  I'll  make  the  slaves  repent :  " 
Then  up  he  took  his  basket  hilt, 

And  out  enraged  he  Avent. 


The  country  folk  no  sooner  saw 

The  knight  with  naked  blade, 
But  for  his  worship  instantly 

An  open  lane  was  made ; 

I   Who  with  a  stern  and  angry  look 
[       Cried  out,  "  What  knaves  are  these  — 
(   That  in  the  face  of  justice  dare 
Disturb  the  public  peace  ? 

Vile  rascals  !  I  will  make  you  know 

I  am  a  magistrate, 
And  that  as  such  I  bear  about 

The  vengeance  of  the  State. 

Go,  seize  them,  Ralph,  and  bring  them  in. 

That  I  may  know  the  cause. 
That  first  induced  them  to  this  rage. 

And  thus  to  break  the  laws." 

Ralph,  who  was  both  his  squire  and  clerk, 

And  constable  Avithal, 
I'  th'  name  o'  th'  Commonwealth  aloud 

Did  for  assistance  bawl. 

The  words  had  hardly  pass'd  his  mouth 

But  they  secure  them  both  ; 
And  Ralph,  to  show  his  furious  zeal 

And  hatred  to  the  cloth, 

Runs  to  the  vicar  through  the  crowd. 

And  takes  him  by  the  throat : 
"  How  ill,"  says  he,  "  doth  this  become 

Your  character  and  coat ! 

Was  it  for  this  not  long  ago 

Y'ou  took  the  Covenant, 
And  in  most  solemn  manner  swore 

That  you'd  become  a  saint  ?  " 

And  here  he  gave  him  such  a  pinch 

That  made  the  vicar  shout — 
"  Good  people,  I  shall  murder' d  be 

By  this  ungodly  lout. 

He  gripes  my  throat  to  that  degree 

I  can't  his  talons  bear  ; 
And  if  you  do  not  hold  his  hands, 

He'll  throttle  me,  I  fear." 

At  this  a  butcher  of  the  towTi 

Steps  uj)  to  Rali>h  in  ire, — 
*'  AVhat,  will  you  squeeze  his  guUet  through. 

You  son  of  blood  and  fire  r 

Y'ou  are  the  Devil's  instrument 

To  execute  the  laws ; 
What,  will  you  murther  the  poor  man 

V/ith  your  phanatick  claws  ?  " 

At  which  the  squire  quits  his  hold, 

And  lugging  out  his  blade, 
Full  at  the  sturdy  butcher's  pate 

A  furious  stroke  he  made. 

A  dismal  outcry  then  began 

Among  the  country  folk  ; 
Who  all  conclude  the  butcher  slain 

By  such  a  mortal  stroke. 


Anonymous.] 


THE  COBBLEE  AND  THE  VICAE  OF  BEAT.  [Fourth  Pekiod.— 


But  here  good  fortune,  that  has  still 

A  friendship  for  the  brave, 
I'  th'  nick  misguides  the  fatal  blow. 

And  does  the  butcher  save. 

The  knight,  who  heard  the  noise  within, 

Euns  out  with  might  and  main, 
And  seeing  Ealph  amidst  the  crowd 

In  danger  to  be  slain, 

Without  regard  to  age  or  sex 

Old  basket-hilt  so  ply'd. 
That  in  an  instant  three  or  four 

Lay  bleeding  at  his  side. 

And  greater  mischiefs  in  his  rage 

This  furious  knight  had  done. 
If  he  had  not  prevented  been 

By  Dick,  the  blacksmith's  son, 

Who  catch'd  his  worship  on  the  hip. 

And  gave  him  such  a  squelch. 
That  he  some  moments  breathless  lay 

Ere  he  was  heard  to  belch. 

Nor  was  the  squire  in  better  case, 

By  sturdy  butcher  ply'd, 
Who  from  the  shoulder  to  the  flank 

Had  soundly  swinged  his  hide. 

Whilst  things  in  tliis  confusion  stood, 
And  knight  and  squire  disarm' d, 

Up  comes  a  neighbouring  gentleman 
The  outcry  had  alarm' d ; 

Who  riding  up  among  the  crowd, 

The  -vdcar  first  he  spy'd, 
With  sleeveless  gown  and  bloody  band 

And  hands  behind  him  ty'd. 

"  Bless  me,"  says  he,  "what  means  all  this  ?" 

Then  turning  round  his  eyes. 
In  the  same  plight,  or  in  a  worse, 

The  cobbler  bleeding  spies. 

And  looking  further  round  he  saw, 

Like  one  in  doleful  dump, 
The  knight,  amidst  a  gaping  mob. 

Sit  pensive  on  his  rump. 

And  by  his  side  lay  Ealph  his  squire. 

Whom  butcher  fell  had  maul'd  ; 
Who  bitterly  bemoan' d  his  fate. 

And  for  a  surgeon  call'd. 

Surprised  at  first  he  paused  awhile, 

And  then  accosts  the  knight, — 
"  What  makes  you  here,  Sir  Samuel, 

In  this  unhappy  plight  ?  " 

At  this  the  knight  gave  's  breast  a  thump, 

And  stretching  out  his  hand, — 
"  If  you  will  pull  me  up,"  he  cried, 

"  I'll  try  if  I  can  stand. 

And  then  I'll  let  you  know  the  cause  ; 

But  first  take  eare  of  Ealph, 
Who  in  my  good  or  ill  success 

Doth  alwaj's  stand  my  half." 


In  short,  he  got  liis  worship  up 

And  let  him  in  the  door ; 
Where  he  at  length  relates  the  tale 

As  I  have  told  before. 

When  he  had  heard  the  story  out. 

The  gentleman  replies, — 
"  It  is  not  in  my  province,  sir, 

Your  worship  to  advise. 

But  were  I  in  your  worship's  place, 

The  only  thing  I'd  do, 
Was  first  to  reprimand  the  fools. 

And  then  to  let  them  go. 

I  think  it  first  advisable 

To  take  them  from  the  rabble. 

And  let  them  come  and  both  set  forth 
The  occasion  of  the  squabble. 

This  is  the  Vicar,  sir,  of  Bray, 

A  man  of  no  repute, 
The  scorn  and  scandal  of  his  tribe, 

A  loose,  ill- manner' d  brute. 

The  cobbler  's  a  poor  strolling  wretch 
That  mends  my  servants'  .shoes  ; 

And  often  calls  as  he  goes  by 
To  bring  me  country  news." 

At  this  his  worship  grip'd  his  beard. 

And  in  an  angry  mood, 
Swore  by  the  laws  of  chivalry 

That  blood  required  blood. 

"  Besides,  I'm  by  the  Commonwealth 

Entrusted  to  chastise 
All  knaves  that  straggle  uj)  and  down 

To  raise  such  mutinies. 

However,  since  'tis  your  request, 
They  shall  be  call'd  and  heard ; 

But  neither  Ealph  nor  I  can  grant 
Such  rascals  should  be  clear'd." 

And  so,  to  wind  the  tale  up  short. 
They  were  call'd  in  together ; 

And  by  the  gentleman  were  ask'd 
What  wind  'twas  blew  them  thither. 

"  Good  ale  and  handsome  landladies 
You  might  have  nearer  home  ; 

And  therefore  'tis  for  something  more 
That  you  so  far  are  come." 

To  which  the  vicar  answer'd  first, — 

"  My  living  is  so  small. 
That  I  am  forced  to  stroll  about 

To  try  and  get  a  call." 

"  And,"  quoth  the  cobbler,  "  I  am  forced 
To  leave  my  wife  and  dwelling, 

T'  escape  the  danger  of  being  press' d 
To  go  a  colonelling. 

There's  many  an  honest  jovial  lad 

Unwarily  draAvn  in, 
Tliat  I  have  reason  to  suspect 

Will  scarce  get  out  again. 


From  1649  to  1689.]     THE  COBBLER  AND  THE  VICAE  OP  BRAY.              [Anonymous. 

The  proverb  says,  Harm  ivatch  harm  catch, 

And  since  he  calls  so  many  names 

I'll  out  of  danger  keep, 

And  talks  so  very  loud, 

For  he  that  sleeps  in  a  whole  skin 

I  will  be  bound  to  make  it  plain 

Doth  most  securely  sleep. 

'Twas  he  that  raised  the  crowd. 

My  business  is  to  mend  bad  soals 

Nay,  further,  I  will  make  't  appear 

And  stitch  up  broken  quarters  : 

He  and  the  priests  have  done      _ 

A  cobbler's  name  would  look  but  odd 

More  mischief  than  the  cobblers  far     ~ 

Among  a  list  of  martyrs." 

All  over  Christendom. 

"  Faith,  cobbler,"  quoth  the  gentleman, 

All  Europe  groans  beneath  their  yoke, 

"  And  that  shall  be  my  case ; 

And  poor  Great  Britain  owes 

I  will  neither  party  join, 

To  them  her  present  miseries, 

Let  what  will  come  to  pass. 

And  dread  of  future  woes. 

No  importunities  or  threats 

The  priests  of  all  rehgions  are. 

My  fixt  resolve  shall  rest ; 

And  will  be  still  the  same. 

Come  here.  Sir  Samuel,  where' s  his  health 

And  all,  tho'  in  a  different  way. 

That  loves  old  England  best. 

Are  playing  the  same  game." 

I  pity  those  unhappy  fools 

At  this  the  gentleman  stood  up, — 
"  Cobbler,  you  run  too  fast ; 

Who,  ere  they  were  aware, 
Designing  and  ambitious  men 
Have  drawn  into  a  snare. 

By  thus  condemning  all  the  tribe. 
You  go  beyond  your  last. 

Much  mischief  has  by  priests  been  done, 

But,  vicar,  to  come  to  the  case, — 
Amidst  a  senseless  crowd, 

And  more  is  doing  still  ; 
But  then  to  censure  all  alike 

"What  ui-ged  you  to  such  violence, 
And  made  you  talk  so  loud  ? 

Must  be  exceeding  ill. 
Too  many,  I  must  needs  confess, 

1 

Passion  I'm  sure  does  iU  become 

Are  mightily  to  blame. 

Your  character  and  cloath. 

Who  by  their  wicked  practices 

And,  tho'  the  cause  be  ne'er  so  just, 

Disgrace  the  very  name. 

Brings  scandal  upon  both. 

But,  cobbler,  still  the  major  part 

Vicar,  I  speak  it  with  regret, 

The  miner  should  conclude ; 

An  inadvertent  priest 

'To  argue  at  another  rate  's 

Renders  himself  ridiculous, 

Impertinent  and  rude." 

And  everybody's  jest." 

By  this  time  all  the  neighbours  round 

The  vicar  to  be  thus  rebuked 

Were  flock'd  about  the  door, 

A  little  time  stood  mute ; 

And  some  were  on  the  vicar's  side. 

But  having  gulp'd  his  passion  down, 

But  on  the  cobbler's  more. 

Replies, — "That  cobbling  brute 

Among  the  rest  a  grazier,  who 

Has  treated  me  with  such  contempt, 

Had  lately  been  at  town 

Such  vile  expressions  used. 

To  sell  his  oxen  and  his  sheep. 

That  I  no  longer  could  forbear 

Brim-full  of  news  came  down. 

To  hear  myself  abused. 

Quoth  he,  "The  priests   have  preach'd  and 

The  rascal  had  the  insolence 

pray'd. 

To.  give  himself  the  He, 

And  made  so  damn'd  a  pother, 

And  to  aver  h'  had  done  more  good 

That  all  the  people  are  run  mad 

And  saved  more  soals  than  I. 

To  murther  one  another. 

Nay,  further,  sir,  this  miscreant 

By  their  contrivances  and  arts 

To  tell  me  was  so  bold. 

They've  play'd  their  game  so  long. 

Our  trades  were  very  near  of  kin, 

That  no  man  knows  which  side  is  right, 

But  his  was  the  more  olJ. 

Or  which  is  in  the  wrong. 

Now,  sir,  I  will  to  you  appeal 

I'm  sure  I've  Smithfield  market  used 

On  such  a  provocation. 

For  more  than  twenty  year. 

If  there  was  not  sufficient  cause 

But  never  did  such  murmurings 

To  use  a  little  passion  ?  " 

And  dreadful  outcries  hear. 

"  Now,"  quoth  the  cobbler,  "  with  your  leave 

Some  for  a  church,  and  some  a  tub, 

I'll  prove  it  to  his  face. 

And  some  for  both  together ;                       . 

All  this  is  mere  suggestion. 

And  some,  perhaps  the  gi-eater  part, 

And  forojgn  to  the  case. 

i 

Have  no  regard  for  either. 

Anonymous.] 


THE  COBBLEE  AND  THE  VICAE  OF  BEAT.     Eoueth  Period. 


Some  for  a  king-,  and  somo  for  none  ; 

And  some  have  hankerings 
To  meiid  the  Commonwealth,  and  make 

An  empire  of  all  kings. 

"What's  worse,  old  Noll  is  marching  oif. 
And  Dick,  his  heir-apparent, 

Succeeds  him  in  the  government, 
A  very  lame  vicegerent. 

He'll  reign  but  little  time,  poor  fool, 

But  sink  beneath  the  State, 
That  will  not  fail  to  ride  the  fool 

'Bove  common  horseman's  weight. 

And  rulers,  when  they  lose  the  power, 

Like  horses  overvveigh'd, 
Must  either  fall  and  break  their  kn«es. 

Or  else  turn  perfect  jade." 

The  vicar  to  be  twice  rebuked 

No  longer  could  contain  ; 
But  thus  replies, — "  To  knaves  like  you 

All  arguments  are  vain. 

The  Church  must  use  her  arm  of  flesh,  ' 

The  other  will  not  do ; 
The  clergy  waste  their  breath  and  time 

On  miscreants  like  you. 

You  are  so  stubborn  and  so  proud, 

So  dull  and  prepossest, 
That  no  instructions  can  prevail 

How  well  soe'er  addrest. 

"Who  would  reform  such  reprobates. 
Must  drub  them  soundly  first ; 

I  know  no  other  way  but  that 
To  make  them  wise  or  just." 

*'  Fie,  vicar,  fie,"  his  patron  said, 

"  Sure  that  is  not  the  way ; 
You  should  instruct  your  auditors 

To  suffer  or  obey. 

Those  were  the  doctrines  that  of  old 
The  learned  fathers  taught ; 

And  'twas  by  them  the  Church  at  first 
Was  to  perfection  brought. 

Come,  vicar,  lay  your  feuds  aside, 

And  calmly  take  your  cup  ; 
And  let  us  try  in  friendly  wise 

To  make  the  matter  up. 

That's  certainly  the  wiser  course, 

And  better  too  by  far ; 
All  men  of  prudence  strive  to  quencli 

The  sparks  of  civil  war. 

By  furious  heats  and  ill  advice 

Our  neighbours  are  undone, 
Then  let  us  timely  caution  take 

From  their  destruction. 

If  we  would  turn  our  heads  about, 
And  look  towards  forty- one, 

"Vt'e  soon  should  see  what  little  jars 
Those  cruel  wars  begun. 


!   A  one-eyed  cobbler  then  was  one 
j        Of  that  rebellious  crew, 
j    That  did  in  Charles  the  martyr's  blood 
Their  wicked  hands  imbrue. 

I  mention  this  not  to  deface 

This  cobbler's  reputation, 
Whom  I  have  always  honest  found. 

And  useful  in  his  station. 

But  this  I  urge  to  let  you  see 

The  danger  of  a  fight 
Between  a  cobbler  and  a  priest. 

Though  he  were  ne'er  so  right. 

The  vicars  are  a  numerous  tribe. 

So  are  the  cobblers  too  ; 
And  if  a  general  quarrel  rise. 

What  must  the  country  do  ? 

Our  outward  and  our  inward  seals 

Must  quickly  want  repair ; 
And  all  the  neighbourhood  around 

Would  the  misfortune  share." 

"  Sir,"  quoth  the  grazier,  "  I  believe 
.    Our  outward  seals  indeed 
May  quickly  want  the  cobbler's  help 
To  be  from  leakings  freed. 

But  for  our  inward  souls,  I  think 
They're  of  a  worth  too  great 

To  be  committed  to  the  care 
Of  any  holy  cheat, 

Who  only  serves  his  God  for  gain, 

Eeligion  is  his  trade ; 
And  'tis  by  such  as  these  our  Church 

So  scandalous  is  made. 

Why  should  I  trust  my  soul  with  one 
That  preaches,  swears,  and  prays, 

And  the  next  moment  contradicts 
Himself  in  aR  he  saj'S  ? 

His  solemn  oaths  he  looks  upon 

As  only  words  of  course ! 
Which  like  their  wives  our  fathers  took 

For  better  or  for  worse. 

But  he  takes  oaths  as  some  take  vr — s. 

Only  to  serve  his  ease ; 
And  rogues  and  w — s,  it  is  well  known. 

May  part  whene'er  they  please.'*' 

At  this  the  cobbler  bolder  grew. 
And  stoutly  thus  reply' d, — 

"  If  you're  so  good  at  drubbing,  sir. 
Your  manhood  shall  be  try'd. 

What  I  have  said  I  will  maintain, 
And  further  prove  withal — 

I  daily  do  more  good  than  you 
In  my  respective  call. 

I  know  your  character,"  quoth  he, 
"  You  proud  insulting  vicar, 

Wlio  only  huff  and  domineer 
And  quarrel  in  your  liquor." 


From  1649  to  1G89.]        COUNTKY  SONG,  "  THE  EESTOEATION. 


[Anonymous. 


The  holiest  gentleman,  who  paw 

'Twonld  come  again  to  blows. 
Commands  the  cobbler  to  forbear, 

And  to  the  vicar  goes. 

"  Vicar,"  says  he,  "  for  shame  give  o'er 

And  mitigate  yonr  rage  ; 
You  scandalize  your  cloth  too  much 

A  cobbler  to  engage. 

All  people's  eyes  are  on  your  tribe, 

And  every  little  ill 
They  multiply  and  aggravate, 

And  will  because  they  will. 

But  now  let's  call  another  cause. 

So  let  this  health  go  round ; 
Be  peace  and  plenty,  truth  and  right, 

In  good  old  England  found." 

Quoth  Ralph,  "  All  this  is  empty  talk, 

And  only  tends  to  laughter  ; 
If  these  two  varlets  should  bo  spared, 

Who'd  pity  us  hereafter  ? 

Your  worship  may  do  what  you  please. 

But  I'll  have  satisfaction 
For  drubbing  and  for  damages 

In  this  ungodly  action. 

I  think  that  you  can  do  no  less 

Than  send  them  to  the  stocks  ; 
And  I'll  assist  the  constable 

In  fixing  in  their  hocks. 

There  let  'em  sit  and  fight  it  out, 

Or  scold  till  they  are  friends  ; 
Or,  what  is  better  much  than  both. 

Till  I  am  made  amends." 

"Ealph,"    quoth  the    knight,    "that's    well 
advised. 

Let  them  both  hither  go. 
And  you  and  the  sub-magistrate 

Take  care  that  it  be  so. 

Let  them  be  lock'd  in  face  to  face, 

Bare  buttocks  on  the  ground  ; 
And  let  them  in  that  posture  sit. 

Till  they  with  us  compound. 

Thus  fixt,  we'll  leave  them  for  a  time. 

Whilst  we  with  grief  relate. 
How  at  a  wake  this  knight  and  squire 

Got  each  a  broken  pate." 

Anonymous. — Between  1642  and  1684. 


745- 


-A    COUNTEY    SONG,    INTITULED 
THE  EESTOEATION. 

Come,  come  away 

To  the  temple,  and  pray, 


And  sing  with  a  pleasant  strain  ; 

The  schismatick  's  dead, 

The  liturgy  's  read. 
And  the  King  enjoyes  his  own  again. 

The  vicar  is  glad. 

The  clerk  is  not  sad,  _ 

And  the  parish  cannot  refrain  ~ 

To  leap  and  rejoyce 

And  lift  up  theif  voyce. 
That  the  King  enjoyes  his  own  again. 

The  country  doth  bow 

To  old  justices  now. 
That  long  aside  have  been  lain  ; 

The  bishop's  restored, 

God  is  rightly  adored, 
And  the  King  enjoyes  his  own  again. 

Committee-men  fall, 

And  majors-  generall. 
No  more  doe  those  tyrantg  reign ; 

There's  no  sequestration, 

Nor  new  decimation. 
For  the  King  enjoyes  the  sword  again. 

The  scholar  doth  look 

With  joy  on  his  book, 
Tom  whistles  and  plows  amain ; 

Soldiers  plunder  no  more 

As  they  did  heretofore. 
For  the  King  enjoyes  the  sword  again. 

The  citizens  trade. 

The  merchants  do  lade. 
And  send  their  ships  into  Spain  ; 

No  pirates  at  sea 

To  make  them  a  prey. 
For  the  King  enjoyes  the  sword  again. 

The  old  man  and  boy. 

The  clergy  and  lay. 
Their  joyes  cannot  contain  ; 

'Tis  better  than  of  late 

With  the  Church  and  the  State, 
Now  the  King  enjoyes  the  sword  again. 

Let's  render  our  praise 

For  these  happy  dayes 
To  God  and  our  soveraign ; 

Your  drinking  give  o'er. 

Swear  not  as  before, 
For  the  King  bears  not  the  sword  in  vain; 

Fanaticks,  be  quiet, 

And  keep  a  good  diet, 
To  cure  your  crazy  brain  ; 

Throw  off  your  disguise. 

Go  to  church  and  be  wise, 
For  the  King  bears  not  the  sword  in  vain. 

Let  faction  and  pride 

Be  now  laid  aside, 
That  truth  and  peace  may  reign ; 

Let  every  one  mend, 

And  there  is  an  end. 
For  the  king  bears  not  the  sword  in  vain. 

Anomjmous. — 1661. 


Anonymous.] 


THE  LOYAL  SOLDIER. 


[Fourth  Pebiod.- 


746.— THE  LOYAL  SOLDIEE. 

When  in  the  field  of  Mars  we  lie, 

Amongst  those  martial  wights, 
"Who,  never  daunted,  are  to  dye 

For  King  and  countrie's  rights; 
As  on  Belona's  god  I  wait. 

And  her  attendant  be, 
Yet,  being  absent  from  my  mate, 

I  live  in  misery. 

When  lofty  winds  aloud  do  blow, 

It  snoweth,  hail,  or  rain. 
And  Charon  in  his  boat  doth  row, 

Yet  steadfast  I'll  remain ; 
And  for  my  shelter  in  some  barn  creep. 

Or  under  some  hedge  lye ; 
Whilst  such  as  do  now  strong  castles  keep 

Knows  no  such  misery. 

WTien  down  in  strq,w  we  tumbling  lye, 

With  Morpheus'  charms  asleep, 
My  heavy,  sad,  and  mournful  eye 

In  security  so  deep  ; 
Then  do  I  dream  within  my  arms 

With  thee  I  sleeping  lye. 
Then  do  I  dread  or  fear  no  harms, 

Nor  feel  no  misery. 

When  all  my  joys  are  thus  compleat 

The  cannons  loud  do  play, 
The  drums  alarum  straight  do  beat, 

Trumpet  sounds,  horse,  away  ! 


Awake  I  then,  and  nought  can  find 

But  death  attending  me. 
And  all  my  joys  are  vanisht  quite,— 

This  is  my  misery. 

When  hunger  oftentimes  I  feel. 

And  water  cold  do  drink, 
Yet  from  my  colours  I'U  not  steal, 

Nor  from  my  King  will  shrink  ; 
No  traytor  base  shall  make  me  yield. 

But  for  the  cause  I'll  be  : 
This  is  my  love,  pray  Heaven  to  sliield. 

And  farewell  misery. 

Then  to  our  arms  we  straight  do  fly. 

And  forthwith  march  away  ; 
Few  towns  or  cities  we  come  nigh 

Good  liquor  us  deny  ; 
In  Lethe  deep  our  woes  we  steep — 

Our  loves  forgotten  be, 
Amongst  the  jovialst  we  sing. 

Hang  up  aU  misery. 

Propitious  fate,  then  be  more  kind. 

Grim  death,  lend  me  thy  dart, 
O  stm  and  moon,  and  eke  the  wind,     • 

Great  Jove,  take  thou  our  part ; 
That  of  these  Eoundheads  and  these  wars 

An  end  that  we  may  see. 
And  thy  great  name  we'll  all  applaud. 

And  hang  all  misery. 

Anony  PIOUS. — 1G8C. 


THE    FIFTH    PERIOD, 

FEOM  1689  TO  1727. 


rpHESE  thirty-eight  years  produced  a  class  of  writers  in  prose  and  poetry,  who,  during  the 
X  whole  of  the  eighteenth  century,  were  deemed  the  best,  or  nearly  the  best,  that  the 
country  had  ever  known.  The  central  period  of  twelve  years,  which  compose  the  reign  of  Anne 
(1702-14),  was,  indeed,  usually  styled  the  "Augustan  Era  of  English  Literature,"  on  account  of 
its  supposed  resemblance  in  intellectual  opulence  to  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Augustus.  This 
opinion  has  not  been  followed  or  confirmed  in  the  present  age.  The  praise  due  to  good  sense, 
and"  a  correct  and  polished  style,  is  allowed  to  the  prose  writers,  and  that  due  to  a  felicity  in 
painting  artificial  life,  is  awarded  to  the  poets ;  but  modern  critics  seem  to  have  agreed  to 
pass  over  these  qualities  as  of  secondary  moment,  and  to  hold  in  greater  estimation  the 
writings  of  the  times  preceding  the  Eestoration,  and  of  our  own  day,  as  being  more  boldly 
original,  both  in  style  and  in  thought,  more  imaginative,  and  more  sentimental.  The  "  Edin- 
burgh Review"  appears  to  state  the  prevailing  sentiment  in  the  following  sentences: — 
"  Speaking  generally  of  that  generation  of  authors,  it  may  be  said  that,  as  poets,  they  had  no 
force  or  greatness  of  fancy,  no  pathos  and  no  enthusiasm,  and,  as  philosophers,  no  compre- 
hensiveness, depth,  or  originality.  They  are  sagacious,  no  doubt,  neat,  clear,  and  reasonable ; 
but,  for  the  most  part,  cold,  timid,  and  superficial."  The  same  critic  represents  it  as  their 
chief  praise  that  they  corrected  the  indecency,  and  polished  the  pleasantry  and  sarcasm,  of  the 
vicious  school  introduced  at  the  Restoration.  "  Writing,"  he  continues,  "with  infinite  good 
sense,  and  great  grace  and  vivacitj',  and,  above  all,  writing  for  the  first  time  in  a  tone  that 
was  peculiar  to  the  upper  ranks  of  society,  and  upon  subjects  that  were  almost  exclusively 
interesting  to  them,  they  naturally  figured  as  the  most  accomplished,  fashionable,  and  perfect 
writers  which  the  world  had  ever  seen,  and  made  the  wild,  luxuriant,  and  humble  sweetness  of 
our  earlier  authors  appear  rude  and  untutored  in  the  comparison."  While  there  is  general 
truth  in  these  remarks,  it  must  at  the  same  time  be  observed,  that  the  age  produced  several 
writers,  who,  each  in  his  own  line,  may  be  called  extraordinary.  Satire,  expressed  in  forcible 
and  copious  language,  was  certainly  carried  to  its  utmost  pitch  of  excellence  by  Swift.  The 
poetry  of  elegant  and  artificial  life  was  exhibited,  in  a  perfection  never  since  attained,  by 
Pope.  The  art  of  describing  the  manners  and  discussing  the  morals  of  the  passing  age,  was 
practised  for  the  first  time,  with  unrivalled  felicity,  by  Addison.  And  with  all  the  licentious- 
ness of  Congreve  and  Farquhar,  it  may  be  fairly  said  that  EngUsh  comedy  was  in  their  hands 
what  it  had  never  been  before,  and  has  scarcely  in  any  instance  been  since. — Chambers' 
"  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature,"  vol.  i.,  p.  534. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICES. 


MATTKEW  PRIOR. 

"  Matthew  Prior,  a  distinguished  poet,  was 
born  in  1664,  in  London  according  to  one 
account,  according  to  another,  at  Wimborne, 
in  Dorsetshire.  His  father  dying  when  he 
was  young,  an  imcle,  who  was  a  vintner,  or 
tavern-keeper,   at   Charing  Cross,    took  him 


under  his  care,  and  sent  him  to  Westminster 
School,  of  which  Dr.  Busby  was  then  master. 
Before  he  had  passed  through  the  school,  his 
uncle  took  him  home,  for  the  purpose  of  bring- 
ing him  into  his  own  business ;  but  the  Earl 
of  Dorset,  a  great  patron  of  letters,  having 
found  him  one  day  reading  Horace,  and  being 
pleased  with  his  conversation,  determined  to 

32 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fifth  Pekiod. — 


give  him  an  university  education.  He  was 
accordingly  admitted  of  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge,  in  1682,  proceeded  bachelor  of 
arts  in  1686,  and  was  soon  after  elected  to  a 
fellowship.  After  having  proved  his  poetic 
talents  by  some  college  exercises,  he  was  in- 
troduced at  court  by  the  Earl  of  Dorset,  and 
was  so  effectually  recommended,  that,  in  1690, 
he  was  appointed  secretary  to  the  English  ple- 
nipotentiaries who  attended  the  congress  at 
the  Hague.  Being  now  enlisted  in  the  service 
of  the  court,  his  productions  were,  for  some 
years,  chiefly  directed  to  courtly  topics,  of 
which  one  of  the  most  considerable  was  an 
Ode  presented  to  King  William  in  1695,  on 
the  death  of  Queen  Mary.  In  1697,  he  was 
nominated  secretary  to  the  commissioners  for 
the  treaty  of  Eyswick  ;  and,  on  his  return, 
was  made  secretary  to  the  Lord  Lieutenant  of 
Ireland.  He  went  to  France  in  the  following 
year,  as  secretary,  first  to  the  Earl  of  Port- 
land, and  then  to  the  Earl  of  Jersey  ;  and  being 
now  regarded  as  one  conversant  in  public 
affairs,  he  was  summoned  by  King  William  to 
Loo,  where  he  had  a  confidential  audience.  In 
the  beginning  of  1701  he  satin  Parhamentfor 
East  Grinstcad. 

"Prior  had  hitherto  been  promoted  and  acted 
with  the  Whigs  ;  but  the  Tories  now  having 
become  the  prevalent  party,  he  turned  about, 
and  ever  after  adhered  to  them.  He  even 
voted  for  the  impeachment  of  those  lords  who 
advised  that  partition  treaty  in  which  he  had 
been  oflficially  employed.  Like  most  converts, 
he  embraced  his  new  friends  with  much  zeal, 
and  from  that  time  almost  all  his  social  con- 
nections were  confined  within  the  limits  of  his 
party. 

"  The  successes  in  the  beginning  of  Queen 
Anne's  reign  were  celebrated  by  the  poets  on 
both  sides  ;  and  Prior  sung  the  victories  of 
Blenheim  and  Eamilies  :  he  afterAvards,  how- 
ever, joined  in  the  attack  of  the  great  general 
who  had  been  his  theme.  It  will  not  be  worth 
while  here  to  take  notice  of  all  his  changes  in 
the  political  world,  except  to  mention  the  dis- 
graces which  followed  the  famous  congress  of 
Utrecht,  in  which  he  was  deeply  engaged.  For 
the  completion  of  that  business  he  was  left  in 
France,  with  the  appointments  and  authority 
of  an  ambassador,  though  without  the  title, 
the  proud  Duke  of  Shrewsbury  having  refused 
to  be  joined  in  commission  with  a  man  so 
meanly  bom.  Prior,  however,  publicly  as- 
sumed the  character  tiU  he  was  superseded  by 
the  Earl  of  Stair,  on  the  accession  of  George  I. 
The  Whigs  being  now  in  power,  he  was  wel- 
comed, on  his  return,  by  a  warrant  from  the 
House  of  Commons,  under  which  he  was  com- 
mitted to  the  custody  of  a  messenger.  He 
was  examined  before  the  Privy  Council  respect- 
ing his  share  in  the  peace  of  Utrecht,  was 
treated  with  rigour,  and  Walpole  moved  an 
impeachment  against  kim,  on  a  charge  of  high 
treason,  for  holding  clandestine  conferences 
with  the  French  plenipotentiary.     His  name 


was  excepted  from  an  act  of  grace  passed  in 
1717;  at  length,  however,  he  was  discharged, 
without  being  brought  to  trial,  to  end  his  days 
in  retirement. 

"  We  are  now  to  consider  Prior  among  the 
poetical  characters  of  the  time.  In  his  writings 
is  found  that  incongruous  mixture  of  light  and 
rather  indecent  topics  with  grave,  and  even 
religious  ones,  which  was  not  uncommon  at 
that  period.  In  the  faculty  of  telling  a  story 
with  ease  and  vivacity,  he  yields  only  to  Swift, 
compared  to  whom  his  humour  is  occasionally 
strained  and  quaint.  His  songs  and  amatory 
pieces  are  generally  elegant  and  classical.-  The 
most  popular  of  his  serious  compositions  are, 
'  Henry  and  Emma,  or  the  Nut-Brown  Maid,' 
modernized  from  an  antique  original;  and 
'  Solomon,'  the  idea  of  which  is  taken  from 
the  Book  of  Ecclesiastes.  These  are  har- 
monious in  their  versification,  splendid  and 
correct  in  their  diction,  and  copious  in  poetical 
imagery ;  but  they  exert  no  powerful  effect  on 
the  feelings  or  the  fancy,  and  are  enfeebled 
by  prolixity.  His  '  Alma,'  a  piece  of  philo- 
sophical pleasantry,  was  written  to  console 
himself  when  under  confinement,  and  displays 
a  considerable  share  of  reading.  As  to  his 
elaborate  effusions  of  loyalty  and  patriotism, 
they  seem  to  have  sunk  into  total  neglect. 

"  The  life  of  Prior  was  cut  short  by  a  linger- 
ing illness,  which  closed  his  days  at  Wimpole, 
the  seat  of  Lord  Oxford,  in  September,  1721, 
in  the  fifty-eighth  year  of  his  age." — Aikiil's 
"  Select  Brit.  Poets/'  p.  239. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

"Joseph  Addison  was  the  son  of  the  Re- 
verend Lancelot  Addison,  at  whose  parsonage 
at  Milston,  near  Ambrosbury,  Wiltshire,  he 
was  born  in  1672.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he 
was  entered  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford, 
where  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  pro- 
ficiency in  classical  literature,  especially  in 
Latin  poetry.  He  was  afterwards  elected  a 
demy  of  Magdalen  College,  where  he  took  the 
degrees  of  bachelor  and  master  of  arts.  In 
his  twenty-second  year  he  became  an  author 
in  his  own  language,  publishing  a  short  copy 
of  verses  addressed  to  the  veteran  poet, 
Dryden.  Other  pieces  in  verse  and  prose 
succeeded  ;  and  in  1695  he  opened  the  career 
of  his  fortune  as  a  literary  man,  by  a  compli- 
mentary poem  on  one  of  the  campaigns  of 
King  William,  addressed  to  the  Lord-keeper 
Somers.  A  pension  of  .£300  from  the  crown-, 
which  his  patron  obtained  for  him,  enabled 
him  to  indulge  his  inclination  for  travel ;  and 
an  epistolary  poem  to  Lord  Halifax  in  1701, 
with  a  prose  relation  of  his  travels,  published 
on  his  return,  are  distinguished  by  the  spirit 
of  liberty   which   they  breathe,    and   which, 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


during  life,  was  his  ruling  passion  The  most 
famous  of  his  political  poems,  '  The  Cam- 
paign,' appeared  in  1704.  It  was  a  task 
kindly  imposed  bj^  Lord  Halifax,  who  inti- 
mated to  him  that  the  writer  should  not  lose 
his  labour.  It  was  accordingly  rewarded  by 
an  immediate  appointment  to  the  post  of 
commissioner  of  appeals. 

"  This  will  be  the  proper  i^lace  for  consider- 
ing the  merits  of  Addison  in  his  character  of 
a  writer  in  verse.  Though  Dryden  and  Pope 
had  already  secured  the  first  places  on  the 
British  Parnassus,  and  other  rivals  for  fame 
were  springing  to  view,  it  will  scarcely  be 
denied  that  Addison,  by  a  decent  mediocrity 
of  j)oetic  language,  rising  occasionally  to 
superior  efforts,  has  deserved  that  degree  of 
praise,  which,  in  general  estimation,  has  been 
allotted  to  him.  It  cannot  be  doubted  that 
playful  and  humorous  wit  was  the  quality  in 
which  he  obtained  almost  unrivalled  pre- 
eminence ;  but  the  reader  of  his  '  Poem  to  Sir 
Godfrey  KneUer,'  mil  discover,  in  the  com- 
parison of  the  painter  to  Phidias,  a  very  happy 
and  elegant  resemblance  pointed  out  in  his 
verse.  His  celebrated  tragedy  of  '  Cato," 
equally  remarkable  for  a  correctness  of  i^lan, 
and  a  sustained  elevation  of  style,  then  un- 
usual on  the  English  stage,  was  further  dis- 
tinguished by  the  glow  of  its  sentiments  in 
favour  of  political  liberty,  and  was  equally 
applauded  by  both  parties. 

"  A  very  short  account  will  suffice  for  the 
remainder  of  his  works.  His  connection  with 
Steele  engaged  him  in  occasionally  writing  in 
the  '  Tatlcr,'  the  '  Si^ectator, '  and  the 
'  Guardian,'  in  which  his  productions, 
serious  and  humorous,  conferred  upon  him 
immortal  honour,  and  placed  him  deservedly 
at  the  head  of  his  class.  Some  other  peri- 
odical papers,  decidedly  political,  were  traced 
to  Addison,  of  which  the  '  Freeholder '  was 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous.  In  1716  he 
married  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Warwick, 
a  connection  which  is  said  not  to  have  been 
remarkably  happy.  In  the  following  year  he 
was  raised  to  the  office  of  one  of  the  principal 
secretaries  of  state ;  but  finding  himself  ill 
suited  to  the  post,  and  in  a  dechning  state  of 
health,  he  resigned  it  to  Mr.  Craggs.  In 
reality,  his  constitution  was  suffering  from  an 
habitual  excess  in  wine  ;  and  it  is  a  lamentable 
circumstance  tliat  a  person  so  generally  free 
from  moral  defects,  should  have  given  way  to 
a  fondness  for  the  pleasures  of  a  tavern  life. 
Addison  died  in  June,  1719,  leaving  an  only 
•daughter  by  the  Countess  of  Warwick." — See 
Spcnce's  "Anecdotes";  Lord  Macaulay :  Dr. 
Lockier,  Dean  of  Peterborough  ;  Abbe  Philip- 
peaux,  of  Blois  ;  Lady  M.  W.  Montagu ;  Dr. 
Di-ake ;  Blair's  "  Lect.  on  Ehetoric  and 
Belles-Lettres  "  ;  Thackeray's  "English  Hu- 
mourists of  the  Eighteenth  Cent."  ;  Professor 
T.  B.  Shaw ;  Dr.  Young  ;  Professor  C.  D. 
Cleveland ;  Dr.  Hurd  ;  Robert  Chambers ; 
Dr.   Anderson ;    Maunder ;    Professor  G.  W. 


Greene.  We  may  say  that  Baskerville  pub- 
lished a  splendid  edition  of  Addison's  works 
in  1761,  of  which  the  genial  Dibdin  says: 
"  He  who  hath  the  Baskerville  edition,  hath 
a  good,  and  even  a  glorious,  performance. 
It  is  pleasant,  and,  of  course,  profitable,  to 
turn  over  the  pages  of  these  lovely~tomes  at 
one's  Tusculum,  on  a  day  of  oppression  from 
heat,  or  of  confinement  from  rain."  Bohn  has 
also  published  a  beautiful  edition.  See  Alli- 
bone's  "  Crit.  Diet,  of  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Camp- 
bell's "  Spec."  ;    Shaw  ;    Spalding  ;  Angus. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT. 

Jonathan  Swift,  born  1G(37,  died  1745. 
"  When  we  come  to  the  name  of  Swift  we  feel 
ourselves  again  approaching  an  Alpine  region. 
The  air  of  a  stern  mountain- summit  breathes 
cliill  around  our  temples,  and  we  feel  that  if 
we  have  no  amiability  to  melt,  we  have  alti- 
tude at  least  to  measure,  and  strange  pro- 
found secrets  of  nature,  like  the  ravines  of 
lofty  hills,  to  explore.  The  men  of  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries  may  be  com- 
pared to  Lebanon,  or  Snowdon,  or  Benlo- 
mond,  towering  grandly  over  fertile  valleys, 
on  which  they  smile — Swift  to  the  tremendous 
Romsdale  Horn  in  Norway,  sheilding  abroad, 
from  a  brow  of  four  thousand  feet  liigh,  what 
seems  a  scowl  of  settled  indignation,  as  if  re- 
solved not  to  rejoice  even  over  the  wide- stretch- 
ing deserts  which,  and  nothing  but  which,  it 
everlastingly  beholds.  Mountains  all  of  them, 
but  what  a  difference  between  such  a  mountain 
as  Shakspere  and  such  a  mountain  as  Swift ! 

"Instead  of  going  minutely  over  a  path  iO 
long  since  trodden  to  mire  as  tlie  life  of 
Swift,  let  us  expend  a  page  or  two  in  seeking 
to  form  some  estimate  of  his  character  and 
j  genius.  It  is  refreshing  to  come  upon  a  new 
thing  in  the  world,  even  though  it  be  a  strange 
or  even  a  bad  thing ;  and  certainly,  in  any  age 
and  country,  such  a  being  as  Svvift  must  have 
appeared  an  anomaly,  not  for  hi.^  transcendent 
goodness,  nor  for  his  utter  badness,  but  be- 
cause the  elements  of  good  and  evil  wore 
mixed  in  him  into  a  medley  so  astounding,  and 
in  proportions  respectively  so  large,  yet  un- 
equal, that  the  analysis  of  the  two  seemed  to 
many  competent  only  to  the  Great  Chemist, 
Death,  and  that  a  sense  of  the  disproportion 
seems  to  have  moved  the  man  himself  to  in- 
extinguishable laughter, — a  laughter  which, 
radiating  out  of  hi-s  own  singular  heart  as  a 
centre,  swept  over  the  circumference  of  all 
beings  within  his  reach,  and  returned  cr3dng, 
'  Give,  give,'  as  if  he  were  demanding  a  uni- 
versal sphere  for  the  exercise  of  the  savage 
scorn  which  dwelt  within  him,  a.nd  as  if  ho 
laughed  not  more  '  consumedly '  at  others  tlian 
he  did  at  himself.  .,9,^, 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


"  Ere  speaking  of  Swift  as  a  man,  let  us  say  \ 
somethings  about  his  genius.  That,  like  his  j 
character,  was  intensely  peculiar.  It  was  a 
compound  of  infinite  ingenuity,  with  very 
little  poetical  imagination;  of  gigantic  strength, 
v*-ith  a  propensity  to  incessant  trifling;  of 
passionate  purpose,  with  the  clearest  and 
coldest  expression,  as  though  a  furnace  were 
fuelled  with  snow.  A  Brobdignagian  by  size, 
he  was  for  ever  toying  with  Lilliputian  slings 
and  small  craft.  One  of  the  most  violent  of 
party  men,  and  often  fierce  as  a  demoniac  in 
temper,  his  favourite  motto  was  Vivo  la  haga' 
telle.  The  creator  of  entire  new  worlds,  we 
doubt  if  his  works  contain  more  than  two  or 
three  lines  of  genuine  poetry.  He  may  be 
compared  to  one  of  the  locusts  of  the  Apoca- 
lypse, in  that  he  had  a  tail  like  unto  a  scor- 
pion, and  a  sting  in  his  tail ;  but  his  '  face  is 
not  as  the  face  of  man,  his  hair  is  not  as  the 
hair  of  women,  and  on  his  head  there  is  no 
crown  Hke  gold.'  All  Swift's  creations  are 
more  or  less  disgusting.  Not  one  of  them  is 
beautiful.  His  Lilliputians  are  amazingly  life- 
like, but  compare  them  to  Shakspere's  fairies, 
such,  as  Peaseblossom,  Cobweb,  and  Mustard- 
seed  ;  his  Brobdignagians  are  excrescences  hke 
enormous  warts ;  and  his  Yahoos  might  have 
been  spawned  in  the  nightmare  of  a  drunken 
butcher.  The  same  coarseness  characterises 
his  poems  and  his  '  Tale  of  a  Tub.'  He  might 
well,  however,  in  his  old  age,  exclaim,  in  refe- 
rence to  the  latter,  '  Good  God  !  what  a  genius 
I  had  when  I  wrote  that  book ! '  It  is  the 
wildest,  wittiest,  wickedest,  wealthiest  book 
of  its  size  in  the  English  language.  Thoughts 
and  figures  swarm  in  every  corner  of  its  pages, 
till  you  think  of  a  disturbed  nest  of  angry  ants, 
for  all  the  figures  and  thoughts  are  black  and 
bitter.  One  would  have  imagined  the  book  to 
have  issued  from  a  mind  that  had  been  gather- 
ing gall  as  well  as  sense  in  an  antenatal  state 
of  being. 

"  Swift,  in  all  his  writings — sermons,  poli- 
tical tracts,  poems,  and  fictions — is  essentially 
a  satirist.  He  consisted  originally  of  three 
principal  parts, — sense,  an  intense  feeling  of 
the  ludicrous,  and  selfish  passion ;  and  these 
were  sure,  in  certain  circumstances,  to  ferment 
into  a  spirit  of  satire,  '  strong  as  death,  and 
cruel  as  the  grave.'  Bom  with  not  very  much 
natural  benevolence,  with  little  purely  poetic 
feeling,  with  furious  passions  and  unbounded 
ambition,  he  was  entirely  dependent  for  his 
peace  of  mind  upon  success.  Had  he  become, 
as  by  his  talents  he  was  entitled  to  be,  the 
prime  minister  of  his  day,  he  would  have 
figured  as  a  greater  tyrant  in  the  cabinet  than 
even  Chatham.  But  as  he  was  prevented  from 
being  the  first  statesman,  he  became  the  first 
satirist  of  his  time.  From  vain  efforts  to 
grasp  supremacy  for  himself  and  his  party,  he 
retired  growling  to  his  Dublin  den ;  and  there, 
as  Haman,  thought  scorn  to  lay  his  hand  on 
Mordecai,  but  extended  his  murderous  purpose 
to  all  the  people  of  the  Jews, — and  as  Nero 


-svished  that  Rome  had  one  neck,  that  he 
might  destroy  it  at  a  blow, — so  Swift  was 
stung  by  his  personal  disappointment  to  hurl 
out  scorn  at  man  and  suspicion  at  his  Maker. 
It  was  not,  it  must  be  noticed,  the  evil  which 
was  in  man  which  excited  his  hatred  and 
contempt ;  it  was  man  himself.  He  was  not 
merely,  as  many  are,  disgusted  with  the  selfish 
and  malignant  elements  which  are  mingled  in 
man's  nature  and  character,  and  disposed  to 
trace  them  to  any  cause  save  a  Divine  will, 
but  he  believed  man  to  be,  as  a  whole,  the 
work  and  child  of  the  devil ;  and  he  told  the 
imaginary  creator  and  creature  to  their  face, 
what  he  thought  the  truth, — '  The  devil  is  an 
ass.'  His  was  the  very  madness  of  Mani- 
chaeism.  That  heresy  held  that  the  devil  was 
one  of  two  aboriginal  creative  powers,  but  | 
Swift  seemed  to  believe  at  times  that  he  was 
the  only  God.  From  a  Yahoo  man,  it  was 
difficult  to  avoid  the  inference  of  a  demon 
deity.  It  is  very  laughable  to  find  writers  in 
Blackwood  and  elsewhere  striving  to  prove 
Swift  a  Christian,  as  if,  whatever  were  his 
professions,  and  however  sincere  he  might  be 
often  in  these,  the  whole  tendency  of  his 
writings,  his  perpetual  and  unlimited  abuse  of 
man's  body  and  soul,  his  denial  of  every 
human  virtue,  the  filth  he  pours  upon  every 
phase  of  human  nature,  and  the  doctrines  he 
insinuates — that  man  has  fallen  indeed,  but 
fallen,  not  from  the  angel,  but  from  the  animal, 
or,  rather,  is  just  a  bungled  brute, — were  not 
enough  to  show  that  either  his  notions  were 
grossly  erroneous  and  perverted,  or  that  he 
himself  deserved,  like  another  Nebuchadnezzar, 
to  be  driven  from  men,  and  to  have  a  beast's 
heart  given  unto  him.  Sometimes  he  reminds 
us  of  an  impure  angel,  who  has  surprised  man 
naked  and  asleep,  looked  at  him  with  micro- 
scopic eyes,  ignored  all  his  peculiar  marks  of 
fallen  dignity  and  incipient  godhood,  and  in 
heartless  rhymes  reported  accordingly. 

"  Swift  belonged  to  the  same  school  as  Pope, 
although  the  feminine  element  which  was  in 
the  latter  modified  and  mellowed  his  feelings. 
Pope  was  a  more  successful  and  a  happier  man 
than  Swift.  He  was  much  smaller,  too,  in  soul 
as  well  as  in  body,  and  his  gall-organ  was  pro- 
portionably  less.  Pope's  feeling  to  humanity 
was  a  tiny  malice  ;  Swift's  became,  at  length,  a 
black  malignity.  Pope  always  reminds  us  of 
an  injured  and  pouting  hero  of  Lilliput,  '  doing 
well  to  be  angry  '  under  the  gourd  of  a  pocket- 
flap,  or  squealing  out  his  griefs  from  the  centre 
of  an  empty  snuff-box ;  Swift  is  a  man,  nay, 
monster  of  misanthropy.  In  minute  and  mi- 
croscopic vision  of  human  infirmities,  Pope 
excels  even  Swift;  but  then  you  always  con-- 
ceivo  Swift  leaning  down  a  giant,  though 
gnarled,  stature  to  behold  them,  whOe  Pope  is 
on  their  level,  and  has  only  to  look  straight 
before  him.  Pope's  wrath  is  always  measured ; 
Swift's,  as  in  the  '  Legion-Club,'  is  a  whirl- 
wind of  '  black  fire  and  horror,'  in  the  breath 
of  which  no  flesh  can  live,  and  against  which 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


genius  and  virtue  themselves  furnish  i;o 
shield. 

"  After  all,  Swift  might,  perhaps,  have  put 
in  the  plea  of  Byron — 

*  All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest. 
All  my  madness  none  can  know.' 

There  was  a  black  spot  of  madness  in  his 
brain,  and  another  black  spot  in  his  heart ; 
and  the  two  at  last  met,  and  closed  up  his 
destiny  in  night.  Let  human  nature  forgive 
its  most  determined  and  systematic  reviler, 
for  the  sake  of  the  wretchedness  in  which  he 
was  involved  all  his  life  long.  He  was  born 
(in  1667)  a  posthumous  child ;  he  was  brought 
up  an  object  of  charity;  he  spent  much  of 
his  youth  in  dependence ;  he  had  to  leave  his 
Irish  college  without  a  degree  ;  he  was  flat- 
tered with  hopes  from  King  William  and  the 
Whigs,  which  were  not  fulfilled  ;  he  was  con- 
demned to  spend  a  great  part  of  his  life  in  Ire- 
land, a  country  he  detested ;  he  was  involved — 
partly,  no  doubt,  through  his  own  blame — in 
a  succession  of  fruitless  and  miserable  in- 
trigues, alike  of  love  and  politics ;  he  was 
soured  hj  Avant  of  success  in  England,  and 
spoiled  by  enormous  populai-ity  in  Ireland ; 
he  was  tried  by  a  kind  of  religious  doubts, 
which  would  not  go  out  to  prayer  or  fasting ; 
he  was  haimted  by  the  fear  of  the  dreadful 
calamity  which  at  last  befell  him  ;  his  senses 
and  his  soul  left  him  one  by  one ;  he  became 
first  giddy,  then  deaf,  and  then  mad ;  his 
madness  was  of  the  most  terrible  sort — it  was 
a  '  silent  rage  ; '  for  a  year  or  two  he  lay 
dumb  ;  and  at  last,  on  the  19th  of  October, 
1745, 

'  Swift  expired,  a  driveller  and  a  show,' 

leaving  his  money  to  found  a  lunatic  asylum, 
and  his  works  as  a  many-volumed  legacy  of 
curse  to  mankind." — Gilfillan's  "  Less-known 
Brit.  Poets,"  iii.  43-47.  See  Aikin's  "  Select 
Brit.  Poets"  ;  Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 

"Alexander  Pope,  an  English  poet  of  great 
eminence,  was  born  in  London  in  1688.  His 
father,  who  appears  to  have  acquired  wealth  by 
trade,  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  being  disaf- 
fected to  the  politics  of  KingWUliam,he  retired 
to  Binfield,  in  Windsor  Forest,  where  he  pur- 
chased a  small  house,  with  some  acres  of  land, 
and  lived  frugally  upon  the  fortune  he  had 
saved.  Alexander,  who  was  from  infancy  of 
a  delicate  habit  of  body,  after  learning  to 
read  and  write  at  home,  was  placed  about  his 
eighth  year  under  the  care  of  a  Romish  priest, 
who  taught  him  the  rudiments  of  Latin  and 
Greek.     His  natural  fondness  for  books  was 


indulged  about  this  period  by  Ogilby's  trans- 
lation of  'Homer,'  and  Sandys's  of  Ovid's 
'  Metamorphoses,'  which  gave  him  so  much 
delight,  that  they  may  be  said  to  have  made 
him  a  poet.  He  pursued  his  studies  under 
different  priests,  to  whom  he  was  consigned. 
At  length  he  became  the  director  of  his~bwn 
pursuits,  the  variety  of  which  proved  that  he 
Avas  by  no  means  deficient  in  industry,  though 
his  reading  was  rather  excursive  than  method- 
ical. From  his  early  years  poetry  Avas  adopted 
by  him  as  a  profession,  for  his  poetical  read- 
ing was  always  accompanied  with  attempts  at 
imitation  or  translation ;  and  it  may  be  affirmed 
that  he  rose  at  once  almost  to  perfection  in 
this  walk.  His  manners  and  conversation 
were  equally  beyond  his  years  ;  and  it  does 
not  appear  that  he  ever  cultivated  friendship 
with  any  one  of  his  own  age  or  condition. 

"  Pope's  '  Pastorals '  were  first  printed  in  a 
volume  of  Tonson's  'Miscellanies'  in  1709, 
and  were  generally  admired  for  the  sweetness 
of  the  versification  and  th'e  lustre  of  the 
diction,  though  they  betrayed  a  want  of 
original  observation  and  an  artificial  cast  of 
sentiment :  in  fact,  they  Avere  anything  rather 
than  real  pastorals.  In  the  mean  time  he 
Avas  exercising  himself  in  compositions  of  a 
higher  class  ;  and  by  his  '  Essay  on  Criticism,' 
published  two  years  afterwards,  he  obtained  a 
great  accession  of  reputation,  merited  by  the 
comprehension  of  thought,  the  general  good 
sense,  and  the  frequent  beauty  of  illustration 
Avhich  it  presents,  though  it  displays  many  of 
the  inaccui-acies  of  a  juvenile  author.  In 
1712,  his  'Rape  of  the  Lock,'  a  mock  heroic, 
made  its  first  appearance,  and  conferred  upon 
him  the  best  title  ho  possesses  to  the  merit  of 
invention.  The  machinery  of  the  '  Sylphs  ' 
was  afterwards  added,  an  exquisite  fancy- 
piece,  wrought  with  unrivalled  skill  and 
beauty.  The  *  Temple  of  Fame,'  altered  from 
Chaucer,  though  partaking  of  the  embarrass- 
ment of  the  original  plan,  has  many  passages 
Avhich  may  rank  Avith  his  hapi)iest  efforts. 

"  In  the  year  1713,  Pope  issued  proposals  for 
publishing  a  translation  of  Homer's  '  Iliad,' 
the  success  of  which  soon  removed  all  doubt 
of  its  making  an  accession  to  his  reputation, 
whilst  it  afforded  an  ample  remuneration  for 
his  labour.  This  noble  work  was  published 
in  separate  volumes,  each  containing  four 
books;  and  the  produce  of  the  subscription 
enabled  him  to  take  that  house  at  Twickenham 
Avhich  he  made  so  famous  by  his  residence  and 
decorations.  He  brought  hither  his  father 
and  mother ;  of  whom  the  first  parent  died 
two  years  afterAvards.  The  second  long  sur- 
vived, to  be  comforted  by  the  truly  filial  atten- 
tions of  her  son.  About  this  period  he 
probably  Avrote  his  '  Epistle  from  Eloisa  to 
Abelard,'  partly  founded  upon  the  extant 
letters  of  these  distinguished  persons.  He 
has  rendered  this  one  of  the  most  impressive 
poems  of  which  love  is  the  subject ;  as  it  is 
likeAvise  the  most  finished  of  all  his  Avorks  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fifth  Period.' 


equal  length,  in  point  of  language  and  versifi- 
cation. The  exaggeration,  however,  which  he 
has  given  to  the  most  impassioned  expressions 
of  Eloisa,  and  liis  deviations  from  the  true 
story,  have  been  pointed  out  by  Mr.  Berring- 
ton  in  his  '  Lives  of  the  Two  Lovers.' 

"  During  the  years  in  which  he  was  chiefly 
engaged  with  the  '  Iliad,'  he  published  several 
occasional  works,  to  which  he  usually  prefixed 
very  elegant  prefaces  ;  but  the  desire  of  farther 
emolument  induced  him  to  extend  his  transla- 
tion to  the  '  Odyssey,'  in  which  task  he  en- 
gaged two  inferior  hands,  whom  he  paid  out  of 
the  produce  of  a  new  subscription.  He  himself, 
however,  translated  twelve  books  out  of  the 
twenty-four,  with  a  happiness  not  inferior  to 
his  '  Iliad '  ;  and  the  transaction,  conducted 
in  a  truly  mercantile  spirit,  was  the  source  of 
considerable  profit  to  him.  After  the  appear- 
ance of  the  '  Odyssey,'  Pope  almost  solely  made 
himself  known  as  a  satirist  and  moralist.  In 
1728  he  published  the  three  first  books  of  the 
'  Dunciad,'  a  kind  of  mock  heroic,  the  object 
of  which  was  to  overwhelm  with  indelible 
ridicule  all  his  antagonists,  together  w*ith 
some  other  authors  whom  spleen  or  party  led 
him  to  rank  among  the  dunces,  though  they 
had  given  him  no  personal  ofi'ence.  Notwith- 
standing that  the  diction  and  versification  of 
this  poem  are  laboured  with  the  greatest  care, 
we  shall  borrow  nothing  from  it.  Its  imagery 
is  often  extremely  gross  and  offensive;  and 
irritability,  ill-nature,  and  partiality,  are  so 
prominent  through  the  whole,  that  whatever 
he  gains  as  a  poet,  he  loses  as  a  man.  He 
has,  indeed,  a  claim  to  the  character  of  a 
satirist  in  this  production,  but  none  at  all  to 
that  of  a  moralist. 

"  The  other  selected  pieces,  though  not  en- 
tirely free  from  the  same  defects,  may  yet  be 
tolerated ;  and  his  noble  work,  called  the 
'  Essay  on  Man,'  which  may  stand  in  the 
first  class  of  ethical  poems,  does  not  deviate 
from  the  style  proper  to  its  topic.  This  piece 
gave  an  example  of  the  poet's  extraordinary 
power  of  managing  argumentation  in  verse, 
and  of  compressing  his  thoughts  into  clauses 
of  the  most  energetic  brevity,  as  well  as  of 
expanding  them  into  passages  distinguished  by 
every  poetic  ornament.  The  origin  of  this 
essay  is,  however,  generally  ascribed  to  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  who  was  adopted  by  the  author 
as  his  '  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  '  ;  and 
there  is  little  doubt  that,  with  respect  to  man- 
kind in  general,  Pope  adopted,  without  always 
fully  understanding,  the  system  of  Boling- 
broke. 

"  On  his  works  in  prose,  among  which  a  col- 
lection of  letters  appears  conspicuous,  it  is 
unnecessary  hero  to  remark.  His  life  was  not 
prolonged  to  the  period  of  old  age  ;  an  oppres- 
sive asthma  indicated  an  early  decline,  and 
accumulated  infirmities  incapacitated  him  from 
pursuing  the  plan  he  had  formed  for  new 
works.  After  having  complied,  through  the 
instigation  of  a  Catholic  friend,  with  the  cere- 


monies of  that  religion,  he  quietly  expired  on 
May  30th,  1744,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six.  He 
was  interred  at  Twickenham,  where  a  monu- 
ment was  erected  to  his  memory  by  the  com- 
mentator and  legatee  of  his  writings,  Bishop 
Warburton. 

"  Eegarded  as  a  poet,  while  it  is  allowed 
that  Pope  was  deficient  in  invention,  his  other 
qualifications  will  scarcely  be  disputed  ;  and 
it  will  generally  be  admitted  that  no  English 
writer  has  caiTied  to  a  gi-eater  degree  cor- 
rectness of  versification,  strength  and  splen- 
dour of  diction,  and  the  truly  poetical  power 
of  vivifying  and  adorning  every  subject  that  ho 
touched.  The  popularity  of  his  productions 
has  been  proved  by  their  constituting  a  school 
of  English  poetry,  which  in  part  continues  to 
the  xu-esent  time." — xiikin's  "  Select  Brit. 
Poets,"  pp.  345,  346. 


THOMAS  TICKELL. 

This  poet  is  now  "chiefly  remembered  from 
his  connection  with  Addison.  He  was  born  at 
Bridekirk,  near  Carlisle.  In  April,  1701,  he 
became  a  member  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford. 
In  1708,  he  was  made  M.A.,  and  two  years 
after  was  chosen  FeUow.  He  held  his  Fellow- 
ship till  1726,  when,  marrying  in  Dublin,  he 
necessarily  vacated  it.  He  attracted  Addison' s 
attention  first  by  some  elegant  lines  in  praise 
of  Rosamond,  and  then  by  the  '  Prospect  of 
Peace,'  a  poem  in  which  Tickell,  although 
called  by  Swift  Whiggissimus,  for  once  took 
the  Tory  side.  This  poem  Addison,  in  spite 
of  its  politics,  praised  highly  in  the  S]pectator, 
which  led  to  a  lifelong  friendship  between 
them.  Tickell  commenced  contributing  to  the 
Spectator,  among  other  things  publishing  there 
a  poem  entitled  the  '  Eoyal  Progress.'  Some 
time  after,  he  produced  a  translation  of  tlie 
first  book  of  the  Iliad,  which  Addison  declared 
to  be  superior  to  Pope's.  This  led  the  latter 
to  imagine  that  it  was  Addison's  own,  although 
it  is  now,  we  believe,  certain,  from  the  MS., 
which  still  exists,  that  it  was  a  veritable  pro- 
duction of  Tickell' s.  When  Addison  went 
to  Ireland,  as  secretary  to  Lord  Sunderland, 
Tickell  accompanied  him,  and  Avas  employed 
in  public  business.  When  Addison  became 
Secretary  of  State,  he  made  Tickell  Under- 
Secretary  ;  and  when  he  died,  he  left  him  the 
charge  of  publishing  his  works,  with  an 
earnest  recommendation  to  the  care  of  Craggs. 
Tickell  faithfully  performed  the  task,  pre- 
fixing to  them  an  elegy  on  his  departed  friend, 
which  is  now  his  own  chief  title  to  fame.  In 
1725,  he  was  made  secretary  to  the  Lords- 
Justices  of  Ireland,  a  place  of  great  trust  and 
honour,  and  which  he  retained  to  his  death. 
This  event  happened  at  Bath,  in  the  year 
1740. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


"  His  genius  was  not  strong,  but  elegant  and 
refined,  and  appears,  as  we  have  just  stated, 
to  best  advantage  in  his  lines  on  Addison's 
death,  which  are  warm  with  genuine  love, 
tremulous  with  sincere  sorrow,  and  shine 
with  a  sober  splendour,  such  as  Addison's 
own  exquisite  taste  would  have  approved." — 
Gilfillan's  "  Less-known  Brit.  Poets,"  vol.  iii., 
pp.  29,  30. 


SIR  SAMUEL  GAETH. 

Sir  Samuel  Garth,  died  1718—1719.  He 
was  a  native  of  Yorkshire,  educated  at  Peter 
House,  Cambridge,  took  the  degree  of  M.D. 
in  1691,  and  was  admitted  fellow,  June  26, 
1693.  In  1687  he  commenced  a  dispute  be- 
tween the  physicians  and  apothecaries  ;  the 
apothecaries  opposing  the  design  of  the  phy- 
sicians to  furnish  the  poor  with  advice  gratis, 
and  medicines  at  prime  cost.  To  hold  the 
apothecaries  up  to  public  reprobation  and 
ridicule.  Garth  published,  in  1699,  4to,  his 
satirical  poem  of  the  "  Dispensary,"  which 
pleased  the  town  so  much,  that  it  went 
through  three  editions  in  a  few  months.  See 
Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Dr.  John- 
son's "  Lives  of  the  Poets  "  ;  Gilfillan's  "  Less- 
known  Brit.  Poets." 


BISHOP  KEN. 

Bishop  Ken,  born  1637,  died  1710.  He 
was  educated  at  Winchester  School,  whence 
he  removed  to  New  College,  Oxford,  where 
he  was  elected  fellow.  About  1680  he 
was  appointed  chaplain  to  the  Princess 
of  Orange,  whom  he  accompanied  to  Hol- 
land. He  afterwards  went  with  Lord 
Dartmouth  to  Tangiers,  and  on  his  return, 
was  made  chaplain  to  Charles  II.,  whom  he 
attended  in  his  last  illness,  but  was  hindered 
from  exercising  the  duties  of  his  function  by 
the  Eomish  priests.  The  king,  who  had  a 
great  regard  for  him,  nominated  liim  to  the 
bishopric  of  Bath  and  Wells,  which  was  con- 
firmed by  James  II.  Ken  was  one  of  the 
seven  bishops  sent  to  the  Tower  for  resisting 
the  tyranny  of  his  sovereign.  He  however 
refused  to  take  the  oaths  at  the  Revolution, 
for  which  he  vras  deprived.  Queen  Anne 
granted  him  a  pension  of  .£200  per  annum, 
and  he  was  universally  esteemed  for  his 
amiable  manners,  childlike  simplicity,  and 
unafi"eGted  piety.  A  meeker  and  a  braver 
man  never  lived,  and  by  his  pure  and  holy 
life  he  has  thrown  a  lustre  on  the  bench  of 
bishops.  He  published  several  Avorks  of 
piety,  and  wrote  some  exquisite  hymns,  and 
also  an  epic  poem,  entitled  "  Edmund."  He 
was  born  at  Berkhampstead,  Herts,  and  died 
in  Wiltshire.  See  Beeton's  "Diet.  Univer. 
Biog." 


NAHUM  TATE. 

Nahum  Tate,  an  Irish  poet  ;  he  was 
appointed  Laureate  in  1692.  He  wrote  "  Pa- 
nacea," a  poem  on  tea ;  ten  dramatic  pieces,  a 
number  of  poems  on  various  subjects,  and,  in 
conjunction  with  Brady,  translated  the  Psalms 
into  metre.  Born  at  Dublin,  1652  ,  died  in 
London,  1715.  See  Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ. 
Biog." 


SIR  RICHARD  BLACKMORE. 

Sir  Richard  Blackmore,  bom  1658  (?),  died 
1729.  He  was  a  physician,  had  an  extensive 
practice,  knighted  by  William  III.,  and  wrote 
several  epic  poems,  of  which  the  "  Creation  " 
has  been  admitted  into  the  collections  of  the 
British  Poets.  Johnson  remarks,  that  "Black- 
more,  by  the  unremitted  enmity  of  the  wits, 
whom  he  provoked  more  by  his  virtue  than  his 
dulness,  has  been  exposed  to  worse  treatment 
than  he  deserved,"  and  he  adds  that  "the 
poem  on  '  Creation '  wants  neither  harmony 
of  numbers,  accuracy  of  thought,  nor  elegance 
of  diction."  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit. "  ; 
Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


AMBROSE  PHILIPS. 

Ambrose  Philips,  born  1675,  died  1749. 
"  Educated  at  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge, 
was  a  friend  of  Addison  and  Steele,  but  was 
violently  attacked  by  Pope.  He  wrote  three 
tragedies  and  some  Pastorals,  which  were 
much  admired  at  the  time,  but  are  now 
deservedly  forgotten.  'The  pieces  of  Philips 
that  please  best,'  observes  Johnson,  '  are 
those  which,  from  Pope  and  Pope's  adherents, 
procured  him  the  name  of  '  Namby  Pamby,' 
the  poems  of  short  lines,  by  which  he  paid 
his  court  to  all  ages  and  characters,  from 
Walpole,  the  '  steerer  of  the  realm,'  to  Miss 
Pulteney  in  the  nursery.  The  numbers  are 
smooth  and  sprightly,  and  the  diction  is 
seldom  faulty.  They  are  not  much  loaded 
with  thought,  yet,  if  they  had  been  written 
by  Addison,  they  would  have  had  admirers.'  " 
—Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  p.  312. 


JOHN  GAY. 

John  Gay,  born  1688,  died  1732.  "  Gay  was 
the  second  son  of  John  Gay,  Esq.,  of  Frithel- 
stock,  near  Great  Torrington,  Devonshire. 
His  parents  died  during  his  infancy,-  and  after 
receiving   his   education   at   Barnstaple,    the 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fifth  Period. 


poet  was  placed  apprentice  to  a  silk-mercer 
in  London.  The  Duchess  of  Monmouth  in 
1712  (by  which  time  Gay  had  appeared  as  a 
poet)  made  him  her  private  secretary,  and  he 
attracted  the  notice  and  friendship  of  Pope 
and  the  other  leading  literary  men  of  the  time. 
'  Gay  was  the  general  favourite  of  the  whole 
association  of  wits ;  but  they  regarded  him 
as  a  playfellow  rather  than  as  a  partner.' 
His  connections  with  the  Tory  party  excluded 
him  from  the  patronage  of  the  house  of 
Brunswick ;  but  after  the  loss  of  an  illusory 
wealth  in  the  wreck  of  the  South  Sea  Scheme 
in  1720,  the  compelled  industry  of  the 
luxurious  and  indolent  poet  realized  for  him 
a  tolerable  competency.  Sheltered  in  the 
last  years  of  his  life  under  the  hospitable  roof 
of  his  noble  patrons,  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  Queensbury,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  an 
affectionate  correspondence  with  his  friends, 
Pope  and  Swift,  he  suddenly  died  of  fever  in 
1732.  The  death  of  this  single-hearted  man 
was  deeply  lamented. 

"  Gay  is  best  known  by  his  Fables  and  his 
'  Beggar's  Opera.'  The  former  bear  the  first 
rank  in  the  language  of  their  class  of  writing ; 
the  latter,  though  the  applications  of  its 
political  satire  are  obsolete,  and  its  morality 
not  especially  commendable,  still,  by  the 
vigour  and  liveliness  of  its  portraitures, 
retains  its  place  on  the  stage.  It  banished 
the  affectations  of  the  Italian  Opera,  as  his 
Pastorals,  written  in  ridicule  of  those  of 
Ambrose  Philips,  effectually  suppressed  the 
false  taste  in  that  species  of  composition. 

"  The  style  of  Gay  is  fluent,  lively,  and 
natural.  His  genius  is  not  of  a  high  order, 
but  is  eminently  adapted  to  the  subjects  it 
has  selected.  He  may  be  termed  the  inventor 
of  the  English  Ballad  Opera.  The  most 
popular  of  his  ballads  is  'Black-eyed  Susan.'  " 
— Scrymgeour's  "Poetry  and  Poets  of  Britain," 
pp.  296-7.  See  Campbell's  "Spec";  Alli- 
bone's  "  Crit.  Die.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Dr.  Johnson's 
"Life  of  (Jay";  Hazlitt's  "  Lect.  Eng. 
Poets";  "Biog.  Brit.";  S^vift's  Works; 
Pope's  Works;  Spencer's  "Anecdotes"; 
"  Mischief  arising  from  the  Beggar's  Opera  ".; 
"  Lon.  Gent.  Mag.,"  vol.  xliii. ;  Hewitt's 
"  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Eminent  Brit. 
Poets";  Thackeray's  "Humorists  of  the 
Eighteenth  Cent." 


THOMAS  PAENELL. 

Thomas  Parnell,  born  1679,  died  1717. 
"  An  agreeable  poet,  was  descended  from  an 
ancient  family  in  Cheshire.  His  father,  who 
was  attached  to  the  cause  of  the  Parliament 
in  the  civil  wars  of  Charles  L,  withdrew  to 
Ireland  after  the  restoration,  where  he  pur- 
chased an  estate.  His  eldest  son,  Thomas, 
was   born  at   Dublin,  in  1679,  and  received 


his  school  education  in  that  city.  At  an 
eaxly  age  he  was  removed  to  the  college, 
where  he  was  admitted  to  the  degree  of  M.A. 
in  1700,  took  deacon's  orders  in  the  same 
year,  and  was  ordained  priest  three  years 
afterwards.  In  1705  ho  was  presented  to  the 
archdeaconry  of  Clogher,  and  about  the  same 
time  married  a  lady  of  great  beauty  and 
merit.  He  now  began  to  make  those  frequent 
excursions  to  England,  in  which  the  most 
desirable  part  of  his  life  was  thenceforth  spent. 
His  first  connections  were  principally  with 
the  Whigs,  at  that  time  in  power;  and  Ad- 
dison, Congreve,  and  Steele  are  named 
among  his  chief  companions.  When,  at  the 
latter  part  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  the  Tories 
were  triumphant,  Parnell  deserted  his  former 
friends,  and  associated  Avith  Swift,  Pope, 
Gay,  and  Arbuthnot.  Swift  introduced  him 
to  Lord-Treasurer  Harley ;  and,  with  the 
dictatorial  air  which  he  was  fond  of  assum- 
ing, insistedupon  the  Treasurer's  going  with  his 
staff  in  his  hand  into  the  antichamber,  Avhere 
Parnell  was  waiting  to  welcome  him.  It  is 
said  of  this  poet,  that  every  year,  as  soon  as 
he  had  collected  the  rents  of  his  estate,  and 
the  revenue  of  his  benefices,  he  came  over  to 
England,  and  spent  some  months,  living  in 
an  elegant  style,  and  rather  impairing  than 
improving  his  fortune.  At  this  time  he  was 
an  assiduous  preacher  in  the  London  pulpitp, 
with  the  intention  of  rising  to  notice ;  but 
the  change  of  the  ministry  at  Queen  Anne's 
death  put  an  end  to  his  more  brilliant  pro- 
spects in  the  church.  By  means,  however, 
of  Swift's  recommendation  to  Archbishop 
King,  he  obtained  a  prebend,  and  the  valuable 
living  of  Finglass. 

"  His  domestic  happiness  received  a  severe 
shock  in  1712,  by  the  death  of  his  beloved 
wife  ;  and  it  was  the  effect  on  his  spirits  of 
this  affliction  which  led  him  into  such  a 
habit  of  intemj)erance  in  wine  as  shortened 
his  days.  This,  at  least,  is  the  gloss  put 
upon  the  circumstance  by  his  historian,  Gold- 
smith, Avho  represents  him  '  as  in  some 
measure  a  martyr  to  conjugal  fidelity.'  But 
it  can  scarcely  be  doubted,  that  this  mode  of 
life  had  already  been  formed  when  his  very 
unequal  spirits  had  reqviired  the  aid  of  a  glass 
for  his  support.  He  died  at  Chester,  on  his 
way  to  Ireland,  in  July,  1717,  in  the  thirty- 
eighth  year  of  his  age,  and  was  buried  in 
Trinity  Church,  in  that  city. 

"  Parnell  was  the  author  of  several  pieces, 
both  in  prose  and  verse  ;  but  it  is  only  by  the 
latter  that  he  is  now  known.  Of  these  a 
collection  was  published  by  Pope,  with  a 
dedication  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford.  Their 
characters  are  ease,  sprightliness,  fancj', 
clearness  of  language,  and  melody  of  versifica- 
tion ;  and  though  not  ranking  among  the 
most  finished  productions  ot  the  British 
muse,  they  claim  a  place  among  the  most 
pleasing.  A  large  addition  to  these  was 
made  in  a  work  printed  in  Dublin,  in  1758,  of 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


which  Dr.  Johnson  saj^s,  '  I  know  not 
whence  they  came,  nor  have  ever  enquired 
whither  they  are  going.'  " — ^Aikin's  "  Select 
Brit.  Poets,"  p.  221. 


MATTHEW  GEEEN. 

Matthew  Green,  born  1696,  died  17«7. 
"His  parents  were  respectable  Dissenters,  who 
brought  him  up  within  the  limits  of  the  sect. 
His  learning  was  confined  to  a  little  Latin  ; 
but,  from  the  frequency  of  his  classical  al- 
lusions, it  may  be  concluded  that  what  he 
read  when  young,  he  did  not  forget.  The 
austerity  in  which  he  was  educated  had  the 
effect  of  inspiring  him  with  settled  disgust ; 
and  he  fled  from  the  gloom  of  dissenting 
worship  when  he  was  no  longer  compelled  to 
attend  it.  Thus  set  loose  from  the  opinions 
of  his  youth,  he  speculated  very  freely  on 
religious  topics,  and  at  length  adopted  the 
system  of  outward  compliance  with  established 
forms  and  inward  laxity  of  belief.  He  seems 
at  one  time  to  have  been  much  inclined  to 
the  principles  of  Quakerism  ;  but  he  found  that 
its  practice  would  not  agree  with  one  who  hved 
'  by  puUing  off  the  hat.'  We  find  that  he  had 
obtained  a  place  in  the  Custom  house,  the 
duties  of  which  he  is  said  to  have  discharged 
with  great  diligence  and  fidehty.  It  is  further 
attested,  that  he  was  a  man  of  great  probity 
and  sweetness  of  disposition,  and  that  his 
conversation  abounded  with  wit,  but  of  the 
most  inoffensive  kind.  He  seems  to  have 
been  subject  to  low  spirits,  as  a  relief  from 
which  he  composed  his  principal  poem,  '  The 
Spleen.' 

"  The  poems  of  Green,  which  were  not  made 
public  till  after  his  death,  consist  of  '  The 
Spleen ' ;  '  The  Grotto  ' ;  '  Verses  on  Bar- 
clay's Apology '  ;  '  The  Seeker,'  and  some 
smaller  pieces,  aU  comprised  in  a  small 
volume.  In  manner  and  subject  they  are 
some  of  the  most  original  in  our  language. 
They  rank  among  the  easy  and  familiar,  but 
are  replete  with  uncommon  thoughts,  new 
and  striking  images,  and  those  associations 
of  remote  ideas  by  some  unexpected  simili- 
tudes, in  which  wit  principally  consists.  Few 
poems  -will  bear  more  repeated  perusals  ;  and, 
with  those  who  can  fully  enter  into  them, 
they  do  not  fail  to  become  favorites." — Aikin's 
"  Select  Brit.  Poets,"  p.  310. 


ANNE  COUNTESS  OF  WINCHELSEA. 

Anne  Countess  of  Winchelsea,  died  1720, 
was  the  daughter  of  Sir  William  Kingsmill  of 
Sidmonton,  in  the  county  of  Southampton, 
maid  of  honour  to  the  Duchess  of  York,  and 
wife  to  Heneage  Earl  of  Winchelsea.     A  col- 


Isction  of  her  poems  was  i>rinted  in  1713; 
several  still  remain  unpublished. 

"It  is  remarkable,"  says  Wordsworth, 
"  that  excepting  the  '  Nocturnal  Reverie,'  and 
a  passage  or  two  in  the  '  Windsor  Forest '  of 
Pope,  the  poetry  of  the  period  intervening 
between  the  publication  of  '  Paradise  -Lost ' 
and  '  The  Seasons  '  does  not  contain  a  single 
new  image  of  external  nature." — Campbell's 
"  Specimens,"  p.  705. 


"WILLIAM  SOMERVILLE. 

William  SomerviUe,  born  1692,  died  1742, 
was  descended  from  an  ancient  family.  He 
possessed  an  estate  of  <£1,500  per  annum, 
was  amiable  and  hospitable,  and  united 
elegant  and  refined  pursuits  with  the  active 
amusements  which  he  has  so  graphically  de- 
scribed in  his  "  Chase  "  ;  but  from  deficiency 
in  economy  and  temperance,  was  driven,  ac- 
cording to  Shenstone's  account,  to  drink 
himself  into  pains  of  body  in  order  to  get  rid 
of  those  of  the  mind.     Campbell's  "  Spec." 


ALLAN  RAMSAY. 

He  was  born  1686,  died  1758.  He  was 
of  a  happy,  jovial,  and  contented  humour, 
and  rendered  great  services  to  the  litera- 
ture of  his  country  by  reviving  the  taste 
for  the  excellent  old  Scottish  poets,  and  by 
editing  and  imitating  the  incomparable  songs 
and  ballads  current  among  the  people.  He 
was  also  the  author  of  an  original  pastoral 
poem,  the  'Gentle  (or  Noble)  Shepherd,' 
which  grew  out  of  two  eclogues  he  had 
written,  descriptive  of  the  rural  life  and 
scenery  of  Scotland.  The  complete  work 
appeared  in  1725,  and  consists  of  a  series  of 
dialogues  in  verse,  written  in  the  melodious 
and  picturesque  dialect  of  the  country,  and 
interwoven  into  a  simple  but  interesting 
love-story.  The  pictures  of  nature  given  in 
this  charming  work,  equally  faithful  and 
ideal,  the  exact  representation  of  real  peasant 
life  and  sentiment,  which  Ramsay,  with  the 
true  instinct  of  a  poet,  knew  how  to  make 
strictly  true  to  reality  without  a  particle  of 
vulgarity,  and  the  light  but  firm  delineations 
of  character,  render  this  poem  far  superior 
in  interest,  however  inferior  in  romantic 
ideality,  to  the  'Pastor  Fido,'  the  'Galatea,' 
or  the  '  Faithful  Shepherdess.'  The  songs  he 
has  occasionally  interspersed,  though  they 
may  sometimes  be  out  of  place  by  retarding 
the  march  of  events,  are  often  eminently 
beautiful,  as  are  many  scattered  through 
Ramsay's  voluminous  collections,  in  which  he 
combined  the  revival  of  older  compositions 
with  imitations  and  originals  of  his  own.  The 
treasures  of  tenderness,  beautiful  description, 
and    sly  humour   which  Ramsay  transmitted 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fifth  Period.- 


from  Dunbar,  James  I.,  David  Lyndsay,  and  a 
thousand  nameless  national  bards,  were  con- 
centrated into  one  splended  focus  in  the 
writings  of  the  author  of  '  Tarn  O'Shanter.'  " 
—Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  311-2. 


ELIJAH  EENTOK 

Elijah  Fenton,  bom  1683,  died  1730.  A 
native  of  Shelton,  Staffordshire,  educated  at 
Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  is  best  known  as 
the  assistant  of  Pope  in  the  translation  of 
the  "  Odyssey."  Johnson  and  Warton  state 
that  he  translated  only  the  1st,  4th,  19th, 
and  20th  books,  but  the  Earl  of  Orrery 
asserts  that  he  really  translated  double  the 
number  of  books  that  Pope  has  owned.  "  His 
reward  was  a  trifle,  an  arrant  trifle,"  writes 
the  Earl  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Duncombe.  He 
has  even  told  me  that  he  thought  Pope  feared 
him  more  than  he  loved  him.  He  had  no 
opinion  of  Pope's  heart,  and  declared  him,  in 
the  words  of  Bishop  Atterbury,  "Mens 
curva  in  corpore  curvo."  He  was  for  some 
time  master  of  the  free  Grammar  School, 
Sevenoaks,  Kent,  and  subsequently  tutor  to 
Lord  BroghUl,  son  of  his  friend  the  Earl  of 
Orrery.  He  published  "  Poems  on  Several 
Occasions,"  1717,  "  Marianne,"  a  tragedy. — 
Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit. "  ;  Johnson's 
"Lives  of  the  Eng.  Poets";  Bowles'  ed. 
of  Pope. 


EDWAED  WAED. 

Edward  Ward,  bom  1667,  died  1731. 
*'  Edward  (familiarly  called  Ned)  Ward  was  a 
low-bom  uneducated  man,  who  followed  the 
trade  of  a  publican.  He  is  said,  however,  to 
have  attracted  many  eminent  persons  to  his 
house  by  his  colloquial  powers  as  a  landlord, 
to  have  had  a  general  acquaintance  among 
authors,  and  to  have  been  a  great  retailer  of 
literary  anecdotes.  In  those  times  the  tavern 
was  a  less  discreditable  haunt  than  at  present, 
and  his  literary  acquaintance  might  probably 
be  extensive.  Ten  thick  volumes  attest  the 
industry  or  cacoethes  of  this  facetious  pub- 
lican, who  wrote  his  very  will  in  verse.  His 
favourite  measure  is  the  Hudibrastic.  His 
works  give  a  complete  picture  of  the  mind  of  a 
vulgar  but  acute  cockney.  His  sentiment  is 
the  pleasure  of  eating  and  drinking,  and  his  wit 
and  humour  are  equally  gross ;  but  his  de- 
scriptions are  still  curious  and  full  of  life, 
and  are  worth  preserving,  as  delineations  of 
the  manners  of  the  times." — Campbell's  "  Spe- 
cimens," p.  350. 


BARTON  BOOTH. 

Barton  Booth,  bom  1681,   died  1733,  an 
eminent   English    author.      He   wrote  those 


charming  stanzas,  "  Sweet  are  the  charms  of 
her  I  love."  He  left  a  dramatic  piece 
entitled  "The  Death  of  Dido,"  1716,  5vo. 
The  memoirs  of  Booth  were  published  in 
London,  1733;  also  by  Theop.  Gibber,  'and 
by  Mr.  Victor.— Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  En^'. 
Lit." 


0  JOHN  OLDMIXON. 

John  Oldmixon,  bora  1673,  died  1742. 
"  Ridiculed  in  the  Tatler  under  the  name  of 
Omikron,  the  unborn  poet,  and  one  of  the 
heroes  of  the  '  Dunciad,'  who  mounts  the  side 
of  a  lighter  in  order  to  plunge  vnth.  more 
effect.  His  party  virulence  was  rewarded 
with  the  place  of  collector  of  the  customs  at 
the  port  of  Bridgewater." — Campbell's  "  Spe- 


DR.  GEORGE  SEWELL. 

Dr.  George  Sewell,  died  Feb.  8,  1726. 
He  was  the  author  of  "  Sir  Walter  Raleigh," 
a  tragedy  ;  several  papers  in  the  fifth  volume 
of  the  Tatler,  and  ninth  of  the  Spectator ;  a 
life  of  John  Philips,  and  several  other  things. 
He  was  a  physician  at  Hampstead,  with  very 
little  practice,  and  chiefly  subsisted  on  the 
invitations  of  the  neighboviring  gentlemen,  to 
whom  his  amiable  character  made  him  ac- 
ceptable ;  but  at  his  death  not  a  friend  or 
relative  came  to  commit  his  remains  to  the 
dust.  He  was  buried  in  the  meanest  manner, 
under  a  hollow  tree,  that  was  once  part  of 
the  boundary  of  the  church-yard  of  Hamp- 
stead. No  memorial  was  placed  over  his 
remains. — Campbell's  "  Specimens,"  -p.  345. 


THOMAS   SOUTHEENE. 

Thomas  Southeme,  bom  in  Dublin,  1659, 
died  1746.  "  He  studied  the  law  in  the 
Temple,  but  quitted  that  profession  for  the 
army.  The  close  of  his  life  was  tranquil 
and  surrounded  with  competence.  Southeme 
was  the  author  of  ten  plays,  the  most 
conspicuous  of  which  are  the  tragedies  of 
'  Isabella,  or  the  Fatal  Marriage,'  and  the 
pathetic  drama  of  '  Oroonoko.'  The  sufferings 
of  the  generous  and  unhappy  African,  torn  by 
the  slave-trade  from  his  country  and  his 
home,  and  his  love  for  Imoinda,  furnish  good 
materials  to  the  pathetic  genius  of  Southeme, 
who  was  the  first  English  author  to  hold  up 
to  execration  the  cruelties  of  that  infernal 
traffic  that  so  long  remained  a  stain  upon 
o^^r  country.  The  distress  in  '  Isabella  '  is 
also  carried  to  a  high  degree  of  intensity,  and 
tenderness  and  pathos  may  be  asserted  to  be 
the  primary  characteristics  of  Southeme' s 
dramatic  genius." — Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


NICHOLAS  EOWE. 

Nicholas Rowe,  bom  1673,  died  1718.  "He 
was  descended  from  an  aucient  family  in 
Devonshire,  was  the  son  of  John  Rowe, 
Esquire,  a  barrister  of  reputation  and 
extensive  practice.  Being-  placed  at  West- 
minster School,  under  Dr.  Busby,  he 
pursued  the  classical  studies  of  that  place 
with  credit.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he 
v/as  removed  from  school,  and  entered  a 
student  of  the  Middle  Temple,  it  being  his 
father's  intention  to  bring  him  up  to  his  own 
profession :  but  the  death  of  this  parent, 
when  Nicholas  was  only  nineteen,  freed  him 
from  what  he  probably  thought  a  pursuit 
foreign  to  his  disposition  ;  and  he  turned  his 
chief  studies  to  poetry  and  polite  literature. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  produced  his 
first  tragedy,  '  The  Ambitious  Stepmother  ; ' 
which  was  afterwards  succeeded  by  '  Tamer- 
lane '  ;  '  The  Fair  Penitent '  ;  '  Ulysses  '  ; 
'  The  Royal  Convert ' ;  '  Jane  Shore  ' ;  and 
'  Lady  Jane  Grey.'  Of  these,  though  all  have 
their  merits,  the  third  and  the  two  last  alone 
keep  possession  of  the  stage ;  but  '  Jane 
Shore  '  in  particular  never  fails  to  be  viewed 
with  deep  interest.  His  plays,  from  which 
are  derived  his  principal  claims  upon  pos- 
terity, are  chiefly  founded  on  the  model  of 
French  tragedy :  and  in  liis  diction,  w^iich  is 
poetical  without  being  bombastic  or  affected ; 
in  his  versification,  which  is  singularly  sweet ; 
and  in  tirades  of  sentiment,  given  mth  force 
and  elegance,  he  has  few  competitors. 

"  As  a  miscellaneous  poet,  Rowe  occupies  but 
an  inconsiderably  place  among  his  coun- 
trymen; but  it  has  been  thought  proper  to 
give  some  of  his  songs  or  ballads  in  the  pas- 
toral strain ;  which  have  a  touching  sim- 
plicity, scarcely  excelled  by  any  pieces  of  the 
kind.  His  principal  efforts,  however,  were 
in  poetical  translation ;  and  his  version  of 
Lucan's  Pharsalia  has  been  placed  by  Dr. 
Johnson  among  the  greatest  productions  of 
English  poetry."  —  Aikin's  "  Select  Brit. 
Poets,"  p.  230. 


GEORGE  LILLO. 

George  Lillo,  bom  1693,  died  1739,  "is  in 
many  respects  a  remarkable  and  singular 
literary  figure.  He  was  a  jeweller  in  London, 
and  appears  to  have  been  a  prudent  and 
industrious  tradesman,  and  to  have  accu- 
mulated a  fair  competence.  His  dramatic 
works  consist  of  a  peculiar  species  of  what 
may  be  called  tragedies  of  domestic  life. 
The  principal  of  them  are  '  George  Barnwell,' 
the  '  Fatal  Curiosity,'  and  '  Arden  of  Faver- 
sham.'  Lillo  composed  sometimes  in  verse 
and  sometimes  in  prose  ;  he  based  his  pieces 
upon  remarkable  examples  of  crime,  generally 


in  the  middle  ranks  of  society,  and  worked 
up  the  interest  to  a  high  pitch  of  intensity. 
In  '  George  Barnwell '  is  traced  the  career  of 
a  London  shopman — a  real  person — who  is 
lured  by  the  artifices  of  an  abandoned  woman 
and  the  force  of  his  own  passion,  first  into 
embezzlement,  and  then  into  the  murder  of 
an  uncle.  The  hero  of  the  play,  like  his 
prototype  in  actual  life,  expiates  his  offences 
on  the  scaffold.  The  subject  of  the  '  Fatal 
Curiosity,'  Lillo' s  most  powerful  work,  is 
far  more  dramatic  in  its  interests.  A  couple, 
reduced  by  circumstances,  and  by  the  absence 
of  their  son,  to  the  lowest  depths  of  distress, 
receive  into  their  house  a  stranger,  who  is 
evidently  in  possession  of  a  large  sum :  while 
he  is  asleep,  they  determine  to  assassinate 
him  for  the  purpose  of  plunder,  and  after-, 
wards  discover  in  their  victim  their  long-lost 
son.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the  tragic 
story  of  '  Arden  of  Faversham,'  a  tissue  of 
conjugal  infidelity  and  murder,  was  an  event 
that  really  took  place  in  the  reign  of  EUza- 
beth,  and  had  furnished  materials  for  a  very 
popular  drama,  attributed,  but  on  insufficient 
evidence,  to  Shakspere  among  other  play- 
wrights of  the  time.  It  was  again  revived 
by  Lillo,  and  treated  in  his  characteristic 
manner — a  manner  singularly  intense  in 
spirit,  though  prosaic  in  form.  Indeed,  the 
very  absence  of  imagination  in  this  writer 
may  have  contributed  to  the  effect  he  pro- 
duced, by  augmenting  the  air  of  reality  in  his 
conceptions.  He  has  something  of  the  gloom 
and  sombre  directness  which  we  see  in 
Webster  or  Tourneur,  but  ho  is  entirely 
devoid  of  the  wild  fantastic  fancy  which 
distinguishes  that  great  writer.  He  is  real, 
but  with  the  reality,  not  of  Walter  Scott,  but 
of  Defoe." — Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp. 
265-6. 


SIR  JOHN  VANBRUGH. 

Sir  John  Vanbrugh,  bora  1666,  died  1726, 
"  was  the  oldest  son  of  Mr.  Giles  Van- 
brugh of  London,  merchant ;  he  was  bom  in 
the  parish  of  St.  Stephen's,  Walbrook,  1666. 
He  received  a  very  liberal  education,  and  at 
the  age  of  nineteen  was  sent  by  his  father  to 
France,  where  he  continued  several  years. 
In  1703  he  was  appointed  Clarencicux  king 
of  arms,  and  in  1706  was  commissioned  by 
Queen  Anne  to  carry  the  habit  and  ensigns 
of  the  order  of  the  garter  to  King  George  the 
First,  then  at  Hanover.  He  was  also  made 
comptroller-general  of  the  board  of  works, 
and  surveyor  of  the  gardens  and  waters.  In 
1714  he  received  the  order  of  knighthood, 
and  in  1719  married  Henrietta  Maria, 
daughter  of  Colonel  Yarborough.  Sir  John 
died  of  a  quinsey  at  his  house  in  Scotland- 
yard,  and  is  interred  in  the  family  vault  under 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


the  church  of  St.  Stephen  Walbrook.  He 
left  only  one  son,  Avho  fell  at  the  battle  of 
Fonteno}'." — Campbell's  "  Specimens,"  p.  345. 


GEORGE  FARQUHAE. 

George  Farquhar  "was  born  at  Lon- 
donderry in  Ireland  in  1678,  and  in  his 
personal  as  well  as  his  literary  cha- 
racter he  exemplifies  the  merits  and  the 
defects  of  his  nation.  He  received  some 
education  at  college,  but  at  the  early  age  of 
eighteen  embraced  the  profession  of  an  actor. 
Having  accidentally  wounded  one  of  his 
comrades  in  a  fencing-match,  he  quitted  the 
stage  and  served  for  some  time  in  the  army, 
in  the  Earl  of  Orrery's  regiment.  His  mili- 
tary experience  enabled  him  to  give  very 
lively  and  faithful  representations  of  gay, 
rattling  officers,  and  furnished  him  with 
materials  for  one  of  his  pleasantest  comedies. 
His  dramatic  productions,  which  were  mostly 
written  after  his  return  to  his  original 
profession,  are  more  numerous  than  those 
of  his  predecessors,  and  consist  of  seven 
plays :  '  Love  and  a  Bottle,'  the  '  Constant 
Couple,'  the  '  Inconstant,'  the  '  Stage 
Coach,'  the  '  Twin  Rivals,'  the  '  Re- 
cruiting Officer,'  and  the  '  Beaux'  Stra- 
tagem.' These  were  produced  in  rapid  suc- 
cession, for  the  literary  career  of  poor 
Farquhar  was  compressed  into  a  short  space 
of  time — between  1698,  when  the  first  of  the 
above  pieces  was  acted,  and  the  author's 
early  death  about  1708.  The  end  of  this 
brief  course,  which  terminated  at  the  age  of 
thirty,  was  clouded  by  ill  health  and  poverty ; 
for  Farquhar  was  induced  to  marry  a  lady 
who  gave  out,  contrary  to  truth,  that  she  was 
possessed  of  some  fortune. 

"  The  works  of  Farquhar  are  a  faithful  re- 
flexion of  his  gay,  loving,  vivacious  character  ; 
and  it  appears  that  down  to  his  early  death, 
not  only  did  they  go  on  increasing  in  joyous 
animation,  but  exhibit  a  constantly  aug- 
menting skill  and  ingenuity  in  construction, 
his  last  works  being  incomparably  his  best. 
Among  them  it  will  be  unnecessary  to  dwell 
minutely  on  any  but  the  '  Constant  Couple ' 
(the  intrigue  of  which  is  extremely  animated), 
the  '  Inconstant,'  and  chiefly  the  '  Recruiting 
Officer'  and  the  'Beaux'  Stratagem.'  In 
Farquhar' s  pieces  we  are  delighted  with  the 
overflow  of  high  animal  spirits,  generally 
accompanied,  as  in  nature,  by  a  certain 
frankness  and  generosity.  We  readily  pardon 
the  peccadillos  of  his  personages,  as  we 
attribute  their  escapades  less  to  innate  de- 
pravity than  to  the  heat  of  blood  and  the 
effervescence  of  youth.  His  heroes  often 
engage  in  deceptions  and  tricks,  but  there  is 
no  trace  of  the  deep  and  deliberate  rascality 
which  we  see  in  Wycherley's  intrigues,  or  of 


the  thorough  scoundrelism  of  Vanbrugh's 
sharpers.  The  '  Beaux'  Stratagem '  is  deci- 
dedly the  best-constructed  of  our  author's 
plays;  and  the  expedient  of  the  two  embarrassed 
gentlemen,  who  come  down  into  the  country 
disguised  as  the  master  and  his  servant, 
though  not  perhaps  very  probable,  is  ex- 
tremely well  conducted,  and  furnishes  a  series 
of  Uvely  and  amusing  adventures.  The  con- 
trast between  Archer  and  Aimwell  and  Dick 
Amlet  and  Brass  in  Vanbrugh's  '  Confe- 
deracy,' shows  a  higher  moral  tone  in  Far- 
quhar, as  compared  with  his  predecessor ;  and 
the  numerous  characters  with  whom  they  are 
brought  in  contact — Boniface  the  landlord. 
Cherry,  Squire  Sullen,  and  the  inimitable 
Scrub,  not  to  mention  Gibbet  the  highwayman, 
and  Father  Foigard  the  Irish-French  Jesuit — 
are  drawn  -ndth  never-failing  vivacity.  Pas- 
sages, expressions,  nay,  sometimes  whole 
scenes,  may  be  found  among  the  dramas  of 
Farquhar,  stamped  with  that  rich  humour 
and  oddity  which  engrave  them  on  the 
memory.  Thus  Boniface's  laudation  of  his 
ale,  '  as  the  saying  is,'  Squire  Sullen' s  inimi- 
table conversation  with  Scrub  :  '  What  day 
of  the  week  is  it  ?  Scrub.  Sunday,  sir.  Sul, 
Sunday  ?  Then  bring  me  a  dram ! '  And 
Scrub's  suspicions  :  '  I  am  sure  they  are 
talking  of  me,  for  they  laughed  consumedly  ! ' 
— such  traits  prove  that  Farquhar  possessed 
a  true  comic  genius.  The  scenes  in  the 
'  Recruiting  Officer,'  Avhere  Sergeant  Kite 
inveigles  the  two  clowns  to  enlist,  and  those 
in  which  Captain  Plume  figures,  are  also  of 
high  merit.  In  those  plays  upon  which  I 
have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  insist,  as  the 
'  Constant  Couple  '  and  the  '  Inconstant,'  the 
reader  will  not  fail  to  find  scenes  worked  up 
to  a  great  brilliancy  of  comic  effect :  as,  for 
example,  the  admirable  interview  between  Sir 
Harry  Wildair  and  Lady  Lurewell,  when  the 
envious  coquette  endeavours  to  make  him 
jealous  of  his  wife,  and  he  drives  her  almost 
to  madness  by  dilating  on  his  conjugal 
happiness.  Throughout  Farquhar' s  plays  the 
predominant  quality  is  a  gay  geniality,  which 
more  than  compensates  for  his  less  elaborate 
brilliancy  in  sparkling  repartee.  He  seems 
always  to  ■write  from  his  heart ;  and  there- 
fore, though  we  shall  in  vain  seek  in  his 
dramas  for  a  very  high  standard  of  moralitj', 
his  writings  are  free  from  that  inhuman  tone 
of  blackguard  heartlessness  which  disgraces 
the  comic  literature  of  the  time." — Shaw's 
"  HLst.  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  255-7. 


GEORGE  GRANVILLE, 

Lord  Lansdowne,  born  1667,  died  1735.  A 
noble  imitator,  in  an  aristocratic  sense,  of 
Waller,  and  better  known  "  as  Granville  the 
polite,  than  Granville  the  poet." 


FIFTH    PEEIOD 


From  1689  to  1727. 


747.— AN  ODE. 

Man  !  foolish  man  ! 
Scarce  know'st  thou  how  thyself  began ; 
Scarce   hast  thou  thought  enough  to  prove 

thou  art ; 
Yet  steeled  with  studied  boldness,  thou  darest 

try- 
To  pend  thy  doubting  reason's  dazzled  eye 
Through  the  mysterious  gulf  of  vast  immen- 
sity. 
Much  thou  canst  there  discern,  much  thence 

impart. 
Vain  wretch  !  suppress  thy  kno^ving  pride ; 

Mortify  thy  learned  lust ! 
Vain  are  thy  thoughts,  while  thou  thyself  art 

dust. 

Let  Wit  her  sails,  her  oars  let  Wisdom  lend ; 

The  helm  let  politic  Experience  guide  : 

Yet  cease  to  hope  thy  short-lived  bark  shall 

ride 
DoAvn  spreading  Fate's  unnavigable  tide. 
What,  though  still  it  farther  tend  ? 
Still  'tis  farther  from  its  end  ; 
And,  in  the  bosom  of  that  boundless  sea, 
Still  finds  its  error  lengthen  with  its  way. 
With  daring  pride  and  insolent  delight 
Your  doubts  resolved  you  boast,  your  labours 

crowned ; 
And  "ErPHKA  !  your  god,  forsooth  is  found 
Incomprehensible  and  infinite. 
But  is  he  therefore  found?  vain  searcher !  no: 
Lot  your  imperfect  definition  show. 
That  nothing  you,  the  weak  definer,  know. 

Say,  why  should  the  collected  main 

Itself  within  itself  contain  ? 
Why  to  its  caverns  should  it  sometimes  creep, 

And  with  delighted  silence  sleep 
On  the  loved  bosom  of  its  parent  deep  ? 

Why  should  its  numerous  waters  stay 
In  comely  discipline,  and  fair  array. 
Till  winds  and  tides  exert  their  high  command.^ 

Then  prompt  and  ready  to  obey, 

Why  do  the  rising  surges  spread 
Their  opening  ranks  o'er  earth's  submissive 

head, 
Marching  through  different  paths  to  different 
lands  ? 


Why  does  the  constant  sun 
With   measured   steps   his   radiant  journeys 

run.? 
Why  does  he  order  the  diurnal  hours 
To  leave  earth's  other  part,  and  rise  on  ours  ? 
Why  does  he  wake  the  correspondent  moon. 
And  fill  her  willing  lamp  with  liquid  light. 
Commanding  her  with  delegated  powers 
To  beautify  the  world,  and  bless  the  night  ? 

Why  does  each  animated  star 
Love  the  just  lim.its  of  its  proper  sphere  ? 

Why  does  each  consenting  sign 

With  prudent  harmony  combine 
In  turns  to  move,  and  subsequent  appear, 
To  gird  the  globe,  and  regulate  the  year  ? 

Man  does  with  dangerous  curiosity 
These  unfathomed  wonders  try  : 
With  fancied  rules  and  arbitrary  laws 
Matter  and  motion  he  restrains  ; 
And  studied  lines  and  fictions  circles  draws : 
Then  -with  imagined  sovereignty 
Lord  of  his  new  hypothesis  he  reigns. 
He  reigns-,   how  long  I    till  some   usurper 

rise. 
And  he,    too,    mighty   thoughtful,    mighty 
wise. 
Studios  new  lines,  and  other  circles  feigns. 
From  this  last  toil  again  what  knowledge 
flows? 

Just  as  much,  perhaps,  as  shows, 
That  all  his  predecessor's  lailes 
Were  empty  cant,  all  jargon  of  the  Schools  ; 
That   he   on   the    other's    ruin    rears    his 
throne ; 
And  shows  his  friend's  mistake,  and  thence 
confirms  his  own. 

On  earth,  in  air,  amidst  the  seas  and  skies, 
Mountainous  heaps  of  wonders  rise ; 
Whose  towering  strength  will  ne'er  submit 
To  Eeason's  batteries,  or  the  mines  of  Wit : 
Yet  still  inquiring,  still  mistaking  man. 
Each  hour  repulsed,  each  hour  dare  onward 
press ; 
And  levelling  at  God  his  wandering  guess, 
(That  feeble  engine  of  his  reasoning  war, 
Which  guids   his  doubts,  and  combats  his 
despair.) 


Matthew  Pkior.] 


A  SONG. 


[Fifth  Period. 


Laws  to  his  Maker  the  learned -wretch  can 

give: 
Can  bound  that  nature,  and  prescribe  that 

wiU, 
'Whose  pregnant  word  did  either  ocean  fill : 
Can  tell  us  whence  all  beings  are,  and  how- 

they  move  and  Uve. 

Through  either  ocean,  foolish  man  ! 

That  pregnant  word  sent  forth  again, 

Might  to  a  world  extend  each  atom  there  ; 

For  every  drop  call  forth  a  spa,  a  heaven  for 

every  star. 

Let    Qunning    Earth  her   fruitful   wonders 

hide ; 
And  only  Uft  thy  staggering  reason  up 
To  trembling  Calvary's  astonish'd  top  ; 
Then  mock  thy  knowledge,  and  confound  thy 

pride, 
Explaining  how  Perfection  suffered  pain. 
Almighty  languished,  and  eternal  died  : 
How  by  her  patient  victor  Death  was  slain  ; 
And    earth    profaned,     yet    blessed    vnth. 

deicide. 
Then  down  with  aU  thy  boasted  volumes, 

down ; 

Only  reserve  the  sacred  one  : 
Low,  reverentlj^  low, 

Make  thy  stubborn  knowledge  bow  ; 
Weep    out   thy  reason's   and   thy   body's 

eyes ; 

Deject  thyself,  that  thou  may'st  rise  ; 
To  look  to  Heaven,  be  blind  to  all  below. 

Then  Faith,   for  Ecason's  glimmering  light, 

Hhall  give 

Her  immortal  perspective ; 
And  Grace's  presence  Nature's  loss  retrieve  : 
Then  thy  enlivened  soul  shall  see, 
That  all  the  volumes  of  philosophy, 
With  all  their  comments,  never  could  invent 

So  politic  an  instrument, 
To  reach  the  Heaven  of  Heavens,  the  high 

abode, 
Where  Moses  places  his  mj'sterious  God, 
As  was  that  ladder  which  old  Jacob  reared. 
When   light    divine    had   human  darkness 

cleared ; 
And  his  enlarged  ideas  found  the  road. 
Which  Faith  had  dictated,  and  Angels  trod. 

MaWieiv  Prior.— Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


74S.— A  SONG. 

In  vain  you  tell  your  parting  lover, 
You  wish  fair  winds  may  waft  him  over. 
Alas  !  what  winds  can  happy  prove. 
That  bear  me  far  from  what  I  love ! 
Alas !  what  dangers  on  the  main 
Can  equal  those  that  I  sustain. 
From  slighted  vows,  and  cold  disdain ! 

Be  gentle,  and  in  pity  choose 
To  wish  the  wildest  tejipests  loose : 


That,  thrown  again  upon  the  coast, 
Where  first  my  shipwrecked  heart  was  lost, 
I  may  once  more  repeat  my  pain ; 
Once  more  in  dying  notes  complain 
Of  slighted  vows,  and  cold  disdain. 

Matthexo  Prior. — Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


749-— THE  DESPAIEING  SHEPHERD. 

Alexis  shunned  his  fellow  swains, 
Their  rural  sports,  and  jocund  strains, 

(Heaven  guard  us  all  from  Cupid's  bow  !) 
He  lost  his  crook,  he  left  his  flocks  ; 
And  wandering  through  the  lonely  rocks. 

He  nourished  endless  woe. 

The  nymphs  and  shepherds  round  him  came 
His  grief  some  pity,  others  blame. 

The  fatal  cause  all  kindly  seek ; 
He  mingled  hi?  concern  with  theirs, 
He  gave  them  back  their  friendly  tearB, 

He  sighed,  but  would  not  speak. 

Clorinda  came  among  the  rest ; 
And  she  too  kind  concern  expressed. 

And  asked  the  reason  of  his  woe ; 
She  asked,  but  with  an  air  and  mien. 
That  made  it  easily  foreseen. 

She  feared  too  much  to  know. 

The  shepherd  raised  his  mournful  head  ; 
And  will  you  pardon  me,  he  said, 

"While  I  the  cruel  truth  reveal ; 
Wliich  nothing  from  my  breast  should  tear. 
Which  never  shovdd  offend  your  ear. 

But  that  you  bid  me  tell  ? 

'Tis  thus  I  rove,  'tis  thus  complain, 
Since  you  appeared  upon  the  plain  ; 

You  are  the  cause  of  all  my  care  : 
Your  eyes  ten  thousand  dangers  dart. 
Ten  thousand  torments  vex  my  heart, 

I  love  and  I  despair. 

Too  much,  Alexis,  I  have  heard ; 

'Tis  what  I  thought ;  'tis  what  I  feared : 

And  yet  I  pardon  you,  she  cried  ; 
But  you  shall  promise  ne'er  again 
To  breathe  your  vows,  or  speak  3-our  pain : 

He  bowed,  obeyed,  and  died ! 

Matthew  Prior.— Born  1664,  Bled  1721. 


750.— THE  LADY'S  LOOKING-GLASS. 

Celia  and  I  the  other  day 
Walked  o'er  the  sand-hills  to  the  sea ; 
The  setting  sun  adorned  the  coast, 
His  beams  entire,  his  fierceness  lost ; 
And  on  the  surface  of  the  deep, 
The  winds  lay  only  not  asleep. 


From  1689  to  172'< 


CUPID  MISTAKEN. 


[Matthew  Prior. 


The  nymph  did  like  the  scene  appear, 
Serenely  pleasant,  calmly  fair  ; 
Soft  feU  her  words,  as  flew  the  air  : 
With  secret  joy  I  heard  her  say, 
That  she  would  never  miss  one  day 
A  walk  so  fine,  a  sight  so  gay. 

But,  oh  the  change  !  the  -winds  grow  high ; 
Impending  tempests  charge  the  sky  ; 
The  lightning  flies  ;  the  thunder  roars ; 
And  big  waves  lash  the  frightened  shores. 
Struck  with  the  horror  of  the  sight, 
She  turns  her  head,  and  wings  her  flight ; 
And  trembling  vows,  she'U  ne'er  again 
Approach  the  shore,  or  view  the  main. 

Once  more  at  least  look  back,  said  I ; 
Thyself  in  that  large  glass  descry ; 
When  thou  art  in  good  humour  dressed, 
When  gentle  reason  rules  thy  breast, 
The  sun  upon  the  calmest  sea 
Appears  not  half  so  bright  as  thee. 
'Tis  then,  that  with  delight  I  rove 
Upon  the  boundless  depth  of  love  ; 
I  bless  my  chain,  I  hand  my  oar ; 
Nor  think  on  aU  I  left  on  shore. 

But  when  vain  doubt,  and  groundless  fear 
Do  that  dear  foolish  bosom  tear ; 
When  the  big  lip,  and  watery  eye 
TeU  me,  the  rising  storm  is  nigh ; 
'Tis  then,  thou  art  yon  angry  main. 
Deformed  by  winds,  and  dashed  by  rain ; 
And  the  poor  sailor,  that  must  try 
Its  fury,  labours  less  than  I. 

Ship^vi-ecked,  in  vain  to  land  I  make  ; 
While  Love  and  Fate  stiU  drive  me  back ; 
Forced  to  dote  on  thee  thy  own  way, 
I  chide  thee  first,  and  then  obey. 
Wretched  when  from  thee,  vexed_  when  nigh, 
I  with  thee,  or  without  thee,  die  ! 

Matthew  Friar.— Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


751.— CUPID  AND  GANYMEDE. 

In  Heaven,  one  holiday,  you  read 

In  Avise  Anacreon,  Ganymede 

Drew  heedless  Cupid  in,  to  throw 

A  main,  to  pass  an  hour,  or  so  ; 

The  little  Trojan,  by  the  way. 

By  Hermes  taught,  played  aU  the  play. 

The  god  unhappily  engaged. 
By  nature  rash,  by  pla.y  enraged, 
Complained,    and     sighed,     and    cried,    and 

fretted ; 
Lost  every  earthly  thing  he  betted : 
In  ready-money,  all  the  store 
Picked  up  long  since  from  Danae's  shower; 
A  snuff-box,  set  with  bleeding  hearts, 
Rubies,  aU  pierced  with  diamond  darts ; 
His  nine-pins  made  of  myrtle- wood 
(The  tree  in  Ida's  forest  stood) ; 
His  bowl  pure  gold,  the  very  same 
Which  Paris  gave  the  Cyprian  dame  : 
Two  table-books  in  shagreen  covers  ; 
Filled  with  good  verse  from  real  lovers  ; 
Merchandise  rare  1  a  biUet-doux, 


Its  matter  passionate,  yet  true  ; 

Heaps  of  hair-rings,  and  ciphered  seals ; 

Eich  trifles  ;  serious  bagatelles. 

What  sad  disorders  piay  begets  ! 
Desperate  and  mad,  at  length  he  sets 
Those  darts  whose  points  make  gods  adore 
His  might,  and  deprecate  hi-s  powcir;     - 
Those  darts,  whence  all  our  joy  and  pain 
Arise  :  those  darts — Come,  seven's  the  main. 
Cries  Ganymede  ;  the  usual  trick ; 
Seven,  slur  a  six ;  eleven,  a  nick. 

Ill  news  go  fast :  'twas  quickly  known, 
That  simple  Cupid  was  undone. 
Swifter  than  lightning  Venus  flew  : 
Too  late  she  found  the  thing  too  true. 
Guess  how  the  goddess  greets  her  son  : 
Come  hither,  sirrah  !  no,  begone  ; 
And,  hark  ye,  is  it  so  indeed  ? 
A  comi'ade  you  for  Ganymede  ! 
An  imp  as  wicked,  for  his  age, 
As  any  earthly  lady's  page  ; 
A  scandal  and  a  scourge  to  Troy ; 
A  prince's  son  !  a  blackguard  boy  ; 
A  sharper,  that  with  box  and  dice 
Draws  in  young  deities  to  vice. 
All  Heaven  is  by  the  ears  together, 
Since  first  that  little  rogue  came  hither ; 
Juno  herself  has  had  no  peace  : 
And  truly  I've  been  favoured  less  : 
For  Jove,  as  Fame  reports  (but  Fame 
Says  things  not  fit  for  me  to  name). 
Has  acted  ill  for  such  a  god. 
And  taken  Avays  extrcmelj'  odd. 

And  thou,  unhappy  child,  she  said 
(Her  anger  by  her  grief  allayed), 
Unhappy  child,  who  thus  hast  lost 
All  the  estate  we  e'er  could  boast ; 
Whither,  O  whither  wilt  thou  run. 
Thy  name  despised,  thy  weakness  known  ? 
Nor  shall  thy  shrine  on  earth  be  crowned  ; 
Nor  shall  thy  power  in  Heaven  be  owned ; 
When  thou,  nor  man,  nor  god  canst  wound. 

Obedient  Cupid  kneeling  cried. 
Cease,  dearest  mother,  cease  to  chide : 
Gany'sa  cheat,  and  I'm  a  bubble  : 
Yet  why  this  great  excess  of  trouble  ? 
The  dice  were  false  :  the  darts  are  gone  : 
Yet  how  are  you  or  I  undone  ? 

The  loss  of  these  I  can  supply 
With  keener  shafts  from  Cloe's  eye  : 
Fear  not  we  e'er  can  be  disgraced, 
While  that  bright  magazine  shall  last. 
Your  crowded  altars  still  shaU  smoke  ; 
And  man  your  friendly  aid  invoke  : 
Jove  shall  again  revere  your  power. 
And  rise  a  swan,  or  fall  a  shower. 

Matthew  Friar.— Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


752.— CUPID  MISTAKEN. 

As  after  noon,  one  summer's  day, 
Venus  stood  bathing  in  a  river, 

Cupid  a- shooting  went  that  way, 

Now  strung  his  bow,  new  filled  liis  quiver. 


Matthew  Prioh.] 


MEECURY  AND  CUPID. 


[Fifth  Period — 


With  skill  he  chose  his  sharpest  dart, 
With  all  his  might  his  bow  he  drew ; 

Swift  to  his  beauteous  parent's  heart 
The  too  well-guided  arrow  flew. 

I  faint !  I  die  !  the  goddess  cried  ; 

0  cruel,  couldst  thou  find  none  other, 
To  wreck  thy  spleen  on  •'     Parricide  ! 

Like  Nero,  thou  hast  slain  thy  mother. 

Poor  Cupid  sobbing  scarce  could  speak  ; 
Indeed,  mamma,  I  did  not  know  ye  : 
Alas  !  how  easy  my  mistake ; 

1  took  you  for  your  likeness  Cloe. 

Matthew  Prior.— Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


753.— MERCUEY  AND  CUPID. 

In  sullen  humour  one  day  Jove 

Sent  Hermes  down  to  Ida's  gi-ove, 

Commanding  Cupid  to  deliver 

His  store  of  darts,  his  total  quiver ; 

That  Hermes  should  the  weapons  break, 

Or  throw  them  into  Lethe's  lake. 

Hermes,  you  know,  must  do  his  errand : 
He  found  his  man,  produced  his  warrant ; 
Cupid,  your  darts — this  very  hour — 
There's  no  contending  against  power. 

How  sullen  Jupiter,  just  now, 
I  think  I  said ;  and  you'll  allow, 
That  Cupid  was  as  bad  as  he  : 
Hear  but  the  youngster's  repartee. 

Come,  kinsman  (said  the  little  god). 
Put  off  your  -wings,  lay  by  your  rod ; 
Retire  with  me  to  yonder  bower, 
And  rest  yourself  for  half  an  hour ; 
'Tis  far  indeed  from  hence  to  Heaven, 
But  you  fly  fast ;  and  'tis  but  seven. 
We'll  take  one  cooling  cup  of  nectar ; 
And  drink  to  this  celestial  hector — 

He  break  my  dart,  or  hurt  my  power  I 
He,  Leda's  swan,  and  Danati's  shower ! 
Go,  bid  him  his  wife's  tongue  restrain, 
And  mind  his  thunder,  and  his  rain. — 
My  darts  !  O  certainly  I'll  give  them  : 
From  Cloe's  eyes  he  shall  receive  them. 
There's  one,  the  best  in  all  my  quiver, 
Twang  !  through  his  very  heart  and  liver. 
He  then  shall  pine,  and  sigh,  and  rave  : 
Good  lord  !  what  bustle  shall  we  have ! 
Neptune  must  straight  be  sent  to  sea, 
And  Flora  summoned  twice  a  day  : 
One  must  find  shells,  and  t'other  flowers, 
For  cooling  grots,  and  fragrant  bowers, 
That  Cloe  may  be  served  in  state  : 
The  Hours  must  at  her  toilet  wait : 
Whilst  all  the  reasoning  fools  below 
Wonder  their  watches  go  too  slow. 
Lybs  must  fly  south,  and  Eurus  east, 
For  jewels  for  her  hair  and  breast ; 
No  matter  though  their  cruel  haste 
Sink  cities,  and  lay  forests  waste ; 
No  matter  though  this  fleet  be  lost ; 
Or  that  lie  wind-bound  on  the  coast. 


What  whispering  in  my  mother's  ear ! 
What  care,  that  Juno  should  not  hear ! 
What  work  among  you  scholar  gods  ! 
Phoebus  must  write  him  amorous  odes  : 
And  thou,  poor  cousin,  must  compose 
His  letters  in  submissive  prose  ; 
Whilst  haughty  Cloe,  to  sustain 
The  honour  of  my  mystic  reign, 
Shall  all  his  gifts  and  vows  disdain  ; 
And  laugh  at  your  old  bully's  pain. 

Dear  coz.,  said  Hermes  in  a  fright, 
For  Heaven's  sake,  keep  your   darts !    good 
night. 
Mattheiu  Prior.— Bom  1664,  Died  1721. 


754.— THE  GARLAND. 

The  pride  of  every  grove  I  chose. 

The  \'iolet  sweet,  and  lily  fair. 
The  dappled  pink,  and  blushing  rose, 

To  deck  my  charming  Cloe's  hair. 

At  morn  the  nymph  vouchsafed  to  place 
Upon  her  brow  the  various  wreath  ; 

The  flowers  less  blooming  than  her  face  ; 
The  scent  less  fragrant  than  her  breath. 

The  flowers  she  wore  along  the  day ; 

And  every  nymph  and  shepherd  said, 
That  in  her  hair  they  looked  more  gay 

Than  glowing  in  their  native  bed. 

Undressed  at  evening  when  she  found 
Their  odours  lost,  their  colours  past ; 

She  changed  her  look,  and  on  the  ground 
Her  garland  and  her  eye  she  cast. 

That  eye  dropped  sense  distinct  and  clear. 
As  any  Muse's  tongue  could  speak. 

When  from  its  lid  a  pearly  tear 

Ran  trickling  down  her  beauteous  cheek. 

Dissembling  what  I  knew  too  well, 
My  love,  my  life,  said  I,  explain 

This  change  of  humour  ;  pr'ythee,  tell : 
That  falling  tear — What  does  it  mean  ? 

She  sighed ;  she  smiled ;  and  to  the  flowers 
Pointing,  the  lovely  moralist  said  : 

See,  friend,  in  some  few  fleeting  hours. 
See  yonder,  what  a  change  is  made. 

Ah  me  !  the  blooming  pride  of  May, 
And  that  of  beauty  are  but  one ; 

At  morn  both  flourish  bright  and  gay. 
Both  fade  at  evening,  pale,  and  gone. 

At  dawn  poor  Stella  danced  and  sung  ; 

The  amorous  youth  around  her  bowed ; 
At  night  her  fatal  knell  was  rung  ; 

I  saw,  and  kissed  her  in  her  shroud. 

Such  as  she  is,  who  died  to-day, 
Such  I,  alas  !  may  be  to-morrow  ; 

Go,  Damon,  bid  thy  Muse  display 
The  justice  of  thy  Cloe's  sorrow. 
Matthew  Prior.— Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


HENEY  AND  EMMA. 


[Matthew  Peior. 


755.— HENRY  AND  EMMA. 


Thou,  to  whose  eyes  I  bend,  at  whose  command 
(Though  low  my  voice,  though  ai-tless  be  my 

hand) 
I  take  the  sprightly  reed,  and  sing,  and  play. 
Careless  of  what  the  censuring  world  may  say  : 
Bright  Cloe,  object  of  mj'-  constant  vow, 
Wilt  thou  awhile  unbend  thy  serious  brow ; 
Wilt   thou   with    pleasure   hear  thy    lover's 

strains. 
And   with   one    heavenly   smile    o'erpay  his 

pains  ? 
No  longer  shall  the  Nut-brown  Maid  be  old ; 
Though  since  her  youth  three  hundred  years 

have  roU'd  : 
At  thy  desh-e  she  shall  again  be  raised ; 
And  her  reviving  charms  in  lasting  verse  be 

praised. 
No  longer  man  of  woman  shall  complain. 
That  he  may  love,  and  not  be  loved  again ; 
That  we  in  vain  the  fickle  sex  pursue, 
Who  change  the  constant  lover  for  the  new. 
Whatever  has  been  writ,  whatever  said, 
Of  female  passion  feigned,  or  faith  decayed  : 
Henceforth  shall  in  my  verse  refuted  stand. 
Be  said  to  winds,  or  writ  upon  the  sand. 
And,  while  my  notes  to  future  times  proclaim 
Unconquered  love,  and  ever-during  flame  ; 
O  fairest  of  the  sex  !  be  thou  my  Muse  : 
Deign  on  my  work  thy  influence  to  diffuse ; 
Let  me  partake  the  blessings  I  rehearse. 
And  grant  me,  love,  the  just  reward  of  verse  ! 
As  beauty's  potent  queen,  \Nath  every  grace 
That  once  was  Emma's,  has  adorned  thy  face  ; 
And  as  her  son  has  to  my  bosom  dealt 
That  constant  flame,   which   faithful   Henry 

felt; 
O  let  the  story  with  thy  life  agree. 
Let  men  once  more  the  bright  example  see ; 
What  Emma  was  to  him,  be  thou  to  me. 
Nor  send  me  by  thy  frown  from  her  I  love, 
Distant  and  sad,  a  banished  man  to  rove. 
But  oh  !  with  pity,  long-entreated,  crown 
My  pains  and  hopes  ;  and  when  thou  say'st 

that  one 
Of  all  mankind  thou  lov'st,  oh  !  think  ^n  me 

alone. 
Where   beauteous   Isis   and    her    husband 

Tame 
With  mingled  waves  for  ever  flow  the  same. 
In  times  of  yore  an  ancient  baron  lived ; 
Great   gifts   bestowed,  and  great  respect  re- 
ceived. 
AVhen  dreadful  Edward  with  successful  care 
Led  his  free  Britons  to  the  Gallic  war. 
This  lord  had  headed  his  appointed  bands. 
In  firm  allegiance  to  his  king's  commands  ; 
And  (all  due  honours  faithfuUj^  discharged) 
Had  brought  back  his  paternal  coat  enlarged 
With  a  new  mark,  the  witness  of  his  toil. 
And  no  inglorious  part  of  foreign  sjjoil. 

From   the   loud   camp   retired    and    noisy 

court. 
In  honoui-able  ease  and  rm-al  sport, 


The  remnant  of  his  days  he  safely  passed  ; 
Nor  found  they  lagged  too  slow,   nor  flew  too 

fast. 
He  made  his  wish  with  his  estate  comply, 
Joyful  to  Live,  yet  not  afraid  to  die. 

One  child  he  had,  a  daughter  chaste  and 
fair, 
His  age's  comfort,  and  his  fortune's  heir  ; 
They  called  her  Emma;    for  the  beauteous 

dame. 
Who   gave   the   virgin  birth,  had  borne  the 

name ; 
The  name  the  indulgent  father  doubly  loved ; 
For  in   the   child   the   mother's  charms   im- 
proved. 
Yet   as,   when   little,    round   his    knees    she 

played. 
He   called   her  oft   in  sport   his    Nut-brown 

Maid, 
The   friends  and  tenants  took   the   fondling 

word 
(As  still  thej'^  please,  who  imitate  their  lord) ; 
Usage  confirmed  what  fancy  had  begun  ; 
The   mutual  terms   around    the   lands   were 
j  known ; 

I   And  Emma  and  the  Nut-brown   Maid   were, 
one. 
As  with  her  stature,   stiU  her  charms  in- 
creased ; 
Through  all  the  isle  her  beauty  was  confessed. 
Oh  !  what  perfection  must  that  virgin  share, 
Who  fairest  is  esteemed,  where  all  are  fair  ! 
From  distant  shires  repair  the  noble  youth. 
And  find  report  for  once  had  lessened  truth. 
By  wonder  first,  and  then  by  passion  moved, 
They   came,  they  saw,   they  marvelled,  and 

they  loved. 
By  public  praises,  and  by  secret  sighs, 
I   Each   owned  the  general  power  of  Emma's 
I  eyes. 

j   In  tilts  and  tournaments  the  valiant  strove, 
i   By  glorious  deeds  to  purchase  Emma's  love. 
'.    In  gentle  verse  the  witty  told  their  flame, 
I   And  graced  their  choicest  songs  with  Emma's 
i  name. 

In  vain  they  combated,'  in  vain  they  writ : 
Useless  their   strength,    and   impotent   their 

wit. 
Great  Venus  only  must  direct  the  dart, 
Wliich  else  Avill  never  reach  the  fair   one's 

heart. 
Spite  of  the  attempts  of  force,  and  soft  effects 

of  art. 
Great  Venus  must  prefer  the  happy  one ; 
In  Henry's  cause  her  favour  must  be  shown ; 
And  Emma,  of  mankind,  must  love  but  him 
alone. 
While  these  in  public  to  the  castle  came. 
And  by  their  grandeur  justified  their  flame  ; 
More  secret  ways  the  careful  Henry  takes  ; 
His' squires,  his  arms,  and  equipage  forsakes, 
In  borrowed  name  and  false  attire  arrayed. 
Oft  he  finds  means  to  see  the  beauteous  maid. 
When  Emma  hunts,  in  huntsman's  habit 
dressed, 
Henry  on  foot  pursues  the  bounding  beast ; 

33 


Matthew  Prior. 


HENEY  AND  EMMA. 


[Fifth  Period.- 


In  Ms  right  hand  his  beechen  pole  he  bears, 
And  graceful  at  his  side  his  horn  he  wears. 
Still  to   the  glade,  where  she   has  bent  her 

way, 
"With  knowing  skill  he  drives  the  future  prey  ; 
Bids  her  decline  the  hill,  and  shun  the  brake, 
And  shows  the   path   her  steed  may   safest 

take; 
Directs  her  spear  to  fix  the  glorious  wound, 
Pleased  in   his  toils    to    have   her    triumph 

crowned ; 
And  blows  her  praises  in  no  common  sound. 
A  falconer  Henry  is,  when  Emma  hawks  ; 
With  her  of  tarsels  and  of  lures  he  talks  ; 
Upon  his  wrist  the  towering  merlin  stands, 
Practised  to  rise,  and  stoop  at  her  commands. 
And  when  superior  now  the  bird  has  flown. 
And  headlong  brought  the  tumbling  quarry 

doAvn ; 
With  humble  reverence  he  accosts  the  fair, 
And  with  the  honou.red  feather  decks  her  hair. 
Yet  still,  as  from  the  sportive  field  she  goes 
His  downcast  eye  reveals  his  inward  woes ; 
And  by  his  look  and  sorrow  is  expressed, 
A  nobler  game  pursued  than  bird  or  beast. 

A  shepherd  now  along  the  plain  he  roves, 
And  with  his  jolly  pipe  delights  the  groves. 
The  neighbouring  swains  around  the  stranger 

throng, 
Or  to  admire,  or  emulate  his  song ; 
While  with  soft  sorrow  he  renews  his  lays, 
Nor  heedful  of  their  envy,  nor  their  praise. 
But,  soon  as  Emma's  eyes  adorn  the  plain, 
His  notes  he  raises  to  a  nobler  strain, 
With  dutiful  respect,  and  studious  fear ; 
Lest  any  careless  sound  offend  her  ear. 

A  frantic  gipsy  now,  the  house  he  haunts. 
And  in  wild  phrases  speaks  dissembled  wants. 
With  the  fond  maids  in  palmistry  he  deals  : 
They  tell  the  secret  first,  which  he  reveals  ; 
Says  who  shall  wed,    and  who  shall  be  be- 
guiled ; 
What  groom  shall  get,  and  'squire  maintain 

the  child. 
But,  when  bright  Emma  would  her  fortune 

know, 
A  softer  look  unbends  his  opening  brow ; 
With  trembling  awe  he  gazes  on  her  eye. 
And  in  soft  accents  forms  the  kind  reply  ; 
That  she  shall  prove  as  fortunate  as  fair ; 
And  Hymen's  choicest  gifts  are  aU  reserved 
for  her. 
Now  oft  had   Henry  changed  his  sly  dis- 
guise, 
Unmarked  by  all  but  beauteous  Emma's  eyes ; 
Oft  had  found  means  alone  to  see  the  dame. 
And  at  her  feet  to  breathe  his  amorous  flame, 
And  oft  the  pangs  of  absence  to  remove 
By  letters,  soft  interpreters  of  love. 
Till  Time  and  Industry  (the  mighty  two 
That  bring  our  wishes  nearer  to  our  view) 
Made  him  perceive,  that  the  inclining  fair 
Eeceived  his  vows  with  no  reluctant  ear ; 
That  Venus  had  confirmed  her  equal  reign, 
And  dealt  to  Emma's  heart  a  share  of  Henry's 
pain. 


Wliile    Cupid    smiled,     by  kind    occasion 

blessed. 
And,  with  the  secret  kept,  the  love  increased  ; 
The    amorous    youth    frequents    the     silent 

groves ; 
And  much  he  meditates,  for  much  he  loves. 
He  loves  ;  'tis  true ;  and  is  beloved  again  : 
Great  are  his  joys,  but  will  they  long  remain  ? 
Emma  mfch  smiles  receives  his  present  flame ; 
But  smiling,  will  she  ever  be  the  same  ! 
Beautiful  looks  are  ruled  by  fickle  minds  ; 
And    summer    seas    are    turned    by  sudden 

winds. 
Another  love  may  gain  her  easy  youth  : 
Time  changes  thought ;  and  flattery  conquers 

truth. 
0  impotent  estate  of  human  life. 
Where  hope  and  fear  maintain  eternal  strife  ! 
"Wliere  fleeting  joy  does  lasting  doubt  inspire, 
And  most  we  question  what  we  most  desire  ! 
Amongst    thy    various    gifts,  great   Heaven 

bestow 
Our  cup  of  love  unmixed ;  forbear  to  throw 
Bitter  ingredients  in  ;  nor  pall  the  draught 
With    nauseous    grief;    for    our    ill-judging 

thought 
Hardly  enjoys  the  pleasurable  taste  ; 
Or  deems  it  not  sincere,  or  fears   it  cannot 

last. 
With    wishes    raised,  with  jealousies    op- 
pressed 
(Alternate  tyrants  of  the  human  breast), 
By  one  great  trial  he  resolves  to  prove 
The  faith  of  woman,  and  the  force  of  love. 
If  scanning  Emma's  virtues  he  may  find 
That  beauteous  frame  enclose  a  steady  mind, 
He'll  fix  his  hope,  of  future  joy  seciu'e ; 
And  Hve  a  slave  to  Hymen's  happy  power. 
But  if  the  fair  one,  as  he  fears,  is  frail ; 
If,  poised  aright  in  reason's  equal  scale, 
Light  fly  her  merit,  and  her  faults  prevail ; 
His  mind  he  vows  to  free  from  amorous  care. 
The  latent  mischief  from  his  heart  to  tear. 
Resume  his  azure  arms,  and  shine  again  in 

war. 
South  of  the  castle,  in  a  verdant  glade, 
A  sprePvding  beech  extends  her  friendly  shade  ; . 
Here  oft  the  nymph  his  breathing  vows  had 

lieard, 
Here  oft  her  silence  had  her  heart  declared. 
As  active  spring  awaked  her  infant  buds. 
And  genial  life  informed  the  verdant  woods, 
Henry,  in  knots  involving  Emma's  name, 
Had  haK  expressed  and  half   concealed   liis 

flame. 
Upon  this  tree  ;  and,  as  the  tender  mark 
Grew  with  the   year,  and  widened  with  the 

bark, 
Venus  had  heard  the  virgin's  soft  address, 
That,    as    the    wound,    the    passion    might 

increase. 
As  potent  Nature  shed  her  kindly  showers, 
And  decked  the  various  mead  ynth  opening 

flowers  ; 
Upon  this  tree  the  nymph's  obliging  care 
Had  left  a  frequent  wreath  for  Henry's  hair  ; 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


HENRY  AND  EMMA. 


[Matthew  Pkioe. 


Which  as  with  g-ay  delight  the  lover  found, 
Pleased  with  his  conquest,  with  her  present 

crowned, 
Glorious   through  all  the  plains  he  oft   had 

gone, 
And  to  each  swain  the  mystic  honour  shown  ; 
The  gift  still  praised,  the  giver  still  unknown. 
His  secret  note  the  troubled  Henry  writes, 
To  the  known  tree  the  lovely  maid  invites  ; 
Imperfect  words  and  dubious  terms  express, 
That    unforeseen    mischance    disturbed    his 

peace ; 
That  he  must  something  to  her  ear  commend, 
On  which  her  conduct,  and  liis  life  depend. 

Soon  as  the  fair  one  had  the  note  received, 
The  remnant  of  the  day  alone  she  grieved  ; 
For  different  this  from  every  former  note, 
Which  Venus  dictated,  and  Henry  wrote  ; 
Which  told  her  all  his  future  hopes  were  laid 
On  the  dear  bosom  of  his  Nut-brown  Maid ; 
Which  always  blessed  her  eyes,  and  owned 

her  power ; 
And  bid  her  oft  adieu,  yet  added  more. 

Now  night  advanced.     The  house  in  sleep 

were  laid ; 
The  nurse  experienced,  and  the  prying  maid ; 
And  last  that  sprite,  which   does   incessant 

haunt 
The  lover's  steps,  the  ancient  maiden-aunt. 
To  her  dear  Henry  Emma  wings  her  way, 
With  quickened  pace  repairing  forced  delay ; 
For  love,  fantastic  power,  that  is  afraid 
To  stir  abroad  till  watchfulness  be  laid, 
Undaunted  then  o'er  cliffs  and  valleys  strays, 
And  leads  his  votaries  safe  through  pathless 

ways. 
Not  Argus  with  his  hundred  eyes  shall  find 
Where  Cupid  goes,  though  he,  poor  guide  !  is 

bhnd. 
The  maiden  first  arriving,  sent  her  eye 
To  ask,  if  yet  its  chief  delight  were  nigh  ; 
With  fear  and  with  desire,  with  joy  and  pain, 
She  sees,  and  runs  to  meet  him  on  the  plain. 
But  oh !  his  steps  proclaim  no  lover's  haste  : 
On  the  low  ground  his  fixed  regards  are  cast ; 
His  artful  bosom  heaves  dissembled  sighs ; 
And  tears   suborned  fall    copious   from   his 

eyes. 
With  ease,  alas !  we  credit  what  we  love ; 
His  painted  grief  does  real  sorrow  move 
In  the  afiiicted  fair  ;  adown  her  cheek 
Trickling    the    genuine    tears    their  current 

break ; 
Attentive   stood  the   mournful  nymph;   the 

man 
Broke  silence  first,  the  tale  alternate  ran. 


Sincere,  O  tell  me,  hast  thou  felt  a  pain, 
Emma,  beyond  what  woman  Icnows  to  feign  ? 
Has  thy  uncertain  bosom  ever  strove 
With  the  first  tumults  of  a  real  love  ? 
Hast  thou  now  dreaded,  and  now  blest  his 

away, 
Py  turns  averse,  and  joyful  to  obey  ? 


Thy  virgin  softness  hast  thou  e'er  bewailed  ; 
As  Eeason  yielded,  and  as  Love  prevailed  ? 
And  wept  the  potent  god's  resistless  dart, 
His  killing  pleasure,  his  ecstatic  smart, 
And   heavenly   poison   thrilling  through  thy 

heart  ?  

If  so,  with  pity  view  my  wretched  state. 
At  least  deplore,  and  then  forget  my  fate ; 
To    some    more    happy   knight   reserve   thy 

charms  ; 
By  Fortune  favoured,  and  successful  arms  : 
And  only,  as  the  sun's  revolving  ray 
Brings  back  each  year  this  melancholy  day, 
Permit  one  sigh,  and  set  apai't  one  tear, 
To  an  abandoned  exile's  endless  care. 
For  me,  alas  !  oUt-cast  of  human  race, 
Love's  anger  only  waits,  and  dire  disgrace ; 
For  lo  !  these  hands  in  murther  are  imbrued, 
These  trembling  feet  by  justice  are  pursued  ; 
Fate  calls  aloud,  and  hastens  me  away, 
A  shameful  death  attends  my  longer  stay  ; 
And  I  this  night  must  fly  from  thee  and  love, 
Condemned  in  lonely  woods,  a  banished  man, 

to  rovo. 


What  is  our  bliss,  that  changeth  with  the 

moon  ; 
And  day  of  Kfe,  that  darkens  ere  'tis  noon  ? 
What  is  true  passion,  if  unblest  it  dies, 
And  where  is  Emma's  joy,  if  Henry  flies  ? 
If  love,  alas  !  be  pain,  the  pain  I  bear 
No  thought  can  figure,  and  no  tongue  declare. 
Ne'er    faithful   woman  felt,    nor    false    one 

feigned, 
The  flames  which  long  have   in   my  bosom 

reigned : 
The  god  of  love  himself  inhabits  there, 
With  all  his  rage,  and  dread,  and  grief,  and 

care. 
His  complement  of  stores,  and  total  war. 

O  !  cease  then  coldly  to  suspect  my  love  ; 
And  let  my  deed  at  least  my  faith  approve. 
Alas  !  no  youth  shall  my  endearments  share 
Nor  day  nor  night  shall  interrupt  my  care  ; 
No  future  story  shall  with  truth  upbraid 
The  cold  indifference  of  the  Nut-brown  Maid 
Nor  to  hard  banishment  shall  Henry  run, 
While  careless  Emma  sleeps  on  beds  of  down 
View  me  resolved,  where'er  thou  lead'st,  to  go 
Friend  to  thy  pain,  and  partner  of  thy  woo  ; 
For  I  attest  fair  Venus  and  her  son. 
That  I,  of   all  mankind,   will   love  but  thco 

alone. 


Let  Prudence  yet  obstruct  thy  venturous 
way, 
And  take  good  heed,  what  men  will  think  and 

say; 
That  beauteous  Emma  vagrant  courses  took. 
Her  father's  house  and  civil  life  forsook  : 
That,  full  of  youthful  blood,  and  fond  of  man, 
She  to  the  woodland  with  an  exile  ran. 
Reflect,  that  lessened  fame  is  ne'er  regained  ; 
And  virgin  honour,  once,  is  always  stained  : 

33* 


IMatthew  Prior.] 


HENEY  AND  EMMA. 


[Fifth  Period. - 


Timely  advised,  the  coming  evil  shun  ; 
Better  not  do  the  deed,  than  weep  it  done. 
No  penance  can  absolve  our  guilty  fame ; 
Nor  tears,  that  wash  out   sin,  can  wash  out 

shame. 
Then  fly  the  sad  effects  of  desperate  love  ; 
And  leave  a  banished   man   through   lonely 

woods  to  rove. 


Let  Emma's  hapless  case  be  falsely  told 
By  the  rash  young,  or  the  ill-natured  old ; 
Let  every  tongue  its  various  censures  choose, 
Absolve  with  coldness,  or  with  spite  accuse  ; 
Fair   truth  at  last   her   radiant   beams   will 

raise, 
And   malice    vanquished    heightens    virtue's 

praise. 
L€t  then  thy  favour  but  indulge  my  flight, 
O  !  let  my  presence  make  thy  travels  light. 
And  potent  Venus  shall  exalt  my  name. 
Above  the  rumours  of  censorious  Fame. 
Nor  from  that  busy  demon's  restless  power 
Will  ever  Emma  other  grace  implore, 
Than  that  this  truth  should  to  the  world  be 

known, 
That  I,  of  all  mankind,  have  loved  but  thee 

alone. 


But  canst  thou  wield  the  sword,  and  bend 

the  bow, 
With  active  force  repel  the  sturdy  foe  ? 
When   the   loud   tumult    speaks    the    battle 

nigh,^ 
And  winged  deaths  in  whistling  arrows  fly ; 
Wilt  thou,  though  wounded,  yet  undaunted 

stay, 
Perform  thy  part,  and  share  the  dangerous 

day  ? 
Then,  as  thy  strength  decays,  thy  heart  will 

fan. 
Thy  Hmbs  all  trembling,  and  thy  cheeks  all 

pale; 
With  fruitless  sorrow,  thou,  inglorious  maid, 
Wilt  weep  thy  safety  by  thy  love  betrayed  : 
Then  to  thy  friend,  by  foes  o'ercharged,  deny 
Thy  little  useless  aid,  and  coward  fly  : 
Then  wilt  thou  curse  the  chance  that  made 

thee  love 
A  banished  man,  condemned  in  lonelj''  woods 

to  rove. 


With  fatal  certainty  Tlaalestris  knew 
To  send  the  arrow  from  the  twanging  yew  ; 
And,  great  in  arms,  and  foremost  in  the  war, 
Bonduca  brandished  high  the  British  spear. 
Could  thirst  of  vengeance  and  desire  of  fame 
Excite  the  female  breast  ^vith  martial  flame, 
And  shall  not  love's  diviner  power  inspire 
More  hardy  virtue,  and  more  generous  fire  ? 

Near  thee,  mistrust  not,  constant  I'll  abide. 
And  fall,  or  vanquish,  fighting  by  thy  side. 
Though  my  inferior  strength  may  not  allow, 
That  I  should  bear  or  draw  the  warrior  bow ; 


With  ready  hand,  I  will  the  shaft  supply, 
And  joy  to  see  thy  victor  arrows  fly. 
Touched  in  the  battle  by  the  hostile  reed, 
Shouldst  thou  (but  Heaven  avert  it !)  shouldst 

thou  bleed ; 
To   stanch  the   wounds,  my  finest  lawn   I'd 

tear. 
Wash  them  with  tears,  and  wipe  them  with 

my  hair ; 
Blest,  when  my  dangers  and  my  toils  have 

shown 
That  I,  of  aU  mankind,  could  love  but  thee 

alone. 


But  canst  thou,  tender  maid,  canst  thou 

sustain 
Afflictive  want,  or  hunger's  pressing  pain  ? 
Those  limbs,  in  lawn  and  softest  silk  arrayed. 
From  sunbeams  guarded,  and  of  winds  afraid  ; 
Can  they  bear  angry  Jove  !  can  they  resist 
The  parching  dog- star,  and  the  bleak  north- 
east ? 
When,  chilled  by  adverse  snows  and  beating 

rain, 
We   tread  with    weary   steps   the   longsome 

plain; 
When  with  hard   toil    we  seek    our  evening 

food. 
Berries   and  acorns,   from   the  neighbouring 

wood ; 
And  find  among  the  cliffs  no  other  house. 
But  the  thin  covert  of  some  gathered  boughs  ; 
Wilt  thou  not  then  reluctant  send  thine  eye 
Around  the  dreary  waste  ;  and  weeping  try 
(Though  then,  alas  !  that  trial  be  too  late) 
To  find  thy  father's  hospitable  gate. 
And  seats,  where  ease   and  plenty  brooding 

sate ! 
Those  seats,  whence  long  excluded  thou  must 

mourn; 
That  gate,  for  ever  barred  to  thy  return : 
Wilt  thou  not  then  bewail  ill-fated  love. 
And  hate   a  banished    man,    condemned    in 

woods  to  rove  ? 


Thy  rise  of  fortune  did  I  only  wed, 
From  its  decline  determined  to  recede  ; 
Did  I  but  purpose  to  embark  with  thee 
On  the  smooth  surface  of  a  summer's  sea : 
While  gentle  zephyrs 'play  in  prosperous  gales, 
And  fortune's  favour  fills  the  swelling  sails  ; 
But  would  forsake  the  ship,    and  make  the 

shore, 
"When  the  winds  whistle,  and  the   tempests 

roar? 
No,  Henry,  no  :  one  sacred  oath  has  tied 
Our  loves  ;  one  destiny  our  life  shall  guide  ; 
Nor  wild  nor  deep  our  common  way  divide. 
When  from  the  cave  thou  risest  with  the 

day. 
To  beat  the  woods,  and  rouse  the  bounding 

prey; 
The  cave  with  moss  and  branches  I'll  adorn, 
And  cheerfvd  sit  to  wait  my  lord's  return. 


Frovi  1689  tn  1727.] 


HEJSTBY  AND  EMMA. 


[Matthew  PrioPw 


And,  when  thou  frequent  bring' st  the  smitten 

deer 
(For  seldom,  archers  say,  thy  arrows  err), 
I'll  fetch  quick  fuel  from   the  neighbouring 

wood, 
And  strike  the  sparkling  flint,  and  dress  the 

food; 
With  humble  duty  and  officious  haste, 
I'll  cull  the  furthest  mead  for  thy  repast ; 
The  choicest  herbs  I  to  thy  board  will  bring, 
And  draw  thy  water  from  the  freshest  spring ; 
And,  when  at  night  Avith  weary  toil  oppressed, 
Soft  slumbers  thou  enjoy' st,  and  wholesome 

rest; 
Watchful  I'U  guard  thee,  and  with  midnight 

prayer 
Weary  the  gods  to  keep  thee  in  their  care ; 
And  joyous  ask,  at  mom's  returning  ray. 
If  thou  hast  health,  and  I  may  bless  the  day. 
My  thoughts  shall  fix,  my  latest  wish  depend, 
On   thee,  guide,    gaardian,    kinsman,  father, 

friend : 
By  all  these  sacred  names  be  Henry  known 
To  Emma's  heart ;  and  grateful  let  him  own. 
That  she,  of  all  mankind,  could  love  but  him 

alone! 


Vainly  thou  tell'st  me,  what  the  woman's 

care 
Shall  in  the  Avildness  of  the  wood  prepare  : 
Thou,  ere  thou  goest,  unhappiest  of  thy  kind, 
Must  leave  the  habit  and  the  sex  behind. 
No  longer  shaU  thy  comely  tresses  break 
In  flowing  ringlets  on  thy  snowy  neck  ; 
Or  .sit  behind  thy  head,  an  ample  round, 
In  graceful  braids  with  various  ribbon  bound  : 
No  longer  shall  the  bodice,  aptly  laced, 
From  thy  full  bosom  to  thy  slender  waist, 
That  air  and  harmony  of  shape  express. 
Fine  by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less  : 
Nor  shall  thy  lower  garments  artful  plait, 
From  thy  fair  side  dependent  to  thy  feet, 
Arm   their   chaste   beauties   with    a    modest 

pride, 
And  double  every  charm  they  seek  to  hide. 
The  ambrosial  plenty  of  thy  shining  hair, 
Cropped  off  and  lost,   scarce  lower  than  thy 

ear 
ShaU  stand  uncouth  :  a  horseman's  coat  shall 

hide 
Thy  taper  shape,  and  comeliness  of  side. 
The  short  trunk-hose  shall  show  thy  foot  and 

knee 
Licentious,  and  to  common  eye-sight  free  : 
And,  with  a  bolder  stride  and  looser  air. 
Mingled  with  men,  a  man  thou  must  appear. 

Nor  solitude,  nor  gentle  peace  of  mind, 
Mistaken  maid,  shalt  thou  in  forests  find ; 
'Tis  long  since  Cynthia  and  her  train  were 

there  : 
Or  guardian  gods  made  innocence  their  care. 
Vagrants  and  outlaws  shall  offend  thy  view ; 
For  such  must  be  my  friends,  a  hideous  crew. 
By  adverse  fortune  mixed  in  social  ill, 
Trained  to  assault,  and  disciplined  to  kill ; 


Their  common  loves,  a  lewd  abandoned  pack, 

The  beadle's  lash  still  flagrant  on  their  back  : 

By  sloth  corrupted,  by  disorder  fed, 

Made  bold  by  want  and  prostitute  for  bread. 

With  such  must  Emma  hunt  the  tedious  day. 

Assist  their  violence,  and  divide  their  prey  : 

With  such  she  must  return  at  setting  light. 

Though  not  partaker,  witness  of  their  night. 

Thy  ear,  inured  to  charitable  sounds 

And    pitying    love,    must    feel    the    hateful 

wounds 
Of  jest  obscene  and  vulgar  ribaldry, 
The  ill-bred  question,  and  the  lewd  reply  ; 
Brought  by  long  habitude  from  bad  to  worse,. 
Must   hear   the   frequent    oath,   the    direful 

curse. 
That  latest  weapon  of  the  wretches'  war, 
And  blasphemy,  sad  comrade  of  despair. 

Now,  Emma,  now  the  last  reflection  make, 
What  thou  wouldst  follow,   what  thou  must 

forsake  : 
By  our  ill-omened  stars,  and  adverse  Heaven,. 
No  middle  object  to  thy  choice  is  given. 
Or  yield  thy  virtue  to  attain  thy  love  ; 
Or  leave  a  banished  man,  condemned  in  woods- 

to  rove. 


0  grief  of  heart !  that  our  unhappy  fates 
Force  thee  to  suffer  what  thy  honour  hates  : 
Mix  thee  amongst  the  bad ;  or  make  thee  run 
Too  near  the  paths  which  virtue  bids  thee 

shun. 
Yet  with  her  Henry  still  let  Emma  go  ; 
Vvith  him  abhor  the  vice,  but  share  the  woe ; 
And  sure  my  little  heart  can  never  err 
Amidst  the  worst,  if  Henry  still  be  there. 
I        Our  outward  act  is  prompted  from  within; 
I   And  from  the  sinner's  mind  proceeds  the  sua ; 

By  her  own  choice  free  virtue  is  approved, 
I   Nor  by  the  force  of  outward  objects  moved. 
I   Who  has  assayed  no  danger,  gains  no  praise. 
I   In  a  small  isle,  amidst  the  widest  seas, 
Triumphant  Constancy  has  fixed  her  seat, 
In  vain  the  Syrens  sing,  the  tempests  beat : 
Their   flattery  she    rejects,    nor   fears   their 
threat. 
For  thee  alone  these  litte  charms  I  dressed : 
Condemned  them,  or  absolved  them  by  thy 

test. 
In  comely  figure  ranged  my  jewels  shone, 
Or  neghgently  placed  for  thee  alone ; 
For  thee  again  they  shall  be  laid  aside  ; 
The  woman,  Henry,  shall  put  off  her  pride 
For  thee  :  my  clothes,   my  sex,  exchanged  for 

thee, 
I'll  mingle  with  the  people's  wretched  lee; 
O  fine  extreme  of  human  infamy  ! 
Wanting  the  scissors,  with  these  hands  I'll 

tear 
(If  that  obstructs  my  flight)  this  load  of  hair. 
Black  soot,  or  yellow  walnut,  shall  disgrace 
This  little  red  and  white  of  Emma's  face. 
These  nails  with  scratches  shall  deform  my 

breast. 
Lest  by  my  look  or  colour  be  expressed 


Matthew  Prioe.] 


HENEY  AND  EMMA. 


[Fifth  Peeiod.- 


The  mark  of  aught  high-born,  or  ever  better 


Yet  in  this  commerce,  under  this  disguise, 
Let  me  be  grateful  still  to  Henrj^'s  eyes ; 
Lost  to  the  world,  let  me  to  him  be  known : 
My  fate  I  can  absolve,  if  he  shall  own, 
That,    leaving   all  mankind,  I  love  but  him 
alone. 


O  wildest  thoughts  of  an  abandoned  mind  ! 
Name,  habit,  parents,  woman,  left  behind, 
Even  honour  dubious,  thou  prefer' st  to  go 
Wild  to  the  woods  with  me :  said  Emma  so  ? 
Or  did  I  dream  what  Emma  never  said  ? 
O  guilty  error  !  and  O  wretched  maid ! 
Whose  roving  fancy  would  resolve  the  same 
With   him,  who  next   shall  tempt  her  easy 

fame; 
And  blow  with  empty  words  the  susceptible 

flame. 
Now  why  should    doubtful    terms  thy  mind 

perplex, 
Confess  thy  frailty,  and  avow  the  sex  : 
No  longer  loose  desire  for  constant  love 
Mistake ;  but  say,  'tis  man  with  whom  thou 

long'st  to  rove. 


Arc  there  not  poisons,  racks,   and  flames, 
and  swords. 
That  Emma  thus  must  die  bj'- Henry's  words  ? 
Yet  what  could  swords  or  poison,  racks  or 


But  mangle  and  disjoint  this  brittle  frame  ! 
More     fatal    Henry's    words,    they    murder 

Emma's  fame. 
And   fall   these   sayings   from   that  gentle 

tongue. 
Where  civil  speech  and  soft  persuasion  hung  ; 
^Vhose     artfol     sweetness    and    harmonious 

strain. 
Courting  my  grace,  yet  courting  it  in  vain, 
Called  sighs,  and  tears,  and  wishes,  to  its  aid  ; 
And,  whilst  it  Henry's  glowing  flame  conveyed, 
Stni  blame  the  coldness   of  the   Nut-brown 

Maid  ? 
Let  envious  jealousy  and  canker'd  spite 
Produce  my  .actions  to  severest  light. 
And  tax  my  open  day,  or  secret  night. 
Did   e'er    my  tongue    speak   my  unguarded 

heart 
The  least  inclined  to  play  the  wanton's  part  ? 
Did  e'er  my  eye  one  inward  thought  reveal, 
Which  angels  might  not  hear,  and  virgins  tell  ? 
And  hast  thou,  Henry,  in  my  conduct  known 
One  fault,  but  that  which  I  must  never  own. 
That  I,  of  all  mankind,  have  loved  but  thee 

alone  ? 


Vainly  thou  talk'st  of  loving  me  alone  : 
Each  man  is  man ;  and  all  our  sex  is  one. 
False  are  our  words,  and  fickle  is  our  mind ; 
Nor  in  love's  ritual  can  we  ever  find 
Vows  made  to  last,  or  promises  to  bind. 


By  nature  prompted,  and  for  empire  made, 
Alike  by  strength  or  cunning  we  invade ; 
AVhen  armed  with  rage  we  march  against  the 

foe, 
We  lift  the  battle-axe,  and  draw  the  bow  ; 
When,  fired  with  passion,  we  attack  the  fair. 
Delusive  sighs  and  brittle  vows  we  bear ; 
Our  falsehood  and  our  arms  have  equal  use ; 
As  they  our  conquest  or  dehght  produce. 
The  fooHsh  heart  thougav'st,  again  receive. 
The  only  boon  departing  love  can  give. 
To  be  less  wretched,  be  no  longer  true ; 
What  strives  to  fly  thee,  why  shouldst  thou 

pursue  ? 
Forget  the  present  flame,  indulge  a  new  ; 
Single  the  loveliest  of  the  amorous  youth  ; 
Ask  for  his  vow ;  but  hope  not  for  his  truth. 
The   next    man    (and    the    next   thou   shalt 

believe) 
Will  pawn  his  gods,  intending  to  deceive ; 
Wni  kneel,    implore,    persist,  o'ercome,  and 

leave. 
Hence  let  thy  Cupid  aim  his  arrows  right ; 
Be  wise  and  false,  shun  trouble,  seek  delight ; 
Change  thou  the  first,  nor  wait  thy  lover's 

fiight. 
Why  shouldst  thou  weep  ?  let  nature  judge 

our  case ; 
I  saw  thee  young  and  fair ;  pursued  the  chase 
Of  youth  and  beauty  :  I  another  saw 
Fairer  and  younger  :  yielding  to  the  law 
Of  our  all-ruling  mother,  I  pursued 
More  youth,  more  beauty ;  blest  vicissitude  ! 
My    active    heart    still    keeps    its    pristine 

flame; 
The  object  altered,  the  desire  the  same. 

This    younger,  fairer,   pleads  her  rightful 

charms ; 
With  present  power  compels  me  to  her  arms. 
And  much  I  fear,  from  my  subjected  mind 
(If  beauty's  force  to  constant  love  can  bind). 
That   years   may   roU,    ere   ia  her  turn  the 

maid 
Shall  weep  the  fury  of  my  love  decayed  : 
And  weeping  follow  me,  as  thou  dost  now. 
With  idle  clamours  of  a  broken  vow. 

Nor  can  the  wildness  of  thy  wishes  err 
So  wide,  to  hope  that  thou  mayst  live  with 

her. 
Love,    wcU   thou    know'st,    no    partnership 

allows  : 
Cupid  averse  rejects  divided  vows  : 
Then   from    thy   foolish   heart,     vain   maid, 

remove 
An  useless  sorrow,  and  an  ill-starred  love  ; 
And  leave  me,  Avith  the  fair,  at  large  in  w^oods 

to  rove. 


Are  we  in  life  through  one  great  error  led  ; 
Is  each  man  perjured,   and  each  nymph  be- 
trayed ? 
Of  the  superior  sex  art  thou  the  worst  ? 
Am  I  of  mine  the  most  completely  cursed  ? 
Yet  let  me  go  with  thee ;  and  going  prove. 
From  w^hat  I  wiU  endure,  how  much  I  love. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


HENEY  AND  EMMA. 


[Matthew  Prior. 


This  potent  beauty,  this  triumphant  fair, 
Tliis  happy  object  of  our  different  care, 
Her  let  me  follow ;  her  let  me  attend 
A    servant    (she    may    scorn    the    name    of 

friend). 
What  she  demands,  incessant  I'U  prepare ; 
I'll  weave  her  garlands ;   and  I'll  plait  her 

hair : 
My  busy  diligence  shall  deck  her  board 
(For    there    at    least    I    may  approach   my 

lord) ; 
And,  when  her  Henry's  softer  hours  advise 
His  sen'ant's  absence,  mth  dejected  eyes 
Far  I'll  recede,  and  sighs  forbid  to  rise. 

Yet,   when   increasing   grief    brings     slow 

disease  ; 
And  ebbing  life,  on  terms  severe  as  these, 
Will  have  its  little  lamp  no  longer  fed  ; 
WTien   Henry's   mistress   shows   him   Emma 

dead ; 
Rescue  my  poor  remains  from  vile  neglect : 
V/ith  virgin  honours  let  my  hearse  be  decked. 
And  decent  emblem ;  and  at  least  persuade 
This  happy  nymph,  that  Emma  may  be  laid 
Where  thou,  dear  author  of  my  death,  where 

she, 
With  frequent  eye  my  sepulclire  may  see. 
The  nymph  amidst  her  joys  may  haply  breathe 
One  pious  sigh,  reflecting  on  my  death, 
And  the   sad  fate  which   she   may  one  day 

prove, 
"Who  hopes  from  Henrj^'s  vows  eternal  love. 
And  thou  forsv^rom,  thou  cruel,  as  thou  art, 
If  Emma's  image  ever  touched  thy  heart ; 
Thou  sure  must  give  one  thought,  and  drop 

one  tear 
To  her,  whom  love  abandoned  to  despair  ; 
To  her,  who,  dying,  on  the  wounded  stone 
Bid  it  in  lasting  characters  bo  known. 
That,    of    mankind,     she    loved     but    thee 

alone. 

HENRY. 

Hear,  solemn  Jove  ;  and  .conscious  Venus, 


And  thou,  bright  maid,  believe  me  whilst  I 


No  time,  no  change,  no  future  flame,  shall 

move 
The  weU-placed  basis  of  my  lasting  love. 
O  powerful  virtue  !  O  victorious  fair ! 
At  least  excuse  a  trial  too  severe  : 
lieceive  the  triumph,  and  forget  the  war. 
No  banished  man,  condemned  in  woods  to 

rove, 
Intreats  thy  pardon,  and  implores  thy  love  : 
No  perjured  knight  desires  to  quit  thy  arms. 
Fairest  collection  of  thy  sex's  charms, 
Crown  of  my  love,  and  honour  of  my  youth ! 
Henry,  thy  Henry,  with  eternal  truth. 
As  thou  mayst  wish,  shall  all  his  life  emploj, 
And  found  his  glory  in  his  Emma's  joy. 
j  In  me  behold  the  potent  Edgar's  heir, 

Illustrious  earl ;    him  terrible  in  war 
Let  Loyre  confess,  for  she  has  felt  his  sword. 
And  trembling  fled  before  the  British  lord. 


Him   great  in  peace   and  wealth  fair  Deva 

knows ; 
For  she  amidst  his  spacious  meadows  flows ; 
Inclines  her  urn  upon  his  fattened  lands  ; 
And  sees  his   numerous   herds    imprint   her 

sands. 
And  thou,  my  fair,  my  dove,  shali  raise  thy 

thought 
To  greatness  next  to  empire ;  shalt  be  brought 
With  solemn  pomp  to  my  paternal  seat : 
Where  peace  and  plenty  on  thy  word  shall 

wait. 
Music  and  song  shall  wake  the  marriage-day  : 
And,    whilst   the   priests   accuse  the  bride's 

delay, 
Myrtles  and  roses  shall  obstruct  her  way. 
Friendship  shall  still  thy   evening   feasts 

adorn. 
And   blooming    peace    shall   ever   bless    thy 

morn. 
Succeeding  years  their  happy  race  shall  run, 
And  age  unheeded  by  delight  come  on ; 
While  yet  superior  love  shall  mock  his  power, 
And   when   old  Time   shall    turn  the   fated 

hour, 
Which  only  can  our  well- tied  knot  unfold  ; 
"What  rests  of  both,  one  septdchre  shall  hold. 
Hence   then   for   ever    from    my   Emma's 

breast 
(That  heaven  of   softness,  and  that  seat  of 

rest) 
Ye  doubts  and  fears,  and  all  that  know  to 

move 
Tormenting  grief,  and  all  that  trouble  love, 
Scattered  by  winds  recede,  and  wild  in  forests 

rove. 


O  day  the  fairest  sure  that  ever  rose ! 
Period  and  end  of  anxious  Emma's  vroes ! 
Sire  of  her  joy,  and  source  of  her  deKght ; 
O !    winged  with    pleasure    take   thy   happy 

flight, 
And  give  each  future  morn  a  tincture  of  thy 

white. 
Yet  tell  thy  votary,  potent  queen  of  love, 
Henry,  my  Henry,  wiU  he  never  rove  ? 
Will  he  be  ever  kind,  and  just,  and  good  ? 
And  is  there  yet  no  mistress  in  the  wood  ? 
None,  none  there  is ;  the  thought  was  rash 

and  vain  ; 
A  false  idea,  and  a  fancied  pain. 
Doubt  shaU  for  ever  quit   my  strengthened 

heart. 
And  anxious  jealousy's  corroding  smart ; 
Nor  other  inmate  shall  inhabit  there. 
But   soft   Belief,   young    Joy,   and    pleasing 

Care  : 
Hence  let  the  tides  of  plenty  ebb  and  flow, 
And  fortune's  various  gale  unheeded  blow. 
If  at  my  feet  the  suppliant  goddess  stands. 
And  sheds  her  treasure  with  unwearied  hands; 
Her  present  favour  cautious  I'll  embrace. 
And  not  unthankful  use  the  profi'ered  grace  : 
If  she  reclaims  the  temporary  boon. 
And  tries  her  pinions,  fluttering  to  be  gone ; 


Matthew  Prior.] 


HENEY  AND  EMMA. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


Secure  of  mind,  I'll  obviate  her  intent, 
And  unconcerned  return  the  goods  she  lent. 
Nor  happiness  can  I,  nor  misery  feel, 
From  any  turn  of  her  fantastic  wheel : 
Friendship's  great  laws,  and  love's  superior 

powers. 
Must  mark  the  colour  of  my  future  hours. 
From  the  events  which  thy  commands  create 
I  must  my  blessings  or  my  sorrows  date, 
And  Henry's  wJJl  must  dictate  Emma's  fate. 
Yet  while  with  close  delight   and  inward 
pride 
(Which  from  the  world  my  careful  soul  shall 

hide) 
I  see  thee,  lord  and  end  of  my  desire, 
Exalted  high  as  virtue  can  require  ; 
With    power    invested,    and    with    pleasure 

cheered ; 
Sought  by  the  good,  by  the  oppressor  feared  ; 
Loaded  and  blest  with  all  the  affluent  store, 
Which  human  vows  at    smoking  shrines  im- 
plore ; 
Grateful  and  humble  grant  me  to  employ 
My  life  subservient  only  to  thy  joy  ; 
And  at  my  death  to  bless  thy  kindness  shown 
To  her,  who  of  mankind  could  love  but  thee 
alone. 

While    thus   the    constant    pair   alternate 

said, 
Joyful  above  them  and  around  them  played 
Angels  and  sportive  loves,  a  numerous  crowd ; 
Smiling  they  clapped  their  wings,  and  lew 

they  bowed  : 
They  tumbled  all  their  little  quivers  o'er, 
To  choose  propitious  shafts,  a  precious  store  ; 
That,  when  their  god  should  take  his  future 

darts, 
To  strike  (however  rarely)  constant  lieai-ts, 
His  happy  skill  might  proper  arms  employ, 
All  tipped  with  pleasure,  and  all  winged  with 

joy: 
And  those,  they  vowed,  whose  lives  should 

imitate 
These  lovers'  constancy,  should  share  their 

fate. 
The  queen  of  beauty  stopped  her  bridled 

doves ; 
Approved  the  little  labour  of  the  loves  ; 
Was  proud  and  pleased  the  mutual  vow  to 

hear ; 
And  to  the  triumph  called  the  god  of  war  : 
Soon  as  she  calls,  the  god  is  always  near. 
Now,  Mars,  she  said,  let  Fame  exalt  her 

voice. 
Nor  let  thy  conquests  only  be  her  choice : 
But,  when  she  sings  great  Edward  from  the 

field 
Ketumed,  the  hostile  spear  and  captive  shield 
In  Concord's  temple  hung,  and  Gallia  taught 

to  yield ; 
And  when,  as  prudent  Saturn  shall  complete 
The  years  designed  to  perfect  Britain's  state, 
The  swift-winged  power  shall  take  her  trump 

again. 
To  sinjf  her  favourite  Anna's  wondrous  reisTi ; 


To  recollect  unwearied  Marlborough's  toils, 
Old  Rufus'  hall  unequal  to  his  spoils  ; 
The  British  soldier  from  his  high  command 
Glorious,  and  Gaul  thrice  vanquished  by  his 

hand : 
Let  her  at  least  perform  what  I  desire ; 
With  second  breath  the  vocal  brass  inspire  ; 
And  tell  the  nations,  in  no  vulgar  strain, 
What  wars  I  manage,  and   what  wreaths  I 

gain. 
And,  when  thy  tumults  and   thy  fights  are 

past. 
And  when  thy  laurels  at  my  feet  are  cast, 
Faithful   mayst    thou,   like    British    Henry, 

prove  : 
And,  Emma-like,  let  me  return  thy  love. 
Renowned    for    truth,    let    all    thy    sons 

appear ; 
And  constant  beauty  shall  reward  their  care. 
Mars   smiled,   and    bowed:     the    Cyprian 

deity 
Turned  to  the  glorious  ruler  of  the  sky ; 
And  thou,  she  smiling  said,  great  god  of  days 
And  verse,    behold    my  deed,    and   sing  my 

praise, 
As  on  the  British  earth,  my  favourite  isle. 
Thy  gentle  rays  and  kindest  influence  smile, 
Through  aU  her  laughing  fields  and  verdant 

groves, 
Proclaim  with  joy  these  memorable  loves. 
From  every  annual  course  let  one  great  day 
To  celebrated  sports  and  floral  play 
Be  set  aside  ;  and,  in  the  softest  lays 
Of  thy  poetic  sons,  be  solemn  praise 
And  everlasting  marks  of  honour  paid. 
To  the  true  lover  and  the  Nut-brown  Maid. 

Matthew  Prior.— Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


756.— THE  THIEF  AND  THE  COR- 
DELIER. 

Who  has  e'er  been  at  Paris  must  needs  know 
the  Greve, 

The  fatal  retreat  of  th'  unfortunate  brave  ; 

Where  honour  and  justice  most  oddly  con- 
tribute 

To  ease  heroes'  pains  by  a  halter  and  gibbet ; 
Derry  down,  doAvn,  hey  derry  down. 

There  death  breaks  the  shackles  which  force 

had  put  on; 
And  the  hangman  completes  what  the  judge 

but  begun ; 
There  the  squire  of  the  pad,  and  the  knight  of 

the  post. 
Find  their  pains  no  more  balked,   and  their 

hopes  no  more  crossed. 

Derry  do^vn,  etc. 

Great  claims  are  there  made,  and  great  secrets 

are  known ; 
And  the  king,  and  the  law,  and  the  thief  has 

his  own ; 


From  1689  tol-727.] 


PEOTOGENES  AND  APELLES. 


[Matthew  Prior. 


But  my  hearers  cry  out  :  What  a  deuce  dost 

thou  ail  ? 
Cut  off  thy  reflections,  and  give  us  thy  tale. 
Derry  do^vn,  etc. 

'Twas  there  then,  in  civil  respect  to  harsh 

laws, 
And  for  want  of  false  witness,  to  back  a  bad 

cause, 
A    Korman,     though    late,    was    obliged    to 

appear ; 
And  who  to  assist,  but  a  grave  Cordelier  ? 
Derry  down,  etc. 

The  squire,  whose  good  grace  was  to  open  the 

scene, 
Seemed   not   in   great   haste,  that  the  show 

should  begin ; 
Now  fitted  the  halter,  now  traversed  the  cart ; 
And  often  took  leave ;  but  was  loth  to  depart. 
Derry  do^vn,  etc. 

What  frightens  you  thus,  my  good  son,  says 

the  priest ; 
You  murdered,  are  sorry,  and  have  been  con- 


0  father !   my  sorrow   avOI  scarce   save   my 

bacon ; 
For  'twas   not  that  I  miu'dered,  but  that  I 
was  taken. 

Derrj'  down,  etc. 

Pugh !  pr'ythee  ne'er  trouble  thy  head  with 

such  fancies  ; 
Eely  on  the  aid  you  shall  have  from  Saint 

Francis  ; 
If  the  money  you  promised  be  brought  to  the 

chest, 
You  have  only  to  die ;  let  the  church  •  do  the 

rest. 

Derry  down,  etc. 

And   what  will   folks   say,   if   they  see   you 
afraid ;  ^ 

It  reflects  upon  me,  as  I  knew  not  my  trade : 

Courage,    friend;    to-day   is  your   period   of 
sorrow ; 

And  things  will  go   better,   believe  me,    to- 
morrow. 

Derry  down,  etc. 

To-morrow  ?  our  hero  replied  in  a  fright : 
He  that's  hanged  before  noon,  ought  to  think 

of  to-night : 
Tell  your   beads,   quoth   the   priest,  and  be 

fairly  trussed  up. 
For  you  surely  to-night  shall  in  paradise  sup. 
Derry  down,  etc. 

Alas !  quoth  the  squire,  howe'er   sumptuous 

the  treat,  f 

Parbleu,  I  shall  have  little  stomach  to  eat ; 

1  should  therefore  esteem  it  great  favour  and 

grace. 
Would  you  be  so  kind,  as  to  go  in  my  place. 
Derry  down,  etc. 


That  I  would,  quoth  the  father,  and  thank 

you  to  boot ; 
But  our  actions,  you  know,  with  our  duty 

must  suit. 
The  feast,  I  proposed  to  you,  I  cannot  taste  ; 
For  this  night,  by  our  order,  is  marked  for  a 

fast.  — 

Derry  down,  etc. 

Then  turning  about  to  the  hangman,  he  said  : 
Dispatch   me   I    pr'ythee,    this    troublesome 

blade  -. 
For  thy  cord,  and  my  cord  both  equally  tie ; 
And  we  live  by  the  gold  for  which  other  men 

die. 

Derry  down,  etc. 

Matthew  Prior.— Born  1664,  Dietl  1721. 


757.— PEOTOGENES  AND  APELLES. 

When  poets  wrote,  and  painters  drew, 
As  nature  pointed  out  the  view ; 
Ere  Gothic  forms  were  known  in  Greece, 
To  spoil  the  well-proportioned  piece  ; 
And  in  our  verse  ere  monkish  rhymes 

!    Had  jangled  their  fantastic  chimes  ; 
Ere  on  the  flowery  lands  of  Ehodes 
Those  knights  had  fixed  their  dull  abodes. 
Who  knew  not  much  to  paint  or  write. 
Nor  cared  to  pray,  nor  dared  to  fight ; 
Protogenes,  historians  note, 

;    Lived  there,  a  burgess,  scot  and  lot ; 

I   And,  as  old  Pliny's  writings  show, 

I   Apelles  did  the  same  at  Co, 

j   Agreed  these  points  of  time  and  place, 

j    Proceed  we  in  the  present  case.  ^ 

I        Piqued  by  Protogenes' s  fame, 

'   From  Co  to  Ehodes  Apelles  came. 
To  see  a  rival  and  a  friend. 
Prepared  to  censure,  or  commend  ; 
Here  to  absolve,  and  there  object, 
As  art  with  candour  might  direct. 
He  sails,  he  lands,  he  comes,  he  rings. 
His  servants  follow  with  the  things  ; 
Appears  the  governante  of  the  house  ; 
For  such  in  Greece  were  much  in  use  : 
If  young  or  handsome,  yea  or  no, 
Concerns  not  me  or  thee  to  know. 

Does  squire  Protogenes  live  here  ? 
Yes,  sir,  says  she,  with  gi-acious  air, 
And  courtesy  low ;  but  just  called  out 
By  lords  peculiarly  devout. 
Who  came  on  purpose,  sir,  to  borrow 
Our  Venus,  for  the  feast  to-morrow, 
To  grace  the  church  :  'tis  Venus'  day  : 
I  hope,  sir,  you  intend  to  stay. 
To  see  our  Venus.     'Tis  the  piece 
The  most  renowned  throughout  all  Greece, 
So  like  the  original,  they  say  : 
But  I  have  no  great  skill  that  way. 
But,  sir,  at  six  ('tis  now  past  three) 
Dromo  must  make  my  master's  tea : 
At  six,  sir,  if  you  please  to  come. 
You'll  find  my  master,  sir,  at  home. 


Matthew  Prior.] 


ABEA'S  LOVE  FOE  SOLOMON. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


Tea,  says  a  critic,  hig  with  -laughter, 
Was  found  some  twenty  ages  after ; 
Authors,  before  they  write,  should  read  ; 
'Tis  very  true,  but  we'll  proceed : 

And,  sir,  at  present  would  you  please 
To  leave  your  name  ?    Fair  maiden,  yes. 
Eeach  me  that  board.     No  sooner  spoke 
But  done.     With  one  judicious  stroke, 
On  the  plain  ground  Apelles  drew 
A  circle  regularly  true  ; 
And  will  you  please,  sweetheart,  said  he, 
To  show  your  master  this  from  me  ? 
By  it  he  presently  will  know 
How  painters  write  their  names  at  Co. 

He  gave  the  pannel  to  the  maid. 
Smiling  and  courtesying,  sir,  she  said, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  tell  my  master  : 
And,  sir,  for  fear  of  all  disaster, 
I'll  keep  it  my  own  self  ;  safe  bind. 
Says  the  old  proverb,  and  safe  find. 
So,  sir,  as  sure  as  key  or  lock — 
Your  servant,  sir — at  six  o'clock. 

Again  at  six  Apelles  came, 
Found  the  same  prating  civil  dame. 
Sir,  that  my  master  has  been  here, 
Will  by  the  board  itself  appear. 
If  from  the  perfect  line  be  found. 
He  has  presumed  to  swell  the  round, 
Or  colours  on  the  draught  to  lay, 
'Tis  thus  (he  ordered  me  to  say) 
Thus  write  the  painters  of  this  isle  : 
Let  those  of  Co  remark  the  style. 

She  said  ;  and  to  his  hand  restored 
The  rival  pledge,  the  missive  board. 
Upon  the  happy  line  were  laid 
Such  obvious  Hght,  and  easy  shade, 
That  Paris'  apple  stood  confest, 
Or  Leda's  egg,  or  Cloe's  breast. 

Apelles  viewed  the  finished  piece, 
And  live,  said  he,  the  arts  of  Greece ! 
Howe'er  Protogenes  and  I 
May  in  our  rival  talents  vie  ; 
Howe'er  our  works  may  have  expressed 
"Who  truest  drew,  or  coloured  best. 
When  he  beheld  my  flowing  line, 
He  found  at  least  I  could  design  : 
And  from  his  artful  round  I  grant, 
That  he  with  perfect  skill  can  paint. 
;    The  duUest  genius  cannot  fail 
To  find  the  moral  of  my  tale  : 
That  the  distinguished  part  of  men, 
With  compass,  pencil,  sword,  or  pen. 
Should  in  life's  visit  leave  their  name, 
In  characters,  which  may  proclaim, 
That  they  with  ardour  strove  to  raise 
At  once  their  arts,  and  country's  praise  ; 
And  in  their  working,  took  great  care. 
That  all  was  full,  and  round,  and  fair. 

Mattheio  Prior. — Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


758.— ABEA'S  LOVE  FOE  SOLOMON. 

Another  nymph,  amongst  the  many  fair. 
That   made   my   softer    hours    their    solemn 
care, 


Before  the  rest  affected  still  to  stand. 
And  watch' d  my  eye,  preventing  my  command. 
Abra,  she  so  was  call'd,  did  soonest  haste . 
To  grace  my  presence ;  Abra  went  the  last ; 
Abra  was  ready  ere  I  call'd  her  name  ; 
And,  though  I  call'd  another,  Abra  came. 
Her  equals  first  observed  her  growing  zeal, 
And  laughiug,  gloss' d  that   Abra   served  so 

well. 
To  me  her  actions  did  unheeded  die. 
Or  were  remark' d  but  with  a  common  eye  ; 
Till,  more  apprised  of  what  the  rumour  said, 
More  I  observed  peculiar  in  the  maid. 
The  sun  declined  had  shot  his  western  ray, 
When,  tired  with  business  of  the  solemn  day, 
I  purposed  to  unbend  the  evening  hours. 
And  banquet  private  in  the  women's  bowers. 
I  call'd  before  I  sat  to  wash  my  hands 
(For  so  the  precept  of  the  law  commands) : 
Love  had  ordain'd  that  it  was  Abra's  turn 
To  mix  the  sweets,  and  minister  the  urn. 
With  awful  homage,  and  submissive  dread^ 
The  maid  approach'd,  on  my  declining  head 
To    pour    the    oils ;     she    trembled    as    she 

pour'd ; 
With  an  unguarded  look  she  now  devour' d 
My  nearer  face ;  and  now  recaU'd  her  eye. 
And  heaved,  and   strove   to   hide,  a   sudden 

sigh. 
And  whence,  said  I,  canst  thou  have  dread  or 

pain  ? 
A^Tiat  can  thy  imagerj'-  of  sorrow  mean  ? 
Secluded  from  the  world  and  all  its  care, 
Hast  thou  to  grieve  or  joy,  to  hope  or  fear  ? 
For  sure,  I  added,  sure  thy  little  heart 
Ne'er  felt  love's  anger,  or  received  his  dart. 
Abash' d    she    blush' d,   and   with    disorder 
spoke  : 
Her  rising  shame  adom'd  the  words  it  broke. 

If  the  great  master  will  descend  to  hear 
The  humble  series  of  his  handmaid's  care  ; 
O  !  while  she  tells  it,  let  him  not  put  on 
The   look  that   awes  the   nations  from   the 

throne !     ,. 
O  !  let  not  death  severe  in  glory  lie 
In  the  king's  frown  and  terror  of  his  eye  ! 
Mine  to  obey,  thy  part  is  to  ordain ; 
And,  though  to  mention  be  to  suffer  pain, 
If  the  king  smile  whilst  I  my  woe  recite, 
If  weeping,  I  find  favour  in  his  sight, 
Flow  fast,  my  tears,  full  rising  his  dehght. 
0  !     witness     earth    beneath,    and    heaven 

above  ! 
For  can  I  hide  it  ?  I  am  sick  of  love  : 
If  madness  may  the  name  of  passion  bear, 
Or  love  be  call'd  what  is  indeed  despair. 
Thou  Sovereign  Power,  whose   secret  will 
controls 
The  inward  bent  and  motion  of  our  souls  ; 
Why  hast  thou  placed  such  infinite  degrees 
Between  the  cause  and  cure  of  my  disease  ? 
The  mighty  object  of  that  raging  fire, 
In  which,  unpitied,  Abra  must  expire. 
Had  he   been  born   some   simple  shepherd's 

heir, 
The  lowing  herd  or  fleecy  sheep  his  care. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


FOR  MY  OWN  MONUMENT. 


[Matthew  Prior. 


At  mom  with  him  I  o'er  the  hills  had  run, 
Scornful  of  winter's  frost  and  summer's  sun, 
Still  asking  where  he  made  his  flock  to  rest  at 

noon; 
For  him  at  night,  the  dear  expected  guest, 
I  had  with  hasty  joy  prepared  the  feast ; 
And  from  the  cottage,  o'er  the  distant  plain, 
Sent  forth  my  longing  eye  to  meet  the  swain. 
Wavering,   impatient,    toss'd    by  hope    and 

fear, 
TiU  ho  and  joy  together  should  appear. 
And  the  loved  dog  declare  his  master  near. 
On  my  declining  neck  and  open  breast 
I  should  have  lull'd  the  lovely  youth  to  rest, 
And  from  beneath  liis  head,  at  da-\vning  day. 
With  softest  care  have  stol'n  my  arm  away. 
To  rise,  and  from  the  fold  release  his  sheep, 
Fond  of  his  flock,  indulgent  to  his  sleep. 
Or  if  kind  heaven,  propitious  to  my  flame 
{For   sure   from   heaven  the   faithful  ardour 

came). 
Had  blest  my  life,  and  deck'd  my  natal  hour 
With  height  of  title,  and  extent  of  power ; 
Without  a  crime  my  passion  had  aspired. 
Found    the   loved   prince,  and   told   what   I 

desired. 
Then  I  had  come,  preventing  Sheba's  queen. 
To  see  the  comeliest  of  the  sons  of  men. 
To  hear  the  charming  poet's  amorous  song. 
And  gather  honey  falling  from  his  tongue. 
To  take  the  fragrant  kisses  of  his  mouth. 
Sweeter  than  breezes  of  her  native  south, 
Likening  his  grace,  his  person,  and  his  mien, 
To  all  that  great  or  beauteous  I  had  seen. 
Serene  and  bright  his  eyes,  as  solar  beams 
Reflecting  temper' d  light  from  crystal  streams  ; 
Ruddy  as  gold  his  cheek  ;  his  bosom  fair 
As  silver  ;  the  curl'd  ringlets  of  his  hair 
Black  as  the  raven's  wing;  his  lip  more  red 
Than  eastern  coral,  or  the  scarlet  thread  ; 
Even  his  teeth,  and  white  like  a  young  flock 
Coeval,  newly  shorn,  from  the  clear  l^rook 
Recent,  and  branching  on  the  sunny  rock. 
Ivorj^  with  sapphires  interspersed,  explains 
How   white  his  hands,  how  blue  the  manly 

veins. 
Columns  of  polish' d  marble,  firmly  set 
On  golden  bases,  are  his  legs  and  feet ; 
His  stature  all  majestic,  all  divine, 
Straight  as  the  palm-tree,  strong  as   is   the 

pine. 
Saffron  and  myrrh  are  on  his  garments  shed. 
And  everlasting  sweets  bloom  round  his  head. 
WTiat  utter  I  ?  where  am  I  ?  Avretched  maid  ! 
Die,  Abra,  die  :  too  plainly  hast  thou  said 
Thy  soul's  desire  to  meet  his  high  embrace, 
And  blessing  stamp' d  upon  thy  future  race  ; 
To  bid  attentive  nations  bless  thy  womb. 
With  unborn  monarchs  charged,  and  Solomons 

to  come. 
Here  o'er  her  si)eech  her  flowing  eyes  prevail. 

0  foolish  maid  !  and  oh,  unhappy  tale  !     *     * 

1  saw  her ;  'twas  humanity  ;  it  gave 
Some  respite  to  the  sorrows  of  my  slave. 
Her  fond  excess  proclaim'd  her  passion  true. 
And  generous  pity  to  that  truth  was  due. 


Well  I  intreated  her,  who  well  deserved : 
I  call'd  her  often,  for  she  always  served. 
Use  made  her  person  easy  to  my  sight, 
And  ease  insensibly  produced  delight. 
"Whene'er  I  re  veil' d  in  the  women's  bowers 
(For  first  I  sought  her  but  at  looser  hours). 
The   apples    she    had    gather' d    smeit   -most 

sweet. 
The  cake  she  kneaded  was  the  savoury  meat : 
But  fruits  their  odour  lost,  and  meats  their 

taste. 
If  gentle  Abra  had  not  deck'd  the  feast. 
Dishonour' d  did  the  sparkling  goblet  stand, 
Unless  received  from  gentle  Abra's  hand ; 
And,  when   the   virgins   form'd  the   evening 

choir. 
Raising  their  voices  to  the  master  lyre, 
Too  flat  I  thought  this  voice,  and  that  too 

shrill. 
One  show'd  too  much,  and  one  too  little  skill ; 
Nor  could  my  soul  approve  the  music's  tone. 
Till  all  was  hush'd,  and  Abra  sung  alone. 
Fairer    she    seem'd    distinguish' d    from    the 

rest. 
And  better  mien  disclosed,  as  better  drest. 
A  bright  tiara  round  her  forehead  tied, 
To  juster  bounds  confined  its  rising  pride. 
The  blushing  ruby  on  her  snowy  breast 
Render'd  its  panting  whiteness  more  confess'd; 
Bracelets  of  pearl  gave  roundness  to  her  arm, 
And  every  gem  augmented  every  charm. 
Her  senses  pleased,  her  beavity  still  improved, 
And  she  more  lovely  grew,  as  more  beloved. 

Mattheiv  rrior.—Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


759.— EPITAPH  EXTEMPORE. 

Nobles  and  heralds,  by  your  leave, 

Here  lies  what  once  was  Matthew  Prior, 

The  son  of  Adam  and  of  Eve  ; 

Can  Stuart  or  Nassau  claim  higher  ? 

Matthew  Prior.— Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


760.— FOR  MY  OWN  MONUMENT. 

As  doctors  give  phj^sic  by  way  of  prevention. 

Matt,  alive  and  in  health,  of  his  tombstone 
took  care  ; 

For  delays  are  unsafe,  and  his  pious  inten- 
tion 

May  haply  be  never  fulfill'd  by  his  heir. 

Then  take  Matt's  word  for  it,  the  sculptor  is 

paid ; 
That  the  figure  is  fine,  pray  believe  your  own 

eye; 
Yet   credit   but   lightly   what   more   may  be 

said. 
For  we  flatter  ourselves,  and  teach  marble  to 

he. 


Matthew  Pbiok.] 


AN  EPITAPH. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


Yet  counting  as  far  as  to  fifty  his  years, 

His   virtues   and   vices  were  as  other  men's 

are ; 
High  hopes  he  conceived,  and   he   smother'd 

great  fears, 
In  a  life  party-colour' d,  half  pleasure,   half 

care. 

Nor  to  business  a  drudge,    nor  to  faction  a 

slave, 
He   strove    to    make    interest    and    freedom 

agree  ; 
In  public  employments  industrious  and  grave. 
And  alone  with  his  friends,  Lord !  how  merry 

was  he. 

Now  in  equipage  stately,  now  humbly  on  foot, 
Both  fortunes  he  tried,  but  to  neither  would 

trust; 
And  whirl'd  in  the  round  as  the  wheel  tum'd 

about. 
He  found  riches  had  wings,  and  knew  man 

was  but  dust. 

This   verse,   little    polish'd,    though    mighty 

sincere. 
Sets  neither  his  titles  nor  merit  to  view ; 
It  says  that  his  relics  collected  lie  here, 
And  no  mortal  yet  knows  if  this  may  be  true. 

Fierce  robbers  there  are  that  infest  the  high- 
way. 

So  Matt  may  be  kill'd,  and  his  bones  never 
found ; 

False  witness  at  court,  and  fierce  tempests  at 
sea. 

So  Matt  may  yet  chance  to  be  hang'd  or  be 
drown' d. 

If  his  bones  lie  in  earth,  roll  in  sea,  fly  in 

air. 
To  Fate  we  must  yield,  and  the  thing  is  the 

same; 
And  if  passing  thou  giv'st  him  a  smile  or  a 

tear, 
He  cares  not — yet,  prithee,  be   kind  to   his 

fame. 

Moithew  Prior.— Bom  1664,  Died  1721. 


761.— AN  EPITAPH. 

Interr'd  beneath  this  marble  stone, 

Lie  sauntering  Jack  and  idle  Joan. 

While  rolling  threescore  years  and  one 

Did  round  this  globe  their  courses  run ; 

If  human  things  went  ill  or  well. 

If  changing  empires  rose  or  fell. 

The  morning  past,  the  evening  came. 

And  found  this  couple  just  the  same. 

They  walk'd  and  ate,  good  folks  :  What  then  ? 

Why,  then  they  walk'd  and  ate  again ; 

They  soundly  slept  the  night  away ; 

They  did  just  nothing  aU  the  day. 

Nor  sister  either  had,  nor  brother ; 

They  seem'd  ju.st  tallied  for  each  other. 


Their  Moral  and  Economy 

Most  perfectly  they  made  agree  ; 

Each  virtue  kept  its  proper  bound, 

Nor  trespass'd  on  the  other's  ground. 

Nor  fame  nor  censure  they  regarded ; 

They  neither  punish' d  nor  rewarded. 

He  cared  not  what  the  footman  did  ; 

Her  maids  she  neither  praised  nor  chid : 

So  every  servant  took  his  course. 

And,  bad  at  first,  they  all  grew  worse. 

Slothful  disorder  fill'd  his  stable. 

And  sluttish  plenty  deck'd  her  table. 

Their  beer  was  strong,  their  Avine  was  port ; 

Their  meal  was  large,  their  grace  was  short. 

They  gave  the  poor  the  remnant  meat, 

Just  when  it  grew  not  fit  to  eat. 

They  paid  the  church  and  parish  rate. 

And  took,  but  read  not,  the  receipt ; 

For  which  they  claim' d  their  Sunday's  due, 

Of  slumbering  in  an  upper  pew. 

No  man's  defects  sought  they  to  know, 

So  never  made  themselves  a  foe. 

No  man's  good  deeds  did  they  commend, 

So  never  raised  themselves  a  friend. 

Nor  cherish' d  they  relations  poor, 

That  might  decrease  their  present  store  ; 

Nor  bam  nor  house  did  they  repair. 

That  might  oblige  their  future  heir. 

They  neither  added  nor  confoimded ; 

They  neither  wanted  nor  abounded. 

Nor  tear  nor  smile  did  they  employ 

At  news  of  public  grief  or  joy. 

When  bells  were  rung  and  bonfires  made. 

If  ask'd,  they  ne'er  denied  their  aid ; 

Their  jug  was  to  the  ringers  carried, 

Whoever  either  died  or  married, 

Their  billet  at  the  fire  was  found, 

Whoever  was  deposed  or  crown'd. 

Nor  good,  nor  bad,  nor  fools,  nor  wise. 

They  would  not  learn,  nor  could  advise ; 

Without  love,  hatred,  joy,  or  fear. 

They  led — a  kind  of — as  it  were  ; 

Nor  wish'd,  nor  cared,  nor  laugh'd,  nor  cried  ; 

And  so  they  lived,  and  so  they  died. 

Mattlieiv  Prior.— Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


762. —  ON  BISHOP  ATTEEBUEY'S 
BURYING  THE  DUKE  OF 
BUCKINGHAM,    MDCCXX. 

"  I  have  no  hopes,"   the  duke  he  says,  and 

dies  ; 
"In   sure   and   certain   hopes,"    the   prelate 

cries  : 
Of  these  two  learned  peers,  I  i^r'ythee,  say, 

man. 
Who  is  the  lying  knave,  the  priest  or  layman  ? 
The  duke  he  stands  an  infidel  confessed, 
"  He's  our  dear  brother,"  quoth  the  lordly 

priest. 
The  duke,  though  Icnave,  still  "  brother  dear," 

he  cries ; 
And  who  can  say  the  reverend  prelate  lies  ? 
Mattlieiv  Prior. — Born  1664,  Died  1721. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


AN  ODE  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY. 


[Joseph  Addison. 


763.— A  SONG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY, 
AT  OXFORD. 


Cecilia,  whose  exalted  hymns 

With  joy  and  wonder  fill  the  blest, 
In  choirs  of  warbling  seraphims, 

Known  and  distinguish'd  from  the  rest, 
Attend,  harmonious  saint,  and  see 
Thy  vocal  sons  of  harmony  ; 
Attend,    harmonious    saint,    and    hear    our 
prayers ; 
Enliven  all  our  earthly  airs. 
And,  as  thou  sing'st  thy  God,  teach  us  to  sing 
of  thee  ; 
Tune  every  string  and  every  tongue, 
Be  thou  the  Muse  and  subject  of   our 
song. 


Let  all  Cecilia's  praise  proclaim, 
Employ  the  echo  in  her  name. 
Hark  how  the  flutes  and  trumpets  raise. 
At  bright  Ceciha's  name,  their  lays  ; 
The  organ  labours  in  her  praise. 
Cecilia's  name  does  all  our  numbers  grace, 
From  every  voice  the  tuneful  accents  fly. 
In  soaring  trebles  now  it  rises  high, 
And  now  it  sinks,  and  dwells  upon  the  base. 
Cecilia's  name   through  all   the  notes  we 
sing. 
The  work  of  every  skilful  tongue. 
The  soimd  of  every  trembling  string, 
The  sound  and  triumph  of  our  song. 


For  ever  consecrate  the  day 
To  music  and  Cecilia ; 
Music,    the    greatest    good    that    mortals 

know. 
And  all  of  heaven  we  have  below. 

Music  can  noble  hints  impart, 
Engender  fury,  kindle  love  ; 
"With  unsuspected  eloquence  can  move. 
And  manage  all  the  man  with  secret  art. 
When    Orpheus    strikes    the    trembling 

lyre. 
The     streams    stand     still,    the    stones 

admire  ; 
The  listening  savages  advance, 

The  wolf  and  lamb  around  hun  trip. 
The  bears  in  awkward  measures  leap. 
And  tigers  mingle  in  the  dance. 
The  moving  woods  attended,  as  he  play'd. 
And  Rhodope  was  left  without  a  shade. 

IV. 

Music  religious  heats  inspires. 

It  wakes  the  soul,  and  lifts  it  high, 

And  wings  it  with  sublime  desires, 
And  fits  it  to  bespeak  the  Deity. 

The  Almighty  listens  to  a  tuneful  tongue. 

And  seems  well  pleased  and  courted  with 
a  song. 


Soft  movirg  sounds  and  heavenly  airs 
Give  force  to  every  word,  and  recommend  our 
prayers. 

When  time  itself  shall  be  no  more. 
And  all  things  in  confusion  hurl'd, 

Music  shaU  then  exert  its  power, 
And  sound  survive  the  ruins  of  the  world : 

Then  saints  and  angels  shall  agree 

In  one  eternal  jubilee  : 
All    heaven    shall    echo    with    their    hymns 
divine. 

And  God  himself  with  pleasure  see 
The  whole  creation  in  a  chorus  join. 


Consecrate  the  place  and  day 
To  music  and  Cecilia. 
Let  no  rough  winds  approach,  nor  dare 

Invade  the  hallow'd  bounds. 
Nor  rudely  shake  the  tuneful  air, 

Nor  spoil  the  fleeting  sounds. 
Nor  mournful  sigh  nor  groan  he  heard, 
But  gladness  dwell  on  every  tongue ; 
Whilst  all,  with  voice  and  strings  prepared. 
Keep  up  the  loud  harmonious  song. 
And  imitate  the  blest  above. 
In  joy,  and  harmony,  and  love. 

Joseph  Addison.— Born  1672,  IHed  1709. 


764.— AN  ODE  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY. 

Prepare  the  hallow'd  strain,  my  Muse, 

Thy   softest   sounds    and   sweetest  numbers 

choose  ; 
The  bright  Cecilia's  praise  rehearse. 
In  warbling  words,  and  gliding  verse. 
That  smoothly  run  into  a  song, 
And    gently  die    away,  and   melt   upon  the 

tongue. 

First  let  the  sprightly  violin 

The  joyful  melody  begin, 

And  none  of  all  her  strings  be  mute ; 

WhUe  the  sharp  sound  and  shriller  lay 

In  sweet  harmonious  notes  decay, 
Soften'd  and  meUow'd  by  the  flute. 
"  The  flute  that  sweetly  can  complain, 
Dissolve  the  frozen  nymph's  disdain  ; 
Panting  sympathy  impart. 
Till  she  partake  her  lover's  smart." 

CHORUS. 

Next,  let  the  solemn  organ  join 
Religious  airs,  and  strains  divine, 
Such  as  may  lift  us  to  the  skies, 
And  set  all  Heaven  before  our  eyes : 

"  Such  as  may  lift  us  to  the  skies ; 

So  far  at  least  till  they 

Descend  with  kind  surprise, 
And  meet  our  pious  harmony  half-way." 

Let  then  the  trumpet's  piercing  sound 
Our  ravish'd  ears  with  pleasure  wovmd. 


Joseph  Addison.] 


A  LETTEE  FEOM  ITALY. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


The  soul  overpowering  with  delight, 
As,  with  a  quick  uncommon  ray, 
A  streak  of  lightning  clears  the  day, 

And  flashes  on  the  sight. 
Let  Echo  too  perform  her  part. 
Prolonging  every  note  with  art, 

And  in  a  low  expiring  strain 

Play  all  the  concert  o'er  again- 
Such  were  the  tuneful  notes  that  hung 
On  bright  Cecilia's  charming  tongue  : 
Notes  that  sacred  heats  inspired, 
And  with  religious  ardour  fired : 
The  love-sick  youth,  that  long  suppress'd 
His  smother'd  passion  in  his  breast, 
No  sooner  heard  the  warbling  dame. 

But,  by  the  secret  influence  tuxn'd, 
He  felt  a  new  diviner  flame. 

And  with  devotion  bum'd. 

With  ravish' d  soul,  and  looks  amazed. 
Upon  her  beauteous  face  he  gazed ; 

Nor  made  his  amorous  complaint : 
In  vain  her  eyes  his  heart  had  charm' d, 
Her  heavenly  voice  her  eyes  disarm'd, 

And  changed  the  lover  to  a  saint. 

GRAND  CHORUS. 

And  now  the  choir  complete  rejoices, 
With  trembling  strings  and  melting  voices. 
The  tuneful  ferment  rises  high, 
And  works  with  mingled  melody  : 
Quick  divisions  run  their  rounds, 
A  thousand  trills  and  quivering  sounds 

In  airy  circles  o'er  us  fly, 
Till,  wafted  by  a  gentle  breeze. 
They  faint  and  languish  by  degrees, 
Ajid  at  a  distance  die. 

Joseph  Addison.— Bom  1672,  Died  1709. 


765.— A  LETTER  FROM  ITALY. 

Wliile  you,  my  lord,  the  rural  shades  admire, 
And  from  Britannia's  public  posts  retire. 
Nor  longer,  her  ungratefiil  sons  to  please, 
For  their  advantage  sacrifice  your  ease ; 
Me  into  foreign  realms  my  fate  conveys. 
Through  nations  fruitful  of  immortal  lays, 
Where  the  soft  season  and  inviting  clime 
Conspire  to  trouble  your  repose  with  rhyme 

For  wheresoe'er  I  turn  my  ravish'd  eyes. 
Gay  gilded  scenes  and  shining  prospects  rise, 
Poetic  fields  encompass  me  around. 
And  still  I  seem  to  tread  on  classic  ground ; 
For  here  the  Muse  so  oft  her  harp  has  strung, 
That  not  a  mountain  rears  its  head  unsung, 
Eenown'd  in  verse  each  shady  thicket  grows. 
And  every  stream  in  heavenly  numbers  flows. 

How  am  I  pleased  to  search  the  hills  and 
woods 
For  rising  springs  and  celebrated  floods  ! 
To  view  the  Nar,  tumultuous  in  his  course, 
And    trace    the    smooth    CUtumnus  to   his 


To  see  the  Mincio  draw  his  watery  store 
Through  the  long  windings  of  a  fruitful  shore, 
And  hoary  Albula's  infected  tide  \ 

O'er  the  warm  bed  of  smoking  sulphur  glide.  [ 

Fired  with  a  thousand  raptures  I  survey 
Eridanus  through  flowery  meadows  stray. 
The   king   of   floods !    that,  rolling   o'er  the 

plains, 
The   towering   Alps   of  half    their  moisture 

drains, 
And   proudly  swoln  with   a  whole   winter's 


Distributes  wealth  and  plenty  where  he  flows. 
Sometimes,     misguided     by    the     tuneful 
throng, 
I  look  for  streams  immortalized  in  song. 
That  lost  in  silence  and  oblivion  lie, 
(Dumb  are  their  fountains  and  their  channels 

dry,) 
Yet  run  for  ever  by  the  Muse's  skill. 
And  in  the  smooth  description  murmur  stiU. 

Sometimes  to  gentle  Tiber  I  retire. 
And  the  famed  river's  empty  shores  admire. 
That,  destitute  of  strength,  derives  its  course 
From  thrifty  urns  and  an  unfruitful  source. 
Yet  sung  so  often  in  poetic  lays. 
With  scorn  the  Danube  and  the  Nile  surveys  ; 
So  high  the  deathless  Muse  exalts  her  theme  ! 
Such    was    the    Boyne,    a    poor    inglorious 

stream, 
That  in  Hibernian  vales  obscurely  stray'd. 
And  unobserved  in  wild  meanders  play'd ; 
Till   by  your  lines  and  Nassau's   sword   re- 
nown'd. 
Its  rising  billows  through  the  world  resound. 
Where'er  the  hero's  godlike  acts  can  pierce. 
Or  where  the  fame  of  an  immortal  verse. 
Oh   could    the    Muse   my  ravish'd    breast 
inspire 
With  warmth  like  yours,  and  raise  an  equal 

fire, 
Unnumber'd    beauties    in   my  verse    should 

shine. 
And  Virgil's  Italy  should  yield  to  mine ! 
See    how  the   golden   groves    arortnd    me 
smile, 
That  shun  the  coast  of  Britain's  stormy  isle, 
Or   when   transplanted   and    preserved    with 

care. 
Curse  the  cold  clime,  and  starve  in  northern 

air. 
Here  kindly   warmth   their   mounting   juice 

ferments 
To  nobler  tastes,  and  more  exalted  scents : 
Even  the  rough   rocks   with   tender   myrtle 

bloom, 
And  trodden  weeds  send  out  a  rich  perfume. 
Bear  me,  some  god,  to  Baia's  gentle  seats, 
Or  cover  me  in  Umbria's  green  retreats ; 
Wliere  western  gales  eternally  reside, 
And  all  the  seasons  lavish  all  their  pride  : 
Blossoms,  and  fruits,  and  flowers   together 

•rise, 
And  the  whole  year  in  gay  confusion  lies. 

Immortal  glories  in  my  mind  revive, 
And  in  my  soul  a  thousand  passions  strive. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


A  LETTEE  FEOM  ITALY. 


[Joseph  Addison 


When  Eome's  exalted  beauties  I  descry 

Magnificent  in  piles  of  ruin  He. 

An  ampiitheatre's  amazing  height 

Here  fills  my  eye  mth  terror  and  delight, 

That  on  its  public  shows  unpeopled  Eome, 

And  held  uncrowded  nations  in  its  womb  ; 

Here  pillars  rough  with  sculpture  pierce  the 

skies ; 
And  here  the  proud  triumphal  arches  rise, 
Where   the  old  Eomans'  deathless  acts  dis- 

play'd, 
Their  base,  degenerate  progeny  upbraid : 
Whole  rivers  here  for.sake  the  fields  below, 
And  wondering  at  their  height  through  airy 

channels  flow. 
Still   to   new  scenes  my  wandering  Muse 
retires, 
And    the    dumb    show    of    breathing    rocks 

admires ; 
Where   the   smooth  chisel  all  its  force  has 

shown. 
And  soften' d  into  flesh  the  rugged  stone. 
In  solemn  silence,  a  majestic  band, 
Heroes,  and  gods,  and  Eoman  consuls  stand ; 
Stern  tyrants,  whom  their  cruelties  renown, 
And  emperors  in  Parian  marble  frown  ; 
Wliile  the  bright  dames,  to  whom  they  humble 

sued. 
Still  show  the  charms  that  their  proud  hearts 

subdued. 
Fain  would  I  Eaphael's  godlike  art  rehearse. 
And  show  the  immortal  labours  in  my  verse, 
Wliere  from  the  mingled  strength  of  shade  and 

light 
A  new  creation  rises  to  my  sight, 
Such  heavenly  figures  from  his  pencil  flow. 
So  warm  with  life  his  blended  colours  glow. 
From  theme  to  theme  with   secret   pleasure 

toss'd, 
Amidst  the  soft  variety  I'm  lost : 
Here  pleasing  airs  my  ravish' d  soul  confound 
With  cu'cling  notes  and  labyrinths  of  sound  ; 
Here  domes  and  temples  rise  in  distant  views, 
And  opening  palaces  invite  my  Muse. 

How  has  kind  Heaven  adorn' d  the  happy 
land, 
And  scatter'd  blessings  with  a  wasteful  hand  ! 
But  what  avail  her  unexhausted  stores. 
Her    blooming    mountains     and    her    sunny 

shores, 
With  aU   the   gifts   that   heaven   and   earth 

impart. 
The  smiles  of  nature  and  the  charms  of  art. 
While  proud  oppression  in  her  valleys  reigns. 
And  tyranny  usurps  her  happy  plains  ? 
The  poor  inhabitant  beholds  in  vain 
The    reddening    orange     and     the    swelling 

grain  : 
Joyless  he  sees  the  growing  oils  and  wines. 
And  in  the  myrtle's  fragrant  shade  repines  : 
Starves,   in   the   midst   of    nature's    bounty 

cursed. 
And  in  the  loaden  vineyard  dies  for  thirst. 

O  Liberty,  thou  goddess  heavenly  bright, 
Profuse  of  bliss,  and  pregnant  with  delight  I 


Eternal  pleasures  in  thy  presence  reign, 
And  smiling  plenty  leads  thy  wanton  train  ; 
Eased   of  her   load,  subjection   grows  more 

Ught, 
And  poverty  looks  cheerful  in  thy  sight ; 
Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  nature  gay, 
Giv'st  beauty  to  the  sun,  and  pleasuie  to  the 

day. 
Thee,  goddess,  thee,  Britannia's  isle  adores; 
How  has  she  oft  exhausted  all  her  stores, 
How   oft    in  fields    of    death    thy   presence 

sought, 
Nor    thinks    the    mighty   prize    too    dearly 

bought ! 
On  foreign  mountains  may  the  sun  refine 
The  grape's  soft  juice,  and  mellow  it  to  wine. 
With  citron  groves  adorn  a  distant  soil, 
And  the  fat  olive  swell  with  floods  of  oil : 
We  envy  not  the  warmer  clime,  that  lies 
In  ten  degrees  of  more  indulgent  skies, 
Nor  at  the  coarseness  of  our  heaven  repine. 
Though  o'er  our   heads  the   frozen  Pleiads 

shine: 
'Tis  Hberty  that  crowns  Britannia's  isle. 
And  makes  her  barren  rocks  and  her  bleak 

mountains  smile. 
Others  with  towering  piles  may  please  the 
sight. 
And  in  their  proud  aspiring  domes  delight ; 
A  nicer  touch  to  the  stretch'd  canvas  give, 
Or  teach  their  animated  rocks  to  live  : 
'Tis  Britain's  care  to  watch  o'er  Europe's  fate, 
And  hold  in  balance  each  contending  state, 
To    threaten  bold    presumptuous   kings  with 

war. 
And  answer  her  afflicted  neighbours'  prayer. 
The   Dane   and   Swede,  roused   up  by  fierce 

alarms. 
Bless  the  wise  conduct  of  her  pious  arms  : 
Soon  as  her  fleets  appear,  their  terrors  cease. 
And  all  the  northern   world  lies   hush'd  in 


The   ambitious   Gaul  •  beholds  with   secret 
dread 
Her  thunder  aim'd  at  his  aspiring  head, 
And  fain  her  godlike  sons  would  disunite 
By  foreign  gold,  or  by  domestic  spite  ; 
But  strives  in  vain  to  conquer  or  divide, 
Whom   Nassau's   arms  defend  and   counsels 
gTiide. 

Fired  with  the  name,  which  I  so  oft  have 
found 
The    distant    climes    and    different    tongues 

resound, 
I  bridle  in  my  struggling  Muse  with  pain. 
That  longs  to  launch  into  a  bolder  strain. 
But  I've  already  troubled  you  too  long, 
Nor  dare  attempt  a  more  adventurous  song. 
My  humble  verse  demands  a  softer  theme, 
A  painted  meadow,  or  a  purling  stream  ; 
Unfit  for  heroes,  whom  immortal  lays, 
And  lines  like  Virgil's,  or  like  yours,  should 
praise. 

Joseph  Addison. — Born  1672,  Died  170Q. 


Joseph  Addison.] 


AN  ODE, 


[Fifth  Period. — 


766.— AN  ODE. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sk.y, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  Sun  from  day  to  day 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display; 

And  publishes,  to  every  land, 

The  work  of  an  almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  Moon  takes  tip  the  wondrous  tale  ; 
And  nightly,  to  the  listening  Earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  : 
"Wliilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets,  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  no  real  voice,  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  : 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice  ; 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine  : 
"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

Joseph  Addison. — Born  1672,  Died  1709. 


767.— A  HYMN. 

When  all  thy  mercies,  0  my  God, 

My  rising  soul  surveys  ; 
Transported  with  the  view,  I'm  lost 

In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 

O  how  shall  words  -with  equal  warmth 

The  gratitude  declare. 
That  glows  within  my  ravish' d  heart ! 

But  thou  canst  read  it  there. 

Thy  providence  my  life  sustain' d, 

And  all  my  wants  redress'd, 
Wlien  in  the  silent  womb  I  lay, 

And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

To  all  my  weak  complaints  and  cries 

Thy  mercy  lent  an  ear, 
Ere  yet  my  feeble  thoughts  had  learnt 

To  form  themselves  in  prayer. 

TJnnumber'd  comforts  to  my  soul 

Thy  tender  care  bestow' d. 
Before  my  infant  heart  conceived 

From  whence  these  comfoi'ts  flow'd. 

When  in  the  slippery  paths  of  youth 

With  heedless  steps  I  ran. 
Thine  arm  unseen  convey' d  me  safe, 

And  led  me  up  to  man. 

Through  hidden  dangers,  toils,  and  death, 

It  gently  clear' d  my  way ; 
And  through  the  pleasing  snares  of  vice, 

More  to  be  fear'd  than  they. 


When  worn  with  sickness,  oft  hast  Thou 

With  health  renew' d  my  face  ; 
And  when  in  sins  and  sorrows  sunk, 

Revived  my  soul  wdth  grace. 

Thy  bounteous  hand  with  worldly  bliss 

Has  made  mj  cup  run  o'er. 
And  in  a  kind  and  faithful  friend 

Has  doubled  all  my  store. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  precious  gifts 

My  daily  thanks  employ  ; 
Nor  is  the  least  a  cheerful  heart, 

That  tastes  those  gifts  with  joy. 

Tlirough  every  period  of  my  life. 

Thy  goodness  I'll  pursue  ; 
And  after  death,  in  distant  worlds, 

The  glorious  theme  renew. 

When  nature  fails,  and  day  and  night 

Divide  thy  works  no  more, 
My  ever-grateful  heart,  O  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  shall  adore. 

Through  all  eternity,  to  Thee 

A  joyful  song  I'll  raise ; 
For,  oh!  eternity's  too  short 

To  utter  all  thy  praise. 

Joseph  Addison.— Born  1672,  Died  1709. 


768.— AN  ODE. 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  0  Lord  ! 

How  sure  is  their  defence  ! 
Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide. 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms,  and  lands  remote, 

Supported  by  thy  care, 
Through  burning  climes  I  pass'd  unhurt, 

And  breathed  in  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweeten'd  every  soil, 

Made  every  region  please  ; 
The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warm'd. 

And  smooth' d  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

Think,  0  my  soul,  devoutly  think. 

How,  with  affrighted  eyes, 
Tliou  saw'st  the  wide-extended  deep 

In  all  its  horrors  rise. 

Confusion  dwelt  in  every  face. 

And  fear  in  every  heart ; 
When  waves   on   waves,    and    gulphs    on 
gulphs, 

O'ercame  the  pilot's  art. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  0  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free  ; 
"Wliilst,  in  the  confidence  of  prayer, 

My  soul  took  hold  on  Thee. 


From  1689  to  1727.J 


DESCEIPTION  OF  A  CITY  SHOWEE 


[Jonathan  Swift. 


For  though  in  dreadfiil  whirls  we  hung 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  Thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired, 

Obedient  to  thy  will ; 
The  sea  that  roar'd  at  thy  command, 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death, 

Thy  goodne.'«s  I'll  adore  : 
And  praise  Thee  for  thy  mercies  past, 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

My  life,  if  Thou  preserv'st  my  life. 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be  ; 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom. 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  Thee. 

Joseph  Addison. — Born  1672,  Died  1709. 


769.— A  HYMN. 

When  rising  from  the  bed  of  death, 
O'erwhelm'd  with  guilt  and  fear, 

I  see  my  Maker  face  to  face  ; 
O  how  shall  I  appear ! 

If  yet,  while  pardon  may  be  found. 

And  mercy  may  be  sought, 
My  heart  with  inward  horror  shrinks, 

And  trembles  at  the  thought : 

When  Thou,  0  Lord,  shalt  stand  disclosed 

In  majesty  severe. 
And  sit  in  jtidgment  on  my  soul ; 

O  how  shall  I  appear  ! 

But  Thou  hast  told  the  troubled  soul, 

Who  does  her  sins  lament. 
The  timely  tribute  of  her  tears 

Shall  endless  woe  prevent. 

Then  see  the  sorrows  of  my  heart, 

Ere  yet  it  be  too  late ; 
And  add  my  Saviour's  dying  groans, 

To  give  those  sorrows  weight. 

For  never  shall  my  soul  despair 

Her  pardon  to  prociire, 
"Who  knows  thy  only  Son  has  died 

To  make  that  pardon  sure. 

Joseph  Addison.— Born  1672,  Died  1709. 


770.--PAEAPHRASE  ON  PSALM  XXIII. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care  ; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye  : 
My  noon-day  walks  He  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 


When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant ; 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads 
My  weary  wandering  steps  He  leads  : 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread. 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread, 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill, 
For  Thou,  O  Lord,  art  with  me  still ; 
Tliy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  wants  beguile  : 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile, 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crown" d. 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 

Joseph  Addison. — Born  1672,  Died  1709. 


771.— MORNING. 

Now  hardly  here  and  there  a  hackney-coach 
Appearing  showed  the  mddy  morn's  approach. 
The  slipshod  'prentice  from  his  master's  door 
Had  pared  the  dirt,  and  sprinkled  round  the 

floor. 
Now  Moll  had  whirled  her  mop  with  dexterous 

airs, 
Prepared  to  scrub  the  entry  and  the  stairs. 
The    youth    with   broomy   stumps   began  to 

trace 
The  kennel's  edge,  where  wheels  had  worn  the 

place. 
The  small-coal  man  was  heard  with  cadence 

deep. 
Till   drown' d   in    shriller   notes   of   chimney- 
sweep : 
Duns  at  his  lordship's  gate  began  to  meet ; 
And  brick-dust  MoU.  had  scream 'd  throv.gh  half 

the  street. 
The  turnkey  now  his  flock  returning  sees, 
Duly  let  out  a-nights  to  steal  for  fees ; 
The  watchful  bailiff's  take  their  silent  stands. 
And   schoolboys   lag   with   satchels   in   their 

hands. 

Jonathan  Sivift. — Born  1667,  Died  1745. 


772.--DESCEIPTION   OF  A  CITY 
SHOWEE. 

Careful  observers  may  foretell  the  hour 

(By  sure  prognostics)  when  to  dread  a  shov/er, 

While   rain   depends,  the   pensive   cat   gives 

o'er 
Her  frolics,  and  pursues  her  tail  no  more. 
Eeturning   home    at    night,    you'll    find    the 

sink 
Strike  your  offended  sense  with  double  stink. 

34 


Jonathan  Swift.] 


BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON. 


[Fifth  Period. 


If  you  be  wise,  then  go  not  far  to  dine  ; 
You'll  spend  in  coach-hire  more  than  save  in 

wine. 
A  coming  shower  your  shooting  corns  presage, 
Old  aches  will  throb,  your  hollow  tooth  will 

rage : 
Sauntering  in  coffee-hotxse  is  Dulman  seen ; 
He   damns    the    climate,   and    complains    of 

spleen. 
Meanwhile  the  south,  rising  with   dabbled 

wings, 
A  sable  cloud  athwart  the  welkin  flings, 
That  swilled  more  liquor  than  it  could  con- 
tain. 
And,  like  a  drunkard,  gives  it  up  again. 
Brisk  Susan  whips  her  linen  from  the  rope. 
While    the    first    drizzling   shower   is   borne 

aslope ; 
Such  is  that  sprinkling,  which  some  careless 

quean 
Flirts  on  you    from    her    mop — but    not    so 


You  fly,  invoke  the  gods  ;  then  turning,  stop 
To   ran ;    she,   singing,    stiU    whirls   on    her 

mop. 
Not   yet  the  dust  had  shunned  the  unequal 

strife, 
But,  aided  by  the  wind,  fought  still  for  life, 
And  wafted  with  its  foe  by  violent  gust, 
'Twas  doubtful  which  was  rain,    and   which 

was  dust. 
Ah !  where  must  needy  poet  seek  for  aid. 
When  dust  and  rain  at  once  his  coat  invade  ? 
Sole  coat,  where  dust  cemented  by  the  rain 
Erects  the  nap,  and  leaves  a  cloudy  stain  ! 
Now  in  contiguous  drops  the  flood  comes 

down, 
Threatening  -with  deluge  this  devoted  town. 
To  shops  in  crowds  the  daggled  females  fly, 
Pretend  to  cheapen  goods,  but  notliing  buy. 
The  Templar  spruce,  while  every  spout 's  a- 

broach, 
Stays  till  'tis  fair,  yet  seems  to  call  a  coach. 
The  tucked-up  sempstress  walks  with  hasty 

strides. 
While  streams  run  down  her  oiled  umbrella's 


Here  various  kinds,  by  various  fortunes  led. 
Commence  acquaintance  underneath  a  shed. 
Triumphant  Tories  and  desponding  Whigs 
Forget   their   feuds,  and  join  to   save   their 

wigs. 
Boxed  in  a  chair  the  beau  impatient  sits, 
While  spouts  run  clattering  o'er  the  roof  by 

fits; 
And  ever  and  anon  with  frightful  din 
The    leather     sounds  ;      he    trembles    from 

within. 
So   when   Troy   chairmen   bore   the    wooden 

steed, 
Pregnant  with  Greeks  impatient  to  be  freed 
(Those  bully  Greeks,  who,  as  the  moderns  do. 
Instead     of     paying     chairmen,     run     them 

through), 
Laocoon  struck  the  outside  with  his  spear. 
And  each  imprisoned  hero  quaked  for  fear. 


Now  from  all  parts  the   swelling   kennels 

flow. 
And  bear  their  trophies  with  them  as  they 

go: 
Filths  of  all  hues  and  odours  seem  to  tell 
What  street  they  sailed  from  by  their  sight 

and  smell. 
They,  as  each  torrent  drives  with  rapid  force, 
From  Smithfield  or  St.  'Pulchre's  shape  their 

course, 
And  in   huge   confluence  joined  at  Snowhill 

ridge, 
Fall  from    the    conduit    prone    to    Holbom 

Bridge. 
Sweepings  from  butchers'  stalls,  dung,  guts, 

and  blood, 
Drowned  puppies,  stinking  sprats,  all  drenched 

in  mud, 
Dead  cats,  and  turnip-tops,   come   tumbling 

down  the  flood. 

Jonathan  Swift— Born  1667,  Dial  1745. 


773.— BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON. 

In  ancient  times,  as  story  tells, 
The  saints  would  often  leave  their  cells, 
And  stroll  about,  but  hide  their  quality, 
To  try  good  people's  hospitality. 

It  happened  on  a  winter  night 
(As  authors  of  the  legend  write). 
Two  brother  hermits,  saints  by  trade. 
Taking  their  tour  in  masquerade, 
Disguised  in  tattered  habits  went 
To  a  small  village  do-ivn  in  Kent ; 
Where,  in  the  strollers'  canting  strain, 
They  begged  from  door  to  door  in  vain ; 
Tried  every  tone  might  pity  win, 
But  not  a  soul  would  let  them  in. 

Our  wandering  saints  in  woful  sta,te, 
Treated  at  this  ungodly  rate. 
Having  through  all  the  village  past, 
To  a  small  cottage  came  at  last, 
Where  dwelt  a  good  old  honest  j-eoman, 
Called  in  the  neighbourhood  Philemon, 
Who  kindly  did  the  saints  invite 
In  his  poor  hut  to  pass  the  night. 
And  then  the  hospitable  sire 
Bid  Goody  Baucis  mend  the  fire, 
While  he  from  out  the  chimney  took 
A  flitch  of  bacon  off  the  hook. 
And  freely  from  the  fattest  side 
Cut  out  large  slices  to  be  fried ; 
Then  stepped  aside  to  fetch  them  dx-ink, 
FiHed  a  large  jug  up  to  the  brink, 
And  saw  it  fairly  twice  go  round : 
Yet  (what  was  wonderful)  they  found 
'Twas  still  replenished  to  the  top, 
As  if  they  ne'er  had  touched  a  drop. 
The  good  old  couple  were  amazed. 
And  often  on  each  other  gazed : 
For  both  were  frighted  to  the  heart, 
And  just  began  to  cry — "  What  art  r  " 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON. 


[Jonathan  Swift. 


Then  softly  turned  aside  to  view, 
Wliether  the  lights  were  burning  blue. 
The  gentle  pilgrims,  soon  aware  on't. 
Told  them  their  calling  and  their  errant : 
Good  folks,  you  need  not  be  afraid, 
Wo  are  but  saints,  the  hermits  said ;  , 

No  hurt  shall  come  to  you  or  yours  ; 
But,  for  that  pack  of  churlish  boors, 
Not  fit  to  live  on  Chi-istian  ground. 
They  and  their  houses  shall  be  droAvned  : 
While  3-0U  shall  see  your  cottage  rise, 
And  grow  a  church  before  your  eyes. 

They  scarce  had  spoke,  ^vhen  fair  and  soft 
The  roof  began  to  mount  aloft ; 
Aloft  rose  every  beam  and  rafter, 
The  heavy  wall  climbed  slowly  after. 

The  chimney  widened,  and  gi-cw  higher, 
Became  a  steeple  with  a  spire. 

The  kettle  to  the  top  was  hoist, 
And  there  stood  fastened  to  a  joist ; 
B;it  with  the  up-side  down,  to  show 
lis  inclination  for  below  : 
In  vain  ;  for  some  superior  force, 
Applied  at  bottom,  stops  its  course  ; 
Doomed  ever  in  suspense  to  dwell, 
Tis  now  no  kettle,  but  a  bell. 

A  wooden  jack,  which  had  almost 
Lost  by  disuse  the  art  to  roast, 
A  sudden  alteration  feels, 
Increased  by  new  intestine  wheels : 
And,  what  exalts  the  wonder  more. 
The  number  made  the  motion  slower ; 
The  flier,  which,  though  't  had  leaden  feet, 
Turned  round  so  quick,  you  scarce  could  see't. 
Now,  slackened  by  some  secret  power, 
Can  hardly  move  an  inch  an  hour. 
The  jack  and  chimney,  near  allied, 
Had  never  left  each  other's  side : 
The  chimnej'-  to  a  steeple  grown, 
The  jack  would  not  be  left  alone  ; 
I'ut,  up  against  the  steeple  reared, 
Became  a  clock,  and  still  adhered  : 
And  still  its  love  to  household  cares 
By  a  shrill  voice  at  noon  declares  ; 
Warning  the  cook-maid  not  to  burn 
That  roast  meat,  which  it  cannot  tui'n. 

The  groaning  chair  was  seen  to  crawl 
Like  a  huge  snail,  half  up  the  v/all  ; 
Tliere  stuck  aloft  in  public  view. 
And,  with  small  change,  a  pulpit  grew. 

The  porringers,  that  in  a  row 
Hung  high,  and  made  a  glittering  shov/, 
To  a  less  noble  substance  changed. 
Were  now  but  leathern  buckets  ranged. 

The  ballads  pasted  on  the  wall, 
Of  Joan  of  France,  and  English  Moll, 
Fair  Eosamond,  and  Kobin  Hood, 
The  Little  Children  in  the  Wood, 
Now  seemed  to  look  abundance  better, 
Improved  in  pictui-e,  size,  and  letter ; 
And  high  in  order  placed,  describe 
The  heraldry  of  every  tribe. 

A  bedstead  of  the  antique  mode, 
Compact  of  timber  many  a  load  ; 
Such  as  our  grandsires  wont  to  use. 
Was  metamorphosed  into  pev/s  ; 


Which  still  their  ancient  natm-e  keep, 
By  lodging  folks  disposed  to  sleep. 

The  cottage,  by  such  feats  as  these, 
'Grown  to  a  church  by  just  degrees ; 
The  hermits  then  desire  their  host 
To  ask  for  what  he  fancied  most. 
Philemon,  having  paused  a  while. 
Returned  them  thanks  in  homely  style ; 
Then  said,  My  house  is  grown  so  fine, 
Methinks  I  still  would  call  it  mine : 
I'm  old,  and  fain  would  live  at  ease  ; 
Make  me  the  parson,  if  you  please. 
He  spoke,  and  presently  he  feels 
His  grazier's  coat  fall  down  his  heels : 
Ho  sees,  yet  hardly  can  believe. 
About  each  arm  a  pudding  sleeve  : 
His  waistcoat  to  a  cassock  grow, 
And  both  assumed  a  sable  hue ; 
But  being  old,  continued  just 
As  threadbare  and  as  full  of  dust. 
His  talk  was  now  of  tithes  and  dues ; 
Could  smoke  his  pipe,  and  read  the  news : 
Knew  how  to  preach  old  sermons  next, 
Vamped  in  the  preface  and  the  text : 
At  christenings  well  could  act  liis  part, 
And  had  the  service  aU  by  heart : 
Wished  women  might  have  chUdx-en  fast, 
And  thought  whose  sow  had  farrowed  last : 
Against  dissenters  would  repine, 
And  stood  up  firm  for  right  divine  : 
Found  his  head  filled  with  many  a  system, 
But  classic  authors — he  ne'er  missed  them. 

Thus  having  furbished  up  a  parson. 
Dame   Baucis   next   they  played   their  farce 

on: 
Instead  of  home-spun  coifs,  were  seen 
Good  pinners,  edged  with  Colberteen : 
Her  petticoat,  transformed  apace. 
Became  black  satin  flounced  with  lace. 
Plain  Goody  would  no  longer  down : 
'Twas  madam  in  her  grogram  gown. 
Philemon  was  in  great  suprise. 
And  hardly  could  believe  his  eyes : 
Amazed  to  see  her  look  so  prim  ; 
And  she  admired  as  much  at  him. 

Thus,  happy  in  their  change  of  life. 
Wore  several  years  the  man  and  wife  : 
When  on  a  day  which  proved  their  last. 
Discoursing  o'er  old  stories  past. 
They  went  by  chance,  amidst  their  talk, 
To  the  churchyard  to  fetch  a  walk ; 
When  Baucis  hastily  cried  out. 
My  dear,  I  see  your  forehead  sprout ! 
Sprout,  quoth  the  man,  what's  this  you  tell 

us? 
I  hope  you  don't  believe  me  jealous  ? 
But  yet,  methinks,  I  feel  it  tioie  ; 

And  really  yours  is  budding  too 

Nay now  I  cannot  stir  my  foot ; 

It  feels  as  if  'twere  taking  root. 

Description  would  but  tire  my  Muse  ; 
In  short,  they  both  were  turned  to  yews. 

Old  Goodman  Dobson,  of  the  green, 
Eemembers  he  the  trees  hath  seen  ; 
He'll  talk  of  them  from  noon  till  night. 
And  goes  with  folks  to  show  the  sight ; 

5^* 


Jonathan  Swift.] 


VERSES  ON"  HIS-  OWN  DEATH 


[Fifth  Peuiod. 


On  Sundays,  after  evening-  prayer, 
He  gathers  all  the  parish  there ; 
Points  out  the  place  of  either  yew, 
Here  Baucis,  there  Philemon  grew, 
Tni  once  a  parson  of  our  to-wii, 
To  mend  his  barn,  cut  Baucis  down  ; 
At  which,  'tis  hard  to  be  believed, 
How  much  the  other  tree  was  gi-icved  ; 
Grew  scrubby,  died  a-top,  was  stunted  ; 
So  the  next  parson  stubbed  and  burnt  it. 

Jonathan  Sv:ift.—Born  1667,  Died  1745. 


774.— VEESES  ON  HIS  OWN  DEATH. 

As  Rochefoucault  his  maxims  drew 
From  nature,  I  believe  them  true  : 
They  argne  no  corrupted  mind 
In  him  ;  the  fault  is  in  mankind. 

This  maxim  more  than  all  the  rest 
Is  thought  too  base  for  human  breast : 
"  In  all  distresses  of  our  friends, 
We  first  consult  our  private  ends  ; 
While  nature,  kindly  bent  to  ease  us, 
Points  out  some  circumstance  to  please  us. 

If  this  perhaps  your  patience  move, 
Let  reason  and  experience  prove. 

We  all  behold  with  envious  eyes 
Our  equal  raised  above  our  size. 
Who  woiild  not  at  a  crowded  show 
Stand  high  himself,  keep  others  low  ? 
I  love  my  friend  as  well  as  you  ; 
But  why  should  he  obstruct  my  view  ? 
Then  let  me  have  the  higher  post ; 
Suppose  it  but  an  inch  at  most. 
If  in  a  battle  you  should  find 
One,  whom  you  love  of  all  mankind, 
Had  some  heroic  action  done, 
A  champion  kill'd,  or  trophy  won  ; 
Eather  than  thus  be  over-topt, 
Would  you  not  wish  his  laurels  cropt  ? 
Dear  honest  Ned  is  in  the  gout, 
Lies  racked  with  pain,  and  you  without : 
How  patiently  you  hear  him  groan  ! 
How  glad  the  case  is  not  your  own  ! 

What  poet  would  not  grieve  to  see 
His  brother  write  as  well  as  he  ? 
But,  rather  than  they  should  excel, 
Would  wish  his  rivals  all  in  hell  ? 
i  Her  end  when  Emulation  misses. 

She  turns  to  envy,  stings,  and  hisses  : 
The  strongest  friendship  yields  to  pride. 
Unless  the  odds  be  on  our  side. 
"Vain  human  kind  !  fantastic  race  ! 
Thy  various  follies  who  can  trace  ? 
Self-love,  ambition,  envy,  pride, 
Their  empire  in  our  hearts  divide. 
Give  others  riches,  power,  and  station, 
'Tis  all  to  me  an  usurpation. 
I  have  no  title  to  aspire ; 
Yet,  when  you  sink,  I  seem  the  higher. 
In  Pope  I  cannot  read  a  line, 
But  with  a  sigh  I  wish  it  mine  : 


W^hcn  he  can  in  one  couplet  fix 

More  sense  than  I  can  do  in  six  ; 

It  gives  me  such  a  jealous  fit, 

I  cry,  "  Pox  take  him  and  his  wit !  " 

I  grieve  to  be  outdone  by  Gay 

Jn  my  own  humorous  biting  way. 

Arbuthnot  is  no  more  my  friend. 

Who  dares  to  irony  pretend. 

Which  I  was  born  to  introduce, 

Eefined  it  first,  and  showed  its  use. 

St.  John,  as  well  as  Pulteney,  knows 

That  I  had  some  repute  for  prose ; 

And,  till  they  drove  me  ovit  of  date, 

Could  maul  a  minister  of  state. 

If  they  have  mortified  my  pride. 

And  made  me  throw  my  pen  aside ; 

If  -with  such  talents  Heaven  hath  bless' d  'em, 

Have  I  not  reason  to  detest  'em  ? 

To  all  my  foes,  dear  Fortune,  send 
Thy  gifts,  but  never  to  my  friend  : 
I  tamely  can  endure  the  first ; 
But  this  with  envy  makes  me  burst. 

Thus  much  may  serve  by  way  of  proem  ; 
Proceed  we  therefore  to  our  poem. 

The  time  is  not  remote  when  I 
Must  by  the  course  of  nature  die  ; 
When,  I  foresee,  my  special  friends 
Will  try  to  find  their  private  ends  : 
And,  though  'tis  hardly  understood 
Which  way  my  death  can  do  them  good, 
Yet  thus,  methinks,  I  hear  them  speak : 
"  See  how  the  Dean  begins  to  break  1 
Poor  gentleman,  he  droops  apace  ! 
You  plainly  find  it  in  his  face. 
That  old  vertigo  in  his  head 
Will  never  leave  him  till  he 's  dead. 
Besides,  his  memory  decays : 
He  recollects  not  what  he  says  ; 
He  cannot  call  his  friends  to  mind ; 
Forgets  the  place  where  last  he  dined  ; 
Plies  you  with  stories  o'er  and  o'er ; 
He  told  them  fifty  times  before. 
How  does  he  fancy  we  can  sit 
To  hear  his  out-of -fashion  wit  ? 
But  he  takes  up  with  younger  folks. 
Who  for  his  wine  will  bear  his  jokes. 
Faith,  he  must  make  his  stories  shorter. 
Or  change  his  comrades  once  a  quarter ; 
In  half  the  time  he  talks  them  round, 
■  There  must  another  set  be  found. 

For  poetry,  he's  past  his  prime  : 
He  takes  an  hour  to  find  a  rhyme ; 
His  fire  is  out,  his  wit  decayed. 
His  fancy  sunk,  his  Muse  a  jade. 
I'd  have  him  throw  away  his  pen — 
But  there's  no  talking  to  some  men." 

And  then  their  tenderness  appears 
By  adding  largely  to  my  years  : 
"  He's  older  than  he  would  be  reckon' d, 
And  well  remembers  Charles  the  Second. 
He  hardly  drinks  a  pint  of  wine  ; 
And  that,  I  doubt,  is  no  good  sign. 
His  stomach  too  begins  to  fail ; 
Last  year  we  thought  him  strong  and  halo  ; 
But  now  he's  quite  another  thing  : 
I  wish  he  may  hold  oiit  till  spring." 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


VEESES  ON  HIS  OWN  DEATH. 


[Jonathan  Swift. 


They  hug  themselves  and  reason  thus  : 
"  It  is  not  yet  so  bad  with  us  !  " 

In  such  a  case  they  talk  in  tropes, 
And  by  their  fears  express  their  hopes. 
Some  great  misfortune  to  portend, 
No  enemy  can  match  a  friend. 
With  all  the  kindness  they  profess. 
The  merit  of  a  lucky  guess 
(When  daily  how-d'ye's  come  of  course, 
And  servants  ansvver,   "  Worse  and  worse  ! 
"Would  please  them  better,  than  to  tell. 
That,  "  God  be  praised,  the  Dean  is  well." 
Then  he  who  prophesied  the  best, 
Approves  his  foresight  to  the  rest : 
"  You  know  I  always  fear'd  the  worst, 
And  often  told  you  so  at  first." 
He'd  rather  choose  that  I  should  die, 
Than  his  predictions  prove  a  lie. 
Not  one  foretells  I  shall  recover  ; 
But  all  agree  to  give  me  over. 

Yet  should  some  neighbour  feel  a  pain 
Just  in  the  parts  where  I  complain ; 
How  many  a  message  would  he  send  ! 
What  hearty  prayers  that  I  should  mend  ! 
Inquire  what  regimen  I  kept  ? 
What  gave  me  ease,  and  how  I  slept  ? 
And  more  lament  when  I  was  dead. 
Than  all  the  snivellers  round  my  bed. 

My  good  companions,  never  fear  ; 
For,  though  you  may  mistake  a  year, 
Though  your  prognostics  run  too  fast, 
They  must  be  verified  at  last. 

Behold  the  fatal  day  arrive  ! 
"  How  is  the  Dean  ?  " — "  He's  just  alive." 
Now  the  departing  prayer  is  read  ; 
He  hardly  breathes — the  Dean  is  dead. 

Before  the  passing-bell  begun, 
The  news  through  half  the  town  is  run. 
"  Oh  I  may  we  all  for  death  i)repare  ! 
What  has  he  left  ?  and  who's  his  heir  ?  " 
"  I  know  no  more  than  what  the  news  is  ; 
'Tis  all  bequeath'd  to  public  uses." 
"  To  public  uses  !  there's  a  whim  I 
What  had  the  public  done  for  him  ? 
INIere  envy,  avarice,  and  pride  : 
He  gave  it  aU — but  first  he  died. 
And  had  the  Dean,  in  all  the  nation. 
No  worthy  friend,  no  poor  relation  ? 
So  readj'-  to  do  strangers  good. 
Forgetting  his  own  flesh  and  blood  !  " 

Now  Grub-street  wits  are  all  employ'd; 
With  elegies  the  town  is  cloy'd  : 
Some  paragraph  in  every  paper. 
To  curse  the  Dean,  or  bless  the  Drapier. 

The  doctors,  tender  of  their  fame. 
Wisely  on  me  lay  all  the  blame. 
"  We  must  confess,  his  case  was  nice ; 
But  he  would  never  take  advice. 
Had  he  been  ruled,  for  aught  appears, 
He  might  have  lived  these  twenty  years  : 
For,  when  we  open'd  him,  we  found 
That  all  his  vital  parts  were  sound." 

From  Dublin  soon  to  London  spread, 
'Tis  told  at  court,  '•  the  Deau  is  dead." 
And  Lady  Suffolk,  in  the  spleen, 
Runs  laughing  up  to  tell  the  queen. 


The  queen,  so  gracious,  mild,  and  good. 
Cries,  "  Is  he  gone  !  'tis  time  he  should. 
He's  dead,  you  say ;  then  let  him  rot : 
I'm  glad  the  medals  were  forgot. 
I  promised  him,  I  own  ;  but  when  ? 

I  pnly  was  the  princess  then :  

But  now,  as  consort  of  the  king. 
You  know,  'tis  qvdte  another  thing." 

Now  Chartres,  at^ir  Robert's  levee, 
Tells  with  a  sneer  the  tidings  heavy  ; 
"  Why,  if  he  died  without  his  shoes," 
Cries  Bob,  "  I'm  sorry  for  the  news  : 
Oh,  were  the  wretch  but  living  still. 
And  in  his  place  my  good  friend  Will ! 
Or  had  a  mitre  on  his  head. 
Provided  Bolingbroke  were  dead !  " 

Now  Curll  his  shop  from  rubbish  drains  : 
Three  genuine  tomes  of  Swift's  remains  ! 
And  then,  to  make  them  pass  the  glibber, 
Revised  by  Tibbalds,  Moore,  and  Gibber. 
He'll  treat  me  as  he  does  my  betters, 
Publish  my  will,  my  life,  my  letters ; 
Revive  the  libels  born  to  die  : 
Which  Pope  must  bear  as  well  as  I. 

Here  shift  the  scene  to  repres*ent 
How  those  I  love  my  death  lament. 
Poor  Pope  will  grieve  a  month,  and  Gay 
A  week,  and  Arbuthnot  a  day. 

St.  John  himself  will  scarce  forbear 
To  bite  his  pen,  and  drop  a  tear. 
The  rest  will  give  a  shrug,  and  cry, 
"  I'm  sorry — but  we  all  must  die  !  " 

Indifference,  clad  in  wisdom's  guise, 
All  fortitude  of  mind  supplies  : 
For  how  can  stony  bowels  melt 
In  those  who  never  pity  felt ! 
When  we  are  lash'd,  they  kiss  the  red, 
Resigning  to  the  will  of  God. 

The  fools,  my  juniors  by  a,  year, 
Are  tortm*ed  with  suspense  and  fear ; 
Who  wisely  thought  my  age  a  screen, 
When  death  approach'd,  to  stand  between  : 
The  screen  removed,  their  heai-ts  are  trembling; 
They  mourn  for  me  without-  dissembling. 

My  female  friends,  whose  tender  hearts 
Have  better  learn' d  to  act  their  parts, 
Receive  the  news  in  doleful  dumps  : 
"  The  Dean  is  dead :  (Pray  what  is  trumps  ?) 
Then,  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul ! 
(Ladies,  I'll  venture  for  the  vole.) 
Six  deans,  they  say,  must  bear  the  pall : 
(I  wish  I  knew  what  king  to  call.) 
Madame,  your  husband  will  attend 
The  funeral  of  so  good  a  friend  ? 
No,  madame,  'tis  a  shocking  sight ; 
And  he's  engaged  to-morrow  night : 
My  lady  Club  will  take  it  ill, 
If  he  should  fail  her  at  quadrille. 
He  loved  the  Dean — (I  lead  a  heart  :) 
But  dearest  friends,  they  say,  must  part. 
His  time  was  come  ;  he  ran  his  race ; 
We  hope  he's  in  a  better  place." 

Why  do  we  grieve  that  friends  should  die  ? 
No  loss  ipore  easy  to  supply. 
One  year  is  past ;  a  different  scene  ! 
No  farther  mention  of  the  Dean, 


Jonathan  Swift.]                VERSES  ON  HIS  OWN  DEATH.                  [Fifth  Period. 

Who  now,  alas  !  no  more  is  miss'd, 

"  Sir,  I  have  heard  another  story  ; 

Than  if  he  never  did  exist. 

He  was  a  most  confounded  Tory, 

Where's  now  the  favourite  of  Apollo  ? 

And  grew,  or  he  is  much  belied, 

Departed  : — and  his  works  mtist  follow  ; 

Extremely  dull,  before  he  died." 

Must  undergo  the  common  fate  ; 

"  Can  we  the  Drapier  then  forget  ? 

His  kind  of  wit  is  out  of  date.                          , 

Is  not  our  nation  in  his  debt  ? 

Some  country  squire  to  Lintot  goes, 

'Twas  he  that  writ  the  Drapier's  letters  !  " — 

Inquires  for  Swift  in  verse  and  prose. 

"  He  should  have  left  them  for  his  betters  : 

Says  Lintot,  "  I  have  heard  the  name  ; 

We  had  a  hundred  abler  men, 

He  died  a  j^ear  ago." — "The  same." 

Nor  need  depend  upon  his  pen. — 

He  searches  all  the  shop  in  vain. 

Say  what  you  -»vill  about  his  reading, 

"  Sir,  you  may  find  them  in  Duck-lane  : 

You  never  can  defend  his  breeding  ; 

I  sent  them,  with  a  load  of  books, 

Who,  in  his  satires  running  riot. 

Last  Monday  to  the  pastry-cook's. 

Could  never  leave  the  world  in  quiet ; 

To  fancy  they  could  live  a  year  ! 

Attacking,  when  he  took  the  whim. 

I  find  you're  but  a  stranger  here. 

Court,  city,  camp — all  one  to  him. — 

The  Dean  was  famous  in  his  time. 

But  why  would  he,  except  he  slobber' d, 

And  had  a  kind  of  knack  at  rhyme. 

Offend  our  patriot,  groat  Sir  Robert, 

His  way  of  writing  now  is  past : 

Whose  cotmsels  aid  the  sovereign  power 

The  town  has  got  a  better  taste. 

To  save  the  nation  every  hour  ! 

I  keep  no  antiquated  stuff ; 

What  scenes  of  evil  he  unravels, 

But  spick  and  span  I  have  enough. 

In  satires,  libels,  lying  travels  ; 

Pray,  do  but  give  me  leave  to  show  'em : 

Not  sparing  his  own  clergy  cloth,                               i 

Here's  CoUey  (Jibber's  birth-day  poem. 

But  eats  into  it,  Hke  a  moth  !  " 

This  ode  you  never  yet  have  seen. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  allow  the  Dean 

By  Stephen  Duck,  upon  the  queen. 

Had  too  much  satire  in  his  vein, 

Then  here's  a  letter  finely  penn'd 

And  seem'd  determined  not  to  starve  it, 

Against  the  Craftsman  and  his  friend  : 

Because  no  age  could  more  deserve  it. 

It  clearly  shows  that  all  reflection 

Yet  malice  never  was  his  aim  ; 

On  ministers  is  disaffection. 

He  lash'd  the  vice,  but  spared  the  name. 

Next,  here's  Sir  Robert's  \indication, 

No  individual  could  resent, 

And  Mr,  Henley's  last  oration. 

Where  thousands  equally  were  meant : 

The  hawkers  have  not  got  them  yet : 

His  satire  points  at  no  defect. 

Your  honour  i^lease  to  buy  a  set  ? 

But  what  all  mortals  may  correct ; 

Here's  Wolston's  tracts,  the  twelfth  edition; 

For  he  abhon-''d  the  senseless  tribe 

'Tis  read  by  every  politician  : 

Who  call  it  humour  when  they  gibe  : 

The  country  members,  when  in  town. 

He  spared  a  hump,  or  crooked  nose, 

To  all  their  borougjis  send  them  down  ; 

Whose  owners  set  not  up  for  beaux. 

You  never  met  a  thing  so  smart ; 

True  genuine  dulness  moved  his  pity. 

The  courtiers  have  them  all  by  heart : 

Unless  it  offer' d  to  be  witty. 

Those  maids  of  honour  who  can  read, 

Those  who  their  ignorance  confest. 

Are  taught  to  use  them  for  their  creed. 

He  ne'er  offended  with  a  jest ; 

The  reverend  author's  good  intention 

But  laugh' d  to  hear  an  idiot  quote 

Hath  been  rewarded  with  a  pension : 

A  verse  from  Horace  learn' d  by  rote. 

He  doth  an  honour  to  his  gown. 

Vice,  if  it  e'er  can  be  abash'd. 

By  bravely  running  priest-craft  down  : 

Must  be  or  ridiculed  or  lash'd. 

He  shows,  as  sure  as  God's  in  Gloucester, 

If  you  resent  it,  who's  to  blame  ? 

That  Moses  was  a  grand  impostor  ; 

He  neither  knows  you,  nor  your  name. 

That  all  his  miracles  were  cheats. 

Should  vice  expect  to  'scape  rebuke. 

Perform' d  as  jugglers  do  their  feats  : 

Because  its  owner  is  a  duke  ? 

The  church  had  never  such  a  writer ; 

His  friendships,  still  to  few  confined. 

A  shame  he  had  not  got  a  mitre  !  " 

Were  always  of  the  middling  kind  ; 

Suppose  me  dead  ;  and  then  suppose 

No  fools  of  rank,  or  mongrel  breed, 

A  club  assembled  at  the  Rose  ; 

Who  fain  would  pass  for  lords  indeed :                     i 

Where,  from  discourse  of  this  and  that, 

Where  titles  give  no  right  or  power, 

I  grow  the  subject  of  their  chat. 

And  peerage  is  a  wither' d  flower ; 

And  while  they  toss  my  name  about. 

He  would  have  deem'd  it  a  disgrace. 

With  favour  some,  and  some  without ; 

If  such  a  wretch  had  known  his  face. 

One,  quite  indifferent  in  the  cause, 

On  rural  sqiaires,  that  kingdom's  bane, 

My  character  impartial  draws. 

He  vented  oft  his  wrath  in  vain  :                               , 

"  The  Dean,  if  we  believe  report, 

*******  squires  to  market  brought,                           1 

Was  never  ill  received  at  court, 

Who  sell  their  souls  and  ****  for  nought : 

Although,  ironically  grave. 

The  ****  ****  go  joyful  back. 

He  shamed  the  fool,  and  lash'd  the  knave  ; 

To  rob  the  church,  their  tenants  rack  ; 

To  steal  a  hint  was  never  known, 

Go  snacks  with  *****  justices. 

But  what  he  writ  was  all  his  own." 

And  keep  the  peace  to  pick  up  fees ; 

'      From  1689  to  1727.]                VERSES  ON  HIS  OWN  DEATH.               [Jonathan  Swift. 

In  every  job  to  have  a  share, 

By  solemn  league  and  covenant  bound, 

A  gaol  or  turnpike  to  repair ; 

To  ruin,  slaughter,  and  confound ; 

And  turn  *******  to  pubKc  roads 

To  turn  religion  to  a  fable, 

Commodious  to  their  own  abodes. 

.  And  make  the  government  a  Babel ; 

He  never  thought  an  honour  done  him, 

Pervert  the  laws,  disgrace  the  gown, 

Because  a  peer  was  proud  to  own  him  ; 

Corrupt  the  senate,  rob  the  crownrj 

Would  rather  slip  aside,  and  choose 

To  sacrifice  Old  England's  glory, 

To  talk  with  wits  in  dirty  shoes ; 

And  make  her  infamous  in  story  : 

And  scorn  the  tools  with  stars  and  garters, 

When  such  a  tempest  shook  the  laud. 

So  often  seen  caressing  Chartres. 

How  could  unguarded  virtue  stand  ! 

He  never  courted  men  in  station, 

With  horror,  grief,  despair,  the  Dean 

Nor  persons  held  in  admiration ; 

Beheld  the  dire  destructive  scene  : 

Of  no  man's  greatness  was  afraid, 

His  friends  in  exile,  or  the  Tower, 

Because  he  sought  for  no  man's  aid. 

Himself  within  the  frown  of  power  ; 

Though  trusted  long  in  great  affairs. 

Pursued  by  base  envenom' d  pens, 

He  gave  himself  no  haughty  airs  : 

Far  to  the  land  of  s and  fens  ; 

Without  regarding  private  ends, 

A  servile  race  in  folly  nursed. 

1       Spent  all  his  credit  for  his  friends  ; 

Who  truckle  most,  when  treated  worst. 

And  only  chose  the  mse  and  good ; 

By  innocence  and  resolution. 

No  flatterers  ;  no  aUies  in  blood : 

He  bore  continual  persecution  ; 

But  succour'd  virtue  in  distress, 

While  numbers  to  preferment  rose, 

And  seldom  faU'd  of  good  success  ; 

Whose  merit  was  to  be  his  foes ; 

As  numbers  in  their  hearts  must  own, 

When  ev'n  his  own  familiar  friends. 

Who,  but  for  him,  had  been  unknown. 

Intent  upon  their  private  ends. 

He  kept  with  princes  due  decorum ; 

Like  renegadoes  now  he  feels. 

Yet  never  stood  in  awe  before  'em. 

Against  him  lifting  up  their  heels. 

He  foUow'd  David's  lesson  just ; 

The  Dean  did,  by  his  peij,  defeat 

In  princes  never  put  his  trust : 

An  infamous  destructive  cheat ; 

And,  would  you  make  him  truly  sour, 

Taught  fools  their  interest  how  to  know. 

Provoke  him  with  a  slave  in  power. 

And  gave  them  arms  to  ward  the  blow. 

The  Irish  senate  if  you  named, 

Envy  hath  own'd  it  was  his  doing, 

With  what  impatience  he  declaimed  ! 

To  save  that  hapless  land  from  ruin  ; 

Fair  liberty  was  all  his  cry  ; 

WMle  they  who  at  the  steerage  stood. 

For  her  he  stood  prepared  to  die ; 

And  reap'd  the  profit,  sought  his  blood. 

For  her  he  boldly  stood  alone  ; 

To  save  them  from  their  evil  fate. 

For  her  he  oft  exposed  his  own. 

In  him  was  held  a  crime  of  state. 

Two  kingdoms,  just  as  faction  led, 

A  wicked  monster  on  the  bench, 

Had  set  a  price  upon  his  head ; 

Whose  fury  blood  could  never  quench ; 

But  not  a  traitor  could  be  found. 

As  vile  and  profligate  a  villain, 

To  sell  him  for  six  hundred  pound. 

As  modern  Scroggs,  or  old  Tressilian ; 

Had  he  but  spared  his  tongue  and  pen, 

Who  long  all  justice  had  discarded. 

He  might  have  rose  like  other  men  : 

Nor  fear'd  he  God,  nor  man  regarded ; 

But  power  was  never  in  his  thought, 

Vow'd  on  the  Dean  his  rage  to  vent, 

And  wealth  he  valued  not  a  groat : 

And  make  him  of  his  zeal  repent : 

Ingratitude  he  often  found. 

But  Heaven  his  innocence  defends, 

And  pitied  those  who  meant  the  wound ; 

The  grateful  people  stand  his  friends ; 

But  kept  the  tenour  of  his  mind. 

Not  strains  of  law,  nor  judges'  frown. 

To  merit  well  of  human-kind  ; 

Nor  topics  brought  to  please  the  crown. 

Nor  made  a  sacrifice  of  those 

Nor  witness  hired,  nor  jury  pick'd, 

Who  still  were  true,  to  please  his  foes. 

Prevail  to  bring  him  in  convict. 

He  labour'd  many  a  fruitless  hour, 

In  exile,  with  a  steady  heart, 

To  reconcile  his  friends  in  power ; 

He  spent  his  life's  declining  part ; 

Saw  mischief  by  a  faction  brewing. 

Where  folly,  pride,  and  faction  sway. 

While  they  pursued  each  other's  ruin. 

Remote  from  St.  John,  Pope,  and  Gay." 

But,  finding  vain  was  all  his  care, 

"  Alas,  poor  Dean  !  his  only  scope 

He  left  the  court  in  mere  despair. 

Was  to  be  held  a  misanthrope. 

And,  oh !  how  short  are  human  schemes  ! 

This  into  general  odium  drew  him. 

Here  ended  all  our  golden  dreams. 

Which  if  he  liked,  much  good  may  't  do  him. 

What  St.  John's  skill  in  state  affairs. 

His  zeal  was  not  to  lash  our  crimes. 

What  Ormond's  valour,  Oxford's  cares, 

But  discontent  against  the  times  : 

To  save  their  sinking  country  lent. 

For,  had  we  made  him  timely  offers. 

Was  all  destroy' d  by  one  event. 

To  raise  his  post,  or  fill  his  cofiers, 

Too  soon  that  precious  life  was  ended, 

Perhaps  he  might  have  truckled  down. 

On  which  alone  our  weal  depended. 

Like  other  brethren  of  his  gown  ; 

When  up  a  dangerovis  faction  starts, 

For  party  he  would  scarce  have  bled  : — 

With  wrath  and  vengeance  in  their  hearts  ; 

I  say  no  more — ^because  he's  dead. — 

Jonathan  Swift.] 


THE  GEAND  QUESTION  DEBATED. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


What  writings  has  he  left  behind  ?  " 

"  I  hear  they're  of  a  different  kind : 
A  few  in  verse ;  but  most  in  prose — " 

"  Some  high-flown  pamphlets,  I  suppose  : — 
All  scribbled  in  the  worst  of  times, 
To  palliate  his  friend  Oxford's  crimes  ; 
To  praise  queen  Anne,  nay  more,  defend  her, 
As  never  favouring  the  Pretender : 
Or  libels  yet  conceal' d  from  sight, 
Against  the  court  to  show  his  spite  : 
Perhaps  his  travels,  part  the  third ; 
A  lie  at  every  second  word — 
Offensive  to  a  loyal  ear  : — 
But — not  one  sermon,  you  may  swear." 

"  He  knew  an  hundred  pleasing  stories, 
With  all  the  turns  of  Whigs  and  Tories : 
Was  cheerful  to  his  dying  day  ; 
And  friends  would  let  him  have  his  way. 

As  for  his  works  in  verse  or  prose, 
I  own  myself  no  judge  of  those. 
Nor  can  I  tell  what  critics  thought  them ; 
But  this  I  know,  all  people  bought  them, 
As  with  a  moral  view  design' d 
To  please  and  to  reform  mankind  : 
And,  if  he  often  miss'd  his  aim, 
The  world  must  own  it  to  their  shame, 
The  praise  is  his,  ajtid  theirs  the  blame. 
He  gave  the  little  wealth  he  had 
To  build  a  house  for  fools  and  mad ; 
To  show,  by  one  satiric  touch. 
No  nation  wanted  it  so  much. 
That  kingdom  he  had  left  hia  debtor ; 
I  wish  it  soon  may  have  a  better. 
And,  since  you  dread  no  further  lashes, 
Methinks  you  may  forgive  his  ashes." 

Jonathan  Swift— Born  1667,  Died  1745. 


775.— THE    GEAND    QUESTION 
DEBATED. 

Thus  spoke  to  my  lady  the   knight   full   of 

care  : 
"  Let  me  have  your  advice  in  a  weighty  affair. 
This  Hamilton's  bawn,  whilst  it  sticks  on  my 

hand, 
I  lose  by  the  house  what  I  get  by  the  land  ; 
But  how  to  dispose  of  it  to  the  best  bidder, 
For  a   barrack  or  malt-house,  we  now  must 

consider. 
First,  let   me   suppose    I  make   it  a  malt- 
house. 
Here  I  have  computed  the  profit  will  fall  t' 

us  ; 
There's  nine  hundred  pounds  for  labour  and 

grain, 
I   increase  it  to  twelve,    so   three  hundred 

remain ; 
A   handsome    addition    for    wine    and    good 

cheer, 
Three   dishes  a  day,  and  three  hogsheads  a 

year  : 
With  a  dozen  largo  vessels  my  vault  shall  be 

stored  ; 
No  little  scrub  joint  shall  come  on  my  board  ; 


And  you  and  the  Dean  no  more  shall  combine 
To  stint  me  at  night  to  one  bottle  of  wine ; 
Nor  shall  I,  for  his   humour,  permit  you  to 

purloin 
A    stone   and   a   quarter   of    beef    from   my 

surloin. 
If   I   make   it   a   barrack,  the   crown  is  my 

tenant ! 
My  dear,  I   have   ponder' d   again  and  again 

on  't : 
In  poundage  and  drawbacks   I   lose  half  my 

rent  ; 
Whatever  they  give  me,  I  must  be  content, 
Or  join  with  the  court  in  every  debate  ; 
And    rather    than    that,    I    would    lose    my 

estate." 
Thus  ended  the  knight ;  thus  began  his  meek 

wife  : 
"  It  must,  and  it  shall  be  a  barrack,  my  life. 
I'm   grown    a    mere    mopus  ;    no    company 

comes. 
But    a  rabble    of    tenants,    and   rusty   dull 

Eums  ; 
With   parsons   what   lady   can  keep    herself 

clean  ? 
I'm  all  over  daub'd  when  I  sit  by  the  Dean. 
But  if  you  Avili  give  us  a  barrack,  my  dear, 
The    captain,    I'm    sure,    wiU    always    come 

here  ; 
I  then  shall  not  value  his  Deanship  a  straw, 
For  the  captain,  I  warrant,  will  keep  him  in 

awe  ; 
Or  should  he  pretend  to  be  brisk  and  alert, 
Will  tell  him  that  chaplains  should  not  be  so 

pert ; 
That  men  of  his  coat  should  be  minding  their 

prayers, 
And    not   among   ladies   to    give  themselves 

airs." 
Thus  argued  my  lady,  but  argued  in  vain  ; 
The  knight  his  opinion  resolved  to  maintain. 
But  Hannah,  who  listen' d  to  all  that  was 

past, 
And  could  not  endure  so  vulgar  a  taste, 
As  soon  as  her  ladyship  call'd  to  be  drest, 
Cried,    "Madam,    why   surely   my   master's 


Sir  Arthur   the   maltster  I    how   fine   it  vnU 

sound  ! 
I'd  rather  the  bawn  were  sunk  under  ground. 
But  madam,  I  guess' d  there  would  never  come 

good, 
When  I  saw  him  so  often  with  Darby  and 

Wood. 
And    now    my   dream  's    out  ;    for  I  was    a- 

dream'd 
That    I    saAV   a   huge    rat — O    dear,    how    I 

screa)n'd  ! 
And    after,  methought,   I  had  lost   my  new 

shoes ; 
And  Molly,  she  said,  I  should  hear  some  ill 

news. 
Dear   madam,  had  you  but  the    spirit   to 

tease. 
You    might   have   a   barrack    whenever    you 

j)lease  : 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


THE  GRAND  QUESTION  DEBATED. 


[Jonathan  Swift. 


And,  madam,  I  always  believed  you  so  stout, 
That  for  twenty  denials  you  would  not  give 

out. 
If  I  had  a  husband  like  him,  I  purtest, 
Till  he  gave  me  my  Avill,  I  would  give  him  no 

rest ; 
And,  rather  than  come  in  the  same  pair  of 

sheets  ' 

With  such  a  cross  man,  I  would  he  in  the 

streets  ; 
But,  madam,  I  beg  you  contrive  and  invent, 
And  worry  him  out,  till  he  gives  his  consent. 
Dear  madam,  whene'er  of  a  barrack  I  think, 
An  I  were  to  be  hang'd,  I  can't  sleep  a  wink : 
For  if  a  new  crotchet  comes  into  my  brain, 
I  can't  get  it  out,  though  I'd  never  so  fain. 
I  fancy  already  a  barrack  contrived 
At  Hamilton's  bawn,  and  the  troop  is  arrived ; 
Of  this,  to  be  sm-e,  Sir  Arthur  has  warning. 
And   waits  on  the  captain  betimes  the  next 

morning. 
Now  see,  when  they  meet,  how  their  honours 

behave : 
'  Noble  captain,  your  servant ' — '  Sir  Arthur, 

your  slave  ; 
You    honour    me    much ' — '  The    honour    is 

mine.' — 
'  'T%vas  a  sad  rainy  night ' — '  But  the  morning 

is  fine.' 
'  Pray  how  does  my  lady  ? ' — '  My  wife 's  at 

your  ser\-ice.' 
'  I  think  I  have  seen  her  pictm-e  by  Jervas.' — 
'  Good  morrow,  good  captain.  I'll  wait  on  you 

down.' — 
'  You  sha'n't  stir  a  foot.'—'  You'll  think  me  a 

clown : ' 
'  For  all  the  world,  captain  — '  — '  Not  half  an 

inch  farther." — 
'  You  must  be  obcy'd  1 ' — '  Your  servant,  Sir 

Arthur! 
My  humble  respects  to  my  lady  unknown.' — 
'  I  hope  you  -will  use  my  house  as  your  own.'  " 
"  Go  bring  me  my  smock,  and  leave  off  your 

prate. 
Thou  hast  certainly  gotten  a  cup  in  thy  pate." 
"  Pray,  madam,  be   quiet ;   what  was  it  I 
said  ? 
You  had  like  to  have  put  it  quite  out  of  my 


Next  day,  to  be  sure,  the  captain  will  come. 
At  the  head  of  his  troops,  with  trumpet  and 

drum. 
Now,  madam,    observe   how    he   marches  in 

.state : 
The  man  with  the  kettle-drum  enters  the  gate  : 
Dub,  dub,  adub,  dub.   The  trumpeters  follow, 
Tantara,  tantara  ;  while  all  the  boys  hollow. 
See  now  comes  the  captain  all  daub'd  with 

gold  lace : 
O  la !   the  sweet  gentleman  !  look  in  his  face  ; 
And  see  how  he  rides  like  a  lord  of  the  land. 
With  the  fine  flaming  sword  that  he  holds  in 

his  hand ; 
And  his  horse,  the  dear  creter,  it  prances  and 

rears  ; 
With  ribbons  in  knots  at  its  tail  and  its  ears  : 


At  last  comes  tlie  troop  by  the  word  of  com- 
mand, 
Drawn  up  in  our  court ;    when  the  captain 

cries.  Stand  ! 
Your  ladyship  lifts  up  the  sash  to  be  seen 
(For  sure  I  had  dizen'd  you  out  likejx  queen). 
The   captain,  to    show   he   is   proud   of   the 

favour, 
Looks  up  to  your  window,  and  cocks  up  his 

beaver. 
(His  beaver  is  cock'd  ;   pray,  madam,  mark 

that, 
For  a   captain  of  horse   never  takes  off  his 

hat, 
Because  he  has  never  a  hand  that  is  idle  ; 
For  the  right  holds  the  sword,  and  the  left 

holds  the  bridle :) 
Then  flourishes  thrice  his  sword  in  the  air, 
As  a  compliment  due  to  a  lady  so  fair ; 
(How  I  tremble  to  think  of  the  blood  it  hath 

spilt ;) 
Then  he  lowers  down  the  i)oint,  and  kisses  the 

hilt. 
Your  ladyship  smiles,  and  thus  you  begin  : 
'  Fv&y,  captain,  be  pleased  to  alight  and  walk 

in.' 
The    captain    salutes   you  with  congee  pro- 
found. 
And  your  ladyship  curtsies  half-way  to  the 

ground. 
'  Kit,  run  to  your  master,  and  bid  him  como 

to  us ; 
I'm  sure  he'U  be  proud  of  the  honour  you  do 

us. 
And,  captain,  you'll  do  us  the  favour  to  stay. 
And  take  a  short  dinner  here  with  us  to-day : 
You're    heartily  welcome  ;    but  a-s   for  good 

cheer, 
You  come  in  the  very  worst  time  of  the  year : 

If  I  had  expected  so  worthy  a  guest ' 

'  Lord !    madam !    your   ladyship    sure    is  in 

jest : 
You  banter  me,  madam  ;    the  kingdom  must 

j  grant ' 

j   '  You  officers,  captain,  are  so  complaisant !  '  " 
i        "Hist,   hussy,    I   think   I   hear  somebody 

i  coming " 

I    "  No,     madam  ;     'tis    only    Sir    Arthur    a- 
!  humming. 

I   To  shorten  my  tale  (for  I  hate  a  long  story), 
I   The  captain  at  dinner  appears  in  his  glory  ; 
j   The  Dean  and  the  doctor  have  humbled  their 
I  pride. 

For  the  captain's  intreated  to   sit   by  your 

side; 
And,  because  he's  their  betters,  you  carve  for 

him  first ; 
The  parsons  for  envy  are  ready  to  burst. 
The  servants  amazed  are  scarce  ever  able 
To  keep  off  their  eyes,  as  they  wait  at  the 
table  ; 
I   And  Molly  and  I  have  thrust  in  our  nose 
To  peep  at  the  captain  all  in  his  fine  clo'es. 
Dear  madam,  be  sure  he's  a  fine-spoken  man, 
Do  but  hear  on  the  clergy  how  glib  his  tongue 


ran ; 


Pope.] 


THE  MESSIAH. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


'  And,  madam,'  says  he,  *  if  such  dinners  you 

give, 
You'll  ne'er  want  for  parsons  as  long  as  you 

live. 
I  ne'er  knew  a  parson  without  a  good  nose ; 
But  the  Devil's  as  welcome  whereA'er  he  goes  : 
G —  d — n  me  !  they  bid  us  reform  and  repent. 
But,   z — s !  by  their  looks   they  never  keep 

Lent. 
Mister  curate,  for  all  your  grave  looks,  I'm 

afraid 
You   cast   a   sheep's   eye   on   her    ladyship's 

maid : 
I  wish  she  would  lend  you  her  pretty  white 

hand 
In  mending  your  cassoc,  and  smoothing  your 

band. 
(For  the  Dean  was  so  shabby,  and  look'd  like 

a  ninny, 
That  the  captain  supposed  he  was  curate  to 

Jinny.) 
Whenever  you  see  a  cassoc  and  gown, 
A  hundred  to  one  but  it  covers  a  clown. 
Observe  how  a  parson  comes  into  a  room  ; 
G —  d — n  me !  he  hobbles  as  bad  as  my  groom ; 
A  scholard,  when  just  from  his  college  broke 

loose. 
Can  hardly  tell  how  to  cry  bo  to  a  goose  ; 
Your  Noveds,  and  Bluturcks,  and  Omurs,  and 

stuff. 
By  G — ,  they  don't  signify  this  pinch  of  snuff. 
To  give  a  young  gentleman  right  education, 
The  army's  the  only  good  school  in  the  nation  : 
My   schoolmaster  call'd  me   a  dunce   and   a 

fool, 
But  at  cuffs  I  was  always   the  cock  of   the 

school ; ' 
I  never  could  take  to  my  book  for  the  blood 

o'  me. 
And  the  puppy  confess' d  he  expected  no  good 

o|  me. 
He   caught  me  one   morning   coquetting   his 

wife  ; 
But  he  maul'd  me,  I  ne'er  was  so  maul'd  in 

my  life : 
So  I  took  to  the  road,  and  what's  very  odd, 
The  first  man  I  robb'd  was  a  parson,  by  G — . 
Now,  madam,  you'U  think  it  a.  strange  thing 

to  say, 
But  the  sight  of  a  book  makes  me  sick  to  tins 

day.' 
"Never  since   I   was  born   did  I  hear  so 

much  wit, 
And,  madam,  I  laugh'd  till  I  thought  I  should 

split. 
So  then  you  look'd  scornful,  and  snift  at  the 

Dean, 
As  who  should  say,  Now,   am  I  skinny  and 

lean  ? 
But  he  durst  not  so   much  as  once  open  his 

lips, 
And   the   doctor  was  plaguily   down   in  the 

hips." 
Thus  merciless  Hannah  ran  on  in  her  talk, 
TiU  she  heard  the  Dean  call,  "  Will  your  lady- 
ship walk  ?  " 


Her    ladyship   answers,    "  I'm   just    coming 

down  :  " 
Then,    turning    to    Hannah,    and   forcing    a 

frown, 
Although  it  was  plain  in  her  heart  she  was 

glad. 
Cried,  "  Hussy,  why  sure  the  wench  is  gone 

mad!  * 

How    could    these    chimeras    get  into   your 

brains  ? — 
Come  hither,  and  take  this  old  gown  for  your 

pains. 
But  the  Dean,  if  this  secret  should  come  to 

his  ears. 
Will  never  have  done  with  his  gibes  and  his 

jeers : 
For   your  life,   not  a  word  of  the  matter,  I 

charge  ye : 
Give  me  but  a  barrack,  a  fig  for  the  clergy." 

Jonathan  Swift. — Born  1667,  Died  1745. 


776.— THE  MESSIAH. 

Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma !  begin  the  song  : 
To  heavenly  themes  subhmer  strains  belong. 
The  mossy  fountains  and  the  sylvan  shades, 
The  dreams  of  Pindus  and  the  Aonian  maids, 
Delight  no  more — 0  thou  my  voice  inspire. 
Who    touched    Isaiah's    hallowed    lips    with 
fire  ! 
Eapt  into  future  times,  the  bard  beg^in  : 
A   Virgin   shall   conceive,   a    Virgin    bear    a 

Son! 
From  Jesse's  root  behold  a  branch  arise, 
Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills  the 


The  ethereal  spirit  o'er  its  leaves  shall  move. 
And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  Dove. 
Ye  heavens !  from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour. 
And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  shower. 
The   sick  and  weak  the  heaUng  plant  shall 

aid. 
From    storms  a    shelter,   and    from    heat    a 

shade. 
All   crimes   shall   cease,   and   ancient  frauds 

shall  fail ; 
Eetuming  Justice  lift  aloft  her  scale ; 
Peace  o'er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 
And    white-robed     Innocence     from    heaven 

descend. 
Swift   fly  the   years,  and   rise   the   expected 

morn ! 
Oh,    spring    to    light,    auspicious    Babe,    be 

bom ! 
See,   nature   hastes   her   earliest   wreaths  to 

bring, 
With  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  spring ! 
See  lofty  Lebanon  his  head  advance  ! 
See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance ! 
See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Sharon  rise. 
And  Carmel's  flowery  top  perfume  the  skies! 
Hark  !  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers  ; 
Prepare  the  way  !  a  God,  a  God  appears ! 


From,  1689  to  1727.] 


SATIEE. 


[Pope. 


A  God,  a  God !  the  vocal  hills  reply ; 

The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching  Deity. 

Lo !    earth   receives   him   from   the   bending 

skies ; 
Sink    dovra,    ye   mountains ;    and  ye  valleys 

rise; 
With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars  homage  pay  ; 
Be  smooth,  ye  rocks :   ye  rapid  floods,   give 

way! 
The  Saviour  comes !    by  ancient  bards  fore- 
told: 
Hear  him,  ye  deaf :  and  all  ye  blind,  behold ! 
He   from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual 

ray. 
And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day : 
'Tis  he  the  obstructed  paths  of  soimd  shall 

clear. 
And  bid   new    music    charm    the    unfolding 

ear: 
The  dumb  shall   sing,  the   lame   his   cmtcli 

forego. 
And  leap  exulting  like  the  bounding  roe. 
No   sigh,  no   murmur,  the  wide   world   shall 

hear; 
From  every  face  he  wipes  off  every  tear. 
In  adamantine  chains  shall  death  be  bound, 
And    hell's    grim    tyrant    feel    the    eternal 

wound. 
As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air ; 
Explores    the    lost,     the     wandering     sheep 

directs. 
By  day  o'ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects  ; 
The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms. 
Feeds    from    his    hand    and    in    his    bosom 

warms ; 
Thus    shall     mankind     his     guardian     care 

engage, 
The  promised  father  of  the  future  age. 
No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise. 
Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes ; 
Nor    fields    with  gleaming   steel   be  covered 

o'er, 
The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more : 
But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 
And  the   broad  falchion    in    a    ploughshare 

end. 
Then  palaces  shall  rise ;  the  joyful  son 
Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun  ; 
Their  vines   a   shadow   to   their   race    shall 

yield, 
And  the  same  hand  that   sowed,   shall  reap 

the  field. 
The  swain  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 
Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise ; 
And  starts,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds  to  hear 
New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 
On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes. 
The  green  reed   trembles,    and  the   bulrush 

nods. 
Waste   sandy  valleys,    once   perplexed    with 

thorn. 
The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn  : 
To   leafless   shrubs   the   flowery   palms    suc- 
ceed, 
And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 


The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant 

mead. 
And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead : 
The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet. 
And    harmless    serpents    lick    the    pilgrim's 

feet.  ^      

The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 
The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake  ; 
Pleased  the  green  lustre  of  the  scales  survey, 
And  with  their  forky  tongue  shall  innocently 

play. 
Rise,    crowned  with    light,    imperial    Salem, 

rise ! 
Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes ! 
See  a  long  I'ace  thy  spacious  courts  adorn ! 
See  future  sons  and  daughters  yet  unborn, 
In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 
Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies  ! 
See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 
Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend ! 
See  thy  bright  altars  thronged  with  prostrate 

kings, 
And  heaped  with  products  of  Sabean  springs. 
For  thee  Idume's  spicy  forests  blow, 
And    seeds   of    gold    in    Ophir's    mountains 

glow. 
See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display. 
And  break  upon  thee  in  a  flood  of  day ! 
No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  mom. 
Nor  evening  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn ; 
But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays, 
One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze 
O'erflow  thy  courts:  the  Light  himself  shall 

shine 
Revealed,  and  God's  eternal  day  be  thine  ! 
The   seas   shall   waste,   the   skies   in   smoke 

decay, 
Eocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away; 
But  fixed  his  word,  his  saving  power  remains ; 
Thy   realm  for  evey  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah 

reigns ! 

Pope.— Born  1688,  Died  1744. 


777.— SATIEE. 

I've  often  wished  that  I  had  clear 
For  life,  six  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
A  handsome  house  to  lodge  a  friend, 
A  river  at  my  garden's  end, 
A  terrace-walk,  and  half  a  rood 
Of  land,  set  out  to  plant  a  wood. 

Well,  now  I  have  all  this  and  more, 
I  ask  not  to  increase  my  store ; 
But  here  a  grievance  seems  to  lie. 
All  this  is  mine  but  till  I  die  ; 
I  can't  but  think  'twould  sound  more  clever 
To  me  and  to  my  heirs  for  ever. 

If  I  ne'er  got  or  lost  a  groat. 
By  any  trick,  or  any  fault ; 
And  if  I  pray  by  Eeason's  rules. 
And  not  like  forty  other  fools  : 
As  thus,  "  Vouchsafe,  oh  gracious  Maker ! 
To  grant  me  this  and  t'other  aero  : 
Or,  if  it  be  thy  will  and  pleasure, 
Direct  my  plow  to  find  a  treasure  : 


Pope.]                                                           SATIRE.                                      [Fifth  Period.— 

But  only  what  my  station  fits, 

Would  take  me  in  his  coach  to  chat. 

And  to  be  kept  in  my  right  wits, 

And  qu6.stion  me  of  this  and  that ; 

Preserve,  Ahnighty  Providence  I 

As,   "What's  o'clock?"   And,    "How's  the 

Just  what  you  gave  me,  competence  : 

wind?  " 

And  let  me  in  the^e  shades  compose 

"  Who's  chariot 's  that  we  left  behind  ?" 

Something  in  verse  as  true  as  prose  ; 

Or  gravely  try  to  read  the  lines 

Eemoved  from  all  th'  ambitious  scene. 

Writ  underneath  the  country  signs  ; 

Nor  puff'd  by  pride,  nor  sunk  by  spleen." 

Or,  "  Have  you  nothing  new  to-day 

In  short,  I'm  perfectly  content, 

From  Pope,  from  Parnell,  or  from  Gay  ?  " 

Let  me  but  live  on  this  side  Trent ; 

Such  tattle  often  entertains 

Nor  cross  the  Channel  twice  a  year, 

My  lord  and  me  as  far  as  Staines, 

To  spend  six  months  with  statesmen  Rere. 

As  once  a  week  we  travel  down 

I  must  by  all  means  come  to  town, 

To  Windsor,  and  again  to  town, 

'Tis  for  the  service  of  the  crown. 

Where  all  that  passes  inter  nos, 

"  Lewis,  the  Dean  will  be  of  use. 

Might  be  proclaim' d  at  Charing-Cross. 

Send  for  him  up,  take  no  excuse." 

Yet  some  I  know  with  envy  swell. 

The  toil,  the  danger  of  the  seas  ; 

Because  they  see  me  used  so  well : 

Great  ministers  ne'er  think  of  these  ; 

"  How  think  you  of  our  friend  the  Dean  ? 

Or  let  it  cost  five  hundred  pound. 

I  wonder  what  some  people  mean  ; 

No  matter  where  the  money's  found. 

My  lord  and  he  are  grown  so  great. 

It  is  but  so  much  more  in  debt. 

Always  together,  tete-d-tete. 

And  that  they  ne'er  consider' d  j-et. 

What,  they  admire  him  for  his  jokes — 

"  Good  Mr.  Dean,  go  change  your  gown, 

See  but  the  fortune  of  some  folks  !  " 

Let  my  lord  know  you're  come  to  town." 

There  flies  about  a  strange  report 

I  hurry  me  in  haste  away, 

Of  some  express  arrived  at  court ; 

Not  thinking  it  is  levee-day  ; 

I'm  stopt  by  all  the  fools  I  meet, 

And  find  his  honour  in  a  pound. 

And  catechised  in  every  street. 

Hemm'd  by  a  triple  circle  round, 

"You,  Mr.  Dean,  frequent  the  great; 

Chequer' d  with  ribbons  blue  and  green  : 

Inform  us,  will  the  emp'ror  treat  ? 

How  should  I  thrust  myself  between  ? 

Or  do  the  prints  and  papers  lie?  " 

Some  wag  observes  me  thus  perplext. 

Faith,  Sir,  you  know  as  much  as  I. 

And  smiling  whispers  to  the  next. 

"  Ah,  doctor,  how  you  love  to  jest  ! 

"  I  thought  the  Dean  had  been  too  proud 

'Tis  now  no  secret  " — I  protest 

To  justle  here  among  a  crowd." 

'Tis  one  to  me — "Then  tell  us,  pray, 

Another,  in  a  surly  fit. 

When  are  the  troops  to  have  their  pay  ?  " 

Tells  me  I  have  more  zeal  than  vvit, 

And  tho'  I  solemnly  declare 

"  So  eager  to  express  your  love. 

I  know  no  more  than  my  lord-mayor. 

You  ne'er  consider  whom  you  shove, 

They  stand  amazed,  and  think  me  grown 

But  rudely  press  before  a  duke." 

The  closest  mortal  ever  known. 

I  own,  I'm  pleased  with  this  rebuke, 

Thus  in  a  sea  of  folly  toss'd, 

And  take  it  kindly  meant  to  show 

My  choicest  hours  of  life  are  lost ; 

What  I  desire  the  world  should  know. 

Yet  always  wishing  to  retreat, 

I  get  a  whisper,  and  withdraw  : 

Oh,  could  I  see  my  country  seat  ! 

'When  twenty  fools  I  never  saAv 

There,  leaning  near  a  gentle  brook. 

Come  with  petitions  fairly  penn'd. 

Sleep,  or  peruse  some  ancient  book. 

Desiring  I  would  stand  their  friend. 

And  there  in  sweet  oblivion  drown 

This,  humbly  offers  me  his  case — 

Those    cares    that    ha.nnt    the     court     and 

That,  begs  my  int'rest  for  a  place — 

town. 

A  hundred  other  men's  affairs, 

0  charming  noons  !  and  nights  divine  ! 

Like  bees,  are  humming  in  my  ears. 

Or  when  I  sup,  or  when  I  dine, 

"  To-morrow  my  appeal  comes  on. 

My  friends  above,  my  folks  below. 

Without  your  help  the  cause  is  gone."— 

Chatting  and  laughing  all-a-row, 

The  duke  expects  my  lord  and  you, 

The  beans  and  bacon  set  before  'em. 

About  some  great  affair,  at  two — 

The  grace-cup  served  with  all  decorum  : 

"  Put  my  lord  Bolingbroke  in  mind, 

Each  willing  to  be  pleased,  and  please, 

To  get  my  warrant  quickly  signed  : 

And  even  the  very  dogs  at  ease  ! 

Consider  'tis  my  first  request." — 

Here  no  man  prates  of  idle  things, 

Be  satisfied,  I'll  do  my  best  :— 

How  this  or  that  Italian  sings. 

Then  presently  he  falls  to  tease. 

A  neighbour's  madness,  or  his  spouse's, 

"  You  may  be  certain,  if  you  please; 

Or  what's  in  either  of  the  houses  : 

I  doubt  not,  if  his  lordship  knew — 

But  something  much  more  our  concern, 

And,  Mr.  Dean,  one  word  from  you — " 

And  quite  a  scandal  not  to  learn  : 

'Tis  (let  me  see)  three  years  and  more, 

Which  is  the  happier,  or  the  wiser. 

(October  next  it  will  be  four,) 

A  man  of  merit,  or  a  miser  ? 

Since  Harley  bid  me  fir^t  attend, 

Whether  we  ought  to  choose  our  friends 

And  chose  me  for  an  humble  friend ; 

For  their  own  worth  or  our  own  ends  ? 

I 

I 

I 


From  168y  to  1727.] 


TO  A  LADi'. 


[Pope. 


What  good,  or  better,  we  may  call, 
And  what,  the  very  best  of  all  ? 

Our  friend  Dan  Prior  told  (you  know) 
A  tale  extremely  ci  propos  : 
Name  a  town  life,  and  in  a  trice 
He  had  a  story  of  two  mice. 
Once  on  a  time  (so  runs  the  fable) 
A  country  mouse,  right  hosjiitable, 
Received  a  town  mouse  at  his  board, 
Just  as  a  farmer  might  a  lord. 
A  frugal  mouse  upon  the  whole. 
Yet  loved  his  friend,  and  had  a  soul. 
Knew  what  was  handsome,  and  would  do't, 
On  just  occasion,  coute  que  coute. 
He  brought  him  bacon  (nothing  lean) ; 
Pudding  that  might  have  pleased  a  dean ; 
Cheese  such  as  men  in  Suffolk  make. 
But  wish'd  it  Stilton  for  his  sake ; 
Yet,  to  his  guest  though  no  Avay  sparing. 
He  eat  himself  the  rind  and  paring. 
Our  courtier  scarce  could  touch  a  bit, 
But  shovv'd  his  breeding  and  his  wit ; 
He  did  his  best  to  seem  to  eat. 
And  cried,  '•  I  vow  you're  mighty  neat. 
But  lord,  my  friend,  this  savage  scene  I 
For  God's  sake,  come,  and  live  with  men  : 
Consider,  mice,  like  men,  must  die. 
Both  smaU  and  great,  both  you  and  I  : 
Then  spend  your  life  in  joy  and  sport ; 
(This  doctrine,  friend,  I  learnt  at  court.") 

The  veriest  hermit  in  the  nation 
May  yield,  God  knows,  to  strong  temptation. 
AAvay  they  come,  through  thick  and  thin, 
To  a  tall  house  near  Lincoln's  Inn : 
('Twas  on  the  night  of  a  debate. 
When  all  their  lordships  had  sate  late.) 

Behold  the  place  where  if  a  poet 
Shined  in  description  he  might  show  it ; 
Tell  how  the  moonbeam  trembling  falls, 
And  tips  with  silver  all  the  Avails  ; 
Palladian  waUs,  Venetian  doors, 
Grotesco  roo^,  and  stucco  floors  : 
But  let  it  (in  a  word)  be  said, 
The  moon  was  up,  and  men  a-bed, 
The  napkins  white,  the  carpet  red : 
The  guests  withdrawn  had  left  the  treat, 
And  down  the  mice  sate,  tete-o.-tete. 

Our  courtier  walks  from  dish  to  dish, 
Tastes  for  his  friend  of  fowl  and  fish ; 
Tells  all  their  names,  lays  down  the  law, 
"  Que  <;a  est  hon  !  Goutez  ra  ! 
That  jelly  's  rich,  this  malmsey  healing, 
Pray  dip  your  whiskers  and  your  tail  in." 
Was  ever  such  a  happy  swain  ! 
He  stuffs  and  swills,  and  stuffs  again. 
"I'm  quite  ashamed — 'tis  mighty  rude 
To  eat  so  much — but  all's  so  good. 
I  have  a  thousand  thanks  to  give — 
My  lord  alone  knows  how  to  live." 
No  sooner  said,  but  from  the  hall 
Rush  chaplain,  butler,  dogs,  and  all : 
"  A  rat !  a  rat !  clap  to  the  door  " — 
The  cat  comes  bouncing  on  the  floor. 
O  for  the  heart  of  Homer's  mice, 
Or  gods  to  save  them  in  a  trice  ! 
(It  was  by  Providence  they  think, 
"For  your  damn'd  stucco  has  no  chink.) 


"  An't  please  your  honour,"  quoth  the  peasant, 
"  This  same  dessert  is  not  so  pleasant : 
Give  me  again  my  hollow  tree, 
A  crust  of  bread,  and  liberty !  " 

Pope.— Born  1688,  Died  1744. 


778.— TO  A  LADY. 

Nothing  so  true  as  what  you  once  let  faU, 
"  Most  women  have  no  characters  at  all." 
Matter  too  soft  a  lasting  mark  to  bear, 
And  best  distinguish' d   by  black,   brown,  or 

fair. 
How  many  pictures  of  one  nymph  we  view. 
All  how  unlike  each  other,  all  how  true ! 
Arcadia's  countess,  here  in  erminod  pride. 
Is  there,  Pastora  by  a  fountain  side. 
Here  Fannia,  leering  on  her  own  good  man. 
And  there,  a  naked  Leda  with  a  swan. 
Let  then  the  fair  one  beautifully  cry. 
In  Magdalene's  loose  hair,  and  lifted  eye, 
Or  drest  in  smiles  of  sweet  Cecilia  shine, 
With   simpering    angels,    palms,    and  harps 

divine ; 
Whether  the  charmer  sinner  it,  or  saint  it, 
If  foUy  gi-ow  romantic,  I  must  paint  it. 

Come  then,  the    colours    and   the   ground 

prepare ! 
Dip  in  the  rainbow,  trick  her  off  in  air ; 
Choose  a  firm  cloud,  before  it  fall,  and  in  it 
Catch,  ere  she  change,  the  Cynthia  of  this 

minute. 
Eufa,  whose   eye,  quick   glancing  o'er  the 

Park, 
Attracts  each  light  gay  meteor  of  a  spark, 
Agrees  as  ill  with  Eufa  studying  Locke, 
As  Sappho's  diamonds  with  her  dirty  smock  ; 
Or  Sappho  at  her  toilet's  greasy  task. 
With  Sappho  fragrant  at  an  evening  mask  : 
So  morning  insects,  that  in  muck  begun. 
Shine,  buzz,  and  fly-blow  in  the  setting  sun. 

How  soft  is  Silia !  fearful  to  offend ; 
The    frail-one's    advocate,     the     weak-one's 

friend. 
To  her  Calista  proved  her  conduct  nice, 
And  good  Simplicius  asks  of  her  advice. 
Sudden,   she  storms  !  she  raves  !    You  tip  the 

wink, 
But  spare  your  censure  ;  Silia  does  not  drink. 
All  eyes  may  see  from  what  the  change  arose. 
All  eyes  may  sec — a  pimple  on  her  nose. 

Papillia,  wedded  to  her  amorous  spark. 
Sighs  for  the  shades — "  How  charming  is  a 

park !  " 
A  park  is  purchased,  but  the  fair  he  sees 
All   bathed   in   tears  —  "Oh   odious,    odious 

trees !  " 
Ladies,  like  variegated  tulips,  show, 
'Tis  to  their  changes  half  their  charms   we 

owe; 
Fine  by  defect,  and  delicately  weak, 
Their  happy  spots  the  nice  admirer  take. 
'Twas  thus  Calypso  once  each  heart  alarm'd. 
Awed  without  virtue,  without  beauty  charm'd  ; 


FOPE.J 


TO  A  LADY. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


Her  tongue  bewitch'd  as  oddly  as  her  eyes, 
Less  wit  than  mimic,  more  a  wit  than  wise ; 
Strange  graces  still,  and  stranger  flights  she 

had, 
Was  just  not  ugly,  and  was  just  not  mad  ; 
Yet  ne'er  so  sure  our  passion  to  create, 
As   when   she  touch' d  the   brink  of   all   we 

hate. 
Narcissa's  nature,  tolerably  mild. 
To  make  a  wash,  would  hardly  stew  a  child  ; 
Has   ev'n   been  proved   to   grant   a    lover's 

prayer. 
And    paid   a  tradesman    once   to  make  him 

stare  ; 
Gave  alms  at  Easter,  in  a  Christian  trim. 
And  made  a  widow  happy,  for  a  whim. 
"Why  then  declare  good-nature  is  her  scorn, 
When  'tis  by  that  alone  she  can  be  borne  ? 
^Vhy  pique  all  mortals,  yet  affect  a  name  ? 
A  fool  to  pleasure,  yet  a  slave  to  fame  : 
Xow    deep    in    Taylor    and    the    Book    of 

Martyrs, 
Now    drinking   citron    with    his    grace    and 

Chartres ; 
Now  conscience  chills  her,  and  now  passion 

bums; 
And  atheism  and  religion  take  their  turns  ; 
A  very  heathen  in  the  carnal  part. 
Yet  still  a  sad  good  Christian  at  her  heart. 

See  Sin  in  state,  majestically  drunk. 
Proud  as  a  peeress,  ];)rouder  as  a  punk  ; 
Chaste  to  her  husband,  frank  to  all  beside, 
A  teeming  mistress,  but  a  barren  bride. 
What  then?    let  blood   and  body  bear   the 

fault, 
Her    head's   untouch' d,    that   noble    seat    of 

thought : 
Such  this  day's  doctrine — in  another  fit 
She  sins  with  poets  through  pure  love  of  wit. 
What  has  not  fired  her  bosom  or  her  brain  ? 
Cffisar     and     Tall-boy,     Charles    and    Char- 
lemagne. 
As  Helluo,  late  dictator  of  the  feast, 
The  nose  of  Haut-gout,  and  the  tip  of  Taste, 
Critiqued  your  wine,  and  analysed  your  meat. 
Yet  on  plain  pudding  deign' d  at  home  to  eat  : 
So  Philomede,  lecturing  all  mankind 
On  the  soft  passion,  and  the  taste  refined, 
Th'  address,  the  delicacy — stoops  at  once, 
And  makes  her  hearty  meal  upon  a  dunce. 

Flavia's  a  -wit,  has  too  much  sense  to  pray  ; 
To  toast  our  wants  and  wishes,  is  her  way  ; 
Nor  asks  of  God,  but  of  her  stars,  to  give 
The  mighty  blessing,  "  while  we  live,  to  live." 
Then  all  for  death,  that  opiate  of  the  soul ! 
Lucretia's  dagger,  Eosamonda's  bowl. 
Say,  what  can  cause  such  impotence  of  mind  ? 
A  spark  too  fickle,  or  a  spouse  too  kind? 
Wise  wretch !   with  pleasures  too  refined  to 

please ; 
With  too  much  spirit  to  be  e'er  at  ease  ; 
With  too  much  quickness  ever  to  be  taught ; 
With   too    much  thinking   to   have   common 

thought : 
You  purchaFe  pain  with  all  that  joy  can  give. 
And  die  of  nothing  but  a  rage  to  live. 


Turn  then  from  wits ;  and  look  on  Simo's 

mate, 
No  ass  so  meek,  no  ass  so  obstinate. 
Or   her,   that   owns   her    faults,    but    never 

mends. 
Because  she's  honest,  and  the  best  of  friends. 
Or  her,  whose  life  the  church   and   scandal 

share, 
For  ever  in  a  passion,  or  a  prayer. 
Or  her,  who  laughs  at  Hell,   but   (like  her 

grace) 
Cries,  "  Ah  !  how  charming,  if  there's  no  such 

place ! " 
Or  who  in  sweet  vicissitude  appears 
Of  mirth  and  opium,  ratafie  and  tears, 
The  daily  anodyne,  and  nightly  draught. 
To   kill  those    foes  to    fair-ones,    time   and 

thought. 
Woman  and  fool  are  two  hard  things  to  hit ; 
For  true  no-meaning  puzzles  more  than  wit. 

But  what  are  these  to  great  Atossa's  mind  ? 
Scarce  once  herself,  by  turns  all  woman-kind  ! 
Who,  with  herself,  or  others,  from  her  birth 
Finds  all  her  life  one  warfare  upon  Earth  : 
Shines,  in  exposing  knaves,  and  painting  fools. 
Yet  is,  whate'er  she  hates  and  ridicules. 
No  thought  advances,  but  her  eddy  brain 
Wliisks  it  about,  and  down  it  goes  again. 
Full    sixty  years   the    world   has   been    her 

trade, 
The  wisest  fool  much  time  has  ever  made. 
From  loveless  youth  to  unrespected  age 
No  passion  gratified,  except  her  rage. 
So  much  the  fury  still  outran  the  wit. 
The  pleasure  miss'd  her,  and  the  scandal  hit. 
Who  breaks  with  her,  provokes  revenge  from 

Hell, 
But  he's  a  bolder  man  who  dares  be  well. 
Her  every  turn  with  violence  pursued. 
Nor  more  a  storm  her  hate  than  gratitude  : 
To  that  each  passion  turns,  or  soon  or  late ; 
Love,  if  it  makes  her  jield,  mnst  make  her 

hate  : 
Superiors  ?  death  !  and  equals  ?  what  a  curse  ! 
But  an  inferior  not  dependant  ?  worse. 
Offend  her,  and  she  knows  not  to  forgive  ; 
Oblige  her,    and   she'll  hate   you   while   you 

live  : 
But  die,    and   she'll   adore   you  —  Then  the 

bust 
And  temple  rise — ^then  fall  again  to  dust. 
Last  night,  her  lord  was  all  that's  good  and 

great ; 
A  knave  this  morning,  and  his  will  a  cheat. 
Strange  !  by  the  means  defeated  of  the  ends. 
By   spirit  robb'd   of   power,    by  warmth   of 

friends. 
By  wealth  of  followers !  -without  one  distress 
Sick  of  herself,  through  very  selfishness  I 
Atossa,  cursed  with  every  granted  prayer, 
Childless  with  all  her  children,  wants  an  heir. 
To  heirs  unknown    descends   th'    unguarded 

store. 
Or  wanders.  Heaven-directed,  to  the  poor. 

Pictures,  like  these,  dear  madam,  to  design. 
Asks  no  firm  hand,  and  no  unerring  line ; 


From  1689  to  172' 


TO  A  LADY. 


[Pope. 


Some     wandering    touches,    some     reflected 

light, 
Some  flying  stroke  alone  can  hit  them  right : 
For  how  should  equal  colours  do  the  knack  ? 
Chameleons  who  can  paint  in  white  and  black  ? 
"  Yet  Chloe    sure    was  form'd   without   a 
spot." — 
Nature  in  her  then  err'd  not,  but  forgot. 
"  With  every  pleasing,  every  prudent  part, 
Say,  what  can  Chloe  want  ?  " — She  wants  a 

heart. 
She  speaks,  behaves,  and   acts  just  as    she 

ought ; 
But     never,     never     reach' d    one    generous 

thought. 
Virtue  she  finds  too  painful  an  endeavour, 
Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  for  ever. 
So  very  reasonable,  so  unmoved, 
As  never  yet  to  love,  or  to  be  loved. 
She,  while  her  lover  pants  upon  her  breast, 
Can  mark  the  figures  on  an  Indian  chest ; 
And  when  she  sees  her  friend  in  deep  despair, 
Observes  how  much  a  chintz  exceeds  mohair. 
Forbid  it,  Heaven,  a  favour  or  a  debt 
She  e'er  should  cancel — but  she  may  forget. 
Safe  is  your  secret  still  in  Chloe' s  ear  ; 
But  none  of  Chloe' s  shall  you  ever  hear. 
Of  all  her  dears  she  never  slander'd  one, 
But  cares  not  if  a  thousand  are  undone. 
Would  Chloe  know  if  you're  alive  or  dead  ? 
She  bids  her  footman  put  it  in  her  head. 
Chloe  is  prudent — Would  you  too  be  wise  ? 
Then  never   break  your    heart   when   Chloe 
dies. 
One  certain  portrait  may  (I  grant)  be  seen, 
Which  Heaven  has  varnish' d  out,  and  made 

a  queen  : 
The  same  for  ever !  and  described  by  all 
With  truth  and  goodness,  as  with  crown  and 

baU. 
Poets  heap  virtues,  painters  gems  at  ^vill, 
And  show  their  zeal,  and  hide  their  want  of 

skill. 
"Tis   well — ^but,  artists !    who   can  paint   or 

write, 
To  draw  the  naked  is  your  true  delight. 
That  robe  of  quality  so  struts  and  swells, 
None  see  what  parts  of  Nature  it  conceals  : 
Th'  exactest  traits  of  body  or  of  mind. 
We  owe  to  models  of  an  humble  kind. 
If  Queensberry  to  strip  there's  no  compelling, 
'Tis  from  a  handmaid  we  must  take  a  Helen. 
From  peer  or  bishop  'tis  no  easy  thing 
To  draw  the  man  who  loves  his  God,  or  king : 
Alas  !  I  copy  (or  my  draught  would  fail) 
From  honest  Mali' met,  or  plain  parson  Hale. 
But     gi-ant,    in    public,    men    sometimes 
are  shown, 
A  woman 's  seen  in  private  life  alone  : 
Our  bolder  talents  in  full  life  display'd  ; 
Your  virtues  open  fairest  in  the  shade. 
Bred  to  disguise,  in  public  'tis  you  hide  ; 
There,  none  distinguish  'twixt  your  shame  or 

pride. 
Weakness  or  delicacy ;  all  so  nice. 
That  each  may  seem  a  virtue,  or  a  vice. 


!        In  men,  we  various  ruling  passions  find ; 
j    In  women,  two  almost  divide  the  kind : 
Those,  only  fix'd,  they  first  or  last  obey. 
The  love  of  pleasure,  and  the  love  of  sway. 
That,  Nature  gives  ;  and  where  the  lesson 
taught 
Is  but  to  please,  can  pleasure  seem-a  fault  ? 
Experience,  this ;  by  man's  oppression  curst, 
They  seek  the  second  not  to  lose  the  first. 
Men,  some  to  business,  some  to  pleasure 
take. 
But  every  woman  is  at  heart  a  rake : 
Men,  some  to  quiet,  some  to  public  strife ; 
But  every  lady  would  be  queen  for  life. 

Yet   mark   the   fate   of    a    whole    sex    of 
queens ! 
Power  all  their  end,  but  beauty  all  the  means  : 
In  youth  they  conquer  with  so  wild  a  rage. 
As  leaves  them  scarce  a  subject  in  their  age  : 
For  foreign  glory,  foreign  joy,  they  roam  ; 
No  thought  of  peace  or  happiness  at  home. 
But  wisdom's  triumph  is  well-timed  retreat. 
As  hard  a  science  to  the  fair  as  great ! 
Beauties,    like    tyrants,    old    and   friendless 

grown. 
Yet  hate  repose,  and  dread  to  be  alone, 
Worn  out  in  public,  weary  every  eye. 
Nor  leave  one  sigh  behind  them  when  they 
die. 
Pleasures  the  sex,  as  children  birds,  pursue, 
Still  out  of  reach,  yet  never  out  of  view ; 
Sure,  if  they  catch,  to  spoil  the  toy  at  most, 
To  covet  flying,  and  regret  when  lost : 
At  last,  to  follies  youth  could  scarce  defend, 
It  grows  their  age's  prudence  to  pretend ; 
Ashamed  to  o^vn  they  gave  delight  before. 
Reduced  to  feign  it,  when  they  give  no  more. 
As   hags    hold    sabbaths,   less    for  joy  than 

spite, 
So  these  their  merry,  miserable  night ; 
Still  round  and  round  the  ghosts  of  beauty 

glide. 
And   haunt  the   places   where    their    honour 
died. 
Soe  how  the  world  its  veterans  rewards  I 
A  j-outh  of  frolics,  an  old-age  of  cards  : 
Fair  to  no  purpose,  artful  to  no  end ; 
Young  without  lovers,  old  without  a  friend  ; 
A  fop  their  passion,  but  their  prize  a  sot ; 
Alive,  ridiculous ;  and  dead,  forgot ! 

Ah  !  friend  !  to  dazzle  let  the  vain  design  ; 
To  raise  the  thought,  and  touch  the  heart,  be 

thine ! 
That  charm  shall  grow,  while  what  fatigues 

the  ring, 
Flaunts  and  goes  down,  an  unregarded  thing  : 
So  when  the  Sun's  broad  beam  has  tired  the 

sight, 
All  mild  ascends  the  Moon's  more  sober  light, 
Serene  in  virgin  modesty  she  shines. 
And  unobserved  the  glaring  orb  declines. 
Oh  !    blest  with  temper,  whose  rmclouded 
ray 
Can  make  to-morrow  cheerful  as  to-day : 
She,  who  can  love  a  sister's  charms,  or  hear 
Sighs  for  a  daughter  with  unwound  3d  ear ; 


Pope.] 


THE  MAN  OF  ROSS. 


[Fifth  Period- 


She  who  ne'er  answers  till  a  husband  cools, 
Or,  if  she  rules  him,  never  shows  she  rules  ; 
Charms  by  accepting,  by  submitting  sways, 
Yet  has  her  humour  most,  when  she  obeys  ; 
Let  fops  or  Fortune  fly  which  way  they  will, 
Disdains  all  loss  of  tickets,  or  codille  ; 
Spleen,  vapours,    or   small-pox,    above   them 

all, 
And  mistress  of  herself,  though  china  fall. 
And  yet,  believe  me,  good  as  well  as  ill, 
Woman's  at  best  a  contradiction  still. 
Heaven  when  it  strives  to  polish  all  it  can 
Its  last  best  work,  but  forms  a  softer  man ; 
Picks  from  each  sex,  to  make  the  favourite 

blest, 
Your  love  of  pleasure,  our  desire  of  rest : 
Blends,  in  exception  to  all  general  rules, 
Your    taste    of    follies,   with    our    scorn    of 

fools  : 
Reserve     with    frankness,    art     with     truth 

allied, 
Courage  with  softness,  modesty  with  pride  ; 
Fix'd  principles,  with  fancy  ever  new ; 
Shakes  all  together,  and  produces — you. 
Be  this  a  woman's  fame  !  with  this  unblest. 
Toasts  live  a  scorn,  and  queens  may  die  a 

jest. 
This  Phoebus  promised  (I  forget  the  year) 
When  those  blue  eyes    first   open'd   on   the 

sphere ; 
Ascendant   Phoebus  watch' d  that   hour  with 

care. 
Averted  half  your  parents'  simple  prayer  ; 
And  gave  you  beauty,  but  denied  the  pelf 
That  buys  your  sex  a  tyrant  o'er  itself. 
The  generous  god,  who  wit  and  gold  refines. 
And  ripens  spirits  as  he  ripens  mines, 
Kept   dross   for   duchesses,  the   world   shall 

know  it, 
To  you  gave  sense,  good-humour,  and  a  poet. 

Pope— Born  1688,  Died  1744. 


779.— THE  MAN  OF  ROSS. 

But    all    our    praises     why    should    lords 

engross  ? 
Rise,   honest  Muse !    and  sing  the   Man    of 

Ross : 
Pleased   Vaga   echoes   through   her    winding 

bounds. 
And  rapid  Severn  hoarse  applause  resounds. 
Who  hung  with  woods  yon  mountain's  sultry 

brow  ? 
From   the   dry   rock   who   bade    tlio    waters 

flow  ? 
Not  to  the  skies  in  useless  columns  tost, 
Or  in  proud  falls  magnificently  lost ; 
But  clear  and   artless   pouring   through   the 

plain 
Health  to  the  sick,  and  solace  to  the  swain. 
Whose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with  shady 

rows  ? 
WhoSe  seats  the  weary  traveller  repose  ? 


Who   taught    that   heaven-directed   spire   to 

rise  ? 
"  The    Man    of    Ross,"    each    lisping    babe 

replies. 
Behold    the    market-place    with    poor    o'er- 
.    spread ! 
j    The  Man  of  Ross  divides  the  weekly  bread  : 
I    He  feeds  yon  alms-house,  neat,  but  void  of 
i  state, 

j  "Where  Age  and  Want  sit  smiling  at  the  gate ; 
I  Him  portion' d  maids,  apprenticed  orphans 
j  blest, 

I  The  young  who  labour,  and  the  old  who 
I  rest. 

Is  any  sick  ?  the  Man  of  Ross  relieves. 
Prescribes,  attends,  the  medicine  makes,  and 

gives. 
Is  there  a  variance  ?  enter  but  his  door, 
Balk'd    are   the    courts,   and   contest   is    no 

more. 
Despairing  quacks  with  curses  fled  the  place. 
And  vile  attorneys,  now  an  useless  race. 

Pope.— Born  1688,  Died  1744. 


780.— THE   TOILET. 

And   now,   unveiled,   the   toilet    stands    dis- 
played, 

i    Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid  ; 

I    First,    robed   in   white,    the    nymph    intent 

j  adores, 

I   With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears, 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eye  she  rears ; 
The  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side, 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered    treasures    ope    at    once,     o.nd 

here 
The  various  ofi'erings  of  the  world  appear ; 
From    each    she    nicely    culls    with    curious 

toil, 
And    decks   the  goddess  with  the  glittering 

spoil. 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box  : 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the 

white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  bibles,  billet-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms  ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face ; 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
Tlie  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care. 
These    set   the   head,    and   those   divide  the 

hair ; 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait  the 

gown, 
And  Betty 's  praised  for  labours  not  her  own. 


Po2-)e.—Borii  1688,  Died  1744. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


COLIN  AND  LUCY. 


[Thomas  Tickell: 


78 1. —THE   DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS 
SOUL. 

Vital  spark  of  heaveBly  flame, 
Quit,  oh  quit  this  mortal  frame  : 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying — 
Oh  the  pain,  the  bhss  of  dying  ! 

Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 

And  let  me  languish  into  life  ! 

Hark  !  they  whisper  ;  angels  say, 

Sister  spirit,  come  away  ! 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite  ? 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes ;  it  disappears  ! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  !  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring  : 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  :  I  mount !  I  fly  ! 
O  Grave  !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

0  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 

Pope— Bom  1G88,  Dial  1744. 


782.— THE  QUIET  LIFE. 

Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground. 

Whose   herds   with    milk,   whose  fields  with 
bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire  ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade. 
In  winter,  fire. 

Elcst,  who  can  unconcern' dly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years  glide  soft  away, 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 

Together  mix'd  ;  sweet  recreation. 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please. 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown ; 

Thus  unlamented  let  me  die  ; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 

Tope.— Born  1688,  Bietl  1744. 


783.— MOONLIGHT. 

The  troops  exulting  sat  in  order  round, 
And  beaming  fires  illumined  all  the  ground. 
As  when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of  night ! 
O'er  heaven's  clear  azure  spreads  her  sacred 

light ; 
When  not  a  breath  disturbs  the  deep  serene. 
And  i^t  a  cloud  o'ercasts  the  solemn  scene  ; 


Around  her  throne  the  vivid  planets  roll, 
And  si  ars  unnumbered  gild  the  glowing  pole  ; 
O'er  tl  e  dark  trees  a  yellower  verdure  shed, 
And  til  '^vith  silver  every  mountain's  head  ; 
Then    shine  the  vales,  the  rocks  in  prospect 

rise ,  '       ^      —  — 

A  flood  of  glory  bursts  from  all  the  skies  : 
The  conscious  swains,  rejoicing  in  the  sight, 
Eye    the   blue   vault,    and    bless    the   useful 

light. 
So  many  flames  before  proud  Ilion  blaze. 
And  lighten  glimmering  Xanthus  with  their 

rays  ; 
The  long  reflections  of  the  distant  fires 
Gleam   on   the   walls    and    tremble    on    the 

spires. 
A  thousand  piles  the  dusky  horrors  gild, 
And  shoot  a  shady  lustre  o'er  the  field. 
Full  fifty  guards  each  flaming  pile  attend. 
Whose   umbered  arms,  by  fits,   thick  flashes 

send ; 
Loud  neigh  the  coursers  o'er  their  heaj^s  of 

corn. 
And  ardent  warriors  wait  the  rising  morn. 

Pope.— Born  1688,  med  1744. 


784.— COLIN  AND  LUCY. 

A   BALLAD. 

Of  Leinster,  famed  for  maidens  fair, 
Bright  Lucy  was  the  grace. 

Nor  e'er  did  Lifiy's  limpid  stream 
Eeflect  so  sweet  a  face ; 

TiU  luckless  love  and  pining  care 

Impaired  her  rosy  hue. 
Her  coral  lips  and  damask  cheeks, 

And  eyes  of  glossy  blue. 

Oh  1  have  you  seen  a  Hly  pale 
Wlion  beating  rains  descend  ? 

So  drooped  the  slow-consuming  maid, 
Her  life  now  near  its  end. 

By  Lucy  warned,  of  flattering  swains. 

Take  heed,  ye  easy  fair  ! 
Of  vengeance  due  to  broken  vows, 

Ye  perjiired  swains  !  beware. 

Three  times  all  in  the  dead  of  night 

A  bell  was  heard  to  ring. 
And  shrieking,  at  her  window  thrice 

The  raven  flapped  his  wing. 

Too  well  the  love -lorn  maiden  know 
The  solemn  boding  sound. 

And  thus  in  djdng  words  bespoke 
The  virgins  weeping  round  : 

"  I  hear  a  voice  you  cannot  hear. 
Which  says  I  must  not  stay  ; 

I  see  a  hand  you  cannot  see. 
Which  beckons  me  away. 


35 


Thomas  Tickell.]   TO  EARL  WAEWICK,  ON  ADDISON'S  DEATH.    [Fifth  Period.^ 


By  a  false  heart  and  broken  vows 

In  early  youth  I  die. 
Was  I  to  blame  because  his  bride 

Was  thrice  as  rich  as  I  ? 

Ah,  Colin  !  give  not  her  thy  vows, 

Vows  due  to  me  aloae ; 
Nor  thou,  fond  maid !  receive  his  kiss. 

Nor  think  him  all  thy  own. 

To-morrow  in  the  church  to  wed, 

Impatient  both  prepare ; 
But  know,  fond  maid !  and  know,  false  man  ! 

That  Lucy  will  be  there. 

Then  bear  my  corse,  my  comrades  !  bear, 
This  bridegroom  bKthe  to  meet ; 

He  in  his  wedding'  trim  so  gay, 
I  in  my  mnding  sheet." 

She  spoke ;  she  died.     Her  corpse  was  borne 

The  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet : 
He  in  his  wedding  trim  so  gay. 

She  in  her  winding  sheet. 

Then  what  were  perjured  Colin's  thoughts  ? 

How  were  these  nuptials  kept  ? 
:  The  bridesmen  flocked  round  Lucy  dead, 

And  all  the  village  wept. 

Confusion,  shame,  remorse,  despair. 

At  once  his  bosom  swell ; 
The  damps  of  death  bedewed  his  brow : 

He  shook,  he  groaned,  he  fell. 

From  the  vain  bride,  ah  !  bride  no  more  ! 

The  varying  crimson  fled, 
When  stretched  before  her  rival's  corpse 

She  saw  her  husband  dead. 

Then  to  his  Lucy's  new-made  grave 

Conveyed  by  trembling  swains. 
One  mould  with  her,  beneath  one  sod, 

For  ever  he  remains. 

Oft  at  this  grave  the  constant  hind 

And  pHghted  maid  are  seen ; 
With  garlands  gay  and  true-love  knots 

They  deck  the  sacred  green. 

But,  swain  forsworn  !  whoe'er  thou  art, 

This  hallowed  spot  forbear  ; 
Remember  Colin's  dreadful  fate, 

And  fear  to  meet  him  there. 

TJiomas  Tickell.-^Born  1686,  Died  1740. 


785.— TO  THE  EARL  OF  WARWICK,  ON 
THE  DEATH  OF  ADDISON. 

If,  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  Muse  hath 

stay'd. 
And  left  her  debt  to  Addison  unpaid, 
Blame  not  her  silence,  Warwick,  but  bemoan. 
And  judge,  O  judge,  my  bosom  by  your  own. 
What  mourner  ever  felt  poetic  fires  ! 
Slow  comes  the  verse  that  real  woe  inspires : 


Grief  unaffected  suits  but  ill  with  art, 
Or  flowing  numbers  with  a  bleeding  heart. 

Can  I  forget  the  dismal  night  that  gave 
My  soul's  best  part  for  ever  to  the  grave  ? 
How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread. 
By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions  of  the  dead. 
Through   breathing   statues,   then   unheeded 

things, 
Through  rows  of  warriors,  and  through  walks 

of  kings  ! 
What  awe  did  the  slow  solemn  knell  inspire ; 
The  pealing  organ,  and  the  pausing  choir  ; 
The  duties  by  the  lawn-robed  prelate  paid: 
And  the  last  words,  that  dust  to  dust  convey'd ! 
While  speechless  o'er  thy  closing  grave  wo 

bend. 
Accept  these  tears,  thou  dear  departed  friend. 
Oh,  gone  for  ever !  take  this  long  adieu ; 
And  sleep  in  peace,  next  thy  loved  Montague. 
To  strew  fresh  laurels,  let  the  task  be  mine, 
A  frequent  pilgrim  at  thy  sacred  shrine ; 
Mine  with  true  sighs  thy  absence  to  bemoan, 
And  grave  with  faithful  epitaphs  thy  stone. 
If  e'er  from  me  thy  loved  memorial  part. 
May  shame  afflict  this  alienated  heart ; 
Of  thee  forgetful  if  I  form  a  song, 
My  lyi*e  be  broken,  and  untuned  my  tongue. 
My  grief  be  doubled  from  thy  image  free, 
And  mirth  a  torment,  unchastised  by  thee  ! 

Oft  let  me  range  the  gloomy  aisles  alone. 
Sad  luxury  !  to  vulgar  minds  unknown, 
Along  the  walls  where  speaking  marbles  show 
What    worthies    form    the    hallow'd   mould 

below ; 
Proud  names,  who  once  the  reins  of  empire 

held; 
In  arms  who  triumph'd  ;  or  in  arts  excell'd; 
Chiefs,  graced  with   scars,    and   prodigal   of 

blood ; 
Stern  patriots,  who  for  sacred  freedom  stood ; 
Just    men,    by    whom    impartial    laws    were 

given ; 
And  saints,  who  taught  and  led  the  way  to 

heaven ; 
Ne'er  to  these  chambers,  where  the  mighty 

rest. 
Since  their  foundation  came  a  nobler  guest ; 
Nor  e'er  was  to  the  bowers  of  bKss  convey'd 
A  fairer  spirit  or  more  welcome  shade. 

In  what  new  region,  to  the  just  assign'd, 
What  new  employments  please  th'  unbodied 

mind  ? 
A  winged  Virtue,  through  th'  ethereal  sky. 
From  world  to  world  unwearied  does  he  fly  ? 
Or  curious  trace  the  long  laborious  maze 
Of  heaven's  decrees,  where  wondering  angels 

gaze  ? 
Does  he  delight  to  hear  bold  seraphs  tell 
How  Michael  battled,  and  the  dragon  fell ; 
Or,  mix'd  with  milder  cherubim,  to  glow 
In  hymns  of  love,  not  ill  essay' d  below  ? 
Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 
A  task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind  ?♦ 


From  1G89  to  1727.] 


THE  DISPENSARY. 


[Samuel  Garth. 


Oh !  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend, 
To  me  thy  aid,  thou  gruardian  genius,  lend ! 
When    rag-e    misguides    me,    or    when     fear 

alarms, 
"WTien    pain    distresses,    or    when    pleasure 

charms, 
In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart,      j 
And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart ;  ' 

Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before, 
Till  bliss  shall  join,   nor  death  can  part  us 

more. 

That   awful   form,    which,   so  the  heavens 

decree, 
Must  stni  be  loved  and  still  deplored  by  me  ; 
In  nightly  visions  seldom  fails  to  rise, 
Or,  roused  by  fancy,  meets  my  waking  eyes. 
If  business  calls,  or  crowded  courts  invite, 
Th'    unblemished  statesman  seems  to  strike 

my  sight ; 
If  in  the  stage  I  seek  to  soothe  my  care, 
I  meet  his  soul  which  breathes  in  Cato  there  ; 
If  pensive  to  the  riu-al  shades  I  rove. 
His  shape  o'ertakes  me  in  the  lonely  gTOve  ; 
'Twas   there   of  just  and  good  ho   reason'd 

strong, 
Clear'd    some   great   truth,    or    raised    some 

serious  s®ng  : 
There  patient  show'd  us  the  wise  course  to 

steer, 
A  candid  censor,  and  a  friend  severe  ; 
There  taught  us  how  to  live ;  and  (oh !  too 

high  I 

The  price  for  knowledge,)  taught  us  how  to 

die.  I 

Thou  hill,  whose  brow  the  antique  struc-    j 

tures  grace, 
Itear'd   by   bold   chiefs   of   Warwick's  noble    i 

race,  I 

V,lay,    once   so   loved,    whene'er    thy   bower    { 

appears,  | 

O'er    my   dim    eye-balls    glance    the    sudden 

tears  ? 
How  sweet  were  once  thy  prospects  fresh  and 

fair, 
Thy  sloping  walks,  and  unpolluted  air  ! 
How   sweet   the   glooms    beneath   thy    aged 

trees, 
Thy  noontide  shadow,  and  thy  evening  breeze  ! 
His  image  thy  forsaken  bowers  restore; 
Thy  walks  and  airy  prospects  charm  no  more  ; 
No  more  the  summer  in  thy  glooms  allay 'd, 
Thy  evening  breezes,  and  thy  noon-day  shade. 

From  other  ills,  however  fortune  froAvn'd, 
Some  refuge  in  the  Muse's  art  I  found  ; 
Reluctant  now  I  toixch  the  trembling  string. 
Bereft  of  him  who  taught  me  how  to  sing ; 
And   these   sad   accents,    murmur' d   o'er  his 

urn, 
Betray  that  absence  they  attempt  to  mourn. 
O  !   must  I  then  (now  fresh  my  bosom  bleeds, 
And  Cniggs  in  death  to  Addison  succeeds,) 
The  verse,  begun  to  one  lost  friend,  prolong, 
And  weep  a  second  in  th'  unfinish'd  song ! 


These  works  divine,  which  on  his  death-bed 
laid 
To  thee,  0  Craggs  !  th'  expiring  sage  convey'd, 
Great,  but  ill-omen'd,  monument  of  fame. 
Nor  he  survived  to  give,  nor  thou  to  claim. 
Swift  after  him  thy  social  spirit  flies, 
And  close  to  his,  how  soon  !  thy  coffm  lies. 
Blest  pair  !  whose  union  future  bards  shall  tell 
In  future  tongues :  each  other's  boast !  fare- 
well ! 
Farewell !  whom,  joined  in  fame,  in  friendship 

tried, 
No  chance  could  sever,  nor  the  grave  divide. 

Thomas  Ticlcell.—Born  1686,  DiecZ  1740. 


786.— THE  DISPENSARY. 

Speak,  goddess !  since  'tis  thou  that  best  canst 

tell 
How  ancient  leagues  to  modern  discord  fell ; 
And  why  physicians  were  so  cautious  grown 
Of  others'  lives,  and  lavish  of  their  own ; 
How  by  a  journey  to  th'  Elysian  plain 
Peace  triumph' d,  and  old  Time  return' d  again. 

Not  far  from  that  most  celebrated  place, 
Where  angry  Justice  shows  her  awful  face  ; 
Where  little  villains  must  submit  to  fate. 
That  great  ones  may  enjoy  the  world  in  state ; 
There  stands  a  dome,  majestic  to  the  sight. 
And  sumptuous  arches  bear  its  oval  height ; 
A  golden  globe,  placed  high  with  artful  skUI, 
Seems,  to  the  distant  sight,  a  gilded  pill : 
This  pile  was,  by  the  pious  patron's  aim. 
Raised  for  a  use  as  noble  as  its  frame  ; 
Nor  did  the  learn' d  society  decline 
The  propagation  of  that  great  design ; 
In  all  her  mazes,  nature's  face  they  view'd. 
And,  as  she  disappear'd,  their  search  pursued. 
Wrapp'd  in  the  shade  of  night  the  goddess  lies, 
Yet  to  the  leam'd  unveils  her  dark  disguise, 
But  shuns  the  gross  access  of  vulgar  eyes. 

Now  she  unfolds  the   faint   and   dawning 

strife 
Of  infant  atoms  kindling  into  life ; 
How  ductile  matter  new  meanders  takes. 
And  slender  trains  of  twisting  fibres  makes  ; 
And  hov/  the  viscous  seeks  a  closer  tone. 
By  just  degrees  to  harden  into  bone  ; 
While  the  more  loose  flow  from  the  vital  urn, 
And  in  full  tides  of  purple  streams  return  ; 
How  lambent  flames  from  life's  bright  lamps 

arise, 
And  dart  in  emanations  through  the  eyes ; 
How  from  each  sluice  a  gentle  torrent  pours. 
To  slake  a  feverish  heat  with  ambient  showers; 
Whence   their   mechanic   powers  the  spirits 

claim  ; 
How   great   their   force,    how   delicate   their 

frame  ; 
How  the  same  nerves  are  fashion' d  to  sustain 
The  greatest  pleasure  and  the  greatest  pain  ; 

35* 


JsAMUEL  Garth.] 


THE  DISPENSAEY. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


Why  bilious  juice  a  golden  light  puts  on, 
And  floods  of  chyle  in  silver  currents  run  ; 
How  the  dim  speck  of  entity  began 
T'   extend    its   recent   form,   and   stretch  to 

man  ; 
To  how  minute  an  origin  we  owe 
Young  Ammon,  Caesar,  and  the  great  Nassau ; 
Why  paler  looks  impetuous  rage  proclaim. 
And  why  chill  virgins  redden  into  flame  ; 
Why  envy  oft  transforms  with  wan  disguise, 
And  why  gay  mirth  sits  smiling  in  the  eyes ; 
All  ice,  why  Lucrece ;  or  Sempronia,  fire ; 
Why  Scarsdale  rages  to  survive  desire ; 
When  Milo's  vigour  at  the  Olympic  's  shown, 
Whence   tropes   to   Finch,  or  impudence  to 

Sloane ; 
How  matter,  by  the  varied  shape  of  pores, 
Or  idiots  frames,  or  solemn  senators. 

Hence  'tis  we  wait  the  wondrous  cause  to 
find. 
How  body  acts  upon  impassive  mind  ; 
How   fumes   of  wine  the  thinking  part  can 

fire, 
Past  hopes  revive,  and  present  joys  inspire  ; 
Why  our  complexions  oft  our  soul  declare, 
And  how  the  passions  in  the  feature  are  ; 
How  touch  and  harmony  arise  between 
Corporeal  figure,  and  a  form  unseen  ; 
How  quick  their  faculties  the  limbs  fulfil, 
And  act  at  every  summons  of  the  wUl. 
With  mighty  truths,  mysterious  to  descry, 
Which  in  the  womb  of  distant  causes  lie. 

But  now  no  grand  inquiries  are  descried, 
Mean  faction  reigns  where  knowledge  should 

preside, 
Feuds  are  increased,  and  learning  laid  aside. 
Thus  synods  oft  concern  for  faith  conceal. 
And  for  important  nothings  shoAv  a  zeal : 
The  drooping  sciences  neglected  pine. 
And  Paean's  beams  with  fading  lustre  shine. 
No  readers  here  with  hectic  looks  are  found, 
Noreyes  in  rheum,through  midnight- watching, 

drown' d ; 
The  lonely  edifice  in  sweats  complains 
That  nothing  there  but  sullen  silence  reigns. 

This  place,  so  fit  for  undisturb'd  repose. 
The  God  of  Sloth  for  his  asylum  chose ; 
Upon  a  couch  of  down  in  these  abodes. 
Supine  with  folded  arms  he  thoughtless  nods ; 
Indulging  dreams  his  godhead  lull  to  ease, 
With  murmurs  of  soft  riUs,  and  whispering 

trees : 
The  poppy  and  each  numbing  plant  dispense 
Their  drowsy  virtue,  and  dull  indolence ; 
No  passions  interrupt  his  easy  reign, 
No  problems  puzzle  his  lethargic  brain  ; 
But  dark  oblivion  guards  his  peaceful  bed. 
And  lazy  fogft  hang  lingering  o'er  his  head. 

As  at  full  length  the  pamper' d  monarch  lay, 
Battening  in  ease,  and  slumbering  life  away ; 
A  spiteful  noise  his  downy  chains  unties, 
Hastes  forward,  and  increases  as  it  flies. 


First,   some  to   cleave   the   stubborn   flint 

engage. 
Till,  urged  by  blows,  it  sparkles  into  rags  : 
Some   temper    lute,    some    spacious    vessels 

move  ; 
These  furnaces  erect,  and  those  approve  ; 
Here  phials  in  nice  discipline  are  set. 
There  gallipots  are  ranged  in  alphabet. 
In  this  place,  magazines  of  pills  you  spy  : 
In  that,  like  forage,  herbs  in  bundles  lie  ; 
While  lifted  pestles,  brandish' d  in  the  air, 
Descend  in  peals,  and  civil  wars  declare, 
Loud  strokes,  with  pounding  spice,  the  fabric 

rend, 
And  aromatic  clouds  in  spires  ascend. 

So  when  the  Cyclops  o'er  their  anvils  sweat. 
And  swelling  sinews  echoing  blows  repeat ; 
From  the  volcanos  gross  eruptions  rise, 
And   curling   sheets   of   smoke    obscure    the 
skies. 

The   slumbering  god,  amazed  at  this  new 

din. 
Thrice  strove  to  rise,  and  thrice  sunk  down 

again, 
Listless  he  stretch'd,  and  gaping  rubb'd  his 

eyes, 
Then  falter'd  thus  betwixt  half  words  and 

sighs : 

How  impotent  a  deity  am  I ! 
With  godhead  born,  but  cursed,  that  cannot 

die! 
Through  my  indulgence,  mortals  hourly  share 
A  gTateful  negligence,  and  ease  from  care. 
Ltill'd  in  my  arms,  how  long  have  I  withheld 
The  northern  monarchs  from  the  dusty  field  ! 
How  I  have  kept  the  British  fleet  at  ease. 
From    tempting   the    rough   dangers  of   the 

seas! 
Hibernia  owns  the  mildness  of  my  reign. 
And  my  divinity  's  adored  in  Spain. 
I  swains  to  sylvan  solitudes  convey. 
Where,  stretch'd  on  mossy  beds,  they  waste 

away 
In  gentle  joys  the  night,  in  vows  the  day. 
What  marks  of  wondrous  clemency  I've  shown, 
Some    reverend   worthies  of    the   gown    can 

own: 
Triumphant  plenty,  with  a  cheerful  grMe, 
Basks  in  their  eyes,    and   sparkles   in   their 

face. 
How  sleek  their  looks,  how  goodly  is  their 

mien, 
When  big  they  strut  behind  a  double  chin  ! 
Each  faculty  in  blandishments  they  lull. 
Aspiring  to  be  venerably  dull ; 
No  learn'd  debates  molest  their  downy  trance. 
Or  discompose  their  pompous  ignorance  ; 
But,  undisturb'd,  they  loiter  life  away. 
So  wither  green,  and  blossom  in  decay  ; 
Deep  sunk  in  down,  they,  by  my  gentle  care, 
Avoid  th'  inclemencies  of  morning  air, 
And  leave  to  tatter'd  crape  the  drudgery  of 

prayer. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


CEEATIOK 


[Blackmore. 


Urim  was  civil,  and  not  void  of  sense, 
Had  humour,  and  a  courteous  confidence  : 
So  spruce  he  moves,  so  gracefully  he  cocks, 
The  hallow'd  rose  declares  him  orthodox  : 
He  pass'd  his  easy  hours,  instead  of  prayeu, 
In  madrigals,  and  phillysing  the  fair ; 
Constant  at  feasts,  and  each  decorum  knew, 
And  soon  as  the  dessert  appear'd,  withdrew ; 
Always  obUging,  and  Avithout  offence, 
And  fancied,  for  his  gay  impertinence. 
But  see  how  ill  mistaken  parts  succeed  ; 
He  threw  off  my  dominion,  and  would  read  ; 
Engaged  in  controversy,  wrangled  well ; 
In  convocation  language  could  excel ; 
In  volumes  proved  the  church  without  defence, 
By  nothing  guarded  but  by  Providence  ; 
How  grace  and  moderation  disagree  ; 
And  violence  advances  charity. 
Thus   writ   till   none    would  read,   becoming 

soon 
A  wretched  scribbler,  of  a  rare  buffoon. 

Mankind   my   fond   propitious   power    has 
tried, 
Too  oft  to  own,  too  much  to  be  denied. 
And  all  I  ask  are  shades  and  silont  bowers, 
To  pass  in  soft  forgetfulji.oss  my  hours. 
Oft  have  my  fears  som.fe  distant  villa  chose, 
O'er  their  qnietus  where  fat  judges  doze, 
And  lull  their  coug'h  and  conscience  to  repose  : 
Or,  if  some  cloister's  refuge  I  implore, 
Where  holy  drones  o'er  dying  tapers  snore. 
The  pejj  IS  of  Nassau's  arms  these  eyes  unclose, 
Mirit)  lie  molests,  to  give  the  world  repose. 
That  ease  I  offer  with  contempt  he  flies, 
His  couch  a  trench,  his  canopy  the  skies. 
Nor  climes  nor  seasons  liis  resolves  control. 
The  equator  has  no  heat,  no  ice  the  pole. 
With  arms  resistless  o'er  the  globe  he  flies, 
And  leaves  to  Jove  the  empire  of  the  skies. 

But,  as  the  slothful  god  to  yawn  begun. 
He  shook  off  the  duU  mist,  and  thus  went  on  : 

'Twas   in  this   reverend    dome    I    sought 

repose, 
These  walls  were  that  asylum  I  had  chose. 
Here   have   I   ruled    long    undisturb'd    with 

broils. 
And   laugh'd   at   heroes,    and   their   glorious 

toils. 
My  annals  are  in  mouldy  mildews  wrought. 
With  easy  insignificance  of  thought. 
But  now  some  busy,  enterprising  brain 
Invents  new  fancies  to  renew  my  pain. 
And  labours  to  dissolve  my  easy  reign. 

With  that,  the  god  his   darling   phantom 
calls, 
And  from  his  faltering  lips  this  message  falls : 

Since  mortals  will  dispute  my  power,  I'll 

try 
Who  has  the  gi'eatest  empire,  they  or  I. 
Find  Envy  out ;  some  prince's  court  attend, 
Most  likely  there  you'll  meet   the   faniish'd 

fiend; 


Or  where  dull  critics  authors'  fate  foretell ; 
Or   where  stale   maids,    or   meagre  eunuchs, 

dwell ; 
Tell  the  bleak  fury  what  new  projects  reign 
Among  the  homicides  of  Warwick-lane  ; 
And  what   the    event,    unless    sheL_  straight 

inclines 
To  blast  their  hopes,  and  baffle  their  designs. 

More   he  had  spoke,  but  sudden  vapours 
rise. 
And  mth  their  silken  cords  tie  doym.  his  eyes. 

Samuel  Garth. — Born ,  Died  1718. 


787.— CREATION. 

You  ask  us  why  the  soil  the  thistle  breeds  ; 
Why   its   spontaneous  birth  are  thorns    and 

weeds : 
Why  for  the  harvest  it  the  harrow  needs  ? 
The   Author   might  a   nobler   world   have 

made, 
In  brighter  dress  the  hills  and  vales  arrayed, 
And  all  its  face  in  flowery  scenes  displayed  ; 
The  glebe  untilled  might  plenteous  crops  have 

borne. 
And  brought   forth  spicy  groves  instead   of 

thorn : 
Rich  fruit  and  flowers,  without  the  gardener's 

pains, 
Might  every  hill  have  crowned,  have  honoured 

all  the  plains  ; 
This    Nature  might   have   boasted,   had  the 

Mind 
"Who  formed  the  spacious  universe  designed 
That  man  from  labour  free,  as  well  as  grief. 
Should  pass  in  lazy  luxury  his  life. 
But  he  his  creature  gave  a  fertile  soil. 
Fertile,  but  not  without  the  owner's  toil, 
That  some  reward  his  industry  should  crown, 
And  that  his  food  in  part  might  be  his  own. 
But  while  insulting  you  arraign  the  land. 
Ask  why  it  wants  the  plough,  or  labourer's 

hand; 
Kind  to  the  marble  rocks,  you  ne'er  complain 
That  they,  without  the  sculptor's  skill  and 

pain, 
No  perfect  statue  yield,  no  basse-relieve. 
Or  finished  column  for  the  palace  give. 
Yet  if  from  hills  unlaboured  figures  came, 
Man  might  have  ease  enjoyed,  though  never 

fame. 
You  may  the  world  of  more  defect  upbraid, 
That  other  works  by  Nature  are  unmade : 
That  she  did  never,  at  her  own  expense, 
A  palace  rear,  and  in  magnifieence 
Out-rival  art,  to  grace  the  stately  rooms  ; 
That  she  no  castle  builds,  no  lofty  domes. 
Had  Nature's  hand  these  various  works  pre- 
pared, 
"Wliat  thoughtful  care,  what  labour  had  been 

spared  ! 


Ambrose  Philips.] 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  SAPPHO. 


Fifth  Period. — 


But  then  no  realm  would  one  great  master 

shoAv, 
No  Phidias  Greece,  and  Rome  no  Ang-elo. 
With  equal  reason,  too,  you  mig-ht  demand 
Why   boats   and   ships   require   the    artist's 

hand ; 
Why  generous  Nature  did  not  these  provide, 
To  pass  the  standing  lake,  or  flowing  tide  ? 
You  say  the  hills,  which  high  in  air  arise, 
Harbour  in  clouds,  and  mingle  with  the  skies, 
That  earth's  dishonour  and  encumbering  load, 
Of  many  spacious  regions  man  defraud  ; 
For  beasts  and  birds  of  prey  a  desolate  abode. 
But  can  the  objector  no  convenience  find 
In  mountains,  hills,  and  rocks,  which  gird  and 

bind 
The    mighty  frame,  that  else  would    be  dis- 
joined ? 
Do  not  those  heaps  the  raging  tide  restrain, 
And  for  the  dome  afford  the  marble  vein  ? 
Do  not  the  rivers  from  the  mountains  flow, 
And  bring  down  riches  to  the  vale  below  ? 
See  how  the  torrent  rolls  the  golden  sand 
From  the  high  ridges  to  the  flatter  land. 
The  lofty  lines  abound  with  endless  stOre 
Of  mineral  treasure  and  metallic  ore. 

Blachnorc.—Born  1G76,  Died  1729. 


788.— A  FRAGMENT  OF  SAPPHO. 

Blessed  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee. 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast ; 
For  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  tossed, 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed  ;  the  subtle  flamo 
Ran  qmckly  through  my  vital  frame  ; 
O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung  ; 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chilled, 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled ; 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play  ; 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

Ambrose  PhiU;ps. — Born  1G71,  Died  1749. 


789.—EPISTLE    TO   THE    EARL    OF 
DORSET. 

From    frozen   climes,  and   endless    tracts  of 

snow, 
From  streams  which  northern  winds  forbid  to 

flow, 
What    present    shall    the    Muse   to   Dorset 

bring, 
Or  how,  so  near  the  pole,  attempt  to  sing  ? 


The  hoary  winter  here  conceals  from  sight 
All  pleasing  objects  which  to  verso  invite. 
The  hills  and  dales,  and  the  delightful  woods, 
The     flowery    plains,    and     silver-streaming 

,   floods, 
By  snow  disguised,  in  bright  confusion  lie, 
And  with  one  dazzling  waste  fatigue  the  eye. 
No   gentle-breathing    breeze    prepares  the 
spring, 
No  birds  within  the  desert  region  sing. 
The    ships,   unmoved,  the    boisterous    winds 

defy, 
While  rattling  chariots  o'er  the  ocean  fly. 
The  vast  leviathan  wants  room  to  play. 
And  spout  his  waters  in  the  face  of  day. 
The    starving    wolves    along    the   main    sea 

prowl, 
And  to  the  moon  in  icy  valleys  howl. 
O'er  many  a  shining  league  the  level  main 
Here  spreads  itself  into  a  glassy  plain : 
There  solid  billows  of  enormous  size, 
Alps  of  green  ice,  in  wild  disorder  rise. 

And  yet  but  lately  have  I  seen,  even  here. 
The  winter  in  a  lovely  dross  appear. 
Ere   yet   the    clouds   let   fall    the   treasured 

snow. 
Or  winds  begun  throL^gh  hazy  skies  to  blow  : 
At  evening  a  keen  eastern  breeze  arose. 
And  the  descending  rain  -ansullied  froze. 
Soon  as  the  silent  shades  of  night  withdrev,', 
The  ruddy  morn  disclosed  at  oiice  to  view 
The  face  of  nature  in  a  rich  disguise. 
And  brightened  every  object  to  my  eyeS  : 
For  every  shrub,  and  every  blade  of  grass, 
And  every  pointed  thorn,  seem'd  wrought  in 

glass  ; 
In    pearls    and    rubies    rich  the    hawthorns 

show, 
While  through  the  ice    the    crimson   berries 

glow. 
The  thick-sprung  reeds,  which  watery  marshes 

yield, 
Seem'd  polished  lances  in  a  hostile  field. 
The  stag,  in  limpid  currents,  with  surprise 
Sees  crystal  branches  on  his  forehead  rise  : 
The  spreading  oak,  the  beech,  and  towering 

pine 
Glazed  over,  in  the  freezing  ether  shine. 
The    frighted    birds    the    rattling    branches 

shun, 
"Which  wave  and  ghtter  in  the  distant  sun. 

When,  if  a  sudden  gust  of  Avind  arise, 
The  brittle  forest  into  atoms  flies  ; 
The    crackling    wood    beneath  the    tempest 

bends 
And  in  a  spangled  shower  the  prospect  ends  : 
Or,  if  a  southern  gale  the  region  warm, 
And  by  degrees  unbind  the  wintry  charm, 
The  traveller  a  miry  country  sees. 
And     journeys    sad    beneath    the    dropping 

trees : 
Like  some  deluded  peasant.  Merlin  leads 
Through  fragrant  bowers,  and  through  deli- 
cious meads ; 
While  here  enchanted  gardens  to  him  rise. 
And  airy  fabrics  there  attract  his  eyes. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


THE  FIEST  PASTORAL. 


[Ambrose  Philips. 


His  wandering  feet  the  magic  paths  pursue, 
And,  while  he  thinks  the  fair  illusion  true, 
The  trackless  scenes  disperse  in  fluid  air, 
And    woods,    and    wilds,    and    thorny   ways 

appear : 
A  tedious  road  the  weary  wretch  returns, 
And,  as  he  goes,  the  transient  vision  mourns. 

Ambrose  Philijjs.— Born  i.G71,  Died  1749. 


790.— THE  FIRST  PASTORAL. 
If  we,  O  Dorset !  quit  the  city-throng. 
To  meditate  in  shades  the  rural  song, 
By  your  command,  be  present ;  and,  0  bring 
The   Muse   along!     The   Muse  to  you  shall 

sing 
Her  influence,  Buckhurst,  let  mo  there  obtain, 
And  I  forgive  the  famed  Sicilian  swain. 

Begin. — In  unluxurious  times  of  yore. 
When    flocks    and   herds  were  no  inglorious 

store, 
Lobbiii,  a  shepherd  boj'*,  one  evening  fair. 
As  western  winds  had  cooled  the  sultry  air, 
His  numbered  sheep  v/ithin  the  fold  now  pent, 
Thus  plained  him  of  his  dreary  discontent : 
Beneath  a  hoary  poplar's  whispering  boughs 
He  solitary  sat,  to  breathe  his  vows. 
Venting  the  tender  anguish  of  his  heart, 
As  passion  taught,  in  accents  free  of  art ; 
And  Httle  did  he  hope,  while,  night  by  night. 
His  sighs  were  lavished  thus  on  Lucy  bright. 
"  Ah  !  well-a-day,  how  long  must  I  endure 
This  pining  pain  ?  Or  who  shall  speed  ray  cure  ? 
Fond  love  no  cure  will  have,  seek  no  repose. 
Delights  in  grief,  nor  any  measure  laiows  : 
And  now  the  moon  begins  in  clouds  to  rise ; 
The  brightening  stars  increase  within  the  skies ; 
The  Avinds  are  hushed ;  the  dews  distil ;  and 

sleep 
Hath  closed  the  eyelids  of  my  weary  sheep  : 
I  only,  with  the  prowling  wolf,  constrained 
All  night  to  wake  :  with  hunger  he  is  pained. 
And  I  with  love.     His  hunger  he  may  tame ; 
But  who  can  quench,  O  cruel  love  !  thy  flame  ? 
"Whilom  did  I,  all  as  this  poplar  fair, 
Upraise  my  heedless  head,  then  void  of  care, 
'Mong  rustic  routs  the  chief  for  wanton  game ; 
Nor  could  they  merry  make,  till  Bobbin  came. 
Who  better  seen  than  I  in  shepherd's  arts, 
To  please  the  lads,  and  -win  the  lasses'  hearts  ? 
How  deftly,  to  mine  oaten  reed  so  sweet, 
Wont   they  upon  the   green    to    shift    their 

feet? 
And,  wearied  in  the  dance,  how  would  they 

yearn 
Some  well-devised  tale  from  me  to  learn  ? 
For  many  songs  and  tales  of  mirth  had  I, 
To  chase  the  loitering  sun  adown  the  sky : 
But   ah !    since   Lucy  coy   deep-wrought  her 

spite 
Within  my  heart,  unmindful  of  delight. 
The  joUy  grooms  I  fly,  and,  all  alone, 
To  rocks  and  woods  pour  forth  my  fruitless 


Oh !  quit  thy  wonted  scorn,  relentless  fair. 
Ere,  lingering  long,  I  perish  through  despair. 
Had  Rosalind  been  mistress  of  my  mind, 
Though  not  so  fair,  she  would  have  proved 

more  kind. 
0  think,  un\vitting  maid,  wliile  yet  is  time, 
How  fljdng  years  impair  thy  youthf«l  prime  ! 
Thy  virgin  bloom  will  not  for  ever  stay. 
And   flowers,   though    left    ungathered,    will 

decay  ! 
The  flowers,  anew,  returning  seasons  bring  ! 
But  beauty  faded  has  no  second  spring. 
My  words  are  wind !     She,    deaf  to   all  my 

cries. 
Takes  pleasure  in  the  mischief  of  her  eyes. 
Like  frislring  heifer,  loose  in  flow'ry  meads, 
She  gads  where'er  her  roving  fanny  leads  ; 
Yet  still   from  me.      Ah  me !    the   tiresome 

chase ! 
Shy  as  the  fawn,  she  flies  my  fond  embrace. 
She  flies,  indeed,  but  ever  leaves  behind. 
Fly  where  she  will,  her  likeness  in  my  mind. 
No  cruel  purpose  in  my  speed  I  bear ; 
'Tis  only  love  ;    and  love  why  shouldst  thou 

fear  ? 
What  idle  fears  a  maiden  breast  alarm ! 
Stay,  simple  girl ;  a  lover  cannot  harm  ! 
Two  sportive  kidlings,  both  fair-flecked,  I  rear, 
Wliose  shooting  horns  like  tender  buds  ap- 
pear : 
A  lambkin,  too,  of  spotless  fleece,  I  breed, 
And  teaclx  the  fondling  from  my  hand  to  feed : 
Nor  will  I  cease  betimes  to  cull  the  fields 
Of  ev'ry  dewy  sweet  the  morning  yields  ; 
From  early  spring  to  autumn  late  shalt  thou 
Receive  gay  girlonds,  blooming  o'er  thy  brow  : 
And  when — but  why  these  unavailing  pains  ? 
The  gifts  alike,  and  giver,  she  disdains  ; 
And  now,  left  heiress  of  the  glen,  she'll  deem 
Me,  landless  lad,  unworthy  her  esteem ; 
Yet  was  she  bom,  like  me,  of  shepherd-sire. 
And  I  may  fields  and  lowing  herds  acquire. 
O  !  would  my  gifts  but  win  her  wanton  heart, 
Or  could  I  half  the  warmth  I  feel  impart. 
How  would  I  wander,  every  day,  to  find 
The  choice  of  wildings,  blushing  through  the 

rind ! 
For   glossy  plums   how  lightsome  climb   the 

tree. 
How  risk  the  vengeance  of  the  thrifty  bee. 
Or,  if  thou  deign  to  live  a  shepherdess. 
Thou  Lobbin's  flock,  andLobbin  shalt  possess  ; 
And  fair  my  flock,  nor  yet  uncomely  I, 
If  liquid  foimtains  flatter  not ;  and  why 
Should  liquid  fountains  flatter  us,  yet  show 
The   bord'ring  flowers    less   beauteous   than 

they  grow  ? 
O  come,  my  love  !  nor  think  the  employment 

mean, 
j   The  dams  to  milk,  and  little  lambkins  wean ; 
To  drive  afield,  by  morn,  the  fattening  ewes, 
Ere  the  warm  sun  drink  up  the  cooUy  dews  ; 
While    with   my   pipe,    and   with   my   voice, 

I  cheer 
Each  hour,  and  tlirough  the  day  detain  thine 

ear. 


Ambrose  Philips." 


TO  CHARLOTTE  PULTENEY. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


How  would  the  crook  beseem  thy  lily  hand  ! 
How  would  my  younglings  round  thee  gazing 

stand ! 
Ah,  witless  younglings  !  gaze  not  on  her  eye  : 
Thence  all  my  sorrow ;  thence  the  death  I  die. 
Oh,  killing  beauty  !  and  oh,  sore  desire  ! 
Must  then  my  sufFrings  but  with  life  expire  ? 
Though  blossoms  every  year  the  trees  adorn, 
Spring  after  spring  I  wither,  nipt  with  scorn  : 
Nor  trow  I  when  this  bitter  blast  wiU.  end. 
Or  if  yon  stars  will  e'er  my  vows  befriend. 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  flock ;  for  happy  ye  may  take 
Sweet  nightly  rest,  though  still  your  master 

wake." 

Now  to  the  waning  moon  the  nightingale, 
In  slender  warblings,  tuned  her  piteous  tale. 
The  love-sick  shepherd,  list'ning,  felt  relief. 
Pleased  with  so  sweet  a  partner  in  his  grief, 
Till,  by  degrees,  her  notes  and  silent  night 
,To  slumbers  soft  his  heavy  heart  invite. 

Amlrose  Pliilips. — Born  1671,  Died  1749. 


791.— TO  CHARLOTTE  PULTENEY. 

Timely  blossom,  infant  fair, 

Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 

Every  morn  and  every  night 

Their  solicitous  delight ; 

Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease,    . 

Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please. 

Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale. 

Tattling  many  a  broken  tale, 

Singing  many  a  tuneless  song, 

Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue ; 

Simple  maiden,  void  of  art. 

Babbling  out  the  very  heart, 

Yet  abandon' d  to  thy  will, 

Yet  imagining  no  ill. 

Yet  too  innocent  to  blush  ; 

Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush, 

To  the  mother- linnet's  note 

ModuHng  her  slender  throat ; 

Chirping  forth  thy  petty  joys, 

Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys, 

Like  the  linnet  green  in  May 

Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray ; 

Wearied  then  and  glad  of  rest. 

Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest. 

This  thy  present  happy  lot, 

This  in  time  will  be  forgot ; 

Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 

Ever-busy  Time  prepares  ; 

And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughters  see. 

This  picture  once  resembled  thee. 

Ambrose  Philips.— Born  1611,  Died  1749. 


792.— THE  MONKEY  WHO   HAD   SEEN 

THE  WORLD. 
A  monkey,  to  reform  the  times, 
Resolved  to  visit  foreign  climes : 


For  men  in  distant  regions  roam 
To  bring  politer  manners  home. 
So  forth  he  fares,  all  toil  defies  : 
Misfortune  serves  to  make  us  wise. 

At  length  the  treach'rous  snare  was  laid  ; 
Poor  Pug  was  caught,  to  town  conveyed, 
There  sold.     How  envied  was  his  doom, 
Made  captive  in  a  lady's  room  ! 
Proud  as  a  lover  of  his  chains, 
He  day  by  day  her  favour  gains. 
Whene'er  the  duty  of  the  day 
The  toilet  calls  ;  with  mimic  play 
He  twirls  her  knot,  he  cracks  her  fan, 
Like  any  other  gentleman. 
In  visits  too  his  parts  and  wit, 
When  jests  grew  dull,  were  siu-e  to  hit. 
Proud  with  applause,  he  thought  his  mind 
In  every  courtly  art  refined  ; 
Like  Orpheus  burnt  with  public  zeal, 
To  civilize  the  monkey  weal : 
So  watched  occasion,  broke  his  chain. 
And  sought  his  native  woods  again. 

The  hairy  sylvans  round  him  press, 
Astonished  at  his  strut  and  dress. 
Some  praise  his  sleeve  ;  and  others  gloat 
Upon  his  rich  embroidered  coat ; 
His  dapper  periwig  commending. 
With  the  black  tail  behind  depending  ; 
His  powdered  back,  above,  below, 
Like  hoary  frost,  or  fleecy  snow  ; 
But  all  with  envy  and  desire 
His  fluttering  shoulder-knot  admire. 

"  Hear  and  imj)rove,"  he  pertly  cries  ; 
"  I  come  to  make  a  nation  wise.- 
Weigh  your  own  words  ;  support  your  place. 
The  next  in  rank  to  human  race. 
In  cities  long  I  passed  my  days. 
Conversed  with  men,  and  learnt  their  ways. 
Their  dress,  their  courtly  manners  see ; 
Reform  your  state  and  copy  me. 
Seek  je  to  thrive  ?  in  flattery  deal ; 
Your  scorn,  your  hate,  with  that  conceal. 
Seem  only  to  regard  your  friends. 
But  use  them  for  your  private  ends. 
Stint  not  to  truth  the  flow  of  wit ; 
Be  prompt  to  lie  whene'er  'tis  fit. 
Bend  all  your  force  to  spatter  merit ; 
Scandal  is  conversation's  spirit. 
Boldly  to  everything  attend. 
And  men  your  talents  shall  commend. 
I  knew  the  great.     Observe  me  right ; 
So  shall  you  grow  Hke  man  polite." 

He  spoke  and  .bowed.  With  muttering  jaws 
The  wondering  circle  grinned  applause. 
Now,  warm  with  malice,  envy,  spite, 
Their  most  obliging  friends  they  bite  ; 
And  fond  to  copy  human  ways. 
Practise  new  mischiefs  all  their  days. 

Thus  the  dull  lad,  too  tall  for  school. 
With  travel  finishes  the  fool ; 
Studious  of  every  coxcomb's  airs. 
He    drinks,     games,    dresses,     whores,     and 

swears  ; 
O'erlooks  with  scorn  all  virtuous  arts, 
For  vice  is  fitted  to  his  parts. 

John  Gay.— Bom  1688,  Died  1732. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


THE  OLD  HEN  AND  THE  COCK. 


[John  Gay. 


793.— THE     PAINTER    ^TIO     PLEASED 

NOBODY  AND  EVERYBODY. 

Lest  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue, 

Keep  probability  in  view. 

The  traveller  leaping  o'er  those  bounds, 

The  credit  of  his  book  confounds. 

Who  with  his  tongue  hath  armies  routed, 

Makes  even  his  real  courage  doubted : 

But  flattery  never  seems  absurd ; 

The  flattered  alwaj-s  takes  your  word  : 

Impossibilities  seem  just ; 

They  take  the  strongest  praise  on  trust. 

Hyperboles,  though  ne'er  so  great, 

Will  still  come  short  of  self-conceit. 

So  very  like  a  painter  drew, 
That  every  eye  the  picture  knew  ; 
He  hit  complexion,  feature,  air. 
So  just,  the  life  itseK  was  there. 
No  flattery  with  his  colours  laid, 
To  bloom  restored  the  faded  maid  ; 
Ho  gave  each  muscle  all  its  strength, 
The  mouth,  the  chin,  the  nose's  length. 
His  honest  pencil  touched  with  truth. 
And  marked  the  date  of  age  and  youth. 
He  lost  his  friends,  his  practice  failed ; 
Truth  should  not  always  be  revealed ; 
In  dusty  piles  his  pictures  lay, 
For  no  one  sent  the  second  pay. 
Two  bustos,  fraught  with  every  grace, 
A  Venus'  and  Apollo's  face. 
He  placed  in  view ;  resolved  to  please, 
WTioever  sat,  he  drew  from  these. 
From  these  corrected  every  feature, 
And  spirited  each  awkward  creature. 

All  things  were  set ;  the  hour  was  come, 
His  pallet  ready  o'er  his  thumb. 
My  lord  appeared  ;  and  seated  right 
In  proper  attitude  and  light. 
The  painter  looked,  he  sketched  the  piece, 
Then  dipp'd  his  pencil,  talked  of  Greece, 
Of  Titian's  tints,  of  Guido's  air  ; 
"  Those  eyes,  my  lord,  the  spirit  there 
Might  well  a  Raphael's  hand  require. 
To  give  them  all  the  native  fire ; 
The  features  fraught  with  sense  and  wit. 
You'll  grant  are  very  hard  to  hit ; 
But  yet  with  patience  you  shall  view 
As  much  as  paint  and  art  can  do. 
Observe  the  work."     My  lord  replied  : 
"  Till  now  I  thought  my  mouth  was  wide  ; 
Besides,  my  nose  is  somewhat  long  : 
Dear  sir,  for  me,  'tis  far  too  j^oung." 

"  Oh  !  pardon  me,"  the  artist  cried, 
"  In  this,  the  painters  must  decide. 
The  piece  even  common  eyes  must  strike, 
I  warrant  it  extremely  like." 

My  lord  examined  it  anew  ; 
No  looking-glass  seemed  half  so  true. 

A  lady  came,  with  borrowed  grace 
He  from  his  Venus  formed  her  face. 
Her  lover  praised  the  painter's  art ; 
So  like  the  picture  in  his  heart ! 
To  every  age  some  charm  he  lent : 
Even  beauties  were  almost  content. 


Through  all  the  town  his  art  they  praised ; 
His  custom  grew,  his  price  was  raised. 
Had  he  the  real  likeness  shown. 
Would  any  man  the  picture  own  ?1 
But  when  thus  happily  he  wrought. 
Each  found  the  likeness  in  his  thought.^ 

John  Gay.— Born  1688,  Died  1732. 


794.— THE  LION  AND  THE  CUB. 

How  fond  are  men  of  rule  and  place. 

Who  court  it  from  the  mean  and  base  ! 

These  cannot  bear  an  equal  nigh. 

But  from  superior  merit  fly. 

They  love  the  cellar's  vulgar  joke. 

And  lose  their  hours  in  ale  and  smoke. 

There  o'er  some  petty  club  preside  ; 

So  poor,  so  paltry  is  their  pride  ! 

Nay,  even  with  fools  whole  nights  will  sit.' 

In  hopes  to  be  supreme  in  wit. 

If  these  can  read,  to  these  I  write, 

To  set  their  worth  in  truest  light. 

A  lion-cub,  of  sordid  mind, 
Avoided  all  the  lion  kind ; 
Fond  of  applause,  he  sought  the  feasts 
Of  vulgar  and  ignoble  beasts  ; 
With  asses  all  his  time  he  spent. 
Their  club's  perpetual  president. 
He  caught  their  manners,  looks,  and  airs  ; 
An  ass  in  everything  but  ears  ! 
If  e'er  his  highness  meant  a  joke, 
They  grinned  applause  before  he  spoke  ; 
But  at  each  word  what  shouts  of  praise ! 
Good  gods  !  how  natural  he  brays  ! 

Elate  Avith  flattery  and  conceit. 
He  seeks  his  royal  sire's  retreat ; 
Forward,  and  fond  to  show  his  parts. 
His  highness  brays  ;  the  lion  starts. 

"  Pupx)y,  that  cursed  vociferation 
Betrays  thy  life  and  conversation  : 
Coxcombs,  an  ever  noisy  race. 
Are  trumpets  of  their  own  disgi-acc." 

"  Why  so  severe  ?  "  the  cub  replies  ; 
"  Our  senate  always  held  me  wise." 

"  How  weak  is  pride  1 "  returns  the  sire  ; 
"  All  fools  are  vain,  when  fools  admire  I 
But  know,  what  stupid  asses  prize, 
Lions  and  noble  beasts  despise." 

John  Gay.— Born  1688,  Died  1731 


795.— THE  OLD  HEN  AND    THE  COCK. 

Restrain  your  child ;  you'll  soon  believe 
The  text  which  says,  Ave  sprung  from  Eve. 

As  an  old  hen  led  forth  her  train, 
And  seemed  to  peck  to  show  the  grain  ; 
She  raked  the  chaff,  she  scratched  the  ground, 
And  gleaned  the  spacious  yard  around. 
A  giddy  chick,  to  try  her  wings. 
On  the  Avell's  narrow  margin  springs, 


John  Gay. 


THE  GOAT  WITHOUT  A  BEAED. 


FFiFTH  Peeiod. — 


And  prone  she  drops.     The  mother's  breast 
All  day  with  sorrow  was  possess'd. 

A  cock  she  met ;  her  son  she  knew  ; 
And  in  her  heart  affection  grew. 

"  My  son,"  says  she,  "  I  grant  your  years 
Have  reached  beyond  a  mother's  cares  ; 
I  see  you  vig'rous,  strong,  and  bold  ; 
I  hear  with  joy  your  triumphs  told. 
'Tis  not  from  cocks  thy  fate  I  dread  j 
But  let  thy  ever- wary  tread 
Avoid  yon  well ;  that  fatal  place 
Is  sure  perdition  to  our  race. 
Print  this  my  counsel  on  thy  breast ; 
To  the  just  gods  I  leave  the  rest." 

He  thanked  her  care  ;  yet  day  by  day 
His  bosom  burned  to  disobey  ; 
And  every  time  the  well  he  saw. 
Scorned  in  his  heart  the  foolish  law  : 
Near  and  more  near  each  day  he  drew, 
And  longed  to  try  the  dangerous  view. 

"  "Why  was  this  idle  charge  ?  "  he  cries  ; 
"  Let  courage  female  fears  despise. 
Or  did  she  doubt  my  heart  was  brave, 
And  therefore  this  injunction  gave  ? 
Or  does  her  harvest  store  the  place, 
A  treasure  for  her  younger  race  ? 
And  would  she  thus  my  search  prevent  ? 
I  stand  resolved,  and  dare  the  event." 

Thus  said.    He  mounts  the  margin's  round, 
And  pries  into  the  depth  profound. 
He  stretched  his  neck ;  and  from  below 
With  stretching  neck  advanced  a  foe  : 
With  wrath  his  ruffled  plumes  he  rears, 
The  foe  with  ruffled  plumes  appears  : 
Threat  answered  threat,  his  fury  grew, 
Headlong  to  meet  the  war  he  flew. 
But  when  the  watery  death  he  found, 
He  thus  lamented  as  he  drowned  : 

"  I  ne'er  had  been  in  this  condition. 
But  for  my  mother's  prohibition." 

John  Gay.— Born  1688,  Died  1732. 


796.— THE  GOAT  WITHOUT  A  BEAED. 

'Tis  certain,  that  the  modish  passions 
Descend  among  the  crowd,  like  fashions. 
Excuse  me  then,  if  pride,  conceit 
(The  manners  of  the  fair  and  great) 
I  give  to  monkeys,  asses,  dogs. 
Pleas,  owls,  goats,  butterflies,  and  hogs. 
I  say  that  these  are  proud.     What  then  ? 
I  never  said  they  equal  men, 

A  goat  (as  vain  as  goat  can  be) 
Affected  singularity. 
Whene'er  a  thymy  bank  he  found. 
Ho  rolled  upon  the  fragrant  ground  ; 
And  then  with  fond  attention  stood, 
Pixed  o'er  his  image  in  the  flood. 

"  I  hate  my  frowsy  beard,"  ho  cries ; 
"  My  youth  is  lost  in  this  disguise. 
Did  not  the  females  know  my  vigour, 
Well  might  they  loathe  this  reverend  figitrc.'' 


Resolved  to  smoothe  his  shaggy  face, 
He  sought  the  barber  of  the  place. 
A  flippant  monkey,  spruce  and  smart, 
Hard  by,  professed  the  dapper  art ; 
His  pole  with  pewter  basins  hung, 
Black  rotten  teeth  in  order  strung, 
Eanged  cups  that  in  the  window  stoodj 
Lined  with  red  rags,  to  look  like  blood. 
Did  well  his  threefold  trade  explain. 
Who  shaved,  drew  teeth,  and  breathed  a  vein. 

The  goat  he  welcomes  with  an  air, 
And  seats  him  in  his  wooden  chair  : 
Mouth,  nose,  and  cheek  the  lather  hides  : 
Light,  smooth,  and  swift  the  razor  glides. 

"  I  hope  your  custom,  sir,"  says  pug. 
"  Sure  never  face  was  half  so  smug." 

The  goat,  impatient  for  applause. 
Swift  to  the  neighbourmg  hill  withdraws  : 
The  shaggy  people  grinned  and  stared. 

"  Heyday  !  what 's  here  ?  without  a  beard ! 
Say,  brother,  whence  the  dire  disgrace  ? 
What  envious  hand  hath  robbed  your  face  ?  " 

When  thus  the  fop,  with  smiles  of  scorn : 
''  Are  beards  by  civil  nations  Avorn  ? 
Even  Muscovites  have  mowed  their  chins. 
Shall  we,  like  formal  Capuchins, 
Stubborn  in  pride,  retain  the  mode. 
And  bear  about  the  hairy  load  ? 
Whene'er  we  through  the  village  stray, 
Are  we  not  mocked  along  the  way  ; 
Insulted  with  loud  shouts  of  scorn, 
By  boys  our  beards  disgraced  and  torn  ?  " 

"  Were  you  no  more  with  goats  to  dwell, 
Brother,  I  grant  you  reason  well," 
Replies  a  bearded  chief.     '•  Beside, 
If  boys  can  mortify  thy  pride, 
How  wilt  thou  stand  the  ridicule 
Of  our  whole  flock  ?     Affected  fool  1 
Coxcombs,  distinguished  from  the  rest, 
To  all  but  coxcombs  are  a  jest." 

John  Gay.— Born  1688,  Died  1732. 


797.— THE   SICK   MAN   AND    THE 
ANGEL. 

"  Is  there  no  hope  ?  "  the  sick  man  said. 

The  silent  doctor  shook  his  head. 

And  took  his  leave  vnt\\  signs  of  sorrow. 

Despairing  of  his  fee  to-morrow. 

When  thus  the  man  with  gasping  breath : 

"  I  feel  the  chiUing  wound  of  death  : 

Since  I  must  bid  the  world  adieu, 
i   Let  me  my  former  life  review, 
j   I  grant,  my  bargains  well  were  made  ; 
1   But  all  men  over-reach  in  trade  ; 
'   'Tis  self-defence  in  each  pr.ofession. 

Sure  self-defence  is  no  transgression. 

The  little  portion  in  my  hands, 

By  good  security  on  lands. 

It  well  increased.     If,  unawares, 
I  My  justice  to  myself  and  heirs 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


THE  COUNCIL  OF  HOESES. 


[John  Gay. 


Hath  let  my  debtor  rot  in  jail, 
For  want  of  good  sufficient  bail ; 
If  I  by  writ,  or  bond,  or  deed, 
Eeduced  a  family  to  need, 
My  will  bath  made  the  world  amends  ; 
My  hope  on  charity  depends. 
When  I  am  numbered  with  the  dead, 
And  all  my  pious  gifts  are  read. 
By  heaven  and  earth  'twill  then  be  knoAvn 
I        My  charities  were  amply  shown." 

An  angel  came.     "  Ah,  friend !  "  he  cried, 
"  No  more  in  flattering  hope  confide. 
Can  thy  good  deeds  in  foi-mer  times 
Outweigh  the  balance  of  thy  crimes  ? 
What  widow  or  what  orphan  prays 
To  crown  thy  life  with  length  of  days  ? 
I        A  pious  action's  in  thy  power, 
j        Embrace  with  joy  the  happy  hour. 
Now,  while  you  draw  the  vital  air. 
Prove  your  intention  is  sincere. 
This  instant  give  a  hundred  pound ; 
Your  neighbours  want,  and  you  abound." 
"  But    why  such  haste  ? "    the    sick    man 
whines ; 
"  Who  knows  as  yet  what  Heaven  designs  ? 
Perhaps  I  may  recover  still ; 
That  sum  and  more  are  in  my  will." 

"  Fool,"  says  the  vision,  "  now  'tis  plain. 
Your  life,  your  soul,  your  heaven  v^as  gain. 
From  every  side,  -svith  all  your  might, 
You  scraped,  and  scraped  beyond  j'our  right ; 
And  after  death  would  fain  atone, 
By  giving  what  is  not  your  own." 

"  While   there   is   life,   there 's  hope,"    he 
cried ; 
"  Then   why   such   haste  ?  "  so  groaned  and 
died. 

Jolv.i  Gay.— Born  1G88,  Died  1732. 


798.— THE  FOX  AT  THE  POINT  OF 
DEATH. 

A  fox,  in  life's  extreme  decay. 
Weak,  sick,  and  faint,  expiring  lay  ; 
All  appetite  had  left  his  maw. 
And  age  disarmed  his  mumbling  jaw. 
His  numerous  race  aroiand  him  stand 
To  learn  their  dying  sire's  command  : 
He  raised  his  head  with  whining  moan, 
And  thus  was  heard  the  feeble  tone  : 

"  Ah,  sons  !  from  evil  ways  depart : 
My  crimes  lie  heavy  on  my  heart. 
See,  see,  the  murdered  geese  appear  ! 
Why  are  those  bleeding  turkeys  here  ? 
Why  all  around  this  cackling  train, 
Who  haunt  my  ears  for  chicken  slain  ?  " 

The  hungry  foxes  round  them  stared, 
And  for  the  promised  feast  prepared. 

"  Where,  sir,  is  all  this  dainty  cheer  ? 
Nor  turkey,  goose,  nor  hen  is  here. 
These  are  the  phantoms  of  your  brain, 
"And  your  sons  lick  their  lips  in  vain." 

"  O  gluttons  !  "  says  the  drooping  sire, 


"  Restrain  inordinate  desire. 

Your  liqu'rish  taste  you  shall  deplore, 

W^hen  peace  of  conscience  is  no  more. 

Does  not  the  hound  betray  our  pace, 

And  gins  and  guns  destroy  our  race? 

Thieves  dread  the  searching  eye  of  itowev, 

And  never  feel  the  quiet  hour. 

Old  age  (which  few  of  us  shall  know) 

Now  puts  a  period  to  my  woe. 

Would  you  true  happiness  attain, 

Let  honesty  your  passions  rein  ; 

So  live  in  credit  and  esteem. 

And  the  good  name  you  lost,  redeem." 

"  The  counsel's  good,"  a  fox  replies, 
"  Could  we  perform  what  you  advise. 
Think  what  our  ancestors  have  done  ; 
A  line  of  thieves  from  son  to  son  : 
To  us  descends  the  long  disgrace, 
And  infamy  hath  marked  our  race. 
Though  we  like  harmless  sheep  should  feed, 
Honest  in  thought,  in  word,  and  deed  ; 
Whatever  henroost  is  decreased. 
We  shall  be  thought  to  share  the  feasf. 
The  change  shall  never  be  believed, 
A  lost  good  name  is  ne'er  retrieved." 

"  Nay,  then,"  replies  the  feeble  fox, 
"  (But  hark  !  I  hear  a  hen  that  clocks) 
Go,  but  be  moderate  in  your  food  ; 
A  chicken  too  might  do  me  good." 

John  Gay.— Bom  1688,  Died  17321 


799.— THE  COUNCIL  OF  HOESES. 

Upon  a  time  a  neighing  steed, 

Who  grazed  among  a  numerous  breed. 

With  mutiny  had  fired  the  train, 

And  spread  dissension  through  the  plain. 

On  matters  that  concerned  the  state 

The  council  met  in  grand  debate. 

A  colt,  whose  eye-balls  flamed  with  ire, 

Elate  with  strength  and  youthful  fire. 

In  haste  stept  forth  before  the  rest. 

And  thus  the  liste.iing  throng  addressed : 

"  Good  gods  !  hoAV  abject  is  our  race, 
Condemned  to  slavery  and  disgrace  ! 
Shall  Ave  our  servitude  retain. 
Because  our  sires  have  borne  the  chain  ? 
Consider,  friends,  your  strength  and  might : 
'Tis  conquest  to  assert  your  right. 
How  cumbrous  is  the  gilded  coach  ! 
The  pride  of  man  is  our  reproach. 
Were  we  designed  for  daily  toil. 
To  drag  the  ploughshare  through  the  soil, 
To  sweat  in  harness  through  the  road. 
To  groan  beneath  the  carrier's  load  ? 
How  feeble  are  the  two-legged  kind  ! 
Wliat  force  is  in  our  nerves  combined  I 
Shall  then  our  nobler  jaws  submit 
To  foam  and  chamx)  the  galling  bit  ? 
Shall  haughty  man  my  back  bestride  ? 
Shall  the  sharp  spur  provoke  my  side  ? 
Forbid  it,  heavens  !     Eeject  the  rein  ; 
Your  shame,  your  infamy  disdain. 


John  Gay.j                              THE  POET  AND  THE  EOSE.                    [Fifth  Period.— 

Let  him  the  lion  first  control, 

Know,  hapless  flower,  that  thou  shalt  find 

And  still  the  tiger's  famished  gi-owl. 

More  fragrant  roses  there  ; 

Let  us,  like  them,  our  freedom  claim, 

I  see  thy  withering  head  reclined 

And  make  him  tremble  at  our  name." 

With  envy  and  despair  ! 

A  general  nod  approved  the  cause, 

One  common  fate  we  both  must  prove ; 

And  all  the  circle  neighed  applause. 

You  die  with  envy,  I  with  love." 

When,  lo !  with  grave  and  solemn  pace, 

"  Spare  your  comparisons,"  replied 

A  steed  advanced  before  the  race. 

An  angry  rose,  who  grew  beside. 

"With  age  and  long  experience  wise  ; 

"  Of  all  mankind,  you  should  not  flout  us  ; 

Around  he  cast  his  thoughtful  eyes, 

WTiat  can  a  poet  do  without  us ! 

And,  to  the  murmurs  of  the  train. 

In  every  love-song  roses  bloom  ; 

Thus  spoke  the  Nestor  of  the  plain : 

We  lend  you  colour  and  perfume. 

"  When  I  had  health  and  strength,  like  you, 

Does  it  to  Chloe's  charms  conduce. 

The  toils  of  servitude  I  knew  ; 

To  found  her  praise  on  our  abuse  ? 

Now  grateful  man  rewards  my  pains. 

Must  we,  to  flatter  her,  be  made 

And  gives  me  all  these  wide  domains. 

To  wither,  envy,  pine,  and  fade  ?" 

At  will  I  crop  the  year's  increase  ; 
My  latter  life  is  rest  and  jpeace. 

John  Gay. — Born  1688,  Died  1732. 

I  grant,  to  man  we  lend  our  pains. 

And  aid  him  to  correct  the  plains. 

But  doth  not  he  divide  the  care. 

Through  all  the  labours  of  the  year  ? 

801.— THE    HAEE   AND   MANY 

How  many  thousand  structures  rise, 

FEIENDS. 

To  fence  us  from  inclement  skies ! 

For  us  he  bears  the  sultry  day, 

Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a  name, 

And  stores  up  all  our  winter's  hay. 

Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 

He  sows,  he  reaps  the  harvest's  gain ; 

The  child,  whom  many  fathers  share. 

We  share  the  toil,  and  share  the  grain. 

Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 

Since  every  creature  was  decreed 

'Tis  thus  in  friendships  ;  who  depend 

To  aid  each  other's  mutual  need, 

On  many,  rarely  find  a  friend. 

Appease  your  discontented  mind, 

A  hare,  who  in  a  civil  way. 

And  act  the  part  by  heaven  assigned." 

Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay, 

The  tumult  ceased.     The  colt  submitted. 

Was  known  by  all  the  bestial  train 

And,  like  his  ancestors,  was  bitted. 

Who  haunt  the  wood,  or  graze  the  plain. 

Her  care  was  never  to  oftend, 

John  Gay.— Born  1688,  Died  1732. 

And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 

As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn. 

To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn, 
Behind  she  hears  the  hunters'  cries, 

And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies. 

800.— THE  POET  AND  THE  EOSE. 

She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath  ; 

,  She  hears  the  near  advance  of  death  ; 

I  hate  the  man  who  builds  his  name 

She  doubles  to  mislead  the  hound. 

On  ruins  of  another's  fame. 

And  measures  back  her  mazy  round ; 

Thus  prudes,  by  characters  o'erthro^^^l, 

Till  fainting  in  the  public  way, 

Imagine  that  they  raise  their  own. 

Half-dead  with  fear,  she  gasping  lay. 

Thus  scribblers,  covetous  of  praise, 

What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew,- 

Think  slander  can  transplant  the  bays. 

When  first  the  horse  appeared  in  view ! 

Beauties  and  bards  have  equal  pride, 

"  Let  me,"  says  she,  "  your  back  ascend, 

With  both  all  rivals  are  decried. 

And  owe  my  safetj'^  to  a  friend. 

Who  praises  Lesbia's  eyes  and  feature. 

You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight ; 

Must  call  her  sister  awkward  creature  ; 

To  friendship  every  burden's  light." 

For  the  kind  flattery  's  sure  to  charm. 

The  horse  replied — "Poor  honest  puss, 

When  we  some  other  nymph  disarm. 

It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  thee  thus  ; 

As  in  the  cool  of  early  day 

Be  comforted,  relief  is  near  ; 

A  poet  sought  the  sweets  of  May, 

For  all  your  friends  are  in  the  rear." 

The  garden's  fragrant  breath  ascends, 

She  next  the  stately  bull  implored  ; 

And  every  stalk  with  odour  bends. 

And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord — 

A  rose  ho  plucked,  he  gazed,  admired. 

"  Since  every  beast  alive  can  tell 

Thus  singing  as  the  muse  inspu-ed  : 

That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well. 

''  Go,  rose,  my  Chloe's  bosom  grace  ; 

I  may,  without  offence,  pretend 

How  happy  should  I  prove. 

To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. 

Might  I  supply  that  envied  place 

Love  calls  me  hence ;  a  favourite  cow 

With  never-fading  love ! 

Expects  me  near  yon  barley  mow  : 

There,  phoenix-like,  beneath  her  eye, 

And  when  a  lady's  in  the  case. 

Involved  in  fragrance,  burn  and  die  ! 

You  know  all  other  things  give  place. 

From  1689  to  1727.]  A  BALLAD. 


[John  Ga^ 


To  leave  you  thus  miglit  seem  unkind  ; 
But  see,  the  goat  is  just  behind." 

The  goat  remarked  her  pulse  was  high, 
Her  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye  ; 
"  My  back,"  says  she,  "  may  do  you  harm ; 
The  sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm." 

The  sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained 
His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained  : 
Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears  ; 
For  hounds  eat  sheep  as  well  as  hares. 

She  now  the  trotting  calf  addressed. 
To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed. 

"  Shall  I,"  says  he,  "  of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  care  engage  ; 
Older  and  abler  passed  you  by ; 
HoAv  strong  are  those  !  how  weak  am  I ! 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence, 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  offence. 
Excuse  me  then.     You  know  my  heart, 
But  dearest  friends,  alas  !  must  part.  j 

How  shall  we  all  lament !     Adieu  !  j 

For  see  the  hounds  are  just  in  view."  j 

John  Gay.— Born  1688,  Died  1732. 


8o2.— SWEET  WILLIAM'S  FAREWELL. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor'd, 

The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind. 
When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard. 
"  Oh  !  where  shall  I  my  true-love  find  ? 
Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true. 
If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew." 

WiUiam,  who  high  upon  the  yard 

Eock'd  with  the  billow  to  and  fro. 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard, 
He  sigh'd,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  ; 
The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing 

hands, 
And    (quick   as   lightning)    on   the    deck    he 
stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 

Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast 
(If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear), 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 
The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

"  O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain  ; 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear  ; 
We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change,  as  ye  list,  ye  winds  ;   my  heart  shall 

be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say, 

Who   tempt   with   doubts   thy   constant 
mind. 
They'll  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away, 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find  ; 
Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so. 
For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 


If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 
Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale. 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 
Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view. 
Wakes   in    my  soul    some    charm    of   lovely 
Sue.  ~     - 

Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn  ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 
William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  mo  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's 
eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadfiil  word, 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread  ; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  : 

They   kiss'd,    she    sigh'd,   he   hung   his 
head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land  : 
"  Adieu  !  "    she   cries ;    and   waved    her   lily 
hand. 

John  Gay.— Born  1688,  Died  1732. 


803.— A  BALLAD. 

'Twas  when  the  seas  were  roaring 

With  hoUow  blasts  of  wind ; 
A  damsel  lay  deploring, 

All  on  a  rock  reclined. 
Wide  o'er  the  foaming  billows 

She  casts  a  wistful  look ; 
Her  head  was  crown'd  with  willows, 

That  trembled  o'er  the  brook. 

Twelve  months  are  gone  and  over, 

And  nine  long  tedious  days. 
Why  didst  thou,  venturous  lover, 

Why  didst  thou  trust  the  seas  ? 
Cease,  cease,  thou  cruel  ocean. 

And  let  my  lover  rest : 
Ah  !  what's  thy  troubled  motion 

To  that  within  my  breast  ? 

The  merchant,  robb'd  of  pleasure. 

Sees  tempests  in  despair : 
But  what's  the  loss  of  treasure. 

To  losing  of  my  dear  ? 
Should  you  some  coast  be  laid  on, 

Where  gold  and  diamonds  grow, 
You'd  find  a  richer  maiden. 

But  none  that  loves  you  so. 

How  can  they  say  that  nature 

Has  nothing  made  in  vain  ; 
Why  then  beneath  the  water 

Should  hideous  rocks  remain  ? 
No  eyes  the  rocks  discover, 

That  lurk  beneath  the  deep. 
To  wreck  the  wand' ring  lover, 

And  leave  the  maid  to  v/eep. 


John  Gay.] 


THE  COUNTRY  BALLAD  SINGEE. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


All  melancholy  lying-, 

Thus  wail'd  she  for  her  dear ; 
Repaid  each  blast  with  sighing", 

Each  billow  with  a  tear  ; 
When  o'er  the  white  wave  stooping, 

His  floating  corpse  she  spied  ; 
Then,  like  a  lily  drooping, 

She  bow'd  her  head,  and  died. 

John  Gmj.—Born  1688,  Died  1732. 


804. 


-THE  COUNTRY  BALLAD 
SINGER. 


Sublimer  strains,  O  rustic  muse  !  prepare  ; 
Forget  awhile  the  barn  and  dair^^'s  care  ; 
Thy  homely  voice  to  loftier  numbers  raise, 
The  drunkard's  flights  require  sonorous  lays ; 
With  Bowzybeus'  songs  exalt  thy  verse, 
Wliile   rocks   and   woods   the   various   notes 

rehearse. 
'Twas  in  the  season  when  the  reapers'  toil 
Of  the  ripe  harvest  'gan  to  rid  the  soil  ,- 
Wide  through   the   field  was  seen  a  goodly 

rout, 
Clean   damsels   bound  the   gathered  sheaves 

about ; 
Tlie  lads  with  sharpened  hook  and  sweating 

brow 
Cut  down  the  labours  of  the  winter  plough. 
#  *  *  #  # 

When  fast  asleep  they  Bowzybeus  spied. 
His  hat  and  oaken  staff  lay  close  beside  ; 
That  Bowzybeus  who  could  sweetly  sing", 
Or  with  the  rosin' d  bow  torment  the  string; 
That  Bowzybeus  who,  with  fingers'  speed, 
Could  call  soft  warblings  from  the  breathing 

reed  ; 
That  Bowzj'-beus  who,  with  jocund  tongue. 
Ballads,  and  roundelays,  and  catches  sung  : 
They  loudly  laugh  to  see  the  damsel's  fright. 
And  in  disport  surround  the  drunken  %vight. 

Ah,  Eowzybee,  why  didst  thou  stay  so  long  ? 
The  mugs  were  large,  the  drink  was  wondrous 

strong ! 
Thou  shouldst  have  left  the  fair  before  'twas 

night,- 
But  thou  sat'st  toping  till  the  morning  light. 
Cicely,  brisk  maid,  steps  forth  before  the 

rout, 
And   Icissed   with   smacking  lip  the  snoring 

lout 
(For   custom   saya,    "  Wlioe'er   this   venture 

proves. 
For  such  a  Idss  demands  a  pair  of  gloves.") 
By  her  example  Dorcas  bolder  grows. 
And  plays  a  tickling  straw  within  his  nose. 
He  rubs  his  nostril,  and  in  wonted  joke 
The  sneering  strains  with  stammering  speech 

bespoke : 
To  you,  my  lads,  I'll  sing  my  carols  o'er  ; 
As  fov  the  maids,  I've  something  else  in  store. 

No  sooner  'gan  he  raise  his  tuneful  song, 
Bnt  lads  and  lasses  round  about  him  throng. 


Not  ballad-singer  placed  above  the  crowd 
Sings  with  a  note  so  shrilling,  sweet,  and  loud ; 
No  parish-clerk,  who  calls  the  psalms  so  clear, 
Like  Bowzybeus  soothes  the  attentive  ear. 

Of  nature's  laws  his  carols  first  begun. 
Why  the  grave  owl  can  never  face  the  sun. 
For  owls,  as  swains  observe,  detest  the  light. 
And  only  sing  and  seek  their  prey  by  night. 
How  turnips  hide  their  swelling  heads  below, 
And  how  the  closing  coleworts  upwards  grow  ; 
How      Will-a-wisp      misleads      night-faring 

clowns 
O'er   hills,    and  sinking   bogs,    and   pathless 

downs. 
Of  stars  he  told  that  shoot  with  shining  trail, 
And  of  the  glow-worm's  light  that  gilds  his 

tail. 
He    sung  where   woodcocks   in   the  simimer 

feed. 
And  in  what  climates  they  renew  their  breed 
(Some  think  to  northern  coasts  their  flight 

they  tend, 
Or  to  the  moon  in  midnight  hours  ascend) ; 
Where  swallows  in  the  winter's  season  keep. 
And  how  the  drowsy  bat  and  dormouse  sleep  ; 
How  nature  does  the  puppy's  eyelid  close, 
Till  the  bright  sun  has  nine  times  set  and 

rose 
(For  huntsmen  by  their  long  experience  find, 
That  puppies  still  nine  rolling  suns  are  blind). 
Novr   he  goes  on,    and  sings  of  fairs  and 

shows. 
For  still  new  fairs  before  his  eyes  arose. 
How  pedlers'   stalls  Avith  glittering  toys  are 

laid, 
The  various  faii'ings  of  the  country  maid. 
Long  silken  laces  hang  upon  the  twine. 
And  rows  of  pins  and  amber  bracelets  shine ; 
How  the  tight  lass  knives,  combs,  and  scissors 

spies. 
And  looks  on  thimbles  with  desiring  eyes. 
Of  lotteries  next  with  tuneful  note  he  told. 
Where   silver  spoons  are  won,  and  rings  of 

gold. 
The  lads  and  lasses  trudge  the  street  along. 
And  all  the  fair  is  crowded  in  his  song. 
The  mountebank  now  treads  the  stage,  and 

sells 
His  15 ills,  his  balsams,  and  his  ague- spells  ; 
Now  o'er  and  o'er  the  nimble  tumbler  springs, 
And    on    the    rope    the    venturous    maiden 

swings ; 
Jack  Pudding,  in  his  party-coloured  jacket, 
Tosses  the  glove,  and  jokes  at  every  packet. 
Of  raree-shows  he  sung,  and  Punch's  feats. 
Of    pockets   picked   in   crowds   and    various 

cheats. 
Then  sad  he  simg  "  The  Children  in  the 

Wood" 
(Ah,    barbarous   uncle,    stained   with    infant 

blood  !) 
How   blackbei-ries   they   plucked    in    deserts 

■nnld, 
And  fearless  at  the  glittering  faulchion  smiled ; 
Their  little  corpse  the  robin-redbreasts  found. 
And  strewed  Avith  pious  bill  the  leaves  around. 


From  1689  to  1727.]         WALKING  THE  STREETS  OF  LONDON. 


[John  Gay, 


(Ah,  gentle  birds  !  if  this  verse  lasts  so  long-, 
Your  names  shall  live  for  ever  in  my  song.) 
For  "Buxom  Joan"  he  sung  the  doubtful 

strife, 
How  the  sly  sailor  ni.ade  the  maid  a  wife. 

To  louder  strains  he  raised  his  voice,  to  tell 
Wliat  woful  wars  in  "  Chevy  Chase  "  befell, 
"V^'hen  "  Percy  drove  the  deer  with  hound  and 

horn ; 
Wars  to  be  wept  by  children  yet  unborn !  " 
Ah,   Witherington  !  more  years  thy  life  had 

crowned, 
If  thou  hadst  never  heard  the  horn  or  hound ! 
Yet  shall  the  squire,  who  fought  on  bloody 

stumps, 
By  future  bards  be  wailed  in  doleful  dumps. 

"  AU  in  the  land  of  Essex"  next  he  chaunts. 
How    to   sleek   mares   starch   Quakers    turn 

gallants  : 
How   the   grave    brother   stood  on   bank  so 

green — 
Happy  for  him  if  mares  had  never  been  ! 

Then  he  was  seized  with  a  religious  qualm, 
And  on  a  sudden  sung  the  hundredth  psalm. 
He   sung   of    "Taffy  Welsh"  and  "  Sa'wney 

Scot," 
" Lilly-bullero "  and  the  "Irish  Trot." 
Why    should    I    tell   of    "  Batcman "    or   of 

"  Shore," 
Or    "Wantley's   Dragon,"    slain   by   valiant 

Moore, 
"  The    Bower    of    Rosamond,"    or    "  Robin 

Hood," 
And  how  the  "  grass  now  grows  where  Troy 

town  stood  ' '  ? 
His  carols  ceased  :  the  listening  maids  and 

swains 
Seem  still  to  hear  some  soft  imperfect  strains. 
Sudden  ho  rose,  and,  as  he  reels  along, 
Swears  kisses  sweet  should  weU  reward  his 

song. 
Tlie  damsels  laughing  fly  ;  the  giddy  clown 
Again  upon  a  wheat-sheaf  drops  adown  ; 
The  power  that  guards  the  drunk  his  sleep 

attends, 
Till,  ruddy,  like  his  face,  the  sun  descends. 

John  Gay.— Bom  1688,  Died  1732. 


805. 


-WALKING  THE  STREETS  OF 
LONDON. 


Tlu-ough  winter  streets  to  steer  your  course 

aright. 
How  to  walk  clean  by  day,  and  safe  by  night ; 
How    jostling     crowds     with     prudence     to 

decline, 
Wlien  to  assert  the  waU,  and  when  resign, 
I  sing ;  thou.  Trivia,  goddess,  aid  my  song. 
Through  spacious  streets  conduct   thy  bard 

along ; 
By  thee  transported,  I  securely  stray 
Where  winding  alleys  lead  the  doubtful  way ; 
The  silent  court  and  opening  square  explore. 
And  long  perplexing  lanes  untrod  before. 


To  pave  thy  realm,  and  smooth  the  broken 

ways, 
Earth  from  her  womb  a  flinty  tribute  pays  : 
For    thee    the    sturdy    pavior    thumps    the 

ground, 
Whilst   every  stroke  Ms  labouring  lungs  re- 
sound ;  ~ 
For  thee  the  scavenger  bids  kennels  glide 
Witliin  their  bounds,  and  heaps  of  dirt  sub- 
side. 
My   youthful    bosom   burns    with    thirst   of 

fame, 
From  the  great   theme   to   build   a   glorious 

name ; 
To  tread  in  paths  to  ancient  bards  unknown. 
And  bind  my  temples  with  a  civic  crown  : 
But   more   my   country's   love   demands   my 

lays ; 
My  country's  be  the  profit,  mine  the  praise  ! 
When   the   black  youth  at  chosen  stands 

rejoice, 
And  "  clean  your  shoes  "  resounds  from  every 

voice ; 
When   late   their    miry   sides    stage-coaches 

show. 
And  their  stiff  horses  through  the  town  move 

slow; 
When  all  the  Mall  in  leafy  ruin  lies. 
And  damsels  first  renew  their  oj'ster  cries ; 
Then  let  the  prudent  walker  shoes  provide. 
Not  of  the  Spanish  or  Morocco  hide  ; 
The   wooden  heel    may    raise    the    dancer's 

bound, 
And   with    the    scalloped    top    his    step   bo 

crowned  ; 
Let  firm,  well-hammered  soles  protect  thy  feet 
Throus'b    freezing     snows,    and    rains,    and 

soaking  sleet. 
Should  the  big  last  extend  the  shoe  too  wide. 
Each    stone    will    wrench   the   unwary   step 

aside ; 
The   sudden   turn   may   stretch  the  swelling 

vein. 
Thy  cracking  joint  unhinge,  or  ankle  sprain  ; 
And,  when  too  short   the  modish   shoes  are 

worn. 
You'll  judge   the   seasons  ))y  your  shooting 

corn. 
Nor  should   it   prove    thy  less    important 

care, 
To  choose  a  proper  coat  for  winter's  wear. 
Now  in  thy  trunk  thy  D'Oily  habit  fold. 
The  silken  drugget  ill  can  fence  the  cold ; 
The  frieze's  spongj'-  nap  is  soaked  Avith  rain, 
And  showers  soon  drench  the  camblet's  cockled 

grain ; 
True  Witney  broadcloth,  with  its    shag  un- 
shorn, 
Unpierced  is  in  the  lasting  tempest  worn  : 
Be  this  the  horseman's  fence,  for  who  would 

wear 
Amid  the  town  the  spoils  of  Russia's  bear  ? 
Within  the  roquelaure's  clasp  thy  hands  ara 

pent, 
Hands,  that,  stretched  forth,  invading  harms 

prevent. 


AViLLiAM  SoMERviLLE.]       DESCEIFTION  OF  A  HAEE  HUNT. 


[Fifth  Period. 


Let  the  looped  bavaroy  the  fop  embrace, 
Or  his  deep  cloak  bespattered  o'er  with  lace. 
That  garment  best  the  winter's  rage  defends, 
Whose  ample  form  without  one  plait  depends  ; 
By  various  names  in  various  counties  known, 
Yet  held  in  all  the  true  surtout  alone  ; 
Be  thine  of  kersey  firm,   though   small  the 

cost, 
Then  brave   unwet  the   rain,    unchilled  the 

frost. 
If   the    strong   cane    support   thy  walking 

hand, 
Chairmen  no  longer  shall  the  wall  command ; 
Even  sturdy  carmen  shall  thy  nod  obey, 
And  rattling  coaches  stop  to  make  thee  way : 
This  shall  direct  thy  cautious  tread  aright, 
Though  not  one  glaring  lamp  enliven  night. 
Let    beaux    their    canes,    with    amber  tipt, 

produce ; 
Be  theirs  for  empty  show,  but  thine  for  use. 
In  gilded  chariots  while  they  loll  at  ease, 
And  lazily  insure  a  life's  disease  ; 
While  softer  chairs  the  tawdry  load  convey 
To  court,  to  White's,  assemblies,  or  the  play ; 
Eosy-complexioned  Health  thy  steps  attends, 
And  exercise  thy  lasting  youth  defends. 
Imprudent  men  Heaven's  choicest  gifts  pro- 
fane : 
Thus  some  beneath   their   arm   support   the 

cane  ; 
The  dirty  point  oft  checks  the  careless  pace, 
And  miry  spots  the  clean  cravat  disgrace. 
Oh  !  may  I  never  such  misfortune  meet ! 
May  no  such  vicious  walkers  crowd  the  street ! 
May  Providence  o'ershade  me  with  her  wings. 
While   the    bold    Muse    experienced    danger 

sings  ! 

John  Gay.— Born  1688,  Died  1732. 


806.— DESCRIPTION  OF  A  HAEE  HUNT. 

Now  golden  Autumn  from  her  open  lap 
Her  fragrant  bounties   showers;    the   fields 

are  shorn ; 
Inwardly  smiling,  the  proud  farmer  yiewa 
The  rising  pyramids  that  grace  his  yard, 
And  counts  his  large  increase ;  his  bams  are 

stored, 
And   groaning   staddles   bend   beneath  their 

load. 
All  now  is  free  as  air,  and  the  gay  pack 
In  the  rough  bristly  stubbles  range  un^lamed  : 
No  widow's  tears  o'erflow,  no  secret  curse 
Swells  in  the  farmer's  breast,  which  his  pale 

lips 
Trembling    conceal,    by    his    fierce    landlord 

awed : 
But  courteous  now  he  levels  every  fence, 
Joins  in  the  common  cry,  and  halloos  loud, 
Charm  k1   with  the   rattling  thunder  of   the 

field. 
Oh  boar  me,  some  kind  Power  invisible  ! 


To  that  extended  lawn,  where  the  gay  court 
View  the  swift  racers,  stretching  to  the  goal ; 
Games   more    renowned,    and    a    far    nobler 

train, 
Than  proud  Elean  fields  could  boast  of  old. 
Oh  !  were  a  Theban  lyre  not  wanting  here, 
And  Pindar's  voice,  to  do  their  merit  right ! 
Or  to  those  spacious  plains,  where  the  strained 

eye 
In  the  wide  prospect  lost,  beholds  at  last 
Sarum's    proud    spire,    that    o'er    the    hills 

ascends, 
And  pierces  through  the  clouds.     Or  to  thy 

downs. 
Fair  Cotswold,  where  the  well-breathed  beagle 

cKmbs, 
With   matchless   speed,    thy   green    aspiring 

brow, 
And  leaves  the  lagging  multitude  behind. 
Hail,  gentle  Dawn  !  mild  blushing  goddess 

hail! 
Eejoiced  I  see  thy  purple  mantle  spread 
O'er  half  the  skies,  gems  pave  thy  radiant 

way, 
And  orient  pearls  from  every  shrub  depend. 
Farewell,  Cleora  ;  here  deep  sunk  in  down 
Slumber  secure,  with  happy  dreams  amused, 
Till    grateful    steams    shaU    tempt    thee    to 

receive 
Thy  early  meal,  or  thy  officious  maids, 
The  toilet  placed,  shall  urge  thee  to  perform 
The  important  work.     Me  other  joys  invite, 
The  horn  sonorous  calls,  the  pack  awaked 
Their    matins    chant,    nor    brook    my    long 

delay. 
My  courser  hears  their  voice ;  see  there  with 

ears 
And  tail  erect,  neighing  he  paws  the  ground  ; 
Fierce  rapture  kindles  in  his  reddening  eyes, 
And  boils  in  every  vein.     As  captive  boys 
Cowed  by  the  ruling  rod,  and  haughty  frowns 
Of  pedagogues  severe,  from  their  hard  tasks. 
If  once  dismissed,  no  limits  can  contain 
The  tumult  raised  within  their  little  breasts, 
But  give  a  loose  to  all  their  frolic  play  : 
So  from  their  kennel  rush  the  joyous  pack  ; 
A  thousand  wanton  gaieties  express 
Their  inward  ecstasy,  their  pleasing  sport 
Once  more  indulged,  and  liberty  restored. 
The  rising  sun  that  o'er  the  horizon  peeps, 
As  many  colours  from  their  glossy  skins 
Beaming  reflects,  as  paint  the  various  bow 
When    April    showers    descend.      Delightful 

scene ! 
Where  all  around  is  gay,  men,  horses,  dogs, 
And  in  each  smiling  countenance  appears 
Fresh  blooming  health,  and  iiniversal  joy. 
Huntsman,  lead  on  !  behind  the  clustering 

pack 
Submiss  attend,  hear  with  respect  thy  whip 
Loud-clanging,  and  thy  harsher  voice  obey : 
Spare   not   the    straggling    cur,    that    wildly 

roves  ; 
But  let  thy  brisk  assistant  on  his  back 
Imprint  thy  just  resentments ;  let  each  lash 
Bite  to  the  quick,  till  howKng  he  return 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  HAEE  HUNT.    [William  Somebville. 


And    v/hining     creep    amid     the     trembling 

crowd. 
Here  on  this  verdant  spot,  where  nature 

kind, 
With  double  blessings  crowns   the   farmer's 

hopes ;  ^ 

Where  flowers  autumnal  spring,  and  the  rank 

mead 
Affords  the  wandering  hares  a  rich  repast, 
Throw  off  thy  ready  pack.     See,  where  they 

spread 
And  range  around,  and  dash   the   glittering 

dew. 
If    some    stanch  hound,    with  his  authentic 

voice. 
Avow  the  recent  trail,  the  jostling  tribe 
Attend  his  call,  then  with  one  mutual  cry 
The  welcome  news  confirm,  and  echoing  hills 
Eopeat    the    pleasing  tale.      See    how   they 

thread 
The  breaks,  and  up  yon  furrow  drive  along  ! 
But  quick  they  back  recoil,  and  wisely  check 
Their   eager   haste ;    then   o'er   the   fallow'd 

ground 
How  leisurely  they  work,  and  many  a  pause 
The   harmonious   concert   breaks ;    till   more 

assured 
With  joy  redoubled  the  low  valleys  ring. 
What  artful  labjTinths  perplex  their  way  ! 
Ah  I    there  she  lies ;    how  close  !    she  pants, 

she  doubts 
If  now  she  lives  ;  she  trembles  as  she  sits, 
With  horror  seized.     The  withered  grass  that 

clings 
Around  her  head,  of  the  same  russet  hue 
Almost  deceived  my  sight,  had  not  her  eyes 
With   life   full-beaming    her   vain   wiles   be- 
trayed. 
At  distance  draw  thy  pack,  let  all  be  hushed, 
No  clamour  loud,  no  frantic  joy  be  heard. 
Lest  the   v/ild   hound   run  gadding  o'er  the 

plain 
Untractable,  nor  hear  thy  chiding  voice. 
Now  gently  put  her  off ;  see  how  direct 
To  her  known  mews  she  flies  !     Here,  hunts- 
man, bring 
(But  without  hurry)  all  thy  jolly  hounds, 
And  calmly   lay  them   in.      How   low   they 

stoop. 
And  seem  to  plough  the  ground !  then  all  at 

once 
With  greedy  nostrils  snuff  the  fuming  steam 
That  glads  their  flutt'ring  hearts.     As  wiuds 

let  loose 
From  the  dark  caverns  of  the  blust'ring  god, 
Thoy  burst  away,  and  sweep  the  dewy  lawn. 
Hope  gives  them  wings  while  she's  spurred  on 

by  fear. 
The  welkin  rings  ;  men,  dogs,  hills,  rocks,  and 

woods 
In  the   full   concert  join.      Now,   my  brave 

youths, 
Stripped  for  the  chase,  give  all  your  souls  to 

joy  •       _ 
See  how  their  coursers,   than  the  mountain 


More  fleet,  the  verdant   carpet   skim,   thick 

clouds 
Snorting   they   breathe,    their   shining  hoofs 

scarce  print 
The  grass  unbruised ;  with  emulation  fired 
They  strain  to  lead  the  field,  top  fEe  barred 

gate, 
O'er  the  deep  ditch  exulting  bound,  and  brush 
The  thorny-twining  hedge  :   the  riders  bend 
O'er  their  arched  necks ;  with  steady  hands, 

by  turns 
Indulge  their  speed,  or  moderate  their  rage. 
Where   are   their   sorrows,    disappointments, 

wrongs, 
Vexations,  sickness,  cares  ?     All,  all  are  gone, 
And  with  the  panting  winds  lag  far  behind. 
Huntsman  !   her  gait  observe ;    if  in  wide 

rings 
She  w^heel  her  mazy  way,  in  the  same  round 
Persisting  still,  she'll  foil  the  beaten  track. 
But  if  she  fly,  and  with  the  favouring  wind 
Ui'ge  her  bold  course  ;  less  intricate  thy  task  : 
Push  on  thy  pack.     Like  some   poor  exiled 

wretch 
The    frighted    chase    leaves    her    late    dear 

abodes. 
O'er  plains  remote  she  stretches  far  away, 
Ah  1  never  to  return  !  for  greedy  Death 
Hovering  exults,  secure  to  seize  his  prey. 
Hark  !  from  j'on  covert,  where  those  tower- 
ing oaks 
Above  the  humble  copse  aspiring  rise, 
What  glorious  triumphs  burst  in  ev'ry  gale 
Upon  our  ravished  ears  !     The  hunters  shout, 
The  clanging  horns  swell  their  sv/eet- winding 

notes, 
The   pack   wide-opening  load   the   trembling 

air 
With  A'arious  melody  ;  from  tree  to  tree 
The  propagated  cry  redoubling  bounds. 
And  winged  zephyrs  waft  the  floating  joy 
Through  all  the  regions  near  :  afflictive  birch 
No  more    the    schoolboy  dreads,   his    prison 

broke, 
Scamp'ring  he  flies,  nor  heeds   his  master's 

call ; 
The  weary  traveller  forgets  his  road, 
And  climbs  the  adjacent  hill ;  the  ploughman 

leaves 
The    unfinished    furrow ;     nor    his    bleating 

flocks 
Are  now  the  shepherd's  joy ;  men,  boys,  and 

girls 
Desert    the    impeopled    village;      and    wild 

crowds 
Spread  o'er  the  plain,   by  the  sweet  frenzy 

seized. 
Look,  how  she  pants  !    and  o'er  yon  op'ning 

glade 
Slips  glancing  by ;  while,  at  the  further  end. 
The  puzzling  pack  unravel  wile  by  wile, 
Maze    within   maze.       The   covert's   utmost 

bound 
Slily  she  skirts ;  behind  them  cautious  creeps. 
And  in  that  very  track,  so  lately  stained 
By  all  the  steaming  crowd,  seems  to  pursue 

?6 


William  Somerville.]       PEAISE  OF  A  COUNTEY  LIFE. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


The  foe  she  flies.     Let  cavillers  deny 

That  brutes  have  reason  j  sure  'tis  something 

more, 
'Tis  Heaven  directs,  and  stratagems  inspires, 
Beyond  the  short  extent  of  hnman  thought. 
But  hold — I  see  her  from  the  covert  break  ; 
Sad  on  yon  little  eminence  she  sits ; 
Intent  she  listens  with  one  ear  erect, 
Pond'ring,  and  doubtful  what  new  course  to 

take, 
And   how  to   escape  the  fierce  blood-thirsty 

crew, 
That  still  urge  on,  and  still  in  volleys  loud. 
Insult  her  woes,  and  mock  her  sore  distress. 
As  now  in  louder  peals,  the  loaded  winds 
Bring   on    the    gath'ring    storm,    her    fears 

prevail ; 
And  o'er  the  plain,  and  o'er  the  mountain's 

ridge, 
Away  she  flies ;  nor  ships  with  wind  and  tide, 
And  all  their  canvas  wings,  scud  half  so  fast. 
Once  more,  ye  jovial  train,  your  courage  try. 
And  each  clean  courser's  speed:     We  scour 

along, 
In  pleasing  hurry  and  confusion  tossed  ; 
Obhvion  to  be  wished.     The  patient  pack 
Hang  on  the  scent  unwearied,  up  they  climb. 
And  ardent  we  pursue ;  our  labouring  steeds 
We   press,   we   gore ;    till  once   the  summit 

gained, 
Painfully  panting,  there  we  breathe  a  while ; 
Then  Hike  a  foaming  torrent,  pouring  down 
Precipitant,  we  smoke  along  the  vale. 
Happy  the  man,  who  with  unrivalled  speed 
Can  pass  his  fellows,  and  with  pleasure  view 
The  struggling  pack ;  how  in  the  rapid  course 
Alternate  they  preside,  and  jostling  push 
To  guide  the  dubious  scent ;  how  giddy  youth 
Oft  babbling  errs,  by  wiser  age  reproved ; 
How,  niggard  of  his  strength,  the  wise  old 

hound 
Hangs  in  the  rear,  tiU  some  important  point 
Eouse  all  his  diligence,  or  tiU  the  chase 
Sinking    he    finds;     then    to    the    head    he 

springs. 
With   thirst   of    glory   fired,    and   wins   the 

prize. 
Huntsman,    take    heed;    they    stop  in  fuU 

career. 
Yon   crov/ding    flocks,    that    at    a    distance 

graze, 
Have  haply  soiled  the  turf.     See  I   that  old 

hound, 
How  busily  he  works,  but  dares  not  trust 
His  doubtful  sense ;  draw  yet  a  wider  ring. 
Hark !  now  again  the  chorus  fills  ;  as  bells 
Silenced  a  while  at  once  their  peal  renew. 
And  high  in  air  the  tuneful  thunder  rolls. 
See,  how  they  toss,  with  animated  rage 
Eecovering  all  they  lost! — Thg-t  eager  haste 
Some  doubling  wile  foreshows. — Ah !  yet  once 

more 
They're  checked — ^hold  back  with  speed — on 

either  hand 
They  flourish  round — even  yet  persist — 'Tis 

right, 


Away   they    spring;     the    rusthng    stubbles 

bend 
Beneath  the  driving  storm.     Now  the  poor 

chase 
Begins  to  flag,  to  her  last  shifts  reduced. 
From  *)rake  to  brake  she  flies,  and  visits  all 
Her    well-known    haunts,    where    once    she 

ranged  secure, 
With  love   and  plenty  blessed.     See !    there 

she  goes. 
She  reels  along,  and  by  her  gait  betrays 
Her  inward  weakness.     See,  how  black  she 

looks ! 
The  sweat  that  clogs  the  obstructed  pores, 

scarce  leaves 
A  languid  scent.     And  now  in  open  view 
See,  see,  she  flies  ;  each  eager  hound  exerts 
His  utmost  speed,  and  stretches  ev'ry  nerve. 
How   quick   she    turns !    their   gaping  jaws 

eludes. 
And  yet  a  moment  lives ;  till  round  inclosed 
By  all  the  greedy  pack,  with  infant  screams 
She  yields  her   breath,    and   there  reluctan 

dies. 
So  when  the  furious  Bacchanals  assailed 
Thracian  Orpheus,  i)oor  ill-fated  bard ! 
Loud  was  the  cry ;  hills,  woods,  and  Hebrua' 

banks, 
Eeturned  their  clamorous  rage  ;  distressed  he 

flies, 
Shifting  from   place    to    place,   but   flies   in 

vain; 
For  eager  they  pursue,  till  panting,  faint, 
By  noisy  multitudes  o'erpowered,  he  sinks. 
To  the  relentless  crowd  a  bleeding  prey. 

William  8omerville.—Born  1682,  Died  1742. 


807.— PEAISE  OF  A  COUNTEY  LIFE. 

O  happy,  if  ye  knew  your  happy  state, 
Ye  rangers  of  the  fields !  whom  Nature  boon 
Cheers  with  her  smiles,  and  every  element 
Conspires  to  bless.     What,  if  no  heroes  frown 
From  marble  pedestals ;  nor  Eaphael's  works, 
Nor  Titian's  lively  tints,  adorn  our  walls  ? 
Yet  these  the  meanest  of  us  may  behold ; 
And  at  another's  cost  may  feast  at  will 
Our  wondering  eyes;  what   can  the   owner 

more? 
But  vain,   alas!  is   wealth,  not  graced  with 

power. 
The  flowery  landscape,  and  the  gilded  dom«, 
And  vistas  opening  to  the  wearied  eye. 
Through  aU  his  wide  domain ;  the  planted 

grove. 
The  shrubby  wilderness  with  its  gay  choir 
Of  warbling  birds,  can't  lull  to  soft  repose 
The  ambitious  wretch,    whose    discontented 

soul 
Is  harrowed  day  and  night;  he  mourns,  he 

pines, 
Until  his  prince's  favour  makes  him  great. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


A  FAIRY  TALE. 


[Thomas  Parnell. 


See,  there  lie  comes,  the  exalted  idol  comes ! 
The   circle  's  formed,   and    all    hia   fawning 

slaves 
Devoutly  bow  to  earth ;  from  every  month 
The  nauseous  flattery  flows,  which  he  returns 
With  promises,  that  die  as  soon  as  bom. 
Vile  intercourse  !  where  virtue  has  no  place. 
Frown    but    the    monarch;     all    his    glories 

fade; 
He      mingles      with    the     throng,     outcast, 

undone, 
The  pageant  of  a  day  ;  without  one  friend 
To    soothe   his   tortured   mind ;    all,   all  are 

fled. 
For  though  they  basked  in  his  meridian  ray. 
The  insects  vanish,  as  his  beams  decline. 
Not  such  our  friends ;    for   here   no   dark 

design, 
No  wicked  interest  bribes  the  venal  heart ; 
But  inclination  to  our  bosom  leads. 
And  weds  them  there  for  life ;  our  social  cups 
Smile,  as  we  smile  ;  open  and  unreserved. 
We  speak  our  inmost   souls  ;  good   humour, 

mirth. 
Soft  complaisance,  and  wit  from  malice  free, 
Smoothe    every  brow,    and    glow    on   every 

cheek. 
'O  happiness  sincere !  what  wretch  would 

groan 
Beneath  the  galling  load  of  power,  or  walk 
Upon  the  slippery  pavements  of  the  great. 
Who  thus  could  reign,  unenvied  and  secure  ? 
Ye   guardian   powers   who  make  mankind 

your  care. 
Give    me    to    know    wise    Nature's     hidden 

depths. 
Trace  each  mysterious  cause,  with  judgment 

read 
The  expanded  volume,  and  submiss  adore 
That  great  creative  Will,  who  at  a  word 
Spoke  forth  the  wondrous  scene.     But  if  my 

soul 
To  this  gross  clay  confined,  flutters  on  earth 
With    less    ambitious    wing ;      unskilled    to 

range 
From  orb  to  orb,  where  Newton   leads   the 

way; 
And    view,    with    piercing    eyes,   the    grand 

machine, 
Worlds   above    worlds ;    subservient    to    his 

voice. 
Who  veiled  in  clouded  majesty,  alone 
Gives   light   to   all;    bids   the   great   system 

move. 
And  changeful  seasons  in  their  turns  advance. 
Unmoved,   unchanged  himseK;    yet   this   at 

least 
Grant  me  propitious,  an  inglorious  life. 
Calm  and  serene,  nor  lost  in  false  pursuits 
■  Of  wealth  or  honours  ;  but  enough  to  raise 
My  drooping  friends,  preventing  modest  want 
'  That   dares   not   ask.     And  if  to  crown  my 

joys, 
Yc  grant  me  health,  that,  ruddy  in  my  cheeks. 
Blooms  in  my   life's  decline ;  fields,  woods, 

and  streams. 


Each  towering  hill,  each  humble  vale  below, 
Shall  hear  my  cheering  voice,  my  hounds  shall 

wake 
The  lazy  morn,  and  glad  the  horizon  round. 

William  Somcrville. — Born  1682,  BiccL  1742. 


8o8.— A  FAIRY  TALE. 

In  Britain's  isle  and  Arthur's  days, 
When  midnight  fairies  danced  the  maze, 

Lived  Edwin  of  the  Green ; 
Edwin,  I  wis,  a  gentle  youth, 
Endow'd  with  courage,  sense,  and  truth, 

Though  badly  shaped  he'd  been. 

His  mountain  back  mote  well  be  said. 
To  measure  height  against  his  head. 

And  lift  itself  above  : 
Yet,  spite  of  all  that  Nature  did 
To  make  his  uncouth  form  forbid, 

This  creature  dared  to  love. 

He  felt  the  charms  of  Edith's  eyes. 
Nor  wanted  hope  to  gain  the  prize, 

Could  ladies  look  within  : 
But  one  sir  Topaz  dress' d  with  art. 
And,  if  a  shape  could  win  a  heart, 

He  had  a  shape  to  win. 

Edwin,  if  right  I  read  my  song, 
With  slighted  passion  paced  along 

All  in  the  moony  light ; 
'Twas  near  an  old  enchanted  court. 
Where  sportive  fairies  made  resort 

To  revel  out  the  night. 

His  heart  was  drear,  his  hope  was  cross'd, 
'Twas  late,  'twas  far,  the  path  was  lost 

That  reach' d  the  neighbour-town  ; 
With  weary  steps  he  quits  the  shades. 
Resolved,  the  darkling  dome  he  treads, 

And  drops  his  limbs  adown. 

But  scant  he  lays  him  on  the  floor, 
When  hollow  winds  remove  the  door. 

And  trembling  rocks  the  ground  : 
And,  well  I  ween  to  count  aright, 
At  once  a  hundred  tapers  light 

On  all  the  walls  around. 

Now  sounding  tongues  assail  his  ear. 
Now  sounding  feet  approached  near, 

And  now  the  sounds  increase  : 
And  from  the  corner  where  he  lay 
Ho  sees  a  train  profusely  gay, 

Come  prankling  o'er  the  place. 

But  (trust  me,  gentles  !)  never  yet 
Was  dight  a  masquing  half  so  neat, 

Or  half  so  rich  before ; 
The  country  lent  the  sweet  perfumes, 
The  sea  the  pearl,  the  sky  the  plumes, 

The  town  its  silken  store.  og* 


Thomas  Paknell.]                                A  FAIRY  TALE.                                [Fifth  Period.-^ 

Now  whilst  he  gazed,  a  gallant  drest 
In  flaunting  robes  above  the  rest, 

With  awful  accent  cried  : 
"  What  mortal  of  a  wretched  mind. 
Whose  sighs  infect  the  balmy  wind, 

Has  here  presumed  to  hide  ?  " 

Then  screaming  all  at  once  they  fly. 
And  all  at  once  the  tapers  dye  ; 

Poor  Edwin  falls  to  floor ; 
Forlorn  his  state,  and  dark  the  place, 
Was  never  wight  in  such  a  case 

Through  all  the  land  before. 

At  this  the  swain,  whose  venturous  soul 
No  fears  of  magic  art  control. 

Advanced  in  open  sight : 
"  Nor  have  I  cause  of  dreed,"  he  said, 
"  Who  view,  by  no  presumption  led, 

Your  revels  of  the  night. 

But  soon  as  Dan  Apollo  rose. 
Full  jolly  creature  home  he  goes, 

He  feels  his  back  the  less  ; 
His  honest  tongue  and  steady  mind 
Had  rid  him  of  the  lump  behind. 

Which  made  him  want  success. 

'Twas  grief,  for  scorn  of  faithful  love, 
Which  made  my  steps  unweeting  rove 

Amid  the  nightly  dew." 
"  'Tis  Avell,"  the  gallant  cries  again, 
"  We  fairies  never  injure  men 

Who  dare  to  tell  us  true. 

With  lusty  livelyhed  he  talks. 
He  seems  a  dauncing  as  he  walks, 

His  story  soon  took  -svind ; 
And  beauteous  Edith  sees  the  youth 
Endow'd  with  courage,  sense,  and  truth, 

Without  a  bunch  behind. 

Exalt  thy  love-dejected  heart, 

Be  mine  the  task,  or  ere  we  part,                  '' 

To  make  thee  grief  resign ; 
Now  take  the  pleasure  of  thy  cliaunce ; 
Whilst  I  with  Mab,  my  partner  dauiice. 

Be  little  Mable  thine." 

The  story  told,  sir  Topaz  moved, 
The  youth  of  Edith  erst  approved. 

To  see  the  revel  scene  : 
At  close  of  eve  he  leaves  his  home, 
And  wends  to  find  the  ruin'd  dome 

All  on  the  gloomy  plain. 

He  spoke,  and  all  a  sudden  there 
Light  music  floats  in  wanton  air  ; 

The  monarch  leads  the  queen  : 
The  rest  their  fairy  partners  found : 
And  Mable  trimly  tript  the  ground 

With  Edwin  of  the  Green. 

As  there  he  bides,  it  so  befell. 

The  wind  came  rustling  down  a  dell,                     | 

A  shaking  seized  the  wall ;                             ^ 
Up  spring  the  taj^ers  as  before,                               !, 
The  fairies  bragly  foot  the  floor. 

And  music  fills  the  hall. 

The  dauncing  past,  the  board  was  laid. 
And  siker  such  a  feast  was  made, 

As  heart  and  lip  desire, 
Withouten  hands  the  dishes  fly. 
The  glasses  with  a  wish  come  nigh. 

And  with  a  wish  retire. 

But  certes  sorely  sunk  with  woe 
Sir  Topaz  sees  the  elphin  show, 

His  spirits  in  him  die  : 
When  Oberon  cries,  "  A  man  is  near, 
A  mortal  passion,  cleoped  fear. 

Hangs  flagging  in  the  sky." 

But  now,  to  please  the  fairy  king, 
Full  every  deal  they  laugh  and  sing. 

And  antic  feats  devise  ; 
Some  wind  and  tumble  like  an  ape. 
And  other  some  transmute  their  shape 

In  Edwin's  wondering  eyes. 

With  that  sir  Topaz,  hapless  youth  ! 
In  accents  faultering,  ay  for  ruth. 

Entreats  them  pity  graunt ; 
For  als  he  been  a  mister  -wdght 
Betray' d  by  wandering  in  the  night 

To  tread  the  circled  haunt ; 

Till  one  at  last,  that  Eobin  hight, 
Eenown'd  for  pinching  maids  by  night, 

Has  bent  him  up  aloof : 
And  full  against  the  beam  he  flung, 
Where  by  the  back  the  youth  he  hung 

To  spraul  unneath  the  roof. 

"  Ah,  losel  vile,"  at  once  they  roar  : 
"  And  little  skill'd  of  fairie  lore. 

Thy  cause  to  come,  we  know  : 
Now  has  thy  kestrel  courage  fell ; 
And  fairies,  since  a  lye  you  tell,                             i 

Are  free  to  work  thee  woe."                           | 

From  thence,  "Reverse  my  charm,','  he  cries, 
'•  And  let  it  fairly  now  suffice 

The  gambol  has  been  shown." 
But  Oberon  answers  vnth.  a  smile : 
"  Content  thee,  Edwin,  for  a  while. 

The  vantage  is  thine  own." 

Then  Will,  who  bears  the  whispy  fire 
To  trail  the  swains  among  the  mire. 

The  caitiff  upward  flung  ; 
There,  like  a  tortoise,  in  a  shop 
He  dangled  from  the  chamber-top. 

Where  whilome  Edwin  hung. 

Here  ended  all  the  phantom-play ; 
They  smelt  the  fresh  approach  of  day, 

And  heard  a  cock  to  crow  ; 
The  whirling  wind  that  bore  the  crowd 
Has  clapp'd  the  door,  iind  whistled  loud, 

To  warn  them  all  to  go. 

The  revel  now  proceeds  apace, 
Deftly  they  frisk  it  o'er  the  place, 

They  sit,  they  drink,  and  eat ; 
The  time  with  frolic  mirth  beguile. 
And  poor  sir  Topaz  hangs  the  while 

Till  all  the  rout  retreat. 

From  1689  to  1727.1 


THE  HERMIT. 


[Thomas  Parnell. 


By  this  the  stars  began  to  wink, 

They  shriek,  they  fly,  the  tapers  sink, 
And  down  y-drops  the  knight : 

For  never  spell  by  fairie  laid 

With  strong  enchantment  bound  a  glade, 
Beyond  the  length  of  night. 

ChiU,  dark,  alone,  adreed,  he  lay, 
Till  up  the  welkin  rose  the  day, 

Then  deem'd  the  dole  was  o'er ; 
But  wot  ye  well  his  harder  lot  ? 
His  seely  back  the  bunch  had  got 

Which  Edwin  lost  afore. 

This  tale  a  Sybil-nurse  ared  ; 

She  softly  stroak'd  my  youngling  head, 

And  when  the  tale  was  done, 
"  Thus  some  are  born,  my  son,"  she  cries, 
"  With  base  impediments  to  rise, 

And  some  are  born  with  none. 

"  But  virtue  can  itself  advance 

To  what  the  favourite  fools  of  chance 

By  fortune  seem  design'd  ; 
Virtue  can  gain  the  odds  of  Fate, 
And  from  itself  shake  off  the  weight 

Upon  th'  unworthy  mind." 

Thomas  Parnell— Born  1G79,  Died  1717. 


809.— THE  HERMIT. 

Far  in  a  wild,  Tinknown  to  public  view, 
From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  hermit  grew  ; 
The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 
His  food   the    fruits,  his   drink  the   crystal 

well : 
Remote  from  men,  with  God  he  pass'd  the 

days, 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 
Seem'd   Heaven    itself,    till    one    suggestion 

rose  ; 
That  Vice  should  triumph.  Virtue,  Vice  obey. 
This    sprung    some    doubt    of    Providence's 

sway : 
His  hopes  no  more  a  certain  prospect  boast. 
And  all  the  tenour  of  his  soul  is  lost : 
So  when  a  smooth  expanse  receives  imprest 
Calm  Nature's  image  on  its  watery  breast, 
Down  bend  the  banks,'  the  trees  depending 

grow, 
And   skies    beneath   with  answering  colours 

glow : 
But  if  a  stone  the  gentle  sea  divide, 
Swift  ruffling  circles  curl  on  every  side. 
And  glimmering  fragments  of  a  broken  Sun, 
Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 
To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by 

sight. 
To  find  if  books,  or  swains,  report  it  right 
(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he  knew. 
Whose  feet  came  wandering  o'er  the  nightly 

dew), 


He  quits  his  cell ;  the  pilgrim-staff  he  bore, 
And  fix'd  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before  ; 
Then  with  the  Sun  a  rising  journey  went. 
Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 
The    morn    was    wasted    in  the  pathless 

grass, 
And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild^to"pass  ; 
But  when  the  southern  Sun  had  warm'd  the 

day, 
A  youth  came  posting  o'er  a  crossing  way  ; 
His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair, 
And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  waved  his  hair. 
Then  near  approaching,    "  Father,  hail !  "   he 

cried, 
"And    hail,     my    son,"     the    reverend    sire 

replied ; 
Words  follow'd  words,  from  question  answer 

flow'd, 
And  talk  of  vaiious  kind  deceived  the  road  ; 
Till  each  with  other  pleased,  and  loth  to  part, 
While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart. 
Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 
Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  Sun  ;  the  closing  hour  of  day 
Came  onward,  mantled  o'er  with  sober  grey  ; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose  ; 
When  near  the  road  a  stately  palace  rose  : 
There  by  the  Moon  through  ranks  of  trees 

they  pass, 
Whose  verdure  crov\'n'd  their  sloping  sides  of 

gi'ass. 
It  chanced  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 
Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stranger's 

home: 
Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a  thirst  of  praise, 
Proved  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 
The  pair  arrive  :  the  Uvery'd  servants  wait ; 
Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate. 
The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food. 
And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 
Then   led   to   rest,   the  day's  long  toil  they 

drown, 
Deep  sunk  in    sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of 

down. 
At  length  'tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play  : 
Fresh  o'er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep, 
And  shake  the  neighbouring  wood  to  banish 

sleep. 
Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call : 
An  early  banquet  deck'd  the  splendid  hall  j 
Rich  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  graced. 
Which  the  kind  master  forced  the  guests  to 

taste. 
Then,  pleased  and   thankful,   from  the  porch 

they  go  ; 
And,  but  the   landlord,    none   had  cause   of 

woe- 
His  cup  was  vanish' d ;  for  in  secret  guise 
The   younger   guest   purloin' d   the   glittering 

prize. 
As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way, 
Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 
Disorder'd  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near. 
Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with 

fear ; 


Thomas  Paenell.] 


THE  HEEMIT. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


So  seem'd  the  sire ;  when  far  upon  the  road, 
The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show'd. 
He  stopp'd  with  silence,  walk' d  with  trembling 

heart, 
And  much  he  wish'd,  but  durst  not  ask  to 

part  : 
Murmuring  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it 

hard, 
That  generous  actions  meet  a  base  reward. 
While  thus   they  pass,  the   Sun  his  glory 

shrouds, 
The   changing    skies    hang    out    their   sable 

clouds  ; 
A  sound  in  air  presaged  approaching  rain, 
And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Wam'd   by  the   signs,    the    wandering   pair 

retreat, 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighbouring  seat. 
'Twas  built  with  turrets  on  a  rising  ground. 
And    strong,    and     large,     and    unimproved 

around ; 
Its  owner's  temper,  timorous  and  severe, 
Unkind  and  griping,  caused  a  desert  there. 
As    near   the    miser's    heavy    doors   they 

drew. 
Fierce  rising  gusts  Avith  sudden  fury  blew ; 
The    nimble   lightning    mix'd  with    showers 

began, 
And  o'er  their  heads  loud   rolling  thunders 

ran. 
Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in 

vain. 
Driven  by  the  wind,  and  batter'd  by  the  rain. 
At  length    some   pity   warm'd   the   master's 

breast 
('Twas  then  his   threshold  first  received   a 

guest) ; 
Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care. 
And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair  ; 
One  frugal  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls. 
And   Nature's   fervour  through   their    limbs 

recalls : 
Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager  wine, 
(Each  hardly  granted)  served  them  both  to 

dine; 
And  when  the  tempest  first  appear'd  to  cease, 
A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 
With   still  remark  the   pondering    hermit 

view'd, 
In  one  so  rich,  a  life  so  poor  and  rude  ; 
"  And  why  should  such,"  within  himself  he 

cried, 
"  Lock   the  '  lost    wealth   a  thousand  want 

beside  ?  " 
But  what  new  marks  of   wonder  soon  take 

place 
In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face ; 
When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion 

bore 
That  cup,  the  generous  landlord  own'd  before. 
And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 
The  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul. 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly ; 
The  Sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky ; 
A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display. 
And,  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the  day  : 


The   weather    courts    them    from    the   poor 

retreat, 
And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 
While  hence  they  walk,  the  pilgrim's  bosom 

wrought 
With  all  the  travel  of  uncertain  thought ; 
His  partner's  acts  without  their  cause  appear, 
'Twas  there  a  vice,  and  seem'd  a  madness 

here : 
Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes. 
Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 
Now  Night's  dim  shades  again  involve  the 

sky, 
Again  the  wanderers  want  a  place  to  He, 
Again  they  search,  and  find  a  lodging  nigh. 
The  soil  improved  around,  the  mansion  neat. 
And  neither  poorly  low,  nor  idly  great : 
It    seem'd    to    speak    its    master's   turn    of 

mind, 
Content,  and  not  to  praise,  but  virtue  kind. 
Hither  the  walkers  turn  with  weary  feet, 
Then   bless    the    mansion,   and   the   master 

greet : 
Their   greeting  fair,   bestow' d   with    modest 

guise, 
The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies  : 
"Without    a    vain,    without    a    grudging 

heart. 
To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I  yield  a  part ; 
From  him  you  come,  for  him  accept  it  here, 
A  frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer." 
He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 
Then  talk  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed, 
When  the   grave   household   round   his  hall 

repair, 
Wam'd  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with 

prayer. 
At  length  the  world,    renew'd    by    calm 

repose. 
Was  strong  for  toil,  the  dappled  Morn  arose  ; 
Before  the  pilgi-ims  part,  the  younger  crept. 
Near  the  closed  cradle  where  an  infant  slept, 
And  writhed  his  neck :    the  landlord's  little 

pride, 
O  strange  return  !  grew  black,  and   gasp'd, 

and  died. 
Horrour  of  horrours  !  what !  his  only  son  ! 
How  look'd  our  hermit  when   the  fact  was 

done  ; 
Not  Hell,  though  Hell's  black  jaws  in  sunder 

part, 
And  breathe  blue  fire,  could  more  assault  his 

heart. 
Confused,  and   struck  with  silence  at  the 

deed, 
He    flies,   but   trembling,    fails    to    fly   with 

speed. 
His  steps  the  youth   pursues ;    the   country 

lay 
Perplex' d  with  roads,  a  servant  show'd  the 

way  : 
A  river  cross' d  the  path  ;  the  passage  o'er 
Was  nice  to  find ;  the  servant  trod  before ; 
Long  arms  of  oaks  an  open  bridge  supplied. 
And   deep   the   waves   beneath  the   bending 

glide. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


HYMN  TO  CONTENTMENT. 


[Thomas  Parnell. 


The  youth,  who  Beem'd  to  watch  a  time  to 

sin, 
Approach' d  the   careless   guide,    and   thrust 

him  in ; 
Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising  lifts  his  head, 
Then   flashing  turns,    and   sinks   among  the 

dead. 
Wild,  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father's 

eyes, 
He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries, 
"Detested  wretch  !  " — But  scarce  his  speech 

began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seeni'd  no  longer 

man  : 
His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet ; 
His  robe  tum'd  white,   and  flow'd  upon  his 

feet; 
Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair  ; 
Celestial  odours  breathe  through  purpled  air  ; 
And  mngs,  whose   colours   glitter' d  on  the 

day, 
Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  display. 
The  form  ethereal  burst  upon  his  sight, 
And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim's  passion 

grew, 
Sudden  he  gazed,  and  wist  not  what  to  do  ; 
Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends, 
And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 
But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke 
(The  voice  of  music  ravish' d  as  he  spoke). 
"  Thy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice 

unknown, 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne  : 
These  charms,  success  in  our  bright  region 

find. 
And  force  an  angel  down,  to  calm  thy  mind ; 
For  this,  commission' d,  I  forsook  the  sky, 
Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow- servant  I. 
"  Then  know   the    truth    of    government 

divine, 
And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 
"The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he 

made. 
In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid ; 
Its  sacred  majestj'-  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends  : 
'Tis   thus,   withdra^vn  in  state  from  human 

eye, 
The  power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high, 
Your  action  uses,  nor  controls  your  will, 
And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 
"  What  strange  events  can  strike  with  more 

surprise. 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wondering 

eyes? 
Yet,  taught  by  these,  confess  th'  Almighty 

just. 
And  where  you  can't  unriddle,  learn  to  trust ! 
"  The  great,  vain  man,  who  fared  on  costly 

food. 
Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good  ; 
Who   made    his    ivory   stands   with   goblets 

shine, 
And  forced  his  guests  to  morning  draughts  of 

wine, 


Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  lost, 
And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 
"  The  mean,  suspicious  wretch,  whose  bolted 

door 
Ne'er  moved  in  duty  to  the  wandering  poor ; 
With  him  I  left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heaven  can  bless,  if   mortals   will  be 

kind. 
Conscious   of   wanting  worth,  he  views   the 

bowl. 
And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul. 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead. 
With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  its  head ; 
In   the   kind   warmth   the   metal    learns    to 

glow, 
And  loose  from  dross  the  silver  runs  below. 

"  Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod, 
But  now  the  child  haK-wean'd  his  heart  from 

God ; 
(Child  of  his  age)  for  him  he  lived  in  pain. 
And  measured  back  his  steps  to  Earth  again. 
To  what  excesses  had  his  dotage  run  ? 
But  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  the  son. 
To  all  but  thee,  in  fits  he  seem'd  to  go, 
(And  'twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow,) 
The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the  dust, 
Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was  just. 

"  But  now  had  all  his  fortune  felt  a  wrack, 
Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  back  ; 
This  night  his  treasured  heaps  he  meant  to 

steal. 
And  what  a  fund  of  charity  wordd  fail ! 
Thus  Heaven  instructs  thy  mind  :  this  trial 

o'er, 
Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more." 
On  sounding  piuions  here  the  youth  with- 
drew. 
The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph  flew. 
Thus  look'd  Elisha  when,  to  mount  on  high, 
His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky  ; 
The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  to  view  ; 
The  prophet  gazed,  and  wish'd  to  follow  too. 

The  bending  hermit  here  a  prayer  begun 
"  Lord !  as  in  Heaven,  on  Earth  thy  will  be 

done  :  " 
Then    gladly    turning     sought    his    ancient 

place. 
And  pass'd  a  life  of  piety  and  peace. 

Thomas  Farnell. — Born  1679,  Died  1717. 


8io.— HYMN  TO  CONTENTMENT. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind. 
Sweet  delight  of  human  kind  ! 
Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high. 
To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know  ! 
Whither,  O  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  lay  thy  meek  contented  head ; 
"Wliat  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease  ! 


Thomas  Pabnell.]                                        SONG.                                        [Fifth  Period. — 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 

They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 

Of  pomp  and  state  to  meet  thee  there. 

But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 

Increasing  avarice  would  find 

Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined. 

Go  search  among  your  idle  dreams. 

The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way- 

Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes ; 

Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 

And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss, 

To  gain  thy  love  ;  and  then  perceives 

Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 

Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 

Thomas  FarncU.—Bom  1679,  Died  1717. 

The  silent  heart,  which  grief  assaib. 

Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the  va^cs, 
Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 

And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done) 

Amusing  thought ;  but  learns  to  know 

8 II. —SONG. 

That  solitude  's  the  nurse  of  woe. 

No  real  happiness  is  found 

In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground : 

My  days  have  been  so  wondrous  free, 
The  little  birds  that  fly 

Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 

To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky. 

With  careless  ease  from  tree  to  tree, 
Were  but  as  bless' d  as  I. 

Converse  Avith  stars  above,  and  know 

Ask  gliding  waters,  if  a  tear 

All  nature  in  its  forms  below  ; 

Of  mine  increased  their  stream  ? 

The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 

Or  ask  the  flying  gales,  if  e'er 
I  lent  one  sigh  to  them  ? 

And  doubts  at  last,  for  knowledge,  rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear. 

But  now  my  former  days  retire, 

This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 

And  I'm  by  beauty  caught, 

Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest. 

The  tender  chains  of  sweet  desire 

And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

Are  fix'd  upon  my  thought. 

'Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood. 

Ye  nightingales  !  ye  twisting  pines  ! 

I  sung  my  ^Adshes  to  the  wood. 

Ye  swains  that  haiint  the  grove  ! 

And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceived 

Ye  gentle  echoes  !  breezy  winds  ! 

The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved  : 

Ye  close  retreats  of  love  ! 

It  seem'd  as  all  the  quiet  place 

Confess' d  the  presence  of  his  grace. 

With  all  of  Nature,  all  of  Art, 

When  thus  she  spoke — Go  rule  thy  will. 

Assist  the  dear  design  ; 

Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still. 

Oh  teach  a  young  unpractised  heart 

Know  God — and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 

To  make  my  Nancy  mine. 

The  joys  which  from  religion  flow  : 
Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest. 
And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest. 

The  very  thought  of  change  I  hate, 

As  much  as  of  despair  ; 
Nor  ever  covet  to  be  great. 

Oh !  by  yonder  mossy  seat. 

Unless  it  be  for  her. 

In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat, 

'Tis  true,  the  passion  in  my  mind 

Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ, 

Is  mix'd  with  soft  distress  ; 

"With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy  ; 

Yet  while  the  fair  I  love  is  kind, 

liaised  as  ancient  prophets  were, 

I  cannot  wish  it  less. 

In  heavenly  vision,  praise  and  prayer, 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none. 

ThoiHa.-i  Parnell—Born  1679,  Died  1717. 

Pleased  and  bless' d  with  God  alone  : 

Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight. 

With  all  the  colours  of  delight ; 

While  silver  waters  glide  along, 

To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song : 

8 1 2.— MORNING  HYMN. 

I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string. 

See  the  star  that  leads  the  day, 

And  thee,  great  Source  of  nature,  sing. 

Rising,  shoots  a  golden  ray, 

To  make  the  shades  of  darkness  go 

The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way. 

From  heaven  above  and  earth  below  ; 

To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day  ; 

And  warn  us  early,  with  the  sight. 

The  moon  that  shines  with  borrow' d  light ; 

To  leave  the  beds  of  silent  night. 

The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night ; 

The  seas  that  roll  unnumber'd  waves  ; 

From  a  heart  sincere  and  sound, 

The  wood  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves ; 

From  its  very  deepest  ground, 

The  field  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain, 

Send  devotion  up  on  high. 

The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain  ; 

Wing'd  with  heat,  to  reach  the  sky. 

All  of  these,  and  all  I  see. 

See  the  time  for  sleep  has  run ! 

Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me  : 

Rise  before  or  with  tlie  sun : 

From  1689  to  1727.] 


EVENING  HYMN. 


[Thomas  Parnell. 


Lift  thy  hands,  and  humbly  pray 

Tlie  fountain  of  eternal  day, — 

That,  as  the  light,  serenely  fair, 

Illustrates  all  the  tracts  of  air, 

The  sacred  Spirit  so  may  rest 

With  quick'nintr  beams  upon  thy  breast ; 

And  kindly  clear  it  all  within 

From  darker  blemishes  of  sin  ; 

And  shine  with  grace  until  we  view 

The  realm  it  gilds  with  glory  too. 

See  the  day  that  dawiis  in  air, 
Brings  along  its  toil  and  care  : 
From  the  lap  of  night  it  springs, 
With  heaps  of  business  on  its  wings. 
Prepare  to  meet  them  in  a  mind 
That  bows  submissively  resign' d  ; 
That  would  to  works  appointed  fall. 
That  knows  that  God  has  order' d  all. 

And  whether  'svith  a  small  repast 
We  break  the  sqbcr  morning  fast ; 
Or  in  our  thoughts  and  houses  lay 
The  future  methods  of  the  day ; 
Or  early  walk  abroad  to  meet 
Our  business  with  industrious  feet : — 
Whate'er  we  think,  whatc'er  we  do, 
His  glory  still  be  kept  in  view. 

Oh !  giver  of  eternal  bliss, 

Grant,  heavenly  Father !  gi-ant  me  this ! 

Grant  it  to  all,  as  well  as  me. 

All  those  whose  hearts  are  fix'd  on  thee, — 

Who  revere  thy  Son  above, 

Who  thy  sacred  Spirit  love. 

Thomas  rarnell—Born  1679,  Died  1717. 


813.— NOONTIDE  HYMN. 

The  sun  is  swiftly  mounted  high, 
It  glitters  in  the  southern  sky  ! 
Its  beams  with  force  and  glory  beat, 
And  fruitful  earth  is  fill'd  mth  heat. 

Father  !  also  with  thy  fire 
Warm  the  cold,  the  dead  desire. 
And  make  the  sacred  love  of  thee, 
Within  my  soul,  a  sun  to  me  ! 
Let  it  shine  so  fairly  bright. 
That  nothing  else  be  took  for  light ; 
That  worldly  charms  be  seen  to  fade, 
And  in  its  lustre  find  a  shade  ! 

Let  it  strongly  shine  within, 
To  scatter  all  the  clouds  of  sin. 
That  drive  when  gusts  of  passion  rise, 
And  intercept  it  from  our  eyes  ! 
Let  its  glory  more  than  vie 
With  the  sun  that  lights  the  sky  ! 

Let  it  swiftly  mount  in  air. 
Mount  with  that,  and  leave  it  there  ! 
And  soar,  with  more  aspiring  flight, 
To  realms  of  everlasting  light ! 


Thus  while  here  I'm  forced  to  be, 
I  daily  wish  to  live  with  thee, 
And  feel  that  union,  which  thy  love 
Will,  after  death,  complete  above. 

From  my  soul  I  send  my  prayer,— 
Great  Creator,  boAV  thine  ear  !       ~     ~ 
Thou,  for  whose  propitious  sway 
The  world  was  taught  to  Bee  the  day  ; 
Who  spake  the  word,  and  earth  begun, 
And  show'd  its  beauties  in  the  sun. 

With  pleasure  I  thy  creatures  view. 
And  would  with  good  affection,  too, 
Good  affection,  sweetly  free, 
Loose  from  them  and  move  to  thee  : 
O  !  teach  me  due  returns  to  give. 
And  to  thy  glory  let  me  live  ! 
And  then  my  days  shall  shine  the  more, 
Or  pass  more  blessed  than  before. 

Thomas  Farncll—Born  1679,  Died  1717. 


814.— EVENING  HYMN. 

The  beam-repelling  mists  arise. 
And  evening  spreads  obscurer  skies. 
The  twilight  will  the  night  forerun, 
And  night  itself  be  soon  begun. 

Upon  thy  knees  devoutly  bow, 
And  pray  the  God  of  glory  now 
To  fill  thy  breast ;  or  deadly  sin 
May  cause  a  blinder  night  within. 
And,  whether  pleasing  vapours  rise, 
WTiich  gently  dim  the  closing  eyes, 
Which  make  the  weary  members  bless'd, 
With  sweet  refreshment  in  their  rest ; 

Or  whether  spirits,  in  the  brain, 
Dispel  their  soft  embrace  again  ; 
And  on  my  watchful  bed  I  stay, 
Forsook  by  sleep,  and  waiting  day ; 
Be  God  for  ever  in  my  view. 
And  never  he  forsake  me  too ! 

But  still,  as  day  concludes  in  night. 
To  break  again  the  new-born  light, 
His  wondrous  bounty  let  me  find. 
With  still  a  more  enlighten' d  mind  ; 
When  grace  and  love  in  one  agree — 
Grace  from  God,  and  love  from  me : 
Grace  that  will  from  heaven  inspire. 
Love  that  seals  it  in  desire ; 
Gi'ace  and  love  that  mingle  beams. 
And  fill  me  with  increasing  flames. 

Thou  that  hast  thy  palace  far 
Above  the  moon  and  every  star ; 
Thou,  that  sittest  on  a  throne 
To  which  the  night  was  never  known, 
Regard  my  voice,  and  make  me  bless'd. 
By  kindly  granting  its  request ! 


Matthew  Green.] 


CONTENTMENT. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


If  thoughts  on  thoe  my  soul  employ, 
My  darkness  -will  afford  me  joy, 
Till  thou  shalt  call,  and  I  shall  soar, 
And  part  ^vith  darkness  evermore  ! 

Thomas  Parnell.—Born  1679,  Died  1717. 


8 1 S  .—CONTENTMENT. 

Contentment,  parent  of  delight, 

So  much  a  stranger  to  our  sight, 

Say,  goddess,  in  what  happy  place 

Mortals  behold  thy  blooming  face  ; 

Thy  gracious  auspices  impart, 

And  for  thy  temple  choose  my  heart. 

They,  whom  thou  deignest  to  inspire, 

Thy  science  learn,  to  bound  desire ; 

By  happy  alchemy  of  mind 

They  turn  to  pleasure  all  they  find ; 

They  both  disdain  in  outward  mien 

The  grave  and  solemn  garb  of  Spleen, 

And  meretricious  arts  of  dress, 

To  feign  a  joy,  and  hide  distress ; 

Unmoved  when  the  rude  tempest  blows, 

Without  an  opiate  they  repose ; 

And,  cover' d  by  your  shield,  defy 

The  whizzing  shafts  that  round  them  fly  : 

Nor  meddling  with  the  gods'  affairs. 

Concern  themselves  with  distant  cares ; 

But  place  their  bliss  in  mental  rest, 

And  feast  upon  the  good  possess'd. 

Forced  by  soft  violence  of  pray'r, 
The  blithsome  goddess  soothes  my  care, 
I  feel  the  deity  inspire. 
And  thus  she  models  my  desire. 
Two  hundred  poimds  half-yearly  paid. 
Annuity  securely  made, 
A  farm  some  twenty  miles  from  town, 
Small,  tight,  salubrious,  and  my  own ; 
Two  maids  that  never  saw  the  tovra, 
A  serving-man  not  quite  a  clown, 
A  boy  to  help  to  tread  the  mow, 
And  drive,  while  t'other  holds  the  plough ; 
A  chief,  of  temper  form'd  to  please. 
Fit  to  converse  and  keep  the  keys  ; 
And  better  to  preserve  the  peace, 
Commission'd  by  the  name  of  niece ; 
With  understandings  of  a  size 
To  think  their  master  very  wise. 
May  Heaven  (it's  all  I  wish  for)  send 
One  genial  room  to  treat  a  friend, 
Where  decent  cupboard,  little  plate. 
Display  benevolence,  not  state. 
And  may  my  humble  dwelling  stand 
Upon  some  chosen  spot  of  land  : 
A  pond  before  full  to  the  brim. 
Where  cows  mayoool,  and  geese  may  swim; 
Behind,  a  green,  like  velvet  neat, 
Soft  to  the  eye  and  to  the  feet ; 
Where  od'rous  plants  in  evening  fair 
Breathe  all  around  ambrosial  air ; 
From  Eurus,  foe  to  kitchen  ground, 
Fenced  by  a  slope  with  bushes  crown'd, 


Fit  dwelling  for  the  feather' d  throng. 

Who  pay  their  quit-rents  with  a  song ; 

With  op'ning  views  of  hill  and  dale. 

Which  sense  and  fancy  too  regale, 

Where  the  haK-cirque,  which  vision  bounds, 

Like  amphitheatre  surrounds  : 

And  woods  impervious  to  the  breeze. 

Thick  phalanx  of  embodied  trees, 

From  hills  through  plains  in  dusk  array 

Extended  far,  repel  the  day. 

Here  stillness,  height,  and  solemn  shade 

Invite,  and  contemplation  aid  : 

Here  Nymphs  from  hollow  oaks  relate 

The  dark  decrees  and  will  of  fate, 

And  dreams  beneath  the  spreading  beech 

Inspire,  and  docile  fancy  teach ; 

While  soft  as  breezy  breath  of  wind, 

Impulses  rustle  through  the  mind : 

Here  Dryads,  scorning  Phoebus'  ray, 

While  Pan  melodious  pipes  away. 

In  measured  motions  frisk  about. 

Till  old  Silenus  puts  them  out. 

There  see  the  clover,  pea,  and  bean, 

Vie  in  variety  of  gi'een  ; 

Fresh  pastures  speckled  o'er  with  sheep, 

Brown  fields  their  fallow  sabbaths  keep, 

Plump  Ceres  golden  tresses  wear, 

And  poppy  top-knots  deck  her  hair. 

And  silver  streams  through  meadows  stray, 

And  Naiads  on  the  margin  play. 

And  lesser  Nymphs  on  side  of  hills 

From  plaything  urns  pour  down  the  rills. 

Thus  shelter'd,  free  from  care  and  strife, 
May  I  enjoy  a  calm  through  life  ; 
See  faction,  safe  in  low  degree, 

!   As  men  at  land  see  storms  at  sea, 

<   And  laugh  at  miserable  elves, 

i  Not  kind,  so  much  as  to  themselves, 
Cursed  with  such  souls  of  base  alloy, 
As  can  possess,  but  not  enjoy ; 

i   Debarr'd  the  pleasure  to  impart 
By  avarice,  sphincter  of  the  heart ; 
Who  wealth,  ha..  I  eam'd  by  guilty  cares, 
Bequeath  untouch' d  to  thankless  heirs. 
May  I,  with  look  ungloom'd  by  guile. 
And  wearing  virtue's  liv'ry-smile. 
Prone  the  distressed  to  relieve. 
And  little  trespasses  forgive. 
With  income  not  in  fortune's  power, 
And  skill  to  make  a  busy  hour. 
With  trips  to  town  life  to  amuse. 
To  purchase  books,  and  hear  tl  e  news. 
To  see  old  friends,  brush  off  the  clown. 
And  quicken  taste  at  coming  down, 
Unhurt  by  sickness'  blasting  rage, 
And  slowly  mellowing  in  age. 
When  Fate  extends  its  gathering  gripe. 
Fall  off  like  fnxit  grown  fully  ripe, 
Quit  a  worn  being  -without  pain, 
Perhaps  to  blossom  soon  again. 

But  now  more  serious  see  me  grow, 
And  what  I  think,  my  Memmius,  know. 

Th'  enthusiast's  hope,  and  raptures  wild. 
Have  never  yet  my  reason  foil'd. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


THE  SEEKER. 


[Matthew  Gresn. 


His  springy  soul  dilates  like  air, 

"When  free  from  weight  of  ambient  care, 

And,  hush'd  in  meditation  deep, 

Slides  into  dreams,  as  when  asleep ; 

Then,  fond  of  new  discoveries  grown, 

Proves  a  Columbus  of  her  own, 

Disdains  the  narrow  bounds  of  place, 

And  through  the  wilds  of  endless  space, 

Borne  up  on  metaphysic  wings, 

Chases  light  forms  and  shadowy  things. 

And,  in  the  vague  excursion  caught, 

Brings  home  some  rare  exotic  thought. 

The  melancholy  man  such  dreams. 

As  brightest  evidence,  esteems  ; 

Fain  would  he  see  some  distant  scene 

Suggested  by  his  restless  Spleen, 

And  Fancy's  telescope  applies 

With  tinctured  glass  to  cheat  his  eyes. 

Such  thoughts,  as  love  the  gloom  of  night, 

I  close  examine  by  the  light ; 

For  who,  though  bribed  by  gain  to  lie, 

Dare  sunbeam-written  truths  deny, 

And  execute  plain  common  sense 

On  faith's  mere  hearsay  evidence  ? 

That  superstition  mayn't  create, 
And  club  its  ills  with  those  of  fate, 
I  many  a  notion  take  to  task, 
Made  dreadful  by  its  visor-mask. 
Thus  scruple,  spasm  of  the  mind, 
Is  cured,  and  certainty  I  find ; 
Since  optic  reason  shows  me  plain, 
I  dreaded  spectres  of  the  brain  ; 
And  legendary  fears  are  gone, 
Though  in  tenacious  childhood  sown. 
Thus  in  opinions  I  commence 
Freeholder  in  the  proper  sense,' 
And  neither  suit  nor  service  do, 
Nor  homage  to  pretenders  show, 
"Who  boast  themselves  by  spurious  roll 
Lords  of  the  manor  of  the  soul ; 
Preferring  sense  from  chin  that's  bare, 
To  nonsense  throned  in  whisker' d  hair. 

To  thee,  Creator  uncreate, 

O  Entium  Ens  !  divinely  great ! 

Hold,  Muse,  nor  melting  pinions  try, 

Nor  near  the  blazing  glory  fly, 

Nor  straining  break  thy  feeble  bow, 

Unfeather'd  arrows  far  to  throw  ; 

Through  fields  unknown  nor  madly  stray, 

Where  no  ideas  mark  the  way. 

With  tender  eyes,  and  colours  faint. 

And  trembhng  hands,  forbear  to  paint. 

Who,  features  veil'd  by  light,  can  hit? 

Where  can,  what  has  no  outline,  fit  ? 

My  soul,  the  vain  attempt  forego, 

Thyself,  the  fitter  subject  know. 

He  wisely  shuns  the  bold  extreme. 

Who  soon  lays  by  th'  unequal  theme, 

Nor  runs,  with  wisdom's  sirens  caught, 

On      quicksands      swallowing      shipwreck' d 

thought ; 
But  conscious  of  his  distance,  gives, 
Mute  praise,  and  humble  negatives.' 


In  one,  no  object  of  our  sight. 

Immutable,  and  infinite, 

Who  can't  be  cruel,  or  unjust, 

Calm  and  resign' d,  I  fix  my  trust ; 

To  him  my  past  and  present  state 

I  owe,  and  must  my  future  fate.        ^ 

A  stranger  into  life  I'm  come, 

Dying  may  be  our  going  home. 

Transported  here  by  angry  Fate, 

The  convicts  of  a  prior  state. 

Hence  I  no  anxious  thoughts  bestow 

On  matters  I  can  never  know. 

Through  life's  foul  way,  like  vagrant,  pass'd, 

He'U  grant  a  settlement  at  last ; 

And  with  sweet  ease  the  wearied  cro^vn 

By  leave  to  lay  his  being  down. 

If  doom'd  to  dance  th'  eternal  round 

Of  life  no  sooner  lost  but  found, 

And  dissolution  soon  to  come. 

Like  sponge,  wipes  out  life's  present  sura, 

But  can't  our  state  of  pow'r  bereave 

An  endless  series  to  receive ; 

Then,  if  hard  dealt  with  here  by  fate. 

We  balance  in  another  state. 

And  consciousness  must  go  along. 

And  sign  th'  acquittance  for  the  wrong. 

He  for  his  creatures  must  decree 

More  happiness  than  misery, 

Or  be  supposed  to  create, 

Curious  to  try,  what  'tis  to  hate  : 

And  do  an  act,  which  rage  infers, 

'Cause  lameness  halts,  or  blindness  errs. 

Thus,  thus  I  steer  my  bark,  and  sail 

On  even  keel  with  gentle  gale ; 

At  helm  I  make  my  reason  sit,  . 

My  crew  of  passions  all  submit. 

If  dark  and  blust'ring  prove  some  nights. 

Philosophy  puts  forth  her  lights  ; 

Experience  holds  the  cautious  glass. 

To  shun  the  breakers,  as  I  pass, 

And  frequent  throws  the  wary  lead. 

To  see  what  dangers  may  be  hid : 

And  once  in  seven  years  I'm  seen 

At  Bath  or  Tunbridge,  to  careen. 

Though  pleased  to  see  the  dolphins  play, 

I  mind  my  compass  and  my  way. 

With  store  sufficient  for  relief. 

And  wisely  still  prepared  to  reef. 

Nor  wanting  the  dispersive  bowl 

Of  cloudy  weather  in  the  soul, 

1  make  (may  heaven  propitious  send 

Such  wind  and  weather  to  the  end). 

Neither  becalm'd,  nor  overblown. 

Life's  voyage  to  the  world  unknown. 

MaUheio  Green.— Born  1696,  Died  1737. 


8i6.— THE  SEEKEE. 

When  I  first   came   to   London,   I  rambled 

about 
From   sermon   to   sermon,  took  a  slice  and 

went  out. 


Countess  op  Winchelsea.]       A  NOCTURNAL  EEVEEIE. 


[Fifth  Period.- 


Thon  on  me,  in  divinity  bachelor,  tried 
Many  priests  to  obtrude  a  Levitical  bride  ; 
And  urging  their  various  opinions,  intended 
To  make  me  wed  systems  which  they  recom- 
mended. 

Said  a  lech'rous  old  friar,  skulking  near 
Lincoln's  Inn 

(Whose  trade  's  to  absolve,  but  whose  pas- 
time 's  to  sin ; 

Who,  spider-like,  seizes  weak  Protestant  flies. 

Which  hung  in  his  sophistry  cobweb  he 
spies)  : 

"  Ah  !  pity  your  soul,  for  without  our  church 
pale, 

If  you  happen  to  die,  to  be  damn'd  you  can't 
fail; 

The  Bible  you  boast  is  a  wild  revelation  : 

Hear  a  church  that  can't  err  if  you  hope  for 
■  salvation." 

Said  a  formal  non-con  (whose  rich  stock  of 
grace 

Lies  forward  exposed  in  shop- window  of  face) : 

"  Ah  !  pity  your  soul :  come,  be  of  our  sect ; 

For  then  you  are  safe,  and  may  plead  you're 
elect. 

As  it  stands  in  the  Acts,  we  can  prove  our- 
selves saints, 

Being  Christ's  little  flock  everj^Avhere  spoke 
against." 

Said  a  jolly  church  parson  (devoted  to  ease 
While   penal   law  dragons  guard  his  golden 

fleece)  : 
"If   you   pity    your   soul,    I   pray   listen   to 

neither ; 
The  first  is  in  error,  the  last  a  deceiver  ; 
That  ours  is  the  ti?ue  church,  the  sense  of  our 

tribe  is, 
And  surely  in  medio  tutissimus  ibis." 

Said  a  yea  and  nay  friend  with  a  stiff  hat  and 
band 

(Who,  while  he  talk'd  gravely,  would  hold 
forth  his  hand) : 

"  Dominion  and  wealth  are  the  aim  of  all 
three, 

Though  about  ways  and  means  they  may  all 
disagi'ee  ; 

Then,  pr'ythee  be  wise,  go  the  quakers'  by- 
way, 

'Tis  plain,  without  turnpikes ;  so  nothing  to 
pay." 

]\Io.tthcw  Green.— Born  1G96,  Died  1737. 


In  such  a  night,  when  passing  clouds  give 
place, 

Or  thinly  veil  the  heavens'  mysterious  face  ; 

When  in  some  river  overhung  with  green. 

The  waving  moon  and  trembling  leaves  are 
seen  ; 

When  freshened  grass  now  bears  itself  up- 
right. 

And  makes  cool  banks  to  pleasing  rest  invite. 

Whence  springs  the  Avoodbine,  and  the 
bramble  rose. 

And  where  the  sleepy  cowslip  sheltered  grows ; 

Wlailst  now  a  paler  hue  the  foxglove  takes, 

Yet     chequers     stiU    with     red    the    dusky 


817.— A  NOCTUENAL  EEVEEIE. 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind 
Is  to  its  distant  cavern  safe  confined, 
And  only  gentle  zephyr  fans  his  wings, 
And  lonely  Philomel  still  waking  sings  ; 
Or    from    some    tree,    famed    for   the   owl's 

delight, 
She,  holloaing  clear,  dii-ccts  the  wanderer  right : 


When  scattered  glowworms,  but  in  twilight 

fine. 
Show   trivial   beauties    watch   their   hour  to 

shine  ; 
Whilst   Salisbury  stands   the   test   of   every 

light, 
In  perfect  charms  and  perfect  virtue  bright : 
When  odours  which  declined  repelling  da^'^, 
Thi-ough  temperate  air  uninterrupted  stray  ; 
When  darkened  groves  their  softest  shadows 

wear, 
And  falling  waters  we  distinctly  hear ; 
Wlien   through    the    gloom    more   venerable 

shows 
Some  ancient  fabric,  awful  in  repose  ; 
While    sunburnt    hills    their    swarthj''    looks 

conceal. 
And  swelling  haycpcks  thicken  up  the  vale  : 
When  the  loosed  horse  now,  as  his  pasture 

leads, 
Comes  slowly  grazing  tln^ough  the  adjoining 

meads, 
Whose  stealing  pace  and  lengthened  shade  we 

fear. 
Till  torn-ui)  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear  ; 
"Wlien   nibbling  sheep   at  large  pursue  their 

food, 
And  unmolested  kine  rechew  the  cud  ; 
When  curlews  cvy  beneath  the  village  walls. 
And   to  her   straggling  brood  the  partridge 

calls  ; 
Their  short-lived  jubilee  the  creatures  keep, 
Which  but  endures  whilst  tyrant  man  does 

sleep  ; 
When  a  sedate  content  the  spirit  feels. 
And  no  fierce  light  disturbs,  whilst  it  reveals  ; 
But  silent  musings  urge  the  mind  to  seek 
Something  too  high  for  syllables  to  speak  ; 
Till  the  free  soul  to  a  composedness  charmed. 
Finding  the  elements  of  rage  disarmed, 
O'er  aU  below  a  solemn  quiet  grown, 
Joys  in  the  inferior  world,  and  thinks  it  like 

her  own : 
In  such  a  night  let  me  abroad  remain. 
Till  morning  breaks,  and  all's  confused  again  ; 
Our  cares,    our  toils,    our   clamours   are   re- 
newed, 
Or  pleasures  seldom  reached  again  pursued. 

Anne,  Countess  of  Wiiiclielsca,  Born , 

Died  1720. 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


EVENING  HYMN. 


[Btshop  Ken. 


i 


8 1 8.— LIFE'S  PROGEESS. 

How  gaily  is  at  first  begun 

Our  life's  uncertain  race  ! 
Wliilst  yet  that  sprightly  morning  sun, 
With  which  wo  just  set  out  to  run, 

Enlightens  aU  the  place. 

How  smiling  the  world's  prospect  lies, 

How  tempting  to  go  through  ! 
Not  Canaan  to  the  prophet's  eyes, 
From  Pisgah,  with  a  sweet  surprise. 

Did  more  inviting  show. 

How  soft  the  first  ideas  prove 

Which  wander  through  our  minds ! 
How  full  the  joys,  how  free  the  love. 
Which  does  that  early  season  move. 
As  flowers  the  western  winds  ! 

Our  sighs  are  then  but  vernal  air. 

But  April  drops  our  tears, 
Wliich  swiftly  passing,  all  grows  fair. 
Whilst  beauty  compensates  our  care, 

And  youth  each  vapour  clears. 

But  oh !  too  soon,  alas  !  we  climb. 

Scarce  feehng  v/e  ascend, 
The  gently-rising  hill  of  Time, 
From  whence  with  grief  we  see  that  prime 

And  all  its  sweetness  end. 

The  die  now  cast,  our  station  known. 

Fond  expectation  past : 
The  thorns  wliich  former  days  had  sown, 
To  crops  of  late  repentance  grown, 

Through  which  we  toil  at  last. 

Whilst  Qxcvy  care  's  a  dri\dng  harm, 

That  helps  to  bear  us  down ; 
Which  faded  smiles  no  more  can  charm, 
But  every  tear  's  a  winter  storm, 

And  every  look  's  a  frown. 

Anne,  Couiitess  of  Wincltelsea. — Born , 

Died  1720. 


819.— MORNING  HYMN. 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  course  of  duty  run ; 
Shake  off  dull  sloth,  and  joy  fid  rise 
To  pay  thy  morning  sacrifice. 

Thy  precious  time  misspent  redeem ; 
Each  precious  day  thy  last  esteem  ; 
Improve  thy  talent  AAT.th  due  care, 
For  the  great  day  thyself  prepare. 

In  conversation  be  sincere, 
Keep  conscience  as  the  noontide  clear : 
Think  how  all-seeing  God  thy  ways 
And  all  thy  secret  thoughts  surveys. 

* 
By  influence  of  the  light  divine, 
Let  thy  own  light  to  others  shine  ; 
Reflect  all  heaven's  propitious  rays 
In  ardent  love  and  cheerful  praise. 


Wake,  and  lift  thyself,  my  heart, 
And  with  the  angels  bear  thj'  iiiirt, 
Who  all  night  long  unwearied  sing 
High  praises  to  the  eternal  King. 

I  wake  I  I  wake  ! — ye  heavenly  choir, 
May  j^our  devotion  me  inspire,  ~ 

That  I  like  j'ou  my  age  may  spend, 
Like  you  may  on  my  God  attend. 

May  I  like  you  in  God  delight, 
Have  all  day  long  my  God  in  sight ; 
Perform,  like  j'ou,  my  Maker's  will — 
Oh,  may  I  never  more  do  ill  I 

Had  I  your  wings,  to  heaven  I'd  fly  ; 
But  God  shall  that  defect  suppl}^, 
And  my  soul,  wing'd  with  warm  desire, 
Shall  aU  day  long  to  heaven  aspire. 

All  praise  to  Thee,  who  safe  hast  kept, 
And  hast  refresh' d  me  whilst  I  slept ; 
Grant,  Lord,  when  I  from  death  shall  wake, 
I  may  of  endless  light  partake. 

I  would  not  wake,  nor  rise  again. 
Even  heaven  itself  I  would  disdain, 
Wert  not  Thou  there  to  be  enjoy 'd. 
And  I  in  hymns  to  be  employ'd. 

Bishop  Ken.— Born  1637,  Died  1711. 


820.— EVENING  HYMN. 

All  praise  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night, 
For  all  the  blessings  of  the  light : 
Keep  me,  oh,  keep  me,  King  of  kings. 
Beneath  Thy  own  Almighty  wings  ! 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  for  Thy  dear  Son, 
The  ill  that  I  this  day  have  done  ; 
That  mth  the  world,  myself,  and  Thee, 
I,  ere  I  sleep,  at  peace  may  be. 

Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed  ; 
To  die,  that  this  vile  body  may 
Rise  glorious  at  the  judgment-day. 

Oh  !  may  my  soul  on  Thee  repose, 
And  may  sweet  sleep  mine  eyelids  close — 
Sleep,  that  may  me  more  vigorous  make, 
To  serve  my  God  when  I  awake. 

When  in  the  night  I  sleepless  lie, 
My  soul  with  heavenly  thoughts  supply ; 
Let  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest. 
No  powers  of  darkness  me  molest. 

Dull  sleep  ! — of  sense  me  to  deprive ; 
I  am  but  half  my  time  alive  ; 
Thy  faithful  lovers,  Lord,  are  grieved 
To  lie  so  long  of  Thee  bereaved. 


Bishop  Ken.] 


MIDNIGHT  HYMN. 


Fifth  Period. 


But  though  sleep  o'er  my  frailty  reigns, 
Let  it  not  hold  me  long  in  chains  ; 
And  now  and  then  let  loose  my  heart, 
Till  it  a  hallelujah  dart. 

The  faster  sleep  the  senses  binds, 
The  more  unfetter' d  are  our  minds  ; 
Oh,  may  my  soul,  from  matter  free, 
Thy  loveliness  unclouded  see  ! 

Oh  !  when  shall  I,  in  endless  day, 
For  ever  chase  dark  sleep  away ; 
And  hymns  with  the  supernal  choir 
Incessant  sing,  and  never  tire  ? 

Oh,  may  my  guardian,  while  I  sleep, 
Close  to  my  bed  his  vigils  keep ; 
His  love  angelical  instil, 
Stop  all  the  avenues  of  ill. 

Heaven  is,  dear  Lord,  where'er  Thou  art ; 
Oh,  never,  then,  from  me  depart ; 
For  to  my  soul  'tis  hell  to  be 
But  for  one  moment  void  of  Thee. 

Lord,  I  my  vows  to  Thee  renew ; 
Disperse  my  sins  as  morning  dew ; 
Guard  my  first  springs  of  thought  and  will. 
And  with  Thyself  my  spirit  fiU. 

Direct,  control,  suggest,  this  day, 

All  I  design,  or  do,  or  say ; 

That  all  my  powers,  with  all  their  might, 

In  Thy  sole  glory  may  unite. 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  ; 
Praise  Him  all  creatures  here  below  ; 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host ; 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

Bislwjo  Ken.— Born  1637,  Died  1711. 


821.— MIDNIGHT  HYMN. 

My  God,  now  I  from  sleep  awake, 

The  sole  possession  of  me  take  ; 

From  midnight  terrors  me  secure. 

And  guard  my  heart  from  thoughts  impure. 

Blest  angels  !  while  we  silent  lie, 
You  hallelujahs  sing  on  high  ; 
You  joyful  hymn  the  Ever-blest 
Before  the  throne,  and  never  rest. 

I  with  your  choir  celestial  join 
In  offering  up  a  hymn  divine  : 
With  you  in  heaven  I  hope  to  dwell, 
And  bid  the  night  and  world  farev/ell. 

My  soul,  when  I  shake  off  this  dust. 
Lord,  in  Thy  arms  I  will  intrust : 
Oh,  make  me  Thy  peculiar  care, 
Some  mansion  for  my  soul  prepare. 


Give  me  a  place  at  Thy  saints'  feet, 
Or  some  fallen  angel's  vacant  seat : 
I'll  strive  to  sing  as  loud  as  they 
Wlio  sit  above  in  brighter  day. 

Oh,  may  I  always  ready  stand 
With  my  lamp  burning  in  my  hand  ; 
May  I  in  sight  of  heaven  rejoice, 
^Vhene'er  I  hear  the  Bridegroom's  voice. 

All  praise  to  Thee  in  light  array' d, 
Wlio  light  Thy  dweUing-place  hast  made ; 
A  boundless  ocean  of  bright  beams 
From  Thy  all-glorious  Godhead  streams. 

The  sun,  in  its  meridian  height. 

Is  very  darkness  in  Thy  sight : 

My  soul,  oh,  lighten  and  inflame 

With  thought  and  love  of  Thy  great  name  ! 

Blest  Jesu !  Thou,  on  heaven  intent. 
Whole  nights  hast  in  devotion  spent ; 
But  I,  frail  creature,  soon  am  tired. 
And  aU  my  zeal  is  soon  expired. 

My  soul !  how  canst  thou  weary  grow 
Of  antedating  bliss  below. 
In  sacred  hymns  and  hea,venly  love, 
Which  will  eternal  be  above  ? 

Shine  on  me.  Lord  ;  new  life  impart ; 
Fresh  ardours  kindle  in  my  heart : 
One  ray  of  Thy  all- quickening  light 
Dispels  the  sloth  and  clouds  of  night ! 

Lord,  lest  the  tempter  me  surprise, 
Watch  over  Thine  own  sacriflce ; 
All  loose,  all  idle  thoughts  cast  out. 
And  make  my  very  dreams  devout. 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow ; 
Praise  Him  all  creatures  here  below ; 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host ; 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

Bislio]p  Ken.— Born  1637,  Died  1711. 


822.— THE  BIETH  OF  CHRIST. 

While    shepherds   watch'd    their   flocks    by 
night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down, 

And  glory  shone  around. 

"  Fear  not,"  said  he  (for  mighty  dread 
Had  seized  their  troubled  mind) ; 

"  Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 
To  you  and  all  mankind. 

To  you,  in  David's  town,  this  day, 

Is  born  of  David's  line 
The  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord  j 

And  this  shall  be  the  sign : 


From  1689  to  1727.]     THE  LAST  TIME  I  CAME  O'ER  THE  MOOE.       [Allan  Bamsay. 


The  heavenly  Babe  you  there  shall  find 

To  human  view  display'd, 
All  meanly  wrapp'd  in  swathing  bands, 
•     And  in  a  manger  laid." 

Thus  spake  the  seraph  ;  and  forthwith 

Appear' d  a  shining  throng 
Of  angels,  praising  God,  and  thus 

Address' d  their  joyful  song : — 

"  All  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 
!     And  to  the  earth  be  peace  ;  * 

Goodwill  henceforth  from  Heaven  to  men 
Begin,  and  never  cease  !  " 

Nahum  Tate.— Born  1652,  Died  1715. 


823.— FEOM  PSALM  CIV. 

Bless  God,  my  soul ! — Thou,  Lord,  alone 
Possessest  empire  without  bounds  ; 

With  honour  Thou  art  crown' d.  Thy  throne 
Eternal  majesty  surrounds. 

With  light  Thou  dost  Thyself  enrobe. 

And  glory  for  a  garment  take ; 
Heaven's  curtains  stretch  beyond  the  globe, 

Thy  canopy  of  state  to  make. 

God  builds  on  liquid  air,  and  forms 
His  palace-chambers  in  the  skies  ; 

The  clouds  His  chariot  are,  and  storms 

The  swift-wing' d  steeds  with  which  He  flies. 

As  bright  as  flame,  as  swift  as  wind, 
His  ministers  heaven's  palace  fill ; 

All  have  their  sundry  tasks  assign'd. 

All  proud  to  serve  their  Sovereign's  will. 

The  various  troops  of  sea  and  land 
In  sense  of  common  want  agree  ; 

AH  wait  on  Thy  dispensing  hand, 

And  have  their  daily  alms  from  Thee. 

They  gather  what  Thy  stores  disperse, 
Without  their  trouble  to  provide  : 

Thou  open'st  Thine  hand,  the  universe. 
The  craving  world,  is  all  supplied. 

Thou  for  a  moment  hidest  Thy  face — 
The  numerous  ranks  of  creatures  mourn ; 

Thou  takest  their  breath — all  nature's  race 
Forthwith  to  mother  Earth  return. 

Again  Thou  send'st  Thy  spirit  forth 
To  inspire  the  mass  with  vital  seed — 

Nature's  restored,  and  parent  Earth 
Smiles  on  her  new-created  breed. 

Thus  through  successive  ages  stands. 
Firm  fix'd.  Thy  providential  care  ; 

Pleased  with  the  work  of  Thy  own  hands. 
Thou  dost  the  wastes  of  time  repair. 

Nahum  Tate.— Bom  1652,  Died  1715. 


824.— SONG. 

Farewell  to  Lochaber,  farewell  to  my  Jean, 
Where  heartsome  with  thee  I  have  mony  a 

day  been : 
To  Lochaber  no  more,  to  Lochaber  no  more. 
We'll  maybe  return  to  Lochaber  nojuorg. 
These  tears  that  I  shed  they  are  a'  for  my 

dear, 
And  not  for  the  dangers  attending  on  weir ; 
Though  borne  on  rough  seas  to  a  far  bloody 

shore, 
Maybe  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more  ! 

Though  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  every  wind. 
No  tempest  can  equal  the  storm  in  my  mind  : 
Though  loudest  of  thunders  on  louder  waves 

roar. 
That's  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on  the 

shore. 
To   leave  thee  behind  me  my  heart  is  sair 

pain'd, 
But  by  ease  that's  inglorious  no  fame  can  be 

gain'd  : 
And  beauty  and  love 's   the   reward   of    the 

brave ; 
And  I  maun  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then    glory,    my    Jeany,    maun    plead     my 

excuse. 
Since    honour    commands    me,    how    can    I 

refuse  ? 
Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  merit  for  thee ; 
And  losing  thy  favotir  I'd  better  not  be. 
I  gae  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honour  and  fame. 
And,   if   I   should   chance   to   come  glorious 

hame, 
I'll  bring  a  heart  to  thee  with  love  running 

o'er. 
And  then   I'U   leave   thee   and  Lochaber  no 

more. 

Allan  Ramsay.— Born  1686,  Died  1757. 


825. 


-THE   LAST    TIME    I    CAME   O'ER 
THE  MOOR. 


The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor, 

I  left  my  love  behind  me  ; 
Ye  powers  !  what  pain  do  I  endure, 

When  soft  ideas  mind  me  ! 
Soon  as  the  ruddy  morn  display'd 

The  beaming  day  ensuing, 
I  met  betimes  my  lovely  maid, 

In  fit  retreats  for  wooing. 

Beneath  the  cooling  shade  we  lay, 
Gazing  and  chastely  sporting ; 

We  kiss'd  and  promised  time  away, 
Tin  night  spread  her  black  curtain. 


Allan  Kamsay.] 


ODE  FEOM  HOEACE. 


[Fifth  Period. — 


I  pitied  all  beneath  the  skies, 

E'en  kings,  when  she  was  nigh  me  ; 

In  raptures  I  beheld  her  eyes. 
Which  could  but  ill  deny  me. 

Should  I  be  call'd  where  cannons  roar, 

Where  mortal  steel  may  wound  me ; 
Or  cast  upon  some  foi-eign  shore, 

Where  dangers  may  surround  mo  ; 
Yet  hopes  again  to  see  my  love, 

To  feast  on  glowing  kisses, 
Shall  make  my  cares  at  distance  move, 

In  prospect  of  such  blisses. 

In  all  my  soul  there 's  not  one  place 

To  let  a  rival  enter ; 
Since  she  excels  in  every  grace, 

In  her  my  love  shall  centre. 
Sooner  the  seas  shall  cease  to  flow. 

Their  waves  the  Alps  shall  cover. 
On  Greenland  ice  shall  roses  grow. 

Before  I  cease  to  love  her. 

The  next  time  I  go  o'er  the  moor. 

She  shall  a  lover  find  me ; 
And  that  my  faith  is  firm  and  pure, 

Though  I  left  her  behind  me  : 
Then  Hymen's  sacred  bonds  shall  chain 

My  heart  to  her  fair  bosom  ; 
There,  while  my  being  does  remain. 

My  love  more  fresh  shall  blossom. 

Allan  Ramsay. -^Born  1686,  Died  1757. 


826.— ODE  FROM  HOEACE. 

Look  up  to  Pentland's  towering  tap, 
Buried  beneath  great  wreaths  of  snaw, 

O'er  ilka  cleugh,  ilk  scaur,  and  slap. 
As  high  as  ony  Roman  wa'. 

Driving  their  ba's  frae  whins  or  tee. 
There's  no  ae  gowfer  to  be  seen, 

Nor  douser  fowk  wysing  ajee 

The  blast  bonis  on  Tamson's  green. 

Then  fling,  on  coals,  and  ripe  the  ribs, 
And  beek  the  house  baith  but 'and  ben ; 

That  mutchkin  stoup  it  bauds  but  dribs, 
Then  let's  get  in  the  tappit  hen. 

Good  claret  best  keeps  out  the  cauld, 
And  drives  away  the  winter  soon  ; 

It  makes  a  man  baith  gash  and  bauld. 
And  heaves  his  saul  beyond  the  moon. 

Leave  to  the  gods  your  ilka  care, 

If  that  they  think  us  worth  their  while  : 

They  can  a  rowth  of  blessings  spare, 
Which  will  our  fashions  fears  beguile. 

For  what  they  have  a  mind  to  do. 

That  will  they  do,  should  we  gang  wud 

If  they  command  the  storms  to  blaw. 
Then  upo'  sight  the  hailstanes  thud. 


But  soon  as  e'er  they  cry,  "'  Be  quiet," 
The  blattering  winds  dare  nae  mair  move. 

But  cour  into  their  caves,  and  wait 
The  high  command  of  supreme  Jove. 

Let  neist  day  come  as  it  thinks  fit. 
The  present  minute  's  only  ours  ; 

On  pleasure  let's  employ  our  wit. 

And  laugh  at  fortune's  feckless  powers. 

Be  sure  ye  dinna  quat  the  grip 

Of  ilka  joy  when  ye  are  young. 
Before  auld  age  your  vitals  nip. 

And  lay  yc  twafald  o'er  a  rung. 

Sweet  youth  's  a  blythe  and  heartsome  time ; 

Then,  lads  and  lasses,  while  it's  May, 
Gae  pou  the  gowan  in  its  prime, 

Before  it  wither  and  decay. 

Watch  the  saft  minutes  of  delight. 

When  Jenny  speaks  beneath  her  breath ; 

And  kisses,  laying  a'  the  wyte 
On  you,  if  she  kep  ony  skaith. 

"  Haith,  ye're  ill-bred,"  she'll  smiling  say ; 

"  Ye'll  worry  me,  you  greedy  rook  ;  " 
Syne  frae  your  arms  she'll  rin  away, 

And  liide  hersell  in  some  dark  nook. 

Her  laugh  will  lead  you  to  the  place, 
I        Where  lies  the  happiness  you  want,. 
And  plainly  tells  you  to  your  face. 
Nineteen  naysays  are  half  a  grant. 

Now  to  her  heaving  bosom  cling. 

And  sweetly  toolie  for  a  kiss, 
Frae  her  fair  finger  whup  a  ring. 

As  token  of  a  future  bliss. 

These  benisons,  I'm  very  sure, 
Are  of  the  gods'  indulgent  grant ; 

Then  surly  carles,  whisht,  forbear 

To  plague  us  with  your  whining  cant. 

Allan  Ramsay.— Born  16SG,  Died  1757. 


827.— SONG. 

Pursuing  beauty,  men  descry 

The  distant  shore,  and  long  to  prove 
Still  richer  in  variety 

The  treasures  of  the  land  of  love. 

We  women,  like  weak  Indians,  stand 
Inviting  from  our  golden  coast 

The  wand' ring  rovers  to  our  land : 
But  she  who  trades  with  them  is  lost. 

With  humble  vows  they  first  begin, 
Stealing  unseen  into  the  heart ; 

But  by  possession  settled  in. 
They  quickly  play  another  part. 


From  1689  to  1727.]                THE  CONTENTED  SHEPHERD.                   [Nicholas  Rowe. 

For  beads  and  baubles  we  resign, 

If  while  my  hard  fate  I  sustain. 

In  ignorance,  our  shining  store  ; 

In  her  breast  any  pity  is  found, 

Discover  nature's  richest  mine, 

Let  her  come  with  the  nymphs  of  the  plain, 

Ani  yet  the  tyrants  wdll  have  more. 

And  see  me  laid  low  in  the  ground  : 

The  last  humble  boon  that  I  crave,_    _ 

Be  wise,  be  wise,  and  do  not  try 

Is  to  shade  me  with  cypress  and  yew  ; 

How  he  can  court,  or  you  be  won  ; 

And  when  she  looks  down  on  my  grave. 

For  love  is  but  discovery : 

Let  her  own  that  her  shepherd  was  true. 

When  that  is  made,  the  pleasure 's  done. 

Then  to  her  new  Iqve  let  her  go. 

Thomas  Southerne. — Born  1659,  Died  1746. 

And  deck  her  in  golden  array  ; 

Be  finest  at  every  fine  show. 

- 

And  frolic  it  all  the  long  day : 

While  Colin,  forgotten  and  gone. 

No  more  shall  be  talk'd  of  or  seen. 

Unless  Avhen,  beneath  the  pale  moon, 

828.— COLIN'S  COMPLAINT. 

His  ghost  shall  glide  over  the  green. 

'        Despairing  beside  a  clear  stream. 

Nicholas  Roive.— Born  1673,  Died  1718. 

;             A  shepherd  forsaken  was  laid  ; 

;        And  while  a  false  nymph  was  his  theme, 

A  willow  supported  his  head. 
The  wind  that  blew  over  the  plain, 

To  his  sighs  with  a  sigh  did  reply  ; 

And  the  brook,  in  return  to  his  pain. 

829.— THE  CONTENTED  SHEPHERD. 

Ran  mournfully  murmuring  by. 

As  on  a  summer's  day 

Alas  !  sillj'-  swain  that  I  was  ! 

Thus  sadly  complaining  he  cried ; 
When  first  I  beheld  that  fair  face, 

In  the  greenwood  shade  I  lay, 
The  maid  that  I  loved, 
As  her  fancy  moved. 

'Twere  better  by  far  I  had  died : 

Came  walking  forth  that  way. 

She  talk'd,  and  I  bless'd  her  dear  tongue ; 
When   she   smiled,    'twas   a   pleasure   too 
great ; 
^m  I  listen' d,  and  cried  when  she  sung, 
^B      Was  nightingale  ever  so  sweet  ? 

And  as  she  pass'd  by 
With  a  scornful  glance  of  her  eye, 

"  What  a  shame,"  quoth  she, 
"  For  a  swain  must  it  be, 
Lilce  a  lazy  loon  for  to  die  ! 

How  foolish  was  I  to  believe 

"  And  dost  thou  nothing  heed 

She  could  dote  on  so  lowly  a  clown, 

W^hat  Pan  our  God  has  decreed ; 

Or  that  her  fond  heart  would  not  grieve 

What  a  prize  to-day 
Shall  be  given  away 
To  the  sweetest  shepherd's  reed ! 

To  forsake  the  fine  folk  of  the  town  ; 
To  think  that  a  beauty  so  gay 

So  kind  and  so  constant  would  prove, 

Oi;  go  clad,  like  our  maidens,  in  grey, 

*'  There's  not  a  single  swain 

Or  live  in  a  cottage  on  love  ! 

Of  all  this  fruitful  plain. 

But  with  holies  and  fears 

AVhat  though  I  have  skill  to  complain, 

Now  busily  prepares 

Though     the     muses     my    temples     have 

The  bonny  boon  to  gain. 

crown'd ; 

What    though,     when    they    hear    my    soft 

"  Shall  another  maiden  shine 

\                strain, 

In  brighter  array  than  thine  ? 

The  virgins  sit  weeping  around  ? 

Up,  up,  duU  swain, 

Ah,  Colin  !  thy  hopes  are  in  vain, 

Tune  thy  pipe  once  again. 

Thy  pipe  and  thy  laurel  resign. 

And  make  the  garland  mine." 

Thy  false  one  inclines  to  a  swain 

Whose  music  is  sweeter  than  thine. 

"  Alas  !  my  love,"  he  cried, 

"  What  avails  this  courtly  pride  ? 

All  you,  my  companions  so  dear. 

Since  thy  dear  desert 

Who  sorrow  to  see  me  betray'd, 

Is  written  in  my  heart 

Whatever  I  suffer,  forbear. 

What  is  all  the  world  beside  ? 

Forbear  to  accuse  the  false  maid. 

Though   through   the    wide   world    I    should 

"  To  me  thou  art  more  gay, 

range, 

In  this  homely  russet  grey. 

'Tis  in  vain  from  my  fortune  to  fly ; 

Than  the  nymphs  of  our  greeU; 

Twas  hers  to  be  false  and  to  change. 

So  trim  and  so  sheen  ; 

lis  mine  to  be  constant  and  die. 
|-~ ■ • 

Or  the  brightest  queen  of  May. 

Nicholas  Eowe.] 


SONG. 


[Fifth  Period. 


"  What  though  my  fortune  frown, 
And  deny  thee  a  silken  gown ; 
My  own  dear  maid, 
Be  content  with  this  shade, 
And  a  shepherd  all  thy  own." 

Nicliolas  Rou-e.—Bom  1673,  IHed  1718. 


830.— SONG. 

To  the  brook  and  the  willow  that  heard  him 
complain, 
Ah  wiUow,  willow, 
Poor  Colin  sat  weeping,   and  told  them  his 
pain; 
Ah  willow,  willow  ;  ah  willow,  willow. 

Sweet  stream,  he  cried  sadly,  I'll  teach  thee 
to  flow. 
Ah  willow,  &c. 
And  the  waters  shall  rise  to  the  brink  with 
my  woe. 
Ah  willow,  &c. 

All  restless  and  painful  poor  Amoret  lies, 

Ah  willow,  &c. 
And  counts  the  sad  moments  of  time  as  it 
flies. 

Ah  wiUow,  &c. 

To  the  nymph  my  heart  loves,  ye  soft  slumbers 
repair ; 
Ah  willow,  &c. 
Spread  your  downy  wings  o'er  her,  and  make 
her  your  care. 
Ah  willow,  &c. 

Dear  brook,  were  thy  chance  near  her  pillow 
to  creep. 
Ah  willow,  &c. 
Perhaps  thy  soft  murmurs  might  lull  her  to 
sleep. 
Ah  willow,  &c. 

Let  me  be  kept  waking,  my  eyes  never  close, 

Ah  willow,  &c. 
So  the  sleep  that  I  lose  brings  my  fair  one 
repose. 

Ah  willow,  &c. 

But  if  I  am  doomed  to  be  wretched  indeed  ; 

Ah  willow,  &c. 
If  the  loss  of  my  dear  one,  my  love  is  de- 
creed ; 

Ah  willow,  &c. 

If  no  more  my  sad  heart  by  those  eyes  shall 
be  cheered ; 
Ah  wiDow,  &c. 
If  the  voice  of  my  warbler  no  more  shall  be 
heard ; 
Ah  willow,  &c. 


Believe   me,   thou   fair  one ;    thou   dear  one 
believe, 
Ah  willow,  &c. 
Few    sighs   to  thy   loss,  and  few  tears  will 
I  give. 
Ah  willow,  &c. 

One  fate  to  thy  Colin  and  thee  shall  be  tied. 

Ah  willow,  &c. 
And  soon  lay  the  cold  shepherd  close  by  thy 
cold  side. 

Ah  willow,  &c. 

Then  run,  gentle  brook  ;  and  to  lose  thyself, 
haste ; 
Ah  willow,  &c. 
Fade  thou  too,  my  willow,  this  verse  is  my 
last ; 
Ah  willow,  willow  ;  ah  willow,  willow. 

Nicholas  Eowe.— Born  1673,  Bled  1718. 


831.— FROM  FATAL  CURIOSITY. 

Who   should   this   stranger  be  ?      And   then 

this  casket — 
He  says  it  is  of  value,  and  yet  trusts  it. 
As  if  a  trifle,  to  a  stranger's  hand — 
His  confidence  amazes  me — Perhaps 
It  is  not  what  he  says — I'm  strongly  tempted 
To  open  it,  and  see — ^No,  let  it  rest. 
Why  should  my  curiosity  excite  me 
To  search  and  pry  into  th'  affairs  of  others, 
Who  have  t'   employ  my  thoughts,  so  many 

cares 
And  sorrows  of  my  own  ? — With  how  much 

ease 
The  spring   gives   way !      Surprising !    most 

prodigious ! 
My  eyes  are  dazzled,  and  my  ravished  heart 
Leaps  at  the  glorious  sight.     How  bright's 

the  lustre, 
How  immense  the  worth  of  these  fair  jewels  ! 
Ay,  such  a  treasure  would  expel  for  ever 
Base  poverty,  and  all  its  abject  train ; 
The  mean  devices  we're  reduced  to  use 
To  keep  out  famine,  and  preserve  our  lives 
From  day  to  da,y ;  the  cold  neglect  of  friends  ; 
The  galling  scorn,  or  more  provoking  pity 

Of  an  insulting  world Possessed  of  these, 

Plenty,  content,  and  power,  might  take  their 

turn. 
And  lofty  pride  bare  its  aspiring  head 
At  our  approach,  and  once  more  bend  before 

us. 
— A  pleasing  dream !     'Tis  past ;    and  now  I 

wake 
More  wretched  by  the  happiness  I've  lost ; 
For  sure  it  was  a  happiness  to  think. 
Though    but    a    moment,    such    a    treasure 

mine. 
Nay,  it  was  more  than  thought — I  saw  and 

touched 


From  1689  to  1727.] 


AN  ODE  TO  JOHN  LOED  GOWEE. 


[Elijah  Fenton. 


The  bright  temptation,  and  I  see  it  yet 

'Tis  here — 'tis   mine — I   have   it   in  posses- 
sion  

Must  I  resig-n  it  ?  ]\Iust  I  give  it  back  ? 

Am  I  in  love  with  misery  and  want  ? 

To  rob  myseK,  and  court  so  vast  a  loss  ?— — 

Eetain    it    then But    how  ?     there    is   a 

way 

Why  sinks  my  heart  ?    Why  does  my  blood 

run  cold  ? 
Why  am  I  thrilled  with  horror  ?      'Tis  not 

choice, 
But  dire  necessity  suggests  the  thought. 

Georje  Lillo.—Born  1693,  Died  1743. 


832.— VEESES. 

Why,  Damon,  with  the  forward  day. 
Dost  thou  thy  little  spot  survey, 
Erom  tree  to  tree,  with  doubtful  cheer, 
Pursue  the  progress  of  the  year, 

What  winds  arise,  what  rains  descend. 
When  thou  before  that  year  shalt  end  ? 

What  do  thy  noon-tide  walks  avail. 

To  clear  the  leaf,  and  pick  the  snail, 

Tlien  wantonly  to  death  decree 

An  insect  usefullor  than  thee  ? 

Thou  and  the  worm  are  brother-kind, 
As  low,  as  earthy,  and  as  blind. 

Vain  wretch  I  canst  thou  expect  to  see 
The  downy  peach  make  court  to  tliee  ? 
Or  that  thy  sense  shall  ever  meet 
Tlie  bean-flower's  deep-embosom' d  sweet, 

Exhaling  with  an  evening  blast  ? 

Thy  evenings  then  will  all  be  past. 

Thy  narrow  pride,  thy  fancied  green, 
(For  vanity's  in  little  seen) 
All  must  be  left  when  Death  appears, 
In  spite  of  wishes,  groans,  and  tears  ; 
Nor  one  of  all  thy  plants  that  grow, 
But  rosemary  will  with  thee  go. 

Dr.  Geo.  Seivell.—Bied  1726. 


833.— FABLE,  EELATED  BY  A  BEAU 
TO  ESOP. 

A  Band,  a  Bob-wig,  and  a  Feather, 
Attacked  a  lady's  heart  together. 
The  Band,  in  a  most  learned  plea. 
Made  up  of  deep  philosophy. 
Told  her,  if  she  would  please  to  wed 
A  reverend  board,  and  take  instead 

Of  vigorous  youth, 

Old  solemn  truth, 
With  books  and  morals,  into  bed. 

How  happy  she  would  be. 


The  Bob,  he  talked  of  management, 
What  wondrous  blessings  heaven  sent 
On  care,  and  pains,  and  industry ; 
And  truly  ho  must  be  so  free 
To  own  he  thought  your  airy  beaux. 
With  powdered  wigs,  and  dancing-shoes, 
Were  good  for  nothing  (mend  his  soul !) 
But  prate,  and  talk,  and  play  the  fool. 

He  said  'twas  wealth  gave  joy  and  mirtli, 

And  that  to  be  the  dearest  wife 

Of  one,  who  laboured  all  his  life 

To  make  a  mine  of  gold  his  own. 

And  not  spend  sixpence  when  he'd  done, 

Was  heaven  upon  earth. 

When  these  two  blades  had   done,    d'ye 

see. 
The  Feather  (as  it  might  be  me) 
Steps  out,  sir,  from  behind  the  skreen, 
With  such  an  air  and  such  a  mien — 
Look  you,  old  gentleman, — in  short 
He  quickly  spoiled  the  statesman's  sport. 

It  proved  such  sunshine  weather 
That  you  must  know,  at  the  first  beck 
The  lady  leaped  about  his  neck, 

And  off  they  went  together. 

Sir  John  ranhrugJi.—Bom  1666,  Died  1726. 


834-' 


-AN  ODE  TO  THE  EIGHT  HON. 
JOHN  LOED  GOWEE. 

O'er  winter's  long  inclement  sway, 

At  length  the  lusty  Spring  prevails  ; 
And  swift  to  meet  the  smiling  May, 

Is  wafted  by  the  western  gales. 
Around  him  dance  the  rosy  Hours, 
And  damasking  the  ground  with  flovv^ers, 

With  ambient  sweets  perfume  the  mom ; 
With  shadowy  verdure  flourish' d  high, 
A  sudden  youth  the  groves  enjoy ; 

Where  Philomel  laments  forlorn. 

By  her  awaked,  the  woodland  choir 

To  hail  the  coming  god  prepares  ; 
And  tempts  me  to  resume  the  lyre. 

Soft  warbling  to  the  vernal  airs. 
Yet  once  more,  O  ye  Muses  !  deign 
For  me,  the  meanest  of  your  train, 

Unblamed  t'  approach  your  blest  retreat : 
Wbere  Horace  wantons  at  your  spring, 
And  Pindar  sweeps  a  bolder  string  ; 

Whose  notes  th'  Aonian  hiUs  repeat. 

Or  if  invoked,  where  Thames' s  fruitful  tides. 
Slow   through  the  vale  in  silver  volumes 
play; 
Now     your    own    Phcebus    o'er    the    month 
presides, 
Gives  love  the  night,  and  doubly  gilds  the 
day;  3.^ 


Edward  Ward.] 


SONG. 


[Fifth  Peuiod.- 


Tliither,  indulgent  to  my  prayer, 

Ye  bright  harmonious  nymphs,  repair 

To  swell  the  notes  I  feebly  raise  : 
So  with  aspiring  ardours  warm'd 
May  Gower's  propitious  ear  be  charm' d 

To  listen  to  my  lays. 

Beneath  the  Pole  on  hills  of  snow, 

Like  Thracian  Mars,  th'  undaunted  Swede 
To  dint  of  sword  defies  the  foe  ; 

In  fight  unknowing  to  recede  : 
From  Volga's  banks,  th'  imperious  Czar 
Leads  forth  his  furry  troops  to  war ; 

Fond  of  the  softer  southern  sky  : 
The  Soldan  galls  th'  lUyrian  coast ; 
But  soon  this  miscrea-nt  Moony  host 

Before  the  Victor-Cross  shall  fly. 

But  here,  no  clarion's  shrilling  note 

The  Muse's  green  retreat  can  pierce ; 
The  grove,  from  noisy  camps  remote, 

Is  only  vocal  with  my  verse  : 
Here,  wing'd  with  innocence  and  jo3% 
Let  the  soft  hours  that  o'er  me  fly 

Drop  freedom,  health,  and  gay  desires  : 
^Vllile  the  bright  Seine,  t'  exalt  the  soul, 
With  sparkling  plenty  crowns  the  bowl, 

And  wit  and  social  mirth  inspires. 

Enamour' d  of  the  Seine,  celestial  fair, 

(The  blooming  pride  of  Thetis'  azure  train,) 
Bacchus,  to  win  the  nj-'mph  who  caused  his  care, 
Lash'd  his  swift  tigers  to  the  Celtic  plain  : 
There  secret  in  her  sapphire  cell, 
He  with  the  Nais  wont  to  dwell : 

Leaving  the  nectar' d  feasts  of  Jove  : 
And  where  her  mazy  waters  flow 
He  gave  the  mantling  vine  to  grow, 
A  trophy  to  his  love. 

Shall  man  from  Nature's  sanction  stray, 

With  blind  opinion  for  his  guide  ; 
And,  rebel  to  her  rightful  sway, 

Leave  all  her  beauties  unenjoy'd  ? 
Fool !  Time  no  change  of  motion  knows ; 
With  equal  speed  the  torrent  flows, 

To  sweep  Fame,  Power,  and  Wealth  away ; 
The  past  is  all  by  death  possest ; 
And  frugal  fate  that  guards  the  rest, 

By  giving,  bids  him  live  To-Day. 

O  Gower  !  through  all  the  destined  space. 

What  breath  the  Powers  allot  to  me 
Shall  sing  the  virtues  of  thy  race. 

United  and  complete  in  thee. 
O  flower  of  ancient  English  faith  ! 
Pursue  th'  unbeaten  Patriot-path, 

In  which  confirm' d  thy  father  shone  : 
The  light  his  fair  example  gives, 
Already  from  thy  dawn  receives 

A  lustre  equal  to  its  o^vn. 

Honour's  bright   dome,    on   lasting   columns 

rear'd. 

Nor  envy  rusts,  nor  rolling  years  consume  ; 

Loud   Preans    echoing    round    the    roof    arc 

heard, 

And  clouds  of  incense  all  the  void  perfume. 


There  Phocion,  La3lius,  Capel,  Hyde, 
With  Falkland  seated  near  his  side, 

Fix'd  by  the  Muse,  the  temple  grace  ; 
Prophetic  of  thy  happier  fame, 
She,  to  receive  thy  radiant  name, 

Selects  a  whiter  space. 

Elijah  Fcnton.—Borii  1683,  Bictl  1730. 


835.— SONG. 

O  give  me,  kind  Bacchus,  thou  God  of  the 

vine. 
Not  a  pipe  or  a  tun,  but  an  ocean  of  wine  ; 
And  a  ship  that's  well-mann'd  with  such  rare 

merry  fellows. 
That  ne'er  forsook  tavern  for  porterly  ale- 
house. 
May  her  bottom  be  leaky  to  let  in  the  tipple, 
And  no  pump   on  board  her  to  save  ship  or 

people : 
So   that    each  jolly    lad   may    suck   heartily 

round. 
And    be    always    obliged    to     drink     or    be 

drown' d ! 
Let  a  fleet  from  Virginia,    well   laden   with 

weed, 
And  a  cargo  of  pipes,  that  we  nothing  may 

need. 
Attend  at  our  stern  to  supply  us  with  guns, 
And  to  w^eigh  us  our  funk,  not  by  pounds,  but 

by  tuns. 
When  thus  fitted  out  we  would  sail  cross  the 

line, 
And  swim  round  the  world  in  a  sea  of  good 

wine ; 
Steer  safe  in  the  middle,  and  vow  never  more 
To  renounce  such  a  life  for  the  pleasures  on 

shore. 
Look  cheerfully  round  us  and   comfort   our 

eyes 
With  a  deluge  of  claret  inclosed  by  the  skies  ; 
A   sight   that    would  mend   a   pale  mortal's 

complexion. 
And  make  him  blusb  more  than  the  sun  by 

reflection. 
No  zealous  contentions  should  ever  perplex  us, 
No  politic  jars  should  divide  us  or  vex  us  ; 
No  presbyter  Jack  should  reform  us  or  ride 

us, 
The  stars  and  our  whimsical  noddles  should 

guide  us. 
No  blustering  storms  should  possess  us  with 

fears. 
Or  hurry  us,   like  cowards,  from  drinking  to      \ 

prayers,  i 

But  still  with  full  bowls   we'd   for   Bacchus      i 

maintain  \ 

The  most  glorious  dominion  o'er  the  clarety     ; 

main ; 
And  tipple  all  round  till  our  eyes   shone  as 

bright 
As  the  sun  does  by  day,  or  the  moon  does  by 

night. 


From  1689  icV,  1727.1                                         SOKG.                                           [John  Oldmixon 

Thus  would  I  live  free  from  all  care  or  design, 

Nature  must  change  her  beauteous  face, 

And  when  death  should  arrive  I'd  be  pickled 

And  vary  as  the  seasons  rise  ; 

in  wine : 

As  winter  to  the  spring  gives  place, 

That  is,  toss'd  over-board,   have  the   sea  for 

Summer  th'  approach  of  autumn  flies  : 

ray  grave, 

No  change  on  love  the  seasons  bring-,  — 

And  lie  nobly  entomb'd   in  a  blood-colour' d 

Love  only  knows  perpetual  spring. 

wave  ; 

That,   living  or  dead,    both    my    body    and 

Devouring  time,  with  stealing  pace. 

spirit 

Makes  lofty  oaks  and  cedars  bow; 

Should  float  round  the  globe  in  an  ocean  of 

And  marble  towers,  and  gates  of  brass, 

claret, 

In  his  rude  march  he  levels  low  : 

The   truest   of   friends   and   the  best  of   all 

But  time,  destroying  far  and  wide. 

juices, 

Love  from  the  soul  can  ne'er  divide. 

Worth  both  the  rich  metals  that  India  pro- 

duces : 

Death  only,  with  his  cruel  dart. 

For  all  men  we  find  from  the  young  to  the 

The  gentle  godhead  can  remove  ; 

old, 

And  drive  him  from  the  bleeding  heart 

Will  exchange  for  the  bottle  their  silver  and 

To  mingle  with  the  bless' d  above. 

gold, 

Where,  known  to  all  his  kindred  train, 

Except    rich   fanatics— a   pox   on   their   pic- 
tures ! 
That  make  themselves  slaves  to  their  prayers 

He  finds  a  lasting  rest  from  pain. 

Love,  and  his  sister  fair,  the  Soul, 

and  their  lectures ; 

Twin-born,  from  heaven  together  came  : 

And    think  that  on  earth  there   is    nothing 

Love  will  the  universe  control. 

divine. 

When  dying  seasons  lose  their  name ; 

But  a  canting  old  fool  and  a  bag  full  of  coin. 

Divine  abodes  shall  own  his  pow'r, 

What  though  the  dull  saint  make  his  standard 

When  time  and  death  shall  be  no  more. 

and  sterling 

His  refuge,  his  glory,   his  god,  and   his  dar- 
ling; 

The    mortal    that    drinks    is    the  only  brave 
fellow. 

Barton  Booth.— Boi-n  1681,  Died  1733. 

Though  never  so  poor,  he 's  a  king  when  he  's 

mellow ; 
Grows    richer   than    Croesus   with  whimsical 

837.— SONG. 

thinking, 

Love  is  by  fancy  led  about 

And   never  knows  care  whilst  he  follows  his 

Frum  hope  to  fear,  from  joy  to  doubt ; 

drinking. 

Whom  we  now  an  angel  call, 

Edivanl  Ward.— Born  1667,  Died  1731. 

Divinely  graced  in  every  feature. 

Straight 's  a  deform' d,  a  perjured  creature; 

Love  and  hate  are  fancy  all. 
'Tis  but  as  fancy  shall  present 

(Objects  of  grief,  or  of  content, 

836.— SONG. 

That  the  lover 's  blest,  or  dies  : 

Visions  of  mighty  pain,  or  pleasure, 

Sweet  are  the  charms  of  her  I  love. 

Imagined  want,  imagined  treasure, 

More  fragrant  than  the  damask  rose, 

All  in  powerful  fancy  lies. 

Soft  as  the  down  of  turtle  dove, 

Gentle  as  air  when  Zephyr  blows. 

Qe<yi7ge  Granville,  Lord  Lansdowne. — 

Eefreshing  as  descending  rains 

]^-::-n  1667,  Died  1735. 

To  sun-burnt  climes,  and  thirsty  plains. 

True  as  the  needle  to  the  polo. 

Or  as  the  dial  to  the  sun  ; 

838.— SONG. 

Constant  as  gliding  waters  roll. 

Whose  swelling  tides  obey  the  moon ; 
From  every  other  charmer  free. 
My  life  and  love  shall  follow  thee. 

I  lately  vow'd,  but  'twas  in  haste, 
That  I  no  more  would  court 

The  joys  that  seem  when  they  are  past 
As  dull  as  they  are  short. 

The  lamb  the  flowery  thyme  devours, 

I  oft  to  hate  my  mistress  swear, 

The  dam  the  tender  kid  pursues  ; 

But  soon  my  weakness  find  % 

Sweet  Philomel,  in  shady  bowers 

I  make  my  oaths  when  she  'a  severe, 

Of  verdant  spring  her  note  renews  ; 

But  break  them  when  she's  kind. 

All  follow  what  they  most  admire, 

As  I  pursue  my  soul's  desire. 

John  Oldmixon.—Bom  1673,  Died  1742. 

Sir  Eobekt  Ayton.] 


THE  CHUECH-BUILDEE. 


[Fifth  Pektod.- 


839.— THE  CHUECH-BUILDEE. 

A  wretch  had  committed  all  manner  of  evil, 
And  was   justly   afraid   of    death    and    the 

devil; 
Being  touch'd  mth  remorse,  he  sent  for  a 

priest, 
He  was  wondrous  godly,  he  pray'd  and  con-   j 

fess'd : 
But  the  father,  unmoved  with  the  marks  of 

contrition, 
Before  absolution,  imposed  this  condition  : 

"  You  must  build   and  endow,  at  your  own 

proper  charge, 
A  church,"   quoth  the   parson,   "  convenient 

and  large. 
Where  souls  to  the  tune  of  four  thousand  and 

odd, 
Without   any   crowding,    may  sit   and   serve 

God." 


"  I'U  do't,"  cried  the  penitent,  "father,  ne'er 
fear  it ; 

My  estate  is  encumber' d,  but  if  I  once  clear 
it, 

The  beneficed  clerks  should  be  sweetly  in- 
creased— 

Instead  of  one  church,  I'd  build  fifty  at 
least." 

But    ah  !    what   is   man  ?     I    speak  it  with 

sorrow, 
His  fit  of  religion  was  gone  by  to-morrow  ; 
He  then  huff'd  the  doctor,  and  call'd  him  to 

naught. 
There  were  churches  to  spare,  and  he'd  not 

give  a  groat. 
When  he  mention'd  his  vow,  he  cried,  "  D — n 

me,  I'm  sober, 
But  all  yesterday  I  was  drunk  with  October." 

^ir  Robert  Ayton. — About  1711. 


THE    SIXTH    PERIOD, 

FKOM  1727  TO  1780. 


DURING  this  period  Great  Britain  produced  some  of  the  greatest  names  in  the  world's 
muster  roll  of  men  of  genius.  We  have,  among  poets,  Edward  Young,  with  his  solemn 
and  often  grand  "  Night  Thoughts  "  ;  Thomson  with  his  graphic  descriptions  of  Winter  in  its 
gloom  and  stoma  ;  Spring  in  its  clear  sunshine  and  fitful  showers,  its  peeping  flowers  and  its 
cheery  feelings  ;  Summer  in  its  gay  voluptuousness ;  and  Autumn  in  its  falling  leaves,  quiet 
decay,  and  melancholy  fancies.  We  have  John  Dyer  with  his  exquisite  "  Grongar  Hill,"  and 
Shenstone  with  his  exquisite  "  Garden,"  and  Gray  with  his  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church-yard," 
which  the  world  will  never  let  die ;  and  dear,  generous,  genial,  loving,  and  beloved  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  and  Chatterton,  the  wondrous  boy  whose  monument  at  that  grand  old  church  at 
Bristol  awakens  thoughts  "too  deep  for  tears."  We  have  Logan  and  Bruce,  the  poetical 
Wartons,  Beattie  with  his  "  Minstrel,"  Alexander  Eoss  -with  his  "  Woo'd  and  Married  and 
A' ;  "  Christopher  Smart  with  his  ill-fated  story  belongs  to  this  period,  and  Lady  Ann  Barnard, 
who  has  thrown  a  lustre  even  on  the  illustrious  family  of  the  Lindsays.  We  have  as  Novelists  : 
Samuel  Eichardson,  Fielding,  Smollett,  Sterne,  the  great  and  noble  Samuel  Johnson,  the 
delicious  author  of  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  which  touches  the  heart  in  youth  and  old  age, 
and  Hem'y  Mackenzie. 

Among  Historians  we  have  David  Hume,  Dr.  William  Eobertson,  William  Tytler,  EdAvard 
Gibbon.  In  Divinity  there  shine  the  names  of  Butler,  Bishop  Warburton,  Bishop  Lowth,  Dr. 
C.  Middleton,  Dr.  Isaac  Watts,  so  simple  and  so  great,  this  testimony,  in  passing  from  an 
Episcopalian,  but  from  one  who  loves  all  good  men.  We  have  Hurd,  Jortin,  the  Evangelist 
John  Wesley  and  his -brother  Charles,  who  between  them  produced  some  of  the  most  exquisite 
Hymns  in  the  English  language  ;  Nathaniel  Lardner,  Leland,  Blair,  Campbell,  add  to  the  list  of 
ij'reai  and  much  loved  names.  We  have  also  the  magnificent  Edmund  Burke.  Never  shall  we 
forget  his  generous  kindness  to  poor  deserving  George  Crabbe.  All  night  Crabbe  walked  on 
Westminster  Bridge  after  leaving  his  letter  at  the  groat  man's  house  ;  little  did  Burke  know 
that !  but  all  night  he  walked  in  suspense  ;  but  when  he  called  next  day  the  helping  hand  was 
stretched  out,  and  nobly  did  Crabbe  repay.  We  have  Junius,  and  Adam  Smith,  and  Sir 
William  Blackstone,  and  the  great  Earl  of  Chatham.  It  was  a  glorious  xjeriod,  and  Englishmen 
may  well  be  proud  of  it. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICES. 


I 


EICHAED  SAVAGE. 

"  Eichard  Savage,  born  1696,  died  1743,  so 
well  known  for  Johnson's  account  of  him,  was 
the  bastard  child  of  Eichard  Savage,  Earl 
Elvers,  and  the  Countess  of  Macclesfield.  He 
led  a  dissipated  and  erratic  life,  the  Adctim  of 
circumstances  and  of  his  own  passions.  In  his 
miscellaneous  poems  the  best  are  '  The  Wan- 
derer' and  'The  Bastard.' "—See  Shaw's 
"Hist.  Eng.  Lit."  p.  312. 


EOBEET  BLAIE. 

"Eobert  Blair,  bom  1699,  died  1746,  was 
minister  of  the  parish  of  Athelstaneford,in  East 
Lothian.  His  son,  who  died  not  many  years  ago, 
was  a  very  high  legal  character  in  Scotland.  The 
eighteenth  century  has  produced  few  specimens 
of  blank  verse  of  so  powerful  and  simple  a 
character  as  that  of  '  The  Grave.'  It  is  a 
popular  poem,  not  merely  because  it  is  reli- 
gious, but  because  its  language  and  imagery 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


are  free,  natural,  and  picturesque.  The  latest 
editor  of  the  poets  has,  with  sin^ilarly  bad 
taste,  noted  some  of  this  author's  most  ner- 
vous and  expressive  phrases  as  vulgarisms, 
among  which  ho  reckons  that  of  friendship 
'  the  solder  of  society.'  Blair  may  be  a  homely 
and  even  a  gloomy  poet  in  the  eye  of  fastidious 
criticism ;  but  there  is  a  masculine  and  pro- 
nounced character  even  in  his  gloom  and 
homeliness  that  keeps  it  most  distinctly  apart 
from  either  dullness  or  vulgarity.  His  style 
pleases  us  like  the  powerful  expression  of  a 
countenance  without  regular  beauty.  Blair 
was  a  great  favourite  with  Burns,  who  quotes 
from  '  The  Grave '  very  frequently  in  his 
letters." — Campbell's  "  Specimens."  See 
GilfiUan's  Ed.  of  Blair's  "Grave"  ;  AUibone's 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


ISAAC  WATTS. 

"  This  admirable  person  was  born  at  South- 
ampton on  the  17th  of  July,  1674.  His 
father,  of  the  same  name,  kept  a  boarding- 
school  for  young  gentlemen,  and  was  a  man 
of  intelligence  and  piety.  Isaac  was  the 
eldest  of  nine  children,  and  began  early  to 
display  precocity  of  genius.  At  four  he  com- 
menced to  study  Latin  at  home,  and  afterwards, 
under  one  Pinhorn,  a  clergyman,  who  kept 
the  free- school  at  Southampton,  he  learned 
Latin,  Hebrew,  and  Greek.  A  subscription 
was  proposed  for  sending  him  to  one  of  the 
great  universities,  but  he  preferred  casting  in 
his  lot  with  the  Dissenters.  He  repaired  ac- 
cordingly, in  1690,  to  an  academy  kept  by 
the  Eev.  Thomas  Rowe,  whose  son,  we  believe, 
became  the  husband  of  the  celebrated  Eliza- 
beth Eowe,  the  once  popular  author  of 
'  Letters  from  the  Dead  to  the  Living.'  The 
Rowes  belonged  to  the  Independent  body.  At 
this  academy  Watts  began  to  write  poetry, 
chiefly  in  the  Latin  language,  and  in  the  then 
popular  Pindaric  measure.  At  the  age  of 
twenty,  he  returned  to  his  father's  house,  and 
spent  two  quiet  years  in  devotion,  meditation, 
and  study.  He  became  next  a  tutor  in  the 
family  of  Sir  John  Hartopp  for  five  years. 
He  was  afterwards  chosen  assistant  to  Dr. 
Chauncey,  and,  after  the  Doctor's  death,  be- 
came his  successor.  His  health,  however, 
failed,  and,  after  getting  an  assistant  for  a 
while,  he  was  compelled  to  resign.  In  1712, 
Sir  Thomas  Abney,  a  benevolent  gentleman  of 
the  neighbourhood,  received  Watts  into  his 
house,  where  he  continued  during  the  rest  of 
his  life — all  his  wants  attended  to,  and  his 
feeble  frame  so  tenderly  cared  for  that  he 
lived  to  the  age  of  seventy-five.  Sir  Thomas 
died  eight  years  after  Dr.  Watts  entered  his 
establishment,  but  the  widow  and  daughters 
continued  unwearied  in  their  attentions.  Ab- 
ney House  was  a  mansion  surrounded  by  fine 


gardens  and  pleasure-grounds,  where  the 
Doctor  became  thoroughly  at  home,  and  was 
wont  to  refresh  his  body  and  mind  in  the 
intervals  of  study.  He  preached  regularly  to 
a  congregation,  and  in  the  pulpit,  although  his 
stature  was  low,  not  exceeding  five  feet,  the 
excellence  of  his  matter,  the  easy  flow  of  his 
language,  and  the  jiropriety  of  his  pronuncia- 
tion, rendered  him  very  popular.  In  private 
he  was  exceedingly  kind  to  the  poor  and  to 
children,  giving  to  the  former  a  third  part  of 
his  small  income  of  ^100  a-year,  and  writing 
for  the  other  his  inimitable  hymns.  Besides 
these,  he  published  a  well-known  '  Treatise  on 
Logic,'  another  on  '  The  Improvement  of  the 
Mind,'  besides  various  theological  productions, 
amongst  which  his  '  World  to  Come '  has 
been  pre-eminently  popular.  In  1728,  he 
received  from  Edinburgh  and  Aberdeen  an 
unsolicited  diploma  of  Doctor  of  Divinity.  As 
age  advanced,  he  found  himself  unable  to  dis- 
charge his  ministerial  duties,  and  offered  to 
remit  his  salary,  but  his  congregation  refused 
to  accept  his  demission.  On  the  25th  No- 
vember, 1748,  quite  worn  out,  but  without 
suifering,  this  a]?le  and  worthy  man  expired. 

"If  to  be  eminently  useful  is  to  fulfil  the 
highest  purpose  of  hnmo.nity,  it  Avas  certainly 
fulfilled  by  Isaac  Watts.  His  logical  and 
other  treatises  have  served  to  brace  the  in- 
tellects, methodise  the  studios,  and  con- 
centrate the  activities  of  thousands — we  had 
nearly  said  of  millions — of  minds.  This  has 
given  him  an  enviable  di^^tinction,  but  he 
shone  still  more  in  that  other  province  he 
so  felicitously  chose  and  so  successfullly 
occupied — that  of  the  hearts  of  the  young. 
One  of  his  detractors  called  him  '  Mother 
Watts.'  He  might  have  taken  up-  this 
epithet,  and  bound  it  as  a  crown  unto 
him.  We  have  heard  of  a  pious  foreigner 
possessed  of  imperfect  English,  who,  in  an 
agony  of  supplication  to  God  for  some  sick 
friend,  said,  '  O  Fader,  hear  me !  O  Mudder, 
hear  me  ! '  It  struck  us  as  one  of  the  finest 
of  stories,  and  containing  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  tributes  to  the  Deity  we  ever  heard, 
recognising  in  Him  a  pity  which  not  even  a 
father,  which  only  a  mother  can  feel.  Like  a 
tender  mother  does  good  Watts  bend  over  the 
little  children,  and  secure  that  their  first 
words  of  song  shall  be  those  of  simple,  heart- 
felt trust  in  God,  and  of  faith  in  their  Elder 
Brother.  To  create  a  little  heaven  in  the 
nursery  by  hymns,  and  these  not  mawkish  or 
twaddling,  but  beautifully  natural  and  ex- 
quisitely simple  breathings  of  piety  and  praise, 
was  the  high  task  to  which  Watts  consecrated, 
and  by  which  he  has  immortalised,  his  genius." 
— GilfiUan's  "Less-known  Brit.  Poets,"  vol. 
iii.,  pp.  91-93. 

PHILIP  DODDRIDGE. 

"Philip  Doddridge,  bom  1702,  died  1751, 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  Nonconformist 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


divines.  He  was  born  in  London,  was  edu- 
cated among  the  Dissenters,  became  minister 
at  Northampton,  and  died  at  Lisbon,  whither 
he  had  departed  for  the  benefit  of  his  health. 
Doddridge  was  a  man  of  learning  and  earnest 
piety.  He  was  beloved  and  admired  by  all 
the  religious  bodies  of  the  country.  His  style 
is  plain,  simple,  and  forcible.  He  was  a  critic 
of  some  acumen,  and  a  preacher  of  great  dis- 
tinction. But  his  name  lives  from  his  practical 
works  and  expository  writings,  the  chief 
of  which  are — '  Discourses  on  Eegeneration,' 
1741;  'Rise  and  Progress  of  Religion  in  the 
Soul,'  1745 ;  and  his  greatest  and  most  ex- 
tensive work,  '  The  Family  Expositor,'  one  of 
the  most  widely-circulated  works  of  its  class." 
— Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Allibone's 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." ;  Dr.  Kippis,  in 
"  Biog.  Brit."  ;  Dr.  Ralph  Wardlaw ;  Bishop 
"Warburton ;  Dr.  E.  Williams  ;  T.  H.  Home  ; 
Dr.  Dibdin  ;  Barrington,  Bishop  of  Durham  ; 
Robert  Hall's  "  Letters  "  ;  Dr.  Francis  Hunt ; 
Morell;  "London  Evangel.  Mag.";  Bishop 
Jebb. 


EDWARD  YOUNG. 

Edward  Young,  born  1681,  died  17G5.  "I 
now  come,"  says  Shaw,  in  his  '  Hist.  Eng. 
Lit.,'  "  to  Edward  Young,  the  most  powerful 
of  the  secondary  poets  of  the  epoch.  He 
began  his  career  in  the  unsuccessful  pursuit 
of  fortune  in  the  public  and  diplomatic  service 
of  the  country.  Disappointed  in  his  hopes 
and  somewhat  soured  in  his  temper  he  entered 
the  Church,  and  serious  domestic  losses  still 
further  intensified  a  natural  tendency  to 
morbid  and  melancholy  reflection.  He  ob- 
tained his  first  literary  fame  by  his  satire 
entitled  the  'Love  of  Fame,  the  Universal 
Passion,'  written  before  he  had  abandoned  a 
secular  career.  It  is  in  rhyme  and  bears  con- 
siderable resemblance  to  the  manner  of  Pope, 
though  it  is  deficient  in  that  exquisite  grace 
and  neatness  which  distinguish  the  latter.  In 
referring  the  vices  and  follies  of  mankind 
chiefly  to  vanity  and  the  foolish  desire  of 
applause,  Young  exhibits  a  false  and  narrow 
view  of  hiiman  motives ;  but  there  are  many 
passages  in  the  three  epistles,  which  compose 
this  satire,  that  exhibit  strong  powers  of 
observation  and  description,  and  a  keen  and 
vigorous  expression  which,  though  sometimes 
degenerating  into  that  tendency  to  paradox 
and  epigram  which  are  the  prevailing  defect 
of  Young's  genius,  are  not  unworthy  of  his 
great  model.  The  Second  Epistle,  describing 
the  character  of  women,  may  be  compared, 
without  altogether  losing  in  the  parallel,  to 
Pope's  admirable  work  on  the  same  subject. 
But  Young's  place  in  the  history  of  English 
poetry — a  place  long  a  very  high  one,  and 
which  is  likely  to  remain  a  far  from  unenviable 
one — is  due  to  his  striking  and  original  poem 
'  The  Night  Thoughts.'    This  work,  consisting 


of  nine  nights  or  meditations,  is  in  blank 
verse,  and  consists  of  reflections  on  Life, 
Death,  Immortality,  and  all  the  most  solemn 
subjects  that  can  engage  the  attention  of  the 
Christian  and  the  philosopher.  The  general 
tone  of  the  work  is  sombre  and  gloomy,  per- 
haps in  some  degree  affectedly  so,  f?»r  though 
the  author  perpetually  parades  the  melancholy 
personal  circumstances  under  which  he  wrote, 
overwhelmed  by  the  rapidly-succeeding  losses 
of  many  who  were  dearest  to  him,  the  reader 
can  never  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  the  grief 
and  desolation  were  purposely  exaggerated  for 
eiFect.  In  spite  of  this,  however,  the  grandeur 
of  Nature  and  the  sublimity  of  the  Divine 
attributes  are  so  forcibly  and  eloquently  de- 
picted, the  arguments  against  sin  and  in- 
fidelity are  so  concisely  and  powerfully  urged, 
!  and  the  contrast  between  the  nothingness  of 
I  man's  earthly  aims  and  the  immensity  of  his 
I  immortal  aspirations  is  so  pointedly  set  before 
I  us,  that  the  poem  will  always  make  deep  im- 
I  pression  on  the  religious  reader.  The  pre- 
i  vailing  defects  of  Young's  mind  were  an 
irresistible  tendency  to  antithesis  and  epi- 
grammatic contrast,  and  a  want  of  discrimi- 
nation that  often  leaves  him  utterly  unable  to 
distinguish  between  an  idea  really  just  and 
striking,  and  one  which  is  only  superficially  so  : 
and  this  Avant  of  taste  frequently  leads  him 
into  illustrations  and  comparisons  rather 
puerile  than  ingenious,  as  when  he  compares 
the  stars  to  diamonds  in  a  seal-ring  upon  the 
finger  of  the  Almighty.  Ho  is  also  remark- 
able for  a  deficiency  in  continuous'  elevation, 
advancing  so  to  say  by  jerks  and  starts  of 
pathos  and  sublimity.  The  march  of  his 
verse  is  generally  solemn  and  majestic,  though 
it  possesses  little  of  the  rolling  thundrous 
melody  of  Milton ;  and  Young  is  fond  of  in- 
troducing familiar  images  and  expressions, 
often  with  great  eS'ect,  amid  his  most  lofty 
bursts  of  declamation.  The  epigrammatic 
nature  of  some  of  his  most  striking  images 
is  best  testified  by  the  large  number  of  ex- 
pressions which  have  passed  from  his  writings 
into  the  colloquial  language  of  society,  such 
as  '  procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time,'  '  all 
men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves,' 
and  a  multitude  of  others.  A  sort  of  quaint 
solemnity,  like  the  ornamentation  upon  a 
Gothic  tomb,  is  the  impression  which  the 
'Night  Thoughts'  are  calculated  to  make 
upon  the  reader  in  the  present  time ;  and  it 
is  a  strong  proof  of  the  essential  greatness  of 
his  genius,  that  the  quaintness  is  not  able  to 
extinguish  the  solemnity." — Dr.  Angus's 
"  Handbook  of  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Gilfillan's  Ed.  of 
"  Young's  Poems  ";  Campbell's  "  Speci- 
mens." 


JAMES  THOMSON. 

"  James    Thomson,   a    distinguished    Bri- 
tish  poet,  born    at   Ednam,   near  Kelso,   in 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Pebiod.- 


Scotland,  in  1700,  was  one  of  the  nine 
children  of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Thomson,  minister 
of  that  place.  James  was  sent  to  the  school 
of  Jedburgh,  where  he  attracted  the  notice  of 
a  neighbouring  minister  by  his  propensity  to 
poetry,  who  encouraged  his  early  attempts, 
and  corrected  his  performances.  On  his  re- 
moval from  school,  he  was  sent  to  the 
university  of  Edinburgh,  where  he  chiefly 
attended  to  the  cultivation  of  his  poetical 
faculty ;  but'  the  death  of  his  father,  during 
his  second  session,  ha\'ing  brought  his  mother 
to  Edinburgh  for  the  purpose  of  educating  her 
children,  James  complied  with  the  advice  of 
his  friends,  and  entered  upon  a  course  of 
divinity.  Here,  we  are  told,  that  the  ex- 
planation of  a  psalm  having  been  required 
from  him  as  a  probationary  exercise,  he  per- 
formed it  in  language  so  splendid,  that  he  was 
reproved  by  his  professor  for  employing  a  dic- 
tion which  it  was  not  likely  that  any  one  of  his 
future  audience  could  comprehend.  This  ad- 
monition completed  the  disgust  which  he  felt 
for  the  profession  chosen  for  him  ;  and  having 
connected  liimseK  with  some  young  men  in 
the  university  who  were  aspirants  after  literary 
eminence,  he  readily  listened  to  the  advice  of 
a  lady,  the  friend  of  his  mother,  and  deter- 
mined to  try  his  fortune  in  the  great  metro- 
polis, London. 

"  In  1725  Thomson  came  by  sea  to  the 
capital,  where  he  soon  found  out  his  college 
acquaintance.  Mallet,  to  whom  ho  showed 
his  poem  of  '  Winter,'  then  composed  in  de- 
tached passages  of  the  descriptive  kind. 
Mallet  advised  him  to  form  them  into  a  con- 
nected piece,  and  immediately  to  print  it.  It 
was  purchased  for  a  small  sum,  and  appeared 
in  1726,  dedicated  to  Sir  Spencer  Compton. 
Its  merits,  however,  were  little  understood  by 
the  public  ;  till  Mr.  Whateley,  a  person  of 
acknowledged  taste,  happening  to  cast  an  eye 
upon  it,  was  struck  with  its  beauties,  and 
gave  it  vogue.  His  dedicatee,  who  had 
hitherto  neglected  him,  made  him  a  present 
of  twenty  guineas,  and  he  was  introduced  to 
Pope,  Bishop  Eundle,  and  Lord-Chancellor 
Talbot,  In  1727,  he  published  another  of  his 
seasons,  '  Summer,'  dedicated  to  Mr,  Dodding- 
ton,  for  it  was  still  the  custom  for  poets  to 
pay  this  tinbute  to  men  in  power.  In  the 
same  year  he  gave  to  the  public  his  '  Poem, 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,' 
and  his  '  Britannia.'  His  '  Spring '  was  pub- 
lished in  1728,  addressed  to  the  Countess  of 
Hertford  ;  and  the  '  Seasons  '  were  completed 
by  the  addition  of  'Autumn,'  dedicated  to  Mr. 
Onslow,  in  1730,  when  they  were  published 
collectively. 

"As  nothing  was  more  tempting  to  the 
cupidity  of  an  author  than  dramatic  com- 
position, Thomson  resolved  to  become  a  com- 
petitor for  that  laurel  also,  and  in  1728  he 
had  the  influence  to  bring  upon  the  stage  of 
Drury-lane  his  tragedy  of  '  Sophonisba.'  It 
was  succeeded  by  '  Agamemnon ; '    '  Edward 


and  Eieonora ; '  and  '  Tancred  and  Sigis- 
munda  ; '  but  although  these  pieces  were  not 
without  their  merits,  the  moral  strain  was  too 
prevalent  for  the  public  taste,  and  they  have 
long  ceased  to  occupy  the  theatre.  Through 
the  recommendation  of  Dr.  Eundle,  he  was, 
about  1729,  selected  as  the  travelling  asso- 
ciate of  the  Hon,  Mr,  Talbot,  eldest  son  of 
the  Chancellor,  with  whom  he  visited  most  of 
the  courts  of  the  European  continent.  During 
this  tour,  the  idea  of  a  poem  on  '  Liberty ' 
suggested  itself,  and  after  his  return,  he  em- 
ployed two  years  in  its  completion.  The  place 
of  secretary  of  the  briefs,  which  was  nearly  a 
sinecure,  repaid  him  for  his  attendance  on  Mr. 
Talbot.  '  Liberty  '  at  length  appeared,  and 
was  dedicated  to  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales, 
whoj  in  opposition  to  the  court,  affected  the 
X^atronage  of  letters,  as  well  as  of  liberal 
sentiments  in  politics.  He  granted  Thomson 
a  pension,  to  remunerate  him  for  the  loss  of 
his  place  by  the  death  of  Lord  Chancellor 
Talbot.  In  1746  appeared  his  poem,  called 
'  The  Castle  of  Indolence,'  which  had  been 
several  years  under  his  i^clishing  hand,  and 
by  many  is  considered  as  his  principal  per- 
formance. He  was  now  in  tolerably  affluent 
circmnstances,  a  place  of  Surveyor- General  of 
the  Leeward  Islands,  given  him  by  Mr.  Lyttle- 
ton,  bringing  him  in,  after  paying  a  deputy, 
about  <£300  a  year.  He  did  not,  however, 
long  enjoy  this  state  of  comfort ;  for  returning 
I  one  evening  from  London  to  Kew-lane,  he  was 
I  attacked  by  a  fever,  which  proved  fatal  in 
1  August,  1748,  the  48th  year  of  his  age.  He 
I  was  interred  without  any  memorial  in  Eich- 
mond  Church ;  but  a  monument  was  erected 
to  his  memory,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  in 
1762,  with  the  profits  arising  from  an  edition 
of  his  works  published  by  Mr,  Millar. 

"  Thomson  in  person  was  large  and  ungainly, 
with  a  heavy,  unanimated  countenance,  and 
having  nothing  in  his  appearance  in  mixed 
society  indicating  the  man  of  genius  or  refine- 
ment. He  was,  however,  easy  and  cheerful 
with  select  friends,  by  whom  he  was  singularly 
beloved  for  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  and  his 
freedom  from  all  the  malignant  passions  which 
too  often  debase  the  literary  character.  His 
temper  was  much  inclined  to  indolence,  and 
he  was  fond  of  indulgence  of  every  kind ;  in 
particularhe  was  more  attached  to  the  pleasures 
of  sense,  than  the  sentimental  delicacy  of  his 
writings  would  induce  a  reader  to  suppose. 
For  the  moral  tendency  of  his  works,  no 
author  has  deserved  more  praise  ;  and  no  one 
can  rise  from  the  perusal  of  his  pages,  without 
being  sensible  of  a  melioration  of  his  principles 
or  feelings. 

"  The  poetical  merits  of  Thomson  un- 
doubtedly stand  most  conspicuous  in  his 
'  Seasons,'  the  first  long  composition,  perhaps, 
of  which  natural  description  was  made  the 
staple,  and  certainlj'  the  most  fertile  of  grand 
and  beautiful  delineations,  in  great  measure 
deduced  from  the  author's  own  observation. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Its  diction  is  somewliat  cumbrous  and  la- 
boured, but  energetic  and  expressive.  Its 
versification  does  not  denote  a  practised  ear, 
but  is  seldom  unpleasantly  harsh.  Upon  the 
whole,  no  poem  has  been  more,  and  more 
deservedly,  popular  ;  and  it  has  exerted  a 
powerful  influence  upon  public  taste,  not  only 
in  this  country,  but  throughout  Europe.  Any 
addition  to  his  fame  has  principally  arisen 
from  his  '  Castle  of  Indolence,'  an  allegorical 
composition  in  the  manner  and  stanza  of 
Spenser,  and  among  the  imitators  of  this  poet 
Thomson  may  deserve  the  preference,  on 
account  of  the  application  of  his  fable,  and 
the  moral  and  descriptive  beauties  by  which 
it  is  filled  up.  This  piece  is  entirely  free  from 
the  stiffness  of  language  perceptible  in  the 
author's  blank  verse,  which  is  also  the  case 
with  many  of  his  songs,  and  other  rhymed 
poems." — ^Aikin's  "Select  Brit.  Poets."  See 
Gilfillan's  Ed.  of  "  Thomson's  Poems " ; 
Scrynigeour's  "  Poetry  and  Poets  of  Bri- 
tain "  ;  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


JOHN  DYEE. 

"  John  Dyer,  an  agreeable  poet,  was  the  son 
of  a  solicitor  at  Aberglasney,  in  Carmarthen- 
shire, where  he  was  born  in  1700.  He  was 
brought  up  at  Westminster  School,  and  was 
ilesigned  by  his  father  for  his  own  profession  ; 
but  being  at  liberty,  in  consequence  of  his 
father's  death,  to  follow  his  own  inclination, 
he  indulged  what  he  took  for  a  natural  taste 
in  painting,  and  entered  as  pupil  to  Mr. 
Richardson.  After  wandering  for  some  time 
about  South  Wales  and  the  adjacent  counties 
as  an  itinerant  artist,  he  appeared  convinced 
that  he  should  not  attain  to  eminence  in  that 
profession.  In  1727  ho  first  made  himself 
known  as  a  poet,  by  the  j)ublication  of  his 
'  Grongar  Hill,'  descriptive  of  a  scene  afforded 
by  his  native  country,  which  became  one  of 
the  most  popular  pieces  of  its  class,  and  has 
been  admitted  into  numerous  collections. 
Dyer  then  travelled  to  Italy,  still  in  pursuit 
of  professional  improvement ;  and  if  he  did 
not  acquire  this  in  any  considerable  degree, 
he  improved  his  poetical  taste,  and  laid  in  a 
store  of  new  images.  These  he  displayed  in 
a  poem  of  some  length,  published  in  1740, 
which  he  entitled  '  The  Ruins  of  Eome,'  that 
capital  having  been  the  principal  object  of  his 
journeyings.  Of  this  work  it  may  be  said, 
that  it  contains  many  passages  of  real  poetry, 
and  that  the  strain  of  moral  and  political  re- 
flection denotes  a  benevolent  and  enlightened 
mind. 

"  His  health  being  now  in  a  delicate  state, 
he  was  advised  by  his  friends  to  take  orders ; 
and  he  was  accordingly  ordained  by  Dr. 
Thomas,  Bishop  of  Lincoln ;  and  entering 
into  the  married  state,  he  sat  down  on  a  small 


living  in  Leicestershire.  This  he  exchanged 
for  one  in  Lincolnshire ;  but  the  fenny  country 
in  which  he  was  placed  did  not  agree  with  his 
health,  and  he  complained  of  the  want  of 
books  and  company.  In  1757  he  published 
his  largest  work,  '  The  Fleece,'  -a  didactic 
poem,  in  four  books,  of  which  the  first  part 
is  pastoral,  the  second  mechanical,  and  the 
third  and  fourth  historical  and  geographical. 
This  poem  has  never  been  very  popular,  many 
of  its  topics  not  being  well  adapted  to  poetry ; 
yet  the  opinions  of  critics  have  vai-ied  con- 
cerning it.  It  is  certain  that  there  are  many 
pleasing,  and  some  grand  and  impressive  pas- 
sages in  the  work ;  but,  upon  the  whole,  the 
general  feeling  is,  that  the  length  of  the  per- 
formance necessarily  imposed  upon  it  a  degree 
of  tediousness. 

"  Dyer  did  not  long  survive  the  completion 
of  his  book.  He  died  of  a  gradual  decline  in 
1758,  leaving  behind  him,  besides  the  reputa- 
tion of  an  ingenious  poet,  the  character  of  an 
honest,  humane,  and  T^orthy  person." — Aikin'a 
"  Select  Poets  of  Brit."  See  AUibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit." ;  "  Life  of  Dyer,"  by  Dr. 
Samuel  Johnson  ;  Drake's  "Literary  Hours," 
vol.  i.,  p.  160,  et  seq.  ;  vol.  ii.,  p.  35.  A  col- 
lective edition  of  Dyer's  Works  was  pub- 
lished in  1761,  8vo. ;  Gilfillan's  Ed.  of  "  Dyer's 
Poems  "  ;  Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 

"  William  Hamilton,  of  Bangour,  was  born 
in  Ayrshire  in  1704.  He  was  of  an  ancient 
family,  and  mingled  from  the  first  in  the  most 
fashionable  circles.  Ere  he  was  twenty  he 
■wrote  verses  in  Ramsay's  'Tea-Table  Miscel- 
lany.' In  1745,  to  the  surprise  of  many,  he 
joined  the  standard  of  Prince  Charles,  and 
Avrote  a  poem  on  the  battle  of  Gladsmuir,  or 
Prestonpans.  When  the  i*e verse  of  his  party 
came,  after  many  wanderings  and  hair's- 
breadth  escapes  in  the  Highlands,  he  found 
refuge  in  France.  As 'he  was  a  general  fa- 
vourite, and  as  much  allowance  was  made  for 
his  poetical  temperament,  a  pardon  was  soon 
procured  for  him  by  his  friends,  and  he  re- 
turned to  his  native  country.  His  health, 
however,  originally  delicate,  had  suffered  by 
his  Highland  privations,  and  he  was  compelled 
to  seek  the  milder  clime  of  Lyons,  where  he 
died  in  1754. 

"  Hamilton  was  what  is  called  a  ladies'-man, 
but  his  attachments  were  not  deep,  and  he 
rather  flirted  than  loved.  A  Scotch  lady,  who 
was  annoyed  at  his  addresses,  asked  John 
Home  how  she  could  get  rid  of  them.  He, 
knowing  Hamilton  well,  advised  her  to  appear 
to  favour  him.  She  acted  on  the  advice,  and 
he  immediately  withdrew  his  suit.  And  yet 
his  best  poem  is  a  tale  of  love,  and  a  tale,  too, 
told  with  great  simplicity  and  pathos.     We 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Pekiod. 


refer  to  his  '  Braes  of  Yarrow,'  the  beauty  of 
which  we  never  felt  fiilly  till  we  saw  some 
time  ago  that  lovely  region,  with  its  '  dowie 
dens,' — its  clear  living  stream,  —  Newark 
Castle,  with  its  woods  and  memories, — and 
the  green  wildernesses  of  silent  hiUs  which 
stretch  on  all  sides  around;  saw  it,  too,  in 
that  aspect  of  which  Wordsworth  sung  in  the 
words — 

'  The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed 
And  pastoral  melancholy.' 

It  is  the  highest  praise  we  can  bestow  upon 
Hamilton's  baUad  that  it  ranks  in  merit  near 
Wordsworth's  fine  trinity  of  poems,  'Yarrow 
Unvisited,'  'Yarrow  Visited,'  and  'Yarrow 
Eevisited.'  " — GilfiHan's  "  Less-known  Brit. 
Poets,"  vol.  iii.,  pp.  102,  103.  See  Allibone's 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Lord  Woodhouselee's 
"  Life  of  Lord  Kames";  Professor  Eichardson; 
Boswell's  "Life  of  Johnson";  Anderson's 
"Brit.  Poets"  ;  "  The  Lounger"  ;  "Transac. 
of  Scot.  Antiq."  ;  Chambers's  and  Thompson's 
"  Biog.  Diet,  of  Eminent  Scotsmen." 


DE.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

"  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  a  learned  English 
critic,  lexicographer,  and  miscellaneous  writer, 
was  the  son  of  a  bookseller  at  Lichfield.  His 
education  was  commenced  at  the  free  school 
of  Lichfield,  and  in  1728  he  was  admitted  of 
Pembroke  College,  Oxford ;  but  being  too  poor 
to  remain  at  the  university,  he,  in  1731,  quitted 
it  without  a  degree.  He  soon  afterwards  lost 
his  father,  who  left  him  in  such  poor  circum- 
stances that  he  sought  the  post  of  usher  of  a 
school  at  Market-Bos  worth,  Leicestershire, 
where,  however,  he  did  not  continue  long.  He 
next  resided  with  a  printer  at  Birmingham, 
where  he  translated  Lobo's  account  of  Abys- 
sinia. In  1735  he  married  Mrs.  Porter,  a 
widow  lady  of  that  town,  who  was  possessed  of 
the  sum  of  ^£800 ;  and  with  this  capital  he  the 
same  year  opened  a  school  at  Edial,  near  Lich- 
field ;  but  he  obtained  only  three  scholars,  one 
of  whom  was  David  Garrick.  About  this  time 
he  began  his  tragedy  of  '  Irene.'  In  1737  he 
set  out  for  the  metropolis,  accompanied  by 
Garrick.  On  fixing  his  residence  in  London, 
he  formed  a  connection  with  Cave,  the  publisher 
of  the  '  Gentleman's  Magazine,'  for  which 
work  he  wrote  during  several  years,  his  prin- 
cipal employment  being  an  account  of  the  par- 
liamentary debates.  At  this  period  he  con- 
tracted an  intimacy  with  Eichard  Savage, 
whose  name  he  has  immortalized  by  one  of  the 
finest  pieces  of  biography  ever  written.  In 
1749  appeared  his  'Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,' 
an  imitation  of  Juvenal's  tenth  Satire.  Two 
years  previously,  he  had  printed  proposals  for 
an  edition  of  Shakspere,  and  the  plan  of  his 


English  dictionary  addressed  to  Lord  Chester- 
field. The  price  agreed  upon  between  himself 
and  the  booksellers  for  the  last  work  was 
^1,575.  In  1749  Garrick  produced  his  friend's 
tragedy  upon  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
but  it  was  unsuccessful.  In  1750  he  com- 
menced his  '  Eambler,'  a  periodical  paper, 
which  was  continued  till  1752.  In  this  work 
only  five  papers  were  the  production  of  other 
writers.  About  the  period  of  his  relinquishing 
the  '  Eambler '  he  lost  his  wife,  a  circum- 
stance which  greatly  affected  him,  as  appears 
from  his  '  Meditations,'  and  the  sermon  which 
he  wrote  on  her  death.  In  1754  he  visited 
Oxford.  The  next  year  appeared  his  dictionary, 
which,  instead  of  three,  had  occupied  eight 
years.  Lord  Chesterfield  endeavoured  to  assist 
it  by  writing  two  papers  in  its  favour  in  the 
'.World ;'  but,  as  he  had  hitherto  neglected 
the  author,  Johnson  treated  him  with  con- 
tempt. The  publication  of  his  great  work  did 
not  relieve  him  from  his  embarrassments,  for 
the  price  of  his  labour  had  been  consumed  m 
the  progress  of  its  compilation,  and  the  year 
following  we  find  him  under  an  arrest  for  five 
guineas,  from  which  he  was  released  by  Ei- 
chardson, the  printer.  In  1758  he  began  the 
'  Idler,'  which  was  published  in  a  weekly 
newspaper.  On  the  death  of  his  mother,  in 
1759,  he  wrote  the  romance  of  '  Easselas,'  to 
defray  the  expenses  of  her  funeral,  and  to  pay 
her  debts.  In  1762,  George  III.  granted  him 
a  pension  of  ^6300  per  annum.  In  1763, 
Boswell,  his  future  biographer,  was  introduced 
to  him,  a  circumstance  to  which  we  owe  the 
most  minute  account  of  a  man's  life  and  cha- 
racter that  has  ever  been  written.  Boswell, 
though  a  very  ordinary  mortal,  has  immor- 
talized himself  by  this  performance.  In  his 
book  everything  about  Johnson  is  supplied  to 
us ;  in  Lord  Macaulay's  words,  we  have  '  his 
coat,  his  wig,  his  figure,  his  face,  his  scrofula, 
his  St.  Vitus' s  dance,  his  rolling  walk,  his 
blinking  eye,  the  outward  signs  which  too 
clearly  marked  the  approbation  of  his  dinner  ; 
his  insatiable  appetite  for  fish-sauce  and  veal- 
pie  with  plums ;  his  inextinguishable  thirst 
for  tea ;  his  trick  of  touching  the  posts  as  he 
walked ;  his  mysterious  practice  of  treasuring 
up  scraps  of  orange-peel ;  his  morning  slum- 
bers ;  his  midnight  disputations ;  his  contor- 
tions ;  his  mutterings ;  his  gruntings ;  his 
puffings  ;  his  vigorous,  acute,  and  ready  elo- 
quence ;  his  sarcastic  wit ;  his  vehemence  ;  his 
insolence ;  his  fits  of  tempestuous  rage ;  his 
queer  inmates — old  Mr.  Levett  and  blind  Mrs. 
Williams,  the  cat  Hodge,  and  the  negro  Frank 
— all  are  as  familiar  to  us  as  the  objects  by 
which  we  have  been  surrounded  from  child- 
hood.* Johnson  had  the  honour  of  a  conversa- 
tion with  the  king  in  the  royal  library,  in 
1765,  when  his  Majesty  asked  if  he  intended 
to  publish  any  more  works.  To  this  he  an- 
swered, that  he  thought  he  had  written 
enough ;  on  which  the  king  said,  '  So  should 
I  too,  if  you  had  not  written  so  well.'     About 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


this  time  he  instituted  the  Literary  Club,  con- 
sisting  of  some  of  the  most  celebrated  men  of 
the  age.  In  1773  he  went  on  a  tour  with 
Boswell  to  the  western  islands  of  Scotland,  of 
which  journey  he  shortly  afterwards  published 
an  account,  which  occasioned  a  controversy 
between  him  and  Macpherson,  relative  to  the 
poems  of  Ossian.  In  1775  the  university  of 
Oxford  sent  him  the  degree  of  LL.D.,  which 
diploma,  ten  years  before,  had  been  conferred 
on  him  by  the  university  of  Dublin.  In  1779 
he  began  his  '  Lives  of  the  English  Poets,' 
which  was  the  last  of  his  literary  labours. 
After  a  long  illness,  during  part  of  which  he 
had  fearful  apprehensions  of  death,  his  mind 
became  calm,  composed,  and  resigned,  and  he 
died  full  of  that  faith  which  he  had  so  vigo- 
rously defended  and  inculcated  in  his  writings. 
His  remains  were  interred  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  a  statue,  with  an  appropriate 
inscription,  has  been  erected  to  his  memory  in 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  A  complete  Ust  of  his 
works  is  prefixed  to  BosweU's  '  Life.'  As  a 
writer,  few  have  done  such  essential  service  to 
his  country,  by  fixing  its  language  and  regu- 
lating its  morality.  In  his  person  he  was 
large,  robust,  and  unwieldy ;  in  his  dress  he 
was  singular  and  slovenly ;  in  conversation 
positive,  and  impatient  of  contradiction.  But 
with  all  his  singularities  he  had  an  excellent 
heart,  full  of  tenderness  and  compassion,  and 
his  actions  were  the  result  of  principle.  He 
was  a  stout  advocate  for  truth,  and  a  zealous 
champion  for  the  Christian  religion  as  pro- 
fessed in  the  Church  of  England.  In  pohtics 
he  was  a  Tory,  and  at  one  period  of  his  life  a 
friend  to  the  house  of  Stuart.  He  had  a 
noble  independence  of  mind,  and  would  never 
stoop  to  any  man,  however  exalted,  or  disguise 
his  sentiments  to  flatter  another.  Born  at 
Lichfield,  1709;  died  in  London,  1784."— 
Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  See  Gilfillan's 
Ed.  of  "  Johnson's  Poems  "'  ;  AUibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Lord  Brougham's  "  Lives  of 
Men  of  Letters,"  &c. ;  Cumberland's  "  Me- 
moirs"; Orme;  Hazlitt,  "On  the  Periodical 
Essayists  "  ;  Christopher  North. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

"WiUiam  CoUins,  born  1721,  died  1759. 
His  career  was  brief  and  unhappy.  He  ex- 
hibited from  very  early  years  the  strong 
poetical  powers  of  a  genius  which,  ripened 
by  practice  and  experience,  would  have  made 
him  the  first  lyrical  writer  of  his  age  ;  but  his 
ambition  was  rather  feverish  than  sustained  ; 
he  led  a  life  of  projects  and  dissipation  ;  and 
the  first  shock  of  literary  disappointment 
drove  him  to  despondency,  despondency  to 
indulgence,  and  indulgence  to  insanity.  This 
gifted  being  died  at  38,  after  suffering  the 
crudest  afiiiction  and  humiliation   that   can 


oppress  humanity.  He  was  educated  at 
Winchester  School,  and  afterwards  at  Mag- 
dalen College,  Oxford,  and  entered  upon  the 
career  of  professional  Kterature,  full  of  golden 
dreams,  and  meditating  vast  projects.  His 
first  publication  was  a  series  of  Eclogues, 
transferring  the  usual  sentiments  of  pastoral 
to  the  scenery  and  manners  of  the  East. 
Oriental,  or  Persian,  incidents  were  for  the 
first  time  made  the  subjects  of  compositions, 
retaining  in  their  form  and  general  cast  of 
thought  and  language  the  worn-out  type  of 
pastoral.  Thus  the  lamentation  of  the  shep- 
herd expelled  from  his  native  fields  is  replaced 
by  a  camel-driver  bewailing  the  dangers  and 
solitude  of  his  desert  journey*  ;  and  the 
dialogues  so  frequent  in  the  bucolics  of 
Virgil  or  Theocritus  are  transformed  into 
the  amoeba3an  complaints  of  two  Circassian 
exiles.  The  national  character  and  sentiments 
of  the  East,  though  every  effort  is  made  by 
the  poet  to  give  local  colouring  and  appro- 
priate costume  and  scenery,  are  in  no  sense 
more  true  to  nature  than  in  the  majority  of 
pictures  representing  the  fabulous  Arcadia  of 
the  poets,  and  though  these  Eclogues  exhibit 
traces  of  vivid  imagery  and  melodious  verse, 
the  real  genius  of  Collins  must  be  looked  for 
in  his  '  Odes.'  Judged  by  these  latter,  though 
they  are  but  few  in  number,  he  will  be  found 
entitled  to  a  very  high  j)lace  :  for  true  warmth 
of  colouring,  power  of  personification,  and 
dreamy  sweetness  of  harmony,  no  English 
poet  had  till  then  appeared  that  could  be  com- 
pared to  Collins.  His  most  commonly  quoted 
lyric  is  the  ode  entitled  '  The  Passions,'  in 
which  Fear,  Rage,  Pity,  Joy,  Hope,  Melan- 
choly, and  other  abstract  qualities  are  succes- 
sively introduced  trying  their  skill  on  different 
musical  instruments.  Their  respective  choice 
of  these,  and  the  manner  in  which  each  Passion 
acquits  itself,  is  very  ingeniously  conceived. 
Nevertheless,  many  of  the  less  popular  odes, 
as  that  addressed  to  '  Fear,'  to  '  Pity,'  to 
'  Simplicity,'  and  that  '  On  the  Poetical 
Character,'  contain  happy  strokes,  some- 
times expressed  in  wonderfully  laconic  lan- 
guage, and  singularly  vivid  portraiture. 
Collins  possessed  to  an  unusual  degree  the 
power  of  giving  life  and  personality  to  an 
abstract  conception,  and  that  this  power  is 
exceedingly  rare  may  be  seen  by  the  pre- 
dominant coldness  and  pedantry  which  gene- 
rally prevail  in  modern  lyric  poetry,  where 
personification  has  been  abused  till  it  has 
become  a  mere  mechanical  artifice.  In  Collins 
the  prosopopoeia  is  always  fresh  and  vivid. 
In  the  unfinished  '  Ode  on  the  Superstitions 
of  the  Highlands,'  there  are  many  fine  touches 
of  fancy  and  description ;  but  the  reader 
cannot  divest  himself  of  a  consciousness  that 
the  pictures  are  rather  transcripts  from  books 
than  vivid  reflection  from  personal  knowledge. 
Collins  writes  of  the  Highlands  and  their  in- 
habitants not  like  a  native,  but  like  an  English 
hunter  after  the  picturesque.      Some  of  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


smaller  and  less  ambitious  lyrics,  as  the 
'  Verses  to   the   Memory   of   Thomson,'    the 

*  Dirge  in  Cymbeline,'  and  the  exquisite  verses 

*  How  sleep  the  Brave,'  are  perhaps  destined 
to  a  more  certain  immortality :  for  a  tender, 
luxuriant  richness  of  reverie,  perhaps  there  is 
nothing  in  the  English  language  that  surpasses 
them.  All  the  qualities  of  Collins' s  finest 
thought  and  expression  will  be  found  united 
in  the  lovely  little  '  Ode  to  Evening,'  consist- 
ing of  but  a  few  stanzas  in  blank  verse,  but  so 
'subtly  harmonized  that  they  may  be  read  a 
thousand  times  without  observing  the  absence 
of  rhyme,  and  exhibiting  such  a  sweet,  sooth- 
ing, and  yet  picturesque  series  of  images,  all 
appropriate  to  the  subject,  that  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  evening  seem  to  be  reproduced  with 
a  magical  fidelity :  the  whole  poem  seems 
dropping  with  dew  ajid  breathing  the  frag- 
rance of  the  hour.  It  resembles  a  melody  of 
Schubert." 


JOHN  BYEOM. 

*'John  Byrom,  bom  at  Manchester,  1691, 
died  1763,  educated  at  Cambridge,  inventor 
of  a  patented  system  of  shorthand,  and  at  last 
a  private  gentleman  in  his  native  place,  is 
best  known  for  a  pastoral  which  first  appeared 
in  the  'Spectator,' — 'My  time,  O  ye  Muses, 
was  happily  spent.'  He  wrote  several  other 
small  poems,  which  have  lately  been  published 
by  a  local  society  in  Manchester.  His  writings 
exhibit  ease  and  fancy." — Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng. 
Lit. ; "  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  SHENSTOISTE. 

"  William  Shenstone,  bom  1714,  died  1763, 
a  poet,  whose  popularity,  once  considerable, 
has  now  given  place  to  oblivion ;  but  whose 
pleasing  and  original  poem  '  The  School-mis- 
tress '  wlU  deserve  to  retain  a  place  in  every 
collection  of  English  verse.  He  is  still  more 
remarkable  as  having  been  one  of  the  first  to 
cultivate  that  picturesque  mode  of  laying  out 
gardens,  and  developing  by  weU-concealed  art 
the  natural  beauties  of  scenery,  which,  under 
the  name  of  the  English  style,  has  supplanted 
the  majestic  but  formal  manner  of  Italy, 
France,  and  Holland.  In  the  former.  Nature 
is  followed  and  humoured,  in  the  latter  she 
is  forced.  The  '  School-mistress '  is  in  the 
Spenserian  stanza  and  antique  diction,  and, 
with  a  delightful  mixture  of  quaint  playful- 
ness and  tender  description,  paints  the  dwell- 
ing, the  character,  and  the  pursuits  of  an  old 
village  dame  who  keeps  a  rustic  day-school. 
The  Pastoral  ballads  of  Shenstone  are  me- 
lodious, but  the  thin  current  of  natural  feeling 
which  pervades  them  cannot  make  the  reader 


forget  the  improbability  of  the  Arcadian 
manners,  such  as  never  existed  in  any  age 
or  country,  or  the  querulous  and  childish  tone 
of  thought." — Shaw's  "  Hiat.  Eng.  Lit." 

Dr.  Angus  speaks  more  generously  and 
kindly  : — "  Nature  and  description  flourish 
again  in  Shenstone  and  Goldsmith.  William 
Shenstone  (1714-1763)  was  born  at  the  Leas- 
owes,  in  Shropshire,  a  small  estate  which  he 
made  bj"-  his  taste  '  the  envy  of  the  great  and 
the  admiration  of  the  skilful.'  He  was  first 
taught  at  a  dame-school,  and  has  immortalized 
his  teacher  in  the  '  School-mistress.'  In  1732, 
he  entered  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  and,  on 
the  Leasowes  coming  into  his  own  hand,  he 
retired  to  that  place,  and  there  remained  most 
of  his  life,  influenced  therein  partly  by  his 
fondness  for  gardening,  and  partly  by  dis- 
appointed love  and  disappointed  ambition. 
Here  he  wrote  his  Pastorals  and  his  Elegies — 
worlvs  which,  if  not  remarkable  for  genius, 
are  certainly  among  the  best  of  the  class  to 
which  they  belong.  They  abound  in  sim- 
plicity and  pathos,  though  they  are  wanting- 
in  force  and  variety.  Campbell  thinks,  and 
probably  with  justice,  that  if  he  had  gone 
more  into  living  nature  for  subjects,  and  had 
described  their  realities  with  the  same  fond 
and  naive  touches  which  give  so  much  delight- 
fulness  to  his  '  School-mistress,'  he  would  have 
increased  his  fame. 

"  His  '  Schoolmistress  '  was  published  in 
1742,  though  it  was  written  at  college.  The 
poem  is  a  descriptive  sketch  in  imitation  of 
Spenser's  style,  '  so  quaint  and  ludicrous,  yet 
so  true  to  nature,'  that  it  reminds  the  reader 
of  the  paintings  of  Wilkie  or  of  Webster. 
His  '  Pastoral  Ballad '  is  a  happy  specimen 
of  that  kind  of  composition,  and,  it  may  be 
added,  one  of  the  latest ;  the  Arcadianisms  in 
which  it  indulges  having  given  place  to  the 
real-life  descriptions  which  are  found  in  Burns 
and  Hogg.  The  whole  is  written  in  the  well- 
known  metre  : — 

'  She  gazed  as  I  slowly  withdrew, 
My  path  I  could  hardly  discern ; 
So  sweetly  she  bade  me  adieu, 
I  thought  that  she  bade  me  return.* 

"  His  prose  essays  and  letters  occupy  two 
volumes  of  the  three  of  his  works  as  published 
b\'  Dodsley  ;  the  former  are  good  specimens  of 
English  style  ;  without  the  learning  of  Cowley, 
but  Avith  a  good  deal  of  his  ease  and  ele- 
gance." 


DAYID  MALLETT. 

"  David  Mallett  was  the  son  of  a  small  inn- 
keeper in  Crieff,  Perthshire,  where  he  was  bom 
in  the  year  1700.  Crieff,  as  many  of  our 
readers  know,  is  situated  on  the  western  side 
of  a  hiU,  and  commands  a  most  varied  and 
beautiful     prospect,     including     Drummond 


From  1127  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Castle,  -with  its  solemn  shadowy  woods,  and 
the  Ochils,  on  the  south, — Ochtertyre,  one  of 
the  loveliest  spots  in  Scotland,  and  the  gorge 
of  Glenturrett,  on  the  north, — and  the  bold 
dark  hiUs  which  surround  the  romantic  village 
of  Comrie,  on  the  west.  Crieff  is  now  a  place 
of  considerable  note,  and  forms  a  centre  of 
summer  attraction  to  multitudes  ;  but  at  the 
commencement  of  the  eighteenth  century  it 
must  have  been  a  miserable  hamlet.  Malloch 
was  originally  the  name  of  the  poet,  and  the 
name  is  still  common  in  that  part  of  Perth- 
shire. David  attended  the  college  of  Aberdeen, 
and  became,  afterwards,  an  unsalaried  tutor 
in  the  family  of  Mr.  Home  of  Dreghom,  near 
Edinburgh.  We  find  him  next  in  the  Duke  of 
Montrose's  family,  with  a  salary  of  .£30  per 
annum.  In  1723  he  accompanied  his  pupils 
to  London,  and  changed  his  name  to  Mallett, 
as  more  euphonious.  Next  year  he  produced 
his  pretty  ballad  of  '  William  and  Margaret,' 
and  published  it  in  Aaron  HiU's  '  Plain 
Dealer,'  This  served  as  an  introduction  to 
the  literary  society  of  the  metropolis,  including 
such  names  as  Young  and  Pope.  In  1733  he 
disgraced  himself  by  a  satire  on  the  greatest 
man  then  living  —  the  venerable  Richard 
Bentley,  Mallett  was  one  of  those  mean 
creatures  who  always  worship  a  rising,  and 
turn  their  backs  on  a  setting  sun.  By  his 
very  considerable  talents,  his  management,  and 
his  address,  he  soon  rose  in  the  world.  He 
was  appointed  under-secretary  to  the  Prince  of 
AVales,  ■with  a  salary  of  ^6200  a  year.  In  con- 
junction with  Thomson,  to  whom  he  was  really 
kind,  he  -wrote,  in  1740,  '  The  Masque  of 
Alfred,'  in  honour  of  the  birthday  of  the 
Princess  Augusta.  His  first  wife,  of  whom 
nothing  is  recorded,  having  died,  he  married 
the  daughter  of  Lord  Carlisle's  steward,  who 
brought  him  a  fortune  of  j£l 0,000.  Both  she 
and  Mallett  gave  themselves  out  as  Deists. 
This  was  partly  owing  to  his  intimacy  with 
Bolingbroke,  to  gratify  whom  he  heaped  abuse 
upon  Pope  in  a  preface  to  '  The  Patriot-King,' 
and  was  rewarded  by  Bolingbroke  leaving  him 
the  whole  of  his  works  and  MSS.  These  he 
afterwards  published,  and  exposed  himself  to 
the  vengeful  sarcasm  of  Johnson,  who  said 
that  Bolingbroke  was  a  scoundrel  and  a  coward 
— a  scoundrel,  to  charge  a  blunderbuss  against 
Christianity  ;  and  a  coward,  because  he  durst 
not  fire  it  himself,  but  left  a  shilling  to  a  beg- 
garly Scotsman  to  draw  the  trigger  after  his 
death.  Mallett  ranked  himself  among  the 
calumniators  and,  as  it  proved,  murderers  of 
Admiral  Byng.  He  wrote  a  Life  of  Lord 
Bacon,  in  which,  it  was  said,  he  forgot  that 
Bacon  was  a  philosopher,  and  would,  probably, 
wlien  he  came  to  v/rite  the  Life  of  Marlborough, 
forget  that  he  was  a  general.  This  Life  of 
Bacon  is  now  utterly  forgotten.  We  happened 
to  read  it  in  our  early  days,  and  thought  it  a 
very  contemptible  performance.  The  Duchess 
of  Marlborough  left  .£1,000  m  her  will  between 
Glover   and   Mallett   to   write  a  Life  of  her 


husband.  Glover  threw  up  his  share  of  the 
work,  and  Mallett  engaged  to  perform  the 
whole,  to  which,  besides,  he  was  stimulated 
by  a  pension  from  the  second  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough. He  got  the  money,  but  when  he 
died  it  was  found  that  he  had  not  written  a 
line  of  the  work.  In  his  latter  daiys  he  held 
the  lucrative  ofiice  of  Keeper  of  the  Book  of 
Entries  for  the  port  of  London.  He  died  on 
the  21st  of  April,  1765. 

"  Mallett  is,  on  the  whole,  no  credit  to 
Scotland.  He  was  a  bad,  mean,  insincere,  and 
unprincipled  man,  whose  success  was  procured 
by  despicable  and  dastardly  arts.  He  had 
doubtless  some  genius,  and  his  '  Birks  of 
Invermay'  and  '  William  and  Margaret '  shall 
preserve  his  name  after  his  clumsy  imitation 
of  Thomson,  called  '  The  Excursion,'  and  his 
long,  rambhng  '  Amyntor  and  Theodora,'  have 
been  forgotten." — See  GUfiHan's  "  Less-known 
Brit.  Poets,"  vol.  iii.,  pp.  130-132. 


MAEK  AKENSIDE. 

"  Mark  Akenside,  born  1721,  died  1770,  was 
the  son  of  a  butcher,  and  was  born  at  New- 
castle-on-Tyne.  An  accident  in  his  early  years , 
caused  by  the  fall  of  his  father's  cleaver  on 
his  foot,  lamed  him  for  life,  and  perpetuated 
the  memory  of  his  lowly  birth.  He  received 
his  education  at  the  grammar-school  of  that 
town,  where  Lord  Eldon,  Lord  Stowell,  and 
Lord  Collingwood  also  received  the  rudiments 
of  learning :  he  afterwards  graduated  at  the 
universities  of  Edinburgh  and  Leyden.  On 
his  return  to  England  he  settled  for  a  shrot 
time  at  Northampton,  then  at  Hampstead,  and 
finally  in  London.  Here  he  gained  ultimately 
the  highest  honours  of  his  profession,  and 
when  he  died  was  physician  to  the  queen. 
'His  chief  poem,  on  '  The  Pleasures  of  Ima- 
gination,' he  completed  before  he  left  Leyden. 
On  reaching  London  it  was  sent  to  Dodsley, 
who,  by  Pope's  advice,  purchased  and  pub- 
lished it.  The  sum  he  gave  was  .£120,  then 
deemed  a  large  amount  for  such  a  work.  It 
immediately  gained  a  measure  of  celebrity 
which  it  has  scarcely  maintained.  In  later 
life  Akenside  altered  it  in  parts  without  im- 
proving it :  he  made  it,  indeed,  only  more 
dry  and  scholastic,  and  is  said  to  have  re- 
modelled some  of  the  passages  which  in  their 
primitive  state  are  still  most  admired  and 
popular.  He  also  published  a  collection  of 
'  Odes,'  and  in  1746  he  engaged  to  write  in 
the  '  Museum,'  a  periodical  then  issued  by 
Dodsley' s  house. 

"  Akenside' s  genius  was  decidedly  classical: 
he  had  extensive  learning,  lofty  conceptions, 
and  a  true  love  and  knowledge  of  nature.  His 
Puritan  origin  and  tastes  gave  an  earnest- 
ness to  his  moral  views  which  pervades  all  his 
writmg.     His  ear,  though  not  equal  to  Gray's, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Perioi?. 


was  correct,  and  his  blank  verse  is  free  and 
beautifully  modulated,  deserving  to  be  studied 
by  all  who  would  excel  in  that  truly  English 
metre.  His  philosophical  ideas  are  taken 
chiefly  from  Plato,  Shaftesbury,  and  Hutche- 
sou.  He  adopted  Addison's  threefold  division 
ot  the  sources  of  the  pleasures  of  imagination, 
though  in  his  later  edition  he  substituted 
another.  The  poem  is  seldom  read  conti- 
nuouslj'-,  but  it  contains  many  passages  of 
great  force  and  beauty ;  those,  for  example, 
where  he  speaks  of  the  death  of  Caasar,  where 
he  compares  nature  and  art,  where  he  describes 
the  final  causes  of  the  emotion  of  taste,  and  in 
a  fragment  of  a  fourth  book,  where  he  sketches 
the  landscape  on  the  banks  of  his  native  Tyne, 
and  notes  the  feelings  of  his  o^vn  boyhood. 
His  '  Hymn  to  the  Naiads'  has  the  true  classic 
ring,  and  has  caught  the  manner  and  the  feel- 
ing of  Callimachus.  His  inscriptions — those, 
for  example,  on  Chaucer  and  Shakspere — are 
reckoned  among  our  best,  and  have  been  imi- 
tated by  both  Southey  and  Wordsworth.  His 
odes  are  his  least  successful  productions ;  his 
'  Ode  to  the  Earl  of  Huntingdon '  having  re- 
ceived most  favour.  Yet  withal,  his  popularity 
was  greater  in  his  own  day  than  it  is  likely  to 
be  in  ours — popularity  attributable  to  the 
influence  of  the  writings  of  Gray,  and  espe- 
cially to  the  revived  study  of  Milton  and  other 
classic  models  through  the  notes  and  writings 
of  Warton. 

"  It  may  be  added  that,  upon  the  question 
sometimes  discussed,  whether  the  progress  of 
science  is  favourable  to  poetry,  Akenside 
differs  from  Campbell.  The  latter  speaks  of 
poetic  feelings  that  yield  '  to  cold  material 
laws  .'  the  former  holds  that  the  '  rainbow's 
tinctured  hues  '  shine  the  more  brightly  when 
Kcience  has  investigated  and  explained  them." 
— Dr.  Angus's  "Handbook  of  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp. 
216,  217.  See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit." 


GEORGE,  LORD  LYTTELTON. 

"  George,  Lord  Lyttelton,  born  at  Hagley, 
in  Jan.,  1708-9,  was  the  eldest  son  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lyttelton,  Bart.,  of  the  same  place. 
He  received  his  early  education  at  Eton, 
whence  he  was  sent  to  Christchurch  College, 
Oxford.  In  both  of  these  places  he  was  dis- 
tinguished for  classical  literature,  and  some 
of  his  poems  which  we  have  borrowed  were 
the  fruits  of  his  juvenile  studies.  In  his  nine- 
teenth year  he  set  out  on  a  tour  to  the  Conti- 
nent ;  and  some  of  the  letters  which  he  wrote 
during  this  absence  to  his  father  are  pleasing 
proofs  of  his  sound  principles,  and  his  unre- 
served confidence  in  a  venerated  parent.  He 
also  wrote  a  poetical  epistle  to  Dr.  Ayscough, 
his  Oxford  tutor,  which  is  one  of  the  best  of 
his  works.  On  his  return  from  abroad  he  Avas 
chosen  representative   in  Parliament  for  the 


borough  of  Oakhampton ;  and  being  warmed 
with  that  patriotic  ardour  which  rarely  fails 
to  inspire  the  bosom  of  an  ingenuous  youth, 
he  became  a  distinguished  partisan  of  opposi- 
tion politics,  whilst  his  father  was  a  supporter 
of  the  ministry,  then  ranged  under  the  banners 
of  Walpole.  "When  Frederic  Prince  of  Wales, 
having  quarrelled  with  the  court,  formed  a 
separate  court  of  his  own,  in  1737,  Lyttelton 
was  appointed  secretary  to  the  Prince,  with  an 
advanced  salary.  At  this  time  Pope  bestowed 
his  praise  upon  our  patriot  in  an  animated 
couplet : 

Free  as  young  Lyttelton  her  course  pursue, 
Still  true  to  virtue,  and  as  warm  as  true. 

"  In  1741  he  married  Lucy,  the  daughter  of 
Hugh  Fortescue,  Esq.,  a  lady  for  whom  he 
entertained  the  purest  affection,  and  with 
whom  he  lived  in  unabated  conjugal  harmony. 
Her  death  in  childbed,  in  1747,  was  lamented 
by  him  in  a  '  Monody,'  which  stands  promi- 
nent among  his  poetical  works,  and  displays 
much  natural  feeling,  amidst  the  more  elabo- 
rate strains  of  a  poet's  imagination.  So  much 
may  suffice  respecting  his  productions  of  this 
class,  which  are  distinguished  by  the  correct- 
ness of  their  versification,  the  elegance  of  their 
diction,  and  the  delicacy  of  their  sentiments. 
His  miscellaneous  pieces,  and  his  history  of 
Henry  II.,  the  last,  the  work  of  his  age,  have 
each  their  appropriate  merits,  but  may  here 
be  omitted. 

"  The  death  of  his  father,  in  1751,  produced 
his  succession  to  the  title  and  a  large  estate ; 
and  his  taste  for  rural  ornament  rendered 
Hagley  one  of  the  most  debghtful  residences 
in  the  kingdom.  At  the  dissolution  of  the 
ministry,  of  which  he  composed  a  part,  in 
1759,  he  was  rewarded  with  elevation  to  the 
peerage,  by  the  style  of  Baron  Lyttelton,  of 
Frankley,  in  the  county  of  Worcester,  He 
died  of  a  lingering  disorder,  which  he  bore 
with  pious  resignation,  in  August,  1773,  in  the 
64th  3'ear  of  his  age." — Aikin's  "  Select  Brit. 
Poets."     See  Gilfillan's  Ed.  of  "  Brit.  Poets." 


THOMAS  GRAY. 

Thomas  Gray,  born  1716,  died  1771,  "  was 
a  man  of  vast  and  varied  acquirements,  and 
whose  life  was  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of 
letters.  He  was  the  son  of  a  respectable 
London  money-scrivener,  but  his  father  was  a 
man  of  violent  and  arbitrary  character,  and 
the  poet  was  early  left  to  the  tender  care  of 
an  excellent  mother,  who  had  been  obliged  to 
separate  from  her  tyrannical  husband.  He 
received  his  education  at  Eton,  and  afterwards 
settled  in  learned  retirement  at  Cambridge, 
where  he  passed  nearly  the  whole  of  his  life. 
He  travelled  in  France  and  Italy  as  tutor  to 
Horace  Walpole,    but    quarrelling    with    his 


From  1727  io  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


pupil,  he  returned  home  alone.  Fixing  him- 
self at  Cambridge,  he  soon  acquired  a  high 
poetical  reputation  by  his  beautiful  '  Ode  on  a 
Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College,'  published 
in  1747,  which  was  followed,  at  pretty  fre- 
quent intervals,  by  his  other  imposing  and 
highly-finished  works,  the  '  Elegy  written  in 
a  Country  Churchyard,'  the  '  Pindaric  Odes,' 
and  the  far  from  numerous  but  splendid  pro- 
ductions which  make  up  his  works.  His 
quiet  and  studious  retirement  was  only  broken 
by  occasional  excursions  to  the  North  of  Eng- 
land, and  other  holiday  journeys,  of  which  he 
has  given  in  his  letters  so  vivid  and  animated 
a  description.  His  correspondence  with  his 
friends,  and  particularly  with  the  poet  Mason, 
is  remarkable  for  intei-esting  details,  (descrip- 
tions, and  reflections,  and  is  indeed,  hke  that 
of  Cowley,  among  the  most  delightful  records 
of  a  thoughtful  and  literary  life.  Gray  refused 
the  offer  of  the  Laureateship,  which  was  pro- 
posed to  him  on  the  death  of  Cibber,  but 
accepted  the  appointment  of  Professor  of 
Modern  History  in  the  University,  though  he 
never  performed  the  functions  of  that  chair, 
his  fastidious  temper  and  indolent  self- 
indulgence  keeping  him  perpetually  engaged 
in  forming  vast  literary  projects  which  he 
never  executed.  He  appears  not  to  have  been 
popular  among  his  colleagues ;  his  haughty, 
retiring,  and  somewhat  effeminate  character 
prevented  him  from  sympathizing  with  the 
tastes  and  studies  that  prevailed  th«ve ;  and 
he  was  at  little  pains  to  conceal  his  contempt 
for  academical  society.  His  industry  was  un- 
tiring, and  his  acquirements  undoubtedly  im- 
mense ;  for  he  had  pushed  his  researches  far 
beyond  the  usual  limits  of  ancient  classical 
philology,  and  was  not  only  deeply  versed  in 
the  romance  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in 
modern  French  and  Italian,  but  had  studied 
the  then  almost  unknown  departments  of 
Scandinavian  and  Celtic  poetry.  Constant 
traces  may  be  found  in  all  his  works  of  the 
degree  to  which  he  had  assimilated  the  spirit 
not  only  of  the  Greek  lyric  poetry,  but  the 
finest  perfume  of  the  great  Italian  writers : 
many  passages  of  his  works  are  a  kind  of 
mosaic  of  thought  and  imagery  borrowed  from 
Pindar,  from  the  choral  portions  of  the  Attic 
tragedy,  and  from  the  majestic  lyrics  of  the 
Italian  poets  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  :  but  though  the  substance  of  these 
mosaics  may  be  borrowed  from  a  multitude  of 
sources,  the  fragments  are,  so  to  say,  fused 
into  one  solid  body  by  the  intense  flame  of  a 
powerful  and  fervent  imagination.  His  finest 
lyric  compositions  are  the  Odes  entitled  '  The 
Bard,'  that  on  the  '  Progress  of  Poetry,'  the 
'  Installation  Ode '  on  the  Duke  of  Grafton's 
election  to  the  Chancellorship  of  the  Uni- 
versity, and  the  short  but  truly  noble  '  Ode 
to  Adversity,'  which  breathes  the  severe  and 
lofty  spirit  of  the  highest  Greek  lyric  in- 
spiration. The  '  Elegy  written  in  a  Country 
Churchyard '  is  a  masterpiece  from  beginning 


to  end.  The  thoughts  indeed  are  obvious 
enough,  but  the  dignity  Avith  which  they  are 
expressed,  the  immense  range  of  allusion  and 
description  with  which  they  are  illustrated, 
and  the  finished  grace  of  the  language  and 
versification  in  which  they  are  embodied^  give 
to  this  work  something  of  that  inimitable  per- 
fection of  design  and  execution  which  we  see 
in  an  antique  statue  or  a  sculptured  gem.  In 
the  '  Bard,'  starting  from  the  picturesque  idea 
of  a  Welsh  poet  and  patriot  contemplating 
the  victorious  invasion  of  his  country  by 
Edward  I.,  he  passes  in  prophetic  review  the 
whole  panorama  of  English  History,  and  gives 
a  series  of  most  animated  events  and  per* 
sonages  from  the  thirteenth  to  the  eighteenth 
century.  It  is  true  that  he  is  occasionally 
turgid,  but  the  general  march  of  the  poem 
has  a  rush  and  a  glow  worthy  of  Pindar  him- 
self. The  phantoms  of  the  great  and  the 
illustrious  flit  before  us  like  the  shadowy 
kings  in  the  weird  procession  of  Macbeth : 
and  the  unity  of  sentiment  is  maintained  first 
by  the  gratified  vengeance  with  which  the 
prophet  foresees  the  crimes  and  sufferings  of 
the  oppressors  of  his  country  and  their  de- 
scendants, and  by  the  triumphant  prediction 
of  the  glorious  reign  of  the  Tudor  race  in 
Britain.  In  the  odes  entitled  '  The  Fatal 
Sisters '  and  '  The  Descent  of  Odin,'  Gray 
borrowed  his  materials  from  the  Scandinavian 
legends.  The  tone  of  the  Norse  poetry  is  not 
perhaps  very  faithfully  reproduced,  but  the 
fiery  and  gigantic  imagery  of  the  ancient 
Scalds  was  for  the  first  time  imitated  in 
English ;  and  though  the  chants  retain  some 
echoes  of  the  sentiment  and  versification  of 
more  modern  and  polished  literature,  these 
attempts  to  revive  the  rude  and  archaic 
grandeur  of  the  mythological  traditions  of  the 
Eddas  deserve  no  niggardly  meed  of  appro- 
bation. In  general  Gray  may  be  said  to  over- 
colour  his  language,  and  to  indulge  occasionally 
in  an  excess  of  ornament  and  personifica- 
tion ;  he  will  nevertheless  be  always  regarded 
as  a  lyric  poet  of  a  very  high  order,  and  as 
one  who  brought  an  immense  store  of  varied 
and  picturesque  erudition  to  feed  the  fire  of  a 
rich  and  powerful  fancy." — Shaw's  "  Hist. 
Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  388,  389;  Allibonc's  "Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit.  " ;  Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univer. 
Biog."  ;  Gilfillan's  Ed.  of  "  Gray's  Poems." 


WILLIAM  MASON. 

"  William  Mason,  a  poet  of  some  distinction, 
born  in  1725,  was  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  who 
held  the  living  of  Hull.  He  was  admitted 
first  of  St.  John's  College,  and  afterwards  of 
Pembroke  CoUege,  Cambridge,  of  the  latter  of 
which  he  was  elected  Fellow  in  1747.  He 
entered  into  holy  orders  in  1754,  and,  by  the 
favour  of  the  Earl  of  Holderness,  was  pre- 

38 


BIOGEAPKICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


sented  to  the  valuable  rectory  of  Aston, 
Yorkshire,  and  became  chaplain  to  His 
Majesty.  Some  poems  which  he  printed  gave 
him  reputation,  Avhich  received  a  great  ac- 
cession from  his  dramatic  poem  of  '  Elfrida.' 
By  this  piece,  and  his  '  Caractacus,'  which 
followed,  it  Avas  his  aim  to  attempt  the 
restoration  of  the  ancient  Greek  chorus  in 
tragedy ;  but  this  is  so  evidently  an  appen- 
dage of  the  infant  and  imperfect  state  of  the 
drama,  that  a  pedantic  attachment  to  the 
ancients  could  alone  suggest  its  revival.  In 
1756  he  published  a  small  collection  of 
*  Odes,'  which  were  generally  considered  as 
displaying  more  of  the  artificial  mechanism 
of  poetry,  than  of  its  genuine  spirit.  This 
was  not  the  case  with  his  '  Elegies,'  published 
in  1763,  which,  abating  some  superfluity  of 
ornament,  are  in  general  marked  with  the 
simplicity  of  language  proper  to  this  species 
of  composition,  and  breathe  noble  sentiments 
of  freedom  and  virtue.  A  collection  of  all 
his  poems  which  he  thought  worthj'-  of  prs- 
serving,  was  published  in  1764,  and  afterwards 
went  through  several  editions.  He  had 
married  an  amiable  lady,  who  died  of  a  con- 
sumption in  1767,  and  was  buried  in  the 
cathedral  of  Bristol,  under  a  monument,  on 
which  are  inscribed  some  very  tender  and 
beautiful  lines,  by  her  husband. 

"  In  1772,  the  first  book  of  Mason's  *  En- 
glish Garden,'  a  didactic  and  descriptive  poem, 
in  blank  verse,  made  its  appearance,  of  which 
the  fourth  and  concluding  book  was  printed 
in  1781.  Its  purpose  was  to  recommend  the 
modern  system  of  natural  or  landscape  gar- 
dening, to  which  the  author  adheres  with 
the  rigour  of  exclusive  taste.  The  versifica- 
tion is  formed  upon  the  best  models,  and  the 
description,  in  many  ]Darts,  is  rich  and  A^vid  ; 
but  a  general  air  of  stiffness  prevented  it 
from  attaining  any  considerable  share  of 
popularity.  Some  of  his  following  poetic 
pieces  express  his  liberal  sentiments  on  poli- 
tical subjects ;  and  when  the  late  Mr.  Pitt 
came  into  power,  being  then  the  friend  of  a 
free  constitution,  Mason  addressed  him  in  an 
'  Ode,'  containing  many  patriotic  and  manly 
ideas.  But  being  struck  Avith  alarm  at  the 
unhappy  events  of  the  French  Ee volution, 
one  of  his  latest  pieces  was  a  '  Palinody  to 
Liberty.'  He  likewise  revived,  in  an  improved 
form,  and  published,  Du  Fresnoy's  Latin 
poem  on  the  Art  of  Painting,  enriching  it 
with  additions  furnished  by  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, and  with  a  metrical  version.  Few 
have  been  better  executed  than  this,  which 
unites  to  great  beauties  of  language  a  correct 
representation  of  the  original.  His  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  Gray,  being  an  edition  of 
his  poems,  with  some  additions,  and  '  Memoirs 
of ^  his  Life  and  "Writings,'  was  favourably  re- 
ceived by  the  public. 

"  Mason  died  in  April,  1797,  at  the  a,ge  of 
S5V3nty-two,  in  consequence  of  a  mortification 
produced  by  a  hurt  in  his  leg.     A  tablet  has 


been  placed  to  his  memory  in  Poets'  Corner, 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  His  character  in 
private  life  was  exemplary  for  worth  and 
active  benevolence,  though  not  without  a 
degree  of  stateliness  and  assumed  superiority 
of  manner." — Aikin's  "  Select  Brit.  Poets." 
See  Gilfillan's  "  Less-known  Brit.  Poets  "  ; 
Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  bom  1728,  died  1774. 
"  The#most  charming  and  versatile,  and  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  greatest  writers  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  whose  works,  whether  in 
prose  or  verse,  bear  ^  peculiar  stamp  of  gentle 
grace  and  elegance.  He  was  bom  at  the 
village  of  Pallas,  in  the  county  of  Longford, 
Ireland.  His  father  was  a  poor  curate  of 
English  extraction,  struggling,  with  the  aid 
of  farming  and  a  miserable  stipend,  to  bring 
up  a  large  family.  By  the  assistance  of  a 
benevolent  uncle,  Mr.  Contarine,  Oliver  was 
enabled  to  enter  the  University  of  Dublin  in 
the  humble  quality  of  sizar.  He  however 
neglected  the  opportunities  for  study  which 
the  place  offered  him,  and  became  notorious 
for  his  irregularities,  his  disobedience  to  au- 
thority, and  above  all  for  a  degree  of  im- 
providence carried  to  the  extreme,  though 
excused  by  a  tenderness  and  charity  almost 
morbid.  The  earlier  part  of  his  life  is  an 
obscure  and  monotonous  narrative  of  in- 
effectual struggles  to  subsist,  and  of  wander- 
ings which  enabled  him  to  traverse  almost 
the  whole  of  Europe.  Having  been  for 
a  short  time  tutor  in  a  family  in  Ireland, 
he  determined  to  study  medicine ;  and  after 
nominally  attending  lectures  in  Edinburgh,  he 
began  those  travels — for  the  most  part  on 
foot,  and  subsisting  by  the  aid  of  his  flute 
and  the  charity  given  to  a  poor  scholar — 
which  successively  led  him  to  Leyden,  throiigh 
Holland,  France,  Germany,  and  Switzerland, 
and  even  to  Pavia,  where  he  boasted,  though 
the  assertion  is  hardly  capable  of  proof,  that 
he  received  a  medical  degree.  His  pro- 
fessional as  well  as  his  general  knowledge 
was  of  the  most  superficial  and  inaccurate 
character.  It  was  while  wandering  in  the 
guise  of  a  beggar  in  Switzerland  that  he 
sketched  out  the  plan  of  his  poem  of  the 
'  Traveller,'  which  afterwards  formed  the 
commencement  of  his  fame.  In  1756  he 
found  his  way  back  to  his  native  country ; 
and  his  career  during  about  eight  years  was 
a  succession  of  desultory  struggles  Avith 
famine,  sometimes  as  a  chemist's  shopman  in 
London ;  sometimes  as  an  usher  in  boarding- 
schools,  the  drudge  of  his  employers  and  the 
butt  and  laughing-stock  of  the  pupils  ;  some- 
times as  a  practitioner  of  medicine  among  the 
poorest  and  most  squalid  population — '  the 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


beg-gars  in  Axe  Lane,'  as  he  expressed  it  him- 
self ;  and  more  generally  as  a  miserable  and 
scantily-paid  bookseller's  hack.  More  than 
•once,  under  the  pressure  of  intolerable  dis- 
tress, he  exchanged  the  bondage  of  the  school 
for  the  severer  slavery  of  the  corrector's  table 
in  a  printing-office,  a.nd  was  driven  back  again 
to  the  bondage  of  the  school.  The  grace  and 
readiness  of  his  pen  would  probably  have  af- 
forded him  a  decent  subsistence,  even  from 
the  hardly-earned  Avages  of  a  drudge-writer, 
but  for  his  extreme  improvidence,  his  almost 
childish  generosity,  his  passion  for  pleasure 
and  fine  clothes,  and  above  all  his  propensity 
for  gambling.  At  one  time,  during  this 
wretched  period  of  his  career,  he  failed  to 
pass  the  examination  qualifying  him  for  the 
humble  medical  post  of  a  hospital  mate;  and, 
under  the  pressure  of  want  and  improvidence, 
committed  the  dishonourable  action  of  pawn- 
ing a  suit  of  clothes  lent  him  by  his  employer, 
Griffiths,  for  the  purpose  of  appearing  with 
decency  before  the  Board.  His  literary  ap- 
prenticeship was  passed  in  this  severe  school 
— writing  to  order,  and  at  a  moment's  notice, 
schoolbooks,  tales  for  children,  prefaces,  in- 
dexes, and  reviews  of  books  ;  and  contributing 
to  the  •  Monthly,'  '  Critical,'  and  '  Lady's 
Eeview,'  the  '  British  Magazine,'  and  other 
periodicals.  His  chief  employer  in  this  way 
appears  to  have  been  Griffiths,  and  he  is  said 
to  have  been  at  one  time  engaged  as  a  cor- 
rector of  the  press  in  Richardson's  sersdce. 
In  this  period  of  obscure  drudgery  he  com- 
posed some  of  his  most  charming  works,  or 
at  least  formed  that  inimitable  style  which 
makes  him  the  rival,  and  perhaps  more  than 
the  rival,  of  Addison.  He  produced  the 
'  Chinese  Letters,'  the  plan  of  which  is  imi- 
tated from  Montesquieu's  '  Lettres  Persanes,' 
giving  a  description  of  English  life  and  man- 
ners in  the  assumed  character  of  a  Chinese 
traveller,  and  containing  some  of  those  little 
sketches  and  humorous  characters  in  which 
he  was  unequalled  ;  a  '  Life  of  Beau  Nash ; ' 
and  a  short  and  gracefully -narrated  '  History 
of  England,'  in  the  form  of  '  Letters  from  a 
Nobleman  to  his  Son,'  the  authorship  of  which 
was  ascribed  to  Lyttelton.  It  was  in  1764 
that  the  publication  of  his  beautiful  poem  of 
the  '  Traveller '  caused  him  to  emerge  from 
the  slough  of  obscure  literary  drudgery  in 
which  he  had  hitherto  been  crawling.  The 
imiversal  judgment  of  the  public  pronounced 
that  nothing  so  harmonious  and  so  original 
had  appeared  since  the  time  of  Pope ;  and 
from  this  period  Goldsmith's  career  was  one 
of  uninterrupted  literary  success,  though  his 
folly  and  improvidence  kept  him  plunged  in 
debt  which  even  his  large  earnings  could  not 
enable  him  to  avoid,  and  from  which  indeed 
no  amount  of  fortune  would  have  saved  him. 
In  176G  appeared  the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield,' 
that  masterpiece  of  gentle  humour  and  deli- 
cate tenderness  ;  in  the  following  year  his  first 
comedy,  the  '  Goodnatured  Man,'  which  failed  ^ 


upon  the  stage  in  some  measure  from  its  very 
merits,  some  of  its  comic  scenes  shocking  the 
perverted  taste  of  an  audience  which  admired 
the  whining,  preaching,  sentimental  pieces 
that  were  then  in  fashion.  In  1708  Gold- 
smith composed,  as  taskwork  for  "the-  book- 
sellers— though  taskwork  for  which  his  now 
rapidly  rising  popularity  secured  good  pay- 
ment— the  '  History  of  Eome,'  distinguished 
by  its  extreme  superficiahty  of  information 
and  want  of  research  no  less  than  by  en- 
chanting grace  of  style  and  vivacity  of  narra- 
tion. In  1770  he  published  the  '  Deserted 
Village,'  the  companion  poem  to  the  'Tra- 
veller,' written  in  some  measure  in  the  same 
manner,  and  not  less  touching  and  perfect ; 
and  in  1773  was  acted  his  comedy  '  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer,'  one  of  the  gayest,  plea- 
santest,  and  most  amusing  pieces  that  the 
English  stage  can  boast.  Goldsmith  had  long 
risen  from  the  obscurity  to  which  he  had  been 
condemned  :  he  was  one  of  the  most  admired 
and  popular  authors  of  his  time ;  his  society 
was  courted  by  the  wits,  artists,  statesmen, 
and  writers  who  formed  a  brilliant  circle 
round  Johnson  and  Eejmolds — Burke,  Garrick, 
Beauclerk,  Percy,  Gibbon,  Boswell — and  he 
became  a  member  of  that  famous  Club  which 
is  so  intimately  associated  with  the  in- 
tellectual history  of  that  time.  Goldsmith 
was  one  of  those  men  whom  it  is  impossible 
not  to  love,  and  equally  impossible  not  to 
despise  and  laugh  at ;  his  vanity,  his  childish 
though  not  malignant  envy,  his  more  than 
Irish  aptitude  for  blunders,  his  eagerness  to 
shine  in  conversation,  for  which  he  was  pecu- 
liarly unfitted,  his  weaknesses  and  genius 
combined,  made  him  the  pet  and  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  company.  He  was  now  in  the 
receipt  of  an  income  which  for  that  time  and 
for  the  profession  of  letters  might  have  been 
accounted  splendid  ;  but  his  improvidence 
kept  him  plunged  in  debt,  and  he  was  always 
anticipating  his  receipts,  so  that  he  continued 
to  be  the  slave  of  booksellers,  who  obliged 
him  to  waste  his  exquisite  talent  on  works 
hastily  thrown  off,  and  for  which  he  neither 
possessed  the  requisite  knowledge  nor  could 
make  the  necessary  researches  :  thus  he 
successively  put  forth  as  taskwork  the 
'  History  of  England,'  the  '  History  of 
Greece,'  and  the  '  History'-  of  Animated 
Nature,'  the  two  former  works  being  mere 
compilations  of  second-hand  facts,  and  the 
last  an  epitomized  translation  of  BufFon.  In 
these  books  we  see  how  Goldsmith's  never- 
failing  charm  of  style  and  easy  grace  of 
nai-ration  compensates  for  total  ignorance 
and  a  complete  absence  of  independent  know- 
ledge of  the  subject.  In  1774  this  brilliamt 
and  feverish  career  was  terminated.  Gold- 
smith was  sufi'ering  from  a  painful  and  dan- 
gerous disease,  aggravated  by  disquietude  of 
mind  arising  from  the  disorder  in  his  affairs  ; 
and  rolj'ing  upon  his  knowledge  of  medicine 
he    imprudently    persisted    in    employin'?    a 

38* 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Pebiod.- 


violent  remedy,  ag-ainst  the  advice  of  his  phy- 
sicians. He  died  at  the  age  of  foi-ty-six, 
deeply  mourned  by  the  brilliant  circle  of 
friends  to  which  his  very  weaknesses  had 
endeared  him  no  less  than  his  admirable 
genius,  and  surrounded  by  the  tears  and 
blessings  of  many  wretches  whom  his  in- 
exhaustible benevolence  had  relieved.  He 
was  buried  in  the  Temple  Churchyard,  and  a 
monument  was  erected  to  his  memory  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  for  which  Johnson  wrote 
a  Latin  inscription,  one  passage  of  which 
gracefully  alludes  to  the  versatility  of  his 
genius  :  '  qui  nullum  fere  scribendi  genus  non 
tetigit,  nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit.' 

"  In  everything  Goldsmith  wrote,  prose  or 
verse,  serious  or  comic,  there  is  a  peculiar 
delicacy  and  purity  of  sentiment,  tinging,  of 
course,  the  language  and  diction  as  well  as 
the  thought.  It  seems  as  if  his  genius,  though 
in  its  earlier  career  surrounded  with  squalid 
distress,  was  incapable  of  being  sullied  by 
any  stain  of  coarseness  or  vulgarity.  Though 
of  English  descent  he  had  in  an  eminent 
degree  the  defects  as  well  as  the  virtues  of 
the  Irish  character  ;  and  no  quality  in  his 
writings  is  more  striking  than  the  union  of 
grotesque  humour  with  a  sort  of  pensive  ten- 
derness which  gives  to  his  verse  a  peculiar 
character  of  gliding  melody  and  grace.  He 
had  seen  much,  and  reproduced  with  singular 
vivacity  quaint  strokes  of  nature,  as  in  his 
sketch  of  Beau  Tibbs  and  innumerable  pas- 
sages in  the  *  Vicar  of  Wakefield.'  The  two 
poems  of  the  '  Traveller  '  and  the  '  Deserted 
Village'  wiU  ever  be  regarded  as  masterpieces 
of  sentiment  and  description.  The  light  yet 
rapid  touch  with  which,  in  the  former,  he 
has  traced  the  scenery  and  the  natural  pecu- 
liarities of  various  countries  will  be  admired 
long  after  the  reader  has  learned  to  neglect 
the  false  social  theories  embodied  in  his 
deductions  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  inconsistency 
pointed  out  by  Macaulay,  between  the  pic- 
tures of  the  village  in  its  pristine  beauty  and 
happiness,  and  the  same  village  when  ruined 
and  depopulated  by  the  forced  emigi-ation  of 
its  inhabitants,  the  reader  lingers  over  the 
delicious  details  of  human  as  well  as  inanimate 
nature  which  the  poet  has  combined  into  the 
lovely  pastoral  picture  of  '  sv/eet  Auburn.' 
The  touches  of  tender  personal  feeling  which 
he  has  interwoven  with  his  description,  as  the 
fond  hope  with  which  he  dwelt  on  the  i^roject 
of  returning  to  pass  his  age  among  the  scones 
of  innocence  which  had  cradled  his  boyhood, 
the  comparison  of  himself  to  a  hare  returning 
to  die  whore  it  was  kindled,  the  deserted 
garden,  the  village  alehouse,  the  school,  and 
the  evening  landscape,  are  all  touched  with 
the  pensive  grace  of  a  Claude  ;  while,  when 
the  occasion  demands,  Goldsmith  rises  with 
easy  wing  to  the  height  of  lofty  and  even 
sublime  elevation,  as  in  the  image  of  the 
Btorm-girded  yet  sunshine-crowned  peak  to 
which  he  compares  the  good  pastor. 


"  The  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  in  spite  of  the 
extreme  absurdity  and  inconsistency  of  its 
I  plot,  an  inconsistency  which  grows  more -per- 
ceptible in  the  latter  part  of  the  story,  will 
ever  remain  one  of  those  rare  gems  which  no 
lapse  of  time  can  tarnish.  The  gentle  and 
quiet  humour  embodied  in  the  simple  Dr. 
Primrose,  the  delicate  yet  \agorous  contrasts 
I  of  character  in  the  other  personages,  the  at- 
j  mosphere  of  purity,  cheerfvdness,  and  gaiety 
!  which  envelops  all  the  scenes  and  incidents, 
I  will  contribute,  no  less  than  the  transparency 
and  grace  of  the  style,  to  make  this  story  a 
classic  for  all  time.  Goldsmith's  two  come- 
dies are  vt'ritten  in  two  different  manners,  the 
'  Goodnatured  Man  '  being  a  comedy  of  cha- 
racter, and  '  She  Stoops  to  Conquer "  a 
comedy  of  intrigue.  In  the  first  the  excessive 
easiness  and  generosity  of  the  hero  is  not  a 
quality  sufiiciently  reprehensible  to  make  him 
a  favourable  subject  for  that  satire  which  is 
the  essential  element  of  this  kind  of  theatrical 
painting ;  and  the  merit  of  the  piece  chiefly 
consists  in  the  truly  laughable  personage  of 
Croaker,  and  in  the  excellent  scene  where  the 
disguised  bailiffs  are  passed  off  on  Miss  Eich- 
land  as  the  friends  of  Honeywood,  whose 
house  and  person  they  have  seized.  But  in 
'  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  '  we  have  a  first-rate 
specimen  of  the  comedy  of  intrigue,  where 
the  interest  mainly  depends  upon  a  tissue  of 
lively  and  farcical  incidents,  and  where  the 
characters,  though  lightly  sketched,  form  a 
gallery  of  eccentric  pictures.  The  best  proof 
of  Goldsmith's  success  in  this  piece  is  the 
constancy  with  which  it  has  always  kept  pos- 
session of  the  stage  ;  and  the  peals  of 
laughter  which  never  fail  to  greet  the  lively 
bustle  of  its  scenes  and  the  pleasant  ab- 
surdities of  Young  Marlow,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hardcastle,  and  above  all  the  admirable  Tony 
Lumpkin,  a  conception  worthy  of  Vanbrugh 
himself. 

"  Some  of  Goldsmith's  lighter  fugitive 
poems  are  incomparable  for  their  peculiar 
humour.  The  '  Haunch  of  Venison '  is  a 
model  of  easy  narrative  and  accurate  sketch- 
ing of  commonplace  society ;  and  in  '  Retalia- 
tion '  we  have  a  series  of  slight  yet  delicate 
portraits  of  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
literary  friends  of  the  poet,  thrown  off  with  a 
hand  at  once  refined  and  vigorous.  In  how 
masterly  a  manner,  and  yet  in  how  few 
strokes,  has  Goldsmith  placed  before  us  Gar- 
rick,  Burke,  and  Reynolds  ;  and  how  deeply 
do  we  regret  that  he  should  not  have  given  us 
similar  portraits  of  Johnson,  Gibbon,  and 
Boswell.  Several  of  the  songs  and  ballads 
scattered  through  his  works  are  remarkable 
for  their  tenderness  and  harmony,  though  the 
'  Edwin  and  Angelina,'  which  has  been  so 
often  lauded,  has  always  appeared  to  me 
mawkish,  aff'ected,  and  devoid  of  the  true 
spirit  of  the  mediseval  ballad."  —  Shaw's 
"  Hist,  of  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  350—354.  See  Dr. 
Angua';i  "  Haudbook  of  Eng.  Lit."  -,  GilfiUan's 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Edit,  of  "  Goldsmith's  Poems "  ;  Beeton's 
"  Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  ;  Maunder'^  "  Biog. 
Diet."  :  Allibone's  "Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT. 

"  Tobias  Smollett,  well  Icnown  in  his  time 
for  the  variety  and  multiplicity  of  his  pub- 
lications, was  born  in  1720,  at  Dalquhurn, 
in  the  county  of  Dumbarton.  He  was  edu- 
cated under  a  surgeon  in  Glasgow,  where  he 
also  attended  the  medical  lectures  of  the 
University ;  and  at  this  early  period  he  gave 
some  specimens  of  a  talent  for  writing  verses. 
As  it  is  on  this  ground  that  he  has  obtained  a 
l)laee  in  the  present  collection,  we  shall  pass 
over  his  various  cha,racters  of  surgeon's  mate, 
physician,  historiographer,  politician,  miscel- 
laneous writer,  and  especially  novelist,  and 
consider  his  claims  as  a  minor  poet  of  no  mean 
rank.  He  will  be  found,  in  this  collection,  as 
the  author  of  '  The  Tears  of  Scotland,'  the 
'  Ode  to  Leven-Water,'  and  some  other  short 
pieces,  which  are  polished,  tender,  and  pic- 
turesque ;  and,  especially,  of  an  '  Ode  to  In- 
dependence,' -which  aims  at  a  loftier  flight, 
and  perhaps  has  few  superiors  in  the  lyric 
style. 

"  Smollett  married  a  lady  of  Jamaica :  he 
was,  unfortunately,  of  an  irritable  disposition, 
which  involved  him  in  frequent  quarrels,  and 
finally  shortened  his  life.  He  died  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Leghorn,  in  October,  1771, 
in  the  fifty-first  year  of  his  age." — Aikin's 
"  Select  Brit.  Poets."  See  Gilfillan's  Edit,  of 
"  Smollett's  Poems." 


JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 

"  John  Armstrong,  a  Scotch  poet  and  physi- 
cian, who,  in  1732,  took  his  degree  of  M.D.  at 
Edinburgh,  In  1744  he  published  the  '  Art 
of  Preserving  Health,'  one  of  the  best 
didactic  poems  in  our  language,  and  shortly 
afterwards  received  the  appointment  of  phy- 
sician to  the  military  hospital.  In  1760  he 
was  appointed  physician  to  the  army  in  Ger- 
many, and  the  next  year  wrote  a  poem  called 
'  Day,  an  Epistle  to  John  Wilkes,  of  Ayles- 
bury, Esq.'  In  this  letter  he  threw  out  a 
reflection  upon  Churchill,  which  drew  on  him 
the  resentment  of  that  satirist.  He  published 
several  other  works  of  a  miscellaneous  cha- 
racter. Born  at  Castleton,  Roxburghshire, 
1709;  died  at  London,  1779."— Beeton's 
"Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  See  Allibone's  "  Cnt. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit.";  GUfillan's  Edit,  of  "Arm- 
strong's Poems." 


WILLIAM   JULIUS  MICKLE. 

"  William  Julius  Mickle  was  born  at  Lang- 
holm, in  Dumfriesshire,  in  1734.  His  father, 
who  was  a  clergyman  of  the  Scottish  church, 
had  lived  for  some  time  in  London,  and 
had  preached  in  the  dissenting""  meeting- 
house of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Watts.  He  re- 
turned to  Scotland,  on  being  presented  to 
the  living  of  Langholm,  the  duties  of  which 
he  fvdfiUed  for  many  years ;  and,  in  consider- 
ation of  his  long  services,  was  permitted  to 
retain  the  stipend  after  he  had  removed  to 
Edinburgh,  for  the  better  education  of  his 
children.  His  brother-in-law  was  a  brewer  in 
Edinburgh,  on  whose  death  the  old  clergyman 
unfortunately  embarked  his  property,  in  order 
to  continue  his  business,  under  the  name  of 
his  eldest  son.  William,  who  was  a  younger 
son,  was  taken  from  the  High-School  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  placed  as  a  clerk  in  the  concern ; 
and,  on  coming  of  age,  took  the  whole  re- 
sponsibility of  it  upon  himself.  When  it  is 
mentioned,  that  Mickle  had,  from  his  boyish 
years,  been  an  enthusiastic  reader  of  Spenser, 
and  that,  before  he  was  twenty,  he  had  com- 
posed two  tragedies  and  half  an  epic  poem, 
which  were  in  due  time  consigned  to  the 
flames,  it  may  be  easily  conceived  that  his 
habits  of  mind  were  not  peculiarly  fitted  for 
close  and  minute  attention  to  a  trade  which 
required  incessant  superintendence.  He  was, 
besides,  unfortunate,  in  becoming  security  for 
an  insolvent  acquaintance.  In  the  year  1763 
he  became  a  bankrupt;  and,  being  appre- 
hensive of  the  severity  of  one  of  his  creditors, 
he  repaired  to  London,  feeling  the  misery  of 
his  own  circumstances  aggravated  by  those  of 
the  relations  whom  he  had  left  behind  him. 

"Before  leaving  Scotland,  he  had  corre- 
spouded  with  Lord  Lyttelton,  to  whom  he  had 
submitted  some  of  his  poems  in  MS.,  and  one, 
entitled  '  Providence,'  which  he  had  printed 
in  1762.  Lord  Lyttelton  patronized  his  Muse 
rather  than  his  fortune.  He  undertook  (to 
use  his  lordship's  ovn\  phrase)  to  be  his 
'  schoolmaster  in  poetry  ; '  but  his  fastidious 
blottings  could  be  of  no  service  to  any  man 
who  had  a  particle  of  genius :  and  the  only 
personal  benefit  wliich  he  attempted  to  render 
him  was  to  write  to  his  brother,  the  governor 
of  Jamaica,  in  Mickle' s  behalf,  when  our  poet 
had  thoughts  of  going  out  to  that  island. 
Mickle,  however,  always  spoke  with  becoming 
liberality  of  this  connexion.  He  was  pleased 
with  the  suavity  of  Lord  Lyttelton' s  manners, 
and  knew  that  his  means  of  patronage  were 
very  slender.  In  the  mean  time,  he  lived 
nearly  two  years  in  London,  upon  remittances 
from  his  friends  in  Scotland,  and  by  writing 
for  the  daily  papers. 

"After  having  fluctuated  between  several 
schemes  for  subsistence,  he  at  length  accepted 
of  the  situation  of  corrector  to  the  Clarendon 
press,  at  Oxford.  Whilst  he  retained  that 
office,  he  published  a  poem,  which  he  at   first 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period.—' 


named  '  The  Concubine ; '  but  on  finding 
that  the  title  alarmed  delicate  ears,  and  sug- 
gested a  false  idea  of  its  spirit  and  contents, 
he  changed  it  to  '  Syr  Marty n.'  At  Oxford 
he  also  engaged  in  polemical  divinity,  and 
published  some  severe  animadversions  on 
Dr.  Harwood's  recent  translation  of  the  Xew 
Testament.  He  also  showed  his  fidelity  to 
the  cause  of  religion  in  a  tract,  entitled  '  Vol- 
taire in  the  Shades ;  or,  Dialogues  on  the 
Deistical  Controversy.' 

"  His  greatest  poetical  undertaking  was  the 
translation  of  '  The  Lusiad,'  which  he  began 
in  1770,  and  finished  in  five  years.  For  the 
sake  of  leisure  and  retirement,  he  gave  up  his 
situation  at  the  Clarendon  press,  and  resided 
at  the  house  of  a  Mr.  Tomkins,  a  farmer,  at 
Forest  Hill,  near  Oxford.  The  English 
Lusiad  Avas  dedicated,  by  permission,  to  the 
Duke  of  Buccleuch ;  but  his  Grace  returned 
not  the  slightest  notice  or  kindness  to  his 
ingenious  countryman.  Whatever  might  be 
the  duke's  reasons,  good  or  bad,  for  this 
neglect,  he  was  a  man  fully  capable  of  acting 
on  his  own  judgment ;  and  there  was  no 
necessity  for  making  any  other  person  respon- 
sible for  his  conduct.  But  Mickle,  or  his 
friends,  suspected  that  Adam  Smith  and 
David  Hume  had  maliciously  stood  between 
him  and  the  Buccleuch  patronage.  This  was 
a  mere  suspicion,  which  our  author  and  his 
friends  ought  either  to  have  proved  or  sup- 
pressed. Mickle  was  indeed  the  declared 
antagonist  of  Hume  ;  he  had  written  against 
him,  and  could  not  hear  his  name  mentioned 
Avith  temper :  but  there  is  not  the  slightest 
evidence  that  the  hatred  was  mutual.  That 
Adam  Smith  should  have  done  him  a  mean 
injury,  no  one  -will  believe  probable,  who  is 
acquainted  with  the  traditional  private  cha- 
racter of  that  philosopher.  But  Mickle  was 
also  the  antagonist  of  Smith's  doctrines  on 
political  economy,  as  may  be  seen  in  his 
'  Dissertation  on  the  Charter  of  the  East 
India  Company.'  The  author  of  the  '  Wealth 
of  Nations,'  forsooth,  was  jealous  of  his 
opinions  on  monopolies  !  Even  this  paltry 
supposition  is  contradicted  by  dates,  for 
Mickle's  tract  upon  the  subject  of  Monopolies 
was  published  several  years  after  the  preface 
to  the  Lusiad.  Upon  the  whole,  the  suspicion 
of  his  philosophical  enemies  having  poisoned 
the  ear  of  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch  seems  to 
have  proceeded  from  the  same  irritable  vanity 
which  made  him  threaten  to  celebrate  Garrick 
as  the  hero  of  a  second  Dunciad  when  he  re- 
fused to  accept  of  his  tragedy,  '  The  Siege  of 
Marseilles.' 

"  Though  the  Lusiad  had  a  tolerable  sale,  his 
circumstances  still  made  his  friends  solicitous 
that  ho  should  obtain  some  settled  provision. 
Dr.  Lowth  offered  to  provide  for  him  in  the 
Church.  He  refused  the  offer  with  honourable 
dehcacy,  lest  his  former  writings  in  favour  of 
religion  should  be  attributed  to  the  prospect 
of   reward.     At  length  the  friendship  of  his 


kinsman.  Commodore  Johnstone,  relieved  him . 
from  unsettled  prospects.  Being  appointed 
to  the  command  of  a  squadron  destined  -for 
the  coast  of  Portugal,  he  took  out  the  tran- 
slator of  Camoens  as  his  private  secretary. 
Mickle  was  received  with  distinguished 
honours  at  Lisbon.  The  Duke  of  Braganza, 
in  admitting  him  a  member  of  the  Eoyal 
Academy  of  Lisbon,  presented  him  with  his 
own  picture. 

"He  returned  to  England  in  1780,  with  a 
considerable  acquisition  of  prize-money,  and 
was  appointed  an  agent  for  the  distribution 
of  the  prize  profits  of  the  cruise.  His  fortune 
now  enabled  him  to  discharge  the  debts  of  his 
early  and  mercantile  life.  Ho  married  the 
daughter  of  Mr.  Tomkins,  with  whom  he  had 
resided  while  translating  the  Lusiad ;  and, 
with  every  prospect  of  spending  the  remainder 
of  his  life  in  affluence  and  tranquillity,  pur- 
chased a  house,  and  settled  at  Wheatley,  near 
Oxford.  So  far  his  circumstances  have  almost 
the  agreeable  air  of  a  concluding  novel  j  but 
the  failure  of  a  banker  with  whom  he  was 
connected  as  prize  agent,  and  a  chancery  suit 
in  which  he  was  involved,  greatly  diminished 
his  finances,  and  disturbed  the  peace  of  his 
latter  years.  He  died  at  Forest  Hill,  after  a 
short  illness. 

"His  reputation  principally  rests  upon  the 
translation  of  the  Lusiad,  which  no  English- 
man had  attempted  before  him,  except  Sir 
Richard  Fanshawe.  Sir  Richard's  version  is 
quaint,  flat,  and  harsh ;  and  he  has  interwoven 
many  ridiculously  conceited  expressions  which 
are  foreign  both  to  the  spirit  and  style  of  his 
original ;  but  in  general  it  is  closer  than  the 
modern  translation  to  the  literal  meaning  oi: 
Camoens.  Altogether,  Fanshawe' s  represen- 
tation of  the  Portuguese  poem  may  be  com- 
pared to  the  wrong  side  of  the  tapestry. 
Mickle,  on  the  other  hand,  is  free,  flowery,  and 
periphrastical ;  he  is  incomparably  more  spi- 
rited than  Fanshawe  ;  but  still  he  departs  from 
the  majestic  simplicity  of  Camoens'  diction  as 
widely  as  Pope  has  done  from  that  of  Homer. 
The  sonorous  and  simple  language  of  the 
Lusitanian  epic  is  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet ; 
and  Mickle's  imitation  like  the  shakes  and 
flourishes  of  the  flute. 

"  Although  he  was  not  responsible  for  the 
faults  of  the  original,  he  has  taken  abundance 
of  pains  to  defend  them  in  his  notes  and 
preface.  In  this  he  has  not  been  successful. 
The  long  lecture  on  geography  and  Portuguese 
history,  which  Gama  delivers  to  the  King  of 
Melinda,  is  a  wearisome  interruption  to  the 
narrative ;  and  the  use  of  Pagan  mythology 
is  a  radical  and  unanswerable  defect.  Mickle 
informs  us  as  an  apology  for  the  latter  cir- 
cumstance, that  all  this  Pagan  machinery  was 
allegorical,  and  that  the  gods  and  goddesses 
of  Homer  were  allegorical  also  ;  an  assertion 
which  would  require  to  be  proved,  before  it 
can  be  admitted.  Camoens  himself  has  said 
something  about  his  concealment  of  a  moral 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


meaning  luuler  his  Pagan  deities  ;  but  if  he 
has  any  such  morality,  it  is  so  well  hidden 
that  it  is  impossible  to  discover  it.  The 
Venus  of  the  Lusiad,  we  are  told,  is  Divine 
Love ;  and  how  is  this  Divine  Love  employed  ? 
For  no  other  end  than  to  give  the  poet  an 
opportunity  of  displaying  a  scene  of  sensual 
gratification,  an  island  is  purposely  raised  up 
in  the  ocean ;  Venus  conducts  De  Gama  and 
his  followers  to  this  blessed  spot,  where  a 
bevy  of  the  nymphs  of  Venus  are  very  good- 
naturedly  prepared  to  treat  them  to  their 
favours  ;  not  as  a  trial,  but  as  a  reward  for 
their  virtues  !  Voltaire  was  certainly  justified 
in  pronouncing  this  episode  a  piece  of  gra- 
tuitous indecency.  In  the  same  allegorical 
spirit  no  doubt,  Bacchus,  who  opposes  the 
Portuguese  discoverers  in  the  councils  of 
Heaven,  disguises  himself  as  a  Popish  priest, 
and  celebrates  the  rites  of  the  CathoUc  religion. 
The  imagination  is  somewhat  puzzled  to  dis- 
cover why  Bacchus  should  be  an  enemy  to 
the  natives  of  a  country  the  soil  of  which  is 
so  productive  of  his  beverage ;  and  a  friend 
to  the  Mahometans  who  forbid  the  use  of  it : 
although  there  is  something  amusing  in  the 
idea  of  the  joUy  god  officiating  as  a  Eomish 
clergyman. 

'•  Mickle's  story  of  Syr  Martyn  is  the  most 
pleasing  of  his  original  pieces.  The  object  of 
the  narrative  is  to  exhibit  the  degrading 
effects  of  concubinage  in  the  history  of  an 
amiable  man,  who  is  reduced  to  despondency 
and  sottishness,  under  the  dominion  of  a 
beldam  and  a  slattern.  The  defect  of  the 
moral  is,  that  the  same  evils  might  have 
happened  to  Syr  Martyn  in  a  state  of  matri- 
mony. The  simplicity  of  the  tale  is  also, 
unhappily,  overlaid  by  a  weight  of  allegory, 
and  of  obsolete  phraseology,  which  it  has  not 
importance  to  sustain.  Such  a  style  applied 
to  the  history  of  a  man  and  his  housekeeper, 
is  hke  building  a  diminutive  dwelling  in  all 
the  pomp  of  Gothic  architecture." — Campbell's 
"  Specimens,"  pp.  609 — 611. 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 

*'  This  poetical  divine  was  born  in  1735,  at 
Kirkby  Steven,  in  Westmoreland.  Left  father- 
less at  four  years  old,  his  mother  fidfiUed 
her  double  charge  of  duty  with  great  ten- 
derness and  assiduity.  He  was  educated 
at  Appleby,  and  subsequently  became  assistant 
at  the  Free-school  of  Wakefield,  took  deacon's 
orders,  and  gave  promise,  although  very 
young,  of  becoming  a  popular  preacher.  After 
various  vicissitud(^s  of  life  and  fortune,  and 
publishing  a  number  of  works  in  prose  and 
verpe,  Langhoi-ne  repaired  to  London,  and 
obtained,  in  1764,  the  curacy  and  lectureship 
of  Wt.  John's,  ClerkenweU.  He  soon  after- 
wards became  assistant-preacher  m  Lincoln's 


Inn  Chapel,  where  he  had  a  very  intellectual 
audience  to  address,  and  bore  a  somewhat 
trying  ordeal  with  complete  success.  He  con- 
tinued for  a  number  of  years  in  London, 
maintaining  his  reputation  both  as  a  preacher 
and  writer.  His  most  popular  works  were 
the  '  Letters  of  Theodosius  and  Constantia,' 
and  a  translation  of  Plutarch's  Gvcs,  which 
Wrangham  afterwards  corrected  and  im- 
proved, and  which  is  still  standard.  He  was 
twice  married,  and  survived  both  his  Avives.  He 
obtained  the  living  of  Blagden  in  Somerset- 
shire, and  in  addition  to  it,  in  1777,  a  prebend 
in  the  Cathedral  of  Wells.  He  died  in  1779, 
aged  only  forty-four ;  his  death,  it  is  supposed, 
being  accelerated  by  intemperance,  although 
it  does  not  seem  to  have  been  of  a  gross  or 
aggravated  description. 

"  Langhorne,  an  amiable  man,  and  highly 
popular  as  well  as  warmly  beloved  in  his  day, 
survives  now  in  memory  chiefly  through  his 
Plutarch's  Lives,  and  through  a  few  lines  in 
his  '  Country  Justice,'  which  are  immor- 
taKsed  by  the  well-known  story  of  Scott's 
interview  with  Burns.  Campbell  puts  in  a 
plea  besides  for  his  'Owen  of  Carron,'  but 
the  plea,  being  founded  on  early  reading,  is 
partial,  and  has  not  been  responded  to  by  the 
public."  —  Gilfillan's  "  Less-Known  Brit. 
Poets,"  pp.  220,  221. 


SIR  WILLIAM  BLACKSTONE. 

"  Sir  William  Blackstone,  a  learned  English 
judge,  who,  in  1738,  was  entered  at  Pembroke 
College,  Oxford,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty  com- 
posed a  treatise  on  the  elements  of  architec- 
ture. He  also  cultivated  poetry,  and  obtained 
Mr.  Benson's  prize  medal  for  the  best  verses 
on  Milton.  These  pursuits,  however,  were 
abandoned  for  the  study  of  the  law,  when  he 
composed  his  well-known  effusion  called  '  The 
Lawyer's  Farewell  to  his  Muse.'  In  1740  he 
was  entered  at  the  Middle  Temple,  and  in 
1744  chosen  fellow  of  All  Souls  College.  In 
1749  he  was  appointed  recorder  of  Walling- 
ford,  in  Berkshire,  and  in  the  following  year 
became  LL.D.,  and  published  an  '  Essay  on 
Collateral  Consanguinity,'  occasioned  by  the 
exclusive  claim  to  fellowships  made  by  the 
founder's  kindred  at  All  Souls.  In  1758  he 
printed  '  Considerations  on  Copyholders  ; ' 
and  the  same  year  was  appointed  Vinerian 
professor  of  the  common  law,  his  lectures  in 
which  capacity  gave  rise  to  his  celebrated 
'Commentaries.'  In  1759  he  published 
'  Reflections  on  the  Opinions  of  Messrs.  Pratt, 
Moreton,  and  Wilbraham,'  relating  to  Lord 
Lichfield's  disqualification  ;  his  lordship  being 
then  candidate  for  the  chancellorship.  Tho 
same  year  appeared  his  edition  of  '  The  Great 
Charter,  and  Charter  of  the  Forest.'  Of  this 
work  it  has  been   said   that  there  is  net  a 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


sentence  in  the  composition  that  is  not  neces- 
sary to  the  whole,  and  that  should  not  be 
perused.  In  1761  he  was  made  king's  counsel, 
and  chosen  member  of  parliament  for  Hindon, 
in  Wilts.  The  same  year  he  vacated  his 
fellowship  by  marriage,  and  was  appointed 
principal  of  New-inn  Hall.  In  1763  he  was 
appointed  solicitor-general  to  the  Queen,  and 
bencher  of  the  Middle  Temple.  In  the  next 
year  appeared  the  first  volume  of  his  '  Com- 
mentaries,' which  was  followed  by  three 
others.  It  is  upon  these  that  his  fame  now 
principally  rests ;  and,  although  opinion  is 
divided  as  to  the  correctness  and  depth  of  the 
matter  they  contain,  the  beauty,  precision, 
and  elegance  of  their  style  have  called  forth 
universal  admiration.  In  1766  he  resigned 
his  places  at  Oxford ;  and  in  1768  was  chosen 
member  for  Westbury,  in  Wiltshire.  In  1770 
he  became  one  of  the  judges  in  the  court  of 
King's  Bench,  whence  he  removed  to  the 
Common  Pleas.  He  now  fixed  his  residence 
in  London,  and  attended  to  the  duties  of  his 
office  with  great  application,  untU  overtaken 
by  death.  Born  in  London,  1723 ;  died  1780. 
— The  fundamental  error  in  the  '  Commen- 
taries '  is  thus  pointed  out  by  Jeremy  Ben- 
tham.  '  There  are  two  characters,'  says  he, 
'  one  or  other  of  which  every  man  who  finds 
anything  to  say  on  the  subject  of  law  may  be 
said  to  take  upon  him, — that  of  the  expositor, 
and  that  of  the  censor.  To  the  province  of 
the  expositor  it  belongs  to  explain  to  us  what 
he  supposes  the  law  is  ;  to  that  of  the  censor, 
to  observe  to  us  what  he  thinks  it  ought  to 
■be.  Of  these  two  perfectly  distinguishable 
functions,  the  former  alone  is  that  which  it 
fell  necessarily  within  our  author's  province 
to  discharge.'  Blackstone,  however,  makes 
use  of  both  these  functions  throughout  his 
work,  and  hence  the  confusion.  His  produc- 
tions have  found  several  translators  on  the 
Continent." — Beeton's  '•  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 
See  Maunder' s  "  Diet.  Biog.  "  ;  Allibone's 
"  Crit.  Di«t.  Eng.  Lit." 


BISHOP  PERCY. 

"  Bishop  Percy,  born  1 728.  died  1811.  The 
great  revolution  in  taste,  substituting  romantic 
for  classical  sentiment  and  subjects,  which 
culminated  in  the  poems  and  novels  of  Walter 
Scott,  is  traceable  to  the  labours  of  Bishop 
Percy.  The  friend  of  Johnson,  and  one  of  the 
most  accomplished  member's  of  that  circle  in 
which  Johnson  was  supreme,  Percy  was  strongly 
impressed  with  the  vast  stores  of  the  beau- 
tiful, though  rude  poetry  which  lay  buried  in 
obscure  collections  of  ballads  and  legendary 
compositions,  and  he  devoted  himself  to  the 
task  of  explaining  and  popularising  the  then 
neglected  beauties  of  these  old  rhapsodists 
with  the  ardour  of  an  antiquary,  and  with  the 


taste  of  a  true  poet.  His  publication  in  1765, 
under  the  title  of  '  Reliques  of  Ancient  Eng- 
lish Poetry,'  of  a  collection  of  such  ballads, 
many  of  which  had  been  preserved  only  in 
manuscript,  while  others,  having  originally 
been  printed  in  the  rudest  manner  on  flying 
sheets  for  circulation  among  the  lower  orders 
of  the  people,  had  owed  their  preservation 
only  to  the  care  of  collectors,  must  be  con- 
sidered as  a  critical  epoch  in  the  history  of 
our  literature.  Many  authors  before  him,  as, 
for  example,  Addison  and  Sir  Philip  Sydney, 
had  expressed  the  admiration  which  a  culti- 
vated taste  must  ever  feel  for  the  rough  but 
inimitable  graces  of  our  old  ballad-poets  ;  but 
Percy  was  the  first  w^ho  undertook  an  exami- 
nation, at  once  systematic  and  popular,  of 
those  neglected  treasures.  His  '  Essay  on  the 
Ancient  Minstrels,'  prefixed  to  the  pieces  he 
selected,  exhibits  considerable  research,  and 
is  written  in  a  pleasing  and  attractive  manner  ; 
and  the  extracts  are  made  with  great  taste, 
and  with  a  particular  view  of  exciting  the 
public  sympathy  in  favour  of  a  class  of  compo- 
sitions, the  merits  of  which  were  then  new 
and  unfamiliar  to  the  general  reader.  It  is 
true  that  he  did  not  always  adhere  with  scru- 
pulous fidelity  to  the  ancient  texts,  and  where 
the  poems  were  in  a  fragmentary  and  imper- 
fect condition,  he  did  not  hesitate,  any  more 
than  Scott  after  him  in  the  '  Border  Jlin- 
strelsy,'  to  fill  up  the  rents  of  time  with 
matter  of  his  own  invention.  This,  however, 
at  a  period  when  his  chief  object  was  to  excite 
among  general  readers  an  interest  in  these 
fine  old  monuments  of  mediaeval  genius,  was 
no  unpardonable  offence,  and  gave  him  the 
opportunity  of  exhibiting  his  own  poetical 
powers,  which  were  far  from  contemptible, 
and  his  skill  in  imitating,  with  more  or  less 
success,  the  language  and  manner  of  the 
ancient  Border  poets.  Percy  found,  in  col- 
lecting these  old  compositions,  that  the  majo- 
rity of  those  most  curious  from  their  antiquity 
and  most  interesting  from  their  merit  were 
distinctly  traceable,  both  as  regards  their 
subjects  and  the  dialect  in  which  they  were 
written,  to  the  North  Count ree  ;  that  is,  to 
the  frontier  region  between  England  and  Scot- 
land, which,  during  the  long  v^ars  that  had 
raged  almost  without  intermission  between 
the  Borderers  on  both  sides  of  the  Debatcable 
Land,  had  necessarily  been  the  scene  of  the 
most  frequent  and  striking  incidents  of  pre- 
datory warfare,  such  as  those  recorded  in  the 
noble  ballads  of  '  Chevy  Chase,'  and  the 
'  Battle  of  Otterburn.'  The  language  in  the 
Northern  marches  of  England,  and  in  the 
Scottish  frontier-region  bordering  upon  them, 
was  one  and  the  same  dialect ;  something  be- 
tween the  Lowla.nd  Scotch  and  the  speech  of 
Cumberland  or  Westmoreland  :  and  it  is  curi- 
ous to  find  the  ballad-singer  modifying  the 
incidents  of  his  legend  so  as  to  suit  the  preju- 
dices and  flatter  the  national  pride  of  his 
listeners   according  as  they  were  inhabitants 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


of  the  Northern  or  Southern  district.  In 
Tarious  independent  copies  or  versions  of  the 
same  legend,  we  find  the  victory  given  to  the 
one  side  or  to  the  other,  and  the  English  or 
Scottish  hero  alternately  playing  the  nobler 
and  more  romantic  part.  Besides  a  very 
large  number  of  these  purely  heroic  ballads, 
Percy  gave  specimens  of  an  immense  series  of 
songs  and  lyrics  extending  down  to  a  compa- 
ratively late  period  of  English  history,  em- 
bracing even  the  Civil  War  and  the  Restora- 
tion :  but  the  chief  interest  of  his  collection, 
and  the  chief  service  he  rendered  to  literature 
by  his  publication,  is  concentrated  on  the 
earlier  portion.  It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate 
the  influence  exerted  by  Percy's  '  Reliques  ; ' 
this  book  has  been  devoured  with  the  most 
intense  interest  by  generation  after  generation 
of  English  poets,  and  has  undoubtedly  con- 
tributed to  give  a  first  direction  to  the  youth- 
ful genius  of  many  of  our  most  illustrious 
writers.  The  boyish  enthusiasm  of  Walter 
Scott  was  stirred,  '  as  with  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet,'  by  the  \'i%'id  recitals  of  the  old 
Border  rhapsodists  ;  and  but  for  Percy  it  is 
possible  that  we  should  have  had  neither  the 
'  Lady  of  the  Lake '  nor  '  Waverley.'  Nor  was 
it  upon  the  genius  of  Scott  alone  that  is  im- 
pressed the  stamp  of  this  ballad  imitation : 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  even  Tennyson  him- 
self have  been  deeply  modified,  in  the  form 
and  colouring  of  their  productions,  by  the 
same  cause  :  and  perhaps  the  influence  of  the 
'  Reliques,'  whether  direct  or  indirect,  near  or 
remote,  will  be  perceptible  to  distant  ages  in 
English  poetry  and  fiction." — Shaw's  "  Hist. 
Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  412—414. 


JAMES  MACPHERSON. 

"James  Macpherson,  born  1738,  died  1796, 

a  Scotch   poet,   whose  first  work,  and  that 

which  brought  him  mostly  into  notice,  was  a 

translation   of   poems   attributed   by  him  to 

Ossian.     These  poems  possess  great  beauty ; 

but  their  authenticity  was   disputed  by  Dr. 

Johnson  and  other  writers,  and  as  zealously 

maintained  by  the  editor  and  Dr.  Blair ;  it  is 

now,  however,  generally  admitted  that  Ossian' s 

poems  are  a  forgery.     In  1773  Macpherson 

published  a  translation  of  the    '  Iliad '    into 

heroic  prose,  a  work  of  little  value.     He  was 

also  the  author  of  an   '  Introduction  to  the 

History  of    Great   Britain    and    Ireland,'    a 

'  History  of  Great  Britain,   from  1660  to  the 

Vccession  of  the  House  of  Hanover,'  and  of 

Some  political  pamphlets  in  defence  of  Lord 

U'orth's    administration,    for    which    he    ob- 

t^ed  a  place  and  a  seat  in  the  House  of 

Ccaimons." — Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


THOMAS  CHATTERTOX. 

' '  No  nam  e  in  our  literature  affords  an  example 
of  earher  precocity  or  of  a  sadder  career  than 
that  of  the  '  marvellous  boy  who  perished  in 
his  pride,'  Thomas  Chatterton.  He  was  born 
at  Bristol  in  1752,  was  son  of  a  -sexton  and 
parish  schoolmaster,  and  died  by  suicide  before 
he  had  completed  his  eighteenth  year.  Yet  in 
that  brief  interval  he  gave  proof  of  jDower  un- 
surpassed in  j)ne  so  young,  and  executed  a 
number  of  forgeries  almost  without  parallel 
for  ingenuity  and  variety.  The  writings  which 
he  passed  off  as  origin?ila  he  professes  to  have 
discovered  in  '  Cannynge's  Coffre,'  a  chest 
preserved  in  the  muniment-room  of  the  old 
church  of  St.  Mary  Redclifte,  Bristol.  These 
he  produced  gradually,  generally  taking  ad- 
vantage of  some  public  occurrence  likely  to 
give  them  an  interest.  In  October,  1768,  a 
new  bridge  across  the  Avon  was  opened,  and 
forthwith  he  sent  an  account  of  the  ceremonies 
that  took  place  on  the  opening  of  the  old 
bridge — processions,  tournaments,  and  re- 
ligious solemnities.  Mr.  Biirgtiin,  who  was 
fond  of  heraldic  honours,  he  supplies  with  a 
pedigree  reaching  back  to  William  the  Con- 
queror. To  another  citizen  he  presents  the 
'  Romaunt  of  the  Cnyghte,'  written  by  one  of 
his  ancestors  between  four  and  five  hundred 
years  before.  To  a  rehgious  citizen  he  gives 
an  ancient  fragment  of  a  sermon  on  the 
Holy  Spirit,  wroten  by  Thomas  Rowley  in 
the  fifteenth  century.  To  another  with  anti- 
quarian tastes  he  gives  an  account  of  the 
churches  of  the  city  three  hundred  years 
before.  And  to  Horace  Walpole,  who  was 
busy  writing  the  '  History  of  British  Painters,' 
he  gives  a  record  of  Carvellers  and  Peyncters 
who  once  fiourished  in  Bristol.  Besides  all 
these  forgeries  he  sent  to  the  '  Town  and 
Country  Magazine '  a  number  of  poems  which 
occasioned  a  sharp  controversy.  Gray  and 
Mason  at  once  pronounced  them  spurious 
imitations,  but  many  maintained  their  genu- 
ineness. Meanwhile,  Chatterton  had  obtained 
a  release  from  the  attorney's  office  where  he 
had  served  for  the  last  three  years,  and  had 
come  to  London.  Here  he  wrote  for  maga- 
zines and  newspapers,  gaining  thereby  a  very 
precarious  subsistence.  At  last  he  grew  de- 
spondent, took  to  drinking,  which  aggravated 
his  constitutional  tendencies,  and  after  being 
reduced  to  actual  want,  tore  up  his  papers, 
and  destroyed  himself  by  taking  arsenic.  He 
was  interred  in  the  burying- ground  of  the 
Shoe  Lane  Workhouse,  and  the  citizens  of 
Bristol  afterwards  erected,  in  their  city,  a 
monument  to  his  memory.  His  poems,  pub- 
lished under  the  name  of  Rowley,  consist  of 
the  tragedy  of  '  Ella,'  the  '  Ode  to  EUa,'  a 
ballad  entitled  the  '  Bristow  Tragedy,  or  the 
Death  of  Sir  Charles  Bowdin,'  some  pastoral 
poems,  and  other  minor  pieces.  The  '  Ode  to 
Ella '  has  all  the  air  of  a  modern  poem,  except 
spelling  and  phraseology.     Most  of  the  others 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


have  allasions  and  a  style  more  or  less  appro- 
priate to  the  time  in  which  they  profess  to 
have  been  written  ;  but  they  are  none  of  them 
likely  to  deceive  a  competent  scholar.  Chat- 
torton  displays  occasionally  great  power  of 
satire,  and  generally  a  luxuriance  of  fancy  and 
richness  of  invention  which,  considering  his 
youth,  were  not  unworthy  of  Spenser.  His 
avowed  compositions  are  very  inferior  to  the 
forgeries — a  fact  that  Scott  explains  by  sup- 
posing that  in  the  forgeries  all  his  powers 
must  have  been  taxed  to  the  utmost  to  sup- 
port the  deception." — Dr.  Angus's  "  Hand- 
book Eng.  Lit."  SeeAUibone's  "Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit.";  Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit.";  Gilfillau's 
ed.  "  Chatterton's  Poems." 


WILLIAM  FALCONEE. 

♦' William  Falconer,  born  1730,  died  1769, 
was  the  son  of  a  barber  in  Edinburgh,  and 
went  to  sea  at  an  early  age  in  a  merchant 
vessel  of  Leith.  He  was  afterwards  mate  of 
a  ship  that  was  wrecked  in  the  Levant,  and 
was  one  of  only  three  out  of  her  crew  that 
were  saved,  a  catastrophe  which  formed  the 
subject  of  his  future  poem.  He  was  for  some 
time  in  the  capacity  of  a  servant  to  Campbell, 
the  author  of  '  Lexiphanes,'  when  purser  of  a 
ship.  Campbell  is  said  to  have  discovered  in 
Falconer  talents  worthy  of  cultivation,  and 
when  the  latter  distinguished  himself  as  a 
poet,  used  to  boast  that  he  had  been  his 
scholar.  What  he  learned  from  Campbell  it 
is  not  very  easy  to  ascertain.  His  education, 
as  he  often  assured  Governor  Hunter,  had 
been  confined  to  reading,  writing,  and  a  little 
arithmetic,  though  in  the  course  of  his  life  he 
picked  up  some  acquaintance  with  the  French, 
Spanish,  and  Italian  languages.  In  these  his 
countryman  was  not  likely  to  have  much  as- 
sisted him  ;  but  he  might  have  lent  him  books, 
and  possibly  instructed  him  in  the  use  of 
figures.  Falconer  published  his  '  Shipwreck ' 
in  1762,  and  by  the  favour  of  the  Duke  of 
York,  to  whom  it  was  dedicated,  obtained  the 
appointment  of  a  midshipman  in  the  'Eoyal 
George,'  and  afterwards  that  of  purser  in  the 
'  Glory'  frigate.  He  soon  afterwards  married 
a  Miss  Hicks,  an  accomplished  and  beautiful 
woman,  the  daughter  of  the  surgeon  of  Sheer- 
ness-yard.  At  the  peace  of  1763  he  was  on 
the  point  of  being  reduced  to  distressed  cir- 
cumstances by  his  ship  being  laid  up  in  ordi- 
nary at  Chatham,  when,  by  the  friendship  of 
Commissioner  Hanway,  who  ordered  the  cabin 
of  the  '  Glory '  to  be  fitted  up  for  his  resi- 
dence, he  enjoyed  for  some  time  a  retreat  for 
study  without  expense  or  embarrassment. 
Hero  he  employed  himself  in  compiling  his 
'  Marine  Dictionary,'  which  appeared  in  1769, 
and  has  been  always  highly  spoken  of  by 
those  who  are  capable  of  estimating  its  merits. 


He  embarked  also  in  the  politics  of  the  day, 
as  a  poetical  antagonist  to  Churchill,  but  with 
little  advantage  to  his  memory.  Before  the 
publication  of  his  'Marine  Dictionary,'  he  had 
left  his  retreat  at  Chatham  for  a  less  comfort- 
able abode  in  the  metropolis,  and  appears  to 
have  struggled  with  considerable  difficulties, 
in  the  midst  of  which  he  received  proposals 
from  the  late  Mr.  Mui-ray,  the  bookseller,  to 
join  him  in  the  business  which  he  had  newly 
established.  The  cause  of  his  refusing  this 
offer  was,  in  all  probability,  the  appointment 
which  he  received  to  the  pursersliip  of  the 
'Aurora,'  East  Indiaman.  In  that  ship  he 
embarked  for  India,  in  September,  1769,  but 
the  'Aurora'  was  never  heard  of  after  she 
passed  the  Cape,  and  was  thought  to  have 
foundered  in  the  Channel  of  Mozambique ;  so 
that  the  poet  of  the  '  Ship-wreck '  may  be  sup- 
posed to  have  perished  by  the  same  species  of 
calamity  which  he  had  rehearsed. 

"  The  subject  of  the  '  Shipwreck,'  and  the 
fate  of  its  author,  bespeak  an  uncommon  par- 
tiality in  its  favour.     If  we  pay  respect  to  the 
ingenious  scholar  who  can  produce  agreeable 
verses  amidst  the  shades  of  retirement,  or  the 
shelves  of  his  hbrary,  how  much  more  interest 
i   must  we  take  in  the  '  ship-boy  on  the  high 
I   and  giddy  mast,'  cherishing  refined  visions  of 
I   fancy  at  the   hour   which   he   may  casually 
j    snatch  from   fatigue  and  danger.      Nor  did 
1   Falconer  neglect  the  proper  acquirements  of 
!    seamanship  in  cultivating  poetry,  but  evinced 
considerable  knowledge  of  his  profession,  both 
in  his  '  Marine  Dictionary '  and  in  the  nautical 
precepts  of  the  '  Shipwreck.'     In  that  poem 
he  may  be  said   to   have  added  a  congenial 
and   peculiarly  British   subject   to   the    lan- 
guage ;    at  least,  we  had  no  previous  poem 
of  any  length  of  which  the  characters  and 
catastrophe  were  purely  naval. 

"The  scene  of  the  catastrophe  (though  he 
followed  only  the  fact  of  his  own  history)  was 
poetically  laid  amidst  seas  and  shores  where 
the  mind  easily  gathers  romantic  associations, 
and  where  it  supposes  the  most  pictui-esque 
vicissitudes   of    scenery   and   chmate.      The 
spectacle  of  a  majestic  British  ship  on  the 
shores  of  Greece  brings  as  strong  a  remini- 
scence to  the  mind  as  can  well  be  imagined,  of 
the  changes  which  time  has  wrought  in  trans- 
planting the  empire  of  arts  and  civilization. 
Falconer's  characters  are  few  ;   but  the  calm, 
sagacious  commander,  and  the  rough,  obsti- 
nate Eodmond,   are   well  contrasted.     Some 
part  of  the  love-story  of  '  Palemon  '  is  rather 
swainish  and  protracted,  yet  the  effect  of  his 
being  involved  in  the  calamity  leaves  a  deeper 
sympathy  in  the  mind  for  the    daughter  o 
Albert,  when  we  conceive  her  at  once  deprive! 
both  of  a  father  and  a  lover.     The  incidens 
of  the    '  Ship^vreck,'    like   those   of    a   w4- 
wr ought  tragedy,  gradually  deepen,  while  t^ey 
yet  leave  a  suspense  of  hope  and  fear  toche 
imagination.    In  the  final  scene  there  is  sme- 
thing  that  deeply  touches  our  compassin  in 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


the  picture  of  the  unfortunate  man  who  is 
struck  blind  by  a  flash  of  lightning  at  the 
helm.  I  remember,  by  the  way,  to  have  met 
with  an  affecting  account  of  the  identical 
calamity  befalling  the  steersman  of  a  forlorn 
vessel  in  a  similar  moment,  given  in  a  prose 
and  veracious  history  of .  the  loss  of  a  vessel 
on  the  coast  of  America.  Falconer  skilfully 
heightens  this  trait  by  showing  its  effect  on 
the  commiseration  of  Redmond,  the  roughest 
of  his  characters,  who  guides  the  victim  of 
misfortune  to  lay  hold  of  a  sail. 

'  A  flash,  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of 
light, 

Struck  the  pale  helmsman  w^ith  eternal 
night : 

Redmond,  who  heard  a  piteous  groan  be- 
hind, 

Touch' d  with  compassion,  gazed  upon  the 
blind ; 

And,  while  arormd  his  sad  companions 
crowd, 

He  guides  th'  unhappy  victim  to  the 
I  shroud, 

Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend  !  ho  cries ; 

Thy  only  succour  on  the  mast  relies  ! ' 

"  The  effect  of  some  of  his  sea  phrases  is 
to  give  a  definite  and  authentic  character  to 
his  descriptions  ;  but  that  of  most  of  them,  to  a 
landsman's  ear,  resembles  slang,  and  produces 
obscurity.  His  diction,  too,  generally  aboxmds 
with  common-place  expletives  and  feeble  lines. 
His  scholarship  on  the  shores  of  Greece  is 
only  what  we  should  accept  of  from  a  seaman ; 
but  his  poem  has  the  sensible  charm  of  ap- 
pearing a  transcript  of  reality,  and  leaves  an 
impression  of  truth  and  nature  on  the  mind." 
— Campbell' 8  "Specimens,"  480,  481.  See  AUi- 
bone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.";  Chambers's 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii. 


ROBERT  LLOYD. 

"  Robert  Lloyd  was  born  in  London  in  1733. 
He  was  the  son  of  one  of  the  under-masters 
of  Westminster  School.  He  went  to  Cam- 
bridge, where  he  became  distinguished  for  his 
talents  and  notorious  for  his  dissipation.  He 
became  an  usher  under  his  father,  but  soon 
tired  of  the  drudgery,  and  commenced  profes- 
sional author.  He  published  a  poem  called 
'  The  Actor,'  which  attracted  attention,  and 
was  the  precursor  of  the  'Rosciad.'  Ho 
wrote  for  periodicals,  produced  some  theatrical 
pieces  of  no  great  merit,  and  edited  the  '  St. 
James's  Magazine.'  This  failed,  and  Lloyd, 
involved  in  pecuniary  distresses,  was  cast  into 
the  Fleet.  Here  he  was  deserted  by  all  his 
boon  companions  except  Churchill,  to  whose 
sister  he  was  attached,  and  who  allowed  him 
a  guinea  a-week  and  a  servant,  besides  pro- 
moting a  subscription  for  his  benefit.     When 


the  news  of  Churchill's  death  arrived,  Lloyd 
was  seated  at  dinner  ;  he  became  instantly 
sick,  cried  out  '  Poor  Charles  !  I  shall  follow 
him  soon,'  and  died  in  a  few  weeks.  Chur- 
chill's sister,  a  woman  of  excellent  abilities, 
waited  on  Lloyd  dux'ing  his  illness,  and  died 
soon  after  him  of  a  broken  heartr  This  was 
in  1764. 

"  Lloyd  was  a  minor  Churchill.  He  had  not 
his  brawny  force,  but  he  had  more  than  iiis 
liveliness  of  wit,  and  was  a  much  better-con- 
ditioned man,  and  more  temperate  in  his 
satire.  Cowper  knew,  loved,  and  admired, 
and  in  some  of  his  verses  imitated,  Robci't 
Lloyd." — Gilfillan's  "Less-known Brit.  Poets," 
126,  127. 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 

"  Charles  Churchill,  born  1731,  died  17G4. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  clergyman, 
who  was  curate  and  lecturer  of  St.  John's, 
Westminster.  He  was  educated  at  West- 
minster School,  and  entered  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  but  not  being  disposed 

'O'er  crabbed  authors  life's  gay  prime  to 

waste. 
Or  cramp  wild  genius  in  the  chains  of 
taste,' 

he  left  the  university  abruptly,  and  coming  to 
London  made  a  clandestine  marriage  in  the 
Fleet.  His  father,  though  much  displeased  at 
the  proceeding,  became  reconciled  to  what 
could  not  be  remedied,  and  received  the  im- 
prudent couple  for  about  a  year  under  his 
roof.  After  this  young  Churchill  went  for 
some  time  to  study  theology  at  Sunderland, 
in  the  north  of  England,  and  having  taken 
orders,  officiated  at  Cadbury,  in  Somerset- 
shire, and  at  Rainham,  a  living  of  his  father's 
in  Essex,  till  upon  the  death  of  his  father  he 
sticceeded,  in  1758,  to  the  curacy  and  lecture- 
ship of  St.  John's,  Westminster.  Here  he 
conducted  himself  for  some  time  mth  a  de- 
corum suitable  to  his  profession,  and  increased 
his  narrow  income  by  undertaking  private 
tuition.  He  got  into  debt,  it  is  true  ;  and  Dr. 
Lloyd,  of  Westminster,  the  father  of  his  friend 
the  poet,  was  obliged  to  mediate  with  his  cre- 
ditors for  their  acceptance  of  a  composition  ; 
but  when  fortune  put  it  into  his  power 
Churchill  honourably  discharged  all  his  obli- 
gations. His  '  Rosciad '  appeared  at  first 
anonymously,  in  1761,  and  was  ascribed  to 
one  or  other  of  half  the  wits  in  town  ;  but 
his  acknowledgement  of  it,  and  his  poetical 
'  Apology,'  in  which  he  retaliated  upon  the 
critical  reviewers  of  his  poem  (not  fearing  to 
affront  even  Fielding  and  Smollett),  made  him 
at  once  famous  and  formidable.  The  players, 
at  least,  felt  him  to  be  so.  Garrick  himself, 
who,  though  extolled  in   the   '  Rosciad,'  was 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


sarcastically  alluded  to  in  the  '  Apoloj?y,' 
courted  him  like  a  suppliant ;  and  his  satire 
had  the  etfect  of  driving:  poor  Tom  Davies, 
the  biographer  of  Garrick,  though  he  was  a 
tolerable. performer,  from  the  stage.  A  letter 
from  another  actor,  of  the  name  of  Davis,  who 
seems  rather  to  have  dreaded  than  experienced 
his  severity,  is  preserved  in  Nichols's  '  Literary 
Anecdotes  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,'  in 
which  the  poor  comedian  deprecates  the  poet's 
censure  in  an  expected  publication,  as  likely 
to  deprive  him  of  bread.  What  was  mean 
in  Garrick  might  have  been  an  object  of  com- 
passion in  this  humble  man  ;  but  Churchill 
answered  him  with  surly  contempt,  and  hold- 
ing to  the  plea  of  justice,  treated  his  fears  with 
the  apparent  satisfaction  of  a  hangman.  His 
moral  character,  in  the  meantime,  did  not 
keep  pace  with  his  literary  reputation.  As  he 
got  above  neglect  he  seems  to  have  thought 
himself  above  censure.  His  superior,  the 
Dean  of  Westminster,  having  had  occasion  to 
rebuke  him  for  some  irregularities,  he  threw 
aside  at  once  the  clerical  habit  and  profession, 
and  arrayed  his  ungainly  form  in  the  splen- 
dour of  fashion.  Amidst  the  remarks  of  his 
enemies,  and  what  he  pronounces  the  still 
more  insulting  advice  of  his  prudent  friends 
upon  his  irregular  life,  he  published  his  epistle 
to  Lloyd,  entitled  '  Night,'  a  sort  of  manifesto 
of  the  impulses,  for  they  could  not  be  called 
principles,  by  which  he  professed  his  conduct 
to  be  influenced.  The  pleading  maxims  of  this 
epistle  are,  that  prudence  and  hj^pocrisy  in 
these  times  are  the  same  thing !  that  good 
hours  are  but  fine  words ;  and  that  it  is 
better  to  avow  faults  than  to  conceal  them. 
Speaking  of  his  convivial  enjoyments,  he 
says — 

'Night's  laughing   hours   unheeded   slip 

away, 
Nor  one  dull  thought  foretells  approach 
of  day.' 

In  the  same  description  he  somewhat  awk- 
wardly introduces 

'Wine's  gay  God,  with  Temperance  by 

his  side, 
Whilst  Health  attends.' 

How  w^ould  Churchill  have  belaboured  any 
fool  or  hypocrite  who  had  pretended  to  boast 
of  health  and  temperance  in  the  midst  of 
orgies  that  turned  night  into  day  ! 

"  By  his  connection  with  Wilkes  he  added 
political  to  personal  causes  of  animosity,  and 
did  not  diminish  the  number  of  unfavourable 
eyes  that  were  turned  upon  his  private  cha- 
racter. He  had  certainly,  with  all  his  faults, 
some  strong  and  good  qualities  of  the  heart ; 
but  the  particular  proofs  of  these  were  not 
likely  to  be  sedulously  collected  as  materials 
of  his  biography,  for  he  had  now  placed  him- 
self m  that  hght  of  reputation  when  a  man's 
likeness  is  taken  by  its  shadow  and  darkness. 


Accordingly,  the  most  prominent  circum- 
stances that  we  afterwards  learn  respecting 
him  are,  that  he  separated  from  his  wife,  and 
seduced  the  daughter  of  a  tradesman  in  West- 
minster. At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  either 
from  his  satiety  or  repentance,  he  advised  this 
unfortunate  woman  to  return  to  her  friends  ; 
but  took  her  back  again  upon  her  finding  her 
home  made  intolerable  by  the  reproaches  of  a 
sister.  His  reputation  for  inebriety  also  re- 
ceived some  public  acknowledgments.  Ho- 
garth gave  as  much  celebrity  as  he  could  to 
his  love  of  porter,  by  representing  him  in  the 
act  of  drinking  a  mug  of  that  liquor  in  the 
shape  of  a  bear  ;  but  the  painter  lip.d  no  great 
reason  to  congratulate  himself  ultimately  on 
the  effects  of  his  caricature.  Our  poet  was 
included  in  the  general  warrant  that  was 
issued  for  apprehending  Wilkes.  He  hid  him- 
self, however,  and  avoided  imprisonment.  In 
the  autumn  of  1764  he  paid  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Wilkes  at  Boulogne,  where  he  caught  a  mili- 
tary fever,  and  expired  in  his  thirty-third 
year. 

"  Churchill  may  be  ranked  as  a  satirist  im- 
mediately after  Pope  and  Dry  den,  with  per- 
haps a  greater  share  of  humour  than  either. 
He  has  the  bitterness  of  Pope,  with  less  wit 
to  atone  for  it ;  but  no  mean  share  of  the 
free  manner  and  energetic  plainness  of  Dry- 
den.  After  the  *  Rosciad '  and  '  Apology '  he 
began  his  poem  of  the  '  Ghost '  (founded  on 
the  well-known  story  of  Cock -lane),  many  parts 
of  which  tradition  reports  him  to  have  com- 
posed when  scarce  recovered  from  his  fits  of 
drunkenness.  It  is  certainly  a  rambling  and 
scandalous  production,  with  a  few  such  ori- 
ginal gleams  as  might  have  crossed  the  brain 
of  genius  amidst  the  bile  and  lassitude  of  dis- 
sipation. The  novelty  of  political  warfare 
seems  to  have  given  a  new  impulse  to  his 
powers  in  the  '  Prophecy  of  Famine,'  a  satire 
on  Scotland,  which  even  to  Scotchmen  must 
seem  to  sheath  its  sting  in  its  laughable  ex- 
travagance. His  poetical  '  Epistle  to  Hogarth' 
is  remarkable,  amidst  its  savage  ferocitj^  for 
one  of  the  best  panegyrics  that  was  ever  be- 
stowed on  that  painter's  works.  He  scalps 
indeed  even  barbarously  the  infirmities  of  the 
man,  but,  on  the  whole,  spares  the  laurels  of 
the  artist.  The  following  is  his  description  of 
Hogarth's  powers  : — 

'  In   walks   of    humour,    in   that   cast   of 

style. 
Which,  probing  to  the  quick,  yet  makes 

us  smile  ; 
In  comedy,  his  nat'ral  road  to  fame, 
Nor  let  me  call  it  by  a  meaner  name. 
Where  a  beginning,  middle,  and  an  end 
Are  aptly  join'd;    where  parts  on  parts 

depend, 
Each  made  for  each,  as  bodies  for  their 

soul, 
So    as    to   form   one   true   and    perfect 

whole. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Where  a  plain  story  to  the  eye  is  told, 
Which    we    conceive    the    moment    we 

behold, 
Hogarth    iinrivall'd    stands,    and     shall 

engage 
UnrivaU'd  praise  to  the  most  distant  age.' 

"  There  are  two  peculiarly  interesting  pas- 
sages in  his  '  Conference.'  One  of  them, 
expressive  of  remorse  for  his  crime  of  se- 
duction, has  been  often  quoted.  The  other  is 
a  touching  description  of  a  man  of  independent 
spirit  reduced  by  despair  and  poverty  to  accept 
of  the  means  of  sustaining  life  on  humiliating 
terms. 

'  What    proof    might    do,    what    hunger 

might  effect, 
What    famish' d     nature,    looking    with 

neglect 
On  all  she  once  held  dear,  what  fear,  at 

strife 
With  fainting   virtue   for  the  means  of 

life. 
Might  make  this  coward   flesh,  in  love 

with  breath, 
Shudd'ring  at  pain,  and  shrinking  back 

from  death. 
In  treason  to  my  soul,  descend  to  bear, 
Trusting  to  fate,    I    neither  know   nor 

care. 
Once, — at   this    hour    whose    woimds 

afresh  I  feel, 
Which  nor  prosperity  nor  time  can  heal, 

*  *  *  * 

Those  wounds,  which  humbled  all  that 

pride  of  man, 
Which  brings  such  mighty  aid  to  virtue's 

plan ; 
Once,  awed  by  fortune's  most  oppressive 

frown. 
By  legal  rapine  to  the  earth  bow'd  down, 
My  credit  at  last  gasp,  my  state  undone, 
Trembling  to  meet  the  shock  I  could  not 

shun, 
Virtue  gave  ground,  and  black   despair 

prevail' d ; 
Sinking  beneath  the   storm,  my  spirits 

fail'd, 
Like  Peter's  faith.' 

"  But  without  enumerating  similar  pas- 
sages, which  may  form  an  exception  to  the 
remark,  the  general  tenor  of  his  later  works 
fell  beneath  his  first  reputation.  His  '  Duel- 
list '  is  positively  dull ;  and  his  '  Gotham,'  the 
imaginary  realm  of  which  he  feigns  himself 
the  sovereign,  is  calculated  to  remind  us  of 
the  proverbial  wisdom  of  its  sages.  It  was 
justly  complained  that  he  became  too  much  an 
echo  of  himself,  and  that  before  his  short 
literary  career  was  closed,  his  originality  ap- 
peared to  be  exhausted." — Campbell's  "  Spe- 
cimens," pp.  454-456.  See  Allibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit."  ; 
Gilfiilcn's  Ed.  of  "Churchill's  Poems." 


MICHAEL  BEUCE. 

"  We  refer  our  readers  to  Dr.  Mackelvie's 
well-known  and  very  able  '  Life  of  poor  Bruce' 
for  his  full  story,  and  for  the  evidence  on 
which  his  claim  to  the  '  Cuckoo '  is  rested. 
Apart  from  external  evidence,  w^  tlunk  that 
poem  more  characteristic  of  Bruce' s  genius 
than  of  Logan's,  and  have  therefore  ranked  it 
under  Bruce 's  name. 

"Bruce  was  bom  on  the  27th  of  March, 
1746,  at  Kinnesswood,  parish  of  Portmoak, 
county  of  Kinross.  His  father  was  a  weaver, 
and  Michael  was  the  fifth  of  a  family  of  eight 
children.  Poor  as  his  parents  were,  they  were 
intelligent,  religious,  and  most  conscientious 
in  the  discharge  of  their  duties  to  their  chil- 
dren. In  the  summer  months  Michael  was 
sent  out  to  herd  cattle  ;  and  one  loves  to 
imagine  the  young  poet  wrapt  in  his  plaid, 
under  a  whin-bush,  while  the  storm  was  blow- 
ing,—  or  gazing  at  the  rainbow  from  the 
summit  of  a  fence, — or  admiring  at  Loch- 
leven  and  its  old  ruined  castle, — or  weaving 
around  the  form  of  some  little  maiden,  herding 
in  a  neighbouring  field — some  '  Jeanie  Moni- 
son  ' — one  of  those  webs  of  romantic  early 
love  which  are  beautiful  and  evanescent  as 
the  gossamer,  but  how  exquisitely  relished 
while  they  last !  Say  not,  with  one  of  his 
biographers,  that  his  '  education  was  retarded 
by  this  employment ; '  ho  was  receiving  in 
these  solitary  fields  a  kind  of  education  which 
no  school  and  no  college  could  furni.sh ;  nay, 
who  knows  but,  as  he  saw  the  cuckoo  winging 
her  way  from  one  deep  woodland  recess  to 
another,  or  heard  her  dull,  divine  monotone 
coming  from  the  heart  of  the  forest,  the  germ 
of  that  exquisite  strain, '  least  in  the  kingdom' 
of  the  heaven  of  poetry  in  size,  but  immortal 
in  its  smallness,  was  sown  in  his  mind  ?  In 
winter  he  went  to  school,  and  profited  there 
so  much,  that  at  fifteen  (not  a  very  early 
period,  after  all,  for  a  Scotch  student  begin- 
ning his  curriculum — in  our  day  twelve  was 
not  an  uncommon  age)  he  was  judged  fit  for 
going  to  college.  And  just  in  time  a  windfall 
came  across  the  path  of  our  poet,  the  mention 
of  which  may  make  many  of  our  readers  smile. 
This  was  a  legacy  which  was  left  his  father  by  a 
relative,  amounting  to  200  marks,  ord811. 2s.  6d. 
With  this  munificent  sum  in  his  pocket,  Bruce 
was  sent  to  study  at  Edinburgh  College. 
Here  he  became  distinguished  by  his  attain- 
ments, and  particularly  his  taste  and  poetic 
powers ;  and  here,  too,  he  became  acquainted 
with  John  Logan,  afterwards  his  biographer. 
After  spending  three  sessions  at  college,  sup- 
ported by  his  parents  and  other  friends,  he 
returned  to  the  country,  and  taught  a  school 
at  Gairney  Bridge  (a  place  famous  for  the 
first  meeting  of  the  first  presbytery  of  the 
Seceders),  for  .£11  of  salary.  Thence  he  re- 
moved to  Foresthill,  near  Alloa,  where  a  damp 
school-room,  poverty,  and  hard  labour  in 
teaching,   united   to    injure    his    health    and 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period— 


depress  his  spirits.  At  Foresthill  he  wrote 
his  poem  '  Lochia ven,'  which  discovers  no 
small  descriptive  power.  Consumption  began 
now  to  make  its  appearance,  and  he  returned 
to  the  cottage  of  his  parents,  where  he  wrote 
his  '  Elegy  on  Spring,'  in  which  he  refers  with 
dignified  pathos  to  his  approaching  dissolution. 
On  the  5th  of  July,  1767,  this  remarkable 
youth  died,  aged  twenty-one  years  and  three 
months.  His  Bible  was  found  on  his  pillow, 
marked  at  the  words,  Jer.  xxii.  10,  'Weep  ye 
not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him :  but 
weep  sore  for  him  that  goeth  away :  for  he 
shall  return  no  more,  nor  see  his  native 
country.' 

"  Lord  Craig  wrote  some  time  afterwards 
an  affecting  paper  in  the  '  Mirror,'  recording 
the  fate,  and  commending  the  genius  of  Bruce. 
John  Logan,  in  1770,  published  his  poems. 
In  the  year  1807,  the  kind-hearted  Principal 
Baird  published  an  edition  of  the  poems  for 
the  behoof  of  Bruce' s  mother,  then  an  aged 
^vidow.  And  in  1837,  Dr.  William  Mackelvie, 
Balgedie,  Kinross-shire,  published  what  may 
be  considered  the  standard  Life  of  this  poet, 
along  with  a  complete  edition  of  his  Works. 

"It  is  impossible  from  so  small  a  segment 
of  a  circle  as  Bruce' s  life  describes  to  infer 
with  any  certainty  the  whole.  So  far  as  we 
can  judge  from  the  fragments  left,  his  power 
■was  rather  in  the  beautiful,  than  in  the  sub- 
lime or  in  the  strong.  The  lines  on  Spring, 
from  the  words  '  Now  spring  returns '  to  the 
close,  form  a  continuous  stream  of  pensive 
loveliness.  How  sweetly  he  sings  in  the 
shadow  of  death !  Nor  let  us  too  severely 
blame  his  allusion  to  the  old  Pagan  mythology, 
in  the  words — 

'•  I  hear  the  helpless  wail,  the  shriek  of 
woe, 
I    see    the    muddy  wave,    the    dreary 
shore ; ' 

remembering  that  he  was  still  a  mere  student, 
and  not  recovered  from  that  fine  intoxication 
in  which  classical  literature  drenches  a  young 
imaginative  soul,  and  that  at  last  we  find  him 
'  resting  in  the  hopes  of  an  eternal  day.' 
'  Lochleven '  is  the  spent  echo  of  the  *  Sea- 
sons,' although,  as  we  said  before,  its  descrip- 
tions possess  considerable  merit.  His  '  Last 
Day '  is  more  ambitious  than  successful.  If 
we  grant  the  '  Cuckoo '  to  be  his,  as  we  are 
inclined  decidedly  to  do,  it  is  a  sure  title  to 
fame,  being  one  of  the  sweetest  little  poems 
in  any  language.  Shakspere  would  have  been 
proud  of  the  verse — 

*  Sweet  bird !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 
No  winter  in  thy  year.' 

Bruce  has  not,  however,  it  has  always  ap- 
peared to  us,  caught  so  well  as  Wordsworth 
the   differentia  of  the  cuckoo, — its  invisible. 


shadowy,  shifting,  supernatural  character — 
heard,  but  seldom  seen — ^its  note  so  limited 
and  almost  unearthly  : — 

O  Cuckoo,  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? ' 

How  fine  this  conception  of  a  separated  voice 
— '  The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lonely  sound,' 
plaining  in  the  woods  as  if  seeking  for  some 
incarnation  it  cannot  find,  and  saddening  the 
spring  groves  by  a  note  so  contradictory  to 
the  genius  of  the  season.  In  reference  to  the 
note  of  the  cuckoo  we  find  the  following  re- 
marks among  the  fragments  from  the  common- 
place book  of  Dr.  Thomas  Brown,  printed  by 
Dr.  Welsh  : — '  The  name  of  the  cuckoo  has 
generally  been  considered  as  a  very  pure 
instance  of  imitative  harmon3^  But  in  giving 
that  name,  we  have  most  unjustly  defrauded 
the  poor  bird  of  a  portion  of  its  very  small 
variety  of  sound.  The  second  syllable  is  not 
a  mere  echo  of  the  first ;  it  is  the  sound  re- 
versed, like  the  reading  of  a  sotadic  line  ;  and 
to  preserve  the  strictness  of  the  imitation  we 
should  give  it  the  name  of  Ook-koo.'  This  is 
the  prose  of  the  cuckoo  after  its  poetry." 
Such  is  Gilfillan's  eloquent  tribute  to  the 
genius  of  Bruce ;  we  must,  however,  give  the 
authorship  of  the  "Cuckoo"  to  Logan, — 
Gilfillan's  "  Less-known  Brit.  Poets,"  vol.  iii., 
pp.  143-146.  See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet. 
Eng,  Lit."  ;  Chambers's  "  Cj^c.  Eng.  Lit."  ; 
Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


JOHN  LOGAN. 

"  John  Logan  was  born  in  the  year  1748. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  farmer  at  Soutra,  in  the 
parish  of  Fala,  Mid-Lothian.  He  was  educated 
for  the  church  at  Edinburgh,  where  he  became 
intimate  with  Robertson,  afterwards  the  his- 
torian. So,  at  least,  Campbell  asserts ;  but 
he  strangely  calls  him  a  student  of  the  same 
standing,  whereas,  in  fact,  Robertson  saw 
light  in  1721,  and  had  been  a  settled  minister 
five  years  before  Logan  was  boi*n.  After 
finishing  his  studies  he  became  tutor  in  the 
family  of  Mr.  Sinclair  of  Ulbster,  and  the  late 
well-known  Sir  John  Sinclair  was  one  of  his 
pupils.  Wlien  licensed  to  preach,  Logan  be- 
came popular,  and  was  in  his  twenty-fifth 
year  appointed  one  of  the  ministers  of  South 
Leith.  In  1781  he  read,  in  Edinburgh,  a 
course  of  lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of 
History,  and  in  1782  he  printed  one  of  them, 
on  the  Government  of  Asia.  In  the  same 
year  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which 
were  well  received.  In  1783  he  wrote  a  tragedy 
called  '  Runnymede,'  which  was,  owing  to 
some  imagined  incendiary  matter,  prohibited 
from  being  acted  on  the  London  boards,  but 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


which  was  produced  on  the  Edinburgh  stage, 
and  afterwards  published.  This,  along  with 
some  alleged  irregularities  of  conduct  on  the 
part  of  Logan,  tended  to  alienate  his  flock, 
and  he  was  induced  to  retire  on  a  small 
annuity.  He  betook  himself  to  London,  where, 
in  conjunction  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Thomson — 
who  had  left  the  parish  of  Monzievaird,  in 
Perthshire,  owing  to  a  scandal — he  wrote  for 
the  '  English  Review,'  and  was  employed  to 
defend  Warren  Hastings.  This  he  did  in  an 
able  manner,  although  a  well-known  story 
describes  him  as  listening  to  Sheridan,  on  the 
Oude  case,  with  intense  interest,  and  exclaim- 
ing, after  the  first  hour,  '  This  is  mere  decla- 
mation without  proof — after  the  next  two, 
'  This  is  a  man  of  extraordinary  powers ' — and 
ere  the  close  of  the  matchless  oration,  '  Of  all 
the  monsters  in  history,  Warren  Hastings  is 
the  vilest.'  Logan  died  in  the  year  1788,  in 
his  lodgings,  Marlborough  Street.  His  ser- 
mons were  published  shortly  after  his  death, 
and  if  parts  of  them  are,  as  is  alleged,  pilfered 
from  a  Swiss  divine  (George  Joachim  Zolli- 
kofer),  they  have  not  remained  exclusively 
•with  the  thief,  since  no  sermons  have  been 
so  often  reproduced  in  Scottish  pulpits  as  the 
elegant  orations  issued  under  the  name  of 
Logan. 

"  We  have  already  declined  to  enter  on  the 
controversy  about  '  The  Cuckoo,'  intimating, 
however,  our  belief,  founded  partly  upon 
Logan's  unscrupulous  character  and  partly  on 
internal  evidence,  that  it  was  originally  \vritten 
by  Bruce,  but  probably  polished  to  its  present 
perfection  by  Logan,  whose  other  writings 
give  us  rather  the  impression  of  a  man  of 
varied  accompUshments  and  excellent  taste, 
than  of  deep  feeling  or  original  genius.  If 
Logan  were  not  the  author  of  '  The  Cuckoo,' 
there  was  a  special  baseness  connected  with 
the  fact,  that  when  Burke  sought  him  out  in 
Edinburgh,  solely  from  his  admiration  of  that 
poem,  he  owned  the  soft  and  false  impeach- 
ment, and  rolled  as  a  sweet  morsel  praise  from 
the  greatest  man  of  the  age,  which  he  knew 
was  the  rightful  due  of  another." — GilfiUan's 
"Less-known  Brit.  Poets,"  pp.  266-268. 


THOMAS  WARTON. 

"Thomas  Warton,  born  1728,  died  1790, 
was  descended  from  an  ancient  family,  whose 
residence  was  at  Beverley,  in  Yorkshire.  One 
of  his  ancestors  was  knighted  in  the  civil 
Avars,  for  his  adherence  to  Charles  I, ;  but  by 
the  failure  of  the  same  cause,  the  estate  of  the 
family  was  confiscated,  and  they  were  unable 
to  maintain  the  rank  of  gentry.  The  Toryism 
of  the  historian  of  English  poetry  was,  there- 
fore, hereditary.  His  father  was  fellow  of 
Magdalen  College,  Oxford  ;  professor  of  poetry 
in  that  university ;  and  vicar  of  Basingstoke, 


in  Hants,  and  of  Cobham,  in  Surrey.  At  the 
age  of  sixteen  our  author  was  admitted  a  com- 
moner of  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  of  which  he 
continued  a  member,  and  an  ornament,  for 
forty-seven  years.  His  first  poetical  appear- 
ance in  print  has  been  traced  to  five  '  Eclogues ' 
in  blank  verse  ;  the  scenes  of  whifih  are  laid 
among  the  shepherds,  oppressed  by  the  wars 
■in  Germany.  They  appeared  in  Pearch's 
'  Supplement  to  Dodsley's  Collection  of  Fugi- 
tive Pieces.'  Warton  disavowed  those  '  Ec- 
logues '  in  his  riper  years.  They  are  not  dis- 
creditable to  him  as  the  verses  of  a  boy ;  but 
it  was  a  superfluous  offering  to  the  public,  to 
subjoin  them  to  his  other  works,  in  Mr. 
Chalmers's  edition  of  the  British  Poets.  His 
poem,  '  The  Pleasures  of  Melancholy,'  was 
written  not  long  after.  As  the  composition  of 
a  youth,  it  is  entitled  to  a  very  indulgent  con- 
sideration :  and  perhaps  it  gives  promise  of  a 
sensibility,  which  his  subsequent  poetry  did 
not  fulfil.  It  was  professedly  written  in  his 
seventeenth,  but  published  in  his  nineteenth 
year,  so  that  it  must  be  considered  as  testify- 
ing the  state  of  his  genius  at  the  latter  period  ; 
for  until  his  work  had  passed  through  the 
press,  he  would  continue  to  improve  it.  In 
the  year  1749  he  published  his  '  Triumph  of 
Isis,'  in  answer  to  Mason's  poetical  attack  on 
the  loyalty  of  Oxford.  The  best  passage  in 
this  piece,  beginning  with  the  lines — 

'Ye  fretted  pinnacles,  ye  fanes  sublime, 
Ye  towers,  that  wear  the  mossy  vest  of 
time,' 

discovers  that  fondness  for  the  beauties  of 
architecture,  which  was  an  absolute  passion  in 
the  breast  of  Warton.  Joseph  Warton  relates 
that,  at  an  early  period  of  their  youth,  his 
brother  and  he  were  taken  by  their  father  to 
see  Windsor  Castle.  Old  Dr.  Warton  com- 
plained, that  whilst  the  rest  of  the  party  ex- 
pressed delight  at  the  magnificent  spectacle, 
Thomas  made  no  remarks  ;  but  Joseph  Warton 
justly  observes,  tha,t  the  silence  of  his  brother 
was  only  a  proof  of  the  depth  of  his  pleasure ; 
that  he  was  i-eally  absorbed  in  the  enjoyment 
of  the  sight;  and  that  his  subsequent  fondness 
for  '  castle  imagery,'  he  believed,  might  be 
traced  to  the  impression  which  he  then  re- 
ceived from  Windsor  Castle. 

"  In  1750  ho  took  the  degree  of  a  master  of 
arts ;  and  in  the  following  year  succeeded  to  a 
fellowship.  In  1754  he  published  his  '  Obser- 
vations on  Spenser's  Faery  Queen,'  in  a  single 
volume,  which  he  afterwards  expanded  into 
two  volumes,  in  the  edition  of  1762.  In  this 
work  he  minutely  analyses  the  Classic  and 
Romantic  sources  of  Spenser's  fiction ;  and  so 
far  enables  us  to  estimate  the  power  of  the 
poet's  genius,  that  we  can  compare  the  scat- 
tered ore  of  his  fanciful  materials  with  their 
transmuted  appearance  in  the  '  Fatfry  Queen.' 
This  work,  probably,  contributed  to  his  ap- 
pointment to  the  professorship  of  poetry,  in 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period.—- 


the  university,  in  1757,  which  he  held,  accord- 
ing to  custom,  for  ten  years.  While  possessed 
of  that  chair,  he  delivered  a  course  of  lectures 
on  poetry,  in  which  he  introduced  his  transla- 
tions from  the  Greek  Anthology,  as  well  as 
the  substance  of  his  remarks  on  the  Bucolic 
poetry  of  the  Greeks,  which  were  afterwards 
published  in  his  edition  of  Theocritus.  In 
1758  he  assisted  Dr.  Johnson  in  the  'Idler,' 
with  Nos.  33,  93,  and  96.  About  the  same 
time  he  published,  without  name  or  date,  '  A 
Description  of  the  City,  College,  and  Cathedral 
of  Winchester;'  and  a  humorous  account  of 
Oxford,  intended  to  burlesque  the  popular 
description  of  that  place,  entitled,  '  A  Com- 
panion to  the  Guide,  or  a  Guide  to  the  Com- 
panion.' He  also  published  anonymously,  in 
1758,  '  A  Selection  of  Latin  Metrical  Inscrip- 
tions.' 

"  Warton's  clerical  profession  forms  no  very 
prominent  part  of  his  history.  He  had  an 
indistinct  and  hurried  articulation,  which  was 
peculiarly  unfavourable  to  his  pulpit  oratory. 
His  ambition  was  directed  to  other  objects, 
than  preferment  in  the  church,  and  he  was 
above  solicitation.  After  having  served  the 
curacy  of  Woodstock  for  nine  years,  as  well  as 
his  avocations  would  permit,  he  was  appointed, 
in  1774,  to  the  small  living  of  Kiddington,  in 
Oxfordshire;  and,  in  1785,  to  the  donative  of 
Hill  Farrance,  in  Somersetshire,  by  his  own 
college. 

"  The  great  work  to  which  the  studies  of 
his  life  were  subservient,  was  his  '  History  of 
English  Poetry,'  an  undertaking  which  had 
been  successively  projected  by  Pope  and  Gray. 
Those  writers  had  suggested  the  imposing 
plan  of  arranging  the  British  poets,  not  by 
their  chronological  succession,  but  by  their 
different  schools.  Warton  deliberately  re- 
linquished this  scheme  ;  because  he  felt  that  it 
was  impracticable,  except  in  a  very  vague  and 
general  manner.  Poetry  is  of  too  spiritual  a 
nature  to  admit  of  its  authors  being  exactly 
grouped,  by  a  Linntean  system  of  classification. 
Striking  resemblances  and  distinctions  will,  no 
doubt,  be  found  among  poets ;  but  the  shades 
of  variety  and  gradation  are  so  infinite,  that 
to  bring  every  composer  within  a  5^ven  line  of 
resemblance,  would  require  a  ne^/r  language  in 
the  philosophy  of  taste.  Warton,  therefore, 
adopted  the  simpler  idea  of  tracing  our  poetry 
by  its  chronological  progress.  The  work  is 
certainly  provokingly  digressive,  in  many 
places,  and  those  who  have  subsequently  exa- 
mined the  same  subject  have  often  complained 
of  its  inaccuracies ;  but  the  chief  cause  of 
those  inaccuracies  was  that  boldness  and  ex- 
tent of  research,  which  makes  the  work  so 
useful  and  entertaining.  Those  who  detected 
his  mistakes  have  been,  in  no  small  degree,  in- 
debted to  him  for  their  power  of  detecting  them. 
The  first  volume  of  his  '  History '  appeared 
in  1774  ;  the  second  in  1778  ;  and  the  third  in 
1781.  Of  the  foiirth  volume  only  a  few  sheets 
were  printed  ;  and  the  account  of  our  poetry, 


which  he  meant  to  have  extended  to  the  last 
century,  was  continued  only  to  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth. 

"  In  the  year  1785  he  was  appointed  to  the 
Camden  Professorship  of  History,  in  which 
situation  he  delivered  only  one  inaugural  dis- 
sertation. In  the  same  year,  upon  the  death 
of  Whitehead,  he  received  the  laureateship. 
His  odes  were  subjected  to  the  ridicule  of  the 
Eolliad  ;  but  his  head  filled  the  laurel  with 
more  learning  than  it  had  encompassed  for 
a  hundred  years. 

"  In  his  sixty-second  year,  after  a  life  of 
uninterrupted  good  health,  he  was  attacked 
by  the  gout ;  went  to  Bath  for  a  cure,  and 
returned,  as  he  imagined,  perfectly  recovered  ; 
but  his  appearance  betrayed  that  his  constitu- 
tion had  received  a  fatal  shock.  At  the  close 
of  an  evening,  which  he  had  spent  with  more 
than  ordinary  cheerfulness,  in  the  common- 
hall  of  his  college,  he  was  seized  with  a  para- 
lytic stroke,  and  expired  on  the  following 
day. 

"  Some  amusing  eccentricities  of  his  cha- 
racter are  mentioned  by  the  writer  of  his  life 
(Dr.  Mant),  which  the  last  editor  of  the 
'  British  Poets '  blames  that  biographer  for 
introducing.  I  am  far  from  joining  in  this 
censure.  It  is  a  miserable  system  of  biogi-aphy, 
that  would  never  allow  us  to  smile  at  the 
foibles  and  peculiarities  of  its  subject.  The 
historian  of  English  poetry  would  sometimes 
forget  his  own  dignity,  so  far  as  to  drink  ale, 
and  smoke  tobacco  with  men  of  vulgar  condi- 
tion ;  either  wishing,  as  some  have  gravely 
alleged,  to  study  undisguised  and  unlettered 
human  nature,  or,  which  is  more  probable,  to 
enjoy  a  heartier  laugh,  and  broader  humour 
than  could  be  found  in  polite  society.  He  was 
also  passionately  fond  (not  of  critical,  but)  of 
military  reviews,  and  delighted  in  martial 
music.  The  same  strength  of  association 
which  made  him  enjoy  the  sound  of  '  the  spirit- 
stirring  drum,'  led  him  to  be  a  constant  and 
curious  explorer  of  the  architectural  monu- 
ments of  chivalrous  times ;  and,  during  his 
summer  excursions  into  the  country,  he  always 
committed  to  paper  the  remarks  Avhich  he  had 
made  on  ancient  buildings.  During  his  visits 
to  his  brother.  Dr.  J.  Warton,  the  reverend 
professor  became  an  associate  and  confidant  in 
all  the  sports  of  the  schoolboys.  When  engaged 
with  them  in  some  cuHnary  occupation,  and 
when  alarmed  by  the  sudden  approach  of  the 
master,  he  has  been  known  to  hide  himself  in 
a  dark  corner  of  the  kitchen  ;  and  has  been 
dragged  from  thence  by  the  Doctor,  who  had 
taken  him  for  some  great  boy.  He  also  used 
to  help  the  boys  in  their  exercises,  generally 
putting  in  as  many  faults  as  would  disguise 
the  assistance. 

"  Every  Englishman  who  values  the  litera- 
ture of  his  country  must  feel  himself  obHged 
to  Warton  as  a  poetical  antiquary.  As  a  poet, 
he  is  ranked  by  his  brother  Joseph  in  the 
school  of  Spenser  and  Milton ;  but  this  classi- 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  2s^0TICES. 


fication  can  only  be  admitted  with  a  full 
■understanding  of  the  immense  distance  between 
him  and  his  great  masters.  He  had,  indeed, 
*  spelt  the  fabled  rhyme  ;'  he  abounds  in  allu- 
sions to  the  romantic  subjects  of  Spenser,  and 
he  is  a  sedulous  imitator  of  the  rich  lyrical 
manner  of  Milton  :  but  of  the  tenderness  and 
peculiar  harmony  of  Spenser  he  has  caught 
nothing ;  and  in  his  resemblance  to  Milton,  he 
is  the  heir  of  his  pliraseology  more  than  his 
spirit.  His  imitation  of  manner,  however,  is 
not  confined  to  Milton.  His  style  often  ex- 
hibits a  very  composite  order  of  poetical  archi- 
tecture. In  his  verses  to  Sir  Joshua  Eeynolds, 
for  instance,  he  blends  the  point  and  succinct- 
ness of  Pope  with  the  richness  of  the  elder 
and  more  fanciful  school.  It  is  one  of  his 
happiest  compositions ;  and,  in  this  case,  the 
intermixture  of  styles  has  no  unpleasing  effect. 
In  others,  he  often  tastelessly  and  elaborately 
unites  his  affectation  of  antiquitj',  with  the 
case-hardened  graces  of  modern  polish. 

"  If  we  judge  of  him  by  the  character  of  the 
majority  of  his  pieces,  I  believe  that  fifty  out 
of  sixty  of  them  are  such,  that  we  should  not 
be  anxious  to  give  them  a  second  perusal. 
From  that  proportion  of  his  works,  I  conceive 
that  an  unprejudiced  reader  would  pronounce 
him  a  florid,  unaffecting  describer,  whose 
images  are  plentifully  scattered,  but  without 
selection  or  relief.  To  confine  our  view,  how- 
ever, to  some  seven  or  eight  of  his  happier 
pieces,  we  shall  find,  in  these,  a  considerable 
degree  of  graphic  power,  of  fancy,  and  anima- 
tion. His  '  Verses  to  Sir  Joshua  Eeynolds  ' 
are  splendid  and  spirited.  There  is  also  a 
softness  and  sweetness  in  his  ode  entitled 
'  The  Hamlet,'  which  is  the  more  welcome,  for 
being  rare  in  his  productions ;.  and  his  '  Cru- 
sade '  and  '  Grave  of  Arthur '  have  a  genuine 
air  of  martial  and  minstrel  enthusiasm.  Those 
pieces  exhibit,  to  the  best  advantage,  the  most 
striking  feature  of  his  poetical  character,  whic;h 
was  a  fondness  for  the  recollections  of  chi- 
valry, and  a  minute  intimacy  of  imagination 
■svith  its  gorgeous  residences,  and  imposing 
spectacles.  The  spirit  of  chivalry,  he  may 
indeed  bo  said  to  have  revived  in  the  poetry 
of  modern  times.  His  memory  was  richly 
stored  with  all  the  materials  for  description 
that  can  be  got  from  books  ;  and  he  seems  not 
to  have  been  without  an  original  enthusiasm 
for  those  objects  which  excite  strong  associa- 
tions of  regard  and  wonder.  Whether  he 
would  have  ever  looked  with  interest  on  a 
shepherd's  cottage,  if  he  had  not  found  it 
described  by  Virgil  or  Theocritus,  may  be 
fairly  doubted ;  but  objects  of  terror,  splen- 
dour, and  magnificence,  are  evidently  con- 
genial to  his  fancy.  He  is  very  impressive 
in  sketching  the  appearance  of  an  ancient 
Gothic  castle,  in  the  following  lines  : 

'  High  o'er  the  trackless  heath,  at  midnight 
seen. 
No  more  the  windows,  ranged  in  long 
array, 


(Where  the  taU  shaft  and  fretted  nook 
between 
Thick   ivy   twines)    the   taper' d    rites 
betray.' 

His  memory  was  stored  with  an  uncommon 
portion  of  that  knowledge  whicli  supplies 
materials  for  picturesque  description  ;  and  his 
universal  acquaintance  with  our  poets  supplied 
him  with  expression,  so  dis  to  answer  the  fuU 
demand  of  his  original  ideas.  Of  his  poetic 
invention,  in  the  fair  sense  of  the  word,  of  his 
depth  of  sensibility,  or  of  his  powers  of  reflec- 
tion, it  is  not  so  easy  to  say  anything  favour- 
able."— Campbell's  "  Specimens,"  pp.  618-620. 
See  Gilfillan's  "  Less-kno-wn  British  Poets." 


JOSEPH  WAETON. 

"Joseph  Warton,  born  1722,  died  1800,  son 
to  the  vicar  of  Basingstoke,  and  elder  brother 
to  the  historian  of  English  poetry,  was  born 
in  the  house  of  his  maternal  grandfather,  the 
Eev.  Joseph  Eichardson,  rector  of  Dunsfold, 
in  Surrey.  He  was  chiefly  educated  at  home 
by  his  father.  Dr.  Warton,  till  his  fourteenth 
year,  when  he  was  admitted  on  the  foundation 
of  Winchester  College.  He  was  there  the 
schoolfellow  and  intimate  of  Collins,  the 
poet  ;  and,  in  conjunction  with  him  and 
another  youth,  whose  name  was  Tomkyns,  he 
sent  to  the  '  Gentleman's  Magazine '  three 
pieces  of  poetry,  which  were  highly  com- 
mended in  that  miscellany.  In  1740,  being 
superannuated,  he  left  Winchester  School, 
and  having  missed  a  presentation  to  New 
College,  Oxford,  was  entered  a  commoner  at 
that  of  Oriel.  At  the  university  he  composed 
his  two  poems,  '  The  Enthusiast,'  and  '  The 
Dying  Indian,'  and  a  satirical  prose  sketch,  in 
imitation  of  Le  Sage,  entitled  '  Eanelagh,' 
which  his  editor,  Mr.  WooU,  has  inserted  in  | 
the  volume  that  contains  his  life,  letters,  and 
poems.  Having  taken  the  degree  of  bachelor 
of  arts  at  Oxford,  in  1744,  he  was  ordained  on 
I  his  father's  curacy  at  Basingstoke.  At  the 
end  of  two  years,  he  removed  from  thence  to 
do  duty  at  Chelsea,  where  he  caught  the  small- 
pox. Having  left  that  place,  for  change  of 
air,  he  did  not  return  to  it,  on  account  of 
some  disagreement  with  the  parishioners,  but 
officiated  for  a  few  months  at  Chawton  and 
Droxford,  and  then  resumed  his  residence  at 
Basingstoke.  In  the  same  year,  174G,  he 
published  a  volume  of  his '  Odes,'  in  the  preface 
to  which  he  expressed  a  hope  that  they  would 
be  regarded  as  a  fair  attempt  to  bring  poetry 
I  back  from  the  moralizing  and  didactic  taste  of 
j  the  age  to  the  truer  channels  of  fancy  and 
i  description.  Collins,  our  author's  immortal 
I  contemporary,  also  published  his  '  Odes'  in  the 
I  same  month  of  the  same  year.  He  realized, 
with  the  hand  of  genius,  that  idea  of  liighly 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. 


personified  and  picturesque  composition,  which 
Warton  contemplated  with  the  eye  of  taste. 
But  Collins's  works  were  ushered  in  with 
no  manifesto  of  a  design  to  regenerate  the 
taste  of  the  age,  with  no  pretensions  of 
erecting  a  new  or  recovered  standard  of  ex- 
cellence. 

"  In  1748  our  author  was  presented  by  the 
Duke  of  Bolton  to  the  rectory  of  Winslade, 
when  he  immediately  married  a  lady  of  that 
neighbourhood,  Miss  Daman,  to  whom  he  had 
been  for  some  time  attached.  He  had  not 
been  long  settled  in  his  living,  when  he  was 
invited  by  his  patron  to  accompany  him  to  the 
south  of  France.  The  Duchess  of  Bolton  was 
then  in  a  confirmed  dropsy,  and  his  Grace, 
anticipating  her  death,  mshed  to  have  a  Pro- 
testant clergyman  with  him  on  the  Continent, 
who  might  marry  him,  on  the  first  intelligence 
of  his  consort's  death,  to  the  lady  with  whom 
he  lived,  and  who  was  universally  known  by 
the  name  of  Polly  Peachum.  Dr.  Warton 
complied  with  this  proposal,  to  which  (as  his 
circumstances  were  narrow)  it  must  be  hoped 
that  his  poverty  consented  rather  than  his 
will.  '  To  those  '  (says  Mr.  WooU)  '  who  have 
enjoyed  the  rich  and  varied  treasures  of  Dr. 
Warton's  conversation,  who  have  been  dazzled 
by  the  brilliancy  of  his  wit,  and  instructed  by 
the  aciiteness  of  his  understanding,  I  need 
not  suggest  how  truly  enviable  was  the  jour- 
ney which  his  fellow-travellers  accomplished 
through  the  French  provinces  to  Montauban.' 
It  may  be  doubted,  however,  if  the  French 
provinces  were  exactly  the  scene,  where  his 
fellow-travellers  were  most  likely  to  be  in- 
structed by  the  acuteness  of  Dr.  Warton's 
observations  ;  as  he  was  unable  to  speak  the 
language  of  the  country,  and  could  have  no 
information  from  foreigners,  except  what  he 
could  now  and  then  extort  from  the  barbarous 
Latin  of  some  Irish  friar.  He  was  himself 
so  far  from  being  delighted  or  edified  by  his 
pilgrimage,  that  for  private  reasons  (as  his 
biographer  states),  and  from  impatience  of 
being  restored  to  his  family,  he  returned  home, 
without  having  accomplished  the  object  for 
which  the  Duke  had  taken  him  abroad.  He 
set  out  for  Bordeaux  in  a  courier's  cart ;  but 
being  dreadfully  jolted  in  that  vehicle,  ho 
quitted  it,  and,  having  joined  some  carriers 
in  Brittany,  came  home  by  way  of  St.  Malo. 
A  month  after  his  return  to  England,  the 
Duchess  of  Bolton  died;  and  our  author, 
imagining  that  his  patron  would,  possibly, 
have  the  decency  to  remain  a  widower  for  a 
few  weeks,  wrote  to  his  Grace,  offering  to  join 
him  immediately.  But  the  Dulje  had  no 
mind  to  delay  his  nuptials ;  he  was  joined  to 
Polly  by  a  Protestant  clergyman,  who  was 
found  upon  the  spot ;  and  our  author  thus 
missed  the  reward  of  the  only  action  of  his 
life  which  can  be  said  to  throw  a  blemish  on 
his  respectable  memory. 

"  In  the  year  1748-9  he  had  begun,  and  in 
1753  he  finished  and  published,  an  edition  of 


Virgil  in  English  and  Latin.  To  this  work 
Warburton  contributed  a  dissertation  on  the 
sixth  book  of  the  yEneid ;  Atterbury  furnished 
a  commentary  on  the  character  of  lapis ;  and 
the  laureate  Whitehead,  another  on  the  shield 
of  iEneas.  Many  of  the  notes  were  taken 
from  the  best  commentators  on  Virgil,  par- 
ticularly Catrou  and  Segrais  :  some  were 
supplied  by  Mr.  Spence ;  and  others,  relating 
to  the  son,  chmate,  and  customs  of  Italy,  by 
Mr.  Holdsworth,  who  had  resided  for  many 
years  in  that  country.  For  the  English  of 
the  iEneid,  ho  adopted  the  translation  by 
Pitt.  The  life  of  Virgil,  with  three  essays 
on  pastoral,  didactic,  and  epic  poetry,  and  a 
poetical  version  of  the  Eclogues  and  Georgics, 
constituted  his  own  part  of  the  work.  This 
translation  may,  in  many  instances,  be  found 
more  faithful  and  concise  than  Dryden's  ;  but 
it  wants  that  elastic  and  idiomatic  freedom, 
by  which  Dryden  reconciles  us  to  his  faults  ; 
and  exliibits  rather  the  diligence  of  a  scholar 
than  the  spirit  'of  a  poet.  Dr.  Hare  wood,  in 
his  view  of  the  classics,  accuses  the  Latin 
text  af  incon-ectness.  Shortly  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  Virgil,  he  took  a  share  in  the 
periodical  paper  '  The  Adventurer,'  and  con- 
tributed twenty-four  numbers,  which  have 
been  generally  esteemed  the  most  valuable  in 
the  work. 

"In  1754  he  was  instituted  to  the  living  of 
Tunworth,  on  the  presentation  of  the  Jervoise 
family;  and  in  1755  was  elected  second  master 
of  Winchester  School,  with  the  management 
and  advantage  of  a  boarding-house.  In  the 
following  year  Lord  Lyttelton,  who  had  sub- 
mitted a  part  of  his  '  History  of  Henry  II.'  to 
his  revisal,  bestowed  a  scarf  upon  him.  He 
found  leisure,  at  this  period,  to  commence  his 
'  Essay  on  the  Writings  and  Genius  of  Pope,' 
which  he  dedicated  to  Young,  without  sub- 
scribing his  name.  But  he  was  soon,  and  it 
would  appear  with  his  own  tacit  permission, 
generally  pronounced  to  be  its  author. 
Twenty-six  years,  however,  elapsed  before  he 
ventured  to  complete  it.  Dr.  Johnson  said, 
that  this  was  owing  to  his  not  having  been 
able  to  bring  the  public  to  be  of  his  opinion 
as  to  Pope.  Another  reason  has  been  assigned 
for  his  inactivity.  Warburton,  the  guardian 
of  Pope's  fame,  was  still  aHve ;  and  he  was 
the  zealous  and  useful  friend  of  our  author's 
brother.  The  prelate  died  in  1779,  and  in 
1782  Dr.  Warton  published  his  extended  and 
finished  Essay.  If  the  supposition  that  he 
abstained  from  embroihng  himself  by  the 
question  about  Pope  with  Warburton  be  true, 
it  will  at  least  impress  us  with  an  idea  of  his 
patience  ;  for  it  was  no  secret  that  Ruffhead 
was  supplied  by  Warburton  with  materials  for 
a  life  of  Pope,  in  which  he  attacked  Dr.  War- 
ton  with  abundant  severity  ;  but  in  which  he 
entangled  himself,  more  than  his  adversary,  in 
the  coarse-spun  robes  of  his  special  pleading. 
The  Essay,  for  a  time,  raised  up  to  him  another 
enemy,  to  whom  his  conduct  has  even  an  air 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


of  submissiveness.  In  commenting  on  a  line 
of  Pope,  he  hazarded  a  remark  on  Hogarth's 
propensity  to  intermix  the  ludicrous  with 
attempts  at  the  sublime.  Hogarth  revenge- 
fully introduced  Dr.  Warton's  works  into  one 
of  his  satirical  pieces,  and  vowed  to  bear  him 
eternal  enmity.  Their  mutual  friends,  how- 
ever, interfered,  and  the  artist  was  pacified. 
Dr.  Warton,  in  the  next  edition,  altered  his 
just  animadversion  on  Hogarth  into  an  ill- 
merited  compliment. 

"  By  delaying  to  re-publish  his  Essay  on 
Pope,  he  ultimately  obtained  a  more  dis- 
passionate hearing  from  the  pubHc  for  the 
work  in  its  finished  state.  In  the  meantime, 
he  enriched  it  with  additions  digested  from 
the  reading  of  half  a  lifetime.  The  author  of 
'  The  Pursuits  of  Literatm-e '  has  pronounced 
it  a  common-place  book  ;  and  Eichardson,  the 
novelist,  used  to  call  it  a  literary  gossip  :  but 
a  testimony  in  its  favour,  of  more  authority 
than  any  individual  opinion,  will  be  found  in 
the  popularity  with  which  it  continues  to  be 
read.  It  is  very  entertaining,  and  abounds 
with  criticism  of  more  research  than  Addi- 
son's, of  more  amenity  than  Hurd's  or  War- 
burton's,  and  of  more  insinuating  tact  than 
Johnson's.  At  the  same  time,  while  much 
ingenuity  and  many  truths  are  scattered  over 
the  Essay,  it  is  impossible  to  admire  it  as  an 
entire  theory,  soHd  and  consistent  in  all  its 
parts.  It  is  certainly  setting  out  from  un- 
fortunate premises  to  begin  his  '  Remarks  on 
Pope '  with  grouping  Dryden  and  Addison  in 
the  same  class  of  poets  ;  and  to  form  a  scale 
for  estimating  poetical  genius,  which  would 
set  Elijah  Fenton  in  a  higher  sphere  than 
Butler.  He  places  Pope,  in  the  scale  of  our 
poets,  next  to  Milton,  and  above  Dryden ;  yet 
he  applies  to  him  the  exact  character  which 
Voltaire  gives  to  the  heartless  Boileau — that 
of  a  writer,  '  perhaps,  incapable  of  the  sub- 
lime which  elevates,  or  of  the  feeling  which 
affects  the  soul.'  With  aU  this,  he  tells  us, 
that  our  poetry  and  our  language  are  ever- 
lastingly indebted  to  Pope  :  he  attributes 
genuine  tenderness  to  the  '  Elegy  on  an  Un- 
fortunate Lady  ; '  a  strong  degree  of  passion 
to  the  '  Epistle  on  Eloise  ; '  invention  and 
fancy  to  '  The  Eape  of  the  Lock ; '  and  a 
picturesque  conception  to  some  parts  of 
'  Windsor  Forest,'  which  he  pronounces 
worthy  of  the  pencil  of  Eubens  or  Julio 
Eomano.  There  is  something  like  April 
weather  in  these  transitions. 

"  In  May,  1766,  he  was  advanced  to  the 
head-mastership  of  Winchester  School.  In 
consequence  of  this  promotion,  he  once  more 
visited  Oxford,  and  proceeded  to  the  degree 
of  bachelor  and  doctor  in  divinity.  After  a 
union  of  twenty  years,  he  lost  his  first  wife, 
by  whom  he  had  six  children  ;  but  his  family 
and  his  professional  situation  requiring  a  do- 
mestic partner,  he  had  been  only  a  year  a 
widower,  when  he  married  a  Miss  Nicholas,  of 
Winchester. 


"  He  now  visited  London  more  frequently 
than  before.  The  circle  of  his  friends,  in  the 
metropolis,  comprehended  all  the  members  of 
Burke's  and  Johnson's  Literary  Club.  With 
Johnson  himself  he  was  for  a  long  time  on  in- 
timate terms ;  but  their  friendship  suffered  a 
breach  which  was  never  closed,  in  ctnasequence 
of  an  argument,  which  took  place  between 
them,  during  an  evening  spent  at  the  house 
of  Sir  Joshua  Eeynolds.  The  concluding 
words  of  their  conversation  are  reported,  by 
one  who  was  present,  to  have  been  these, 
Johnson  said,  '  Sir,  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be 
contradicted.'  Warton  replied,  '  Better,  sir, 
for  yourself  and  your  friends  if  you  were  :  our 
respect  could  not  be  increased,  but  our  love 
might.' 

"In  1782  he  was  indebted  to  his  friend, Dr. 
Lowth,  Bishop  of  London,  for  a  prebend  of  St. 
Paul's,  and  the  living  of  Thorley,  in  Hertford- 
shire, which,  after  some  arrangements,  he 
exchanged  for  that  of  Wickham.  His  eccle- 
siastical preferments  came  too  late  in  life  to 
place  him  in  that  state  of  leisure  and  inde- 
pendence which  might  have  enabled  him  to 
devote  lus  best  years  to  literature,  instead  of 
the  drudgery  of  a  school.  One  great  project, 
which  he  announced,  but  never  fulfilled, 
namely,  *  A  General  History  of  Learning,'  was, 
in  all  probability,  prevented  by  the  pressure 
of  his  daily  occupations.  In  1788,  through 
the  interest  of  Lord  Shannon,  he  obtained  a 
prebend  of  Winchester  ;  and,  through  the 
interest  of  Lord  Malmsbury,  was  appointed  to 
the  rectory  of  Euston,  which  he  was  after- 
wards allowed  to  exchange  for  that  of  Upham. 
In  1793  he  resigned  the  fatigues  of  his  master- 
ship of  Winchester;  and  having  received, 
from  the  superintendents  of  the  institution,  a 
vote  of  well-earned  thanks,  for  his  long  and 
meritorious  services,  he  went  to  live  at  his 
rectory  of  Wickham. 

"  During  his  retirement  at  that  place,  he 
was  induced,  by  a  liberal  offer  of  the  book- 
sellers, to  superintend  an  edition  of  Pope. 
which  he  published  in  1797.  It  was  objected 
to  this  edition,  that  it  contained  only  his 
'  Essay  on  Pope,'  cut  do-wn  into  notes ;  his 
biographer,  however,  repels  the  objection,  by 
alleging  that  it  contains  a  considerable  portion 
of  new  matter.  In  his  zeal  to  present  every- 
thing that  covld  be  traced  to  the  pen  of  Pope, 
he  introduced  two  pieces  of  indelicate  humour, 
'  The  Double  Mistress,'  and  the  second  satire 
of  Horace.  For  the  insertion  of  those  pieces, 
he  received  a  censure  in  the  '  Pursuits  of 
Literature,'  which,  considering  his  grey  hairs 
and  services  in  the  literary  world,  was  unbe- 
coming, and  which  my  individual  partiality  for 
Mr.  Matthias  makes  me  wish  that  I  had  not 
to  record. 

"  As  a  critic,  Dr.  Warton  is  distinguished 
by  his  love  of  the  fanciful  and  romantic.  He 
examined  our  poetry  at  a  period  when  it  ap- 
peared to  him  that  versified  observations  on 
familiar  life   and   manners  had  usurped   the 

39* 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


honours  which  were  exclusively  due  to  the  j 
bold  and  inventive  powers  of  imagination.  ' 
He  conceived,  also,  that  the  charm  of  descrip-  | 
tion  in  poetry  was  not  sufficiently  appreciated  ' 
in  his  own  day  :  not  that  the  age  could  be  j 
said  to  be  without  descriptive  writers  ;  but  j 
because,  as  he  apprehended,  the  tyranny  of 
Pope's  reputation  had  placed  moral  and  di- 
dactic verse  in  too  pre-eminent  a  light.  He 
therefore  strongly  urged  the  principle,  '  that 
the  most  sohd  observations  on  life,  expressed 
with  the  utmost  -brevity  and  elegance,  are 
morality,  and  not  poetry.'  Without  examining 
how  far  this  principle  applies  exactly  to  the 
character  of  Pope,  whom  he  himself  owns  not 
to  have  been  without  pathos  and  imagination, 
I  think  his  proposition  is  so  worded,  as  to  be 
liable  to  lead  to  a  most  unsound  distinction 
between  moralitj'-  and  poetry.  If  by  '  the 
most  solid  observations  on  life '  are  meant 
only  those  which  relate  to  its  prudential 
management  and  plain  concerns,  it  is  certainly 
true,  that  these  cannot  be  made  poetical,  by 
the  utmost  brevity  or  elegance  of  expression. 
It  is  also  true,  that  even  the  nobler  tenets  of 
morality  are  comparatively  less  interesting,  in 
an  insulated  and  didactic  shape,  than  when 
they  are  blended  with  strong  imitations  of  life, 
where  passion,  character,  and  situation  bring 
them  deeply  home  to  our  attention.  Fiction  is 
on  this  account  so  far  the  soul  of  poetry,  that, 
without  its  aid  as  a  vehicle,  poetry  can  only 
give  us  morality  in  an  abstract  and  (compara- 
tively) uninteresting  shape.  But  why  does 
Fiction  j^loase  us  ?  surely  not  because  it  is 
false,  but  because  it  seems  to  be  true ;  because 
it  spreads  a  wider  field,  and  a  more  brilliant 
crowd  of  objects  to  our  moral  perceptions, 
than  reality  affords.  Morality  (in  a  high 
sense  of  the  term,  and  not  speaking  of  it  as 
a  dry  science)  is  the  essence  of  poetry.  We 
fly  from  the  injustice  of  this  world  to  the 
poetical  justice  of  Fiction,  where  our  sense  of 
right  and  Avrong  is  either  satisfied,  or  where 
our  sympathy,  at  least,  reposes  Vvdth  less 
disappointment  and  distraction,  than  on  the 
characters  of  life  itself.  Fiction,  we  may  in- 
deed be  told,  carries  us  into  '  a  world  of  gayer 
tinct  and  grace,'  the  lav/s  of  which  are  not  to  be 
judged  by  solid  observations  on  the  real  world. 
"  But  this  is  not  the  case,  for  moral  truth 
is  still  the  light  of  poetry,  and  fiction  is  only 
the  refracting  atmosphere  which  diffuses  it  ; 
and  the  laws  of  moral  truth  are  as  essential 
to  poetry,  as  those  of  physical  truth  (Anatomy 
and  Optics,  for  instance),  axe  to  painting. 
Allegory,  narration,  and  the  drama  make  their 
last  appeal  to  the  ethics  of  the  human  heart. 
It  is  therefore  unsafe  to  draw  a  marked  dis- 
tinction between  morality  and  poetry ;  or  to 
speak  of  '  solid  observations  on  life '  as  of 
things  in  their  nature  unpoetical ;  for  we  do 
meet  in  poetry  with  observations  on  life,  which, 
for  the  charm  of  their  solid  truth,  we  should 
exchange  Avith  reluctance  for  the  most  in- 
genious touches  of  fancy. 


"  The  school  of  the  Wartons,  considering 
them  as  poets,  was  rather  too  studioui-;ly  prone 
to  description.  The  doctor,  like  his  brother, 
certainly  so  far  realized  his  own  ideas  of  in- 
spiration, as  to  burthen  his  verse  with  few 
observations  on  life  which  oppress  the  mind 
by  their  solidity.  To  his  brother  he  is  ob- 
viously inferior  in  the  graxjhic  and  romantic 
style  of  composition,  at  which  he  aimed ;  but 
in  which,  it  must  nevertheless  be  o^vned,  that 
in  some  parts  of  his  '  Ode  to  Fancy '  he  has 
been  pleasingly  succcssfid.  From  the  sub- 
joined specimens,  the  reader  will  probably  be 
enabled  to  judge  as  favourably  of  his  genius, 
as  from  the  whole  of  his  poems  ;  for  most  of 
them  are  short  and  occasional,  and  (if  I  may 
venture  to  differ  from  the  opinion  of  his 
amiable  editor,  Mr.  Wooll),  are  by  no  moans 
marked  Avith  originality,  The  only  poem  of 
any  length,  entitled  '  The  Enthusiast,'  was 
written  at  too  early  a  period  of  his  life,  to  bo 
a  fair  object  of  criticism." — Campbell's  "  Spe- 
cimens," pp.  663-7. 


THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 

"  This  amiable  man  deserves  praise  for  his 
character  and  for  his  conduct  under  very 
peculiar  circumstances,  much  more  than  for 
his  poetry.  He  was  born  at  Annan,  where 
his  father  was  a  bricklayer,  in  1721.  "When 
about  six  months  old,  he  lost  his  eyesight  by 
small-pox.  His  father  used  to  read  to  him, 
especially  poetry,  and  through  the  kindness 
of  friends  he  acquired  some  knowledge  of 
the  Latin  tongue.  His  father  having  been 
accidentally  killed  when  Thomas  was  nine- 
teen, it  might  have  fared  hard  with  him,  but 
Dr.  Stevenson,  an  eminent  medical  man  in 
Edinburgh,  who  had  seen  some  verses  com- 
posed by  the  blind  youth,  took  him  to  the 
capital,  sent  him  to  college  to  study  divinity, 
and  encouraged  him  to  write  and  to  publish 
poetry.  His  volume,  to  which  was  prefixed 
an  account  of  the  author,  by  Professor  Spcnco 
of  Oxford,  attracted  much  attention.  Black- 
lock  was  licensed  to  preach  in  1759,  and  three 
years  afterwards  was  married  to  a  Miss  Jolm- 
stone  of  Dumfries,  an  exemplary  but  plain- 
looking  lady,  whose  beauty  her  husband  was 
wont  to  praise  so  warmly  that  his  friends 
were  thankful  that  his  infirmity  was  never 
removed,  and  thought  how  justly  Cupid  had 
been  painted  blind.  He  was  even,  through  the 
influence  of  the  Earl  of  Selkirk,  appointed  to 
the  parish  of  Kirkcudbright,  but  the  parishion- 
ers opposed  his  induction  on  the  plea  of  his 
want  of  sight,  and,  in  consideration  of  a  small 
annuity,  he  mthdrew  his  claims.  He  finally 
settled  down  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  supported 
himself  chiefly  by  keeping  young  gentlemen  as 
boarders  in  his  house.  His  chief  amusements 
were  poetry  and  music.    His  conduct  to  (1786) 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


and  correspondence  with  Bums  are  too  well 
known  to  require  to  be  noticed  at  length  here. 
He  published  a  paper  of  no  small  merit  in  the 
'  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  '  on  Blindness,  and 
is  the  author  of  a  work  entitled  '  Paraclesis  ; 
or,  Consolations  of  Eeligion,' — which  surely 
none  require  more  than  the  blind.  He  died  of 
a  nervous  fever  on  the  7th  of  July,  1791,  so 
far  fortunate  that  he  did  not  live  to  see  the 
ruin  of  his  immortal  protege. 

"  Blacklock  was  a  most  amiable,  genial,  and 
benevolent  being.  He  was  sometimes  subject 
to  melancholy — unlike  many  of  the  blind,  and 
one  especially,  whom  we  name  not,  but  who, 
still  living,  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to 
Blacklock  in  fineness  of  mind,  warmth  of 
heart,  and  high-toned  piety,  but  who  is  cheerful 
as  the  day.  As  to  his  poetry,  it  is  undoubtedly 
wonderful,  considering  the  circumstances  of 
its  production,  if  not  per  se.  Dr.  Johnson 
says  to  Boswell, — '  As  Blacklock  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  blind,  we  may  be  absolutely  sure 
that  the  passages  in  his  poems  descriptive  of 
visible  objects  are  combinations  of  what  he 
remembered  of  the  works  of  other  writers  who 
could  see.  That  foolish  fellow  Spence  has 
laboured  to  explain  philosophically  how  Black- 
lock  may  have  done,  by  his  own  faculties,  what 
it  is  impossible  he  should  do.  The  solution, 
as  I  have  given  it,  is  plain.  Suppose  I  know 
a  man  to  be  so  lame  that  he  is  absolutely  in- 
capable to  move  himself,  and  I  find  him  in  a 
different  room  from  that  in  which  I  left  him, 
shall  I  puzzle  myself  with  idle  conjectures  that 
perhaps  his  nerves  have,  by  some  unknown 
change,  all  at  once  become  effective  ?  No, 
sir  ;  it  is  clear  how  he  got  into  a  different  room 
— he  was  carried.' 

"Perhaps  there  is  a  fallacy  in  this  some- 
what dogmatic  statement.  Perhaps  the  blind 
are  not  so  utterly  dark  but  they  may  have 
certain  dim  simulacra  of  external  objects 
before  their  eyes  and  minds.  Apart  from  this, 
however,  Blacklock' s  poetry  endures  only  from 
its  connection  with  the  author's  misfortune, 
and  from  the  fact  that  through  the  gloom  he 
groped  greatly  to  find  and  give  the  burning 
hand  of  the  peasant  poet  the  squeeze  of  a 
kindred  spirit, — kindred,  we  mean,  in  feeling 
and  lieart,  although  very  far  removed  in 
strength  of  intellect  and  genius." — GilfiUan's 
"  Less-known  British  Poets,"  vol.  iii.,  pp. 
279,280.  See  AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit."  ,  Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


WILLIAM  HAYWAED  EOBEETS. 

"William  Hayward  Eoberts,  bom  1745,  died 
1791.  He  was  educated  at  Eton,  and  from 
thence  was  elected  to  King's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, where  he  took  the  degree  of  master  of 
arts,  and  of  doctor  in  divinity.  From  being 
an  under  master  at  Eton  he  finally  rose  to  be 


provost  of  the  college,  in  the  year  1781.  He 
was  also  chaplain  to  the  king,  and  rector  of 
Farnham  Eoyal,  in  Buckinghamshire.  In 
1771  he  published,  in  three  parts,  '  A  Poeti- 
cal Essay  on  the  Attributes  and  Providence 
of  the  Deity.'  Two  years  afterwards,  'A 
Poetical  Epistle  to  Christopher  A-nstcy,  on 
the  English  Poets,  chiefly  those  whb  had 
written  in  blank  verse;'  and  in  1774,  his 
poem  of  'Judah  Eestored,'  a  work  of  no 
common  merit." — Campbell's  "Specimens," 
p.  628. 


THOMAS  PENEOSE. 

"  Thomas  Penrose,  bom  1743,  died  1779. 
The  history  of  Penrose  displays  a  dash  of 
warlike  adventure,  which  has  seldom  en- 
livened the  biography  of  our  poets.  He  was 
not  led  to  the  profession  of  arms,  like  Gas- 
coigne,  by  his  poverty,  or  like  Quarles,  Dave- 
nant,  and  Waller,  by  political  circumstances  ; 
but,  in  a  mere  fit  of  juvenile  ardour,  gave  up 
his  studies  at  Oxford,  where  he  was  preparing 
to  become  a  clergyman,  and  left  the  banners 
of  the  church  for  those  of  the  battle.  This 
was  in  the  summer  of  1762,  when  the  unfor- 
tunate expedition  against  Buenos  Ayres  sailed 
under  the  command  of  Captain  Macnamara. 
It  consisted  of  three  ships  :  the  '  Lord  Clive,' 
of  64  guns  ;  the  '  Ambuscade,'  of  40,  on  board 
of  which  Penrose  acted  as  lieutenant  of  ma- 
rines ;  the  '  Gloria,'  of  38 ;  and  some  inferior 
vessels.  Preparatory  to  an  attack  on  Buenos 
Ayres,  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  begin  with 
the  capture  of  Nova  Colonia,  and  the  ships 
approached  closely  to  the  fortress  of  that 
settlement.  The  men  were  in  high  spirits ; 
military  music  sounded  on  board ;  while  thfr 
new  uniforms  and  polished  arms  of  the- 
marines  gave  a  splendid  appearance  to  th& 
scene.  Penrose,  the  night  before,  had  written 
and  despatched  to  his  mistress  in  England  a 
poetical  address,  which  evinced  at  once  the 
affection  and  serenity  of  his  heart,  on  the  eve 
of  danger.  The  gay  preparative  was  followed 
by  a  heavy  fire  of  several  hours,  at  the  end  of 
which,  Avhen  the  Spanish  batteries  were  almost 
silenced,  and  our  countrymen  in  immediate 
expectation  of  seeing  the  enemy  strike  his 
colours,  the  Lord  Clive  was  found  to  be  on 
fire  ;  and  the  same  moment  which  discovered 
the  flames  showed  the  impossibility  of  extin- 
guishing them.  A  dreadful  spectacle  was  then 
exhibited.  Men  who  had  the  instant  before 
assured  themselves  of  wealth  and  conquest, 
were  seen  crowding  to  the  sides  of  the  ship, 
with  the  dreadful  alternative  of  perishing  by 
fire  or  water.  The  enemy's  fire  was  redoubled 
at  the  sight  of  their  calamity.  Out  of  Mac- 
namara's  crew,  of  340  men,  only  78  were 
saved.  Penrose  escaped  with  his  life  on  board 
the  '  Ambuscade,'  but  received  a  wound  in  the 
action ;  and  the  subsequent  hardships  which 


bioCtSAphical  notices. 


[^Sl.XTK  PeTIK 


he  underwent,  in  a  prize-sloop,  in  wliicli  ho 
was  stationed,  ruined  the  strength  of  his  con- 
stitution. He  returned  to  England  ;  resumed 
his  studies  at  Oxford ;  and  having  taken 
orders,  accepted  of  the  curacy  of  Newbury,  in 
Berkshire,  of  which  his  father  was  the  rector. 
He  resided  there  for  nine  years,  having  married 
the  lady  already  alluded  to,  whose  name  was 
Mary  Slocock.  A  friend  at  last  rescued  him 
from  this  obscure  situation,  by  presenting  him 
•with  the  rectory  of  Beckington  and  Stander- 
wick,  in  Somersetshire,  worth  about  .£500  a 
year.  But  he  came  to  his  preferment  too  late 
to  enjoy  it.  His  health  having  never  reco- 
vered from  the  shock  of  his  American  service, 
obliged  him,  as  a  last  remedy,  to  try  the  hot 
wells  at  Bristol,  at  which  place  he  expired,  in 
his  thirty-sixth  year." — Campbell's  "  Spe- 
cimens," p.  561. 


SIE  JOHN  HENEY  MOOEE. 

"  Sir  John  Moore,  Bart.,  born  1756,  died 
1780,  This  interesting  and  promising  young 
man  died  of  a  decline  in  his  twenty-fourth 
year." — Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


EICHAED  JAGO. 

"Eichard  Jago,  born  1715,  died  1781,  the 
author  of  '  Edge-Hill,'  a  descriptive  poem, 
was  vicar  of  Snitterfield,  near  Stratford-on- 
Avon.  Shenstone,  who  knew  him  at  Oxford, 
where  Jago  was  a  sizar,  used  to  visit  him 
privately,  it  being  thought  beneath  the  dig- 
nity of  a  commoner  to  be  intimate  Avith  a 
student  of  that  rank,  and  continued  his  friend- 
ship for  him  through  life."  —  Campbell's 
"  Specimens." 


COLLEY  CIBBEE. 

"  Colley  Cibber,  bom  in  London  1671,  died 
1757,  an  English  poet  and  play- writer,  the  son 
of  Gabriel  Cibber,  the  sculptor,  served  in  the 
army  of  the  prince  of  Orange  at  the  Eevolu- 
tion,  and  afterwards  went  on  the  stage  ;  but 
not  attaining  to  eminence  as  an  actor,  turned 
his  attention  to  dramatic  writing.  His  first 
play  was  '  Love's  Last  Shift,'  which  was  per- 
formed in  1695,  and  met  with  great  applause  ; 
after  which  he  wrote  a  number  of  others.  His 
best  work  is  considered  to  be  the  '  Careless 
Husband,'  performed  in  1704  ;  but  the  '  Non- 
juror '  brought  him  the  most  fame  and  profit. 
George  L,  to  whom  it  was  dedicated,  pre- 
sented him  Avith  ^200,  and  appointed  him  to 
the  office  of  Poet-laureate.     His  comedies  are 


light,  airy,  and  pleasant,  but  his  royal  odes 
possess  many  faults.  He  wrote  an  '  Apology ' 
for  his  own  life,  which  is  very  amusing,  as  it 
depicts  many  of  his  own  foibles  and  peculiari- 
ties with  considerable  candour.  —  His  son 
Theophilus  followed,  for  a  short  time,  the 
theatrical  profession,  and  wrote  a  ballad  opera 
called  '  Pattie  and  Peggy.'  Bom  1703,  died 
on  his  passage  to  Ireland,  1758." — Beoton's 
"Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  See  AlHbone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 

"James  Beattie  was  born  in  1735  in  the 
parish  of  Lawrence  Kirk,  in  Kincardine- 
shire, Scotland.  His  father,  who  rented 
a  small  farm  in  Lawrence  Kirk,  died  when 
the  poet  was  only  seven  years  old ;  but  the 
loss  of  a  protector  was  happily  supplied  to 
him  by  his  elder  brother,  who  kept  him  at 
school  till  he  obtained  a  bursary  at  the 
Marischal  College,  Aberdeen.  At  that  univer- 
sity he  took  the  degree  of  master  of  arts  ; 
and,  at  nineteen,  he  entered  on  the  study  of 
divinity,  supporting  himself  in  the  mean 
time  by  teaching  a  school  in  the  neighbouring 
parish.  Whilst  he  was  in  this  obscure 
situation,  some  pieces  of  verse,  which  he 
transmitted  to  the  Scottish  Magazine,  gained 
him  a  little  local  celebrity.  Mr.  Garden,  an 
eminent  Scottish  lawyer,  afterwards  Lord 
Gardenstone,  and  Lord  Monboddo,  encouraged 
him  as  an  ingenious  young  man,  and  intro- 
duced him  to  the  tables  of  the  neighbouring 
gentry  ;  an  honour  not  usually  extended  to  a 
parochial  schoolmaster.  In  1757,  he  stood 
candidate  for  the  place  of  usher  in  the  high- 
school  of  Aberdeen.  He  was  foiled  by  a  com- 
petitor who  surpassed  him  in  the  minutia3  of 
Latin  grammar ;  but  his  character  as  a  scholar 
suffered  so  little  by  the  disappointment,  that 
at  the  next  vacancy  he  was  called  to  the  place 
without  a  trial.  He  had  not  been  long  at  this 
school,  when,  in  1761,  he  published  a  volume 
of  Original  Poems  and  Translations  Avhich  (it 
speaks  much  for  the  critical  clemency  of  the 
times)  were  favourably  received,  and  highly 
commended  in  the  English  Eeviews.  So  little 
satisfied  was  the  author  himself  with  those 
early  effusions,  that,  excepting  four,  which  he 
admitted  to  a  subsequent  edition  of  his  works, 
he  was  anxious  to  have  them  consigned  to 
oblivion ;  and  he  destroyed  every  copy  of  the 
volume  which  he  could  procure.  About  the 
age  of  twenty-six,  he  obtained  the  chair  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  Marischal  College  of 
Aberdeen,  a  promotion  which  he  must  have 
owed  to  his  general  reputation  in  literature  ; 
but  it  is  singular,  that  the  friend  who  first 
proposed  to  solicit  the  High  Constable  of 
Scotland  to  obtain  this  appointment,  should 
have  grounded  the  proposal  on  the  merit  of 
Beattie' s    poetry.       In    the   volume   already 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


mentioned  there  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  a 
budding  promise  of  genius. 

"  Upon  his  appointment  to  this  professor- 
ship, which  he  held  for  forty  years,  he  imme- 
diately prepared  a  course  of  lectures  for  the 
students ;  and  gradually  compiled  materials 
for  those  prose  works,  on  which  his  name 
would  rest  with  considerable  reiDutation,  if  he 
were  not  known  as  a  poet.  It  is  true,  that 
he  is  not  a  first-rate  metaphysician  ;  and  the 
Scotch,  in  undervaluing  his  powers  of  abstract 
and  close  reasoning,  have  been  disposed  to 
give  him  less  credit  than  he  deserves,  as  an 
elegant  and  amusing  -writer.  But  the  English, 
who  must  be  best  able  to  judge  of  his  style, 
admire  it  for  an  ease,  familiarity,  and  an 
Anglicism  that  is  not  to  be  found  even  in  the 
correct  and  polished  diction  of  Blair,  His 
mode  of  illustrating  abstract  questions  is  fan- 
ciful and  interesting. 

"In  1765,  he  published  a  poem  entitled 
'  The  Judgment  of  Paris,'  which  his  bio- 
grapher. Sir  Vv^illiam  Fori)es,  did  not  think 
fit  to  rank  among  his  works.  For  more 
obvious  reasons  Sir  William  excluded  his 
lines,  written  in  the  subsequent  year,  on  the 
proposal  for  erecting  a  monument  to  Churchill 
in  "Westminster  Abbey — Klines  which  have  no 
beauty  or  dignity  to  redeem  their  bitter  ex- 
pression of  hatred.  On  particular  subjects, 
Eeattie's  virtuous  indignation  was  apt  to  be 
hj'^sterical.  Dr.  Reid  and  Dr.  Campbell  hated 
the  principles  of  David  Hume  as  sincerely  as 
the  author  of  the  Essay  on  Truth  ;  but  they 
never  betrayed  more  than  philosophical  hos- 
tility, while  Beattie  used  to  speak  of  the 
propriety  of  excluding  Hume  from  civil 
society. 

"His  reception  of  Gray,  when  that  poet 
visited  Scotland  in  1765,  shows  the  enthu- 
siasm of  his  literary  character  in  a  finer  light. 
Graj^'s  mind  was  not  in  poetry  only,  but  in 
many  other  respects,  peculiarly  congenial 
with  his  OM'u  ;  and  nothing  could  exceed  the 
cordial  and  reverential  welcome  which  Beattie 
gave  to  his  illustrious  visitant.  In  1770,  he 
published  his  '  Essay  on  Truth,'  which  had  a 
rapid  sale,  and  extensive  popularity ;  and 
within  a  twelvemonth  after,  the  first  part  of 
his  '  Minstrel.'  The  poem  aiDpeared  at  first 
anonymously;  but  its  beauties  were  imme- 
diately and  justly  appreciated.  The  second 
part  was  not  published  till  1774.  When  Gray 
<;riticised  the    '  Minstrel '   he  objected  to  its 

)  author,  that,  after  many  stanzas,  the  de- 
f^cription  went  on  and  the  narrative  stopped. 
Beattie  very  justly  answered  to  this  criticism, 

I  that  he  meant  the  poem  for  description,  not 
for  incident.  But  he  seems  to  have  forgotten 
this  proper  apology,  when  he  mentions  in  one 
of  his  letters  his  intention  of  producing  Ed\vin, 
in  some  subsequent  books,  in  the  character  of 
a  warhke  bard  inspiring  his  countrymen  to 
battle,  and  contributing  to  repel  their  in- 
vaders. This  intention,  if  he  ever  seriously 
•entertained  it,  might  have  produced  some  new 


kind  of  poem,  but  would  have  formed  an 
incongruous  counterpart  to  the  piece  as  it  now 
stands,  which,  as  a  picture  of  still  life,  and  a 
vehicle  of  contemplative  morality,  has  a  charm 
that  is  inconsistent  with  the  bold  evolutions 
of  heroic  narrative.  After  having  portrayed 
his  young  enthusiast  with  such  advantage  in 
a  state  of  visionary  quiet,  it  would  have  been 
too  violent  a  transition  to  have  begun  in  a 
new  book  to  surround  him  with  dates  of  time 
and  names  of  places.  The  interest  which  wo 
attach  to  Edwin's  character,  would  have  been 
lost  in  a  more  ambitious  effort  to  make  him 
a  greater  or  more  important,  or  a  more  locally 
defined  being.  It  is  the  solitary  growth  of 
his  genius,  and  his  isolated  and  mystic  ab- 
straction from  mankind,  that  fix  our  attention 
on  the  romantic  features  of  that  genius.  The 
simplicity  of  his  fate  does  not  divert  us  from 
his  mind  to  his  circumstances.  A  more  un- 
worldly air  is  given  to  his  character,  that 
instead  of  being  tacked  to  the  fate  of  kings, 
he  was  one  '  Who  envied  not,  Vv^ho  never 
thought  of  kings ; '  and  that,  instead  of  min- 
gling with  the  troubles  which  deface  the 
creation,  he  only  existed  to  make  his  thoughts 
the  mirror  of  its  beauty  and  magnificence. 
Another  English  critic  has  blamed  Edwin's 
vision  of  the  fairies  as  too  splendid  and  arti- 
ficial for  a  simple  youth  ;  but  there  is  nothing 
in  the  situation  ascribed  to  Edwin,  as  he  lived 
in  minstrel  days,  that  necessarily  excluded 
such  materials  from  his  fancy.  Had  he 
beheld  steam-engines  or  dock-yards  in  his 
sleep,  the  vision  might  have  been  pronounced 
to  be  too  artificial ;  but  he  might  have  heard 
of  fairies  und  their  dances,  and  even  of  tapers, 
gold,  and  gems,  from  the  ballads  of  his  native 
country.  In  the  second  book  of  the  poem 
there  are  some  fine  stanzas  ;  but  he  has  taken 
Edwin  out  of  the  school  of  nature,  and  placed 
him  in  his  own,  that  of  moral  philosophy; 
and  hence  a  degree  of  languor  is  experienced 
by  the  reader. 

"  Soon  after  the  publication  of  the  '  E=say 
on  Truth,'  and  of  the  first  part  of  the  '  Min- 
strel,' he  paid  his  first  visit  to  London.  His 
reception,  in  the  highest  literar.y  and  polite 
circles,  was  distinguished  and  flattering. 
The  university  of  Oxford  conferred  on  him 
the  degree  of  doctor  of  laws,  and  the  sovereign 
himself,  besides  honouring  him  with  a  per- 
sonal conference,  bestowed  on  him  a  pension 
of  ^200  a  year. 

"  On  his  return  to  Scotland,  there  was  a 
proposal  for  transferring  him  to  the  utiivorsity 
of  Edinburgh,  which  ho  expressed  Ms  wish  to 
decline,  from  a  fear  of  those  i:)ersonal  enemies 
whom  he  had  excited  by  Ms  Essay  on  Truth. 
This  motive,  if  it  was  his  real  one,  must  have 
been  connected  with  that  weakness  and  irrita- 
bility on  polemical  subjects  which  have  been 
already  alluded  to.  His  metaphysical  fame 
perhaps  stood  higher  in  Ab-erdeen  than  in 
Edinburgh ;  but  to  have  dreaded  personal 
hostility  in  the  capital  of  a  religious  country, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. 


amidst  thousands  of  individuals  as  pious  as 
himself,  was  a  weakness  unbecoming  the  pro- 
fessed champion  of  truth.  For  reasons  of 
delicacy,  more  creditable  to  his  memory,  ho 
declined  a  living  in  the  church  of  England 
which  was  offered  to  him  by  his  friend  Dr. 
Porteus. 

"  After  this,  there  is  not  much  incident  in 
his  Hfe.  He  published  a  volume  of  his  Essays 
in  1776,  and  another  in  1783  ;  and  the  out- 
line of  his  academical  lectures  in  1790.  In 
the  same  year,  ho  edited,  at  Edinburgh,  Addi- 
son's papers  in  '  The  Spectator,'  and  wrote  a 
preface  for  the  edition.  He  wa^^  very  unfor- 
tunate in  his  family.  The  mental  disorder  of 
his  wife,  for  a  long  time  before  it  assumed  the 
shape  of  a  decided  derangement,  broke  out  in 
caprices  of  temper,  which  disturbed  his 
domestic  peace,  and  almost  precluded  him 
from  having  visitors  in  his  family.  The  loss 
of  his  son,  James  Hay  Beattie,  a  young  man 
of  highly  promising  talents,  who  had  been 
conjoined  with  him  in  his  professorship,  was  the 
greatest  though  not  the  last  calamity  of  his 
life.  He  made  an  attempt  to  revive  his  spirits 
after  that  melancholy  event,  by  another 
journey  to  England,  and  some  of  his  letters 
from  thence  bespeak  a  temporary  composure 
and  cheerfulness  ;  but  the  wound  was  never 
healed.  Even  music,  of  which  he  had  ahvays 
been  fond,  ceased  to  be  agreeable  to  him,  from 
the  lively  recollections  which  it  excited  of  the 
hours  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  spend 
in  that  recreation  with  his  favourite  boy.  He 
published  the  poems  of  this  youth,  with  a 
partial  eulogy  upon  his  genius,  such  as  might 
be  well  excused  from  a  father  so"  situated. 
At  the  end  of  six  years  more,  his  other  son, 
Montague  Beattie,  was  also  cut  off  in  the 
flower  of  his  youth.  This  misfortune  crushed 
his  spirits  even  to  temporary  alienation  of 
mind.  With  his  wife  in  a  madhouse,  his  sons 
dead,  and  his  own  health  broken,  he  might  be 
pardoned  for  saying,  as  he  looked  on  the 
corpse  of  his  last  child,  '  I  have  done  Avith  this 
world.'  Indeed  he  acted  as  if  he  felt  so ;  for 
though  he  performed  the  duties  of  his  pro- 
fessorship till  within  a  short  time  of  his 
death,  he  applied  to  no  study,  enjoyed  no 
society,  and  answered  but  few  letters  of  his 
friends.  Yet,  amidst  the  depth  of  his  melan- 
choly, he  would  sometimes  acquiesce  in  his 
childless  fate,  and  exclaim,  '  How  could  I  have 
borne  to  see  their  elegant  minds  mangled  with 
madness  ?  '  He  was  struck  with  a  palsy  in 
1799,  by  repeated  attacks  of  which  his  life 
terminated  in  1803." — Campbell's  "Speci- 
mens," pp.  687-9.  See  Dr.  Angus's  "Handbook 
of  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit.  "  ;  Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit.  ";  Gilfillan's 
edit,  of  "  Beattie's  Poems.'' 


CHEISTOPHER  SMART, 

"  We  hear  of  '  Single-speech  Hamilton.' 
We  have  now  to  say  something  of  '  Single- 
poem  Smart,'  the  author  of  one  of  the  grandest 
bursts  of  devotional  and  poetical  feeling  in 
the  English  language — the  '  Song  to  David.' 
This  poor  unfortunate  Avas  born  at  Ship- 
bourne,  Kent,  in  1722,  His  father  was 
steward  to  Lord  Barnard,  who  after  his  death 
continued  his  patronage  to  the  son,  who  was 
then  eleveTi  years  of  age.  The  Duchess  of 
Cleveland,  through  Lord  Barnard's  influence, 
bestowed  on  Christopher  an  allowance  of  £4:0 
a-year.  With  this  he  went  to  Pembroke  Hall, 
Cambridge,  in  1739 ;  was  in  1745  elected  a 
Fellow  of  Pembroke,  and  in  1747  took  his 
degree  of  M.A.  At  college,  Smart  began  to 
display  that  reckless  dissipation  which  led 
afterwards  to  such  melancholy  consequences. 
He  studied  hard,  however,  at  intervals  ;  wrote 
poetry  both  in  Latin  and  English ;  produced 
a  comedy  called  a  '  Trip  to  Cambridge  ;  or, 
The  Grateful  Fair,'  which  was  acted  in  the 
hall  of  Pembroke  College  ;  and,  in  spite  of 
his  A'ices  and  follies,  was  x^op^ilar  on  account 
of  his  agreeable  manners  and  amiable  dispo- 
sitions. Having  become  acquainted  with 
Newberry,  the  benevolent,  red-nosed  book- 
seller commemorated  in  '  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field,'— for  whom  he  >vrote  some  trifles, — he 
married  his  step- daughter.  Miss  Carnan,  in  the 
year  1753.  He  now  removed  to  London,  and 
became  an  author  to  trade.  He  wrote  a 
clever  satire,  entitled  '  The  Hilliad,'  against 
Sir  John  Hill,  who  had  attacked  him  in  an 
underhand  maimer.  He  translated  the  fables 
of  Pha3drus  into  verse, — Horace  into  prose 
( '  Smart's  Horace '  tised  to  be  a  great  fa- 
vourite, under  the  rose,  with  schoolboys) ; 
made  an  indifferent  version  of  the  Psalms 
and  Paraphrases,  and  a  good  one,  at  a  former 
period,  of  Pope's  'Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,' 
with  which  that  poet  professed  himself  highly 
pleased.  He  was  employed  on  a  monthly 
publication  called  '  The  Universal  Visitor.'  We 
find  Johnson  giving  the  following  account  of 
this  matter  in  Bos  well's  Life: — Old  Gardner, 
the  bookseller,  employed  Eolt  and  Smart  to 
write  a  monthly  miscellany  called  '  The  Uni- 
versal Visitor.'  There  was  a  formal  Avritten 
contract.  They  were  bound  to  write  nothing 
else, — they  were  to  have,  I  think,  a  third  of 
the  profits  of  the  sixpenny  pamphlet,  and  the 
contract  was  for  ninety-nine  years.  I  wrote 
for  some  months  in  '  The  Universal  Visitor ' 
for  poor  Smart,  while  he  was  mad,  not  then 
knowing  the  terms  on  which  he  was  engaged 
to  write,  and  thinking  I  was  doing  him  good. 
I  hoped  his  wits  would  soon  return  to  him. 
Mine  returned  to  me,  and  I  wrote  in  '  The 
Universal  Visitor '  no  longer. 

"  Smart  at  last  was  called  to  pay  the  pe- 
nalty of  his  blended  labour  and  dissipation. 
In  1763  ha  was  shut  up  in  a  madhouse.  His 
derangement  had  exhibited  itself  in  a  religious 


Fro)u  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


way  :  he  insisted  upon  people  kneeling  down 
along-  with  him  in  the  street  and  praying. 
During  his  confinement,  writing  materials 
were  denied  him,  and  he  used  to  write  his 
poetical  pieces  with  a  key  on  the  wainscot. 
Thus  '  scrabbling,'  like  his  own  hero,  on  the 
wall,  he  produced  his  immortal  '  Song  to 
David.'  He  became  by  and  by  sane  ;  but, 
returning  to  his  old  habits,  got  into  debt,  and 
died  in  the  King's  Bench  prison,  after  a  short 
illness,  in  1770. 

"  The  '  Song  to  David '  has  been  well  called 
one  of  the  greatest  curiosities  of  literature. 
It  ranks  in  this  point  with  the  tragedies 
written  by  Lee,  and  the  sermons  and  prayers 
uttered  by  Hall  in  a  similar  melancholy  state 
of  mind.  In  these  cases,  as  well  as  in  Smart's, 
the  thin  partition  between  genius  and  mad- 
ness was  broken  down  in  thunder, — the 
thunder  of  a  higher  poetry  than  perhaps  they 
were  capable  of  even  conceiving  in  their  saner 
moments.  Lee  produced  in  that  state — which 
was,  indeed,  nearly  his  normal  one — some 
glorious  extravagancies.  Hall's  sermons, 
monologised  and  overheard  in  the  madhouse, 
are  said  to  have  transcended  all  that  he 
preached  in  his  healthier  moods.  And,  as- 
suredly, the  other  poems  by  Smart  scarcely  fur- 
nish a  point  of  comparison  with  the  towering 
and  sustained  loftiness  of  some  parts  of  the 
'  Song  to  David.'  Nor  is  it  loftiness  alone, — 
although  the  last  three  stanzas  are  absolute 
inspiration,  and  you  see  the  waters  of  Castalia 
tossed  by  a  heavenly  wind  to  the  very  summit 
of  Parnassus, — but  there  are  innumerable 
exquisite  beauties  and  subtleties,  dropt  as  if 
by  the  hand  of  rich  haste,  in  every  corner  of 
the  poem.  Witness  his  description  of  David's 
muse,  as  a 

'  Blest  light,  still  gaining  on  the  gloom, 
The  more  than  Michal  of  his  bloom, 
The  Abishag  of  his  age.' 

The  account  of  David's  object — 

'  To  further  knowledge,  .silence  vice, 
And  plant  perpetual  paradise, 

When  God  had  calmed  the  world.' 

Of  David's  Sabbath — 

'  'Twas  then    his  thoughts    self -conquest 
pruned. 
And  heavenly  melancholy  tuned, 
To  bless  and  bear  the  rest.' 

One  of  David's  themes — 

'  The  multitudinous  abyss. 
Where  secrecy  remains  in  bliss, 
And  wisdom  hides  her  skill.' 

And,  not  to  multiply  instances  to  repletion, 
this  stanza  about  gems — 

'  Of  gems — their  virtue  and  their  price. 
Which,  hid  in  earth  from  man's  device, 

Their  darts  of  lustre  sheath  ; 
The  jasper  of  the  master's  stamp. 
The  topaz  blazing  like  a  lamp. 
Among  the  mines  beneath.' 


"  Incoherence  and  extravagance  we  find  here 
and  there  ;  but  it  is  not  the  flutter  of  weak- 
ness, it  is  the  fury  of  power  :  from  the  very 
stumble  of  the  rushing  steed,  sparks  are  kin- 
dled. And,  even  as  Baretti,  when  he  read 
the  '  Rambler '  in  Italj',  thought  within  him- 
self. If  such  are  the  lighter  productions  of 
the  English  mind,  what  musf~  be  the 
grander  and  sterner  efforts  of  its  genius  ? 
and  formed,  consequently,  a  strong  desire  to 
visit  that  country ;  so  might  he  have  rea- 
soned. If  such  poems  as  '  David '  issue  from 
England's  very  madhouses,  what  must  be  the 
writings  of  its  saner  and  nobler  poetic  souls  ? 
and  thus  might  he,  from  the  parallax  of  a 
Smart,  have  been  able  to  rise  toward  the  ideal 
altitudes  of  a  Shakspere  or  a  Milton.  Indeed, 
there  are  portions  of  the  '  Song  to  David,' 
which  a  Milton  or  a  Shakspere  has  never 
surpassed.  The  blaze  of  the  meteor  often 
eclipses  the  light  of 

'  The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  hep  ven. 
Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane.'  " 

— Gilfillan's  "Less-Known  Brit.  Poets,"  vol. 
iii.,  pp.  151-3. 


EICHARD  GLOVER. 

"Richard  Glover,  born  1712,  died  1785, 
was  the  son  of  a  Hamburgh  merchant  in 
London,  and  was  born  in  St.  Martin' s-lane. 
Cannon-street.  He  was  educated  at  the 
school  of  Cheam,  in  Surrej' ;  but  being  in- 
tended for  trade,  was  never  sent  to  the 
university.  This  circumstance  did  not  prevent 
him  from  applying  assiduously  to  classical 
learning  ;  and  he  was  in  the  competent,  opinion 
of  Dr.  Warton,  one  of  the  best  Greek  scholars 
of  his  time.  This  fact  is  worth  mentioning-, 
as  it  exhibits  hoAV  far  a  determined  mind  may 
connect  the  pursuits,  and  even  distinctions  of 
literature,  with  an  active  employment.  His 
first  poetical  effort  was  a  poem  to  the  memory 
of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  which  was  written  at 
the  age  of  sixteen ;  and  which  his  friend. 
Dr.  Pemberton,  thought  fit  to  j)refix  to  a 
'View  of  the  Newtonian  Philosophy,'  which 
he  published.  Dr.  Pemberton,  who  was  a 
man  of  more  science  than  taste,  on  this  and 
on  some  other  occasions  addressed  the  public 
with  critical  eulogies  on  the  genius  of  Glover, 
written  with  an  excess  of  admiration,  which 
could  be  pardoned  only  for  its  sincerity.  It 
gives  us  a  higher  idea  of  the  youthful  promises 
of  his  mind,  to  find  that  the  intelligent  poet 
Green  had  the  same  prepossession  in  his 
favour.    Green  says  of  him  in  the  '  Spleen  '  : — 

'  But  there's  a  youth,  that  you  can  name. 
Who  needs  no  leading-strings  to  fame ; 
Whose  quick  maturity  of  brain 
The  birth  of  Pallas  may  explain.' 

"  At  the  age  of  twenty- five  he  published 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


nine  books  of  his  '  Leonidas.'  The  poem  was 
immediately  taken  up  with  ardour  by  Lord 
Cobham,  to  whom  it  was  inscribed,  and  by 
all  the  readers  of  verse,  and  leaders  of  politics, 
who  professed  the  strongest  attachment  to 
liberty.  It  ran  rapidly  through  three  editions, 
and  was  publicly  extolled  by  the  pen  of 
Fielding,  and  by  the  lips  of  Chatham.  Even 
Swift,  in  one  of  his  letters  from  Ireland,  drily 
inquires  of  Pope,  '  Who  is  this  Mr.  Glover, 
who  writ "  Leonidas,"  which  is  reprinting  here, 
and  hath  great  vogue  ? '  Overrated  as  '  Leon- 
idas '  might  be.  Glover  stands  acquitted  of  all 
attempts  or  artifice  to  promote  its  popularity 
by  false  means.  He  betrayed  no  irritation-  in 
the  disputes  which  were  raised  about  its 
merit ;  and  his  personal  character  appears  as 
respectable  in  the  ebb  as  in  the  flow  of  his 
poetical  reputation. 

"In  the  year  1739  he  published  his  poem 
'  London ;  or  the  Progress  of  Commerce,'  in 
which,  instead  of  selecting  some  of  those 
interesting  views  of  the  progress  of  social  life 
and  civilization  which  the  subject  might  have 
afforded,  he  confined  himself  to  exciting  the 
national  spirit  against  the  Spaniards..  This 
purpose  was  better  effected  by  his  nearly 
contemporary  ballad  of  '  Hosier's  Ghost.' 

"  His  talents  and  politics  introduced  him  to 
the  notice  and  favour  of  Frederick,  Prince  of 
Wales,  whilst  he  maintained  an  intimate 
friendship  with  the  chiefs  of  the  opposition. 
In  the  mean  time,  he  pursued  the  business  of 
a  merchant  in  the  city,  and  was  an  able 
auxiliary  to  his  party,  by  his  eloquence  at 
l^ublic  meetings,  and  by  his  influence  with  the 
mercantile  body.  Such  was  the  confidence  in 
his  knowledge  and  talents,  that  in  3  743  the 
merchants  of  London  deputed  him  to  plead,  in 
behalf  of  their  neglected  rights,  at  the  bar  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  a  duty  which  he  ful- 
filled with  great  ability.  In  1744,  he  was 
offered  an  employment  of  a  very  different  kind, 
being  left  a  bequest  of  ,£500  by  the  Duchess 
of  Marlborough,  on  condition  of  his  writing  the 
duke's  life,  in  conjunction  with  Mallet.  He  re- 
nounced this  legacy,  while  Mallet  accepted  it, 
but  never  fulfilled  the  terms.  Glover's  rejection 
of  the  offer  was  the  more  honourable,  as  it 
came  at  a  time  when  his  own  affairs  were  so 
embarrassed  as  to  oblige  him  to  retire  from 
business  for  several  years,  and  to  lead  a  life  of 
the  strictest  economy.  During  his  distresses, 
he  is  said  to  have  received  from  the  Prince  of 
Wales  a  present  of  ^500.  In  the  year  1751, 
his  friends  in  the  city  made  an  attempt  to 
obtain  for  him  the  office  of  city  chamberlain  ; 
but  he  v/as  unfortunately  not  named  as  a 
•candidate  till  the  majority  of  votes  had  been 
engaged  to  Sir  Thomas  Harrison.  The  speech 
which  he  made  to  the  livery  on  this  occasion 
did  him  much  honour,  both  for  the  liberality 
with  which  he  spoke  of  his  successful  oppo- 
nent, and  for  the  manly  but  unassuming 
manner  in  which  he  expressed  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  integrity,  amidst  his  private  mis- 


fortunes, and  asserted  the  merit  of  his  public 
conduct  as  a  citizen.  The  name  of  Guildhall 
is  certainly  not  apt  to  inspire  us  with  high 
ideas  either  of  oratory  or  of  personal  <?yin- 
pathy;  yet  there  is  something  in  the  history  of 
this  transaction  which  increases  our  respect, 
not  only  for  Glover,  but  for  the  scene  itself,  in 
which  his  eloquence  is  said  to  have  warmly 
touched  his  audience  with  a  feeling  of  his 
worth  as  an  individual,  of  his  spirit  as  a  poli- 
tician, and  of  his  powers  as  an  accomplished 
speaker.  He  carried  the  sentiments  and 
endowments  of  a  polished  scholar  into  the 
most  popular  meeting  of  trading  life,  and 
showed  that  they  could  be  welcomed  there. 
Such  men  elevate  the  character  of  a  mercantile 
country. 

"During  his  retirement  from  business,  he 
finished  his  tragedy  of  '  Boadicea,'  which  was 
brought  out  at  Drury  Lane  in  1753,  and  was 
acted  for  nine  nights,  it  is  said  '  successfully,' 
perhaps  a  misprint  for  successively.  Boadicea 
is  certainly  not  a  contemptible  drama  :  it  has 
some  scenes  of  tender  interest  between  Venusia 
and  Dumnorix;  but  the  defectiveness  of  its 
incidents,  and  the  frenzied  character  of  the 
British  queen,  render  it  upon  the  whole 
unpleasing.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  in  their 
play  on  the  same  subject,  have  left  Boadicea, 
with  all  her  rashness  and  revengeful  disposi- 
tion, still  a  heroine  ;  but  Glover  makes  her  a 
beldam  and  a  fury,  whom  we  could  scarcely 
condemn  the  Romans  for  having  carted.  The 
disgusting  novelty  of  this  impression  is  at 
variance  with  the  traditionary  regard  for  her 
name,  from  which  the  mind  is  unwilling  to 
part.  It  is  told  of  an  eminent  portrait-painter, 
that  the  picture  of  each  individual  which  he 
took  had  some  resemblance  to  the  last  sitter : 
when  he  painted  a  comic  actress,  she  resembled 
a  doctor  of  divinity,  because  his  imagination 
had  not  yet  been  delivered  of  the  doctor.  The 
converse  of  this  seems  to  have  happened  to 
Glover.  He  anticipated  the  hideous  traits  of 
Medea,  when  he  produced  the  British  queen. 
With  a  singular  degree  of  poetical  injustice, 
he  leans  to  the  side' of  compassion  in  delinea- 
ting Medea,  a  monster  of  infanticide,  and 
prepossesses  us  against  a  high-spirited  woman, 
who  avenged  the  wrongs  of  her  country,  and 
the  violation  of  her  daughters.  His  tragedy 
of  '  Medea '  appeared  in  1761 ;  and  the 
spirited  acting  of  Mrs.  Yates  gave  it  con- 
siderable effect. 

"  In  his  later  years,  his  circumstances  were 
greatly  improved,  though  we  are  not  informed 
from  what  causes.  He  returned  again  to 
public  life  ;  was  elected  to  parliament ;  and 
there  distinguished  himself,  v/henever  mer- 
cantile prosperity  was  concerned,  by  his 
knowledge  of  commerce,  and  his  attention  to 
its  interests.  In  1770  he  enlarged  his  '  Leoni- 
das' from  nine  to  twelve  books,  and  afterward?? 
wrote  its  sequel,  the  *  Athenaid,'  and  a  sequel 
to  '  Medea.'  The  latter  was  never  acted,  and 
the   former   seldom  read.     The   close  of   his 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHTCAL  ITOTICEg. 


life  was  spent  in  retirement  from  business, 
but  amidst  the  intimacy  of  the  most  eminent 
scholars  of  his  time. 

"  Some  contemporary  writers,  calling  them- 
selves critics,  preferred  '  Leonidas '  in  its  day 
to  '  Paradise  Lost, '  becaiise  it  had  smobther 
versification,  and  fewer  hard  words  of  learning. 
The  re-action  of  popular  opinion  against  a 
work  that  has  been  once  over-rated  is  apt  to 
depress  it  beneath  its  just  estimation.  It  is 
due  to  '  Leonidas '  to  say,  that  its  narrative, 
descriptions,  and  imagery,  have  a  general  and 
chaste  congruity  with  the  Grecism  of  its 
subject.  It  is  far,  indeed,  from  being  a  vivid 
or  arresting  picture  of  antiquity ;  but  it  has 
an  air  of  classical  taste  and  propriety  in  its 
design ;  and  it  sometimes  places  the  religion 
and  manners  of  Greece  in  a  pleasing  and 
impressive  light.  The  i)oet's  description  of 
Dithyrambus  making  his  way  from  the  cave 
of  (Eta,  by  a  secret  ascent,  to  the  temple  of 
the  Muses,  and  bursting,  unexpectedly,  into  the 
hallowed  presence  of  their  priestess  Mehssa, 
is  a  passage  fraught  with  a  considerable 
degree  of  the  fanciful  and  beautiful  in  super- 
stition. The  abode  of  Oileus  is  also  traced 
with  a  suavity  of  local  description,  which  is 
not  unusual  to  Glover ;  and  the  speech  of 
Melissa,  when  she  first  receives  the  tidings  of 
her  venerable  father's  death,  supports  a  fine 
consistency  witli  the  august  and  poetical 
character  which  is  ascribed  to  her. 

'A  sigh 
Broke  from  her  heart,  these  accents  from  her 

lips. 
The  full  of   days  and   honours   through  the 

gate 
Of  painless  slumber  is  retired.     His  tomb 
Shall  stand  among  his  fathers,  in  the  shade 
Of  his  own  trophies.     Placid  were  his  days. 
Which  flow'd  through  blessings.     As  a  river 

pure. 
Whose  sides  are  fiow'ry,  and  whose  meadows 

fair; 
Meets  in  his  course  a  subterranean  void , 
There  dips  his  silver  head,  again  to  rise. 
And,  rising,  glide  through  flowers  and  meadows 

new; 
So  shall  Oileus  in  those  happier  fields, 
Where   never   gloom   of    trouble   shades  the 

mind.' 

"The  undeniable  fault  of  the  entire  poem 
is,  that  it  wants  impetuosity  of  progress,  and 
that  its  characters  are  without  warm  and 
interesting  individuality.  What  a  great  geniu  s 
might  have  made  of  the  subject,  it  may  be 
difficidt  to  pronounce  by  supposition ;  for  it  is 
the  very  character  of  genius  to  produce  effects 
which  cannot  be  calculated.  But  imposing 
as  the  names  of  Leonidas  and  Thermopylae 
may  appear,  the  subject  which  they  formed 
for  an  epic  poem  was  such,  that  we  cannot 
wonder  at  its  baffling  the  powers  of  Glover. 
A  poet,  with  such  a  theme,  was  furnished 
indeed  with  a  grand  outline  of  actions  and  senti- 


ments ;  but  how  difficult  was  it,  after  all  that 
books  could  teach  him,  to  give  the  close  and  | 
veracious  appearance  of  life  to  characters  and 
manners  beheld  so  remotely  on  the  verge 
of  the  horizon  of  history  !  What  difficulty  to 
avoid  coldness  and  generality  on  the  one 
hand,  if  he  delineated  his  human-bei]i£;s  only 
with  the  manners  which  history  could  authen- 
ticate ;  and  to  shun  grotesqueness  and  incon- 
sistency on  the  other,  if  he  filled  up  the  vague 
outline  of  the  antique  with  the  particular  and 
familiar  traits  of  modern  life  !  Neither  Fene- 
lon,  with  all  his  genius,  nor  Barthclemy,  with 
aU  his  learning,  have  kept  entirely  free  of  this 
latter  fault  of  incongruity,  in  modernising  the 
aspect  of  ancient  manners.  Tlie  characters  of 
Barthelemy,  in  particular,  often  remind  us  of 
statues  in  modern  clothes.  Glover  has  not 
fallen  into  this  impurity;  but  his  purity  is 
cold :  his  heroes  are  like  outlines  of  Grecian 
faces,  with  no  distinct  or  minute  physiognomy. 
They  are  not  so  much  poetical  characters  as 
historical  recollections.  There  are,  indeed, 
some  touches  of  spirit  in  Artemisia's  character, 
and  of  pathos  in  the  episode  of  Teribazus ; 
but  Leonidas  is  too  good  a  Spartan,  and 
Xerxes  too  bad  a  Persian,  to  be  pitied  ;  and 
most  of  the  subordinate  agents,  that  fall  or 
triumph  in  battle,  only  load  our  memories 
with  their  names.  The  local  descriptions  of 
'  Leonidas,'  however,  its  pure  sentiments,  and 
the  classical  images  which  it  recalls,  render  it 
interesting  as  the  monument  of  an  accom- 
plished and  amiable  mind." — Campbell's 
"Specimens,"  pp.  588-590.  See  Allibone's 
"Grit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.";  Maunder's  "Biog. 
Diet.";  Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


EOBEET  DODSLEY. 

"Eobert  Dodsley,  born  1703,  died  17G4. 
It  is  creditable  to  the  memory  of  Pope  to 
have  been  the  encourager  of  this  ingenious 
man,  who  rose  from  the  situation  of  a  foot- 
man to  be  a  very  eminent  bookseller.  His 
plan  of  republishing  '  Old  English  Plays '  is 
said  to  have  been  suggested  to  him  by  the 
literary  amateur  Coxeter ;  but  the  execution 
of  it  leaves  us  still  indebted  to  Dodsley' s  en- 
terprise."— Campbell's  "Specimens."  See  Alli- 
bone's "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


SAMUEL  BISHOP. 

"  Samuel  Bishop  was  bom  in  1731,  and  died 
in  1795.  He  was  an  English  clergyman, 
master  of  Merchant  Tailors'  School,  London, 
and  am;hor  of  a  volume  of  Latin  pieces,  en- 
titled '  FerioB  Poeticac,'  and  of  various  other 
poetical  pieces.  We  give  some  verses  to  his 
wife,  from  which  it  appears  that  he  remained 
an  ardent  lover  long  after  having  become  a 
husband."  —  Gilfillan's     "Less-known     Brit. 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Pekiod. — 


Poets."      See    AUibone's    "  Crit.   Diet.    En^ 
Lit."  ;  Campbell's  '■  Specimens." 


JOHN  BAMPFYLDE. 

"John  Bampfylde,  born  1754,  died  1796, 
was  the  younger  brother  of  Sir  Charles  Bamp- 
fylde. He  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and 
published  his  '  Sonnets '  in  1776,  when  very 
young.  He  soon  after  fell  into  mental  de- 
rangement, and  passed  the  last  years  of  his 
life  in  a  private  madhouse.  After  twenty 
j'cars'  confinement  he  recovered  his  senses, 
but  not  till  he  was  in  the  last  gasp  of  con- 
sumption."— Campbell's  "  Specimens."  See 
AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


SIE  WILLIAM  JONES. 

"  Sir  William  Jones,  an  Indian  judge  and 
learned  Oriental  writer,  was  born  in  London, 
1746,  and  died  at  Calcutta,  1794.  Losing  his 
father  in  his  infancy,  his  education  devolved 
on  his  mother,  a  woman  of  great  virtue  and 
understanding,  from  whom  he  learnt  the  rudi- 
ments of  knowledge,  and  was  then  removed 
to  Harrow  school,  where  he  made  such  great 
progress  in  his  studies,  that  Dr.  Sumner,  the 
master,  affirmed  that  his  pupil  knew  more 
Greek  than  himself ;  a  previous  master  hav- 
ing said,  '  If  Jones  were  left  naked  on 
Salisbury  plain,  he  would  nevertheless  find  the 
road  to  fame.'  In  1764  he  was  entered  of  Uni- 
versity College,  Oxford,  where  to  his  classical 
pursuits  he  added  the  study  of  the  Persian  and 
Arabic  languages,  also  the  Spanish,  Italian,  and 
Portuguese.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  became 
tutor  to  Lord  Althorpe,  and,  during  his  resi- 
dence at  Wimbledon,  in  that  noble  family,  he 
greatly  enlarged  his  acquirements  in  Oriental 
literature.  In  1769  he  made  a  tour  in  France, 
and  about  the  same  time  undertook,  at  the 
request  of  the  king  of  Denmark,  to  translate 
the  history  of  Nadir  Shah  from  Persian  into 
French.  In  1770  he  entered  on  the  study  of 
the  law  at  the  Temple,  but  continued  his  ap- 
plication to  Oriental  learning  and  general 
literature.  In  1774  he  published  his  '  Com- 
mentaries on  Asiatic  Poetry,'  dedicated  to  the 
University  of  Oxford.  In  1 783  he  obtained  the 
appointment  of  a  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court 
at  Calcutta,  a  post  which  had  been  the  object 
of  his  anxious  wishes.  The  honour  of  knight- 
hood was  on  this  occasion  conferred  on  him, 
and  he  soon  after  married  a  daughter  of  the 
bishop  of  St.  Asaph.  In  April  of  that  year  he 
embarked  for  India,  from  which  ho  was  never 
destined  to  return.  On  the  voyage  hffi  active 
mind  projected  the  establishment  of  a  society 
in  Bengal  for  the  purpose  of  illustrating  Orien- 
tal antiquities  and  literature.  This  scheme  he 
saw  carried  into  effect ;  and  under  his  auspices, 
and  by  his  direction,  the  society  acquired  a  high 


reputation.  The  volumes  of  its '  Transactions' 
are  inestimable,  and  are  enriched  by  sevearal 
valuable  productions  from  Sir  William's  pen. 
As  a  judge  he  was  indefatigable  and  im- 
partial. He  studied  the  native  laws  of  the 
country,  and  became  so  versed  in  the  Sanscrit 
and  the  codes  of  the  Brahmins,  as  to  gain  the 
admiration  of  the  most  learned  men  in  that 
country.  In  1799  his  works  were  collected  and 
published  in  6  vols.,  and  his  life  written  by 
Lord  Teignmouth,  in  one  volume,  1804,  A 
beautiful  monument  has  been  erected  to  his 
memory  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  by  the  East 
India  Company." — Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ. 
Biog."  See  Maunder's  "  Biog.  Diet."  ;  Shaw's 
'•  Hist.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Chambers'  "  Cyo.  Eng. 
Lit." 


FEANCIS  FAWKES. 

"  Francis  Fawkes,  born  1721,  died  1777, 
made  translations  from  some  of  the  minor 
Greek  poets  (viz.  Anacreon,  Sappho,  Bion  and 
Moschus,  Museeus,  Theocritus,  and  Apollonius), 
and  modernised  the  description  of  '  May  and 
Winter,'  from  Gawain  Douglas.  He  was  bom 
in  Yorkshire,  studied  at  Cambridge,  was  curate 
of  Croydon,  in  Surrey,  where  he  obtained  the 
friendship  of  Archbishop  Herring,  and  by  him 
was  collated  to  the  vicarage  of  Orpington,  in 
Kent.  By  the  favour  of  Dr.  Plumptre,  he 
exchanged  this  vicarage  for  the  rectory  of 
Hayes,  and  was  finally  made  chaplain  to  the 
Princess  of  Wales.  He  was  the  friend  of 
Johnson  and  Warton  ;  a  learned  and  a  jovial 
parson." — Campbell's  "  Specimens."  See  AUi- 
bone's "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 

"William  Whitehead,  an  English  poet,  was 
born  at  Cambridge,  1715,  and  died  1788.  He 
became  secretary  and  registrar  of  the  order 
of  the  Bath,  and,  in  1757,  poet-laureate. 
Besides  his  odes  and  songs,  he  Avrote  '  The 
Eoman  Father,'  and  'Creusa,'  tragedies  ;  '  The 
School  for  Lovers,'  a  comedy ;  '  A  Trip  to 
Scotland,'  a  farce." — Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ. 
Biog." 


DE.  JAMES  GEAINGEE. 

"  This  writer  possessed  some  true  imagina- 
tion, although  his  claim  to  immortality  lies 
in  the  narrow  compass  of  one  poem — his  '  Ode 
to  Solitude.'  Little  is  known  of  his  personal 
history.  He  was  born  in  1721,  belonging  to 
a  gentleman's  family  in  Cumberland.  He 
studied  medicine,  and  was  for  some  time  a 
surgeon  connected  with  the  army.  When  the 
peace  came,  he  established  liimsolf  in  London  as 
a  medical  practitioner.  In  1775  ho  published 
his   '  Sohtude,'   which  found  many  admirers, 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


including  Dr.  Johnson,  who  pronounced  its 
opening  lines  '  very  noble.'  He  afterwards 
indited  several  other  pieces,  wrote  a  translation 
of  Tibullus,  and  became  one  of  the  critical  staff 
of  the  Monthly  Review.  He  was  unable,  how- 
ever, through  aU  these  labours  to  secure  a 
competence,  and,  in  1759,  he  sought  the  West 
Indies.  In  St.  Christopher's  he  commenced 
practising  as  a  physician,  and  married  the 
Governor's  daughter,  who  brought  him  a 
fortune.  He  ^v^ote  a  poem  entitled  '  The 
Sugar-cane.'  This  was  sent  over  to  London 
in  MS.,  and  was  read  at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds' 
table  to  a  literary  coterie,  who,  according  to 
Boswell,  all  burst  out  into  a  laugh  when, 
after  much  blank-verse  pomp,  the  poet  began 
a  new  paragraph  thus — 

*  Now,  muse,  let's  sing  of  rats.' 

And  what  increased  the  ridicule  was,  that 
one  of  the  company,  slily  overlooking  the 
reader,  found  that  the  word  had  been  originallj'- 
'  mice,'  but  had  been  changed  to  rats  as  more 
dignified. 

' '  Boswell  goes  on  to  record  Johnson's  opinion 
of  Grainger.  He  said,  '  He  was  an  agreeable 
man,  a  man  that  would  do  any  good  that  was 
in  his  power.'  His  translation  of  Tibullus 
was  very  well  done,  but  '  The  Sugar-cane,  a 
Poem,'  did  not  please  him.  '  What  could  lie 
make  of  a  Sugar-cane  ?  one  might  as  well 
write  "The  Parsley-bed,  a  Poem,"  or  "The 
Cabbage  Garden,  a  Poem."  '  Boswell — '  You 
must  then  pickle  your  cabbage  with  the  sal 
Atticum.'  Johnson — '  One  could  say  a  great 
deal  about  cabbage.  The  poem  might  begin 
with  the  advantages  of  civilized  society  over 
a  rude  state,  exemplified  by  the  Scotch,  who 
had  no  cabbages  till  Oliver  Cromwell's  soldiers 
introduced  them,  and  one  might  thus  show 
how  arts  are  propagated  by  conquest,  as  they 
were  by  the  Roman  arms.'  Cabbage,  by  the 
way,  in  a  metaphorical  sense,  might  furnish  a 
very  good  subject  for  a  literary  satire. 

"  Grainger  died  of  the  fever  of  the  country 
in  1767.  Bishop  Percy  corroborates  Johnson's 
character  of  him  as  a  man.  He  says,  '  He 
was  not  only  a  man  of  genius  and  learning, 
but  had  many  excellent  virtues,  being  one  of 
the  most  generous,  friendly,  benevolent  men 
I  ever  knew.' 

"  Grainger  in  some  points  reminds  us  of 
Dyer.  Dyer  staked  his  reputation  on  '  The 
Fleece ;'  but  it  is  his  lesser  poem,  '  Grongar 
Hill,'  which  preserves  his  name ;  that  fine 
effusion  has  survived  the  laboured  work.  And 
so  Grainger's  '  Solitude '  has  supplanted  the 
stately  '  Sugar-cane.'  The  scenery  of  the 
West  Indies  had  to  wait  till  its  real  poet 
appeared  in  the  author  of  '  Paul  and  Virginia.' 
Grainger  was  hardly  able  to  cope  with  the 
strange  and  gorgeous  contrasts  it  presents  of 
cliffs  and  crags,  like  those  of  Iceland,  with 
vegetation  rich  as  that  of  the  fairest  parts  of 
India,  and  of  splendid  sunshine,  with  temiriests 
of  such  tremendous  fury  that,  but  for  their 


!   brief  continuance,  no  property  oould  be  secure, 
I   and  no  life  could  be  safe. 
I        "  The  commencement  of  the  '  Ode  to  Soli- 
I   tude '  is  fine,  but  the   closing    part  becomes 
tedious.     In  the  middle  of  the  poem  there  is 
a   tumult   of   personification,    some   of  them 
felicitous  and  others  forced.  _    _^ 

'  Sage  Reflection,  bent  \vith  years,' 
may  pass,  but 

'  Conscious  Virtue,  void  of  fears,' 
is  poor. 

'  Halcyon  Peace  on  moss  reclined,' 
is  a  picture  ; 

'  Retrospect  that  scans  the  mind,' 
is  nothing ; 

'  Health  that  snuffs  the  morning  air,' 
is  a  living  image ;  but  what  sense  is  there  in 

'  Full-eyed  Truth,  -vNith  bosom  bare'  ? 
and  how  poor  his 

'  Laughter  in  loud  peals  that  breaks,' 
to  Milton's 

'  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides' ! 
The  paragraph,  however,  commencing 

'  With  you  roses  brighter  bloom,' 
and  closing  Avith 

'  The  bournless  macrocosm's  thine,' 

is  very  spirited,  and,  along  with  the  opening 
lines,  proves  Grainger  a  poet." — Gilfillan'a 
"Less-known  British  Poets,"  vol.  iii.  See 
Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


JAMES  MERRICK. 

"  James  Merrick,  born  1720,  died  1769,  was 
a  clergyman,  as  well  as  a  writer  of  verse,  and 
became  a  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford, 
where  Lord  North  was  one  of  his  pupils.  He 
took  orders,  but  owing  to  incessant  pains  in 
the  head,  could  not  perform  duty.  His 
works  are  a  translation  of  Tryphiodorus, 
done  at  twenty,  a  version  of  the  Psalms,  a 
collection  of  Hymns,  and  a  few  miscellaneous 
pieces.  —  Gilfillan's  "  Less -known  British 
Poets,"  vol.  iii. 


JOHN  SCOTT. 

"  This  worthy  and  poetical  Quaker,  who  was 
the  son  of  a  draper  in  London,  was  born,  in  the 
borough  of  Southwark,  1730,  and  died  1783. 
His  father  retired  to  Amwell,  in  Hertfordshire, 
when  our  poet  was  only  ten  years  old;  and  this 
removal,  together  with  the  circumstance  of  his 
never  having  been  inoculated  for  the  small 
pox,  proved  an  unfortunate  impediment  to  his 
education.  He  was  put  to  a  day-school,  in 
the   neighbouring  town  of   Ware,  where  not 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


nMich  instruction  wa3  to  be  had  ;  and  from 
that  little  he  was  called  away,  upon  the  first 
alarm  of  infection.  Such  indeed  was  his  con- 
stant apprehension  of  the  disease,  that  he 
lived  for  twenty  years  within  twenty  miles  of 
London  -without  visiting  it  more  than  once. 
About  the  ago  of  seventeen,  however,  he 
betook  himself  to  reading.  His  family,  from 
their  cast  of  opinions  and  society,  were  not 
likely  to  abound  either  in  books  or  conversa- 
tion relating  to  literature ;  but  he  happened 
to  form  an  acquaintance  and  friendship  with 
a  neighbour  of  the  name  of  Frogley,  a  master 
bricklayer,  who,  though  an  uneducated  man, 
was  an  admirer  of  poetry,  and  by  his  inter- 
course with  this  friend  he  strengthened  his 
literary  propensity.  His  first  poetical  essays 
were  transmitted  to  the  '  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine.' In  his  thirtieth  year  he  published  four 
elegies,  which  were  favourably  received.  His 
poems,  entitled,  '  The  Garden,'  and  '  Amwell,' 
and  his  volume  of  collected  poetical  pieces, 
appeared  after  considerable  intervals ;  and 
his  '  Critical  Essays  on  tlie  English  Poets,' 
two  years  after  his  death.  These,  with  his 
*  Eemarks  on  the  Poems  of  Eowley,'  are  all 
that  can  be  called  his  literary  productions. 
He  published  also  two  political  tracts,  in 
answer  to  Dr.  Johnson's  '  Patriot,'  and  '  False 
Alarm.'  His  critical  essays  contain  some 
judicious  remarks  on  Denham  and  Dyer ;  but 
his  verbal  strictures  on  Collins  and  Goldsmith 
discover  a  miserable  insensibility  to  the  soul 
of  those  poets.  His  own  verses  are  chiefly 
interesting  where  they  breathe  the  pacific 
principles  of  the  Quaker ;  while  his  personal 
character  engages  respect,  from  exhibiting  a 
public  spirit  and  liberal  taste  beyond  the 
habits  of  his  brethren.  He  was  well  informed 
in  the  laws  of  his  country  ;  and,  though  pre- 
vented by  his  tenets  from  becoming  a  magis- 
trate, he  made  himself  useful  to  the  inhabit- 
ants of  Amwell,  by  his  offices  of  arbitration, 
and  by  promoting  schemes  of  local  improve- 
ment. He  was  constant  in  his  attendance  at 
turnpike  meetings,  navigation  trusts,  and  com- 
missions of  land-tax.  Ware  and  Hertford 
were  indebted  to  him  for  the  plan  of  opening 
a  spacious  road  between  those  two  towns. 
His  treatises  on  the  highway  and  parochial 
laws  were  the  result  of  long  and  laudable 
attention  to  those  subjects. 

"  His  verses,  and  his  amiable  character, 
gained  him  by  degrees  a  large  circle  of  literary 
acquaintance,  which  included  Dr.  Johnson, 
Sir  "William  Jones,  Mrs.  Montague,  and  many 
other  distinguished  individuals ;  and  having 
submitted  to  inoculation,  in  his  thirty-sixth 
year,  he  was  from  that  period  more  frequently 
in  London.  In  his  retirement  he  was  fond  of 
gardening,  and,  in  amusing  himself  with  the 
improvement  of  his  grounds,  had  excavated  a 
grotto  in  the  side  of  a  hill,  which  his  biogra- 
pher, Mr.  Hoole,  writing  in  1785,  says  was 
still  shown  as  a  curiosity  in  that  part  of  the 
country.     He  was  twice  marj;ied.     His  first 


wife  was  the  daughter  of  his  friend  Frogley. 
He  died  at  a  house  in  EadcliflF,  of  a  putrid 
fever,  and  was  interred  there  in  the  burying 
ground  of  the  Friends." — Campbell's  "Speci- 
mens." See  GilfiUan's  "Less-known  British 
Poets." 


WILLIAM  OLDYS. 

"  Oldys  was  born  in  1696,  and  died  in  1761, 
He  was  a  very  diligent  collector  of  antiquarian 
materials,  and  the  author  of  a  Life  of  Ealeigh. 
He  was  intimate  with  Captain  Grose,  Burns' 
friend,  who  used  .to  rally  him  on  his  inordinate 
thirst  for  ale,  although,  if  we  believe  Burns, 
it  was  paralleled  by  Grose's  liking  for  port.'* 
—  Gilfillan's  "  Less-known  British  Poets."" 
See  Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


AUGUSTUS  TOPLADY. 

"Augustus  Montague  Toplady,  a  zealous 
advocate  for  the  Calvinism  of  the  Church  of 
England,  was  born  at  Farnham,  in  Surrey, 
1740,  and  died  1778.  He  was  educated  at 
Westminster  School,  and  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  and  became  vicar  of  Broad  Henbury, 
in  Devonshire.  He  was  a  strenuous  opponent 
of  Wesley,  and  brought  a  large  share  of  meta- 
physical acuteness  into  the  Calvinistic  contro- 
versy. His  works  form  six  volumes." — 
Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


JOSEPH  HAET. 

A  writer  of  many  beautiful  hymns,  but  of 
whose  life  little  is  known.     About  1759. 


HENEY  CAEEY. 

"  Of  Henry  Carey,  the  author  of  the  popular 
song,  '  Sally  in  our  Alley,'  we  know  only  that 
he  was  a  professional  musician,  composing 
the  air  as  well  as  the  words  of  '  Sally,'  and 
that,  in  1763,  he  died  by  his  own  hands." — 
Gilfillan's  "  Less-known  British  Poets,"  vol . 
iii.  See  AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."; 
Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


PAUL  WHITEHEAD. 

"Paul  Whitehead,  born  1710,  died  1774, 
was  the  son  of  a  tailor  in  London  ;  and,  after 
a  slender  education,  was  placed  as  an  appren- 
tice to  a  woollen-draper.  He  afterwards  went 
to  the  Temple,  in  order  to  study  law.  Several 
years  of  his  life  (it  is  not  quite  clear  at  what 
period)  were  spent  in  the  Fleet-prison,  owing 
to  a  debt  which  he  foolishly  contracted,  by 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


putting  his  name  to  a  joint  securitj'  for  ^3000, 
at  the  request  of  his  friend  Fleetwood,  the 
theatrical  manager,  who  persuaded  him  that 
his  sisrnature  was  a  mere  matter  of  form. 
How  he  obtained  his  liberation  we  are  not 
informed. 

"  In  the  year  1735  he  married  a  Miss  Anne 
Dyer,  with  whom  he  obtained  ten  thousand 
pounds.  She  was  homely  in  her  person, 
and  very  weak  in  intellect ;  but  Whitehead, 
it  appears,  always  treated  her  with  respect 
and  tenderness. 

"  He  became,  in  the  same  year,  a  satirical 
rhymer  against  the  ministry  of  Walpole  ;  and 
having  published  his  '  State  Dunces,'  a  weak 
echo  of  the  manner  of  the  'Dunciad,'  he 
was  patronised  by  the  opposition,  and  parti- 
cularly by  Bubb  Doddington.  In  1739  he 
published  the  '  Manners,'  a  satire,  in  which 
Mr.  Chalmers  says  that  he  attacks  every 
thing  venerable  in  the  constitution.  The 
poem  is  not  worth  disputing  about ;  but  it  is 
certainly  a  mere  personal  lampoon,  and  no 
attack  on  the  constitution.  For  this  invective 
he  was  summoned  to  appear  at  the  bar  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  but  concealed  himself  for  a 
time,  and  the  affair  was  dropped.  The  threat 
of  prosecuting  him,  it  was  suspected,  was 
meant  as  a  hint  to  Pope,  that  those  who 
satirised  the  great  might  bring  themselves 
into  danger ;  and  Pope  (it  is  pretended) 
became  more  cautious.  There  would  seem, 
however,  to  be  nothing  very  terrific  in  the 
example  of  a  prosecution,  that  must  have  been 
dropped  either  from  clemency  or  conscious 
weakness.  The  ministerial  journals  took 
another  sort  of  revenge,  by  accusing  him  of 
irreligion ;  and  the  evidence,  which  they  can- 
didly and  consistently  brought  to  substantiate 
the  charge,  was  the  letter  of  a  student  from 
Cambridge,  who  had  been  himself  expelled 
from  the  university  for  atheism. 

"  In  1744  he  published  another  satire, 
entitled  the  '  Gymnasiad,'  on  the  most  re- 
nowned boxers  of  the  day.  It  had  at  least 
the  merit  of  being  harmless. 

"  By  the  interest  of  Lord  Despenser,  h'^ 
obtained  a  place  under  government,  that  of 
deputy  treasurer  of  the  chamber ;  and,  re- 
tiring to  a  handsome  cottage,  which  he 
purchased  at  Twickenham,  he  lived  in  comfoi-t 
and  hospitality,  and  suffered  his  small  satire 
and  politics  to  be  equally  forgotten.  Churchill 
attacked  him  in  a  couplet  : — 


I   (can    worse   disgrace    on    manhood 
fall?) 
Be  born  a  Whitehead  and  baptised  a  Paul.' 

But  though  a  libertine  like  Churchill,  he 
seems  not  to  have  been  the  worse  man  of  the 
two.  Sir  John  Hawkins  gives  him  the 
character  of  being  good-hearted,  even  to  sim- 
plicity ;  and  says,  that  he  was  esteemed  a 
Twickenham  for  his  kind  offices,  and  for 
composing  quarrels  among  his  neighbours." — 
Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


JOHN   CUNNINGHAM. 

"John  Cunningham,  bom  1729,  died  1773, 
the  son  of  a  wine- cooper  in  Dublin,  was  a 
respectable  actor,  and  performed  several  years 
in  Digges's  company,  Edinburgh.  In  his 
latter  years  he  resided  in  Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
in  the  house  of  a  '  generous  printer,'  "Whose 
hospitality  for  some  time  supported  the  poet. 
Cunningham's  pieces  are  full  of  pastoral 
simplicity  and  lyrical  melody.  He  aimed  at 
nothing  high  and  seldom  failed." — Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit," vol.  ii.  See  Allibone's  "  Crit, 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


NATHANIEL  COTTON. 

"Nathaniel  Cotton,  born  1721,  died  1788, 
wrote  '  Visions  in  Verse,'  for  children,  and  a 
volume  of  poetical '  Miscellanies.'  He  followed 
the  medical  profession  in  St.  Albans,  and 
was  distinguished^f  or  his  skill  in  the  treatment 
of  cases  of  insanity.  Cowper,  his  patient, 
bears  evidence  to  his  '  well-known  humanity 
and  sweetness  of  temper." — Chambers'  "Cyc. 
Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  p.  122.  See  Allibone's 
"Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Grimshawe's  "Life 
of  Cowper";  Southey's  "Life  and  Works 
of  Cowper." 


CHEISTOPHER  ANSTEY. 

"  Christopher  Anstey,  bom  1724,  died  1805, 
was  atithor  of  '  The  New  Bath  Guide,'  a  light 
satirical  and  humorous  poem,  which  appeared 
in  1766,  and  set  an  example  in  this  description 
of  composition,  that  has  since  been  followed 
in  numerous  instances,  and  with  great  success. 
Smollett,  in  his  '  Humphrey  Clinker,'  published 
five  years  later,  may  be  almost  said  to  have 
reduced  the  '  New  Bath  Guide '  to  prose. 
Many  of  the  characters  and  situations  are 
exactly  the  same  as  those  of  Anstey.  This 
poem  seldom  rises  above  the  tone  of  conversa- 
tion, but  is  easy,  sportive,  and  entertaining. 
The  fashionable  Fribbles  of  the  day,  the  chat, 
scandal  and  amusements  of  those  attending 
the  wells,  and  the  canting  hypocrisy  of  some 
sectarians,  are  depicted,  sometimes  with  in- 
delicacy, but  always  with  force  and  liveliness. 
Mr.  Anstey  was  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Anstey, 
rector  of  Brinkeley,  in  Cambridgeshire,  a 
gentleman  who  possessed  a  considerable 
landed  property,  which  the  poet  afterwards 
inherited.  He  was  educated  at  Eton  school, 
and  elected  to  King's  CoUege,  Cambridge,  and 
in  both  places  he  distinguished  himself  as  a 
classical  scholar.  In  consequence  of  his 
refusal  to  deliver  certain  declamations,  Anstey 
quarrelled  with  the  heads  of  the  university, 
and  was  denied  the  usual  degree.  In  the 
epilogue  to  the  '  New  Bath  Guide,*  He  alludes 
to  this  circumstance — 


BIOaRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Pekiod. — 


'  Granta,  sweet  Granta,  were  studious  of  ease, 
Seven  years  did  I  sleep,  and  then  lost  my 
degrees.' 
He  then  went  into  the  army,  and  married 
Miss  Calvert,  sister  to  his  friend  John  Calvert, 
Esq.,  of  AUbiuyHall,  in  Hertfordshire,  through 
whose  influence  he  was  returned  to  parliament 
for  the  borough  of  Hertford.  Ho  was  a  fre- 
quent resident  in  the  city  of  Bath,  and  a 
favourite  in  the  fashionable  and  literary 
coteries  of  the  place.  In  1766  Avas  published 
his  celebrated  poem,  which  instantly  became 
popular;  He  wrote  various  other  pieces — '  A 
Poem  on  the  Death  of  the  Marquis  of  Tavistock 
(1767) ;  '  An  Election  Ball,  in  Poetical  Letters 
from  Mr.  Inkle  at  Bath  to  his  Wife  at 
Gloucester ' ;  a  '  Paraphrase  of  the  Thirteenth 
Chapter  of  the  First  Epistle  to  the  Corin- 
thians' ;  a  satire  entitled  '  The  Priest  Dis- 
sected' ;  '  Speculation,  or  a  Defence  of 
Mankind'  (1780)  ;  '  Liberality,  or  Memoirs  of 
a  DoGSijed  Macajroni '  (1788) ;  '  The  Farmer's 
Daughter,  a  Poetical  Tale  '  (1795) ;  and 
various  other  copies  of  occasional  verses. 
Anstey  also  translated  Gray's  'Elegy'  into 
Latin  verse,  and  addressed  an  elegant  Latin 
Ode  to  Dr.  Jenner.  While  the  '  New  Bath 
Guide '  was  '  the  only  thing  in  fashion,'  and 
relished  for  its  novel  and  original  kind  of 
humour,  the  other  prodactions  of  Anstey 
were  neglected  by  the  public,  and  have  never 
been  revived.  In  the  enjoyment  of  his  pater- 
nal estate,  the  poet,  however,  was  independent 
of  the  public  support,  and  he  took  part  in  the 
sports  of  the  field  up  to  his  eightieth  year. 
While  on  a  visit  to  his  son-in-law,  Mr,  Bosan- 
quct,  at  Harnage,  Wiltshire,  ho  was  taken  ill, 
and  died  on  the  3rd  of  August,  1805." — Cham- 
bers' "Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  See  Allibone's 
"Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


MRS.  THRALE. 

"  Mrs.  Thrale,  afterwards  Mrs.  Piozzi,  born 
1740,  died  1822,  whose  maiden  name  was 
Esther  Lynch  Salusbury,  a  native  of  Bodville, 
in  Carnarvonshire,  married  Mr.  Henry  Thrale, 
the  opulent  brewer,  in  whose  house  Dr.  John- 
son found  so  frequent  a  home.  She  was  the 
authoress  of  '  The  Three  Warnings,'  which  is 
so  good  a  piece  of  composition  that  Johnson 
has  been  supposed  to  have  assisted  in  writing 
it.  After  the  death  of  her  husband,  she  mar- 
ried Piozzi,  an  Italian  music-master,  and  left 
England.  She  wrote  several  other  works,  but 
the  one  by  which  she  is  best  known  is  '  Anec- 
dotes of  Dr.  Johnson,'  1786.  She  spent  the 
latter  portion  of  her  life  at  Clifton,  where  she 
died." — Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


shire,  published  anonymously,  in  1769,  a  col- 
lection of  miscellaneous  poems,  forming  a  thin 
quarto,  which  he  had  printed  at  Wolverhamp- 
ton. One  piece  was  copied  by  Dodsley  into 
his  '  Annual  Register,'  and  from  thence  has 
been  transi'erred  (different  persons  being  as- 
signed as  the  author)  into  almost  every 
periodical  and  collection  of  fugitive  verses. 
This  poem  is  entitled  '  The  Beggar '  (some- 
times called '  The  Beggar's  Petition'),  and  con- 
tains much  pathetic  and  natural  sentiment 
finely  expressed."  —  Chambers'  "Cyc.  Eng. 
Lit.,"  vol.  ii.,  p.  125. 


THOMAS  MOSS. 
"  TiomaB  Moss,  who  died  in  1808,  minister 
of  Brierlcy  Hill,  and  of  Trentham,  in  Stafford- 


JOHN  WESLEY. 

"  John  Wesley,  bom  1703,  died  1791,  a 
celebrated  English  divine,  who,  with  White- 
field,  founded  Methodism.  He  was  the  son  of 
Samuel  Wesley  the  elder,  and  was  educated  at 
the  Charterhouse,  whence  he  removed  to 
Christ  Church  College,  Oxford;  but  in  1726 
was  chosen  fellow  of  Lincoln  College,  where  } 
he  became  an  eminent  tutor.  In  1730  he  and  j 
his  brother,  with  a  few  other  students,  formed  \ 
themselves  into  a  small  society  for  the  purpose 
of  mutual  edification  in  rehgiou;:  exercises. 
They  devoted  their  leisure  to  visiting  the 
prisons  and  the  sick,  took  the  communion 
once  a  week,  and  fasted  upon  two  out  of  every 
seven  days.  An  association  thus  rigidly  oc- 
cupied with  religious  duties  excited  consider- 
able notice ;  and,  among  other  names  bestowed 
upon  the  members,  that  of  Methodists  was 
applied  to  them  with  such  success  as  to  sub- 
sequently become  the  distinctive  appellation 
of  all  their  followers.  Deeming  Oxford  a 
sphere  not  large  enough  for  his  labours, 
Wesley,  -svith  some  others,  went  to  Georgia, 
in  North  America,  in  1735,  with  a  view  of 
converting  the  Indians.  After  a  stay  there 
of  nearly  two  years,  he  returned  to  England, 
commenced  preaching  to  open-air  meetings, 
and  gathered  many  followers.  The  churches 
being  shut  against  him,  he  built  spacious 
meeting-houses  in  London,  Bristol,  and  other 
places.  For  some  time  he  was  united  to 
George  Whitefield ;  but  differences  arising  on 
account  of  the  doctrine  of  election,  which  was 
zealously  espoused  and  preached  by  the  latter, 
they  separated,  and  the  Methodists  were  de- 
nominated according  to  their  respective 
leaders.  Wesley  was  indefatigable  in  his 
labours,  and  was  almost  continually  engaged 
in  travelling  over  England,  Wales,  Scotland, 
and  Ireland.  No  man  ever  laboured  more 
zealouslj''  or  continuously  in  the  cause  which 
he  had  undertaken.  Every  moment  of  his 
life  was  devoted  to  the  organization  of  the 
great  sect  of  Methodists,  and  he  preserved 
his  influence  over  it  to  the  last.  He  published 
hymns,  sermons,  political  tracts,  and  con- 
troversial pieces  against  the  Calvinists  and 
Moravians ;  but  the  complete  list  of  the 
writings   of   this    extraordinary  man   is   too 


From  1727  to  1780,] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


voluminous  to  be  inserted.  Two  collected 
editions  of  his  works  have  been  published, 
the  first  in  32  vols.,  and  the  second  in  16  vols. 
The  best  biographies  of  him  are  those  of  Coke 
and  More,  and  Southey.  His  preaching  was 
extemporaneous,  but  not  vehement.  He 
dwelt  much  upon  practical  religion,  though  he 
taught  his  followers  to  seek  inspiration  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  and  to  aspire  to  a  state  of  sinless 
perfection. ' '  —  Beeton'  s  ' '  Diet.  Univ.  Biog. ' ' 
See  Southey's  "  Life  of  Wesley." 


CHAELES  WESLEY. 

"Charles  Wesley,  born  1708,  died  1788, 
an  English  divine,  and  younger  brother  of  the 
preceding,  was  one  of  the  first  Methodists, 
and  continued  a  constant  preacher  among 
them  to  his  death.  He  wrote  several  hymns, 
and  other  pious  pieces  of  great  excellence." — 
Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  See  Southey's 
"  Life  of  Wesley." 


AAEON  HILL. 

"  Aaron  HiU  was  bom  in  1685,  and  died  in 
the  very  minute  of  the  earthquake  of  1750, 
of  the  shock  of  which,  though  speechless,  he 
appeared  to  be  sensible.  His  life  was  active, 
benevolent,  and  useful :  he  was  the  general 
friend  of  unfortunate  genius,  and  his  schemes 
for  public  utility  were  frustrated  only  by  the 
narrowTiess  of  his  circumstances.  Though 
his  manners  were  unassuming,  his  personal 
dignity  was  such,  that  he  made  Pope  fairly 
ashamed  of  the  attempt  to  insult  him,  and 
obliged  the  satirist  to  apologise  to  him  with  a 
mean  equivocation." — Campbell's  "  Speci- 
mens."   See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


GILBEET  WEST. 

"  Gilbert  West,  born  1706,  died  1755.  The 
translator  of  Pindar  was  the  son  of  the  Eev. 
Dr.  West,  who  published  an  edition  of  the 
same  classic  at  Oxford.  His  mother  was 
sister  to  Sir  Eichard  Temple,  afterwards  Lord 
Cobham,  Though  bred  at  Oxford  with  a 
view  to  the  Chvirch,  ho  embraced  the  mihtary 
life  for  some  time,  but  left  it  for  the  employ- 
ment of  Lord  Townshend,  then  secretary  of 
state,  with  whom  he  accompanied  the  King  to 
Hanover.  Through  this  interest  he  was  ap- 
pointed clerk  extraordinary  to  the  Privy 
CouncQ,  a  situation  which  however  was  not 
immediately  profitable.  He  married  soon 
after,  and  retired  to  Wickham,  in  Kent,  where 
his  residence  was  often  visited  by  Pitt  and 
Lord  Lyttelton.  There  he  wrote  his  '  Ob- 
servations on  the  Eesurrection,'  for  wliich  the 
Uxiiversity  of  Oxford  made  him  a  Doctor  of 


Laws.  He  succeeded  at  last  to  a  lucrative 
clerkship  of  the  Privy  Council,  and  Mr.  Pitt 
made  him  deputy  treasurer  of  Chelsea  Hos- 
pital ;  but  this  accession  to  his  fortune  came 
but  a  short  time  previous  to  his  death,  which 
was  occasioned  by  a  stroke  of  the^palsy." — 
Campbell's  "  Specimens."  ^ 


ALEXANDEE  EOSS. 

"  Alexander  Eoss,  a  schoolmaster  in  Loch- 
lee,  in  Angus,  when  nearly  seventy  years  of 
age,  in  1768,  published  at  Aberdeen,  by  the 
advice  of  Dr.  Beattie,  a  volume  entitled 
'  Helenore,  or  the  Fortunate  Shepherdess  ;  a 
Pastoral  Tale  in  the  Scottish  Dialect,  to  which 
are  added  a  few  Songs  by  the  Author.'  Eoss 
was  a  good  descriptive  poet,  and  some  of  his 
songs,  as  '  Woo'd,  and  Married,  and  a','  '  The 
Eock  and  the  Wee  Pickle  Tow,'  are  still 
popular  in  Scotland.  Being  chiefly  written  in 
the  Kincardineshire  dialect  (which  differs  in 
many  expressions,  and  in  pronunciation,  from 
the  Lowland  Scotch  of  Burns),  Eoss  is  less 
known  out  of  his  native  district  than  he  ought 
to  be.  Beattie  took  a  warm  interest  in  the 
'  good-humoured,  social,  happy  old  man,'  who 
was  independent  on  ^20  a  year ;  and  to  pro- 
mote the  sale  of  his  volume,  he  addressed  a 
letter  and  a  poetical  epistle  in  praise  of  it  to 
the  Aberdeen  Journal.  The  epistle  is  remark- 
able as  Beattie' s  only  attempt  in  Aberdeen- 
shire Scotch ;  one  verse  of  it  is  equal  to 
Biirns  : — 

'  0  bonny  are  our  greensward  hows, 
■  Where  through  the  birks  the  burnie  rows. 
And  the  bee  bums,  and  the  ox  lows, 

And  saft  winds  rustle. 
And  shepherd  lads  on  sunny  knowes 
Blaw  the  blythe  whistle.' 

Eoss  died  in  1784,  at  the  great  age  of  eighty- 
six." — Chambers'  "Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  vol.  ii,  pp, 
125,  126. 


LADY  ANNE  BAENAED. 

"  Lady  Anne  Barnard  was  authoress  of 
'  Auld  Eobin  Gray,'  one  of  the  most  perfect, 
tender,  and  afi'ecting  of  all  our  ballads  or  tales 
of  humble  life.  About  the  year  1771,  Lady 
Anne  composed  the  ballad  to  an  ancient  air.  It 
instantly  became  popular,  but  the  lady  kept 
the  secret  of  its  authorship  for  the  long  period 
of  fifty  years,  when,  in  1823,  she  acknowledged 
it  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  accompanying 
the  disclosure  with  a  full  account  of  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  it  was  -written.  At 
the  same  time  Lady  Anne  sent  two  continua- 
tions to  the  ballad,  which,  like  all  other  con- 
tinuations (Don  Quixote,  perhaps,  excepted), 
are  greatly  inferior  to  the  original.  Indeed, 
the  tale  of  sorrow  is  so  complete  in  all  its 

40 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


parts,  that  no  additions  could  be  made  without 
marring  its  simplicity  or  its  pathos.  Lady- 
Anne  was  daughter  of  James  Lindsay,  fifth 
Earl  of  Balcarres  ;  she  was  born  8th  December, 
1750,  married  in  1793  to  Sir  Andrew  Barnard, 
librarian  to  George  III.,  and  died,  without 
issue,  on  the  8th  of  May,  1825." — Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  p.  127.  See  AUi- 
bone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


MES.  COCKBUEN  AND  MISS    JANE 
ELLIOT. 

"  Here  we  find  two  ladies  amicably  united 
in  the  composition  of  one  of  Scotland's  finest 
songs,  the  '  Flowers  of  the  Forest.'  Miss 
Jane  Elliot  of  Minto,  sister  of  Sir  Gilbert 
Elliot  of  Minto,  wrote  the  first  and  the  finest  of 
the  two  versions.  Mrs,  Cockburn,  the  author 
of  the  second,  was  a  remarkable  person.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Alicia  Eutherford,  and  she 
was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Eutherford  of  Fer- 
nilee,  in  Selkirkshire.  She  married  Mr. 
Patrick  Cockburn,  a  younger  son  of  Adam 
Cockburn  of  Ormiston,  Lord  Justice-Clerk  of 
Scotland.  She  became  prominent  in  the 
literary  circles  of  Edinburgh,  and  an  intimate 
friend  of  David  Hume,  with  whom  she  carried 
on  a  long  and  serious  correspondence  on 
religious  subjects,  in  which  it  is  understood 
the  philosopher  opened  up  his  whole  heart, 
but  which  is  unfortunately  lost.  Mrs.  Cock- 
burn, who  was  bom  in  1714,  lived  to  1794, 
and  saw  and  proclaimed  the  wonderful  promise 
of  Walter  Scott.  She  wrote  a  great  deal,  but 
the  '  Flowers  of  the  Forest '  is  the  only  one 
of  her  effusions  that  has  been  published.  A 
ludicrous  story  is  told  of  her  son,  who  was  a 
dissipated  youth,  returning  one  night  drunk, 
while  a  large  party  of  savants  was  assembled 
in  the  house ;  and  locking  himself  up  in  the 
room  in  which  their  coats  and  hats  were  de- 
posited, nothing  would  rouse  him;  and  the 
company  had  to  depart  in  the  best  substitutes 
they  could  find  for  their  ordinary  habiliments, 
— Hume  (characteristically)  in  a  dreadnought, 
Monboddo  in  an  old  shabby  hat,  &c. — the 
echoes  of  the  midnight  Potterrow  resounding 
to  the  laughter  at  their  own  odd  figures.  It 
is  believed  that  Mrs.  Cockburn' s  song  was 
really  occasioned  by  the  bankruptcy  of  a 
number  of  gentlemen  in  Selkirkshire,  although 
she  chose  to  throw  the  new  matter  of  lamen- 
tation into  the  old  mould  of  song." — Gilfillan's 
"Less-known  Brit.  Poets,"  vol.  iii.  See  AUi- 
bone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.  " 


EOBEET  CEAWFOED. 

"Eobert  Crawford,  author  of  'The  Bush 
aboon  Traquair,'  and  the  still  finer  lyric  of 
'  Tweedside,'  was  the  brother  of  Colonel  Craw- 
ford   of     Achinames.       He     assisted    Allan 


Eamsay  in  his  '  Tea- Table  Miscellany,'  and, 
according  to  information  obtained  by  Burns, 
was  drowned  in  coming  from  France  in  the 
year  1733.  Crawford  had  genuine  poetical 
fancy  and  expression.  *The  true  muse  of 
native  pastoral,'  says  Allan  Cunningham, 
'  seeks  not  to  adorn  herself  with  unnatural 
ornaments ;  her  spirit  is  in  homely  love  and 
fireside  joy ;  tender  and  simple,  like  the  religion 
of  the  land,  she  utters  nothing  out  of  keeping 
with  the  character  of  her  people,  and  the 
aspect  of  the  soil ;  and  of  this  spirit  and  of 
this  feeling,  Crawford  is  a  large  partaker.'  " — 
Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  vol.  ii.  p.  128. 
See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.  " 


SIE  GILBEET  ELLIOT. 

"Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  author  of  what  Sir 
Walter  Scott  calls  'the  beautiful  pastoral 
song,'  beginning 

'  My  sheep  I  neglected,  I  broke  my  sheep-hook,' 

was  father  of  the  first  Earl  of  Minto,  and  was 
distinguished  as  a  speaker  in  parliament.  He 
was,  in  1763,  treasurer  of  the  navy,  and  after- 
wards keeper  of  the  signet  in  Scotland.  He 
died  in  1777.  Mr.  Tytler,  of  Woodhouselee, 
says,  that  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  who  had  been 
taught  the  German  flute  in  France,  was  the 
first  who  introduced  that  instrument  into 
Scotland,  about  the  year  1725." — Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  p.  129.  See  Alli- 
bone's "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


EOBEET  FEEGUSSON. 

"  This  unfortunate  Scottish  bard  was  bom 
in  Edinburgh  on  the  17th  (some  say  the  5th) 
of  October,  1751.  His  father,  who  had  been 
an  accountant  to  the  British  Linen  Company's 
Bank,  died  early,  leaving  a  widow  and  four 
children.  Eoljert  spent  six  years  at  the 
grammar  schools  cl  Edinburgh  and  Dundee, 
went  for  a  short  period  to  Edinburgh  College, 
and  then,  having  obtained  a  bursary,  to  St. 
Andrews,  where  he  continued  till  his  seven- 
teenth year.  He  was  at  first  designed  for  the 
ministry  of  the  Scottish  Church.  He  distin- 
guished himself  at  college  for  his  mathema- 
tical knowledge,  and  became  a  favourite  of 
Dr.  Wilkie,  Professor  of  Natural  Philosophy, 
on  whose  death  he  wrote  an  elegy.  He  early 
discovered  a  passion  for  poetry,  and  collected 
materials  for  a  tragedy  on  the  subject  of  Sir 
William  Wallace,  which  he  never  finished. 
He  once  thought  of  studying  medicine,  but 
had  neither  patience  nor  funds  for  the  needful 
preliminary  studies.  He  went  away  to  reside 
with  a  rich  uncle,  named  John  Forbes,  in  the 
north,  near  Aberdeen.  This  person,  however, 
j  and  poor  Fergusson  unfortunately  quarelled  ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


and  after  residing  some  months  in  his  honse, 
he  left  it  in  disgust,  and  with  a  few  shillings 
in  his  pocket  proceeded  southwards.  He  tra- 
velled on  foot,  and  such  was  the  effect  of  his 
vexation  and  fatigue,  that  when  he  reached 
his  mother's  house  he  fell  into  a  severe  fit  of 
illness. 

"  He  became,  on  his  recovery,  a  copying- 
clerk  in  a  solicitor's,  and  afterwards  in  a 
sheriff-clerk's  office,  and  began  to  contribute 
to  'Euddiman's  Weekly  Magazine.'  We  re- 
member in  boyhood  reading  some  odd  volumes 
of  this  production,  the  general  matter  in  which 
was  inconceivably  poor,  relieved  only  by  Fer- 
gusson's  racy  little  Scottish  poems.  His 
evenings  were  spent  chiefly  in  the  tavern, 
amidst  the  gay  and  dissipated  youth  of  the 
metropolis,  to  whom  he  was  the  '  wit,  songster, 
and  mimic'  That  his  convivial  powers  were 
extraordinary,  is  proved  by  the  fact  of  one  of 
his  contemporaries,  who  survived  to  be  a 
correspondent  of  Burns,  doubting  if  even  ho 
equalled  the  fascination  of  Fergusson's  con- 
verse. Dissipation  gradually  stole  in  upon 
him,  in  spite  of  resolutions  dictated  by  re- 
morse. In  1773,  he  collected  his  poems  into 
a  volume,  which  was  warmly  received,  but 
brought  him,  it  is  beheved,  little  pecuniary 
benefit.  At  last,  imder  the  pressure  of  poverty, 
toil,  and  intemperance,  his  reason  gave  way, 
and  he  was  by  a  stratagem  removed  to  an 
asylum.  Here,  when  he  found  himself  and 
became  aware  of  his  situation,  he  uttered  a 
dismal  shriek,  and  cast  a  wild  and  startled 
look  around  his  cell.  The  history  of  his  con- 
finement was  very  similar  to  that  of  Nat  Lee 
and  Christopher  Smart.  For  instance,  a 
story  is  told  of  him  which  is  an  exact  du- 
X)licate  of  one  recorded  of  Lee.  He  was 
writing  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  when  a  thin 
cloud  crossed  its  disc.  '  Jupiter,  snuff  the 
moon  ! '  roared  the  impatient  poet.  The 
cloud  thickened,  and  entirely  darkened  the 
light.  '  Thou  stupid  god  ! '  he  exclaimed, 
'thou  hast  snuffed  it  out.'  By  and  by  he 
became  calmer,  and  had  some  affecting  inter- 
views with  his  mother  and  sister.  A  removal 
to  his  mother's  house  was  even  contemplated, 
but  his  constitution  was  exhausted,  and  on 
the  16th  of  October,  1774,  poor  Fergusson 
breathed  his  last.  It  is  interesting  to  know 
that  the  New  Testament  was  his  favourite  com- 
panion in  his  cell.  A  little  after  his  death 
arrived  a  letter  from  an  old  friend,  a  Mr. 
Burnet,  who  had  made  a  fortune  in  the  East 
Indies,  wishing  him  to  come  out  to  India,  and 
enclosing  a  remittance  of  .£100  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  the  journey. 

"  Thus,  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  perished 
Eobert  Fergusson.  He  was  buried  in  the 
Canongate  churchyard,  where  Burns  after- 
wards erected  a  monument  to  his  memory, 
with  an  inscription  which  is  familiar  to  most 
of  our  readers. 

"Bums  in  one  of  his  poems  attributes  to 
Fergusson    'glorious  pairts.'        He  was   cer- 


tainly a  youth  of  remarkable  powers,  although 
'  pairts '  rather  than  high  genius  seems  to 
express  his  calibre.  He  can  hardly  be  said 
to  sing,  and  he  never  soars.  His  best  poems, 
such  as  '  The  Farmer's  Ingle,'  are  just  lively 
daguerreotypes  of  the  life  he  saw  around  him 
— there  is  nothing  ideal  or  lofty  in  any  of 
them.  His  '  Ingle-bleeze '  burns  low  compared 
to  that  which  in  '  The  Cottar's  Saturday 
Night '  springs  up  aloft  to  heaven,  like  the 
tongue  of  an  altar-fire.  He  stuffs  his  poems, 
too,  with  Scotch  to  a  degree  which  renders 
them  too  rich  for  even  a  Scotchman's  taste,, 
and  as  repulsive  as  a  haggis  to  that  of  an 
Englishman.  On  the  whole,  Fergusson's  best 
claim  to  fame  arises  from  the  infiuence  he 
exerted  on  the  far  higher  genius  of  Bums, 
who  seems,  strangely  enough,  to  have  pre- 
ferred him  to  AUan  Eamsay." — Gilfillan's 
"Less-known  Brit.  Poets,"  vol.  iii.  pp.  206-8. 
See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


EDWAED  THOMPSON. 

"  Edward  Thompson,  bom  1738,  died  1786, 
was  a  native  of  Hull,  and  went  to  sea  so  early 
in  life  as  to  be  precluded  from  the  advantages 
of  a  Kberal  education.  At  the  age  of  nineteen, 
he  acted  as  lieutenant  on  board  the  Jason,  in 
the  engagement  off  Ushant,  between  Hawke 
and  Conflans.  Coming  to  London,  after  the 
peace,  he  resided,  for  some  time,  in  Kew-lane, 
where  he  wrote  some  light  pieces  for  the  stage, 
and  some  licentious  poems,  the  titles  of 
which  need  not  be  revived.  At  the  breaking 
out  of  the  American  v/ar,  Garrick's  interest 
obtained  promotion  for  him  in  his  own  pro- 
fession ;  and  he  was  appointed  to  the  command 
of  the  Hyaena  frigate,  and  made  his  fortune 
by  the  single  capture  of  a  French  East  India- 
man.  He  was  afterwards  in  Eodney's  action, 
off  Cape  St.  Vincent,  and  brought  home  the 
tidings  of  the  victory.  His  death  was  occa- 
sioned by  a  fever,  which  he  caught  on  board 
the  Grampus,  while  he  commanded  that 
vessel,  off  the  coast  of  Africa.  Though  a 
dissolute  man,  he  had  the  character  of  an 
able  and  humane  commander.  A  few  of  his 
sea  songs  are  entitled  to  remembrance." — 
Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


HENTIY  HEADLEY. 

"Henry  Headley,  born  1766,  died  1788, 
whose  uncommon  talents  were  lost  to  the 
world  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  was  born  a": 
Irstead,  in  Norfolk.  He  received  his  educa- 
tion at  the  grammar  school  of  Norwich,  under 
Dr.  Parr;  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  was 
admitted  a  member  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford. 
There  the  example  of  Thomas  Warton,  the 
senior  of  his  college,  led  him  to  explore  the 
beauties  of  our  elder  poets.     About  the  age  of 

40* 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


rSiXTH  Period. — 


twenty  he  published  some  pieces  of  verse, 
which  exhibit  no  very  remarkable  promise  ; 
but  his  '  Select  Beauties  of  the  Ancient 
English  Poets,'  which  appeared  in  the  follow- 
ing year,  were  accompanied  with  critical 
observations,  that  showed  an  unparalleled 
ripeness  of  mind  for  his  years.  On  leaving 
the  university,  after  a  residence  of  four  years, 
he  married,  and  retired  to  Matlock,  in  Derby- 
shire. His  matrimonial  choice  is  said  to 
have  been  hastily  formed,  amidst  the  anguish 
of  disappointment  in  a  previous  attachment. 
But  short  as  his  life  was,  he  survived  the  lady 
whom  he  married. 

"  The  symptoms  of  consumption  having 
appeared  in  his  constitution,  he  was  advised 
to  try  the  benefit  of  a  warmer  climate  ;  and 
he  took  the  resolution  of  repairing  to  Lisbon, 
unattended  by  a  single  friend.  On  landing  at 
Lisbon,  far  from  feeling  any  relief  from  the 
climate,  he  found  himself  oppressed  by  its 
sultriness  ;  and  in  this  forlorn  state,  was  on 
the  point  of  expiring,  when  Mr.  De  Vismes,  to 
whom  he  had  received  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  the  late  Mr.  Windham  conveyed  him  to 
his  healthful  villa,  near  Cintra,  allotted  spa- 
cious apartments  for  his  use,  procured  for  him 
the  ablest  medical  assistance,  and  treated 
him  with  every  kindness  and  amusement  that 
could  console  his  sickly  existence.  But  his 
malady  proved  incurable  ;  and,  returning  to 
England  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  he 
expired  at  Korwich," — Campbell's  "Speci- 
mens." See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit." 


EDWAED  MOOEE. 

"  Edward  Moore,  bom  1712,  died  1757,  was 
the  son  of  a  dissenting  clergyman  at  Abingdon, 
in  Berkshire,  and  was  bred  to  the  business  of 
a  linendraper,  which  he  pursued,  however, 
"both  in  London  and  Ireland,  with  so  little 
success,  that  he  embraced  the  literary  life 
(according  to  his  own  account)  more  from 
necessity  than  inclination.  His  '  Fables '  (in 
1744)  first  brought  him  into  notice.  The 
Eight  Honourable  Mr.  Pelham  was  one  of  his 
earliest  friends ;  and  his  '  Trial  of  Selim ' 
gained  him  the  friendship  of  Lord  Lyttelton. 
Of  three  works  which  he  produced  for  the 
stage,  his  two  comedies,  the  '  Foundling '  and 
'  Gil  Bias,'  were  unsuccessful ;  but  he  was 
fully  indemnified  by  the  profits  and  reputation 
of  the  '  Gamester.'  Moore  himseK  acknow- 
ledges that  he  owed  to  Garrick  many  popular 
passages  of  his  drama ;  and  Davies,  the 
biographer  of  Garrick,  ascribes  to  the  great 
actor  the  whole  scene  between  Lewson  and 
Stukely,  in  the  fourth  act;  but  Davies' s 
authority  is  not  oracular.     About  the  year 


1751,  Lord  Lyttelton,  in  concert  withDodsley, 
projected  the  paper  of  the  '  World,'  of  which 
it  was  agreed  that  Moore  should  enjoy  the 
profits,  whether  the  numbers  were  written  by 
himself  or  by  volunteer  contributors.  Lyttel- 
ton's  interest  soon  enlisted  many  accomplished 
coadjutors,  such  as  Cambridge,  Jenyns,  Lord 
Chesterfield,  and  H.  Walpole.  Moore  himself 
wrote  sixty-one  of  the  papers.  In  the  last 
number  of  the  '  World  '  the  conclusion  is  made 
to  depend  on  a  fictitious  incident  which  had 
occasioned  the  death  of  the  author.  When  the 
papers  were  collected  into  volumes,  Moore,  who 
superintended  the  pubUcation,  reaUzed  tiiis 
jocular  fiction  by  his  own  death,  whilst  the  last 
number  was  in  the  press."  —  Campbell's 
"  Specimens." 


THOMAS  EUSSELL. 

"Thomas  Eussell,  bom  1762,  died  1788, 
was  the  son  of  an  attorney  at  Bridport,  and 
one  of  Joseph  Warton's  wonderful  boys  at 
Winchester  School.  He  became  feUow  of 
New  College,  Oxford,  and  died  of  consumptian 
at  Bristol  Hot-WeUs  in  his  twenty-sixth 
year. 

"  His  poems  were  posthumous.  The  sonnet 
on  Philoctetes  is  very  fine  ;  and  of  our  young 
writers,  mature  rather  in  genius  than  in 
years,  Eussell  holds  no  humble  place.  Mr. 
Southey  has  numbered  five,  and  Eussell  is 
among  them — Chatterton,  Bruce,  Eussell, 
Bampfylde,  and  Kirke  White." — Campbell's 
"  Specimens." 


EAEL  NUGENT. 

"Eobert  Craggs,  afterwards  created  Lord 
Nugent,  was  an  Irishman,  a  younger  son  of 
Michael  Nugent,  by  the  daughter  of  Eobert, 
Lord  Trimlestown,  and  born  in  1709.  He 
was,  in  1741,  elected  M.P.  for  St.  Mawes,  in 
Cornwall,  and  became,  in  1747,  comptroller  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales'  household.  He  after- 
wards made  peace  with  the  Court,  and  re- 
ceived various  promotions  and  marks  of  favour 
besides  the  peerage.  In  1739,  he  published 
anonymously  a  volume  of  poems  possessing 
considerable  merit.  He  was  converted  from 
Popery,  and  wrote  some  vigorous  verses  on 
the  occasion.  Unfortunately,  however,  he 
relapsed,  and  again  celebrated  the  event  in  a 
very  weak  poem,  entitled  '  Faith,'  He  died 
in  1788.  Although  a  man  of  decided  talent, 
as  his  '  Ode  to  Mankind '  proves,  Nugent  does 
not  stand  very  high  either  in  the  catalogue  of 
Irish  patriots  or  of  '  royal  and  noble  authors.' " 
— Gilfillan's  "  Less-known  Brit.  Poets,"  vol. 
iii.  p.  261.     See  Campbell's  "  Specimens." 


SIXTH    PEEIOD. 


From  1727  to  1780. 


840.— REMORSE. 

Is    chance    a   giiilt,    that    my    disastrous 

heart, 
For  mischief  never  meant,  must  ever  smart  ? 
Can  self-defence  be  sin  ?  Ah,  plead  no  more  ! 
What  though  no  purposed  malice  stained  thee 

o'er  ? 
Had  heaven  befriended  thy  unhappy  side, 
Thou  hadst  not  been  provoked — or  thou  hadst 

died. 
Far  be  the  guilt  of  homeshed  blood  from 

all 
On  whom,  unsought,  embroiling  dangers  fall ! 
Still  the  pale  dead  revives,  and  lives  to  me, 
To  me  !  through  Pity's  eye  condemned  to  see. 
Remembrance  veils  his  rage,  but  swells  his 

fate  ; 
Grieved  I   forgive,  and  am  grown   cool   too 

late. 
Young  and  unthoughtful  then ;  who  knows, 

one  day. 
What  ripening  virtues  might  have  made  their 

way ! 
He  might  have  lived  till  folly  died  in  shame, 
Till  kindling  wisdom  felt  a  thirst  for  fame. 
He  might  perhaps  his  country's  friend  have 

l^roved ; 
Both  happy,  generous,  candid,  and  beloved  ; 
He  might  have  saved  some  worth,  now  doomed 

to  fall, 
And  I,  perchance,  in  him,  have  murdered  all. 

O  fate  of  late  repentance  !  always  vain  : 
Thy  remedies  but  lull  undying  pain. 
Where  shall  my  hope  find  rest  ?     No  mother's 

care 
Shielded  my  infant  innocence  with  prayer  : 
No  father's  guardian  hand  my  youth  main- 
tained. 
Called    forth   my  virtues,    or   from  vice    re- 
strained ; 
Is  it  not  thine  to  snatch  some  powerful  arm, 
First  to  advance,   then   screen   from   future 

harm  ? 
Am  I  returned  from  death  to  live  in  pain  ? 
Or  would  imperial  pity  save  in  vain  ? 
Distrust  it  not.     "\Vhat  blame  can  mercy  find. 
Which  gives  at  once  a  life,  and  rears  a  mind  ? 
Mother,  miscalled,  farewell — of  soul  severe, 
Thi;i  sad  reflexion  yet  may  force  one  tear  : 


All  I  was  wretched  by  to  you  I  owed ; 
Alone  from  strangers  every  comfort  flowed  ! 

Lost  to  the  life  you  gave,  your  son  no  more, 
And  now  adopted,  who  was  doomed  before, 
New  born,  I  may  a  nobler  mother  claim, 
But  dare  not  whisper  her  immortal  name  ; 
Supremely  lovely,  and  serenely  great. 
Majestic  mother  of  a  kneeling  state ; 
Queen  of  people's  heart,  who  ne'er  before 
Agreed — yet  now  with  one  consent  adore  ! 
One  contest  yet  remains  in  this  desire. 
Who    most    shall   give   applause    where    all 
admire. 

Richard  Savage.— Bom  1698,  Died  1743. 


841.— THE  WANDERER. 

Yon  mansion,  made  by  beaming  tapers  gay. 
Drowns  the  dim  night,  and  counterfeits  the 

day; 
From  lumined  windows  glancing  on  the  eye, 
Around,  athwart,  the  frisking  shadows  fly. 
There  midnight  riot  spreads  illusive  joys, 
And  fortune,  health,  and  dearer  time  destroys. 
Soon  death's  dark  agent  to  luxuriant  ease 
Shall   wake   sharp   warnings   in   some   fierce 


O   man !     thy '  fabric  's    like    a   well-formed 

state ; 
Thy  thoughts,  first  ranked,  were  sure  designed 

the  great ; 
Passions  plebeians  are,  which  faction  raise  ; 
Wine,    like   poured    oil,    excites    the    raging 

blaze ; 
Then  giddy  anarchy's  rude  triumphs  rise  : 
Then  sovereign  Reason  from  her  empire  flies  : 
That  rider  once  deposed,  Avisdom  and  wit, 
To  noise  and  folly  place  and  power  submit ; 
Like  a  frail  bark  thy  weakened  mind  is  tost, 
Unsteered,  unbalanced,  till  its  wealth  is  lost. 
The  miser-spirit  eyes  the  spendthrift  heir. 
And  mourns,  too  late,  efi'ects  of  sordid  care. 
His  treasures  fly  to  cloy  each  fawning  slave. 
Yet  grudge  a  stone  to  dignify  his  grave. 
For   this,   low-thoughted   craft   his   life   em- 
ployed ; 
For    this,    though    wealthy,    he    no    wealth 
enjoyed ; 


Egbert,  Blair.] 


THE  GEAVE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


For   this,    he    griped    the    poor,    and    alms 

denied, 
Unfriended  lived,  and  unlamented  died. 
Yet  smile,  grieved    shade  !  when  that  unpro- 

sperous  store 
Fast    lessens,   when    gay    hours    return    no 

more; 
Smile  at  thy  heir,  beholding,  in  his  fall, 
Men  once  obliged,  like  him,  ungrateful  all ! 
Then   thought-inspiring   woe   his  heart    shall 

mend. 
And  prove  his  only  wise,  unflattering  friend. 

Folly  exhibits  thus  unmanly  sport, 
While   plotting  mischief  keeps  reserved  her 

court. 
L6  !    from  that   mount,    in   blasting    sidphur 

broke. 
Stream  flames  voluminous,    enwrapped   with 

smoke ! 
In  chariot-shape  they  whirl  up  yonder  tower, 
Lean  on  its  brow,  and  like  destruction  loAver ! 
From  the  black  depth  a  fiery  legion  springs  ; 
Each   bold  bad   spectre   claps   her   sounding 

wings : 
And  straight  beneath  a  summoned,  traitorous 

band, 
On  horror  bent,  in  dark  convention  stand : 
From   each   fiend's   mouth    a    ruddy   vapour 

flows, 
Glides  through  the  roof,  and  o'er  the  council 

glows : 
The  villains,  close  beneath  the  infection  pent. 
Feel,  all  possessed,  their  rising  galls  ferment ; 
And  burn  with  faction,  hate,    and   vengeful 

ire, 
For  rapine,  blood,  and  devastation  dire ! 
But  justice  marks  their  ways  :  she  waves  in 

air 
The  sword,  high-threatening,  like  a  comet's 

glare. 
While  here  dark  villany  herself  deceives, 
There  studious  honesty  our  view  relieves. 
A  feeble  taper  from  yon  lonesome  room, 
Scattering  thin  rays,  just  glimmers  through 

the  gloom. 
There  sits  the  sapient  bard  in  museful  mood, 
And    glows    impassioned   for   his    country's 

good! 
All  the  bright  spirits  of  the  just  combined. 
Inform,    fefine,    and    prompt    his    towering 

mind ! 

Richard  Savage. — Born  1698,  Died  1743. 


842.— THE  GEAVE. 

Whilst  some  affect   the   sun,    and   some  the 

shade, 
Some  flee  the  city,  some  the  hermitage ; 
Their  aims  as  various,  as  the  roads  they  take 
In    journeying    through    life; — the    task   be 

mine 
To  paint  the  gloomy  horrors  of  the  tomb  ; 
Th'  appointed  place  of  rendezvous,  whcrj  all 


These    travellers    meet. Thy    succours    I 

implore. 
Eternal  king  !  whose  potent  arm  sustains 
The  keys  of  hell  and  death. The  Grave — 

dread  thing ! 
Men   shiver   when  thou'rt    named:    Nature, 

appall' d. 
Shakes  off  her  wonted  firmness. Ah  !  how 

dark 
Thy  long-extended  realms,  and  rueful  wastes  ! 
Where  nought  but  silence  reigns,  and  night, 

dark  night,                ''^ 
Dark  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll'd  together,  or  had  tried  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound. The  sickly 

taper, 
By  glimm'ring  through  thy  low-brow' d  misty 

vaults 
(Furr'd  round  with  mouldy  damps,  and  ropy 

slime), 
Lets  fall  a  supernumerary  horror, 
And   only   serves   to   make   thy   night   more 

irksome. 
Well  do  I  know  thee  by  thy  trusty  yew. 
Cheerless,  unsocial  plant !  that  loves  to  dwell 
'Midst     skulls     and     coffins,     epitaphs    and 

worms  : 
Where     light-heel' d     ghosts,    and    visionary 

shades, 
Beneath  the  wan  cold  moon  (as  fame  reports) 
Embodied,  thick,  perform  their  mystic  rounds. 
No  other  merriment,  duU  tree,  is  thine. 

See  yonder  haUow'd  fane  ; — the  pious  work 
Of  names  once  famed,  now  dubious  or  forgot. 
And  buried  'midst  the  wreck  of  things  which 

were ; 
There  lie  interr'd  the  more  illustrious  dead. 
The  wind  is  up  :    hark  !  how  it  howls  !     Me- 

thinks 
Till  now  I  never  heard  a  sound  so  dreary  : 
Doors  creak,  and  windows  clap,  and  night's 

foul  bird, 
Eook'd  in  the  spire,  screams  loud  :  the  gloomy 

aisles 
Black  plaster'd,  and  hung  round  with  shreds 

of  'scutcheons 
And  tatter' d  coats  of  arms,   send   back   the 

sound 
Laden  with  heavier  airs,  from  the  low  vaults. 
The  mansions  of  the  dead. Eoused  from 

their  slumbers, 
In  grim  array  the  grisly  spectres  rise, 
Grin  horrible,  and,  obstinately  sullen. 
Pass  and  repass,  hush'd  as  the  foot  of  Night. 
Again  the    screech-owl   shrieks :    ungracious 

sound  ! 
I'll  hear  no  more ;    it  makes  one's  blood  run 

chill. 
Quite   round  the  pile,   a  row  of   reverend 
elms 
(Coeval  near  with  that)  all  ragged  show, 
Long  lash'd  by  the  rude  winds.     Some  rift 

half  down 
Their  branchless  trunks ;  others  so  thin  a-top. 
That  scarce  two  crows  could   lodge   in   the 
same  tree. 


Fror.i  1727  to  17S0.] 


UNPEEPAEED  FOE  DEATH. 


[Egbert  Blair. 


Strange    tilings,    the    neighbours   say,    have 

happen' d  here : 
"Wild   shrieks  have   issued   from   the   hollow 

tombs : 
Dead    men    have    come   again,    and    walk'd 

about ; 
And  the  great  boll  has  toll'd,  unrung,  xm- 

touch'd, 
(Such  tales  their  cheer  at  wake  or  gossiping, 
When    it    draws   near   to   witching   time  of 

night.) 
Oft,  in  the  lone  churchyard  at  night  I've 

seen, 
By  glimpse  of  moonshine  chequering  through 

the  trees, 
The  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel  in  his  hand, 
"Whistling  aloud  to  bear  his  courage  up. 
And  lightly  tripping  o'er  the  long  flat  stones 
(With  nettles    skirted,    and  with  moss  o'er- 

grown). 
That  tell  in  homely  phrase  who  lie  below. 
Sudden   he  starts,    and  hears,    or  thinks  he 

hears. 
The  sound  of  something  purring  at  his  heels  ; 
Full  fast  he  flies,  and  dares  not  look  behind 

him, 
Till  out  of  breath  he  overtakes  his  fellows : 
"Who  gather  round,  and  wonder  at  the  tale 
Of  horrid  apparition,  tall  and  ghastly. 
That  walks   at  dead  of   night,    or  takes  his 

stand 
O'er  some  new-open'd  grave;    and  (strange  to 

tell !) 
Evanishes  at  crowing  of  the  cock. 

Robert  Blair.— Born  1699,  Died  174C. 


843.— FEIENDSHIP. 

Invidious  grave ! — ^how  dost  thou  rend  in 

sunder 
TiTiom  love  has   knit,    and   sympathy  made 

one  ! 
A  tie  more  stubborn  far  than  nature's  band. 
Friendship !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ; 
Sweetener  of  life,  and  solder  of  society, 
I  owe  thee  much.     Thou  hast  deserved  from 

me 
Far,  far  beyond  what  I  can  ever  pay. 
Oft  have  I  proved  the  labours  of  thy  love, 
And  the  warm  efforts  of  the  gentle  heart, 
Anxious    to   please. — Oh !     when   my   friend 

and  I 
In  some  thick  wood  have  wander' d  heedless 

on, 
Hid  from  the  vulgar  eye,  and  sat  us  down 
Upon  the  sloping  cowslip-cover' d  bank, 
"WTiere  the  pure  limpid  stream  has  slid  along 
In  grateful  errors  through  the  underwood. 
Sweet    murmuring :     methought    the    shrill- 

tongued  thrush 
Mended  his  song  of  love  ;  the  sooty  blackbird 
Mellow' d  his  pipe,  and  soften' d  every  note  : 
The  eglantine  smell' d  sweeter,  and  the  rose 


Assumed   a   dye    more    deep ;     whilst   every 

flower 
Vied  with  its  fellow  plant  in  luxury 
Of  dress Oh !  then,  the  longest  summer's 

day 
Seem'd  too,  too  much  in  haste  :  still  the  full 

heart 
Had  not  imparted  half  :  'twas  happiness 
Too  exquisite  to  last.     Of  joys  departed. 
Not  to  return,  how  painful  the  remembrance  ! 

Robert  Blair.— Bom  1699,  Died  1746. 


844.— THE  MISEE. 

Here  the  lank-sided  miser,  worst  of  felons, 
"Wlio  meanly  stole  (discreditable  shift !) 
From  back,  and  belly  too,  their  .proper  cheer, 
Eased  of  a  tax  it  irk'd  the  wretch  to  pay 
To  his  own  carcase,  now  lies  cheaply  lodged, 
By  clamorous  appetites  no  longer  teased, 
Nor  tedious  bills  of  charges  and  repairs. 
But,  ah !    where  are  his  rents,  his  comings- 

in? 
Ay  !    now  you've   made   the   rich  man  poor 

indeed  ; 
Eobb'd  of  his  gods,  what  has  he  left  behind  ? 
0  cursed  lust  of  gold  !  when  for  thy  sake 
The   fool    throws   up   his    interest   in   both 

worlds ; 
First  starved  in  this,  then  damn'd  in  that  to 

come. 

Robert  Blair.— Born  1699,  Died  1746. 


845.— UNPEEPAEED  FOE  DEATH. 

How   shocking  must  thy  summons  be,    O 
Death  ! 
To  him  that  is  at  ease  in  his  possessions  ; 
'V\''ho,    counting   on    long   years    of    pleasure 

here, 
Is  quite  unfurnish'd  for  that  world  to  come  ! 
In  that  dread  moment,  how  the  frantic  soul 
Eaves  round  the  walls  of  her  clay  tenement, 
Euns  to  each  avenue,  and  shrieks  for  help, 
But  shrieks   in   vain  ! — How   wishfully   she 

looks 
On  all  she's  leaving,  now  no  longer  hers  ! 
A  little  longer,  yet  a  little  longer. 
Oh !    might    she   stay,   to    wash    away  her 

stains. 
And    fit    her   for   her   passage.  —  Mournful 

sight ! 
Her  very  eyes  weep  blood  ; — and  every  groan 
She  heaves  is  big  with  horror  :  but  the  foe, 
Like    a    staunch    murderer,    steady    to    his 

purpose. 
Pursues  her  close  through  every  lane  of  hfe, 
Nor  misses  once  the  track,  but  presses  on  ; 
Till,  forced  at  last  to  the  tremendousverge, 
At  once  she  sinks  to  everlasting  ruin. 

Robert  Blair.— Bom  1699,  Died  1746. 


EOBERT  BLAIE.] 


DEATH. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


846.— DEATH. 

Sure  'tis  a  serious  tiling  to  die  !     My  soul, 
Wliat  a   strange  moment  it  must  be,  when 

near 
Thy   journey's   end,   thou   hast   the   gulf  in 

view ! 
That  awful  gulf  no  mortal  e'er  repass'd 
To  tell  what's  doing  on  the  other  side. 
Nature  runs  back  and  shudders  at  the  sight, 
And  every  life-string  bleeds  at  thoughts  of 

parting ; 
For  part   they   must :    body  and  soul   must 

part; 
Fond  couple  !  link'd  more  close  than  wedded 

pair. 
This  wings  its  way  to  its  Almighty  Source, 
The  witness  of  its  actions,  now  its  judge  : 
That  drops  into  the  dark  and  noisome  grave, 
Like  a  disabled  pitcher  of  no  use. 

Rolert  Blair.— Born  1699,  Died  1746. 


84;.— THE  GEAVE. 

Death's   shafts  fly  thick  ! — Here  falls  the 

village- swain, 
And  there  his  pamper'd  lord  ! — The  cup  goes 

round  ; 
And  who  so  artful  as  to  put  it  by  ? 
'Tis  long  since  death  had  the  majority  ; 
Yet,  strange  !   the  living  lay  it  not  to  heart. 
See  yonder  maker  of  the  dead  man's  bed, 
The  Sexton,  hoary-headed  chronicle ; 
Of  hard,  unmeaning  face,   down  which  ne'er 

stole 
A  gentle  tear  ;  with  mattock  in  his  hand 
Digs   through   whole   rows    of    kindred   and 

acquaintance, 
By  far  his  jimiors. — Scarce   a  skull's  cast 

up, 
But  well  he  knew  its  owner,  and  can  tell 
Some   passage   of  his   life.  —  Thus   hand  in 

hand 
The  sot  has  walk'd  with  death  twice  twenty 

years ; 
And  yet  ne'er  younker  on  the  green  laughs 

louder. 
Or  clubs  a  smuttier  tale  :    when   drunkards 

meet, 
None  sings  a  merrier  catch,  or  lends  a  hand 
More  willing  to  his  cup. — Poor  v/retch  !  he 

minds  not. 
That  soon  some  trusty  brother  of  the  trade 
Shall     do    for    him  what   he   has   done    for 

thousands. 
On  this  side,  and  on  that,  men  see  their 

friends 
Drop  off,  like  leaves  in  autumn ;  yet  launch 

out 
Into  fantastic  schemes,  which  the  long  livers 
In  the  world's  hale  and  undegenerate  days 
Could  scarce  have  leisure  for. — Fools  that  we 

are ! 


Never  to  think  of  death  and  of  ourselves 
At  the  same  time  :  as  if  to  learn  to  die 
Were    no   concern  of    ours. — 0    more    than 

sottish. 
For  creatures  of  a  dg^,  in  gamesome  mood. 
To  frolic  on  eternity's  dread  brink 
Unapprehensive  ;  when,  for  aught  we  know, 
The  very  first  swoln  surge  shall  sweep  us  in  1 
Think  we,  or  think  we  not,  time  hurries  on 
With  a  resistless,  unremitting  stream  ; 
Yet  treads  more  soft  than  e'er  did  midnight 

thief. 
That    slides     his    hand    under    the    miser's 

pillow. 
And   carries  off   his  prize.  —  What    is   this 

world  ? 
What  but  a  spacious  burial  field  unwall'd, 
Strew' d   with   death's   spoils,   the    spoUs   of 

animals 
Savage   and   tame,   and  full   of    dead  men's 

bones ! 
The  very  turf  on  which  we  tread  once  lived ; 
And  we  that  live  must  lend  our  carcases 
To  cover  our  own  offspring :  in  their  turns 
They  too   must   cover  theirs. — 'Tis  here  all 

meet  ! 
The  shivering  Icelander,  and  sun-burnt  Moor; 
Men  of  all  climes,  that  never  met  before  ; 
And  of  all    creeds,  the  Jew,    the  Turk,  the 

Christian. 
Here   the   proud   prince,    and   favourite   yet 

prouder, 
His    sovereign's    keeper,    and    the   people's 

scourge. 
Are  huddled  out  of  sight. — Here  lie  abash' d 
The  great  negotiators  of  the  earth, 
And  celebrated  masters  of  the  balance, 
Deep  read  in  stratagems,  and  %viles  of  courts. 
Now  vain  their  treaty  skiH  :    death  scorns  to 

treat. 
Here  the  o'er-loaded  slave   flings   down  his 

burden 
From   his  gaU'd  shoulders  ; — and   when   the 

cruel  tyrant, 
With  all  his  guards  and  tools  of  power  about 

him. 
Is  meditating  new  unheard-of  hardships, 
Mocks  his  short  arm, — and,  quick  as  thought, 

escapes 
Where  tyrants  vex  not,  and  the  weary  rest. 
Here  the  warm  lover,  leaving  the  cool  shade, 
The  tell-tale  echo,  and  the  babbling  stream 
(Time  out  of  mind  the  favourite  seats  of  love), 
Fast  by  his  gentle  mistress  lays  him  down, 
Unblasted  by  foul  tongue. — Here  friends  and 

foes 
Lie  close  ;  unmindful  of  their  former  feuds. 
The  lawn-robed  prelate  and  plain  presbyter, 
Erewhile  that  stood  aloof,  as  shy  to  meet, 
Familiar  mingle  here,  like  sister  streams 
That  some  rude  interposing  rock  had  split. 
Here  is  the  large-limb' d  peasant ; — here  the 

chHd 
Of  a  span  long,  that  never  saw  the  sun, 
Nor   press' d   the   nipple,    strangled   in   hfe's 

porch. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  EOSE. 


[Dr.  Wattsi 


Here  is  the  mother,  with  her  sons  and  daugh- 
ters; 
The  barren  wife  ;  the  long-demurring  maid, 
Whose  lonely  unappropriated  sweets 
Smiled    like    yon    knot   of    cowslips   on   the 

cliff, 
Not  to  be  come  at  by  the  willing  hand. 
Here  are  the  prude  severe,  and  gay  coquette. 
The  sober  ■VN'idow,  and  the  young  green  virgin, 
Cropp'd  like  a  rose  before  'tis  fully  blown, 
Or  haK  its  worth  disclosed.     Strange  medley 

here  ! 
Here  garrulous  old  age  winds  up  his  tale ; 
And  jovial  youth,  of  lightsome  vacant  heart. 
Whose  every  day  was  made  of  melody. 
Hears  not   the   voice  of   mirth. — The  shrill- 

tongiied  shrew, 
Meek  as  the  turtle-dove,  forgets  her  chiding. 
Here   are   the   wise,   the  generous,    and   the 

brave ; 
The  just,  the  good,  the  worthless,  the  pro- 
fane ; 
The    downright    clown,    and   perfectly   well- 
bred; 
The  fool,  the  churl,  the  scoundrel,   and  the 

mean ; 
The  supple  statesman,  and  the  patriot  stem ; 
The   wrecks   of    nations,    and   the   spoils   of 

time,  ' 

With  aU  the  lumber  of  six  thousand  years. 

Bolert  Blair.— Born  1699,  Died  1746. 


848.— THE  DEATH  OF  A  GOOD  MAN. 

Sure  the  last  end 
Of  the  good  man  is  peace ! — How  calm  his 

exit! 
Night  dews   fall    not  more    gently  to    the 

ground, 
Nor  weary,  worn-out  winds  expire  so  soft. 
Behold  him  in  the  evening-tide  of  life, 
A  life  well  spent,  whose  early  care  it  was 
His    riper   years     should    not    upbraid    his 

green  : 
By  unperceived  degrees  he  wears  away ; 
Yet,  like  the  sun,  seems  larger  at  his  setting. 
High   in   his   faith   and  hopes,  look  how  he 

reaches 
After  the  prize  in  view !  and,  like  a  bird. 
That's    hampcr'd,    struggles    hard     to     get 

away : 
Whilst    the    glad    gates  of    sight  are   vride 

expanded 
To  let  new  glories  in,  the  first  fair  fruits 
Of  the  fast-coming  harvest. — Then,  oh  then  ! 
Each  earth-born  joy  grows  vile,  or  disappears. 
Shrunk  to  a  thing  of  nought. — Oh !  how  he 

longs 
To   have   his   passport   sign'd,    and    be   dis- 

miss'd  ! 
'Tis  done !    and  now  he's  happy !     The  glad 

soul 
Has  not  a  wish  uncrown'd. 

Robert  Blair.— Born  1699,  Died  1746. 


849.— THE  EESUEEECTION. 

Even  the  lag  flesh 
Eests,  too,  in  hope  of  meeting  once  again 
Its  better  half,  never  to  sunder  more. 
Nor  shall  it  hope  in  vain : — the  time  draws 

on, 
When  not  a  single  spot  of  burial  earth,  ~ 
Whether  on  land,  or  in  the  spacious  sea, 
But  must  give  back  its  long-committed  dust 
Inviolate  ! — and  faithfully  shall  these 
Make   up   the   fuU   account ;    not   the    least 

atom 
Embezzled,  or  mislaid,  of  the  whole  tale. 
Each  soul  shall  have  a  body  ready  furnish' d ; 
And  each   shall  have  his  own. — Hence,   ye 

profane ! 
Ask  not  how  this  can  be  ? — Sure  the  same 

power 
That  rear'd  the  piece  at  first,   and  took  it 

dovsna. 
Can  reassemble  the  loose  scatter' d  parts. 
And  put  them  as  they  were, — Almighty  God 
Has  done   much   more;    nor  is  his  arm  im- 
pair'd 
Through  length  of  days  :  and  what  he  can,  he 

wiU: 
His  faithfulness  stands  bound  to  see  it  done. 
When  the  dread  trumpet  sounds,  the  slumber- 
ing dust. 
Not  unattentive  to  the  caU,  shall  wake ; 
And  every  joint  possess  its  proper  place. 
With  a  new  elegance  of  form,  unknown 
To  its  first  state.    Nor  shall  the  conscious 

soul 
Mistake  its  partner,  but,  amidst  the  crowd. 
Singling  its  other  half,  into  its  arms 
Shall  rush,  with  all  the  impatience  of  a  man 
That's  new   come  home;    and,   having  long 

been  absent, 
With  haste  runs  over  every  different  room. 
In  pain  to   see   the  whole.      Thrice   happy 

meeting ! 
Nor  time,   nor  death,   shall  ever  part  them 

more. 
'Tis  but  a  night,  a  long  and  moonless  night ; 
We  make  the  grave  our  bed,  and  then  are 

gone. 
Thus,  at  the  shut  of  even,  the  weary  bird 
Leaves    the    wide   air,    and  in   some   lonely 

brake 
Cowers  down,  and  dozes  till  the   dawn  of 

day, 
Then  claps  his  well-fledged  wings,  and  bears 

away. 

Robert  Blair.— Born  1699,  Died  1746. 


850.— THE  EOSE. 

How  fair  is  the  rose  !  what  a  beautiful  flower. 

The  glory  of  April  and  May ! 
But  the  leaves  are  beginning  to  fade  in  an 
hour, 

And  they  wither  and  die  in  a  day. 


Dr.  Watts.] 


A  SUMMER  EVENING. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Yet  the  rose  has  one  powerful  virtue  to  boast, 
Above  all  the  flowers  of  the  field  ; 

When  its  leaves  are   all   dead,    and  its   fine 
colours  lost, 
Still  how  sweet  a  perfume  it  will  yield  ! 

So  frail  is  the  youth  and  the  beauty  of  men, 
Though  they  bloom  and  look  gay  like  the 
rose; 
But   aU  our  fond  care  to  preserve  them  is 
vain, 
Time  kills  them  as  fast  as  he  goes. 

Then  I'll  not  be  proud  of  my  youth  nor  my 
beauty, 
Since  both  of  them  wither  and  fade  ; 
But   gain   a   good  name    by    well-doing   my 
duty; 
This  will  scent  like  a  rose  when  I'm  dead. 

Dr.  Watts.— Bom  1G74,  Died  1748. 


851.— A  SUMMER  EVENING. 

How  fine  has  the  day  been,  how  bright  was 

the  sun, 
How  lovely  and  joyful  the  course  that  he  run, 
Though  he  rose  in  a  mist  when  his  race  he 

begun. 
And    there    followed    some    droppings    of 

rain ! 
But    now  the   fair   traveller 's    come   to   the 

west. 
His   rays    are  all  gold,  and  his  beauties  are 

best; 
He   paints   the    sky  gay  as  he  sinks  to  his 

rest. 
And  foretells  a  bright  rising  again. 

Just   such   is   the    Christian ;  his   course   he 

begins. 
Like  the  sun  in  a  mist,  when  he  mourns  for 

his  sins. 
And  melts  into  tears  ;  then  he  breaks  out  and 

shines. 
And  travels  his  heavenly  way  : 
But  when  he  comes  nearer  to  finish  his  race, 
Like  a   fine  setting   sun,  he   looks  richer  in 

grace. 
And  gives  a  sure  hope  at  the  end  of  his  days. 
Of  rising  in  brighter  array. 

Dr.  Watts.— Bom  1674,  Died  1748. 


852.— FEW  HAPPY  MATCHES. 

Say,  mighty  Love,  and  teach  my  song. 
To  whom  thy  sweetest  joys  beloflg. 

And  who  the  happy  pairs 
Whose  yielding  hearts,  and  joining  hands, 
Find  blessings  twisted  with  their  bands, 

To  soften  all  their  cares. 


Not  the  wild  herd  of  nymphs  and  swains 
That  thoughtless  fly  into  thy  chains, 

As  custom  leads  the  way  : 
If  there  be  bliss  without  design. 
Ivies  and  oaks  may  grow  and  twine. 

And  be  as  blest  as  they. 

Not  sordid  souls  of  earthly  mould, 
Who  drawn  by  kindred  charms  of  gold 

To  dull  embraces  move  : 
So  two  rich  mountains  of  Peru 
May  rush  to  wealthy  marriage  too. 

And  make  a  world  of  love. 

Not  the  mad  tribe  that  hell  inspires 
With  wanton  flames  ;  those  raging  fires 

The  purer  bliss  destroy  ; 
On  Etna's  top  let  fui-ies  wed. 
And  sheets  of  lightning  dress  the  bed 

T'  improve  the  burning  joy. 

Nor  the  dull  pairs  whose  marble  forms 
None  of  the  melting  passions  warms. 

Can  mingle  hearts  and  hands  : 
Logs  of  green  wood  that  quench  the  coals 
Are  married  just  like  Stoic  souls, 

With  osiers  for  their  bands. 

Not  minds  of  melancholy  strain, 
StiU  silent,  or  that  stiU  complain. 

Can  the  dear  bondage  bless  : 
As  well  may  heavenly  concerts  spring 
From  two  old  lutes  with  ne'er  a  string. 

Or  none  besides  the  bass. 

Nor  can  the  soft  enchantments  hold 
Two  jarring  souls  of  angry  mould, 

The  rugged  and  the  keen : 
Samson's  young  foxes  might  as  well 
In  bonds  of  cheerful  wedlock  dwell, 

With  firebrands  tied  between. 

Nor  let  the  cruel  fetters  bind 
A  gentle  to  a  savage  mind ; 

For  love  abhors  the  sight : 
Loose  the  fierce  tiger  from  the  deer, 
For  native  rage  and  native  fear 

Rise  and  forbid  dehght. 

Two  kindest  souls  alone  must  meet, 
'Tis  friendship  makes  the  bondage  sweet. 

And  feeds  their  mutual  loves : 
Bright  Venus  on  her  rolling  throne 
Is  drawn  by  gentlest  birds  alone, 

And  Cupids  yoke  the  doves. 

Dr.  Watts.— Bom  1674,  Died  1748. 


853.— THE  DAY  OF  JUDGMENT. 

When   the   fierce   north  wind,  with  his   airy 

forces, 
Roars  up  the  Baltic  to  a  foamy  fury  ; 
And  the  red  lightning,  with  a  storm  of  hail, 

comes 

Rushing  amain  down, 


From  1727  to  1780.]        ON  LIFE,  DEATH,  AND  IMMORTALITY.         [Edward  Young. 


How   the    poor    sailors    stand    amazed    and 

tremble 
While    the    hoarse    thunder,    like    a    bloody 

trumpet, 
Eoars  a  loud  onset  to  the  gaping  waters 
Quick  to  devour  them  ! 

Such  shall  the  noise  be,    and    the  wild  dis- 
order, 
If  things  eternal  may  be  like  those  earthly. 
Such  the  dire  terror,   when  the  great  Arch- 
angel 

Shakes  the  creation ; 

Tears    the    strong    pillars    of    the   vault   of 

heaven. 
Breaks  up  old  marble,  the  repose  of  princes  : 
See  the  graves  open  and  the  bones  arising — 
Flames  all  around  them ! 

Hark,    the     shrill    outcries    of     the     guilty 

wretches ! 
Lively  bright  horror  and  amazing  anguish 
Stare  through  their  eyelids,  while  the  living 

worm  lies 

Gnawing  within  them. 

Thoughts,  like  old  vultures,  prey  upon  their 

heart-strings. 
And  the  smart  tmnges,  when  the  eye  beholds 

the 
Lofty     Judge,    frowning,    and     a     flood    of 

vengeance 

Rolling  afore  him. 

Stop  here,  my  fancy  (all  away,  ye  horrid 
Doleful  ideas) ;  come,  arise  to  Jesus  ! 
How  he  sits  God-Kke ;  and  the  saints  around 
him 

Throned,  yet  adoring. 

O  may  I  sit  there,  when  he  comes  triumphant 
Dooming  the  nations  !  then  ascend  to  glory ; 
While  our  hosannahs  all  along  the  passage 
Shout  the  Redeemer. 

Dr.  Watts.— Born  1674,  Died  1748. 


854.— GOD  KNOWN  ONLY  TO  HIMSELF. 

Stand  and  adore !  how  glorious  He 
That  dwells  in  bright  eternity  ! 
We  gaze  and  we  confound  our  sight. 
Plunged  in  th'  abyss  of  dazzling  light. 

Thou  sacred  One,  Almighty  Three, 
Great,  everlasting  Mystery, 
What  lofty  numbers  shall  we  frame 
Equal  to  thy  tremendous  name  ? 

Seraphs,  the  nearest  to  the  throne, 
Begin  to  speak  the  Great  Unknown : 
Attempt  the  song,  wind  up  your  strings 
To  notes  untried,  and  boundless  thino:s. 


You,  whose  capacious  powers  survey 
Largely  beyond  our  eyes  of  clay. 
Yet  what  a  narrow  portion  too 
Is  seen  or  thought  or  known  by  you  ! 

How  flat  your  highest  praises  fall 
Before  th'  immense  Original ! 
Weak  creatures  we,  that  strive  in~vairi 
To  reach  an  uncreated  strain. 

Great  God  !  forgive  our  feeble  lays, 
Sound  out  thine  OAvn  eternal  praise  ; 
A  song  SO  vast,  a  theme  so  high, 
Call  for  the  voice  that  tuned  the  sky. 

Dr.  Watts.— Bom  1674,  Died  1748. 


855.— NIGHT. 

These  thoughts,  O  Night !  are  thine  ; 

From  thee  they  came  like  lovers'  secret  sighs, 

While  others  slept.     So  Cynthia,  poets  feign, 

In   shadows   veiled,    soft,    sliding    from    her 
sphere. 

Her    shepherd    cheered ;    of  her   enamoured 
less 

Than  I  of  thee.     And  art  thou  still  unsung. 

Beneath  whose  brow,    and  by  whose  aid,    I 
sing?  ^ 

Immortal  silence  !  where  shall  I  begin  ? 

Where   end  ?    or    how  steal  music  from  the 
spheres 

To  soothe  their  goddess  ? 
O  majestic  Night ! 

Natiire's  great  ancestor  !  Day's  elder  bom  ! 

And  fated  to  survive  the  transient  sun  ! 

By  mortals  and  immortals  seen  with  awe ! 

A  starry  crown  thy  raven  brow  adorns. 

An  azure  zone  thy  waist ;  clouds,  in  heaven's 
loom 

Wrought    through,    varieties    of    shape    and 
shade, 

In  ample  folds  of  drapery  divine,' 

Thy  flo^ving  mantle  form,  and,  heaven  through- 
out. 

Voluminously  pour  thy  pompous  train  : 

Thy   gloomy   grandeurs — Nature's   most    au- 
gust. 

Inspiring  aspect ! — claim  a  grateful  verse  ; 

And,  like  a  sable  curtain  starr'd  with  gold. 

Drawn  o'er  my  labours  past,  shall  clothe  the 
scene. 

Edward  Young. — Bom  1681,  Died  1765. 


856.— ON  LIFE,    DEATH,    AND    IMMOR- 
TALITY. 

Tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  Sleep! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 
Where  Fortune  smiles ;    the  wretched  he  for- 
sakes : 


Edward  Young.]  ON  LIFE,  DEATH,  AND  IMMOETALITY.  [Sixth  Period.— 


Swift  on  his  down}-  pinion  flies  from  woe, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear. 

From  short  (as  usual)  and  disturbed  repose 
I  wake  :  how  happy  they  who  wake  no  more  ! 
Yet   that   were   vain,    if    dreams   infest   the 

grave. 
I  wake,  emerging  from  a  sea  of  dreams 
Tumultuous  ;    where  my  wrecked  desponding 

thought 
From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery 
At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 
Though   now   restored,    'tis    only  change  of 

pain 
(A  bitter  change  !)  severer  for  severe  : 
The    day  too   short   for    my   distress ;     and 

night, 
E'en  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain. 
Is  sunshine  to  the  colour  of  my  fate. 

Night,     sable    goddess !      from    her    ebon 

throne. 
In  rayless  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o'er  a  slumb'ring  world. 
Silence   how   dead  !    and   darkness  how  pro- 
found ! 
Nor  e3^e  nor  list'ning  ear  an  object  finds  ; 
Creation  sleeps.     'Tis  as  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  Nature  made  a  pause  ; 
An  awful  pause  !  prophetic  of  her  end. 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfilled : 
Fate  !  drop  the  curtain  ;  I  can  lose  no  more. 
Silence     and    Darkness !     solemn    sisters ! 

twins 
From   ancient  Night,  who  nurse  the  tender 

thought 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve 
(That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man), 
Assist  me  :  I  will  thank  you  in  the  grave  ; 
The  grave  your  kingdom :   there  this  frame 

shall  fall 
A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye  ? 

Thou,  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primeval  Silence,  when  the  morning  stars. 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  ball ; 
Oh  Thou  !    whose  word  from  solid  darkness 

struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,   strike  wisdom  from  my 

soul ; 
My  soul,  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her 

treasure, 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 
Through    this    opaque    of    nature    and   of 

soul, 
This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitjdng  ray, 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.     Oh  lead  my  mind 
(A  mind  that   fain   would   wander  from  its 

woe), 
Lead   it  through  various   scenes  of  life  and 

death. 
And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  in- 
spire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song ; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason  ;  my  best  Avill 
Teach  rectitude  ;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear  : 
Nor  let  the  phial  of  thy  vengeance,  poured 


On  this  devoted  head,  be  poured  in  vain.     *  * 
Hov/   poor,    how   rich,    how    abject,    how 

august. 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man  ! 
How    passing    wonder    He    who    made   him 

such  ! 
Who    centred     in    our    make    such    strange 

extremes. 
From  different  natures  marvellously  mixed. 
Connexion  exquisite  of  distant  worlds  ! 
Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain  ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity  ! 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied  and  absorpt ! 
Though  sullied  and  dishonoured,  still  divine  ! 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  ! 
An  heir  of  glory  !  a  frail  child  of  dust : 
Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite  ! 
A  worm !  a  god  !     I  tremble  at  myself, 
And  in  myself  am  lost.     At  home,  a  stranger. 
Thought   wanders   up   and  down,    surprised, 


And   wondering  at   her   own.      How   reason 

reels ! 
Oh  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man  ! 
Triumphantly   distressed !    what  joy !    what 

dread ! 
Alternately  transported  and  alarmed  ! 
What  can  preserve  my  life  !  or  what  destroy  ! 
An  angel's   arm  can't  snatch   me   from   the 

grave  ; 
Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 
'Tis   past   conjecture ;     all   things    rise   in 
proof  : 
I   While  o'er  my  limbs   sleep's    soft    dominion 
I  spread, 

What    though    my   soul    fantastic    measures 

trod 
O'er  fairy  fields ;  or  mourned  along  the  gloom 
Of  silent  woods ;  or,  do"\vn  the  craggj'  steep 
Hurled  headlong,  swam  with  pain  the  mantled 

pool ; 
Or   scaled  the   cliff;    or    danced   on   hollow 

winds, 
With  antic  shapes,  wild  natives  of  the  brain  ? 
Her  ceaseless  flight,  though  devious,   speaks 
her  nature 
i    Of  subtler  essence  than  the  common  clod  :  *  * 
I   Even    silent   night    proclaims    my    soul    im- 
j  mortal !     *     * 

Why,  then,  their  loss  deplore  that  are  not 
lost  ?     *     * 
Tliis  is  the  desert,  this  the  solitude  : 
How  populous,  how  vital  is  the  grave  I 
This  is  creation's  melancholy  vault. 
The  vale  funereal,  the  sad  cypress  gloom  ; 
The  land  of  apparitions,  empty  shades  ! 
All,  all  on  earth,  is  shadow,  all  beyond 
Is  substance ;  the  reverse  is  folly's  creed ; 
How   solid   all,    where   change   shall   be    no 
more  I 
This  is  the  bud  of  being,  the  dim  dawn, 
!   The  twilight  of  our  day,  the  vestibule ; 
I   Life's  theatre  as  yet  is  shut,  and  death, 
Strong  death  alone  can  heave  the  massy  bar. 
This  gross  impediment  of  clay  remove. 
And  make  us  embryos  of  existence  free 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THOUGHTS  ON  TIME. 


[Edward  Youxg. 


From  real  life  ;  but  little  more  remote 
Is  he,  not  yet  a  candidate  for  light, 
The  future  embryo,  slumb'ring  in  liis  sire. 
Embryos  we  must  be  till  we  burst  the  shell, 
Yon  ambient  azure  shell,  and  spring  to  life. 
The  life  of  gods,  oh  transport !  and  of  man. 
Yet  man,    fool  man !     here  buries   all   his 

thoughts ; 
Inters  celestial  hopes  without  one  sigh. 
Prisoner   of    earth,     and    pent    beneath  the 

moon, 
Here   pinions    all    his    wishes ;     winged   by 

heaven 
To  fly  at  infinite  :  and  reach  it  there 
Where  seraphs  gather  immortality, 
On  life's  fair  tree,  fast  by  the  throne  of  God. 
What  golden  joys  ambrosial  clust'ring  glow, 
In  his  full  beam,  and  ripen  for  the  just, 
^Vhere  momentary  ages  are  no  more  ! 
Where  time,  and  pain,  and  chance,  and  death 

expire  ! 
And  is  it  in  the  flight  of  threescore  yeaTS 
To  push  eternity  from  human  thought, 
And  smother  souls  immortal  in  the  dust  ? 
A  soul  immortal,  spending  aU  her  fires, 
Wasting  her  strength  in  strenuous  idleness, 
ThroAvn  into  tumult,  raptured  or  alarmed. 
At  aught  this  scene  can  threaten  or  indulge, 
Resembles  ocean  into  tempest  wrought, 
To  waft  a  feather,  or  to  drown  a  fly. 

Edward  Young.— Born  1681,  Died  1765. 


857.— THOUGHTS  ON  TIME. 

The  bell  strikes  one.      We  take  no  note  of 

time 
But  from  its  loss  :    to  give  it  then  a  tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke, 
I  feel  the  solemn  soi»nd.     If  heard  aright. 
It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours. 
Where  are  they  ?     With  the  years  beyond  the 

flood. 
It  is  the  sigrnal  that  demands  despatch  : 
How  much   is  to  be  done  ?     My  hopes  and 

fears 
Start   up   alarmed,     and    o'er   life's   narrow 

verge 
Look  down — on  what  ?     A  fathomless  abyss. 
A  dread  eternity !  how  surely  mine  ! 
And  can  eternity  belong  to  me. 
Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour  ? 

O  time  1  than  gold  more  sacred ;  more  a  load 
Than  lead  to  fools,  and  fools  reputed  wise. 
What  moment  granted  man  without  account  ? 
What   years   are   squandered,  wisdom's  debt 

unpaid  ! 
Our  wealth  in  days  all  due  to  that  discharge. 
Haste,   haste,  he   lies   in   wait,  he's   at   the 

door  ; 
Insidious   Death;     should    his    strong   hand 

arrest, 


Xo  composition  sets  the  prisoner  free. 
Eternity's  inexorable  chain 
Fast   binds,    and   vengeance  claims   the   full 
arrear. 

Youth  is  not  rich  in  time ;  it  may  be  poor  ; 
Part  with  it  as  with  money,  sparing,;  paj' 
No  moment,  but  in  purchase  of  its  worth  ; 
And  what  it's  worth,  ask  death-beds ;    they 

can  tell. 
Part  with  it  as  with  life,  reluctant ;  big 
With  holy  hope  of  nobler  time  to  come ; 
Time   higher   aimed,    stiU    nearer   the   great 

mark 
Of  men  and  angels,  virtue  more  divine. 

On  aU  important  time,  through  every  age. 

Though   much,     and   warm,    the    wise   have 
urged,  the  man 

Is  yet  unborn  who  duly  weighs  an  hour. 

"I've   lost   a   day" — the   prince  who  nobly 
cried, 

Had  been  an  emperor  without  his  crown. 

Of  Eome  ?  say,  rather,  lord  of  human  race  : 

He  spoke  as  if  deputed  by  mankind. 

So  should  all  speak ;  so  reason  speaks  in  all : 

From  the  soft  whispers  of  that  God  in  man. 

Why  fly  to  folly,  why  to  frenzy  fly, 

For  rescue  from  the  blessings  we  possess  ? 

Time,  the  supreme  ! — Time  is  eternity  ; 

Pregnant   with    all    that    makes   archangels 
smile. 

Who  murders  Time,  he  crushes  in  the  birth 

A  power  ethereal,  only  not  adored. 

Ah  !  how  unjust  to  nature  and  himself 

Is  thoughtless,  thankless,  inconsistent  man ! 

Like   children    babbling    nonsense    in    their 
sports, 

We  censure  Nature  for  a  span  too  short ; 

That  span  too  short  we  tax  as  tedious,  too  ; 

Torture  invention,  all  expedients  tire, 

To  lash  the  ling'ring  moments  into  speed. 

And   whirl   us     (happy   riddance)    from   our- 
selves. 

Time,     in   advance,    behind    him    hides   his 

wings. 
And  seems  to  creep,  decrepit  with  his  age. 
Behold  him  when  passed  by ;   what  then  is 

seen 
But    his    broad    pinions    swifter    than    the 

winds  ? 
And  all  mankind,  in  contradiction  strong, 
Eueful,  aghast,  cry  out  on  his  career. 

We  waste,  not  use  our  time  ;  we  breathe,  not 

live ; 
Time  wasted  is  existence ;  used,  is  life  : 
And  bare  existence  man,  to  live  ordained, 
Wrings  and  oppresses  with  enormous  weight. 
And  why  ?  siace  time  was  given  for  use,  not 

waste, 
Enjoined  to  fly,  with  tempest,  tide,  and  stars. 
To  keep  his  speed,  nor  ever  wait  for  man. 
Time's  use  was  doomed  a  pleasure,  waste  a 

pain, 


Edward  Young.] 


PROCRASTINATION. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


That  man  might  feel  his  error  if  unseen, 
And,  feeling,  fly  to  labour  for  his  cure  ; 
Not  blundering,  split  on  idleness  for  ease. 

"We   push   time   from   us,   and  Ave  wish  him 

back; 
Life  we  think  long  and  short ;  death  seek  and 

shun. 
Oh  the  dark  days  of  vanity  !  while 
Here,  how  tasteless !    and  how  terrible  when 

gone  ! 
Gone  ?  they  ne'er  go  ;  when  past,  they  haunt 

us  still : 
The  spirit  walks  of  every  day  deceased, 
And  smiles  an  angel,  or  a  fury  frowns. 
Nor  death  nor  life  delight  us.     If  time  past. 
And  time  possessed,  both  pain  us,  what  can 

please  ? 
That  which  the  Deity  to  please  ordained, 
Time   used.      The   man  who  consecrates  his 

hours 
By  vigorous  effort,  and  an  honest  aim, 
At  once  he  draws  the  sting  of  life  and  death : 
He  walks  with  nature,   and  her  paths  are 

peace. 

'Tis  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours. 
And   ask   them   what    report    they   bore   to 

heaven. 
And  how  they  might  have  borne  more  welcome 

news. 
Their   answers   form   what    men    experience 

call ; 
If  wisdom's  friend,  her  best,  if  not,  worst  foe. 

All-sensual  man,  because  untouched,  unseen, 
He  looks  on  time  as  nothing.     Nothing  else 
Is  truly  man's  ;  'tis  fortime's.     Time's  a  god. 
Hast   thou  ne'er   heard   of    Time's   omnipo- 
tence ? 
For,  or  against,  what  wonders  can  he  do  ! 
And  wiU  :  to  stand  blank  neuter  he  disdains. 
Not    on    those     terms    was    time    (heaven's 

stranger!)  sent 
On  his  important  embassy  to  man. 
Lorenzo  !  no  :  on  the  long  destined  hour, 
From  everlasting  ages  growing  ripe, 
That  memorable  hour  of  wondrous  birth, 
When  the  Dread  Sire,  on  emanation  bent, 
And  big  with  nature,  rising  in  his  might, 
Called   forth   creation     (for    then    time   was 

bom) 
By  Godhead   streaming  through  a  thousand 

worlds  ; 
Not  on  those  terms,  from  the  great  days  of 

heaven, 
From  old  eternity's  mysterious  orb 
Was    time    cut    off,    and    cast   beneath   the 

skies  ; 
The   skies,   which   watch    him    in    his    new 

abode. 
Measuring  his  motions  by  revolving  spheres, 
That  horologe  machinery  divine. 
Hours,  days,  and  months,  and  years,  his  chil- 
dren play. 


Like   numerous    wings,    around    him,    as   he 

flies  ; 
Or  rather,  as  unequal  plumes,  they  shape 
His  ample  pinions,  SAvift  as  darted  flame, 
To  gain  his  goal,  to  reach  his  ancient  rest, 
And  join  anew  eternity,  his  sire  : 
In  his  immutability  to  nest, 
When   Avorlds   that   count   his    circles    now, 

unhinged, 
(Fate   the   loud    signal    sounding)    headlong 

rush 
To  timeless  night    and   chaos,   whence   they 

rose. 

But  why  on  time  so  lavish  is  my  song : 

On   this   great   theme   kind  Nature  keeps  a 

school 
To  teach  her  sons  herself.     Each   night  we 

die — 
Each  morn  are  born  aneAV  ;  each  day  a  life  ; 
And  shall  we  kill  each  day  ?     If  trifling  kills, 
Sure  vice  must  butcher.     O  what  heaps   of 

slain 
Cry  out  for  vengeance  on  us  !   time  destroyed 
Is  suicide,  where  more  than  blood  is  spilt. 

Throw  years  away  ? 
Throw  empires,  and  he  blameless  :  moments 

seize ; 
Heaven 's  on  their  wing  :   a  moment  we  may 

wish. 
When  worlds  want  wealth  to  buy.     Bid  day 

stand  still, 
Bid  him  drive  back  his  car  and  re-impart 
The  period  past,  re-give  the  given  hour. 
Lorenzo  !  more  than  miracles  we  want. 
Lorenzo  !  O  for  yesterdays  to  come. 

Edivard  Young. — Bom  1681,  IKed  1765. 


858.— PROCRASl'INATION. 

Be  wise  to-day  ;  'tis  madness  to  defer : 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead  ; 
Thus  on,  tni  wisdom  is  pushed  out  of  life. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time ; 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled, 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 
If  not  so  frequent,  woidd  not  this  be  strange  ? 
That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  §till. 
Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes,  this  bears 
The  palm,  "  That  all  men  are  about  to  live,'* 
For  ever  on  the  brink  of  being  born  : 
All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 
They  one  day  shall  not  drivel,  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise ; 
At    least    their  own  ;     their    future    selves 

applaud  ; 
How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead ! 
Time   lodged   in   their   own  hands  is  Folly's 

vails ; 
That    lodged    in    Fate-'s     to    wisdom    they 

consign ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  ASTEONOMICAL  LADY. 


[Edward  You  kg. 


The    thing    they    can't    but    purpose,    they 

postpone. 
'Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool, 
And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 
AH  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man, 
And  that  through  every  stage.     When  young, 

indeed. 
In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 
Unanxious  for  ourselves,  and  only  wish, 
As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 
At  thirty  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan ; 
At  fifty  chides  his  infamous  delay. 
Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve ; 
In  aU  the  magnanimity  of  thought 
Resolves,  and  re-resolves ;  then  dies  the  same. 
And    why  ?      because    he    thinks    himseK 

immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves  ; 
Themselves,   when   some   alarming   shock  of 

fate 
Strikes   through   their  wounded    hearts    the 

sudden  dread : 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded 

air. 
Soon  close ;  where  past  the  shaft  no  trace  is 

found. 
As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains. 
The  jjarted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel. 
So   aies  in   human   hearts    the    thought    of 

death  : 
E'en   with    the    tender    tear    which    nature 

sheds 
O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. 

Edward  Young.— Bom  1681,  Died  1765. 


859.— THE  EMPTINESS  OF  EICHES. 

Can  gold  calm  passion,  or  make  reason  shine  P 
Can  we  dig  peace  or  wisdom  from  the  mine  ? 
Wisdom  to  gold  prefer,  for  'tis  much  less 
To  make  our  fortune  than  our  happiness  : 
That  happiness  which  great  ones  often  see, 
With  rage  and  wonder,  in  a  low  degree, 
Themselves   unbless'd.      The   poor  are   only 

poor. 
But   what   are   they   who  droop   amid  their 

store  ? 
Nothing  is  meaner  than  a  wretch  of  state ; 
The  happy  only  are  the  truly  great. 
Peasants  enjoy  like  appetites  with  kings. 
And  those  best  satisfied  with  cheapest  things. 
Could  both  our  Indies  buy  but  one  new  sense. 
Our  envy  would  be  due  to  large  expense ; 
Since  not,   those  pomps  which  to  the  great 

belong, 
Are  but  poor  arts  to  mark  them  from   the 

throng. 

I        See  how  they  beg  an  alms  of  Flattery : 
j        They  languish  !  oh,  support  them  with  a  lie  ! 
A  decent  competence  we  fuUy  taste ; 
It  strikes  our  sense,    and   gives   a   constant 

feast : 


More  we  perceive  by  dint  of  thought  alone ; 
The  rich  must  labour  to  possess  their  own. 
To  feel  their  great  abundance,  and  request 
Their   humble   friends   to   help   them   to   be 

blest ; 
To  see  their  treasure,  hear  their  glory  told, 
And  aid  the  wretched  impotence  of  gold^ 
But  some,  great  souls !    and  touch' d  with 

warmth  divine, 
Give   gold  a  price,  and  teach  its  beams    to 

shine  ; 
All  hoarded  treasures  they  repute  a  load. 
Nor  think  their  wealth  their  own,  till  well 

bestow' d. 
Grand  reservoirs  of  public  happiness. 
Through  secret  streams  dijffusively  they  bless, 
And,   while    their  bounties  glide,    conceal' d 

from  view, 
Relieve  our  wants,  and  spare  our  blushes  too. 

Edwa/rd  Young. — Born  1681,  Died  1765. 


860.— THE  LOVE  OF  PRAISE. 

What    will    not     men    attempt    for    sacred 

praise  ! 
The  love  of  praise,  howe'er  conceal'd  by  art, 
Reigns,  more  or  less,   and  glows,  in   every 

heart : 
The  proud,  to  gain  it,  toils  on  toils  endure  j 
The  modest  shun  it,  but  to  make  it  sure. 
O'er  globes,  and  sceptres,  now  on  thrones  it 

swells ; 
Now  trims  the  midnight  lamp  in  college  cells  ; 
'Tis  Tory,  Whig;    it  plots,  prays,  preaches, 

pleads. 
Harangues   in   senates,  squeaks    in   masque- 
rades. 
Here,    to    Steele's     humour    makes    a    bold 

pretence  ; 
There,  bolder,  aims  at  Pulteney's  eloquence. 
It  aids  the  dancer's  heel,  the  writer's  head. 
And  heaps  the  plain  with  mountains  of  the 

dead : 
Nor  ends  with  life  ;  but  nods  in  sable  plumes. 
Adorns  our  hearse,  and  flatters  on  our  tombs. 

Edward  Young.— Born  1681,  Died  1765. 


861.— THE  ASTRONOMICAL  LADY. 

Some  nymphs  prefer  astronomy  to  love ; 
Elope  from  mortal  man,  and  range  above. 
The  fair  philosopher  to  Rowley  flies. 
Where  in  a  box  the  whole  creation  lies : 
She  sees  the  planets  in  their  turns  advance, 
And  scorns,  Poitier,  thy  sublunary  dance  I 
Of  Desaguhers  she  bespeaks  fresh  air  ; 
And  Whiston  has  engagements  vsrith  the  fair. 
What  vain  experiments  Sophronia  tries  ! 
'Tis  not  in  air-pumps  the  gay  colonel  dies. 


Edward  Young.] 


THE  LANGUID  LADY. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


But  though  to-day  this  rage  of  science  reigns, 
(0  fickle  sex  !)  soon  end  her  learned  pains. 
Lo  !  Pug  from  Jupiter  her  heart  has  got, 
Turns  out  the  stars,  and  Newton  is  a  sot. 

Edward  Young.— Bo')^  1681,  Died  1765. 


862.— THE  LANGUID  LADY. 

The  languid  lady  next  appears  in  state, . 
Who  was  not  born  to  carry  her  own  weight ; 
She  lolls,  reels,  staggers,  till  some  foreign  aid 
To  her  own  stature  lifts  the  feeble  maid. 
Then,  if  ordain' d  to  so  severe  a  doom, 
She,    by   just    stages,    journeys    round    the 

room  : 
But,  knowing  her  own  weakness,  she  despairs 
To  scale  the  Alps — that  is,  ascend  the  stairs. 
My  fan  !  let  others  say,  who  laugh  at  toil ; 
Fan  !    hood !    glove  1    scarf  !    is   her  laconic 

style ; 
And  that  is  spoke  with  such  a  dying  fall. 
That  Betty  rather  sees,  than  hears,  the  call : 
The  motion  of  her  lips,  and  meaning  eye, 
Piece  out  th'  idea  her  faint  words  deny. 
O  listen  with  attention  most  profound  ! 
Her  voice  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  sound. 
And  help,  oh  help  !  her  spirits  are  so  dead. 
One  hand  scarce  lifts  the  other  to  her  head. 
If  there  a  stubborn  pin  it  triumphs  o'er. 
She  pants  !  she  sinks  away !  and  is  no  more. 
Let  the  robust  and  the  gigantic  carve, 
Life   is    not   worth   so    much,    she'd    rather 

stan'^e  : 
But  chew  she  must  herseK  !  ah  cruel  fate ! 
That  Eosahnda  can't  by  proxy  eat. 

Edward  Young. — Born  1681,  Died  1765. 


863.— THE  SWEAEEE. 

Thalestris  triumphs  in  a  manly  mien ; 
Loud  is  her  accent,  and  her  phrase  obscene. 
In  fair  and  open  dealing  where 's  the  shame  ? 
What  nature   dares  to  give,   she    dares   to 

name. 
This  honest  feUow  is  sincere  and  plain. 
And  justly  gives  the  jealous  husband  pain 
(Vain  is  the  task  to  petticoats  assign'd, 
If  wanton  language  shows  a  naked  mind.) 
And  now  and  then,  to  grace  her  eloquence, 

An  oath  supplies  the  vacancies  of  sense. 

Hark  !  the  shrill  notes  transpierce  the  yielding 
air, 

And  teach  the   neighbouring  echoes  how  to 
swear. 

By  Jove  is  faint,  and  for  the  simple  swain ; 

She  on  the  Christian  system  is  profane. 

But  though  the  voUey  rattles  in  your  ear, 

Believe  her  dress,  she 's  not  a  grenadier. 

If  thunder  's  awful,  how  much  more  our  dread, 

When  Jove  deputes  a  lady  in  his  stead  ? 


A  lady  ?  pardon  my  mistaken  pen, 

A  shameless  woman  is  the  worst  of  men. 

Edwa/rd  Young.— Bom  1681,  Died  1765. 


864.— SHOWEES  IN  SPEING. 

The  north-east  spends  his  rage ;  he  now,  shut 

Tip 
Within  his  iron  cave,  the  effusive  south 
Warms   the  wide   air,    and  o'er  the  void  of 

heaven 
Breathes  the  big  clouds  with  vernal  showers 

distent. 
At  first,  a  dusky  wreath  they  seem  to  rise, 
Scarce  staining  either,  but  by  swift  degrees, 
In  heaps  on  heaps  the  doubled  vapour  sails 
Along  the  loaded  sky,  and,  mingling  deep, 
Sits  on  the  horizon  round,  a  settled  gloom  ; 
Not  such  as  wintry  storms  on  mortals  shed. 
Oppressing  life  ;  but  lovely,  gentle,  kind. 
And  full  of  every  hope,  of  every  joy. 
The    wish    of    nature.       Gradual    sinks   the 

breeze 
Into  a  perfect  calm,  that  not  a  breath 
Is  heard  to  quiver  through  the  closing  woods. 
Or  rustling  turn  the  many  twinkling  leaves 
Of  aspen  tall.     The  uncurling  floods  diffused 
In   glassy  breadth,    seem,   through    delusive 

lapse. 
Forgetful  of  their  course.     'Tis  silence  all. 
And  pleasing  expectation.     Herds  and  flocks 
Drop  the  dry  sprig,  and,  mute-imploring,  eye 
The  falling  verdure.      Hushed  in  short  sus- 
pense. 
The  plumy  people  streak  their  wings  with  oil. 
To  throw  the  lucid  moisture  trickling  off. 
And  wait  the  approaching  sign,  to  strike  at 

once 
Into   the   general   choir.       Even   mountains, 

vales, 
And  forests,  seem  impatient  to  demand 
The    promised    sweetness.        Man    superior 

walks 
Amid  the  glad  creation,  musing  praise, 
And  looking  lively  gratitude.     At  last. 
The   clouds   consign   their   treasures   to  the 

fields. 
And,  softly  shaking  on  the  dimpled  pool 
Prelusive  drops,  let  all  their  moisture  flow 
In  large  effusion  o'er  the  freshen'd  world. 
The  stealing  shower  is  scarce  to  patter  heard 
By  such  as  wander  through  the  forest-walks, 
Beneath  the  umbrageous  multitude  of  leaves. 

James  Thomson. — Bom  1700,  Died  1748. 


S65.— BIEDS  PAIEING  IN  SPEING. 

To  the  deep  woods 
They  haste  away,  all  as  their  fancy  leads. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS. 


[James  Thomson. 


Pleasure,  or  food,  or  secret  safety,  prompts  ; 
That  nature's  great  command  may  be  obeyed  : 
Nor  all  the  sweet  sensations  they  perceive 
Indulged  in  vain.     Sweet  to  the  holly  hedge 
KestUng  repair,  and  to  the  thicket  some  ; 
Some  to  the  rude  protection  of  the  thorn 
Commit  their  feeble  offspring  ;  the  cleft  tree 
Offers  its  kind  concealment  to  a  few. 
Their  food   its  insects,    and   its   moss   their 

nests  : 
Others  apart,  far  in  the  grassy  dale 
Or   roughening   waste   their   humble  texture 

weave : 
But  most  in  woodland  solitudes  delight, 
In  unfrequented  glooms  or  shaggy  banks, 
Steep  and  divided  by  a  babbling  brook. 
Whose  murmurs  soothe  them  all  the  live-long 

day, 
■VSTien  by  kind  duty  fix'd.     Among  the  roots 
Of  hazel  pendent  o'er  the  plaintive  stream. 
They  frame    the    first    foundation    of    their 

domes. 
Dry  sprigs  of  trees,  in  artful  fabric  laid. 
And  bound   with   clay  together.      Now    'tis 

nought 
But  restless  hurry  through  the  busy  air, 
Beat   by   unnumber'd   wings.      The   swallow 

sweeps 
The  slimy  pool,  to  build  his  hanging  house 
Intent :  and  often  from  the  careless  back 
Of  herds  and  flocks  a  thousand  tugging  bills 
Steal   hair  and  wool ;    and  oft,  when   unob- 
served, 
Pluck  from  the  barn  a  straw ;  till  soft  and 

warm. 
Clean  and  complete,  their  habitation  grows. 

As  thus  the  patient  dam  assiduous  sits, 
Not  to  be  tempted  from  her  tender  task 
Or  by  sharp  hunger  or  by  smooth  delight, 
Though  the  whole  loosen' d  spring  around  her 

blows, 
Her  sympathising  lover  takes  his  stand 
High   on  the   opponent   bank,    and  ceaseless 

sings 
The  tedious  time  away ;  or  else  supplies 
Her  place  a  moment,  w^hile  she  sudden  flits 
To   pick   the    scanty   meal.      The   appointed 

time 
With  pious  toil  fulfill'd,  the  callow  young, 
Warm'd  and  expanded  into  perfect  life, 
Their   brittle    bondaere  break,    and   come   to 

light ; 
A  helpless  family  !  demanding  food 
With   constant    clamom':    O   what    passions 

then, 
What  melting  sentiments  of  kindly  care. 
On  the  new  parent  seize  !  away  they  fly 
Affectionate,  and,  undesiring,  bear 
The  most  deliciqjis  morsel  to  their  young, 
Which,  equally  distributed,  again 
The  search  begins.     Even  so  a  gentle  pair. 
By   fortune    sunk,    but    form'd   of   generous 

mould. 
And  charm'd  with  cares  beyond  the  vulgar 

breast, 
In  some  lone  cot  amid  the  distant  woods, 


Sustain'd  alone  by  providential  Heaven, 
Oft  as  they,  weeping,  eye  their  infant  train. 
Check  their  own  appetites,  and  give  them  all. 

Nor  toil  alone  they  scorn ;  exalting  love, 
By  the  great  Father  of  the  spring  inspired. 
Gives  instant  courage  to  the  fearful  race, 
And  to  the  simple  art.     With  stealthy-wing, 
Should  some  rude  foot  their   woody  haunts 

molest. 
Amid  the  neighbouring  bush  they  silent  drop, 
And  whirring  thence,  as  if  alarm'd,  deceive 
The  unfeeling  schoolboy.     Hence  around  the 

head 
Of  wandering  swain  the  white-winged  plover 

wheels 
Her  sounding  flight,  and  then  directly  on. 
In  long  excursion,  skims  the  level  lawn 
To  tempt  him  from  her  nest.      The  wild-duck 

hence 
O'er  the  rough  moss,  and  o'er  the  trackless 

Avaste 
The  heath-hen  flutters  :  pious  fraud !  to  lead 
The  hot-pursuing  spaniel  far  astray. 

James  Thomson. — Boru  1700,  Died  1748. 


866.— DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS. 

But   happy   they !    the   happiest   of    their 

kind ! 
Whom  gentler  stars  unite,  and  in  one  fate 
Their  hearts,  their  fortunes,  and  their  beings 

blend. 
'Tis  not  the  coarser  tie  of  human  laws. 
Unnatural  oft,  and  foreign  to  the  mind, 
That  binds  their  peace,  but  harmony  itself. 
Attuning  all  their  jmssions  into  love  ; 
Where    friendship     full    exerts    her    softest 

power. 
Perfect  esteem,  enliven' d  by  desire 
Ineffable,  and  sympathy  of  soul ; 
Thought  meeting  thought,  and  will  preventing 

will. 
With  boundless  confidence :  for  nought  but 

love 
Can  answer  love,  and  render  bliss  secure. 
Let  him,  ungenerous,  who,  alone  intent 
To  bless  himself,  from  sordid  parents  buys 
The  loathing  virgin,  in  eternal  care, 
Well  merited,  consume  his  nights  and  days  ; 
Let  barbarous  nations,  whose  inhuman  love 
Is  wild  desire,  fierce  as  the  suns  they  feel ; 
Let  Eastern  tjTants,  from  the  light  of  Heaven 
Seclude  their  bosom-slaves,  meanly  possess'd 
Of  a  mere,  lifeless,  violated  form  : 
While   those    whom    love    cements    in    holy 

faith. 

And  equal  transport,  free  as  Nature  live. 

Disdaining  fear.     What  is  the  world  to  them, 

Its  pomp,  its  pleasure,  and  its  nonsense  all ! 

Who  in  each  other  clasp  whatever  fair 

High  fancy   forms,    and    lavish    hearts    can 

wish :  , . 

41 


James  Thomson.] 


MUSIDOEA. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Sometliing  than  beauty  dearer,  should  they 

look 
Or  on  the  mind,  or  mind-illumined  face  ; 
Truth,  goodness,  honour,  harmony,  and  love, 
The  richest  bounty  of  indulgent  Heaven. 
Meantime  a  smiling  offspring  rises  round. 
And  mingles  both  their  graces.     By  degrees, 
The  human  blossom  blows  ;  and  every  day, 
Soft  as  it  rolls  along,  shows  some  new  charm, 
The  father's  lustre,  and  the  mother's  bloom. 
Then  infant  reason  grows  apace,  and  calls 
For  the  kind  hand  of  an  assiduous  care. 
Delightful  task  !  to  rear  the  tender  thought. 
To  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot. 
To  pour  the  fresh  instruction  o'er  the  mind. 
To  breathe  th'  enlivening  spirit,  and  to  fix 
The  generous  purpose  in  the  glowing  breast. 
Oh,  speak  the  joy  !  ye  whom  the  sudden  tear 
Surprises  often,  while  you  look  around, 
And  nothing  strikes  your  eye  but  sights  of 

bUss, 
All  various  nature  pressing  on  the  heart : 
An  elegant  sufficiency,  content, 
Eetirement,  rural  quiet,  friendship,  books, 
Ease  and  alternate  labour,  useful  life, 
Progressive  virtue,  and  approving  Heaven. 
These  are  the  matchless  joys  of  virtuous  love ; 
And   thus   their   moments   fly.     The  seasons 

thus, 
As  ceaseless  round  a  jarring  world  they  roll, 
Still  find  them  happy ;  and  consenting  Spring 
Sheds  her  own  rosy  garland  on  their  heads  : 
Till  evening  comes  at  last,  serene  and  mild ; 
When,  after  the  long  vernal  day  of  life, 
Enamour'd    more,     as     more     remembrance 

swells 
With  many  a  proof  of  recollected  love, 
Together  down  they  sink  in  social  sleep  ; 
Together  freed,  their  gentle  spirits  fly 
To   scenes    where   love    and    bliss   immortal 


James  Thomson. — Bo7-^i  1700,  Died  1748. 


867.— MUSIDOEA. 

Close  in  the  covert  of  an  hazel  copse, 
Where  winded  into  pleasing  solitudes 
Euns  out  the  rambling  dale,  young  Damon 

sat 
Pensive,    and  pierced  with   love's  delightful 

pangs. 
There  to  the  stream  that  down  the  distant 

rocks 
Hoarse-murmuring  fell,  and  plaintive  breeze 

that  play'd 
Among  the  bending  willows,  falsely  he 
Of  Musidora's  cruelty  complain' d. 
She    felt    his    flame ;    but   deep   within   her 

breast. 
In  bashful  coyness,  or  in  maiden  Rride, 
The  soft  return  conceal' d  ;  save  when  it  stole 
In  sidelong  glances  from  her  downcast  eye, 


Or  from  her  swelling  soul  in  stifled  sighs. 
Touch' d   by   the   scene,   no  stranger  to   his 

vows, 
He  framed  a  melting  lay,  to  try  her  heart : 
And,  if  an  infant  passion  struggled  there, 
To   call  that  passion   forth.     Thrice   happy 

swain ! 
A  lucky  chance,  that  oft  decides  the  fate 
Of  mighty  monarchs,  then  decided  thine. 
For,  lo  !  conducted  by  the  laughing  Loves, 
This  cool  retreat  his  Musidora  sought : 
Warm  in  her  cheek  the  sultiy  season  glow'd ; 
And,  robed  in  loose  array,  she  came  to  bathe 
Her  fervent  limbs  in  the  refreshing  stream. 
What  shall  he  do  ?     In  sweet  confusion  lost, 
And  dubious  flutterings,  he  awhile  remained  : 
A  pure  ingenuous  elegance  of  soul, 
A  delicate  refinement,  known  to  few, 
Perplex'd  his  breast,  and  urged  him  to  retire  : 
But   love    forbade.      Ye    prudes    in    virtue, 

say, 
Say,  ye  severest,  what  would  you  have  done  ? 
Meantime,  this  fairer  nymph  than  ever  blest 
Arcadian  stream,  with  timid  eye  around 
The  banks  surveying,  stripp'd  her  beauteous 

limbs. 
To  taste  the  lucid  coolness  of  the  flood. 
Ah,  then  !  not  Paris  on  the  piny  top 
Of  Ida  panted  stronger,  when  aside 
The  rival  goddesses  the  veil  divine 
Cast    unconfined,    and   gave    him    all    their 

charms. 
Than,    Damon,    thou ;    as   from    the    snowy 

leg, 
And  slender  foot,  th'  inverted  silk  she  drew ; 
As  the  soft  touch  dissolved  the  virgin  zone  ; 
And,  through  the  parting  robe  the  alternate 

breast. 
With  youth  wild-throbbing,   on   thy   lawless 

gaze 
In    full    luxuriance    rose.       But,     desperate 

youth. 
How   durst    thou    risk    the    soul-distracting 

view. 
As  from  her  naked  limbs,  of  glowing  white, 
Harmonious  swell' d  by  Nature's  finest  hand. 
In  folds  loose-floating  fell  the  fainter  lawn ; 
And  fair-exposed  she  stood,  shrunk  from  her- 
self, 
With  fancy  blushing,  at  the  doubtful  breeze 
Alarm' d  and  starting  like  the  fearful  fawn  ? 
Then   to   the   flood   she  rush'd;   the   parted 

flood 
Its  lovely  guest  with  closing  waves  received  ; 
And  every  beauty  softening,  every  grace 
Flushing  anew,  a  mellow  lustre  shed : 
As  shines  the  lily  through  the  crystal  mild  ; 
Or  as  the  rose  amid  the  morning  dew. 
Fresh   from    Aurora's    hand,^  more    sweetly 

glows, 
While  thus  she  wanton' d,  now  beneath  the 

wave 
But   ill-conceal' d;  and  now  with   streaming 

locks. 
That  half-embraced  her  in  a  humid  veil, 
Eising  again,  the  latent  Damon  drew 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


A  SUMMEE  EVENING-. 


[James  Thomson 


Such  maddening  draiights  of  beauty  to  the 

soul, 
As    for    awhile     o'erwhelm'd    his    raptnred 

thought 
With  luxury  too  daring.     Check'd,  at  last, 
By  love's  respectful  modesty,  he  deem'd 
The  theft  profane,  if  aught  profane  to  love 
Can  e'er  be  deem'd;  and,  struggling  j&'om  the 

shade, 
With   headlong  hurry   fled:   but  first  these 

lines, 
Traced  by  his  ready  pencil,  on  the  bank 
With  trembling  hand  he  threw :  "  Bathe  on, 

my  fair, 
Yet  unbeheld,  save  by  the  sacred  eye 
Of  faithful  love  :  I  go  to  guard  thy  haunt. 
To  keep  from  thy  recess  each  vagrant  foot. 
And  each   licentious  eye."     With   wild   sur- 
prise, 
As  if  to  marble  struck,  devoid  of  sense, 
A  stupid  moment  motionless  she  stood  : 
So  stands  the  statue  that  enchants  the  world, 
So  bending  tries  to  veil  the  matchless  boast, 
The  mingled  beauties  of  exulting  Greece. 
Recovering,  swift  she  flew  to  find  those  robes 
Which  bhssful  Eden  Icnew  not ;  and,  array 'd 
In  careless  haste,  th'  alarming  paper  snatch' d. 
But,  when  her  Damon's  well-known  hand  she 

saw, 
Her  terrors  vanish' d,  and  a  softer  train 
Of  mixt  emotions,  hard  to  be  described. 
Her  sudden  bosom  seized  :  shame  void  of  guilt, 
The  charming  blush  of  innocence,  esteem 
And  admiration  of  her  lover's  flame, 
By  modesty  exalted  :  even  a  sense 
Of  self -approving  beaixty  stole  across 
Her  busy  thought.     At  length,  a  tender  calm 
Hush'd  by  degrees  the  tumult  of  her  soul ; 
And  on  the  spreading  beech,  that   o'er  the 

stream 
Incumbent  hung,  she  with  the  sylvan  pen 
Of  rural  lovers  this  confession  carved. 
Which  soon  her  Damon  kiss'd  with  weeping 

joy  : 
"  Dear  youth  !  sole  judge  of  what  these  verses 

mean. 
By  fortune  too  much  favour'd,  but  by  love, 
Alas  !  not  favour'd  less,  be  still  as  now 
Discreet :  the  time  may  come  you  need  not 

fly." 

James  Thomscn. — Bom  1700,  Died  1748. 


868.— A  SUMMEE  MOENING. 

With  quicken'd  step 
Brown   night   retires :    young  day   pours   in 

apace, 
And  opens  all  the  lawny  prospect  wide. 
The  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  top, 
Swell   on   the    sight,  and  brighten  with  the 

dawn. 


Blue,  through  the  dusk,  the  smoking  currents 

shine ; 
And  from  the  bladed  field  the  fearful  hare 
Limps    awkward;     while    along    the    forest 

glade 
The  wild  deer  trip,  and  often  turning  gaze 
At  early  passenger.     Music  awakos~    ~ 
The  native  voice  of  undissembled  joy ; 
And  thick  around  the  woodland  hj^mns  arise. 
Eoused  by  the  cock,  the  soon-clad  shepherd 

leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,    where    with    peace    he 

dwells  ; 
And  from  the  crowded  fold,  in  order,  drives 
His  flock,  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  mom. 

James  Tliomson. — Born  1700,  Died  1748. 


869.— A  SUMMEE  EVENING. 

Low  walks  the  sun,  and  broadens  by  degrees. 
Just  o'er  the  verge  of  day.      The  shifting 

clouds 
Assembled  gay,  a  richly  gorgeous  train, 
In  all  their  pomp  attend  his  setting  throne. 
Air,  earth,  and  ocean  smile  immense.     And 

now, 
As  if  his  weary  chariot  sought  the  bowers 
Of  Amphitrite,  and  her  tending  nymphs, 
(So  Grecian  fable  sung)  he  dips  his  orb ; 
Now  half  immersed ;  and  now  a  golden  curve 
Gives    one    bright    glance,    then    total    dis- 
appears. 
Confess'd   from    yonder    slow-extingnish'd 

clouds. 
All  ether  softening,  sober  evening  takes 
Her  wonted  station  in  the  middle  air ; 
A   thousand    shadows    at   her    beck.      First 

this 
She  sends  on  earth  ;  then  that  of  deeper  dye 
Steals  soft  behind ;  and  then  a  deeper  still. 
In  circle  following  circle,  gathers  round. 
To  close  the  face  of  things.     A  fresher  gale 
Begins    to    wave    the    wood,    and    stir    the 

stream. 
Sweeping   with  shadowy   gust  the    fields   of 

com : 
While   the   quail   clamours    for  his   running 

mate. 
Wide   o'er  the  thistly   lawn,    as   swells   the 

breeze, 
A  whitening  shower  of  vegetable  down 
Amusive  floats.     The  kind  impartial  care 
Of  nature   nought   disdains :    thoughtful   to 

feed 
Her  lowest  sons,  and  clothe  the  coming  year. 
From   field  to   field  the   feather' d  seeds  she 

wings. 
His  folded  flock  secure,  the  shepherd  home 
Hies  merry-hearted ;  and  by  turns  relieves 
The  ruddy  milkmaid  of  her  brimming  pail ; 
The  beauty  whom  perhaps  his  -witless  heart  — 

41* 


James  Thomson.] 


LAVmiA. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Unknowing    what     the     joy-mix' d     anguish 

means — 
Sincerely  loves,  by  that  best  language  shown 
Of  cordial  glances,  and  obliging  deeds. 
Onward    they    pass     o'er    many    a    panting 

height, 
And  valley  sunk,  and  unfrequented  ;  where 
At  fall  of  eve  the  fairy  people  throng, 
In  various  game  and  revelry,  to  pass 
The  summer  night,  as  village  stories  tell. 
But  far  about  they  v/ander  from  the  gx-ave 
Of  him  whom  his  ungentle  fortune  urged 
Against  his  own  sad  breast  to  lift  the  hand 
Of  impious  violence.     The  lonely  tower 
Is  also  shunn'd ;    whose  mournful  chambers 

hold- 
So   night-struck    fancy   dreams — the    yelling 

ghost. 
Among  the  crooked  lanes,  on  every  hedge. 
The  glowworm  lights  his  gem  ;  and  through 

the  dark 
A  moving  radiance  twinkles.     Evening  yields 
The  world  to  night ;  not  in  her  winter  robe 
Of  massy  Stygian  woof,  but  loose  array' d 
In  mantle  dun.     A  iaint  erroneous  ray. 
Glanced    from    the     imperfect     surfaces     of 

things. 
Flings  half  an  imago  on  the  straining  eye ; 
While    wav'ring    woods,    and    villages,    and 

streams, 
And   rocks,    and   mountain-tops,    that    long 

retain' d 
The  ascending  gleam,   are  all  one  swimming 

scene. 
Uncertain  if  beheld.     Sudden  to  heaven 
Thence  weary  vision   turns ;    where,  leading 

soft 
The  silent  hours  of  love,  with  purest  ray 
Sweet   Venus   shines ;    and   from   her  genial 

rise, 
When  daylight  sickens  till  it  springs  afresh, 
Unrivall'd  reigns,  the  fairest  lamp  of  night. 

James  TJiomson. — Born  1700,  Died  1748. 


870.— LAVmiA. 

The  lovely  young  Lavinia  once  had  friends  : 
And  Fortune  smiled,  deceitful,  on  her  birth. 
For,  in  her  helpless  years  deprived  of  all, 
Of  every  stay,  save  Innocence  and  Heaven, 
She,  with  her  widow 'd  mother,  feeble,  old, 
And  poor,  lived  in  a  cottage,  far  retired 
Among  the  windings  of  a  woody  vale ; 
By  solitude  and  deep  surrounding  shades, 
But  more  by  bashful  modesty,  conccal'd. 
Together  thus  they  shunn'd  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  virtue,  sunk  to  poverty,  would  meet 
From  giddy  passion  and  low-minded  pride  : 
Almost  on  Nature's  common  bounty  fed ; 
Like  the  gay  birds  that  sung  them  to  repose, 
Content,  and  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare. 
Her  form  was  fresher  than  the  morning  rose, 


Wlien  the  dew  wets  its  leaves ;  unstain'd  and 

pure, 
As  is  the  lily,  or  the  mountain  snow. 
The  modest  virtues  mingled  in  her  eyes. 
Still  on  the  ground  dejected,  darting  all 
Their  humid  beams  into  the  blooming  flowers ; 
Or  when  the  mournful  tale  her  mother  told, 
Of  what  her  faithless  fortune  promised  once. 
Thrill' d  in  her  thought,  they,  like  the  dewy 

star  (• 

Of  evening,  shone  in  tears.     A  native  grace 
Sat  fair-proportion' d  on  her  polish'd  limbs, 
Veil'd  in  a  simple  robe,  their  best  attire, 
Beyond  the  pomp  of  dress  ;  for  loveliness 
Needs  not  the  foreign  aid  of  ornament. 
But  is  when  unadorn'd  adorn' d  the  most. 
Thoughtless  of  Beauty,  she  was  Beauty's  self, 
Recluse  amid  the  close-embowering  woods. 
As  in  the  hollow  breant  of  Apennine, 
j    Beneath  the  shelter  of  encircling  hills 
I    A  myrtle  rises,  far  from  human  eye, 
I   And  breathes  its   balmy  fragrance   o'er   the 
j  wild ; 

j    So  flourish' d  blooming,  and  unseen  by  all, 
'    The  sweet  Lavinia;  till,  at  length,  compell'd 
By  strong  Necessity's  supreme  command, 
With  smiling  patience  in  her  looks,  she  went 
To   glean   Palemon's    fields.      The    pride   of 

swains 
Palemon  was,  the  generous,  and  the  rich ; 
Who  led  the  rural  life  in  all  its  joy 
And  elegance,  such  as  Arcadian  song 
Transmits  from  ancient  uncorrupted  times  ; 
When  tyrant  custom  had  not  shackled  man, 
But  free  to  follow  nature  was  the  mode. 
He  then,  his  fancy  with  autumnal  scenes 
Amusing,  chanced  beside  his  reaper-train 
To  walk,  when  poor  Lavinia  drew  his  eye  ; 
Unconscious  of  her  power,  and  turning  quick 
With  unaffected  blushes  from  his  gaze  : 
He  saw  her  charming,  but  he  saw  not  half 
The  charms  her  downcast  modesty  conceal' d. 
That  very  moment  love  and  chaste  desire 
Sprung  in  his  bosom,  to  himself  unknown  ; 
For  still  the  world  prevail' d,  and  its  dread 

laugh, 
WTiich  scarce  the  firm  philosopher  can  scorn. 
Should  his  heart  own  a  gleaner  in  the  field : 
And  thus  in  secret  to  his  soul  he  sigh'd. 
"  What  pity !  that  so  delicate  a  form, 
By  beauty  kindled,  where  enlivening  sense 
And  more  than  vulgar  goodness  seem  to  dwell, 
Should  be  devoted  to  the  rude  embrace 
Of  some  indecent  clown  !    She  looks,  methinks, 
Of  old  Acasto's  line  ;  and  to  my  mind 
Recalls  that  patron  of  my  happy  life. 
From  whom  my  liberal  foi'tune  took  its  rise  ; 
Now  to  the  dust  gone  down  ;  his  houses,  lands, 
And  once  fair- spreading  family,  dissolved. 
'Tis  said  that  in  some  lone  obscure  retreat. 
Urged  by  remembrance  sad,  and  decent  pride. 
Far  from  those  scenes  which  knew  their  better 

days, 
His  aged  widow  and  his  daughter  Kve, 
Whom  yet  my  fruitless  search  could  never 
find. 


Fi-om  1727  to  1780.1 


THE  HAEVEST  STOEM. 


[Jaiies  Thomson. 


Eoinantic   wish !    would    this    tho    daughter 

were ! ' ' 
When,    strict    enquiring,   from  herself  he 

found 
She  was  the  same,  the  daughter  of  his  friend, 
Of  bountiful  Acasto ;  who  can  speak 
The  mingled  passions  that  surprised  his  heart. 
And  through  his  nerves  in  shivering  transport 

ran? 
Then  blazed  his  smother' d  flame,  avow'd,  and 

bold; 
And,  as  he  view'd  her,  ardent,  o'er  and  o'er. 
Love,  gratitude,  and  pity,  wept  at  once. 
Confused,  and  frighten'd  at  his  sudden  tears, 
Her  rising  beauties  flush' d  a  higher  bloom, 
As  thus  Palemon,  passionate  and  just, 
Pour'd  out  the  pioiis  rapture  of  his  soul. 

"  And  art  thou  then  Acasto' s  dear  remains  ? 
She,  whom  my  restless  gratitude  has  sought 
So   long  in   vain  ?      O   Heavens  !    the    very 

same. 
The  soften'd  image  of  my  noble  friend. 
Alive  his  every  look,  his  every  feature. 
More  elegantly  touch'd.    Si^eter  than  Spring! 
Thou  sole  surviving  blossom  from  the  root 
That  nourish'd  up  my  fortune  !  say,  ah  where. 
In  what  sequester' d  desert,  hast  thou  drawn 
The  kindest  aspect  of  delighted  Heaven  ? 
Into  such  beauty  spread,  and  blown  so  fair ; 
Though  poverty's   cold  wind,    and   crushing 

rain, 
Beat  keen  and  heavy  on  thy  tender  years  ? 
O  let  me  now,  into  a  richer  soil, 
Transplant  thee  safe  !  where  vernal  suns,  and 

showers, 
Diffuse  their  warmest,  largest  influence ; 
And  of  my  garden  be  the  pride  and  joy ! 
Ill  it  befits  thee,  oh  !  it  ill  befits 
Acasto' s  daughter,  his  whose  open  stores. 
Though  vast,  were  little  to  his  ampler  heart, 
The  father  of  a  country,  thus  to  pick 
The  very  refuse  of  those  harvest-fields. 
Which  from  his  bounteous  friendship  I  enjoy. 
Then  throw  that  shameful  pittance  from  thy 

hand. 
But  ill  applied  to  such  a  rugged  task  ; 
The  fields,  the  master,  all,  my  fair,  are  thine ; 
If  to  the  various  blessings  which  thy  house 
Has  on  me  lavish' d,  thou  wilt  add  that  bliss. 
That   dearest  bliss,   the    power   of    blessing 

thee!" 
Here  ceased  the  youth,  yet  still  his  speaking 

eye 
Express' d  the  sacred  triumph  of  his  soul. 
With  conscious  virtue,  gratitude,  and  love, 
Above  the  vtdgar  joy  divinely  raised. 
Nor  waited  he  reply.     Won  by  the  charm 
Of  goodness  irresistible,  and  all 
In  sweet  disorder  lost,  she  blush'd  consent. 
The  news  immediate  to  her  mother  brought. 
While,  pierced  with  anxious  thought,  she  pined 

away 
The  lonely  moments  for  Lavinia's  fate ; 
Amazed,  and  scarce  believing  what  she  heard, 
Joy  seized  her  wither' d  veins,  and  one  bright 

cleam 


Of  setting  life  shone  on  her  evening  hours  : 
Not  less  enraptured  than  the  happy  pair ; 
Who  flourish' d  long  in  tender  bliss,  and  rear'd 
A  numerous  offspring,  lovely  like  themselves, 
And  good,  the  grace  of  all  the  country  round. 

James  Thomson. — Born  1700,--©icdl748. 


871.— THE  HAEVEST  STOEM. 

Defeating  oft  tho  labours  of  the  year. 
The  sultry  south  collects  a  potent  blast. 
At  first,  the  groves  are  scarcely  seen  to  stir 
Their  trembling   tops,   and   a   still    murmur 

runs 
Along  the  soft- inclining  fields  of  corn. 
But  as  th'  aerial  tempest  fuller  swells. 
And  in  one  mighty  stream,  invisible. 
Immense,  the  whole  excited  atmosphere 
Impetuous  rushes  o'er  the  sounding  world  : 
Strain'd  to  the  root,  the  stooping  forest  pours 
A  rustling  shower  of  yet  untimely  leaves. 
High-beat,  the  circling  mountains  eddy  in. 
From  the  bare  wild,  the  dissipated  storm, 
And  send  it  in  a  torrent  do'svn  the  vale. 
Exposed,  and  naked,  to  its  utmost  rage, 
Through  all  the  sea  of  hars'est  rolling  round, 
The  billowy  plain  floats  wide  ;  nor  can  evade, 
Though  pliant  to  the  blast,  its  seizing  force ; 
Or  whirl' d  in  air,  or  into  vacant  chaff 
Shook  waste.     And  sometimes  too  a  burst  of 

rain, 
Swept  from   the   black    horizon,   broad,    de- 
scends 
In  one  continuous  flood.     Still  over  head 
The  mingling  tempest  weaves  its  gloom,  and 

still 
Tlio  deluge  deepens  ;  till  the  fields  around 
Lie  sunk  and  flatted,  in  the  sordid  wave. 
Sudden,    the    ditches   swell ;     the    meadows 

swim. 
Eed,  from  the  hills,  innumerable  streams 
Tumultuous  roar ;  and  high  above  its  banks 
The  river  lift ;  before  whose  rushing  tide, 
Herds,    flocks,    and    harvest,    cottages,    and 

swains, 
EoU  mingled  down ;    all  that  the  winds  had 

spared 
In  one  wild  moment  ruin'd ;  the  big  hopes 
And  well-eam'd  treasures  of  the  painful  year. 
Fled  to  some  eminence,  the  husbandman 
Helpless  beholds  the  miserable  wreck 
Driving  along  :  his  drowning  ox  at  once 
Descending,  with  his  labours  scatter' d  round. 
He    sees  ;      and    instant   o'er  his    shivering 

thought 
Comes  Winter  unprovided,  and  a  train 
Of    claimant    children    dear.       Ye    masters, 

then, 
Be  mindful  of  the  rough  laborious  hand, 
That  sinks  yon  soft  in  elegance  and  ease ; 
Be  mindful  of  those  limbs  in  russet  clad, 


James  Thomson.] 


AUTUMN  EVENING  SCENE. 


[Sixth  Pertou. — 


V/liose  toil  to  yours  is  warmth,  and  graceful 

pride  : 
And,  oh  !  be  mindful  of  that  sparing  board. 
Which  covers  yours  with  luxury  profuse. 
Makes   your  glass  sparkle,    and    your   sense 

rejoice ! 
Nor  cruelly  demand  what  the  deep  rains 
And  aU-involving  winds  have  swept  away. 

James  Thomson.— Born  1700,  Died  1748. 


872.— AUTUMN  EVENING  SCENE. 

But  see  the  fading  many-colour' d  woods, 
Shade   deepening    over    shade,    the    country 

round 
Imbrown  ;  a  crowded  umbrage  dusk  and  dun, 
Of  ev'ry  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 
To    sooty   dark.      These   now  the  lonesome 

muse, 
Low   whisp'ring,  lead  into  their  leaf-stro\vn 

walks, 
And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view. ' 

Meantime,   light   shadowing    all,    a   sober 

calm 
Fleeces  unbounded  ether :  whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 
The  gentle  current :  while  illumined  wide, 
The  dewy- skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun. 
And    through    their    lucid   veil  his   soften' d 

force 
Shed  o'er  the  peaceful  world.     Then  is  the 

time, 
For  those   whom   virtue   and   whom   nature 

charm, 
To    steal    themselves    from    the    degenerate 

crowd. 
And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things  : 
To  tread  low-thoughted  vice   beneath  their 

feet; 
To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace ; 
And  woo  lone  Quiet  in  her  silent  walks. 

Thus  solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise. 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  russet  mead, 
And  through  the  sadden'd  grove,  where  scarce 

is  heard 
One   dying  strain,   to   cheer   the  woodman's 

toU. 
Haply     some    widow' d    songster    pours    liis 

plaint. 
Far,  in  faint  warblings,  through  the  tawny 

copse ; 
While  congregated  thrushes,  linnets,  larks, 
And  each  wild  throat,  whose  artless  strains  so 

late 
SweU'd  all  the  music  of  the  swarming  shades, 
Robb'd  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shivering 

sit 
On  the  dead  tree,  a  dull  despondent  flock  : 
With  not    a    brightness    waving    o'er    their 

plumes. 
And  nought  save  chatt'ring  discord  in  their 

note. 


O  let  not,  aim'd  from  some  inhuman  eye, 
The  gun  the  music  of  the  coming  year 
Destroy ;  and  harmless,  imsuspecting  harm. 
Lay  the  weak  tribes  a  miserable  prey 
In  mingled  murder,  flutt'ring  on  the  groimd  ! 
The  pale    descending    year,    yet   i^leasing 

stiU, 
A  gentler  mood  inspires  ;  for  now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove  ; 
Oft  startling  such  as  studious  walk  below, 
And  slowly  circles  through  the  waving  air. 
But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams  ; 
Till    choked,    and    matted    with   the   dreary 

shower, 
The  forest  walks,  at  ev'ry  rising  gale, 
Eoll  Avide  the   wither' d   waste,    and   whistle 

bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields  ; 
And,    shrunk   into    their    beds,    the   flowery 

race 
Their   sunii^   robes  resign.      E'en   v»diat   re- 
main'd  a. 
Of  stronger  fruit|Lfalls  from  the  naked  tree ; 
And    woods,    fields,     gardens,    orchards    aU 

around, 
Tlie  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul. 

The  western  sun  withdraws  the  shorten' d 

day, 
And  humid  evening,  gliding  o'er  the  sky, 
In   her  chiU   progress,   to   the    ground   con- 
densed 
The  vapour  throws.     Where  creeping  waters 

ooze, 
Where   marshes  stagnate,    and  where  rivers 

wind. 
Cluster  the  rolling  fogs,  and  swim  along 
The    dusky-mantled    lawn.      Meanwhile    the 

moon. 
Full-orb' d,  and  breaking  through  the  scatter' d 

clouds, 
Shows   her  broad   visage    in    the   crimson' d 

east. 
Turn'd  to  the  sun  direct  her  spotted  disk. 
Where    mountains    rise,     umbrageous    dales 

descend. 
And  caverns  deep  as  optic  tube  descries, 
A  smaller  earth,  gives  us  his  blaze  again. 
Void  of  its  flame,  and  sheds  a  softer  day. 
Now  through  the  passing  clouds  she  seems  to 

stoop, 
Now  up  the  pure  cerulean  rides  sublime. 
Wide  the  pale  deluge  floats,   and  streaming 

mild 
O'er    the    skied   mountain    to   the   shadowy 

vale. 
While  rocks  and  floods  reflect  the  quiv'ring 

gleam  ; 
The  whole  air  whitens  with  a  boundless  tide 
Of     silver    radiance     trembling    round     the 

world. 
The  lengthen' d  night  elapsed,  the  morning 

shines 
Serene,  in  all  her  dewy  beauty  bright, 
Unfolding  fair  the  last  autumnal  day. 
And  now  the  mounting  sun  dispels  the  fog; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


A  HYMN. 


[James  Thomson. 


The  rigid  hoar-frost  melts  before  his  beam  ; 
And  hung  on  every  spray,  on  every  blade 
Of     grass,     the    myriad    dew-drops    twinkle 
round. 

James  Thomson.— Bom  1700,  Died  1748. 


873.— A  WINTER  LANDSCAPE. 

Through  the  hushed  air  the  whit'ning  shower 

descends, 
At  first  thin-wavering,  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the 

day 
With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  "svinter  robe  of  purest  white : 
'Tis  brightness  all,  save  where  the  new  snow 

melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.     Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head;    and  ere  the  languid 

sun 
Faint  from  the  west,  emits  his  evening  ray ; 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep  hid,  and  chill, 
Is  one  wide  dazzUng  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  labourer- 
ox 
Stands   covered   o'er   with    snow,    and   then 

demands 
I       The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.    The  fowls  of  heaven, 
I       Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
'       The  winnowing   store,   and  claim  the  little 

boon 
,       ^Vhich  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 
j       The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets,  leaves 
His    shivering   mates,    and    pays   to   trusted 

man 
His  annual  visit.     Half  afraid,  he  first 
Against    the    window    beats ;     then,    brisk, 

alights 
On  the  warm  hearth ;   then  hopping  o'er  the 

floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 
And  pecks,    and  starts,  and  wonders  where 

he  is : 
Till  more  familiar  grown,  the  table  crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 
Pour   forth    their    brown    inhabitants.      The 

hare, 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 
By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares  and 


And  more  unpitying  men,  the  garden  seeks, 

Urged  on   by  fearless  want.      The   bleating 
kine 

Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next,  the  glist'ning 
earth. 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair ;  then,  sad  dis- 
persed. 

Dig  for  the  wither' d  herb  through  heaps  of 
snow.     *     * 
As    thus   the   snows   arise,    and   foul   and 
fierce 


the    dusky    spot    which    fancy 


All  winter  drives  along  the  darken' d  air. 
In  his  own  loose  revolving  fields  the  swain 
Disaster'd  stands ;  sees  other  hills  ascend, 
Of  unknown  joyless  brow,  and  other  scenes. 
Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain ; 
Nor  finds  the  river  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild ;  but  wanders  on 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more  astray, 
Impatient     flouncing    through     the     drifted 

heaps. 
Stung    with    the    thoughts    of    home;     the 

thoughts  of  home 
Rush  on   Ms   nerves,    and   call  their   vigour 

forth 
In   many   a   vain   attempt.      How  sinks   his 

soul ! 
What   black   despair,    what   horror,   filla  his 

heart ! 
When     for 

feign' d, 

His  tufted  cottage  rising  thi'ough  the  snow, 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste. 
Far  from  the  track  and  bless' d  abode  of  man ; 
While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast, 
And  every  tempest  howling  o'er  his  head. 
Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 
Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind, 
Of  cover'd  pits,  vmfathomably  deep, 
A  dire  descent !  beyond  the  power  of  frost ; 
Of  faithless  bogs  ;  of  precipices  huge 
Smoothed  up  with  snow ;    and  what  is  land 

unknown, 
What  water  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring. 
In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 
Where  the   fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom 

boils. 
These  check  his  fearful  steps,  and  down  he 

sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift, 
Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death, 
Mix'd  with  the  tender  anguish  nature  shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man,- 
Kis  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends,  un 

seen. 
In  vain  for  him  the  ofiicious  wife  prepares 
The  fire  fair  blazing,  and  the  vestment  warm : 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 
Into  the  mingling  storm,  demand  their  sire 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.     Alas  ! 
Nor  wife  nor  children  more  shall  he  behold. 
Nor   friends,    nor   sacred  home.      On   every 

nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes,  shuts  up  sense, 
And  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold. 
Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffen' d  corse, 
Stretch'd  out,  and  bleaching  on  the  northern 

blast. 

James  Thomson. — Born  1700,  Died  1748. 


874.— A  HYMN. 

These,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     Tlie  rolling  year 


James  Thomson.] 


A  HYMN. 


[Sixth  Period.- 


Is    full    of    thee.       Forth    in    the  pleasing 

Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields ;    the  softening    air  is 

balm  ; 
Echo     the     mountains    round  ;      the    forest 

smiles  ; 
And  every  sense,  and  every  heart,  is  joy. 
Then     comes    thy    glory    in    the     Summer- 
months, 
With  light    and  heat   refulgent.      Then  thy 

Sun 
Shoots   fuU   perfection   through  the  swelling 

year : 
And    oft    thy    voice    in     dreadful     thunder 

speaks ; 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hoUow-whispering 

gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined. 
And  spreads  a   common   feast    for   all    that 

lives. 
In    Winter  awful   thou  !     with   clouds    and 

storms 
Around  thee   thrown,  tempest  o'er    tempest 

roll'd. 
Majestic  darkness  !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
Eiding  sublime,  thou  bidst  the  world  adore, 
And    humblest     nature    with    thy    northern 

blast. 
Mysterious  round!    what  skill,  what  force 

divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear  !  a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  delightful  mix'd,  with  such  kind  art. 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade  ; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole  ; 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But   wandering   oft,  with  brute  unconscious 

gaze, 
Man  marks  not  thee,  marks  not  the  mighty 

hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres ; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep  ;    shoots,  steaming, 

thence 
The    fair    profusion     that     o'erspreads     the 

Spring  : 
Flings  from  the  Sun  direct  the  flaming  day ; 
Feeds   every  creature  ;    hurls    the   tempests 

forth; 
And,    as    on    Earth    this     grateful     change 

revolves, 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend  !  join  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join ;  and,  ardent,  raise 
One  general  song  !     To  him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  Spirit  in  your  freshness 

breathes  : 
Oh,  talk  of  him  in  solitary  glooms : 
Where,    o'er  the   rock,  the  scarcely  waving 

pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 
Who  shake  th'  astonish' d  world,  lift  high  to 

Heaven 


Th'  imi^etiTous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you 

rage. 
His  praise,   ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling 

rills  ; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound  ; 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 
Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Sound  his  stupendous  praise ;    whose  greater 

voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 
Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fru.its,  and 

flowers. 
In  mingled  clouds  to  him  ;  whose  Sun  exalts, 
Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil 

paints. 
Ye  forests  bend,  ye  harvests  wave,  to  him  ; 
Breathe   your   still   song    into    the    reaper's 

heart. 
As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  Moon. 
Ye   that   keep   watch   in   Heaven,    as  Earth 


I   Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams, 

i    Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 

i   Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 

;    Great  source  of  day  !  best  image  here  below 

,    Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 

j   From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 

I    On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  his  praise. 

}   The  thunder  rolls ;    be  hush'd  the  prostrate 

world ; 
I   While   cloud   to   cloud   returns    the    solemn 
j  hymn. 

I   Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  :  ye  mossy  rocks, 
'   Retain  the  sound  :  the  broad  responsive  low, 
Ye   valleys,  raise ;    for  the    Great    Shepherd 

reigns ; 
And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake  :  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves  !  and  when  the  restless 

day. 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 
Sweetest  of  birds  !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 
The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  his 

praise. 
Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of 

all. 
Crown  the  great  hymn  !    in  swarming  cities 

vast. 
Assembled  men,  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The     long-resounding     voice,    oft     breaking 

clear. 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  base  ; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each. 
In  one  united  ardour  rise  to  Heaven. 
Or  if  you  rather  chuse  the  rural  shade. 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  secret  grove ; 
There  let  tlie  shepherd's    flute,  the  virgin's 

lay. 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons,  as  they  roll. 
For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  tlieme. 
Whether   the   blossom   blows,   the    Summer- 
ray 


F.'om  1727  to  1780.]    BAED'S  SONG  IN  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE.        [James  Thomso?--. 


Eussets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams  ; 

Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east ; 

Be    my   tongue    mute,    my   fancy   paint    no 

more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heai-t  to  beat. 
Should  Fate  command  me  to  the  farthest 

verge 
Of    the   green   earth,   to    distant    barbarous 

climes, 
Eivers  unknown  to   song :     where  first   the 

Sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles  ;    'tis  nought  to 

me ; 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt. 
In  the  void  waste,  as  in  the  city  full ; 
And  where  he  vital  breathes,  there  must  be 

joy. 
When   ev'n   at   last   the   solemn   hour   shall 

come. 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 
I     cheerful    will     obey  :      there,    with   new 

powers, 
Will  rising  wonders  sing  :  I  cannot  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns  ; 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 
In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 
Myself  in  liim,  in  Light  ineffable  ; 
Come    then,     expi'cssive    Silence,    muse    his 

praise. 

James  Thomson.— Bom  1700,  Died  1748. 


875.— FEOM  THE  BAED'S  SONG  IN  THE 
CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 

"  It  was  not  by  vile  loitering  in  ease 

That  Greece  obtain' d  the  brighter  i)alm  of 

art, 
That    soft   yet    a,rdent   Athens    learnt    to 

please. 
To  keen  the  wit,  and  to  sublime  the  heart, 
In  all  supreme  !  complete  in  every  part  I 
It  was  not  thence  majestic  Eome  arose, 
And  o'er  the  nations  shook  her  conqiiering 

dart : 
For    sluggard's    brow    the     laurel     never 

grows ; 
Eonown  is  not  the  child  of  indolent  repose. 

Had  unambitious  mortals  minded  nought. 

But  in  loose  joy  their  time  to  wear  away  ; 

Had  they  alone  the  lap  of  dalliance  sought, 

Pleased  on  her  pillow  their  dull  heads  to 
lay, 

Eude  Nature's  state  had  been  our  state  to- 
day ; 

No  cities  e'er  their  towery  fronts  had 
raised, 

No  arts  had  made  us  opulent  and  gay  ; 


With  brother-brutes  the  human  race  had 
grazed  ; 
None  e'er  had  soar'd  to  fame,  none  honour'd 
been,  none  praised. 

Great    Homer's  song  had  never  fired   the 

breast  —     - 

To  thirst  of  glory,  and  heroic  deeds  ; 
Sweet   Maro's    Muse,    sunk    in    inglorious 

rest. 
Had  silent  slept  amid  the  Mincian  reeds  : 
The   wits   of   modem  time  had  told  their 

beads. 
And    monkish    legends    been     their     only 

strains  ; 
Our    Milton's    Eden    had    lain    wrapt    in 

weeds. 
Our  Shakspeare  stroll' d  and  laugh' d  with 

Warwick  swains, 
Ne    had    my   master   Spenser     charm' d    his 
MuUa's  plains. 

Dumb   too    had    been    the    sage    historic 

Muse, 
And  perish'd  all  the  sons  of  ancient  fame ; 
Those  starry  lights  of  virtue,  that  diffuse 
Tlirough  the  dark  depth  of  time  their  vivid 

flame. 
Had  all  been  lost  with  such  as  have  no 

name. 
Who  then  had  scorn' d  his  ease  for  others' 

good? 
Who  then   had   toil'd   rapacious    men    to 

tame  ? 
Who  in  the  public  breach  devoted  stood. 
And  for  his  country's  cause  been  prodigal  of 
blood  ? 

But  should  your  hearts  to  fame  unfeeling 

be. 
If  right  I  read,  you  pleasure  all  require : 
Then  hear  how  best  may  be  obtain' d  this 

fee, 
How  best  enjoy'd  this  nature's  wide  desire. 
Toil,  and  be  glad  !  let  Industry  inspire 
Into  your  quicken'd    limbs    her   buoyaiit 

breath ! 
Who  does  not  act  is  dead  ;  absorpt  entire 
In  miry  sloth,  no  pride,  no  joy  he  hath  : 
O    leaden-hearted   men,  to   be   in  love  with 
death  ' 

Ah  !     what     avail    the    largest    gifts    of 

Heaven, 
When    drooping    health    and     spirits    go 

amiss  ? 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be  given  ! 
Health  is  the  vital  principle  of  bliss, 
And  exercise  of  health.     In  proof  of  this, 
Behold  the  ^vretch,  who  slugs  his  life  away, 
Soon  swallow' d  in  disease's  sad  abyss  ; 
While  he  whom  toil  has  braced,  or  manly 

play, 
Has  light  as  air  each  limb,  each  thought  as 
clear  as  day. 


James  Thomson.] 


ODE. 


[Sixth  Period.— 


O,   who   can   speak    the   \dgorous    joy   of 

health  ? 
Unclogg'd  the  body,  tmobscured  the  mind  : 
The    morning-    rises     gay,     with    pleasing 

stealth, 
The   temperate   evening  falls    serene   and 

kind. 
In   health  the  wiser  brutes  true   gladness 

find. 
See!   how  the  younglings  frisk  along  the 

meads, 
As  May  comes  on,  and  wakes  the  balmy 

wind; 
Eampant     with     life,    their    joy    all    joy 


Yet  what  but  high-strung  health  this  dancing 
pleasaunce  breeds  ?  " 

.  James  Thomson. — Born  1700,  Died  1748. 


876.— ODE. 

O  Nightingale,  best  poet  of  the  grove, 

That  plaintive    strain  can  ne'er  belong  to 
thee, 

Blest  in  the  full  possession  of  thy  love : 

O  lend  that   strain,  sweet  nightingale,   to 


'Tis  mine,  alas  !  to  mourn  my  wretched  fate  : 
I  love  a  maid  who  all  my  bosom  charms. 

Yet  lose  my  days  without  this  lovely  mate  ; 
Inhuman  Fortune  keeps  her  from  my  arms. 

You,  happy  birds  !  by  nature's  simple  laws 
Lead  your  soft  lives,  sustain' d  by  Nature's 
fare; 

You  dwell  wherever  roving  fancy  draws. 
And  love  and  song  is  all  your  pleasing  care  : 

But  we,  vain  slaves  of  interest  and  of  pride. 
Dare  not    be    blest   lest   envious   tongues 
should  blame  : 
And  hence,  in  vain  I  languish  for  my  bride  ; 
0  mourn  with  me,  sweet  bird,  my  hapless 
flame. 

James  Thomson. — Born  1700,  Bicd  1748. 


877.— HYMN  ON  SOLITUDE. 

Hail,  mildly  pleasing  Solitude, 
Companion  of  the  wise  and  good, 
But,  from  whose  holy,  piercing  eye, 
The  herd  of  fools  and  villains  fly. 

Oh  !  how  I  love  with  thee  to  walk. 
And  listen  to  thy  whisper' d  talk. 
Which  innocence  and  truth  imparts. 
And  melts  the  most  obdurate  hearts. 


A  thousand  shapes  yoix  wear  with  ease, 
And  stiU  in  every  shape  you  please. 
Now  wrapt  in  some  mysterious  dream, 
A  lono  philosopher  you  seem  ; 
Now  quick  from  hill  to  vale  you  fly, 
And  now  you  sweep  the  vaulted  sky ; 
A  shepherd  next,  you  haunt  the  plain. 
And  warble  forth  your  oaten  strain. 
A  lover  now,  with  all  the  grace 
Of  that  sweet  passion  in  your  face ; 
Then,  calm'd  to  friendship,  you  assume 
The  gentle-looking  Hartford's  bloom, 
As,  with  her  Musidora,  she 
(Her  Musidora  fond  of  thee) 
Amid  the  long  withdrawing  vale, 
Awakes  the  rivall'd  nightingale. 

Thine  is  the  balmy  breath  of  morn. 
Just  as  the  dew-bent  rose  is  born  ; 
And  while  meridian  fervours  beat. 
Thine  is  the  woodland  dumb  retreat ; 
But  chief,  when  evening  scenes  decay, 
And  the  faint  landscape  swims  away, 
Thine  is  the  doubtful  soft  decline, 
And  that  best  hour  of  musing  thine. 

Descending  angels  bless  thy  train, 
The  virtues  of  the  sage,  and  swain  ; 
Plain  Innocence,  in  white  array' d, 
Before  thee  lifts  her  fearless  head  : 
Ecligion's  beams  around  thee  shine, 
And  cheer  thy  glooms  with  light  divine  : 
About  thee  sports  sweet  Liberty ; 
And  rapt  Urania  sings  to  thee. 

Oh,  let  me  pierce  thy  secret  cell  I 
And  in  thy  deep  recesses  dwell ; 
Perhaps  from  Norwood's  oak-clad  hill, 
When  Meditation  has  her  fill, 
I  just  may  cast  my  careless  eyes 
Whe?e  London's  spiry  turrets  rise, 
Think  of  its  crimes,  its  cares,  its  pain. 
Then  shield  me  in  the  woods  again. 

Janics  Thomson.— Born  1700,  Died  1748. 


878.— THE  HAPPY  MAN. 

He's  not  the  Happ3^  Man  to  whom  is  given 
A  plenteous  fortune  by  indulgent  Heaven ; 
Whose  gilded  roofs  on  shining  columns  rise. 
And  painted  walls  enchant  the  gazer's  eyes  ; 
Whose  table  flows  with  hospitable  cheer. 
And  all  the  various  bounty  of  the  year ; 
Whose  valleys  smile,  whose  gardens  breathe 

the  spring. 
Whose  carved  mountains  bleat,  and  forests 

sing; 
For    whom    the  cooling    shade    in    Summer 

twines, 
\Vhile   his   fuU   cellars    give   their    generous 

wines  ; 
From  whose  wide  fields  unbounded  Autuum 

pours 
A  golden  tide  into  liis  swelling  stores  ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


GRONGAR  HILL. 


[John  Dyer. 


VvTiose  winter  laughs  ;    for  whom  the  liberal 

gales 
Stretch  the  big    sheet,  and  toiling  commerce 

sails; 
"When  yielding  crowds  attend,  and  pleasure 

serves ; 
While  youth,  and  health,   and  vigour  string 

his  nerves. 
Ev'n  not  all  these,  in  one  rich  lot  combined. 
Can    make    the    Happy   Man,    -without    the 

mind ; 
Where     Judgment     sits    clear-sighted,     and 

surveys 
The  chain  of  Reason  with  unerring  gaze  ; 
Where   Fancy  lives,  and   to  the  brightening 

eyes. 
His  fairer  scenes  and  bolder  figures  rise  ; 
Where  social  Love  exerts  her  soft  command. 
And  plays  the  passions  mth  a  tender  hand, 
"Whence  every  virtue  flows,  in  rival  strife, 
And  all  the  moral  harmony  of  life. 

James  Thomson. — Born  1700,  DlcO.  1748. 


S79.— RULE  BRITANNIA. 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command. 
Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 

This  was  the  charter  of  the  land. 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain  : 

Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rvdes  the  waves  ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

Tlie  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee, 
Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise. 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  ; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies, 
Serv'es  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame  ; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  dowoi 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  -shall  with  commerce  shine  ; 
All  shall  be  subject  to  the  main. 
And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found. 
Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair  ; 

Blest  isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
Rule  Britannia,  &c. 

Ja)n<?s  Tliomson. — Born  1700,  Bied  1748. 


880.— GRONGAR  HILL. 

Silent  nymph,  mth  curious  eye, 

Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 

On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man  ; 

Painting  fair  the  form  of  things,    —  — 

Wliile  the  yellow  linnet  sings  ; 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 

Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale  ; 

Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues. 

Come  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse  ; 

Now,  while  Phoebus  riding  high. 

Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky  ! 

Grongar  HiR  invites  my  song. 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 

Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells  ; 

Grongar,  in  v.'hose  silent  shade. 

For  the  modest  Muses  made  ; 

So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill. 

Sate  upon  a  flowery  bed. 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head  ; 

While  stray' d  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood. 

Over  mead  and  over  wood. 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hiU, 

Till  Contemplation  had  her  fiU. 

About  his  chequer' d  sides  I  wind. 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves,  and  grottoes  where  I  lay. 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day  : 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale. 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal : 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate  ; 
Sooner  or  later  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise : 
StiU  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meada  ; 
Still  it  -widens,  -widens  still. 
And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 

Now,  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 
What  a  landscape  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapours  intervene ; 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  Nature  show. 
In  all  the  hues  of  Heaven's  bow  ! 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies  ! 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires  ! 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads  I 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks  ! 

Below  me  trees  unnumber'd  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew. 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  gi-ows. 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs. 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love  ! 


William  Hamilton.] 


THE  BEAES  OF  YAEEOW. 


Sixth  Period.— 


Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high. 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye  ! 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood, 
His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood. 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below ; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps  ; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
On  mutual  dependence  find. 
'Tis  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode  ; 
'Tis  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds  ; 
And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 
Conceal' d  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds  ; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 
Huge  heajis  of  hoary  moulder'd  walls. 
Yet  Time  has  seen,  that  lifts  the  low, 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow, 
Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state  ; 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  ! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sun-beam  in  a  winter's  day, 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between,  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run, 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  Bxm, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow, 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 
Like  human  life,  to  endless  sleep  I 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought, 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay, 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view  ! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow, 
The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low ; 
The  mndy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Eoughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ! 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruin'd  tower. 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower  ; 
The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm. 
Each  give  each  a  double  charm. 
As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side, 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide  ; 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie  ! 
"What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye  ! 
A  step  methinks  may  pass  the  stream, 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem ; 
So  we  mistake  the  Future's  face, 
Ey'd  through  Hope's  deluding  glass  ; 
As  yon  summits  soft  and  fair, 
Clad  in  colours  of  the  air. 
Which  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear  ; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way. 
The  present  's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

O  may  I  with  myself  agree, 
And  never  covet  what  I  see ; 


Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid ; 
For,  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul : 
'Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air, 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie  ; 
While  the  wanton  zephyr  sings, 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep  ; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep ; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly, 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  e'en  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts  ;  be  great  who  ■will 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill : 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 
In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there  ; 
In  vain  ye  search  the  domes  of  Care  ! 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads,  and  mountain-heads. 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied, 
Ever  by  each  other's  side  : 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill, 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still, 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

John  Dyc-.—Bonv  1700,  Died  1758. 


88 1. —THE  BEAES  OF  YAEEOW. 

A.  Busk  ye,  bu.sk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow  ! 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 
And    think   nae     mair    on    the    Braes    of 
Yarrow. 

B.  Where  gat  ye  that  bonny  bonny  bride  ? 
Where  gat  ye  that  winsome  marrow  ? 

A.  I  gat  her  where  I  darena  weil  be  seen, 
Pouing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 
Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  winsome  marrow  ! 

Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leave 

Pouing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

B.  Why  does  she  weep,  thy  bonny  bonny  bride  ? 
Why  does  she  weep,  thy  winsome  marrow  ? 

And  why  dare  ye  nae  mair  Aveil  be  seen, 
Pouing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow  ? 

A.  Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun  she,  maun 
she  weep, 

Lang  maun  she  weep  with  dule  and  sorrow, 
And  lang  maun  I  nae  mair  weil  be  seen, 

Pouing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

For  she  has  tint  her  lover  lover  dear. 
Her  lover  dear,  the  cause  of  sorrow, 

And  I  hae  slain  the  comeliest  swain 

That   e'er    poued    birks    on   the  Braes  ot 
Yarrow. 


From  11 27  to  1780.] 


THE  BEAES  OF  YAEROW. 


[William  Hamilton. 


VThj  runs   thy  stream,  O  Yarrow,  Yarrow, 
red  ? 
Why   on   thy  braes    heard    the    voice   of 
sorrow  ? 
And  why  yon  melancholious  weeds 
Hxing  on  the  bonny  birks  of  Yarrow  ? 

Wliat  's  yonder  floats   on   the   rueful  rueful 
flude  ? 
What  's   yonder   floats  ?     O  dule  and  sor- 
row I 
'Tis  he,  the  comely  swain  I  slew 
Upon  the  duleful  Braes  of  Yarrow, 

Wash,  oh  wash   his  wounds   his   wounds  in 
tears, 

His  wounds  in  tears  with  dule  and  sorrow, 
And  wi'ap  his  limbs  in  mourning  weeds, 

And  lay  him  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Then  build,  then  buUd,  ye  sisters  sisters  sad, 
Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  with  sorrow, 

And  weep  around  in  waeful  wise, 

His  helpless  fate  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Curse  ye,  curse  ye,  his  useless  useless  shield, 
My  arm  that  wrought  the  deed  of  sorrow. 

The  fatal  spear  that  pierced  liis  breast, 

His  comely  breast,  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Did  I  not  warn  thee  not  to  lue, 

And  warn  from  fight,  but  to  my  sorrow  ; 
O'er  rashly  bauld  a  stronger  arm 

Thou  met'st,   and  fell    on    the  Braes   of 
Yarrow. 

Sweet  smells  the  birk,   green  grows,   green 
grows  the  grass, 

Yellow  on  Yarrow  bank  the  gowan, 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowan. 

Flows  Yarrow    sweet  ?    as   sweet,    as  sweet 
flows  Tweed, 

As  green  its  grass,  its  gowan  as  yellow, 
As  sweet  smells  on  its  braes  the  birk. 

The  apple  frae  the  rock  as  mellow. 

Fair  was  thy  love,  fair  fair  indeed  thy  love. 
In  flowery  bands  thou  him  didst  fetter  ; 

Thoiagh  he  was  fair  and  weil  beloved  again. 
Than  me  he  never  lued  thee  better. 

Busk  ye,  then  busk,  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow. 

Busk  ye,  and  luc  nie  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
And    think    nac    mair    on    the    Braes   of 
Yarrow. 

C.  How  can  I  busk  a  bonny  bonny  bride. 
How  can  I  busk  a  winsome  marrow. 

How  lue  him  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 

That  slew  my  love  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

O  Yarrow  fields  !  may  never  never  rain, 
Nor  dew  thy  tender  blossoms  cover, 

For  there  was  basely  slain  my  love, 
My  love,  as  he  had  not  been  a  lover. 


The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes  of  green. 
His  purple  vest,  'twas  my  ain  sowing. 

Ah  !  wretched  me  !  I  little  little  kenn'd 
He  was  in  these  to  meet  his  ruin. 

The  boy  took  out  his  milk-white  milk-white 
steed,  _ 

Unheediiul  of  my  dule  and  sorrow. 
But  e'er  the  to-faU.  of  the  night 

He  lay  a  corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Much  I  rejoiced  that  waeful  waeful  day ; 

I  sang,  my  voice  the  woods  returning, 
But  lang  ere  night  the  spear  was  flown 

That  slew  my  love,  and  left  me  mourning. 

What  can  my  barbarous  barbarous  father  do, 
But  with  his  cruel  rage  pursue  me  ? 

My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear. 

How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man,  then  woo 
me? 

My  happy  sisters  may  be  may  be  proud ; 

With  cruel  and  ungentle  scoffin, 
May  bid  me  seek  on  Yarrow  Braes 

My  lover  nail'd  in  his  coffin. 

My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid,  upbraid. 
And  strive  with  threatening  words  to  move 
me. 

My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear, 

How  canst  thou  ever  bid  me  love  thee  ? 

Yes,  yes,  prepare  the  bed,  the  bed  of  love, 
V\^ith  bridal  sheets  my  body  cover, 

Unbar,  ye  bridal  maids,  the  door. 
Let  in  the  expected  husband  lover. 

But  who  the  expected  husband  husband  is  ? 

His     hands,     methinks,     are      bathed     in 
slaughter. 
Ah  me  !  what  ghastly  spectre  's  yon. 

Comes  in  his  pale  shroud,  bleeding  after  ? 

Pale  as  he  is,  here  lay  him  lay  him  dovv  n, 
O  lay  his  cold  head  on  my  pillow  ; 

Take  aff  take  aff  these  bridal  weeds, 

And  crown  my  careful  head  with  willow. 

Pale    though    thou    art,   yet    best   yet   best 
beloved, 

O  could  my  warmth  to  life  restore  thee ! 
Ye'd  lie  all  night  between  my  breasts, 

No  youth  lay  ever  there  before  thee. 

Pale  pale,  indeed,  O  lovely  lovely  j'outh, 
Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a  slaughter. 

And  he  all  night  between  my  breasts, 
No  youth  shall  ever  lie  there  after. 

Eetum,  return,  O  mournful  mournful  bride. 
Return  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow  : 

Thy  lover  heeds  nought  of  thy  sighs, 

He  lies  a  corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

William  Hamilton. — Born  1704,  B!cd  1754. 


1      William  Hamilton.] 


SONG. 


[Sixth  Period. 


882.— SONG. 

Ye  sliepliGrds  of  this  pleasant  vale, 

Where  Yarrow  streams  along-, 
Forsake  your  rural  toils,  and  join 

In  my  triumphant  song. 

She  grants,  she  yields  ;  one  heavenly  smile 

Atones  her  long*  delays, 
One  happy  minute  crowns  the  pains 

Of  many  suffering'  days. 

Eai?e,  raise  the  victor  notes  of  joy. 

These  suffering  days  are  o'er ; 
Love  satiates  now  his  boundless  wish 

From  beauty's  boundless  store  : 

No  doubtful  hopes,  no  anxious  fears. 

This  rising  calm  destroy ; 
Now  every  prospect  smiles  around, 

All  op'ning  into  joy. 

The  sun  with  double  lustre  shone 

That  dear  consenting  hour, 
Brighten' d  each  hill,  and  o'er  each  vale 

New  colour' d  every  flower  : 

The  gales  their  gentle  sighs  withheld. 

No  leaf  was  seen  to  move, 
The  hovering  songsters  round  were  mute, 

And  wonder  hush'd  the  grove. 

The  hills  and  dales  no  more  resound 

The  lambkin's  tender  cry ; 
Without  one  murmur  Yarrow  stole 

In  dimpling  silence  by  : 

All  nature  seem'd  in  stUl  repose 

Her  voice  alone  to  hear, 
That  gently  roll'd  the  tuneful  wave. 

She  spoke  and  bless' d  my  ear. 

Take,  take  whate'er  of  bliss  or  joy 
,     You  fondly  fancy  mine ; 
Whate'er  of  joy  or  bliss  I  boast. 
Love  renders  wholly  thine  : 

The  woods  struck  up  to  the  soft  gale. 

The  leaves  were  seen  to  move, 
The  feather'd  choir  resumed  their  voice, 

And  wonder  fill'd  the  grove  ; 

The  hills  and  dales  again  resound 

The  lambkins'  tender  cry. 
With  all  his  murmurs  Yarrow  trill'd 

The  song  of  triumph  by  ; 

Above,  beneath,  around,  all  on 

Was  verdure,  beauty,  song ; 
I  snatch' d  her  to  my  trembling  breast, 

All  natxire  joy'd  along, 

William  Hamilton.—Born  1704,  Died  1754. 


Ah,  the  poor  shepherd's  mournful  fate, 

When  doom'd  to  love  and  doom'd   to  lan- 
guish. 
To  bear  the  scornful  fa,ir  one's  hate, 

Nor  dare  disclose  his  anguish  ! 
Yet  eager  looks  and  dying  sighs 

My  secret  soul  discover, 
■Wliile  rapture,  trembling  through  mine  eyes. 

Reveals  how  much  I  love  her. 
The  tender  glance,  the  reddening  cheek, 

O'erspread  with  rising  blushes, 
A  thousand  various  ways  they  speak 

A  thousand  various  wishes. 

For,  oh  !  that  form  so  heavenly  fair. 

Those  languid  eyes  so  sweotiy  smiling, 
That  artless  blush  and  modest  air. 

So  fatally  beguiling ; 
Thy  every  look,  and  every  grace. 

So  chai'm,  whene'er  I  view  thee, 
TUl  death  o'ertake  me  in  the  chase, 

Still  will  my  hopes  pursue  thee. 
Then,  when  my  tedious  hours  are  i)ast, 

Be  this  last  blessing  given. 
Low  at  thy  feet  to  breathe  my  last. 

And  die  in  sight  of  heaven. 

William  Hamilton. — Born  1704,  IHed  1754. 


884.— LONDON. 

Though    grief    and    fondness  in    my    breast 

rebel. 
When  injured  Thales  bids  the  town  farewell ; 
Yet   still   my   calmer    thoughts    his     choice 

commend, 
I  praise  the  hermit,  but  regret  the  friend. 
Who   now  resolves,   from   vice   and  London 

far, 
To  breathe  in  distant  fields  a  purer  air ; 
And  fix'd  on  Cambria's' solitary  shore. 
Give  to  St.  David  one  true  Briton  more. 
For  who  would  leave,  unbribed,  Hibemia's 

land, 
Or  change   the   rocks   of    Scotland    for   the 

Strand  ? 
There  none  are  swept  by  sudden  fate  away. 
But    all,    whom    hunger    spares,    with    age 

decay  : 
Here  malice,  rapine,  accident  conspire, 
And  now  a  rabble  rages,  now  a  fire  ; 
Their  ambush  here  relentless  rufiians  lay. 
And  here  the  fell  attorney  prowls  for  prey ; 
Here  falling  houses  thunder  on  your  head. 
And  here  a  female  atheist  talks  you  dead. 
■WTiile  Thales  waits  the  wherry  that  con- 
tains 
Of  dissipated  wealth  the  small  remains, 


I'rom  1727  to  1780.] 


LONDON. 


[SAMUEii  Johnson. 


On   Thames' s   banks,  in   silent  thought   we 

stood, 
Where   Greenwich    smiles    upon    the    silver 

flood: 
Struck  mth  the  seat  that  gave  Eliza  birth. 
We  kneel,  and  kiss  the  consecrated  earth  ; 
In  pleasing  dreams  the  blissful  age  renew, 
And  call  Britannia's  glories  back  to  view; 
Behold  her  cross  triumphant  on  the  main, 
The   guard  of   commerce,   and  the  dread  of 

Spain, 
Ere  masquerades  debauch'd,  excise  oppress'd, 
Or  English  honour  grew  a  standing  jest. 

A  transient  calm  the  happy  scenes  bestow, 
And  for  a  moment  lull  the  sense  of  woe. 
At  length  awaking,  with  contemptuous  frown, 
Indignant  Thales  eyes  the  neighbouring  town  : 
"  Since  worth,"  he  cries,  "  in  these  degenerate 

days. 
Wants  e'en  the  cheap  reward  of  empty  praise ; 
In   those   cursed   walls,  devote   to   vice   and 

gain, 
Since  unrewarded  science  toils  in  vain ; 
Since  hope  but  soothes  to  double  my  distress, 
And  every  moment  leaves  my  little  less  ; 
While  yet  my  steady  steps  no  staff  sustains. 
And  life  stUl  vigorous  revels  in  my  veins  ; 
Grant  me,  kind  Heaven,  to  find  some  happier 

place, 
Where  honesty  and  sense  are  no  disgrace ; 
Some   pleasing    bank    where    verdant   osiers 

play, 
Some   peaceful   vale   with   Nature's  painting 

gay; 
Where  once  the  harass'd  Briton  found  repose. 
And  safe  in  poverty  defied  his  foes  ; 
Some  secret  cell,  ye  powers  indulgent,  give. 

Let live  here,  for has  leam'd  to  live. 

Here  let   those    reign    whom    pensions    can 

incite 
To  vote  a  patriot  black,  a  courtier  white ; 
Explain    their   country's   dear-bought   rights 

away. 
And  plead  for  pirates  in  the  face  of  day  ; 
With  slavish  tenets  taint  oiu*  poison'd  youth, 
And  lend  a  lie  the  confidence  of  triith. 
Let  such  raise  palaces,  and  manors  buy, 
Collect  a  tax,  or  farm  a  lottery  ; 
With  warbling  eunuchs  fill  a  licensed  stage, 
And  lull  to  servitude  a  thoughtless  age. 

"  Heroes,  proceed  !  what  bounds  your  pride 

shall  hold? 
"WTiat  check  restrain  your  thirst  of  power  and 

gold? 
Behold  rebellious  Virtue  quite  o'erthrown, 
Behold  our  fame,  our  wealth,  our  lives  your 

own. 
To  such  a  gfroaning  nation's  spoils  are  given, 
When    public   crimes   inflame   the   wrath   of 

Heaven  : 
But  what,  my  friend,  what  hope  remains  for 

me. 
Who  start  at  theft,  and  blush  at  perjury  ? 
Who  scarce  forbear,  though  Britain's  court  he 

sing, 
To  pluck  a  titled  poet's  borrow'd  wing ; 


A  statesman's  logic  unconvinced  can  hear. 
And  dare  to  slumber  o'er  the  Gazetteer : 
Despise  a  fool  in  half  his  pension  dress' d, 
And    strive   in   vain   to   laugh   at   H y's 

jest. 
"  Others,   with   softer   smiles   and   subtler 

art,  —    _ 

Can  sap  the  priaiciples,  or  taint  the  heart ; 
With  more  address  a  lover's  note  convey. 
Or  bribe  a  virgin's  innocence  away. 
Well   may  they  rise,  while   I,  whose   rustic 

tongue 
Ne'er  knew  to  puzzle  right,  or  varnish  wrong, 
Spum'd  as  a  beggar,  dreaded  as  a  spy, 
Live  unregarded,  unlamented  die. 

"For   what  but   social    giiilt     the     friend 

endears  ? 
Who   shares   Orgiho's    crimes,    his    fortunes 

shares. 
But  thou,  should  tempting  villany  pi'esent 
All     Marlborough    hoarded,    or    all    Villiers 

spent. 
Turn  from  the  glittering  bribe  thy  scornful 

eye. 
Nor  sell  for  gold  what  gold  ceuld  never  buy, 
The  peaceful  slumber,  self-approving  day, 
Unstdlied  fame,  and  conscience  ever  gay. 
"The   cheated   nation's   happy   favourites, 


Mark  whom  the  great  caress,  who  frown  on 

me  ! 
London !  the  needy  viUain's  general  homo, 
The  common  sewer  of  Paris  and  of  Eome, 
With  eager  thirst,  by  folly  or  by  fate. 
Sucks  in  the  dregs  of  each  corrupted  state. 
Forgive  my  transports  on  a  theme  lil  e  this, 
I  cannot  bear  a  French  metropolis. 

"  Illustrious  Edward !    from  the  realms   of 

day, 
The  land  of  heroes  and  of  saints  survey  ! 
Nor  hope  the  British  lineaments  to  trace, 
The  rustic  grandeur,  or  the  surly  grace  ; 
But,    lost    in    thoughtless    ease    and    empty 

show. 
Behold  the  warrior  dwindled  to  a  beau  ; 
Sense,  freedom,  piety,  refined  away, 
Of  France  the  mimic,  and  of  Spain  the  prey. 
"All  that  at  homo  no   more    can    beg    or 

steal, 
Or  like  a  gibbet  better  than  a  wheel ; 
Hiss'd  from  the  stage,  or  hooted   from   the 

comrt. 
Their  air,  their  dress,  their  politics  import ; 
Obsequious,  artful,  voluble,  and  gay. 
On  Britain's  fond  credulity  they  prey. 
No  gainful  trade  their  industry  can  'scape, 
They  sing,  they  dance,  clean  shoes,  or  cure  a 

clap : 
All  sciences  a  fasting  Monsieur  knows, 
And  bid  him  go  to  hell,  to  hell  he  goes. 

"  Ah  I  what  avails  it  that,  from  slavery  far, 
I  drew  the  breath  of  life  in  English  air  ; 
W^as  early  taught  a  Briton's  right  to  prize, 
And  lisp  the  tale  of  Henry's  victories  ; 
If  the  gull'd  conqueror  receives  the  chain. 
And  flattery  subdues  when  arms  are  vain  ? 


Samuel  Johnson.] 


LONDON. 


Sixth  Period. — 


"Studious  to  please,  and  ready  to  submit, 
The  supple  Gaul  wJis  born  a  parasite  : 
Still  to  his  interest  true,  where'er  he  goes, 
Wit,  bravery,  worth,  his   lavish   tongue   be- 
stows : 
In  every  face  a  thousand  graces  shine. 
From  every  tongue  flows  harmony  divine. 
These  arts  in  vain  our  rugged  natives  tiy. 
Strain  out  with  faltering  diffidence  a  lie, 
And  gain  a  kick  for  awkward  flattery, 

"  Besides,  with  justice,  this  discerning  age 
Admires     their    wondrous     talents     for    the 

stage : 
Well  may  they  venture  on  the  mimic' s  art, 
Who  play   from   morn  to  night  a  borrow' d 

part: 
Practised  their  master's  notions  to  embrace, 
Repeat  his  maxims,  and  reflect  his  face  ! 
With  every  wild  absurdity  complj', 
And  view  each  object  -with  another's  eye  ; 
To   shake   with  laughter  ere  the  jest    they 

hear. 
To  pour  at  will  the  counterfeited  tear  ; 
And,  as  their  patron  hints  the  cold  or  heat, 
To  shake  in  dog-days,  in  December  sweat. 
How,  when  competitors  like  these  contend. 
Can  surly  Vii-tue  hope  to  fix  a  friend  ? 
Slaves  that  with  serious  impudence  beguile. 
And  lie  without  a  blush,  without  a  smile  ; 
Exalt  each  trifle,  every  vice  adore. 
Your   taste   in    snuff,    your    judgment    in    a 

whore ; 
Can  Balbo's  eloquence  applaud,  and  swear 
He  gropes  his  breeches  -with  a  monarch's  air  ! 
"  For  arts   like   these    preferr'd,  admired, 

cares s'd. 
They    first    invade    your    table,    then    your 

breast ; 
Explore  your  secrets  with  insidious  art, 
Watch  the  weak   hour,  and  ransack  all  the 

heart ; 
Then  soon  your  ill-placed  confidence  repay, 
Commence  your  lords,  and  govern  or  betray. 
"  By  numbers  here,  from  shame  or  censure 

free, 
All  crimes  are  safe  but  hated  poverty : 
This,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues, 
This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarling  muse. 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tatter' d  cloak 
Wakes   from   his   dream,  and  labours   for   a 

joke; 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtiers  gaze, 
And  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand  ways. 
Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distress' d. 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest ; 
Fate  never  wounds  more  deep  the  generous 

heart 
Than  when  a  blockhead's  insult  points  the  dart. 
"  Has  Heaven  reserved,  in  pity  to  the  poor. 
No  pathless  waste,  or  undiscover'd  shore  ? 
No  secret  island  in  the  boundless  main  ? 
No  peaceful  desert  yet  un claim' d  by  Spain  ? 
Quick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  explore. 
And  bear  Oppression's  insolence  no  more. 
This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere  confess' d  : 
Slow  rises  worth,  by  poverty  depressed  : 


But  here  more  slow,  where  all  are  slaves  to 

gold, 
Where  looks  are  merchandise,  and  smOes  are 

sold : 
Where,  won  by  bribes,  by  flatteries  implored, 
The  groom  retails  the  favours  of  his  lord. 
"  But  hark  !   the  aff'rightcd  crowd's  tumxil- 

tuous  cries 
Roll  through  the  street,  and  thunder  to  the 

skies : 
Raised  from  some  pleasing  dream  of  wealth 

and  power. 
Some  pompous  palace,  or  some  blissful  bower, 
Aghast   you   start,  and    scarce    with    aching 

sight 
Sustain    the    approaching   fire's    tremendous 

light ; 
Swift  from  pursuing  horrors  take  your  way. 
And  leave  your  little  all  to  flames  a  prey ; 
Then  through  the  world  a  wretched  vagTant 

roam, 
For  where  can  starving  Merit  find  a  home  ? 
In  vain  your  mournful  narrative  disclose, 
While  all  neglect,  and  most  insult  your  woes. 
"  Should  Heaven's  just  bolts  Orgilio's  wealth 

confound. 
And  spread  his  flaming  palace  on  the  ground. 
Swift  o'er  the  land  the  dismal  I'umour  flues. 
And  public  mournings  pacify  the  skies  ; 
The  laureate  tribe  in  servile  verse  relate 
How  Virtue  wars  with  persecuting  Fate  ; 
With  well-feign' d  gratitude  the  pension' d  band 
Refund  the  plunder  of  the  beggar' d  land. 
See  !  while  he  builds,  the  gaudy  vassals  come. 
And  crowd   with   sudden   wealth  the    rising 

dome  ; 
The  price  of  boroughs  and  of  souls  restore, 
And  raise  his  treasures  higher  than  before  : 
Now  bless' d  with  all  the  baubles  of  the  great. 
The  polish' d  marble,  and  the  shining  plate, 
Orgilio  sees  the  golden  pile  aspire, 
And  hopes  from  angry  Heaven  another  fire. 
"  Couldst   thou  resign   the   park  and  play 

content, 
For  the  fair  banks  of  Severn  or  of  Trent ; 
There  mightst  thou  find  some  elegant  retreat. 
Some  hireling  senator's  deserted  seat, 
And   stretch   thy  prospects  o'er  the    smiling 

land, 
For   less    than    rent   the    dungeons    of    the 

Strand ; 
There  prune  thy  walks,  support  thy  drooping 

flowers. 
Direct  thy  rivulets,  and  twine  thy  bowers  : 
And  while  thy  beds  a  cheap  repast  afford. 
Despise  the  dainties  of  a  venal  lord  : 
There  every  bush  with  nature's  music  rings, 
There    every    breeze   bears   health   upon   its 

wings ; 
On  all  thy  hours  security  shall  smile. 
And  bless  thine  evening  walk  and  morning 

toil. 
"  Prepare   for  death,  if   here  at  night  you 

roam  ; 
And   sign   your   will,    before    you    sup    from 

home. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES. 


[Samuel  Johnson. 


Some  fiery  fop,  with  new  commission  vain, 
Who  sleeps  on  brambles  till  he  kills  his  man ; 
Some  frolic  drunkard,  reeling  from  a  feast, 
Provokes  a  broil,  and  stabs  you  for  a  jest. 

'•  Yet  e'en  these  heroes,  mischievously  gay, 
Lords  of  the  street,  and  terrors  of  the  way ; 
Flush' d   as  they  are  with  folly,  youth,    and 

wine, 
Their  prudent  insults  to  the  poor  confine  ; 
Afar  they  mark   the    flambeau's   bright   ap- 
proach. 
And  shun  the  shining  train  and  golden  coach. 
''  In  vain,  these  dangers  pass'd,  your  doors 
you  close, 
And  hope  the  balmy  blessings  of  repose : 
Cruel  with  guilt,  and  daring  with  despair, 
The   midnight   murderer   bursts  the  faithless 

bar; 
Invades  the  sacred  hour  of  silent  rest. 
And  plants,  unseen,  a  dagger  in  your  breast. 
"  Scarce  can  our  fields,  such  crowds  at  Tyburn 
die, 
With  hemp  the  gallows  and  the  fleet  supply. 
Propose  your  schemes,  ye  senatorian  band, 
Whose  ways  and  means  support  the  sinking 

land ; 
Lest  ropes  be  wanting  in  the  tempting  spring. 
To  rig  another  convoy  for  the  king. 

"A  single  jail,  in  Alfred's  golden  reign, 
Could  half  the  nation's  criminals  contain  ; 
Fair  Justice  then,  without  constraint  adored. 
Held  liigh  the  steady  scale,  but  sheathed  the 

sword ;  I 

No  spies  were  paid,  no  special  juries  known  ;      | 
Bless'd  age  !  but  ah !  how  different  from  our   j 
own!  ! 

"  Much  could  I  add, — ^but  see  the  boat  at   j 
hand, 
The  tide  retiring,  calls  me  from  the  land  : 
Farev/cU  1 — When  youth,  and  health,  and  for- 
tune spent, 
Thou  fiiost  for  refuge  to  the  wilds  of  Kent ; 
And,  tired  like  me  Avith  follies  and  with  crimes, 
In  angry  numbers  wani'st  succeeding  times  ; 
Then   shall  thy  friend,  nor   thou   refuse   his 

aid, 
Still  foe  to  vice,  forsake  his  Cambrian  shade ; 
In  virtue's  cause  once  more  exert  his  rage, 
Thy  satire  point,  and  animate  thy  page." 

SamuelJohnson. — Born  1709,  Died  1784. 


SS5.— THE     VANITY     OP    HUMAN 
WISHES. 

Let  observation,  with  extensive  view. 
Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru ; 
Kemark  each  anxious  toil,  each  eager  strife, 
And  watch  the  busy  scenes  of  crowded  life ; 
Then   say  how  hope    and    fear,   desire   and 

hate, 
O'erspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze  of 

fate. 


Wliere  wav'ring  man,  betray'd  by  vent'rous 

pride, 
To  chase  the  dreary  paths,  without  a  guide. 
As  treach'rous  phantoms  in  the  mist  delude, 
Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good ; 
How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubbpmjihoice, 
Eules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  suppliant 

voice ; 
How  nations   sink   by   darling    schemes   op- 
press'd. 
When  vengeance  listens  to  the  fool's  request. 
Fate  wings  with  ev'ry  wish  th'  afiiictive  dart. 
Each  gift  of  nature  and  each  grace  of  art : 
With  fatal  heat  impetuous  courage  glows, 
With  fatal  sweetness  elocution  flows, 
Impeachment   stops   the   speaker's   powerful 

breath. 
And  restless  fire  precipitates  on  death. 

But,  scarce  observed,  the  knowing  and  the 
bold 
Fall  in  the  general  massacre  of  gold ; 
Wide  wasting  pest !  that  rages  unconfined. 
And  crowds  with  ci'imes  the  records  of  man- 
kind ; 
For  gold  his  sword  the  hireling  ruffian  draws. 
For  gold  the  hireling  judge  distorts  the  laws  ; 
Wealth  heap'd  on  wealth,  nor  truth  nor  safety 

buys. 
The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise. 
Let   history   tell   where   rival  kings   com- 
mand, 
And  dubious  title  shakes  the  madded  land, 
When  statutes  glean  the  refuse  of  the  sword. 
How   much   more   safe   the   vassal  than  the 

lord ; 
Low   skulks   the   hind  beneath  the   rage   of 

power. 
And  leaves  the  wealthy  traitor  in  the  Tower, 
Untouch'd    his    cottage,    and    his    slumbers 

sound. 
Though  confiscation's  vultures  hover  round. 

The  needy  traveller,  serene  and  gay, 
Walks   the    wild    heath    and   sings   his   toil 

away. 
Docs  envy  seize  thee  ?  crush  th'  upbraiding 

joy, 
Increase  his  riches,  and  his  peace  destroy. 
Now  fears  in  dire  vicissitude  invade. 
The   rustling    brake    alarms,    and    qniv'ring 

shade. 
Nor  light  nor  darkness  bring  his  pain  relief, 
One   shows  the  plunder,   and  one  hides  the 
thief. 
Yet  still  one  gen'ral  cry  the  sides  assails, 
And   gain   and    grandeur    load    the   tainted 

gales ; 
Few  know   the   toiling   statesman's   fear   or 

care, 
The  insidious  rival  and  the  gaping  heir. 

Once  more,  Democritus,  arise  on  earth. 
With  cheerful  wisdom  and  instructive  mirth. 
See  motley  life  in  modern  trappings  dress' d, 
And  feed  with  varied  fools  the  eternal  jest : 
Thou   who   couldst    laugh,    where   want    en- 
chain'd  caprice. 
Toil  crush' d  conceit,  and  man  was  of  a  piece  ; 

42 


Samuei*  Jchnson.] 


THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES. 


[Sixth  Pehiod. 


Where   wealth  unloved   without   a  mourner 

died; 
And  scarce  a  sycophant  was  fed  by  pride ; 
Where  ne'er  was  known  the  form  of  mock 

debate, 
Or  seen  a  new-made  mayor's  unwieldy  state ; 
Where  change  of  fav' rites  made  no  change  of 

laws, 
And    senates    heard    before    they    judged   a 

cause ; 
How  wouldst  thou  shake  at  Britain's  modish 

tribe, 
Dart  the   quick  taunt,  and  edge  the  piercing 

gibe! 
Attentive  truth  and  nature  to  descry, 
And  pierce  each  scene  with  philosophic  eye. 
To  thee  were  solemn  toys,  or  empty  show, 
The  robes  of  pleasure,  and  the  veils  of  woe  : 
All  aid  the  farce,  and  all  thy  mirth  maintain, 
Whose  joys  are  cai:seless,  or  whose  griefs  are 

vain. 
Such  was  the  scorn  that  fiU'd  the   sage's 

mind, 
Ecnew'd  at  ev'ry  glance  on  human  kind ; 
How  just  that  scorn  ere  yet  thy  voice  declare, 
Search  ev'ry  state,  and  canvass  ev'ry  prayer. 
Unnumber'd  suppliants  crowd  Preferment's 

gate, 
Athirst  for  wealth,  and  burning  to  be  great ; 
Delusive  Fortune  hears  th'  incessant  call, 
They  mount,  they  shine,  evaporate,  and  fa.ll. 
On  ev'ry  stage  the  foes  of  peace  attend, 
Hate  dogs  their  flight,  and  insult  mocks  their 

end. 
Love  ends  with  hope,  the  sinking  statesman's 

door 
Pours  in  the  morning  worshipper  no  more  ; 
For  growing  names  the  weekly  scribbler  lies, 
To  growing  wealth  the  dedicator  flies  ; 
From  ev'ry  room  descends  the  painted  face. 
That  hung  the  bright  palladium  of  the  place  ; 
And,  smoked  in  kitchens,  or  in  auctions  sold, 
To  better  features  yields  the  frame  of  gold  ; 
For  now  no  more  we  trace  in  ev'ry  line 
Heroic  worth,  benevolence  divine  : 
The  form  distorted  justifies  the  fall, 
And  detestation  rids  the  indignant  wall. 

But  will  not  Britain  hear  the  last  appeal, 
Sign  her.  foe's  doom,  or  guard  her  favoiuite's 

zeal  ? 
Through    Freedom's    sons   no   more  remon- 
strance rings, 
Degrading  nobles  and  controlling  Idngs ; 
Our     supple     tribes    repress    their    patriot 

throats, 
And  ask  no  questions  but  the  price  of  votes  ; 
With  weekly  libels  and  septeimial  ale. 
Their  wish  is  full  to  riot  and  to  rail. 

In  full-blown  dignity,  see  Wolsey  stand, 
Law  in  his  voice,  and  fortune  in  his  hand  : 
To  him  the  church,  the  realm,  their  powers 

consign, 
Through  him  the  rays  of  regal  bounty  shine, 
Turn'd  by  his   nod   the   stream    of    honour 

flows, 
His  smik  alone  security  bestows : 


Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes  tower. 
Claim  leads   to   claim,   and   power  advance,^ 

power  : 
Till  conquest  unresisted  ceased  to  please, 
And  rights  submitted  left  him  none  to  seize  : 
At  length  his  sov'reign  frowns — the  train  of 

state 
Mark  the  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign  to 

hate. 
Where'er  he  turns,  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye, 
His  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followers 

fly; 

Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  av/ful  state. 
The  golden  canopy,  the  gUtt'ring  plate. 
The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board. 
The  liv'riod  army,  and  the  menial  lord. 
AYith   ago,    Avith   cares,    with    maladies    op- 
press'd. 
He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 
Grief  aids  disease,  remember' d  folly  stings, 
And   his   last   sighs   reproach   the    faith    of 

kings. 
Speak    thou    whose    thoughts    at    humble 

peace  repine, 
Shall  Wolsey' s  wealth  with  Wolsey' s  end  bo 

thine  ? 
Or  livest  thou  now,  with  safer  pride  content. 
The  wisest  justice  on  the  banks  of  Trent  ? 
For,  why  did  Wolsey,  near  the  steeps  of  fate, 
On   weak   foundations    raise    the    enormous 

weight  ? 
Why,  but  to  sink  beneath  misfortune's  blow, 
With  louder  ruin  to  the  gulfs  below  ? 

What  gave  great  Villiers  to  the  assassin's 

knife, 
And  fix'd  disease  on  Harloy's  closing  life  ? 
What  murder' d  Went  worth,  and  what  exiled 

Hyde, 
By  kings  protected,  and  to  kings  allied  ? 
What  but  their  wish  indulged  in  courts   to 

shine, 
And  power  too  great  to  keep  or  to  resign  ? 
When   first   the   coUege   rolls   receive    his 

name, 
The    young    enthusiast    quits    his    ease    for 

fame ; 
Ercsistless  burns  the  fever  of  renown, 
Caught   from   the   strong   contagion   of    ihS 

gown : 
O'er  Bodley's  dome  his  future  labours  spread, 
And     Bacon's    mansion    trembles    o'er    his 

head. 
Are   these  thy  views?     Proceed,   illustrious 

youth. 
And   Virtue   g^ard    thee   to  the    throne    of 

Truth! 
Yet   shoidd  thy   soul  indulge    the    gen'rous 

heat 
Till  captive  Science  yields  her  last  retreat ; 
Should  reason  guide  thee  with  her  brightest 

ray. 
And  pour  on  misty  doubt  resistless  day ; 
Should  no  false  kindness  lure  to  loose  delight. 
Nor  praise  relax,  nor  difficulty  fright ; 
Shoidd  tempting  Novelty  thy  cell  refrain, 
And  Sloth  effuse  her  opiate  fumes  in  vain ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES. 


[Samuel  Johnson. 


Should  Beauty  blunt  on  fops  her  fatal  dart, 
Nor  claim  the  triumph  of  a  letter' d  heart ; 
Should  no  disease  thy  torpid  veins  invade, 
Nor  Melancholy's  phantoms  haunt  thy  shade  ; 
Yet  hope  not  life  from  grief  or  danger  free, 
Nor   think  the  doom   of   man    reversed   for 

thee : 
Deign   on   the   passing   world  to  turn  thine 

eyes. 
And  pause  awhile  from  letters  to  be  wisb  ; 
There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail, 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail. 
See  nations,  slowly  wise  and  meanly  just, 
To  buried  merit  raise  the  tardy  bust. 
If  dreams  yet  flatter,  once  again  attend. 
Hear  Lydiat's  life,  and  Galileo's  end. 

Nor   deem,   when   Learning  her  last  prize 

bestows. 
The  glitt'ring  eminence  exempt  from  foes ;. 
See,    when  the   vulgar    'scapes,    despised   or 

awed, 
Rebellion's  vengeful  talons  seize  on  Laud. 
From   meaner   minds    though    smaller   fines 

content, 
The  plunder'd  palace,  or  sequester' d  rent, 
Mark'd  out  by  dangerous  parts,  he  meets  the 

shock. 
And  fatpi  Learning  leads  him  to  the  block  : 
Around  his  tomb  let  Art  and  Genius  weep. 
But  hear  his  death,  ye  blockheads,  hear  and 


The  festal  blazes,  the  triumphal  show, 
The  ravish' d  standard,  and  the  captive  foe, 
TliG  senate's  thanks,  the  Gazette's  pompous 

tale, 
With  force  resistless  o'er  the  brave  prevail. 
Such  bribes  the  rapid  Greek  o'er  Asia  whirl' d, 
For  such  the  steady  Soman  shook  the  world  ; 
For  such  in  distant  lands  the  Britons  shine, 
And   stain  v.'ith   blood   the   Danube   or   the 

Ivhine ; 
This  power  has  praise,  that  virtue  scarce  can 

warm 
Till  fame  supplies  the  universal  charm. 
Yet  reason  frowns  on  war's  ujiequal  game. 
Where  wasted  nations  raise  a  single  name ; 
And     mortgaged     states     their     grandsires' 

wreaths  regret. 
From  age  to  age  in  everlasting  debt ; 
Wreaths  which  at  last  the  dear-bought  right 

convey 
To  rust  on  medals,  or  on  stones  decay. 

On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's 

pride, 
Hov/  just   his    hopes,    let   Swedish   Charles 

decide ; 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire. 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,   extends  his  wide  domain, 
Unconquer'd  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield. 
War   sounds   the   trump,    he   rushes   to   the 

field; 
Dohold  surrounding  kings  their  powers  com- 
bine, 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign ; 


Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms 

in  vain ; 
"Think     nothing    gain'd,"    he    cries,     "till 

nought  remain, 
On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly, 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar*  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  miUtary  state, 
And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait  ^ 
Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of  Frost ; 
He   comes,   nor   want   nor   cold    his    coui'se 

delay ; — 
Hide,  blushing  glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day : 
The  vanquish' d  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands. 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands ; 
Condemn' d  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait. 
While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  -debate. 
But  did  not  chance  at  length  her  error  mend  ? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end  ? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound  ? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground  ? 
His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand  ; 
He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew 

pale, 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 

All  times   their   scenes   of   pompous  woes 

afford, 
From  Persia's  tyrant  to  Bavaria's  lord. 
In  gay  hostility  and  barb'rous  pride, 
V/ith  half  mankind  embattled  at  his  side, 
Great  Xerxes  comes  to  seize  the  certain  prey, 
And  starves  exhausted  regions  in  his  way  ; 
Attendant  Flatt'ry  counts  his  myriads  o'er, 
Till    counted    myriads    soothe   his   pride   no 

more ; 
Fresh   praise   is   tried   tUl  madness  fires  his 

mind. 
The  waves  he  lashes,  and  enchains  the  wind ; 
New  powers  are  claim' d,  new  powers  are  still 

bestow' d. 
Till  rude  resistance  lops  the  spreading  god ; 
The  daring  Greeks  deride  the  martial  show. 
And  heap  their  valleys  with  the  gaudy  foe ; 
Th'  insidted   sea   with  humbler  thought   he 

gains, 
A  single  skiff  to  speed  his  flight  remains ; 
Th'  encumber' d  oar  scarce  leaves  the  dreaded 

coast 
Through  purple  billows  and  a  floating  host. 

The  bold  Bavarian,  in  a  luckless  hour. 
Tries  the  dread  summits  of  Caesarcan  power. 
With  unexpected  legions  bursts  away. 
And  sees  defenceless  realms  receive  his  sway  : 
Short  sway  !  fair  Austria  spreads  her  mournful 

charms, 
The   queen,   the  beauty,    sets   the   world   in 

arms  ; 
From  hni  to  hill  the  beacon's  rousing  blaze 
Spreads  wide   the   hope   of   plunder   and   of 

praise ; 
The  fierce  Croatian,  and  the  wild  Hussar, 
With  all  the  sons  of  ravage,  crowd  the  war  ; 
The  bafl3ed    prince,    in    honour's    flatt'ring 

bloom 
Of  hasty  greatness,  finds  the  fatal  doom ; 

/2* 


Samuel  Johnson.] 


THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES. 


[Sixth  Period. 


His  foes'  derision  and  his  subjects'  blame, 
And  steals  to  death  from  anguish  and  from 

shame. 
"Enlarge  my  life  with  multitude  of  days  !  " 
In   health,   in   sickness,    thus   the   suppliant 

.     prays : 
Hides   from   himself  its  state,  and  shuns  to 

know. 
That  life  protracted  is  protracted  woe. 
Time  hovers  o'er,  impatient  to  destroy, 
And  shuts  up  all  the  passages  of  joy : 
In   vain   their   gifts    the   bounteous   seasons 

pour. 
The  fruit  autumnal,  and  the  vernal  flower  ; 
With  Kstless  eyes  the  dotard  views  the  store. 
He  views,   and  wonders  that  they  please  no 

more  ; 
NoAV  paU  the   tasteless   meats,   and   joyless 

wines, 
And  Luxury  with  sighs  her  slave  resigns. 
Approach,   ye    minstrels,    try    the    soothing 

strain, 
Diffuse  the  tuneful  lenitives  of  pain : 
No  sounds,  alas  !  would  touch  the  impervious 

ear, 
Though  dancing  mountains  witness'd  Orpheus 

near  ; 
Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  feeble  powers  attend. 
Nor  sweeter  music  of  a  virtuous  friend  ; 
But  everlasting  dictates  crowd  his  tongue, 
Perversely  grave,  or  positively  wrong. 
The  still  returning  tale,  and  ling'ring  jest, 
Perplex    the    fawning    niece    and    pamper' d 

guest. 
While  growing  hopes  scarce  awe  the  gath'ring 


last 


And  scarce  a  legacy  can  bribe  to  hear  : 
The    watchful     guests     still    hint    the 

offence ; 
The  daughter's  petulance,  the  son's  expense, 
Improve    his    heady    rage    with   treach'rous 

skiU, 
And  mould  his   passions  till  they  make  his 

wiU. 
Unnumbered  maladies  his  joints  invade, 
Lay  siege  to  life,  and  press  the  dire  blockade ; 
But  unextinguish'd  av'rice  still  remains, 
And  dreaded  losses  aggravate  his  pains  ; 
He   turns,  with  anxious   heart  and   crippled 

hands. 
His  bonds  of  debt,  and  mortgages  of  lands  ; 
Or  views  his  coffers  with  suspicious  eyes, 
Unlocks  his  gold,  o-nd  counts  it  till  he  dies. 

But  grant,  the  virtues  of  a  temp'rate  prime 
Bless   with   an   age   exempt   from   scorn    or 

crime ; 
An  age  that  melts  with  unperceived  decay, 
And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away  ; 
Whose  peaceful  day  benevolence  endears, 
Wliose  night  congratulating  conscience  cheers ; 
The  general  fav'rite  as  the  general  friend  : 
Such  age  there  is,   and   who   shall   wish   its 

end? 
Yet    ev'n    on    this    her    load    Misfortune 

flings, 
To  press  the  weary  minutes'  flagging  wings ; 


New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns, 
A  sister  sickens,  or  a  daughter  mourns. 
Now  kindred  Merit  fills  the  sable  bier, 
Now  lacerated  Friendship  claims  a  tear  ; 
Year  chases  year,  decay  pursues  decay, 
Still    drops    some    joy   from    with'ring    life 

away ; 
New  forms  arise,  and  different  views  engage, 
Superfluous  lags  the  vet'ran  on  the  stage, 
Till  pitying  Nature  signs  the  last  release, 
And  bids  afilicted  worth  retire  to  peace. 
But  few  there  are  whom  hours  like  these 

await, 
"Who  set  unclouded  in  the  gulfs  of  Fate. 
From   Lydia's    monarch    should    the   search 

descend. 
By  Solon  caution' d  to  regard  his  end. 
In  life's  last  scene  what  prodigies  surprise, 
Fears  of  the  brave,  and  follies  of  the  wise  ! 
From    Marlb'rough's    eyes    the    stream;?    of 

dotage  flow. 
And  Swift  expires  a  driv'ler  and  a  show. 

The  teeming  mother,  anxious  for  her  race, 
Begs  for  each  birth  the  fortune  of  a  face  ; 
Yet   Vane  could  tell   Avhat  ills  from  beautj'- 

spring ; 
And   Sedley  cursed  the  form  that  pleased  a 

king. 
Ye  nymphs  of  rosy  lips  and  radiant  eyes. 
Whom  pleasure  keeps  too  busy  to  be  wise  ; 
Whom  joys  with  soft  varieties  invite, 
By  day  the  frolic,  and  the  dance  by  night ; 
Who  fro"vvn  with  vanity,  who  smile  with  art. 
And  ask  the  latest  fashion  of  the  heart ; 
What  care,  what  rules,  your  heedless  charms 

shall  save. 
Each  nymph  your  rival,  and  each  youth  your 

slave  ? 
Against  your  fame  with  fondness  hate  com- 
bines. 
The  rival  batters,  and  the  lover  mines. 
With  distant  voice  neglected  Virtue  caUs, 
Less  heard  and  less,  the  faint  remonstrance 

faUs  ; 
Tired  with  contempt,  she  quits  the  slipp'ry 

reign. 
And   Pride   and   Prudence   take   her   seat  in 

vain. 
In    crowd    at    once,    where   none   the  pass 

defend, 
The    harmless     freedom,    and     the     private 

friend. 
The  guardians  jTield,  by  force  sviperior  plied  : 
To    Int'rest,     Prudence ;     and    to    Flatt'ry, 

Pride. 
Here   beauty  falls,    betray'd,    despised,    dis- 
tress'd, 
And  hissing  Infamy  proclaims  the  rest. 

Where   then    shall   Hope   and    Fear    their 

objects  find  ? 
Must   dull    suspense    corrupt    the    stagnant 

mind? 
Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate, 
EoU  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate  ? 
Must  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise, 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  ? 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


ODE  TO  PITY 


[William  Collt??s, 


Inquirer,  cease  ;  petitions  yet  remain 

Which  Heav'n  may  hear,  nor  deem  religion 

vain. 
Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice. 
But  leave  to  Heav'n  the   measure   and  the 

choice : 
Safe  in  his  power,  whose  eyes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  pray'r ; 
Implore  his  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest. 
Secure,  whate'er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  best. 
Yet,  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 
And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires. 
Pour  forth  thy  fervours  for  a  healthful  mind. 
Obedient  i^assions,  and  a  will  resign'd ; 
For  love,  which   scarce   collective   man   can 

fiU; 
For  patience,  sov' reign  o'er  transmuted  ill ; 
For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat, 
Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  retreat : 
These    goods  for   man   the   laws   of   Heav'n 

ordain, 
These  goods  he  grants,  who  grants  the  pow'r 

to  gain  ; 
With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind, 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 

Samuel  Johnson. — Born  1709,  Died  1784. 


His  virtues  walk'd  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  th'  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employ'd. 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night, 

Unfelt,  uncounted,  ghded  by ; 
His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright, 

Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then  with  no  throbs  of  fiery  pain. 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay. 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain. 

And  forced  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 

Samuel  Johnson. — Born  1709.  Died  1784. 


886.- 


-ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DE.  EOBEET 
LEVETT. 

1782. 


Condenm'd  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 
As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day. 

By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decline, 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend, 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere. 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fiUs  affection's  eye. 

Obscurely  ^visc  and  coarsely  kind  ; 

Nor,  letter' d  arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  Nature  call'd  for  aid. 
And  hovering  Death  prepared  the  blow. 

His  vigorous  remedy  display'd 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  Misery's  darkest  cavern  known. 
His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 

Where  hopeless  Anguish  pour'd  his  groan  ^ 
And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mock'd  by  chiU  dela.y. 
No  petty  gain  disdain'd  by  pride  ; 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 


887.— ODE  TO  PITY. 

0  thou,  the  friend  of  man  assign' d 
With  balmy  hands  his  wounds  to  bind, 

And  charm  his  frantic  woe  : 
When  first  Distress,  with  dagger  keen, 
Broke  forth  to  waste  his  destined  scene, 

His  wild  unsated  foe  ! 

By  Pella's  bard,  a  magic  name. 

By  all  the  griefs  his  thought  could  frame, 

Eeceive  my  humble  rite  : 
Long,  Pity,  let  the  nations  view 
Thy  sky-worn  robes  of  tenderest  blue, 

And  eyes  of  dewy  light ! 

But  wherefore  need  I  wander  wide 
To  old  Ilissus'  distant  side. 

Deserted  stream,  and  mitte  ? 
Wild  Arun  too  has  heard  thy  strains, 
And  Echo,  'midst  my  native  plains, 

Been  soothed  by  Pity's  lute. 

There  first  the  wren  thy  myrtles  shed  • 
On  gentlest  Otway's  infant  head. 

To  him  thy  cell  was  shown  ; 
And  while  he  sung  the  female  heart. 
With  youth's  soft  notes  unspoil'd  by  art, 

Thy  turtles  mix'd  their  own. 

Come,  Pity,  come,  by  Fancy's  aid. 
E'en  now  my  thoughts,  relenting  maid. 

Thy  temple's  pride  design  : 
Its  southern  site,  its  truth  complete, 
Shall  raise  a  wild  enthusiast  heat 

In  all  who  view  the  shrine. 

There  Picture's  toil  shall  well  relate 
How  Chance,  or  hard  involving  Fate, 

O'er  mortal  bliss  prevail : 
The  buskin' d  Muse  shall  near  her  stand, 
And  sighing  prompt  her  tender  hand, 

With  each  disastrous  tale. 

There  let  me  oft,  retired  by  day. 
In  dreams  of  passion  melt  away, 


William  Collins,] 


ODE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


Allow' d  -with  thoc  to  dwell : 
There  waste  the  mournful  lamp  of  night, 
Till,  Virgin,  thou  again  delight 

To  hear  a  British  shell ! 

William  Collins.— Born  1720,  Died  1756, 


888.— ODE. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE   "XEAR  1746. 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest, 
Bj  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Eeturns  to  deck  their  hallow'  d  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung  ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair,     . 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  ! 

William  Collins. — Born  1720,  Died  1756. 


889.— ODE  TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song. 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest 
ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales  ; 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-hair' d 

Sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tint,  whose  cloudy  skirts. 
With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

•    O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed 

bat. 
With  short  shrill  shriek  fiits  by  on  leathern 
wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path. 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  ; 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 
To  breathe  some  soften' d  strain, 

Whose      numbers,     stealing      through     thy 

darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stiUness  suit ; 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 


And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows 

with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier 
stiU, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then    let   me   rove    some  Avild   and  heathy 

scene ; 
Or  find  some  ruin  'midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  bhistering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 
That  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And     hamlets     brown,     and    dim-discovered 

spires  ; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er 
all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he 

wont, 
And    bathe   thy   breathing  tresses,    meekest 
Eve ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While    sallow    Autumn    fills    thy   lap    with 
leaves ; 

Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes  ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  iTile, 
Shall    Fancy,    Friendship,    Science,    smiling 
Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 
And  love  thy  favourite  name  ! 

William  Collins.— Born  1720,  Died  1756. 


Sgo.— TO  THE  PASSIONS. 

Wlien  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Throng' d  around  her  magic  cell. 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possess'd  beyond  the  Muse's  painting, 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturb'd,  delighted,  raised,  refined  , 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  aU  were  fired, 
Fill'd  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
I   From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatch' d  her  instrument?;  of  sound  ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 
Each  (for  Madness  ruled  the  hour^ 
Would  prove  liis  own  expressive  power. 


Fi-om  1727  to  1780.] 


TO  THE  PASSIONS. 


[William  Collins. 


First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  k)  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewilder' d  laid, 

And  back  recoil'd,  he  knew  not  why. 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rnsh'd  ;  his  eyes  on  fire, 
In  lightning's  own'd  his  secret  stings  : 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair 
Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air, 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 

Wha,t  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 

Still  it  whisper'd  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade   the   lovely   scenes   at   distance 
hail  I 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 

She  call'd  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song ; 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every 

close, 

And  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her 

golden  hair. 
And  longer  had  she  sung ; — but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose : 
He  thrcAV  his  blood-stain'd  sword,  in  thunder, 
down ; 
And  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took. 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  fuU  of  woe  ! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum,  with  furious  heat ; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause 
between, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  uu alter' d  mien. 
While   each   strain'd   ball   of     sight    seem'd 
bursting  from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers.  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fix'd ; 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ; 
Of   differing   themes   the    veering   song    Avas 
mix'd ; 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  call'd 
on  Hato. 

With  eyes  up-raised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired, 
And,  from  her  wild  sequester'd  seat. 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Pour'd  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive 
soul: 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
BublDling  runnels  join'd  the  sound  ; 
Through    glades    and    glooms    the    mingled 
measure  stole, 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond 
delay, 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  Peace,  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hoUow  murmurs  died  away. 


But    O  !     how    alter' d    was    its    sprightlier 

tone. 
When   Cheerfulness,    a  nymph   of  healthiest 
hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung. 
Her  buskins  gemm'd  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket 
rung,  -     - 

The   hunter's   call,   to    Faun    and    Dryad 

known  ! 
The  oak-crown'd  Sisters,  and  their  chaste- 
eyed  Queen, 
SatjTS  and  Sylvan  Boys  Avere  seen, 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear  ; 

And  Sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his  beechen 
spear. 
Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk-awakening  viol. 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the 
best ; 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the 

strain 
They  saw,  in   Tempo's  vale,   her  native 

maids. 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 

WhUe,    as    his    flying    fingers    kiss'd    the 

strings. 
Love  framed  with  Mirth  a   gay  fantastic 

round  : 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zcne  un- 
bound; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play. 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook     thousand     odours     from     his    de^vy 
wings. 

O  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid  ! 
"^Vhy,  goddess  !  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower. 
You  learn' d  an  all-commanding  pov/er, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymph  endear'd, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard ; 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art  ? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime  ! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  god -like  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page — 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 
Than  all  which  charms  this  lajrgard  age ; 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavour  cease  ; 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece  : 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state ! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  ! 

William.  Collins. — Born  1720,  Died  1756. 


"William  Collins.] 


DIEGE  IN  CYMBELINE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


891.— DIEGE  IN  CYMBELINE. 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  Spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove ; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  wither' d  witch  shall  here  be  seen ; 

No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew : 
The  female  Fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 

And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew  ! 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours, 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 
With  hoary  moss  and  gather'd  flowers. 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain, 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell ; 

Or  'midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain. 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell ; 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore ; 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed  ; 
Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more. 

And  mourn' d  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 

William  Collins.— Born  1720,  Died  175G. 


I    Yet  lives  there  one,  whose  heedless  eye 
!        Shall    scorn    thy   pale    shrine    glimmering 
i  near  ? 

I   With  him,  sweet  bard,  may  Fancy  die, 
And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

I  But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whoso  sullen  tide 
{        No  sedge-crown' d  sisters  now  attend, 
Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill's  side. 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend  i 

And  see,  the  fairy  valleys  fade  ; 

Dun  Night  has  veil'd  the  solemn  view  \ 
Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade. 

Meek  Nature's  child,  again  adieu ! 

The  genial  meads  assign'd  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom  ; 

Their  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall  dress, 
With  simple  hands,  thy  rural  tomb. 

Long,  long,  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay 
Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  eyes  : 

"  Oh  1  vales  and  wild  woods,"  shall  he  say, 
"  In  yonder  grave  your  Druid  lies  !  " 

William  Collins. — Bom  1720,  Died  1758. 


892.- 


-ODE   ON   THE  DEATH   OP 
THOMSON. 


In  yonder  grave  a  Druid  lies, 

Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave  ; 
The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise. 

To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 
His  airy  harp  shall  now  be  laid, 

That  he,  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds. 
May  love  through  life  the  soothing  shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here, 
And,  while  its  sounds  at  distance'swell, 

Shall  sadly  seem  in  Pity's  ear 

To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim's  knell. 

Eemembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest, 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar 
To  bid  the  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft,  as  Ease  and  Health  retire 

To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep, 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire 

And  'mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou,  who  own'st  that  earthy  bed. 
Ah  !  what  will  every  dirge  avail ; 

Or,  tears,  which  Love  and  Pity  shed. 
That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  sail  ? 


893.— THE  SCHOOL-MISTEESS. 

Ah  me  !  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn. 
To   think   how   modest    Worth    neglected 

lies 
While  partial  Fame  doth  with  her  blasts 

adorn 
Such  deeds  alone,  as  pride  and  pomp  dis- 
guise ; 
Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  emprise  : 
Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess  !  let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  Merit,  ere  it  dies, 
Such  as  I  oft  have  chaunced  to  esj)y. 
Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  Obscuiity. 

In  every  village  mark'd  Avith  little  spire, 
Embower'd  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to 

Fame, 
There   dwells   in    lowly   shed,    and    mean 

attire, 
A   matron   old,  whom  we    School-mistress 

name ; 
Who    boasts    unruly   brats  vnth    birch  to 

tame ; 
They    grievcn    sore,    in    piteous    durance 

pent. 
Awed  by  the  power  of  this  relentless  dame ; 
And  oft-times,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 
For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconn'd,  are  sorely 

shent. 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen  tree, 
Which  Learning  near  her  little  dome  did 

stowo ; 
Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see. 
Though  now  so  wdde  its  waving  branches 

flow; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 


[Shenstone. 


And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe  ; 
For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that 

blew, 
But  their  limbs  shudder' d  and  their  pulse 

beat  low ; 
And  as  they  look'd  they  found  their  horrour 

grew, 
And  shaped  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the 

view. 

So  have  I  seen  (who  has  not,  may  conceive) 
A  Ufeless  phantom  near  a  garden  placed  ; 
So  doth  it  wanton  birds  of  peace  bereave, 
Of  sport,  of  song,  of  pleasure,  of  repast ; 
They  start,  they  stare,  they   wheel,   they 

look  aghast ; 
Sad  servitude  !  such  comfortless  annoy 
May  no  bold  Briton's  riper  age  e'er  taste ! 
iSTe  superstition  clog  his  dance  of  joy, 
Ke  vision  empty,  vain,  his  native  bliss  destroy. 

Near  to  this  dome   is   found  a   patch   so 
gi-eeu. 

On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  dis- 
play ; 

And  at  the  door  imprisoning-board  is  seen. 

Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should 
stray ; 

Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day  ! 

The  noises   intermixed,   which    thence   re- 
sound, 

Do  Learning's  httle  tenement  betray  ; 

^Vhere   sits   the   dame,    disguised  in    look 
profound, 
And  eyes   her   fairy  throng,    and   turns   her 
wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow. 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield : 
Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I  trowe. 
As  is  the  hare-bell  that  adorns  the  field  : 
And  in   her   hand,   for   sceptre,    she   docs 

wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays ;   >%'ith   anxious    fear 

entwined, 
"With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  fiU'd; 
And    stedfast    hate,    and   sharp    affliction 

join'd. 
And    fury    uncontroul'd,    and    chastisement 

unkind. 

Few  but  have  ken'd,    in   semblance  meet 

pourtray'd. 
The  childish  faces  of  old  Eol's  train ; 
Libs,    Notus,    Auster :     these    in    frowns 

array'd. 
How  then  would  faro  or  Earth,  or  Sky,  or 

Main, 
Were  the  stern  god  to  give  his  slaves  the 

rein? 
And   were   not   she    rebellious   breasts    to 

quell. 
And  were  not  she  her  statutes  to  maintain. 
The  cot  no  more,  I  ween,  were  deem'd  the 

ceU, 
Where  comely  peace  of  mind,  and  decent  order 

dwell. 


j  A    russet    stole    was   o'er     her    shoulders 

!  thrown ; 

I  A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air  ; 

i  'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own  ; 

'Twas  her   own  country  bred  the  flock  so 

j  fair ! 

I  'Twas    her     own     labour     did    the    fleece 

i  prepare ; 

j  And,    sooth    to    say,    her   pupils,    ranged 

!  around, 

I  Through  pious    awe,   did   term   it   passing 

i  rare ; 

j  For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 

i  And  think,  no  doubt,   she  been  the  gi'eatest 

j  %vight  on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 
Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear ; 
Goody,    good-woman,    gossip,    n'aunt   for- 
sooth, 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear  ; 
Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she   held 

right  dear : 
No     would    esteem    him    act    as    mought 

behove, 
Who  should  not  honour' d  eld  with   these 
I  revere : 

j        For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 
j   But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which   did   that 
j  title  love. 

I  One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 

j  The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame  ; 

!  Which,  ever  and  anon,  impell'd  by  need, 

;  Into  her  school,  begii't  with  cliickens,  came  ! 

j  Such     favour    did     her    past     deportment 

!  claim : 

{  And,  if  Neglect  had  lavish'd  on  the  ground 

i  Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the 

i  same ; 

I  For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  ex- 

I  pound, 

\  What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb 

j  she  found. 

Herbs  too  she  knew,  and  well  of  each  could 

I  speak 

j        That  in  her  garden  sipp'd  the  silvery  dew : 

]       Where  no   vain   flower   disclosed  a  gaudy 

i  streak ; 

But  herbs  for  use,  and  physic,  not  a  few, 
Of  grey  renown,  within  those  borders  grew  : 
The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme. 
Fresh  baum,  and  marygold  of  cheerful  hue  ; 
The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb  ; 

I   And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining  hero 

j  to  rhyme. 

!       Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung. 

That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues 
j  around ; 

And  pungent  radish,  biting  infants'  tongue  ; 

And  plantain  ribb'd,  that  heals  the  reaper's 
j  wound ; 

And  marjoram  sweet,  in  shepherd's  posio 
found  : 


Shenstone.] 


THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 


[Sixth  Period.— 


And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure  bloom 
Shall  be,  ere-\vhile,  in  arid  bundles  bound, 
To  lurk  amidst  the  labours  of  her  loom, 
And  cro\vn  her  kerchiefs  clean,  -svith  mickle 
rare  perfume. 

And  here   trim   rosemarine,    that   whilom 

crown' d 
The  daintiest  garden  of  the  proudest  peer ; 
Ere,  driven  from  its  envied  site,  it  found 
A  sacred  shelter  for  its  branches  here ; 
Where  edged  with  gold  its  glittering  sldrts 

appear, 
Oh    wassel    days !     O    customs   meet   and 

well ! 
Ere  this  was  banish' d  from  its  lofty  sphere  : 
Simplicity  then  sought  this  humble  cell, 
Nor  ever   would  she  more  with  thane    and 

lordling  dwell. 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on   Sabbath's   decent 

eve. 
Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth  did 

mete. 
If    winter  'twere,   she   to    her   hearth  did 

cleave, 
But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer- seat : 
Sweet  melody !  to  hear  her  then  repeat 
How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  foreign  king, 
While  taunting  foe-men  did  a  song  entreat, 
All,  for  the  nonce,  untuning  every  string, 
Uphung  their  useless  lyres — small  heart  had 

they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous 

lore. 
And  pass'd    much   time  in   truly  virtuous 

deed ; 
And  in  those  elfins'  ears,  would  oft  deplore 
The  times,  when  Truth  by  Popish  rage  did 

bleed  ; 
And    tortuous    death  was  true   Devotion's 

meed ; 
And  simple  Faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn, 
That   nould    on   wooden   image   place  her 

creed  ; 
And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did 

burn  : 
Ah  !  dearest  Lord,  forefend,  thilk  days  should 

e'er  return. 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem 

By  the   sharp  tooth  of   cankering  eld   de- 
faced, 

Ir  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem, 

Our  sovereign    prince   and   liefest   Uege  is 
placed. 

The  matron  sate  ;  and  some  with  rank  she 
graced, 

(The  source  of  children's  and  of  courtiers' 
pride !) 
edress'd  affronts,  for  vile  affronts   there 

^pass'd; 

And  wam'd  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride, 
But   love    each  other   dear,    whatever    them 
betide. 


Eight    well     she     knew    each    temper   to 

descry ; 
To  thwart  tlie  proud,    and  the  submiss  to 

raise  ; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 
And    some  entice   ^^-ith  pittance   small   of 

praise, 
And   other   some   with    baleful   sprig    she 

'frays  : 
E'en  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  dotli 

hold. 
While  with   quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd 

she  sways  : 
Forewarn' d,    if    little    bird    their    pranks 

behold, 
'Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene 

unfold. 

Lo  now  with  state  she  utters  the  command  ! 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair ; 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in 

hand, 
Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are, 
To  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair : 
The  work   so   gay  that    on  their  back  is 

seen, 
St.     George's     high     achievements      does 

declare ; 
On  which  thilk   Avight   that   has   y-gazing 

been, 
Kens  the  forthcoming  rod,  unpleasing  sight,  I 

ween ! 

Ah    luckless    he,   and    bom   beneath    the 

beam 
Of  evil  star  !  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write : 
As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla's  silver  stream, 
Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight, 
Sigh'd  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 
For  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose   the  brogues,  the  stripling's  late 

delight ! 
And  down  they  drop ;  appears  liis  dainty 

skin. 
Fair  as  the  furry-coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

O    ruthful     scene !     when    from    a   nook 

obscure, 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see : 
All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure ; 
She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee; 
She  meditates  a  prayer  to  set  him  free  : 
Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree)  ■ 
To  her  sad  grief  that  swells  in  either  eye. 
And  wings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could 

dj^e. 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  com- 
mand ; 

And  ha,rdly  she  forbears,  through  awful 
fear. 

To  rushen  forth,  and,  -with  presumptuous 
hand, 

To  stay  harsh  Justice  in  its  mid  career. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  SCHOOL-MISTEESS. 


[Shenstone. 


I 


On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee  her  paxent  dear ! 
(Ah !    too   remote   to   ward   the    shameful 

blow  ! ) 
She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 
And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow ; 
And  gives  a  loose  at  last  to  unavailing  woe. 

But  ah  !  what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may- 
trace  ? 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain  ? 

The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face  ? 

The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain  ? 

The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek 
distain  ? 

When  he,  in  abject  wise,  implores  the  dame, 

Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain ; 

Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim, 
And,  through  the  thatch,  his  cries  each  falling 
stroke  proclaim. 

The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore  dismay, 
Attend  and  conn  their  tasks  with  mickle 

care  : 
By  turns,  astony'd,  every  twig  survey, 
And,  from  their  fellows'    hateful   wounds, 

beware  ; 
Knowing,  I  Avist,  how  each  the  same  may 

share ; 
Till  fear  has  taught  them  a  performance 

meet, 
And  to    the    well-known   chest   the   dame 

repair ; 
"Whence  oft  with  sugar'd   cates  she   doth 

them  greet, 
And  ginger-bread  y-rare  ;  now  ccrtes,  doubly 

sweet ! 

See  to  their  seats  they  hye  ^vith  merr}^  glee. 
And  in  beseemly  order  sitten  there  ; 
All  but  the  wight  of  bum  y-galled,  he 
Abhorreth  bench,    and   stool,    and    fourm, 

and  chair ; 
(This  hand  in  mouth  y-fixed,  that  rends  his 

hair ;  ) 
And  eke  with  snubs  profound,  and  heaving 

breast, 
Convulsions  intermitting  !  does  declare 
His   grievous    wrong ;    his   dame's   unjust 

behest ; 
And  scorns  her  offer' d  love  and  shuns  to  be 

caress' d. 

His     face    besprent    with    liquid    crystal 

shines, 
His   blooming  face  that   seems,   a    purple 

flower, 
Which  low  to  earth  its  drooping  head  de- 

cUnes, 
All  smear'd  and  sullied  by  a  vernal  shower. 
O  the  hard  bosoms  of  despotic  power  ! 
All,  all,  but  she,  the  author  of  his  shame, 
All,  all,  but  she,  regret  tliis  mournful  hour  : 
Yet  hence  the  youth,  and  hence  the  flower 

shall  claim. 
If  so  I  deem   aright,  transcending  worth  and 

fame. 


Behind  some  door,  in  melancholy  thought, 
Mindless  of  food,  he,  drear}'  caitiff !  pines, 
■Ne  for  his  fellows'  joyaunce  careth  aught, 
But  to  the  -wind  all  merriment  resigns ; 
And    deems    it    shame,   if    he    to     peace       I 

inclines : 
And  many  a  sullen  look  ascance  is^sent, 
Which     for     his     dame's     annoyance    he 

designs ; 
And  still  the  more  to  pleasure  him  she's 

bent. 
The  more  doth  he,  perverse,  her  haviour  past 

resent. 

Ah  mc  !  how  much  I  fear  lest  pride  it  be  ! 

But  if  that  pride  it  be,  which  thus  inspires, 

Beware,  ye  dames,  with  nice  discernment 
see, 

Ye  quench  not  too  the    sparks   of   nobler 
fires : 

Ah  !  better  far  than  aU  the  Muses'  lyres, 

All     coward    arts,     is    Valour's    generous 
heat ; 

The  firm  fixt  breast  wliich  fit  and  right  re- 
quires, 

Like   Vernon's  patriot  soul !    more  justly 
great 
Thi-^n  Craft  that  pimps  for  ill,  or  flowery  false 
Deceit. 

Yet  mu'sed  with  skOl,  what  dazzling  fruits 

appear ! 
E'en    now   sagacious   Foresight   points   to 

show 
A  little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  here, 
And  there  a  chancellor  in  embryo, 
Or  bard  sublime,  if  bard  maj''  e'er  be  so. 
As  Milton,  Shakspeare,  names  that  ne'er 

shall  die ! 
Though  now  he  crawl  along  the  ground  so 

low, 
Nor  weeting  how  the  Muse  should  soar  en 

high, 
Wisheth,  poor  starveling  elf  !  his  paper  kite 

may  fly. 

And    this    perhaps,     who,    censuring    the 

design, 
Low  lays  the  house  vdiich  that   of   cards 

doth  build. 
Shall  Dennis  be  !  if  rigid  Fate  incline, 
And  many  an  epic  to  his  rage  shall  yield  ; 
And  many  a  poet  quit  th'  Aonian  field  ; 
And,    sour'd    by  age,   profound    he    shall 

appear. 
As  he  who  now  with  'sdainful  fury  thrill'd 
Surveys  mine   work ;    and   levels   many   a 

sneer. 
And  furls  his  wrinkly  front,  and  cries,  "  What 

stuff  is  here?" 

But  now  Dan   Phoebus   gains   the   middle 

skie, 
And  Liberty  unbars  her  prison-door  ; 
And  like  a  rushing  torrent  out  they  fly, 
And  now  the  grassy  cirque  han  cover' d  o'er 


Shenstone.] 


A  PASTOEAL  BALLAD. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


TVith  boisterous  revel- rout  and  wild  uproar  ; 
A  thousand  v.'ays  in  wanton  rings  they  run, 
Heaven  shield  their  shoi-t-lived  pastimes, "I 

implore  ! 
For  well  may  Freedom  erst  so  dearly  won, 
Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than  the 
Sun. 

Enjoy,   poor   imps !    enjoy    yovir    sportive 

trade, 
And  chase  gay  flics,   and  cull  the  fairest 

flowers ; 
For  when  my  bones  in  grass-groen  sods  are 

laid. 
For  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles,  or  in  ladies'  bowers. 
O  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing  ! 
But  most  in  courts  where  proud  Ambition 

towers ; 
Deluded  wight !  who  weens  fair  Peace  can 

spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome   of  kesar  or  of 

king. 

See    in    each    sprite    some    various    bent 

appear ! 
These  rudely  carol  most  incondite  lay ; 
Those  sauntering  on  the  green,  with  jocund 

leer 
Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way ; 
Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clfj' ; 
Some  to  the  standing  lake   their   courses 

bend. 
With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck  and  drake  to 

play; 
Thilk  to  the  huxtcr's  savory  cottage  tend, 
In  pastry  kings  and  queens  th'  allotted  mite 

to  spend. 

Here,   as    each    season    yields    a   different 

store, 
Each    season's     stores     in    order    ranged 

been; 
Apples  vnth  cabbage-net  y-cover'd  o'er. 
Galling  full  sore  the  unmoney'd  wight,  are 

seen  ; 
And  goose-b'rie  clad  in  livery  red  or  green  ; 
And  here  of  lovely  dye,  the  Catherine  pear. 
Fine  pear  !  as  lovely  for  thy  juice,  I  ween  : 
O  may  no  wight  e'er  penny  less  come  there, 
Lost  smit  with  ardent  love  he  pine  with  hope- 
less care  ! 

See  !  cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound, 
"With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies 

tied. 
Scattering  like  blooming  maid  their  glances 

round, 
"With  pampcr'd  look  draw  little  eyes  aside  ; 
And    must     be     bought,    though    i)enury 

betide. 
The  plum  all  azure  and  the  nut  all  brown, 
And  here  each  season  do  those  cakes  abide, 
"VMiose  honour' d  names  the  inventive  city 

own, 
Kendering  through   Britain's    isle    Salopia's 

praises  known ; 


Admired  Salopia  I  that  with  venial  pride 
Fyes  her  bright  form  in  Severn's  ambient 

wave. 
Famed  for  her  loyal  cares  in  perils  try'd, 
Her   daughters   lovely,   and  her   striplings 

brave : 
Ah  !  midst  the  rest,  may  flowers  adorn  his 

grave 
"Whoso   heart  did   first  these  dulcet  catos 

display ! 
A  motive  fair  to  Learning's  imps  ho  gave, 
"Who   cheerless   o'er    her    darkling    region 

stray ; 
Till  Reason's  morn  arise,  and  light  them  on 

their  way. 

Shenstonc. — Bornl7l4-,  Died  1763. 


894.— A  PASTOEAL  BALLAD, 


Ye  shepherds  so  cheerful  and  gay, 

Whose  flocks  never  carelessly  roam ; 
Should  Corydon's  happen  to  stray, 

Oh  !  call  the  poor  wanderers  home. 
Allow  mo  to  muse  and  to  sigh. 

Nor  talk  of  the  change  that  ye  And ; 
None  once  was  so  -svatchful  as  I ; 

I  have  left  my  dear  Phyllis  behind. 

Now  I  know  what  it  is,  to  have  strove 

With  the  torture  of  doubt  and  desire  ; 
What  it  is  to  admire  and  to  love, 

And  to  leave  her  we  love  and  admire. 
Ah  !  lead  forth  my  flock  in  the  mom. 

And  the  damps  of  each  evening  repel ; 
Alas  !  I  am  faint  and  forlorn  : 

— I  have  bade  my  dear  Phyllis  farewell. 

Since  Phyllis  vouchsafed  me  a  look, 

I  never  once  dreamt  of  my  vine  : 
May  I  lose  both  my  pipe  and  my  crook. 

If  I  knew  of  a  kid  that  was  mine  ! 
I  prized  ev'ry  hour  that  went  by, 

Beyond  all  that  had  pleased  me  before  : 
But  now  they  are  past,  and  I  sigh  ; 

And  I  grieve  that  I  prized  them  no  more. 

But  why  do  I  languish  in  vain  ; 

Why  wander  thus  pensively  here  ? 
Oh  !  why  did  I  come  from  the  plain, 

"Whore  I  fed  on  the  smiles  of  my  dear  ? 
They  teU  me,  my  favourite  maid. 

The  pride  of  that  valley,  is  flown  ; 
Alas !  where  with  her  I  have  stray'd, 

I  could  wander  with  pleasure,  alone. 

When  forced  the  fair  nymph  to  forego, 

What  anguish  I  felt  at  my  heart ! 
Yet  I  thought — but  it  might  not  be  so — 

'Twas  with  pain  that  she  saw  me  depart. 
She  gazed,  as  I  slowly  withdrew  ; 

My  path  I  could  hardly  discern  ; 
So  sweetly  she  bade  me  adieu, 

I  thought  that  she  bade  me  return. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


A  PASTORAL  BALLAD. 


[Shenstone. 


The  pilgrim  that  journeys  all  day 

To  visit  some  far  distant  shrine, 
If  he  bear  but  a  rehque  away, 

Is  happy,  nor  heard  to  repine. 
Thus  widely  removed  from  the  fair, 

Where  my  vows,  my  devotion,  I  owe, 
Soft  Hope  is  tlie  relique  I  bear. 

And  my  solace  wherever  I  go. 


My  banks  they  are  furnish'd  with  bees. 

Whose  murmur  invites  one  to  sleep  ; 
My  grottoes  are  shaded  with  trees. 

And  my  hills  are  white  over  with  sheep. 
I  seldom  have  met  with  a  loss, 

Such  health  do  my  fountains  bestow  : 
My  fountains  all  border'd  with  moss. 

Where  the  harebells  and  violets  grow. 

Not  a  pine  in  my  grove  is  there  seen. 

But  with  tendrils  of  woodbine  is  bound : 
Xot  a  beech's  more  beautiful  green. 

But  a  sweet-brier  entwines  it  around. 
Not  my  fields,  in  the  prime  of  the  year. 

More  charms  than  my  cattle  unfold ; 
Not  a  brook  that  is  limpid  and  clear, 

But  it  glitters  with  fishes  of  gold. 

One  would  think  she  might  like  to  retire 
To  the  bower  I  have  labour'd  to  rear  ; 

Not  a  shrub  that  I  heard  her  admire. 
But  I  hasted  and  planted  it  there, 

0  how  sudden  the  jessamine  strove 
With  the  lilac  to  render  it  gay ! 

Already  it  calls  for  my  love, 

To  prune  the  wild  branches  away. 

From   the    plains,    from    the  woodlands  and 
groves. 

What  strains  of  wild  melody  flow  ! 
How  the  nightingales  warble  their  loves 

From  thickets  of  roses  that  blow  ! 
And  when  her  bright  form  shall  appear, 

Each  bird  shall  harmoniously  join 
In  a  concert  so  soft  and  so  clear, 

As — she  may  not  be  fond  to  resign. 

1  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair  ; 

I    have    found    where   the    wood -pigeons 
breed : 
But  let  me  that  plunder  forbear, 

She  will  say  'twas  a  barbarous  deed. 
For  he  ne'er  could  be  true,  she  averr'd, 

Who  would  rob  a  poor  bird  of  its  young  : 
And  I  loved  her  the  more  when  I  heard 

Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue. 

I  have  heard  her  with  sweetness  unfold 

How  that  pity  was  due  to — a  dove  : 
That  it  ever  attended  the  bold  ; 

And  she  call'd  it  the  sister  of  love. 
But  her  words  such  a  pleasure  convey. 

So  much  I  her  accents  adore, 
Let  her  speak,  and  whatever  she  say, 

Metliinks  I  should  love  her  the  more. 


Can  a  bosom  so  gentle  remain 

Unmoved  when  her  Corydon  sighs  ? 
Will  a  nymph  that  is  fond  of  the  plain. 

These  plains  and  this  vaUey  despise  ? 
Dear  regions  of  silence  and  shade  ! 

Soft  scenes  of  contentment  and  ease  ? 
Where  I  could  have  pleasingly  stray'd, 

If  aught,  in  her  absence,  could  pleaser 

But  where  does  my  Phyllida  stray  ? 

And  where  are  her  grots  and  her  bowers  ? 
Are  the  gToves  and  the  valleys  as  gay. 

And  the  shepherds  as  gentle  as  ours  ? 
The  groves  may  perhaps  be  as  fair. 

And  the  f ace^  of  the  valleys  as  fine ; 
The  swains  may  in  manners  compare, 

But  their  love  is  not  equal  to  mine. 


PART   III. 

Why  will  you  my  passion  reprove  ? 

Why  term  it  a  folly  to  grieve  ? 
Ere  I  show  you  the  charms  of  my  love. 

She's  fairer  than  you  can  believe. 
With  her  mien  she  enamours  the  brave  ; 

With  her  wit  she  engages  the  free  ; 
With  her  modesty  pleases  the  grave  ; 

She  is  everyway  pleasing  to  me. 

0  you  that  have  been  of  her  train. 
Come  and  join  in  my  amorous  lays  ; 

1  could  lay  down  my  life  for  the  swain. 

That  will  sing  but  a  song  in  her  praise. 
Wlien    he   sings,    may  the  nymphs    of    the 
town 

Come  trooping,  and  listen  the  while ; 
Nay  on  him  let  not  Phyllida  frown ; 

— But  I  cannot  allow  her  to  smile. 

For  when  Paridel  tries  in  the  dance 

Any  favour  with  Phyllis  to  find, 
0  how,  with  one  trivial  glance, 

Might  she  ruin  the  peace  of  my  mind  ! 
In  ringlets  he  dresses  his  hair, 

And  his  crook  is  bestudded  around ; 
And  his  pipe — oh  my  Phyllis,  beware 

Of  a  magic  there  is  in  the  sound. 

'Tis  his  with  mock  passion  to  glow, 

'Tis  his  in  smooth  tales  to  unfold, 
How  her  face  is  as  bright  as  the  snow, 

And  her  bosom,  be  sure,  is  as  cold. 
How  the  nightingales  labour  the  strain. 

With  the  notes  of  his  charmer  to  vie ; 
How  they  vary  their  accents  in  vain, 

Repine  at  her  triumphs,  and  die. 

To  the  grove  or  the  garden  he  strays, 

And  pillages  every  sweet ; 
Then,  suiting  the  vrreath  to  his  lays, 

He  throws  it  at  Phyllis' s  feet. 
"  0  Phyllis,"  he  whispers,  "  more  fair, 

More  sweet  than  the  jessamine's  flower  ! 
What  are  pinks  in  a  morn  to  compare  ? 

What  is  eglantine  after  a  shower  ? 


Shenstone.] 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Then  the  lily  bo  longer  is  white ; 

The  rose  is  deprived  of  its  bloom  ; 
Then  the  violets  die  with  despite, 

And  the  woodbines  ^ive  up  their  perfume- 
Thus  glide  the  soft  numbers  along, 

And  he  fancies  no  shepherd  his  peer  ; 
Yet  I  never  should  envy  the  song, 

Were  not  Phyllis  to  lend  it  an  ear. 

Let  his  crook  be  with  hyacinths  bound, 

So  Phyllis  the  trophy  despise  : 
Let  his  forehead  with  laurels  be  crown' d, 

So  they  shine  not  in  Phyllis' s  eyes. 
The  language  that  flows  from  the  heart, 

Is  a  stranger  to  Paridel's  tongue  ; 
Yet  may  she  beware  of  his  art, 

Or  sure  I  must  envy  the  song. 


Ye  shepherds,  give  ear  to  my  lay, 

And  take  no  more  heed  of  my  sheep ; 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stray ; 

I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  weep. 
Yet  do  not  my  folly  reprove ; 

She  was  fair — and  my  passion  begun  ; 
She  smiled — and  I  could  not  but  love  ; 

She  is  faithless — and  I  am  undone. 

Perhaps  I  was  void  of  all  thought : 

Perhaps  it  was  plain  to  foresee, 
That  a  nymph  so  complete  would  be  sought, 

By  a  swain  more  engaging  than  me. 
Ah  !  love  every  hope  can  inspire  ; 

It  banishes  wisdom  the  while  ; 
And  the  lip  of  the  nymph  we  admire 

Seems  for  ever  adorn' d  with  a  smile. 

She  is  faithless,  and  I  am  undone ; 

Ye  that  witness  the  woes  I  endure, 
Let  reason  instruct  you  to  shun 

What  it  cannot  instruct  you  to  cure. 
Beware  how  you  loiter  in  vain 

Amid  nymphs  of  a  higher  degree  : 
It  is  not  for  me  to  explain 

How  fair,  and  how  fickle  they  be. 

Alas  !  from  the  day  that  v;e  met, 

"What  hope  of  an  end  to  my  woes  ? 
When  I  cannot  endure  to  forget 

The  glance  that  undid  my  repose. 
Yet  time  may  diminish  the  pain  : 

Tlie  flower,  and  the  shrub,  and  the  tree, 
"SVluch  I  rear'd  for  her  pleasure  in  vain, 

In  time  may  have  comfort  for  me. 

The  sweets  of  a  dew-sprinkled  rose, 

The  sound  of  a  murmuring  stream, 
The  peace  which  from  solitude  flov/s. 

Henceforth  shall  be  Corydon's  theme. 
High  transports  are  sho'svn  to  the  sight, 

But  wo  are  not  to  find  them  our  own ; 
Fate  never  bestow'd  such  delight. 

As  I  with  my  Phyllis  had  known. 


0  ye  woods,  spread  your  branches  apace ; 
To  your  deepest  recesses  I  fly ; 

1  would  hide  with  the  beasts  of  the  chase ; 

I  would  vanish  from  every  eye. 
Yet  my  reed  shall  resound  through  the  grove 

With  the  same  sad  complaint  it  begun  ; 
How  she  smiled — and  I  could  not  but  love  ; 

Was  faithless — and  I  am  undone  ! 

Shensto7ie—Boml7U,  IXed  1763. 


895.— ODE  TO  MEMOEY. 

O  memory !  celestial  maid ! 

Who     glean' st     the     flowerets    cropt    by 
Time; 
And,  sufi"ering  not  a  loaf  to  fade, 

Preservest  the  blossoms  of  our  prime ; 
Bring,  bring  those  moments  to  my  mind 
When  life  was  new,  and  Lesbia  kind. 

And  bring  that  garland  to  my  sight, 

With  which  my  favour'd  crook  she  bound  ; 

And  bring  that  wreath  of  roses  bright 
Which  then  my  festive  temples  crown' d ; 

And  to  my  raptured  ear  convey 

The  gentle  things  she  deign' d  to  say. 

And  sketch  with  care  the  Muse's  bower, 

Where  Isis  rolls  her  silver  tide  ; 
Nor  yet  omit  one  reed  or  flower 

That  shines  on  Cher  well's  verdant  side ; 
If  so  thou  may'st  those  hours  prolong, 
When  polish'd  Lj'con  join'd  my  song. 

The  song  it  'vails  not  to  recite — 

But  sure,  to  soothe  our  youthful  dreams. 

Those   banks    and    streams    appear' d    more 
bright 
Than  other  banks,  than  other  streams : 

Or,  by  thy  softening  pencil  shown. 

Assume  thy  beauties  not  their  own ! 

And  paint  that  sweetly  vacant  scene, 
When,  all  beneath  the  poplar  bough. 

My  spirits  light,  my  soul  serene, 

I  breathed  in  verse  one  cordial  vow  : 

That  nothing  should  my  soul  inspire, 

But  friendship  warm,  and  love  entire. 

Dull  to  the  sense  of  new  delight, 

On  thee  the  drooping  Muse  attends  ; 

As  some  fond  lover,  robb'd  of  sight. 
On  thy  expressive  power  depends  ; 

Nor  would  exchange  thy  glowing  lines. 

To  live  the  lord  of  all  that  shines. 

But  let  me  chase  those  vows  away 
Which  at  ambition's  shrine  I  made  ; 

Nor  ever  let  thy  skill  display 

Those  anxious  moments,  ill  repaid : 

Oh  !  from  my  breast  that  season  raze. 

And  bring  my  childhood  in  its  place. 


!       From  1727  to  1780.J                    WILLIAM  AND  MAEGAEET.                       [David  Mallet. 

Bring  me  the  beUs,  the  rattle  bring, 

Her  bloom  was  like  the  springing  flower, 

And  bring  the  hobby  I  bestrode  ; 

That  sips  the  silver  dew  ; 

When,  pleased,  in  many  a  sportive  ring-, 

The  rose  was  budded  in  her  cheek, 

Around  the  room  I  jovial  rode  : 

Just  opening  to  the  view. 

Ev'n  let  me  bid  my  lyre  adieu, 

But  love  had,  like  the  canker-worm. 

And  bring  the  whistle  that  I  blew. 

Consumed  her  early  prime  ; 

Then  will  I  muse,  and  pensive  say, 

The  rose  grew  pale,  and  left  her  «heok — 

Why  did  not  these  enjoyments  last ; 

She  died  before  her  time. 

How  sweetly  wasted  I  the  day, 

Awake !  she  cried,  thy  true  love  calls, 

While  innocence  allow' d  to  waste  ! 

Come  from  her  midnight  grave  : 

Ambition's  toils  alike  are  vain, 

Now  let  thy  pity  hear  the  maid 

But  ah !  for  pleasure  yield  us  pain. 

Thy  love  refused  to  save. 

:                         Shenstonc.—Born  1714,  Died  17G3. 

This  is  the  dark  and  dreary  hour 

WTien  injured  ghosts  complain ; 

1 

When  yawning  graves  give  up  their  dead, 

To  haunt  the  faithless  swain. 

Bethink  thee,  WilHam,  of  thy  fault, 

896.— T\TJITTEN  AT  AN  INN  AT 

Thy  pledge  and  broken  oath  ! 

HENLEY. 

And  give  me  back  my  maiden-vow. 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom,  I  retire 

And  give  me  back  my  troth. 

From  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din ; 

Why  did  you  promise  love  to  me, 

Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 

And  not  that  promise  keep  ? 

Thn.Ti  the  low  cot  or  humble  inn. 

Why  did  you  swear  my  eyes  were  bright, 

'Tis  here  with  boundless  power  I  reign, 

Yet  leave  those  eyes  to  weep  ? 

And  every  health  which  I  begin 

How  could  you  say  my  face  was  fair, 

Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne  : 

And  yet  that  face  forsake  ? 

Such  freedom  crowns  it  at  an  inn. 

How  could  you  win  my  virgin  heart, 

Yet  leave  that  heart  to  break  ? 

I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate. 

I  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin; 

Why  did  you  say  my  lip  was  sweet, 

Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate, 

And  made  the  scarlet  pale  ? 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 

And  why  did  I,  young  witless  maid  ! 

Believe  the  flattering  tale  ? 

Here,  waiter !  take  my  sordid  ore, 

Which  lackeys  else  might  hope  to  win ; 

That  face,  alas  !  no  more  is  fair, 

It  buys  what  courts  have  not  in  store, 

Those  lips  no  longer  red  : 

It  buys  me  freedom  at  an  inn. 

Dark  are  my  eyes,  now  closed  in  death. 

And  every  charm  is  fled. 

Whoe'er  has  traveU'd  life's  dull  round, 

Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 

The  hungry  worm  my  sister  is  ; 

May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 

This  winding-sheet  I  wear  : 

The  wa-rmest  welcome  at  an  inn. 

And  cold  and  weary  lasts  our  night, 

1 

Till  that  last  morn  appear. 

Shenstone.—Born  1714,  IHed  1763.   1 

But  hark  !  the  cock  has  warned  me  hence ; 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Come  see,  false  man,  how  low  she  lies, 

' 

Who  died  for  love  of  you. 

897._WILLLA.M  AND  MAEGAEET. 

The  lark  sung  loud ;  the  morning  smiled 

'Twas  at  the  silent  solemn  hour. 

With  beams  of  rosy  red : 

When  night  and  morning  meet ; 

Pale  William  quaked  in  every  limb. 

In  glided  Margaret's  grimly  ghost. 

And  raving  left  his  bed. 

And  stood  at  William's  feet. 

He  hied  him  to  the  fatal  place 

Her  face  was  like  an  April  mom 

Clad  in  a  wintry  cloud  ; 
And  clay-cold  was  her  lily  hand 

Where  Margaret's  body  lay  ; 
And  stretched  him  on  the  green-grass  turf 
That  wrapt  her  breathless  clay. 

That  held  her  sable  shroud. 

And  thrice  he  called  on  Margaret's  name, 

So  shall  the  fairest  face  appear 
When  youth  and  years  are  flown  : 

And  thrice  he  wept  full  sore  ; 
Then  laid  his  cheek  to  her  cold  grave, 

Such  is  the  robe  that  kings  must  wear, 

And  word  spake  never  more  ! 

When  death  has  reft  their  crown. 

1 

David  Mallet— Born  1700,  Died  17o5» 

David  Mallet.]                             EDWIN  AND  EMMA.                             [Sixth  Period.— 

898.— EDWIN  AND  EMMA. 

His    cheek,    where    health    -with    beauty 

Far  in  the  windings  of  a  vale, 

glowed. 

Fast  by  a  sheltering  wood, 
The  safe  retreat  of  health  and  peace, 

A  deadly  pale  o'ercast ; 

So  fades  the  fresh  rose  in  its  prime, 

A  humble  cottage  stood. 

Before  the  northern  blast. 

There  beauteous  Emma  flouiished  fair, 

The  parents  now,  with  late  remorse, 

Beneath  a  mother's  eye  ; 

Hung  o'er  his  dying  bed ; 

Whose  only  wish  on  earth  was  now 

And  wearied  Heaven  with  fruitless  vows. 

To  see  her  blest,  and  die. 

And  fruitless  sorrows  shed. 

The  softest  blush  that  nature  spreads 

'Tis  past !  he  cried,  but,  if  j^our  souls 

Gave  colour  to  her  cheek  ; 

Sweet  mercy  yet  can  move. 

Such  orient  colour  smiles  through  heaven, 

Let  these  dim  eyes  once  more  behold 

When  vernal  mornings  break. 

What  they  must  ever  love  ! 

Nor  let  the  pride  of  great  ones  scorn 

She  came  ;  his  cold  hand  softly  touched, 

This  charmer  of  the  plains  : 

And  bathed  with  many  a  tear  : 

That  sun,  who  bids  their  diamonds  blaze. 

Fast-falling  o'er  the  primrose  pale, 

To  paint  our  lily  deigns. 

So  morning  dews  appear. 

Long  had  she  filled  each  youth  with  love, 

But  oh  !  his  sister's  jealous  care. 

Each  maiden  with  despair ; 

A  cruel  sister  she  !                                                 j 

And  though  by  all  a  wonder  owned, 

Forbade  what  Emma  came  to  say  j 

Yet  knew  not  she  was  fair: 

"  My  Edwin,  live  for  mo  !  " 

Till  Edwin  came,  the  pride  of  swain's. 

Now  homeward  as  she  hopeless  wept, 

A  soul  devoid  of  art ; 

The  churchyard  path  along. 

And  from  whose  eye,  serenely  mild, 

The  blast  blew  cold,  the  dark  owl  screamed       \ 

Shone  forth  the  feeling  heart. 

Her  lover's  funeral  song.                                    j 

A  mutual  flame  was  quickly  caught, 

Amid  the  falling  gloom  of  night, 

Was  quickly  too  revealed  ; 

Her  startling  fancy  found 

For  neither  bosom  lodged  a  wish 

In  every  bush  his  hovering  shade. 

That  virtue  keeps  concealed. 

His  groan  in  every  sound. 

What  happy  hours  of  home-felt  bliss 

Did  love  on  both  bestow  ! 
But  bliss  too  mighty  long  to  last, 

Alone,  appalled,  thus  had  she  passed 

The  visionary  vale — 
When  lo  !  the  death-bell  smote  her  ear, 

Where  fortune  proves  a  foe. 

Sad  sounding  in  the  gale ! 

His  sister,  who,  like  envy  formed, 

Like  her  in  mischief  joyed. 
To  work  them  harm,  with  wicked  skill, 

Each  darker  art  employed. 

Just  then  she  reached,  with  trembling  step, 

Her  aged  mother's  door  : 
"  He's  gone  !  "  she  cried,  "  and  I  shall  see 

That  angel  face  no  more. 

The  father,  too,  a  sordid  man, 
Who  love  nor  pity  knew. 

I  feel,  I  feel  this  ])reaking  heart 

Was  all  unfeeling  as  the  clod 
From  whence  his  riches  grew. 

Beat  high  against  my  side  !  " 
From  her  white  arm  down  sunk  her  head — 

She  shivered,  sighed,  and  died. 

Long  had  he  seen  their  secret  flame. 
And  seen  it  long  unmoved  ; 

David  Mallet— Born  1700,  Dial  1765. 

Then  with  a  father's  frown  at  last 

Had  sternly  disapproved. 

In  Edwin's  gentle  heart,  a  war 

Of  differing  passions  strove  : 

899.— SONG. 

His  heart,  that  durst  not  disobey. 

Yet  could  not  cease  to  love. 

The  smiling  morn,  the  breathing  spring. 

Invite  the  tuneful  birds  to  sing. 

Denied  her  sight,  he  oft  behind 

And  while  they  warble  from  each  spray, 

1                 The  spreading  hawthorn  crept, 

Love  melts  the  universal  lay. 

To  snatch  a  glance,  to  mark  the  spot 

Let  us,  Amanda,  timely  wise. 

Where  Emma  walked  and  wept. 

Like  them  improve  the  hour  that  flies, 

Oft,  too,  on  Stanmore's  Avintry  waste 
Beneath  the  moonhght  shade, 

And  in  soft  raptures  waste  the  day 
Among  the  shades  of  Endcrmay. 

In  sighs  to  pour  his  soften'd  soul, 

1       For  soon  the  winter  of  the  year, 

The  midnight  mourner  strayed. 

j       And  age,  life's  winter,  will  appear  ; 

From  1727  to  1780.]  TENDENCIES  OF  SOUL  TOWAEDS  THE  INFINITE.         [Akenside. 


At  this,  thy  living  bloom  will  fade, 
As  that  will  strip  the  vernal  shade. 
Our  taste  of  pleasure  then  is  o'er, 
The  feather' d  songsters  love  no  more; 
And  when  they  droop,  and  we  decay, 
Adieu  the  shades  of  Endermay. 

Davicl  Mallet— Bom  1700,  Died  1765. 


900.— A  FUNERAL  HYMN. 

Ye  midnight  Shades  !  o'er  Nature  spread 

Dumb  silence  of  the  dreary  hour  ; 

In  honour  of  the  approaching  dead 

Around  your  awful  terrors  pour. 

Yes,  pour  around 

On  this  pale  ground, 

Thro'  all  this  deep  surrounding  gloom. 

The  sober  thought. 

The  tear  untaught, 

Those  meetest  mourners  at  a  tomb. 

Lo !  as  the  surpUced  train  draw  near 

To  this  last  mansion  of  mankind. 

The  slow  sad  bell,  the  sable  bier, 

In  holy  musings  wrapt  the  mind ! 

And  while  their  beam, 

"With  trembling  stream. 

Attending  tapers  faintly  dart. 

Each  mould'ring  bone. 

Each  sculptui'ed  stone, 

Strikes  mute  instruction  to  the  heart. 

Now  let  the  sacred  organ  blow 

With  solemn  pause  and  sounding  slow ; 

Now  let  the  voice  due  measure  keep. 

In  strains  that  sigh  and  words  that  weep, 

Till  all  the  vocal  current  blended  roll, 

Not  to  depress  but  lift  the  soaring  soul. 

To  lift  it  in  the  Maker's  praise 

"Who  first  inform'd  our  frame  with  breath, 

And  after  some  few  stormy  days 

Now  gracious  gives  us  o'er  to  death. 

No  king  of  fears 

In  him  appears 

■V\^ho  shuts  the  scene  of  human  woes  ; 

Beneath  his  shade 

Securely  laid 

The  dead  alone  find  trae  repose. 

Then  while  we  mingle  dust  with  dust, 

To  One  supremely  good  and  wise 

Eaise  hallelujahs,     God  is  just. 

And  man  most  happy  when  he  dies. 

His  winter  past. 

Fair  Spring  at  last 

Receives  him  on  her  flow'ry  shore, 

"Where  pleasure's  rose 

Immortal  blows. 

And  sin  and  sorrow  are  no  more. 

David  Mallet— Born  1700,  Died  1765. 


901.— TENDENCIES     OF     THE     SOUL 
TOWARDS  THE  INFINITE. 

Say,  why  was  man  so  eminently  raised 
Amid  the  vast  creation  ;  why  ordain' d 
Through  life  and  death  to  dart  his  piercing 

eye,  -    _ 

With    thoughts    beyond    the    limit    of     his 

frame ; 
But  that   the   Omnipotent  might   send   him 

forth 
In  sight  of  mortal  and  immortal  powers. 
As  on  a  boundless  theatre,  to  run 
The  great  career  of  justice ;  to  exalt 
His  generous  aim  to  all  diviner  deeds  ; 
To    chase    each    partial    purpose    from    his 

breast : 
And  through  the  mists  of  passion  and  of  sense, 
And  through  the  tossing  tide  of  chance  and 

pain, 
To  hold  his  course  unfaltering,  while  the  voice 
Of  Truth  and  Virtue,  up  the  steep  ascent 
Of  Nature,  calls  him  to  his  high  reward, 
The    applauding    smile   of    Heaven  ?       Else 

wherefore  burns 
In  mortal  bosoms  this  unquenched  hope, 
That   breathes   from    day    to    day   sublimer 

things. 
And  mocks  possession  ?  wherefore  darts  the 

mind, 
With  such  resistless  ardour,  to  embrace 
Majestic  forms  ;  impatient  to  be  free. 
Spurning  the  gross  control  of  wilful  might ; 
Proud  of  the  strong  contention  of  her  toUs ; 
Proud  to  be  daring  ?     Who  but  rather  turns 
To  Heaven's  broad  fire  his  unconstrained  view. 
Than  to  the  glimmering  of  a  waxen  flame  ? 
Who  that,  from  Alpine  heights,  his  labouring 

eye 
Shoots  round  the  wide  horizon,  to  survey 
Nilus  or  Ganges  rolling  his  bright  wave 
Through  mountains,  plains  ;  through  empires 

black  with  shade 
And  continents  of  sand ;  will  turn  his  gaze 
To  mark  the  windings  of  a  scanty  rill 
That  murmurs  at  his  feet?     The  high-born 

soul 
Disdains  to  rest  her  heaven-aspiring  wing 
Beneath  its  native  quarry.     Tired  of  Earth 
And  this  diurnal  scene,  she  springs  aloft 
Through   fields   of  air;    pursues    the    flying 

storm ; 
Rides  on  the  voUey'd  lightning  through  the 

heavens ; 
Or,  yoked  with  whirlwinds  and  the  northern 

blast. 
Sweeps  the  long  tract  of  day.     Then  high  she 

soars 
The  blue  profound,  and  hovering  round  tho 

Sun, 
Beholds  him  pouring  the  redundant  stream 
Of  hght ;  beholds  his  unrelenting  sway 
Bend  the  reluctant  planets  to  absolve 
The    fated    rounds    of    Time.      Thence    far 

effused 
She  darts  her  swiftness  up  the  long  career 

43 


Akenside.] 


TASTE. 


rSixTH  Period. 


Of    devious    comets;     through    its    burning 

signs 
Exulting  measures  the  perennial  wheel 
Of  Nature,  and  looks  back  on  all  the  stars, 
Whose  blended  light,  as  with  a  milky  zone. 
Invest  the  orient.     Now  amazed  she  views 
The    empyreal    waste,   where    happy   spirits 

hold, 
Beyond    this    concave    Heaven,    their    calm 

abode ; 
And  fields  of  radiance,  whose  unfading  light 
Has    travell'd    the    profound    six    thousand 

years, 
Nor  yet  arrives  in  sight  of  mortal  things. 
Even  on  the  barriers  of  the  world  nntired 
She  meditates  the  eternal  depth  below  ; 
TiU  half  recoiling,  down  the  headlong  steep 
She  plunges  ;  soon  o'erwhelm'd  and  swaUow'd 

up 
In  that  immense  of  being.     There  her  hopes 
Eest  at  the  fated  goal.     For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker  said, 
That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  delight, 
Not  in  the  fading  echoes  of  EenoAvn, 
Power's  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure's  flowery 

lap. 
The  soul  should   find   enjoyment:   but    from 

these 
Turning  disdainful  to  an  equal  good. 
Through  aU  the  ascent  of  things  enlarge  her 

view, 
Till  every  bound  at  length  should  disappear. 
And  infinite  perfection  close  the  scene. 

Ahenside.—Born  1721,  IHed  1770. 


902.~TASTE. 

What  then    is    taste,  but  these  internal 

powers 
Active,  and  strong,  and  feelingly  alive 
To  each  fine  impulse  ?  a  discerning  sense 
Of  decent  and  sublime,  with  quick  disgust 
From    things    deformed    or    disarranged,    or 

gross 
In  species  ?      This,  nor  gems  nor  stores  of 

gold, 
Nor  purple  state,  nor  culture  can  bestow  ; 
But  God  alone,  when  first  his  active  hand 
Imprints  the  secret  bias  of  the  soul. 
He,  mighty  parent,  wise  and  just  in  all. 
Free  as  the  vital  breeze  or  light  of  heaven. 
Reveals    the    charms    of    nature.      Ask   the 

swain 
Who    journeys    homeward    from    a    summer 

day's 
Long  labour,  why,  forgetful  of  his  toils 
And  due  repose,  he  loiters  to  behold 
The    sunshine   gleaming,   as   through    amber 

clouds, 
O'er  all  the  v/estem  sky ;  full  soon,  T  ween. 
His  rude  expression  and  untutored  airs, 
Beyond  the  power  of  language,  will  unfold 


The  form  of  beauty  smiling  at  his  heart, 
How  lovely!  how  commanding!     But  though 

heaven 
In  every  breast  hath  sown  these  early  seeds 
Of  love  and  admiration,  yet  in  vain, 
Without  fair  culture's  kind  parental  aid. 
Without  enlivening  suns,  and  genial  showers, 
And  shelter  from  the  blast,  in  vain  we  hope 
The  tender  plant  should   rear   its   blooming 

head, 
Or  yield  the  harvest  promised  in  its  spring. 
Nor  j'-et  will  every  soil  with  equal  stores 
Eepay  the  tiller's  labour ;  or  attend 
His  will,  obsequious,  whether  to  produce 
The  olive  or  the  laurel.     Different  minds 
Incline  to  different  objects  :  one  pursues 
The  vast  alone,  the  wonderful,  the  wild  ; 
Another  sighs  for  harmony,  and  grace, 
And  gentlest  beauty.     Hence  when  lightning 

fires 
The  arch  of  heaven,  and  thunders  rock  the 

ground ; 
When  furious  whirlwinds   rend  the  howling 

air. 
And  ocean,  groaning  from  his  lowest  bed, 
Heaves  his  tempestuous  billows  to  the  sky, 
Amid  the  mighty  uproar,  while  below 
The  nations  tremble,  Shakspeare  looks  abroad 
From  some  high  cliff  superior,  and  enjoys 
The  elemental  war.     But  Waller  longs 
All  on  the  margin  of  some  flowery  stream 
To  spread  his  careless  limbs  amid  the  cool 
Of  plantain  shades,  and  to  the  Hstening  deer 
The  tale  of  slighted  vows  and  love's  disdain 
Resound  soft-warbling  all  the  live-long  day  : 
Consenting  zephyr  sighs  ;  the  weeping  rill 
Joins   in   his   plaint,    melodious  j    mute    the 

groves ; 
And  hiU.   and    dale    with    aU    their    echoes 

mourn. 
Such  and  so  various  are  the  tastes  of  men. 
O  blest  of  heaven !  whom  not  the  languid 

songs 
Of  luxury,  the  siren  !  not  the  bribes 
Of  sordid  wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  honour,  can  seduce  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  which  from  the 

store 
Of  nature  fair  imagination  culls 
To  charm  the  enliven' d  soul !     What  though 

not  all 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  heights 
Of  envied  life ;  though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state  ; 
Yet  nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just. 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state. 
Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 
Will   deign   to    use   them.      His    the   city's 

pomp, 
The  rural  honours  his.     Whate'er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch, 
The   breathing   marbles   and   the   sculptured 

gold, 
Bej'ond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
His    tuneful   breast    enjoys.       For  him   the 

spring 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  CURIO. 


[Akenside. 


Distils  her  clews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds  :  for  him  the  liand 
Of  autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
"With   blooming  gold   and   blushes    like    the 

morn. 
Each   passing  hour   sheds   tribute   from  her 

wings  ; 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk, 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Xot  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasiu-e,  unreproved.     Nor  thence  par- 
takes 
Fresh  pleasiu*e  only  .-  for  the  attentive  mind, 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  poAvers, 
Becomes  herself  harmonious  :  wont  so  oft 
In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 
Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 
To  find  a  kindred  order,  to  exert 
Witliin  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 
This   fair  inspired    dehght  :      her    tempered 

powers 
Eefine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 
But  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 
On  nature's  form,  where,  negligent  of  all 
These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  poi-t 
Of  that  eternal  majesty  that  weighed 
The   world's  foundations;     if    to  these  the 

mind 
Exalts  her  daring  eye  ;  then  mightier  far 
Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler.     Would  the 

forms 
Of  servile  custom  cramp  her  generous  power  ; 
Would  sordid  policies,  the  barbarous  gTOwth 
Of  ignorance  and  rapine,  bow  her  down 
To  tame  pursuits,  to  indolence  and  fear  ? 
Lo  !  she  appeals  to  nature,  to  the  wiads 
And   rolling    waves,    the     sun's    im wearied 

course, 
The  elements  and  seasons  :  all  declare 
For  what  the  eternal  Maker  has  ordained 
The  powers  of  man  :  we  feel  within  ourselves 
His  energy  divine  :  he  tells  the  heart. 
He  meant,  he  made  us  to  behold  and  love 
What  he  beholds  and  loves,  the  general  orb 
Of  life  and  being ;  to  be  great  like  him, 
Beneficent  and  active.     Thus  the  men 
Whom  nature's  works  can  charm,  with  God 

himself 
Hold  converse  ;  grow  familiar,  day  by  day. 
With  his  conceptions,  act  upon  his  plan, 
And  form  to  liis,  the  relish  of  their  souls. 

AJcennde.—Born  1721,  Died  1770. 


903.— AN  EPISTLE  TO  CUEIO. 

Thrice  has  the  spring  behold  thy  faded  fame, 
And  the  fourth  winter  rises  on  thy  shame, 
Since  I  exulting  gi-asp'd  the  votive  shell, 
In  sounds  of  triumph  all  thy  praise  to  toll ; 


Bless'd  could  my  skill  through  ages  make  thee 

shine, 
And  pr*ud  to  mix  my  memory  with  thine. 
But    now  the    cause    that   waked  my   song 

before, 
W^ith  praise,  with  triumph,  crowns  the  toil 

no  more.  ~ 

If  to  the  glorious  man  whose  faithful  cares. 
Nor  quell' d  by  malice,  nor  relax' d  by  years. 
Had  awed  Ambition's  wild  audacious  hate, 
And   dragg'd    at    length   Corruption   to   her 

fate  ; 
If  every  tongue  its  large  applauses  owed. 
And  well-earn' d  laurels  every  Muse  bestow'd; 
If  public  Justice  urged  the  high  reward, 
And  Freedom  smiled  on  the  devoted  bard  ; 
Say  then,  to  him  whose  levity  or  lust 
Laid  all  a  people's  generous  hopes  in  dust ; 
Who    taught    Ambition    firmer    heights    of 

power. 
And  saved  Corruption  at  her  hopeless  hour ; 
Does  not  each  tongue  its  execrations  owe  ? 
Shall    not    each    Muse   a   wreath   of    shame 

bestow, 
And  public  Justice  sanctify  th'  award. 
And   Freedom's   hand  protect  the   impartial 

bard  ? 
Yet  long  reluctant  I  forbore  thy  name, 
Long  watch' d  thy  virtue  like  a  dying  flame, 
Hung  o'er  each  glimmering  spark  with  anxious 

eyes, 
And  %vish'd  and  hoped  the  light  again  would 

rise. 
But  since  thy  guilt  still  more  entire  appears, 
Since  no  art  hides,  no  supposition  clears  ; 
Since   vengeful    Slander  now   too   sinks   her 

blast. 
And  the  first  rage  of  party  hate  is  past ; 
Calm  as  the  judge  of  truth,  at  length  I  come 
To   weigh    thy   merits,    and    pronounce    thy 

doom : 
So  may  my  trust  from  all  reproach  be  free  ; 
And  Earth  and  Time  confirm  the  fair  decree. 
There   are   who   say   they   view'd  without 
amaze 
The  sad  reverse  of  all  thy  former  praise : 
That  through  the  pageants  of  a  patriot's  name. 
They  pierced  the  foulness  of  thy  secret  aim  ; 
Or  deem'd  thy  arm  exalted  but  to  throw 
The  public  thunder  on  a  private  foe. 
But  I,  whose  soul  consented  to  thy  cause, 
Who  felt  thy  genius  stamp  its  own  applause. 
Who  saw  the  spirits  of  each  glorious  age 
Move  in  thy  bosom,  and  direct  thy  rage ; 
I   scorn' d   the    ungenerous   gloss   of   slavish 

minds, 
The    owl-eyed    race,    whom   Virtue's    lustre 

blinds. 
Spite  of  the  learned  in  the  waj's  of  vice. 
And   all  who  prove  that  each  man  has  his 

price, 
I  still  believed  thy  end  was  just  and  free ; 
And  yet,  even  yet,  believe  it — spite  of  thee. 
Even   though   thy   mouth  impure  has  dared 

disclaim, 
Urged  by  the  wretched  impotence  of  shame, 

4^ii 


Akenside.] 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  CUEIO. 


rSixTH  Period. — 


Whatever  filial  cares  thy  zeal  had  paid 

To  laws  infirm,  and  liberty  decayed  ; 

Has  begg'd  Ambition  to  forgive  the  Ihow  ; 

Has  told  Corruption  thou  wert  ne'er  her  foe  ; 

Has  boasted  in  thy  country's  awful  ear, 

Her  gross  delusion  when  she  held  thee  dear ; 

How    tame    she    foUow'd    thy    tempestuous 

call, 
And  heard   thy  pompous   tales,  and  trusted 

all— 
Eise  from  your  sad  abodes,  ye  cursed  of  old 
For  laws  subverted,  and  for  cities  sold ! 
Paint  all  the  noblest  trophies  of  your  guilt. 
The  oaths  you  perjured,  and  the  blood  you 

spilt ; 
Yet  must  you  one  untempted  vileness  own, 
One  dreadful  palm  reserved  for  him  alone ; 
With  studied   arts   his   country's    praise   to 

spurn, 
To  be^  the  infamy  he  did  not  earn, 
To  challenge  hate  when  honour  was  his  due. 
And   plead   his   crimes   where  all  his  virtue 

knew. 
Do  robes  of  state  the  guarded  heart  enclose 
From  each  fair  feeling  human  nature  knows  ? 
Can  pompous  titles  stun  the  enchanted  ear 
To    all    that   reason,   all  that   sense   would 

hear  ? 
Else  couldst  thou  e'er  desert  thy  sacred  post, 
In  such  unthankful  baseness  to  be  lost  ? 
Else  couldst  thou  wed  the  emptiness  of  vice, 
jLiid  yield  thy  glories  at  an  idiot's  price  ? 

"VATien  they  who,  loud  for  liberty  and  laws. 
In  doubtful  times  had  fought  their  country's 

cause, 
When  now  of  conquest  and  dominion  sure, 
They    sought     alone    to    hold     their    fruits 

secure ; 
When  taught  by  these,    Oppression  hid  the 

face, 
To  leave  Corruption  stronger  in  her  place, 
By  silent  spells  to  work  the  public  fate, 
And  taint  the  vitals  of  the  passive  state. 
Till  healing  Wisdom  should  avail  no  more. 
And  Freedom  loathe   to  tread  the  poison' d 

shore ; 
Then,    like   some  guardian  god  that  flies  to 

save 
The  weary  pilgrim  from  an  instant  grave, 
Whom,    sleeping    and    secure,     the    guileful 

snake 
Steals  near  and  nearer  through  the  peaceful 

brake ; 
Then  Curio  rose  to  ward  the  public  woe. 
To  wake  the  heedless,  and  incite  the  slow, 
Against  Corruption  Liberty  to  arm. 
And   ([uell    the    enchantress    by  a  mightier 

charm. 
Swift  o'er  the  land  the  fair  contagion  flew, 
And  with  thy  country's   hopes  thy  honours 

grew. 
Thee,  patriot,  the  patrician  roof  confess'd ; 
Thy    powerful    voice  the  rescued  merchant 

bless' d ; 
Of  thee  with  awe  the  rural  hearth  resounds  ; 
The  bowl  to  thee  the  grateful  sailor  crowns ; 


Touch'd  in   the  sighing  shade  with  manlier 

fires. 
To    trace    thy    steps     the    love-sick    youth 

aspires ; 
The    learn' d   recluse,   who   oft    amazed  had 

read 
Of  Grecian  heroes,  Eoman  patriots  dead. 
With  new  amazement  hears  a  living  name 
Pretend  to  share  in  such  forgotten  fame  ; 
And  he   who,    scorning   courts   and  courtly 

ways, 
Left  the  tame  track  of  these  dejected  days, 
The  life  of  nobler  ages  to  renew 
In  virtues  sacred  from  a  monarch's  view, 
Eoused    by  thy    labours    from    the    bless'd 

retreat, 
Where  social  ease  and  public  passions  meet, 
Again  ascending  treads  the  civil  scene. 
To  act  and  be  a  man,  as  thou  hadst  been. 

Thus  by  degrees  thy  cause  superior  grew. 
And  the  great  end  appear' d  at  last  in  view  : 
We  heard  the  people  in  thy  hopes  rejoice, 
We  saw  the  senate  bending  to  thy  voice ; 
The  friends  of  freedom  haU'd  the  approaching 

reign 
Of  laws  for  which  our  fathers  bled  in  vain  ; 
While   venal   Faction,   struck  with  new  dis- 
may, 
Shrunk   at   their  frown,    and  self-abandon'd 

lay. 
Waked  in  the  shock  the  public  Genius  rose, 
Abash' d  and  keener  from  his  long  repose ; 
Sublime  in  ancient  pride,  he  raised  the  spear 
Wliich  slaves  and  tyrants  long  were  wont  to 

fear; 
The  city  felt  his  call :  from  man  to  man, 
From   street  to   street,   the   glorious   horror 

ran ; 
Each  crowded  haunt  was  stirr'd  beneath  his 

power. 
And,'   murmuring,    challenged    the    deciding 

hour. 
Lo  !  the  deciding  hour  at  last  appears  ; 
The    hour    of    every    freeman's   hopes    and 

fears ! 
Thou,  Genius  !  guardian  of  the  Eoman  name, 
O  ever  prompt  tyrannic  rage  to  tame  ! 
Instruct  the  mighty  moments  as  they  roll, 
And    guide    each    movement   steady  to   the 

goal. 
Ye  spirits  by  whose  providential  art 
Succeeding  motives  turn  the  changeful  heart, 
Keep,  keep  the  best  m  view  to  Curio's  mind. 
And  watch  his  fancy,  and  his  passions  bind ! 
Ye  shades  immortal,  who  by  Freedom  led. 
Or  in  the  field  or  on  the  scaffold  bled. 
Bend  from  your  radiant  seats  a  joyful  eye, 
And  view  the  crown  of  all  your  labours  nigh. 
See  Freedom  mounting  her  eternal  throne  ! 
The    sword    submitted,    and   the    laws    her 

own: 
See !    public   Power   chastised    beneath    her 

stands, 
With  eyes  intent,  and  uncorrupted  hands  ! 
See  private  Life  by  wisest  arts  reclaim'd  ! 
See  ardent  youth  to  noblest  manners  framed  ! 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  CUEIO. 


[Akenside. 


See  us  acquire  whate'er  was  sought  by  you, 
If  Curio,  onl}'^  Curio  will  be  true. 

'Twas   then — O  shame !    O   trust   how  ill 

repaid ! 
O  Latium,  oft  by  faithless  sons  betray'd  ! — 
'Twas    then — What    frenzy    on    thy  reason 

stole  ? 
What      spells     unsinew'd     thy     determined 

soul ? — 
Is  this  the  man  in  Freedom's  cause  approved, 
The  man  so  great,  so  honour' d,  so  beloved. 
This  patient  slave  by  tinsel  chains  allured, 
This  wretched  suitor  for  a  boon  abjured, 
This  Curio,  hated  and  despised  by  all, 
WTio  fell  himself  to  work  his  country's  fall  ? 

O  lost,  alike  to  action  and  repose  ! 
Unknown,  unpitied  in  the  worst  of  woes  ! 
^  With  all  that  conscious,  undissembled  pride. 
Sold  to  the  insults  of  a  foe  defied ! 
With  all  that  habit  of  familiar  fame, 
Doom'd    to    exhaust    the    dregs    of    life   in 

shame ! 
The  sole  sad  refuge  of  thy  baffled  art 
To  act  a  statesman's  dull,  exploded  part. 
Renounce  the  praise  no  longer  in  thy  power, 
Display  thy  virtue,  though  without  a  dower, 
Contemn  the  giddy  crowd,  the  vulgar  wind. 
And    shut    thy    eyes    that    others    may  be 

blind.— 
Forgive  me,  Romans,  that  I  bear  to  smile. 
When  shameless  mouths  your  majesty  defile. 
Paint  you   a  thoughtless,  frantic,   headlong 

drew, 
And  cast  their  own  impieties  on  you. 
For    witness,    Freedom,    to     whose     sacred 

power 
My  soul   was  vow'd   from  reason's   earliest 

hour. 
How  have  I  stood  exulting,  to  survey 
My  country's  virtues,  opening  in  thy  ray ! 
How  with  the  sons  of  every  foreign  shore 
The  more  I  match' d  them,  honour'd  hers  the 

more! 
O  race  erect !  whose  native  strength  of  soul. 
Which  kings,    nor  priests,  nor    sordid    laws 

control. 
Bursts  the  tame  round  of  animal  affairs, 
And  seeks  a  nobler  centre  for  its  cares  ; 
Intent  the  laws  of  life  to  comprehend, 
And  fix  dominion's  limits  by  its  end. 
"V^^io,  bold  and  equal  in  their  love  or  hate, 
By  conscious  reason  judging  every  state. 
The  man  forget  not,  though  in  rags  he  lies. 
And    know   the   mortal   through   a    crown's 

disguise : 
Thence    prompt    alike   with   witty   scorn   to 

view 
Fastidious  Grandeur  lift  his  solemn  brow, 
Or,  all  awake  at  pity's  soft  command. 
Bend  the  mild  ear,  and  stretch  the  gracious 

hand: 
Thence   large   of    heart,    from    envy  far  re- 
moved. 
When  pubhc  toils  to  virtue  stand  approved, 
Not  the  young  lover  fonder  to  admire. 
Not  more  indulgent  the  delighted  sire ; 


Yet    high    and   jealous    of     their    free-born 

name. 
Fierce    as    the    flight   of    Jove's    destroying 

flame. 
Where'er     Oppression     works     her     wanton 

sway. 
Proud  to  confront,  and  dreadful  to  repay.  ~ 
But  if  to  purchase  Curio's  sage  applause, 
My  country   must    v/ith   him   renounce   her 

cause. 
Quit  with  a  slave  the  path  a  patriot  trod. 
Bow  the  meek  knee,  and  kiss  the  regal  rod ; 
Then  still,  ye  powers,  instruct  his  tongue  to 

rail. 
Nor  let  his  zeal,  nor  let  his  subject  fail : 
Else,  ere  he  change  the  style,  bear  me  away 
To    where    the    Gracchi,    where    the    Bruti 

stay ! 
O  long  revered,  and  late  resign'd  to  shame  ! 
If  this  uncourtly  page  thy  notice  claim 
When  the  loud  cares  of  business  are  with- 
drawn. 
Nor  well-dress'd  beggars  round  thy  footsteps 

fawn ; 
In  that  still,  thoughtful,  solitary  hour. 
When  Truth  exerts  her  unresisted  power, 
Breaks  the  false  optics  tinged  with  fortune's 

glare. 
Unlocks  the  breast,  and  lays   the   passions 

bare ; 
Then  turn  thy  eyes  on  that  important  scene. 
And  ask  thyself — lif  all  be  well  within. 
Where  is  the  heart-felt  worth  and  weight  of 

soul. 
Which  labour  could  not  stop,  nor  fear  con- 
trol ? 
WTiere   the    known  dignity,   the    stamp    of 

awe, 
Wliich,    half-abash' d,    the  proud  and   venal 

saw? 
Where  the  calm  triumphs  of  an  honest  cause  ? 
Where  the  delightful  taste  of  just  applause  ? 
WTiere  the  strong   reason,   the   commanding 

tongue. 
On  which  the  senate  flred  or  trembling  hung  ? 
All  vanish'd,  all  are  sold — and  in  their  room. 
Couch' d    in    thy    bosom's    deep,    distracted 

gloom. 
See  the  pale  form   of    barbarous  Grandeur 

dwell, 
Like  some  grim  idol  in  a  sorcerer's  cell ! 
To  her  in  chains  thy  dignity  was  led  ; 
At  her  polluted  shrine  thy  honour  bled ; 
With   blasted    weeds   thy  awful    brow    she 

crown' d. 
Thy  powerful  tongue  with  poison' d  philters 

bound. 
That  baffled  Reason  straight  indignant  flew. 
And  fair  Persuasion  from  her  seat  withdrew : 
For  now  no  longer  Truth  supports  thy  cause ; 
No  longer  Glory  prompts  thee  to  applause ; 
No  longer  Virtue  breathing  in  thy  breast. 
With  all  her  conscious  majesty  confess'd, 
Still  bright  and  brighter  wakes  the  almighty 

flame. 
To  rouse  the  feeble,  and  the  wilful  tame, 


Akenside.] 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  CUEIO. 


[Sixth  Period. 


And  where  she   sees   the   catching    glimpses 
I  roll, 

!       Spreads  the  strong  blaze,  and  all  involves  the 
I  soul; 

But  cold  restraints  thy  conscious  fancy  chill, 

And   formal    passions   mock   thy   struggling 
wiU; 

Or,  if  thy  Genius  e'er  forget  his  chain, 

And  reach  impatient  at  a  nobler  strain, 

Soon  the  sad  bodings  of  contemptuous  mirth 

Shoot  through  thy  breast,  and  stab  the  ge- 
nerous birth. 

Till,  blind  with  smart,  from  truth  to  frenzy 
toss'd, 

And  all  the  tenor  of  thy  reason  lost. 

Perhaps  thy  anguish  drains  a  real  tear ; 

While  some  with  pity,  some  with  laughter 
hear. — 

Can  art,  alas  !  or  genius,  guide  the  head. 

Where  truth  and  freedom  from  the  heart  are 
fled? 

Can  lesser  wheels  repeat  their  native  stroke. 

When    the    prime    function    of    the  soul  is 
broke  ? 
But    come,    unhappy  man !    thy  fates   im- 
pend ; 

Come,  quit  thy  friends,  if   yet  thou  hast   a 
friend ; 

Turn    from  the   poor   rewards   of   guilt   like 
thine, 

Eenounce  thy  titles,  and  thy  robes  resign ; 

For  see  the  hand  of  Destiny  display'd 

To  shut  thee  from  the   joys    thou  hast   be- 
tray'd  ! 

See  the  dire  fame  of  Infamy  arise  ! 

Dark    as    the    grave,  and    spacious   as    the 
skies ; 

Where,  from  the  first  of  time,  thy  kindred 
train. 

The  chiefs  and  princes  of  the  unjust  remain. 

Eternal  barriers  guard  the  pathless  road 

To  warn  the  wanderer  of  the  cursed  abode ; 

But  prone  as  whirlwinds  scour   the  assive'p 
sky, 

The  heights  surmounted,  down  the  steep  they 

fly. 

There,   black  with    frowns,    relentless    Time 

awaits, 
And    goads   their    footsteps     to    the    guilty 

gates ; 
And  still    he  asks  them    of  their   unknown 

aims, 
Evolves  their   secrets,    and   their   guilt  pro- 
claims ; 
And  still  his  hands  despoil  them  on  the  road 
Of  each  vain  wreath,  by  lying  bards  bestow'd. 
Break  their  proud  marbles,  crush  their  festal 

cars. 
And  rend  the  lawless  trophies  of  their  wars. 
At  last  the  gates  his  potent  voice  obey ; 
Fierce  to    their    dark    abode    he    drives  his 

prey  ; 
Where,  ever  arm'd  with  adamantine  chains, 
The  watchful  demon  o'er  her  vassals  reigns. 
O'er  mighty  names  and  giant-powers  of  lust. 
The  great,  the  sage,  the  happy,  and  august. 


No    gleam     of    hope   their   baleful    mansion 

cheers. 
No    sound   of    honour   hails   their  unbless'd 

ears  ; 
But    dire    reproaches    from   the    friend    be- 

tray'd. 
The  childless  sire  and  violated  maid ; 
But  vengeful  vows  for  guardian  laws  effaced, 
From  towns    enslaved,   and    continents    laid 

waste  ; 
But  long  posterity's  united  groan, 
And  the  sad  charge  of  horrors  not  their  own, 
For  ever  through  the  trembling  space  resound, 
And    sink    each     impious    forehead    to    the 

ground. 
Ye  mighty  foes  of  liberty  and  rest, 
Give  way,  do  homage  to  a  mightier  guest ! 
Ye  daring  spirits  of  the  Eoman  race. 
See  Curio's  toil  your  proudest  claims  efface  ! — 
Awed    at    the    name,    fierce    Appius    rising 

bends, 
And  hardy  Cinna  from  his  throne  attends  : 
"  He  comes,"  they  cry,   "to  whom  the  fates 

assign' d 
With  surer  arts  to  work  what  we  design'd. 
From  year  to  year  the  stubborn  herd  to  sway, 
Mouth  all    their  wrongs,  and    all  their  rage 

obey; 
Till  own'd  their  guide,  and  trusted  with  their 

power. 
He  mock'd  their  hopes  in  one  decisive  hour ; 
Then,   tired   and   yielding,  led  them  to  the 

chain. 
And   quench' d  the    spirit    we    provoked    in 

vain." 
But  thou.  Supreme,  by  whose  eternal  hands 
Fair  Liberty's  heroic  empire  stands  ; 
Whose  tlumders  the  rebellious  deep  control. 
And  quell  the  triumphs  of  the  traitor's  soul, 
Oh  !  turn  this  dreadful  omen  far  away  : 
On  Freedom's  foes  their  own  attempts  repay  : 
Relume  her  sacred  fire  so  near  suppress'd, 
And  fix  her  shrine  in  every  Roman  breast : 
Though   bold   Corruption  boast    around   the 

land, 
"  Let  virtue,  if  she  can,  my  baits  withstand  !  " 
Though  bolder  now   she  urge  the   accursed 

claim. 
Gay   with    her    trophies    raised    on    Curio's 

shame ; 
Yet  some  there  are  who  scorn  her  impious 

mirth. 
Who  know  what  conscience  and  a  heart  are 

worth. — 
O  friend  and  father  of  the  human  mind, 
"Whose    art     for    noblest     ends    our    frame 

design'd ! 
If  I,  though  fated  to  the  studious  shade 
Which  party-strife,  nor  anxious  power  invade, 
If  I  aspire  in  public  virtue's  cause. 
To  guide  the  Muses  by  sublimer  laws, 
Do  thou  her  own  authority  impart. 
And  give  my  numbers  entrance  to  the  heart. 
Perhaps  the  verse  might  rouse  her  sraother'd 

flame. 
And  snatch  the  fainting  patriot  back  to  fame ; 


4 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  PEOGEESS  OF  LOVE. 


[LoED  Lyttelton. 


Perhaps  by  worthy  thoughts  of  human  kind, 
To  worthy  deeds  exalt  the  conscious  mind  ; 
Or  dash  Corruption  in  her  proud  career, 
And  teach  her  slaves  that  Vice  was  born  to 
fear. 

Akenside. — Born  1721,  Died  1770. 


904.-'THE  PEOGEESS  OF  LOVE. 

Pope,   to   whose   reed   beneath  the  beachen 

shade 
The  nymphs  of  Thames  a  pleased  attention 

paid; 
While  yet  thy  Muse,  content  with  humbler 

praise, 
Warbled  in  Windsor's  grove  her  sylvan  lays  ; 
Though    now,    sublimely  borne  on  Homer's 

wing. 
Of  glorious  wars  and  godlike  chiefs  she  sing : 
Wilt  thou  with  me  revisit  once  again 
The  crystal  fountain,  and  the  flowery  plain  ? 
Wilt  thou,  indulgent,  hear  my  verse  relate 
The  various  changes  of  a  lover's  state  ; 
And,  while  each  turn  of  passion  I  pursue, 
Ask  thy  own  heart  if  what  I  tell  be  true  ? 

To  the  green  margin  of  a  lonely  wood, 
Whose  pendent   shades   o'erlook'd    a    silver 

flood, 
Young   Damon   came,   unknowing  where   he 

stray' d, 
FuU  of  the  image  of  his  beauteous  maid : 
His  flock,  far  off,  unfed,  untended,  lay, 
To  every  savage  a  defenceless  prey  ; 
No  sense  of  interest  could  their  master  move, 
And  every  care  seem'd  trifling  now  but  love. 
Awhile  in  pensive  silence  he  remain'd, 
But,  though  his  voice  was   mute,  his  looks 

complain' d ; 
At  length  the  thoughts,    within   his  bosom 

pent, 
Forced  his   unwilling    tongue   to   give  them 

vent. 
"  Ye  nymphs,"  he  cried,   "  ye  Dryads,  who 

so  long 
Have    favour'd     Damon,    and    inspired    his 

song  ; 
For  whom,  retired,  I  shun  the  gay  resorts 
Of  sportful  cities,  and  of  pompous  courts  ; 
In  vain  I  bid  the  restless  world  adieu. 
To  seek  tranquillity  and  peace  with  you. 
Though  wild  Ambition  and  destructive  Eage 
No    factions    here   can   form,    no    wars    can 

wage : 
Though  Envy  frov»'ns    not  on   your   humble 

shades. 
Nor  Calumny  your  innocence  invades  : 
Yet  cruel  Love,  that  troubler  of  the  breast, 
Too  often  violates  your  boasted  rest ; 
With    inbred     storms    disturbs     your    calm 

retreat. 
And  taints  with  bitterness  each  rural  sweet. 


"  Ah,  luckless  day !  when  first  with  fond 

surprise 
On  Delia's  face  I  fix'd  my  eager  eyes  ! 
Then  in  wild  tumults  all  my  soul  was  tost, 
Then  reason,  liberty,  at  once  were  lost : 
And  every  wish,  and  thought,  and  care,  was 

gone,  —     - 

But  what  my  heart  employ'd  on  her  alone. 
Then  too  she  smile'd :  can  smiles  our  peace 

destroy. 
Those  lovely  children  of  Content  and  Joy  ? 
How  can  soft  pleasure  and  tormenting  woe 
From  the  same  spring  at  the  same  moment 

flow? 
Unhappy  boy  !  these  vain  inquiries  cease, 
Thought  could  not  guard,  nor  will  restore,  thy 

peace : 
Indulge  the  frenzy  that  thou  must  endure. 
And  soothe  the  pain  thou  know'st  not  how  to 

cure. 
Come,  flattering  Memory  !  and  tell  my  heart 
How  kind  she  was,  and  with  what  pleasing 

art 
She  strove  its  fondest  wishes  to  obtain. 
Confirm  her  power,  and  faster  bind  my  chain. 
If  on  the  green  we  danced,  a  mirthful  band, 
To  me  alone  she  gave  her  willing  hand  ; 
Her  partial  taste,  if  e'er  I  touch' d  the  lyre, 
Still  in  my  song  found  something  to  admire, 
By  none  but  her  my  crook  with  flowers  waa 

crown' d, 
By  none  but  her  my  brows  with  ivy  bound  : 
The  world,  that  Damon  was  her  choice,  be- 
lieved. 
The  world,  alas  !  like  Damon,  was  deceived. 
When  last  I  saw  her,  and  declared  my  fire 
In  words  as  soft  as  passion  could  inspire. 
Coldly  she  heard,  and  full  of  scorn  withdrew, 
Without  one  pitying  glance,  one  sweet  adieu. 
The  frighted  hind,  who  sees  his  ripen' d  corn 
Up  from  the  roots  by  sudden  tempests  torn. 
Whose   fairest   hopes   dostroy'd  and  blasted 

lie. 
Feels  not  so  keen  a  pang  of  grief  as  I. 
Ah,  how  have  I  deserved,  inhuman  maid, 
To  have  my  faithful  service  thus  repaid  ? 
Were  all  the  marks  of  kindness  I  received 
But  dreams    of   joy,   that   charm' d    me  and 

deceived  ? 
Or  did  you  only  nurse  my  growing  love, 
That  with   more  pain  I   might  your  hatred 

prove  ? 
Sore  guilty  treachery  no  place  could  find 
In  such  a  gentle,  such  a  generous  mind : 
A   maid  brought    up  the    woods    and   wilds 

among 
Could  ne'er  have  learnt  the  art  of  courts  so 

young : 
No  ;  let  me  rather  think  her  anger  feign'd, 
Still  let  me  hope  my  Delia  may  be  gain'd ; 
'Twas  only  modesty  that  seem'd  disdain. 
And  her    heart    suffer 'd  when  she  gave   me 

pain." 
Pleased  with  this   flattering  thought,  the 

love-sick  boy 
Felt  the  faint  dawning  of  a  doubtful  joy ; 


Lord  Lyttelton.] 


TO  THE  EEVEEEND  DE.  AYSCOUGH. 


[Sixth  Period. 


Back  to  his  flock  more  cheerful  he  return' d, 
When  now  the   setting    Sun    more    fiercely 

burn'd, 
Blue  vapours  rose  along  the  mazy  rills, 
And  light's  last  blushes  tinged  the  distant 

hnis. 

Lord,  Lyttelton.—JBorn  1709,  Died  1773. 


905.— TO      THE      EEVEEEND 
DE.  AYSCOUGH. 

Say,  dearest  friend,  how  roll  thy  hours  away  ? 
What  pleasing  study  cheats  the  tedious  day  ? 
Dost  thou  the  sacred  volumes  oft  explore 
Of  wise  Antiquity's  immortal  lore. 
Where  virtue,  by  the  charms  of  wit  refined. 
At  once  exalts  and  polishes  the  mind  ? 
How  different  from  our  modern  guilty  art, 
Which  pleases  only  to  corrupt  the  heart ; 
Whose  curst  refinements  odious  vice  adorn. 
And  teach  to  honour  what  we  ought  to.  scorn  ! 
Dost  thou  in  sage  historians  joy  to  see 
How  Eoman  greatness  rose  with  liberty  : 
How    the    same    hands   that  tyrants    durst 

control 
Their    empire    stretch' d    from   Atlas   to  the 

Pole; 
TiU  wealth  and  conquest  into  slaves  refined 
The  proud  luxurious  masters  of  mankind  ? 
Dost    thou    in    letter' d   Greece   each   charm 

admire, 
Each    grace,    each    virtue,    Freedom    could 

inspire ; 
Yet  in  her  troubled  state  see  all  the  woes, 
And    all    the    crimes,    that    giddy    Faction 

knows ; 
Till,  rent  by  parties,  by  corruption  sold. 
Or  weakly  careless,  or  too  rashly  bold. 
She  sunk  beneath  a  mitigated  doom. 
The  slave  and  tutoress  of  protecting  Eome  ? 
Does  calm  Philosophy  her  aid  impart, 
To    guide    the    passions,   and    to  mend   the 

heart  ? 
Taught  by  her  precepts,  hast  thou  learnt  the 

end 
To  which  alone  the  wise  their  studies  bend ; 
For  which  alone  by  Nature  were  design'd 
The  i)owers  of  thought — to  benefit  mankind  ? 
Not,  like  a  cloister' d  drone,  to  read  and  doze, 
In  undeserving,  undeserved  repose ; 
But  reason's  influence  to  diffuse  ;  to  clear 
Th'  enlighten' d  world  of  every  gloomy  fear ; 
Dispel  the  mists  of  error,  and  unbind 
Those  pedant  chains  that  clog  the  free-born 

mind. 
Happy  who  thus  his  leisure  can  employ ! 
He  knows  the  purest  hours  of  tranquil  joy  ; 
Nor  vext  with  pangs  that  busier  bosoms  tear, 
Nor  lost  to  social  virtue's  pleasing  care  ; 
Safe  in  the  port,  yet  labouring  to  sustain 
Those   Avho   still   float   on   the    tempestuous 

main. 


So  Locke  the  days  of  studious  quiet  spent ; 
So  Boyle  in  wisdom  found  divine  content ; 
So  Cambray,  worthj'  of  a  happier  doom, 
The  virtuous  slave  of  Louis  and  of  Eome. 
Good  Wor'ster  thus  supports  his  drooping 

age, 
Far  from  court-flattery,  far  from  party-rage  ; 
He,  who  in  youth  a  tyrant's  frown  defied. 
Firm  and  intrepid  on  his  country's  side, 
Her    boldest    champion  then,   and  now   her 

mildest  guide ! 
O  generous  warmth !  O  sanctity  divine  ! 
To  emulate  his  worth,  my  friend,  be  thine : 
Learn  from  his  life  the  duties  of  the  gown  ; 
Learn,  not  to  flatter,  nor  insult  the  crown  ; 
Nor,  basely  servile,  court  the  guilty  great, 
Nor  raise  the  church  a  rival  to  the  state : 
To  error  mild,  to  vice  alone  severe, 
Seek  not  to  spread  the  law  of  love  by  fear. 
The  priest  who  plagues  the  world  can  never 

mend : 
No  foe  to  man  was  e'er  to  God  a  friend. 
Let  reason  and  let  virtue  faith  maintain : 
All  force  but   theirs  is    impious,  weak,  and 

vain. 
Me  other  cares  in  other  climes  engage. 
Cares  that  become   my  birth,  and   suit  my 

age  ; 
In  various  knowledge  to  improve  my  youth, 
And  conquer  prejudice,  worst  foe  to  truth  ; 
By  foreign  arts  domestic  faults  to  mend, 
Enlarge  my  notions,  and  my  views  extend  ; 
The  useful  science  of  the  world  to  know. 
Which  books   can   never  teach,    or   pedants 

show. 
A  nation  here  I  pity  and  admire. 
Whom  noblest  sentiments  of  glory  fire. 
Yet  taught,  by  custom's  force  and  bigot  fear. 
To  serve  with  pride,  and  boast  the  yoke  they 

bear : 
Whose   nobles,  born   to  cringe  and   to  com- 
mand 
(In   courts   a    mean,   in   camps    a    generous 

band), 
From  each  low  tool  of  power  content  receive 
Those  laws,  their   dreaded  arms   to   Europe 

give. 
Whose   people    (vain   in    want,    in    bondage 

blest ; 
Though  plunder' d,  gay;  industrious,  though 

opprest) 
With  happy  follies  rise  above  their  fate. 
The  jest  and  envy  of  each  wiser  state. 

Yet  here  the  Muses  deign' d  awhile  to  sport 
In  the  short  sunshme  of  a  favouring  court : 
Here  Boileau,  strong  in  sense  and  sharp  in 

wit. 
Who,  from  the   ancients,   like  the   ancients 

writ, 
Permission  gain'd  inferior  vice  to  blame. 
By  flattering  incense  to  his  master's  fame. 
Here  Moliere,  first  of  comic  wits,  excell'd 
Whate'er  Athenian  theatres  beheld ; 
By  keen,  yet  decent,  satire  skill' d  to  please, 
With  morals    mirth   uniting,    strength   with 


From  1727  to  1780.]      TO  THE  MEMOEY  OF  LADY  LYTTELTON.      [Lord  Lyttelton. 


Now,  charm' d,   I  hear  the  bold  Corneille  in- 
spire 

Heroic  thoughts,  with  Shakspeare's  force  and 
fire! 

Now    sweet   Eacine,  with    milder   influence, 
move 

The  soften'd  heart  to  pity  and  to  love. 
With  mingled  pain  and  pleasure,  I  survey 

The  pompous  works  of  arbitrary  sway  ; 

Proud   palaces,    that   drain'd    the    subjects' 
store, 

Eaised    on   the   ruins   of    th'    opprest    and 
poor, 

Where  e'en  mute  walls  are  taught  to  flatter 
state, 

And      painted      triumphs      stylo    Ambition 

GREAT 

With  more  delight  those  pleasing  shades  I 

view, 
Where  Conde  from  an   envious   court   with- 
drew ; 
Where,  sick  of    glory,    faction,    power,    and 

pride, 
(Sure   judge    how   empty   all,    who   all   had 

tried ! ) 
Beneath  Ms  palms  the  weary  chief  reposed, 
And  life's  great  scene  in  quiet  virtue  closed. 
With   shame   that   other   fam'd  retreat   I 

see. 
Adorn' d  by  art,  disgraced  by  luxury  : 
Where  Orleans  wasted  every  vacant  hour, 
In  the  wild  riot  of  unbounded  power  ; 
AVhere  feverish  debauch  and  impious  love 
Stain'd  the  mad  table  and  the  guilty  grove. 
With  these  amusements  is  thy  friend  de- 

tain'd. 
Pleased  and  instructed  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
Yet  oft  a  tender  wish  recalls  my  mind 
From  present  joys  to  dearer  left  behind. 
O  native  isle,  fair  Freedom's  happiest  seat ! 
At  thought  of  thee,  my  bounding  pulses  beat ; 
At  thought  of  thee,  my  heart  impatient  burns. 
And  aU  my  country  on  my  soul  returns. 
When  shall  I  see  thy  fields,  whose  plenteous 

grain 
No  power   can  ravish  from    th'   industrious 

swain  ? 
When  kiss,  with  pious  love,  the  sacred  earth 
That  gave  a  Burleigh  or  a  Russell  birth  ? 
When,  in  the  shade  of  laws,  that  long  have 

stood, 
Propt  by  their  care,  or  strengthen' d  by  their 

blood. 
Of  fairless  independence  wisely  vain. 
The  proudest  slave  of  Bourbon's   race   dis- 
dain ? 
Yet,  oh !   what  doubt,  what  sad  presaging 

voice, 
Whispers  within,  and  bids  me  not  rejoice  ; 
Bids  me  contemplate  every  state  around. 
From  sultry  Spain  to  Norway's  icy  bound ; 
Bids  their  lost  rights,  their  ruin'd  glory  see  : 
And  tells  me,    "  These,    like  England,  once 

were  free ! " 

Lord  Lyttelton.— Bo^-n  1709,  Died  1773. 


906. 


-TO  THE  MEMOEY  OF  THE  FIEST 
LADY  LYTTELTON. 


At  length  escaped  from  every  human  eye. 

From  every  duty,  every  care, 
That  in  my  mournful  thoughts  might  claim  a 

share, 
Or  force    my  tears  their  flowing  sfrenm  to 

dry; 
Beneath     the     gloom     of    this    embowering 

shade. 
This  lone  retreat,  for  tender  sorrow  made, 
I  now  may  give  my  burden' d  heart  relief, 

And  pour  forth  all  my  stores  of  grief ; 
Of  grief  surpassing  every  other  woe, 
Far  as  the  purest  bliss,  the  happiest  love 

Can  on  th'  ennobled  mind  bestow, 

Exceeds  the  vulgar  joys  that  move 
Our  gross  desires,  inelegant  and  low. 

Ye  tufted  groves,  ye  gently-falling  rills. 

Ye  high  o'ershadowing  hills, 
Ye  lawns  gay-smiling  with  eternal  green, 

Oft  have  you  my  Lucy  seen  ! 
But  never  shall  you  now  behold  her  more  : 

Nor  will  she  now  with  fond  delight 
And      taste    refined     your     rural      charms 

explore. 
Closed  are  those  beauteous  eyes  in  endless 

night, 
Those  beauteous  eyes  where  beaming  used  to 

shine 
Eeason's     pure     light    and    Virtue's    spark 

divine. 

Oft   would    the   Dryads   of     these    woods 
rejoice 
To  hear  her  heavenly  voice  ; 
For  her   despising,    when    she   deign'd   to 
sing, 
The  sweetest  songsters  of  the  spring  : 
The   woodlark  and  the   linnet  pleased  no 
more ; 
The  nightingale  was  mute, 
And  every  shepherd's  flute 
Was  cast  in  silent  scorn  away. 
While  all  attended  to  her  sweeter  lay. 
Ye   larks   and   linnets,   now    resume   your 
song. 
And  thou,  melodious  Philomel, 
Again  thy  plaintive  story  tell ; 
For  Death  has  stopt  that  tuneful  tongue, 
VvTiose  music  could  alone  your  warbling  notes 
excel. 

In  vain  I  look  around 
O'er  aU  the  well-known  ground. 
My  Lucy's  wonted  footsteps  to  descry  ; 
Where  oft  we  used  to  walk, 
Where  oft  in  tender  talk 
We  saw  the  summer  Sun  go  down  the  sky  ; 
Nor  by  yon  fountain's  side, 
Nor  where  its  waters  glide 
Along  the  valley,  can  she  now  be  found  : 
In  all  the   wide-stretch' d   prospect's    amplo 
bound 


LoKD  Lyttelton.]      to  the  MEMORY  OF  LADY  L^TTELTON.        [Sixth  Period. 

No  more  my  mournful  eye 

"Whate'er  your  ancient  sages  taught, 

Can  aught  of  her  espy, 

Your  ancient  bards  sublimely  thought, 

But   the   sad   sacred   earth   where   her   dear 

And  bade  her  raptured  breast  with  all  your 

relics  lie. 

spirit  glow  ? 

0  shades    of   Hagley,    where   is  now  your 

Nor  then  did  Pindus  or  Castalia's  plain, 

boast  ? 

Or  Aganippe's  fount  your  steps  detain, 

Your  bright  inhabitant  is  lost. 

Nor  in  the   Thespian    valleys   did  you 

You  she  preferr'd  to  all  the  gay  resorts 

play; 

Where  female  vanity  might  wish  to  shine, 

Nor  then  on  Mincio's  bank 

The  pomp  of  cities,  and  the  pride  of  courts. 

Beset  with  osiers  dank. 

Her  modest  beauties  shunn'd  the  public  eye : 

Nor    where   Clitumnus  rolls  his  gentle 

To  your  sequester' d  dales 

stream. 

And  flower-embroider' d  vales 

Nor  where  through  hanging  woods 

From  an  admiring  world  she  chose  to  fly : 

Steep  Anio  pours  his  floods. 

With   Nature  there    retired,    and    Nature's 

Nor  yet  where  Meles  or  Ilissus  stray. 

God, 

Ill  does  it  now  beseem, 

The  silent  paths  of  wisdom  trod, 

That,  of  your  guardian  care  bereft. 

And  banish' d  every  passion  from  her  breast, 

To  dire  disease  and  death  your  darling  should 

But  those,  the  gentlest  and  the  best, 

be  left. 

Whose  holy  flames  with  energy  divine 

The  virtuous  heart  enliven  and  improve, 

Now  what  avails  it  that  in  early  bloom, 

The  conjugal  and  the  maternal  love. 

When  light  fantastic  toys 

Are  aU  her  sex's  joys. 

Sweet  babes,  who,  like  the  little  playful 

With  you  she  search' d  the  wit  of  Greece 

fawns, 

and  Eome ; 

Were    wont  to  trip   along  these   verdant 

And  aU  that  in  her  latter  days 

la-wns 

To  emulate  her  ancient  praise 

By  your  delighted  mother's  side. 

Italia' s  happy  genius  could  produce; 

Who  now  your  infant  steps  shall  guide  ? 

Or  what  the  GalHc  fire 

Ah !  where  is  now  the  hand  whose  tender 

Bright  sparkling  could  inspire, 

care 

By  all  the  Graces  temper'd  and  refined ; 

To  every  virtue  would  have  form'd  your 

Or  what  in  Britain's  isle. 

youth. 

Most  favour'd  with  your  smile. 

And  strew' d  with  flowers  the  thorny  ways 

The  powers  of  Reason  and  of  Fancy  join'd 

of  trath  ? 

To  full  perfection  have  conspired  to  raise  ? 

0  loss  beyond  repair ! 

Ah  !  what  is  now  the  use 

0  wretched  father  !  left  alone. 

Of  aU  these  treasures  that  enrich'd  her 

To   weep   their   dire   misfortune,  and  thy 

mind. 

own ! 

To  black    Oblivion's    gloom    for    ever    now 

How   shall  thy   weaken'd  mind,  oppress'd 

consign'd. 

with  woe, 

And  drooping  o'er  thy  Lucy's  grave, 

At  least,  ye  Nine,  her  spotless  name 

Perform  the  duties  that  you  doubly  owe  ! 

'T  is  yours  from  death  to  save. 

Now  she,  alas  !  is  gone. 

And  in  the  temple  of  immortal  Fame 

From  folly  and  from  vice  their  helpless  age 

With  golden  characters  her  worth  engrave. 

to  save  ? 

Come  then,  ye  virgin-sisters,  come. 

And     strew    with     choicest     flowers    her 

Where  were  ye,  Muses,  when  relentless 

hallow' d  tomb : 

Fate 

But  foremost  thou,  in  sable  vestment  clad, , 

From  these  fond  arms  your  fair  disciple 

With  accents  sweet  and  sad. 

tore ; 

Thou,  plaintive  Muse,  whom  o'er  his  Laura's 

From  these  fond  arms,    that  va-inly 

urn 

strove 

Unhappy  Petrarch  caU'd  to  mourn ;    . 

With  hapless  ineffectual  love 

0  come,  and  to  this  fairer  Laura  pay 

To  guard  her  bosom    from  the  mortal 

A   more   impassion' d   tear,   a  more  pathetic 

blow  ? 

lay. 

Could    not     your     favouring    power, 

Aonian  maids, 

Tell  how  each  beauty  of  her  mind  and  face 

Could  not,  alas  I  your  power  prolong  her 

Was   brighten'd  by   some   sweet    peculiar 

date. 

grace  ! 

For    whom    so    oft    in   these   inspiring 

How  eloquent  in  every  look 

shades, 

Through  her  expressive  eyes  her  soul  distinctly 

Or   under   Camden's   moss-clad  mountains 

spoke  ! 

hoar, 

Tell  how  her  manners,  by  the  world  refined, 

You  open'd  all  your  sacred  store, 

Left  all  the  taint  of  modish  vice  behind. 

From  1727  to  1780.]     TO  THE  MEMOEY  OP  LADY  LYTTELTOK  '     [Lord  Lyttelton. 


And  made  each  charm  of  polish' d  courts 

agree 
With  ca»did  Truth's  simplicity, 
And  uncorrupted  Innocence ! 
Tell  how  to  more  than  manly  sense 
She  join'd  the  softening  influence 
Of  more  than  female  tenderness  : 
How,  in  the  thoughtless  days  of  wealth  and 

joy, 
Which  oft  the  care  of  others'  good  destroy, 
Her  kindly-melting  heart. 
To  every  want  and  every  woe. 
To  guilt  itself  when  in  distress. 
The  balm  of  pity  would  impart. 
And  all  relief  that  bounty  could  bestow  ! 
Ev'n  for  the  kid  or  lamb  that  pour'd  its  life 
Beneath  the  bloody  knife, 
Her  gentle  tears  would  fall, 
Tears  from  sweet  Virtue's  soiurce,  benevolent 
to  all. 


Not  only  good  and  kind. 
But  strong  and  elevated  was  her  mind : 

A  spirit  that  with  noble  pride 

Could  look  superior  down 

On  Fortune's  smile  or  fro-wn ; 
That  could  without  regret  or  pain 
To  Virtue's  lowest  duty  sacrifice 
Or  Interest  or  Ambition's  highest  prize ; 
That,  injured  or  offended,  never  tried 
Its  dignity  by  vengeance  to  maintain, 
But  by  magnanimous  disdain. 
A  wit  that,  temperately  bright. 

With  inoffensive  light 

All  pleasing  shone  ;  nor  ever  past 
The  decent  bounds  that  Wisdom's  sober 

hand, 

And  sweet  Benevolence's  mild  command,    ; 
And  bashful  Modesty,  before  it  cast.  j 

A  prudence  undeceiving,  undeceived,  j 

That  nor  too  little  nor  too  much  believed, 
That  scorn' d  unjust  Suspicion's  coward 

fear, 
And  without  weakness  knew  to  be  sincere. 
Such  Lucy  was,  when,  in  her  fairest  days,    j 
Amidst  th'  acclaim  of  universal  praise. 

In  life's  and  glory's  freshest  bloom, 
Death  came  remorseless  on,  and  sunk  her  to 
the  tomb. 

So,  where  the  silent  streams  of  Liris  glide. 
In  the  soft  bosom  of  Campania's  vale, 
When  now  the  wintry  tempests  all  are 

fled, 
And  genial  Summer  breathes  her  gentle 

gale, 
The  verdant  orange  lifts  its   beauteous 

head :  j 

Erom  every  branch  the  balmj'-  flowerets   [ 

rise,  i 

On  every  bough   the   golden   fruits  are   j 

seen ;  j 

With   odours    sweet   it  fills  the  smiling   i 

skies, 
The  wood-nymphs  tend,  and  th'  Idalian 

queen.  | 


But,   in   the   midst  of   all  its  blooming 

pride, 
A  sudden  blast  from  Apenninus  blows. 
Cold  with  perpetual  snows  : 
The  tender  blighted  plant  shrinks  up  italeaves, 
and  dies. 

Arise,  O  Petrarch,  from  th'  ElysTan  bowers, 
With  never-fading  myrtles  twined, 
And  fragrant  with  ambrosial  flowers, 
Where  to  thy  Laura  thou  again  art  join'd ; 
Arise,  and  hither  bring  the  silver  lyre, 

Tuned,  by  thy  skilful  hand. 
To  the  soft  notes  of  elegant  desire. 

With  which  o'er  many  a  land 
Was  spread  the  fame  of  thy  disastrous 
love; 
To  me  resign  the  vocal  shell, 
And  teach  my  sorrows  to  relate 
Their  melancholy  tale  so  well. 
As  may  ev'n  things  inanimate, 
Eough  mountain  oaks,  and  desert  rocks,  to 
pity  move. 

What  were,  alas  !  thy  woes  compared  to 

mine? 
To   thee    thy    mistress    in   the    blissful 
band 
Of  Hymen  never  gave  her  hand  ; 
The  joys   of    wedded   love    were    never 
thine  : 
In  thy  domestic  care 
She  never  bore  a  share. 
Nor  with  endearing  art 
Would  heal  thy  wounded  heart 
Of  every  secret  grief  that  fester' d  there  : 
Nor  did  her  fond  affection  on  the  bed 
Of  sickness  watch  thee,  and  thy  languid 

head 
Whole   nights    on    her    unwearied   arm 
sustain. 
And  charm  away  the  sense  of  pain  : 
Nor  did  she  crown  your  mutual  flame 
With  pledges  dear,  and  with  a  father's  tender 
name. 

O  best  of  wives  !  O  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  when  thy  virgin  charms 
Were  yielded  to  my  arms. 
How   can   my  soul   endure   the   loss   of 

thee? 
How  in  the  world,  to  me  a  desert  gTown, 

Abandon' d  and  alone. 
Without   my   sweet     companion    can    I 
live? 
Without  thy  lovely  smile, 
The  dear  reward  of  every  virtuous  toil, 
What  pleasures  now  can  pall'd  Ambition 

give  ? 
Ev'n  the  delightful  sense  of  weU-earn'd 
praise, 
Unshared  by  thee,  no  more  my  lifeless  thoughts 
could  raise. 

For  my  distracted  mind 
What  succour  can  I  find  ? 


Gray.] 


A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  ETON  COLLEGE.      [Sixth  Period.— 


On  whom  for  consolation  shall  I  call  ? 
Support  me,  every  friend  ; 
Your  kind  assistance  lend, 
To  bear  the  weight  of   this   oppressive 
woe. 
Alas  !  each  friend  of  mine, 
My  dear   departed   love,    so   much   was 

thine, 
That  none  has  any  comfort  to  bestow. 
My  books,  the  best  relief 
In  every  other  grief, 
Are  now  with  your  idea  sadden' d  aU  : 
Each  favourite  author  we  together  read 
My  tortured  memory  wounds,  and  speaks  of 
Lucy  dead. 

We  were  the  happiest  pair  of  human 

kind : 
The  rolUng  year  its  varying  course  per- 
form'd. 
And  back  return' d  again  ; 
Another  and  another  smiling  came. 
And  saw  our  happiness  unchanged  remain : 

Still  in  her  golden  chain 
Harmonious    Concord     did     our    wishes 
bind : 
Our  studies,  pleasures,  taste,  the  same. 
O  fatal,  fatal  stroke. 
That  all  this  pleasing  fabric  Love  had 
raised 
Of  rare  felicity, 
On  which  ev'n  wanton  Vice  with  envy 

gazed. 
And  every  scheme  of  bliss  our  hearts  had 

form'd, 
"With  soothing  hope,  for  many  a  future 
day, 
In  one  sad  moment  broke  ! — 
Yet,    O   my    soul,    thy   rising  murmurs 

stay; 
Nor  dare  the  all- wise  Disposer  to  arraign. 

Or  against  his  supreme  decree 
-     With  impious  grief  complain. 
That   all   thy   full-blown  joys    at    once 
should  fade, 
Was   his   most  righteous  will — and  be  that 
wiU  obey'd. 

Would  thy   fond   love  his  grace  to  her 

control, 
And  in  these  low  abodes  of  sin  and  pain 

Her  pure  exalted  soul 
Unjustly  for  thy  partial  good  detain  ? 
No — rather  strive  thy  grovelling  mind  to 
raise 
Up  to  that  unclouded  blaze. 
That  heavenly  radiance  of  eternal  light. 
In  which  enthroned  she  now  with  pity 

sees 
How  frail,  how  insecure,  how  slight, 

Is  every  mortal  bhss  ; 
Ev'n  love  itself,  if  rising  by  degrees 
Beyond   the   bounds  of    this    imperfect 
state. 
Whose  fleeting  joys  so  soon  must  end. 
It  does  not  to  its  sovereign  good  ascend. 


Rise  then,  my  soul,  with  hope  elate. 
And  seek  those  regions  of  serene  delight, 
Whose  peaceful  path  and  ever^open  gate 
No  feet  but  those  of  harden'd  Guilt  shall 

miss. 
There  death  himself  thy  Lucy  shall  restore, 
Tliere  yield  up  all  his  power  ne'er  to  divide 
you  more. 

Lord  Lyttelton. — Born  1709,  Died  1773. 


907.— ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT 
OF  ETON  COLLEGE. 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers. 

That  crown  the  watery  glade. 
Where  grateful  science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade ; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey  ; 

Whose  turf,   whose   shade,  whose  flowers 
among 

Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
His  silver- winding  way  ! 

Ah,  happy  hills  !  ah,  pleasing  shade  ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray' d', 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  : 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 
As,  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing. 

My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 

And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 
To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race, 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green, 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
"Wlio  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
I   With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  ? 
The  captive  linnet  which  inthral  ? 

What  idle  progeny  succeed 

To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 
Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Their  murmuring  labours  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty ; 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign. 
And  unknown  regions  dare  descry : 

StUl  as  they  run,  they  look  behind  ; 

They  hear  a  voice  in  every  Avind, 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs,  by  fancy  fed. 

Less  pleasing  when  possess'd  ; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed. 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast. 
Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue, 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new. 


rm»i  1727^0  1780.] 


THE  BAED. 


[Gray. 


And  lively  cheer  of  vigour  born ; 

Tiie  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light,    » 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas !  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play  ; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come. 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  ; 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 
And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train. 

Ah !  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand, 

To  seize  their  prey,  the  murth'rous  band ; 
Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 

These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind. 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  skulks  behind  ; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth. 
Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth, 
That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart ; 

And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 

Grim-visaged  comfortless  Despair, 
And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise. 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try, 
And  hard  Unkindness'  alter'd  eye, 
That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow  ; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 

Lo  !  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen. 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen  : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 
Those  in  the  deepei  vitals  rage : 

Lo  !  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 

That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 
And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  suff'erings  :  all  are  men, 

Condemn' d  alike  to  groan  ; 
The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah  !  why  should  they  know  their  fate, 
Since  sorrow  never  comos  too  late, 
And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ? 

Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 

No  more ;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 

Gray.— Born  1716,  Died  1771. 


Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain. 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain. 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With    pangs    unfelt    before,    unpitied     and 
alone. 

When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 

Virtue,  his  darling  child,  design^,  - 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth, 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stern  rugged  nurse,  thy  rigid  lore 
i   With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore  : 
i   What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know, 
!   And  from   her  own  she  learn' d   to  melt   at 

'  others'  woe. 

I 

j  Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 
j       Self -pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood, 

j  Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 
I       And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 

j  Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 

j  The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe ; 

!  By  vain  Prosperity  received, 

!  To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again 
believed. 

;   Wisdom,  in  sable  garb  array'd, 

i       Immersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound. 

And  Melancholy,  silent  maid, 

With  leaden  eye,  that  lovdfe  the  ground. 

Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend  : 

Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend, 

With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 

And   Pity,    dropping   soft  the  sadly-pleasing 
j  tear. 

;   Oh,  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head, 
{       Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand  I 
;   Not  in  thy  gorgon  terrors  clad, 
i       Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen). 
With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien. 
With  screaming  Horror's  funeral  cry. 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty. 

Thy  form  benign,  oh  goddess  !  wear. 

Thy  milder  influence  impart. 
Thy  philosophic  train  be  there. 

To  soften,  not  to  wound,  my  heart.. 
The  generous  spark  extinct  revive ; 
Teach  me  to  love  and  to  forgive  ; 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan. 
What  others  are,  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a 
man. 

Gray.— Born  1716,  Died  1771. 


908.— HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY. 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power. 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 

Whose  iron  scourge,  and  torturing  hour, 
The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best ! 


909.— THE  BARD. 

"  Ruin  seize  thee,  rathless  king, 
Confusion  on  thy  banners'  wait ; 

Though  fann'd  by  conquest's  crimson  wing. 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 

Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail. 

Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  a■^•'^.^.l 


THE  BAED. 


[Sixth  Period. 


To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From     Cambria's     curse,      from      Cambria's 

tears  !  " 
Such  were  the  sounds,  that  o'er  the  crested 

pride 
Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shag^  side 
He  wound  with  toilsome  march   his   long 

arraj'. 
Stout   Glo'ster    stood    aghast    in   speechless 

trance ; 
"To  arms!"    cried  Mortimer,    and   coucli'd 

his  quivering  lance. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 

Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 

With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air ) ; 
And  with  a  master's  hand,  and  prophet's  fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 
"  Hark,  how  each  giant  oak,  and  desert  cave. 

Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath  ! 
O'er  thee,  oh  king  !    their  hundred  arms  thej'' 
wave, 

E«venge    on    thee    in     hoarser     murmurs 
breathe  ; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day. 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's 
lay. 

Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 

That  hushed  the  stormy  main  : 
Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed  : 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topped 

head. 
On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie. 

Smear' d  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale  : 

Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail ; 
The  famish' d  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear   as   the   light   that   visits   these   sad 
eyes. 
Dear    as    the   ruddy   drops   that   warm    my 
heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  countrj^'s  cries — 
No  more  I  Aveep.     They  do  not  sleep. 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
I  see  them  sit ;  they  linger  yet. 

Avengers  of  their  native  land  : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of 
thy  line." 

"  Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race. 
Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright, 
The  shrieks  of  death  through  Berkeley's  roof 

that  ring. 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king ! 


She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs, 
That   tear'st   the   bowels   of   thy  mangled 
toiate. 
From  thee  be   bom,    who  o'er   thy   country- 
hangs 
The   scourge    of    heaven !      What    terrors 
round  liim  wait ! 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined. 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  be- 
hind. 

Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord, 

Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies  ! 
No  pitjdng  heart,  no  eye  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled  ? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm,  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were 

bom  ? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  mom. 
Fair  laughs   the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr 
blows. 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm. 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes ; 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the 
helm ; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway. 
That,   hush'd    in   grim    repose,    expects   his 
evening  prey. 

Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl. 

The  rich  repast  prepare  ; 
Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 

Close  by  the  regal  chair 
Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  ui)on  their  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray. 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse  ? 

Long  years  of   havoc  urge  their  destined 
course. 
And  through  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their 

way. 
Ye  Towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame. 

With   many  a  foul   and  midnight  murder 
fed, 
Revere  his  consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame. 

And  spare  the  meek  tisurper's  holy  head  I 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow. 
Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread  : 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant  gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,    brothers,    bending    o'er   the   accursed 

loom. 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his 
doom. 

'  Edward,  lo  !  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun). 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate 
(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done).' 
Stay,  oh  stay  !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  mo  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn  ; 
In  yon  bright  tract,   that   fires  the  western 

skies. 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 


From  1727  to  1780.]  ELi^GY  YvKiTTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHIJECHYAED. 


[Geay. 


But  oh !  what  solemn  scenes,  on  Snowdon's 
height 
Descending    slow,    their    glittering    skirts 
unroll  ? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight ; 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings !  Britannia's  issue 
hail! 

Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold, 

SubHme  their  staiTy  fronts  they  rear ; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old, 
In  bearded  majesty  appear. 

In  the  midst  a  form  divine  ! 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-linc ; 

Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face, 

Attempered  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 

What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her 
play ! 

Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear  ! 
They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 

Bright    rapture    calls,    and    soaring   as    she 
sings. 

Waves  in  the  eye    of    Heaven    her  many- 
coloured  wings. 

The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 
And  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction  dressed. 

In  buskined  measures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain, 
With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 
A  voice  as  of  the  cherub-choir, 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear ; 

And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 
That,  lost  in  long  futurity,  expire. 
Fond,  impious  man,  think' st  thou  yon  san- 
guine cloud, 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quench' d  the  orb 
of  day  ? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood. 

And  warms  the  nations  Avith  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me  :  with  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  Fates  assign, 
^e  thine  Despair,  and  sceptred  Care  ; 

To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." 
He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain' s 

height, 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless 
night. 

Gray.— Born  1716,  Died  1771. 


910.— ELEGY  WEITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 

The  lo-wing  herds  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The   ploughman   homeward    plods   his  weary 
way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness   and    to 
me. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the 
sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 
Save   where   the    beetle  wheels    his   droning 
flight, 
And    drowsy    tinklings     lull    the    distant 
folds : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  to^\^r, 
The  moping  owl  does   to    the    moon    com- 
plain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's 
shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moulder- 
ing heap. 
Each  in  his  narrow  ceU  for  ever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn. 
The    swallow   twittering   from  the    straw- 
built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly 
bed. 

For  them   no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall 
burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 
Or  climb    his   knees   the    envied    kiss   to 
share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow    oft   the   stubborn  glebe  has 
broke ; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field  ! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy 
stroke  ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er 
gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour. : — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor   you,    ye    proud,   unpute    to    these    the 
fault. 
If    Memory  o'er    their   tomb    no   trophies 
raise, 
Wliere    through    the    long-draANTi    aisle    and 
fretted  vault 
The    pealing    anthem   swells   the   note   of 
praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back    to    its    mansion    call     the     fleeting 
breath  ? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or   Flattery  soothe   the   dull   cold    ear  of 
Death  ? 


Gbay.J 


ELEGY  WEITTEN  IN  A  COUNTEY  CHUECHYAED.  [Sixth  Peeiod.- 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some   heart   once   pregnant  with   celestial 
fire: 
Hands  that   the   rod   of  empire  might  hare 
sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstacy  the  living  lyre  : 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Eich   with   the   spoils    of    time    did  ne'er 
unroll  ; 

Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene. 
The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear  : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,   that  with  dauntless 
breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 
Some  Cromwell   guiltless  of   his  country's 
blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  com- 
mand, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their   grooving   virtues,   but    their   crimes 
confined ; 
Forbade    to    wade    through    slaughter  to   a 
throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  : 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to 
hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequester' d  vale  of  life 

They   kept    the    noiseless   tenor   of    their 
way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 
deck'd. 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  un- 
letter'd  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  lesign'd. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 


On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 

Even   from   the   tomb   the   voice   of    nature 
cries, 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful   of    the  unhonour'd 
dead. 
Dost     in     these    lines    their    artless    tale 
relate ; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate  ; 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft   have   we    seen  him   at   the  peep  of 
dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic   roots   so 
high. 
His    listless    length   at   noontide   would    he 
stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn. 
Muttering   his  wayward  fancies  he  would 
rove; 
Now  drooping,  wofu^l,  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with"  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless 
love. 

One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  'custom'd  hill, 
Along  the   heatii   and   near   his   favourite 
tree  ; 

Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he. . 

The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  churchway  path  we  saw 
him  borne ; 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the 
lay 
Graved   on   the   stone    beneath   yon   aged 
thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A   Youth,   to   Fortune   and   to   Fame  un- 
known ; 
Fair    Science    frown'd   not   on    his    humble 
birth. 
And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere. 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 
He  gain'd  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  ho  wish'd) 
a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or   draw   his    frailties    from    their   dread 
abode 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose). 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Gray.— Born  1716,  Died  1771. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


AN  ODE  FEOM  CAEACTACUS. 


[Mason. 


911.— ODE  ON  THE  SPRING. 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers, 

And  wake  the  purple  year  ! 
The  attic  warbler  pours  her  throat, 
Eesponsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 

The  untaught  harmony  of  Spring : 
"While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  Zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue  sky 

Their  gather'd  fragrance  fling. 

Wliere'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade ; 
"Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beach 

O'er-canopies  the  glade. 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 

(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardour  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 

How  indigent  the  great ! 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care : 

The  panting  herds  repose  : 
Yet  hark,  how  through  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  I 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing. 
Eager  to  taste  the  honey' d  spring, 

And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon  : 
Some  Hghtly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gaily-gilded  trim 

Quick  glancing  to  the  Sun. 

To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  man  : 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly, 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  through  life's  little  day, 

In  Fortune's  varying  colours  drest : 
Brush' d  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischance ; 
Or  chill' d  by  age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply  ; 
"  Poor  moralist !  and  what  art  thou  ? 

A  solitary  fly ! 
Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 

No  painted  plumage  to  display  : 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown  : 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone — 

We  frolic  while  't  is  May." 

Gray.— Born  1716,  Died  1771. 


912.— ON  VICISSITUDE. 

Now  the  golden  morn  aloft 
Waves  her  dew-bespangled  wing. 
With  vermil  cheek,  and  whisper  soft, 
She  woos  the  tardy  spring  : 


Till  April  starts  and  calls  around 
The  sleeping  fragrance  from  the  ground  ; 
And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 
Scatters  his  freshest,  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance,  -     _ 
Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet  ; 
Forgetful  of  their  wint'ry  trance 
The  birds  his  presence  greet : 
But  chief  the  sky-lark  warbles  high 
His  trembling  thrilling  ecstacy; 
And,  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight, 
Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light. 

Yesterday  the  sullen  year 
Saw  the  snowy  whirlwind  fly  ; 
Mute  was  the  music  of  the  air, 
The  herd  stood  drooping  by  : 
Their  raptures  now  that  wildly  flow, 
No  yesterday,  nor  morrow  know  ; 
'Tis  man  alone  that  joy  descries 
With  forward  and  reverted  eyes. 

Smiles  on  past  misfortune's  brow, 
Soft  reflection's  hand  can  trace ; 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  sorrow  throw 
A  melancholy  grace  : 
While  hope  prolongs  our  happier  hour ; 
Or  deepest  shades  that  dimly  lower 
And  blacken  round  our  weary  way, 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day. 

Still,  where  rosy  pleasure  leads. 
See  a  kindred  grief  pursue ; 
Behind  the  steps  that  misery  treads 
Approaching  comfort  view  : 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow. 
Chastised  by  sabler  tints  of  woe ; 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife, 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

See  the  wretch,  that  long  has  tost 
On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain, 
At  length  repair  his  vigour  lost. 
And  breathe,  and  walk  again  : 
The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale. 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies. 
To  him  are  opening  Paradise. 

Humble  Quiet  builds  her  cell 
Near  the  course  where  pleasure  flows  ; 
She  eyes  the  clear  crystalline  well, 
And  tastes  it  as  it  goes. 

*  #  # 

Gray.— Born  1716,  Died  1771. 


913.— AN  ODE  FEOM  CAEACTACUS. 

Mona  on  Snowdon  calls  : 
Hear,  thou  king  of  mountains,  hear  ; 
Hark,  she  speaks  from  all  her  strings  : 
Hark,  her  loudest  echo  rings  ; 
King  of  mountains,  bend  thine  ear  : 

44 


Mason.] 


ODE  TO  MEMOEY. 


[Sixth  Period.— 


Send  thy  spirits,  send  them  soon, 

Now,  when  midnight  and  the  moon 
Meet  upon  thy  front  of  snow  ; 

See  their  gold  and  ebon  rod. 

Where  the  sober  sisters  nod. 
And  greet  in  whispers  sage  and  slow. 
Snowdon,  mark  !  'tis  magic's  hour. 
Now  the  mutter' d  spell  hath  power  ; 
Power  to  rend  thy  ribs  of  rock, 
And  burst  thy  base  with  thunder's  shock : 
But  to  thee  no  ruder  spell 
Shall  Mona  use,  than  those  that  dwell 
In  music's  secret  cells,  and  lie 
Steep' d  in  the  stream  of  harmony. 

Snowdon  has  heard  the  strain : 
Hark,  amid  the  wondering  grove 

Other  harpings  answer  clear, 

Other  voices  meet  our  ear, 
Pinions  flutter,  shadows  move, 

Busy  murmurs  hum  around, 

Bustling  vestments  brush  the  ground ; 
Bound  and  round,  and  round  they  go. 

Through  the  twilight,  through  the  shade, 

Mount  the  oak's  majestic  head, 
And  gild  the  tufted  mistletoe. 
Cease,  ye  glittering  race  of  light, 
Close  your  wings,  and  check  your  flight ; 
Here,  arranged  in  order  due. 
Spread  your  robes  of  saffron  hue  ; 
For  lo  !  with  more  than  mortal  fire, 
Mighty  Mador  smites  the  lyre  : 
Hark,  he  sweeps  the  master-strings ; 
Listen  all 

Mason. — Born  1725,  Died  1797. 


914.— ODE  TO  MEMOEY. 

Mother  of  "Wisdom  !  thou,  Avhose  sway 

The  throng' d  ideal  hosts  obey  ; 

Who  bidd'st  their  ranks,  now  vanish,    now 
appear, 

Flame  in  the  van,  or  darken  in  the  rear ; 
Accept  this  votive  verse.  Thy  reign 
Nor  place  can  fix,  nor  power  restrain. 

All,  all  is  thine.     For  thee  the  ear,  and  eye, 

Bove    through    the    realms    of     grace,    and 
harmony  : 
The  senses  thee  spontaneous  serve. 
That   wake,    and  thrill    through    ev'ry 

Else  vainly    soft,    loved    Philomel !    would 

flow 
The  soothing  sadness  of  thy  warbled  woe  : 
Else  vainly  sweet  yon  woodbine  shade 
With  clouds  of  fragrance  fill  the  glade ; 
Vainly,  the  cygnet  spread  her  downy  plume, 
The  vine  gush  nectar,  and  the  virgin  bloom. 
But  swift  to  thee,  alive  and  warm, 
Devolves  each  tributary  charm  : 
See  modest  Nature  bring  her  simple  stores, 
Luxuriant  Art  exhaust  her  plastic  powers ; 


While  every  flower  in  Fancy's  clime, 

Each  gem  of  old  heroic  time, 
Cull'd  by  the  hand  of  the  industrious  Muse, 
Around     thy    shrine    their    blended    beams 
diffuse. 

Hail,  Mem'ry  !  hail.     Behold,  I  lead 
To  that  high  shrine  the  sacred  maid : 
Thy  daughter  she,  the  empress  of  the  lyre, 
The  first,  the  fairest,  of  Aonia's  quire. 

She  comes,  and  lo,  thy  realms  expand ! 
She  takes  her  delegated  stand 
Full  in   the  midst,  and   o'er  thy  num'rous 

train 
Displays  the  awful  wonders  of  her  reign. 
There  throned  supreme  in  native  state, 
If  Sirius  flame  with  fainting  heat. 
She  calls  ;  ideal  groves  their  shade  extend, 
The   cool  gale  breathes,  the   silent  showers 
descend. 
Or,  if  bleak  Winter,  frowning  round. 
Disrobe  the  trees,  and  chill  the  ground, 
She,  mild  magician,  waves  her  potent  wand. 
And  ready  summers  wake  at  her  command. 
See,  visionary  suns  arise 
Through  silver  clouds  and  azure  skies ; 
See,  sportive  zephyrs  fan  the  crisped  streams  ; 
Through   shadowy   brakes   light    glance  the 
sparkling  beams : 
While,  near  the  secret  moss-grown  cave, 
That  stands  beside  the  crj'stal  wave. 
Sweet  Echo,  rising  from  her  rocky  bed, 
Mimics  the  feather' d  chorus  o'er  her  head. 

Eise,  hallow'd  Milton  !  rise,  and  say. 
How,  at  thy  gloomy  close  of  day, 
How,   when    "  deprest   by   age,    beset    with 

wrongs : " 
When  "  fall'n  on  evil  days  and  evil  tongues  ;  " 
When  darkness,  brooding  on  thy  sight, 
Exil'd  the  sov'reign  lamp  of  light ; 
Say,    what    could    then    one    cheering  hope 

diffuse  ? 
What  friends  were  thine,  save  Mem'ry  and 
the  Muse  ? 
Hence  the  rich  spoils,  thy  studious  youth 
Caught  from  the  stores  of  ancient  truth  : 
Hence   all   thy  classic  wand'rings  could  ex- 
plore. 
When  rapture  led  thee  to  the  Latian  shore  ; 
Each  scene,  that  Tiber's  banks  supplied; 
Each  grace,  that  played  on  Arno's  side  ; 
The  tepid  gales,  through  Tuscan  glades  that 

fly.: 
The  blue  serene,  that  spreads  Hesperia's  sky ; 
Were  still  thine  own ;  thy  ample  mind 
Each  charm  received,  retain' d,  combined. 
And    thence    "  the    nightly    visitant,"    that 

came 
To  touch  thy  bosom  with  her  sacred  flame, 
Eecall'd  the  long-lost  beams  of  grace. 
That  whilom  shot  from  Nature's  face, 
When  God,  in  Eden,  o'er  her  youthful  breast 
Spread  with  his  own  right  hand  Perfection's 
gorgeous  vest. 

Mason. — Born  1725,  Died  1797. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA. 


[Goldsmith. 


915.— EPITAPH     ON    MRS.    MASON,    IN 
THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  BRISTOL. 

Take,   holy  earth !    all  that   my  soul  holds 
dear: 
Take  that  best  gift  which  heaven  so  lately 
gave : 
To    Bristol's    fount   I    bore   with  trembling 
care 
Her  faded  form  ;    she  bow'd  to  taste  the 
wave, 
And  died  !    Does  youth,  does  beauty,  read  the 
line? 
Does  sympathetic  fear  their  breasts  alarm  ? 
Speak,  dead  Maria  !  breathe  a  strain  divine  : 
Even  from  the  grave  thou  shalt  have  power 
to  charm. 
Bid  them  be  chaste,  be  innocent,  like  thee  ; 

Bid  them  in  duty's  sphere  as  meekly  move  ; 
And  if  so  fair,  from  vanity  as  free  ; 

As  firm  in  friendship,  and  as  fond  in  love. 
Tell  them,  though  'tis  an  awful  thing  to  die, 
('Twas  even  to  thee)  yet  the  dread  path 
once  trod. 
Heaven  lifts  its  everlasting  portals  high, 
And  bids  "  the  pure  in  heart  behold  their 
God." 

• 
Mason. — Bom  1725,  IHed  1797. 


916.— EDWIN  AND  ANGELINA. 

"  Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way. 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray. 

For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow ; 

Where  wilds  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

"  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  phantom  only  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

Here,  to  the  houseless  child  of  want, 

My  door  is  open  still : 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  wiU. 

Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free. 

To  slaughter  I  condemn  ; 
Taught  by  that  power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them. 

But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side, 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring ; 
A  scrip,  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 


Then,  Pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 
His  gentle  accents  fell ;     -    __    _ 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 
And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure. 

The  lonely  mansion  lay ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neighbouring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care  ; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire. 

To  take  their  evening  rest. 
The  hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire. 

And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gaily  press'd  and  smiled  j 

And,  skill'd  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth. 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries ; 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart, 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe  : 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spied, 
With  answering  care  opprest : 

"  And  whence,  tmhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 
"  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

From  better  habitations  spurn' d. 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unretum'd, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

Alas !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling  and  decay ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name  : 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  ! 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame. 

And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ! 

And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modem  fair-one's  jest , 
On  earth  imseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said  : 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betray' d.  ^^^ 


Goldsmith.] 


EETALIATION. 


[Sixth  Period.- 


Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view, 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bri?:;ht,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast. 

Alternate  spread  alarms ; 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confess'd 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"  And  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried, 

"  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share. 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray  : 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine  ; 

He  had  but  only  me. 

To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came  ; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt,  or  feign'd,  a  flame. 

Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bov/'d, 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

In  humblest,  simplest  habit  clad. 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  : 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had ; 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 
Could  naught  of  purity  display, 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

The  dew,  the  blossoms  of  the  tree. 
With  charms  inconstant  shine  : 

Their  charms  were  his ;  but,  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain  ; 
And  while  his  passion  touch' d  my  heart, 

I  triumph' d  in  his  pain. 

Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn. 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 
And  sought  a  sohtude  forlorn. 

In  secret,  where  he  died ! 

But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay  : 

I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

And  there,  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die  : 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I-" 


"  Forbid  it.  Heaven  !  "  the  hermit  cried, 

And  clasp' d  her  to  his  breast : 
The  wondering  fair  one  tnrn'd  to  chide  : 

'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  prest ! 

"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear. 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Kestored  to  love  and  thee. 

Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign  ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine  ? 

No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true  ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 

Goldsmith.— Born  1728,  Died  1774. 


9 1 7.— EETALIATION. 

Of  old,  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited. 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,   and  the  feast 

was  united. 
If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with 

fish. 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings 

the  best  dish  : 
Our  dean  shall  be  ven'son,  just  fresh  from  the 

plains  ; 
Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  the  garnish 

of  brains ; 
Our   WiU   shall  be   wild  fovd,    of    excellent 

flavour : 
And  Dick  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the 

savour : 
Our  Cumberland's  sweet-bread  its  place  shall 

obtain  ; 
And    Douglas   is   pudding,    substantial    and 

plain  : 
Our  Garrick's  a  salad  ;  for  in  him  Vv'e  sec 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree  : 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am 
That   Eidge   is    anchovy,    and    Eeynolds   is 

lamb ; 
That  Hickey  's  a  capon ;    and,  by  the  same 

rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith,  a  gooseberry  fool. 
At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd   not  be  a  glutton,  and   stick  to  the 

last? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm 

able. 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my 

head. 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the 
dead. 
H6re  lies  the  good  dean,  re-united  to  earth, 
Who  mix'd  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom 
with  mirth : 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


EETALIATIOX. 


[Goldsmith. 


If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt, 
At  least  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  them 

out; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  de- 
nied 'em, 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide 

'em. 
Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius 

was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too 

much; 
"Who,  bom   for  the   universe,   narrow'd   his 

mind. 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for 

mankind ; 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  strain- 
ing his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him 

a  vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on 

refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought 

of  dining ; 
Though   equal  to  all  things,    for  all  things 

unfit ; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit; 
For  a  patriot   too   cool ;    for   a  drudge  dis- 
obedient ; 
And   too   fond   of   the   right   to   pursue   the 

expedient. 
In  short,  't  was  his  fate,  unemploy'd,  or  in 

place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a 

razor. 
Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was 

a  mint. 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good 

that  was  in  't ; 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along. 
His  conduct  still  right,   with   his  argument 

wrong ; 
Still  aiming  at  honour,  yet  fearing  to  roam. 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove 

home ; 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  ?  alas !  he  had 

none; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults 

were  his  own. 
Here  Hes  honest  Eichard,  whose  fate  I  must 

sigh  at ; 
Alas  I    that   such   frolic    should   now   be   so 

quiet : 
What  spirits  were  his  1  what  wit  and  what 

whim, 
Now  breaking   a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a 

Hmb! 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the 

ball! 
Now   teasing   and   vexing,   yet    laughing   at 

all! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wish'd  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at 

old  Nick  ; 
,        But,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 
I       A.s    often    we   wish'd    to    have    Dick    back 

again. 


Here   Cumberland   lies,    having   acted   his 

parts, 
The    Terence    of    England,    the    mender   of 

hearts : 
A  flatt'ring  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they 

are.  — 

His   gallants   are    all    faultless,    his    womdh 

divine. 
And  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  : 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out. 
Or  rather  like  Tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of    virtues    and   feelings,    that   folly   grows 

proud ; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  faiKngs,  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their 

own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught  ? 
Or    wherefore   his   characters    thus   -vvithout 

fault  ? 
Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them 

few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself  ? 
Here    Douglas    retires   from   his   toils   to 

relax. 
The    scourge    of    impostors,    the    terror    of 

quacks : 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking 

divines, 
Come,   and   dance   on   the   spot  where  your 

tyrant  reclines  : 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne ; 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own : 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds  shaU  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  shall 

lecture ; 
Macpherson    write   bombast,    and    call  it   a 

style  ; 
Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall 

compile ; 
New   Landers   and  Bowers  the  Tweed  shall 

cross  over. 
No   countryman   living  their   tricks   to    dis- 
cover ; 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark. 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat 

in  the  dark. 
Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who 

can, 
Aij  abridgement  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in 

man : 
As  an  actor,  confess'd  without  rival  to  shine  ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line  ! 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent 

heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings — a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like    an   ill-judging  beauty,   his   colours   he 

spread. 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural 

red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 
'T  was  only  that   when  he  was  off  he  was 

acting. 


Goldsmith.] 


THE  TRAVELLED. 


[Sixth  Period.— 


With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his 

way, 
Ho  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day  : 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly 

sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and 

trick  : 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his 

pack. 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  wliistle 

them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow' d  what 

came. 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for 

fame; 
Till   his    relish    grown     callous,    almost    to 


To      coxcombs      averse,     yet     most     civilly 

steering. 
When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still 

hard  of  hearing  ; 
When   they  talk'd   of   their   Raphaels,  Cor- 

reggios,  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 

GoUsraith.—Bo-ni  1728,  Died  1774. 


Who   pepper' d    the    highest   was    surest   to 

please. 
But   let  us   be   candid,    and   speak   out   our 

mind, 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye   Kenricks,  ye   Kellys,    and  Woodfalls  so 

grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got 

and  you  gave  ! 
How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that 

you  raised. 
While  he  was  be-Roscius'd,  and  yon  were  be- 

praised ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies. 
To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies : 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his 

skill 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will : 
Old  Shakspere  receive  him  with  praise  and 

with  love, 
And    Beaumonts    and   Bens    be   his    Kellys 

above. 
Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt  pleasant 

creature. 
And    slander   itself  must    allow  Mm    good- 
nature : 
He  cherish' d  lus  friend,   and  be   relish'd   a 

bumper : 
Yet  one  fault   he  had,  and  that  one  was  a 

thumper. 
Perhaps    yoii    may   ask   if   the   man        v,  a 

miser  ? 
I  answer,  no,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser : 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that : 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go,        , 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?     Ah,  no  ! 
Then  what  was  his  failing  ?  come,  tell  it,  and 

burn  ye, — 
He  was,  could  he  help  it  ?  a  special  attorney. 
Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my 

mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind  : 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand. 
His   manners    were   gentle,    complying,   and 

bland  ; 
Still  bom  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart ; 


918.— THE  TRAVELLER. 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po ! 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against    the    houseless    stranger    shuts   the 

door  ; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies  ; 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see. 
My  heart,  untravell'd,  fondly  turns  to  thee  : 
Still    to    my   brother    turns    with    ceaseless 

pain. 
And    drags    at    each    remove   a   length'ning 

chain. 
Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend. 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian   saints   at- 
tend ; 
Blest   be   that    spot,    where    cheerful   guests 

retire 
To   pause   from   toil,  and  trim  their  ev'ning 

fire; 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  ev'ry  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair  ; 
Blest   be   those   feasts    with    simple    plenty 

crown'd. 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh   at   the    jests    or    pranks  that  never 

fail. 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But   me,   not   destined    such    delights    to 

share. 
My   prime   of    life   in   wand' ring   spent   and 

care  ; 
Impell'd  with  steps  unceasing  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the 

view; 
That,    like   the   circle    bounding    earth    and 

skies. 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies  ; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

Ev'n  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career. 
Look    downward    where    a    hundred    realms 

appear ; 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's   humbler 

pride. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  TRAVELLEE. 


[Goldsmith. 


"V^lien  thus  creation's  charms  around  com- 
bine, 
Amidst    the   store,     should    thankless    pride 

repine  ? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  g-ood  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  . 

vain  ? 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 
And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye  glitt'ring  towns,  ynth  wealth  and  splen- 
dour crown' d, 
Ye   fields,    where   summer  spreads  profusion 

round, 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale, 
Ye  bending  swains,   that   dress   the   flow'ry 

vale, 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine ; 
Creation's    heir,   the    world,    the    world    is 

mine. 
As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store. 
Bends   at   his   treasure,   counts,    recounts  it 

o'er, 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,    for  hoards   are  wanting 

still ; 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise. 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heav'n  to  man 

supplies  ; 
Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall. 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 
And  oft  I  Avish,  amidst  the  scene  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign' d, 
Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wand'ring  hope  at 

rest, 
May  gather  bliss,  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 
But    where    to    find    that    happiest    spot 

below. 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shudd'ring  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly    proclaims     that    happiest    spot     his 

own ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease : 
The  naked  Negro,  panting  at  the  Line, 
Boasts    of    his    golden     sands,     and    palmy 

wine. 
Basks  in  the  glare  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And   thanks    his  gods  for  all  the  good  they 

gave. 
Such   is    the    patriot's    boast,   where'er    we 

roam. 
His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  wo  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share. 
Though   patriots   flatter,    still   shall    wisdom 

find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind  : 
As  diff 'rent  good,  by  Art  or  Nature  giv'n 
To  diff' rent  nations,    makes   their   blessings 

ev'n. 
Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all. 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labour's  earnest  call ; 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra's  clifi'  as  Arno's  shelvy  side ; 


And     though     the     rocky-crested     summits 

frown. 
These    rocks,    by   custom,   turn   to   beds   of 

down. 
From    art    more   various   are   the   blessings 

sent ; 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content : 
Yet     these     each    other's    pow'r  ^o  ^strong 

contest. 
That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 
Where  wealth   and  freedom   reign,    content- 
ment fails  ; 
And    honour    sinks    where    commerce    long 

prevails. 
Hence    every    state,    to   one   loved   blessing 

prone. 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone  : 
Each  to  the  favourite  happiness  attends. 
And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends  ; 
Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain. 
This  fav'rite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But   let  us   try   these   truths   with  closer 

eyes, 
And  trace    them  through  the  prospect  as  it 

lies  : 
Here  for  awhile,  my  proper  cares  resign' d, 
Here  lot  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind  ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub,  at  random  cast. 
That   shades   the   steep,   and    sighs  at  ev'ry 

blast. 
Far  to  the  right,  where  Apennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends  : 
Its    uplands    sloping    deck    the    mountain's 

side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride ; 
While   oft    some    temple's    mould'ring    tops 

between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast. 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  are  found. 
That    proudly    rise    or    humbly    court    the 

ground ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose   bright    succession   decks   the   varied 

year; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  hves,  that  blossom  but  to  die ; 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil. 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
"While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To    winnow    fragrance    round    the    smiling 

land. 
But     small     the    bliss    that    sense    alone 

bestows. 
And  sensual  bKss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man   seems  the    only  growth  that  dwindles 

here. 
Contrasted  faults   through   all   his    manners 

reign; 
Though  poor,  luxurious ;  though  submissive, 

vain; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling  ;  zealous,  yet  un- 
true ; 
And  ev'n  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 


Goldsmith.] 


THE  TRAVELLEE. 


[Sixth  Pekiod. — 


All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 

That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 

For  wealth  was  theirs ;  not  far  removed  the 

date, 
When  commerce  proudly  flourish' d  thro'  the 

state ; 
At  her  command  the  palace  learnt  to  rise, 
Again    the    long- f all' n    cokimn    sought    the 

skies ; 
The    canvass    glow'd,    beyond    e'en    Nature 

warm, 
The    pregnant    quarry   teem'd    with    human 

form : 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce    on    other    shores    display' d    her 

sail ; 
Wliile    nought   remain'd    of   all    that  riches 

gave. 
But   towns   unmann'd,  and  lords  without   a 

slave : 
And    late   the   nation   found,    with   fruitless 

skill, 
Its  former  strengtlx  was  but  plethoric  ill= 
Yet  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  sup- 
plied 
By    arts,    the    splendid    wrecks    of    former 

pride  ; 
Erom   these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall'n 

mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array'd, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade  : 
Processions  form'd  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  ev'ry  grove. 
By    sports  like   these  are  all  their  cares  be- 
guiled. 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child  : 
Each  nobler  aim,  represt  by  long  control. 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 
While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind  : 
As   in  those  domes,  where  Cesars  once  bore 

sway. 
Defaced  by  time,  and  tott'ring  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead. 
The  shelter- seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed  ; 
And,  wond'ring  man   could  want  the  larger 

pile, 
Exidts,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 
My   soul,    turn    from    them,    turn   we   to 

survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display, 
Where  the  bleak  SavIss  their  stormy  mansions 

tread. 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread  : 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford 
But    man    and    steel,   the    soldier    and    his 

sword : 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torjDid  rocks  array, 
But  winter  ling'ring  chills  the  lap  of  May : 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast. 
But    meteors     glare,     and     stormy    glooms 

invest. 
Yet  still,  e'en  here    content  can  spread  a 

charm, 
Eedress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 


Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts  tho' 

small. 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head. 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed ; 
No     costly    lord    the     sumptuous     banquet 

deal, 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil. 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 
Cheerful    at    morn,    he    wakes '  from     short 

repose, 
Breathes    the    keen    air,    and    carols  as    he 

goes ; 
With  patient  angle  trolls  tho  finny  deep, 
Or   drives   his  vent'rous  ploughshare  to  the 

steep ; 
Or    seeks   the    den  where  snow-tracks  mark 

the  way. 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  ev'ry  labour  sped, 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed  ; 
Smiles     by    his    cheerful     fire,    and     round 

surveys 
His   children's   looks,   that  brighten    at  the 

blaze  ; 
While    his    loved    partner,    boastful   of    lier 

hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  : 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  ev'ry  good  his  native  wilds  impart 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  e'en  those  hiUs,  that  round  his  mansion 

rise. 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies  : 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms. 
And   dear    that   liill    which  lifts  him  to  the 

storms ; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings    close    and    closer    to    the    mother's 

breast. 
So   the   loud    torrent,    and   the   whirlwind's 

roar. 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 
Such    are    the    charms    to   barren    states 

assign' d  : 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  -wishes  all  confined: 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due. 
If   few   their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  biit 

few  ; 
For  ev'ry  want  that  stimulates  the  breast 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest  • 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science 

flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies  ; 
Unknown   to    them,  when  sensual  pleasures 

cloy. 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy ; 
Unknown  those  pow'rs  that  raise  the  soul  to 

flame. 
Catch  ev'ry  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the 

frame. 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  mould' ring  fire, 
Unquench'd  by   want,    unfann'd    by   strong 

desire ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  TEAVELLEE. 


[Goldsmith. 


Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high,  festival  of  once  a  j^ear, 
In  -svild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 
But    not    their  joys   alone  thus   coarsely 

flow ; 
Their   morals,    like   their  pleasures,  are  but 

low; 
Tor,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unalter'd,  unimproved,  the  manners  run  ; 
And   love's   and  friendship's    finely    pointed 

dart 
Falls  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 
Some    sterner    virtues    o'er  the   mountain's 

breast 
May  sit,  like  falcons  cow'ring  on  the  nest : 
But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 
Thro'  life's  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm 

the  way, 
These,   far   dispersed,    on    tim'rous    pinions 

fly, 

To  ?port  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To   kinder  skies,    where   gentler   manners 

reign, 
I    turn  ;    and    France    displays    her    bright 

domain  : 
Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can 

please, 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With    tuneless    pipe,   beside   the  murm'ring 

Loire  ! 
AVhere     shading     elms     along     the     margin 

gi-ew. 
And    freshen'd    from    the  wave   the    zephyr 

flew  : 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  fait' ring 

stiU, 
But  mock'd  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dariber's 

skill ; 
Yet   would  the  village  praise  my  wond'rous 

pow'r. 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages.     Dames  of  ancient  days 
Have   led   their   children   thro'   the  mirthful 

maze ; 
And    the    gay    grandsire,    skiU'd    in   gestic 

lore. 
Has   fnsk'd  beneath  the  burthen   of    three- 
score. 
So    blest    a    life    these    thoughtless    realms 

display, 
Thus  idly  busy  roUs  their  world  away : 
Theirs   are   those   arts   that    mind   to   mind 

endear, 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here  : 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains. 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains. 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts,  in  splendid  trafiic,  round  the  land : 
From  courts,  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  aU  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise ; 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they   give   to  get 

esteem. 
Tin,  seeming   blest,  they  grow  to  what  they 

seem. 


But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  foUies  also  room  to  rise  ; 
For    praise    too    dearly    loved,    or    warmly 

sought. 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry'art, 
Pants    for    the    vulgar    praise    which    fools 

impart ; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And   trims   her   robes  of  frieze  with  copper 

lace  ; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To    boast    one     splendid    banquet    once    a 

year : 
The   mind   still  turns  where  shifting  fashion 

draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where    the   broad    ocean   leans   against  the 

land, 
And.    sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  t  he  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow  ; 
Spreads   its   long    arms   amidst    the    wat'ry 

roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore : 
While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees     an     amphibious     world    beneath    liim 

smile  : 
The  slow  canal,  the  yeUow-blossom'd  vaJe, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  saU, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,    while    around    the    wave-subjected 

soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil. 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign. 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 
Hence     all     the    good    from    opulence    that; 

springs, 
With     all     those    ills     superfluous    treasure 

brings. 
Are  here  display'd.     Their  much-loved  wealth 

imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts  ; 
But     view     them     closer,    craft    and    fraud 

appear. 
E'en  liberty  itself  is  barter'd  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys  ; 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves. 
Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves, 
And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform. 
Dull    as    their    lakes    that    slumber   in   the 

storm. 
Heav'ns !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of 

old  ! 
Eough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold ; 
War  in   each  breast,   and   freedom  on  each 

brow ; 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now ! 


Goldsmith.] 


THE  TEAVELLEE. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her 

wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western 

spring ; 
Wliere    lawns    extend    that   scorn   Arcadian 

pride. 
And  brighter   streams  than  famed  Hydaspis 

glide  ; 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined. 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind  ; 
Stern    o'er    each    bosom    reason    holds    her 

state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great ; 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by ; 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By   forms   unfashion'd,  fresh  from  Nature's 

hand, 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control ; 
While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to 

scan. 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured 

here, 
Thine    are    those    charms    that   dazzle   and 

endear ; 
Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy ; 
But  foster'd  e'en  by  freedom,  ills  annoy ; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high. 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  socisd 

tie; 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone. 
All     claims     that     bind     and    sweeten    life 

unknown ; 
Here,  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held. 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd ; 
Ferments  arise,  imprison'd  factions  roar, 
Eeprest  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore ; 
Till  over-wrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  phrenzy  fire  the  wheels. 
Nor    this    the    worst.      As   nature's   ties 

decay. 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour,  fail  to  sway. 
Fictitious   bonds,    the    bonds  of  wealth  and 

law, 
Still    gather    strength,  and   force   un-\villing 

awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone. 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  ; 
Till  time  may  come,  when,  stript  of  all  her 

charms. 
The    land    of    scholars,    and    the   nurse   of 

arms, 
"Where    noble    stems    transmit    the    patriot 

flame. 
Where  kings  have  toil'd,  and  poets  wrote  for 

fame. 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie. 
And    scholars,    soldiers,    kings,    unhonour'd 

die. 
Yet  think  not.  thus  when  freedom's  ills  I 

state, 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  great : 


Ye     pow'rs     of    truth,    that    bid    my    soul 

aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire ! 
And    thou,    fair   Freedom,   taught   alike   to 

feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel ; 
Thou  transitory  flow'r,  ahke  undone 
By    proud    contempt,    or   favour's   fost'ring 

sun; 
Still   may  thy  blooms   the   changeful   clime 

endure ! 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure ; 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  ev'ry  soil. 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that 

toil; 
And    all    that    freedom's   highest   aims   can 

reach 
Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,     should     one    order    disproportion' d 

grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

Oh    then    how    blind    to    all  that   truth 

requires. 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires  ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms. 
Except  tv^hen  fast  approaching  danger  warms  : 
But    when    contending  chiefs   blockade   the 

throne, 
Contracting    regal    pow'r    to    stretch   their 

own ; 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free  ; 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the 

law; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations 

roam. 
Pillaged   from  slaves   to   purchase  slaves  at 

'home ; 
Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation,  start. 
Tear     oft'    reserve,    and    bare    my    swelling 

heart ; 
Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  &j  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,    brother,    curse  with  me  that  baleful 

hour, 
"When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  pow'r ; 
And  thus,  polluting  honour  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double 

force. 
Have   we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled 

shore, 
Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  ? 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste. 
Like    flaring     tapers    bright' ning    as     they 

waste  ? 
Seen  Opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain. 
Lead  stem  Depopulation  in  her  train. 
And    over    fields    where    scatter' d    hamlets 

rose. 
In  barren  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 
Have    wo     not    seen,    at    Pleasure's    lordly 

call, 
The  smiling  long-frequented  village  fall  ? 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd. 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid. 


Froui  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


[GOLDSMITE. 


Forced     from    their    homes,    a    melancholy 

train, 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main 
Where    wild    Oswego    spreads    her    swamps 

around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thund'ring  soiind  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim 

strays 
Thro'  tangled  forests,    and  thro'    dangerous 

ways  ; 
Where     beasts     with     man    divided    empire 

claim, 
And  the  bro^vn  Indian  marks  with  murd'rous 

aim  ; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe. 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go. 
Casts    a    long   look  v,-licre  England's  glories 

shine. 
And  bids  his  bosom  sjonpathize  with  mine. 
Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind. 
Why     have    I     stray'd    from    pleasure    and 

repose, 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  ev'ry  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings  or  tja-ant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure. 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or 

cure! 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find : 
With   secret   course,    which   no  loud  storms 

annoy. 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's    iron    crown,    and    Damien's   bed   of 

steel, 
j       To  men  remote  from  pow'r  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our 

own. 

Goldsmith.— Born  1728,  Died  1774. 


919.— THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer' d  the  lab' ring 

swain, 
Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting   Summer's  ling'ring  blooms  de- 

lay'd  : 
Dear  lovely  bow'rs  of  innocence  and  ease. 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  ev'ry  sport  could 

please : 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene  I 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
The  shelter' d  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neig-hb'ring 

hill,  . 


The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the 

shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whisp'ring  lovers  made  ! 
How  often  have  I  bless' d  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 
Led   up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading 

tree : 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey' d  ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round ; 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired  : 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While    secret    laughter     titter' d   round   the 

place ; 
The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks 

reprove : 
Those  were  thy  charms,  sVeet  village !  sports 

like  these. 
In    sweet     succession,    taught    e'en    toil    to 


These   round   thy  bow'rs    their  cheerful   in- 
fluence shed, 
These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms 
are  fled. 
Sweet  smiKng  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bow'rs  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain. 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain  : 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But    choked    with  sedges    works   its  weary 

way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies. 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvary'd  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bow'rs  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  gi-ass  o'ertops  the  mould'ring 

wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's 

hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hast'ning  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade  : 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has 

made  : 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd  can  never  be  supplied. 
A    time    there    was,  ere  England's  griefs 
began. 
When  every  rood  of   ground  maintain'd  its 

man; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome 

store, 
Just  gave  what  life   required,    but  gave   no 
more : 


Goldsmith.] 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


l'Sixth  Period. — 


His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But    times   are   alter' d;  trade's   unfeeling 
train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumb'rous  pomp  repose ; 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  foUy  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask' d  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful 

scene. 
Lived  in  each   look,  and  brighten' d   all  the 

green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour. 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  pow'r. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst     thy    tangling     walks     and     ruin'd 

grounds. 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
"Where  once  the  cottage  stood,   the  hawthorn 

grew, 
Eemembrance  wakes  ^vith  all  her  busy  train. 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to 
pain. 
In  all  my  wand'rings  round  this  world  of 
care, 
In  all  my   griefs — and  God    has   given   my 

share — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown. 
Amidst  these  humble  bow'rs  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting,  by  repose : 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still. 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd 

skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  ev'ning  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,    as   a  hare,   whom   hounds   and  horns 

pursue. 
Pants  to.  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she 

flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  blQst  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like 

these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations 

try. 
And,  since  't  is  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,    or   tempt   the   dang' reus 

deep ; 
No  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state. 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  bright' ning  to  the  last, 
His  heav'n  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 


Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  ev'ning's 

close. 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The    mingling    notes    came    soften'd    from 

below ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung, 
The   sober    herd    that    low'd   to   meet   their 

young ; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The    playful    children  just    Jet    loose   from 

school : 
The    watch-dog's     voice     that     bay'd     the 

whisp'ring  wind. 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 

mind; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 
And   fiU'd   each   pause    the   nightingale  had 

made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled : 
All  but  yon  widow' d,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring : 
She,   wretched    matron,   forced   in   age,    for 

bread, 
To   strip   the   brook   with   mantling    cresses 

spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To   seek   her    nightly    shed,    and  weep    till 

morn: 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden 

smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flow'r  grows 

wild. 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  dis- 
close. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change 

his  place ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  pow'r. 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour  ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn' d  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His   house   was   known   to    all  the   vagrant 

train, 
He  chid  their  wand'rings,  but  relieved  their 

pain ; 
The  long  remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest. 
Whose   beard    descending    swept    his    aged 

breast ; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,   and  had   his   claims 

allow' d ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away  ; 
Wept  o'er  liis   wounds,   or,   tales  of   sorrow 

done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields 

were  won. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  DESEETED  VILLAGE. 


[Goldsmith. 


Pleased  with  Ms  guests,  the  good  man  learn' d 

to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  -wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  ev'n  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt,  at  ev'ry  call, 
He  watch' d  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt,  for 

all; 
Vnd,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its   new-fledged   offspring    to   the 

skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrov/,  gtdlt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dis- 
may'd, 
The  rev'rend  champion  stood.  At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  strugghng  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to 

raise, 
And    his    last     falt'ring    accents    whisper'd 

praise. 
At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from   his    lips   prevail' d   with   double 

sway, 
And  fools,    who  came   to    scoff,   remain'd  to 

pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  : 
Ev'n  children  follow' d,  with  endearing  wile, 
iVnd  pluck' d  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile ; 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 
Tkeir  welfare   pleased  him,   and   their  cares 

distrest : 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were 

giv'n, 
But   all    his    serious    thoughts   had    rest   in 

Heav'n. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the 

storm, 
Tho'  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 

spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  stragghng  fence  that  skirts  the 

way, 
With  blossom' d  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill' d  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school : 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  weU,  and  every  truant  knew  ; 
Well  had  the    boding  tremblers   learn'd   to 

trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laugh' d  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd  ; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew ; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write  and  cypher  too ; 


Lands   ho   could   measure,    terms    and   tides 

presage, 
And  ev'n  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill. 
For  ev'u   though  vanquish' d  he  could  argue 

still  ; 
Wliile  words  of  learned  length,  and  th^nd' ring 

sound. 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the    wonder 

grew 
That    one    small   head    should   carry  all   ho 

knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on 

high. 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing 

eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspired, 
Where    grey-beard    mirth    and    smiling    toil 

retired, 
Where   village    statesmen    talk'd  with  looks 

profound. 
And  news   much  older  than  their    ale  went 

round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place  ; 
The    white- wash' d    wall,    the  nicely    sanded 

floor. 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the 

door ; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day  ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 
The   twelve   good   rules,   the  royal   game  of 

goose ; 
The  hearth,  except   when  winter  chill' d   the 

day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel, 

gay; 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten' d  in  a  row. 
Vain  transitory  splendours  )  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tott'ring  mansion  from  its  fall ! 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An   hour's  importance    to  the    poor    man's 

heart ; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No    more   the   farmer's   news,   the    barber's 

tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No   more   the   smith  his   dusky  brow    shall 

clear. 
Relax  his  pond'rous    strength,    and  lean  to 

hear ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  wilhng  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes :  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 


Goldsmith.  1 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The    soul  adopts,   and  owns   their  first-bom 

sway ; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd, 
In  these,  ere  trifiers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 
And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy  ? 
Ye  friends  to    truth,  ye   statesmen,    who 

survey 
The    rich   man's    joys    increase,    the   poor's 

decay, 
'Tis   yours  to  judge  how    wide    the    limits 

stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted 

ore,  , 

And  shouting   FoUy   hails    them    from    her 

shore ; 
Hoards     e'en     beyond     the     miser's     wish 

abound. 
And    rich    men    flock    from    all    the    world 

around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     Tliis  wealth  is  but  a 

name 
That  leaves  our  useful  product  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.       The  man  of  wealth  and 

pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 
Space    for    his    lake,    his     park's    extended 

bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hoTinds  ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robb'd  the  neighb'ring  fields  of  half  their 

growth; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies  : 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  : 
While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all. 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  i^pmale,  unadom'd  and  plain, 
Secure   to   please   while   youth  confirms  her 

reign. 
Slights  ev'ry  borrow' d  charm  that  dress  sup- 
plies. 
Nor   shates    with    art   the    triumph   of    her 

eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms 

are  frail, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  : 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray' d, 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd; 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 
Wliile,  scourged  by  famine,  from  the  smiling 

land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 
And   while  he   sinks,  without    one    arm    to 

save, 
The  coimtry  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave  ! 


Where, "   then,    ah !     where   shall    poverty 
reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray' d. 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those   fenceless   fields   the   sons    of    wealth 

divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 
If  to  the   city   sped  —  What   waits    him 
there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
I   To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
I    To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
i   To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know, 
I   Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe, 
I    Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
I   There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 
I   Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomp 
I  display, 

1   There   the   black   gibbet   glooms  beside    the 
j  way; 

I   The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight 
I  reign, 

!   Here,    richly    dock'd,    admits    the    gorgeous 
:  train ; 

I    Tumultuous     grandeur    crowds    the    blazing 
!  square, 

!   The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  Hke  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy  I 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts? — ^Ah,  turn 

thine  eyes 
Where  the   poor  houseless   shiv'ring   female 

lies  : 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet   as   the   primrose    peeps   beneath    the 

thorn ; 
Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue,  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,   pinch' d  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from 

the  show'r, 
With    heavy    heart    deplores    that    luckless 

hour. 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She    left   her    wheel   and   robes   of    country 
brown. 
Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest 
train. 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
j    E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At    proud    men's    doors    they  ask    a    little 
bread! 
Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where    half     the     convex     world     intrudes 

between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they 

go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far   diff'rent  there   from   aR    that    charni'd 

before. 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 
Those   blazing   suns   that   dart  a  downward 

ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  dav  ; 


From  1727  to  1780.1 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON". 


[Goldsmith. 


Those   matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to 

sing-, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling  ; 
Those  pois'nous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance 

crown'd, 
Where    the    dark    scorpion    gathers     death 

around : 
Where  at  each   step  the   stranger  fears  to 

wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 
Where   crouching   tigers   waiii  their  hapless 

prey, 
And   savage   men   more  murd'rous  still  than 

they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
MingHng   the    ravaged   landscape    with    the 


Far  diff'rent  these  from  ev'ry  former  scene. 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy- vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter' d  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good  Heav'n  !   what  sorrows  gloom'd  that 

parting  day. 
That   call'd  them   from  their    native    walks 

away ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  ev'ry  pleasure  past, 
Himg  round  the  bow'rs,   and  fondly  look'd 

their  last. 
And   took   a  long   farewell,   and    wish'd    in 

vain 
For  seats  like  these    beyond    the    western 

main ; 
And  shudd'ring  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Eetum'd   and   wept,   and    still    return' d    to 

weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others' 

woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years. 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With   louder  plaints   the   mother  spoke  her 

woes. 
And  bless' d  the   cot   where    ev'ry    pleasure 

rose ; 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many 

a  tear. 
And   clasp'd  them   close,  in    sorrow    doubly 

dear  ; 
Whilst    her    fond    husband    strove    to    lend 

relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury  !  thou  cursed  by  Heav'n' s  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for 

thee  ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms     by    thee,     to     sickly     greatness 

grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own  : 
At  ev'ry  draught  more  large  and  large  thoy 

grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 


Till   sapp'd  their   strength,   and   ev'ry    part 

unsound, 
Down,   down  they  sink,  and  spread   a  ruin 

round. 
E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  bus'ness  of  destruction  done ; 
E'en   now,   methinks,   as    pond'ring-  h«re    I 

stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anch'ring  vessel  spreads  the 

sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  ev'ry  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass   from   the   shore,   and    darken    all    the 

strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithfxil  love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade  ! 
Unfit,  in  these  degen'rate  times  of  shame, 
To    catch    the    heart,    or    strike   for  honest 

fame. 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  -decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  soHtary  pride ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found' st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st 

me  so; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  ev'ry  virtue,  fare  thee  well ; 
Farewell !    and   0 !    where'er    thy    voice    be 

tried, 
On  Tomo's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime  ; 
And  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuq-sive  strain, 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him  that   states,   of   native   strength 

possest. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That   trade's   proud   empire  hastes  to  swift 

decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away  ; 
While  self-dependent  pow'r  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

Goldsmith.— Born  1728,  Died  1774. 


920.— THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 

Thanks,  my  Lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or 

fatter 
Never  ranged   in   a   forest,  or  smoked  on  a 

platter ; 
The  haunch    was  a    picture   for  painters  to 

study. 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so 

ruddy : 


Goldsmith.] 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce 

help  regretting 
To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating ; 
I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chambers  to  place  it 

in  view, 
To   be   shown  to   my  friends  as  a  piece   of 

virtu : 
As  in  some  Irish  house^,  where   things  are 

so-so. 
One    gammon    of    bacon    hangs    up    for    a 

show : 
But,  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take 

pride  in, 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is 

fried  in. 
But  hold — let  me  pause — don't  I  hear   you 

pronounce. 
This  tale  of  the  bacon  a  damnable  bounce  ; 
Well !  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may 

try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to 

fly- 
But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce  :  I  protest  in 

my  turn. 
It's  a  truth — and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr. 

Burn. 
To  go  on  with  my  tale — as  I  gazed  on  the 

haunch, 
I  thought  of    a  friend  that  was  trusty  and 

staunch. 
So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Eeynolds  undrest, 
To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dis- 
pose; 
Twas  a  neck  and  a  breast  that  might  rival 

Monroe's : 
But   in   parting  with   these   I   was    puzzled 

again, 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where, 

and  the  when. 
There's   H — d,    and  C — y,  and   H — rth,  and 

H— ff, 
I  think  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love 

beef. 
There's    my    countryman  Higgins — Oh !    let 

him  alone 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 
But  hang  it — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat. 
Your  very  good  mutton  's  a  very  good  treat ; 
Such  dainties  to  them  their  health  it  might 

hurt, 
It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a 

shirt. 
While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  center' d, 
An  acquaintance,  a  friend,  as  he  call'd  him- 
self, enter' d ; 
An  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 
And  he  smiled  as  he  look'd  at  the  venison  and 

me. 
"  What  have  we  got  here  P — why,  this  is  good 

eating  ! 
Your  own,  I  suppose — or  is  it  in  waiting  ?  " 
"  Why,  whose  should  it  be  ?  "  cried  I  with  a 

flounce, 
"1  get  these  things  often ;  "  but  that  was  a 

bounce ; 


"  Some  lords,  my    acquaintance,   that   settle 

the  nation, 
Are  pleased  to  be  kind  ;  but  I  hate  ostenta- 
tion." 
"If  that  be  the  case  then,"  cried  he,  very 
gay, 
"I'm  glad  I   have    taken  this   house  in  my 

way. 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me  ; 
No  words — I  insist  on't — precisely  at  three  : 
We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke  ;  all  the  wits 

will  be  there  ; 
My  acquaintance  is  slight  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord 

Clare. 
And,  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 
We    wanted    this   venison    to   make   out    a 

dinner  ! 
Wliat  say  you — a  pasty,  it  shall  and  it  must. 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 
Here,  porter — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile- 
end  ; 
No  stirring,  I  beg,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear 

friend!" 
Thus  snatching  his  hat,  he  brush'd  off  like 

the  wind, 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  foUow'd  behind. 
Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my 
shelf,  * 

And  "  nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself," 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentle- 
man hasty. 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison 

pasty. 
Were  things  that  I  never  dishked  in  my  life, 
Though  clogg'd  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty 

his  wife. 
So  next  day  in  due  splendour  to  make   my 

approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 
When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were 
to  dine, 
(A  chair-lumber' d  closet  just  twelve  feet  by 

nine), 
My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me 

quite  dumb, 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would 

not  come  ; 
"For  I  knew  it,"  he  cried,   " both  eternally 

fail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  with 

Thrale  ; 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the 

party, 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times    as 

hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like 

you; 
The  one  writes  the    Snarler,    the   other  the 

,  Scourge ; 
Some  think  he  writes    Cinna — he    owns     to 

Pan  urge." 
While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and 

by  name, 
They  cnter'd,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they 
came. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


ODE  TO  INDEPENDENCE. 


[Smollet': 


At  the  top  a  fried   liver  and  bacon  were 

seen, 
At    the    bottom    was   tripe    in   a    swinging 

tureen ; 
At  the  sides  there  were  spinage  and  pudding 

made  hot ; 
In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty — was 

not. 
Now,  my  lord,  as    for    tripe    it's  my  utter 

aversion. 
And   your  bacon  I    hate    like  a    Turk  or  a 

Persian ; 
So  there  I  sat  stuck,  like  a  horse  in  a  pound. 
While    the   bacon   and    liver    went    merrily 

round  : 
But  what  vex'd  me  most,  was  that  d 'd 

Scottish  rogue. 
With   his   long-winded   speeches,   his  smiles, 

and  his  brogue : 
And,   "  Madam,"  quoth  he,  '"may  this  bit  be 

my  poison, 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on  ; 
Pray  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be 

curst. 
But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to 

burst." 
"The  tripe,"   quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  cho- 
colate cheek, 
"  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a 


I  like  these  here  dinners  so  pretty  and  small ; 
But    your    friend     there,    the    doctor,    eats 

nothing  at  all," 
"  0 — ho  !  "  quoth  my  friend,  "he'll  come  on 

in  a  trice, 
He's  keeping  a  comer  for  something  that's 

nice : 
There's  a  pasty  " — "  A  pasty  !  "  repeated  the 

Jew; 
"  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too," 
"  What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty !  "  re-echoed 

the  Scot ; 
"  Though  splitting,  I'll  stOl  keep  a  comer  for 

that," 
"  We'll  all  keep  a  comer,"  the  lady  cried  out ; 
"  We'll  all  keep  a  comer,"  was  echoed  about. 
While    thus   we    resolved,     and    the     pasty 

delay' d, 
With  looks  that  quite  petrified  enter' d  the 

maid: 
A  visage  so  sad  and  so  pale  with  affright, 
Waked    Priam   in   drawing   his    curtains  by 

night. 
But   we   quickly  found   out,   for   who   could 

mistake  her  ? 
That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from 

the  baker : 
And  so  it  fell  out,  for  that  negligent  sloven 
Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 
Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop — 
And  now  that  I  think   on't,   the  story  may 

stop. 
To  be  plain,    my  good   lord,  it's  but   labour 

misplaced, 
To  send  such  good   verses   to   one    of  your 

taste ; 


You've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  dis- 
cerning— 

A  relish — a  taste — sicken' d  over  by  learning  ; 

At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well 
known, 

That  you  think  very  slightly  of  aU  that 's  your 
own :  —     - 

So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 

You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  sKghtly 
of  this. 

Goldsmith.^Born  1728,  Died  1774. 


921.— ODE  TO  INDEPENDENCE. 

STROPHE. 

Thy  spirit.  Independence,  let  me  share, 
Lord  of  the  lion-heart  and  eagle-eye ; 
Thy  steps  I  follow,  with  my  bosom  bare, 
Nor  heed  the   storm   that  howls   along  the 

sky. 
Deep  in  the  frozen  regions  of  the  north, 
A  goddess  violated  brought  thee  forth. 
Immortal  Liberty,  whose  look  sublime 
Hath  bleach' d  the  tyrant's  cheek  in  every 

varying  clime. 
What  time  the  iron-hearted  Gaul, 
With  frantic  superstition  for  his  guide, 
Arm'd  with  the  dagger  and  the  paU, 
The  sons  of  Woden  to  the  field  defied  : 
The  ruthless  hag,  by  Weser's  flood. 
In  Heaven's  name  urged  the  infernal  blow  ; 
And  red  the  stream  began  to  flow : 
The  vanquish' d  were  baptized  with  blood  ,' 

ANTISTROPHE. 

The  Saxon  prince  in  horror  fled. 
From  altars  stain' d  with  human  gore, 
And  Liberty  his  routed  legions  led 
In  safety  to  the  bleak  Norwegian  shore. 
There  in  a  cave  asleep  she  lay, 
Lull'd  by  the  hoarse-resounding  main, 
"When  a  bold  savage  pass'd  that  waj--, 
Impell'd  by  destiny,  his  name  Disdain. 
Of  ample  front  the  portly  chief  appear'd : 
The  hunted  bear  supplied  a  shaggy  vest ; 
The  drifted  snow  hung  on  his  yellow  beard, 
And  his  broad  shoulders  braved  the  furious 

blast. 
He  stopt,  he  gazed,  his  bosom  glow'd, 
And  deeply  felt  the  impression  of  her  charms : 
He  seized  the  advantage  Fate  allow'd, 
And  straight  compress' d  her  in  his  vigorous 

arms. 


The  curlew  scream' d,  the  tritons  blew 

Their  shells  to  celebrate  the  ravish' d  rite 

Old  Time  exulted  as  he  flew  : 

And  Independence  saw  the  light. 

4d 


j  SlMOLLETT.] 


ODE  TO  LEVEN- WATER. 


[Sixth  Period. 


The  light  he  saw  in  Albion's  happy  plains, 
Where  under  cover  of  a  flowering  thorn, 
While  Philomel  renew' d  her  warbled  strains, 
The  auspicious  fruit  of  stolen  embrace  was 

born — 
The  mountain  Dryads  seized  with  joy, 
The    smiling    infant    to    their    charge     con- 
sign'd; 
The  Doric  muse  caress'd  the  favourite  boy : 
The    hermit    Wisdom    stored     his     opening 

mind. 
As  rolling  years  matured  his  age, 
He  flourish' d  bold  and  sinewy  as  his  sire ; 
While  the  mild  passions  in  his  breast  assuage 
The  fiercer  flames  of  his  maternal  fire. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Accomplish'd  thus,  he  Aving'd  his  way, 

And  zealous  roved  from  pole  to  pole. 

The  rolls  of  right  eternal  to  display. 

And  warm  with  patriot  thought  the  aspiring 

soul. 
On  desert  isles  'twas  he  that  raised 
Those  spires  that  gild  the  Adriatic  wave, 
Where  Tyranny  beheld  amazed 
Eair  Freedom's  temple,  where  he  mark'd  her 

grave. 
He  steel' d  the  blunt  Batavian's  arms 
To  burst  the  Iberian's  double  chain ; 
And  cities  rear'd,  and  planted  farms. 
Won    from    the    skirts    of    Neptune's    wide 

domain. 
He,  with  the  generous  rustics,  sate 
On  Uri's  rocks  in  close  divan; 
And  wing'd  that  arrow  sure  as  fate. 
Which  ascertain' d  the  sacred  rights  of  man. 


Arabia's  scorching  sands  he  cross' d, 

Where  blasted  nature  pants  supine, 

Conductor  of  her  tribes  adust, 

To  Freedom's  adamantine  shrine  ; 

And  many  a  Tartar  horde  forlorn,  aghast ! 

He    snatch'd   from  under    fell    Oppression's 

wing, 
And  taught  amidst  the  dreary  waste, 
The  all-cheering  hymns  of  liberty  to  sing. 
He  virtue  finds,  like  precious  ore, 
Diffused  through  every  baser  mould  ; 
Even  now  he  stands  on  Calvi's  rocky  shore, 
And  turns  the  dross  of  Corsica  to  gold  : 
He,  guardian  genius,  taught  my  youth 
Pomp's  tinsel  livery  to  despise  : 
My  lips  by  him  chastised  to  tnxth, 
JNe'er  paid   that    homage    which    my    heart 

denies. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Those  sculptured  halls   my   feet  shaU  never 

tread, 
Where  varnish' d  vice  and  vanity  combined 
To  dazzle  and  seduce,  their  banners  spread, 
And   forgo    vile    shackles   for    the    free-born 

mind. 


While  Insolence  his  wrinkled  front  uprears, 
And  all  the  flowers  of  spurious  fancy  blow  ; 
And  Title  his  ill-woven  chaplet  wears, 
Full  often   vv^reathed   around  the  miscreant's 

brow : 
Where  ever-dimpling  falsehood,  pert  and  vain, 
Presents  her  cup  of  stale  profession's  froth  ; 
And  pale  disease,  with  all  his  bloated  train. 
Torments  the  sons  of  gluttony  and  sloth. 


In  Fortune's  car  behold  that  minion  ride. 
With  either  India's  glittering  spoils  oppress'd, 
So    moves    the    sumpter-mule    in    harness' d 

pride, 
That  bears   the  treasure    which    he  cannot 

taste. 
For  him  let  venal  bards  disgrace  the  bay, 
And    hireling    minstrels    wake    the    tinkling 

string ; 
Her    sensual    snares    let    faithless    pleasure 

lay, 
And  jingling  bells  fantastic  folly  ring : 
Disquiet,  doubt,  and  dread,  shall  intervene ; 
And  Nature,  still  to  all  her  feelings  just,' 
In  vengeance  hang  a  damp  on  every  scene. 
Shook  from  the  baleful  pinions  of  disgust. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Nature  I'll  court  in  her  sequester'd  haunts. 
By  mountain,  meadow,  streamlet,    grove,    or 

ceU; 
Where   the   poised  lark    his    evening    ditty 

chaunts, 
And  health,   and   peace,    and   contemplation 

dwell. 
There,  study  shall  with  solitude  recline, 
And   friendship    pledge    me    to    his    fellow- 
swains. 
And  toil  and  temperance  sedately  twine 
The  slender  cord  that  fluttering  life  sustains  : 
And  fearless  poverty  shall  guard  the  door. 
And  taste  rmspoil'd  the  frugal  table  spread. 
And  industry  supply  the  humble  store. 
And  sleep  unbribed  his  dews  refreshing  shed ; 
"White-mantled  Innocence,  ethereal  sprite. 
Shall  chase  far  off  the  goblins  of  the  night ; 
And  Independence  o'er  the  day  preside. 
Propitious  power  !  my  patron  and  my  pride. 


Smollett— Born  1721,  Died  1771. 


922.— ODE  TO  LEVEN- WATER. 

On  Leven's  banks,  while  free  to  rove, 
And  tune  the  rural  pipe  to  love, 
I  envied  not  the  happiest  swain 
That  over  trod  the  Arcadian  plain. 

Pure  stream  !  in  whose  transparent  wave 
My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


CHOICE  OF  A  RUEAL  SITUATION. 


[John  Armsteonq. 


No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source, 
No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course, 
That  sweetly  warbles  o'er  its  bed, 
With  white,  round,  polish'd  pebbles  spread  ; 
While,  hgfhtly  poised,  the  scaly  brood 
In  myriads  cleave  thy  crystal  flood  ; 
The  springing  trout  in  speckled  pride, 
The  salmon,  monarch  of  the  tide ; 
The  ruthless  pike,  intent  on  war. 
The  silver  eel,  and  mottled  par. 
Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 
A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make, 
By  bowers  of  birch,  and  groves  of  pine. 
And  edges  flower'd  mth  eglantine. 
Still  on  thy  banks  so  gaily  green, 
May  numerous  herds  and  flocks  be  seen  : 
And  lasses  chanting  o'er  the  pail, 
And  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  ; 
And  ancient  faith  that  knows  no  guile, 
And  industry  embrown' d  with  toil ; 
And  hearts  resolved,  and  hands  prepared, 
The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard ! 

Smollett— Born  1721,  Died  1771. 


923.— THE  TEARS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banish'd  peace,  thy  laurels  torn  ! 
Thy  sons,  for  valour  long  renown'd. 
Lie  slaughter' d  on  their  native  ground ; 
Thy  hospitable  roofs  no  more 
Invite  the  stranger  to  the  door ; 
In  smoky  ruins  sunk  they  lie, 
The  monuments  of  cruelty. 

The  wretched  owner  sees  afar 
His  all  become  the  prey  of  war  ; 
Bethinks  him  of  his  babes  and  wife, 
Then  smites  his  breast,  and  curses  life. 
Thy  swains  are  famish' d  on  the  rocks 
Where  once  they  fed  their  wanton  flocks ; 
Thy  ra\ish'd  virgins  shriek  in  vain  ; 
Thy  infants  perish  on  the  plain. 

What  boots  it,  then,  in  every  clime. 
Through  the  wide-spreading  waste  of  time, 
Thy  martial  glory,  crown' d  with  praise. 
Still  shone  with  undiminish'd  blaze  ? 
Thy  towering  spirit  now  is  broke, 
Thy  neck  is  bended  to  the  yoke. 
What  foreign  arms  could  never  quell, 
By  civil  rage  and  rancour  fell. 

The  rural  pipe  and  merry  lay 
No  more  shall  cheer  the  happy  day : 
No  social  scenes  of  gay  delight 
Beguile  the  dreary  winter  night : 
No  strains  but  those  of  sorrow  flow. 
And  nought  be  heard  but  sounds  of  woe, 
While  the  pale  phantoms  of  the  slain 
GHde  nightly  o'er  the  silent  plain. 

Oh  !  baneful  cause,  oh  !  fatal  morn. 
Accursed  to  ages  yet  unborn  ! 


The  sons  against  their  fathers  stood. 
The  parent  shed  his  children's  blood. 
Yet,  when  the  rage  of  battle  ceased. 
The  victor's  soul  was  not  appeased  : 
The  naked  and  forlorn  must  feel 
Devouring  flames  and  murdering  steel ! 

The  pious  mother,  doom'd  to  death, 

Forsaken  wanders  o'er  the  heath, 

The  bleak  wind  whistles  round  her  head, 

Her  helpless  orphans  cry  for  bread  ; 

Bereft  of  shelter,  food,  and  friend, 

She  views  the  shades  of  night  descend  : 

And  stretch'd  beneath  the  inclement  skies, 

Weeps  o'er  her  tender  babes,  and  dies. 

While  the  warm  blood  bedews  my  veins, 
And  unimpair'd  remembrance  reigns. 
Resentment  of  my  country's  fate 
Witliin  my  fiKal  breast  shaU  beat ; 
And,  spite  of  her  insulting  foe. 
My  sympathising  verse  shall  flow  : 
"  Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banish'd  peace,  thy  laurels  torn." 

Smollett.— Born  1721,  IHed  1771. 


924.— CHOICE  OF  A  RURAL  SITUATION 
AND  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  AGUE. 

Ye  who  amid  this  feverish  world  would  wear 
A  body  free  of  pain,  of  cares  a  mind ; 
Fly  the  rank  city,  shun  its  turbid  air ; 
Breathe  not  the  chaos  of  eternal  smoke 
And  volatile  corruption,  from  the  dead, 
The  dying,  sick'ning,  and  the  living  world 
Exhaled,  to  sully  heaven's  transparent  dome 
With  dim  mortality.     It  is  not  air 
That  from  a  thousand  lungs  reeks  back  to 

thine. 
Sated  with  exhalations  rank  and  fell, 
The  spoil  of  dunghills,  and  the  putrid  thaw 
Of  nature ;  when  from  shape  and  texture  she 
Relapses  into  fighting  elements  : 
It  is  not  air,  but  floats  a  nauseous  mass 
Of  all  obscene,  corrupt,  offensive  things. 
Much  moisture  hurts  ;  but  here  a  sordid  bath. 
With  oily  rancour  fraught,  relaxes  more 
The  sohd  frame  than  simple  moisture  can. 
Besides,  immured  in  many  a  sullen  bay 
That  never  felt  the  freshness  of  the  breeze, 
This    slumb'rjng   deep    remains,   and   ranker 

grows 
With    sickly   rest :    and    (though   the   lungs 

abhor 
To  drink  the  dun  fuliginous  abyss) 
I   Did  not  the  acid  vigour  of  the  mine, 
RoU'd  from  so  many  thundering   chimneys, 

tame 
The  putrid  steams  that  overswarm  the  sky ; 
This  caustic  venom  would  perhaps  corrode 
Those  tender  cells  that  draw  the  vital  air. 
In  vain  with  all  the  unctuous  rills  bcdew'd  ; 

45* 


John  Abmstrong.]    A  HIGH  SITUATION  ON  THE  SEA-COAST.  [Sixth  Period.— 


Or  by  the  drunken  venous  tubes,  that  yawn 
In  countless  pores  o'er  all  the  pervious  skin 
Imbibed,  would  poison  the  balsamic  blood, 
And  rouse  the  heart  to  every  fever's  rage. 
While  yet  you  breathe,  away;  the  rural 

wilds 
Invite ;  the  mountains  call  you,  and  the  vales  ; 
The  woods,  the  streams,  and  each  ambrosial 

breeze 
That  fans  the  ever-undulating  sky  ; 
A  kindly  sky !  whose  fost'ring  power  regales 
Man,  beast,  and  all  the  vegetable  reign. 
Find  then  some  woodland  scene  where  nature 

smiles 
Benign,  where  all  her  honest  children  thrive. 
To  us  there  wants  not  many  a  happy  seat ! 
Look  round  the  smiling  land,  such  numbers 

rise 
We  hardly  fix,  bewilder' d  in  our  choice. 
See  where  enthroned  in  adamantine  state. 
Proud  of  lier  bards,  imperial  Windsor  sits ; 
Where  choose  thy  seat  in  some  aspiring  grove 
East  by  the  slowly- winding  Thames ;  or  where 
Broader  she  laves  fair  Richmond's  green  re- 
treats, 
(Richmond  that  sees  a  hundred  villas  rise 
Rural  or  gay).     O  !  from  the  summer's  rage 
O  !  wrap  me  in  the  friendly  gloom  that  hides 
Umbrageous  Ham  ! — But  if  the  busy  town 
Attract  thee  still  to  toil  for  power  or  gold. 
Sweetly  thou  mayst  thy  vacant  hours  possess 
In  Hampstead,  courted  by  the  western  wind  ; 
Or  Greenwich,  waving  o'er  the  winding  flood  ; 
Or  lose  the  world  amid  the  sylvan  wilds 
Of  Dulwich,  yet  by  barbarous  arts  unspoil'd. 
Green  rise  the  Kentish  hills  in  cheerful  air ; 
But  on  the  marshy  plains  that  Lincoln  spreads 
Build  not,  nor  rest  too  long  thy  wandering 

feet. 
For  on  a  rustic  throne  of  dewy  turf. 
With  baneful  fogs  her  aching  temples  bound, 
Quartana  there  presides ;  a  meagre  fiend 
Begot  by  Eurus,  when  his  brutal  force 
Compress' d  the  slothful  Naiad  of  the  Fens. 
From  such  a  mixture  sprung,  this  fitful  pest 
With  fev'rish   blasts    subdues   the  sick'ning 

land: 
Cold  tremors  come,  with  mighty  love  of  rest, 
Convulsive  yawnings,  lassitude,  and  pains 
That  sting  the  burden'd  brows,  fatigue  the 

loins, 
And  rack  the  joints,  and  every  torpid  limb  ; 
Then   parching    heat    succeeds,   till    copiops 

sweats 
O'erflow  :  a  short  relief  from  former  iUs. 
Beneath  repeated  shocks  the  wretches  pine ; 
The  vigour  sinks,  the  habit  melts  away : 
The  cheerful,  pure,  and  animated  bloom 
Dies  from  the  face,  with  squalid  atrophy 
Devour'd,  in  sallow  melancholy  clad. 
And  oft  the  sorceress,  in  her  sated  wrath, 
Resigns  them  to  the  furies  of  her  train : 
The  bloated  Hydrops,  and  the  yellow  fiend 
Tinged  with  her  own  accumulated  gall. 

John  Armstrong. — Bom  1709,  Died  1779. 


925.— RECOMMENDATION    OF   A   HIGH 
SITUATION  ON  THE  SEA-COAST. 

Meantime,  the  moist  malignity  to  shun 

Of   burthen' d   skies ;    mark   where    the    dry 

champaign 
Swells  into  cheerful  hills  :  where  marjoram 
And   thyme,  the   love  of   bees,  perfume  the 

air ; 
And  where  the  cynorrhodon  with  the  rose 
For  fragrance  vies ;  for  in  the  thirsty  soil 
Most  fragrant  breathe  the  aromatic  tribes. 
There   bid   thy  roofs   high   on    the    basking 

steep 
Ascend,  there  light  thy  hospitable  fires. 
And  let  them  see  the  winter  mom  arise, 
The  summer  evening  blushing  in  the  west : 
While    with    umbrageous     oaks     the    ridge 

behind 
O'erhung,  defends    you  from   the   blust'ring 

north. 
And  bleak  aflBiction  of  the  peevish  east. 
Oh  !    when  the  growling  -winds  contend,  and 

all 
The  sounding  forest  fluctuates  in  the  storm  ; 
To  sink  in  warm  repose,  and  hear  the  din 
Howl  o'er  the  steady  battlements,  delights 
Above  the  luxury  of  vulgar  sleep. 
The    murmuring    rivulet,    and    the     hoarser 

strain 
Of  waters  rushing  o'er  the  slippery  rocks, 
Will  nightly  lull  you  to  ambrosial  rest. 
To  please  the  fancy  is  no  trifling  good, 
"Where  health^is  studied  ;  for  whatever  moves 
The   mind   -with   calm   delight,  promotes  the 

just 
And   natural   movements  of   th'  harmonious 

frame. 
Besides,  the  sportive  brook  for  ever  shakes 
The  trembling  air;    that   floats  from  hill  to 

hUl, 
From     vale     to    mountain,     with    incessant 

change 
Of  purest  element,  refreshing  still 
Your  airy  seat,  and  uninfected  gods. 
Chiefly  for  this  I  praise  the  man  who  builds 
High  on  the  breezy  ridge,  whose  lofty  sides 
Th'  ethereal  deep  -with  endless  billows  chafes. 
His  purer  mansion  nor  contagious  years 
Shall  reach,  nor  deadly  putrid  airs  annoy. 

John  Armstrong. — Born  1709,  Died  1779. 


926.— ANGLING. 

But  if  the  breatliless  chase  o'er  hill  and  dale 
Exceed  your  strength,  a  sport  of  less  fatigue, 
Not  less  delightful,  the  prolific  stream 
Affords.     The  crystal  rivulet,  that  o'er 
A  stony  channel  rolls  its  rapid  maze. 
Swarms  with  the  silver  fry :  such  through  the 
bounds 


From  1727  to  1780.]      PESTILENCE  OF  FIFTEENTH  CENTUEY.       [John  Armstrong. 


Of     pastoral     Stafford     runs     the    brawiing 

Trent ; 
Such  Eden,  sprung  from  Cumbrian  mountains; 

such 
The  Esk,  o'erhung  with  woods ;  and  such  the 

stream 
On  whose  Arcadian  banks  I  first  drew  air ; 
Liddel,  till  now,  except  in  Doric  lays, 
Tuned    to    her    murmurs    by    her    love-sick 

swains 
Unknown  in  song,  though  not  a  purer  stream, 
Through  meads   more   flowery,  or  more   ro- 
mantic groves, 
EoUs  towards  the  western  main.    Hail,  sacred 

flood! 
May  stiU  thy  hospitable  swains  be  blest 
In  rural  innocence,  thy  mountains  still 
Teem  with  the  fleecy  race,  thy  tuneful  woods 
For  ever  flourish,  and  thy  vales  look  gay 
With  painted  meadows  and  the  golden  grain ; 
Oft  with  thy  blooming    sons,  when  life  was 

new. 
Sportive    and    petulant,   and    charm'd    with 

toys, 
In  thy  transparent  eddies  have  I  laved ; 
Oft  traced  with  patient  steps  thy  fairy  banks. 
With  the  weU-imitated  fly  to  hook 
The  eager  trout,  and  with  the  slender  line 
And  j^elding  rod  soHcit  to  the  shore 
The    struggling   panting    prey,  while    vernal 

clouds 
And  tepid  gales  obscured  the  ruffled  pool, 
And  from  the  deeps  called  forth  the  wanton 

swarms. 
Form'd  on  the  Samian  school,  or  those  of 
Ind, 
There  are  who  think  these  pastimes  scarce 

humane  ; 
Yet  in  my  mind  (and  not  relentless  I) 
His  hfe  is  pure  that  wears  no  fouler  stains. 

John  Armstrong. — Born  1709,  Died  1779. 


927.— PESTILENCE     OF     THE  | 

FIFTEENTH  CENTUEY.  | 

Ere  yet  the  fell  Plantagenets  had  spent  1 

Their  ancient    rage    at    Bos  worth's    purple  j 

field ;  I 

While,    for    which   tyrant    England    should  | 

receive,  i 

Her  legions  in  incestuous  murders  mix'd,  J 

And  daily  horrors  ;  till  the  fates  were  drunk  i 

With  kindred  blood   by  kindred   hands  pro-  ■ 

fused :  I 

Another  plague  of  more  gigantic  arm  i 

Arose,  a  monster  never  known  before  i 

Eear'd  from  Cocytus  its  portentous  head ;  j 

This  rapid  fury  not,  like  other  pests,  j 

Pursued  a  gradual  course,  but  in  a  day  [ 

Eush'd  as  a  storm  o'er  half  the  astonish' d  j 

isle,  I 

And  strew' d  with  sudden  carcases  the  land.  i 


First  through  the   shoulders,  or  whatever 

part 
Was  seized  the  first,  a  fervid  vapour  spnmg ; 
With  rash  combustion  thence,  the  quivering 

spark 
Shot  to  the  heart,  and  kindled  all  within  ; 
And   soon  the  surface  caught  the~sp3:eading 

fires. 
Through    all    the   yielding   pores  the  melted 

blood 
Gush'd    out   in    smoky  sweats;    but   nought 

assuaged 
The  torrid  heat  within,  nor  aught  relieved 
The    stomach's    anguish.        With    incessant 

toil, 
Desperate  of  ease,  impatient  of  their  pain. 
They  toss'd  from  side  to  side.     In  vain  the 

stream 
Ean  full  and  clear,  they  burnt,  and  thirsted 

still. 
The  restless  arteries  with  rapid  blood 
Beat  strong   and  frequent.     Thick  and  pan- 

tingly 
The  breath  was  fetch' d,  and  with  huge  labour- 

ings  heaved. 
At  last  a  heavy  pain  oppress' d  the  head, 
A  wild  delirium  came  :  their  weeping  friends 
Were    strangers   now,  and   this   no  home  of 

theirs. 
Harass'd  with  toil  on  toil,  the  sinking  powers 
Lay  prostrate  and  o'erthrown ;    a  ponderous 

sleep 
Wrapt  all  the   senses  up :    they  slept   and 

died. 
In  some  a  gentle  horror  crept  at  first 
O'er  all  the  limbs ;  the  sluices  of  the  skin 
Withheld  their  moisture,  till  by  art  provoked 
The    sweats    o'erflow'd,    but    in    a    clammy 

tide; 
Now  free  and  copious,  now  restrain' d   and 

slow; 
Of  tinctures  various,  as  the  temperature 
Had  mix'd    the  blood,  and  rank  with  fetid 

streams  : 
As  if  the  pent-up  humours  by  delay 
Were    grown   more    fell,    more    putrid,    and 

maUgn. 
Here  lay  their  hopes  (though  little  hope  re- 
main'd), 
With  full  effusion  of  perpetual  sweats 
To  drive  the  venom  out.     And  here  the  fates 
Were   kind,  that   long  they  linger' d  not   in 

pain. 
For,  who  survived  the  sun's  diurnal  race, 
Eose  from  the  dreary  gates  of  hell  redeera'd  ; 
Some  the  sixth  hour  oppress' d,  and  some  the 

third. 
Of  many  thousands,  few  untainted  'scaped ; 
Of  those  infected,  fewer  'scaped  alive  ; 
Of  those  who  lived,  some  felt  a  second  blow  ; 
And    whom     the    second     spared,    a     third 

destroy' d. 
Frantic  with  fear,  they  sought  by  flight  to 

shun 
The    fierce    contagion.      O'er   the    mournful 

land 


MiGKLE.] 


CUMNOK  HALL. 


[Sixth  Peeiod. — 


The     infected     city     pour'd      her     hurrjing 

swarms  : 
Eoused    by  the   flames  that   fired  her   scats 

around, 
The  infected  country  rush'd  into  the  town. 
Some  sad  at  home,  and  in  the  desert  some 
Abjured  the  fatal  commerce  of  mankind. 
In    vain  ;      where'er     they    fled,    the    fates 

pursued. 
Others,  with  hopes  more  specious,  cross' d  the 

main, 
To  seek  protection  in  far  distant  skies  ; 
But  none  they  found.     It  seem'd  the  general 

air. 
From  pole  to  pole,  from  Atlas  to  the  east, 
Was  then  at  enmity  with  English  blood ; 
For  but  the  race  of  England  all  were  safe 
In  foreign  climes  ;  nor  did  this  fury  taste 
The  foreign  blood  which  England  then  con- 
tain'd. 
"Where  should  they  fly  ?     The  circumambient 

heaven 
Involved  them   still,  and    every  breeze   was 

bane  : 
Where  find  relief  ?     The  salutary  art 
Was  mute,  and,  startled  at  the  new  disease. 
In  fearful  whispers  hopeless  omens  gave. 
To    heaven,  with    suppliant  rites,  they  sent 

their  prayers  ; 
Heaven    heard  them   not.       Of    every   hope 

deprived. 
Fatigued  with  vain  resources,  and  subdued 
With  woes  resistless,  and  enfeebling  fear, 
Passive  they  sank  beneath  the  weighty  blow. 
Nothing  but  lamentable  sounds  were  heard. 
Nor   aught  was  seen   but   ghastly  views  of 

death. 
Infectious  horror  ran  from  face  to  face. 
And   pale    despair.     'Twas    aU   the  business 

then 
To  tend  the  sick,  and  in  their  turns  to  die. 
In   heaps   they  fell ;    and   oft  the  bed,  they 

say, 
The  sickening,  dying,  and  the  dead  contain'd. 

John  Armstrong. — Born  1709,  Died  1779. 


928.— CUMNOE  HALL. 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall, 
The  moon  (sweet  regent  of  the  sky) 

Snver'd  the  walls  of  Cumnor  Hall, 
And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

Now  nought  was  heard  beneath  the  skies 
(The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still), 

Save  an  unhappy  lady's  sighs, 
That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

"  Leicester,"  she  cried,  "  is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  hast  sworn  to  me, 

To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove. 
Immured  in  shameful  privity  ? 


No  more  thou  com'st,  with  lover's  speed, 

Thy  once  beloved  bride  to  see  ; 
But  be  she  alive,  or  be  she  dead, 

I  fear,  stern  Earl 's  the  same  to  thee. 

Not  so  the  usage  I  received 

When  happy  in  my  father's  hall ; 

No  faithless  husband  then  me  grieved, 
No  chilling  fears  did  me  appal. 

I  rose  up  with  the  cheerful  morn, 

No  lark  so  blithe,  no  flower  inore  gay  ; 

And,  like  the  bird  that  haunts  the  thorn, 
So  merrily  sung  the  live-long  day. 

If  that  my  beauty  is  but  small. 
Among  court  ladies  all  despised. 

Why  didst  thou  rend  it  from  that  hall 
Where,  scornful  Earl,  it  well  was  prized  ? 

And  when  you  first  to  me  made  suit. 
How  fair  I  was,  you  oft  would  say  ! 

And,  proud  of  conquest,  pluck' d  the  fruit, 
Then  left  the  blossom  to  decay. 

Yes  !  now  neglected  and  despised, 
The  rose  is  pale,  the  lily  's  dead  ; 

But  he  that  once  their  charms  so  prized. 
Is  sure  the  cause  those  charms  are  fled. 

For  know,  when  sickening  grief  doth  prey. 
And  tender  love  's  repaid  with  scorn, 

The  sweetest  beauty  will  decay  : 

What  floweret  can  endure  the  storm  ? 

At  court,  I'm  told,  is  Beauty's  throne. 
Where  every  lady 's  passing  rare, 

That  eastern  flowers,  that  shame  the  sun. 
Are  not  so  glowing,  not  so  fair. 

Then,  Earl,  why  didst  thou  leave  the  beds 
Where  roses  and  where  lilies  vie. 

To  seek  a  primrose,  whose  pale  shades 
Must  sicken  when  those  gauds  are  by  ? 

'Mong  rural  beauties  I  was  one  ; 

Among  the  fields  wild  flowers  are  fair  ; 
Some  country  swain  might  me  have  won. 

And  thought  my  passing  beauty  rare. 

But,  Leicester  (or  I  much  am  wrong). 
It  is  not  beauty  lures  thy  vows ; 

Rather  ambition's  gilded  crown 

Makes  thee  forget  thy  humble  spouse. 

Then,  Leicester,  why,  again  I  plead 
(The  injured  surely  may  repine). 

Why  didst  thou  wed  a  country  maid. 

When  some  fair  princess  might  be  thine  ? 

Why  didst  thou  praise  my  humble  charms, 
And,  oh !  then  leave  them  to  decay  ? 

"Why  didst  thou  win  me  to  thy  arms, 

Then  leave  me  to  mourn  the  live-long  day  i 

The  village  maidens  of  the  plain 

Salute  me  lowly  as  they  go  : 
Envious  they  mark  my  silken  train, 

Nor  think  a  countess  can  have  woe. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  MAEINEE'S  WIFE. 


[MlCKLE. 


The  simple  nymplis  !  they  little  know 
How  far  more  happy 's  their  estate ; 

To  smile  for  joy,  than  sigh  for  woe  ; 
To  be  content,  than  to  be  great. 

How  far  less  bless'd  am  I  than  them. 
Daily  to  pine  and  waste  with  care  ! 

Like  the  poor  plant,  that,  from  its  stem 
Divided,  feels  the  chilling  air. 

Nor,  cruel  Earl !  can  I  enjoy 
The  humble  charms  of  solitude  ; 

Your  minions  proud  my  peace  destroy, 
By  sullen  frowns,  or  pratings  rude. 

Last  night,  as  sad  I  chanced  to  stray, 
The  village  death-bell  smote  my  ear  ; 

They  wink'd  aside,  and  seem'd  to  say, 
'  Countess,  prepare — thy  end  is  near.' 

And  now,  while  happy  peasants  sleep, 
Here  I  sit  lonely  and  forlorn  ; 

No  one  to  soothe  me  as  I  weep, 
Save  Philomel  on  yonder  thorn. 

My  spirits  flag,  my  hopes  decay  : 

Still  that  dread  death-beU  smites  my  ear ; 

And  many  a  body  seems  to  say, 

'  Countess,  prepare — thy  end  is  near.'  " 

Thus  sore  and  sad  that  lady  grieved 
I  In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear ; 

And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved, 
And  let  fall  many  a  bitter  tear. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appear' d, 
In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear. 

Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear, 

Tlie  death-bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring, 
An  aerial  voice  was  heard  to  call, 

And  thrice  the  raven  fiapp'd  his  wing 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  mastiff  howl'd  at  village  door, 
The  oaks  were  shatter' d  on  the  green ; 

Woe  was  the  hour,  for  never  more 
That  hapless  Countes^  e'er  was  seen. 

And  in  that  manor,  now  no  more 
Is  cheerful  feast  or  sprightly  ball ; 

For  ever  since  that  dreary  hour 
Have  spirits  haunted  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  village  maids,  with  fearful  glance. 
Avoid  the  ancient  moss-grown  wall ; 

Nor  ever  lead  the  merrj^  dance 

Among  the  groves  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

Full  many  a  traveller  has  sigh'd, 
And  pensive  wept  the  Countess'  fall, 

As  wandering  onwards  they've  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

Mickle.—Born  1734,  Died  17J 


929.— THE  MAEINEE'S  WIFE. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark  ? 

Make  haste,  lay  hy  yoiu-  wheel ; . 
Is  this  a  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Colin 's  at  the  door  ?  —     _ 

Eeach  down  my  cloak,  I'U  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  g-udeman  's  awa. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet. 

My  bishop's  satin  govm  ; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 

That  Colin  's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on. 

My  stockings  pearly  blue ; 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman. 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Eise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside. 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes^ 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw  ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  lang  awa. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop, 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair  ; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about». 

That  CoUn  weel  may  fare  ; 
And  mak  our  table  neat  and  clean. 

Let  everything  look  braw, 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa  ? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech. 

His  breath  like  caller  air  ; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 
And  shall  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  shall  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought. 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet ! 

The  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter  wind. 

That  thirled  through  my  heart, 
They're  a'  blawn  by,  I  hae  him  safe. 

Till  death  we'll  never  part ; 
But  what  puts  parting  in  my  head  ? 

It  may  be  far  awa  ! 
The  present  moment  is  our  ain. 

The  neist  we  never  saw. 

Since  Colin' s  weel,  and  weel  content^ 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave  ; 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 


Dr.  Langhoene.]        COUNTEY  JUSTICES  AND  THEIE  DUTIES.       [Sixth  Period.— 


For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman  's  awa. 

Mickle.^Bom  1734,  I}ied  17! 


930- 


-COUNTEY  JUSTICES  AND  THEIE 
DUTIES. 


The  social  laws  from  insult  to  protect, 

To  cherish  peace,  to  cultivate  respect ; 

The  rich  from  wanton  cruelty  restrain. 

To  smooth  the  bed  of  penury  and  pain ; 

The  hapless  vagrant  to  his  rest  restore, 

The    maze    of    fraud,   the   haunts   of   theft 

explore  ; 
The  thoughtless  maiden,   when  subdued  by 

art. 
To  aid,  and  bring  her  rover  to  her  heart ; 
Wild  riot's  voice  with  dignity  to  quell. 
Forbid  unpeaceful  passions  to  rebel, 
Wrest  from  revenge  the  meditated  harm  : 
I       For  this  fair  Justice  raised  her  sacred  arm ; 
I       For  this  the  rural  magistrate,  of  yore. 

Thy  honours,  Edward,  to  his  mansion  bore. 
Oft,    where    old    Air  in   conscious   glory- 
sails. 
On   silver   waves  that  flow  through  smiling 

vales ; 
In  Harewood's  groves,  where  long  my  youth 

was  laid. 
Unseen  beneath  their  ancient  world  of  shade  ; 
With    many    a    group   of   antique   columns 

crown' d. 
In  Gothic  guise  such  mansion  have  I  found. 
Nor    lightly    deem,     ye    apes   of   modern 
race,. 
Ye  cits  that  sore  bedizen  nature's  face, 
Of  the  more  manly  structures  here  ye  view ; 
They  rose  for  greatness  that  ye  never  knew ! 
Ye    reptile    cits,   that   oft   have   moved   my 

spleen 
With  Yenus  and  the  Graces  on  your  green  ! 
Let  Plutus,  growling  o'er  his  ill-got  wealth. 
Let  Mercury,  the  thriving  god  of  stealth. 
The  shopman,  Janus,  with  his  double  looks, 
Eise  on  your  mounts,  and  perch  upon  your 

books ! 
But    spare    my    Venus,     spare    each    sister 

Grace, 
Ye  cits,  that  sore  bedizen  nature's  face  ! 
Ye  royal  architects,  whose  antic  taste 
Would   lay  the  realms  of  sense  and  nature 

waste ; 
Forgot,  whenever  from  her  steps  ye  stray, 
That  folly  only  points  each  other  way  ; 
Here,    though  your  eye  no  coiurtly  creature 

sees. 
Snakes   on   the   ground,    or  monkeys  in  the 

trees ; 
Yet  let  not  too  severe  a  censure  fall 
On  the  plain  precincts  of  the  ancient  hall. 


For   though  no  sight  your  childish  fancy 
meets. 
Of  Thibet's  dogs,  or  China's  paroquets ; 
Though  apes,  asps,  lizards,  things  without  a 

tan. 

And  all  the  tribes  of  foreign  monsters  fail ; 
Here  shall  ye  sigh  to  see,  with  rust  o'ergrown. 
The  iron  griffin  and  the  sphinx  of  stone  ; 
And  mourn,  neglected  in  their  waste  abodes, 
Fire-breathing    drakes,     and   water-spouting 

gods. 
Long  have  these  mighty  monsters  known 

disgrace. 
Yet   still   some   trophies   hold   their   ancient 

place ; 
Where,  round  the  hall,  the  oak's  high  surbase 

rears 
The     field-day     triumphs    of    two    hundred 

years. 
Th'  enormous  antlers  here  recall  the  day 
That  saw  the  forest  monarch  forced  away  ; 
Who,   many  a  flood,   and  many  a  mountain 

pass'd. 
Not    finding    those,   nor   deeming  these   tho 

last. 
O'er  floods,  o'er  mountains  yet  prepared  to 

fly, 

Long    ere    the    death-drop   fiU'd   his  failing 
eye! 
Here   famed   for   cunning,    and   in   crimes 
grown  old, 
Hangs  his  gray  brush,  the  felon  of  the  fold. 
Oft   as   the    rent-feast    swells   the   midnight 

cheer. 
The  maudlin  farmer  kens  him  o'er  his  beer. 
And  tells  his  old,  traditionary  tale. 
Though  known  to  every  tenant  of  the  vale. 
Here,  where  of  old  the  festal  ox  has  fed, 
Mark'd  with  his  weight,  the  mighty  horns  are 

spread ! 
Some  ox,  0  Marshall,  for  a  board  like  thine. 
Where  the  vast  master  with  the  vast  sirloin 
Vied  in  round  magnitude — Eespect  I  bear 
To  thee,  though  oft  the  ruin  of  the  chair. 

These,  and  such  antique  tokens  that  record 
The  manly  spirit,  and  the  bounteous  board. 
Me  more  delight  than  all  the  gewgaw  train. 
The  whims  and  zigzags  of  a  modern  brain, 
More  than  all  Asia's  marmosets  to  view, 
Grin,  frisk,  and  water  in  the  walks  of  Kew. 
Through  these  fair  valleys,  stranger,  hast 
thou  stray' d, 
By  any  chance,  to  visit  Harewood's  shade, 
And  seen  with  honest,  antiquated  air 
In  the  plain  hall  the  magistratial  chair  ? 
There  Herbert  sat — The  love  of  human  kind. 
Pure  light  of  truth,  and  temperance  of  mind, 
In  the  free  eye  the  featured  soul  display' d. 
Honour's  strong  beam,  and  Mercy's  melting 

shade : 
Justice  that,  in  the  rigid  paths  of  law, 
Would  still  some  drops  from  Pity's  fountain 

draw. 
Bend  o'er  her  um  with  many  a  gen' reus  fear, 
Ere  his  firm  seal   should  force  one  orphan's 
tear ; 


From  1727  to  1780.]  AN  APPEAL  FOR  THE  INDUSTRIOUS  POOR.     [Dr.  Laitghoene. 


Fair  equity,  and  reason  scorning  art, 
And  all  the  sober  virtues  of  the  heart — 
These  sat  with  Herbert,  these  shall  best  avail 
Where  statutes  order,  or  where  statutes  fail. 

Be  this,  ye  rural  magistrates,  your  plan : 
Firm  be  your  justice,  but  be  friends  to  man. 

He  whom  the  mighty  master  of  this  ball 
"We  fondly  deem,  or  farcically  call. 
To  own  the  patriarch's  truth,  however  loth, 
Holds  but  a  mansion  crush' d  before  the  moth. 

Frail  in  his  genius,  in  his  heart  too  frail, 
Bom  but  to  err,  and  erring  to  bewail, 
Shalt  thou  his  faults  with  eye  severe  explore, 
And  give  to  life  one  human  weakness  more  ? 

Still  mark  if   vice  or  nature  prompts  the 
deed; 
Still  mark  the  strong   temptation  and  the 

need: 
On  pressing  want,  on  famine's  powerful  call, 
At  least  more  lenient  let  thy  justice  fall. 

For  him,  who,  lost  to  every  hope  of  life, 
Has  long  with  fortune  held  unequal  strife, 
Known  to  no  human  love,  no  human  care. 
The  friendless,  homeless  object  of  despair ; 
For  the  poor  vagrant  feel,  while  he  complains, 
Nor  from  sad  freedom  send  to  sadder  chains. 
Alike,  if  foUy  or  misfortune  brought 
Those  last  of  woes  his  evil  daj's  have  wrought ; 
Believe  with  social  mercy  and  with  me, 
FoUy  's  misfortune  in  the  first  degree. 

Perhaps  on  some  inhospitable  shore 
The  houseless  wretch  a  widow'd  parent  bore ; 
Who  then,  no  more  by  golden  prospects  led, 
Of  the  poor  Indian  begg'd  a  leafy  bed. 
Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Minden's  plain. 
Perhaps    that    parent   mourn' d    her    soldier 

slain ; 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew, 
The  big   drops   mingling  with   the   milk   he 

drew. 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery,  baptized  in  tears  I 

Dr.  LangJiorne. — Bom- 1735,  Died  1779. 


931.— GIPSIES. 

The  gipsy  race  my  pity  rarely  move  ; 
Yet  their  strong  thirst  of  liberty  I  love. 
Not    Wilkes,    our    Freedom's    holy    martyr, 

more ; 
Nor  his  firm  phalanx  of  the  common  shore. 

For  this  in  Norwood's  patrimonial  groves 
The  tawny  father  with  his  offspring  roves ; 
When  summer  suns  lead  slow  the  sultry  day. 
In  mossy  caves,  where  welling  waters  play, 
Fann'd  by  each  gale  that  cools  the  fervid  sky, 
With  this  in  ragged  luxury  they  lie. 
Oft  at  the  sun  the  dusky  elfins  strain 
The  sable  eye,  then  snugging,  sleep  again ; 
Oft  as  the  dews  of  cooler  evening  fall. 
For  their  prophetic  mother's  mantle  call. 


Far  other  cares    that    wand'ring   mother 

wait, 
The  mouth,  and  oft  the  minister  of  fate  ! 
From  her  to  hear,  in  ev'ning's  friendly  shade, 
Of  future  fortune,  flies  the  village  maid. 
Draws  her  long-hoarded  copper  from  its  hold, 
And  rusty  halfpence  purchase  hopes  sti  gold. 
But,    ah !     ye    maids,   beware   the  gipsy's 

lures ! 
She  opens  not  the  womb  of  time,  but  yours. 
Oft  has  her  hands  the  hapless  Marian  wrung, 
Marian,  whom  Gay  in   sweetest   strains   has 

sung ! 
The   parson's  maid — sore   cause  had   she  to 

rue 
The   gipsy's  tongue  ;     the  parson's  daughter 

too. 
Long    had   that   anxious  daughter  sigh'd   to 

know 
What  Vellum's    sprucy    clerk,   the    valley's 

beau, 
Meant  by  those  glances  which  at  church  he 

stole. 
Her   father   nodding    to    the    psalm's    slow 

drawl ; 
Long    had  she  sigh'd  ;    at  length  a  prophet 

came. 
By  many  a  sure  prediction  known  to  fame. 
To  Marian  known,  and  all  she  told,  for  true  : 
She  knew  the  future,  for  the  past  she  knew. 

Dr.  Langhorne. — Born  1735,  Died  1779. 


932.— AN  APPEAL  FOE  THE 
INDUSTRIOUS  POOR. 

But  still,  forgot  the  grandeur  of  thy  reign. 
Descend  to  duties  meaner  crowns  disdain ; 
That  worst  excrescency  of  power  forego, 
That  pride  of  kings,  humanity's  first  foe. 

Let  age  no  longer  toil  with  feeble  strife, 
Worn  by  long  service  in  the  war  of  life ; 
Nor  leave  the  head,  that  time  hath  whiten'd, 

bare 
To  the  rude  insults  of  the  searching  air ; 
Nor  bid  the  knee,  by  labour  harden'd,  bend, 
0  thou,  the  poor  man's  hope,  the  poor  man's 
friend ! 
If,  when  from  heaven  severer  seasons  fall. 
Fled  from   the   frozen   roof   and  mouldering 

wall. 
Each  face  the  picture  of  a  winter  day. 
More  strong  than  Teniers'  pencil  could  por- 
tray; 
If  then  to  thee  resort  the  shivering  train, 
Of  cruel  days,  and  cruel  man  complain. 
Say  to  thy  heart  (remembering  him  who  said), 
"  These  people  come  from  far,  and  have  no 
bread." 
Nor  leave  thy   venal   clerk   empower'd  to 
hear  ; 
The  voice  of  want  is  sacred  to  thy  ear. 


Dr.  Langhoeke.]  MERCY  SHOULD  HAVE  MITIGATED  JUSTICE.     [Sixth  Pekiod.— 


He  where  no  fees  his  sordid  pen  invite, 
Sports  with  their  tears,  too  indolent  to  write ; 
Like  the  fed  monkey  in  the  fable,  vain 
To  hear  more  helpless  animals  complain. 
But   chief  thy   notice    shall   one   monster 

claim, 
A  monster  furnish' d  with  a  human  frame, 
The  parish  officer ! — though  verse  disdain 
Terms   that    deform   the    splendour    of    the 

strain ; 
It  stoops  to  bid  thee  bend  the  brow  severe 
On  the  sly,  pilfering,  cruel  overseer  ; 
The  shuffling  farmer,  faithful  to  no  trust. 
Ruthless  as  rocks,  insatiate  as  the  dust ! 
When  the  poor  hind,  with  length  of  years 

decay'd. 
Leans  feebly  on  his  once-subduing  spade, 
Forgot  the  service  of  his  abler  days. 
His  profitable  toil,  and  honest  praise, 
Shall  this    low   wretch    abridge    his   scanty 

bread. 
This  slave,  whose  board  his  former  labours 

spread  ? 
When  harvest's  burning  suns  and  sickening 

air 
From  labour's  unbraced  hand  the  grasp' d  hook 

tear. 
Where  shall  the  helpless  family  be  fed. 
That  vainly  languish  for  a  father's  bread  ? 
See  the  pale  mother,  sunk  with  grief  and  care, 
To  the  proud  farmer  fearfully  repair ; 
Soon  to  be  sent  with  insolence  away, 
Referr'd  to  vestries,  and  a  distant  day  ! 
fteferr'd — to  perish  ! — Is  my  verse  severe  ? 
Unfriendly  to  the  human  character  ? 
Ah  !  to  this  sigh  of  sad  experience  trust : 
The  truth  is  rigid,  but  the  tale  is  just. 

If  in  thy  courts  this  caitiff  wretch  appear, 
Think  not  that  patience  were  a  virtue  here. 
His  low-bom  pride  with  honest  rage  control ; 
Smite  his  hard  heart,  and  shake  his  reptile 

soul. 
But,  hapless !    oft   through  fear  of  future 

woe. 
And  certain  vengeance  of  th'  insulting  foe. 
Oft,  ere  to  thee  the  poor  prefer  their  prayer, 
The  last  extremes  of  penury  they  bear. 

Wouldst  thou  then  raise  thy  patriot  office 

higher, 
To  something  more  than  magistrate  aspire  ? 
And,  left  each  poorer,  pettier  chase  behind, 
Step  nobly  forth,  the  friend  of  human  kind  ? 
The  game  I  start  courageously  pursue  ! 
Adieu  to  fear  !  to  insolence  adieu  ! 
And  first  we'll  range  this  mountain's  stormy 

side. 
Where  the   rude  winds  the   shepherd's   roof 

deride, 
As  meet  no  more  the  wintry  blast  to  bear. 
And  all  the  wild  hostilities  of  air. 
— That  roof  have  I  remember' d  many  a  year ; 
It  once  gave  refuge  to  a  hunted  deer — 
Here,   in    those    days,    we    found    an    aged 

pair  ; — 
But    time   imtenants — ha  !   what   secst  thou 

there  ? 


"  Horror  ! — ^by  Heaven,  extended  on  a  bed 
Of  naked  fern,  two  human  creatures  dead  ! 
Embracing  as  alive  ! — ah,  no  ! — no  life  ! 
Cold,  breathless !  " 

'Tis  the  shepherd  and  his  wife. 
I  knew  the  scene,  and  brought  thee  to  behold 
What  speaks  more   strongly  than  the  story 

told. 
They  died  through  want — 

"  By  every  power  I  swear, 
If  the  -svretch  treads  the  earth,  or  breathes  the 

air. 
Through  whose  default  of  duty,  or  design, 
These  victims  fell,  he  dies." 

They  fell  by  thine. 
"  Infernal ! — Mine  I — by — " 

Swear  on  no  pretence : 
A   swearing  justice   wants    both    grace  and 


Dr.  Langliornc. — Born  1735,  Died  1779. 


933.— MERCY  SHOULD  HAVE 
MITIGATED  JUSTICE. 

Unnumber'd  objects  ask  thy  honest  care, 
Beside  the  orphan's  tear,  the  widow's  prayer : 
Far  as  thy  power  can  save,  thy  bounty  bless, 
Unnumber'd  evils  call  for  thy  redress. 
Seest  thou  afar  yon  solitary  thorn, 
Whose  aged  limbs  the  heath's  wild  winds  have 

torn? 
While  yet  to  cheer  the  homeward  shepherd's 

eye, 
A  few  seem  straggling  in  the  evening  sky  ! 
Not  many  suns  have  hasten' d  down  the  day. 
Or  blushing  moons  immersed  in  clouds  their 

way. 
Since  there,  a  scene  that  stain' d  their  sacred 

Hght 
With  horror  stopp'd  a  felon  in  his  flight : 
A  babe  just  born  that  signs  of  life  exprest, 
Lay  naked  o'er  the  mother's  lifeless  breast. 
The  pitying  robber,  conscious  that,  pursued. 
He   had  no   time   to   waste,   yet   stood  and 

view'd ;  • 

To  the  next  cot  the  trembling  infant  bore, 
And  gave  a  part  of  what  he  stole  before  ; 
Nor  known   to  him  the  wretches  were,  nor 

dear. 
He  felt  as  man,  and  dropp'd  a  human  tear. 

Far  other  treatment  she  who  breathless  laj'. 
Found  from  a  viler  animal  of  prey. 

Worn   with  long   toil   on  many  a  painful 

road, 
That  toil  increased  by  nature's  growing  load, 
When  evening  brought  the  friendly  hour  of 

rest. 
And  all  the  mother  throng' d  about  her  breast, 
The  ruffian  officer  opposed  her  stay, 
And,  cruel,  bore  her  in  her  pangs  away, 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


OWEN  OF  CAEEON. 


[Dr.  Langhoene, 


So  far  beyond  the  town's  last  limits  drove, 
That  to  return  -were  hopeless,  had  she  strove, 
Abandon' d  there — with  famine,  pain  and  cold, 
And  angtdsh,  she  expired — the  rest  I've  told. 

"  Now  let  me  swear.     For  by  my  soul's  last 
sigh, 
That  thief  shall  live,  that  overseer  shall  die." 

Too   late ! — his    life   the   generous    robber 
paid, 
Lost  by  that  pity  which  his  steps  delay'd ! 
No  soul-discerning  Mansfield  sat  to  hear. 
No  Hertford  bore  his  prayer  to  mercy's  ear; 
No  liberal  justice  first  assign'd  the  gaol. 
Or  urged,  as  Camplin  would  have  urged,  his 
tale. 

Dr.  Langhorne. — Born  1735,  Died  1779. 


934.— A  FAREWELL   TO    THE   VALLEY 
OF  lEWAN. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan's  vale, 
My  infant  years  where  Fancy  led. 

And  soothed  me  with  the  western  gale, 
Her  wild  dreams  waving  roimd  my  head, 

While  the  blithe  blackbird  told  his  tale. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan's  vale ! 

The  primrose  on  the  valley's  side. 

The  green  thyme  on  the  mountain's  head, 

The  wanton  rose,  the  daisy  pied, 

The  wilding's  blossom  blushing  red  ; 

No  longer  I  their  sweets  inhale. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan's  vale ! 

How  oft,  within  yon  vacant  shade. 
Has  evening  closed  my  careless  eye  ! 

How  oft  along  those  banks  I've  stray'd. 
And  watch'd  the  wave  that  wander'd  by ; 

Full  long  their  loss  shall  I  bewail. 

Farewell  the  fields  of  Irwan's  vale  ! 

Yet  still,  within  yon  vacant  grove, 
To  mark  the  close  of  parting  day  ; 

Along  yon  flowery  banks  to  rove, 

And  watch  the  wave  that  winds  away  3 

Fair  Fancy  sure  shaU  never  fail. 

Though  far  from  these  and  Irwan's  vale. 

Dr.  Langhorne. — Born  1735,  Died  1779. 


935-— OWEN  OF  CAERON. 
I. 

On  Carron's  side  the  primrose  pale. 
Why  does  it  wear  a  purple  hue  ? 

Ye  maidens  fair  of  Marlivale, 

Why  stream  your  eyes  with  pity's  dew  ? 


'Tis  aU  with  gentle  Owen's  blood 

That  purple  grows  the  primrose  pale ; 

That  pity  pours  the  tender  flood 
From  each  fair  eye  in  Marlivale. 

The  evening  star  sat  in  his  eye. 

The  sun  his  golden  tresses  gave,      —     - 
The  north's  pure  morn  her  orient  dye, 

To  him  who  rests  in  yonder  grave  ! 

Beneath  no  high,  historic  stone. 
Though  nobly  born,  is  Owen  laid ; 

Stretch' d  on  the  greenwood's  lap  alone, 
He  sleeps  beneath  the  waving  shade. 

There  many  a  flowery  race  hath  sprung, 
And  fled  before  the  mountain  gale, 

Since  first  hia  simple  dirge  he  sung ; 
Ye  maidens  fair  of  Marlivale  ! 

Yet  still,  when  May  with  fragrant  feet 
Hath  wander'd  o'er  your  meads  of  gold, 

That  dirge  I  hear  so  simply  sweet 
Far  echo'd  from  each  evening  fold. 


'Twas  in  the  pride  of  William's  day. 

When  Scotland's  honours  flourish'd  still, 

That  Moray's  earl,  with  mighty  sway. 
Bare  rule  o'er  many  a  Highland  hill. 

And  far  for  him  their  fruitful  store 
The  fairer  plains  of  Carron  spread ; 

In  fortune  rich,  in  offspring  poor. 
An  only  daughter  croAvn'd  his  bed. 

Oh  !  write  not  poor — the  wealth  that  fiows 
In  waves  of  gold  round  India's  throne, 

All  in  her  shining  breast  that  glows. 

To  Ellen's  charms,  were  earth  and  stone. 

For  her  the  youth  of  Scotland  sigh'd. 
The  Frenchman  gay,  the  Spaniard  grave. 

And  smoother  Italy  applied. 

And  many  an  English  baron  brave. 

In  vain  by  foreign  arts  assail'd, 

No  foreign  loves  her  breast  beguile, 

And  England's  honest  valour  fail'd. 
Paid  with  a  cold,  but  courteous  smile. 

Ah !  woe  to  thee,  young  Nithisdale, 

That  o'er  thy  cheek  those  roses  stray'd. 

Thy  breath,  the  violet  of  the  vale. 
Thy  voice,  the  music  of  the  shade  ! 

"  Ah !  woe  to  thee,  that  Ellen's  love 
Alone  to  thy  soft  tale  would  yield ! 

For  soon  those  gentle  arms  shall  prove 
The  conflict  of  a  ruder  field." 

'Twas  thus  a  wayward  sister  spoke, 
And  cast  a  rueful  glance  behind, 

As  from  her  dim  wood-glen  she  broke. 
And  mounted  on  the  moaning  wind. 


Db.  Langhoene.] 


OWEN  OF  CAEEON. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


She  spoke  and  vanish' cl — :nore  unmoved 
Than  Moray's  rocks,  when  storms  invest, 

The  valiant  youth  by  Ellen  loved, 
With  aught  that  fear  or  fate  suggest. 

For  love,  methinks,  hath  power  to  raise 
The  soul  beyond  a  vulgar  state  ; 

Th'  unconquer'd  banners  he  displays 
Control  our  fears  and  fix  our  fat«. 


'Twas  when,  on  summer's  softest  eve, 
Of  clouds  that  wander' d  west  away, 

Twilight  with  gentle  hand  did  weave 
Her  fairy  robe  of  night  and  day ; 

When  all  the  mountain  gales  were  still, 
And  the  waves  slept  against  the  shore, 

And  the  sun,  sunk  beneath  the  hill, 
Left  his  last  smile  on  Lammermore  ; 

Led  by  those  waking  dreams  of  thought 
That  warm  the  young  unpractised  breast. 

Her  wonted  bower  sweet  Ellen  sought, 

And  Carron  murmur' d  near,  and  soothed  her 
into  rest. 


There  is  some  kind  and  courtly  sprite 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  fancy  reigns, 

Throws  sunshine  on  the  mask  of  night, 
And  smiles  at  slumber's  powerless  chains; 

'Tis  told,  and  I  believe  the  tale. 

At  this  soft  hour  that  sprite  was  there, 

And  spread  with  fairer  flowers  the  vale, 
And  fiil'd  with  sweeter  sounds  the  air. 

A  bower  he  framed  (for  he  could  frame 
What  long  might  weary  mortal  wight : 

Swift  as  the  lightning's  rapid  flame 
Darts  on  the  unsuspecting  sight). 

Such  bower  he  framed  with  magic  hand. 
As  well  that  wizard  bard  hath  Avove, 

In  scenes  where  fair  Armida's  wand 
Waved  all  the  witcheries  of  love  : 

Yet  was  it  wrought  in  simple  show  ; 

Nor  Indian  mines  nor  orient  shores 
Had  lent  their  glories  here  to  glow, 

Or  yielded  here  their  shining  stores. 

All  round  a  poplar's  trembling  arms 

The  wild  rose  wound  her  damask  flower ; 

The  woodbine  lent  her  spicy  charms, 
That  loves  to  weave  the  lover's  bower. 

The  ash,  that  courts  the  mountain-air, 
In  all  her  painted  blooms  array' d. 

The  wilding's  blossom  blushing  fair, 
Combined  to  form  the  flowery  shade. 

With  thyme  that  loves  the  brown  hill's  breast, 
The  cowslip's  sAveet,  reclining  head, 

The  violet  of  sky-woven  vest. 

Was  all  the  fairy  ground  bespread. 


But  who  is  he,  whose  locks  so  fair 
Adown  his  manly  shoulders  flow  ? 

Beside  him  lies  the  hunter's  spear. 
Beside  him  sleeps  the  warrior's  bow. 

He  bends  to  EUen — (gentle  sprite  ! 

Thy  sweet  seductive  arts  forbear). 
He  courts  her  arms  with  fond  delight, 

And  instant  vanishes  in  air. 


Hast  thou  not  found  at  early  dawn 

Some  soft  ideas  melt  away. 
If  o'er  sweet  vale,  or  flow'ry  lawn, 

The  sprite  of  dreams  hath  bid  thee  stray  ? 

Hast  thou  not  some  fair  object  seen, 
And,  when  the  fleeting  form  was  past, 

Still  on  thy  memory  found  its  mien. 
And  felt  the  fond  idea  last  ? 

Thou  hast — and  oft  the  pictured  view, 
Seen  in  some  vision  counted  vain, 

Has  struck  thy  wond'ring  eye  anew. 
And  brought  the  long-lost  dream  again. 

With  warrior-bow,  with  hunter's  spear. 
With  locks  adown  his  shoulder  spread. 

Young  Nithisdale  is  ranging  near — 

He's  ranging  near  yon  mountain's  head. 

Scarce  had  one  pale  moon  pass'd  away. 

And  fiil'd  her  silver  urn  again, 
When  in  the  devious  chase  to  stray. 

Afar  from  all  his  woodland  train, 

To  Carron* s  banks  his  fate  consign'd; 

And,  all  to  shun  the  fervid  hour, 
He  sought  some  friendly  shade  to  find. 

And  found  the  visionary  bower. 


VI. 

Led  by  the  golden  star  of  love, 
Sweet  EUen  took  her  wonted  way, 

And  in  the  deep  defending  grove 

Sought  refuge  from  the  fervid  day — 

Oh ! — who  is  he  whose  ringlets  fair 
Disorder'd  o'er  his  green  vest  flow, 

Eeclined  to  rest — whose  sunny  hair 

Half  hides  the  fair  cheek's  ardent  glow? 

'Tis  he,  that  sprite's  illusive  guest, 

(Ah  me  !  that  sprites  can  fate  control !) 

That  Hves  still  imaged  on  her  breast. 
That  lives  still  pictured  in  her  soul. 

As  when  some  gentle  spirit  fled 

From  earth  to  breathe  Elysian  air, 

And,  in  the  train  whom  we  call  dead. 
Perceives  its  long-loved  partner  there ; 

Soft,  sudden  pleasure  rushes  o'er, 

Eesistless,  o'er  its  airy  frame. 
To  find  its  future  fate  restore 

The  object  of  its  former  flame  : 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


OWEN  OF  CAEROIN. 


[Dr.  Langhorne. 


So  Ellen  stood — less  power  to  move 

Had  he,  who,  bound  in  slumber's  chain, 

Seem'd  hap'ly  o'er  his  hills  to  rove, 
And  wind  his  woodland  chase  again. 

She  stood,  but  trembled — mingled  fear, 
And  fond  delight,  and  melting  love, 

Seized  all  her  soul ;  she  came  not  near, 
She  came  not  near  that  fated  grove. 

She  strives  to  fly — from  -wTizard's  wand 
As  well  might  powerless  captive  fly — 

The  neviT-cropt  flower  falls  from  her  hand- 
Ah  !  fall  not  with  that  flower  to  die  ! 


Hast  thou  not  seen  some  azure  gleam 
Smile  in  the  morning's  orient  eye, 

And  skirt  the  reddening  cloud's  soft  beam 
What  time  the  sun  was  hasting  nigh  ? 

Thou  hast — and  thou  canst  fancy  well 
As  any  Muse  that  meets  thine  ear, 

The  soul-set  eye  of  Nithisdale, 

When,  waked,  it  fix'd  on  Ellen  near. 

Silent  they  gazed — that  silence  broke  : 
"  Hail,  goddess  of  these  groves  (he  cried). 

0  let  me  wear  thy  gentle  yoke  ! 
O  let  me  in  thy  ser\4ce  bide  ! 

For  thee  I'll  climb  the  mountains  steep, 
Unwearied  chase  the  destined  prey ; 

For  thee  I'll  pierce  the  wild  wood  deep, 
And  part  the  sprays  that  vex  thy  way. 

For  thee" — "  O  stranger,  cease,"  she  said, 
And  swift  away,  like  Daphne,  flew ; 

But  Daphne's  flight  was  not  delay'd 
By  aught  that  to  her  bosom  grew. 


'Twas  Atalanta's  golden  fruit, 

The  fond  idea  that  confined 
Fair  Ellen's  steps,  and  bless' d  his  suit, 

Who  was  not  far,  not  far  behind. 

O  love  !  within  those  golden  vales, 

Those  genial  airs  where  thou  wast  born, 

Where  nature,  listening  thy  soft  tales. 
Leans  on  the  rosy  breast  of  mom ; 

WTiere  the  sweet  smiles,  the  graces  dwell. 
And  tender  sighs  the  heart  remove. 

In  silent  eloquence  to  tell 

Thy  tale,  0  soul-subduing  love  ! 

Ah  !  wherefore  should  grim  rage  be  nigh, 
And  dark  distrust,  with  changeful  face, 

And  jealousy's  reverted  eye 

Be  near  thy  fair,  thy  favour' d  place  ? 


Earl  Barnard  was  of  high  degree, 
And  lord  of  many  a  lowland  hind : 

And  long  for  Ellen  love  had  he, 
Had  love,  but  not  of  gentle  kind. 


From  Moray's  halls  her  absent  hour 
He  watch'd  with  alia  miser's  care  ; 

The  wide  domain,  the  princely  dower 
Made  Ellen  more  than  Ellen  fair. 

Ah  wretch  !  to  think  the  liberal  soul 
May  thus  with  fair  affection  part  T      - 

Though  Lothian's  vales  thy  sway  control, 
Know,  Lothian  is  not  worth  one  heart. 

Studious  he  marks  her  absent  hour. 
And,  winding  far  where  Carron  flows. 

Sudden  he  sees  the  fated  bower. 

And  red  rage  on  his  dark  brow  glows. 

For  who  is  he  ? — 'Tis  Nithisdale  ! 

And  that  fair  form  with  arm  reclined 
On  his  ?— 'Tis  Ellen  of  the  vale, 

'Tis  she  (0  powers  of  vengeance !)  kind. 

Should  he  that  vengeance  swift  pursue  ? 

No — that  would  all  his  hopes  destroy  ; 
Moray  would  vanish  from  his  view, 

And  rob  him  of  a  miser's  joy. 

Unseen  to  Moray's  halls  he  hies — 
He  calls  his  slaves,  his  ruffian  band, 

And,  "  Haste  to  yonder  groves,"  he  cries, 
"  And  ambush' d  lie  by  Carron' s  strand. 

What  time  ye  mark  from  bower  or  glen 

A  gentle  lady  take  her  way. 
To  difctance  due,  and  far  from  ken. 

Allow  her  length  of  time  to  stray. 

Then  ransack  straight  that  range  of  groves — 
With  hunter's  spear,  and  vest  of  green, 

If  chance  a  rosy  stripKng  roves, — 
Ye  well  can  aim  your  arrows  keen." 

And  now  the  ruffian  slaves  are  nigh. 
And  Ellen  takes  her  homeward  way : 

Though  stay'd  by  many  a  tender  sigh, 
She  can  no  longer,  longer  stay. 

Pensive,  against  yon  poplar  pale 
The  lover  leans  his  gentle  heart, 

Eevolving  manj  a  tender  tale. 

And  wond'ring  still  how  they  could  part. 

Three  arrows  pierced  the  desert  air. 
Ere  yet  his  tender  dreams  depart; 

And  one  struck  deep  his  forehead  fair, 
And  one  went  through  his  gentle  heart. 

Love's  waking  dream  is  lost  in  sleep — 
Ho  lies  beneath  yon  poplar  pale  ; 

Ah  !  could  we  marvel  ye  should  weep, 
Ye  maidens  fair  of  Marlivale  ! 


When  all  the  mountain  gales  were  stiU, 
And  the  wave  slept  against  the  shore. 

And  the  sun,  sunk  beneath  the  hill, 
Left  his  last  smile  on  Lammermore  ; 


Dr.  Langhokne.] 


OWEN  OF  CAEEOX. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Sweet  Ellen  takes  her  wonted  way 
Along  the  fairy-featured  vale  : 

Bright  o'er  his  wave  does  Carron  play, 
And  soon  she'U  meet  her  Nithisdale. 

She'U  meet  him  soon — for,  at  her  sight. 
Swift  as  the  mountain  deer  he  sped  ; 

The  evening  shades  will  sink  in  night — 
Where  art  thou,  loitering  lover,  fled  ? 

O  !   she  will  chide  thy  trifling  stay, 

E'en  now  the  soft  reproach  she  frames  ; 

"  Can  lovers  brook  such  long  delay  ? 
Lovers  that  boast  of  ardent  flames  !  " 

He  comes  not — weary  with  the  chase. 
Soft  slumber  o'er  his  eyelids  throws 

Her  veil — we'll  steal  one  dear  embrace, 
We'U  gently  steal  on  his  repose. 

This  is  the  bower — we'll  softly  tread — • 
He  sleeps  beneath  yon  poplar  pale — 

Lover,  if  e'er  thy  heart  has  bled. 
Thy  heart  will  far  forego  my  tale  ! 


Ellen  is  not  in  princely  bower. 

She's  not  in  Moray's  splendid  train ; 

Their  mistress  dear,  at  midnight  hour, 
Her  weeping  maidens  seek  in  vain. 

Her  pillow  swells  not  deep  with  down  ; 

For  her  no  balms  their  sweets  exhale  : 
Her  limbs  are  on  the  pale  turf  thrown, 

Press' d  by  her  lovely  cheek  as  pale. 

On  that  fair  cheek,  that  flowing  hair, 
The  broom  its  yellow  leaf  hath  shed. 

And  the  chill  mountain's  early  air 

Blows  wildly  o'er  her  beauteous  head. 

As  the  soft  star  of  orient  day. 

When  clouds  involve  his  rosy  light, 

Darts  through  the  gloom  a  transient  ray, 
And  leaves  the  world  once  more  to  night ; 

Eeturning  life  illumes  her  eye. 

And  slow  its  languid  orb  unfolds, — 

What  are  those  bloody  arrows  nigh  ? 
Sure,  bloody  arrows  she  beholds  ! 

What  was  that  form  so  ghastly  pale. 
That  low  beneath  the  poplar  lay  ? — 

'Twas  some  poor  youth — "  Ah,  Nithisdale  ! 
She  said,  and  silent  sunk  away. 

XII. 

The  mom  is  on  the  mountains  spread, 
The  woodlark  triUs  his  liquid  strain — 

Can  morn's  sweet  music  rouse  the  dead  ? 
Give  the  set  eye  its  soul  again  ? 

A  shepherd  of  that  gentler  mind 
Which  nature  not  profusely  yields, 

Seeks  in  these  lonely  shades  to  find 
Some  wanderer  from  his  little  fields. 


Aghast  he  stands — and  simple  fear 
O'er  all  his  paly  visage  glides — 

"  Ah  me  !  what  means  this  misery  here  ? 
What  fate  this  lady  fair  betides  ?  " 

He  bears  her  to  his  friendly  home, 

When  life,  he  finds,  has  but  retired : — 

With  haste  he  frames  the  lover's  tomb, 
For  his  is  quite,  is  quite  expired  ! 


"  O  hide  me  in  thy  humble  bower," 
Eeturning  late  to  life,  she  said  ; 

"  I'll  bind  thy  crook  with  many  a  flower ; 
With  many  a,  rosy  wreath  thy  head. 

Good  shepherd,  haste  to  yonder  grove, 

And,  if  my  love  asleep  is  laid, 
Oh  !   wake  him  not ;   but  softly  move 

Some  pillow  to  that  gentle  head. 

Sure,  thou  wilt  know  him,  shepherd  swain. 
Thou  know'st  the  sun-rise  o'er  the  sea — 

But  oh  !  no  lamb  in  all  thy  train 
Was  e'er  so  mild,  so  mild  as  he." 

"  His  head  is  on  the  wood-moss  laid ; 

I  did  not  wake  his  slumber  deep — 
Sweet  sing  the  redbreast  o'er  the  shade — 

Why,  gentle  lady,  would  you  weep  ?  " 

As  flowers  that  fade  in  burning  day, 
At  evening  find  the  dew-drop  dear, 

But  fiercer  feel  the  noontide  ray. 
When  soften' d  by  the  nightly  tear ; 

Eeturning  in  the  flowing  tear, 

This  lovely  flower,  more  sweet  than  they. 
Found  her  fair  soul,  and,  wand' ring  near, 

The  stranger,  reason,  cross' d  her  way. 

Found  her  fair  soul — Ah  !  so  to  find 
Was  but  more  dreadful  grief  to  know  ! 

Ah  I  sure  the  privilege  of  mind 
Cannot  be  worth  the  wish  of  woe  ! 


On  melancholy's  silent  urn 

A  softer  shade  of  sorrow  falls, 
But  Ellen  can  no  more  return, 

No  more  return  to  Moray's  halls. 

Beneath  the  low  and  lonely  shade 
The  slow-consuming  hour  she'll  weep. 

Till  nature  seeks  her  last  left  aid 
In  the  sad  sombrous  arms  of  sleep. 

"  These  jewels,  all  unmeet  for  me, 

Shalt  thou,"  she  said,  "good  shepherd,  take : 
These  gems  will  purchase  gold  for  thee. 

And  these  be  thine  for  Ellen's  sake. 

So  fail  thou  not,  at  eve  or  mom. 

The  rosemary's  pale  bough  to  bring — 

Thou  know'st  where  I  was  found  forlorn — 
Where  thou  hast  heard  the  redbreast  sing. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


OWEN  OF  CAEEON. 


[Dr.  Langhoene. 


Heedful  I'll  tend  thy  flocks  tlie  while, 
Or  aid  thy  shepherdess's  care, 

For  I  will  share  her  humble  toil, 
And  I  her  friendly  roof  wiU  share." 


And  now  two  lonesome  years  are  past 

In  luxury  of  lonely  pain — 
The  lovely  mourner,  found  at  last. 

To  Moray's  halls  is  borne  again. 

Yet  has  she  left  one  object  dear, 

That  wears  love's  sunny  eye  of  joy — 

Is  Nithisdale  reviving  here  ? 
Or  is  it  but  a  shepherd's  boy  ? 

By  Carron's  side,  a  shepherd's  boy, 

He  binds  his  vale-flowers  with  the  reed 

He  wears  love's  sunny  eye  of  joy. 
And  birth  he  little  seems  to  heed. 


But  ah  I  no  more  his  infant  sleep 
Closes  beneath  a  mother's  smile. 

Who,  only  when  it  closed,  would  weep, 
And  yield  to  tender  woe  the  while. 

No  more,  with  fond  attention  dear. 
She  seeks  th'  unspoken  wish  to  find ; 

No  more  shall  she,  with  pleasure's  tear, 
See  the  soul  waxing  into  miad. 


Does  nature  bear  a  tyrant's  breast  ? 

Is  she  the  friend  of  stem  cortrol  ? 
Wears  she  the  despot's  purple  vest  ? 

Or  fetters  she  the  free-born  soul  ? 

Where,  worst  of  tyrants,  is  thy  claim 
In  chains  thy  children's  breasts  to  bind? 

Gavest  thou  the  Promethean  flame  ? 
The  incommunicable  mind  ? 

Thy  offspring  are  great  nature's — free, 
And  of  her  fair  dominion  heirs  ; 

Each  privilege  she  gives  to  thee  ; 
Know,  that  each  privilege  is  theirs. 

They  have  thy  feature,  wear  thine  eye, 
Perhaps  some  feelings  of  thy  heart ; 

And  wilt  thou  their  loved  hearts  deny 
To  act  their  fair,  their  proper  part  ? 


The  lord  of  Lothian's  fertile  vale, 
Ill-fated  Ellen,  claims  thy  hand  ; 

Thou  know'st  not  that  thy  Nithisdale 
Was  low  laid  by  his  ruffian  band. 

And  Moray,  with  nnfather'd  eyes, 
Fix'd  on  fair  Lothian's  fertile  dale. 

Attends  his  human  sacrifice. 

Without  the  Grecian  painter's  veil. 


O  married  love  !  thy  bard  shall  own. 
Where  two  congenial  souls  unite, 

Thy  golden  chain  inlaid  with  down. 

Thy  lamp  w  ith  heaven' s  own  splendour  bright . 

But  of  no  radiant  star  of  love, 

O  Hymen  !  smile  on  thy  fair  rite,  _ 

Thy  chain  a  wretched  weight  shall  prove, 
Thy  lamp  a  sad  sepulchral  light. 


And  now  has  time's  slow  wandering  wing 
Borne  many  a  year  unmark'd  with  speed — 

Where  is  the  boy  by  Carron's  spring, 

Who  bound  his  vale-flowers  with  the  reed  ? 

Ah  me  1  those  flowers  he  binds  no  more  ; 

No  early  charm  returns  again ; 
The  parent,  nature,  keeps  in  store 

Her  best  joys  for  her  little  train. 

No  longer  heed  the  sunbeam  bright 
That  plays  on  Carron's  breast  he  can, 

Eeason  has  lent  her  quiv'ring  light, 
And  shown  the  chequer' d  field  of  man. 


As  the  first  human  heir  of  earth 
With  pensive  eye  himself  survey'd, 

And,  all  unconscious  of  his  birth. 
Sat  thoughtful  oft  in  Eden's  shade ; 

In  pensive  thought  so  Owen  stray' d 
Wild  Carron's  lonely  woods  among, 

And  once  within  their  greenest  glade. 
He  fondly  framed  his  simple  song  : 


"  Why  is  this  crook  adorn' d  with  gold  ? 
Why  am  I  tales  of  ladies  told  ? 
Why  does  no  labour  me  employ. 
If  I  am  but  a  shepherd's  boy  ? 

A  silken  vest  like  mine  so  green 
In  shepherd's  hut  I  have  not  seen — 
Why  should  I  in  such  vesture  joy. 
If  I  am  but  a  shepherd's  boy  ? 

I  know  it  is  no  shepherd's  art 
His  written  meaning  to  impart — 
They  teach  me  sure  an  idle  toy. 
If  I  am  but  a  shepherd's  boy. 

This  bracelet  bright  that  binds  my  arm- 
It  could  not  come  from  shepherd's  farm 
It  only  would  that  arm  annoy. 
If  I  were  but  a  shepherd's  boy. 

And  O  thou  silent  picture  fair, 
That  lovest  to  smile  upon  me  there, 
O  say,  and  fill  my  heart  with  joy. 
That  I  am  not  a  shepherd's  boy." 


Ah,  lovely  youth  !  thy  tender  lay 
May  not  thy  gentle  life  prolong  : 

Seest  thou  yon  nightingale  a  prey  ? 

The  fierce  hawk  hovering  o'er  his  song  ? 


Dr.  Langhobne.] 


OWEN  or  CAEEON. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


His  little  heart  is  large  with  love  : 
He  sweetly  hails  his  evening  star  ; 

And  fate's  more  pointed  arrows  move, 
Insidious,  from  his  eye  afar. 

XXIII. 

The  shepherdess,  whose  kindly  care 

Had  watch'd  o'er  Owen's  infant  breath, 

Must  now  their  silent  mansions  share, 
Whom  time  leads  calmly  down  to  death. 

"  O  tell  me,  parent  if  thou  art, 
What  is  this  lovely  picture  dear  ? 

Why  wounds  its  mournful  eye  my  heart  ? 
Why  flows  from  mine  th'  unbidden  tear  ? 

"  Ah,  youth  !  to  leave  thee  loth  am  I, 
Though  I  be  not  thy  parent  dear ; 

And  wouldst  thou  wish,  or  ere  I  die, 
The  story  of  thy  birth  to  hear  ? 

But  it  will  make  thee  much  bewail, 
And  it  will  make  thy  fair  eye  swell — " 

She  said,  and  told  the  woesome  tale, 
As  sooth  as  shepherdess  might  tell. 

XXIV. 

The  heart  that  sorrow  doom'd  to  share 
Has  worn  the  frequent  seal  of  woe, 

Its  sad  impressions  learns  to  bear, 
And  finds  full  oft  its  ruin  slow. 

But  when  that  zeal  is  first  imprest. 

When  the  young  heart  its  pain  shall  try, 

From  the  soft,  yielding,  trembling  breast, 
Oft  seems  the  startled  soul  to  fly : 

Yet  fled  not  Owen's — wild  amaze 
In  paleness  clothed,  and  lifted  hands. 

And  horror's  dread  unmeaning  gaze, 
Mark  the  poor  statue  as  it  stands. 

The  simple  guardian  of  his  life 

Look'd  wistful  for  the  tear  to  glide ; 

But,  when  she  saw  his  tearless  strife, 
Silent,  she  lent  him  one  and  died. 


"  No,  I  am  not  a  shepherd's  boy," 
Awaking  from  his  dream,  he  said : 

"  Ah,  wh^re  is  now  the  promised  joy 
Of  this  r — for  ever,  ever  fled  ! 

0  picture  dear  ! — for  her  loved  sake 
How  fondly  could  my  heart  bewail ! 

My  friendly  shepherdess,  O  wake, 
And  teU  me  more  of  this  sad  tale. 

O  teD.  me  more  of  this  sad  tale — 
No  ;  thou  enjoy  thy  gentle  sleep  ! 

And  I  will  go  to  Lothian's  vale, 

And  more  than  all  her  waters  weep." 

XXVI. 
Owen  to  Lothian's  vale  is  fled — 

Earl  Barnard's  lofty  towers  appear — 
«  O !  art  thou  there  ?  "  the  full  heart  said, 

"  0  I  art  thou  there,  my  parent  dear  ?  " 


Yes,  she  is  there  :  from  idle  state 
Oft  has  she  stole  her  hour  to  weep ; 

Think  how  she  "by  thy  cradle  sat," 
And  how  she  "  fondly  saw  thee  sleep.' 

Now  tries  his  trembling  hand  to  frame 
Full  man}"-  a  tender  line  of  love  ; 

And  still  he  blots  the  parent's  name, 
For  that,  he  fears,  might  fatal  prove. 

XXVII. 

O'er  a  fair  fountain's  smiling  side 

Reclined  a  dim  toiver,  clad  with  moss, 

Where  every  bird  was  wont  to  bide, 
That  languish' d  for  its  partner's  loss. 

This  scene  he  chose,  this  scene  assign' d 
A  parent's  first  embrace  to  wait, 

And  many  a  soft  fear  fill'd  his  mind, 
Anxious  for  his  fond  letter's  fate. 

The  hand  that  bore  those  lines  of  love, 
The  well-informing  bracelet  bore — 

Ah  !  may  they  not  unprosperous  prove  ! 
Ah  !  safely  pass  yon  dangerous  door  ! 


"  She  comes  not ; — can  she  then  delay  ?  " 
Cried  the  fair  youth,  and  dropt  a  tear — 

"  Whatever  filial  love  could  say, 
To  her  I  said,  and  call'd  her  dear. 

She  comes — Oh  !  no — encircled  round, 
'Tis  some  rude  chief  with  many  a  spear. 

My  hapless  tale  that  earl  has  found — 
Ah  me  !  my  heart ! — for  her  I  fear.'* 

His  tender  tale  that  earl  had  read. 
Or  ere  it  reach' d  his  lady's  eye ; 

His  dark  brow  wears  a  cloud  of  red, 
In  rage  he  deems  a  rival  nigh. 


'Tis  o'er — those  locks  that  waved  in  gold, 
That  waved  adown  those  cheeks  so  fair, 

Wreathed  in  the  gloomy  tyrant's  hold, 
Hang  from  the  sever' d  head  in  air  ! 

That  streaming  head  he  joys  to  bear 
In  horrid  guise  to  Lothian's  halls  ! 

Bids  his  grim  rufiians  place  it  there, 
Erect  upon  the  frowning  walls. 

The  fatal  tokens  forth  he  drew — 

"  Know'st  thou  those — Ellen  of  the  vale 

The  pictured  bracelet  soon  she  knew. 
And  soon  her  lovely  cheek  grew  pale. 

The  trembling  victim  straight  he  led. 
Ere  yet  her  soul's  first  fear  was  o'er  : 

He  pointed  to  the  ghastly  head — 
She  s^w — and  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 

I>r.  Langlioime. — Born  1735,  Died  1779. 


Fro:n  1727  to  1780.]        O.  NANNY,  WILT  THOU  GANG  WI'  ME.     [Dr.  Thomas  Perct. 


936.— A  LAWYEE'S  FAEEWELL  TO  HIS 

MUSE. 

As,  by  some  tyrant's  stem  command, 

A  wretch  forsakes  his  native  land. 

In  foreign  climes  condemn' d  to  roam 

An  endless  exile  from  his  home ; 

Pensive  he  treads  the  destined  way, 

And  dreads  to  go  ;  nor  dares  to  stay  ; 

TiU  on  some  neighbouring  mountain's  brow 

He  stops,  and  turns  his  eyes  below  ; 

There,  melting  at  the  well-known  view, 

Drops  a  last  tear,  and  bids  adieu : 

So  I,  thus  doom'd  from  thee  to  part, 

Gay  queen  of  fancy  and  of  art, 

Eeluctant  move,  with  doubtful  mind, 

Oft  stop,  and  often  look  behind. 

Companion  of  my  tender  age. 

Serenely  gay,  and  sweetly  sage. 

How  blithesome  we  were  wont  to  rove, 

By  verdant  hill  or  shady  grove, 

Where  fervent  bees,  with  humming  voice, 

Around  the  honied  oak  rejoice, 

And  aged  elms,  with  awful  bend. 

In  long  cathedral  walks  extend ! 

Lull'd  by  the  lapse  of  gliding  floods, 

Cheer'd  by  the  warbling  of  the  woods, 

How  blest  my  days,  my  thoughts  how  free, 

In  sweet  society  with  thee  ! 

Then  all  was  joyous,  all  was  young, 

And  years  unheeded  roU'd  along  : 

But  now  the  pleasing  dream  is  o'er, 

These  scenes  must  charm  me  now  no  more ; 

Lost  to  the  fields,  and  torn  from  you — 

Farewell ! — a  long,  a  last  adieu. 

Me  wranghng  courts,  and  stubborn  law. 

To  smoke,  and  crowds,  and  cities  draw  : 

There  selfish  faction  rules  the  day. 

And  pride  and  avarice  throng  the  way  ! 

Diseases  taint  the  murky  air, 

And  midnight  conflagrations  glare ; 

Loose  Eevelry,  and  Eiot  bold. 

In  frighted  streets  their  orgies  hold  ; 

Or,  where  in  silence  all  is  drown' d, 

Fell  Murder  walks  his  lonely  round  ; 

No  room  for  peace,  no  room  for  you ; 

Adieu,  celestial  nymph,  adieu  ! 

Shakspere,  no  more  thy  sylvan  son, 

Nor  all  the  art  of  Addison, 

Pope's    heaven-strung    lyre,    nor    Waller's 

ease. 
Nor  Milton's  mighty  self  must  please  : 
Instead  of  these,  a  formal  band 
In  furs  and  coifs  around  me  stand  ; 
With  sounds  uncouth  and  accents  dry, 
That  grate  the  soul  of  harmony. 
Each  pedant  sage  unlocks  his  store 
Of  mystic,  dark,  discordant  lore. 
And  points  with  tottering  hand  the  ways 
That  lead  me  to  the  thorny  maze. 
There,  in  a  winding  close  retreat, 
Is  justice  doom'd  to  fix  her  seat ; 
There,  fenced  by  bulwarks  of  the  law, 
She  keeps  the  wondering  world  in  awe  ; 
And  there,  from  vulgar  sight  retired, 
Like  eastern  queen,  is  more  admired. 


Oh  let  me  pierce  the  secret  shade 
Where  dwells  the  venerable  maid  ! 
There  humbly  mark,  with  reverend  awe, 
The  guardian  of  Britannia's  law ; 
Unfold  with  joy  her  sacred  page. 
The  united  boast  of  many  an  age  ; 

Where,  mix'd,  yet  imiform,  appears 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years.  ~ 

In  that  pure  spring  the  bottom  view, 
Clear,  deep,  and  regularly  true  ; 
And  other  doctrines  thence  imbibe 
Than  lurk  within  the  sordid  scribe  ; 
Observe  how  parts  with  parts  unite 
In  one  harmonious  rule  of  right ; 
See  countless  wheels  distinctly  tend 
By  various  laws  to  one  great  end  ; 
While  mighty  Alfred's  piercing  soul 
Pervades  and  regulates  the  whole. 
Then  Avelcome  business,  welcome  strife, 
Welcome  the  cares,  the  thorns  of  life, 
The  visage  wan,  the  pore-bhnd  sight, 
The  toil  by  day,  the  lamp  at  night. 
The  tedious  forms,  the  solemn  prate. 
The  pert  dispute,  the  dull  debate, 
The  drowsy  bench,  the  babbling  hall, 
For  thee,  fair  Justice,  welcome  all ! 
Thus,  though  my  noon  of  life  be  past, 
Yet  let  my  setting  sun,  at  last, 
Find  out  the  still,  the  rural  cell. 
Where  sage  retirement  loves  to  dwell ! 
There  let  me  taste  the  homefelt  bliss 
Of  innocence  and  inward  peace ; 
Untainted  by  the  guilty  bribe, 
Uncursed  amid  the  harpy  tribe ; 
No  orphan's  cry  to  wound  my  ear  ; 
My  honour  and  my  conscience  clear. 
Thus  may  I  calmly  meet  my  end, 
Thus  to  the  grave  in  peace  descend. 

Sir  William  Blackstone. — 
Born  1723,  Died  1780. 


937- 


-O,    NANNY,   WILT    THOU    GANG 
WI'  ME. 


0,  Nanny,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  me. 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town  ? 
Can  silent  glens  have  charms  for  thee, 

The  lowly  cot  and  russet  gown  ? 
Nae  langer  drest  in  silken  sheen, 

Nae  langer  deck'd  wi'  jewels  rare, 
Say,  canst  thou  quit  each  courtly  scene, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

0,  Nanny,  when  thou'rt  far  awa. 

Wilt  thou  not  cast  a  look  behind  ? 
Say,  canst  thou  face  the  flaky  snaw, 

Nor  shrink  before  the  vnnter  wind  ? 
0  can  that  soft  and  gentle  mien 

Severest  hardships  learn  to  bear, 
Nor,  sad,  regret  each  courtly  scene, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 


46 


Dr.  Thomas  Pekct.] 


THE  FEIAE  OF  OEDERS  GRAY. 


[Sixth  Psjiiod.— 


0,  Nanny,  canst  thou  love  so  true, 

Through  perils  keen  wi'  me  to  gae  ? 
Or,  when  thy  swain  mishap  shall  rue, 

To  share  with  liim  the  pang  of  wae  ? 
Say,  should  disease  or  pain  befall, 

Wilt  thou  assume  the  nurse's  care, 
Nor,  wishful,  those  gay  scenes  recall. 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

And  when  at  last  thy  love  shall  die, 

Wilt  thou  receive  his  parting  breath  ? 
Wilt  thou  repress  each  struggling  sigh. 

And  cheer  with  smiles  the  bed  of  death  ? 
And  wilt  thou  o'er  his  much-loved  clay 

Strew  flowers,  and  drop  the  tender  tear  ? 
Nor  then  regret  those  scenes  so  gay. 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

Br.  Thomas  Percy.— Born  1728,  Bied  1811. 


938.— THE  FEIAE  OF  OEDEES  GEAY. 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 

Walk'd  forth  to  tell  his  beads, 
And  he  met  with  a  lady  fair, 

Clad  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds. 

"  Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar  ! 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 

My  true  love  thou  didst  see." 

"  And  how  should  I  know  your  true  love 

From  many  another  one  ?  " 
"  Oh  !  by  his  cockle  hat  and  stai3F, 

And  by  his  sandal  shoon  : 

But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view. 
His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curl'd. 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue." 

"  O  lady,  he  is  dead  and  gone  ! 

Lady,  he's  dead  and  gone  ! 
At  his  head  a  green  grass  turf, 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 

Within  these  holy  cloisters  long 

He  languish'd,  and  he  died, 
Lamenting  of  a  lady's  love, 

And  'plaining  of  her  pride. 

Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 

Six  proper  youths  and  taU ; 
And  many  a  tear  bedew' d  his  grave 

Within  yon  kirkyard  wall." 

*'  And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth — 

And  art  thou  dead  and  gone  ? 
And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me  ? 

Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone  !  " 

"  0  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so, 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek  : 
Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart, 

Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek." 


"  O  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar. 

My  sorrow  now  reprove  ; 
For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 

That  e'er  won  lady's  love. 

And  now,  alas  !  for  thy  sad  loss 

I'll  evermore  weep  and  sigh  ; 
For  thee  I  only  -svish'd  to  live, 

For  thee  I  wish  to  die." 

"  Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more ; 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain  : 
For  violets  pluck' d,  the  sweetest  shower 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  again. 

Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  do  fly ; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  last  ? 
Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss, 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past." 

"  O  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar ! 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so  ; 
For  since  my  true  love  died  for  me, 

'Tis  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

And  will  he  never  come  again — 

Will  he  ne'er  come  again  ? 
Ah,  no  !  he  is  dead,  and  laid  in  his  grave. 

For  ever  to  remain. 

His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose — 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he ; 
But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 

Alas  !  and  woe  is  me." 

"  Sigh  710  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  on  sea,  and  one  on  land, 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false. 

And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy ; 
For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 

Since  summer  trees  were  leafy." 

"  Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so ; 
My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart — 

O  he  was  ever  true  ! 

And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved  youth 

And  didst  thou  die  for  me  ? 
Then  farewell  home ;  for  evermore 

A  pilgrim  I  will  be. 

But  first  upon  my  true  love's  grave 

My  weary  limbs  I'll  lay. 
And  thrice  I'll  kiss  the  green  grass  turf 

That  wraps  his  breathless  clay," 

"  Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  rest  a  while 

Beneath  this  cloister  wall ; 
The  cold  wind  through  the  hawthorn  blows. 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall." 

"  O  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 

O  stay  me  not,  I  pray  ; 
No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me 

Can  wash  my  fault  away." 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


SPEING. 


[Chatterton. 


"  Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again, 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears ; 
For  see,  beneath  this  gown  of  gray, 

Thy  own  true  love  appears. 

Here,  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love, 

These  holy  weeds  I  sought ; 
And  here,  amid  these  lonely  walls. 

To  end  my  days  I  thought. 

But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 

Is  not  yet  pass'd  away, 
Might  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 

"  Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy 

Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 
For  since  I've  found  thee,  lovely  youth, 

We  never  more  will  part." 

Dr.  Tliomas  Percy.— Bom  1728,  Died.  1811. 


939.— THE  CAVE. 

The  wind  is  up,  the  field  is  bare, 
Some  hermit  lead  me  to  his  cell, 

"Where  Contemplation,  lonely  fair. 

With  bless'd  content  has  chose  to  dwell. 

Behold !  it  opens  to  my  sight. 

Dark  in  the  rock,  beside  the  flood ; 

Dry  fern  around  obstructs  the  light ; 
The  winds  above  it  move  the  wood. 

Eioflected  in  the  lake,  I  see 

The  do\vnward  mountains  and  the  skies, 
The  flying  bii'd,  the  waving  tree. 
The  goat^  that  on  the  hill  arise. 

The  gray-cloak' d  herd  drives  on  the  cow, 
The  slow-paced  fowler  walks  the  heath ; 

A  freckled  pointer  scours  the  brow  ; 
A  musing  shepherd  stands  beneath. 

Curved  o'er  the  ruin  of  an  oak, 

The  woodman  lifts  liis  axe  on  high ; 

The  hills  re-echo  to  the  stroke ; 
I  see — I  see  the  shivers  fly ! 

Some  rural  maid,  with  apron  full. 
Brings  fuel  to  the  homely  flame  ; 

I  see  the  smoky  columns  roU, 

And,  through  the  chinky  hut,  the  beam. 

Beside  a  stone  o'ergrown  with  moss. 
Two  well-met  hunters  talk  at  ease  ; 

Three  panting  dogs  beside  repose ; 

One  bleeding  deer  is  stretch' d  on  grass. 

A  lake  at  distance  spreads  to  sight. 
Skirted  with  shady  forests  round  ; 

In  midst,  an  island's  rocky  height 
Sustains  a  ruin,  once  renown'd. 


One  tree  bends  o'er  the  naked  walls  ; 

Two  broad-wing'd  eagles  hover  jjigh  ; 
By  intervals  a  fragment  falls, 

As  blows  the  blast  along  the  sky. 

The  rough-spun  hinds  the  pinnace  guide 
With  labouring  oars  along  the  flood ;  _ 

An  angler,  bending  o'er  the  tide, 

Hangs  from  the  boat  the  insidious  wood. 

Beside  the  flood,  belieath  the  rocks, 
On  grassy  bank,  two  lovers  lean  ; 

Bend  on  each  other  amorous  looks. 
And  seem  to  laugh  and  kiss  between. 

The  wind  is  rustling  in  the  oak  ; 

They  seem  to  hear  the  tread  of  feet ; 
They  start,  they  rise,  look  round  the  rock ; 

Again  they  smile,  again  they  meet. 

But  see  !  the  grey  mist  from  the  lake 

Ascends  upon  the  shady  hills ; 
Dark  storms  the  murmuring  forests  shake, 

Eain  beats  around  a  hundred  rills. 

To  Damon's  homely  hut  I  fly ; 

I  see  it  smoking  on  the  plain  ; 
When  storms  are  past  and  fair  the  sky, 

I'll  often  seek  my  cave  again. 

James  Macpherson. — Born  1738,  Died  1796. 


940.— MOENING. 

Bright   sun    had   in  his    ruddy  robes    been 
dight. 
From    the  red    east    he  flitted  with    his 
train  ; 
The  Houris  draw  away  the  gate  of  Night, 

Her  sable  tapestry  was  rent  in  twain  : 
The  dancing  streaks  bedecked  heaven's  plain. 
And  on  the  dew  did  smile  with  skimmering 
eye, 
Like  gouts  of  blood  which  do  black  armour 
stain. 
Shining  upon  the  bourn  which  standeth  by ; 
The  soldier  stood  upon  the  hiUis  side. 
Like  young  enleaved  trees  which  in  a  forest 
bide. 

Chatterton. — Born  1752,  Died  1770. 


941.— SPRING. 

The  budding  floweret  blushes  at  the  light. 
The  meads  be   sprinkled  with  the  yellow 
hue, 
In  daisied  mantles  is  the  mountain  dight. 
The  fresh  young  cowshp  bendeth  with  the 
dew; 
The  trees  enleafed,  into  heaven  straight, 

46* 


Chatterton.] 


THE  PROPHECY. 


[Sixth  Period.- 


When  gentle  winds  do  blow,  to  whistling  din 

is  brought. 
The    evening   comes,    and    brings   the    dews 
along, 
The  ruddy  welkin  shineth  to  the  eyne, 
Around  the  ale-stake  minstrels  sing  the  song, 
Young  ivy  round    the  door-post  doth   en- 
twine ; 
I  lay  me  on  the  grass,  yet  to  my  will 
Albeit   all   is   fair,  there   lacketh   something 
still. 

Chatterton.— Born  1752,  Died  1770. 


942.— THE  PROPHECY. 

This  truth  of  old  was  sorrow's  friend — 
"  Times  at  the  worst  will  surely  mend." 
The  difficulty 's  then  to  know 
How  long  Oppression's  clock  can  go  ; 
"When  Britain's  sons  may  cease  to  sigh, 
And  hope  that  their  redemption  's  nigh. 

When  vile  Corruption's  brazen  face 
At  council-board  shall  take  her  place ; 
And  lords-commissioners  resort 
To  welcome  her  at  Britain's  court ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons  !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

See  Pension's  harbour,  large  and  clear. 
Defended  by  St.  Stephen's  pier ! 
The  entrance  safe,  by  current  led. 

Tiding  round  G 's  jetty  head  ; 

Look  up,  ye  Britons  !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  civil  power  shall  snore  at  ease ; 
While  soldiers  fire — to  keep  the  peace ; 
When  murders  sanctuary  find. 
And  petticoats  can  Justice  blind ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons  !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

Commerce  o'er  Bondage  will  prevail. 
Free  as  the  wind  that  fills  her  sail. 
Wlien  she  complains  of  vile  restraint, 
And  Power  is  deaf  to  her  complaint ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons  !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  at  Bute's  feet  poor  Freedom  lies, 
Mark'd  by  the  priest  for  sacrifice, 
And  doom'd  a  victim  for  the  sins 
Of  half  the  outs  and  all  the  ins ; 
Look  up,  ye  Britons  !  cease  to  sigh, 
For  your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

When  time  shall  bring  your  wish  about, 
Or,  seven-years'  lease,  you  sold,  is  out ; 
No  future  contract  to  fulfil ; 
Your  tenants  holding  at  your  will ; 
Raise  up  your  heads  !  your  right  demand- 
For  your  redemption  's  in  your  hand. 


Then  is  your  time  to  strike  the  blow, 
And  let  the  slaves  of  Mammon  know, 
Britain's  true  sons  a  bribe  can  scorn. 
And  die  as  free  as  they  were  born. 
Virtue  again  shall  take  her  seat. 
And  your  redemption  stand  complete. 

Chatterton. — Bom  1752,  Died  1770. 


943.  — BRISTOW  TRAGEDY,  OR  THE 
DEATH  OP  SIR  CHARLES 
BAWDIN. 

The  feather'd  songster  chanticleer 

Had  wound  his  bugle-horn, 
And  told  the  early  villager 

The  coming  of  the  mom  : 

King  Edward  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 

Of  light  eclipse  the  gray. 
And  heard  the  raven's  croaking  throat 

Proclaim  the  fated  day. 

"  Thou'rt  right,"  quoth  he,  "  for  by  the  God 

That  sits  enthroned  on  high  ! 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  his  fellows  twain, 

To-day  shall  surely  die." 

Then  with  a  jug  of  nappy  ale 

His  knights  did  on  him  wait ; 
"  Go  tell  the  traitor,  that  to-day 

He  leaves  this  mortal  state." 

Sir  Canterlone  then  bended  low. 

With  heart  brimful  of  woe  ; 
He  journey' d  to  the  castle-gato, 

And  to  Sir  Charles  did  go. 

But  when  he  came,  his  children  twain, 

And  eke  his  loving  wife, 
With  briny  tears  did  wet  the  floor, 

For  good  Sir  Cliarles's  life. 

"  Oh  good  Sir  Charles  !  "  said  Canterlone, 

"  Bad  tidings  I  do  bring." 
"  Speak  boldly,  man,"  said  brave  Sir  Charles  ; 

"  What  says  the  traitor  king  ?  " 

"  I  grieve  to  tell :  before  yon  sun 

Does  from  the  welkin  fly. 
He  hath  upon  his  honour  sworn, 

That  thou  shalt  surely  die." 

"  We  all  must  die,"  said  brave  Sir  Charles ; 

"  Of  that  I'm  not  afraid ; 
What  boots  to  live  a  little  space  ? 

Thank  Jesus,  I'm  prepared. 

But  tell  thy  king,  for  mine  he  's  not, 

I'd  sooner  die  to-day. 
Than  live  his  slave,  as  many  are, 

Though  I  should  live  for  aye." 


From  1727  to  1780.]                         BRISTOW  TRAGEDY.                                   [Chatterton. 

Then  Canterlone  he  did  go  out, 
To  tell  the  mayor  straight 

To  get  all  things  in  readiness 
For  good  Sir  Charles's  fate. 

By  Mary,  and  all  saints  in  heaven, 
This  sun  shall  be  his  last !  " 

Then  Can3mge  dropp'd  a  briny  tear, 
And  from  the  presence  pass'd. 

Then  Mr.  Canynge  sought  the  king, 

And  fell  down  on  his  knee  ; 
"  I'm  come,"  quoth  he,  "  unto  your  grace, 

To  move  your  clemency." 

With  heart  brimful  of  gnawing  grief. 
He  to  Sir  Charles  did  go,         "~~    —  — 

And  sat  him  down  upon  a  stool, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

"  Then,"  quoth  the  king,  "  your  tale  speak  out, 
You  have  been  much  our  friend ; 

Whatever  your  request  may  be, 
We  wiU  to  it  attend." 

"  We  all  must  die,"  said  brave  Sir  Charles  ; 

"  What  boots  it  how  or  when  ? 
Death  is  the  sure,  the  certain  fate, 

Of  all  we  mortal  men. 

"  My  noble  liege  !  all  my  request 

Is  for  a  noble  knight, 
Who,  though  mayhap  he  has  done  wrong. 

He  thought  it  still  was  right. 

Say  why,  my  friend,  thy  honest  soul 

Runs  over  at  thine  eye ; 
Is  it  for  my  most  welcome  doom 
•  That  thou  dost  child-like  cry  ?  " 

He  has  a  spouse  and  children  twain ; 

All  ruin'd  are  for  aye. 
If  that  you  are  resolved  to  let 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-day." 

Saith  godly  Canynge,  "  I  do  weep, 
That  thou  so  soon  must  die. 

And  leave  thy  sons  and  helpless  wife  ; 
'Tis  this  that  wets  mine  eye." 

"  Speak  not  of  such  a  traitor  vile," 

The  king  in  fury  said  ; 
"  Before  the  evening  star  doth  shine, 

Bawdin  shall  lose  his  head  : 

"  Then  dry  the  tears  that  out  thine  eye 

From  godly  fountains  spring ;                               f 

Death  I  despise,  and  all  the  power                            I 
Of  Edward,  traitor-king.                                         | 

Justice  does  loudly  for  him  call, 
And  ho  shall  have  his  meed  : 

Speak,  Mr.  Canynge  !  what  thing  else 
At  present  do  you  need  ?  " 

When  through  the  tyrant's  welcome  means 

I  shall  resign  my  life. 
The  God  I  serve  wiU  soon  provide 

For  both  my  sons  and  wife. 

"  My  noble  liege  !  "  good  Canynge  said, 

"  Leave  justice  to  our  God, 
And  lay  the  iron  rule  aside  ; 

Be  thine  the  olive  rod. 

Before  I  saw  the  lightsome  sun, 
This  was  appointed  me ; 

Shall  mortal  man  repine  or  grudge 
What  God  ordains  to  be  ? 

Was  God  to  search  our  hearts  and  reins. 
The  best  were  sinners  great ; 

Christ's  vicar  only  knows  no  sin, 
In  all  this  mortal  state. 

How  oft  in  battle  have  I  stood, 
When  thousands  died  around  ; 

When  smoking  streams  of  crimson  blood 
Imbrued  the  fatten'd  ground. 

Let  mercy  rule  thine  infant  reign, 
'Twill  fix  thy  crown  fuU  sure ; 

From  race  to  race  thy  family 
All  sovereigns  shall  endure  : 

How  did  I  know  that  every  dart 

That  cut  the  airy  way. 
Might  not  find  passage  to  my  heart. 

And  close  mine  eyes  for  aye  ? 

But  if  with  blood  and  slaughter  thou 

Begin  thy  infant  reign, 
Thy  crown  upon  thy  children's  brows 

Will  never  long  remain." 

And  shall  I  now,  for  fear  of  death. 
Look  wan  and  be  dismay'd  ? 

No  !  from  my  heart  fly  childish  fear ; 
Be  all  the  man  display'd. 

"  Canynge,  away !  this  traitor  vile 
Has  scorn'd  my  power  and  me  ; 

How  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  man 
Entreat  my  clemency  ?  " 

Ah,  godlike  Henry  !  God  forefend, 
And  guard  thee  and  thy  son. 

If  'tis  his  will ;  but  if  'tis  not, 
Why,  then  his  will  be  done. 

"  My  noble  liege  !  the  truly  brave 
Will  valorous  actions  prize  ; 

Respect  a  brave  and  noble  mind. 
Although  in  enemies." 

My  honest  friend,  my  fault  has  been 
To  serve  God  and  my  prince ; 

And  that  I  no  time-server  am. 
My  death  will  soon  convince. 

"  Canynge,  away  !     By  God  in  heaven 

That  did  me  being  give, 
I  will  not  taste  a  bit  of  bread 

Whilst  this  Sir  Charles  doth  live  ! 

In  London  city  was  I  born, 
Of  parents  of  great  note  ; 

My  father  did  a  noble  arms 
Emblazon  on  his  coat : 

Chatterton.]                                 BEISTOW  TRAGEDY.                           [Sixth  Period.— 

I  make  no  doubt  but  he  is  gone 
Where  soon  I  hope  to  go, 

IMiere  we  for  ever  shall  be  blest, 
From  out  the  reach  of  woe. 

Saith  Canynge,  "  'Tis  a  goodly  thing 

To  be  prepared  to  die  ; 
And  from  this  world  of  pain  and  grief 

To  God  in  heaven  to  fly." 

He  taught  me  justice  and  the  laws 

With  pity  to  unite ; 
And  eke  he  taught  me  how  to  know 

The  wrong  cause  from  the  right : 

And  now  the  bell  began  to  toll. 

And  clarions  to  sound  ; 
Sir  Charles  he  heard  the  horses'  feet 

A-prancing  on  the  ground. 

He  taught  me  Avith  a  prudent  hand 
To  feed  the  hungry  poor, 

Nor  let  my  servants  drive  away 
The  hungry  from  my  door : 

And  just  before  the  officers 
His  loving  wife  came  in. 

Weeping  unfeigned  tears  of  woe 
With  loud  and  dismal  din. 

And  none  can  say  but  all  my  life 

I  have  his  wordis  kept ; 
And  summ'd  the  actions  of  the  day 

Each  night  before  I  slept. 

"  Sweet  Florence  !  now  I  pray  forbear, 

In  quiet  let  me  die  ; 
Pray  God  that  every  Christian  soul 

May  look  on  death  as  I. 

I  have  a  spouse,  go  ask  of  her 

If  I  defiled  her  bed  ? 
I  have  a  king,  and  none  can  lay 

Black  treason  on  my  head. 

Sweet  Florence  !  why  these  briny  tears  ? 

They  wash  my  soul  away, 
And  almost  make  me  wish  for  life,       , 

With  thee,  sweet  dame,  to  stay. 

In  Lent,  and  on  the  holy  eve, 
From  flesh  I  did  refrain  ; 

W^hy  should  I  then  appear  dismay' d 
To  leave  this  world  of  pain  ? 

'Tis  but  a  journey  I  shall  go 

Unto  the  land  of  bliss  ; 
Now,  as  a  proof  of  husband's  love 

Eeceive  this  holy  kiss." 

INo,  hapless  Henry  !  I  rejoice 
I  shall  not  see  thy  death  ; 

Most  wUlingly  in  thy  just  cause 
Do  I  resign  my  breath. 

Then  Florence,  faltering  in  her  say, 
Trembling  these  wordis  spoke  ■-. 

"  Ah,  cruel  Edward  !  bloody  king ! 
My  heart  is  well  nigh  broke. 

Oh,  fickle  people  !  ruin'd  land  ! 

Thou  wilt  ken  peace  no  moe  ; 
While  Eichard's  sons  exalt  themselves, 

Thy  brooks  with  blood  will  flow. 

Ah,  sweet  Sir  Charles  !  why  wilt  thou  go 

Without  thy  loving  wife  ? 
The  cruel  axe  that  cuts  thy  neck, 

It  eke  shall  end  my  life." 

Say,  were  ye  tired  of  godly  peace. 
And  godly  Henry's  reign, 

That  you  did  chop  your  easy  days 
For  those  of  blood  and  pain  ? 

And  now  the  officers  came  in 
To  bring  Sir  Charles  away, 

Who  turned  to  his  loving  wife, 
And  thus  to  her  did  say  : 

What  though  I  on  a  sledge  be  drawn. 

And  mangled  by  a  hind, 
I  do  defy  the  traitor's  power, 

He  cannot  harm  my  mind  ; 

"  I  go  to  life,  and  not  to  death. 

Trust  thou  in  God  above. 
And  teach  thy  sons  to  fear  the  Lord, 

And  in  their  hearts  him  love. 

WTiat  though,  uphoisted  on  a  pole, 

My  limbs  shall  rot  in  air, 
And  no  rich  monument  of  brass 

Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear ; 

Teach  them  to  run  the  noble  race 

That  I  their  father  run, 
Florence  !  should  death  thee  take — adieu ! 

Ye  officers  lead  on." 

Yet  in  the  holy  book  above, 
Which  time  can't  eat  away, 

There  with  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
My  name  shall  live  for  aye. 

Then  Florence  raved  as  any  mad. 

And  did  her  tresses  tear  ; 
"  Oh  stay,  my  husband,  lord,  and  life !  " 

Sir  Charles  then  dropp'd  a  tear. 

Then  welcome  death  !  for  life  eteme 

I  leave  this  mortal  life  : 
Farewell,  vain  world,  and  all  that 's  dear. 

My  sons  and  loving  wife  ! 

Till  tired  out  with  raving  loud, 

She  fell  upon  the  floor ; 
Sir  Charles  exerted  all  his  might. 

And  march' d  from  out  the  door. 

Now  death  as  welcome  to  me  comes 
As  e'er  the  month  of  May  ; 

Nor  would  I  even  wish  to  live, 
With  my  dear  wife  to  stay." 

Upon  a  sledge  he  mounted  then, 
With  looks  full  bravo  and  sweet ; 

Looks  that  enshone  no  more  concern 
Than  any  in  the  street. 

From  1727  to  1780.] 


BEISTOW  TEAGEDY. 


[Chatterton 


Before  liim  went  the  council-men, 

In  scarlet  robes  and  gold, 
And  tassels  spangling  in  the  sun, 

Much  glorious  to' behold  : 

The  friars  of  Saint  Augtistine  next 

Appeared  to  the  sight, 
All  clad  in  homely  russet  weeds. 

Of  godly  monkish  plight : 

In  different  parts  a  godly  psalm 
Most  sweetly  they  did  chant ; 

Behind  their  back  srx  minstrels  came, 
"Who  tuned  the  strange  bataunt. 

Then  five- and- twenty  archers  came  ; 

Each  one  the  bow  did  bend, 
Erom  rescue  of  King  Henry's  friends 

Sir  Charles  for  to  defend. 

Bold  as  a  lion  came  Sir  Charles, 
Drawn  on  a  cloth-laid  sledde. 

By  two  black  steeds  in  trappings  white, 
With  plumes  upon  their  head. 

Behind  him  five  and  twenty  more 
Of  archers  strong  and  stout, 

With  bended  bow  each  one  in  hand. 
Marched  in  goodly  rout. 

Saint  James's  friars  marched  next, 
Each  one  his  part  did  chant ; 

Behind  their  backs  six  minstrels  came, 
AVho  tuned  the  strange  bataunt. 

Then  came  the  mayor  and  aldermen. 

In  cloth  of  scarlet  deck'd  ; 
And  their  attending  men  each  one. 

Like  eastern  princes  trick'd. 

And  after  them  a  multitude 

Of  citizens  did  throng  ; 
The  windows  were  all  full  of  heads. 

As  he  did  pass  along. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  high  cross, 
Sir  Charles  did  turn  and  say, 

*'  O  Thou  that  savest  man  from  sin. 
Wash  my  soul  clean  this  day." 

At  the  great  minster  window  sat 

The  king  in  mickle  state, 
To  see  Charles  Bawdin  go  along 

To  his  most  welcome  fate. 

Soon  as  the  sledde  drew  nigh  enough. 
That  Edward  he  might  hear, 

The  brave  Sir  Charles  he  did  stand  up. 
And  thus  his  words  declare  : 

"  Thou  seest  me,  Edward  !  traitor  vile  I 

Exposed  to  infamy ; 
But  be  assured,  disloyal  man, 

I'm  greater  now  than  thee. 

By  foul  proceedings,  murder,  blood. 
Thou  woarest  now  a  crown  ; 

And  hast  appointed  me  to  die 
By  powpr  not  thine  own. 


Thou  thinkest  I  shall  die  to-day ; 

I  have  been  dead  till  now. 
And  soon  shall  live  to  wear  a  crown 

For  aye  upon  my  brow ; 

Whilst  thou,  perhaps,  for  some  few  years, 
Shalt  rule  this  fickle  land,  _    _ 

To  let  them  know  how  wide  the  rule 
'Twixt  king  and  tyrant  hand. 

Thy  power  unjust,  thou  traitor  slave ! 

Shall  fall  on  thy  own  head  " — 
From  out  of  hearing  of  the  king 

Departed  then  the  sledde. 

King  Edward's  soul  rush'd  to  his  face, 

He  tum'd  his  head  away, 
And  to  his  brother  Gloucester 

He  thus  did  speak  and  say  t 

"  To  him  that  so-much-dreaded  death 

No  ghastly  terrors  bring ; 
Behold  the  man  !  he  spake  the  truth  ; 

He 's  greater  than  a  king !  " 

"  So  let  him  die  !  "  Duke  Eichard  said ; 

"  And  may  each  one  our  foes 
Bend  down  their  necks  to  bloody  axe, 

And  feed  the  carrion  crows." 

And  now  the  horses  gently  drew 

Sir  Charles  up  the  high  hill ; 
The  axe  did  glister  in  the  sun. 

His  precious  blood  to  spill. 

Sir  Charles  did  up  the  scaffold  go. 

As  up  a  gilded  car 
Of  victory,  by  valorous  chiefs 

Gain'd  in  the  bloody  war. 

And  to  the  people  he  did  say : 

"  Behold  you  see  me  die. 
For  serving  loyally  my  king, 

My  king  most  rightfully. 

As  long  as  Edward  rules  this  land, 

No  quiet  you  -will  know ; 
Your  sons  and  husbands  shall  be  slain, 

And  brooks  with  blood  shall  flow. 

You  leave  your  good  and  lawful  king, 

When  in  adversity ; 
Like  me,  unto  the  true  cause  stick, 

And  for  the  true  cause  die." 

Then  he,  with  priests,  upon  his  knees, 

A  prayer  to  God  did  make. 
Beseeching  him  unto  himself 

His  parting  soul  to  take. 

Then,  kneeling  down,  he  laid  his  head 

Most  seemly  on  the  block  ; 
Which  from  his  body  fair  at  once 

The  able  headsman  stroke  : 

And  out  the  blood  began  to  flow. 
And  round  the  scaffold  twine  ; 

And  tears,  enough  to  wash  't  away, 
Did  flow  from  each  man's  eyne. 


Chatterton.] 


THE  MINSTREL'S  SONG  IN  ELLA. 


[Sixth  Pekiod. 


The  bloody  axe  his  body  fair 

Into  four  partis  cut ; 
And  every  part,  and  eke  his  head, 

Upon  a  pole  was  put. 

One  part  did  rot  on  Kinwulph-hill, 

One  on  the  minster-tower, 
And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 

The  crowen  did  devour. 

The  other  on  Saint  Paul's  good  gate, 

A  dreary  spectacle ; 
His  head  was  placed  on  the  high  cross, 

In  high  street  most  noble. 

Thus  was  the  end  of  Bawdin's  fate  : 

God  prosper  long  our  king, 
And  grant  he  may,  with  Bawdin's  soul, 

In  heaven  God's  mercy  sing. 

Chatterton.— Bom  1752,  Died  1770. 


944.— THE  MINSTEEL'S  SONG  IN  ELLA. 

0 !   sing  unto  my  roundelay  ; 

O  !  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me ; 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday, 
Like  a  running  river  be  j 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  neck  as  summer  snow, 
Euddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below : 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle's  note, 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 
Oh  !  he  lies  by  the  willow  tree. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Hark  !  the  raven  flaps  his  wing, 

In  the  brier' d  dell  below  ; 
Hark  !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing, 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
AU  under  the  willow  tree. 

See !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud  ; 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  wiUow  tree. 


Here,  upon  my  true-love's  grave. 

Shall  the  garish  flowers  be  laid, 
Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

With  my  hands  I'll  bind  the  briers, 

Eound  his  holy  cors  to  gre  ; 
Elfin-fairy,  light  your  fires. 
Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Come  with  acorn  ciip  and  thorn. 

Drain  my  heart's  blood  aU  away  j 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 

Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow  tree. 

Water-witches,  cro-svned  with  reytes. 

Bear  me  to  your  deadly  tide. 
I  die — I  come — my  true-love  waits. 

Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 

Chatterton.— Born  1752,  Bied  1770. 


945- 


-CHAEACTEE  OF  THE  SHIP'S 
OFFICEES. 


O'er  the  gay  vessel,  and  her  daring  band. 
Experienced  Albert  held  the  chief  command : 
Though   train' d  in  boisterous   elements,    hi& 

mind 
Was  yet  by  soft  humanity  refined. 
Each  joy  of  wedded  love  at  home  he  knew  ; 
Abroad  confess'd  the  father  of  his  crew  ! 
Brave,  liberal,  just,  the  calm  domestic  scene 
Had  o'er  his  temper  breathed  a  gay  serene. 
Him  science  taught  by  mystic  lore  to  trace 
The  planets  wheeling  in  eternal  race ; 
To  mark  the  ship  in  floating  balance  held, 
By  earth  attracted  and  by  seas  repell'd ; 
Or  point   her  devious  track,  through  climes^ 

unknown. 
That  leads  to  every  shore  and  every  zone. 
He  saw  the  moon  through  heaven's  blue  con- 
cave glide. 
And  into  motion  charm  th'  expanding  tide ; 
While  earth  impetuous  round  her  axle  rolls, 
Exalts  her  watery  zone,  and  sinks  the  poles. 
Light  and  attraction,  from  their  genial  source, 
He  saw  still  wandering  with  diminish'd  force ; 
While  on  the  margin  of  dechning  day, 
Night's  shadowy  cone  reluctant  melts  away. — 
Inured  to  peril,  with  uuoonquer'd  soul. 
The  chief  beheld  tempestuous  ocean's  roll ; 
His  genius,  ever  for  the  event  prepared, 
Eose   with   the   storm,    and   aU   its   dangers 
shared. 


From  1727  to  1780.]        CHARACTER  OF  THE  SHIP'S  OFFICERS. 


[Falconer. 


The    second    powers   and   office  Rodmond 

bore : 
A  hardy  son  of  England's  furthest  shore. 
Where  blea-k  Northumbria  pours  her  savage 

train 
In  sable  squadrons  o'er  the  northern  main ; 
That,  with  her  pitchy  entrails  stored,  resort, 
A  sooty  tribe  I  to  fair  Augusta's  port. 
Where'er  in  ambush  lurk  the  fatal  sands, 
They  claim    the    danger;    proud   of    skilful 

bands ; 
For  while  with  darkling  course  their  vessels 

sweep 
The   winding  shore,  or   plough  the  faithless 

deep, 
O'er  bar   and   shelf   the   watery   path    they 

sound, 
With  dexterous  arm ;  sagacious  of  the  ground : 
Fearless  they  combat  ev'ry  hostile  wind, 
Wheeling  in  mazy  tracks  with  course  inclined. 
Expert  to  moor,  where  terrors  line  the  road ; 
Or  win  the  anchor  from  its  dark  abode  : 
But  drooping  and  relax' d  in  climes  afar, 
Tumultuous  and  undisciplined  in  war. 
SiTch  Rodmond  was  ;  by  learning  unrefined, 
That  oft  enlightens  to  corrupt  the  mind : 
Boisterous  of  manners  ;  train' d  in  early  youth 
To  scenes  that  shame  the  conscious  cheek  of 

truth ; 
To    scenes    that    nature's    struggling    voice 

control, 
And  freeze  compassion  rising  in  the  soul ! 
Where  the  grim  hell-hounds,  prowling  round 

the  shore. 
With  foul  intent  the  stranded  bark  explore — 
Deaf  to  the   voice  of   woe,   her  decks  they 

board. 
While  tardy  justice  slumbers  o'er  her  sword — 
Th'  indignant  Muse,  severely  taught  to  feel. 
Shrinks  from  a  theme  she  blushes  to  reveal ! 
Too  oft  example,  arm'd  with  poisons  fell. 
Pollutes  the    shrine   where    mercy  loves    to 

dwell : 
Thus   Rodmond,  train'd  by  this   unhallow'd 

crew, 
The  sacred  social  passions  never  knew  : 
Unskill'd  to  argue  ;  in  dispute  yet  loud ; 
Bold  without  caution  ;  without  honours  proud  ; 
In  art  unschool'd,  each  veteran  rule  he  prized, 
And  all  improvement  haughtily  despised  : 
Yet  though  full  oft  to  future  perils  blind. 
With  skill  superior  glow'd  his  daring  mind. 
Through  snares  of  death  the  reeling  bark  to 

guide, 
When   midnight    shades    involve   the   raging 

tide. 
To  Rodmond  next,  in  order  of  command, 
Succeeds  the  youngest  of  our  naval  band. 
But  what  avails  it  to  record  a  name 
That    courts    no    rank   among   the    sons    of 

fame  ? 
While  yet  a  stripling,  oft,  with  fond  alarms, 
His    bosom    danced    to    nature's    boundless 

charms ; 
On  him  fair  science  dawn'd  in  happier  hour. 
Awakening  into  bloom  young  fancy's  flower ; 


But  frowning  fortune  with  untimely  blast 
The  blossom  wither'd,  and  the  dawn  o'ercast. 
Forlorn  of  heart,  and  by  severe  decree 
Condemn' d  reluctant  to  the  faithless  sed. 
With  long  farewell  he  left  the  laurel  grove, 
Where  science  and  the  tuneful  sisters  rove. — 
Hither  he  wander'd,  anxious  to  explore 
Antiquities  of  nations  now  no  more  ; 
To  penetrate  each  distant  realm  unknown. 
And  range  excursive  o'er  th'  untravell'd  zone. 
In  vain  ! — for  rude  adversity's  command, 
Still  on  the  margin  of  each  famous  land, 
With  unrelenting  ire  his  steps  opposed, 
And  every  gate  of  hope  against  him  closed. 
Permit  my  verse,  ye  bless' d  Pierian  train. 
To  call  Arion  this  ill-fated  swain  ! 
For,  like  that  bard  unhappy,  on  his  head 
Malignant  stars  their  hostile  influence  shed. 
Both,  in  lamenting  numbers,  o'er  the  deep, 
With  conscious    anguish  taught  the  harp  to 

weep ; 
And  both  the  raging  surge  in  safety  bore 
Amid  destruction  panting  to  the  shore. 
This  last  our  tragic  story  from  the  wave 
Of  dark  oblivion  haply  yet  may  save ; 
With  genuine  sympathy  may  yet  complain, 
While  sad  remembrance  bleeds  at  ev'ry  vein. 

Such  were  the  pilots;  tutor' d  to  divine 
Th'  untravell'd  course  by  geometric  line  ; 
Train'd  to  command,  and  range  the  various 

sail, 
Whose     various    force    conforms     to    every 

gale. — 
Charged  with  the  commerce,  hither  also  came 
A  gallant  youth,  Palemon  was  his  name ; 
A  father's  stem  resentment  doom'd  to  prove, 
He  came,  the  victim  of  unhappy  love  ! 
His   heart   for  Albert's   beauteous   daughter 

bled; 
For  her  a  secret  flame  his  bosom  fed. 
Nor  let  the  wretched  slaves  of  folly  scorn 
This  genuine  passion,  nature's  eldest  bom  ! 
'Twas  his  with  lasting  anguish  to  complain, 
While  blooming  Anna  mourn' d  the  cause  in 

vain. 
Graceful   of    form,    by  nature    taught    to 

please, 
Of  power  to  melt  the  female  breast  with  «ase. 
To  her  Palemon  told  his  tender  tale. 
Soft  as  the  voice  of  summer's  evening  gale. 
O'erjoy'd,  he  saw  her  lovely  eyes  relent ; 
The  blushing  maiden  smiled  with  sweet  con- 
sent. 
Oft  in  the  mazes  of  a  neighbouring  grove. 
Unheard,  they  breathed  alternate  vows  of  love  : 
By  fond  society  their  passion  grew. 
Like  the  young  blossom  fed  with  vernal  dew. 
In  evil  hour  th'  ofiicious  tongue  of  fame 
Betray' d  the  secret  of  their  mutual  flame. 
With  grief  and  anger  struggling  in  his  breast, 
Palemon' s  father  heard  the  tale  confest. 
Long  had  he  listen' d  with  suspicion's  ear. 
And  leam'd,  sagacious,  this  event  to  fear. 
Too   well,  fair  youth!    thy  liberal   heart  he 

knew  ; 
A  heart  to  nature's  warm  impressions  true  ! 


Falconer. 


THE  SHIP  DEPAETING  FEOM  THE  HAVEN.      [Sixth  Period.— 


Full   oft   his   -wisdom   strove,   witli  fruitless 

toil, 
With  avarice  to  pollute  that  generous  soil : 
That  soil  impregnated  with  nobler  seed, 
Refused  the  culture  of  so  rank  a  weed. 
Elate  with  wealth,  in  active  commerce  won, 
And  basking  in  the  smile  of  fortune's  sun. 
With  scorn  the  parent  eyed  the  lowly  shade 
That   veil'd  the   beauties   of    this   charming 

maid. 
Indignant  he  rebuked  th'  enamour'd  boy, 
The  flattering  promise  of  his  future  joy: 
He  soothed  and  menaced,  anxious  to  reclaim 
This  hopeless  passion,  or  divert  its  aim  : 
Oft  led  the  youth  whore  circling  joys  delight 
The   ravish'd   sense,    or   beauty   charms   the 

sight. 
With  all  her  powers  enchanting  music  fail'd. 
And  pleasure's  syren  voice  no  more  prevail'd. 
The  merchant,  kindling  then  with  proud  dis- 
dain. 
In  look  and  voice  assumed  a  harsher  strain. 
In  absence  now  his  only  hope  remain' d ; 
And  such  the  stern  decree  his  will  ordain' d. 
Deep  anguish,  while  Palemon  heard  his  doom, 
Drew  o'er  his  lovely  face  a  saddening  gloom. 
In  vain  with  bitter  sorrow  he  repined. 
No  tender  pity  touch' d  that  sordid  mind ; 
To  thee,  brave  Albert,  was  the  charge  con- 
sign'd. 
The  stately  ship,  forsaking  England's  shore. 
To  regions  far  remote  Palemon  bore. 
Incapable  of  change,  th'  unhappy  youth 
Still  loved  fair  Anna  with  eternal  truth  : 
From  clime  to  clime  an  exile  doom'd  to  roam. 
His  heart  still  panted  for  its  secret  home. 

Falconer.— Bom  1730,  Died  1769. 


946.— THE  SHIP  DEPAETING  FEOM 
THE  HAVEN. 

The  sun's  bright  orb,  declining  all  serene, 
Now   glanced    obliquely   o'er    the    woodland 

scene. 
Creation  smiles  around ;  on  every  spray 
The  warbling  birds  exalt  their  evening  lay. 
Blithe  skipping  o'er  yon  hill,  the  fleecy  train 
Join  the  deep  chorus  of  the  lo\\'ing  plain  : 
The  golden  Hme  and  orange  there  were  seen, 
On  fragrant  branches  of  perpetual  green. 
The   crystal   streams,   that   velvet   meadows 

lave. 
To  the  green  ocean  roll  with  chiding  wave. 
The  glassy  ocean  hush'd  forgets  to  roar, 
But  trembling  murmurs  on  the  shindy  shore : 
And  lo  !  his  surface,  lovely  to  behold  ! 
Glows  in  the  west,  a  sea  of  living  gold  ! 
While  aU  above,  a  thousand  liveries  gay 
The  skies  with  pomp  ineffable  array. 
Arabian  sweets  perfume  the  happy  plains  : 
Above,  beneath,  around  enchantment  reigns ! 
While  yet  the  shades,  on  time's  eternal  scale. 
With  long  vibration  deepen  o'er  the  vale ; 


While  yet  the  songsters  of  the  vocal  grove 
With  dying  numbers  tune  the  soul  to  love ; 
With  joyful  eyes  th'  attentive  master  sees 
Th'  auspicious  omens  of  an  eastern  breeze. — 
Now  radiant  Vesper  leads  the  starry  train, 
And  night  slow  dra^rs  her  veil  o'er  land  and 

main; 
Round  the  charged  bowl  the  sailors  form  a 

ring; 
By  turns  recount  the  wondrous  tale  or  sing ; 
As  love  or  battle,  hardships  of  the  main. 
Or  genial  wine  awake  their  homely  strain : 
Then  some  the  watch  of  night  alternate  keep. 
The  rest  lie  buried  in  oblivious  sleep. 

Deep  midnight  now  involves  the  livid  skies, 
While  infant  breezes  from  the  shore  arise. 
The  waning  moon,  behind  a  wat'ry  shroud, 
Pale-glimmer'd  o'er  the  long-protracted  cloud. 
A  mighty  ring  around  her  silver  throne. 
With   parting    meteors    cross'd,   portentous 

shone. 
This  in  the  troubled  sky  fall  oft  prevails  ; 
Oft  deem'd  a  signal  of  tempestuous  gales. — 
While  young  Arion  sleeps,  before  his  sight 
Tumultuous  swim  the  visions  of  the  night. 
Now  blooming  Anna,  with  her  happy  swain, 
Approach' d  the  sacred  hymeneal  fane  : 
Anon  tremendous  lightnings  flash  between  ; 
And    funeral    pomp   and  weeping  loves   are 

seen ! 
Now  with  Palemon  up  a  rocky  steep. 
Whose    summit    trembles    o'er    the    roaring 

deep. 
With  painful  step  he  climb' d ;  while  far  above 
Sweet  Anna  charm'd  them  with  the  voice  of 

love. 
Then  sudden  from  the  slippery  height  they 

fell. 
While  dreadful   yawn'd  beneath  the  jaws  of 

hell— 
Amid  this  fearful  trance,  a  thundering  sound 
He   hears — and  thrice  the  hollow  decks  re- 
bound. 
Upstarting    from    Ids    couch    on     deck    he 

sprung ; 
Thrice  vnth  shrjll  note  the  boatswain's  whistle 

rung. 
"  All  hands  unmoor !  "  proclaims  a  boisterous 

cry: 
"  All  hands  unmoor !"  the  cavern  rocks  reply. 
Roused  from  repose  aloft  the  sailors  swarm, 
And  with  their  levers  soon  the  windlass  arm. 
The  order  given,  up-springing  Avith  a  bound 
They  lodge  the  bars,  and  wheel  their  engine 

round  : 
At  every  turn  the  clanging  pauls  resound. 
Uptorn  reluctant  from  its  oozy  cave, 
The  ponderous  anchor  rises  o'er  the  wave. 
Along  their  slippery  masts  the  yards  ascend, 
And  high  in  air  the  canvas  wings  extend : 
Redoubling  cords  the  lofty  canvas  guide, 
And  through  inextricable  mazes  glide. 
The  lunar  rays  with  long  reflection  gleam, 
To  light  the  vessel  o'er  the  silver  stream : 
Along  the  glassy  plain  serene  she  glides, 
While  azure  radiance  trembles  on  her  sides. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


DISTEESS  OF  THE  VESSEL. 


[Falconer. 


From    east   to   nortli    the   transient   breezes 

play ; 
And  in  the  Egyptian  quarter  soon  decay. 
A    calm    ensues;    they    dread    th'    adjacent 

shore ; 
The  boats  with  rowers  arm'd  are  sent  before  : 
With  cordage  fasten' d  to  the  lofty  prow, 
Aloof  to  sea  the  stately  ship  they  tow. 
The  nervous  crew  their  sweeping  oars  extend ; 
And  pealing  shouts  the  shore  of  Candia  rend. 
Success  attends  their  skill :  the  danger's  o'er  : 
The  port  is  doubled  and  beheld  no  more. 
Now  morn,  her  lamp  pale  glimmering  on  the 

sight,  ^ 

Scatter' d  before  her  van  reluctant  night.  *  jj- 
She  comes  not  in  refulgent  pomp  array'd, 
But  sternly  frowning,  w^rapt  in  sullen  shade. 
Above  incumbent  vapours,  Ida's  height, 
Tremendous  rock  !  emerges  on  the  sight. 
North-east  the  guardian  isle  of  Standia  lies. 
And  westward  Freschin's  woody  capes  arise. 
With  winning   postures   now    the   wanton 

sails 
Spread  all  their  snares  to  charm  th'  inconstant 

gales. 
The   swelling    stu'n   sails    now    their   wings 

extend, 
Then  stay-sails  sidelong  to  the  breeze  ascend  : 
While  all  to  court  the  wandering  breeze  are 

placed ; 
With   yards   now   thwai-ting,    now   obliquely 

braced. 
The  dim  horizon  lowering  vapours  shrond, 
And    blot    the    sun    yet    struggling    in   the 

cloud : 
Through  the  wide  atmosphere  condensed  with 

haze, 
His  glaring  orb  emits  a  sanguine  blaze. 
The  pilots  now  their  rules  of  art  apply. 
The  mystic  needle's  devious  aim  to  try. 
The  compass  placed  to  catch  the  rising  ray, 
The  quadrant's  shadows  studious  they  survey. 
Along  the  arch  the  gradual  index  slides, 
While  Phoebus  down  the  vertic  circle  glides, 
Now,  seen  on  ocean's  utmost  verge  to  s^vim, 
He  sweeps  it  vibrant  with  his  nether  limb. 
Their     sage    experience    thus    explores    the 

height 
And  polar  distance  of  the  source  of  light : 
Then  through  the  cMliads'  triple  maze  they 

trace 
Th'  analogy  that  proves  the  magnet's  place. 
The  wayward  steel,  to  truth  thus  reconciled, 
No  more  the  attentive  pilot's  eye  beguiled. 
The   natives,   while   the   ship   departs   the 

land. 
Ashore  with  admiration  gazing  stand. 
Majestically  slow,  before  the  breeze. 
In  silent  pomp  she  marches  on  the  seas. 
Her  milk-white  bottom  casts  a  softer  gleam, 
"While  trembling  through  the  green  translucent 

stream. 
The  wales,  that  close  above  in  contrast  shone, 
Clasp  the  long  fabric  with  a  je'tty  zone, 
Britannia,  riding  awful  on  the  prow. 
Gazed  o'er  the  vassal- wave  that  roU'd  below : 


"^Vhere'er  she   moved  the  vassal- waves  were 

seen 
To  yield  obseqtiious,  a,nd  confess  their  queen. 
Th'  imperial  trident  graced  her  dexter-hand, 
Of  power  to  rule  the  surge,  like  Moses'  wand, 
Th'  eternal  empire  of  the  main  to  keep, 
And  guide  her  squadrons  o'er  the  trembling 

deep. 
Her  left  propitious  bore  a  mystic  shield, 
Around  whose  margin  rolls  the  wat'ry  field. 
There  her  bold  genius,  in  his  floating  car, 
O'er  the  wild  billow  hurls  the  storm  of  war — 
And  lo  !  the  beasts,  that  oft  with  jealous  rage 
In  bloody  combat  met,  from  age  to  age, 
Tamed  into  union,  yoked  in  friendship's  chain, 
Draw  his  proud  chariot  round  the  vanquish'd 

main. 
From  the  broad  margin  to  the  centre  grew 
Shelves,  rocks,  and  whirlpools,  hideous  to  the 

view ! — 
Th'  immortal   shield   from   Neptune  she   re- 
ceived. 
When  first  her  head  above  the  waters  heaved. 
Loose  floated  o'er  her  limbs  an  azure  vest ; 
A  figured  scutcheon  glitter' d  on  her  breast ; 
There,  from  one  parent  soil,  for  ever  young. 
The  blooming  rose  and  hardy  thistle  sprung. 
Around  her  head  an  oaken  wreath  was  seen, 
Inwove  with  laurels  of  unfading  green. 
Such  was  the  sculptured  prow  from  van  to 

rear, 
Th'    artillery   fro-\vn'd,    a    black    tremendous 

tier! 
Embalm'd  with  orient  gum  above  the  wave. 
The  swelling  sides  a  yoUow  radiance  gave. 
*  #  *  * 

High   o'er    the    poop,    the    flattering   winds 

unfurl' d 
Th'  imperial  flag  that  rules  the  wat'ry  world. 
Deep-blushing  armours  aU  the  tops  invest ; 
And  warlike  trophies  either  quarter  drest : 
Then  tower'd  the  masts,  the  canvas  swell'd  on 

high, 
And  waving  streamers  floated  in  the  sky. 
Thus  the  rich  vessel  moves  in  trim  array, 
Like  some  fair  virgin  on  her  bridal  day ; 
Thus  like  a  swan  she  cleaves  the  wat'ry  plain, 
The  pride  and  wonder  of  the  jEgean  main  I 

Falconer.—Born  1730,  Died  1769. 


947.— DISTEESS  OF  THE  VESSEL. 

No  season  this  for  counsel  or  delay  ! 
Too  soon  th'  eventful  moments  haste  away ! 
Here  perseverance,  with  each  help  of  art, 
Must  join  the  boldest  efforts  of  the  heart. 
These  only  now  their  misery  can  relieve  ; 
These  only  now  a  dawn  of  safety  give ! 
While  o'er  the   quivering  deck  from  van  to 

rear, 
Broad  surges  roll  in  terrible  career. 


Falconek.] 


COUNCIL  OF  THE  0FFICEE3. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Kodmond,  Arion,  and  a  chosen  crew, 
This  office  in  the  face  of  death  pursue. 
The  wheel' d  artillery  o'er  the  deck  to  guide, 
Eodmond  descending  claim'd  the  weather-side. 
Fearless  of  heart,  the  chief  his  orders  gave ; 
Fronting  the  rude  assaults  of  every  wave. 
Like  some  strong  watch-tower  nodding  o'er 

the  deep. 
Whose  rocky  base  the  foaming  waters  sweep, 
Untamed  he  stood ;  the  stern  aerial  war, 
Had   mark'd  his   honest   face  with  many  a 

scar. — 
Meanwhile  Arion,  traversing  the  waist. 
The  cordage  of  the  leeward  guns  unbraced, 
And  pointed  crows  beneath  the  metal  placed. 
Watching  the  roll,  their  forelocks  they  with- 
drew. 
And  from  their  beds  the  reeling  cannon  threw. 
Then,  from   the    windward   battlements    un- 
bound, 
Eodmond's    associates     wheel    th'    artillery 

round ; 
Pointed  with  iron  fangs,  their  bars  beguile 
The  ponderous  arms  across  the  steep  defile ; 
Then,   hurl'd  from  sounding  hinges  o'er  the 

side, 
Thundering  they  pliuige  into  the  flashing  tide. 

Falconer.— Bom  1730,  Died  1769. 


948.— COUNCIL  OF  THE  OFFICEES. 

Again  the  chief  th'  instructive  draught  ex- 
tends, 
And  o'er  the  figured  plane  attentive  bends  ! 
To  him  the  motion  of  each  orb  was  known. 
That     wheels     around   the     sun's    refulgent 

throne ; 
But  here,  alas,  his  science  nought  avails  ! 
Art  droops  unequal,  and  experience  fails. 
The  different  traverses  since  twilight  made, 
He  on  the  hydrographic  circle  laid  ; 
Then  the  broad  angle  of  lee-way  explored, 
As  swept  across  the  graduated  chord. 
Her  place  discover' d  by  the  rules  of  art, 
Unusual  terrors  shook  the  master's  heart; 
When  Falconera's  rugged  isle  he  found 
Within  her  drift,  with  shelves,  and  breakers 

bound ; 
For  if  on  those  destructive  shallows  tost, 
The  helpless   bark    mth    all    her    crew   are 

lost : 
As  fatal  still  appears,  that  danger  o'er. 
The  steep  St.  George  and  rocky  Gardalor. 
With  him  the  pilots  of  their  hopeless  state 
In  mournful  consultation  now  debate. 
Not    more     perplexing     doubts     her    chiefs 

appal 
When  some  proud  city  verges  to  her  fall ; 
While  ruin  glares  around,  and  pale  affright 
Convenes  her  councils  in  the  dead  of  night — 
No    blazon' d    trophies    o'er     their    concave 

spread, 
Nor  storied  pillars  raised  aloft  the  head  ; 


But   here   the   queen  of   shade  around  them 

threw 
Her  dragon- wing,  disastrous  to  the  view  !- 
Dire  was  the  scene,  with  whirlwind,  hail,  and 

shower ; 
Black  melancholy  ruled  the  fearful  hour  ! 
Beneath  tremendous  roll'd  the  flashing  tide, 
Where  fa.te  on  every  biUow  seem'd  to  ride — 
Inclosed  with  ills,  by  peril  unsubdued. 
Great  in  distress  the  master-seaman  stood  : 
Skill'd  to  command,  deliberate  to  advise  ; 
Expert  in  action,  and  in  council  wise  ; 
Thus  to  his  partners,  by  the  crew  unheard. 
The  dictates  of  his  soul  the  chief  referr'd  : 
Ye   faithful    mates,    who    all    my  troubles 

share. 
Approved  companions  of  your  master's  care  ! 
To  you,  alas  !  'twere  fruitless  now  to  tell 
Our  sad  distress,  already  known  too  well ! 
This  morn  ^nth  favouring  gales  the  port  we 

left. 
Though  now  of  every  flattering  hope  bereft : 
No  skill-  nor  long  experience  could  forecast 
Th'  unseen  approach  of  this  destructive  blast. 
These  seas,  where  storms  at  various  seasons 

blow, 
No  reigning  winds  nor  certain  omens  know, 
The   hour,   th'    occasion,   all    your   skill   de- 
mands ; 
A  leaky  ship  embay'd  by  dangerous  lands. 
Our  bark  no  transient  jeopardy  surrounds  ; 
Groaning  she  lies  beneath  unnumber'd  wounds, 
'Tis'ours  the  doubtful  remedy  to  find  ; 
To  shun  the  invy  of  the  seas  and  wind. 
For  in  this  hollow  swell,  with  labour  sore. 
Her  flank   can  bear  the  bursting  floods  no 

more ; 
Yet  this  or  other  ills  she  must  endure  ; 
A  dire  disease,  and  desperate  is  the  cure ! 
Thus  two  expedients  offer'd  to  your  choice. 
Alone  require  your  counsel  and  your  voice. 
These  only  in  our  power  are  left  to  try  : 
To  perish  here,  or  from  the  storm  to  fly. 
The  doubtful  balance  in  my  judgment  cast, 
For  various  reasons  I  prefer  the  last. 
'Tis  true,  the  vessel  and  her  costly  freight, 
To  me  consign' d,  my  orders  only  wait ; 
Yet,  since  the  charge  of  every  life  is  mine, 
To  equal  votes  our  counsels  I  resign ; 
Forbid  it,  Heaven,  that  in  this  dreadful  hour 
I    claim    the    dangerous    reins    of    purblind 

power ! 
But  should  we  now  resolve  to  bear  away, 
Our  hopeless  state  can  suffer  no  delay. 
Nor  can  we,  thus  bereft  of  every  sail. 
Attempt  to  steer  obliquely  on  the  gale  ; 
For  then,  if  broaching  sideward  to  the  sea, 
Our  dropsied  ship  may  founder  by  the  lee ; 
No  more  obedient  to  the  pilot's  power, 
Th'  o'erwhelming  wave  may  soon  her  frame 

devour. 
He   said ;    the   listening  mates  vath   fix'd 

regard 
And  silent  reverence  his  opinion  heard. 
Important  was  the  question  in  debate. 
And  o'er  their  counsels  hung  impending  fate. 


From  1727  io  1780.] 


COUNCIL  OF  THE  OFFICEES. 


[Falconer. 


Eodmond,  in  many  a  scene  of  peril  tried, 
Had  oft  the  master's  happier  skill  descried. 
Yet  now,  the  hour,  the  scene,  the  occasion 

known, 
Perhaps  with  equal  right  preferr'd  his  own. 
Of  long  experience  in  the  naval  art, 
Blunt    was   his    speech,    and   naked  was  his 

heart ; 
Alike  to  him  each  climate  and  each  blast  • 
The  first  in  danger,  in  retreat  the  last : 
Sagacious  balancing  th'  opposed  events, 
From  Albert  his  opinion  thus  dissents. 

Too  true  the  perils  of  the  present  hour, 
Where    toils    exceeding   toUs   our    strength 

o'erpower ! 
Yet  whither  can  we  turn,  what  road  pursue. 
With  death  before  still  opening  on  the  view  ? 
Our  bark,  'tis  true,  no  shelter  here  can  find, 
Sore  shattered  by  the  ruffian  seas  and  wind. 
Yet  with  what  hope  of  refuge  can  we  flee. 
Chased  by  this  tempest  and  outrageous  sea  ? 
For  while  its  violence  the  tempest  keeps. 
Bereft  of  every  sail  we  roam  the  deeps  : 
At    random    driven,    to    present    death    we 

haste ; 
And   one  short  hour   perhaps    may  be   our 

last. 
In  vain  the  gulf  of  Corinth,  on  our  lee. 
Now  opens  to  her  ports  a  passage  free ; 
Since,  if  before  the  blast  the  vessel  flies, 
FuU  in  her  track  unnumber'd  dangers  rise. 
Here  Falconera  spreads  her  lurking  snares  ; 
There    distant     Greece     her    rugged    shelf s 

prepares. 
Should   onco   her   bottom   strike  that   rocky 

shore, 
The    splitting   bark  that    instant    were    no 

more  ; 
Nor  she  alone,  but  with  her  all  the  crew 
Beyond  relief  were  doom'd  to  perish  too. 
Thus  if  to  scud  too  rashly  we  consent, 
Too  late  in  fatal  hour  we  may  repent. 
Then  of  our  purpose  this  appears  the  scope, 
To  weigh  the  danger  with  the  doubtful  hope. 
Though  sorely  buffeted  by  every  sea, 
Our  hull  unbroken  long  may  try  a-lee. 
The   crew,    though   harass' d  long  with  toils 

severe, 
Still    at    their    pumps    perceive   no   hazards 

near, 
Shall  we,  incautious,  then  the  danger  teU, 
At    once    their   courage   and  their   hope  to 

queU? 
Prudence    forbids ! — This    southern    tempest 

soon 
May   change   its  quarter  with  the  changing 

moon  : 
Its  rage,  thoug-h  terrible,  may  soon  subside, 
Nor  into  mountains  lash  th'  unruly  tide. 
These   leaks   shall   then   decrease;    the   sails 

once  more 
Direct  our  course  to  some  relieving  shore. — 
Thus  while  he  spoke,  around  from  man  to 

man 
At  either  pump  a  hollow  murmur  ran. 


For    while  the  vessel,   through  unnumber'd 

chinks. 
Above,  below,  th'  invading  waters  drinks, 
Sounding   her   depth   they   eyed   the   wetted 

scale, 
And    lo !    the    leaks    o'er    all  their   powers 

prevail. 
Yet  in  their  post,  by  terrors  unsubdued,     - 
They    with   redoubling  force  their  task  pur- 
sued. 
And  now  the  senior  pilot  seem'd  to  wait 
Arion's  voice  to  close  the  dark  debate. 
Though    many    a   bitter   storm,    with    peril 

fraught. 
In  Neptune's  school  the  wandering  stripling 

taught, 
Not    twice  nine   summers  yet  matured  his 

thought. 
So  oft  he  bled  by  fortune's  cruel  dart, 
It  fell  at  last  innoxious  on  his  heart. 
His    mind    still    shunning   care   with   secret 

hate, 
In  patient  indolence  resign'd  to  fate. 
But  now  the  horrors  that  around  him  roll. 
Thus  roused  to  action  his  rekindling  soul. 

With  fix'd  attention,  pondering  in  my  mind 
The  dark  distresses  on  each  side  combined : 
While  here  we  linger  in  the  pass  of  fate, 
I  see  no  moment  left  for  sad  debate. 
For,  some  decision  if  we  wish  to  form. 
Ere  yet  our  vessel  sink  beneath  the  storm, 
Her  shatter' d  state  and  yon  desponding  crew 
At  once  suggest  what  measures  to  pursue. 
The  labouring  hull  already  seems  half-fill'd 
With  waters   through  a  hundred   leaks  dis- 

tiU'd; 
As  in  a  dropsy,  wallowing  with  her  freight, 
Half-drown' d  she  lies,  a  dead  inactive  weight ; 
Thus    drench' d    by   every   wave,    her    riven 

deck 
Stripp'd     and    defenceless,    floats    a    naked 

wreck ; 
Her  wounded  flanks  no  longer  can  sustain 
These  fell  invasions  of  the  bursting  main. 
At    every   pitch,    the    o'erwhelming    biUows 

bend 
Beneath  their  load,  the  quivering  bowsprit- 
end. 
A  fearful  warning !  since  the  masts  on  high 
On  that  support  with  trembling  hope  rely. 
At  either  pump  our  seamen  pant  for  breath, 
In  dark  dismay  anticipating  death. 
Stai  all  our  powers  th'  increasing  leak  defy  : 
We  sink  at  sea,  no  shore,  no  haven  nigh. 
One   dawn   of   hope   yet  breaks  athwart  the 

gloom, 
To  light  and  save  us  from  the  watery  tomb. 
That  bids  us  shun  the  death  impending  here ; 
Fly  from  the  following  blast,  and  shoreward 

steer. 
'Tis  urged  indeed,  the  fury  of  the  gale 
Precludes  the  help  of  every  guiding  sail ; 
And  driven  before  it  on  the  watery  waste, 
To    rocky  shores  and   scenes   of    death  we 
haste, 


Falconer.] 


COUNCIL  OF  THE  OFFICERS. 


[Sixth  Period.- 


But  haply  Falconera  we  may  shun ; 
And  far  to  Grecian  coasts  is  yet  the  run : 
Less  harass'd  then,   our  scudding-  ship  may 

bear 
Th'  assaulting  surge  repell'd  upon  her  rear  ; 
Even  then   the  wearied  storms  as  soon  shall 

die, 
Or  less  torment  the  groaning  pines  on  high. 
Should  we  at  last  be  driven  by  dire  decree 
Too  near  the  fatal  margin  of  the  sea. 
The  hull  dismasted  there  a  while  may  ride, 
"With  lengthen' d  cables,  on  the  raging  tide. 
Perhaps     kind     Heaven,     with     interposing 

power, 
May    curb    the    tempest  ere   that   dreadful 

hour. 
But   here   ingulf' d   and  foundering  while  we 

stay. 
Fate  hovers  o'er  and  marks  us  for  her  prey. 
He    said : — Palemon    saw,    with    grief  of 
heart. 
The  storm  prevailing  o'er  the  pilot's  art ; 
In  silent  terror  and  distress  involved, 
He  heard  their  last  alternative  resolved. 
High  beat  his  bosom ;  with  such  fear  subdued, 
Beneath  the  gloom  of  seme  enchanted  wood. 
Oft  in  old  time  the  wandering  swain  explored 
The   midnight   wizards'    breathing  rites    ab- 

horr'd ; 
Trembling  approach' d  their  incantations  fell, 
And,  chill'd  with  horror,  heard  the  songs  of 

heU. 
Arion  saw,  with  secret  anguish  moved. 
The  deep  affliction  of  the  friend  he  loved  ; 
And,  all  awake  to  friendship's  genial  heat, 
His  bosom  felt  consenting  tumults  beat. 
Alas  !  no  season  this  for  tender  love  ; 

Far  hence  the  music  of  the  myrtle  grove  ! 

With    comfort's   soothing   voice,   from   hope 

deceived, 
Palemon' s  drooping  spirit  he  revived, 
For  consolation  oft,  with  healing  art, 
Eetunes  the  jarring  numbers  of  the  heart. — 
Now  had  the  pilots  all  the  events  revolved, 
And  on  their  final  refuge  thus  resolved ; 
When,  like  the  faithful  shepherd,  who  beholds 
Some     prowling    wolf     approach    his    fleecy 

folds. 
To   the   brave   crew,   whom   racking    doubts 

perplex. 
The  dreadful  purpose  Albert  thus  directs  : 

Unhappy  partners  in  a  wayward  fate  ! 
Whose   gallant   spirits   now    are   known   too 

late ; 
Ye  !  who  unmoved  behold  this  angry  storm 
With  terrors  all  the  rolling  deep  deform ; 
Who,  patient  in  adversity,  still  bear 
The    firmest    front    when    greatest    ills   are 

near! 
The    truth,    though    grievous,    I   must   now 

reveal, 
That  long  in  vain  I  purposed  to  conceal. 
Ingulf'd,  all  helps  of  art  we  vainly  try, 
To  weather  leeward  shores,  alas  !  too  nigh. 
Our  crazy  bark  no  longer  can  abide 
The  seas  that  thunder  o'er  her  batter'd  side  ; 


And,  while  the  leaks  a  fatal  warning  give. 
That  in  this  raging  sea  she  cannot  live. 
One  only  refuge  from  despair  we  find ; 
At  once  to  wear  and  scud  before  the  Avind. 
Perhaps  even  then  to  ruin  we  may  steer  ; 
For  broken  shores  beneath  our  lee  appear ; 
But  that  's  remote,  and  instant  death  is  here  ; 
Yet   there,    by  Heaven's   assistance  wo  may 

gain 
Some  creek  or  inlet  of  the  Grecian  main ; 
Or,  shelter' d  by  some  rock,  at  anchor  ride, 
Till  with  abating  rage  the  blast  subside. 

But  if,  determined  by  the  will  of  Heaven, 
Our  helpless  bark  at  last  ashore  is  driven, 
These    counsels    foUow'd,    from    the   wat'ry 

grave 
Our  floating  sailors  in  the  surf-  may  save. 

And  first  let  all  our  a-xes  be  secured, 
To  cut  the  masts  and  rigging  from  aboard. 
Then   to  the   quarters  bind  each  plank  and 

oar. 
To  float  between  the  vessel  and  the  shore. 
The  longest  cordage  too  must  be  convey' d 
On  deck,  and  to  the  weather  rails  belay' d. 
So  they  who  haply  reach  alive  the  land, 
Th'  extended  lines  may  fasten  on  the  strand. 
Whene'er    loud   thundering   on   the   leeward 

shore, 
While  yet  aloof  we  hear  the  breakers  roar, 
Thus  for  the  terrible  event  prepared. 
Brace  fore  and  aft  to  starboard  every  yard. 
So    shall    our    masts    SAvim   lighter    on   tho 

wave, 
And    from    the    broken    rocks    our    seamen 

save. 
Then   westward   ttirn   the    stem,    that  every 

mast 
May   shoreward   fall,   when   from  the  vessel 

cast. — 
When   o'er   her   side  once   more  the  billows 

bound, 
Ascend  the  rigging  till  she  strikes  the  ground  : 
And  when  you  hear  aloft  the  alarming  shock 
That    strikes    her  bottom   on   some   pointed 

rock, 
The  boldest  of  our  sailors  must  descend. 
The  dangerous  business  of  the  deck  to  tend ; 
Then  each,  secured  by  some  convenient  cord, 
Should  cut  the  shrouds  and  rigging  from  the 

board. 
Let  the  broad  axes  next  assail  each  mast ! 
And   booms,  and  oars,  and  rafts  to  leeward 

cast. 
Thus,  while  the  cordage  stretch' d  ashore  may 

guide 
Our  brave  companions  through  the  swelling 

tide, 
Tliis  floating  lumber  shall  sustain  them  o'er 
The  rocky  shelves,  in  safety  to  the  shore. 
But  as  your  firmest  succoiu*,  till  the  last, 
O  cling  securely  on  each  faithful  mast ! 
Though     great    the  ^danger,    and    the    task 

severe. 
Yet  bow  not  to  the  tyranny  of  fear ! 
If  once  that  slavish  yoke  your  spirits  quell, 
Adieu  to  hope  !  to  life  itself  farewell ! 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  VESSEL  GOING  TO  PIECES. 


[Falconer. 


I  know    among  you    some    full    oft   have 

view'd, 
With   murd'ring    weapons   arm'd,    a   lawless 

brood, 
On  England's  vile  inhuman  shore  who  stand, 
The  foul  reproach  and  scandal  of  our  land  ! 
To    rob    the    wanderers    wreck' d    upon    the 

strand. 
These,  while  their  savage  office  they  pursue, 
Oft   wound  to   death   the  helpless  plunder'd 

crew, 
Who,  'scaped  from  every  horror  of  the  main, 
Implored  their  mercy,  but  implored  in  vain. 
But  dread  not  this ! — a  crime  to  Greece  un- 
known. 
Such    blood-hounds    all    her   circling   shores 

disown : 
Her  sons,  by  barbarous  tyranny  oppress'd, 
Can  share  affliction  with  the  wretch  distress'd: 
Their  hearts,  by  cruel  fate  inured  to  grief, 
Oft  to  the  friendless  stranger  yield  relief. 
W^ith   conscious   horror   struck,    the  naval 

band 
Detested  for  a  while  their  native  land  : 
They   cursed  the   sleeping  vengeance  of  the 

laws, 
That  thus  forgot  her  guardian  sailors'  cause. 
Meanwhile    the    master's    voice    again  they 

heard, 
Whom,  as  with  filial  duty,  all  revered. 

No  more  remains — but  now  a  trusty  band 
Must  ever  at  the  pump  industrious  stand ; 
And  while  with  us  the  rest  attend  to  wear, 
Two  skilful  seamen  to  the  hehn  repair  ! — 
0  Source  of  life  !  our  refuge  and  our  stay ! 
Whoso  voice  the  warring  elements  obey, 
On  thy  supremo  assistance  we  rely  ; 
Thy  mercy  supplicate,  if  doom'd  to  die  ! 
Perhaps    this    storm   is    sent,    with    healing 

breath, 
From  neighbouring  shores  to  scourge  disease 

and  death  ! 
'Tis  ours  on  thine  unerring  laws  to  trust : 
With    thee,    great   Lord !    "  whatever    is,    is 
just." 

William  Falconer.— Born  1730,  Died  1769. 


949.— THE  VESSEL  GOING  TO  PIECES. 

And  now,  lash'd  on  by  destiny  severe. 

With  horror  fraught  the  dreadful  scene  drew 

near ! 
The    ship   hangs   hovering    on  the    verge  of 

death. 
Hell   yawns,    rocks   rise,   and  breakers   roar 

beneath ! 
In  vain,  alas  !  the  sacred  shades  of  yore 
Would  arm  the  mind  with  philosophic  lore  ; 
In  vain  they'd  teach  us,  at  the  latest  breath, 
To  smile  serene  amid  the  pangs  of  death. 
Even  Zeno's  self,  and  Epictetus  old, 
This  fell  abyss  had  shudder'd  to  behold. 


Had  Socrates,  for  godhke  virtue  famed, 
And  wisest  of  the  sons  of  men  proclaimed, 
Beheld  this  scene  of  frenzy  and  distress. 
His  soul  had  trembled  to  its  last  recess  ! — 
O  yet  confirm  my  heart,  ye  powers  above, 
This  last  tremendous  shock  of  fate  to  prove ; 
The  tottering  frame  of  reason  yet  sustain  ! 
Nor  let  this  total  ruin  whirl  my  brain  !  - 

In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared, 
For  now  th'  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard  ; 
High    o'er  the     ship    they   throw   a   horrid 

shade. 
And  o'er  her  burst,  in  terrible  cascade. 
Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 
Her  shatter' d  top  haK-buried  in  the  skies, 
Then    headlong    plunging    thunders    on   the 

ground, 
Earth  groans  !  air  trembles !    and  the  deeps 

resound ! 
Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels. 
And  quivering  with  the  wound,   in   torment 

reels. 
So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonising  throes. 
The    bleeding    bull   beneath   the   murd'rer's 

blows. — 
Again  she  plunges  !  hark  !    a  second  shock 
Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock  ! 
Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries, 
The  fated  victims  shuddering  roll  their  eyes 
In  wild  depair,  while  yet  another  stroke, 
With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak : 
Till  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell, 
At  length  asunder  torn  her  frame  divides, 
And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 

As  o'er  the  surge  the  stooping  main-mast 

hung. 
Still  on  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung  : 
Some,     struggling,    on   a   broken   crag   were 

cast. 
And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast  : 
Awhile   they   bore   th'   o'erwhelming  biUows' 

rage, 
Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage ; 
Till  all  benumb' d  and  feeble  they  forego 
Their    slippery    hold,    and    sink    to   shades 

below. 
Some,    from    the    main-yard-arm   impetuous 

thrown 
On  marble  ridges,  die  without  a  groan. 
Three  with  Palemon  'on  their  skill  depend, 
And  from  the  wreck  on  oars   and  rafts  de- 
scend. 
Now  on  the  mountain- wave  on  high  they  ride. 
Then  downward  plunge  beneath  th'  involving 

tide; 
Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive. 
The  whirhng  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive ; 
The  rest  a  speedier  end  of  anguish  knew. 
And  press'd  the  stony  beach,  a  hfeless  crew  ! 

Next,  0  unhappy  chief !  th'  eternal  doom 
Of  Heaven  decreed  thee  to  the  briny  tomb  ! 
What  scenes  of  misery  torment  thy  view ! 
What  painful'  struggles  of  thy  dying  crew! 


RoBEET  Lloyd.] 


THE  MISERIES  OF  A  POET'S  LIFE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


Thy  perish' d  hopes  all  buried  in  the  flood, 
O'erspread    with    corses !     red   with    human 

blood ! 
So  pierced  -svith  anguish  hoary  Priam  gazed, 
When  Troy's  imperial  domes  in  ruin  blazed ; 
"While  he,  severest  sorrow  doom'd  to  feel, 
Expired  beneath  the  victor's  murdering  steel. 
Thus  with  his  helpless  partners  till  the  last, 
Sad  refuge  !  Albert  hugs  the  floating  mast ; 
His  soul  could  yet  sustain  the  mortal  blow, 
But  droops,  alas  !  beneath  superior  woe  : 
For  now  soft  nature's  sympathetic  chain 
Tugs   at   his   yearning   heart   with   i)owerful 

strain  ; 
His  faithful  wife  for  ever  doom'd  to  mourn 
For  him,  alas  !   who  never  shall  return ; 
To  black  adversity's  approach  exposed, 
"With  want  and  hardships  unforeseen  inclosed  : 
His  lovely  daughter  left  without  a  friend, 
Her  innocence  to  succour  and  defend  ; 
By  youth  and  indigence  set  forth  a  prey 
To  lawless  guilt,  that  flatters  to  betray — 
While  these  reflections  rack  his  feeling  mind, 
Eodmond,    who   hung   beside,    his   grasp   re- 
sign'd  ; 
And,  as  the  tumbling  waters  o'er  him  roU'd, 
His    out-stretch' d    arms    the    master's   legs 

enfold. — 
Sad  Albert  feels  the  dissolution  near. 
And  strives  in  vain  his  fetter'd  limbs  to  clear  ; 
For  death  bids  every  clincliing  joint  adhere. 
All-faint,    to    Heaven   he   throws   his   dying 

eyes, 
And,    "  0  protect   my  wife  and   child  !  "   he 

cries  : 
The  gushing  streams  roU  back  th'  unfinish'd 

sound ! 
He    gasps !    he   dies !     and    tumbles   to   the 

ground  ! 

WilUain  Falconer. — Born  1730,  Died  1769. 


950.— THE  MISERIES  OF  A  POET'S  LIFE. 

The  harlot  muse,  so  passing  gay, 
Bewitches  only  to  betray. 
Though  for  a  while  vnth.  easy  air 
She  smooths  the  rugged  brow  of  care, 
And  laps  the  mind  in  flowery  dreams, 
With  Fancy's  transitory  gleams ; 
Fond  of  the  nothings  ahe  bestows, 
We  wake  at  last  to  real  woes. 
Through  every  age,  in  every  place, 
Consider  well  the  poet's  case  ; 
By  turns  protected  and  caress'd, 
Defamed,  dependent,  and  distress'd, 
The  joke  of  wits,  the  bane  of  slaves, 
The  curse  of  fools,  the  butt  of  knaves ; 
Too  proiid  to  stoop  for  servile  ends. 
To  lacquey  rogues  or  flatter  friends  ; 
With  prodigality  to  give, 
Too  careless  of  the  means  to  live  ; 
The  bubble  fame  intent  to  gain, 
And  yet  too  lazy  to  maintain  ; 


He  quits  the  world  he  never  prized. 
Pitied  by  few,  by  more  despised, 
And,  lost  to  friends,  oppressed  by  foes, 
Sinks  to  the  nothing  whence  he  rose. 

0  glorious  trade  !  for  ^vit  's  a  trade, 
Where  men  are  ruin'd  more  than  made  ! 
Let  crazy  Lee,  neglected  Gay, 
The  shabby  Otway,  Dryden  gray, 
Those  tuneful  servants  of  the  Nine 
(Not  that  I  blend  their  names  with  mine), 
Repeat  their  lives,  their  works,  their  fame, 
And  teach  the  world  some  useful  shame. 

Robert  Lloyd.^Born  1733,  Died  1764. 


951.— WRETCHEDNESS   OF  A   SCHOOL- 
USHER. 

Were  I  at  once  empower' d  to  show 
My  utmost  vengeance  on  my  foe. 
To  punish  with  extremest  rigour, 
I  could  inflict  no  penance  bigger, 
Than,  using  him  as  learning's  tool, 
To  make  him  usher  of  a  school. 
For,  not  to  dwell  upon  the  toil 
Of  working  on  a  barren  soil. 
And  labouring  with  incessant  pains, 
To  cultivate  a  blockhead's  brains. 
The  duties  there  but  ill  befit 
The  love  of  letters,  arts,  or  wit. 

For  one,  it  hurts  me  to  the  soul, 
To  brook  confinement  or  control ; 
Still  to  be  pinion'd  down  to  teach 
The  syntax  and  the  parts  of  speech  ; 
Or,  what  perhaps  is  drudgery  worse, 
The  links,  and  points,  and  rules  of  verse  ; 
To  deal  out  authors  by  retail. 
Like  penny  pots  of  Oxford  ale ; 
Oh,  'tis  a  service  irksome  more. 
Than  tugging  at  the  slavish  oar  ! 
Yet  such  his  task,  a  dismal  truth. 
Who  watches  o'er  the  bent  of  youth, 
And  while  a  paltry  stipend  earning, 
He  sows  the  richest  seeds  of  learning, 
And  till  tlieir  minds  with  proper  care, 
And  sees  them  their  due  produce  bear  ; 
No  joys,  alas  !  his  toil  beguile. 
His  oivn  lies  fallow  all  the  while. 
"  Yet  still  he 's  on  the  road,"  you  say, 
"  Of  learning."     Why,  perhaps  he  may. 
But  turns  like  horses  in  a  mill, 
Nor  getting  on,  nor  standing  still; 
For  little  way  his  learning  reaches. 
Who  reads  no  more  than  what  he  teaches. 
Robert  Lloyd.— Born  1733,  Died  1764. 


952.— REMORSE. 

Look   back !    a   thought    which    borders    on 

despair, 
Which  human  nature  must,  yet  cannot  bear. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


CHAEACTER  OF  A  FRIBBLE. 


[Churchtt- 


'Tis  not  the  babbling  of  a  busy  world, 
"Where    praise    or    censure    are    at    random 

hurl'd, 
"Which    can    the    meanest    of    my    thoughts 

control, 
Or  shako  one  settled  purpose  of  my  soul ; 
Free   and   at   large  might  their  wild   curses 

roam, 
If  all,  if  all,  alas  !  were  well  at  home. 
No ;    'tis    the   tale,  which    angry   conscience 

tells. 
When   she   with    more    than    tragic    horror 

swells 
Each  circumstance  of  guilt ;    when  stern  but 

true. 
She  brings  bad  actions  forth  into  review, 
And,  like  the  dread  handwriting  on  the  wall. 
Bids  late  remorse  awake  at  reason's  call; 
Arm'd  at  all  points,  bids  scorpion  vengeance 

pass, 
And  to  the  mind  holds  up  reflection's  glass — 
The  mind  which  starting  heaves   the   heart- 
felt groan, 
And  hates   that  form  she  knows  to  be  her 

own. 

Churchill— Born  1731,  Died  1764. 


953.— SMOLLETT. 

Whence  could  arise  this  mighty  critic  spleen, 
The  muse  a  trifler,  and  her  theme  so  mean  ? 
WTiat  had  I  done  that  angry  heaven  should 

send 
The   bitterest   foe   where   most   I   wished    a 

friend  ? 
Oft   hath   my   tongue    been    wanton   at   thy 

name. 
And    hail'd   the   honours    of    thy   matchless 

fame. 
For  me  let  hoary  Fielding  bite  the  ground, 
So  nobler  Pickle  stands  superbly  bound  ; 
From  Livy's  temples  tear  the  historic  crown, 
"Wliich  with  more  justice  blooms  upon  thine 

own. 
Compared  with  thee,  be  all  life-writers  dumb. 
But  he  who  wrote  the  Life  of  Tommy  Thumb. 
Whoever  read  the  Regicide  but  swore 
The  author  wrote  as  man  ne'er  wrote  before  ? 
Others  for  plots  and  underplots  may  call. 
Here 's  the  right  method — have  no  plot  at  all ! 

Churchill— Born  1731,  Died  1764. 


954- 


-HOGARTH. 


In  walks  of  humour,  in  that  cast  of  style. 
Which,  probing  to  the  quick,  yet  makes  us 

smile; 
iU  comedy,  his  natural  road  to  fame. 
Nor  let  me  call  it  by  a  meaner  name, 


Where  a  beginning,  middle,  and  an  end 
Are  aptly  join'd;  where  parts  on  parts  depend. 
Each  made  for  each,  as  bodies  for  their  soul. 
So  as  to  form  one  true  and  perfect  whole, 
Where  a  plain  story  to  the  eye  is  told. 
Which  we  conceive  the  moment  we  behold, 
Hogarth  unrivall'd  stands,  and  shall  engage 
Unrivall'd  praise  to  the  most  distant  age. 

Chii,rchill—Born  1731,  Died  1764. 


955.— ON  THE  POVERTY  OF  POETS. 

What  is't  to  us,  if  taxes  rise  or  fall  ? 
Thanks  to  our  fortune,  we  pay  none  at  all. 
Let  muckworms,  who  in  dirty  acres  deal. 
Lament  those  hardships  which  we  cannot  feel. 
His   Grace,  who   smarts,   may  bellow   if    he 

please. 
But  must  I  bellow  too,  who  sit  at  ease  ? 
By  custom  safe,  the  poet's  numbers  flow 
Free  as  the  Kght  and  air  some  years  ago. 
No  statesman  e'er  will  find  it  worth  his  pains 
To  tax  our  labours  and  excise  our  brains. 
Burthens   like   these,   vile   earthly   buildings 

bear ; 
No  tribute  's  laid  on  castles  in  the  air  ! 

Churchill— Born  1731,  Died  1764. 


956.— CHARACTER  OF  A  FRIBBLE. 

With    that    low    cunning,    which    in    fools 

supplies. 
And  amply  too,  the  place  of  being  wise. 
Which  Naturij,  kind,  indulgent  parent,  gave 
To  qualify  the  blockhead  for  a  knave ; 
With  that  smooth  falsehood,  whose  appear- 
ance charms, 


i    And  reason  of  each  wholesome  doubt  disarms, 
I    Which  to  the  lowest  depths  of  guile  descends, 
I    By  vilest  means  pursues  the  vilest  ends, 
I    Wears    friendship's    mask   for    purposes    of 
I  spite. 

Fawns   in    the   day,     and    butchers   in    the 

night ; 
With  that  malignant  envy,  which  turns  pale, 
And  sickens,  even  if  a  friend  prevail, 
Which  merit  and  success  pursues  with  hate. 
And  damns  the  worth  it  cannot  imitate  ; 
With  the  cold  caution  of  a  coward's  spleen. 
Which  fears  not  guilt,   but  ahvays    seeks    a 

screen. 
Which  keeps  this  maxim  ever  in  her  view — 
What  's  basely  done,   should  be  done  safely 

too ; 
With  that  dull,  rooted,  callous  impudence. 
Which,  dead  to  shame,  and  every  nicer  sense, 
Ne'er  blush'd,    unless,    in    spreading    vice's 


47 


She  blunder'd  on  some  virtue  unawares 


jHURCHILL.l 


QUIN,  TOM  SHEEIDAN,  AND  GAEEICK.  [Sixth  Period.— 


With  all  these  blessings,   which  we  seldom 

find 
Lavish' d  by  nature  on  one  happy  mind, 
A  motley  figure,  of  the  fribble  tribe, 
Which   heart   can   scarce   conceive,    or    pen 

describe. 
Came  simp'ring  on  :  to  ascertain  whose  sex 
Twelve  sage  impannel'd  matrons  would  per- 
plex. 
Nor  male,  nor  female,  neither  and  yet  both  ; 
Of  neuter  gender,  though  of  Irish  growth  ; 
A  six-foot  suckling,  mincing  in  its  gait ; 
Affected,  peevish,  prim,  and  delicate  ; 
Fearful  it  seem'd,  though  of  athletic  make, 
Lest  brutal  breezes  should  too  roughly  shake 
Its  tender  form,  and  savage  motion  spread 
O'er  its  pale  cheeks  the  horrid  manly  red. 

Much  did  it  talk,  in  its  own  pretty  phrase, 
Of  genius  and  of  taste,  of  play'rs  and  plays  ; 
Much  too  of  writings,  which  itself  had  wrote, 
Of  special  merit,  though  of  little  note ; 
For  fate,  in  a  strange  humour,  had  decreed 
That  what  it  wrote,  none  but  itself  should 

read  ; 
Much  too  it  chatter'd  of  dramatic  laws, 
Misjudging  critics,  and  misplaced  applause, 
Then  with  a  self-complacent  jutting  air. 
It  smiled,  it  smirk' d,  it  wriggled  to  the  chair ; 
And,  with  an  awkward  briskness  not  its  own, 
Looking  around,  and  perking  on  the  throne. 
Triumphant  seem'd,  when  that  strange  savage 

dame. 
Known  but  to  few,  or  only  known  by  name. 
Plain   Common   Sense,   appear'd,    by   nature 

there 
Appointed,  with  plain   truth,   to   guard   the 

chair. 
The    pageant    saw,    and    blasted    with    her 

frown, 
To  its  first  state  of  nothing  melted  down. 
Nor  shall   the  Muse    (for  even   there   the 

pride 
Of  this  vain  nothing  shall  be  mortified) — 
Nor  shall  the  Muse  (should  fate  ordain  her 

rhymes, 
Fond,    pleasing    thought !    to   live    in    after 

times) 
With  such  a  trifler's  name  her  pages  blot ; 
Known  be  the  character,  the  thing  forgot ; 
Let  it,  to  disappoint  each  future  aim. 
Live  without  sex,  and  die  without  a  name  ! 

Churchill.— Born  1731,  Died  1764. 


957-  — CHAEACTEES   OF    QUIN,    TOM 
SHEEIDAN,  AND  GAEEICK. 

Qnin,  from  afar,  lured  by  the  scent  «f  fame, 
A  stage  leviathan,  put  in  his  claim, 
Pupil  of  Betterton  and  Booth.     Alone, 
Sullen  he    walk'd,   and  deem'd  the  chair  his 


For  how  should  moderns,  mushrooms  of  the 

day. 
Who  ne'er  those  masters  knew,  know  how  to 

play  ? 
Grey-bearded    vet'rans,     who,     with    partial 

tongue. 
Extol  the  times  when  they  themselves  were 

young ; 
Who  having  lost  all  relish  for  the  stage. 
See  not  their  own  defects,  but  lash  the  age, 
Eeceived  with  joyful  murmurs  of  applause 
Their  darling  chief,  and  lined   his  favourite 

cause. 
Far  be  it  from  the  candid  Muse  to  tread 
Insulting  o'er  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 
But,  just  to  living  merit,  she  maintains, 
And  dares  the  test,  whilst  Garrick's  genius 

reigns ; 
Ancients  in  vain  endeavour  to  excel. 
Happily  praised,  if  they  could  act  as  well. 
But  though  prescription's  force  we  disallow, 
Nor  to  antiquity  submissive  bow  ; 
Though  we  deny  imaginary  grace. 
Founded  on  accidents  of  time  and  place  ; 
Yet  real  worth  of  every  growth  shall  bear 
Due  praise,  nor  must  we,  Quin,  forget  thee 

there. 
His  words  bore    sterling    weight,  nervous 

and  strong 
In  manly  tides  of  sense  they  roll' d  along. 
Happy  in  art,  he  chiefly  had  pretence 
To  keep  up  numbers,  yet  not  forfeit  sense. 
No  actor  ever  greater  heights  could  reach 
In  all  the  labour' d  artifice  of  speech. 

Speech  !  Is  that   all  ? — And  shall  an  actor 

found 
A  universal  fame  on  partial  ground  ? 
Parrots  themselves  speak  properly  by  rote, 
And,  in  six  months,   my  dog  shall  howl  by 

note. 
I  laugh  at  those,  who  when  the  stage  they 

tread. 
Neglect  the  heart  to  compliment  the  head  ; 
With  strict  propriety  their  care  's  confined 
To .  weigh   out   words,    while    passion    halts 

behind. 
To  syllable-dissectors  they  appeal. 
Allow    them     accent,    cadence,  —  fools    may 

feel; 
But,  spite  of  all  the  criticising  elves. 
Those  who  would   make   us  feel,    must   fool 

themselves. 
His  eyes,  in  gloomy  socket  taught  to  roll, 
Proclaim' d  the  sullen  habit  of  his  soul. 
Heavy  and  phlegmatic  he  trod  the  stage. 
Too  proud  for  tenderness,  too  dull  for  rago. 
When  Hector's  lovely  widow  shines  in  tears. 
Or  Eowe's  gay  rake  dependent  virtue  jeers. 
With  the  same  cast  of  features  he  is  seen 
To  chide  the  libertine,  and  court  the  queen. 
From  the  tame  scene,  which  without  passion 

flows. 
With  just  desert  his  reputation  rose  : 
Nor  less   he   pleased,    when,   on  some  surly 

plan. 
He  was,  at  once,  the  actor  and  the  man. 


From  1727  to  1780.]         QUIN,  TOM  SHERIDAN,  AND  GAERICK. 


[Churchill. 


In  Brute  he  shone  uneqnall'd :  all  agree 
Garrick  's  not  half  so  great  a  brute  as  he. 
When  Cato's  labour'd  scenes  are  brought  to 

■vacw, 
With  equal  praise  the  actor  labour'd  too  ; 
For  still  you'll  find,  trace  passions  to  their 

root, 
Small  difference    'twixt    the    stoic    and  the 

bmte. 
In  fancied  scenes,  as  in  life's  real  plan, 
He  could  not,  for  a  moment,  sink  the  man  ; 
In  whate'er  cast  his  character  was  laid, 
Self  still,  like  oil,  upon  the  surface  play'd. 
Nature,  in  spite  of  all  his  skill,  crept  in : 
Horatio,  Dorax,  Falstaff — still  'twas  Quin, 
Next  follows  Sheridan — a  doubtful  name, 
As  yet  unsettled  in  the  rank  of  fame. 
This,  fondly  lavish  in  his  praises  grown, 
Gives  him  all  merit ;  that  allows  him  none. 
Between  them  both  we'U    steer  the  middle 

course. 
Nor,  loving  praise,  rob  judgment  of  her  force. 

Just  his  conceptions,  natural  and  great : 
His  feelings  strong,  his  words  enforced  with 

weight. 
Was  speech-famed  Quin  himself  to  hear  him 

speak, 
Envy  would  drive  the  colour  from  his  cheek  : 
But  step-dame  nature,  niggard  of  her  grace. 
Denied  the  social  powers  of  voice  and  face. 
Fix'd  in  one  frame  of  features,  glare  of  eye, 
Passions,  like  chaos,  in  confusion  lie  ; 
In  vain  the  wonders  of  his  skill  are  tried 
To  form  distinctions  nature  hath  denied. 
His  voice  no  touch  of  harmony  admits, 
Irregularly  deep  and  shrill  by  fits  : 
The  two  extremes  appear  like  man  and  wife. 
Coupled  together  for  the  sake  of  strife. 

His  action  's  always  strong,  but  sometimes 

such, 
That    candour    must    declare     he    acts    too 

much, 
"Why  must  impatience  fall  three  paces  back  ? 
Why  paces  three  return  to  the  attack  ? 
WTiy  is  the  right-leg  too  forbid  to  stir, 
Unless  in  motion  semicircular  ? 
Why  must  the  hero  with  the  nailor  vie. 
And  hurl  the  close-clench' d   fist   at  nose  or 

eye  ? 
In  royal  John,  with  Philip  angry  grown, 
I  thought  he  would  have  knock' d  poor  Davies 

down. 
Inhuman  tyrant !  was  it  not  a  shame. 
To  fright  a  king  so  harmless  and  so  tame  ? 
But  spite  of  all  defects,  his  glories  rise ; 
And  art,  by  judgment   form'd,  with  nature 

vies : 
Behold    him   sound  the   depth   of   Hubert's 

soul, 
Wliilst  in  his  own  contending  passions  roll ; 
View  the  whole  scene,  with  critic  judgment 

scan. 
And  then  deny  him  merit  if  you  can. 
WTiere    he    falls    short,    'tis   nature's   fault 

alone  ; 
Wlaere  he  succeeds,  the  merit 's  all  his  own. 


Last  Garrick  came. — Behind  him  throng  a 
train 
Of  snarling  critics,  ignorant  as  vain. 

One  finds  out — "  He 's  of  stature  somewhat 
low — 
Your  hero  always  should  be  tall,  you  know. — 
True  nat'ral  greatness  all  consists  in  height." 
Produce   your   voucher,  critic.  —  "  Sergeant 
Kite." 
Another  can't  forgive  the  paltry  arts 
By   which    he    makes    his   way  to    shallow 

hearts ; 
Mere  pieces  of  finesse,  traps  for  applause — 
"  Avaunt,  unnat'ral  start,  affected  pause." 
For  me,  by  nature  form'd  to  judge  with 
phlegm, 
I  can't  acquit  by  wholesale,  nor  condemn. 
The  best  things  carried  to  excess  are  wrong : 
The  start  may   be  too   frequent,   pause  too 

long; 
But,  only  used  in  proper  time  and  place. 
Severest  judgment  must  allow  them  grace. 
If  bunglers,  form'd  on  imitation's  plan. 
Just  in  the  way  that  monkeys  mimic  man. 
Their  copied   scene   with   mangled   arts  dis- 
grace. 
And  pause  and  start  with  the  same  vacant 

face. 
We  join  the  critic  laugh;    those   tricks   wo 

scorn, 
WhicM  spoil  the  scenes  they  mean  them  to 

adorn. 
But  when,  from  nature's  pure  and   genuine 

source. 
These   strokes  of   acting  flow  with  gen'rous 

force, 
When    in  the   features  all   the    soul 's   por- 

tray'd. 
And   passions,    such   as    Garrick' s,    are  dis- 
play'd. 
To   me   they   seem    from    quickest    feelings 

caught : 
Each    start    is  nature ;    and   each   pause    is 
thought. 
Wlien    reason     yields     to     passion's    wild 
alarm?. 
And  the  whole  state  of  man  is  up  in  arms ; 
What  but  a  critic  could  condemn  the  play'r, 
For  pausing  here,    when    cool  sense   pauses 

there  ? 
Whilst,  working  from  the  heart,  the  fire   I 

trace. 
And  mark  it  strongly  flaming  to  the  face ; 
Whilst,  in  each  sound,  I  hear  the  very  man  ; 
I   can't    catch   words,    and    pity   those   who 
can. 
Let  wits,  like  spiders,  from  the  tortured 
brain 
Fine-draw  the  critic-web  with  curious  pain  ; 
The  gods — a  kindness  I  with  thanks    must 

pay- 
Have  form'd  me  of  a  coarser  kind  of  clay  : 
Nor    stung     with     envy,    nor     with    spleen 

diseased, 
A    poor    dull     creature,    still     with    nature 
pleased; 

47* 


Churchill.] 


FEOM  THE  PR0I»HECY  OF  FAMINE. 


[Sixth  Period.- 


Hence  to  thy  praises,  Garrick,  I  agree, 

And,  pleased  with   nature,  must  be  pleased 

with  thee. 
Now   might   I    tell,    how    silence    reign'd 

throughout. 
And  deep  attention  hush'd  the  rabble  rout ! 
How  ev'ry  claimant,  tortured  with  desire, 
Was  pale  as  ashes,  or  as  red  as  fire  : 
Eut,  loose  to  fame,  the  Muse  more   simply 

acts, 
Eejects  all  flourish,  and  relates  mere  facts. 
The  judges,  as  the  several  i3arties  came. 
With  temper  heard,  with  judgment  weigh'd 

each  claim, 
And,  in  their  sentence  happily  agreed, 
In    name    of    both,    great   Shakspearo    thus 

decreed : 
"If  manly  sense;    iT   nature   link'd   with 

art ; 
If  thorough  knowledge  of  the  human  heart ; 
If  pow'rs  of  acting  vast  and  unconfined  ; 
If  fewest  faults  with  greatest  beauties  join'd  ; 
If    strong    expression,    and    strange   pow'rs 

which  lie 
Within  the  magic  circle  of  the  eye ; 
If  feelings  which  few   hearts,   like  his,    can 

know. 
And  which  no  face  so  well  as  his  can  show ; 
Deserve  the   pref'rence; — Garrick,   take   the 

chair ; 
Nor  quit  it — till  thou  place  an  equal  there." 

Churclnll—Bom  1731,  Died  17G4. 


958.— FROM  THE  PROPHECY  OF 
FAMINE. 

Two  boys,  whose  birth  beyond  all  q-cestion 

springs 
From  great  and  glorious,  though  forgotten, 

kings,  . 
Shepherds  of  Scottish  lineage,  born  and  bred 
On   the  same  bleak  and   barren  mountain's 

head, 
By  niggard  nature  doom'd  on  the  same  rocks 
To  spin  out  life,  and  starve  themselves  and 

flocks. 
Fresh   as    the   morning,    which,    enrobed   in 

mist, 
The    mountain's     top    with     usual     dulness 

kiss'd. 
Jockey  and  Sawney  to  their  labours  rose ; 
Soon  clad,  I  ween,  where   nature   needs   no 

clothes, 
Where,  from  their  youth,    inured  to  winter 


Dress  and  her  vain  refinements  they  despise. 
Jockey,  whose  manly  high-boned  cheeks  to 
crown 
Yv^ith    freckles    spotted   flamed    the    golden 

down. 
With  mickle  art  could  on  the  bagpipes  play. 
E'en  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  day  ; 


Sawney  as  long  without  remorse  could  bawl 
Home's  madrigals,  and  ditties  from  Fingal. 
Oft  at  his  strains,  all  natural  though  rude. 
The  Highland  lass  forgot  her  want  of  food, 
And  whilst  she  scratch' d  her  lover  into  rest, 
Sunk  pleased,  though  hungry,  on  her  Sawney's 

breast. 
Far   as  the  eye  could  reach,  no  tree  was 

seen, 
Earth,   clad    in    russet,    scorn' d    the    lively 

green. 
The  plague  of  locusts  they  secure  defy, 
For  in  three  hours  a  grasshopper  must  die. 
No   living    thing,   whate'er  its   food,    feasts 

there. 
But  the  cameleon,  who  can  feast  on  air. 
No  birds,  except  as  birds  of  passage,  flew, 
No  bee  was  known  to  hum,  no  dove  to  coo. 
No  streams  as  amber  smooth,  as  amber  clear. 
Were  seen  to  ghde,  or  heard  to  warble  here. 
Rebellion's  spring,  which  through  the  counti-y 

ran, 
Furnish'd,   with  bitter   draughts,  the  steady 

clan. 
No  flow'rs  embalm'd  the  air,  but  one  white 

rose. 
Which    on   the   tenth   of    June    by  instinct 

blows. 
By  instinct  blows  at  morn,  and,    when   the 

shades 
Of  drizzly  eve  prevail,  by  instinct  fades. 

One,  and  but  ojie  i3oor  solitary  cave. 
Too  sparing  of  her  favours,  nature  gave ; 
That  one  alone  (hard  tax  on  Scottish  pride  !) 
Shelter  at  once  for  man  and  beast  supplied. 
Their     snares      without     entangling     briers 

spread, 
And    thistles,    arm'd   against    th'    invader's 

head. 
Stood  in  close  ranks  all  entrance  to  oppose, 
Thistles    now  held    more   precious  than  the 

rose. 
AU    creatures    which,    on     nature's    earliest 

plan. 
Were  form'd  to  loathe,  and  to  be  loathed  by 

man. 
Which    owed   their   birth   to   nastiness   and 

spite, 
Deadly  to  touch,  and  hateful  to  the  sight, 
Creatures,  which  when  admitted  in  the  ark, 
Their  saviour  shunn'd,   and   rankled   in   the 

dark. 
Found  place  within :    marking    her   noisome 

road 
With  poison's  trail,  here  crawl' d  the  bloated 

toad ; 
Their  webs  were  spread  of  more  than  common 

size. 
And    half-starved    spiders    prey'd    on    half- 
starved  flies  ; 
In    quest    of    food,   efts   strove  in   vain    to 

crawl ; 
Slugs,  pinch'd  with  hunger,  smear'd  the  slimy 

wall; 
The  cave  around  with  hissing  serpents  rung ; 
On  the  damp  roof  unhealthy  vapour  hung ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


^ROM  THE  PROPHECY  OF  FAMINE. 


[Churchill 


And  Famine,  by  lier  children  always  known, 
As    proud    as    poor,    hero   fix'd    her   native 

throne. 
Here — for  tlio  sullen  sky  was  overcast, 
And  summer  shrunk  beneath  a  v/int'ry  blast, 
A  native  blast  which,   arni'd  with  hail   and 

rain, 
Beat  unrelenting-  on  the  naked  swain — 
The    boys    for    shelter    made ;    behind,   the 

sheep, 
Of   which  those    shepherds   every   day   take 

keep. 
Sickly  crept  on,  and  with  complainings  rude. 
On  nature  seem'd  to  call,  and  bleat  for  food. 
Joch.  Sith  to   this  cave  by  tempest  we're 

confined. 
And  within  ken  our  flocks,  under  the  wind, 
Safe  from  the  pelting  of  this  perdous  storm, 
Are  laid  among  yon  thistles,  dry  and  warm, 
What,  Sawney,  if  by  shepherd's  art  we  try- 
To  mock  the  rigour  of  this  cruel  sky  ? 
What  if  we  tune  some  merry  roundelay  ? 
Well   dost   thou   sing,   nor   ill   doth   Jockey 

play. 
Sav:.  Ah,  Jockey,  ill  advisest  thou,  I  wis. 
To  think  of  songs  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
Sooner   shall    herbage    crown'   these    barren 

rocks, 
Sooner    shall    fleeces    clothe    these     ragged 

flocks. 
Sooner  shall    want    seize   shepherds    of    the 

south. 
And  we  forget  to  live  from  hand  to  mouth. 
Than  Sawney,  out  of  season,  shall  impart 
The  songs  of  gladness  with  an  aching  heart. 
Joch.  Still  have  I  known  thee  for  a  silly 

swain  : 
Of  things  past  help,  what  boots  it  to  com- 
plain ? 
Nothing  but   mirth   can    conquer    fortune's 

^pite ; 
No  sky  is  heavy,  if  the  heart  be  light : 
Patience  is  sorrow's   salvo ;    v/hat    can't    be 

cured. 
So  Donald  right  areeds,  must  be  endured. 
Saw.  Full  silly    swain,  I   wot,   is   Jockey 

now; 
How  didst  thou  bear  thy  Maggy's  falsehood  ? 

how, 
When  with  a  foreign  loon  she  stole  away, 
Didst  thou  forswear  thy  pipe  and  shepherd's 

lay? 
WTiere  was  thy  boasted  wisdom  then,  when  I 
Applied    those     proverbs,    which    you    now 

apply  ? 
Jock.  O  she  was  bonny  !    All  the  Highlands 

round 
Was  there  a  rival  to  my  Maggy  found  ? 
More   precious    (though   that   precious  is   to 

all) 
Then  the  rare  med'cine  which  we  brimstone 

call, 
Or  that  choice  plant,  so  grateful  to  the  nose, 
Which  in  I  know  not  what  far  country  grows, 
Was  Maggy  unto  me  ;  dear  do  I  rue, 
A  lass  so  fair  should  ever  prove  untrue. 


Saiv.  Whether  with  pipe  or  song  to  charm 

the  ear, 
Through  all  the  land  did  Jamie  find  a  peer  ? 
Cursed  be  that  year  by  ev'ry  honest  Scot, 
And  in  the  shepherd's  calendar  forgot. 
That  fatal  year,  when  Jamie,  hapless  swain, 
In  evil  hour  forsook  the  peaceful  piain^ 
Jamie,  when  our  young  laird  discreetly  fled, 
Was  seized,  and  hang'd  till  he  was  dead,  dead, 

dead. 
Jock.  Full  sorely  may  we  all   lament  that 

day ; 
For  all  were  losers  in  the  deadly  fray, 
Five  brothers  had  I  on  the  Sco-fctish  plains, 
Well  dost  thou  know  were  none  more  hopeful 

swains  : 
Five   brothers    there    I   lost,   in    manhood's 

pride. 
Two  in  the  field,  and  three  on  gibbets  died  : 
Ah  !  silly  swains,  to  follow  -war's  alarms  ! 
Ah !  what  hath    shepherds'    life   to  do  with 

arms! 
Saw.  Mention  it  not — There  saw  I  stran- 
gers clad 
In  all  the  honours  of  our  ravish'd  plaid. 
Saw  the  Ferrara  too,  our  nation's  pride. 
Unwilling  grace  the  awkward  -victor's  side. 
There  fell  our  choicest  youth,  and  from  that 

day 
Mote  never  Sa-wney  tune  the  merry  lay ; 
Bless'd  those  which  fell !  cursed  those  which 

still  sur-vive, 
To  mourn  fifteen  renew' d  in  forty-five. 
Thus  plain'd  the  boys  when  from  her  throne 

of  turf. 
With   boils   emboss'd,    and   overgrown   with 

scurf. 
Vile    humours,    which,    in    life's     corrupted 

well, 
Mix'd   at   the   birth,    not    abstinence    could 

quell. 
Pale   Famine    rear'd    the   head ;    her    eager 

eyes, 
Where   hunger  ev'n   to   madness    seem'd    to 

rise. 
Speaking   aloud    her    throes    and    pangs    of 

heart, 
Strain' d  to  get  loose,  and  from  their  orbs  to 

start ; 
Her   hollow   cheeks    were  each  a  deep-sunk 

ceU, 
Where    wretchedness    and    horror    loved    to 

dwell ; 
With  double  rows  of  useless  teeth  supplied, 
Her  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  extended  wide. 
Which,   when  for  want  of  food  her  entrails 

pined, 
She  oped,  and,  cursing,  swaUow'd  nought  but 

wind  ; 
All  shrivell'd   was   her    skin,    and   here  and 

there 
Making  theic    way    by  force,  her  bones  lay 

bare : 
Such  filthy  sight  to  hide  from  human  -view. 
O'er    her   foul    limbs   a    tatter' d    plaid    she 
threw. 


Michael  Bsuce.] 


A  ETJEAL  SCENE. 


[Sixth  Peeiod. — 


Cease,  cried  the  goddess,  cease,  despairing 

swains, 
And  from  a  parent  hear  what  Jove  ordains  ! 

Pent  in  this  barren  corner  of  the  isle, 
Where  partial  fortune  never  deign' d  to  smile  ; 
Like    Nature's    bastards,     reaping    for    our 

share 
What  was  rejected  by  the  lawful  heir  ; 
Unknown  amongst  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
Or  only  known  to  raise  contempt  and  mirth ; 
Long  free,  because  the  race  of  Roman  braves 
Thought  it  not  worth  their  while  to  make  us 

slaves. 
Then  into  bondage  by  that  nation  brought, 
Whose  ruin  we  for  ages  vainly  sought ; 
Whom  still  with  unslack'd  hate  we  view,  and 

stiU, 
The  pow'r  of  mischief  lost,  retain  the  will ; 
Consider'd  as  the  refuse  of  mankind, 
A  mass  till  the  last  moment  left  behind. 
Which  frugal  nature  doubted,  as  it  lay. 
Whether  to  stamp  with  life,  or  throw  away ; 
Which,  form'd  in  haste,  was  planted  in  this 

nook. 
But  never  enter' d  in  creation's  book ; 
Branded  as  traitors,  who  for  love  of  gold 
Would  sell  their  God,  as  once  their  king  they 

sold ; 
Long  have  we  borne  this  mighty  weight  of 

ill. 
These  vile   injurious  taunts,  and   bear  them 

still. 
But  times  of  happier  note  are  now  at  hand, 
And  the  f  uU  promise  of  a  better  land  : 
There,  like  the  sons  of  Israel,  having  trod, 
For  the  fix'd  term  of  years  ordain'd  by  God, 
A  barren  desert,  we  shall  seize  rich  plains, 
Where  milk   with   honey   flows,    and   plenty 

reigns. 
With  some  few  natives  join'd,    some  pliant 

few. 
Who  worship  int'rest,  and  our  track  pursue, 
There  shall  we,  though  the  wretched  people 

grieve, 
Eavage  at  large,  nor  ask  the  owner's  leave. 
For  us,  the  earth  shall  bring  forth  her  in- 
crease ; 
For  us,  the  flocks  shall  wear  a  golden  fleece  ; 
Fat  beeves  shall   yield   us   dainties  not  our 

own, 
And  the  grape  bleed  a  nectar  yet  unknown  ; 
For  our  advantage  shall  their  harvests  grow. 
And   Scotsmen  reap  what   they  disdain' d  to 

sow  ; 
For  us,  the  sun  shall  climb  the  eastern  hill ; 
For  us,  the  rain  shall  fall,  the  dew  distil ; 
When  to  our  wishes  nature  cannot  rise. 
Art   shall  be  task'd  to   grant  us  fresh   sup- 
plies. 
His     brawny    arm    shall     drudging     labour 

strain, 
And  for  our  pleasure  suffer  daily  pain ; 
Trade  shall  for  us  exert  her  utmost  pow'rs, 
Hers  all  the  toil,  and  all  the  profit  ours  ; 
For  us,  the  oak  shall  from  his  native  steep 
Descend  and  fearless  travel  through  the  deep  ; 


The  sail  of  commerce,  for  our  use  unfurl'd. 
Shall   waft    the   treasures    of    each    distant 

world ; 
For  us,  sublimer  heights  shall  science  reach. 
For  us  their  statesmen  plot,  their  churchmen 

preach ; 
Their  noblest  limbs  of  counsel  we'll  disjoint, 
And,  mocking,  new  ones  of  our  own  appoint ; 
Devouring  War,  imprison' d  in  the  north. 
Shall,  at  our  call,  in  horrid  pomp  break  forth. 
And  when,  his  chariot  wheels  with  thunder 

hung. 
Fell  Discord  braying  with  her  brazen  tongue, 
Death  in   the  van,    with   Anger,  Hate,    and 

Fear, 
And  Desolation  stalking  in  the  rear, 
Eevenge,  by  Justice  guided,  in  his  train, 
He  drives  impetuous  o'er  the  trembling  plain, 
Shall,  at  our  bidding,  quit  his  lawful  prey. 
And  to  meek,   gentle,   gen'rous    Peace  give 

way. 

Churchill.— Born  1731,  Died  1764. 


959.— A  EUEAL  SCENE. 

Now  sober  Industry,  illustrious  power  ! 
Hath  raised  the  peaceful  cottage,  calm  abode 
Of  innocence  and  joy  :  now,  sweating,  guides 
The  shining  ploughshare ;  tames  the  stubborn 

■    soil; 
Leads   the  long    drain    along    the    unfertile 

marsh  ; 
Bids  the  bleak  hill  with  vernal  verdure  bloom. 
The  haunt  of  flocks ;  and  clothes  the  barren 

heath 
With  waving  harvests  and  the  golden  grain. 
Fair  from  his  hand  behold  the  village  ♦rise. 
In  rural  pride,  'mong  intermingled  trees  ! 
Above  whose  aged  tops  the  joyful  swains. 
At  even-tide  descending  from  the  hill. 
With  eye  enamour' d,  mark  the  many  wreaths 
Of  pillar' d  smoke,  high  curling  to  the  clouds. 
The   streets   resound  with   Labour's   various 

voice, 
Who  whistles  at  his  work.     Gay  on  the  green. 
Young  blooming  boys,  and  girls  with  golden 

hair. 
Trip,  nimble-footed,  wanton  in  their  play, 
The  village  hope.     All  in  a  reverend  row. 
Their   gray-hair' d  grandsires,   sitting  in   the 

sun, 
Before  the  gate,  and  leaning  on  the  staft', 
The  well-remember' d  stories  of  their  youth 
Eecount,  and  shake  their  aged  locks  with  joj'. 

How  fair  a  prospect  rises  to  the  eye, 
Wliere  Beauty  vies  in  all  her  vernal  forms, 
For  ever  pleasant,  and  for  ever  new  ! 
Swells   the    exulting    thought,    expands    the 

soul. 
Drowning  each  ruder  care  :  a  blooming  train 
Of  bright  ideas  rushes  on  the  mind, 
Imagination  rouses  at  the  scene; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


ELEGY. 


[Michael  Beuce. 


And  backward,  through   the   gloom  of  ages 

pa-st, 
Beholds  Arcadia,  like  a  rural  queen, 
Encircled  with  her  swains  and  rosy  nymphs, 
The  mazy  dance  conducting  on  the  green. 
Nor  yield  to  old  Arcadia's  blissful  vales 
Thine,  gentle  Leven  !     Green  on  either  hand 
Thy  meadows  spread,  unbroken  of  the  plough, 
With  beauty  all  their  own.     Thy  fields  rejoice 
With  all  the  riches  of  the  golden  year. 
Fat  on  the  plain,  and  mountain's  sunny  side. 
Large  droves  of  oxen,  and  the  fleecy  fl£>cks, 
Feed  undisturb'd,  and  fill  the  echoing  air 
With  music,  grateful  to  the  master's  ear. 
The   traveller    stops,    and    gazes   round  and 

round 
O'er  all  the  scenes,  that  animate  his  heart 
With  mirth  and  music.     Even  the  mendicant, 
Bowbent  with  age,  that  on  the  old  gray  stone, 
Sole  sitting,  suns  him  in  the  public  way. 
Feels  his  heart  leap,  and  to  himself  he  sings. 

3Iichael  Bruce.— Bom  1746,  Died  1767. 


960.— HAPPINESS  OF  A  COUNTEY  LIFE. 

How  blest  the  man  who,  in  these  peaceful 

plains, 
Ploughs  his  paternal  field ;  far  from  the  noise, 
The  care,  and  bustle  of  a  busy  world ! 
All  in  the  sacred,  sweet,  sequester' d  vale 
Of  solitude,  the  secret  primrose-path 
Of  rural  life,  he  dwells  ;  and  with  him  dwells 
Peace  and  content,  twins  of  the  sylvan  shade, 
And  all  the  graces  of  the  golden  age. 
Such  is  Agricola,  the  wise,  the  good ; 
By  nature  formed  for  the  calm  retreat. 
The   silent   path   of  life.     Learned,  but  not 

fraught 
With  self-importance,  as  the  starched  fool, 
Who  challenges  respect  by  solemn  face, 
By  studied  accent  and  high-sounding  phrase. 
Enamour' d  of  the  shade,  but  not  morose. 
Politeness,  raised  in  courts  by  frigid  rules. 
With   him    spontaneous  grows.      Not   books 

alone, 
But  man  his  study,  and  the  better  part ; 
To  tread  the  ways  of  virtue,  and  to  act 
The  various  scenes  of  Hfe  with  God's  applause. 
Deep  in  the  bottom  of  the  flowery  vale, 
With  blooming  sallows  and  the  leafy  twine 
Of  verdant  alders  fenced,  his  dweUing  stands 
Complete  in  rural  elegance.     The  door. 
By  which  the  poor  or  pilgrim  never  pass'd, 
Still    open,    speaks   the    master's   bounteous 

heart. 
There,    O    how    sweet !    amid    the    fragrant 

shrubs, 
At  evening  cool  to  sit ;  while,  on  their  boughs. 
The  nested  songsters  twitter  o'er  their  young ; 
And  the  hoarse  low  of  folded  cattle  breaks 
The  silence,  wafted  o'er  the  sleeping  lake, 
Whose  waters  glow  beneath  the  purple  tinge 


Of  western  cloud ;   wliile  converse  sweet  de- 
ceives 
The  stealing  foot   of   time  !      Or   where   the 

ground, 
Mounded  irregular,  points  out  the  graves 
Of  our  forefathers,  and  the  hallow' d  fane. 
Where    swains    assembling    worship,  _  let    us 

walk. 
In  softly-soothing  melancholy  thought, 
As  night's  seraphic  bard,  immortal  Young, 
Or   sweet- complaining   Gray;    there   see   the 

goal 
Of   human  life,   where   drooping,   faint,    and 

tired. 
Oft  miss'd  the  prize,  the  weary  racer  rests. 

Thus  sung  the  youth,  amid  unfertile  wilds 
And  nameless  deserts,  unpoetic  ground  ! 
Far  from   his   friends   he  stray' d,  recording- 

thus 
The  dear  remembrance  of  his  native  fields, 
To  cheer  the  tedious  night ;  while  slow  disease 
Prey'd  on  his  pining  vitals,  and  the  blasts 
Of  dark  December  shook  his  humble  cot. 

Michael  Bruce.— Born  1746,  Died  1767. 


961.— ELEGY. 

'Tis  past :  the  iron  north  has  spent  his  rage  ; 

Stern  Winter  now  resigns  the  lengthening- 
day; 
The  stormy  bowlings  of  the  winds  assuage, 

And  warm  o'er  ether  western  breezes  play. 

Of  genial  heat  and  cheerful  light  the  source. 
From  southern  climes,  beneath  another  sky. 

The  sun,  returning,  wheels  his  golden  course: 
Before  his  beams  all  noxious  vapours  fly. 

Far  to  the  north  grim  Winter  draws  his  train. 
To  his  own  clime,  to  Zembla's  frozen  shore  ; 

Where,  throned  on  ice,  he  holds  eternal  reign  i 
Where  whirlwinds  madden,  and  where  tem- 
pests roar. 

Loosed  from  the  bands  of  frost,  the  verdant 
ground 

Again  puts  on  her  robe  of  cheerful  green, 
Again  puts  forth  her  flowers ;  and  all  around 

Smiling,  the  cheerful  face  of  spring  is  seen. 

Behold !    the  trees  new   deck  their  wither' d 
boughs ; 
Their  ample  leaves,  the  hospitable  plane. 
The  taper  elm,  and  lofty  ash  disclose  ; 

The    blooming    hawthorn    variegates    the 
scene. 

The  lily  of  the  vale,  of  flowers  the  queen. 
Puts  on  the  robe  she  neither  sew'd  nor  spun; 

The   birds   on   ground,    or   on   the   branches 
green. 
Hop  to  and  fro,  and  glitter  in  the  sun. 


John  Logan.J 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 


[Sixth  Period.- 


Soon  as  o'er  eastern  hills  the  morning  peers, 
From   her   low   nest    the   tufted   lark   up- 
springs  ; 
And,  cheerful  singing,  np  the  air  she  steers  ; 
Still  high  she  mounts,  still  loud  and  sweet 
she  sings. 

On  the  green  furze,  clothed  o'er  with  golden 
blooms 
That  fiU  the  air  with  fragrance  all  around, 
The  linnet  sits,  and  tricks  his  glossy  plumes. 
While    o'er    the    wild    his    broken    notes 
resound. 

While  the  sun  journeys  down   the   western 
sky, 
Along  the  green  sward,  marked  with  Eoman 
mound, 
Beneath  the  blithsome   shepherd's   watchful 
eye. 
The    cheerful    lambkins    dance   and   frisk 
around. 

Now  is  the  time  for  those  who  wisdom  love, 
Who  love  to  walk  in  Virtue's  flowery  road, 

Along  the  lovely  paths  of  Spring  to  rove, 
And  follow  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God. 

Thus  Zoroaster  studied  Nature's  laws  ; 

Thus  Socrates,  the  wisest  of  mankind  ; 
Thus  heaven-taught  Plato  traced  the  Almighty 
cause, 

And  left  the  wondering  multitude  behind. 


Thus  Ashley  gather' d  academic  bays  ; 

Thus  gentle  Thomson,  as  the  seasons  roll. 
Taught   them    to    sing    the   great   Creator's 
praise, 
And  bear  their  poet's  name  from  pole  to 
pole. 

Thus  have  I  walk'd  along  the  dewy  lawn  ; 
My  frequent  foot  the  blooming  wild  hath 
worn; . 
Before  the  lark  I've  sung  the  beauteous  dawn, 
And  gather' d  health  from  aU  the  gales  of 
mom. 

And,    even    when    winter    chill' d    the    aged 
year, 
I  wander' d  lonely  o'er  the  hoary  plain : 
Though  frosty  Boreas  wam'd  me  to  forbear, 
Boreas,   with  all  his  tempests,  warn'd   in 
vain. 

Then,  sleep  my  nights,  and  quiet  bless' d  my 

days ; 
I  fear'd  no  loss,  my  mind  was  all  my  store; 
No  anxious  wishes  e'er  disturb'd  my  ease ; 
,     Heaven  gave  content  and  health — I  ask'd 

no  more. 

Now,  Spring  returns  :  but  not  to  me  returns 
The  vernal  joy  my  better  years  have  kno^vn ; 

Dim  in  my  breast  hfe's  dying  taper  burns, 
And  all  the  joys  of  life  with    health  are 
flown. 


Starting  and  shivering  in  the  inconstant  wind, 
Meagre  and  pale,  the  ghost  of  what  I  was, 

Beneath  some  blasted  tree  I  lie  reclined. 
And  count  the  silent  moments  as  they  pass : 

The  winged  moments,  whose  unstajang  speed 
No  art  can  stop,  or  in  their  course  arrest ; 
Whose  flight  shall  shortly  count  me  with  the 
dead. 
And   lay  me  down  in  peace  with  them  at 
rest. 

Oft  morning  dreams  presage  approaching  fate ; 
And   morning   dreams,    as   poets  tell,    are 
true. 
Led   by  pale   ghosts,    I   enter  Death's  dark 
gate, 
And  bid  the  realms  of  light  and  life  adieu. 

I  hear  the  helpless  wail,  the  shriek  of  woe ; 

I  see  the  muddy  wave,  the  dreary  shore. 
The  sluggish  streams  that  slowly  creep  below. 

Which  mortals  visit,  and  return  no  more. 

Farewell,   ye    blooming    fields !    ye    cheerful 
plains ! 
Enough   for   me    the    churchyard's    lonely 
mound. 
Where  melancholy  with  still  silence  reigns, 
And  the  rank  grass  waves  o'er  the  cheerless 
ground. 

There  let  me  wander  at  the  shut  of  eve. 
When   sleep   sits   dewy  on   the   labourer's 
eyes : 
The  world  and  all  its  busy  follies  leave. 

And  talk  with  W^isdom  where  my  Daphnis 
lies. 

There  let  me  sleep,  forgotten  in  the  clay. 
When  death  shall  shut  these  v/eary  aching 
eyes; 
Eest  in  the  hopes  of  an  eternal  day. 

Till  the  long  night  is  gone,   and  the  last 
morn  arise. 

Michael  Bruce. — Born  1746,  Died  17G7. 


962.— TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring  ! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat. 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

WTiat  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 
Thy  certain  voice  we  hear  ; 

Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 
Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 


Frovi  1727  to  17S0.]      A  VISIT  TO  THE  COUNTRY  IN  AUTUMN. 


[John  Logan 


The  schoolboy,  wandering  through  the  wood 

To  ptdl  the  primroso  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  Spring  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale. 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 
I  Thy  sky  is  ever  clear  ; 

Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  tljy  song, 
No  Winter  in  thy  year  ! 

O  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee  ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 

John  Logan. — Born  1743,  Died  178S. 


963. -"V^TIITTEN    IN   A   VISIT    TO    THE 
COUNTRY  IN  AUTUMN. 

'Tis  past !  no  more  the  Summer  blooms  ! 

Ascending  in  the  rear. 
Behold  congenial  Autumn  comes, 

The  sabbath  of  the  year ! 
What  time  thy*  holy  whispers  breathe, 
The  pensive  evening  shade  beneath, 

And  twilight  consecrates  the  floods ; 
While  nature  strips  her  garment  gay, 
And  wears  the  vesture  of  decay, 
O    let    me    wander    through    the     sounding 
woods  ! 

Ah  !     weU-laio\vn    streams  !  —  ah  !     wonted 
groves. 

Still  pictured  in  my  mind  ! 
Oh  I  sacred  scene  of  youthful  loves, 

"VVliose  image  lives  behind  ! 
While  sad  I  ponder  on  the  past, 
The  joys  that  must  no  longer  last  ; 

The  wild-flower  strown  on  Summer's  bier, 
The  dying  music  of  the  grove. 
And  the  last  elegies  of  love, 
Dissolve  the  soul,  and  drav/  the  tender  tear ! 

Alas  !  the  hospitable  hall, 

V/here  youth  and  friendship  play'd, 
Wide  to  the  winds  a  ruin'd  wall 

Projects  a  death-like  shade  ! 
The  charm  is  vanish' d  from  the  vales  ; 
No  voice  vath  virgin- whisper  hails 

A  stranger  to  his  native  bowers  : 
No  more  Arcadian  mountains  bloom, 
Nor  Enna  valleys  breathe  perfume  ; 
The  fancied  Eden  fades  with  all  its  flowers  1 

Companions  of  the  youthful  scone, 

Endear' d  from  earliest  days  ! 
With  whom  I  sported  on  the  green, 

Or  roved  the  woodland  maze  ! 


Long-exiled  from  your  native  cKme, 
Or  by  the  thunder-stroke  of  time 

Snatch'd  to  the  shadows  of  despair ; 
I  hear  your  voices  in  the  wind, 
Your  forms  in  every  walk  I  find ; 
I  stretch  my  arms  :  ye  vanish  into  air ! 

My  steps,  when  innocent  and  young. 

These  fairy  paths  pursued  ; 
And  wandering  o'er  the  wild,  I  sung 

My  fancies  to  the  wood. 
I  moum'd  the  linnet-lover's  fate, 
Or  turtle  from  her  murder' d  mate, 

Condemn'd  the  widow'd  hours  to  wail: 
Or  while  the  mournful  vision  rose, 
I  sought  to  weep  for  imaged  woes. 
Nor  real  life  believed  a  tragic  tale  ! 

Alas  I  misfortune's  cloud  unkind 

May  summer  soon  o'ercast ! 
And  cruel  fate's  untimely  wind 

All  human  beauty  blast ! 
The  wrath  of  nature  smites  our  bowers. 
And  promised  fruits  and  cherish' d  flowers. 

The  hopes  of  life  in  embryo  sweeps  ; 
Pale  o'er  the  ruins  of  his  prime. 
And  desolate  before  his  time. 
In    silence     sad     the    mourner    walks     and 
weeps ! 

Eelentless  power  !  whose  fated  stroke 

O'er  wretched  man  prevails  ! 
Ha !  love's  eternal  chain  is  broke. 

And  friendship's  covenant  fails. 
Upbraiding  forms  !  a  moment's  ease — 
O  memory !  how  shall  I  appease 

The  bleeding  shade,  the  unlaid  ghost  ? 
What  charm  can  bind  the  gushing  eye, 
What  voice  console  the  incessant  sigh, 
And  everlasting  longings  for  the  lost  ? 

Yet  not  unwelcome  waves  the  wood 

That  hides  me  in  its  gloom. 
While  lost  in  melancholy  mood 

I  muse  upon  the  tomb. 
Their  chequer' d  leaves  the  branches  shod ; 
Whirling  in  eddies  o'er  my  head. 

They  sadly  sigh  that  Winter  's  near : 
The  warning  voice  I  hear  behind, 
That  shakes  the  wood  without  a  wind, 
And    solemn    sounds   the   death-bell   of  the 
year. 

Nor  will  I  court  Lethean  stream.s. 

The  sorrowing  sense  to  steep  ; 
Nor  drink  oblivion  of  the  themes 

On  which  I  love  to  weep. 
Belated  oft  by  fabled  rill, 
tVTiile  nightly  o'er  the  hallow' d  hill 

Aerial  music  seems  to  mourn  ; 
I'll  listen  Autumn's  closing  strain  ; 
Then  woo  the  walks  of  youth  again, 
And    pour    my   sorrows    o'er    the    untimely 
urn ! 

John  Logan. — Born  1748,  Died  1788. 


John  Logan,] 


COMPLAINT  OF  NATURE. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


964.— COMPLAINT  OF  NATUEE. 

Few  are  thy  days  and  full  of  woe, 

O  man  of  woman  bom  ! 
Thy  doom  is  written,  dust  thou  art, 

And  shalt  to  dust  return. 

Determined  arc  the  days  that  fly 
Successive  o'er  thy  head  ; 

The  number' d  hour  is  on  the  wing- 
That  lays  thee  with  the  dead. 

Alas  !  the  little  day  of  life 

Is  shorter  than  a  span  ; 
Yet  black  with  thousand  hidden  ills 

To  miserable  man. 

Gay  is  thy  morning-,  flattering  hope 

Thy  sprightly  step  attends  ; 
But  soon  the  tempest  howls  behind, 

And  the  dark  night  descends. 

Before  its  splendid  hour  the  cloud 
Comes  o'er  the  beam  of  light; 

A  pilgrim  in  a  weary  land, 
Man  tarries  but  a  night. 

Behold  !  sad  emblem  of  thy  state, 
The  flowers  that  paint  the  field  ; 

Or  trees  that  crown  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  boughs  and  blossoms  yield. 

When  chill  the  blast  of  Winter  blows. 

Away  the  Summer  flies, 
And  flowers  resign  their  siinny  robes. 

And  all  their  beauty  dies. 

Nipt  by  the  year  the  forest  fades  ; 

And  shaking  to  the  wind, 
The  leaves  toss  to  and  fro,  and  streak 

The  wilderness  behind. 

The  Winter  past,  reviving -flowers 

Anew  shall  paint  the  plain, 
The  woods  shall  hear  the  voice  of  Spring, 

And  flourish  green  again. 

But  man  departs  this  earthly  scene, 

Ah !  never  to  return  ! 
No  second  Spring  shall  e'er  revive 

The  ashes  of  the  urn. 

The  inexorable  doors  of  death 

What  hand  can  e'er  unfold  ? 
Who  from  the  cerements  of  the  tomb 

Can  raise  the  human  mould  ? 

The  mighty  flood  that  rolls  along 

Its  torrents  to  the  main,  • 

The  waters  lost  can  ne'er  recall 
From  that  abyss  again. 

The  days,  the  years,  the  ages,  dark 

Descending  down  to  night, 
Can  never,  never  be  redeem' d 

Back  to  the  gates  of  light. 


So  man  departs  the  living  scene. 

To  night's  perpetual  gloom  ; 
The  voice  of  morning  ne'er  shall  break 

The  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 

Where  are  our  fathers  ?     Whither  gone 

The  mighty  men  of  old  ? 
"  The  patriarchs,  prophets,  princes,  kings, 

In  sacred  books  enroll' d  ? — 

Gone  to  the  resting-jjlace  of  man. 

The  everlasting  home. 
Where  ages  past  have  gone  before, 

Where  future  ages  come." 

Thus  nature  pour'd  the  wail  of  woe. 

And  urged  her  earnest  cry ; 
Her  voice,  in  agony  extreme. 

Ascended  to  the  sky. 

The  Almighty  heard :  then  from  his  throne 

In  majesty  he  rose  ; 
And  from  the  heaven,  that  open'd  wide, 

His  voice  in  mercy  flows. 

"When  mortal  man  resigns  his  breath, 

And  falls  a  clod  of  clay. 
The  soul  immortal  wings  its  flight 

To  never-setting  day. 

Prepared  of  old  for  wicked  men 

The  bod  of  torment  lies  ; 
The  just  shall  enter  into  blies 

Immortal  in  the  skies," 

John  Logan.— Bom  1748,  Died  178S. 


965.— THE  HAMLET.— AN  ODE. 

The  hinds  how  blest,  who,  ne'er  beguiled 
To  quit  their  hamlet's  hawthorn  wild, 
Nor  haunt  the  crowd,  nor  tempt  the  main, 
For  splendid  care,  and  guilty  gain  ! 

When  morning's  twilight-tinctured  beam 
Strikes  their  low  thatch  with  slanting  gleam, 
They  rove  abroad  in  ether  blue. 
To  dip  the  scythe  in  fragrant  dew ; 
The  sheaf  to  bind,  the  beech  to  fell, 
That  nodding  shades  a  craggy  dell. 

Midst  gloomy  glades,  in  warbles  clear, 
Wild  nature's  sweetest  notes  they  hear : 
On  green  untrodden  banks  they  view 
The  hyacinth's  neglected  hue'. 
In  their  lone  haunts,  and  woodland  rounds. 
They  spy  the  squirrel's  airy  bounds , 
And  startle  from  her  ashen  spray. 
Across  the  glen,  the  screaming  jay ; 
Each  native  charm  their  steps  explore 
Of  Solitude's  sequester' d  store. 

For  them  the  moon  with  cloudless  ray 
Mounts  to  illume  their  homeward  way  : 
Their  weary  spirits  to  relieve. 
The  meadows  incense  breathe  at  eve. 


From  1727  to  17S0.] 


INSCRIPTION  IN  A  HERMITAGE. 


[Thomas  Warton.      | 


No  riot  mars  the  simple  faro,  . 

That  o'er  a  glimmering  hearth  they  share; 

But  when  the  curfew's  measured  roar 

Duly,  the  darkening  valleys  o'er, 

Has  echoed  from  the  distant  town, 

They  wish  no  beds  of  cygnet-down, 

No  trophied  canopies,  to  close 

Their  drooping  eyes  in  quick  repose. 

Their  little  sons,  who  spread  the  bloom 
Of  health  around  the  clay-built  room, 
Or  through  the  primrosed  coppice  stray. 
Or  gambol  in  the  new-mown  hay ; 
Or  quaintly  braid  the  cowslip-twine, 
Or  drive  afield  the  tardy  kine ; 
Or  hasten  from  the  sultry  hUl, 
To  loiter  at  the  shady  rill ; 
Or  climb  the  tall  pine's  gloomy  crest, 
To  rob  the  raven's  ancient  nest. 

Their  humble  porch  with  honied  flowers, 
The  curling  woodbine's  shade  embowers; 
From  the  smaU  garden's  thy  my  mound 
Their  bees  in  busy  swarms  resound : 
Nor  fell  disease  before  his  time, 
Hastes  to  consume  life's  golden  prime  : 
But  when  their  temples  long  have  wore 
The  silver  crown  of  tresses  hoar ; 
As  studious  still  calm  peace  to  keep. 
Beneath  a  flowery  turf  they  sleep. 

TJwmas  Warton.— Born  1728,  Died  1790. 


966.— ON  REVISITING  THE  RIVER 
LODDON. 

Ah  !  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run 
Since   first    I    trod    thy   banks  with   alders 

croAvn'd, 
And  thought  my  way  was  all  through  fairy 

ground, 
Beneath  the  azure  sky  and  golden  sun — 
When  first  my  muse  to  lisp  her  notes  begun  ! 
AVhile  pensive  memory  traces  back  the  round 
Which  fills  the  varied  interval  between ; 
Much  pleasure,  more  of  sorrow,  marks  the 

scene. 
Sweet  native  stream  !  those  skies  and  suns  so 

pure. 
No  more  return  to  cheer  my  evening  road ! 
Yet  still  one  joy  remains,  that  not  obscure. 
Nor  useless,  aU  my  vacant  days  have  flow'd 
From  youth's  gay  dawn  to  manhood's  prime 

mature, 
Nor  with  the  muse's  laurel  unbestow'd. 

Thomas  Warton.— Born  1728,  Died  1790. 


967.— WRITTEN  IN  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF 
DUGD ALE'S  MONASTICON. 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage. 
By  Fancy's  genuine  feelings  unbeguded, 
Of  painful  pedantry  the  poring  child. 


Who  turns  of  these  proud  domes  the  historic 

page, 
Now  sunk  by  Time,  and  Henry's  fiercer  rage. 
Think' st    thou    the    warbling    muses    never 

smiled 
On  his  lone  hours  ?     Ingenious  views  engage 
His    thoughts    on    themes  unclassic  wisely 

styled, 
Intent.     While  cloister' d  piety  displays 
Her  mouldering  roll,  the  piercing  eye  explores 
New  manners,  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days, 
Whence  cuUs  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured 

stores. 
Not  rough  nor  barren  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  antiquity,  but  strewn  with  flowers. 

Thomas  Warton.— Born  1728,  Died  1790. 


968.— SONNET. 

WKITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  WILTON  KOUSE. 

From  Pembroke's  princely  dome,  where  mimic 

Art 
Decks     with    a    magic    hand     the    dazcling 

bowers, 
Its  living  hues  where  the  warm  pencil  pours. 
And  breathing  forms  from  the  rude   marble 

start, 
How  to  life's  humbler  scene  can  I  depart ! 
My  breast  all  glowing  from  those   gorgeous 

towers, 
In  my  low  cell  how  cheat  the  sullen  hours  ! 
Vain  the  complaint :  for  Fancy  can  impart 
(To  Fate  superior  and  to  Fortune's  doom) 
Whate'er  adorns  the  stately  storied  hall : 
She,  'mid  the  dungeon's  solitary  gloom, 
Can  dress  the  Graces  in  their  Attic  pall ; 
Bid    the    green   landscape's    vernal    beauty 

bloom. 
And  in   bright   trophies   clothe  the  twilight 

wall. 

Thomas  Warton.— Born  1728,  Died  1790. 


969.— INSCRIPTION  IN  A  HERMITAGE. 

Beneath  this  stony  roof  reclined, 
I  soothe  to  peace  my  pensive  mind ; 
And  while,  to  shade  my  lowly  cave. 
Embowering  elms  their  umbrage  wave  ; 
And  whUe  the  maple  dish  is  mine, 
The  beechen  cup,  unstain'd  with  wine ; 
I  scorn  the  gay  licentious  crowd. 
Nor  heed  the  toys  that  deck  the  proud. 

Within  my  limits  lone  and  still 
The  blackbird  pipes  in  artless  trill ; 
Fast  by  my  couch,  congenial  guest. 
The  wren  has  wove  her  mossy  nest ; 
From  busy  scenes,  and  brighter  skies, 
To  lurk  with  innocence,  she  flies ; 
Here  hopes  in  safe  repose  to  dwell, 
Nor  aught  suspects  the  sylvan  cell. 


Thomas  Warton." 


THE  SUICIDE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


At  mom  I  take  my  custom'd  round, 
To  mark  how  buds  yon  slirubby  mound  ; 
And  every  opening  primrose  count, 
That  trimly  paints  my  blooming  mount : 
Or  o'er  the  sculptures,  quaint  and  rude, 
That  grace  my  gloomy  solitude, 
I  teach  in  winding  wreaths  to  stray 
Fantastic  ivy's  gadding  spray. 

At  eve,  within  yon  studious  nook, 

I  ope  my  brass-embossed  book, 

Portray'd  with  many  a  holy  deed 

Of  martyrs,  crown' d  with  heaveidy  meed  : 

Tiien,  as  my  taper  waxes  dim, 

Chant,  ere  I  sleep,  my  measured  hymn  ; 

And,  at  the  close,  the  gleams  behold 

Of  parting  wings  bedropp'd  vath  gold. 

While  such  pure  joys  my  bliss  create, 
Who  but  would  smile  at  guilty  state  ? 
Who  but  would  -R-ish  his  holy  lot 
In  calm  Oblivion's  humble  grot  ? 
Who  but  would  cast  his  pomp  away, 
To  take  my  staff,  and  amice  gray  ; 
And  to  the  world's  tumultuous  stage 
Prefer  the  blameless  hermitage  ? 

Thomas  Warton.—Born  1728,  Died  1790. 


970.— THE  SUICIDE. 

Beneath  the  beech,  whose  branches  bare, 
Smit  with  the  lightning's  livid  glare, 

O'erhang  the  craggy  road, 
And  whistle  hollow  as  they  wave  ; 
Within  a  solitary  grave, 
A  Slayer  of  himself  holds  his  accursed  abode. 

Lower'd'the  grim  mom,  in  murky  dyes 
Damp  mists  involved  the  scowling  skies, 

And  dimm'd  the  struggling  day  ; 
As  by  the  brook,  that  lingering  laves 
Yon  rush-grown  moor  with  sable  waves. 
Full  of  the  dark  resolve  he  took  his  sullen 
way. 

I  mark'd  his  desultory  pace, 

His  gestures  strange,  and  varying  face, 

With  manj^  a  mutter'd  soimd  ; 
And  ah  !  too  late,  aghast  I  view'd 
The  reeking  blade,  the  hand  imbrued : 
He  fell,  and  groaning,  grasp' d  in  agony  the 
ground. 

Full  many  a  melancholy  night 

He  watch' d  the  slow  return  of  light ; 

And  sought  the  pov/ers  of  sleep. 
To  spread  a  momentary  calm 
O'er  his  sad  couch,  and  in  the  balm 
Of  bland  oblivion's  dews  his  burning  eyes  to 
steep. 


Full  oft,  unknomng  and  unknown. 
He  wore  his  endless  noons  alone, 

Amid  th'  autumnal  wood  : 
Oft  was  he  wont,  in  hasty  fit. 
Abrupt  the  social  board  to  quit. 
And  gaze  with  eager  glance  upon  the  tumbling 
flood. 

Beck'ning  the  wretch  to  torments  new, 
Despair,  for  ever  in  his  viev/, 

A  spectre  pale,  appear' d  ; 
While,  as  the  shades  of  eve  arose, 
And  brought  the  day's  unwelcome  close, 
More  horrible  and  huge  her  giant- shape  she 
rear'd. 

"  Is  thjs,"  mistaken  Scorn  will  cry. 
"  Is  this  the  youth,  whose  genius  high 

Could  build  the  genuine  rhyme  ? 
Whose  bosom  mild  the  favouring  Muse 
Had  stored  with  all  her  ample  views. 
Parent  of   fairest   deeds,  and  purposes    sub- 
lime ? " 

Ah  !  from  the  Muse  that  bosom  mild 
By  treacherous  magic  was  beguiled. 

To  strike  the  deathful  blow  : 
She  fill'd  his  soft  ingenuous  mind 
With  many  a  feeling  too  refined, 
And  roused  to  livelier  pangs  his  wakeful  sense 
of  woe. 

Though  doom'd  hard  penury  to  prove. 
And  the  sharp  stings  of  hopeless  love ; 

To  griefs  congenial  prone. 
More  wounds  than  Nature  gave  ho  knew, 
While  Misery's  form  his  fancy  drew 
In  dark  ideal  hues,  and  horrors  not  its  o^vn. 

Then  wish  not  o'er  his  earthy  tomb 
The  baleful  nightshade's  lurid  bloom 

To  drop  its  deadly  dew  : 
Nor  oh  !  forbid  the  twisted  thorn, 
That  rudely  binds  his  turf  forlorn. 
With  Spring's  green  swelling  buds  to  vegetate 
anew. 

What  though  no  marble-piled  bust 
Adorn  his  desolated  dust, 

With  speaking  sculpture  wrought  ? 
Pity  shall  woo  the  weeping  Nine, 
To  build  a  visionary  shrine, 
Hung  with  unfading  flowers,  from  fairy  regions 
brought. 

What  though  refused  each  chanted  rite  ? 
Hero  viewless  mourners  shall  delight 

To  touch  the  shadowy  shell : 
And  Petrarch's  harp,  that  wept  the  doom 
Of  Laura,  lost  in  early  bloom, 
In   many  a  pensive  pause  shall  seem  to  ring 
his  knell. 

To  soothe  a  lone,  unhallow'd  shade. 
This  votive  dirge  sad  duty  paid. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


ODE  SENT  TO  A  FRIEND. 


Thomas  Warton. 


Within  an  ivied  nook  : 
Sudden  the  half- sunk  orb  of  day 
More  radiant  shot  its  parting-  ray, 
And  thus  a  cherub-voice  my  charm' d  attention 
took. 

"  Forbear,  fond  Bard,  thy  partial  praise  ; 
Nor  thus  for  guilt  in  specious  laja 

The  wreath  of  glory  twine  : 
In  vain  with  hues  of  gorgeous  glow 
Gay  Fancy  gives  her  vest  to  flow. 
Unless  Truth's  matron-hand  the  fioating  folds 
confine. 

Just  Heaven,  man's  fortitude  to  prove, 
Permits  through  life  at  large  to  rove 

The  tribes  of  hell-born  Woe  : 
Yet  the  same  Power  that  wisely  sends 
Life's  fiercest  ills,  indulgent  lends 
Eeligion's  golden  shield  to  break  th'  embattled 
foe. 

Her  aid  divine  had  lull'd  to  rest 

Yon  foul  self-murderer's  throbbing  breast. 

And  stay'd  the  rising  storm  : 
Had  bade  the  sun  of  hope  appear 
To  gild  his  darken' d  hemisphere, 
And  give  the  wonted  bloom  to  Nature's  blasted 
form. 

Vain  man  !  'tis  Heaven's  prerogative 
To  take,  what  first  it  deign' d  to  give, 

Thy  tributary  breath : 
In  awful  expectation  placed, 
Await  thy  doom,  nor  impious  haste 
To   pluck  from  God's  right  hand  his  instru- 
ments of  death." 

Thomas  Warton. — Bom  1728,  Died  1790. 


971.— ODE  SENT  TO  A  FEIEND  ON  HIS 
LEAVING  A  FAVOURITE  VILLAGE. 

Ah,  mourn,  thou  loved  I'ctreat !     No  more 
Shall  classic  steps  thy  scenes  explore  ! 
When  morn's  pale  rays  but  faintly  peep 
O'er  yonder  oa.k-crown'd  airy  steep. 
Who  now  shall  climb  its  brows  to  view 
The  length  of  landscape,  ever  new, 
Wiiere  Summer  flings,  in  careless  pride, 
Her  varied  vesture  far  and  wide  ? 
"Who  mark,  beneath,  each  village-charm, 
Or  grange,  or  elm-encircled  farm  ; 
The  flinty  dovecot's  crowded  roof, 
Watch'd  by  the  kite  that  sails  aloof ; 
The  tufted  pines,  whose  umbrage  tall 
Darkens  the  long-deserted  hall ; 
The  veteran  beech,  that  on  the  plain 
Collects  at  eve  the  playful  train  ; 
The  cot  that  smokes  with  early  fire. 
The  low-roof 'd  fane's  embosom'd  spire? 

Who  now  shall  indolently  stray 
Through  the  deep  forest's  tangled  way  ; 
Pleased  at  his  custom' d  tasli  to  find 
The  v.'ell-known  hoary-tressed  hind, 


That  toils  with  feeble  hands  to  glean 

Of  v.'ither'd  boughs  his  pittance  mean  ? 

Who  mid  thy  nooks  of  harel  sit, 

Lost  in  some  melancholy  fit, 

And  listening  to  the  raven's  croak, 

The  distant  flail,  the  falling  oak  ? 

Who,  through  the  sunshine  and  the  showery 

Descry  the  rainbow-painted  tower  F*    ""^ 

Who,  wandering  at  return  of  May, 

Catch  the  first  cuckoo's  vernal  la,y  ? 

Who,  musing  waste  the  summer  hour. 

Where  high  o'er-arching  trees  embower 

The  grassy  lane  so  rarely  paced, 

With  azure  flowerets  idly  graced  ? 

Unnoticed  now,  at  twilight's  dawn. 

Returning  reapers  cross  the  la^vn  ; 

Nor  fond  attention  loves  to  note 

The  wether's  bell  from  folds  remote : 

While,  own'd  by  no  poetic  eye, 

Thy  pensive  evenings  shade  the  sky. 

For,  lo  !  the  Bard  who  rapture  found 
In  every  rural  sight  or  sound ; 
Whose  genius  warm,  and  judgment  chaste. 
No  charm  of  genuine  nature  pass'd  ; 
Who  felt  the  Muse's  purest  fires, — 
Far  from  thy  favour' d  haunt  retires  : 
"Who  peopled  all  thy  vocal  bowers 
With  shadowy  shapes  and  airy  powers. 

Behold,  a  dread  repose  resumes, 
As  erst,  thy  sad  scquester'd  glooms  I 
From  the  deep  dell,  where  shaggy  roots 
Fringe  the  rough  brink  ^vith  wreathed  shoots 
Th'  unwilling  Genius  flies  forlorn, 
His  primrose  chaplet  rudely  torn. 
With  hollow  shriek  the  Nymphs  forsake 
The  pathless  copse  and  hedgerow  brake  : 
Where  the  delved  mountain's  headlong  side 
Its  chalky  entrails  opens  wide. 
On  the  gi'een  summit,  ambush'd  high, 
No  longer  Echo  loves  to  He. 
No  peai'l-crown'd  maids,  with  wity  lock. 
Rise  beck'ning  from  the  reedy  brook. 
Around  the  glow-worm's  glimmering  bank, 
No  fairies  run  in  fiery  rank ; 
Nor  brush,  half-seen,  in  airy  tread, 
The  violet's  unprinted  head. 
But  Fancy,  from  the  thickets  bro"\vn. 
The  glades  that  wear  a  conscious  frown, 
The  forest-oaks,  that,  pale  and  lone, 
Nod  to  the  blast  with  hoarser  tone. 
Rough  glens,  and  sullen  waterfalls, 
Her  bright  ideal  offspring  calls. 

So  by  some  sage  enchanter's  spell 
(As  old  Arabian  fablers  tell). 
Amid  the  solitary  wild. 
Luxuriant  gardens  gaily  smiled  ; 
From  sapphire  rocks  the  fountains  stream'd, 
With  golden  fruit  the  branches  beam'd ; 
Fair  forms,  in  every  wondrous  wood, 
Or  lightly  tripp'd,  or  solemn  stood  ; 
And  oft,  retreating  from  the  view, 
Betray'd,  at  distance,  beauties  new  : 
While  gleaming  o'er  the  crisped  bowers 
Rich  spires  arose,  and  sparkling  towers. 
If  bound  on  service  new  to  go, 
The  master  of  the  maq-ic  show, 


Thomas  Warton,] 


A  PANEGTEIC  ON  OXFOED  ALE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


His  transitory  charm  withdrew, 

Away  th'  illusive  landscape  flew  : 

Dun  clouds  obscured  the  groves  of  gold, 

Blue  lightning  smote  the  blooming  mould  : 

In  visionary  glory  rear'd, 

The  gorgeous  castle  disappear' d  ; 

And  a  bare  heath's  unfruitful  plain 

Usurp'd  the  wizard's  proud  domain. 

TJiomas  Warton.— Born  1728,  Died  1790. 


972.— A  PANEGYEIC  ON  OXFOED  ALE. 

Balm  of  my  cares,  sweet  solace  of  my  toils, 
Hail,  Juice  benignant !  O'er  the  costly  cups 
Of  riot-stirring  wine,  unwholesome  draught. 
Let  Pride's  loose  sons  prolong  the  wasteful 

night ; 
My  sober  evening  let  the  tankard  bless. 
With  toast  embrown'd,  and  fragrant  nutmeg 

frauglit, 
While   the    rich   draught    with    oft-repeated 

whiffs 
Tobacco  mild  improves.     Divine  repast ! 
Where  no  crude  surfeit,  or  intemperate  joys 
Of  lawless  Bacchus  reign  ;  but  o'er  my  soul 
A  calm  Lethean  creeps  ;  in  drowsy  trance 
Each  thought   subsides,   and   sweet   oblivion 

wraps 
My  peaceful  brain,  as  if  the  leaden  rod 
Of    magic    Morpheus    o'er    mine    eyes    had 

shed 
Its    opiate    influence.       What    though    sore 

ills 
Oppress,  dire  want  of  chill- dispelling  coals 
Or  cheerful  candle  (save   the   make-weight's 

gleam 
Haply  remaining),  heart-rejoicing  Ale 
Cheers  the  sad  scene,  and  every  want   sup- 
plies. 
Meantime,  not  mindless  of  the  daily  task 
Of  tutor  sage,  upon  the  learned  leaves 
Of  deep  Smiglecius  much  I  meditate ; 
While  Ale  inspires,  and  lends  its  kindred  aid, 
The  thought-perplexing  labour  to  pursue, 
Sweet  Helicon  of  Logic  !     But  if  friends 
Congenial  call  me  from  the  toilsome  page, 
To  Pot-house  I  repair,  the  sacred  haunt, 
Where,  Ale,  thy  votaries  in  full  resort 
Hold  rites  nocturnal.     In  capacious  chair 
Of  monumental  oak  and  antique  mould, 
That  long  has  stood  the  rage  of  conquering 

years 
Inviolate  (nor  in  more  ample  chair 
Smokes   rosy    Justice,   when    th'    important 

cause, 
Whether  of  hen-roost,  or  of  mirthful  rape. 
In  all  the  majesty  of  paunch  he  tries). 
Studious  of  ease,  and  provident,  I  place 
My  gladsome  limbs  ;  while  in  repeated  round 
Eeturns  replenish' d  the  successive  cup, 


And  the  brisk  fire  conspires  to  genial  joy  : 
While  haply,  to  relieve  the  lingering  hours 
In  innocent  delight,  amusive  Putt 
On  smooth  joint-stool  in  emblematic  play 
The  vain  vicissitudes  of  fortune  shows. 
Nor    reckoning,   name   tremendous,    me    dis- 
turbs. 
Nor,  call'd  for,  chills  my  breast  with  sudden 

fear ; 
While  on  the  wonted  door,  expressive  mark, 
The  frequent  penny  stands  described  to  view, 
In  snowy  characters  and  graceful  row, — 

Hail,  Ticking  !  surest  guardian  of  distress  ! 
Beneath  thy  shelter,  penniless  I  quaff 
The   cheerful   cup,  nor    hear    with    hopeless 

heart 
New  oysters  cried  ; — though  much  the  Poet's 

friend. 
Ne'er  yet  attempted  in  poetic  strain. 
Accept  this  tribute  of  poetic  praise  ! 

Nor  Proctor  thrice  with  vocal  heel  alarms 
Our  joys  secure,  nor  deigns  the  lowly  roof 
Of  Pot-house  snug  to  visit :  -wiser  he 
The  splendid  tavern  haunts,  or  coffee-house 
Of    James   or   Juggins,   where   the    grateful 

breath 
Of  loathed  tobacco  ne'er  diffused  its  balm  ; 
But   the    lewd    spendthrift,    falsely    deem'd 

polite, 
Wliile   steams   around    the    fragrant   Indian 

bowl, 
Oft  damns  the  vulgar  sons  of  humbler  Ale  : 
In  vain — the   Proctor's   voice   arrests    their 

joys ; 
Just  fate  of  wanton  pride  and  loose  excess  ! 
Nor  less  by  day  delightful  is  thy  draught, 
All-powerful     Ale !      whose    sorrow-soothing 

sweets 
Oft  I  repeat  in  vacant  afternoon. 
When   tatter' d   stockings   ask    my    mending 

hand 
Not  unexperienced  ;  while  the  tedious  toil 
Slides  unregarded.     Let  the  tender  swain 
Each  mom  regale  on  nerve-relaxing  tea. 
Companion  meet  of  languor-loving  nymph  : 
Be  mine  each  morn  with  eager  appetite 
And  hunger  undissembled,  to  repair 
To  friendly  buttery  ;  there  on  smoking  crust 
And  foaming  Ale  to  banquet  unrestrain'd, 
Material  breakfast !     Thus  in  ancient  days 
Our  ancestors  robust  with  liberal  cups 
Usher' d  the  morn,  unlike  the  squeamish  sons 
Of  modern  times  :  nor  eVer  had  the  might 
Of    Briton's    brave   decay' d,   had  thus   they 

fed. 
With  British  Ale  improving  British  worth. 

With  Ale  irriguous,  undismay'd  I  hear 
The  frequent  dun  ascend  my  lofty  dome 
Importunate  :  whether  the  plaintive  voice 
Of  Laundress  shrill  awake  my  startled  ear ; 
Or  Barber  spruce  with  supple  look  intrude  ; 
Or  Tailor  with  obsequious  bow  advance  ; 
Or  Groom  invade  me  Avith  defying  front 
And  stern  demeanour,  whose  emaciate  steeds 
(Whene'er   or   Phoebus   shone   with    kindlier 

beams, 


1727  to  1780. 


THE  PEOGEESS  OF  DISCONTENT. 


[Thomas  Warton. 


Or  luckier   chance  the  borrow' d  boots  sup- 
plied) 
Had  panted  oft  beneath  my  goring  steel. 
In   vain   they   plead   or  threat :  all-powerful 

Ale 
Excuses  new  supplies,  and  each  descends 
With    joyless     pace,      and     debt-despairijig 

looks  : 
Even  Spacey  with  indignant  brow  retires, 
Fiercest  of   duns  !    and  conquer'd  quits  the 

field. 
Why  did  the  gods   such  various  blessings 

pour 
On    hapless    mortals,    from     their     grateful 

hands 
So  soon  the  short-lived  bounty  to  recall  ? — 
Thus  while,  improvident  of  futm*e  iE, 
I  quaff  the  luscious  tankard  uncontroU'd, 
And  thoughtless  riot  in  unlicensed  bliss  ; 
Sudden  (dire  fate  of  all  things  excellent !) 
Th'  unpitj-ing  Bursar's  cross-affixing  hand 
Blasts    all     my    joys,    and    stops    my    glad 

career. 
Nor  now  the  friendly  Pot-house  longer  yields 
A   sure  retreat,   when   night   o'ershades  the 

skies  ; 
Nor    Sheppard,    barbarous    matron,    longer 

gives 
The  wonted  trust,  and  Winter  ticks  no  more. 
Thus   Adam,    exiled    from    the    beauteous 

scenes 
Of  Eden,  grieved,  no  more  in  fragrant  bower 
On   fruits   divine   to   feast,  fresh   shade  and 

vale 
No  more  to  visit,  or  vine-mantled  grot ; 
But   all  forlorn,  the  dreary  wilderness 
And  unrejoicing  solitudes  to  trace  : 
Thus    too    the   matchless    bard,    whose    lay 

resounds 
The   Splendid    Shilling's    praise,   in    nightly 

gloom 
Of    lonesome     garret,     pined     for     cheerful 

Ale; 
Wliose  steps  in  verse  Miltonic  I  pursue. 
Mean  follower  :  like  him  with  honest  love 
Of  Ale  divine  inspired,  and  love  of  song. 
But  long  may  bounteous  Heaven  with  watch- 
ful care 
Avert  his  hapless  lot !     Enough  for  me 
That,  burning  with  congenial  flame,  I  dared 
His  guiding  steps  at  distance  to  pursue. 
And   sing    his    favourite    theme    in   kindred 

strains. 

Thomas  Warton. — Born  1728,  Died  1790. 


973---THE  PEOGEESS  OF  DISCONTENT. 

When  now  mature  in  classic  knowledge. 
The  joyful  youth  is  sent  to  college, 
His  father  comes,  a  vicar  plain. 
At  Oxford  bred — in  Anna's  reign, 


!    And  thus,  in  form  of  humble  suitor, 

j   Bowing  accosts  a  reverend  tutor : 
"  Sir,  I'm  a  Glo'stershire  divine, 
And  this  my  eldest  son  of  nine  ; 
My  wife's  ambition  and  my  own 
Was  that  this  child  should  wear  a  govra. ; 
I'll  warrant  that  his  good  behaviour 
Will  justify  your  future  favour ; 
And,  for  his  parts,  to  tell  the  truth, 

j  My  son 's  a  very  forward  youth  ; 
Has  Horace  aU  by  heart — you'd  wonder — 
And  mouths  out  Homer's  Greek  like  thunder. 
If  you'd  examine — and  admit  him, 
A  scholarship  would  nicely  fit  Mm  ; 
That  he  succeeds  'tis  ten  to  one ; 
Your  vote  and  interest,  sir  !" — 'Tis  done. 

Our  pupil's  hopes,  though  twice  defeated, 
Are  with  a  scholarship  completed  : 
A  scholarship  but  half  maintains, 
And  college  rules  are  heavy  chains  : 
In  garret  dark  he  smokes  and  puns ; 
A  prey  to  discipline  and  duns ; 
And  now,  intent  on  new  designs. 
Sighs  for  a  fellowship — and  fines. 

When  nine  full  tedious  winters  past, 
That  utmost  wish  is  crown' d  at  last : 
But  the  rich  prize  no  sooner  got. 
Again  he  quarrels  with  his  lot  : 
"  These  fellowships  are  pretty  things, 
We  live  indeed  like  petty  kings  : 
But  who  can  bear  to  waste  his  whole  age 
Amid  the  dulness  of  a  college, 
Debarr'd  the  common  joys  of  life. 
And  that  prime  bhss — a  loving  wife  ! 
O  !  what's  a  table  richly  spread. 
Without  a  woman  at  its  head  ? 
Would  some  snug  benefice  but  fall, 
Ye  feasts,  ye  dinners  !  farewell  all ! 
To  offices  I'd  bid  adieu, 
Of  Dean,  Vice-Pross — of  Bursar  too ; 
Come,  joys  that  rural  quiet  yields, 
Come,  tithes,  and  house,  and  fruitful  fields  !  " 

Too  fond  of  freedom  and  of  ease 
A  Patron's  vanity  to  please. 
Long  time  he  watches,  and  by  stealth. 
Each  frail  Incumbent's  doubtful  health  ; 
At  length,  and  in  his  fortieth  year, 
A  living  drops — two  hundred  clear  ! 
With  breast  elate  beyond  expression. 
He  hurries  down  to  take  possession, 
With  rapture  views  the  sweet  retreat — 
"  What  a  convenient  house  !  how  neat  1 
For  fuel  here  's  sufficient  wood  : 
Pray  God  the  cellars  may  be  good ! 
The  garden — that  must  be  new  plann'd — 
Shall  these  old-fashion' d  yew-trees  stand  ? 
O'er  yonder  vacant  plot  shall  rise 
The  flowery  shrub  of  thousand  dyes  : — 
Yon  wall,  that  feels  the  southern  ray, 
Shall  blush  with  ruddy  fruitage  gay  : 
While  thick  beneath  its  aspect  warm 
O'er  well-ranged  hives  the  bees  shall  swarm, 
From  which,  ere  long,  of  golden  gleam 
Metheglin's  luscious  juice  shall  stream : 
This  awkward  hut,  o'ergrown  with  ivy, 
We'U  alter  to  a  modern  privy : 


Joseph  Warton.] 


TO  FANCY, 


[Sixth  Peric 


Up  yon  green  slope,  of  hazels  trim, 
An  avenue  so  cool  and  dim 
Shall  to  an  arboui*,  at  the  end, 
In  spite  of  gout,  entice  a  friend. 
My  predecessor  loved  devotion — 
But  of  a  garden  had  no  notion." 

Continuing  this  fantastic  farce  on, 
He  now  commences  country  parson. 
To  make  his  character  entire, 
He  weds — a  Cousin  of  the  Squire  ; 
Not  over  weighty  in  the  purse. 
But  many  Doctors  have  done  worse  : 
And  though  she  boasts  no  charms  divine, 
Yet  she  can  carve,  and  make  birch  wine. 

Thus  fix'd,  content  he  taps  his  barrel, 
Exhorts  his  neighbours  not  to  quarrel ; 
Finds  his  Church- wardens  have  discerning 
Both  in  good  liquor  and  good  learning  ; 
With  tithes  his  barns  replete  he  sees, 
And  chuckles  o'er  his  surpHce  fees ; 
Studies  to  find  Qut  latent  dues. 
And  regulates  the  state  of  pews  ; 
Rides  a  sleek  mare  with  purple  housing, 
To  share  the  monthly  club's  carousing; 
Of  Oxford  pranks  facetious  tells, 
And — but  on  Sundays — hears  no  bells  ; 
Sends  presents  of  his  choicest  fruit, 
And  prunes  himself  each  sapless  shoot ; 
Plants  cauliflowers,  and  boasts  to  rear 
The  earliest  melons  of  the  year  ; 
Thinks  alteration  charming  work  is, 
Keeps  bantam  cocks,  and  feeds  his  turkeys  ; 
Builds  in  his  copse  a  favourite  bench. 
And  stores  the  pond  with  carp  and  tench. — 

But,  ah  !  too  soon  his  thoughtless  breast 
By  cares  domestic  is  opprest ; 
And  a  third  butcher's  bill,  and  brewing, 
Threaten  inevitable  ruin  : 
For  children  fresh  expenses  yet, 
And  Dicky  now  for  school  is  fit. 
"  Why  did  I  sell  my  college  life," 
He  cries,  "for  benefice  and  wife  ? 
Return,  ye  days,  when  endless  pleasure 
I  found  in  reading,  or  in  leisure  ! 
When  calm  around  the  common-room 
I  pufi'd  my  daily  pipe's  perfume  ! 
Rode  for  a  stomach,  and  inspected. 
At  annual  bottlings,  corks  selected  : 
And  dined  untax'd,  untroubled,  under 
The  portrait  of  our  pious  Founder  ! 
When  impositions  were  supplied 
To  light  my  pipe — or  soothe  my  pride — 
No  cares  were  then  for  forward  peas, 
A  yearly-longing  wife  to  please ; 
My  thoughts  no  christening  dinners  crost, 
No  children  cried  for  butter'd  toast ; 
And  every  night  I  went  to  bed. 
Without  a  Modus  in  my  head  !  " 

Oh  !  trifling  head,  and  tickle  heart ! 
Chagrin' d  at  whatsoe'er  thou  art ; 
A  dupe  to  follies  yet  untried. 
And  sick  of  pleasures,  scarce  enjoy'd  ! 
Each  prize  possess'd,  thy  transport  ceases. 
And  in  pursuit  alone  it  pleases. 

Thomas  Warton.— Born  1728,  Died  1790. 


974.— TO  FANCY. 

O  parent  of  each  lovely  muse  ! 
Thy  spirit  o'er  my  soul  diffuse, 
O'er  all  my  artless  songs  preside, 
My  footsteps  to  thy  temple  guide, 
To  offer  at  thy  turf -built  shrine 
In  golden  cups  no  costly  wine. 
No  murder' d  fatling  of  the  flock, 
But  flowers  and  honey  from  the  rock. 

O  nymph  with  loosely-flowing  hair, 
With  buskin' d  leg,  and  bosom  bare. 
Thy  waist  with  myrtle  girdle  bound, 
Thy  brows  with  Indian  feathers  crown'd, 
Waving  in  thy  snowy  hand 
An  all-commanding  magic  wand. 
Of  power  to  bid  fresh  gardens  grow 
'Mid  cheerless  Lapland's  barren  snow, 
Whose  rapid  wings  thy  flight  convey 
Through  air,  and  over  earth  and  sea, 
While  the  various  landscape  lies 
Conspicuous  to  thy  piercing  eyes  ! 
O  lover  of  the  desert,  hail ! 
Say  in  what  deep  and  pathless  vale, 
Or  on  what  hoary  mountain's  side, 
'Midst  falls  of  water,  you  reside  ; 
'Midst  broken  rocks  a  rugged  scene, 
With  green  and  grassy  dales  between  ; 
'Midst  forests  dark  of  aged  oak. 
Ne'er  echoing  with  the  woodman's  stroke 
Where  never  human  heart  appear'd, 
Nor  e'er  one  strav.r-roof 'd  cot  was  rear'd, 
Where  Nature  seem'd  to  sit  alone. 
Majestic  on  a  craggy  throne  ; 
Tell  me  the  path,  sweet  wand'rer,  tell. 
To  thy  unknown  sequester' d  cell. 
Where  woodbines  cluster  round  the  door, 
Where  shells  and  moss  o'erlay  the  floor, 
And  on  whose  top  a  hawthorn  blows. 
Amid  Avhose  thickly- woven  boughs 
Some  nightingale  still  builds  her  nest, 
Each  evening  warbling  thee  to  rest ; 
Then  lay  me  by  the  haunted  stream, 
Rapt  in  some  wild  poetic  dream. 
In  converse  while  methinks  I  rove 
With  Spenser  through  a  fairy  grove ; 
Till  suddenly  awaked,  I  hear 
Strange  whisper' d  music  in  my  ear. 
And  my  glad  soul  in  bliss  is  drown 'd 
By  the  sweetly- soothing  sound  ! 

Me,  goddess,  by  the  right  hand  lead, 
Sometimes  through  the  yellow  mead. 
Where  Joy  and  white-robed  Peace  resort. 
And  Venus  keeps  her  festive  court  ; 
Where  Mirth  and  Youth  each  evening  meet. 
And  lightly  trip  with  nimble  feet, 
Nodding  their  lily-crowned  heads. 
Where  Laughter  rose-lipp'd  Hebe  leads  ; 
Where  Echo  walks  steep  hills  among. 
Listening  to  the  shepherd's  song. 

Yet  not  these  flowery  fields  of  joy 
Can  long  mj^  pensive  mind  employ  ; 
Haste,  Fancy,  from  these  scenes  of  folly. 
To  meet  the  matron  Melancholy, 
Goddess  of  the  tearful  eye, 
That  loves  to  fold  her  arms  and  sigh  ! 


From  1727  fo  1780.] 


ODE  TO  AURORA. 


[Thos.  Blacklock. 


Let  us  with  silent  footsteps  go 
To  cliarnels  and  the  house  of  woe, 
To  Gothic  churches,  vaults,  and  tombs, 
Where  each  sad  night  some  virgin  comes, 
With  throbbing  breast,  and  faded  cheek, 
Her  promised  bridegroom's  urn  to  seek ; 
Or  to  some  abbey's  mouldering  towers, 
WTiere  to  avoid  cold  winter's  showers, 
The  naked  beggar  shivering  lies, 
Whilst  whistling  tempests  round  her  rise, 
And  trembles  lest  the  tottering  wall 
Should  on  her  sleeping  infants  fall. 

Xow  let  us  louder  strike  the  lyre. 
For  my  heart  glows  with  martial  fire  ; 
T  feel,  I  feel,  with  sudden  heat, 
My  big  tumultuous  bosom  beat ! 
The  trumpet's  clangours  pierce  mine  ear, 
A  thousand  widows'  shrieks  I  hear  ; 
"  Give  me  another  horse,"  I  cry, 
Lo  !  the  base  Gallic  squadrons  fly. 
Whence  is  this  rage  ?     What  spirit,  say. 
To  battle  hurries  me  away  ? 
•Tis  Fancy,  in  her  fiery  car, 
Transports  me  to  the  thickest  war, 
There  whirls  me  o'er  the  hills  of  slain, 
Where  Tumult  and  Destruction  reign  ; 
Where,  mad  with  pain,  the  wounded  steed 
Tramples  the  dying  and  the  dead ; 
Where  giant  Terror  stalks  around. 
With  sullen  joy  surveys  the  ground, 
And,  pointing  to  the  ensanguined  field. 
Shakes  his  dreadful  Gorgon  shield ! 

O  !  guide  me  from  this  horrid  scene 
To  high-arch'd  walks  and  alleys  green, 
Which  lovely  Laura  seeks,  to  shun 
The  fervours  of  the  mid-day  sun ! 
The  pangs  of  absence,  O  !  remove, 
For  thou  canst  place  me  near  my  love, 
Canst  fold  in  visionary  bliss, 
And  let  me  think  I  steal  a  Idss. 

When  young-eyed  Spring  profusely  throws 
From  her  green  lap  the  pink  and  rose  ; 
When  the  soft  turtle  of  the  dale 
To  Summer  tells  her  tender  tale  : 
When  Autumn  cooling  caverns  seeks, 
And  staias  with  wine  his  jolly  cheeks  ; 
When  Winter,  like  poor  pOgrim  old, 
Shakes  his  silver  beard  with  cold  ; 
At  every  season  let  my  ear 
Thy  solemn  whispers,  Fancy,  hear. 

Joseph  Warton. — Born  1722,  Died  1800. 


975.— FLOWERS. 

Let     long-lived     pansies    here    their    scents 

bestow, 
The  violet  languish,  and  the  roses  glow ; 
In  yellow  glory  let  the  crocus  shine, 
Narcissus  here  his  love-sick  head  recline  : 
Here  hyacinths  in  purple  sweetness  rise, 
And  tulips  tinged  with  beauty's  fairest  dyes. 

Thos.  BlacUock.Sorn  1721,  Died  1791. 


976.— TERRORS    OF  A   GUILTY 
CONSCIENCE. 

Cursed  with  unnumber'd  groundless  fears, 
How  pale  yon  shivering  wretch  appears  ! 
For  him  the  daylight  shines  in  vain. 
For  him  the  fields  no  joys  contain  ;  —     — 
Nature's  whole  charms  to  him  are  lost, 
Nq  more  the  woods  their  music  boast ; 
No  more  the  meads  their  vernal  bloom, 
No  more  the  gales  their  rich  perfume  : 
Impending  mists  deform  the  sky. 
And  beauty  withers  in  his  eye. 
In  hopes  his  terrors  to  elude, 
By  day  he  mingles  with  the  crowd. 
Yet  finds  his  soul  to  fears  a  prey. 
In  busy  crowds  and  open  day. 
If  night  his  lonely  walks  surprise. 
What  horrid  visions  round  him  rise  '. 
The  blasted  oak  which  meets  his  way, 
Shown  by  the  meteor's  sudden  ray. 
The  midnight  murderer's  lone  retreat 
Felt  heaven's  avengeful  bolt  of  late ; 
The  clashing  chain,  the  groan  profound, 
Loud  from  yon  ruin'd  tower  resound  ; 
And  now  the  spot  he  seems  to  tread, 
Where  some  self- slaughter' d  corse  was  laid , 
He  feels  fix'd  earth  beneath  him  bend. 
Deep  murmurs  from  her  caves  ascend  ; 
Till  all  his  soul,  by  fancy  sway'd. 
Sees  livid  phantoms  crowd  the  shade. 

TJios.  Blacklock.—Born  1721,  Died  1791. 


977.— ODE    TO   AURORA. 

ON  HIS  wipe's  birthday. 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  born, 

Emerge,  thou  rosy-finger' d  morn ; 

Emerge,  in  purest  dress  array' d, 

And  chase  from  heaven  night's  envious  shade, 

That  I  once  more  may  pleased  survey. 

And  hail  Mehssa's  natal  day. 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  bom. 
Emerge,  thou  rosy-finger'd  morn ; 
In  order  at  the  eastern  gate 
The  hours  to  draw  thy  chariot  wait ; 
Whilst  Zephyr,  on  his  balmy  wings. 
Mild  nature's  fragrant  tribute  brings, 
With  odours  sweet  to  strew  thy  way, 
And  grace  the  bland  revolving  day. 

But,  as  thou  lead'st  the  radiant  sphere, 
That  gilds  its  birth  and  marks  the  year, 
And  as  his  stronger  glories  rise. 
Diffused  around  the  expanded  skies, 
Till  clothed  with  beams  serenely  bright, 
AU  heaven's  vast  concave  flames  with  light ; 

So  when  through  life's  protracted  day 
Melissa  still  pursues  her  way, 
Her  virtues  with  thy  splendour  vie, 
Increasing  to  the  mental  eye ; 

48 


Thos.  Blacklock.J 


THE  AUTHOR'S  PICTURE. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Though  less  conspicuous,  not  less  dear, 

Long  may  they  Bion's  prospect  cheer ; 

So  shall  his  heart  no  more  repine, 

Bless'd  with  her  rays,  though  robb'd  of  thine. 

Tlios.  Blackloclc.—Bom  1721,  Died  1791. 


978.— THE  AUTHOR'S  PICTURE. 

While  in  my  matchless  graces  wrapt  I  stand, 
And    touch    each   feature  with    a   trembling 

hand; 
Deign,   lovely  self !    with   art   and   nature's 

pride. 
To  mix  the  colours,  and  the  pencil  guide. 

Self  is  the  grand  pursuit  of  half  mankind  ; 
How    vast    a  crowd  by   self,    like  me,   are 

blind ! 
By  self  the  fop  in  magic  colours  shown. 
Though    scorn' d   by  every   eye,    delights  his 

own: 
When  age  and  wrinkles  seize  the  conqu'ring 

maid, 
Self,    not    the    glass,  reflects  the  flattering 

shade. 
Then,  wonder-working  self !  begin  the  lay ; 
Thy  charms  to  others  as  to  me  display. 

Straight  is  my  person,  but  of  little  size ; 
Lean    are    my    cheeks,   and  hollow  are  my 

eyes  : 
My  youthful  down  is,  like  my  talents,  rare ; 
Politely  distant  stands  each  single  hair. 
My  voice  too  rough  to  charm  a  lady's  ear  ; 
So  smooth  a  child  may  listen  without  fear  ; 
Not    form'd    in   cadence    soft  and  warbling 

lays. 
To  soothe  the  fair  through  pleasure's  wanton 


My  form  so  fine,  so  regular,  so  new, 
My  port  so  manly,  and  so  fresh  my  hue ; 
Oft,    as    I  meet  the    crowd,   they  laughing 

say, 
*'  See,  see  Memento  Mori  cross  the  way." 
The  ravish'd  Proserpine  at  last,  we  know. 
Grew  fondly  jealous  of  her  sable  beau ; 
But,   thanks  to  nature  !   none  from  me  need 

fly; 
One  heart  the  devil  could  wound — so  cannot  I. 
Yet,   though   my  person  fearless   may  be 

seen. 
There  is  some  danger  in  my  graceful  mien  : 
For,    as    some    vessel   toss'd   by  wind  and 

tide, 
Bounds  o'er  the  waves  and  rocks  from  side  to 

side; 
Tn  just  vibration  thus  I  always  move  • 
This  who    can    view    and  not  be  forced  to 

love? 
Hail !  charming  self !  by  whose    propitious 

aid 
My  form  in  all  its  glory  stands  display' d : 
Be  present  still ;  with  inspiration  kind, 
Let  the  same  faithful  colours  paint  the  mind. 


Like  all  mankind,  with  vanity  I'm  bless'd. 
Conscious  of  wit  I  never  yet  possess' d. 
To  strong  desires  my  heart  an  easy  prey, 
Oft    feels   their  force,  but  never  owns  their 

sway. 
This  hour,  perhaps,  as  death  I  hate  my  foe  ; 
The  next,  I  wonder  why  I  should  do  so. 
Though  poor,  the  rich  I  view  with  careless 

eye; 
Scorn  a  vain  oath,  and  hate  a  serious  lie. 
I  ne'er  for  satire  torture  common  sense  ; 
Nor  show  my  wit  at  God's  nor  man's  expense. 
Harmless  I  Hve,  unknowing  and  unknown ; 
Wish  weU  to  aU,  and  yet  do  good  to  none. 
Unmerited  contempt  I  hate  to  bear  ; 
Yet  on  my  faults,  like  others,  am  severe. 
Dishonest  flames  my  bosom  never  fire ; 
The  bad  I  pity,  and  the  good  admire ; 
Fond  of  the  Muse,  to  her  devote  my  days, 
And     scribble — not     for    pudding,    but    for 

praise. 
These  careless  lines,  if  any  virgin  hears. 
Perhaps,  in  pity  to  my  joyless  years. 
She  may  consent  a  generous  flame  to  own ; 
And  I  no  longer  sigh  the  nights  alone. 
But  should  the  fair,  affected,  vain,  or  nice. 
Scream   with   the  fears  inspired  by  frogs  or 

mice ; 
Cry,    "  Save    us    heaven !   a  spectre,    not  a 

man !  " 
Her  hartshorn  snatch  or  interpose  her  fan. ; 
If  I  my  tender  overture  repeat ; 
Oh !  may  my  vows  her  kind  reception  meet  1 
May  she  new  graces  on  my  form  bestow. 
And  with  tall  honours  dignify  my  brow  ! 

Thos.  BlacUock.—Bom  1721,  Died  1791. 


979.— BELSHAZZAR  AND  DANIEL. 

Now  Morn,  with  rosy-colour'd  finger,  raised 
The   sable   paU,   which  provident  Night  had 

thrown 
O'er   mortals,    and  their   works,  when  every 

street, 
Straight   or    transverse,    that    towards    Eu- 
phrates turns 
Its  sloping  path,  resounds  with  festive  shouts, 
And    teems    with    busy   multitudes,    which 

press 
With  zeal  impetuous  to  the  towering  fane 
Of  Bel,  Chaldaean  Jove  ;  surpassing  far 
That  Doric  temple,  which  the  Elean  chiefs 
Raised  to  their  thunderer  from  the  spoils  of 

war. 
Or  that  Ionic,  where  the  Ephesian  bow'd 
To   Dian,   queen   of  heaven.      Eight   towers 

arise. 
Each  above  each,  immeasurable  height, 
A  monument  at  once  of  eastern  pride 
And  slavish  superstition.     Round,  a  scale 
Of  circling  steps  entwines  the  conic  pile ; 
And  at  the  bottom  on  vast  hinges  grate 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


BELSHAZZAE  AND  DANIEL. 


[W.  H.  Roberts 


Four  brazen  gates,  towards  the  four  winds  of 

heaven 
Placed  in  the  solid  square.     Hither  at  once 
Come  flocking  all  the  sons  of  Babylon, 
Chalda3an  or  Assyrian ;  but  retire 
With  humblest  awe,  while  through  their  mar- 
shall' d  ranks 
Stalks  proud  Belshazzar.     From  his  shoulders 

flows 
A  robe,  twice  steep'd  in  rich  Sidonian  hues, 
"Whose   skirts,   embroider'd  with  meand'ring 

gold,  • 
Sweep  o'er  the  marble  pavement.     Eound  liis 

neck 
A  broad  chain  glitters,  set  with  richest  gems. 
Ruby,    and    amethyst.       The    priests    come 

next, 
With  knives  and  lancets  arm'd  ;  two  thousand 

sheep 
And  twice  two  thousand  lambs  stand  bleating 

round. 
Their  hungry  god's  repast :  six  loaded  wains 
With    wine,    and    frankincense,    and    finest 

flour, 
Move  slowly.     Then  advance  a  gallant  band. 
Provincial  rulers,  counsellors  and  chiefs. 
Judges    and    princes  :    from    their    essenced 

hair 
Steam  rich  perfumes,  exhaled  from  flower  or 

herb, 
Assyrian  spices  :  last,  the  common  train 
Of  humbler  citizens.     A  linen  vest 
Enfolds    their   limbs ;   o'er  which  a  robe  of 

wool 
Is  clasp'd,  while  yet  a  third  hangs  white  as 

snow. 
Even  to  their  sandaU'd  feet :  a  signet  each. 
Each  bears  a  polish'd  staff,  on  whose  smooth 

top 
In     bold     relief    some    well-car^-ed    emblem 

stands, 
Bird,    fruit,    or  flower.  ^  Determined,  though 

dismay'd, 
Judaea's  mourning  prisoners  close  the  rear. 

And  now  the  unfolded  gates  on  every  side 
Admit  the  splendid  train,  and  to  their  eyes 
A  scene  of  rich  magnificence  display. 
Censers,  and  cups,  and  vases,  nicely  wrought 
In    gold,    with    pearls   and   glittering   gems 

inlaid. 
The  furniture  of  Baal.     An  altar  stands 
Of  vast  dimensions  near  the  central  stone, 
On  which  the  god's  high-priest  strews  frank- 
incense. 
In    weight   a  thousand    talents.      There   he 

drags 
The   struggling   elders    of    the    flock;    wliile 

near. 
Stretch' d  on  a  smaller  plate  of  unmix' d  gold. 
Bleed   the  reluctant  lambs.      The  ascending 

smoke, 
Impregnate  with  perfumes,  fills  all  the  air. 
These    rites    perform'd,     his    votaries   all 
advance 
Wliero    stands   their   idol;    to   compare  with 
whom 


That  earth-bom  crew,  which  scaled  the  walls 

of  heaven 
Or  that  vast  champion  of  Philistia's  host. 
Whom  in  the  vale  of  Elah  David  slew 
Unarm'd,    were    'minish'd    to    a    span.     In 

height 
Twice  twenty  feet  he  rises  from  the  ground ; 
And  every  massy  limb,  and  every  joint. 
Is  carved  in  due  proportion.     Not  one  mine. 
Though   branching   out   in  many   a   vein   of 

gold. 
Sufficed    for ,  this    huge    column.      Him  the 

priests 
Had  swept,  and  burnish' d,  and  perfumed  with 

oils. 
Essential  odours.     Now  the  sign  is  given. 
And  forthwith  strains  of  mixed  melody 
Proclaim    their    molten    thunderer;    comet, 

flute, 
Harp,  sackbut,  psaltery,  dulcimer,  unite 
In  loud  triumphal  hymn,  and  all  at  once 
The  King,  the  nations,  and  the  languages 
Fall   prostrate   on   the   ground.     But   not   a 

head, 
But  not  one  head  in  all  thy  faithful  bands, 
O    Judah,    bows.     As    when    the    full-orb'd 

moon. 
What    time    the  reaper  chants  his  harvest 


Rises  behind  some  horizontal  hill, 

Flaming    with    reddest    fire;     still,    as    she 

moves. 
The  tints  all  soften,  and  a  yellower  light 
Gleams  through  the  ridges  of  a  purple  cloud  : 
At   length,  when   midnight   holds  her   silent 

reign, 
Changed   to   a   silver    white,    she   holds   her 

lamp 
O'er  the  belated  traveller  ;  so  thy  face, 
Belshazzar,  from  the  crimson  glow  of  rage, 
Shifting  through  all  the  various  hues  between. 
Settles  into  a  wan  and  bloodless  pale. 
Thine  eyeballs  glare  with  fire.     "  Now  by  great 

Bel," 
Incensed,    exclaims   the   monarch,    "  soon   as 

mom 
Again    shall   dawn,   my  vengeance   shall   be 

pour'd 
On  every  head  of  their  detested  race." 

He   spake,    and   left   the   fane  with  hasty 

step. 
Indignant.     Him  a  thousand  lords  attend. 
The   minions   of   his   court.     And  now  the}'- 

reach 
The  stately  palace.     In  a  spacious  hall, 
From  whose  high  roof  seven  sparkling  lustres 

hang. 
Round  the  perpetual  board  high  sofas  ranged 
Receive    the    gallant   chiefs.      The    floor    is 

spread 
With  carpets,  work'd  in  Babylonia's  looms, 
Exquisite  art ;  rich  vessels  carved  in  gold, 
In  silver,  and  in  ivory,  beam  with  gems. 
'Midst    these    is   placed   whate'er   of    massy 

plate, 
Or  holy  ornament,  Nebassar  brought  .^^ 


W.  H.  EOBEJRTS.] 


BELSHAZZAE  AND  DANIEL. 


[Sixth  Period.- 


From    Sion'a  ransack'd  temple ;   lamps,  and 

cups, 
And  bowls,   now    sparkling  with  the  richest 

growth 
Of  Eastern  vineyards.     On  the  table  smokes 
All  that  can  rouse  the  languid  appetite. 
Barbaric  luxury.     Soft  minstrels  round 
Chant    songs    of    triumph    to    symphonious 

harps. 
Propt  on  a  golden  couch  Belshazzar  lies. 
While    on    each   side  fair   slaves   of    Syrian 

race 
By  turns  solicit  with  some  amorous  tale 
The  monarch's  melting  heart.     "  Fill  me,"  he 

cries, 
"  That  largest  bowl,  -with  which  the  Jewish 

slaves 
Once   deck'd  the    altar   of    their  vanquish' d 

God. 
Never  again  shall  this  capacious  gold 
Eeceive  their  victim's  blood.     Henceforth  the 

kings 
Of  Babylon,  oft  as  this  feast  returns. 
Shall    crown    it   with   rich   ■svine,    nectarious 

draught. 
Fill    high    the    foaming    goblet;-    rise,     my 

friends ; 
And  as  I  quaff  the  cup,  with  loud  acclaim 
Thrice  hail  to  Bel."     They  rose ;  when  all  at 

once 
Such  sound  was  heard,  as  when  the  roaring 

winds 
Burst    from   their  cave,  and  with  impetuous 

rage 
Sweep    o'er    the    Caspian    or   the   Chronian 


O'er  the  devoted  walls  the  gate  of  heaven 
Thunder' d,     a    hideous     peal ;     and,    lo  !    a 

cloud 
Came    darkening    all    the    banquet,    whence 

appear' d 
A  hand  (if  hand  it  were,  or  airy  form. 
Compound  of  light  and  shade)  on  the  adverse 

wall 
Tracing  strange  characters.     Belshazzar  saw. 
And  trembled  :  from  his  lips  the  goblet  fell : 
He  look'd  again  ;  perhaps  it  was  a  dream  ; 
Thrice,   four   times  did  he  look;  and   every 

time 
Still  plainer  did  the  mystic  lines  appear. 
Indelible.     Forthwith  he  summons  all 
The  wise  ChaldaBans,  who  by  night  consult 
The  starry  signs,  and  in  each  planet  read 
The  dark  decrees  of  fate.      Silent  they  stand  ; 
Vain  are  their  boasted  charms.     With  eager 

step 
Merodach's  royal  widow  hastes  to  cheer 
Her  trembUng  son.     "  O  king,  for  over  live ; 
Why   droops  thy   sovl  ?  "    she  cries ;  "  what 

though  this  herd 
Of  sage  magicians  own  their  vanquish'd  art, 
Know'st    thou    not    Daniel  ?      In   his   heart 

resides 
The  spirit  of  holy  Gods  ;  'twas  he  who  told 
Thy  father  strange  events,  and  terrible  ; 
Nor  did  Nebassar  honour  one  like  him 


Through  all  his  spacious  kingdom.     He  shall 

soon 
Dispel  thy  doubts,  and  all  thy  fears  ally," 
She  spake,  and  with  obeisance  low  retired, 
"  Then   be  it  so ;  haste,  Arioch,  lead  him 

here," 
Belshazzar  cries  ;  "if  he  interpret  right. 
Even    though    my    soul    in  just   abhorrence 

holds 
His  hated  race,  I  will  revoke  their  doom. 
And  shower  rich  honours  on  their  prophet's 

head." 
Nor  long  he  waited,   when  with  graceful 

step. 
And  awe-commanding  eye,  solemn  and  slow. 
As  conscious  of  superior  dignity, 
Daniel  advanced.     Time  o'er  his  hoary  hair  . 
Had    shed    his    white    snows.      Behind   him 

stream'd 
A  mantle,  ensign  of  prophetic  powers, 
Like  that  with  which  inspired  Elisha  smote 
The  parting  waters,  what  time  on  the  bank 
Of  Jordan  from  the  clouds  a  fiery  car 
Descended,  and  by  flaming  coursers  drawn 
Bore  the  sage  Ti^bite  to  celestial  climes, 
Maugre   the   gates   of    death.      A   wand   he 

bore — 
That  wand  by  whose  mysterious  properties 
The  shepherd  of  Horeb  call'd  the  refluent 

waves 
O'er  Pharaoh  and  his  host,  with  which  he 

struck 
The  barren  flint,  when  from  the  riven  cliff 
Gush'd  streams,  and  water'd  all  the  thirsty 

tribes 
Of  murmuring  Israel.      Through  many  an  age 
Within  the  temple's  unapproached  veil. 
Fast  by  the  rod,  wliich  bloom' d  o'er  Aaron's 

name, 
Still  did  the  holy  relic  rest  secure. 
At  length,  when  Babylonia's  arms  prevail' d, 
Seraiah  saved  it  from  the  flaming  shrine. 
With  aU  the  sacred  wardrobe  of  the  priest, 
And  bore  it  safe  to  Eiblah.     Dying  there. 
The  priest  bequeathed  the  sacred  legacy 
To  Daniel.     He,  when  summon'd  to  explain. 
As   now,    God's   dark   decrees,   in  his    right 

hand 
Brandish' d  the  mystic  emblem.     "  Art  thoa 

he, 
Art     thou    that     Daniel,    whom    Nebassar 

brought 
From    Salem,    whom   the    vanquish'd  tribes 

adore. 
In    wisdom    excellent  ?       Look    there,    look, 

there ; 
Eead  but  those  lines,"  the  affrighted  monarch 

cries, 
"And   clothed   in   scarlet   wear  this    golden 

chain. 
The  third  great  ruler  of  my  spacious  realm. 
He    spake,    and    thus    the  reverend   seer 

replied : 
"Thy  promises,   and  threats,   presumptuous 

king. 
My  soul  alike  despises ;  yet,  so  wills 


From  1727  to  1780.1 


THE  JEWS'  RETUEN  TO  JERUSALEM. 


[W.  H  Roberts. 


That   spirit,   who  darts  his  radiance  on  my 

mind 
(Hear  thou,  and  tremble),  will  I  speak  the 

words 
Which   he   shall  dictate.     '  Number' d  is  thy 

realm, 
And  finish' d :  in  the  balance  art  thou  weigh' d, 
Where  God  hath  found  thee  wanting :  to  the 

Medes 
And  Persians  thy  divided  realm  is  given.' 
Thus  saith  the  LfOrd ;  and  thus  those  words 

import. 
Graven  by  his  high  behest.     See'st  thou  this 

wand? 
Ne'er  has   it   borne,    since   first   it   left   the 

trunk, 
Or  bud  or  blossom  :  all  its  shielding  rind 
The  sharp  steel  stripp'd,  and  to  dry  winds 

exposed 
Tlie  vegetative  sap  ;  even  so  thy  race 
Shall   perish :    from   thy  barren   stock   shall 

rise  • 

Nor   prince    nor   ruler;    and   that   glittering 

crown. 
Won  by  thy  valiant  fathers,  whose  long  line 
In    thee,     degenerate     monarch,    soon   must 

end, 
Shall    dart    its    lustre    round    a  stranger's 

brow." 
"  Prophet  of  evils  !  darest  thou  pour  on  me 
Thy  threats  ill-ominous,  and  judgments  dark  ?  " 
Incensed  the  monarch  cries  :  "  Hence  to  thy 

tribes : 
Teach  them  obedience  to  their  sovpreign's  will. 
Or  I  will  break  that  wand,  and  rend  in  twain 
The  mantle  of  thy  God. — Or  if  these  marks 
Thou  wilt  erase  from  that  accursed  wall, 
Take  half  my  realm."     He  spake,  and  fix'd 

his  eyes 
Wild  staring  on  the  mystic  characters  : 
His  rage  all  sunk  at  once  ;  his  fear  return' d 
Tenfold ;  when  thus  the  man  of  God  began  : 

"Go  to  the  shady  vales  of  Palaestino, 
Vain  prince,  or  Syrian  Lebanon,  and  tear 
The    palms    and    cedars   from   their   native 

mould 
Uprooted ;  then  return,  and  break  this  rod. 
Believe  me,  far  more  arduous  were  the  task  : 
For    it    was    harden' d    in    the    streams   of 

heaven ; 
And  though  not  dedicate  to  sorcerers'  arts 
By  magic  incantation,  and  strange  spells ; 
Yet  such  a  potent  virtue  doth  reside 
In  every  part,  that  not  the  united  force 
Of  all  thy  kingdom  can  one  Hne,  one  grain, 
Of  measure,  or  of  solid  weight  impair. 
Wilt  thou  that  I  revoke  thy  destined  fate  ? 
Devoted  prince,  I  cannot.     Hell  beneath 
Is    moved    to    meet   thee.     See   the    mighty 

dead, 
The    kings,   that  sat  on  golden   thrones,  ap- 
proach. 
The  chief  ones  of  the  earth.     '  0  Lucifer, 
Son    of    the    morning,    thou    that    vaunting 

saidst, 
"  I  will  ascend  the  heavens  ;  I  will  exalt 


My  throne    above    th^    stars    of    God;    the 

clouds 
Shall   roll  beneath  my  feet,"    art  thou  too 

weak 
As  we  ?  art  thou  become  like  unto  us  ? 
Where  now  is  all  thy  pomp  ?  where  the  sweet 

sound 
Of  viol,  and  of  harp  ? '  with  curious  eye 
Tracing  thy  mangled  corse,  the  rescued  sons 
Of  Solyma  shall  say,  '  Is  this  the  man 
That  shook  the  pillars  of  the  trembling  earth, 
That    made    the    world   a    desert  ? '    aU   the 

kings. 
Each  in  his  house  entomb' d,  in  glory  rest. 
While  unlamented  lie  thy  naked  limbs. 
The  sport  of  dogs  and  vultures.     In  that  day 
Shall    these    imperial    towers,   this   haughty 

queen. 
That  in  the  midst  of  waters  sits  secure, 
Fall   prostrate   on   the  ground.      Ill-ominous 

birds 
Shall  o'er  th'  unwholesome  marshes  scream  for 

food  ; 
And  hissing  serpents  by  sulphureous  pools 
Conceal  their  filthy  brood.     The  traveller 
In  vain  shall  ask  where  stood  Assyria's  pride  : 
No  trace  shall  guide  his  dubious  steps ;  nor 

sage. 
Versed  in  historic  lore,  shall  mark  the  site 
Of  desolated  Babylon."     Thus  spake 
The  seer,  and  with  majestic  step  retired. 

W.  H.  Boherts.—Bom  1745,  Died  1791. 


980.  — THE    JEWS'    RETURN    TO 
JERUSALEM. 

Now  dawns  the  mom,  and  on  mount  Olivet 
The  hoar-frost  melts  before  the  rising  sun, 
Which  summons  to  their  daily  toil  the  world 
Of  beasts,  of  men ;  and  all  that  wings  the  air. 
And  all  that  swims  the  level  of  the  lake, 
Or  creeps  the  ground,  bid  universal  hail 
To  day's  bright  regent.     But  the  tribes  were 

roused. 
Impatient  even  of  rest,  ere  yet  the  stars 
Withdrew  their  feeble  light.     Through  every 

street 
They  bend  their  way :  some  Ananiah  leads, 
Some    Phanuel,    or    what   elders    else   were 

driven 
In  early  youth  from  Sion.     Not  a  spot 
Remains  unvisited  ;  each  stone,  each  beam, 
Seems  sacred.    As  in  legendary  tale. 
Led  by  magician's  hand  some  hero  treads 
Enchanted  ground,   and  hears,  or  thinks  he 

hears. 
Aerial  voices,  or  with  secret  dread 
Sees  unembodied  shades,  by  fancy  form'd, 
Flit  through  the   gloom;  so  rescued   Judah 

walk'd. 
Amid  the  majesty  of  Salem's  dust, 


Thos.  Penrose.] 


THE  HELMETS. 


[Sixth  Pekiod.- 


With  reverential  awe,     Howbeit  they  soon 
Eemove    the    mouldering   ruins ;    soon   they 

clear 
The    obstructed    paths,    and    every  mansion 

raise, 
By  force  or  time  impair' d.       Then  Jeshua 

rose 
With  all  his  priests ;  nor  thou,  Zorobabel, 
Soul  of  the  tribes,  wast  absent.     To  the  God 
Of  Jacob,  oft  as  morn  and  eve  returns, 
A  new-built  altar  smokes.     Nor  do  they  not 
Observe  the  feast,  memorial  of  that  age 
When  Israel  dwelt  in  tents ;    the   Sabbath 

too, 
New  moons,  and  every  ritual  ordinance, 
Eirst-fruits,  and  paschal  lamb,  and  rams,  and 

goats. 
Offerings  of    sin  and  peace.      Nor  yet  was 

laid 
The  temple's    new   foundation.       Com    and 

wine, 
Sweet  balm  and  oil,  they  mete  with  liberal 

hand 
To  Tyrian  and  Sidonian.     To  the  sea 
Of  Joppa  down  they  heave  their  stately  trees 
Erom     Syrian     Lebanon.       And    now    they 

square 
Huge    blocks   of   marble,    and  with   ancient 

rites 
Anoint  the  corner-stone.     Around  the  priests. 
The  Levites  and  the  sons  of  Asaph  stand 
With  trumpets  and  with   cymbals.      Jeshua 

first, 
Adom'd  in  robes  pontifical,  conducts 
The  sacred  ceremony.     An  ephod  rich 
Purple,   and  blue,   comes  mantling  o'er  his 

arms, 
Clasp'd    with    smooth    studs,    round   whose 

meand'ring  hem 
A  girdle  twines  its  folds  :  to  this  by  chains 
Of  gold  is  link'd  a  breastplate  :  costly  gems, 
Jasper  and  diamond,  sapphire  and  amethyst. 
Unite  their  hues ;   twelve  stones,   memorial 

apt 
Of  Judah's  ancient  tribes.     A  mitre  decks 
His  head,  and  on  the  top  a  golden  crown 
Graven,  like  a  signet,  by  no  vulgar  hand. 
Proclaims  him  priest  of  God.      Symphonious 

hymns 
Are  mix'd  with  instrumental  melody, 
And  Judah's  joyful  shouts.      But  down  thy 

cheeks, 
0  Ananiah,  from  thine  aged  eye, 
O  Phanuel,  drops  a  tear  ;  for  ye  have  seen 
The  house  of  Solomon  in  all  its  pride. 
And  ill  can  brook  this  change.     Nor  ye  alone, 
But  every  ancient    wept.      Loud  shrieks   of 

grief, 
Mix'd  with  the  voice  of  joy,  are  heard  beyond 
The   hills  of   Salem.       Even   from   Gibeon's 

walls 
The    astonish' d    peasant    turns    a    listening 

ear. 
And  Jordan's   shepherds   catch    the   distant 

sound. 
W.  H.  Roberts.— Born  1745,  Died  1791. 


981.— THE  HELMETS. 

A   FRAGMENT, 

— 'Twas    midnight — every    mortal    eye    was 

closed 
Through  the  whole  mansion — save  an  antique 

crone's. 
That  o'er  the  dying  embers  faintly  watch' d 
The  broken  sleep  (fell  harbinger  of  death) 
Of  a  sick  boteler. — Above  indeed. 
In  a  drear  gallery  (lighted  by  one  lamp 
Whose  wick  the  poor  departing  Seneschal 
Did  closely  imitate)  paced  slow  and  sad 
The  village  curate,  waiting  late  to  shrive 
The  penitent  when  'wake.     Scarce  show'd  the 

ray 
To  fancy's  eye,  the  portray' d  characters 
That  graced  the  wall — On  this  and  t'other 

side 
Suspended,  nodded  o'er  the  steepy  stair, 
In  many  a  trophy  form'd,  the  knightly  group 
Of    helms     and    targets?    gauntlets,     maces 

strong, 
And  horses'  furniture — brave  monuments 
Of    ancient    chivalry. — Through   the   stain' d 

pane 
Low  gleam' d  the  moon — not  bright — but  of 

such  power 
As  mark'd  the  clouds,  black,  threatening  over 

head, 
Full  mischief -fraught ; — from  these  in  many  a 

peal 
Growl' d  the  near  thunder — flash' d  the  frequent 

blaze 
Of  lightning  blue. — \Vhile  round  the  fretted 

dome 
The  wind  sung  surly  :  with  unusual  clank 
The  armour  shook  tremendous  : — On  a  couch 
Placed    in    the   oriel    sunk   the    churchman 

down  : 
For  who,  alone,  at  that  dread  hour  of  night, 

Could  bear  portentous  prodigy  ? • 

"I    hear    it,"     cries    the    proudly    gilded 

casque 
(Fill'd  by  the  soul  of  one  who  erst  took  joy 
In  slaught'rous  deeds),   "  I  hear  amidst  the 

gale 
The    hostile    spirit    shouting  —  once  —  once 

more 
In   the    thick    harvest   of    the   spears  we'll 

shine — 
There  will  be  work  anon." 


I'm  'waken'd  too,' 


Replied  the  sable  helmet  (tenanted 

By  a  like  inmate),  "  Hark  ! — I  hear  the  voice 

Of   the    impatient    ghosts,     who    straggling 

range 
Yon  summit  (crown' d  with  ruin'd  battlements 
The  fruits  of  civil  discord),  to  the  din 
The  spirits,  wand'ring  round  this  Gothic  pile, 
All   join    their    yell — the    song  is  war    and 

death — 

There  will  be  work  anon." • 

"  Call  armourers,  ho  ! 

Furbish  my  vizor — close  my  rivets  up — 
I  brook  no  dallying  " 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


SQNG. 


[Sir  John  H.  Moore. 


"  Soft,  my  hasty  friend," 

Said  the  black  beaver,  "  Neither  of  us  twain 
Shall  share  the  bloody  toil — War-worn  am  I, 
Bored  by  a  happier  mace,  I  let  in  fate 
To  my  once  master, — since  unsought,  unused, 
Pensile  I'm  fix'd — ^yet  too  your  gaudy  pride 
Has  nought  to  boast, — the  fashion  of  the  fight 
Has  thrown    your  guilt    and    shady  plumes 

aside 
For  modem  foppery ; — still  do  not  frown, 
Nor  lower  indignantly  your  steely  brows, 
We've  comfort  left  enough — The  bookman's 

lore 
Shall  trace  our  sometime  merit ; — ^in  the  eye 
Of  antiquary  taste  we  long  shall  shine  : 
And  as  the  scholar  marks  our  rugged  front, 
He'll  say,  this  Cressy  saw,  that  Agincourt : 
Thus  dwelling  on  the  prowess  of  his  fathers, 
He'll  venerate  their  shell. — Yet,  more  than 

this, 
From  our  inactive  station  we  shall  hear 
The  groans  of  butcher' d  brothers,  shrieking 

plaints 
Of    ravish'd    maids,    and     matrons'    frantic 

howls ; 
Already  hovering  o'er  the  threaten' d  lands 
The  famish' d  raven  snufFs  the  promised  feast. 
And  hoarselier  croaks  for  blood — 'twill  flow." 

"  Forbid  it.  Heaven  ! 

O  shield  my  suffering   country  ! — Shield  it," 

pray'd 
The  agonising  priest. 

Thos.  Pem-ose.—Born  1743,  Died  1779. 


982.— THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE. 

Faintly  bray'd  the  battle's  roar 
Distant  down  the  hollow  wind  ; 

Panting  Terror  fled  before. 

Wounds  and  death  were  left  behind. 

The  war-fiend  cursed  the  sunken  day. 
That  check' d  his  fierce  pursuit  too  soon 

While,  scarcely  lighting  to  the  prey. 
Low  hung,  and  lour'd  the  bloody  moon. 

The  field,  so  late  the  hero's  pride. 

Was  now  with  various  carnage  spread ; 

And  floated  with  a  crimson  tide, 

That  drench'd  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

O'er  the  sad  scene  of  dreariest  view, 
Abandon' d  all  to  horrors  wild, 

With  frantic  step  Maria  flew, 
Maria,  Sorrow's  early  child; 

By  duty  led,  for  every  vein 

Was  warm'd  by  Hymen's  purest  flame ; 
With  Edgar  o'er  the  wint'ry  main 

She,  lovely,  faithful  wanderer,  came. 

For  well  she  thought,  a  friend  so  dear 
In  darkest  hours  might  joy  impart ; 

Her  warrior,  faint  with  toil,  might  cheer. 
Or  soothe  her  bleeding  warrior's  smart. 


Though  look'd  for  long — in  chill  affright 
(The  torrent  bursting  from  her  eye) 

She  heard  the  signal  for  the  fight — 
While  her  soul  trembled  in  a  sigh — 

She  heard,  and  clasp'd  him  to  her  breast. 
Yet  scarce  could  urge  th'  inglorious  stay ; 

His  manly  heart  the  charm  confess' d — 
Then  broke  the  charm, — and  rush'd  away. 

Too  soon  in  few — ^but  deadly  words, 
Some  fljdng  straggler  breathed  to  tell, 

That  in  the  foremost  strife  of  swords 
The  young,  the  gallant  Edgar  fell. 

She  press'd  to  hear — she  caught  the  tale — 
At  every  sound  her  blood  congeal' d  ; — 

With  terror  bold — with  terror  pale, 
She  sprung  to  search  the  fatal  field. 

O'er  the  sad  scene  in  dire  amaze 

She  went — with  courage  not  her  own — 

On  many  a  corpse  she  cast  her  gaze — 
And  turn'd  her  ear  to  many  a  groan. 

Drear  anguish  urged  her  to  press 

Full  many  a  hand,  as  wild  she  moum'd  ; — 
— Of  comfort  glad  the  drear  caress 

The  damp,  chill,  dying  hand  return'd. 

Her  ghastly  hope  was  well  nigh  fled — 
When  late  pale  Edgar's  form  she  found, 

Half -buried  with  the  hostile  dead. 

And  gored  with  many  a  grisly  wound. 

She  knew — she  sunk — the  night-bird  scream' d 
— The  moon  withdrew  her  troubled  light, 

And  left  the  fair, — though  fall'n  she  seem'd — 
To  worse  than  death — and  deepest  night. 

Thos.  Penrose.— Bom  1743,  Died  1779. 


983.— L'AMOUE  TIMIDE. 

If  in  that  breast,  so  good,  so  pure. 

Compassion  ever  loved  to  dwell, 
Pity  the  sorrows  I  endure ; 

The  cause  I  must  not,  dare  not  tell. 

The  grief  that  on  my  quiet  preys. 

That    rends    my  heart,   that    checks    my 
tongue, 
I  fear  will  last  me  all  my  days, 

But  feel  it  will  not  last  me  long. 

Sir  John  H.  Moore.— Born  1756,  Died  1780. 


984.— SONG. 

Cease  to  blame  my  melancholy, 

Though  with  sighs  and  folded  arms 
I  muse  with  silence  on  her  charms  ; 

Censure  not — I  know  'tis  follv. 


EiCHAED  Jago.]                             LABOUE  and  GENIUS.                          [Sixth  Period.— 

Yet  these  mournful  thoughts  possessing, 

Damon  perceives,  with  ravish'd  eyes. 

Such  delights  I  find  in  grief, 

The  beautiful  enchantment  rise. 

That,  could  heaven  afford  relief, 

Sees  sweetly  blended  shade  and  light ; 

My  fond  heart  would  scorn  the  blessing. 

Sees  every  part  with  each  unite ; 

Sir  Joh-.i  H.  Moore.— Born  1756,  Died  1780. 

Sees  each,  as  he  directs,  assume 
A  livelier  dye,  or  deeper  gloom  : 

So  fashion' d  by  the  painter's  skill. 
New  forms  the  glowing  canvas  fill : 

So  to  the  summer's  sun  the  rose 

9S5.— T.AT50UE  AND  GENIUS;  OE,  THE 

And  jessamin  their  charms  disclose. 

MILL-STEEAM  AND  THE  CASCADE. 

*               *               *               * 

Not  distant  far  below,  a  mill 

#              *              *              * 

Was  built  upon  a  neighb'ring  rill : 

Betwixt  two  sloping  verdant  hills 

Whose  pent-up  stream,  whene'er  let  loose. 

A  current  pour'd  its  careless  rills. 

Impell'd  a  wheel,  close  at  its  sluice. 

Which  unambitious  crept  along, 

So  strongly,  that  by  friction's  power. 

With  weeds  and  matted  grass  o'erhung. 

'Twould  grind  the  firmest  grain  to  flour. 

Till  Eural  Genius,  on  a  day. 

Or,  by  a  correspondence  new. 

Chancing  along  its  banks  to  stray, 

With  hammers,  and  their  clatt'ring  crew, 

Eemark'd,  with  penetrating  look, 

Would  so  bestir  her  active  stumps, 

The  latent  merits  of  the  brook, 

On  iron  blocks,  though  arrant  lumps. 

Much  grieved  to  see  such  talents  hid, 

That  in  a  trice  she'd  manage  matters, 

And  thus  the  dull  by-standers  chid. 

To  make  'em  all  as  smooth  as  platters. 

How  blind  is  man's  incurious  race 

Or  slit  a  bar  to  rods  quite  taper, 

The  scope  of  nature's  plans  to  trace  ? 

With  as  much  ease  as  you'd  cut  paper. 

How  do  ye  mangle  half  her  charms,- 

For,  though  the  lever  gave  the  blow. 

And  fright  her  hourly  with  alarms  ? 

Yet  it  was  lifted  from  below ; 

Disfigure  now  her  swelling  mounds. 

And  would  for  ever  have  lain  still, 

And  now  contract  her  spacious  bounds  ? 

But  for  the  bustling  of  the  rill ; 

Fritter  her  fairest  lawns  to  alleys. 

Who,  from  her  stately  pool  or  ocean. 

Bare  her  green  hills,  and  hide  her  valleys  ? 

Put  all  the  v/heels  and  logs  in  motion ; 

Confine  her  streams  with  rule  and  line, 

Things  in  their  nature  very  quiet, 

And  counteract  her  whole  design  ? 

Though  making  all  this  noise  and  riot. 

Neglecting,  where  she  points  the  way. 

This  stream  that  could  in  toil  excel. 

Her  easy  dictates  to  obey  ? 

Began  with  foolish  pride  to  swell : 

To  bring  her  hidden  worth  to  sight, 

Piqued  at  her  neighbour's  reputation. 

And  place  her  charms  in  fairest  light  ? 

And  thus  express' d  her  indignation : 

*                 #                 r                # 

"  Madam  !  methinks  you're  vastly  proud. 

He  said :  and  to  his  favourite  son 

You  wasn't  used  to  talk  so  loud. 

Consign'd  the  task,  and  wiil'd  it  done. 

Nor  cut  such  capers  in  your  pace, 

Damon  his  counsel  wisely  weigh' d. 

Marry  !  what  antics,  what  grimace  ! 

And  carefully  the  scene  survey'd. 

For  shame  !  don't  give  yourself  such  aii-s, 

And,  though  it  seems  he  said  but  little. 

In  flaunting  dovm  those  hideous  stairs. 

He  took  his  meaning  to  a  tittle. 

Nor  put  yourself  in  such  a  flutter. 

And  first,  his  purpose  to  befriend, 

Whate'er  you  do,  you  dirty  gutter  ! 

A  bank  he  raised  at  th'  upper  end : 

I'd  have  you  know,  you  upstart  minx  ! 

Compact  and  close  its  outward  side, 

Ere  you  were  form'd,  with  all  your  sinks. 

To  stay  and  swell  the  gathering  tide : 

A  lake  I  was,  compared  with  which, 

But  on  its  inner,  rough  and  tall. 

Your  stream  i«  but  a  paltry  ditch  : 

A  ragged  cliff,  a  rocky  wall. 

And  still,  on  honest  labour  bent, 

The  channel  next  he  oped  to  view, 

I  ne'er  a  single  flash  misspent. 

And  from  its  course  the  rubbish  drew. 

And  yet  no  folks  of  high  degree 

Enlarged  it  now,  and  now  with  line 

Would  e'er  vouchsafe  to  visit  me, 

Oblique  .pursued  his  fair  design. 

As  in  their  coaches  by  they  rattle, 

Preparing  here  the  mazy  way. 

Forsooth  !  to  hear  your  idle  prattle. 

And  there  the  fall  for  sportive  play ; 

Though  half  the  business  of  my  flooding 

The  precipice  abrupt  and  steep, 

Is  to  provide  them  cakes  and  pudding : 

The  pebbled  road,  and  cavern  deep  ; 

Or  furnish  stuff  for  many  a  trinket. 

The  rooty  seat,  where  best  to  view 

Which,  though  so  fine,  you  scarce  would 

The  fairy  scene,  at  distance  due. 

think  it. 

He  last  invoked  the  dryads'  aid, 

When  Boulton's  skiU  has  fix'd  their  beauty. 

And  fringed  the  borders  round  with  shade. 

To  my  rough  toil  first  owed  their  duty. 

Tapestry,  by  Nature's  fingers  wove. 

But  I'm  plain  Goody  of  the  mill, 

No  mimic,  but  a  real  grove  : 

And  you  are — Madam  Cascadille  !  " 

Part  hiding,  part  admitting  day. 

"Dear  Coz," replied  the  beauteous  torrent. 

The  scene  to  grace  the  future  play. 

"  Pray  do  not  discompose  your  current. 

From  1727  to  1780.] 


YAEIETY. 


[W.  Whitehead. 


That  we  all  from  one  fountain  j&ow, 
Hath  been  agreed  on  long  ago. 
Varying  our  talents  and  our  tides, 
As  chance  or  education  guides. 
That  I  have  either  note,  or  namej 
I  owe  to  him  who  gives  me  fame. 
Who  teaches  all  our  kind  to  flow, 
Or  gaUy  swift,  or  gravely  slow. 
Now  in  the  lake,  mth  glassj""  face, 
Now  moving  light,  with  dimpled  grace, 
Now  gleaming  from  the  rocky  height, 
Now,  in  rough  eddies,  foaming  white. 
Nor  envy  me  the  gay,  or  great. 
That  visit  my  obscure  retreat. 
None  wonders  that  a  clown  can  dig. 
But  'tis  some  art  to  dance  a  jig. 
Your  talents  are  employ'd  for  use. 
Mine  to  give  pleasure,  and  amuse. 
And  though,  dear  Coz,  no  folks  of  taste 
Their  idle  hours  with  you  will  waste, 
Yet  many  a  grist  comes  to  your  mill, 
"\Miich  helps  3'our  master's  bags  to  fill. 
While  I,  with  all  my  notes  and  trilling, 
For  Damon  never  got  a  shilling. 
Then,  gentle  Coz,  forbear  your  clamours, 
Enjoy  your  hoppers,  and  your  hammers  : 
We  gain  our  ends  by  different  ways. 
And  you  get  bread,  and  I  get — praise." 

Richa/rd  Jago. — Born  1715,  Died  1781. 


986.— VARIETY. 

A  gentle  maid,  of  rural  breeding, 
By  Nature  first,  and  then  by  reading. 
Was  fill'd  with  all  those  soft  sensations 
Which  we  restrain  in  near  relations, 
Lest  future  husbands  should  be  jealous, 
And  think  their  wives  too  fond  of  fellows. 

The  morning  sun  beheld  her  rove 
A  mnnph,  or  goddess  of  the  grove  ! 
At  eve  she  paced  the  dewy  lawn. 
And  call'd  each  clown  she  saw,  a  faun  ! 
Then,  scudding  homeward,  lock'd  her  door, 
And  turn'd  some  copious  volume  o'er. 
For  much  she  read;  and  chiefly  those 
Great  authors,  who  in  verse,  or  prose, 
Or  something  betwixt  both,  unwind 
The  secret  springs  which  move  the  mind. 
These  much   she   read;   and   thought   she 

knew 
The  human  heart's  minutest  clue  ; 
Yet  shrewd  observers  still  declare 
(To  show  how  shrewd  observers  are). 
Though  plays,  which  breathed  heroic  flame, 
And  novels,  in  profusion,  came. 
Imported  fresh-and-fresh  from  France, 
She  only  read  the  heart's  romance. 

The  world,  no  doubt,  was  well  enough 
To  smooth  the  manners  of  the  rough  ; 
Might  please  the  giddy  and  the  vain. 
Those  tinsell'd  slaves  of  folly's  train  : 


But,  for  her  part,  the  truest  taste 
She  found  was  in  retirement  placed, 
"V\Tiere,  as  in  verse  it  sweetly  flows, 
"  On  every  thorn  instruction  grows." 
Not  that  she  wish'd  to  "  be  alone," 
As  some  affected  prudes  have  done ; 
She  knew  it  was  decreed  on  high 
We  should  "increase  and  multiply;" 
And  therefore,  if  kind  Fate  would  grant 
Her  fondest  wish,  her  only  want, 
A  cottage  with  the  man  she  loved 
Was  what  her  gentle  heart  approved ; 
In  some  delightful  solitude 
Where  step  profane  might  ne'er  intrude ; 
But  Hymen  guard  the  sacred  ground. 
And  virtuous  Cupids  hover  round. 
Not  such  as  flutter  on  a  fan 
Round  Crete's  vile  bull,  or  Leda's  swan, 
(Who  scatter  myrtles,  scatter  roses. 
And  hold  their  fingers  to  their  noses). 
But  simp'ring,  mild,  and  innocent. 
As  angels  on  a  monument. 

Fate  heard  her  pray'r :  a  lover  came. 
Who  felt,  like  her,  th'  innoxious  flame ; 
One  who  had  trod,  as  well  as  she, 
The  flow'ry  paths  of  poesy ; 
Had  warm'd  himself  with  Milton's  heat, 
Could  ev'ry  line  of  Pope  repeat. 
Or  chant  in  Shenstone's  tender  strains, 
"  The  lover's  hopes,"  "  the  lover's  pains." 

Attentive  to  the  charmer's  tongue, 
With  him  she  thought  no  evening  long  j 
With  him  she  saunter' d  half  the  day ; 
And  sometimes,  in  a  laughing  way. 
Ran  o'er  the  catalogue  by  rote 
Of  who  might  marry,  and  who  not ; 
"  Consider,  sir,  we're  near  relations — " 
"I  hope  so  in  our  inclinations." — 
In  short,  she  look'd,  she  blush'd  consent ; 
He  grasp'd  her  hand,  to  church  they  went; 
And  ev'ry  matron  that  was  there, 

With  tongue  so  voluble  and  supple, 
Said  for  her  part,  she  must  declare, 

She  never  saw  a  finer  couple. 
O  Halcyon  days  !    'Twas  Nature's  reign, 
'Twas  Tempe's  vale,  and  Enna's  plain. 
The  fields  assumed  unusual  bloom. 
And  ev'ry  zephyr  breathed  perfume. 
The  laughing  sun  with  genial  beams 
Danced  lightly  on  th'  exulting  streams ; 
And  the  pale  regent  of  the  night, 
In  dewy  softness  shed  delight. 
'Twas  transport  not  to  be  exprest ; 

'Twas  Paradise ! But  mark  the  rest. 

Two  smiling  springs  had  waked  the  flow'rs 
That  paint  the  meads,  or  fringe  the  bow'rs 
(Ye  lovers,  lend  your  wond'ring  ears, 
Who  count  by  months,  and  not  by  years). 
Two  smiling  springs  had  chaplets  wove 
To  crown  their  solitude,  and  love  : 
When  lo,  they  find,  they  can't  tell  how. 
Their  walks  are  not  so  pleasant  now. 
The  seasons  sure  were  changed  ;  the  place 
Had,  somehow,  got  a  diff'rent  face. 
Some  blast  had  struck  the  cheerful  scene ; 
The  lawns,  the  woods,  were  not  so  green. 


W.  Whitehead.] 


VAEIETY. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


The  purling  rill,  which  murmur' d  by, 
And  once  was  liquid  harmony, 
Became  a  sluggish,  reedy  pool : 
The  days  grew  hot,  the  ev'nings  cool. 
The  moon,  with  all  the  starry  reign, 
Were  melancholy's  silent  train. 
And  then  the  tedious  winter  night — 
They  could  not  read  by  candle-light. 

Full  oft,  unknowing  why  they  did. 
They  call'd  in  adventitious  aid. 
A  faithful,  fav'rite  dog  ('twas  thus 
With  Tobit  and  Telemachus) 
Amused  their  steps ;  and  for  a  while 
They  view'd  his  gambols  with  a  smile. 
The  kitten,  too,  was  comical, 
She  play'd  so  oddly  with  her  tail. 
Or  in  the  glass  was  pleased  to  find 
Another  cat,  and  peep'd  behind. 

A  courteous  neighbour  at  the  door 
Was  deem'd  intrusive  noise  no  more. 
For  rural  visits,  now  and  then, 
Are  right,  as  men  must  live  with  men. 
Then  cousin  Jenny,  fresh  from  town, 

A  new  recruit,  a  dear  delight ! 
Made  many  a  heavy  hour  go  down, 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  eve,  at  night :  - 
Sure  they  could  hear  her  jokes  for  ever. 
She  was  so  sprightly,  and  so  clever  ! 

Yet  neighbours  were  not  quite  the  thing ; 
What  joy,  alas  !  could  converse  bring 
With  awkward  creatures  bred  at  home — 
The  dog  grew  dull,  or  troublesome. 
The  cat  had  spoil' d  the  kitten's  merit. 
And,  with  her  youth,  had  lost  her  spirit. 
And  jokes  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
Had  quite  exhausted  Jenny's  store. 
— "  And  then,  my  dear,  I  can't  abide 
This  always  sauntering  side  by  side." 
"  Enough  !  "  he  cries,  "  the  reason  's  plain : 
For  causes  never  rack  your  brain. 
Our  neighbours  are  like  other  folks. 
Skip's  playful  tricks,  and  Jenny's  jokes, 
Are  still  delightful,  still  would  please. 
Were  we,  my  dear,  ourselves  at  ease. 
Look  round,  with  an  impartial  eye, 
On  yonder  fields,  on  yonder  sky; 
The  azure  cope,  the  flow'rs  below. 
With  all  their  wonted  colours  glow. 
The  rill  still  murmurs ;  and  the  moon 
Shines,  as  she  did,  a  softer  sun. 
No  change  has  made  the  seasons  fail, 
No  comet  brush'd  us  with  his  tail. 
The     scene  's     the     same,     the     sam3     the 

weather — 
We  live,  my  dear,  too  much  together." 

Agreed,     A  rich  old  uncle  dies, 
And  added  wealth  the  means  supplies. 
With  eager  haste  to  town  they  flew, 
Where  all  must  please,  for  all  was  new. 

But  here,  by  strict  poetic  laws, 
Description  claims  its  proper  pause. 

The  rosy  mom  had  raised  her  head 
From  old  Tithonus'  saffron  bed  ; 
And  embryo  sunbeams  from  the  east. 
Half-choked,    were    struggling    through    the 
mist. 


When  forth  advanced  the  gilded  chaise ; 
The  village  crowded  round  to  gaze. 
The  pert  postilion,  now  promoted 
From  driving  plough,  and  neatly  booted. 
His  jacket,  cap,  and  baldric  on 
(As  greater  folks  than  he  have  done), 
Look'd  round  ;  and,  -with  a  coxcomb  air, 
Smack' d  loud  his  lash.     The  happy  pair 
Bow'd  graceful,  from  a  sep'rate  door, 
And  Jenny,  from  the  stool  before. 

Eoll  SAvift,  ye  wheels  !  to  willing  eyes 
New  objects  ev'ry  moment  rise. 
Each  carriage  passing  on  the  road, 
From  the  broad  waggon's  pond'rous  load 
To  the  light  car,  where  mounted  high 
The  giddy  driver  seems  to  fly, 
Were  themes  for  harmless  satire  fit. 
And  gave  fresh  force  to  Jenny's  wit. 
Whate'er  occurr'd,  'twas  all  delightful, 
No*  noise  was  harsh,  no  danger  frightful. 
The  dash  and  splash  through  thick  and  thin, 
The  hair-breadth  'scapes,  the  bustling  inn 
(Where  well-bred  landlords  were  so  ready 
To  welcome  in  the  'squire  and  lady), 
Dirt,  dust,  and  sun,  they  bore  with  ease, 
Determined  to  be  pleased,  and  please. 

Now  nearer  town,  and  all  agog. 
They  know  dear  London  by  its  fog. 
Bridges  they  cross,  through  lanes  they  wind, 
Leave  Hounslow's  dang'rous  heath  behind. 
Through  Brentford  win  a  passage  free 
By  roaring  "  Wilkes  and  Liberty  !  " 
At  Knightsbridge  bless  the  short'ning  way 
(Where  Bays' s  troops  in  ambush  lay), 
O'er  Piccadilly's  pavement  glide 
(With  palaces  to  grace  its  side). 
Till  Bond-street  with  its  lamps  a-blaze 
Concludes  the  journey  of  three  days. 

Why  should  we  paint,  in  tedious  song, 
How  ev'ry  day,  and  all  day  long. 
They  drove  at  first  with  curious  haste 
Through  Lud's  vast  town ;  or,  as  they  pass'd 
'Midst  risings,  fallings,  and  repairs 
Of  streets  on  streets,  and  squares  on  squares, 
Describe  how  strong  their  wonder  grew 
At  buildings — and  at  builders  too  ? 

Scarce  less  astonishment  arose 
At  architects  more  fair  than  those — 
Who  built  as  high,  as  widely  spread 
Th'  enormous  loads  that  clothed  their  head. 
For  British  dames  new  follies  love. 
And,  if  they  can't  invent,  improve. 
Some  with  erect  pagodas  vie. 
Some  nod,  like  Pisa's  tower,  awry. 
Medusa's  snakes,  with  Pallas'  crest. 
Convolved,  contorted,  and  compress'd ; 
With  intermingling  trees,  and  flowers. 
And  com,  and  grass,  and  shepherd's  bowers, 
Stage  above  stage  the  turrets  run, 
Like  pendent  groves  of  Babylon, 
Till  nodding  from  the  topmost  wall 
Otranto's  plumes  envelop  all ! 
Whilst  the  black  ewes,  who  own'd  the  hair. 
Feed  harmless  on,  in  pastures  fair, 
Unconscious  that  their  tails  perfume. 
In  scented  curls,  the  drawing-room. 


■  -  i 
From  1727  to  1780.]                                   VAElKi'i^.                                       [W.  Whitehead.        j 

When  Night  her  murky  pinions  spread, 

Devised  new  systems  of  delight, 

And  sober  folks  retire  to  bed, 

A-bed  all  day,  and  up  all  night, 

To  ev'ry  public  place  they  flew, 

In  different  circles  reign' d  supreme. 

Where  Jenny  told  them  who  was  who. 

Wives  copied  her,  and  husbands  him ; 

Money  was  always  at  command, 

Tin  so  divinely  life  ran  on, 

And  tripp'd  with  pleasure  hand  in  hand. 

So  separate,  so  quite  Ion-ton, 

]\Ioney  was  equipage,  was  show, 

That,  meeting  in  a  public  place,  ~^    - 

Gallini's,  Almack's,  and  Soho ; 

They  scarcely  knew  each  other's  face. 

The  passe-partout  through  every  vein 

At  last  they  met,  by  his  desire, 

Of  dissipation's  hydra  reign. 

A  tSte-d-tete  across  the  fire  ; 

0  London,  thou  prolific  source, 

Look'd  in  each  other's  face  awhile, 

Parent  of  vice,  and  foUy's  nurse ! 

With  half  a  tear,  and  half  a  smile. 

Fruitful  as  Nile  thy  copious  springs 

The  ruddy  health,  which  wont  to  grace 

Spawn  hourly  births, — and  all  with  stings  : 

With  manly  glow  his  rural  face. 

But  happiest  far  the  he,  or  she, 

Now  scarce  retain' d  its  faintest  streak; 

I  know  not  which,  that  livelier  dunce 

So  sallow  was  his  leathern  cheek. 

Who  first' contrived  the  coterie. 

She  lank,  and  pale,  and  hollow-eyed, 

To  crush  domestic  bliss  at  once. 

With  rouge  had  striven  in  vain  to  hide 

Then  grinn'd,  no  doubt,  amidst  the  dames, 

What  once  was  beauty,  and  repair 

As  Nero  fiddled  to  the  names. 

The  rapine  of  the  midnight  air. 

Of  thee,  Pantheon,  let  me  speak 

Silence  is  eloquence,  'tis  said. 

With  reverence,  though  in  numbers  weak ; 

Both  wish'd  to  speak,  both  hung  the  head. 

Thy  beauties  satire's  frown  beguile, 

At  length  it  burst. "  'Tis  time,"  he  cries, 

We  spare  the  follies  for  the  pile. 

"  When  tired  of  folly,  to  be  wise. 

Flounced,  furbelow 'd,  and  trick' d  for  show, 

Are  you  too  tired  ?  " — then  check'd  a  groan. 

With  lamps  above,  and  lamps  below, 

She  wept  consent,  and  he  went  on. 

Thy  charms  even  modern  taste  defied, 

"  How  delicate  the  married  life  ! 

They  could  not  spoil  thee,  though  they  tried. 

You  love  your  husband,  I  my  wife  ! 

Ah,  pity  that  Time's  hasty  wings 

Not  even  satiety  could  tame, 

Must  sweep  thee  off  with  vulgar  things ! 

Nor  dissipation  quench  the  flame. 

Let  architects  of  humbler  name 

"  True  to  the  bias  of  our  kind, 

On  frail  materials  build  their  fame. 

'Tis  happiness  we  wish  to  find. 

Their  noblest  works  the  world  might  want, 

In  rural  scenes  retired  we  sought 

Wyatt  should  build  in  adamant. 

In  vain  the  dear,  delicious  draught. 

But  what  are  these  to  scenes  which  lie 

Though  blest  with  love's  indulgent  store, 

Secreted  from  the  vulgar  eye, 

We  found  we  v^anted  something  more. 

And  baffle  all  the  powers  of  song  ? — 

'Twas  company,  'twas  friends  to  share 

A  brazen  throat,  an  iron  tongue 

The  bliss  we  languish'd  to  declare. 

(Which  poets  wish  for,  when  at  length 

'Twas  social  converse,  change  of  scene, 

Their  subject  soars  above  their  strength) 

To  soothe  the  sullen  hour  of  spleen ; 

Would  shun  the  task.     Our  humbler  Muso 

Shoi-t  absences  to  wake  desire. 

(Who  only  reads  the  public  news, 

And  sweet  regrets  to  fan  the  fire. 

And  idly  utters  what  she  gleans 

"  We  left  the  lonesome  place ;  and  found, 

From  chronicles  and  magazines). 

In  dissipation's  giddy  round, 

Recoiling,  feels  her  feeble  fires, 

A  thousand  novelties  to  wake 

And  blushing  to  her  shades  retires. 

The  springs  of  life  and  not  to  break. 

Alas  !  she  knows  not  how  to  treat 

As,  from  the  nest  not  wandering  far, 

The  finer  follies  of  the  great, 

In  light  excursions  through  the  air, 

Where  even,  Democritus,  thy  sneer 

The  feather'd  tena.nts  of  the  grove 

Were  vain  as  Heraclitus'  tear. 

Around  in  mazy  circles  move 

Suffice  it  that  by  just  degrees 

(Sip  the  cool  springs  that  murmuring  flow, 

They  reach' d  all  heights,  and  rose  with  ease 

Or  taste  the  blossom  on  the  bough). 

(For  beauty  wins  its  way,  uncall'd, 

We  sported  freely  with  the  rest ; 

And  ready  dupes  are  ne'er  black-ball' d). 

And  still,  returning  to  the  nest, 

Each  gambling  dame  she  knew,  and  he 

In  easy  mirth  we  chatted  o'er 

Knew  every  shark  of  quality ;                          ' 

The  trifles  of  the  day  before. 

From  the  grave  cautious  few  who  live 

"  Behold  us  now,  dissolving  quite 

On  thoughtless  youth,  and  living  thrive, 

In  the  full  ocean  of  delight ; 

To  the  light  train  who  mimic  France, 

In  pleasures  every  hour  employ, 

And  the  soft  sons  of  nonchalance. 

Immersed  in  all  the  world  calls  joy; 

While  Jenny,  now  no  more  of  use, 

Our  affluence  easing  the  expense 

Excuse  succeeding  to  excuse. 

Of  splendour  and  magnificence  ; 

Grew  piqued,  and  prudently  withdrew 

Our  company,  the  exalted  set                            ' 

To  shilling  whist,  and  chicken  loo. 

Of  all  that 's  gay,  and  all  that 's  great : 

Advanced  to  fashion's  wavering  head. 

Nor  happy  yet !— and  where  's  the  wonder  ?— 

They  now,  where  once  they  foUow'd,  led. 

We  live,  my  dear,  too  much  asunder." 

Mrs.  Greville.] 


PEAYEE  FOE  INDIFFEEENCE. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


The  moral  of  my  tale  is  this, 
Variety's  the  soul  of  bliss ; 
But  such  variety  alone 
As  makes  our  home  the  more  our  ovrii. 
As  from  the  heart's  impelhng  power 
The  Life-blood  pours  its  genial  store ; 
Though  taking  each  a  various  waj', 
The  active  streams  meandering  play 
Through  every  artery,  every  vein, 
All  to  the  heart  return  again ; 
From  thence  resume  their  new  career, 
But  still  return  and  centre  there  : 
So  real  happiness  below- 
Must  from  the  heart  sincerely  flow ; 
Nor,  listening  to  the  syren's  song. 
Must  stray  too  far,  or  rest  too  long. 
All  human  pleasures  thither  tend  ; 
Must  there  begin,  and  there  must  end ; 
Must  there  recruit  their  languid  force, 
And  gain  fresh  vigour  from  their  source. 

W.  Whitehead.— Born  1715,  Died  178c 


987.— PEAYEE  FOE  INDIFFEEENCE. 

Oft  I've  implored  the  gods  in  vain, 
And  pray'd  till  I've  been  weary : 

For  once  I'll  seek  my  msh  to  gain 
Of  Oberon  the  fairy. 

Sweet  airy  being,  wanton  sprite, 

Wlio  livest  in  woods  unseen  ; 
And  oft  by  Cynthia's  silver  light 

Trip'st  gaily  o'er  the  green. 

If  e'er  thy  pit3dng  heart  was  moved 

As  ancient  stories  tell ; 
And  for  th'  Athenian  maid  who  loved, 

Thou  sought'st  a  wond'rous  speU. 

0  !  deign -once  more  t'  exert  thy  power  ! 
Haply  some  herb  or  tree. 

Sovereign  as  juice  from  western  flower, 
Conceals  a  balm  for  me. 

1  ask  no  kind  return  in  love, 

No  tempting  charm  to  please  ; 
Far  from  the  heart  such  gifts  remove, 
That  sighs  for  peace  and  ease  ! 

Nor  ease,  nor  peace,  that  heart  can  know. 

That  like  the  needle  true, 
Turns  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe, 

But,  turning,  trembles  too. 

Far  as  distress  the  soul  can  wound, 

'Tis  pain  in  each  degree  ; 
'Tis  bliss  but  to  a  certain  bound — 

Beyond — is  agony ; 

TJhon  take  this  treacherous  sense  of  mine, 
Wliich  dooms  me  still  to  smart ; 

Which  pleasure  can  to  pain  refine. 
To  pain  nev/  pangs  impart. 


0  !  haste  to  shed  the  sovereign  balm. 

My  shatter' d  nerves  new-string  ; 
And  for  my  guest,  serenely  calm. 

The  nymph  Indifference  bring  ! 

At  her  approach,  see  Hope,  see  Fear, 

See  Expectation  fly ! 
And  Disappointment  in  the  rear. 

That  blasts  the  purposed  joy. 

The  tears,  which  Pity  taught  to  flow, 

My  eyes  shall  then  diso-wu  ; 
The  heart,  that  throbb'd  at  others'  woe. 

Shall  then  scarce  feel  its  own. 

The  wounds,  which  now  each  moment  bleed. 

Each  moment  then  shaU  close  ; 
And' tranquil  days  shall  still  succeed  * 

To  nights  of  sweet  repose. 

O  fairy-elf  !  but  grant  me  this, 

This  one  kind  comfort  send  ! 
And  so  may  never-fading  bliss 

Thy  flowery  paths  attend  ! 

So  may  the  glow-worm's  glimmering  light 

Thy  tiny  footsteps  lead 
To  some  new  region  of  delight, 

UnknoAvn  to  mortal  tread  ! 

And  be  thy  acorn- goblet  fill'd 

With  heaven's  ambrosial  dew, 
From  sweetest,  freshest  flowers  distill'd, 

That  shed  fresh  sweets  for  you. 

And  what  of  life  remains  for  me, 

I'll  pass  in  sober  ease ; 
Half -pleased,  contented  will  I  be, 

Content — but  haK  to  please. 

Mrs.  Greville. — About  1753. 


988.— OPENING  OF  THE  MINSTEEL. 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines 

afar; 
Ah  !  who  can  tell  how  many  a  soul  subhme 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 
And  waged  mth  Fortune  an  eternal  war ; 
Check' d   by  the    scoff  of   Pride,   by  Envy's 

frown, 
And  poverty's  unconquerable  bar. 
In  life's  low  vale  remote  has  pined  alone. 
Then    dropp'd   into  the  grave,  unpitied  and 

unknown ! 

And  yet  the  languor  of  inglorious  day 

Not  equally  oppressive  is  to  all ; 

Him,  "who  ne'er  Hston'd  to  the  voice  of  praise, 

The  silence  of  neglect  can  ne'er  appal. 

There  are,  who,  deaf  to  mad  Ambition's  caU, 

Would  shrink  to  hear  the  obstreperous  trump 

of  Fame ; 
Supremely  blest,  if  to  their  portion  fall 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


OPENING  OF  THE  MINSTREL. 


[Beattie. 


Health,  competence,  and  peace.     Nor  higher 

aim 
Had  he,  whose  simple  tale  these  artless  lines 

proclaim. 

The  rolls  of  fame  I  will  not  now  explore  ; 
Nor  need  I  here  describe,  in  learned  lay, 
How  forth   the    Minstrel    fared    in   days   of 

yore. 
Eight     glad    of     heart,    though    homely   in 

array; 
His  waving  locks  and  beard  aU  hoary  gray  ; 
While     from    his    bending    shoulder    decent 

hung 
His  harp,  the  sole  companion  of  his  way, 
Which  to  the  whistling  wind  responsive  rung : 
And   ever  as    he    went    some  merry  lay  he 

sung. 

Fret  not    thyself,   thou    glittering  child   of 

pride. 
That  a  poor  villager  inspires  my  strain  ; 
With  thee  let  Pageantry  and  Power  abide ; 
The  gentle  Muses  haunt  the  sylvan  reign ; 
Where  through  wild  groves  at  eve  the  lonely 

swain 
Enraptured     roams,     to    gaze    on    Nature's 

charms. 
They  hate  the  sensual,  and  scorn  the  vain ; 
The  parasite  their  influence  never  warms. 
Nor  him  whose  sordid  soul  the  love  of  gold 

alarms. 

Though  richest  hues   the   peacock's  plumes 

adorn. 
Yet   horror    screams     from    his    discordant 

throat. 
Eise,  sons  of  harmony,  and  hail  the  mom. 
While  warbling  larks  on  russet  pinions  float : 
Or  seek  at  noon  the  woodland  scene  remote. 
Where  the  gray  linnets  carol  from  the  hill, 
O  let  them  ne'er,  with  artificial  note, 
To  please  a  tyrant,  strain  the  little  bill, 
But  sing  what  Heaven  inspires,  and  wander 

where  they  wiU. 

Liberal,  not  lavish,  is  kind  Nature's  hand; 
Nor  was  perfection  made  for  man  below. 
Yet   all    her   -schemes    with    nicest    art    are 

plann'd. 
Good  counteracting  iU,  and  gladness  wo. 
With    gold    and  gems  if    Chilian  mountains 

glow ; 
If  bleak  and  barren  Scotia's  hills  arise  ; 
There  plague    and    poison,    lust  and    rapine 

grow  ; 
Here  peaceful  are  the    vales,  and    pure  the 

skies. 
And  freedom  fires  the  soul,   and  sparkles  in 

the  eyes. 

Then  grieve  not  thou,  to  whom  the  indulgent 

Muse 
Vouchsafes  a  portion  of  celestial  fire  ; 
Nor  blame  the  partial  Fates,  if  they  refuse 
The  imperial  banquet  and  the  rich  attire. 


Know  thine  own  worth,  and  reverence  the 

lyre. 
Wilt    thou    debase     the    heart    which    God 

refined  ? 
No;  let  thy  heaven-taught  soul    to  Heaven 

aspire. 
To  fancy,  freedom,  harmony,  resign'd ; 
Ambition's    grovelling    crew    for  ~ever    left 

behind. 

Canst  thou  forego  the  pure  ethereal  soul, 

In  each  fine  sense  so  exqmsitely  keen. 

On  the  dull  couch  of  Luxury  to  loll, 

Stung     with     disease,     and     stupified    with 

spleen ; 
Fain  to  implore  the  aid  of  Flattery's  screen, 
Even  from    thyself    thy  loathsome  heart  to 

hide 
(The  mansion  then  no  more  of  joy  serene), 
Where  fear,  distrust,  malevolence  abide, 
And     impotent     desire,     and     disappointed 

pride  ? 

0  how  canst    thou  renounce    the  boundless 

store 
Of     charms    which    Nature    to    her    votary- 
yields  ! 
The*    warbling     woodland,    the      resounding 

shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields  ; 
All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds. 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even, 
All    that  the    mountain's    sheltering   bosom 

shields. 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven, 
0  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  bo 
forgiven  ? 


There  lived  in  Gothic  days,  as  legends  tell, 
A  shepherd-swain,  a  man  of  low  degree, 
Wliose  sires,  perchance,   in  Fairyland  might 

dwell, 
Sicilian  groves,  or  vales  of  Arcady ; 
But  he,  I  ween,  was  of  the  north  countrie ; 
A    nation     famed    for    song,    and    beauty's 

charms ; 
Zealous,  yet  modest ;  innocent,  though  free ; 
Patient  of  toil ;  serene  amidst  alarms ; 
Inflexible  in  faith  ;  invincible  in  arms. 

The   shepherd- swain,    of    whom    I    mention 

made, 
On  Scotia's  mountains  fed  his  little  flock  ; 
The    sickle,     scythe,    or    plough,    he    never 

sway'd  ; 
An  honest  heart  was  almost  all  his  stock ; 
His  drink  the  living  water  from  the  rock ; 
The  milky  dams  supplied  his-  board,  and  lent 
Their  kindly  fleece  to  baffle  \vinter's  shock ; 
And  he,  though   oft    with   dust  and    cweat 

besprent, 
Did  guide  and  guard  their  wanderings,  where- 

so'er  they  went. 

Beattie.— Bom  1735,  Died  1803. 


Beattie.] 


MOENING  LANDSCAPE. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


989.— MOENING  LANDSCAPE. 

Even  now  liis  eyes  with   smiles  of    rapture 

glow, 
As  on   he  wanders    through   the    scenes  of 

morn, 
"Where    the   fresh    flowers    in   living   lustre 

blow, 
Where    thousand    pearls    the    dewy   lawns 

adorn, 
A  thousand  notes  of  joy  on  every  breeze  are 

borne. 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  teU  ? 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain 

side  ; 
The    lowing   herd;    the    sheepfold's    simple 

bell; 
The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley ;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide ; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  hnnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal 

grove. 

The  cottage- curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark ; 
Crown' d  with  her  pail  the  tripping  mUkinaid 

sings  ; 
The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield ;  and, 

hark! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon 

rings; 
Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonish'd 

springs ; 
Slow    tolls     the    village-clock     the     drowsy 

hour; 
The    partridge     bursts    away    on    whirring 

wings ; 
Deep     mourns    the     turtle     in     sequester'd 

bower. 
And  shrQl  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial 

tower. 

Beattie.— Born  1735,  Died  1803. 


990.— LIFE  AND  IMMORTALITY. 

O    ye    wild   groves,    0   where   is   now   your 

blooin  ? — 
(The     Muse      interprets     thus     his     tender 

thought :) 
Your  flowers,  your  verdure,  and  your  balmy 

gloom. 
Of  late  so  grateful  in  the  hour  of  drought  ? 
Why  do  the    birds,  that   song  and   rapture 

brought 
To  all  your  bowers,  their  mansions  now  for- 
sake? 
Ah !  why  has  fickle  chance  this  ruin  wrought  ? 
For  now  the  storm  howls  mournful  through 

the  brake, 
And  the  dead  foliage  flies  in  many  a  shapeless 

flake. 


Where  now    the    rill,    melodious,  pure,  and 

cool, 
And  meads,  with  life,  and  mirth,  and  beauty 

crown' d  ? 
Ah!    see,  the  unsightly  slime,  and  sluggish 

pool. 
Have  all  the  solitary  vale  embrown' d  ; 
Fled  each  fair  form,  and  mute  each  melting 

sound, 
The  raven  croaks  forlorn  on  naked  spray. 
And  hark  :  the  river,  bursting  every  mound, 
Down  the  vale  thunders,  and  with  wasteful 

sway 
Uproots  the  grove,  and  rolls  the   shatter'd 

rocks  away. 

Yet  such  the  destiny  of  all  on  earth : 

So  flourishes  and  fades  majestic  man. 

Fair  is  the  bud  his  vernal  morn  brings  forth, 

And  fostering  gales  a  while  the  nursling  fan. 

0  smile,  ye  heavens,  serene  ;  ye  mildews  wan, 

Ye   blighting    whirlwinds,    spare    his   balmy 

prime. 
Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span. 
Borne  on  the  swift,  though  silent  wings  of 

Time, 
Old  age  comes  on  apace  to  ravage  all  the 

clime. 

And  be  it  so.     Let  those  deplore  their  doom 
Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark  sojourn  ; 
But  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
Can  smile   at    Fate,    and    wonder   how  they 

mourn. 
Shall  Spring  to  these   sad   scenes   no  more 

return  ? 
Is  yonder  wave  the  Sun's  eternal  bed  ? 
Soon  shall  the  Orient  with  new  lustre  burn. 
And   Spring  shall    soon «  her  vital   influence 

shed, 
Again    attune   the    grove,   again   adorn  the 

mead. 

Shall  I  be  left  forgotten  in  the  dust. 
When  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive  ? 
Shall  Nature's  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 
Bid  him,  though  doom'd  to  perish,  hope  to 

live? 
Is  it  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must  strive 
With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain  ? 
No :     Heaven's    immortal    spring    shall    yet 

arrive, 
And  man's  majestic  beauty  bloom  again. 
Bright  through  the  eternal   year  of    Love's 

triumphant  reign. 

Beattie.— Born  1735,  Died  1803. 


99 1  .—RETIREMENT. 

When  in  the  crimson  cloud  of  even 
The  lingering  light  decays, 
And  Hesper  on  the  front  of  heaven 
His  glittering  gem  displays  ; 


From  1727  to  17S0.1 


THE  HEEMIT. 


[Beattie. 


Deep  in  the  silent  vale,  unseen, 
Beside  a  lulling-  stream, 
A  pensive  youth,  of  placid  mien, 
Indulged  this  tender  theme. 

"  Ye  cliffs,  in  hoary  grandeur  piled 

High  o'er  the  glimmering  dale  ; 

Ye  woods,  along  whose  windings  wild 

Murmurs  the  solemn  gale  : 

Where  Melancholy  strays  forlorn, 

And  Woe  retires  to  weep. 

What  time  the  wan  moon's  yellow  horn 

Gleams  on  the  western  deep  : 

To  you,  ye  wastes,  whose  artless  charms 

Ne'er  drew  Ambition's  eye, 

'Scaped  a  tumultuous  world's  alarms, 

To  your  retreats  I  fly. 

Deep  in  your  most  sequester' d  bower 

Let  me  at  last  recline, 

Where  Solitude,  mild,  modest  power, 

Leans  on  her  ivied  shrine. 

How  shall  I  woo  thee,  matchless  fair  ? 

Thy  heavenly  smile  how  win  ? 

Thy  smile  that  smooths  the  brow  of  Care, 

And  stills  the  storm  within. 

O  wilt  thou  to  thy  favourite  grove 

Thine  ardent  votary  bring. 

And  bless  his  hours,  and  bid  them  move 

Serene,  on  silent  wing  ? 

Oft  let  Eemembrance  soothe  his  mind 

With  dreams  of  former  days. 

When  in  the  lap  of  Peace  reclined 

He  framed  his  infant  lays ; 

When  Fancy  roved  at  large,  nor  Care 

Nor  cold  Distrust  alarm' d. 

Nor  Envy,  with  malignant  glare, 

His  simple  youth  had  harm'd. 

'Twaa  then,  O  Solitude  !  to  thee 

His  early  vows  were  paid, 

From  heart  sincere,  and  warm,  and  free, 

Devoted  to  the  shade. 

Ah,  why  did  Fate  his  steps  decoy 

In  stormy  paths  to  roam, 

Remote  from  all  congenial  joy ! — 

O  take  the  wanderer  home. 

Thy  shades,  thy  silence  now  be  mine, 
Thy  charms  my  only  theme  ; 
My  haunt  the  hoUow  cliff,  whose  pine 
Waves  o'er  the  gloomy  stream. 
Whence  the  scared  owl  on  pinions  gray 
Breaks  frojm  the  rustling  boughs. 
And  down  the  lone  vale  sails  away 
To  more  profound  repose. 

O,  while  to  thee  the  woodland  pours 
Its  wildly  warbling  song. 
And  balmy  from  the  bank  of  flowers 
The  zephyr  breathes  along  ; 
Let  no  rude  sound  invade  from  far, 
No  vagrant  foot  be  nigh. 
No  ray  from  Grandeur's  gilded  car 
Flash  on  the  startled  eye. 


But  if  some  pilgrim  through  the  glade 

Thy  hallow'd  bowers  explore, 

O  guard  from  harm  his  hoary  head, 

And  listen  to  his  lore  ; 

For  he  of  joys  divine  shaU  tell. 

That  wean  from  earthly  wo, 

And  triumph  o'er  the  mighty  speU 

That  chains  his  heart  below. 

For  me,  no  more  the  path  invites 

Ambition  loves  to  tread ; 

No  more  I  climb  those  toilsome  heights, 

By  guileful  Hope  misled ; 

Leaps  my  fond  fluttering  heart  no  more 

To  Mirth's  enlivening  strain; 

For  present  pleasure  soon  is  o'er, 

And  all  the  past  is  vain." 

Beattie.—Bom  1735,  Died  1803. 


992.— THE  HEEMIT. 
At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is 

stm, 

And   mortals   the    sweets   of    forgetfulness 

prove. 
When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the 

hill. 
And  nought  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the 

grove : 
'Twas  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
Wtile  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit 

began : 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war. 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though   he  felt  as  a 

man. 

"  Ah  !    why,  aU  abandon' d  to  darkness  and 

wo. 
Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  ? 
For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow. 
And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthral : 
But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay. 
Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee 

to  mourn  ; 
0  soothe  him,  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass 

away  : 
Full    quickly     they    pass — but     they    never 

return. 

Now  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 

The  moon  half  extinguish' d  her  crescent  dis- 
plays : 

But  lately  I  mark'd,  when  majestic  on  high 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her 
blaze. 

EoU  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness 
pursue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendour 
again ; 

But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall 
renew  ? 

Ah  fool  I  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain ! 


Beattie.] 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


'Tis  night,   and   the   landscape   is  lovely  no 

more  ; 
I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for 

you  ; 
For   morn    is    approaching,   your  charms  to 

restore. 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering 

with  dew  : 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn  ; 
Kind  Nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save. 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering 

urn! 
O  when  shall    it  dawn  on  the  night  of   the 

grave  ! 

'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  be- 

tray'd, 
That   leads,    to   bewilder ;    and    dazzles,    to 

blind ; 
My    thoughts    wont    to   roam,    from    shade 

onward  to  shade, 
Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 
'  0   pity,    great    Father   of    Light,'     then   I 

cried, 
'  Thy  creature,  who  fain  would    not  wander 

from  thee ; 
Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride  : 
From   doubt    and  from    darkness  thou  only 

canst  free  ! ' 

And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away, 
No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 
So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 
The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 
See    Truth,    Love,    and  Mercy,  in    triumph 

descending. 
And    Nature    all     glowing    in    Eden's    first 

bloom  ! 
On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses 

are  blending. 
And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb." 

Beattie.— Born  1735,  Died  1803. 


993.— ODE  TO  PEACE. 

Peace,     heaven-descended     maid !     whose 

powerful  voice 
From  ancient  darkness  call'd  the  mom, 
Of  jarring  elements  composed  the  noise  ; 
When  Chaos,  from  his  old  dominion  torn. 
With  all  his  bollo-s\'ing  throng. 
Far,  far  was  hurl'd  the  void  abyss  along ; 
And  all  the  bright  angelic  choir 
To   loftiest    raptures    tune    the    heavenly 

lyre, 
Pour'd  in  loud   symphony  the  impetuous 

strain  ; 
And  every  fiery  orb  and  planet  sung. 
And   wide   through   night's   dark   desolate 

domain 
Rebounding  long  and  deep  the  lays  triumphant 

rang. 


Oh,    whither    art     thou    fled,     Saturnian 

reign  ? 
EoU  round  again,  majestic  Years  ! 
To  break  fell  Tyranny's  corroding  chain, 
From  Woe's  wan  cheek  to  wipe  the  bitter 

tears. 
Ye  Years,  again  roll  round  ! 
Hark,    from    afar   what   loud   tumultuous 

sound, 
Yv^hile  echoes  sweep  the  winding  vales, 
Swells  full  along  the  plains,  and  loads  the 


Murder  deep-roused,  with  the  \vild  whirl- 
wind's haste 

And  roar   of    tempest,    from    her    cavern 
springs  : 

Her    tangled    serpents    girds    around   her 
waist. 
Smiles  ghastly  stern,   and  shakes  her  gore- 
distiUing  wings. 

Fierce  up  the  yielding  skies 

The  shouts  redoubling  rise  : 

Earth  shudders  at  the  dreadful  sound, 

And  all  is  listening,  trembUng  round. 

Torrents,    that    from     yon     promontory's 

head 
Dash'd  furious  down  in  desperate  cascade, 
Heard  from  afar  amid  the  lonely  night. 
That  oft  have  led  the  wanderer  right, 
Are  silent  at  the  noise. 
The  mighty  ocean's  more  majestic  voice, 
Drown' d    in    superior    din,    is    heard    no 

more; 
The  surge  in  silence  sweeps  along  the  foamy 

shore. 

The  bloody  banner  streaming  in  the  air, 
Seen  on  yon  sky-mix'd  mountain's  brow, 
The  mingling  multitudes,  the  madding  car. 
Pouring  impetuous  on  the  plain  below, 
War's  dreadful  lord  proclaim. 
Bursts   out  by  frequent  fits  the  expansive 

flame. 
Whirl'd  in  tempestuous  eddies  flies 
The   surging   smoke  o'er   all  the  darken'd 

skies. 
The   cheerful  face    of   heaven  no  more  is 

seen, 
Fades    the    morn's   vivid   blush  to  deadly 

pale : 
The    bat    flits    transient    o'er    the    dusky 

green, 
Night's     shrieking    birds    along    the    sullen 

twilight  sail. 

Involved    in    fire-streak'd    gloom    the    car 

comes  on. 
The  mangled  steeds  grim  Terror  guides. 
His  forehead  writhed  to  a  relentless  frown, 
Aloft  the  angry  Power  of  Battles  rides  : 
Grasp'd  in  his  mighty  hand 
A  mace  tremendous  desolates  the  land  ; 
Thunders  the  turret  down  the  steep. 
The  mountain  shrinks  before  its  wasteful 

sweep ; 


Frovi  1727  to  1780.] 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 


[Beattie. 


Chill  horror  the  dissolving  limbs  invades, 
Smit    by    the    blasting    lightning    of    his 

eyes  ; 
A   bloated   paleness   beauty's   bloom  o'er- 

spreads, 
Fades  every  flowery  field,  and  every  verdure 

dies. 

How  startled  Frenzy  stares, 
Bristling  her  ragged  hairs  ! 
Revenge  the  gory  fragment  gnaws  ; 
See,  with  her  griping  vulture-claws 
Imprinted    deep,    she    rends    the   opening 

wound ! 
Hatred   her    torch   blue-streaming    tosses 

round ; 
The  shrieks  of  agony  and  clang  of  arms 
Re-echo  to  the  fierce  alarms 
Her  trump  terrific  blows. 
Disparting  from  behind,  the  clouds  disclose 
Of  kingly  gesture  a  gigantic  form, 
That   with  his   scourge   sublime   directs   the 

whirling  storm. 

Ambition,  outside  fair  I  within  more  foul 
Than  fellest  fiend  from  Tartarus  sprung. 
In  caverns  hatch'd,  where  the  fierce  torrents 

roU 
Of  Phlegethon,  the  burning  banks  along. 
Yon  naked  waste  survey : 
Where  late  was  heard  the  flute's  mellifluous 

lay; 
Where  late  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours 
In   loose    array    danced    lightly    o'er    the 

flowers ; 
Where  late   the   shepherd  told  his  tender 

tale; 
And,  waked  by  the  soft-murmuring  breeze 

of  morn, 
The  voice  of  cheerful  labour  fill'd  the  dale ; 
And  dove-eyed  Plenty  smiled,  and  waved  her 

liberal  horn. 

Yon  ruins  sable  from  the  wasting  flame 
But  mark  the  once  resplendent  dome  ; 
The   frequent    corse    obstructs    the   sullen 

stream. 
And    ghosts    glare   horrid  from  the  sylvan 

gloom. 
How  sadly  silent  all ! 
Save    where     outstretch'd     beneath     yon 

hanging  wall 
Pale  Famine  moans  with  feeble  breath. 
And  Torture  yeUs,  and  grinds  her  bloody 

teeth— 
Though  vain  the  muse,  and  every  melting 

lay. 
To  touch  thy  heart,  unconscious  of  remorse  ! 
Know,  monster,  know,  thy  hour  is  on  the 

way, 
I   see,   I   see  the  Years  begin  their  mighty 

course. 

What  scenes  of  glory  rise 

Before  my  dazzled  eyes  ! 

Young  Zephyrs  wave  their  wanton  wings. 

And  melody  celestial  rings  : 


It 


Along  the  lilied  lawn  the  nymphs  advance, 

Flush' d  with  love's  bloom,  and  range  the 
sprightly  dance : 

The  gladsome  shepherds  on  the  mountain- 
side. 

Array 'd  in  all  their  rural  pride, 

Exalt  the  festive  note. 

Inviting  Echo  from  her  inmost  ^ot^^ 

But  ah  !  the  landscape  glows  with  fainter 
Hght, 

darkens,   smms,   and   flies  for  ever  from 
my  sight. 


Illusions  vain  !     Can  sacred  Peace  reside. 
Where  sordid  gold  the  breast  alarms, 
Where  cruelty  inflames  the  eye  of  Pride, 
I       And  Grandeur  wantons  in  soft  Pleasure's 

arms? 
Ambition !  these  are  thine ; 
These  from  the  soul  erase  the  form  divine  ; 
These  quench  the  animating  fire 
That  warms  the  bosom  with  sublime  desire. 
Thence  the  relentless  heart  forgets  to  feel. 
Hate  rides  tremendous  on  the  o'erwhelming 

brow, 
And   midnight   Eancour   grasps   the   cruel 

steel. 
Blaze    the    funereal    flames,   and   sound   the 

shrieks  of  Woe. 

From  Albion  fled,  thy  once  beloved  retreat, 
What  region  brightens  in  thy  smile. 
Creative  Peace,  and  underneath  thy  feet 
Sees  sullen  flowers  adorn  the  rugged  soil  ? 
In  bleak  Siberia  blows. 
Waked  by  thy  genial  breath,  the  balmy 

rose  ? 
Waved  over  by  thy  magic  wand. 
Does     life    inform     fell    Libya's    burning 

sand? 
Or  does  some  isle  thy  parting  flight  detain. 
Where  roves  the  Indian  through  primeval 

shades. 
Haunts  the  pure  pleasures  of  the  woodland 

reign, 
j  And  led  by  Reason's  ray  the  path  of  Nature 

treads  ? 

On  Cuba's  utmost  steep. 

Far  leaning  o'er  the  deep. 

The  Goddess'  pensive  form  was  seen. 

Her  robe  of  Nature's  varied  green 

Waved    on    the    gale ;    grief   dimm'd  her 

radiant  eyes, 
Her   swelling   bosom  heaved   %vith   boding 

sighs : 
She  eyed  the  main ;  where,  gaining  on  the 

view. 
Emerging  from  the  ethereal  blue, 
'Midst  the  dread  pomp  of  war 
Gleam'd  the  Iberian  streamer  from  afar. 
She  saw ;  and,  on  refulgent  pinions  borne. 
Slow  wing'd  her  way  sublime,  and  mingled 

with  the  morn. 


Beattie.— Born  173^ 


Died  1803. 
49 


Chb.  Smart.] 


SONG  TO  DAVID. 


[Sixth  Period. 


994.— SONG  TO  DAVID. 

O  thou,  that  sitt'st  upon  a  throne, 
With  harp  of  high,  majestic  tone, 

To  praise  the  King  of  kings  : 
And  voice  of  heaven,  ascending  swell, 
Which,  while  its  deeper  notes  excel, 

Clear  as  a  clarion  rings  : 

To  bless  each  valley,  grove,  and  coast, 
And  charm  the  cherubs  to  the  post 

Of  gratitude  in  throngs  ; 
To  keep  the  days  on  Zion's  mount, 
And  send  the  year  to  his  account. 

With  dances  and  with  songs  : 

O  servant  of  God's  holiest  charge. 
The  minister  of  praise  at  large. 

Which  thou  mayst  now  receive  ; 
From  thy  blest  mansion  hail  and  hear. 
From  topmost  eminence  appear 

To  this  the  wreath  I  weave. 

Gteat,  valiant,  pious,  good,  and  clean, 
Sublime,  contemplative,  serene, 

Strong;  constant,  pleasant,  wise  ! 
Bright  effluence  of  exceeding  grace  ;     . 
Best  man  !  the  swiftness  and  the  race, 

The  peril  and  the  prize  ! 

Great — from  the  lustre  of  his  crown. 
From  Samuel's  horn,  and  God's  renown, 

Which  is  the  people's'  voice  ; 
For  all  the  host,  from  rear  to  van, 
Applauded  and  embraced  the  man — 

The  man  of  God's  own  choice. 

Valiant — ^the  word,  and  up  he  rose ; 
The  fight — he  triumph' d  o'er  the  foes 

Whom  God's  just  laws  abhor  ; 
And,  arm'd  in  gallant  faith,  he  took 
Against  the  boaster,  from  the  brook, 

The  weapons  of  the  war. 

Pious — magnificent  and  grand, 
'Twas  he  the  famous  temple  plann'd 

(The  seraph  in  his  soul) : 
Foremost  to  give  the  Lord  his  dues, 
Foremost  to  bless  the  welcome  news, 

And  foremost  to  condole. 

Good — from  Jehudah's  genuine  vein, 
From  God's  best  nature,  good  in  grain. 

His  aspect  and  his  heart : 
To  pity,  to  forgive,  to  save. 
Witness  En-gedi's  conscious  cave, 

And  Shimei's  blunted  dart. 

Clean— if  perpetual  prayer  be  pure, 
And  love,  which  could  itself  inure 

To  fasting  and  to  fear — 
Clean  in  his  gestures,  hands,  and  feet, 
To  smite  the  lyre,  the  dance  complete, 

To  play  the  sword  and  spear. 

Sublime — invention  ever  young. 
Of  vast  conception,  towering  tongue^ 
To  God  tho  eternal  theme ; 


Notes  from  yon  exaltations  caught, 
UnrivaU'd  royalty  of  thought. 
O'er  meaner  strains  supreme. 

Contemplative — on  God  to  fix 
His  musings,  and  above  the  six 

The  Sabbath-day  he  blest  ; 
'Twas  then  his  thoughts  self-conquest  pruned. 
And  heavenly  melancholy  tuned, 

To  bless  and  bear  the  rest. 

Serene — to  sow  the  seeds  of  peace, 
Eemembering  when  he  watch' d  the  fleece. 

How  sweetly  Kidron  purl'd — 
To  further  knowledge,  silence  vice. 
And  plant  perpetual  paradise. 

When  God  had  calm'd  the  world. 

Strong — in  the  Lord,  who  could  defy 
Satan,  and  all  his  powers  that  lie 

In  sempiternal  night ; 
And  hell,  and  horror,  and  despair 
Were  as  the  lion  and  the  bear 

To  his  undaunted  might. 

Constant— in  love  to  God,  the  Truth, 
Age,  manhood,  infancy,  and  youth — 

To  Jonathan  his  friend 
Constant,  beyond  the  verge  of  death  ; 
And  Ziba  and  Mephibosheth, 

His  endless  fame  attend. 

Pleasant — and  various  as  the  year  ; 
Man,  soul,  and  angel  without  peer. 

Priest,  champion,  sage,  and  boy  ; 
In  armour,  or  in  ephod  clad. 
His  pomp,  his  piety  was  glad ; 

Majestic  was  his  joy. 

Wise — in  recovery  from  his  fall, 
Whence  rose  his  eminence  o'er  all, 

Of  all  the  most  reviled ; 
The  light  of  Israel  in  his  ways. 
Wise  are  his  precepts,  prayer,  and  praise, 

And  counsel  to  his  child. 

His  muse,  bright  angel  of  his  verse, 
Gives  balm  for  aU  the  thorns  that  pierce, 

For  all  the  pangs  that  rage  ; 
Blest  light,  still  gaining  on  the  gloom. 
The  more  than  Michal  of  his  bloom, 

The  Abishag  of  his  age. 

He  sang  of  God — the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things — the  stupendous  force 

On  which  all  strength  depends  ; 
From  whose  right  arm,  beneath  whose  eyes. 
All  period,  power,  and  enterprise 

Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 

Angels — ^their  ministry  and  meed. 
Which  to  and  fro  with  blessings  speed, 

Or  with  their  citterns  wait ; 
Where  Michael,  with  his  millions,  bows, 
Where  dwells  the  seraph  and  his  spouse, 

The  cherub  and  her  mate. 


Prom  1727  to  1780.] 


SONG  TO  DAVID. 


[Chr.  Smart. 


Of  man — the  semblance  and  effect 
Of  God  and  love — ^the  saint  elect 

For  infinite  applause — 
To  rule  the  land,  and  briny  broad, 
To  be  laborious  in  his  laud, 

And  heroes  in  his  cause. 

The  world — the  clustering  spheres  he  made, 
The  glorious  hght,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  hill ; 
The  multitudinous  abyss, 
Where  secrecy  remains  in  bliss, 

And  wisdom  hides  her  skill. 

Trees,  plants,  and  flowers— of  virtuous  root 
Gem  yielding  blossom,  yielding  fruit, 

Choice  gums  and  precious  balm  ; 
Bless  yo  the  nosegay  in  the  vale. 
And  with  the  sweetness  of  the  gale 

Enrich  the  thankfvd  psalm. 

Of  fowl — e'en  every  beak  and  wing 
V^Tiich  cheer  the  winter,  hail  the  spring, 

That  live  in  peace,  or  prey  ; 
They  that  make  music,  or  that  mock, 
The  quail,  the  brave  domestic  cock, 

The  raven,  swan,  and  jay. 

Of  fishes — every  size  and  shape. 
Which  nature  frames  of  light  escape. 

Devouring  man  to  shun  : 
The  shells  are  in  the  wealthy  deep. 
The  shoals  upon  the  surface  leap, 

And  love  the  glancing  sun. 

Of  beasts — ^the  beaver  plods  his  task  ; 
While  the  sleek  tigers  roll  and  bask. 

Nor  yet  the  shades  arouse  ; 
Her  cave  the  mining  coney  scoops ; 
Where  o'er  the  mead  the  mountain  stoops, 

The  kids  exxdt  and  browse. 

Of  gems — their  virtue  and  their  price, 
Wliich,  hid  in  earth  from  man's  device. 

Their  darts  of  lustre  sheath  ; 
The  jasper  of  the  master's  stamp, 
The  topaz  blazing  like  a  lamp, 

Among  the  mines  beneath. 

Blest  was  the  tenderness  he  felt, 
When  to  liis  graceful  harp  he  knelt, 

And  did  for  audience  call ; 
When  Satan  with  his  hand  he  quell'd, 
And  in  serene  suspense  he  held 

The  frantic  throes  of  Saul. 

His  furious  foes  no  more  malign' d 
As  he  such  melody  divined. 

And  sense  and  soul  detain' d  ; 
Now  striking  strong,  now  soothing  soft, 
He  sent  the  godly  sounds  aloft, 

Or  in  dehght  refrain' d. 

When  up  to  heaven  his  thoughts  he  piled, 
From  fervent  lips  fair  Michal  smiled, 

As  blush  to  blush  she  stood  ; 
And  chose  herself  the  queen,  and  gave 
Her  utmost  from  her  heart — "  so  brave. 

And  plays  his  hymns  so  good." 


The  pillars  of  the  Lord  are  seven. 

Which  stand  from  earth  to  topmost  heaven ; 

His  wisdom  drew  the  plan  ; 
His  Word  accomplish' d  the  design, 
From  brightest  gem  to  deepest  mine. 

From  Christ  enthroned  to  man. 

Alpha,  the  cause  of  causes,  first       "     — 
In  station,  fountain,  whence  the  burst 

Of  light  and  blaze  of  day  ; 
Whence  bold  attempt,  and  brave  advance. 
Have  motion,  life,  and  ordinance, 

And  heaven  itself  its  stay. 

Gamma  supports  the  glorious  arch 
On  which  angelic  legions  march. 

And  is  with  sapphires  paved ; 
Thence  the  fleet  clouds  are  sent  adrift. 
And  thence  the  painted  folds  that  lift 

The  crimson  veil,  are  waved. 

Eta  with  living  sculpture  breathes. 
With  verdant  carvings,  flowery  wreaths 

Of  never- wasting  bloom ; 
In  strong  relief  his  goodly  base 
All  instruments  of  labour  grace. 

The  trowel,  spade,  and  loom. 

Next  Theta  stands  to  the  supreme — 
Who  form'd  in  number,  sign,  and  scheme, 

The  illustrious  hghts  that  are  ; 
And  one  address' d  his  saffron  robe, 
And  one,  clad  in  a  silver  globe, 

Held  rule  with  every  star. 

Iota 's  tuned  to  choral  hymns 

Of  those  that  fly,  while  he  that  swims 

In  thankful  safety  lurks  ; 
And  foot,  and  chapitre,  and  niche, 
The  various  histories  enrich 

Of  God's  recorded  works. 

Sigma  presents  the  social  droves 
With  him  that  solitary  roves. 

And  man  of  all  the  chief ; 
Fair  on  whose  face,  and  stately  frame, 
Did  God  impress  his  hallow' d  name. 

For  ocular  belief. 

Omega !  greatest  and  the  best. 
Stands  sacred  to  the  day  of  rest, 

For  gratitude  and  thought ; 
Which  bless' d  the  world  upon  his  pole, 
And  gave  the  universe  his  goal, 

And  closed  th'  infernal  draught. 

0  David,  scholar  of  the  Lord  ! 
Such  is  thy  science,  whence  reward. 

And  infinite  degree ; 
O  strength,  O  sweetness,  lasting  ripe  ! 
God's  harp  thy  symbol,  and  thy  type 

The  lion  and  the  bee  ! 

There  is  but  One  who  ne'er  rebell'd. 
But  One  by  passion  unimpell'd. 

By  pleasures  unenticed  ; 
He  from  himself  his  semblance  sent. 
Grand  object  of  his  own  content. 

And  saw  the  God  in  Christ.  aq^ 


Chb.  Smabt.]                                     song  to  DAVli).                              [Sixth  Period.— 

Tell  them,  I  Am,  Jehovah  said 

To  Moses  ;  while  earth  heard  in  dread. 

And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 
At  once  above,  beneath,  around. 
All  nature,  -without  voice  ©r  sound, 

EepHed,  0  Lord,  Thou  Art. 

Praise  above  all — for  praise  prevails  ; 
Heap  up  the  measure,  load  the  scales. 

And  good  to  goodness  add : 
The  generous  soul  her  Saviour  aids, 
But  peevish  obloquy  degrades  ; 

The  Lord  is  great  and  glad. 

Thou  art — to  give  and  to  confirm, 
For  each  his  talent  and  his  term  ; 

AU  flesh  thy  bounties  share  : 
Thou  Shalt  not  call  thy  brother  fool ; 
The  porches  of  the  Christian  school 

Are  meekness,  peace,  and  prayer. 

For  Adoration  aU  the  ranks 

Of  angels  yield  eternal  thanks,                                   ! 

And  David  in  the  midst ;                                          \ 
With  God's  good  poor,  which,  last  and  least           I 
In  man's  esteem,  thou  to  thy  feast,                          ! 

0  blessed  bridegroom,  bidst.                                  \ 

Open  and  naked  of  offence, 

Man 's  made  of  mercy,  soul,  and  sense  : 

God  arm'd  the  snail  and  wilk ; 
Be  good  to  him  that  pulls  thy  plough  ; 
Due  food  and  care,  due  rest  allow 

For  her  that  yields  thee  milk. 

For  Adoration  seasons  change, 

And  order,  truth,  and  beauty  range,                        { 
Adjust,  attract,  and  fill :                                         i 

The  grass  the  polyanthus  checks  ; 

And  polish'd  porphyry  reflects. 
By  the  descending  rill. 

Eise  up  before  the  hoary  head. 

And  God's  benign  commandment  dread, 

Which  says  thou  shalt  not  die  : 
"  Not  as  I  will,  but  as  thou  wilt," 
Pray'd  He,  whose  conscience  knew  no  guilt ; 

With  whose  bless' d  pattern  vie. 

Eich  almonds  colour  to  the  prime 

For  Adoration ;  tendrils  climb, 

And  fruit-trees  pledge  their  gems  ; 
And  Ivis,  with  her  gorgeous  vest. 
Builds  for  her  eggs  her  cunning  nest, 
And  bell-flowers  bow  their  stems. 

Use  all  thy  passions  ! — love  is  thine. 
And  joy  and  jealousy  divine  ; 

Thine  hope's  eternal  fort, 
And  care  thy  leisure  to  disturb, 
With  fear  concupiscence  to  curb. 

And  rapture  to  transport. 

With  vinous  syrup  cedars  spout ; 
From  rocks  pure  honey  gushing  out. 

For  Adoration  springs  : 
All  scenes  of  painting  crowd  the  map 
Of  nature  ;  to  the  mermaid's  pap 

The  scaled  infant  clings. 

Act  simply,  as  occasion  asks  ; 

Put  mellow  wine  in  season' d  casks ; 

Till  not  with  ass  and  bull : 
Eemember  thy  baptismal  bond  ; 
Keep  from  commixtures  foul  and  fond. 

Nor  work  thy  flax  with  wool. 

The  spotted  ounce  and  playsome  cubs 
Eun  rustling  'mongst  the  flowering  shrubs. 

And  lizards  feed  the  moss  ; 
For  Adoration  beasts  embark. 
While  waves  upholding  Halcyon's  ark 

No  longer  roar  and  toss. 

Distribute ;  pay  the  Lord  his  tithe, 

And  make  the  widow's  heart-strings  blithe  ; 

Eesort  with  those  that  weep  : 
As  you  from  all  and  each  expect, 
For  all  and  each  thy  love  direct. 

And  render  as  you  reap. 

While  Israel  sits  beneath  his  fig. 
With  coral  root  and  amber  sprig 

The  wean'd  adventurer  sports ; 
"Where  to  the  palm  the  jasmine  cleaves. 
For  Adoration  'mong  the  leaves 

The  gale  his  peace  reports. 

The  slander  and  its  bearer  spurn. 
And  propagating  praise  sojourn 

To  make  thy  welcome  last ; 
Turn  from  old  Adam  to  the  New : 
By  hope  futurity  pursue  : 

Look  upwards  to  the  past. 

Increasing  days  their  reign  exalt, 
Nor  in  the  pink  and  mottled  vault 

The  opposing  spirits  tilt ; 
And  by  the  coasting  reader  spied, 
The  silverlings  and  crusions  glide 

For  Adoration  gUt. 

Control  thine  eye,  salute  success. 
Honour  the  wiser,  happier  bless. 

And  for  thy  neighbour  feel ; 
Grutch  not  of  mammon  and  his  leaven, 
Work  emulation  up  to  heaven 

By  knowledge  and  by  zeal. 

For  Adoration  ripening  canes, 
And  cocoa's  purest  milk  detains 

The  western  pilgrim's  staff;                                     | 
Where  rain  in  clasping  boughs  enclosed. 
And  vines  with  oranges  disposed, 

Embower  the  social  laugh. 

0  David,  highest  in  the  list 

Of  worthies,  on  God's  ways  insist, 

The  genuine  word  repeat ! 
Yain  are  the  documents  of  men. 
And  vain  the  flourish  of  the  pen 

That  keeps  the  fool's  conceit. 

Now  labour  his  reward  receives. 
For  Adoration  counts  his  sheaves 

To  peace,  her  bounteous  prince  ; 
The  nect'rine  his  strong  tint  imbibes, 
And  apples  of  ten  thousand  tribes. 

And  quick  peculiar  quince. 

I 

From  1727  to  1780.] 


SONG  TO  DAVID. 


[Chr.  Smart. 


The  wealthy  crops  of  whitening  rice 
'Mongst  thyine  woods  and  groves  of  spice, 

For  Adoration  grow  ; 
And,  marshall'd  in  the  fenced  land, 
The  peaches  and  pomegranates  stand, 

Where  wild  carnations  blow. 

The  laurels  with  the  winter  strive  ; 
The  crocus  burnishes  alive 

Upon  the  snow-clad  earth  : 
For  Adoration  myrtles  stay 
To  keep  the  garden  from  dismay, 

And  bless  the  sight  from  dearth. 

The  pheasant  shows  his  pompous  neck ; 
And  ermine,  jealous  of  a  speck, 

With  fear  eludes  offence  : 
The  sable,  with  his  glossy  pride, 
For  Adoration  is  descried, 

Wliere  frosts  the  wave  condense. 

The  cheerful  holly,  pensive  yew, 
And  holy  thorn,  their  trim  renew  ; 

The  squirrel  hoards  his  nuts  : 
All  creatures  batten  o'er  their  stores, 
And  careful  nature  all  her  doors 

For  Adoration  shuts. 

For  Adoration,  David's  Psalms 
Lift  up  the  heart  to  deeds  of  alms ; 

And  he,  who  kneels  and  chants. 
Prevails  his  passions  to  control. 
Finds  meat  and  medicine  to  the  soul. 

Which  for  translation  pants. 

For  Adoration,  beyond  match, 
The  scholar  bulfirich  aims  to  catch 

The  soft  flute's  ivory  touch  ; 
And,  careless,  on  the  hazel  spray 
The  daring  redbreast  keeps  at  bay 

The  damsel's  greedy  clutch. 

For  Adoration,  in  the  skies, 
The  Lord's  philosopher  espies 

The  dog,  the  ram,  and  rose ; 
The  planet's  ring,  Orion's  sword; 
Nor  is  his  greatness  less  adored 

In  the  vile  worm  that  glows. 

For  Adoration,  on  the  strings 

The  western  breezes  work  their  wings. 

The  captive  ear  to  soothe — 
Hark  !  'tis  a  voice — how  still,  and  small — 
That  makes  the  cataracts  to  fall, 

Pr  bids  the  sea  be  smooth ! 

For  Adoration,  incense  comes 
From  bezoar,  and  Arabian  gums, 

And  from  the  civet's  fur : 
But  as  for  prayer,  or  e'er  it  faints, 
Far  better  is  the  breath  of  saints 

Than  galbanum  or  myrrh. 


I  For  Adoration,  from  the  down 

1  Of  damsons  to  the  anana's  crown, 
I  God  sends  to  tempt  the  taste  ; 

1  And  while  the  luscious  zest  invites 

j  The  sense,  that  in  the  scene  delights, 
)  Commands  desire  be  chaste. 


For  Adoration,  all  the  paths 
Of  grace  are  open,  aU  the  baths 

Of  purity  refresh ; 
And  all  the  rays  of  glory  beam 
To  deck  the  man  of  God's  esteem, 

Who  triumphs  o'er  the  flesh. 

For  Adoration,  in  the  dome 

Of  Christ,  the  sparrows  find  a  home ; 

And  on  his  olives  perch  : 
The  swaUow  also  dwells  with  thee, 
O  man  of  God's  humility, 

Within  his  Saviour's  Church. 

Sweet  is  the  dew  that  falls  betimes. 
And  drops  upon  the  leafy  limes ; 

Sweet  Hermon's  fragrant  air  : 
Sweet  is  the  lily's  silver  bell. 
And  sweet  the  wakeful  tapers  smell 

That  watch  for  early  prayer. 

Sweet  the  young  nurse,  with  love  intense, 
Which  smiles  o'er  sleeping  innocence  ; 

Sweet  when  the  lost  arrive  : 
Sweet  the  musician's  ardour  beats. 
While  his  vague  mind 's  in  quest  of  sweets. 

The  choicest  flowers  to  hive. 

Sweeter,  in  all  the  strains  of  love, 
The  language  of  thy  turtle-dove, 

Pair'd  to  thy  swelling  chord ; 
Sweeter,  with  every  grace  endued. 
The  glory  of  thy  gratitude, 

Eespired  unto  the  Lord. 

Strong  is  the  horse  upon  his  speed ; 
Strong  in  pursuit  the  rapid  glede, 

Which  makes  at  once  his  game  : 
Strong  the  tall  ostrich  on  the  ground ; 
Strong  through  the  turbulent  profound 

Shoots  Xiphias  to  his  aim. 

Strong  is  the  lion — ^like  a  coal 
His  eyeball — like  a  bastion's  mole 

His  chest  against  the  foes  : 
Strong  the  gier-eagle  on  his  sail, 
Strong  against  tide  the  enormous  whale 

Emerges  as  he  goes. 

But  stronger  still  in  earth  and  air. 
And  in  the  sea  the  man  of  prayer, 

And  far  beneath  the  tide  : 
And  in  the  seat  to  faith  assign'd, 
Where  ask  is  have,  where  seek  is  find, 

Where  knock  is  open  wide. 

Beauteous  the  fleet  before  the  gale ; 
Beauteous  the  multitudes  in  mail, 

Rank'd  arms,  and  crested  heads ; 
Beauteous  the  garden's  umbrage  mild. 
Walk,  water,  meditated  wild, 

And  all  the  bloomy  beds. 

Beauteous  the  moon  full  on  the  lawn  ; 
And  beauteous  when  the  veil 's  withdrawn. 

The  virgin  to  her  spouse  : 
Beauteous  the  temple,  deck'd  and  fill'd. 
When  to  the  heaven  of  heavens  they  build 

Their  heart-directed  vovrs. 


Chr.  Smart.] 


FEOM  A  TRIP  TO  CAMBRIDGE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


Beauteous,  yea  beauteous  more  than  these, 
The  Shepherd  King  upon  his  knees, 

For  his  momentous  trust ; 
With  wish  of  infinite  conceit. 
For  man,  beast,  mute,  the  small  and  great, 

And  prostrate  dust  to  dust. 

Precious  the  bounteous  widow's  mite ; 
And  precious,  for  extreme  delight, 

The  largess  from  the  churl : 
Precious  the  ruby's  blushing  blaze, 
And  alba's  blest  imperial  rays, 

And  pure  cerulean  pearl. 

Precious  the  penitential  tear ; 
And  precious  is  the  sigh  sincere, 

Acceptable  to  God : 
And  precious  are  the  winning  flowers. 
In  gladsome  Israel's  feast  of  bowers, 

Bound  on  the  hallow' d  sod. 

More  precious  that  diviner  part 

Of  David,  e'en  the  Lord's  own  heart, 

Great,  beautiful,  and  new  : 
In  all  things  where  it  was  intent, 
In  all  extremes,  in  each  event, 

Proof — answering  true  to  true. 

Glorious  the  sun  in  mid  career  ; 
Glorious  the  assembled  fires  appear ; 

Glorious  the  comet's  train  : 
Glorious  the  trumpet  and  alarm  ; 
Glorious  the  Almighty's  stretch' d-out  arm, 

Glorious  the  enraptured  main  : 

Glorious  the  northern  lights  astream ; 
Glorious  the  song,  when  God 's  the  theme ; 

Glorious  the  thunder's  roar : 
Glorious  hosannah  from  the  den  ; 
Glorious  the  catholic  amen  ; 

Glorious  the  martyr's  gore  : 

Glorious — more  glorious  is  the  crown 
Of  Him  that  brought  salvation  down, 

By  meekness  call'd  thy  Son ; 
Thou  that  stupendous  truth  believed. 
And  now  the  matchless  deed's  achieved, 

Determined,  Dared,  and  Done. 

Christopher  Smart— Born  1722,  Died  1770. 


995- 


-FROM  A  TRIP  TO  CAMBRIDGE, 
OR  THE  GRATEFUL  FAIR. 


Sure  such  a  wretch  as  I  was  never  bom. 
By  all  the  world  deserted  and  forlorn  : 
This  bitter-sweet,  this  honey-gall  to  prove. 
And  all  the  oil  and  vinegar  of  love ; 
Pride,  love,  and  reason,  will  not  let  me  rest. 
But  make  a  devilish  bustle  in  my  breast. 
To  wed  with  Fizgig,  pride,  pride,  pride  denies. 
Put  on  a  Spanish  padlock,  reason  cries  ; 
But   tender,    gentle  love,   with    every    wish 
complies. 


Pride,  love,   and   reason,  fight   till  they  are 

cloy'd, 
And     each    by     each     in     mutual    wounds 

destroy'd. 
Thus  when  a  barber  and  a  collier  fight, 
The  barber  beats  the  luckless  collier — white ; 
The  dusty  collier  heaves  his  ponderous  sack, 
And,  big  with  vengeance,  beats  the  barber — 

.  black. 
In   comes  the   brick-dust    man,    with   grime 

o'er  spread. 
And  beats  the  collier  and  the  barber — red ; 
Black,  red,  and  white,  in  various  clouds  are 

toss'd, 
And  in  the  dust  they  raise  the  combatants  are 

lost. 
Christopher  Smart— Born  1722,  Died  1770. 


996.— ODE. 

Imperial  bird,  who  wont  to  soar 

Hi^  o'er  the  rolling  cloud, 
Where  Hyperborean  mountains  hoar 

Their  heads  in  ether  shroud  ; — 
Thou  servant  of  almighty  Jove, 
Who,  free  and  swift  as  thought,  couldst  rove 

To  the  bleak  north's  extremest  goal ; — 
Thou,  who  magnanimous  couldst  bear 
The  sovereign  thunderer's  arms  in  air. 

And  shake  thy  native  pole  ! 

O,  cruel  fate  !  what  barbarous  hand, 

What  more  than  Gothic  ire, 
At  some  fierce  tyrant's  dread  command, 

To  check  thy  daring  fire 
Has  placed  thee  in  this  servile  cell, 
Where  discipline  and  dulness  dwell, 

Where  genius  ne'er  was  seen  to  roam  ; 
Where  every  selfish  soul's  at  rest. 
Nor  ever  quits  the  carnal  breast. 

But  lurks  and  sneaks  at  home  ! 

Though  dimm'd  thine  eye,  and  clipt  thy  wing, 

So  grov'ling  !  once  so  great ; 
The  grief -inspired  Muse  shall  sing 

In  tenderest  lays  thy  fate. 
What  time  by  thee  scholastic  pride 
Takes  his  precise  pedantic  stride. 

Nor  on  thy  mis'ry  casts  a  care, 
The  stream  of  love  ne'er  from  his  heart 
Flows  out,  to  act  fair  pity's  part ;  ' 

But  stinks,  and  stagnates  there. 

Yet  useful  stiU,  hold  to  the  throng — 

Hold  the  reflecting  glass, — 
That  not  untutor'd  at  thy  wrong 

The  passenger  may  pass  ! 
Thou  type  of  wit  and  sense  confined, 
Cramp'd  by  th'  oppressors  of  the  mind. 

Who  study  downward  on  the  ground ; 
Type  of  the  fall  of  Greece  and  Rome  ; 
While  more  than  mathematic  gloom 

Envelops  all  around. 

Christopher  Smart. — Bom  1722,  Died  1770. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


ADMIRAL  HOSIEE'S  GHOST. 


[EicHARD  Glover. 


997.— A  NIGHT  SCENE. 

Silver  Phoebe  spreads 
A  light,  reposing  on  the  quiet  lake, 
Save  where  the  snowy  rival  of  her  hue. 
The  gliding  swan,  behind  him  leaves  a  trail 
In  luminous  vibration.     Lo  !  an  isle 
Swells  on  the   surface.      Marble    structures 

there 
New  gloss  of  beauty  borrow  from  the  moon 
To  deck  the  shore.     Now  silence  gently  yields 
To  measured  strokes  of   oars.      The  orange 

groves, 
n  rich  profusion  round  the*  fertile  verge, 
impart  to  fanning  breezes  fresh  perfumes 
Exhaustless,  visiting  the  scene  with  sweets, 
\\Tiich  soften  even  Briareus ;  but  the  son 
Of  Gobryas,  heavy  with  devouring  care, 
Uncharm'd,  unheeding  sits. 

Bicha/rd  Glover.— Bom  1712,  Died  1785. 


998.— THE  AEMIES  AT  SALAMIS. 

O  sun  !  thou  o'er  Athenian  towers, 
The  citadel  and  fanes  in  ruin  huge. 
Dost,  rising  now,  illuminate  a  scene 
More   new,    more   wondrous  to  thy  piercing 

eye 
Than  ever  time  disclosed.     Phaleron's  wave 
Presents   three   thousand  barks  in  pendants 

rich  ; 
Spectators,  clustering  like  Hymettian  bees. 
Hang  on  the  burden' d  shrouds,  the  bending 

yards. 
The    reelhig    masts ;    the   whole    Cecropian 

strand. 
Far  as  Eleusis,  seat  of  mystic  rites. 
Is  throng'd  with  millions,  male  and  female 

race. 
Of  Asia  and  of  Libya,  rank'd  on  foot, 
On  horses,  camels,  cars.     JEgaleos  tall, 
Half  down  his  long  declivity,  where  spreads 
A  mossy  level,  on  a  throne  of  gold, 
Displays  the  king,  environ' d  by  his  court. 
In  oriental  pomp  ;  the  hill  behind 
By  warriors  cover'd,  like  some  trophy  huge. 
Ascends  in  varied  arms  and  banners  clad  ; 
Below  the  monarch's  feet  th'  immortal  guard, 
Line  under  line,  erect  their  gaudy  spears  ; 
The  arrangement,  shelving  downward  to  the 

beach, 
Is  edged  by  chosen  horse.     With  blazing  steel 
Of  Attic  arms  encircled,  from  the  deep 
Psyttalia  lifts  her  surface  to  the  sight, 
Like  Ariadn  e's  heaven-bespangling  crown, 
A  wreath  of  stars  ;  beyond,  in  dread  array. 
The  Grecian  fleet ,  four  hundred  galleys,  fill 
The  Saiaminian  Straits  ;  barbarian  prows 
In  two  divisions  point  to  either  mouth 
Six  hundred  brazen  beaks  of  tofeer-like  ships, 
Unwieldy  b  ulks  ;  the  gently- swelling  soil 
Of  Salamis,  rich  island,  bounds  the  view. 


Along  her  silver-sanded  verge  array'd, 
The  men-at-arms  exalt  their  naval  spears, 
Of  length  terrific.     All  the  tender  sex, 
Eank'd  by  Timothea,  from  a  green  ascent. 
Look    down    in    beauteous    order    on    their 

sires, 
'Their  husbands,  lovers,  brothers,  sons,  pre- 
pared ~*  — 
To  mount  the  roUing  deck.       The    younger 

dames 
In  bridal  robes  are  clad  ;  the  matrons  sage. 
In  solemn  raiment,  worn  on  sacred  days  ; 
But    white    in    vesture.    Like    their    maiden 

breasts. 
Where    Zephyr     plays,    uplifting    with    his 

breath 
The  loosely  waving  folds,  a  chosen  line 
Of  Attic  graces  in  the  front  is  placed  ; 
From   each   fair   head  the    tresses   fall,    en- 
twined 
With  newly-gather'd  flowerets  ;  chaplets  gay 
The  snowy  hand  sustains  ;  the  native  curls, 
O'ershading    half,    augment    their    powerful 

charms ; 
While  Venus,  temper'd  by  Minerva,  fills 
Their  eyes  with  ardour,  pointing  every  glance 
To  animate,  not  soften.     From  on  high 
Her  large  controlling  orbs  Timothea  rolls, 
Surpassing  all  in  stature,  not  unlike 
In  majesty  of  shape  the  wife  of  Jove, 
Presiding  o'er  the  empyreal  fair. 

Richard  Glover. — Bom  1712,  Died  1785. 


999.— ADMIEAL  HOSIER'S  GHOST. 

As  near  Porto-Bello  lying 

On  the  gently  swelling  flood, 
At  midnight  with  streamers  flying, 

Our  triumphant  navy  rode  : 
There  while  Vernon  sat  all-glorious 

From  the  Spaniards'  late  defeat ; 
And  his  crews,  with  shouts  victorious, 

Drank  success  to  England's  fleet : 

On  a  sudden,  shrilly  sounding, 

Hideous  yells  and  shrieks  were  heard ; 
Then,  each  heart  with  fear  confounding, 

A  sad  troop  of  ghosts  appear'd, 
All  in  dreary  hammocks  shrouded, 

Which  for  winding-sheets  they  wore. 
And  with  looks  by  sorrow  clouded, 

Frowning  on  that  hostile  shore. 

On  them  gleam' d  the  moon's  wan  lustre, 

When  the  shade  of  Hosier  brave 
His  pale  bands  was  seen  to  muster. 

Rising  from  their  wat'ry  grave  : 
O'er  the  glimm'ring  wave  he  hied  him. 

Where  the  Burford  rear'd  her  sail, 
With  three  thousand  ghosts  beside  him, 

And  in  groans  did  Vernon  hail. 


Robert  Dodsley.] 


SONG— THE  PAETING  KISS. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


"  Heed,  O  heed,  our  fatal  story, 

I  am  Hosier's  injured  ghost, 
You,  who  now  have  purchased  glory 

At  this  place  where  I  was  lost ; 
Though  in  Porto-BeUo's  ruin 

You  now  triumph  free  from  fears, 
When  you  think  on  our  undoing. 

You  will  mix  your  joy  with  tears. 

See  these  mournful  spectres,  sweeping 

Ghastly  o'er  this  hated  wave, 
"V^Tiose  wan  cheeks  are  stain' d  with  weeping 

These  were  English  captains  brave  •• 
Mark  those  numbers  pale  and  horrid, 

Those  were  once  my  sailors  bold, 
Lo  !  each  hangs  his  drooping  forehead, 

"While  his  dismal  tale  is  told. 

I,  by  twenty  sail  attended, 

Did  the  Spanish  town  affright : 
Nothing  then  its  wealth  defended 

But  my  orders  not  to  fight : 
O  !  that  in  this  rolling  ocean 

I  had  cast  them  with  disdain, 
And  obey'd  my  heart's  warm  motion, 

To  have  quell' d  the  pride  of  Spain. 

For  resistance  I  could  fear  none, 

But  with  twenty  ships  had  done 
What  thou,  brave  and  happy  Vernon, 

Hast  achieved  with  six  alone. 
Then  the  Bastimentos  never 

Had  our  foul  dishonour  seen, 
Nor  the  sea  the  sad  receiver 

Of  this  gallant  train  had  been. 

Thus,  like  thee,  proud  Spain  dismaying. 

And  her  galleons  leading  home. 
Though  condemn' d  for  disobeying, 

I  had  met  a  traitor's  doom ; 
To  have  fall'n,  my  country  crying 

He  has  play'd  an  English  part, 
Had  been  better  far  than  dying 

Of  a  grieved  and  broken  heart. 

Unrepining  at  thy  glory. 

Thy  successful  arms  we  hail ; 
But  remember  our  sad  story. 

And  let  Hosier's  wrongs  prevail. 
Sent  in  this  foul  clime  to  languish. 

Think  what  thousands  fell  in  vain. 
Wasted  with  disease  and  anguish. 

Not  in  glorious  battle  slain. 

Hence,  with  all  my  train  attending 

From  their  oozy  tombs  below, 
Through  the  hoary  foam  ascending. 

Here  I  feed  my  constant  woe  : 
Here  the  Bastimentos  viewing. 

We  recall  our  shameful  doom. 
And  our  plaintive  cries  renewing. 

Wander  through  the  midnight  gloom. 

O'er  these  waves  for  ever  mourning 
Shall  we  roam  deprived  of  rest. 

If  to  Britain's  shores  returning, 
You  neglect  my  just  request. 


After  this  proud  foe  subduing,- 

When  your  patriot  friends  you  see, 

Think  on  vengeance  for  my  ruin, 
And  for  England  shamed  in  me." 

Richard  Glover. — Born  171.2,  Died  1785 


1000.— SONG— THE  PARTING  KISS. 

One  kind  wish  before  we  part. 

Drop  a  tear,  and  bid  adieu : 
Though  we  sever,  my  fond  heart, 

Till  we  meet,  shall  pant  for  you. 

Yet,  yet  weep  not  so,  my  love. 
Let  me  kiss  that  falling  tear  ; 

Though  my  body  must  remove, 
All  my  soul  will  still  be  here. 

All  my  soul,  and  all  my  heart, 

And  every  wish  shall  pant  for  you ; 

One  kind  kiss,  then,  ere  we  part. 
Drop  a  tear,  and  bid  adieu. 

Robert  Dodsley.—Born  1703,  Died  1764. 


looi.— SONG. 

Man 's  a  poor  deluded  bubble, 

Wand'ring  in  a  mist  of  lies, 
Seeing  false,  or  seeing  double  ; 

Who  would  trust  to  such  weak  eyes  ? 

Yet  presuming  on  his  senses. 

On  he  goes,  most  wondrous  wise ; 

Doubts  of  truth,  believes  pretences  ; 
Lost  in  error,  lives  and  dies. 

Robert  Dodsley.—Born  1703,  Died  1764. 


I002.— TO  MRS.  BISHOP. 

WITH  A  PRESENT    OF  A   KNIFE, 

"  A  knife,"  dear  girl,  *'  cuts  love,"  they  say ! 

Mere  modish  love,  perhaps  it  may — 

— For  any  tool,  of  any  kind. 

Can  separate what  was  never  join'd. 

The  knife,  that  cuts  our  love  in  two. 
Will  have  much  tougher  work  to  do ; 
Must  cut  your  softness,  truth,  and  spirit, 
Down  to  the  vulgar  size  of  merit ; 
To  level  yours,  with  modern  taste, 
Must  cut  a  world  of  sense  to  waste  ; 
And  from  your  single  beauty's  store. 
Clip,  what  would  dizen  out  a  score. 

That  self-same  blade  from  me  must  sever 
Sensation,  judgment,  sight,  for  ever : 


From  1727  to  1780.]                                   EPIGRAM.                                       [Samuel  Bishop. 

All  memory  of  endearments  past, 

1 
1004.— EPIGRAM. 

All  hope  of  comforts  long  to  last ; — 

All  that  makes  fourteen  years  Avith  you, 

QUOD  PETIS,    HIC    EST. 

j       A  summer — and  a  short  one  too  ; — 

1       All  that  affection  feels  and  fears, 

No  plate  had  John  and  Joan  to  hoard. 

When  hours  without  you  seem  like  years. 

Plain  folk,  in  humble  plight ; 

One  only  tankard  crown'd  their  board. 

Till  that  be  done  (and  I'd  as  soon 

And  that  was  fiU'd  each  night  ;-^    - 

Believe  this  knife  will  chip  the  moon), 

Accept  my  present,  undeterr-d, 

Along  whose  inner  bottom  sketch' d. 

And  leave  their  proverbs  to  the  herd. 

In  pride  of  chubby  grace, 
Some  rude  engraver's  hand  had  etch'd 

If  in  a  kiss — delicious  treat ! — 

A  baby  Angel's  face. 

Your  lips  acknowledge  the  receipt, 
Love,  fond  of  such  substantial  fare, 

John  swallow' d  first  a  moderate  sup  ; 

And  proud  to  play  the  glutton  there, 
AH  thoughts  of  cutting  will  disdain, 
Save  only — "  cut  and  come  again." 

XJUb  OVdiU.  WclS  llUli  ilKO  tj  OllU  , 

For  when  her  lips  once  touch'd  the  cup, 
She  swill'd,  till  all  was  gone. 

Samuel  Bishop.— Born  1731,  Died  1795. 

John  often  urged  her  to  drink  fair ; 

But  she  ne'er  changed  a  jot ; 

She  loved  to  see  the  Angel  there, 
And  therefore  drain' d  the  pot. 

1003.— TO  THE  SAME. 

Wlien  John  found  all  remonstrance  vain, 

Another  card  he  play'd ; 

ON    THE    ANNIVERSARY    OP    HER    WEDDING- 

And  where  the  Angel  stood  so  plain. 

DAY,   WHICH    WAS    ALSO    HER    BIRTH-DAY, 

He  got  a  Devil  portray' d. — 

WITH   A   RING. 

Joan  saw  the  horns,  Joan  saw  the  tail, 

"  Thee,  Mary,  with  this  ring  I  wed  " — 

Yet  Joan  as  stoutly  quaff' d ; 

So,  fourteen  years  ago,  I  said. 

And  ever,  when  she  seized  her  ale, 

Behold  another  ring !— "  for  what  ?  " 

She  clear'd  it  at  a  draught.— 

"  To  wed  thee  o'er  again  ?  " — Why  not  ? 

John  stared,  with  wonder  petrified  ; 

With  that  first  ring  I  married  youth, 

His  hair  stood  on  his  pate  ; 

Grace,  beauty,  innocence,  and  truth ; 

And  "  why  dost  guzzle  now,"  he  cried. 

Taste  long  admired,  sense  long  revered, 

"  At  this  enormous  rate  ?  "  — 

And  all  my  Molly  then  appear'd. 

"  Oh  !  John,"  she  said,  "  am  I  to  blame  ? 

If  she,  by  merit  since  disclosed. 

I  can't  in  conscience  stop : 

Prove  twice  the  woman  I  supposed. 

For  sure  'twould  be  a  burning  shame. 

I  plead  that  double  merit  now. 

To  leave  the  Devil  a  drop  !  " 

To  justify  a  double  vow. 

Samuel  Bishop. — Bom  1731,  Died  1795. 

Here  then  to-day  (with  faith  as  sure, 

With  ardour  as  intense,  as  pure. 

As  when,  amidst  the  rites  divine. 

I  took  thy  troth,  and  plighted  mine). 

To  thee,  sweet  girl,  my  second  ring 
A  token  and  a  pledge  I  bring : 

1005.— EPIGRAM. 

With  this  I  wed,  tiU  death  us  part. 

SPLENDEAT  USU. 

Thy  riper  virtues  to  my  heart ; 

Those  virtues,  which  before  untried. 

See  !  stretch' d  on  nature's  couch  of  grass, 

The  wife   has  added  to  the  bride : 

The  foot-sore  traveller  lies  ! 

Those  virtues,  whose  progressive  claim. 

Vast  treasures  let  the  great  amass ; 

Endearing  wedlock's  very  name, 

A  leathern  pouch  and  burning-glass 

My  soul  enjoys,  my  song  approves. 

For  aU  his  wants  suflBce. 

For  conscience'  sake,  as  well  as  love's. 

For  him  the  sun  its  power  displays 

And  why  ? — They  show  me  every  hour 

In  either  hemisphere ; 

Honour's  high  thought,  Affection's  power, 

Pours  on  Virginia's  coast  its  blaze, 

Discretion's  deed,  sound  Judgment's  sentence, 

Tobacco  for  his  pipe  to  raise  ; 

And  teach  me  all  things — but  repentance. 

And  shines  to  light  it — here  1 

Samuel  Bishop.— Born  1731,  Died  1795. 

Samuel  Bishop.— Born  1731   Died  1795. 

SAMTJBIi  BiSHOr.] 


EPIGRAM. 


[Sixth  Period. 


1006.— EPIGRAM. 

QUOCUNQUE    MODO    REM. 

A  veteran  gambler,  in  a  tempest  caught, 
Once  in  his  life  a  church's  shelter  sought ; 
Where  many  a  hint,  pathetically  grave, 
On  life's  precarious  lot,  the  preacher  gave. 
The  sermon  ended,  and  the  storm  all  spent, 
Home  trudged  old  Cog-die,   reasoning  as  he 

went ; 
*'  Strict   truth,"    quoth    he,    "  this    reverend 

sage  declared ; 
I  feel  conviction — and  will  be  prepared — 
Nor   e'er   henceforth,    since   life   thus   steals 

away, 
Give  credit  for  a  bet,  beyond  a  day  !  " 

Samuel  Bisliop. — Bom  1731,  Died  1795. 


1007.— SONNET. 

As  when,  to  one,  who  long  hath  watch' d  the 

mom 
Advancing,  slow  forewarns  th'  approach  of 

day 
(What  time  the  young  and  fiow'ry-kirtled 

May 
Decks   the    green   hedge,    and  dewy  grass 

unshorn 
With  cowslips  pale,    and  many  a  whitening 

thorn) ; 
And   now  the  sun  comes  forth,  with  level 

ray 
Gilding  the  high-wood  top,    and   mountain 

gray; 
And,    as    he    climbs,    the   meadows   'gins 

adorn ; 
The  rivers  glisten  to  the  dancing  beam, 

Th'   awaken' d   birds   begin   their   amorous 

strain. 
And  hiU  and  vale  with  joy  and  fragrance 

teem.; 
Such  is  the  sight  of  thee  ;  thy  wish'd  return 
To  eyes,  like  mine,  that  long  have  waked  to 

mourn. 
That  long  have  watch' d  for  light,  and  wept 

in  vain ! 

John  Bampfylde.^Bom  1754,  Died  1796. 


1008.— SONNET. 

TO   THE   REDBREAST. 

When   that    the  fields  put   on   their  gay 
attire. 
Thou  silent  sitt'st  near  brake  or  river's  brim, 
Whilst  the  gay  thrush  sings  loud  from  covert 
dim  ; 
But   when   pale   Winter   lights   the   social 
fire. 
And  meads  with  slime  are  sprent  and  ways 
with  mire, 


Thou  charm' st  us  with  thy  soft  and  solemn 

hymn. 
From   battlement,    or  barn,    or    hay- stack 
trim ; 
And  now  not  seldom  tunest,  as  if  for  hire, 

Thy  thrilling  pipe  to  me,  waiting  to  catch 
The  pittance  due  to  thy  well- warbled  song  : 
Sweet   bird,    sing   on !  for  oft  near  lonely 
hatch, 
Like  thee,   myself    have  pleased  the  rustic 
throng, 
And   oft  for  entrance  'neath  the  peaceful 
thatch, 
Full  many  a  tale  have  told  and  ditty  long. 

John  Bampfylde. — Born  1754,  Died  1796. 


1009.— SONNET.  • 

ON   A  WET   SUMMER. 

All  ye,  who  far  from  town,  in  rural  hall, 
Like   me,    were   wont  to  dwell  near  pleasant 

field. 
Enjoying  all  the  sunny  day  did  yield. 

With   me   the  change  lament,   in  irksome 
thrall. 
By  rains  incessant  held ;  for  now  no  call 
From  early  swain  invites  my  hand  to  wield 
The  scythe ;  in  parlour  dim  I  sit  conceal' d. 
And  mark  the  lessening  sand  from  hour-glass 
faU; 
Or  'neath  my  window  view  the  wistful  train 
Of  dripping  poultry,  whom  the  vine's  broad 
leaves 
Shelter  no   more. — Mute  is  the   mournful 
plain. 
Silent  the  swallow  sits  beneath  the  thatch. 
And  vacant  hind  hangs  pensive  o'er  his 
hatch. 
Counting  the  frequent  drop  from  reeded  eaves. 

John  Bampfylde.—Born  1754,  Died  1796. 


loic— SONNET. 

Cold  is  the  senseless  heart  that  never  strove 
With  the  mild  tumult  of  a  real  flame; 
Eugged  the  breast  that  beauty  cannot  tame, 
Nor  youth's    enlivening    graces    teach    to 
love 
The    pathless    vale,    the    long   forsaken 
grove, 
The  rocky  cave  that  bears  the  fair  one's 

name, 
With  ivy  mantled  o'er — For  empty  fame, 
Let  him  amidst  the  rabble  toil,  or  rove 
In  search  of  plunder  far  to  western  clime. 

Give  me  to  waste  the  hours  in  amorous 
play 
With  Delia,  beauteous  maid,    and  build  the 
rhyme 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


TETEASTIC— FROM  THE  PERSIAN. 


[Sir  W.  Jones. 


Praising  her  flowing  hair,  her  snowy  arms, 
And  all  that  prodigality  of  charms 

Form'd  to   enslave  my  heart  and  grace 
my  lay. 

John  Banvpfylde. — Boi'n  1754,  Died  1796. 


loii.— AN  ODE,  IN  IMITATION  OF 
ALC^US. 

What  constitutes  a  state  ? 
Not     high-raised     battlement     or     labour' d 
mound, 
Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not    cities    proud    with    spires   and   turrets 
crown' d ; 
Not  bays  and  broad-arm'd  ports, 
Where,   laughing   at   the   storm,  rich  navies 
ride ; 
Not  starr'd  and  spangled  courts, 
"Where  low-brow' d  baseness  wafts  perfume  to 
pride. 
No  :  men,  high-minded  men, 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den. 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude ; 

Men  who  their  duties  know. 
But   know   their   rights,  and,  knowing,  dare 
maintain. 
Prevent  the  long-aim' d  blow. 
And   crush   the   tyrant  while  they  rend  the 
chain  : 
These  constitute  a  state. 
And  sovereign  Law,  that  state's  collected  will, 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill; 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown, 
The  fiend  Discretion  hke  a  vapour  sinks, 

And  e'en  the  aU-dazzling  Crown 
Hides   his   faint    rays,    and   at   her  bidding 
shrinks. 

Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle, 
Than  Lesbos  fairer,  and  the  Cretan  shore  ! 

No  more  shall  Freedom  smile  ? 
Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign. 
Those    sweet    rewards,    which   decorate  the 
brave, 

'Tis  folly*  to  decline. 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

Sir  W.  Jones.— Bom  1746,  Died  1794. 


IOI2.— A  PERSIAN  SONG  OF  HAFIZ. 

Sweet  maid,  if  thou  would' st  charm  my  sight, 
And  bid  these  arms  thy  neck  enfold  j 
That  rosy  cheek,  that  lily  hand. 
Would  give  thy  poet  more  delight 
Than  all  Bocara's  vaunted  gold. 
Than  all  the  gems  of  Samarcand. 


Boy,  let  yon  liquid  ruby  flow. 
And  bid  thy  pensive  heart  be  glad, 
Whate'er  the  frowning  zealots  say  : 
Tell  them,  their  Eden  cannot  show 
A  stream  so  clear  as  Rocnabad, 
A  bower  so  sweet  as  Mosellay. 

O  !  when  these  fair  perfidious  maids. 
Whose  eyes  our  secret  haunts  infest. 
Their  dear  destructive  charms  display, 
Each  glance  my  tender  breast  invades. 
And  robs  my  wounded  soul  of  rest, 
As  Tartars  seize  their  destined  prey. 

In  vain  with  love  our  bosoms  glow  : 
Can  all  our  tears,  can  all  our  sighs. 
New  lustre  to  those  charms  impart  ? 
Can  cheeks,  where  living  roses  blow, 
Where  nature  spreads  her  richest  dyes, 
Require  the  borrow' d  gloss  of  art  ? 

Speak  not  of  fate  :  ah  !  change  the  theme, 
And  talk  of  odours,  talk  of  wine. 
Talk  of  the  flowers  that  round  us  bloom  : 
'Tis  all  a  cloud,  'tis  aU  a  dream  ; 
To  love  and  joy  thy  thoughts  confine, 
Nor  hope  to  pierce  the  sacred  gloom. 

Beauty  has  such  resistless  power. 
That  even  the  chaste  Egyptian  dame 
Sigh'd  for  the  blooming  Hebrew  boy : 
For  her  how  fatal  was  the  hour, 
When  to  the  banks  of  Nilus  came 
A  youth  so  lovely  and  so  coy  ! 

But  ah  !  sweet  maid,  my  counsel  hear 
(Youth  should  attend  when  those  advise 
Whom  long  experience  renders  sage) : 
While  music  charms  the  ravish' d  ear; 
While  sparkling  cups  delight  our  eyes, 
Be  gay,  and  scorn  the  frowns  of  age. 

What  cruel  answer  have  I  heard  ? 
And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  love  thee  still : 
Can  aught  be  cruel  from  thy  lip  ? 
Yet  say,  how  feU  that  bitter  word 
From  lips  which  streams  of  sweetness  fill, 
Which  nought  but  drops  of  honey  sip  ? 

Go  boldly  forth,  my  simple  lay. 
Whose  accents  flow  with  artless  ease, 
Like  orient  pearls  at  random  strung : 
Thy  notes  are  sweet,  the  damsels  say ; 
But  oh  !  far  sweeter,  if  they  please 
The  nymph  for  whom  these  notes  are  sung ! 

Sir  W.  Jones. — Born  1746,  Died  1794. 


1013.— TETRASTIC. 

PROM   THE    PERSIAN. 

On  parent  knees,  a  naked  new-bom  child. 
Weeping  thou  sat'st   while   all   around  thee 

smiled  ; 
So  live  that,  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep. 
Calm  thou  mayst   smile,  while  all  around  thee 

weep. 

Sir  W.  Jones.— Born  1746,  Died  1794. 


Francis  Fawkes.] 


THE  BROWN  JUG. 


[Sixth  Period.— t- 


1014.— THE  BEOWN  JUG. 

Dear  Tom,  this  brown  jug  that  now  foams 

with  mild  ale 
(In  which  I  will  drink  to  sweet  Nan  of  the 

vale), 
Was  once  Toby  Fillpot,  a  thirsty  old  soul, 
As  e'er  drank  a  bottle,  or  fathom'd  a  bowl ; 
In  bousing  about  'twas  Ids  praise  to  excel, 
And  among  joUy  topers  he  bore  off  the  bell. 

It  chanced  as  in  dog-days  he  sat  at  his  ease, 
In   his  flower-woven  arbour,  as  gay  as  you 


With  a  friend  and  a  pipe  puffing   sorrows 

away, 
And  with  honest  old  stingo  was  soaking  his 

clay, 
His   breath-doors  of  life  on  a  sudden  were 

shut, 
And  he  died  fuU  as  big  as  a  Dorchester  butt. 

His  body  when  long  in  the  ground  it  had  lain, 
And  time  into  clay  had  resolved  it  again, 
A  potter  found  out  in  its  coverts  so  snug. 
And   with  part  of  fat  Toby  he  form'd  this 

brown  jug ; 
Now  sacred  to   friendship,    and  mirth,    and 

mild  ale, 
So  here's  to  my  lovely   sweet  Nan  of  the 

vale  ! 

Francis  FaxoUs.—Born  1721,  Died  1777. 


1 01 5. —ODE  TO  SOLITUDE. 

O  Solitude,  romantic  maid  I 
Whether  by  nodding  towers  you  tread. 
Or  haunt  the  desert's  trackless  gloom, 
Or  hover  o'er  the  yaAvning  tomb. 
Or  climb  the  Andes'  clifted  side, 
Or  by  the  Nile's  coy  source  abide, 
Or  starting  from  your  half-year's  sleep, 
From  Hecla  view  the  tha-sving  deep. 
Or,  at  the  purple  dawn  of  day, 
Tadmor's  marble  wastes  survey. 
You,  recluse,  again,  I  woo. 
And  again  your  steps  pursue. 

Plumed  Conceit  himself  survejdng, 
Folly  with  her  shadow  playing. 
Purse-proud,  elbowing  Insolence, 
Bloated  empiric,  puff'd  Pretence, 
Noise  that  through  a  trumpet  speaks, 
Laughter  in  loud  peals  that  breaks, 
Intrusion  with  a  fopling's  face 
(Ignorant  of  time  and  place), 
Sparks  of  fire  Dissension  bloAving, 
Ductile,  court-bred  Flatterj^  bowing, 
Eestraint's  stiff  neck,  Grimace's  leer, 
Squint-eyed  Censure's  artful  sneer, 
Ambition's  buskins,  steep' d  in  blood. 
Fly  thy  presence,  Solitude. 


Sage  Seflection,  bent  with  years, 
Conscious  Virtue  void  of  fears, 
Muffled  Silence,  wood-nymph  shy, 
Meditation's  piercing  ej^e, 
Halcyon  Peace  on  moss  reclined, 
Retrospect  that  scans  the  mind. 
Wrapt  earth-gazing  Eeverie, 
Blushing  artless  Modesty, 
Health  that  snuffs  the  morning  air, 
Full-eyed  Truth  with  bosom  bare, 
Inspiration,  Nature's  child, 
Seek  the  solitary  wild. 

You,  with  the  tragic  muse  retired. 

The  wise  Euripides  inspired  ; 

You  taught  the  sadly-pleasing  air 

That  Athens  saved  from  ruins  bare. 

You  gave  the  Cean's  tears  to  flow, 

And  unlock' d  the  springs  of  woe  ; 

You  penn'd  what  exiled  Naso  thought, 

And  pour'd  the  melancholy  note. 

With  Petrarch  o'er  Vaucluse  you  stray'd, 

When  death  snatch'd  his  long-loved  maid 

You  taught  the  rocks  her  loss  to  mourn, 

Ye  strew'd  with  flowers  her  virgin  urn. 

And  late  in  Hagley  you  were  seen, 

With  bloodshot  eyes,  and  sombre  mien  ; 

Hymen  his  yellow  vestment  tore, 

And  Dirge  a  wreath  of  cypress  wore. 

But  chief  your  own  the  solemn  lay 

That  wept  Narcissa  young  and  gay  ; 

Darkness  clapp'd  her  sable  wing, 

While  you  touch' d  the  mournful  string  ; 

Anguish  left  the  pathless  wild, 

Grim-faced  Melancholy  smiled. 

Drowsy  Midnight  ceased  to  yawn. 

The  starry  host  put  back  the  dawn ; 

Aside  their  harps  even  seraphs  flung 

To  hear  thy  sweet  Complaint,  0  Young ! 

Wlien  all  nature  's  hush'd  asleep, 

Nor  Love  nor  Guilt  their  vigils  keep. 

Soft  you  leave  your  cavern' d  den. 

And  wander  o'er  the  works  of  men ; 

But  when  Phosphor  brings  the  dawn 

By  her  dappled  coursers  drawn, 

Again  you  to  the  wild  retreat 

And  the  early  huntsman  meet. 

Where,  as  you  pensive  pace  along, 

You  catch  the  distant  shepherd's  song. 

Or  brush  from  herbs  the  pearly  dew. 

Or  the  rising  primrose  view. 

Devotion  lends  her  heaven-plumed  wings, 

You  mount,  and  nature  with  you  sings. 

But  when  mid-day  fervours  glow. 

To  upland  airy  shades  you  go. 

Where  never  sunburnt  woodman  came, 

Nor  sportsman  chased  the  timid  game  ; 

And  there  beneath  an  oak  reclined, 

With  drowsy  waterfalls  behind, 

You  sink  to  rest. 

Till  the  tuneful  bird  of  night, 

From  the  neighbouring  poplar's  height. 

Wake  you  with  her  solemn  strain, 

And  teach  i^leased  Echo  to  complain. 

With  you  roses  brighter  bloom, 
Sweeter  every  sweet  perfume ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  WISH. 


[James  Merrick. 


Purer  every  fountain  flows, 
Stronger  every  wildling  grows. 
Let  those  toil  for  gold  who  please, 
Or  for  fame  renounce  their  ease. 
What  is  fame  ?  an  empty  bubble. 
Gold  ?  a  transient  shining  trouble. 
Let  them  for  their  country  bleed, 
What  was  Sidney's,  Ealeigh's  meed  ? 
Man  's  not  worth  a  moment's  pain, 
Base,  ungrateful,  fickle,  vain. 
Then  let  me,  sequester'd  fair, 
To  your  sibyl  grot  repair ; 
On  yon  hanging  cliff  it  stands, 
Scoop'd  by  nature's  salvage  hands. 
Bosom' d  in  the  gloomy  shade 
Of  cypress  not  with  age  decay'd. 
Where  the  owl  still-hooting  sits, 
Where  the  bat  incessant  flits. 
There  in  loftier  strains  I'U  sing 
Whence  the  changing  seasons  spring ; 
Tell  how  storms  deform  the  skies. 
Whence  the  waves  subside  and  rise ; 
Trace  the  comet's  blazing  tail, 
Weigh  the  planets  in  a  scale ; 
Bend,  great  God,  before  thy  shrine, — 
The  boumless  macrocosm  's  thine.     *     * 

Dr.  Granger.— Bom  1721,  IXed  1766. 


ioi6.— THE  CHAMELEON. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A  proud,  conceited,  talking  spark, 
With  eyes  that  hardly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  'gainst  a  post ; 
Yet  round  the  world  the  blade  has  been. 
To  see  whatever  could  be  seen. 
Eeturning  from  his  finish'd  tour, 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before ; 
Whatever  word  you  chance  to  drop. 
The  travell'd  fool  your  mouth  will  stop  : 
"  Sir,  if  my  judgment  you'll  allow — 
I've  seen — and  sure  I  ought  to  know." 
So  begs  you'd  pay  a  due  submission, 
And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 

Two  travellers  of  such  a  cast, 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wilds  they  pass'd, 
And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat. 
Now  talk'd  of  this,  and  then  of  that ; 
Discoursed  awhile,  'mongst  other  matter. 
Of  the  Chameleon's  form  and  nature. 
"A  stranger  animal,"  cries  one, 
*'  Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun  : 
A  lizard's  body  lean  and  long, 
A  fish's  head,  a  serpent's  tongue, 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoin' d ; 
And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind  ! 
How  slow  its  pace  !  and  then  its  hue — 
AVho  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue  ?  " 

*'  Hold  there,"  the  other  quick  replies, 
*'  'Tis  green,  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes, 


As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay. 
And  warm'd  it  in  the  sunny  ray ; 
Stretch'd  at  its  ease  the  beast  I  view'd, 
And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food." 

"I've  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you, • 
And  must  again  afiirm  it  blue ; 
At  leisure  I  the  beast  survey' d 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade."     —    _ 

"  'Tis    green,    'tis    green,    sir,  I    asaare 

ye." 

"  Green  !  "  cries  the  other  in  a  fury : 
"  Why,  sir,  d'ye  think  I've  lost  my  eyes  ?  " 
"  'Twere  no  great  loss,"  the  friend  replies ; 
"  For  if  they  always  serve  you  thus, 
You'U  find  them  but  of  little  use." 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose. 
From  words  they  almost  came  to  blows  : 
When  luckily  came  by  a  third ; 
To  him  the  question  they  referr;'d ; 
And  begg'd  he'd  tell  them,  if  he  knew. 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 

"Sirs,"   cries  the  umpire,  "cease   your 
pother ; 
The  creature 's  neither  one  nor  t'other. 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night. 
And  view'd  it  o'er  by  candle-light ; 
I  mark'd  it  wxll,  'twas  black  as  jet — 
You  stare — but,  sirs,  I've  got  it  yet, 
And  can  produce  it." — "  Pray,  sir,  do  ; 
I'll  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue." 
"  And  I'll  be  sworn,  that  when  you've  seen 
The  reptile,  you'll  pronounce  him  green." 
"  WeU,  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doubt," 
Ercplies  the  man,  "  I'll  turn  him  out ; 
And  when  before  your  eyes  I've  set  him, 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  I'll  eat  him." 

He  said  ;  and  full  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  and  lo  ! — 'twas  white. 
Both   stared;   the    man    look'd    wondrous 

wise — 
"  My  children,"  the  Chameleon  cries 
,     (Then  first  the  creature  found  a  tongue), 
"  You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong  -. 
When  next  you  talk  of  what  you  view, 
Think  others  see  as  well  as  you  : 
Nor  wonder  if  you  find  that  none 
Prefers  your  eye-sight  to  his  own." 

James  Merrick.— Born  1720,  Died  1769. 


1017.— THE  WISH. 

How  short  is  life's  uncertain  space ! 

Alas  !  how  quickly  done ! 
How  swift  the  wild  precarious  chase  ! 
And  yet  how  difiicult  the  race ! 

How  very  hard  to  run  ! 

Youth  stops  at  first  its  wilful  ears 

To  wisdom's  prudent  voice ; 
Till  now  arrived  to  riper  years. 
Experienced  age,  worn  out  with  cares, 
Eepents  its  earlier  choice. 


John  Scott.] 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  EVENING. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


What  thongli  its  prospects  now  appear 

So  pleasing"  and  refined  ? 
Tet  groundless  hope,  and  anxious  fear, 
By  turns  the  busy  moments  share, 

And  prey  upon  the  mind. 

Since  then  false  joys  our  fancy  cheat 

With  hopes  of  real  bliss  ; 
Ye  guardian  powers  that  rule  my  fate, 
The  only  wish  that  I  create 

Is  all  comprised  in  this  : — 

May  I,  through  life's  uncertain  tide, 

Be  stni  from  pain  exempt ! 
May  all  my  wants  be  still  supplied. 
My  state  too  low  t'  admit  of  pride, 

And  yet  above  contempt ! 

But  should  your  providence  divine 

A  greater  bliss  intend  ; 
May  aU  those  blessings  you  design 
(If  e'er  those  blessings  shall  be  mine), 

Be  centred  in  a  friend ! 

James  Merrick.— Born  1720,  Died  1769. 


1018.— THE  TEMPESTUOUS  EVENING. 

There's  grandeur  in  this  sounding  storm. 
That  drives  the  hurrying  clouds  along 
That  on  each  other  seem  to  throng, 
And  mix  in  many  a  varied  form  ; 
While,  bursting  now  and  then  between, 
The  moon's  dim  misty  orb  is  seen, 
And  casts  faint  glimpses  on  the  green. 

Beneath  the  blast  the  forests  bend. 
And  thick  the  branchy  ruin  lies. 
And  wide  the  shower  of  foHage  flies  ; 
The  lake's  black  waves  in  tumult  blend, 
Revolving  o'er  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  foaming  on  the  rocky  shore, 
Whose  caverns  echo  to  their  roar. 

The  sight  sublime  enrapts  my  thought, 
And  swift  along  the  past  it  strays, 
And  much  of  strange  event  surveys, 
What  history's  faithful  tongue  has  taught. 
Or  fancy  form'd,  whose  plastic  skill 
The  page  with  fabled  change  can  fill 
Of  Ul  to  good,  or  good  to  ill. 

But  can  my  soul  the  scene  enjoy, 
That  rends  another's  breast  with  pain  ? 
0  hapless  he,  who,  near  the  main, 
Now  sees  its  billowy  rage  destroy  ! 
Beholds  the  foundering  bark  descend, 
Nor  knows  but  what  its  fate  may  end 
The  moments  of  his  dearest  friend  1 

John  Scott— Bom  1730,  Died  1783. 


1019.— ODE  ON  HEARING  THE  pEUM. 

I  hate  that  drum's  discordant  sound, 
Parading  round,  and  round,  and  round  : 


To  thoughtless  youth  it  pleasure  yields, 
And  lures  from  cities  and  from  fields. 
To  sell  their  liberty  for  charms 
Of  tawdry  lace,  and  glitt'ring  arms ; 
And  when  ambition's  voice  commands. 
To  march,  and  fight,  and  fall,  in  foreign  lands. 

I  hate  that  drum's  discordant  sound. 
Parading  round,  and  round,  and  round : 
To  me  it  talks  of  ravaged  plains. 
And  burning  towns,  and  ruin'd  swains, 
And  mangled  limbs,  and  dying  groans. 
And  widows'  tears,  and  orphans'  moans  ; 
And  all  that  misery's  hand  bestows, 
To  fill  the  catalogue  of  human  woes. 

John  Scott— Born  1730,  Died  1783 


1020.--ODE  ON  PRIVATEERING. 

How  custom  steels  the  human  breast 
To  deeds  that  nature's  thoughts  detest ! 
How  custom  consecrates  to  fame 
What  reason  else  would  give  to  shame  ! 
Eair  spring  supplies  the  favouring  gale. 
The  naval  plunderer  spreads  his  sail. 
And  ploughing  wide  the  wat'ry  way. 
Explores  with  anxious  eyes  his  prey. 

The  man  he  never  saw  before. 
The  man  who  him  no  quarrel  bore, 
He  meets,  and  avarice  prompts  the  fight ; 
And  rage  enjoys  the  dreadful  sight 
Of  decks  with  streaming  crimson  dyed. 
And  wretches  struggling  in  the  tide, 
Or  'midst  th'  explosion's  horrid  glare. 
Dispersed  with  quivering  limbs  in  air. 

The  merchant  now  on  foreign  shores 
His  captured  wealth  in  vain  deplores ; 
Quits  his  fair  home,  0  mournful  change ! 
For  the  dark  prison's  scanty  range  ; 
By  plenty's  hand  so  lately  fed. 
Depends  on  casual  alms  for  bread  ; 
And  with  a  father's  anguish  torn. 
Sees  his  poor  offspring  left  forlorn. 

And  yet,  such  man's  misjudging  mind, 
For  all  this  injury  to  his  kind, 
The  prosperous  robber's  native  plain 
Shall  bid  him  welcome  home  again  ; 
His  name  the  song  of  every  street, 
His  acts  the  theme  of  all  we  meet. 
And  oft  the  artist's  skill  shall  place 
To  pubHe  view  his  pictured  face  ! 

If  glory  thus  bo  eam'd,  for  me 
My  object  glory  ne'er  shall  be  ; 
No,  first  in  Cambria's  loneliest  dale 
Be  mine  to  hear  the  shepherd's  tale  ! 
No,  first  on  Scotia's  bleakest  hiU 
Be  mine  the  stubborn  soil  to  till ! 
Remote  from  wealth,  to  dwell  alone, 
And  die,  to  guilty  praise  unknown  ! 

John  Scott.— Bom  1730,  Died  17G3. 


Fro^  1727  *o  1780.]                           THE  FIRESIDE.                            [Nathaniel  Cotton. 

I02I.— SONG, 

1023.— CONTENT,  A  PASTORAL. 

O'er  moorlands  and  mountains,  rude,  barren, 

MADE  EXTEMPORE    BY  A   GENTLEMAN,    OCCA- 

and bare, 

SIONED   BY  A  FLY    DRINKING    OUT    OF  HIS 

As  wilder' d  and  wearied  I  roam. 

CUP  OF  ALE. 

A  gentle  young  shepherdess  sees  my  despair, 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly. 

And  leads  me  o'er  lawns  to  her  home. 

.Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I ; 

YeUow  sheaves  from  rich  Ceres  her  cottage 

Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 

had  crowned. 

Could' st  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up. 

Green  rushes  were  strew'd  on  her  floor. 

Make  the  most  of  life  you  may, 

Her  casement  sweet  woodbines  crept  wantonly 

Life  is  short,  and  wears  away. 

round. 

And  deck'd  the  aod  seats  at  her  door. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine, 

Hastening  qxiick  to  their  decline  : 

We  sat  ourselves  down  to  a  cooling  repast. 

Thine' s  a  summer,  mine  no  more, 

Fresh  fruits,  and  she  cull'd  me  the  best ; 

Though  repeated  to  threescore ;  , 

While  thrown  from  my  guard  by  some  glances 

Threescore  summers,  when  they're  gone, 

she  cast, 

WiU  appear  as  short  as  one. 

Love  slily  stole  into  my  breast ! 

I  told  my  soft  wishes  ;  she  sweetly  replied 

William  Oldys.—Born  1696,  Died  1761. 

(Ye  virgins,  her  voice  was  divine  I), 

I've     rich    ones    rejected,    and    great    ones 

denied. 

But  take  me  fond  shepherd — I'm  thine. 

Her  air  was  so  modest,  her  aspect  so  meek. 

1022.— SONG.— MAT-EVE,  OR  KATE   OF 

So  simple,  yet  sweet  were  her  charms  ! 

ABERDEEN. 

I  kiss'd  the    ripe  roses  that  glow'd  on  her 

cheek, 

The  silver  moon's  enamour'd  beam, 

And  lock'd  the  loved  maid  in  my  arms. 

Steals  softly  through  the  night, 

Now  jocund  together  we  tend  a  few  sheep. 

To  wanton  with  the  winding  stream. 

And  if,  by  yon  prattler,  the  stream, 

And  kiss  reflected  light. 

Reclined  on  her  bosom,  I  sink  into  sleep. 

To  beds  of  state  go,  balmy  sleep 

Her  image  still  softens  my  dream. 

('Tis  where  you've  seldom  been), 

May's  vigil  while  the  shepherds  keep 

Together  we  range  o'er  the  slow-rising  hills. 

With  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

DeKghted  with  pastoral  views. 

Or  rest  on  the  rock  whence  the  streamlet 

Upon  the  green  the  virgins  wait, 

distils, 

In  rosy  chaplets  gay. 

And  point  out  new  themes  for  my  muse. 

Till  mom  unbars  her  golden  gate, 

To  pomp  or  proud  titles  she  ne'er  did  aspire, 

And  gives  the  promised  May. 

The  damsel's  of  humble  descent ; 

Methinks  I  hear  the  maids  declare, 

The   cottager   Peace    is   well-known   for  her 

The  promised  May,  when  seen. 

sire. 

Not  half  so  fragrant,  half  so  fair, 

And  shepherds  have  named  her  Content. 

As  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

John  Cunningham. — Bom  1729,  Died  1773. 

Strike  up  the  tabor's  boldest  notes, 

We'll  rouse  the  nodding  grove  ; 
The  nested  birds  shall  raise  their  throats, 

And  hail  the  maid  I  love. 

And  see — the  matin  lark  mistakes, 

1024.— THE  FIRESIDE. 

He  quits  the  tufted  green : 
Fond  bird  !  'tis  not  the  morning  brPfl,kR, 
'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Dear  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd. 

The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud. 

In  folly's  ma,7:e  advance  ; 

Now  lightsome  o'er  the  level  mead. 

Where  midnight  fairies  rove, 
lake  them  the  jocund  dance  we'U  lead, 

Though  singularity  and  pride 
Be  called  our  choice,  we'll  step  aside. 
Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

Or  tune  the  reed  to  love : 

From  the  gay  world  we'll  oft  retire 

For  see,  the  rosy  May  draws  nigh ; 

To  our  own  family  and  fire. 

She  claims  a  virgin  queen  ; 

Where  love  our  hours  employs  *, 

And  hark  !  the  happy  shepherds  cry, 

No  noisy  neighbour  enters  here  ; 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Nor  intermeddling  stranger  near, 

John  Cunningham,— Born  1729,  Died  1773. 

To  spoil  our  heartfelt  joys. 

Christopher  Anstet.] 


A  PUBLIC  BEEAKFAST. 


[Sixth  Piraic^.- 


If  solid  happiness  we  prize, 
Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies  ; 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam  : 
The  world  has  nothing  to  bestow  ; 
From  our  own  selves  our  joys  must  flow, 

And  that  dear  hut — our  home. 

Of  rest  was  Noah's  dove  bereft, 
When  with  impatient  wing  she  left 

That  safe  retreat,  the  ark  ; 
Giving  her  vain  excursion  o'er, 
The  disappointed  bird  once  more 

Explored  the  sacred  bark. 

Though  fools  spurn  Hymen's  gentle  powers, 
We,  who  improve  his  golden  hours, 

By  sweet  experience  know, 
That  marriage,  rightly  understood. 
Gives  to  the  tender  and  the  good 

A  paradise  below. 

Our  babes  shall  richest  comforts  bring  ; 
If  tutored  right,  they'll  prove  a  spring 

Whence  pleasures  ever  rise  : 
We'll  form  their  minds,  with  studious  care, 
To  all  that's  manly,  good,  and  fair, 

And  train  them  for  the  skies. 

While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage. 
They'll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age, 

And  crown  our  hoary  hairs  : 
They'll  grow  in  virtue  every  day ; 
And  thus  our  fondest  loves  repay, 

And  recompense  our  cares. 

No  borrow'd  joys,  they're  all  our  own, 
While  to  the  world  we  live  unknown. 

Or  by  the  world  forgot : 
Monarchs  !  we  envy  not  your  state  ; 
We  look  with  pity  on  the  great. 

And  bless  our  humbler  lot. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed ; 
But  then  how  little  do  we  need ! 

For  nature's  calls  are  few  : 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies, 
To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

We'll  therefore  relish  vnth  coEtent 
Whate'er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  power  ; 
For,  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 
'Tis  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all, 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 

To  be  resigned  when  ills  betide. 
Patient  when  favours  are  denied, 

And  pleased  with  favours  given  ; 
Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom's  part ; 
This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

We'll  ask  no  long  protracted  treat. 
Since  winter-life  is  seldom  sweet ; 

But  when  our  feast  is  o'er, 
Grateful  from  table  we'll  arise. 
Nor  grudge  our  sons  with  envious  eyes 

The  relics  of  our  store. 


Thus,  hand  in  hand,  through  life  we'll  go  j 
Its  chequered  paths  of  joy  and  wo 

With  cautious  steps  we'U  tread ; 
Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a  tear. 
Without  a  trouble  or  a  fear. 

And  mingle  with  the  dead  : 

While  conscience,  like  a  faithful  friend, 
Shall  through  the  gloomy  vale  attend, 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath  ; 
Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 
Like  a  kind  angel,  whisper  peace, 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. 

Nathaniel  Cotton. — Bom  1721,  Died  1788. 


1025.--A  PUBLIC  BEEAKFAST. 

What  blessings  attend,  my  dear  mother,  all 

those 
Who  to   crouds    of    admirers    their  persons 

expose ! 
Do  the  gods  such  a  noble  ambition  inspire ; 
Or  gods  do  we  make  of  each  ardent  desire  ? 
0  generous  passion  !  "tis  yours  to  afford 
The  splendid  assembly,  the  plentiful  boatrd ; 
To  thee  do  I  owe  such  a  breakfast  this  morn, 
As  I  ne'er  saw  before,  since  the  hour  I  was 

born; 
'Twas  you  made  my  Lord  Eaggamuffenn  come 

here, 
Who  they  say  has  been  lately  created  a  Peer ; 
And  to-day  with  extreme  complaisance  and 

respect  ask'd 
All  the  people  at  Bath  to  a  general  breakfast. 

You've  heard  of  my  Lady  Bunbutter,  no 

doubt. 
How  she  loves  an  assembly,  fandango,  or  rout ; 
No  lady  in  London  is  half  so  expert 
At  a  snug  private  party,  her  friends  to  divert ; 
But  they  say  that  of  late  she's  gro-^vn  sick 

of  the  town. 
And  often  to  Bath  condescends  to  come  down. 
Her  Ladyship's  favourite  house  is  the  Bear : 
Her  chariot,  and  servants,  and  horses  are  there; 
My  Lady  declares  that  retiring  is  good, 
As  all  with  a  separate  maintenance  should  ; 
For  when  you  have  put  out  the  conjugal  fire, 
'Tis  time  for  all  sensible  folk  to  retire ; 
If  Hymen  no  longer  his  fingers  will  scorch, 
Little  Cupid  for  others  can  whip  in  his  torch, 
So  pert  is  he  groAvn,  since  the  custom  began 
To  be  married  and  parted  as  quick  as  you  can. 

Now  my  Lord  had  the  honour  of  coming 
down  post. 
To  pay  his  respects  to  so  famous  a  toast ; 
In  hopes  he  her  Ladyship's  favour  might  win. 
By  playing  the  part  of  a  host  at  an  inn. 
I'm  sure  he  's  a  person  of  great  resolution, 
Tho'    delicate  neryes,   and  a    weak    consti- 
tution ; 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


A  PUBLIC  BEEAKFAST. 


[Chkistofhee  Anstet. 


Fcr  he  caxried  us  all  to  a  place    cross  the 
river, 

And  vow'd  that  the  rooms  were  too  hot  for 
his  liver  ; 

He  said   it  would  greatly  our  pleasure  pro- 
mote, 

If   we   all  for  Spring-Gardens    set  out  in  a 
boat : 

I  never  as  yet  could  his  reason  explain, 

Why  we  all  sallied  forth  in  the  wind  and  the 
rain  ; 

For    sure    such    confusion    was    never     yet 
known : 

Here   a   cap   and    a    hat,    there    a    cardinal 
blown  ; 

While  his  Lordship,  embroider' d,    and  pow- 
der'd  all  o'er, 

W^as  bowing,  and  handing  the  ladies  a-shore ; 

How  the  Misses  did  huddle  and  scuddle,  and 
run. 

One  would  think  to  be  wet  must  be  very  good 
fun ; 

For  by  waggling  their  tails,  they  aU  seem'd 
to  take  pains 

To  moisten  their  pinions  like  ducks  when  it 
rains ; 

And  'twas  pretty  to  see  how,  like  birds  of  a 
feather, 

The  people  of  quality  flock' d  all  together  ; 

All  pressing,  addressing,  caressing,  and  fond. 

Just   the   same   as   those   animals   are   in   a 
pond. 

You've  read  all  their  names   in  the  news  I 
suppose, 

But,  for  fear  you  have  not,  take  the  list  as  it 
goes : — 

There  was  Lady  Greasewrister, 
And  Madam  Van-Twister, 
Her  Ladyship's  sister. 
Lord  Cram,  and  Lord  Vulter, 
Sir  Brandish  O'Culter, 
With  Marshal  Carouzer, 
And  Old  Lady  Mouzer ; 

And    the    great    Hanoverian     Baron    Pans- 
mow  zer  ; 

Besides  many  others,   who  all    in   the   rain 
went, 

On  purpose  to   honour  this  grand  entertain- 
ment. 

The  company  made  a  most  brilliant  appear- 
ance, 

And  ate  bread  and  butter  with  great  perse- 
verance ; 

All  the    chocolate,  too,    that  my    Lord    set 
before  'em, 

The  ladies   dispatch' d  with    the    utmost  de- 
corum. 

Soft  musical  numbers  were  heard  all  around. 

The  horns  and  the  clarions  echoing  sound  : — 
Sweet  were  the  strains,  as   od'rous  gales 

that  blow 
O'er  fragrant  banks  where  pinks  and  roses 
grow. 

The  Peer  was  quite  ravish' d,  while  close  to 
his  side 

Sat  Lady  Bunbutter,  in  beautiful  pride  ! 


Oft  turning  his  eyes,  he  with  rapture  sur- 
vey'd 

All  the  powerful  charms  she  so  nobly  dis- 
play'd. 

As  when  at  the  feast  of  the  great  Alexander, 

Timotheus,  the  musical  son  of  Thersander, 

Breath' d  heavenly  measures  : — 

The  prince  was  in  pain. 

And  could  not  contain, 
T\Tiile  Thais  was  sitting  beside  him ; 

But,  before  all  his  peers, 

Was  for  shaking  the  spheres, 
Such  goods  the  kind  gods  did  provide  him. 

Grew  bolder  and  bolder, 

And  cock'd  up  his  shoulder. 
Like  the  son  of  great  Jupiter  Ammon, 

Till  at  length  quite  opprest. 

He  sunk  on  her  breast, 
And  lay  there  as  dead  as  a  salmon. 

O  had  I  a  voice  that  was  stronger  than 

steel, 
With  twice  fifty  tongues  to  express  what  I 

feel. 
And  as  many  good  mouths,  yet  I  never  could 

utter 
All  the  speeches  my  Lord  made  to  Lady  Bun- 
butter  ! 
So  pohte  all  the  time,  that  he  ne'er  touch'd 

a  bit, 
Wliile  she  ate  up  his  rolls  and  applauded  his 

wit; 
For  they  tell  me  that  men  of  true  taste,  when 

they  treat, 
Should    talk  a  great    deal,    but  they  never 

should  eat ; 
And  if  that  be  the  fashion,  I  never  will  give 
Any  grand  entertainment  as  long  as  I  live : 
For  I'm  of  opinion  'tis  proper  to  chear 
The  stomach  and  bowels,  as  well  as  the  ear. 
Nor  me  did  the  charming  concerto  of  Abel 
Eegale  like  the  breakfast  I  saw  on  the  table  : 
I  freely  will  own  I  the  muffins  preferr'd 
To  all  the  genteel  conversation  I  heard. 
E'en  tho'  I'd  the  honour  of  sitting  between 
My  Lady  Stuff-damask,  and  Peggy  Moreen, 
Who    both     flew    to    Bath    in    the    London 

machine. 
Cries   Peggy,    "  This   place   is   enchantingly 

pretty ; 
We  never  can  see  such  a  thin'g  in  the  city  : 
You  may  spend  all  your  life-time  in  Cateaton 

street, 
And  never  so  civil  a  gentleman  meet ; 
You   may    talk   what   you   please,    you  may 

search  London  through. 
You  may  go  to  Carlisle's,  and  to  Almanac  s 

too, 
And  I'll  give  you  my  head  if  you  find  such  a 

host, 
For  coffee,  tea,  chocolate,  butter,  and  toast : 
How  he  welcomes  at  once  all  the  world  and 

his  wife, 
And  how   civil  to  folk  he  ne'er  saw  in  his 

hfe  !  "— 

50 


Mrs.  Thrale.] 


THE  THEEE  WAENINGS. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


"  These  horns,"  cries  my  Lady,  "so  tickle  one's 

ear, 
Lard  !  what  would  I  give  that  Sir  Simon  was 

here  ! 
To  the  next  public  breakfast  Sir  Simon  shaU 

go. 
For  I  find  here  are  folks  one  may  venture  to 

know; 
Sir  Simon  would  gladly  his  Lordship  attend, 
And    my   Lord   would   be    pleased    with    so 

chearful  a  friend." 

So  when  we  had  wasted  more  bread  at  a 
breakfast 

Than  the  poor  of  our  parish  have  ate  for  this 
week  past, 

I  saw,  all  at  once,  a  prodigious  great  throng 

Come  bustling,    and  rustling,    and   jostling 
along ; 

For  his  Lordship  was  pleased  that  the  com- 
pany now 

To  my  Lady  Bunbutter  should  curt'sey  and 
bow ; 

And  my  Lady  was  pleased,  too,  and  seem'd 
vastly  proud 

At  once  to  receive  aU  the  thanks  of  a  croud  ; 

And  when,  like  Chaldeans,  we  all  had-ador'd 

This  beautiful  image  set  up  by  my  Lord, 

Some  few  insignificant  folk  went  away, 

Just  to  follow  th'  employments  and  calls  of 
the  day ; 

But  those  who  knew  better  their  time  how  to 
spend. 

The  fiddling  and  dancing  all  chose  to  attend. 

Miss  Clunch  and  Sir  Toby  perform' d  a  Co- 
tillon, 

Just  the  same  as  our  Susan  and    Bob    the  , 
postillion  ; 

All  the  while  her  mamma  was  expressing  her 
joy, 

That  her  daughter  the  morning  so  well  could 
employ. 

— Now   why   should    the    muse,   my   dear 

mother,  relate 
The  misfortunes  that  faU.  to  the  lot  of  the 

great! 
As  homeward    we    came — 'tis    with    sorrow 

you'll  hear 
What  a  dreadful  disaster  attended  the  peer  : 
For  whether  some  envious  god  had  decreed 
That  a  Naiad  should    long    to    ennoble  her 

breed ; 
Or  whether  his   Lordship    was    charm' d    to 

behold 
His  face  in  the  stream,  like  Narcissus  of  old ; 
In  handing  old  Lady  Bumfidget  and  daughter, 
•  This  obsequious  Lord  tumbled  into  the  water  ; 
But  a  nymph  of  the  flood  brought  him  safe  to 

the  boat. 
And    I    left     all    the    ladies    a' cleaning  his 

coat. — 

Thus  the  feast  was  concluded,  as  far  as  I 
„     "    hear, 

To  the    great    satisfaction  of  all  that  were 
there. 


O  may  he  give  breakfasts  as  long  as  he  stays, 
For  I  ne'er  ate  a  better  in  all  my  bom  days. 
In  haste  I  conclude,  &c.  &c.  &c.  _ 

Christopher  Anstey. — Born  1724,  Died  1805. 


1026.— THE  THEEE  WARNINGS. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground ; 
'Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages. 
When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages. 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
This  great  affection,  to  believe. 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail. 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay, 
On  neighbour  Dodson's  wedding-day, 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room, 
And  looking  grave — "  You  must,"  says  he, 
"  Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me." 
"  With  you !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side  ? 
With  you !  "  the  hapless  husband  cried ; 
"  Young  as  I  am,  'tis  monstrous  hard ! 
Besides,  in  truth,  I'm  not  prepared  : 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go ; 
This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know." 

What  more  he  urged  I  have  not  heard. 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger ; 
So  death  the  poor  delinquent  spared, 

And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Yet  calling  up  a  serious  look. 
His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke — 
"  Neighbour,"  he  said,  "  farewell !  no  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour  : 
And  farther,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name, 
To  give  you  time  for  preparatwn, 
And  fit  you  for  your  future  station. 
Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 
Before  you're  summoned  to  the  grave ; 
WUling  for  once  I'll  quit  my  prey. 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve ; 
In  hopes  you'll  have  no  more  to  say ; 
But,  when  I  call  again  this  way. 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented, 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 
How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how  well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 
And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his  horse, 

The  willing  muse  shall  teU  : 
He  chaffered,  then  he  bought  and  sold, 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near : 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


THE  BEGGAE. 


[Thomas  Moss. 


He  pass'd  his  hours  in  peace. 
But  while  he  view'd  his  wealth  increase, 
While  thus  along  life's  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 
Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares, 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  all  alone  he  sate, 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 

Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half-kUled  with  anger  and  surprise, 
"  So  soon  returned !  "  Old  Dodson  cries. 
"  So  soon  d'ye  call  it  ?  "  Death  replies ; 
"  Surely,  my  friend,  you're  but  in  jest ! 

Since  I  was  here  before 
'Tis  six-and- thirty  years  at  least,       i 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  rejoined ; 
"  To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind : 
However,  see  your  search  be  legal ; 
And  your  authority — is  't  regal  ? 
Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand, 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant. 
IBeside,  you  promised  me  Three  Warnings, 
Which  I  have  looked  for  nights  and  mornings ; 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease, 
I  can  recover  damages." 

*'  I  know,"  cries  Death,  "  that  at  the  best 
I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least ; 
I  little  thought  you'd  stOl  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable  : 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length ; 
I  wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength !  " 

"  Hold,"  says  the  farmer,  "  not  so  fast ! 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  j^ears  past." 

"  And  no  great  wonder,"  Death  replies  : 
"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes ; 
And  sure  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends. 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends." 

"  Perhaps,"  says  Dodson,  "  so  it  might, 
But  latterly  I've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  'tis  true  ; 
But  still  there's  comfort  left  for  you : 
Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse ; 
I  warrant  you  hear  all  the  news.' ' 

"  There's  none,"   cries  he  ;    "  and  if  there 
were, 
I'm  grown  so  deaf,  I  could  not  hear." 

"Nay,  then,"  the  spectre  stern  rejoined, 
"  These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings  ; 

If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind. 

You've  had  your  Three  sufficient  Warn- 
ings ; 
So  come  along,  no  more  we'll  part ;  " 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 
And  now  Old  Dodson,  turning  pale, 
Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale. 

ilfrs.  Thrale.—Born  1740,  Died  1822. 


1027.— THE  BEGGAE. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man  ! 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to 
your  door. 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span, 
Oh  !  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your 
store. 

These  tattered  clothes  my  poverty  bespeajc, 
These  hoary  locks  proclaim  my  lengthen' d 
years ; 

And  many  a  furrow  in  my  grief -worn  cheek 
Has  been  the  channel  to  a  stream  of  tears. 

Yon  house,  erected  on  the  rising  ground. 
With  tempting  aspect  drew  me  from  my 
road. 

For  plenty  there  a  residence  has  found, 
And  grandeur  a  magnificent  abode. 

(Hard  is  the  fate  of  the  infirm  and  poor  ! ) 
Here  craving  for  a  morsel  of  their  bread, 

A  pampered  menial  forced  me  from  the  door, 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  a  humbler  shed. 

Oh  !  take  me  to  your  hospitable  dome. 

Keen  blows  the  wind,  and  piercing  is  the 
cold  ! 

Short  is  my  passage  to  the  friendly  tomb, 
For  I  am  poor  and  miserably  old. 

Should  I  reveal  the  source  of  every  grief, 
If  soft  humanity  e'er  touched  your  breast, 

Your   hands   would  not    withhold    the   kind 
rehef. 
And  tears  of  pity  could  not  be  repress'd. 

Heaven  sends    misfortunes — why  should   wo 
repine  ? 
'Tis  Heaven  has  brought  me  to  the  state 
you  see  : 
And  your  condition  may  be  soon  Hke  mine, 
The  child  of  sorrow  and  of  misery. 

A  little  farm  was  my  paternal  lot, 

Then,  like  the  lark,   I  sprightly  hail'd  the 
morn; 
But  ah  !  oppression  forced  me  from  my  cot ; 

My  cattle  died,  and  blighted  was  my  com. 

My  daughter — once  the  comfort  of  my  age ! 

Lured  by  a  villain  from  her  native  home, 
Is  cast,  abandoned,  on  the  world's  wild  stage. 

And  doomed  in  scanty  poverty  to  roam. 

My  tender  wife — sweet  soother  of  my  care  ! 

Struck    with    sad    anguish   at    the    stern 
decree. 
Fell — lingering  fell,  a  victim  to  despair. 

And  left  the  world  to  wretchedness  and  me. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man  ! 

Whose  trembling  hmbs  have  borne  him  to 
your  door. 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span, 
Oh  !  give  relief,  and  Heaven  wiU  bless  your 
store. 

Thomas  Moss. — About  1798. 
50* 


William  Crawfued.]  THE  BUSH  ABOON  TEAQUAIE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


1028.— THE  BUSH  ABOON  TRAQUAJR. 

Hear  me,  ye  nymphs,  and  every  swain, 

I'll  tell  how  Peggy  grieves  me  ; 
Though,  thus  I  languish,  thus  complain, 

Alas  !  she  ne'er  believes  me. 
My  vows  and  sighs,  like  silent  air. 

Unheeded  never  move  her ; 
At  the  bonny  bush  aboou  Traquair, 

'Twas  there  I  first  did  love  her. 

That  day  she  smiled,  and  made  me  glad, 

No  maid  seem'd  ever  kinder  ; 
I  thought  myself  the  luckiest  lad. 

So  sweetly  there  to  find  her. 
.    I  tried  to  soothe  my  amorous  flame 

In  words  that  I  thought  tender ; 
If  more  there  pass'd,  I'm  not  to  blame, 

I  meant  not  to  offend  her. 

Yet  now  she  scornful  flees  the  plain, 

The  fields  we  then  frequented  ; 
If  e'er  we  meet,  she  shows  disdain, 

She  looks  as  ne'er  acquainted. 
The  bonny  bush  bloom' d  fair  in  May, 

Its  sweets  I'll  aye  remember  ; 
But  now  her  frowns  make  it  decay. 

It  fades  as  in  December. 

Te  rural  powers,  who  hear  my  strains. 

Why  thus  should  Peggy  grieve  me  ? 
Oh  !  make  her  partner  in  my  pains. 

Then  let  her  smiles  relieve  me. 
If  not,  my  love  wiU  turn  despair. 

My  passion  no  more  tender, 
I'll  leave  the  bush  aboon  Traquair, 

To  lonely  wilds  I'll  wander. 

Wm.  Crawfurd.—Born  1700  (?),  Died  1750  (?). 


.  1029.— TWEEDSIDE. 

What  beauties  does  Flora  disclose  ! 

How  sweet  are  her  smiles  upon  Tweed  ! 
Yet  Mary's,  still  sweeter  than  those, 

Both  nature  and  fancy  exceed. 
Nor  daisy,  nor  sweet-blushing  rose, 

Not  all  the  gay  flowers  of  the  field, 
Not  Tweed  gliding  gently  through  those. 

Such  beauty  and  pleasure  does  yield. 

The  warblers  are  heard  in  the  grove. 

The  linnet,  the  lark,  and  the  thrush, 
The  blackbird,  and  sweet-cooing  dove. 

With  music  enchant  every  bush. 
Gome,  let  us  go  forth  to  the  mead, 

Let  us  see  how  the  primroses  spring ; 
We'll  lodge  in  some  village  on  Tweed, 

And  love  while  the  feather' d  folks  sing. 

How  does  my  love  pass  the  long  day  ? 

Does  Mary  not  tend  a  few  sheep  ? 
Do  they  never  carelessly  stray, 

While  happily  she  lies  asleep  ? 


Tweed's  murmurs  should  lull  her  to  rest  j 
Kind  nature  indulging  my  bliss, 

To  relieve  the  soft  pains  of  my  breast, 
I'd  steal  an  ambrosial  kiss. 

'Tis  she  does  the  virgins  excel. 

No  beauty  with  her  may  compare : 
Love's  graces  around  her  do  dwell ; 

She's  fairest  where  thousands  are  fair. 
Say,  charmer,  where  do  thy  flocks  stray, 

Oh  !  tell  me  at  noon  where  they  feed ; 
Shall  I  seek  them  on  smooth-winding  Tay 

Or  the  pleasanter  banks  of  the  Tweed  ? 

Wm.  Craivfurd.—Born  1700  {?),  Died  1750  (?). 


1030.— ON  MRS.  A.  H.,  AT  A  CONCERT. 

Look  where  my  dear  Hamilla  smiles, 

Haniilla  !  heavenly  charmer  ; 
See  how  with  all  their  arts  and  wiles 

The  Loves  and  Graces  arm  her. 
A  blush  dwells  glowing  on  her  cheeks, 

Fair  seats  of  youthful  pleasures  : 
There  Love  in  smiling  language  speaks, 

There  spreads  his  rosy  treasures. 

O  fairest  maid,  I  own  thy  power, 

I  gaze,  I  sigh,  and  languisTi, 
Yet  ever,  ever  will  adore. 

And  triumph  in  my  anguish. 
But  ease,  0  charmer,  ease  my  care, 

And  let  my  torments  move  thee  ; 
As  thou  art  fairest  of  the  fair. 

So  I  the  dearest  love  thee. 

Wm.  Craxofurd.—Born  1700  (?),  Died  1750  (?). 


103 1. —VERSES  WRITTEN  WHEN  ALONE 
IN  AN  INN  AT  SOUTHAMPTON. 

Twenty  lost   years   have   stolen  their  hours 

away, 
Since  in  this  inn,  even  in  this  room,  I  lay  : 
How  changed  !   what  then  was  rapture,   fire, 

and  air, 
Seems  now  sad  silence  all  and  blank  despair  ! 
Is  it  that  youth  paints  every  view  too  bright, 
And,  life  advancing,  fancy  fades  her  light  .^ 
Ah,  no  ! — nor  yet  is  day  so  far  decKned, 
Nor   can  time's  creeping  coldness  reach  the 

mind. 
'Tis  that  I  miss  the  inspirer  of  that  youth  ; 
Her,  whose  soft  smile  was  love,  whose  soul 

was  truth. 
Her,  from  whose  pain  I  never  wish'd  relief. 
And   for   whose    pleasure   I   could   smile    at 

grief. 
Prospects   that,    view'd    with    her,    inspired 

before, 
Now  seen  without  her  can  delight  no  more. 


From  1727  to  1780.]      ALLEGORICAL  DESCRIPTION  OF  VERTU. 


[Gilbert  West. 


Death  snatcli'd  my  joys,  by  cutting  off  her 

share, 
But  left  her  griefs  to  multiply  my  care. 

Pensive  and  cold  this  room  in  each  changed 

part 
I  view,  and,  shock' d,  from  cv'ry  object  start : 
There   hung  the   watch   that,  beating  hours 

from  day, 
Told  its  SAveet  ownei's  lessening  life  away. 
There  her  dear  diamond  taught  the  sash  my 

name  ; 
'Tis  goiie !  frail  image  of  love,  life,  and  fame. 
That  glass  she  dress;' d  at,  keeps  her  form  no 

more; 
Not  one  dear  footstep  tunes  th'  unconscious 

floor. 
There    sat    she — ^yet   those   chairs   no   sense 

retain, 
And  busy  recollection  smarts  in  vain. 
Sullen  and  dim,  what  faded  scenes  are  here  ! 
I  wonder,  and  retract  a  starting  tear, 
Gaze  in  attentive  doubt — with  anguish  swell. 
And 'o'er   and    o'er    on   each   weigh'd  object 

dwell. 
Then  to  the  window  rush,  gay  views  invite, 
And  tempt  idea  to  permit  delight. 
But  unimpressive,  all  in  sorrow  drown'd, 
One  void  forgetful  desert  glooms  around. 
Oh  life  ! — deceitful  lure  of  lost  desires  ! 
How   short  thy  period,   yet  how  fierce  thy 

fires ! 
Scarce   can   a  passion   start    (we   change  so 

fast), 
Ere   new   lights   strike   us,  and   the  old   are 

past. 
Schemes    following    schemes,    so   long  life's 

taste  explore. 
That  eve  we  learn  to  live,  we  live  no  more. 
Who  then  can  think — yet  sigh,  to  part  with 

breath, 
Or  shun  the  healing  hand  of  friendly  death  ? 
Guilt,  penitence,  and  wrongs,  and  pain,  and 

strife. 
Form  the  whole  heap'd  amount,  thou  flatterer, 

life! 
Is  it  for  this,  that  toss'd  'twixt  hope  and  fear. 
Peace,    by    new    shipwrecks,    numbers   each 

now  year  ? 
Oh  take  me,  death !  indulge  desired  repose, 
And  draw  thy  silent  curtain  round  my  woes. 
Yet  hold — one   tender   pang    revokes  that 

pray'r, 
Still  there  remains  one  claim  to  tax  my  care. 
Gone  though  she  is,  she  left  her  soul  behind. 
In  four  dear  transcripts  of  her  copied  mind. 
They  chain  me  down  to  hfe,  new  task  supply. 
And  leave  me  not  at  leisure  yet  to  die ! 
Busied  for  them  I  yet  forego  release, 
And  teach   my   wearied   heart    to    wait    for 

peace. 
But  when  their  day  breaks  broad,  I  welcome 

night. 
Smile   at  discharge  from  care,  and  shut  out 
light. 

Aaro7i  Hill— Born  1685,  Died  1750. 


1032.— ALLEGORICAL  DESCRIPTION  OF 
VERTU. 

So  on  he  passed,  till  he  comen  hath 
To  a  small  river,  that  full  slow  did  glide, 
As  it  uneath  mote  find  its  wat'ry  path 
For  stones   and   rubbish,    that  3id  ^choak 

its  tide. 
So  lay  the  mouldering  piles  on  every  side, 
Seem'd  there  a  goodly  city  once  had  been, 
Albeit  now  fallen  were  her  royal  pride, 
Yet   mote   her   ancient   greatness   still    be 
seen, 
Still  from  her  ruins  proved  the  world's  im- 
perial queen. 

For  the  rich  spoil  of  all  the  continents, 
The   boast   of   art   and   nature   there   was 

brought, 
Corinthian  brass,  Egyptian  monuments. 
With  hieroglyphic  sculptures  all  inwrought, 
And    Parian    marbles,     by    Greek    artists 

taught 
To  counterfeit  the  forms  of  heroes  old. 
And  set  before  the  eye  of  sober  thought 
Lycurgus,  Homer,  and  Alcides  bold.  * 
All  these  and  many  more  that  may  not  here 

be  told. 


There  in  the  middest  of  a  ruin'd  pile. 
That  seem'd  a  theatre  of  circuit  vast. 
Where  thousands  might  be  seated,  he  ere- 

while 
Discover' d  hath  an  uncouth  trophy  placed  ; 
Seem'd  a  huge  heap  of  stone  together  cast 
In  nice  disorder  and  wild  symmetry. 
Urns,  broken  friezes,  statues  half  defaced. 
And  pedestals  with  antique  imagery 
Emboss'd,  and  pillars  huge  of  costly  porphyry. 

Aloft  on  this  strange  basis  was  ypight 
With  girlonds  gay  adorn' d  a  golden  chair, 
In  which  aye  smiling  with  self -bred  delight, 
In  careless  pride  reclin'd  a  lady  fair. 
And  to  soft  music  lent  her  idle  ear ; 
The  which  with  pleasure  so  did  her  enthral. 
That   for   aught   else  she    had    but    httle 

care. 
For  wealth,  or  fame,  or  honour  feminal. 
Or  gentle  love,  sole  king  of  pleasures  natural. 

Als  by  her  side  in  richest  robes  array'd, 
An  eunuch  sate,  of  visage  pale  and  dead 
Unseemly  paramour  for  royal  maid  ! 
Yet  him  she  courted  oft  and  honour'd, 
And   oft   would   by  her   place   in  princely 

sted, 
Though  from  the  dregs  of  earth  he  springen 

were. 
And  oft  with  regal  crowns  she  deck'd  his 

head, 
And   oft,   to  soothe  her  vain   and   foolish 

ear, 
She   bade   him   the   great   names   of   mighty 

Kesars  bear. 


Collet  Gibber.] 


SONG— THE  BLIND  BOY. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Tliereto  herself  a  pompous  title  bore, 
For  she  was  vain  of  her  great  ancestry, 
But  vainer  still  of  that  prodigious  store 
Of  arts  and  learning,  which  she  vaunts  to 

lie 
In  the  rich  archives  of  her  treasury. 
These   she   to   strangers  oftentimes  would 

show, 
With  grave  demean  and  solemn  vanity, 
Then  proudly  claim  as  to  her  merit  due, 
The  venerable  praise  and  title  of  Yertu. 

Vertu  she  was  yclept,  and  held  her  court 
With      outward      shows     of      pomp     and 

majesty. 
To  which  natheless  few  others  did  resort, 
But  men  of  base  and  vulgar  industry, 
Or  such  perdy  as  of  them  cozen' d  be. 
Mimes,  fiddlers,  pipers,  eunuchs  squeaking 

fine, 
Painters  and  builders,  sons  of  masonry, 
Who  well  could  measure  with  the  rule  and 

line, 
And  all  the  orders  five  right  craftily  define. 

But^ther  skill  of  cunning  architect,' 

How  to   contrive   the   house   for   dwelling 

best, 
With   self-sufficient  scorn  they  wont  neg- 
lect, 
As     corresponding     with     their     purpose 

least ; 
And  herein  be  they  copied  of  the  rest, 
Who  aye  pretending  love  of  science  fair. 
And  generous  purpose  to  adorn  the  breast 
With  liberal  arts,  to  Vertu's  court  repair, 
Yet  nought  but  tunes  and  names  and  coins 
away  do  bear. 

For  long,  to  visit  her  once-honour'd  seat 

The   studious   sons   of   learning  have  for- 
bore : 

Who  whilom  thither  ran  with  pilgrim  feet. 

Her  venerable  reliques  to  adore. 

And    load    their   bosom    with  the   sacred 
store. 

Whereof    the    world    large    treasure     yet 
enjoys. 

But   sithence   she  declined  from  wisdom's 
lore. 

They  left     her    to    display  her    pompous 
toys 
To  virtuosi  vain  and  wonder-gaping  boys. 

Gilbert  West— Bom  1706,  Died  1755. 


You  talk  of  wond'rous  things  you  see, 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 

I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 
Or  make  it  day  or  night  ? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make, 

Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play  ; 
And  could  I  ever  keep  awake, 

With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe  ;     , 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  lo^  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 

My  cheer  of  mind  destroy  ; 
Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 

Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 

Colley  Cihher.—Born  1671,  Died  1757. 


'1033.— SONG— THE  BLIND  BOY. 

O  say  !  what  is  that  thing  call'd  light, 
Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy  ? 

What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight  ? 
O  tell  your  poor  blind  boy  ! 


1034.— THE  HAPPY  MAERIAGE. 

How  blest  has  my  time  been  !  what  .joys  have 

1  known, 
Since  wedlock's  soft  bondage  made  Jessy  my 

own ! 
So  joyful  my  heart  is,  so  easy  my  chain, 
That  freedom  is  tasteless,  and  roving  a  pain. 

j   Through    walks   grown    with   woodbines,    as 
^  often  we  stray. 
Around  us    our   boys   and    girls    frolic    and 

play: 
How  pleasing  their  sport  is  !  the  wanton  ones 

see. 
And  borrow  their  looks  from  my  Jessy  and 
me. 

To  try  her  sweet  temper,  ofttimos  am  I  seen, 
In   revels   all   day  with  the  nymphs  on  the 

green: 
Though  painful  my  absence,  my  doubts  she 

beguiles, 
And  meets  me  at  night  with  complacence  and 

smiles. 

What  though  on  her  cheeks  the  rose  loses  its 

hue. 
Her  wit  and  good  humour  bloom  all  the  year 

through ; 
Time  still,   as  ho  files,   adds  increase  to  her 

truth, 
And  gives  to  her  mind  what  he  steals  from 

her  youth. 

Ye    shepherds    so    gay,    who   make   love   to 

ensnare. 
And  cheat,  with  false  vows,  the  too  credulous 

fair ; 
In  search   of   true  pleasure,  how  vainly  you 

roam  ! 
To  hold  it  for  life,  you  must  find  it  at  home. 
Edward  Moore.^-Bom  1712,  Died  1757. 


From  1727  to  1780.]   MONODY  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HIS  WIEE.        [Cuthbert  Shaw. 


I035._SALLY  IN  OUE  ALLEY. 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart, 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally; 
She  ic  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land, 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally  : 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets. 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long, 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em  : 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work 

(I  love  her  so  sincerely). 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely  : 
But  let  him  bang  his  belly  full, 

I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week, 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day  ; 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday  ; 
For  then  I'm  dress'd  all  in  my  best, 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed. 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch. 

As  soon  as  text  is  named  : 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon  time. 

And  slink  away  to  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Henry  Carey, — Died  1743. 


1036.  — FEOM    «A    MONODY    TO 
MEMOEY  OF  HIS  WIFE." 


THE 


*     *     *     Where'er  I  turn  my  eyes, 

Some  sad  memento  of  my  loss  appears  ; 
i  fly  the  fated  house — suppress  my  sighs. 
Resolved  to  dry  my  unavailing  tears  : 

But,  ah !  in  vain — no  change  of  time  or 

place 
The  memory  can  efface 
Of  all  that  sweetness,  that  enchanting  air. 
Now  lost ;   and  nought  remains  but  anguish 
and  despair. 


Where   were  the    delegates   of    Heaven,    oh 

where ! 
Appointed  virtue's  children  safe  to  keep  ! 
Had  innocence  or  virtue  been  their  care, 

She  had  not  died,  nor  had  I  lived  to  weep  : 
Moved   by  my  tears,    and   by  her   patience 

moved, 

To  see  her  force  the  endearing  smile. 

My  sorrows  to  beguUe, 
When  torture's  keenest  rage  she  proved  ; 
Sure  they  had  warded  that  untimely  dart, 
Which  broke  her  thread  of  life,  and  rent  a 

husband's  heart. 

How  shall  I  e'er  forget  that  dreadful  hour. 

When,  feehng  death's  resistless  power. 

My  hand  she  press' d   wet   with   her  falling 

tears. 
And   thus,   in   falt'ring   accents,    spoke    her 

fears  : 
"Ah,  my  loved  lord,  the  transient  scene  is 

o'er. 
And  we  must  part  (alas !)  to  meet  no  more  ! 
But,  oh  !  if  e'er  thy  Emma's  name  was  dear, 
If  e'er  thy  vows  have  charm'd  my  ravish'd 

ear. 
If  from  my  lov'd  embrace  my  heart  to  gain. 
Proud    friends    have    froAvn'd,    and    fortune 

smiled  in  vain  ; 
If  it  has  been  my  sole  endeavour  still 
To  act  in  all  obsequious  to  thy  will ; 
To  watch  thy  very  smiles,  thy  wish  to  know. 
Then  only  truly  blest  when  thou  wert  so  : 
If  I  have  doated  with  that  fond  excess. 
Nor  love    could  add,   nor  fortune    make   it 

less; 
If  this  I've  done,  and  more — oh,  then  be  kind 
To  the  dear  lovely  babe  I  leave  behind  ! 
When    time    my    once-loved    memory    shall 

efface, 
Some   happier  maid   may  take   thy  Emma's 

place, 
With  envious  eyes  thy  partial  fondness  see, 
And  hate  it  for  the  love  thou  bore  to  me  : 
My  dearest  Shaw,  forgive  a  woman's  fears. 
But  one  word  more  (I  cannot  bear  thy  tears) : 
Promise and    I    will    trust    thy   faithful 

vow 

(Oft  have  I  tried,  and  ever  found  thee  true) 

That  to  some  distant  spot  thou  wilt  remove 
This  fatal  pledge  of  hapless  Emma's  love, 
Where    safe   thy  blandishments  it  may  par- 
take. 
And,  oh  !  be  tender  for  its  mother's  sake 

Wilt  thou  ? 

I  know  thou  wilt — sad  silence  speaks  assent ; 
And  in  that  pleasing   hope   thy  Emma  dies 

content." 

I,  who  with  more  than  manly  strength  have 
bore 
The  various  iUs  imposed  by  cruel  fate, 
Sustain  the  firmness  of  my  soul  no  more — 

But  sink  beneath  the  weight : 
Just  Heaven  (I  cried),  from  memory's  earliest 
day 


CuTHBERT  Shaw.]       MONODY  TO  THE  MEMOEY  OF  HIS  WIFE.     .  [Sixth  Period. 


No    comfort   has   thy   wretched    suppliant 
known, 
Misfortune  still  with  unrelenting  sway 
Has  claim'd  me  for  her  own. 

But  O in  pity  to  my  grief,  restore 

This  only  source  of  bliss  ;    I  ask — I  ask  no 

more — 
Vain  hope — th'  irrevocable  doom  is  past, 

Even  now  she  looks — she  sighs  her  last 

Vainly  I  strive  to  stay  her  fleeting  breath, 
And  with  rebellious  heart  protest  against  her 
death. 


Perhaps    kind    Heaven    in   mercy   dealt   the 

blow, 
Some    saving    truth    thy    roving    soul    to 

teach ; 
To   wean  thy  heart    from    grovelling  views 

below, 
And  point   out   bliss  beyond  misfortune's 

reach ; 
To  show   that  all  the  flattering   schemes  of 

joy, 
Which  towering  hope  so  fondly  builds  in 

air, 

One  fatal  moment  can  destroy. 
And  plunge  th'  exulting  maniac  in  despair. 
Then,  O  !  with  pious  fortitude  sustain 
Thy  present  loss — haply,  thy  future  gain ; 

Nor  let  thy  Emma  die  in  vain  ; 
Time  shall  administer  its  wonted  balm. 
And  hush  this  storm  of  grief  to  no  unpleasing 

calm. 


Thus  the  poor  bird,  by  some  disastrous  fate 

Caught  and  imprison' d  in  a  lonely  cage, 
Tom  from  its  native  fields,  and  dearer  mate. 

Flutters  a  while  and  spends  its  little  rage  : 
But,  finding  all  its  efforts  weak  and  vain, 

No  more  it  pants  and  rages  for  the  plain ; 
Moping  a  while,  in  sullen  mood 

Droops  the  sweet  mourner — but,  ere  long. 
Prunes  its  light  wings,  and  pecks  its  food, 

And  meditates  the  song  : 
Serenely  sorrowing,  breathes  its  piteous  case, 

And  with  its  plaintive  warblings  saddens 
all  the  place. 

Forgive  me,  Heaven — ^yet — yet  the  tears  will 
flow, 
To  think  how  soon  my  scene   of  bliss  is 
past ! 
My  budding  joys  just  promising  to  blow, 
All    nipt    and    wither' d    by    one    envious 
blast  ! 
My  hours,  that  laughing  wont  to  fleet  away, 
Move  heavily  along ; 

Where's    now    the    sprightly   jest,    the 
jocund  song  ? 
Time  creeps  unconscious  of  delight : 
How  shall  I  cheat  the  tedious  day  ? 
And  O the  joyless  night ! 


Wliere  shall  I  rest  my  weary  head  ? 

How  shall  I  find  repose  on  a  sad  widow' d 
bed? 


Sickness  and  sorrow  hovering  round  my  bed. 
Who  now  with  anxious  haste  shall  bring 
relief, 
With  lenient  hand  support  my  drooping  head, 

Assuage  my  pains  and  mitigate  my  grief  ? 
Should  worldly  business  call  away, 

Who    now    shall    in    my    absence    fondly 
mourn, 
Count  every  minute  of  the  loit'ring  day, 

Impatient  for  my  quick  return  ? 
Should  aught  my  bosom  discompose. 
Who  now  "svith  sweet  complacent  air 
ShaU  smooth  the  rugged  brow  of  care, 
And  soften  all  my  woes  ? 

Too  faithful  memory Cease,  O  cease 

How  shall  I  e'er  regain  my  peace  ? 
(0  to  forget  her  !) — but  how  vain  each  art, 
Whilst   every   virtue   lives  imprinted  on  my 
heart. 


And  thou,  my  little  cherub,  left  behind, 

To   hear   a   father's  plaints,   to   share  his 

woes. 
When    reason's    dawn    informs    thy    infant 

mind. 
And  thy  sweet  lisping  tongue  shall  ask  the 

cause, 
How  oft  with  sorrow  shall  mine  eyes  run  o'er, 
When  twining  round  my  knees  I  trace 
Thy  mother' s  smile  upon  thy  face  ? 
How  oft  to  my  full  heart  shalt  thou  restore 
Sad  memory  of  my  joys — ah  !  now  no  more  ! 
By  blessings   once   enjoy'd    now    more   dis- 

tress'd. 
More  beggar  by  the  riches  once  possess'd. 

My  little  darling  ! dearer  to  me  grown 

By  aU  the  tears  thou'st  caused — (0  strange 

to  hear !) 
Bought  with  a  life  yet  dearer  than  thy  own. 
Thy   cradle  purchased   with   thy  mother's 

bier ! 

Who  now  shall  seek,  with  fond  delight. 

Thy  infant  steps  to  guide  aright  1 

She  who  with  doating  eyes  would  gaze 

.  On  all  thy  little  artless  ways, 

By  all  thy  soft  endearments  blest, 
And   clasp   thee   oft   with   transport   to   her 

breast, 

Alas  !  is  gone — yet  shalt  thou  prove 

A  father's  dearest  tend'rest  love  ; 
And  O,  sweet  senseless  smiler  (envied  state  !), 
As  yet  unconscious  of  thy  hapless  fate. 

When  years  thy  judgment  shall  mature, 
And  reason  shows  those  ills  it  cannot  cure, 

Wilt  thou,  a  father's  grief  to  assuage, 
For  virtue  prove  the  phoenix  of  the  earth 
(Like  her,  thy  mother  died  to  give  thee  birth), 

And  be  the  comfort  of  my  age  P 
When  sick  and  languishing  I  lie, 
Wilt  thou  my  Emma's  wonted  care  supply  ? 


i 

From  1727  to  1780.]                                         SONG.                                     [Edward  Thompson. 

And  oft  as  to  tliy  list'ning  ear 

1038.— THE  SAILOR'S  FAEEWETT., 

Thy  mother's  virtues  and  her  fate  I  tell, 

Say,  wilt  thou  drop  the  tender  tear, 

The  topsails  shiver  in  the  wind. 

Whilst  on  the  mournful  theme  I  dwell  ? 

The  sliip  she  casts  to  sea ; 

Then,  fondly  stealing  to  thy  father's  side, 

But  yet  my  soul,  my  heart,  my  mind. 

~SVhene'er  thou  seest  the  soft  distress, 

Are,  Mary,  moor'd  by  thee  : 

Which  I  would  vn.inly  seek  to  hide, 

For  though  thy  sailor's  bound  afar. 

Say,  wilt  thou  strive  to  make  it  less  ? 

StiU  love  shall  be  his  leading  star. — — 

To  soothe  my  sorrows  all  thy  cares  employ. 
And  in  my  cup  of  grief  infuse  one  drop  of 

Should  landmen  flatter  when  we're  sailed, 
0  doubt  their  artful  tales ; 

joy? 

No  gaUant  sailor  ever  fail'd. 

Cuthhert  8haiv.—Born  1738,  Died  1771. 

If  Cupid  fiU'd  his  saUs  : 

Thou  art  the  compass  of  my  soul. 

Which  steers  my  heart  from  pole  to  pole. 
Sirens  in  ev'ry  port  we  meet, 

1037.— HUNTING  SONG. 

More  fell  than  rocks  and  waves ; 
But  sailors  of  the  British  fleet 

The    sun   from  the  east  tips  the  mountains 

Are  lovers,  and  not  slaves  : 

with  gold ; 

No  foes  our  courage  shall  subdue. 

The  meadows  aU  spangled  with  dew-drops 

Although  we've  left  our  hearts  with  you. 

behold  ! 

Hear!  the  lark's  early  matin  proclaims  the 

These  are  our  cares ;  but  if  you're  kind. 

new  day, 

We'll  scorn  the  dashing  main. 

And  the  horn's  cheerful  summons  rebukes  our 

The  rocks,  the  billows,  and  the  wind. 

delay. 

The  powers  of  France  and  Spain. 

Now  Britain's  glory  rests  wi+Jh  you. 

CHORUS. 

Our  sails  are  full— sweet  girls,  adieu ! 

With   the   sports  of    the  field  there's  no 

Edward  Thompson. — Bom  1738,  Died  1786. 

pleasure  can  vie. 

While  jocund  we  follow  the  hounds  in  full 
cry. 

Let  the  drudge  of  the  to^vn  make  riches  his 
sport  J 

1039— .SONG. 

The  slave  of  the  state  hunt  the  smiles  of  a 

Behold  upon  the  swelling  wave, 

court : 

With  streaming  pendants  gay. 

No  care  and  ambition  our  pastime  annoy. 

Our  gaUant  ship  invites  the  brav 

But  innocence  still  gives  a  zest  to  our  joy. 

While  glory  leads  the  way ; 

With  the  sports,  &g. 

And  a  cruising  we  will  go. 

Mankind  are  all  hunters  in  various  degree  ; 

Whene'er  Monsieur  comes  in  view. 

The  priest  hunts  a  living — the  lawyer  a  fee. 

From  India  richly  fraught. 

The  doctor  a  patient — the  courtier  a  place. 

To  gain  the  prize  we're  firm  and  true. 

Though  often,  like  us,  he's  flung  out  in  the 

And  fire  as  quick  as  thought. 

chase. 

With  the  sports,  &c. 

With  hearts  of  oak  we  ply  each  gxui. 

Nor  fear  the  least  dismay ; 

The   cit   hunts   a  plumb — while  the   soldier 

We  either  take,  or  sink,  or  burn. 

hunts  fame, 

Or  make  them  run  away. 

The  poet  a  din  Tier — the  patriot  a  name ; 

And  the  practised  coquette,  though  she  seems 

The  lovely  maids  of  Britain's  isle 

to  refuse. 

We  sailors  ne'er  despise ; 

In  spite  of  her  airs,  still  her  lover  pursues. 

Our  courage  rises  with  each  smile. 

With  the  sports,  &c. 

For  them  we  take  each  prize. 

Let  the  bold  and  the  busy  hunt   glory  and 

The  wind  sets  fair,  the  vessel's  trim. 

wealth  ; 

Then  let  us  boldly  go  ; 

All   the   blessing   we   ask   is  the  blessing  of 

Old  Neptune  guides  us  while  we  swim. 

health, 

To  check  the  haughty  foe. 

With  hound  and  with  horn  through  the  wood- 

lands to  roam, 

United  let  each  Briton  join, 

And,  when  tired  abroad,  find  contentment  at 

Courageously  advance, 

home. 

We'll  bafile  every  vain  design. 

With  the  sports,  &c. 

And  check  the  pride  of  France. 

Paul  WliUehead.—Born  1710,  Died  1774. 

Edward  Thompson.— Born  1738,  Died  1786. 

Edward  Thompson.] 


SONG. 


[Sixth  Period. 


1040. 


-SONG. 


Loose  every  sail  to  the  breeze, 
The  course  of  my  vessel  improve  ; 

I've  done  with  the  toils  of  the  seas, 
Ye  sailors,  I'm  bound  to  my  love. 

Since  Emma  is  true  as  she's  fair. 
My  griefs  I  fling  all  to  the  wind  : 

'Tis  a  pleasing  return  for  my  care. 
My  mistress  is  constant  and  kind. 

My  sails  are  aU  fill'd  to  my  dear  ; 

What  tropic  bird  swifter  can  move  ? 
"Who,  cruel,  shall  hold  his  career 

That  returns  to  the  nest  of  his  love  ! 

Hoist  every  sail  to  the  breeze. 

Come,  shipmates,  and  join  in  the  song ; 
Let's  drink,  while  the  ship  cuts  the  seas, 

To  the  gale  that  may  drive  her  along. 

Mward  Thompson.— Born  1738,  Died  1786. 


1041.— FEOM    HIS     "INVOCATION    TO 
MELANCHOLY." 


Child  of  the  potent  spell  and  nimble  eye. 
Young  Fancy,  oft  in  rainbow  vest  array'd, 
Points  to  new  scenes  that  in  succession  pass 
Across  the  wondrous  mirror  that  she  bears. 
And  bids  thy  unsated  soul  and  wand' ring  eye 
A  wider  range  o'er  all  her  prospects  take  ; 
Lo,  at  her  call.  New  Zealand's  wastes  arise  ! 
Casting  their  shadows  far  along  the  main, 
Whose  brows,  cloud-capp'd  in  joyless  majesty. 
No  human  foot  hath  trod  since  time  began  ; 
Here  death-like  silence  ever-brooding  dwells, 
Save  when  the  watching  sailor  startled  hears, 
Far  from  his  native  land  at  darksome  night. 
The    shrill-toned    petrel,     or     the    penguin's 

voice, 
That    skim  their   trackless   flight   on   lonely 

wing, 
Through   the    bleak    regions   of    a  nameless 

main  : 
Here  danger  stalks,  and  drin  ts  with  glutted 

ear 
The  wearied  sailor's  moan,  and  fruitless  sigh, 
Who,  as  he  slowly  cuts  his  daring  way, 
Affrighted  drops  his  axe,  and  stops  awhile, 
To  hear  the  jarring  echoes  lengthen'd  din,  . 
That   fling   from   pathless   cliffs  their  sullen 

sound : 
Oft  here  the  fiend  his  grisly  visage  shows, 
His  Umbs,  of  giant  form,  in  vesture  clad 
Of  drear  collected  ice  and  stiffen'd  snow. 
The  same  he  wore  a  thousand  years  ago. 
That  thwarts  the  sunbeam,  and  endures  the 

day. 
'Tis  thus,  by  Fancy   shown,  thou  kenn'st 

entranced 
Long  tangled  woods,  and  ever  stagnant  lakes, 


That   know   no   zephyr  pure,    or   temperate 

gale, 
By  baneful  Tigris  banks,  where,  oft  they  say. 
As  late  in  sullen  march  for  prey  he  prowlsr, 
The  tawny  lion  sees  his  shadow' d  form. 
At  silent  midnight  by  the  moon's  pale  gleam. 
On  the  broad  surface  of  the  dark  deep  wave  •, 
Here,  parch'd  at  mid-day,  oft  the  passenger 
Invokes  with  lingering  hope  the  tardy  breeze, 
And  oft  with  silent  anguish  thinks  in  vain 
On  Europe's  milder  air  and  silver  springs. 
Thou,    unappall'd,    canst   view   astounding 

fear 
With    ghastly    visions   "ivild,    and   train   un- 

blesa'd 
Of  ashy  fiends,  at  dead  of  murky  night. 
Who  catch  the  fleeting  soul,  and  slowly  pace. 
With  visage  dimly  seen,  and  beckoning  hand,. 
Of  shadowy  forms,  that,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Flit  by  the  tedious  couch  of  wan  despair. 
Methinks  I  hear  him,  with  impatient  tongue, 
The  lagging   minutes   chide,    whilst   sad    he 

sits 
And  notes   their   secret   lapse  with   shaking 

head. 
See,  see,  with  tearless  glance  they  mark  his 

fall, 
And  close  his  beamless  eye,  who,  trembling. 

meets 
A  late  repentance,  and  an  early  grave. 

With  thine  and  elfin  Fancy's  dreams  well 

pleased. 
Safe  in  the  lowly  vale  of  letter'd  ease. 
From  aU  the  duU  buffoonery  of  life. 
Thy  sacred  influence  grateful  may  I  own  ; 
Nor  till  old  age  shall  lead  me  to  my  tomb. 
Quit  thee  and  all  thy  charms  with  many  a 

tear. 
On  Omole,  or  cold  Soracte's  top. 
Singing  defiance  to  the  threat'ning  storm. 
Thus  the  lone  bird,  in  winter's  rudest  hour, 
Hid    in    some    cavern,     shrouda    its    ruffled 

plumes, 
And  throu^  the  long,  long  night,  regardless 

hears 
The  wild  wind's  keenest   blast   and  dashing 

rain. 

Henry  Headley.—Born  1766,  Died  1788. 


1042.— SONNET  TO  VALCLUSA. 

What   though,   Valclusa,    the   fond   bard   be 

fled, 
That  woo'd  his  fair  in  thy  sequester' d  bowers. 
Long   loved   her   living,    long    bemoan' d   her 

dead, 
And  hung  her  visionary  shrine  with  flowers  ! 
What  though  no  more  he  teach  thy  shades  to 

mourn 
The  hapless  chances  that  to  love  belong. 
As  erst  when  drooping  o'er  her  tvirf  forlorn, 
He   charm'd    wild    Echo   with   his   plaintive 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


ODE  TO  MANKIND. 


[Earl  Nugent. 


Yet  still,  enamour'd  of  the  tender  tale, 

Pale   Passion    haunts    thy   grove's   romantic 

gloom. 
Yet  still  soft  music  breathes  in  every  gale, 
Still  undecay'd  the  fairy  garlands  bloom, 
Still  heavenly  incense  fills  each  fragrant  vale, 
StiU   Petrarch's   Genius   weeps   o'er   Laura's 

tomb. 

Thomas  Russell— Born  1762,  Died  1788. 


1043.— SONNET,  SUPPOSED  TO  BE 
WEITTEN  AT  LEMNOS. 

On  this  lone  isle,  whose  rugged  rocks  affright 
The  cautious  pilot,  ten  revolving  years 
Great  Paeon's  son,  unwonted  erst  to  tears, 
Wept  o'er  his  wound  :  alike  each  rolling  light 
Of  heaven  he  watch'd,  and  blamed  its  linger- 
ing flight  : 
By  day   the   sea-mew,    screaming  round   his 

cave. 
Drove  slumber   from   his   eyes,    the   chiding 

wave. 
And  savage  howlings  chased  his  dreams  by 

night. 
Hope  still  was  his ;  in  each  low  breeze  that 

sigh'd 
Through   liis  rude   grot,  he  heard  a  coming 

oar; 
In  each  white  cloud  a  coming  sail  he  spied  ; 
Nor  seldom  Hsten'd  to  the  fancied  roar 
Of  (Eta's  torrents,  or  the  hoarser  tide 
That   parts  famed  Trachis  from  th'  Euboic 

shore. 

Thomas  Russell. — Bom  1762,  Died  1788. 


1044.— ODE  TO  MANKIND. 

Is  there,  or  do  the  schoolmen  dream- 
Is  there  on  earth  a  power  supreme, 

The  delegate  of  heaven, 
To  whom  an  uncontroU'd  command. 
In  every  realm  or  sea  and  land. 

By  special  grace  is  given  ? 

Then  say,  what  signs  this  god  proclaim  ? 
Dwells  he  amidst  the  diamond's  flame, 

A  throne  his  hallow 'd  shrine  ? 
The  borrow' d  pomp,  the  arm'd  array, 
Want,  fear,  and  impotence,  betray 

Strange  proofs  of  power  divine  ! 

If  service  due  from  human  kind, 
To  men  in  slothful  ease  reclined, 

Can  form  a  sov' reign's  claim  : 
Hail,  monarchs  !  ye,  whom  heaven  ordains, 
Our  toils  unshared,  to  share  our  gains. 

Ye  idiots,  blind  and  lame  ! 


Superior  virtue,  wisdom,  might, 
Create  and  mark  the  ruler's  right, 

So  reason  must  conclude  : 
Then  thine  it  is,  to  whom  belong 
The  wis«,  the  virtuous,  and  the  strong, 

Thrice  sacred  multitude ! 

In  thee,  vast  All !  are  these  contain' d, 
Fcr  thee  are  those,  thy  parts  ordain'd, 

So  nature's  systems  roll : 
The  sceptre  's  thine,  if  such  there  be ; 
If  none  there  is,  then  thou  art  free, 

Great  monarch  !  mighty  whole  ! 

Let  the  proud  tyrant  rest  his  cause 
On  faith,  prescription,  force,  or  laws. 

An  host's  or  senate's  voice  ! 
His  voice  affirms  thy  stronger  due. 
Who,  for  the  many  made  the  few, 

And  gave  the  species  choice. 

Unsanctified  by  thy  command, 
Unown'd  by  thee,  the  sceptred  hand 

The  trembling  slave  may  bind  ; 
But  loose  from  nature's  moral  ties, 
The  oath  by  force  imposed  belies 

The  unassenting  mind. 

Thy  will 's  thy  rule,  thy  good  its  end  ; 
You  punish  only  to  defend 

What  parent  nature  gave  : 
And  he  who  dares  her  gifts  invade. 
By  nature'^  oldest  law  is  made 

Thy  victim  or  thy  slave. 

Thus  reason  founds  the  just  degree 
On  universal  liberty. 

Not  private  rights  resign'd  : 
Through  various  nature's  wide  extent. 
No  private  beings  e'er  were  meant 

To  hurt  the  general  kind. 

Thee  justice  guides,  thee  right  maintains, 
Th'  oppressor's  wrongs,  the  pilf 'rer's  gains, 

Thy  injured  weal  impair. 
Thy  Avarmest  passions  soon  subside, 
Nor  partial  envy,  hate,  nor  pride. 

Thy  temper' d  counsels  share. 

Each  instance  of  thy  vengeful  rage, 
Collected  from  each  clime  and  age. 

Though  malice  swell  the  sum, 
Would  seem  a  spotless  scanty  scroll. 
Compared  with  Marius'  bloody  roll, 

Or  Sylla's  hippodrome. 

But  thine  has  been  imputed  blame. 
The  unworthy  few  assume  thy  name. 

The  rabble  weak  and  loud ; 
Or  those  who  on  thy  ruins  feast. 
The  lord,  the  lawyer,  and  the  priest ; 

A  more  ignoble  crowd. 

Avails  it  thee,  if  one  devours. 

Or  lesser  spoilers  share  his  powers, 

While  both  thy  claim  oppose  ? 
Monsters  who  wore  thy  sullied  crown. 
Tyrants  who  pull'd  those  monsters  down. 

Alike  to  thee  were  foes. 


Alex.  Ross.1 


WOO'D,  AT^D  MAERIED,  AND  A'. 


[Sixth  Period. 


Far  other  shone  fair  Freedom's  band, 
Far  other  was  th'  immortal  stand, 

When  Hampden  fought  for  thee  : 
They  snatch' d  from  rapine's  gripe  thy  spoils, 
The  fruits  and  prize  of  glorious  toils, 

Of  arts  and  industry. 

On  thee  yet  foams  the  preacher's  rage. 
On  thee  fierce  frowns  th'  historian's  page, 

A  false  apostate  train  : 
Tears  stream  ad  own  the  martyr's  tomb  ; 
Unpitied  in  their  harder  doom, 

Thy  thousands  strow  the  plain. 

These  had  no  charms  to  please  the  sense. 
No  gi'aceful  port,  no  eloquence, 

To  win  the  Muse's  throng  : 
Unknown,  unsung,  unmark'd  they  lie 
But  Cffisar's  fate  o'ercasts  the  sky,    • 

And  Nature  mourns  his  wrong. 

Thy  foes,  a  frontless  band,  invade ; 
Thy  friends  afford  a  timid  aid. 

And  yield  up  half  the  right. 
E'en  Locke  beams  forth  a  mingled  ray, 
Afraid  to  pour  the  flood  of  day 

On  man's  too  feeble  sight. 

Hence  are  the  motley  systems  framed, 
Of  right  transferr'd,  of  power  reclaim'd ; 

Distinctions  weak  and  vain. 
Wise  nature  mocks  the  wrangling  herd  ; 
For  unreclaim'd,  and  untransferr'd, 

Her  powers  and  rights  remain. 

While  law  the  royal  agent  moves, 
The  instrument  thy  choice  approves. 

We  bow  through  him  to  you. 
But  change,  or  cease  the  inspiring  choice, 
The  sov'reign  sinks  a  private  voice, 

Alike  in  one,  or  few  ! 

Shall  then  the  wretch,  whose  dastard  heart 
Shrinks  at  a  tyrant's  nobler  part, 

And  only  dares  betray, 
With  reptile  wiles,  alas  !  prevail, 
Where  force,  and  rage,  and  priestcraft  fail, 

To  pilfer  power  away  ? 

O  !  shall  the  bought,  and  buying  tribe, 
The  slaves  who  take,  and  deal  the  bribe, 

A  people's  claims  enjoy  ? 
So  Indian  murd'rers  hope  to  gain 
The  powers  and  virtues  of  the  slain. 

Of  wretches  they  destroy. 

"  Avert  it.  Heaven  !  you  love  the  brave, 
You  hate  the  treach'rous,  willing  slave. 

The  self -devoted  head ; 
Nor  shall  an  hireling's  voice  convey 
That  sacred  prize  to  lawless  sway, 

For  which  a  nation  bled." 

Vain  prayer,  the  coward's  weak  resource ! 
Directing  reason,  active  force. 

Propitious  heaven  bestows. 
But  ne'er  shall  flame  the  fiund'ring  sky, 
To  aid  the  trembling  herd  that  fly 

Before  their  weaker  foes. 


In  names  there  dwell  no  magic  charms, 
The  British  virtues,  British  arms 

Unloosed  our  fathers'  band  : 
Say,  Greece  and  Eome  !  if  these  should  fail. 
What  names,  what  ancestors  avail. 

To  save  a  sinking  land  ? 

Far,  far  from  us  such  ills  shall  be, 
Mankind  shall  boast  one  nation  free. 

One  monarch  truly  great : 
Whose  title  speaks  a  people's  choice, 
Whose  sovereign  will  a  people's  voice. 

Whose  strength  a  prosp'rous  state. 

Earl  Nugent— Born  1709,  Died  1788. 


1045.— WOO'D,  AND  MAEEIED,  AND  A'. 

The  bride  cam'  out  o'  the  byre, 

And,  O,  as  she  dighted  her  cheeks  ! 
Sirs,  I'm  to  be  married  the  night, 

And  have  neither  blankets  nor  sheets  ; 
Have  neither  blankets  nor  sheets. 

Nor  scarce  a  coverlet  too  ; 
The  bride  that  has  a'  thing  to  borrow, 
Has  e'en  right  muckle  ado. 
Woo'd,  and  married,  and  a', 

Married,  and  woo'd,  and  a'  ! 
And  was  she  nae  very  weel  off. 

That  was  woo'd,  and  married,  and  a'  r 

Out  spake  the  bride's  father, 

As  he  cam'  in  frae  the  pleugh : 
O,  hand  your  tongue,  my  dochter, 

And  ye'se  get  gear  eneugh  ; 
The  stirk  stands  i'  the  tether. 

And  our  braw  bawsint  yade, 
Will  carry  ye  hame  your  corn — 

What  wad  ye  be  at,  ye  jade  ? 

Out  spake  the  bride's  mither. 

What  deil  needs  a'  this  pride  ? 
I  had  nae  a  plack  in  my  pouch 

That  night  I  was  a  bride ; 
My  gown  was  Knsy-woolsy, 

And  ne'er  a  sark  ava  ; 
And  ye  hae  ribbons  and  buskins, 

Mae  than  ane  or  twa. 

#  *  *  * 

Out  spake  the  bride's  brither. 

As  he  cam'  in  wi'  the  kye  : 
Poor  Willie  wad  ne'er  hae  ta'en  ye. 

Had  he  kent  ye  as  weel  as  I ; 
For  ye' re  baith  proud  and  saucy. 

And  no  for  a  poor  man's  wife  ; 
Gin  I  canna  get  a  better, 

I'se  ne'er  tak  ane  i'  my  life. 

*  #  #  « 

Alex.  Ross.— Born  1698,  Died  1784. 


From  1727  to  1780.]' 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOEEST. 


[Miss  Jane  Elliot. 


1046.— MAEY'S  DEE  AM. 

The  moon  had  climb' d  the  highest  liill 

Which  rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 
And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 

Her  silver  ligh'j  on  tower  and  tree  ; 
"WTien  Mary  laid  her  down  to  sleep. 

Her  thoughts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea, 
When,  soft  and  low,  a  voice  was  heard. 

Saying,  "  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 

Her  head,  to  ask  who  there  might  be, 
And  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand, 

With  visage  pale,  and  hollow  ee. 
*'  O  Mary  dear,  cold  is  toy  clay ; 

It  Ues  beneath  a  stormy  sea. 
Far,  far  from  thee  I  sleep  in  death ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days 

We  toss'd  upon  the  raging  main  ; 
And  long  we  strove  our  bark  to  save, 

But  all  our  striving  was  in  vain. 
Even  then,  when  horror  chill'd  my  blood, 

My  heart  was  fill'd  with  love  for  thee  : 
The  storm  is  past,  and  I  at  rest ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

O  maiden  dear,  thyself  prepare  ; 

We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore, 
Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care, 

And  thou  and  I  shall  part  no  more  !  " 
Loud  crow'd  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled. 

No  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see  ; 
But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said, 

"  Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  !  " 

Alex.  Ross.—Bo'n  1698,  J}ied  1784. 


1047.— AULD  EOBIN  GEAT. 

"WTien  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye 

at  hame. 
And  a'  the  warld  to  sleep  are  gane ; 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my 

ee, 
When  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  weel,  and  socht  me  for 

his  bride ; 
But   saving   a   croun,  he   had   naething  else 

beside ; 
To  mak  that  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed 

to  sea ; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for 

me. 

He  hadna  been  awa  a  week  but  only  twa. 
When  my  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  the  cow 

was  stown  awa ; 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  and  young  Jamie  at 

the  sea. 
And  auld  Eobin  Gray  cam'  a-courtin'  me. 


My   father   couldna   work,    and    my   mother 

couldna  spin : 
I   toiled   day   and  nicht,  but   their  bread   I 

couldna  win  ; 
Auld    Eob   maintain'd   them  baith,  and,   wi' 

tears  in  his  ee. 
Said,    "  Jennie,  for  their   sakes.    Oh,    marry 

me  I  "  -     - 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  for  I  look'd  for  Jamie 

back  ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it 

was  a  wreck ; 
The  ship  it  was  a  wreck — why  didna  Jamie 

dee  ? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae  's  me  ? 

My   father   argued   sair :    my   mother   didna 


But  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was 

like  to  break  ; 
Sae  they  gied  him  my  hand,  though  my  heart 

was  ill  the  sea  ; 
And  auld  Eobin  Gray  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When,  sitting  sae  mournfully  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna  tliink 

it  he. 
Till  he  said,   "I'm  come  back  for  to   marry 

thee." 

Oh,  sair  did   we   greet,  and  muckle  did   we 

say; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves 

away  : 
I   wish   I   were   dead !    but   I'm   no   like   to 

dee  ; 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae  's  me  ? 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin  ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a 

sin ; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be, 
For  auld  Eobin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  Anne  Barnard. — Bom  1750,  Died  1825. 


1048.— THE  FLOWEES   OF  THE 
FOEEST. 

I've  heard  the  lilting  at  our  yowe-milking,- 
Lasses  a-lilting  before  the  dawn  of  day ; 
But   now   they  are   moaning   on    ilka   green 
loaning — 
The   Flowers   of    the    Forest   are   a'  wede 
away. 

At  buchts,  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe  lads 
are  scorning. 
The  lasses  are  lonely,  and  dowie,  and  wae ; 
Nae   daffin',    nae    gabbin',    but    sighing   and 
.  sabbing, 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglen  and  hies  her  away. 


Mrs.  Cockburn.] 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOEEST. 


[Sixth  Period.- 


In  hairst,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are 
jeering, 
The  bandsters  are  lyart,  and  rankled,  and 
gray ; 
At   fair,  or   at   preaching,  nae    wooing,    nae 
Seeching — 
The    Flowers    of    the    Forest  are  a'  wede 
away. 

At  e'en,  at  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  are 
roaming, 
'Bout    stacks   wi'   the   lasses   at  bogle   to 
play; 
But    ilk    ane    sits    drearie,    lamenting     her 
dearie — 
The    Flowers   of   the    Forest   are   a'  wede 
away. 

Dnle  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads  to 
the  Border ! 
The  Enghsh,  for  ance,  by  guile   wan  the 
day; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  foucht  aye 
the  foremost. 
The   prime   o'  our  land,  are  cauld   in  the 
clay. 

We     hear    nae    mair    lilting    at    our   yowe- 
milking. 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae  ; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 
The    Flowers   of   the   Forest    are  a'  wede 
away. 

Miss  Jcme  Elliot. — About  1740. 


1049.— THE  FLOWEES  OF  THE 
FOEEST. 

I've  seen  the  smiling 

Of  Fortune  beguiling ; 
I've  felt  all  its  favours,  and  found  its  decay  : 

Sweet  was  its  blessing. 

Kind  its  caressing ; 
But  now  'tis  fled — fled  far  away. 

I've  seen  the  forest 

Adorned  the  foremost 
With  flowers  of  the  fairest  most  pleasant  and 
gay ; 

Sae  bonnie  was  their  blooming  ! 

Their  scent  the  air  perfuming  ! 
But  now  they  are  wither' d  and  weedeu  away. 

I've  seen  the  morning 
With  gold  the  hills  adorning, 
And  loud  tempest  storming  before  the  mid- 
day. 
I've  seen  Tweed's  sHver  streams, 
Shining  in  the  sunny  beams. 
Grow  drumly  and  dark  as  he  row'd  on  his 
way. 


Oh,  fickle  Fortune, 

Why  this  cruel  sporting  ? 
Oh,  why  still  perplex  us,  poor  sons  of  a  day  ? 

Nae  mair  your  smiles  can  cheer  me, 

Nae  mair  your  frowns  can  fear  me  ; 
For  the  Flowers  of   the  Forest  are  a'  wede 
away. 

Mrs.  Cockburn.— Born  1679,  Died  1749. 


1050.— TUIiLOCHGORUM. 

Come  gie's  a  sang,  Montgomery  cried, 
And  lay  your  disputes  all  aside  ; 
What  signifies 't  for  folks  to  chide 

For  what 's  been  done  before  them  ? 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree, 
"Whig  and  Tory,  Whig  and  Tory, 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 

To  drop  their  Whigmegmorum. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 
To  spend  this  night  with  mirth  and  glee, 
And  cheerfu'  sing  alang  wi'  me 

The  reel  of  Tullochgorum. 

O,  Tullochgorum 's  my  delight ; 

It  gars  us  a'  in  ane  unite ; 

And  ony  sumph  that  keeps  up  spite, 

In  conscience  I  abhor  him. 
Blithe  and  merry  we 's  be  a'. 
Blithe  and  merry,  blithe  and  merry. 
Blithe  and  merry  we  's  be  a', 

And  mak'  a  cheerfu'  quorum. 
Blithe  and  merry  we's  be  a'. 
As  lang  as  we  hae  breath  to  draw, 
And  dance,  till  we  be  like  to  fa', 

The  reel  of  Tullochgorum, 

There  need  na  be  sae  great  a  phrase 
Wi'  dringing  dull  Italian  lays ; 
I  wadna  gie  our  ain  strathspeys 

For  half  a  himdred  score  o'  'em. 
They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Douff  and  dowie,  douff  and  dowie, 
They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 

Wi'  a'  their  variorums. 
They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best. 
Their  allegros,  and  a'  the  rest. 
They  canna  please  a  Highland  taste, 

Compared  wi'  Tullochgorum. , 

Let  warldly  minds  themselves  oppress 
Wi'  fear  of  want,  and  double  cess, 
And  sullen  sots  themselves  distress 

Wi'  keeping  up  decorum. 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit. 
Sour  and  sulky,  sour  and  sulky, 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit. 

Like  auld  Philosophorum  ? 
Shall  wc  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit, 
Wi'  neither  sense,  nor  mirth,  nor  wit. 
And  canna  rise  to  shake  a  fit 

At  the  reel  of  Tullochgorum  ? 


Frcy.n  1'727  to  1780.] 


BRAID  CLAITH. 


[EoBT.  Fejjgusson. 


May  choicest  blessings  still  attend 
Each  honest-hearted  open  friend ; 
And  calm  and  quiet  be  his  end, 

And  a'  that's  good  watch  o'er  him  ! 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 
Peace  and  plenty,  peace  and  plenty, 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 

And  dainties,  a  great  store  o'  'em  ! 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 
Unstain'd  by  any  vicious  blot ; 
And  may  he  never  want  a  groat, 

That's  fond  of  Tullochgorum. 

But  for  the  discontented  fool, 
Who  wants  to  be  oppression's  tool, 
May  envy  gnaw  his  rotten  soul. 

And  discontent  devour  him  ! 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  hy?  chance, 
Dool  and  sorrow,  dool  and  sorrow, 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 

And  nane  say,  Wae's  me  for  'im  ! 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
And  a'  the  ills  that  come  frae  France, 
Whate'er  he  be  that  winna  dance 

The  reel  of  Tullochgorum  ! 

John  Skinner. — Born  1721,  Died  1807. 


1051.— AMYNTA. 

My   sheep   I   neglected,    I   broke   my  sheep- 
hook, 
And    all    the    gay   haunts    of    my   youth   I 

forsook ; 
No  more  for  Amynta  fresh  garlands  I  wove  ; 
For  ambition,  I  said,  would  soon  cure  me  of 
love. 
Oh,  what  had  my  youth  with  ambition  to 

do? 
Why  left  I   Amynta?     Why  broke   I  my 

vow? 
Oh,  give  me  my  sheep,  and  my  sheep-hook 

restore. 
And  I'll  wander  from  love  and  Amynta  no 
more. 


Through  regions  remote  in  vain  do  I  rove, 
And   bid  the  wide  ocean    secure    me   from 

love  ! 
Oh,    fool !    to    imagine    that    aught    could 

subdue 
A  love  so  well-founded,  a  passion  so  true  ! 

Alas  !  'tis  too  late  at  thy  fate  to  repine ; 
Poor  shepherd,  Amynta  can  never  be  thine  : 
Thy  tears  are   aU   fruitless,  thy  wishes   are 

vain. 
The  moments  neglected  return  not  again. 

Sir  Gilbert  Elliot— Died  1777. 


1052.— BRAID  CLAITH. 

Ye  wha  are  fain  to  hae  your  name 
Wrote  i'  the  bonnie  book  o'  fame. 
Let  merit  nae  pretension  claim 

To  laurell'd  wreath. 
But  hap  ye  weel,  baith  back  and  wame, 

In  guid  braid  claith.        ~-     - 

He  that  some  ells  o'  this  may  fa', 
And  slae-black  hat  on  pow  like  snaw, 
Bids  bauld  to  bear  the  gree  awa, 

Wi'  a'  this  graith, 
When  beinly  clad  wi'  shell  fu'  braw 

0'  guid  braid  claith. 

Waesucks  for  him  wha  has  nae  feck  o't ! 
For  he's  a  gowk  they're  sure  to  geek  at ; 
A  chiel  that  ne'er  will  be  respeckit 

While  he  draws  breath, 
TOl  his  four  quarters  are  bedeckit 

Wi'  guid  braid  claith. 

On  Sabbath-days  the  barber  spark, 
When  he  has  done  wi'  scrapin'  wark, 
Wi'  siller  broachie  in  his  sark. 

Gangs  trigly,  faith  ! 
Or  to  the  Meadows,  or  the  Park, 

In  guid  braid  claith. 

Weel  might  ye  trow,  to  see  them  there, 
That  they  to  shave  your  haflSts  bare. 
Or  curl  and  sleek  a  pickle  hair, 

Would  be  right  laith, 
When  pacin'  wi'  a  gawsy  air 

In  guid  braid  claith. 

If  ony  mettled  stirrah  green 
For  favour  frae  a  lady's  een, 
He  maunna  care  for  bein'  seen 

Before  he  sheath 
His  body  in  a  scabbard  clean 
*0'  guid  braid  claith. 

For,  gin  he  come  wi'  coat  threadbare, 
A  feg  for  him  she  winna  care, 
But  crook  her  bonny  mou  fou  sair, 

And  scauld  him  baith  : 
Wooers  should  aye  their  travel  spare. 

Without  braid  claith. 

Braid  claith  lends  f  ouk  an  unca  heeze ; 
Maks  mony  kail-worms  butterflees ; 
Gies  mony  a  doctor  his  degrees. 

For  little  skaith  : 
In  short,  you  may  be  what  you  please, 

Wi'  guid  braid  claith. 

For  though  ye  had  as  wise  a  snout  on, 

As  Shakspere  or  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 

Your  judgment  fouk  would  hae  a  doubt  on, 

I'll  tak  my  aith, 
Till  they  could  see  ye  ^vi'  a  suit  on 

O'  guid  braid  claith. 

Robert  Fergusson. — Bom  1751,  Died  1774. 


EoBT.  Feegusson.] 


THE  FAEMEE'S  INGLE. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


J053.— THE  FAEMEE'S  INGLE. 

Whan   gloamin   grey    out    owre    the   welkin 
keeks ; 
Whan  Batie  ca's  his  owsen  to  the  byre  ; 
Whan  Thrasher  John,  sair  dung,  his    barn- 
door steeks, 
An'  lusty  lasses  at  the  dightin'  tire  ; 
What    bangs    fu'    leal    the    e'enin's   coming 
cauld, 
An'    gars    snaw-tappit    Winter   freeze    in 
vain; 
Gars   dowie   mortals    look    baith    blithe   an' 
bauld, 
Nor  fley'd  wi'  a'  the  poortith  o'  the  plain ; 
Begin,   my   Muse  !    and  chaunt  in  hamely 
strain. 

Frae  the  big  stack,  weel  winnow't  on  the  hill, 

Wi'  divots  theekit  frae  the  weet  an'  drift ; 
Sods,  peats,  and  heathery  turfs  the  chimley 
fiU, 
An'  gar  their  thickening  smeek  salute  the 
lift. 
The  gudeman,  new  come  hame,  is  blithe  to 
find, 
Whan  he  out  owre  the  hallan  flings  his  een. 
That  ilka  turn  is  handled  to  his  mind ; 

That  a'  his  housie  looks  sae  cosh  an'  clean ; 
For  cleanly  house  lo'es  he,  though  e'er  sae 
mean. 

Weel  kens   the  gudewife,  that   the   pleughs 
require 

A  heartsome  meltith,  and  refreshin'  synd 
O'  nappy  liquor,  owre  a  bleezin'  fire : 

Sair  wark  an'  poortith  downa  weel  be  join'd. 
Wi'  butter' d  bannocks  now  the  girdle  reekg; 

I'  the  far  nook  the  bowie  briskly  reams  ; 
The  readied  kail  stands  by  the  chimley  cheeks, 

An'    hand    the    riggin'    het    wi'    welcome 
streams, 

Whilk    than    the    daintiest    kitchen  nicer 


Frae  this,  lat  gentler  gabs  a  lesson  lear  : 

Wad  they  to  labouring  lend  an  eident  hand. 
They'd  rax  fell  Strang  upo'  the  simplest  fare. 

Nor  find  their  stamacks  ever  at  a  stand. 
Fu'  hale  an'  healthy  Avad  they  pass  the  day  ; 
At   night,   in   calmest    slumbers    dose    fu' 
sound ; 
Nor  doctor  need  their  weary  life  to  spae, 
Nor   drogs    their   noddle   and    their    sense 

confound, 
Till  death  slip  sleely  on,  an'  gie  the  hindmost 
wound. 

On  sicken  food  has  mony  a  doughty  deed 

By  Caledonia's  ancestors  been  done  ; 
By  this  did  mony  a  wight  fu'  weirlike  bleed 

In  brulzies  frae  the  dawn  to  set  o'  sun. 
Twas  this  that  braced  their  gardies  stiff  an' 
Strang ; 
That  bent  the  deadly  yew  in  ancient  days ; 
Laid  Denmark's  daring  sons  on  yird  alang ; 


Garr'd   Scotish  thristles  bang  the  Eoman 

bays; 
For  near  our  crest  their  heads  they  dought 

na  raise. 

The  couthy  cracks  begin  whan  supper's  owre ; 

The  cheering  bicker  gars  them  glibly  gash 
0'    Simmer's    showery    blinks,    an'    Winter's 
sour, 
"Whase  floods  did  erst  their  mailin's  produce 
hash. 
'Bout  kirk  an'  market  eke  their  tales  gae  on  ; 
How   Jock    woo'd   Jenny   here   to   be   his 
bride ; 
An'  there,  how  Marion,  for  a  bastard  son, 
Upo'  the  cutty-stool  was  forced  to  ride  ; 
The   waefu'   scauld   o'    our   Mess    John  to 
bide. 

The  fient  a  cheep  's  amang  the  bairnies  now ; 
For  a'  their  anger's  wi'  their  hunger  gane  : 
Ay  maun  the  childer,  wi'  a  fastin'  mou. 

Grumble  an'  greet,  an'  mak  an  unco  maen. 
In  rangles  round,  before  the  ingle  's  low, 
Frae  gudame's  mouth  auld  warld  tales  they 
hear, 
0'  warlocks  loupin  round  the  wirrikow  : 

0'    ghaists,   that   win  in  glen  an  kirkyard 

drear, 
Whilk  touzles  a'  their  tap,  an'  gars  them 
shake  wi'  fear ! 

For  weel  she  trows,  that  fiends  an'  fairies  be 

Sent  frae  the  deil  to  fleetch  us  to  our  ilJ. ; 
That  ky  hae  tint  their  milk  wi'  evil  ee  ; 

An'    corn    been  scowder'd  on  the  glowin' 
kiln. 
0   mock   nae   this,  my   friends !    but    rather 
mourn, 
Ye  in  life's  brawest  spring  wi'  reason  clear  ; 
Wi'  eild  our  idle  fancies  a'  return. 

And  dim  our  dolefu'  days  wi'  baimly  fear ; 
The  mind 's  ay  cradled  whan  the  grave  is 
near. 

Yet  Thrift,  iadustrious,  bides  her  latest  days. 
Though  Age  her  sair-dow'd  front  wi'  runcles 
wave  ; 
Yet  frae  the  russet  lap  the  spindle  plays  ; 
Her   e'enin   stent   reels  she  as  weel's  the 
lave. 
On   some   feast-day,   the   wee   things   buskit 
braw. 
Shall  heese  her  heart  up  wi'  a  silent  joy, 
Fu'  cadgie  that  her  head  was  up  an'  saw 
Her  ain  spun  cleedin'  on  a  darlin'  oy ; 
Careless  though  death  shou'd  mak  the  feast 
her  foy. 

In  its  auld  lerroeh  yet  the  deas  remains, 
Where  the  gudeman  aft  streeks  him  at  hi^ 
ease  ; 

A  warm  and  canny  lean  for  weary  banes 
0'  labourers  doylt  upo'  the  wintry  leas. 

Eound  him  will  baudrins  an'  the  coUie  come. 
To  wag  their  tail,  and  cast  a  thankfu'  ee^ 

To  him  wha  kindly  flings  them  mony  a  crum 


H 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


A  SUNDAY  IN  EDINBURGH. 


[RoBT.  Feegusson. 


O'    kcbbnck  whang'd,  an'  dainty  fadge  to 

prie ; 
This  a'  the  boon  they  craTe,  an'  a'  the  fee. 

Frae  him  the  lads  their  mornin'  counsel  tak : 
"What   stacks  he   wants  to   thrash;   what 
rigs  to  till ; 
How  big  a  birn  maun  lie  on  bassie's  back, 
For  meal  an'  mu'ter  to  the  thirlin'  mill. 
Niest,  the  gudewife  her  hirelin'  damsels  bids 
Glowr  through  the  byre,  an'  see  the  hawkies 
bound ; 
Tak  tent,  case  Crummy  tak  her  wonted  tids, 
An'    ca'     the    laiglen's    treasure    on    the 

ground ; 
Whilk    spills    a  kebbuck    nice,    or   yellow 
pound. 

Then  a'  the  house  for  sleep  begin  to  green, 
Their  joints  to  slack  frae  industry  a  while ; 

The  leaden  god  fa's  heavy  on  their  e'en. 

An'    haflflins   steeks   them   frae  their  daily 
toil: 

The  cruizy,  too,  can  only  blink  and  bleer ; 
The  reistit  ingle  's  done  the  maist  it  dow ; 

Tacksman  an'  cottar  eke  to  bed  maun  steer, 
Upo'  the  cod  to  clear  their  drumly  pow, 
Till  wauken'd  by  the  dawnin's  ruddy  glow. 

Peace  to  the  husbandman,  an*  a'  his  tribe, 
Whase  care  fells  a'  our  wants  frae  year  to 
year  ! 
Lang  maj'  his  sock  and  cou'ter  turn  the  gleyb, 
An'    banks  o'   corn   bend  down  wi'  laded 
ear ! 
May  Scotia's  simmers  ay  look  gay  an'  green ; 
Her  yellow  ha'rsts  frae  scowry  blasts  de- 
creed ! 
May  a'  her  tenants  sit  fu'  snug  an'  bien, 
Frae   the   hard   grip   o'  ails,  and  poortith 

freed  ; 
An'   a  lang  lasting  train  o'  peacefu'  hours 
succeed ! 

Robert  Fergusson. — Bom  1751,  Biecl  1774. 


1054.— TO  THE  TEON-KIEK  BELL. 

Wanwordy,  crazy,  dinsome  thing. 
As  e'er  was  framed  to  jow  or  ring  ! 
What  gar'd  them  sic  in  steeple  hing. 

They  ken  themsel ; 
But  weel  wat  I,  they  couldna  bring 

Waur  sounds  frae  hell. 


Fleece-merchants  may  look  bauld,  I  trow, 
Sin'  a'  Auld  Reekie's  childer  now 
Maun  stap  their  lugs  wi'  teats  o'  woo, 

Thy  sound  to  bang, 
And  keep  it  frae  gaun  through  and  through 

Wi'jarrin'  twang. 


Your  noisy  tongue,  there's  nae  abidin't ; 
Like  scauldin'  wife's,  there  is  nae  guidin't; 
"When  I'm  'bout  ony  business  eident. 

It's  sair  to  thole ; 
To  deave  me,  then,  ye  tak  a  pride  in't, 

"Wi'  senseless  knoll. 

Oh  !  were  I  provost  o'  the  town, 
I  swear  by  a'  the  powers  aboon, 
I'd  bring  ye  wi'  a  reesle  down ; 

Nor  should  you  think 
(Sae  sair  I'd  crack  and  clour  your  crown) 

Again  to  clink. 

For,  when  I've  toom'd  the  meikle  cap. 
And  fain  wald  fa'  owre  in  a  nap, 
Troth,  I  could  doze  as  sound  's  a  tap, 

Were't  no  for  thee, 
That  gies  the  tither  weary  chap 

To  wauken  me. 

I  dreamt  ae  night  I  saw  Auld  Nick  : 
Quo'  he — "  This  bell  o'  mine's  a  trick, 
A  wily  piece  o'  politic, 

A  cunnin'  snare. 
To  trap  fouk  in  a  cloven  stick, 

Ere  they're  aware. 

As  lang's  my  dautit  bell  hings  there, 
A'  body  at  the  kirk  will  skair ; 
Quo'  they,  if  he  that  preaches  there 

Like  it  can  wound, 
We  downa  care  a  single  hair 

Forjoyfu'  sound." 

If  magistrates  wi'  me  would  'gree, 
For  aye  tongue-tackit  should  you  be  j 
Nor  fleg  wi'  anti-melody 

Sic  honest  fouk, 
Whase  lugs  were  never  made  to  dreo 

Thy  dolefu'  shock. 

But  far  frae  thee  the  bailies  dwell. 
Or  they  would  scunner  at  your  knell ; 
Gie  the  foul  thief  his  riven  bell. 

And  then,  I  trow. 
The  byword  hands,  "  The  diel  himsel 

Has  got  his  due." 

Bdhert  Ferausson, — Born  1751,  Died  1774. 


1055.— A  SUNDAY  IN  EDINBURGH. 

On  Sunday,  here,  an  alter'd  scene 
0'  men  and  manners  meets  our  een. 
Ane  wad  maist  trow,  some  people  chose 
To  change  their  faces  wi'  their  clo'es, 
And  fain  wad  gar  ilk  neibour  think 
They  thirst  for  guidness  as  for  drink ; 
But  there  's  an  unco  dearth  o'  grace. 
That  has  nae  mansion  but  the  face, 
And  never  can  obtain  a  part 
In  benmost  corner  o'  the  heart. 
Why  should  religion  mak  us  sad, 
If  good  frae  virtue  's  to  be  had  ?  51 


John  Byrom.] 


CAEELESS  CONTENT. 


[Sixth  Period.-— 


Na  •  rather  gleefu'  turn  your  face, 
Forsake  hypocrisy,  grimace  ; 
And  never  hae  it  understood 
You  fleg  mankind  frae  being  good. 

In  afternoon,  a'  brawly  buskit. 
The  joes  and  lasses  loe  to  frisk  it. 
Some  tak  a  great  delight  to  place 
The  modest  bon-grace  o\VTe  the  face ; 
Though  you  may  see,  if  so  inclined, 
The  turning  o'  the  leg  behind. 
Now,  Comely-Garden  and  the  Park 
Refresh  them,  after  forenoon's  wark  : 
Newhaven,  Leith,  or  Canonmills, 
Supply  them  in  their  Sunday's  gills  ; 
Where  writers  aften  spend  their  pence, 
To  stock  their  heads  wi'  drink  and  sense. 

While  danderin  cits  delight  to  stray 
To  Castlehill  or  public  way, 
Where  they  nae  other  purpose  mean. 
Than  that  fool  cause  o'  being  seen, 
Let  me  to  Arthur's  Seat  pursue. 
Where  bonnie  pastures  meet  the  view. 
And  mony  a  wild-lorn  scene  accrues, 
Befitting  Willie  Shakspere's  muse. 
If  Fancy  there  would  join  the  thrang, 
The  desert  rocks  and  hills  amang. 
To  echoes  we  should  lilt  and  play, 
And  gie  to  mirth  the  live-lang  day. 

Or  should  some  canker' d  biting  shower 
The  day  and  a'  her  sweets  deflower, 
To  Holyrood-house  let  me  stray, 
And  gie  to  musing  a'  the  day ; 
Lamenting  what  auld  Scotland  knew, 
Bein  days  for  ever  frae  her  view. 
O  Hamilton,  for  shame !  the  Muse 
Would  pay  to  thee  her  couthy  vows, 
Gin  ye  wad  tent  the  humble  strain, 
And  gie's  our  dignity  again  ! 
For  oh,  wae  's  me  !  the  thistle  springs 
In  domicile  o'  ancient  kings. 
Without  a  patriot  to  regret 
Oar  palace  and  our  ancient  state. 

Robert  Fergusson. — Born  1751,  Died  1774. 


I  am  content,  I  do  not  care, 

Wag  as  it  will  the  world  for  me  ; 

When  fuss  and  fret  was  all  my  fare, 
It  got  no  ground  as  I  could  see  : 

So  when  away  my  caring  went, 

I  counted  cost,  and  was  content. 

With  more  of  thanks  and  less  of  thought, 
I  strive  to  make  my  matters  meet ; 

To  seek  what  ancient  sages  sought, 
Physic  and  food  in  sour  and  sweet : 

To  take  what  passes  in  good  part, 

And  keep  the  liiccups  from  the  heart. 

With  good  and  gentle-humour' d  hearts, 
I  choose  to  chat  where'er  I  come. 


Whate'er  the  subject  be  that  starts  ; 

But  if  I  get  among  the  glum, 
I  hold  my  tongue  to  tell  the  truth. 
And  keep  my  breath  to  cool  my  broth. 

For  chance  or  change  of  peace  or  pain, 
For  fort«ne's  favour  or  her  frown, 

For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain, 
I  never  dodge,  nor  \rp  nor  down  : 

But  swing  what  way  the  ship  shall  swim, 

Or  tack  about  with  equal  trim. 

I  suit  not  ^vhere  I  shall  not  speed. 
Nor  trace  the  turn  of  every  tide  ; 

If  simple  sense  will  not  succeed, 
I  make  no  bustling,  but  abide  : 

For  shining  wealth,  or  scaring  woe, 

I  force  no  friend,  I  fear  no  foe. 

Of  ups  and  downs,  of  ins  and  outs, 

Of  they're  i'  the  wrong,  and  we're  i'  the  right, 

I  shun  the  rancours  and  the  routs ; 
And  wishing  weE  to  every  wight, 

Whatever  turn  the  matter  takes, 

I  deem  it  all  but  ducks  and  drakes. 

With  whom  I  feast  I  do  not  fawn, 

Nor  if  the  folks  should  flout  me,  faint ; 

If  wonted  welcome  be  withdrawn, 
I  cook  no  kind  of  a  complaint : 

With  none  disposed  to  disagree, 

But  like  them  best  who  best  like  me. 

Not  that  I  rate  myself  the  rule 

How  all  my  ])etters  should  behave  ; 

But  fame  shall  find  me  no  man's  fool, 
Nor  to  a  set  of  men  a  slave : 

I  love  a  friendship  free  and  frank, 

And  hate  to  hang  upon  a  hank. 

Fond  of  a  true  and  trusty  tie, 

I  never  loose  where'er  I  link  ; 
Though  if  a. business  budges  by, 

I  talk  thereon  just  as  I  think  ; 
My  word,  my  work,  my  heart,  my  hand, 
Still  on  a  side  together  stand. 

If  names  or  notions  make  a  noise, 
Whatever  hap  the  question  hath. 

The  point  impartially  I  poise, 

And  read  or  write,  but  without  wrath  ; 

For  should  I  burn,  or  break  my  brains. 

Pray,  who  will  pay  me  for  my  pains  ? 

I  love  my  neighbour  as  myself, 
Myself  like  him  too,  by  his  leave ; 

Nor  to  his  pleasure,  power,  or  pelf. 
Came  I  to  crouch,  as  I  conceive : 

Dame  Nature  doubtless  has  design'd 

A  man  the  monarch  of  his  mind. 

Now  taste  and  try  this  temper,  sirs. 
Mood  it  and  brood  it  in  your  breast ; 

Or  if  ye  ween,  for  worldly  stirs, 

That  man  does  right  to  mar  his  rest. 

Let  me  be  deft,  and  debonair, 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care. 

John  Byrom.— Born  1691,  Bled  17G3 


From  1727  fo  1780.] 

1057.— A  PASTORAL. 


A  PASTORAL. 


[John  Byrom. 


My  time,  O  ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent, 
"VVlieu  Pliosbe  went  with  me  wherever  I  went ; 
Ten   thousand  sweet   pleasures  I   felt  in  my 

breast : 
Sure    never   foixd    shepherd    like    Colin   was 

blest ! 
But  now  she  is  gone,  and  has  left  me  behind, 
Wliat   a   marvellouti   change   on  a  sudden  I 

find! 
When  things  were  as  fine  as  could  possibly 

be, 
I  thought  'twas  the  Spring :  but  alas !    it  was 

she. 

With    such   a   companion   to   tend    a   few 

sheep. 
To    rise   up   and    play,  or  to    lie   down   and 

sleep  : 
I  was  so  good-humour'd,  so  cheerful  and  gay, 
3Iy  heart  was  as  liglrt  as  a  feather  all  day  ; 
Ihit  now  I  so  cross  and  so  pee%dsh  am  grown, 
So  strangely  uneasy,  as  never  was  known. 
^ly  fair  one   is  gone,  and   my  joys   are   all 

drown' d. 


But  now,  when  he  's  fawning,  I  with  a  soxur 

look 
Crj'^  "  Sirrah  !  "  and  give  him  a  blow  -with  my 

crook  : 
And  I'll  give  him  another ;    for  why  should 

not  Tray 
Be   as   dull   as   his   master,   when   Phoebe  's 

away  ? 

When   walking   with  Phoebe,  what   sights 

have  I  seen, 
How  fair  was  the  flower,  how  fresh  was  the 

green ! 
What  a  lovely  appearance  the  trees  and  the 

shade, 
The   corn  fields  and  hedges,  and  everything 

made  ! 
But  now  she  has  left  me,  though  all  are  still 

there. 
They  none  of  them  now  so  delightful  appear : 
'Twas  nought  but  the  magic,  I  find,  of  her 

eyes, 
Made  so  many  beautiful  prospects  arise. 

Sweet  music  went  with  us  both  all  the  wood 
through, 


-Vnd  my  heart — I  am  sure  it  weighs  more  than   1   The  lark,    linnet,    throstle,    and    nightingale 


a  pound. 

The    fountain    that  wont   to    run    sweetly 

along, 
And    dance    to    soft    murmurs   the    pebbles 

among ; 
Thou   know'st,    little   Cupid,  if   Phoebe    was 

there, 
'Twas    pleasure   to    look    at,  'twas  music   to 

hear  : 
But  now  she  is  absent,  I  walk  by  its  side, 
And    still,  as   it   murmurs,    do   nothing   but 

chide  ; 
Must  you  be  so  cheerful,  while  I  go  in  pain  ? 
Peace  there  with  your  bubbling,  and  hear  me 

complain. 

My  lambkins  around  me  would  oftentimes 

play, 
And  Phoebe  and  I  were  as  joyful  as  they ; 
How  pleasant  their  sporting,  how  happy  their 

time. 
When  Spring,  Love,  and  Beauty  were  all  in 

their  prime ; 
But  now,  in  their  frolics  when  by  me  they 

pass, 
I  fling  at  their  fleeces  a  handful  of  grass  ; 
Be  still,   then,  I  cry,  for  it  makes  me  quite 

mad, 
To  see  you  so  merry  while  I  am  so  sad. 

My  dog  I  was  ever  well  pleased  to  see 
<;omo  wagging    his  tail    to  my  fair  one  and 

me  ; 
And   Phoebe  was  pleased  too,  and  to  my  dog 

said, 
"Come  hither,  poor  fellow,"  and  patted  his 

head. 


too; 
Winds  over  us  whisper'd,  flocks  by  us  did 

bleat, 
And  chirp  !   went  the  grasshopper  under  our 

feet. 
But   now  she   is    absent,    though    still   they 

sing  on, 
The  woods  are  but  lonely,  the  melody 's  gone  : 
Her  voice    in  the  concert,  as    now    I    have 

found. 
Gave  everything  else  its  agreeable  sound. 

Rose,  what  is  become  of  thy  delicate  hue  ? 

And  where  is  the  violet's  beautiful  blue  ? 

Does  ought  of  its  sweetness  the  blossom  be- 
guile ? 

That  meadow,  those  daisies,  why  do  they  not 
smile  ? 

Ah !  rivals,  I  see  what  it  was  that  you  drest, 

And  made  yourselves  fine  for — a  place  in  her 
breast : 

You  put  on  your  colours  to  pleasure  her  eye, 

To  be  pluck' d  by  her  hand,  on  her  bosom  to 
die. 

How   sloAvly    Time   creeps  till  my  Phoebe 

return ! 
While  amidst  the  soft  zephyr's  cool  breezes  I 

bum  : 
Methinks,  if  I  knew  whereabouts  he  would 

tread, 
I  could    breathe  on  his  wings,   and  'twould 

melt  down  the  lead. 
Fly  swifter,  ye  minutes,  bring  hither  my  dear. 
And  rest  so  much  longer  for  't  when  she  is 

here. 
Ah  Colin  !  old  Time  is  full  of  delay, 
Nor  will  budge  one  foot  taster  for  all  thou 

canst  say,  51  * 


Doddridge.] 


THE  GOSPEL. 


[Sixth  Period. — 


Will  no  pitying  power,  that  hears  me  com- 
plain, 

Or  cure  my  disquiet,  or  soften  my  pain  ? 

To  be  cured,  thou  must,  Colin,  thy  passion 
remove ; 

But  what  swain  is  so  silly  to  live  without 
love  ! 

No,  deity,  bid  the  dear  nymph  to  return, 

For  ne'er  was  poor  shepherd  so  sadly  for- 
lorn. 

Ah  !  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  shall  die  with  de- 
spair ; 

Take  heed,  all  ye  swains,  how  ye  part  with 
your  fair. 

John  Byrom.—Boni  1691,  Died  1763. 


1058.— THE  GOSPEL. 

Mark  the  soft-falling  snow, 
And  the  diffusive  rain  ; 
To  heaven,  from  whence  it  fell, 
It  turns  not  back  again  ; 

But  waters  earth 

Through  every  pore. 

And  calls  forth  all 

Its  secret  store. 

Arrayed  in  beauteous  green, 
The  hills  and  valleys  shine. 
And  man  and  beast  are  fed 
By  providence  divine  ; 

The  harvest  bows 

Its  golden  ears. 

The  copious  seed 

Of  future  years. 

"  So,"  saith  the  God  of  grace, 
"  My  gospel  shall  descend, 
Almighty  to  effect 
The  purpose  I  intend  ; 

Millions  of  souls 

Shall  feel  its  power,  1 

And  bear  it  down 

To  millions  more. 

Joy  shall  begin  your  march, 
And  peace  protect  your  ways, 
While  all  the  mountains  round 
Echo  melodious  praise ; 

The  vocal  groves 

Shall  sing  the  God, 

And  every  tree 

Consenting  nod." 

Doddridge.^Boni  1702,  Died  1751. 


1059.— EVENING  HYMN. 

Interval  of  grateful  shade. 
Welcome  to  my  weary  head  ! 
Welcome  slumber  to  mine  eyes, 
Tired  with  glaring  vanities  I 


My  great  Master  still  allows 
Needful  periods  of  repose  : 
By  my  heavenly  Father  blest. 
Thus  I  give  my  powers  to  rest ; 
Heavenly  Father  !  gracious  name  ! 
Night  and  day  his  love  the  same  ; 
Far  be  each  suspicious  thought, 
Every  anxious  care  forgot : 
Thou,  my  ever  bounteous  God, 
Crown' st  my  days  with  various  good  : 
Thy  kind  eye,  that  cannot  sleep. 
These  defenceless  hours  shall  keep  ; 
Blest  vicissitude  to  me  ! 
Day  and  night  I'm  still  with  thee. 

What  though  downy  slumbers  flee, 
Strangers  to  my  couch  and  me  ? 
Sleepless,  well  I  know  to  rest, 
Lodged  within  my  Father's  breast. 
While  the  empress  of  the  night 
Scatters  mild  her  silver  light ; 
While  the  vivid  plaiiets  stray 
Various  through  their  mystic  way  ; 
While  the  stars  unnumber'd  roll 
Round  the  ever-constant  pole  ; 
Far  above  these  spangled  skies, 
All  my  soul  to  God  shall  rise  ; 
Midst  the  silence  of  the  night, 
Mingling  with  those  angels  bright, 
Whose  harmonious  voices  raise 
Ceaseless  love  and  ceaseless  praise.' 
Through  the  throng  his  gentle  ear 
Shall  my  tuneless  accents  hear ; 
From  on  high  shall  he  impart 
Secret  comfort  to  my  heart. 
He,  in  these  serenest  hours, 
Guides  my  intellectual  powers. 
And  his  Spirit  doth  diffuse, 
Sweeter  far  than  midnight  dews. 
Lifting  all  my  thoughts  above 
On  the  wings  of  faith  and  love. 
Blest  alternative  to  me. 
Thus  to  sleep  or  wake  with  Thee  ! 

What  if  death  my  sleep  invade  ? 
Should  I  be  of  death  afraid  ? 
Whilst  encircled  by  thine  arm, 
Death  may  strike,  but  cannot  harm. 
What  if  beams  of  opening  day 
Shine  around  my  breathless  clay  ? 
Brighter  visions  from  on  high 
Shall  regale  my  mental  eye. 
Tender  friends  awhile  may  mourn 
Me  from  their  embraces  torn ; 
Dearer,  better  friends  I  have 
In  the  realms  beyond  the  grave. 
See  the  guardian  angels  nigh 
Wait  to  waft  my  soul  on  high  ! 
See  the  golden  gates  display'd ! 
See  the  crown  to  grace  my  head  ! 
See  a  flood  of  sacred  light, 
Which  no  more  shall  yield  to  night ! 
Transitory  world,  farewell ! 
Jesus  calls  with  him  to  dwell. 
With  thy  heavenly  presence  blest, 
Death  is  life,  and  labour  rest. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


A  CHEISTMAS  HYMK 


[Doddridge. 


Welcome  sleep  or  death  to  me, 
Still  secure,  for  stiU  with  Thee. 

Doddridge.— Bo^^-n  1702,  Died  1751. 


io6o.— TO-MORROW,  LORD,  IS  THINE. 

To-morrow,  Lord,  is  thine,       * 
Lodged  in  thy  sov'reign  hand ; 
And  if  its  sun  arise  and  shine. 
It  shines  by  thy  command. 

The  present  moment  flies, 
And  bears  our  life  away ; 
Oh,  make  thy  servants  truly  wise, 
That  they  may  live  to-day  ! 

Since  on  this  winged  hour 
Eternity  is  hung, 
Awake,  by  thine  almighty  pow'r. 
The  aged  and  the  young. 

"  One  thing  "  demands  our  care  : 
Oh,  be  it  still  pursued  , 
Lest,  slighted  once,  the  season  fair 
Should  never  be  renew'd  ! 

Doddridge.— Born  1702,  Died  1751. 


Where  thou  determin'st  mine  abode. 

There  would  I  choose  to  be  ; 
Foi-  in  thy  presence  death  is  life. 

And  earth  is  heaven  with  thee. 

Doddndge.—Born  1702,  Died  1751. 


io6i. 


ON    RECOVERY    FROM 
SICKNESS. 


My  God,  thy  service  well  demands 

The  remnant  of  my  days  ; 
AVhy  was  this  fleeting  breath  renew'd, 

But  to  renew  thy  praise  ? 

Thine  arms  of  everlasting  love 
Did  this  weak  frame  sustain, 

"WTien  Hfe  was  hovering  o'er  the  grave, 
And  nature  sunk  with  pain. 

Thou,  when  the  pains  of  death  were  felt. 
Didst  chase  the  fears  of  hell ; 

And  teach  my  pale  and  quivering  lips 
Thy  matchless  grace  to  tell. 

Calml3^  I  bow'd  my  fainting  head 
On  thy  dear  faithful  breast ; 

Pleased  to  obey  my  Father's  call 
To  his  eternal  rest. 

Into  thy  hands,  my  Saviour  God, 

Did  I  my  soul  resign, 
In  firm  dependence  on  that  truth 

Which  made  salvation  mine. 

Back  from  the  borders  of  the  gnwe 

At  thy  command  I  come  ; 
Nor  would  I  urge  a  speedier  flight 

To  my  celestial  home. 


!       1062.— PREPARING   TO    MEET  GOD. 

He  comes ;  thy  God,  0  Israel,  comes ; 

Prepare  thy  God  to  meet : 
Meet  him  in  battle's  force  array 'd. 

Or  humbled  at  his  feet. 

He  form'd  the  mountains  by  his  strength, 
He  makes  the  winds  to  blow  ; 

And  all  the  secret  thoughts  of  man 
Must  his  Creator  know. 

He  shades  the  morning's  op'ning  rays, 

And  shakes  the  solid  world. 
And  stars  and  angels  from  their  seats 

Are  by  his  thunder  hurl'd. 

Eternal  Sovereign  of  the  skies, 

And  shall  thine  Israel  daro 
In  mad  rebellion  to  arise, 

And  tempt  th'  rmequal  war  ? 

Lo,  nations  tremble  at  thy  frown. 

And  faint  beneath  thy  rod  : 
Crush'd  by  its  gentlest  movement  down, 

They  fall,  tremendous  God. 

Avert  the  terrors  of  thy  wrath, 

And  let  thy  mercy  shine  ; 
While  humble  penitence  and  prayer 

Approve  us  truly  thine . 

Doddridge. — Born  1702,  Died  1751. 


Hail,  progeny  divine ! 
Hail,  Virgin's  wondrous  Son, 
Who,  for  that  humble  shrine. 
Didst  quit  the  Almighty's  throne 

The  infant  Lord 

Our  voices  sing, 

And  be  the  King 

Of  grace  adored. 

Ye  princes,  disappear, 
And  boast  your  crowns  no  more, 
Lay  down  your  sceptres  here, 
And  in  the  dust  adore  : 

Where  Jesus  dwells. 

The  manger  bare 

In  lustre  far 

Your  pomp  excels. 


Charles  Wesley.] 


COME.  O  THOU  TEAVELLEE. 


[Sixth  Period. 


With  Bethlehem's  shepherds  mild 
The  angels  bow  their  head, 
And  round  the  sacred  child 
Their  guardian  wings  they  spread  ; 

They  knew  that  where 

Their  Sovereign  lies. 

In  low  disguise, 

Heaven's  court  is  there. 

Thither,  my  soul,  repair, 
And  earthly  homage  pay 
To  thy  Eedeemer  fair, 
As  on  his  natal  day  : 

I  kiss  thy  feet ; 

And,  Lord,  would  be 

A  child  like  thee, 

Whom  thus  I  greet. 
Doddridge.— Born  1702,  Died  1751. 


1064.— COME,  O  THOU  TEAVELLEE. 


Come,  0  thou  Traveller  unknown, 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  se'e ! 

My  company  before  is  gone, 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  thee  : 

With  thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay, 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  who  I  am ; 

My  misery  and  sin  declare ; 
Thyself  hast  call'd  me  by  my  name, 

Look  on  thy  hands,  and  read  it  there : 
But  who,  I  ask  thee,  who  art  Thou .? 
Tell  me  thy  name,  and  tell  me  now. 

Ih  vain  thou  strugglest  to  get  free, 

I  never  will  unloose  my  hold  ! 
Art  thou  the  Man  that  died  for  me  ? 

The  secret  of  thy  love  unfold  : 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go. 
Till  I  thy  Name,  thy  Nature  know 

Wilt  thou  not  yet  to  me  reveal 

Thy  new,  unutterable  Name  ? 
Tell  me,  I  still  beseech  thee,  tell : 

To  know  it  now,  resolved  I  am  : 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go, 
Till  I  thy  Name,  thy  Nature  know. 

What  though  my  shrinking  flesh  complain, 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long  ? 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain  : 

When  I  am  weak,  then  I  am  strong ! 

And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 

I  shall  with  the  God-Man  prevail. 


Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak ; 

But  confident  in  self-despair  : 
Speak  to  my  heart,  in  bles?ings  speak : 

Be  conquer'd  by  my  instant  pray'r : 
Speak,  or  thou  never  hence  shalt  move, 
And  tell  me  if  thy  Name  is  Love. 


'Tis  Love  !  'tis  Love  !  thou  diedst  for  me  : 
I  hear  thy  whisper  in  my  heart ! 

The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  flee,    • 
Pure,  universal  love  thou  art  : 

To  me,  to  all,  thy  bowels  move, 

Thy  Nature  and  thy  Name  is  Love. 

My  pray'r  hath  power  with  God :  the  grace 

Unspeakable  I  now  receive  ; 
Through  faith  I  see  thee  face  to  face  : 

I  see  thee  face  to  face,  and  live  ! 
In  vain  I  have  not  wept  and  strove : 
Thy  Nature  and  thy  Name  is  Love. 

I  know  thee.  Saviour,  who  thou  art, 
Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  friend  : 

Nor  wilt  thou  Avith  the  night  depart. 
But  stay  and  love  me  to  the  end ; 

Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove  ; 

Thy  Nature  and  thy  Name  is  Love. 

The  Sun  of  Eighteousness  on  me 

Hath  rose,  with  healing  in  his  wings  : 

Wither'd  my  nature's  strength,  from  thee 
My  soul  its  life  and  succour  brings  ; 

My  help  is  all  laid  up  above  ; 

Thy  Nature  and  thy  Name  is  Love. 

Contented  now  upon  my  thigh 

I  halt,  till  life's  short  journey  end ; 

All  helplessness,  all  weakness,  I 
On  thee  alone  for  strength  depend ; 

Nor  have  I  power  from  thee  to  move  ; 

Thy  Nature  and  thy  Name  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey  ; 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin,  with  ease  o'ercomc ; 
I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  way. 

And,  as  a  bounding  hart,  fly  home ; 
Through  all  eternity  to  prove 
Thy  Nature  and  thy  Name  is  Love. 

Charles  Wesley.— Born  1708,  Bled  1788. 


1065.— WEAEY  OF  WANDEEING. 

Weary  of  wand' ring  from  my  God, 
And  now  made  willing  to  return, 

I  hear,  and  bow  me  to  the  rod  ; 

For  thee,  not  without  hope,  I  mourn ; 

I  have  an  Advocate  above, 

A  Friend  before  the  throne  of  Love. 

O  Jesus,  full  of  truth  and  grace, 
More  full  of  grace  than  I  of  sin  ; 

Yet  once  again  I  seek  thy  face. 
Open  tliine  arms,  and  take  me  in ; 

And  freely  my  backslidings  heal, 

And  love  the  faithless  sinner  still. 

Thou  know'st  the  way  to  bring  me  back, 

My  fallen  spirit  to  restore  ; 
O  !  for  thy  truth  and  mercy's  sake, 

Forgive,  and  bid  me  sin  no  more ; 
The  ruins  of  my  soul  repair, 
And  make  my  heart  a  house  of  pray'r. 


FVo»)i'1727  to  ITSO.j 


FROM  THE  GEEMAN. 


[John  WESiiET, 


The  stono  to  flesh  again  convert  ; 

The  veil  of  sin  ag-ain  remove : 
Sprinkle  thy  blood  ujion  my  heart, 

And  m(;lt  it  by  thy  dying:  love; 
This  rebel  heart  by  love  subdue, 
And  make  it  soft,  and  make  it  new. 

Give  to  mine  eyes  refreshing  tears, 

And  kindle  my  rclentings  now  ; 
Fill  my  whole  soul  with  filial  fears ; 

To  thy  sweet  yoke  my  spirit  bow  ; 
Bend  by  thy  grace,  O  bend  or  break, 
The  iron  sinew  in  my  neck  ! 

Ah  !  give  me,  Lord,  the  tender  heart,  | 

That  trembles  at  th'  approach  of  sin ;  { 

A  godly  fear  of  sin  impart ;  I 
Implant,  and  root  it  deep  within ; 

That  I  may  di-ead  thy  gracious  power, 

And  never  dare  t'  offend  thee  more.  I 

Charles  Wesley.— Born  1708,  Died  1788.   \ 


1066.— JESU,  LOVER  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Jesu,  Lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  .thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll. 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high  : 
Hide  me,  O  my  Saviour,  hide. 

Till  the  storm  of  life  be  past ; 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide, 

0  receive  my  soul  at  last  1 

Other  refuge  have  I  none. 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee ; 
Leave,  ah  !  leave  me  not  alone. 

Still  support  and  comfort  me  : 
All  my  trust  on  thee  is  stay'd ; 

AH  my  help  from  thee  I  bring ; 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  thy  wing. 

Thou,  0  Christ,  art  all  I  want ; 

More  than  all  in  thee  I  find : 
Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint, 

Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  the  blind  : 
Jirst  and  holy  is  thy  Name ; 

1  am  all  unrighteousness  : 
False  and  full  of  sin  I  am ; 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  mth  thee  is  found, 

Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin  ; 
Let  the  healing  streams  abound, 

Make  and  keep  me  pure  within  : 
Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art ; 

Freely  let  me  take  of  thee  ; 
Spring  thou  up  within  my  heart, 

Rise  to  all  eternity. 

Charles  Wesley.— Born  1708,  Died  1788. 


1067.— FROM  TERSTEEGE. 

Thou  hidden  love  of  God,  whose  height, 
Whose  depth  unfathom'd,  no  man  knows, 

1  see  from  far  thy  beauteous  light, 
Inly  I  sigh  for  thy  repose  : 

My  heart  is  pain'd,  nor  can  it  be 

At  rest,  tni  it  finds  rest  in  thee.  ~     - 

Thy  secret  voice  invites  me  still 

The  sweetness  of  thy  yoke  to  prove  ; 

And  fain  I  would ;  but  though  my  will 
Seems  fix'd,  yet  wide  my  passions  rove ; 

Yet  hindrances  strew  all  the  way ; 

I  aim  at  thee,  yet  from  thee  stray, 

'Tis  mercy  aU,  that  thou  hast  brought 
My  mind  to  seek  her  peace  in  thee , 

Yet  whUe  I  seek,. but  find  thee  not, 
No  peace  my  wand' ring  soul  shall  see ; 

0  when  shall  all  my  wanderings  end. 

And  all  my  steps  to  thee- ward  tend ! 

Is  there  a  thing  beneath  the  sun 

That  strives  with  thee  my  heart  to  share  ? 
Ah,  tear  it  thence,  and  reign  alone. 

The  Lord  of  every  motion  there  ! 
Then  shall  my  heart  from  earth  be  free, 
When  it  hath  found  repose  in  thee. 

O  hide  this  self  from  me,  that  I 

No  more,  but  Christ  in  me,  may  live ; 

My  vile  affections  crucify, 

Nor  let  one  darhng  lust  survive  I 

In  all  things  nothing  may  I  see, 

Nothing  desire  or  seek,  but  thee  ! 

O  Love,  thy  sovereign  aid  impart,     , 
To  save  me  from  low-thoughted  care ; 

Chase  this  self-will  through  all  my  heart, 
Through  all  its  latent  mazes  there  : 

Make  me  thy  duteous  child,  that  I 

Ceaseless  may,  "  Abba,  Father,"  cry  ! 

Ah  no  !  ne'er  will  I  backward  turn  : 
Tliine  wholly,  thine  alone,  I  am  ; 

Thrice  happy  he  who  views  with  scorn 
Earth's  toys,  for  thee  his  constant  flame! 

O  help,  that  I  may  never  move 

From  the  blest  footsteps  of  thy  love. 

Each  moment  draw  from  earth  away 
My  heart,  that  lowly  waits  thy  call ; 

Speak  to  my  inmost  soul,  and  say, 
"  I  am  thy  Love,  thy  God,  thy  All !  " 

To  feel  thy  power,  to  hear  thy  voice, 

To  taste  thy  love,  be  all  my  choice. 

John  Wesley.— Born  1703,  Died  1791. 


1068.— FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

I  thirst,  thou  wounded  Lamb  of  God, 
To  wash  me  in  thy  cleansing  blood  ; 
To  dwell  within  thy  woxmds :  then  pain 
Is  sweet,  and  life  or  death  is  gain. 


John  Wesley.] 


FROM  COUNT  ZINZENDOEF. 


fciiXTH  Period.— 


Take  my  poor  heart,  and  let  it  be 
For  ever  closed  to  all  but  thee  ! 
Seal  thou  my  breast,  and  let  me  wear 
That  pledge  of  leve  for  ever  there  ! 

How  blest  arc  they  who  still  abide 
Close  shelter'd  in  thy  bleeding  side  ! 
Who  Hfe  and  strength  from  thence  derive, 
And  by  thee  move,  and  in  thee  live. 

What  are  our  works  but  sin  and  death, 
Till  thou  thy  quick' ning  spirit  breathe  ? 
Thou  giv'st  the  power  thy  grace  to  move  : 
O  wondrous  grace  !  0  boundless  love  ! 

How  can  it  be,  thou  heavenly  King, 
That  thou  shouldst  us  to  glory  bring  ? 
Make  slaves  the  partners  of  thy  throne, 
Deck'd  with  a  never-fading  crown  ? 

Hence  our  hearts  melt;  our  eyes  o'erflow; 
Our  words  are  lost ;  nor  will  we  know, 
Nor  will  we  think  of  aught  beside, 
"  My  Lord,  my  Love  is  crucified." 

Ah,  Lord  !  enlarge  our  scanty  thought. 
To  know  the  wonders  thou  hast  wrought ; 
Unloose  our  stammering  tongues,  to  tell 
Thy  love  immense,  unsearchable. 

First-born  of  many  brethren  Thou ! 
To  thee,  lo  !  all  our  souls  we  bow ; 
To  thee  our  hearts  and  hands  we  give : 
Thine  may  we  die,  thine  may  we  live  ! 

John  Wesley.— Born  1703,  Died  1791. 


1069.— FROM  COUNT  ZINZENDOEF. 

Jesus,  thy  Blood  and  Eighteousness 
My  beauty  are,  my  glorious  dress: 
'Midst  flaming  worlds,  in  these  array'd. 
With  joy  shall  I  lift  up  my  head. 

Bold  shall  I  stand  in  thy  great  day ; 
For  who  aught  to  my  charge  shall  lay  ? 
Fully  absolved  through  these  I  am. 
From  sin  and  fear,  from  guilt  and  shame. 

The  holy,  meek,  unspotted  Lamb, 
Who  from  the  Father's  bosom  came, 
Who  died  for  me,  even  me  t'  atone. 
Now  for  my  Lord  and  God  I  own. 

Lord,  I  believe  thy  precious  blood, 
Which,  at  the  mercy-seat  of  God, 
For  ever  doth  for  sinners  plead, 
For  me,  even  for  my  soul,  was  shed. 

Lord,  I  believe,  were  sinners  more 
Than  sands  upon  the  ocean  shore. 
Thou  hast  for  all  a  ransom  paid. 
For  all  a  full  atonement  made. 

When  from  the  dust  of  death  I  rise, 
To  claim  my  mansion  in  the  skies, 
Even  then, — this  shall  be  all  my  plea, 
Jesus  hath  lived,  hath  died  for  me. 


Thus  Abraham,  the  Friend  of  God, 
Thus  all  heaven's  armies  bought  with  blood, 
Saviour  of  sinners  Thee  proclaim  ; 
Sinners,  of  whom  the  chief  I  am. 

Jesus,  be  endless  praise  to  thee. 
Whose  boundless  mercy  hath  for  me, 
For  me,  and  all  thy  hands  have  made, 
An  everlasting  ransom  paid. 

Ah  !  give  to  all  thy  servants,  Lord, 
With  power  to  speak  thy  gracious  word ; 
That  all,  who  to  thy  wounds  will  flee. 
May  find  eternal  life  in  thee. 

Thou  God  of  power,  thou  God  of  love, 
Let  the  whole  world  thy  mercy  prove ! 
Now  let  thy  word  o'er  all  prevail ; 
Now  take  the  spoils  of  death  and  hell. 

John  Wesleij.—Born  1703,  Died  1791. 


1070.— FEOM  SCHEFFLEE. 

Thee  will  I  love,  my  strength,  my  tower ; 

Thee  will  I  love,  my  joy,  my  crown ; 
Thee  will  I  love,  with  all  my  power, 

In  all  thy  works,  and  thee  alone : 
Thee  will  I  love,  till  the  pure  fire 
Fills  my  whole  soul  with  chaste  desire. 

Ah,  why  did  I  so  late  thee  know, 
Thee,  lovelier  than  the  sons  of  men ! 

Ah,  why  did  I  no  sooner  go 
To  thee,  the  onlj'  ease  in  pain  ! 

Ashamed  I  sigh,  and  inly  mourn, 

That  I  so  late  to  thee  did  turn. 

In  darkness  willingly  I  stray'd ; 

I  sought  thee,  yet  from  thee  I  roved ; 
Far  wide  my  wand'ring  thoughts  were  spread; 

Thy  creatures  more  than  thee  I  loved : 
And  now  if  more  at  length  I  see, 
'Tis  through  thy  light,  and  comes  from  thee. 

I  thank  thee,  uncreated  Sun, 

That  thy  bright  beams  on  me  have  shined ; 
I  thank  thee,  who  hast  overthrown 

My  foes,  and  heal'd  my  wounded  mind; 
I  thank  thee,  whose  enlivening  voice 
Bids  mj'  freed  heart  in  thee  rejoice. 

Uphold  me  in  the  doubtful  race. 

Nor  suffer  me  again  to  stray ; 
Strengthen  my  feet  with  steady  pace 

Still  to  press  forward  in  thy  way ; 
My  soul  and  flesh,  O  Lord  of  might, 
Fill,  satiate,  with  thy  heavenly  light. 

Give  to  mine  eyes  refreshing  tears ; 

Give  to  my  heart  chaste,  hallow' d  fires ; 
Give  to  my  soul,  with  filial  fears. 

The  love  that  all  heaven's  host  inspires; 
That  all  my  powers,  with  all  their  might, 

In  thy  sole  glory  may  unite. 


From  1727  to  1780.] 


DEATHLESS  PRINCIPLE,  ARISE! 


[A.  TOPLADY. 


Thee  will  I  love,  my  joy,  my  crown. 
Thee  will  I  love,  my  Lord,  my  God ; 

Thee  will  I  love,  beneath  thy  frown, 
Or  smile, — thy  sceptre,  or  thy  rod : 

What  though  my  flesh  and  heart  decay, 

Thee  shall  I  love  in  endless  day ! 

John  Wesley.— Born  1703,  Died  1791. 


107 1. —FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

O  Thou,  to  whose  all-searching  sight 
The  darkness  shineth  as  the  light, 
Search,  prove  my  heart ;  it  pants  for  thee ; 
O  burst  these  bonds,  and  set  it  free ! 

Wash  out  its  stains,  refine  its  dross. 
Nail  my  affections  to  the  cross ; 
Hallow  each  thought ;  let  all  within 
Be  clean,  as  thou,  my  Lord,  art  clean ! 

If  in  this  darksome  wild  I  stray. 

Be  thou  my  Light,  be  thou  my  Way; 

No  foes,  no  violence  I  fear, 

No  fraud,  while  thou,  my  God,  art  near. 

When  rising  floods  my  soul  o'erflo\y. 
When  sinks  my  heart  in  waves  of  woo, 
Jesus,  thy  timely  aid  impart. 
And  raise  my  head,  and  cheer  my  heart. 

Saviour,  where'er  thy  steps  I  see, 
Dauntless,  untired,  I  follow  thee  ! 
O  let  thy  hand  support  me  still, 
And  lead  me  to  thy  holy  hill ! 

If  rough  and  thorny  be  the  way, 
My  strength  proportion  to  my  day ; 
Till  toil,  and  grief,  and  pain  shall  cease, 
Where  all  is  calm,  and  joy^  and  peace. 

John  Wesleij.—Born  1703,  Died  1791. 


1072. 


-LOVE    DIVINE,   ALL  LOVE 
EXCELLING. 


Love  divine,  all  love  excelling, 

Joy  of  heaven  to  earth  come  down ; 
Fix  in  us  thy  humble  dwelling, 

All  thy  faithful  mercies  crown  ; 
Jesus,  Thou  art  all  compassion  ! 

Pure  unbounded  love  Thou  art ; 
Visit  us  with  thy  salvation. 

Enter  every  trembling  heart. 

Breathe,  oh,  breathe  thy  loving  Spirit 

Into  every  troubled  breast ; 
Let  us  all  in  Thee  inherit. 

Let  us  find  the  promised  i*est ; 
Take  away  the  love  of  sinning, 

Alpha  and  Omega  be  ; 
End  of  faith,  as  its  beginning,  • 

Stt  our  hearts  at  liberty. 


Come,  almighty  to  deliver, 

Let  us  all  thy  life  receive  ; 
Suddenly  return,  and  never, 

Never  more  thy  temples  leave : 
Thee  we  would  be  always  blessing. 

Serve  Thee  as  thy  hosts  above  ; 
Pray  and  praise  Thee  without  ceasing, 

Glory  in  thy  precious  love.  ~     —  — 

Finish  tlicn  thy  new  creation, 

Pure,  unspotted  may  we  be ; 
Let  us  see  thy  great  salvation 

Perfectly  restored  by  Thee : 
Changed  from  glory  into  glory. 

Tin  in  heaven  we  take  our  place  ! 
Till  we  cast  our  crowns  before  Thee, 

Lost  in  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 

A.  Tox>lady.—Born  1740,  Died  1778. 


1073.— DEATHLESS  PRINCIPLE,  ARISE  ! 

Deathless  principle,  arise ! 
Soar,  thou  native  of  the  skies  ! 
Pearl  of  price,  by  Jesus  bought, 
To  his  glorious  likeness  wrought. 
Go,  to  shine  before  his  throne — 
Deck  his  mediatorial  crown  ! 
Go,  his  triumphs  to  adorn — 
Made  for  God,  to  God  return  ! 

Lo,  He  beckons  from  on  high  ! 
Fearless  to  his  presence  fly — 
Thine  the  merit  of  his  blood, 
Thine  the  righteousness  of  God  ! 
Angels,  joyful  to  attend. 
Hovering,  round  thy  pillow  bend  ; 
Wait  to  catch  the  signal  given. 
And  escort  thee  quick  to  heaven  ! 

Is  thy  earthly  house  distrest, 
Willing  to  retain  its  guest  ? 
'Tis  not  thou,  but  it,  must  die — 
Fly,  celestial  tenant,  fly. 
Burst  thy  shackles — drop  thy  (Aaj — 
Sweetly  breathe  thyself  away — 
Singing,  to  thy  crown  remove — 
Swift  of  wing,  and  fired  with  love  ! 

Shudder  not  to  pass  the  stream. 
Venture  all  thy  care  on  Him  ; 
Him — whose  dying  love  and  power/ 
Still' d  its  tossing,  hush'd  its  roar : 
Safe  is  the  expanded  wave. 
Gentle  as  a  summer's  eve ; 
Not  one  object  of  his  care 
Ever  sufl'er'd  shipwreck  there  ! 

See  the  haven  full  in  view  ! 

Love  divine  shall  bear  thee  through : 

Trust  to  that  propitious  gale. 

Weigh  thy  anchor,  spread  thy  sail ! 

Saints  in  glory  perfect  made 

Wait  thy  passage  through  the  shade : 

Ardent  for  thy  coming  o'er, 

See,  they  throng  the  blissful  shore  ! 


A.TOPLADY.]                       EOCK  OF  AGES, 

CLEi^'T  FOE  ME.                     [Sixth  Period. 

Mount,  their  transports  to  improve — 
Join  the  longing  choir  above — 
Swiftly  to  their  vpish  be  given — 
Kindle  higher  joy  in  heaven  !— 
Such  the  prospects  that  arise 
To  the  dying  Christian's  eyes  ! 
Such  the  glorious  vista,  Faith 
Opens  through  the  shades  of  death  ! 

A.  Toplady.—Boy-n  1740,  Died  1778. 

Convince  us  of  cur  sin, 
Then  lead  to  Jesus'  blood ; 
And,  to  our  wond'ring  view  reveal 

The  boundless  love  of  God ! 

- 

Eevive  our  drooping  faith. 
Our  unbelief  remove, 
And  kindle  in  our  hearts  the  flame 
Of  never-dying  love. 

'Tis  thine  to  cleanse  the  heart, 
To  sanctify  the  soul. 
To  pour  fresh  life  in  every  part, 
And  new  create  the  whole. 

Dwell,  therefore,  in  our  hearts, 
Our  minds  from  bondage  free. 
Then  shall  we  know,  and  praise,  and  love, 
The  Father,  Son,  and  Thee  ! 

Hart.— Bom ,  Died . 

1074.— EOCK  OF  AGES,  CLEFT  FOE  ME. 

Eock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me. 

Keep  me  ever  near  to  Thee  ! 

Let  the  water  and  the  blood 

From  thy  wounded  side  which  flow'd, 

Be  of  sin  the  double  cure, 

Cleanse  me  from  its  guilt  and  pow'r  I 

Not  the  labour  of  my  hands 
Can  fulfil  thy  law's  demands  ; 
Could  my  zeal  no  respite  know- 
Could  my  tears  for  ever  flow, —  . 
All  for  sin  could  not  atone  ; 
Thou  must  save,  and  Thou  alone  ! 

Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring, 
Simply  to  thy  cross  I  cling ; 
Naked,  come  to  Thee  for  dress  ; 
Helpless,  look  to  Thee  for  grace  ; 
Leprous,  to  the  Fountain  fly  ; 
Wash  me.  Saviour,  or  I  die  ! 

While  I  draw  this  fleeting  breath, — 
When  my  eyes  shall  close  in  death, — 
When  I  soar  to  worlds  ujiknown, — 
See  Thee  on  thy  judgment  throne, — 
Eock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee  ! 

A.  Toplady.—Born  1740,  Died  1778. 

1076.— BE  WISE  TO  EUN  THY  EACE. 

Be  -wise  to  run  thy  race, 
And  cast  off  ev'ry  load ; 
Strive  to  be  rich  in  works'  of  grace, 
Be  rich  towards  thy  God. 

If  profit  bo  thy  scope, 
Diffuse  thine  alms  about ; 
The  worldling  prospers  laying  up, 
The  Christian,  laying  out ! 

Eetums  will  not  be  scant. 
With  honour  in  the  highest ; 
For  who  relieves  his  brother's  want, 
Bestows  his  alms  on  Christ. 

Give  gladly  to  the  poor — 
'Tis  lending  to  the  Lord  ; — 
In  secret  to  increase  thy  store. 
And  hide  in  heav'n  thy  hoard. 

There  thou  mayst  fear  no  thief. 
No  rankling  rust,  nor  moth  ; 
Thy  treasure  and  thy  heart  are  safe,— 
Where  one  is,  will  be  both. 

Hart. — Born ,  Died % 

Ib75.— COME,  HOLY  SPIEIT,  COME. 

Come,  Holy  Spirit,  come. 
Let  thy  bright  beams  arise ; 
Dispel  all  sorrows  from  our  minds, 
All  darkness  from  our  eyes. 

THE    SEYENTH    PERIOD, 

FROM  1780  TILL  THE  PRESENT  TIME. 


THE  great  variety  and  abundance  of  tlie  literature  of  this  period  might,  in  some  measure, 
have  been  predicted  from  the  progress  made  during  the  previous  tliirty  or  forty  years, 
in  -which,  as  Johnson  said,  almost  every  man  had  come  to  write  and  to  express  himself  cor- 
rectly, and  the  number  of  readers  had  been  multiplied  a  thousand-fold.  The  increase  in 
national  wealth  and  population  naturally  led,  in  a  country  like  Great  Britain,  to  the  improve- 
ment of  literature  and  the  arts,  and  accordingly  we  find  that  a  more  popular  and  general  style 
of  composition  began  to  supplant  the  conventional  stiffness  and  classic  restraint  imposed  upon 
former  authors.  The  human  intellect  and  imagination  were  sent  abroad  on  wider  surveys, 
and  with  more  ambitious  views.  To  excite  a  great  mass  of  hearers,  the  pubhc  orator  finds  it 
necessary  to  appeal  to  the  stronger  passions  and  universal  sympathies  of  his  audience  ;  and  in 
writing  for  a  large  number  of  readers,  an  author  must  adopt  similar  means,  or  fail  of  success. 
Hence  it  seems  natural  that  as  society  advanced,  the  character  of  our  literature  should  become 
assimilated  to  it,  and  partake  of  the  onward  movement,  the  popular  feeling,  and  rising  energy 
of  the  nation.  There  were,  however,  some  great  public  events  and  accidental  circumstances 
which  assisted. in  bringing  about  a  change.  The  American  war,  by  exciting  the  eloquence  of 
Chatham  and  Burke,  awakened  the  spirit  of  the  nation.  The  enthusiasm  was  continued  by 
the  poet  Cowper,  who  sympathized  keenly  with  his  fellow-men,  and  had  a  warm  love  of  his 
native  country.  Cowper  wrote  from  no  system ;  he  had  not  read  a  poet  for  seventeen  years ; 
but  he  drew  the  distinguishing  features  of  English  life  and  scenery  with  such  graphic 
power  and  beauty,  that  the  mere  poetry  of  art  and  fashion,  as-d  the  stock  images  of  de- 
scriptive verse,  could  not  but  appear  mean,  affected,  and  common-place.  Warton's  "  History  of 
Poetry,"  and  Percy's  "  Reliques,"  threw  back  the  imagination  to  the  bolder  and  freer  era 
of  our  national  literature,  and  the  German  drama,  with  all  its  horrors  and  extravngance, 
was  something  better  than  mere  delineations  of  manners  or  incidental  satire.  The  French 
Revolution  came  next,  and  seemed  to  break  down  all  artificial  distinctions.  Talent  and 
virtue  only  were  to  be  regarded,  and  the  spirit  of  man  was  to  enter  on  a  new  course  of  free 
and  glorious  action.  This  dream  passed  away  ;  but  it  had  sunk  deep  into  some  ardent  minds, 
and  its  fniits  were  seen  in  bold  speculations  on  the  hopes  and  destiny  of  man,  in  the  strong 
colourings  of  nature  and  passion,  and  in  the  free  and  flexible  movements  of  the  native  genius 
of  our  poetry.  Since  then,  every  department  of  literature  has  been  cultivated  with  success. 
In  fiction,  the  name  of  Scott  is  inferior  only  to  that  of  Shakspeare ;  in  criticism,  a  new  era 
may  be  dated  from  the  establishment  of  the  Edinburgh  Eeview  ;  and  in  historical  composition,  if 
we  have  no  Hume  or  Gibbon,  we  have  the  results  of  far  more  valuable  and  diligent  research. 
Truth  and  nature  have  been  more  truly  and  devoutly  worshipped,  and  real  excellence  more 
highly  prized.  It  has  been  feared  by  some  that  the  principle  of  utility,  which  is  recognised  as 
one  of  the  features  of  the  present  age,  and  the  progress  of  mechanical  knowledge,  would  be 
fatal  to  the  higher  efforts  of  imagination,  and  diminish  the  territories  of  the  poet.  This  seems 
a  groundless  fear.  It  did  not  damp  the  ardour  of  Scott  or  Byron,  and  it  has  not  prevented  the 
poetry  of  Wordsworth  from  gradually  working  its  way  into  pubhc  favour.  If  we  have  not  the 
chivalry  and  romance  of  the  EUzabethan  age,  wo  have  the  ever-living  passions  of  human  nature, 
and  the  wide  theatre  of  the  world,  now  accurately  known  and  discriminated,  as  a  field  for  the 
exercise  of  genius.  We  have  the  benefit  of  all  past  knowledge  and  literature  to  exalt  our  stan- 
dard of  imitation  and  taste,  and  a  more  sure  reward  in  the  encouragement  and  applause  of  a 
populous  and  enlightened  nation.  "  The  literature  of  England,"  says  Shelley,  "has  arisen,  as 
it  were,  from  a  new  birth.  In  spite  of  the  low-thoughted  envy  which  would  undervalue  con- 
temporary merit,  our  own  will  be  a  memorable  age  in  intellectual  achievements,  and  we  live 
among  such  philosophers  and  poets  as  surpass,  beyond  comparison,  any  who  have  appeared 
since  the  last  national  struggle  for  civil  and  religious  liberty.  The  most  unfailing  herald,  com- 
panion, and  follower  of  the  awakening  of  a  great  people  to  work  a  beneficial  change  in  opinion 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES.  [Seventh  Period.— 


or  institution,  is  pootry.  At  such  periods  there  is  an  accumulation  of  the  power  of  com- 
municating and  receiving  intense  and  impassioned  conceptions  respecting  man  and  nature.  The 
persons  in  whom  this  power  resides,  may  often,  as  far  as  regards  many  portions  of  their  nature, 
have  little  apparent  correspondence  with  that  spirit  of  good  of  which  they  are  the  ministers. 
But  even  whilst  they  deny  and  adjure,  they  are  yet  compelled  to  serve  the  power  which  is  seated 
on  the  throne  of  their  own  soul.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  compositions  of  the  most 
celebrated  writers  of  the  present  day  without  being  startled  with  the  electric  life  which  burns 
within  their  words.  They  measure  the  circumference  and  sound  the  depths  of  human  nature 
with  a  comprehensive  and  all-penetrating  spirit,  and  they  are  themselves  perhaps  the  most 
sincerely  astonished  at  its  manifestations,  for  it  is  less  their  spirit  than  the  spirit  of  the  age. 
Poets  are  the  hierophants  of  an  unapprehended  inspiration  ;  the  mirrors  of  the  gigantic 
shadows  which  futurity  casts  upon  the  present ;  the  words  which  express  what  they  understand 
not ;  the  trumpets  which  sing  to  battle,  and  feel  not  what  they  inspire ;  the  influence  which 
is  moved  not,  but  moves.  Poets  are  the  unacknowledged  legislators  of  the  world." — Cham- 
bers' "Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  p.  256.  What  dear  household  names  we  have  is  this  period  ! 
Cowper,  in  all  his  breathings  of  home,  and  happiness,  and  liberty ;  Dibdin,  with  his  famous 
Sea-songs  ;  James  Grahame,  with  his  quiet  and  peaceful  Sabbath  Morn  and  Eve  ;  Edwin  Ather- 
stone,  with  his  gorgeous  Fall  of  Nineveh,  which  will  be  ere  long  acknowledged  one  of  the 
greatest  poems  ever  Avritten.  Then  Sir  Walter  Scott,  with  the  story  of  Abbotsford,  and 
Keats  in  his  exquisite  beauty,  and  Heber  in  his  saintly  Hymns.  We  have  Leigh  Hunt,  in  all 
his  spring-Hke  and  quaint  beauty — God  bless  thee,  Leigh  Hunt,  thou  hast  cast  many  a  bright 
ray  of  sunshine  on  the  gloomy  path  of  this  world.  We  have  Macaulay  and  Lockhart ;  we  have  the 
quiet  Bernard  Barton  and  sweet  William  and  Mary  Howitt,  and  Eliza  Cook  and  T.  K."  Hervey, 
D.  M.  Moir  and  Thomas  Aird,  who  will  stand  as  one  of  Scotland's  greatest  bards  yet.  We 
have  the  exquisite  poems  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,  and  the  poems  of  Keble  and  Wordsworth,. 
— we  mean  the  Archdeacon  of  Westminster,  and  of  Archbishop  Trench,  so  quaint,  so  thought- 
ful, so  precious.  We  have  Dean  Alford,  so  fresh  with  beauty  and  truth,  and  which  perhaps 
may  last,  great,  and  learned,  and  acute,  and  profound  as  his  New  Testament  is,  which  may 
last  longer  than  even  it.  Monsell  and  Mrs.  Alexander,  Lyte,  Horatius  Bonar,  Alexander  Smith, 
Dr.  Neale,  Arnold,  William  Kennedy,  Charles  Swain,  Owen  Meredith,  and,  domestic,  j'et  great 
and  grand,  W.  C.  Bennett.  We  hare  all  these  in  their  beauty  and  their  truth.  Southey,  Cole- 
ridge, Wordsworth,  belong  to  this  period ;  Shelley,  Byron,  all  are  ours.  And  were  we  to  take 
the  names  in  history,  and  metaphysics,  and  divinity,  and  political  economy,  and  the  drama,  we 
should  find  the  age  great  and  glorious,  notwithstanding  its  many  faults  and  shortcomings. 
Dobell,  P.  J.  Bailey,  Catherine  Winkworth,  all  add  to  the  list  in  whom  the  people  of  our  isle 
may  well  glory,  and  thank  God. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICES. 


WILLIAM    COWPER.  1  names  of  Mary  IJnwin  and  William  Cowpe^ 

I  are  indissolubly  joined  in  the  story  of  Cowper' s 
"  WiUiam  Cowper,  the  most  popular  poet  j  life  as  well  as  in  his  writings.  On  the  advice 
of  his  generation,  and  the  best  of  the  English  of  John  Newton,  a  man  remarkable  in  many 
letter-writers,  was  born  at  Berkhamstead,  '  ways,  and  then  curate  at  Olney,  the  Unwins 
where  his  father  was  rector.  Of  noble  family  j  and  Cowper  removed  to  that  town.  Here  he 
on  both  sides,  he  was  appointed,  after  a  few  j  engaged,  at  Ne^vton's  suggestion,  in  writin,':^'' 
years  spent  at  the  law,  with  Thurlow  for  his  !  hymns  ;  but  his  melancholy  gaining  ground, 
fellow-student,  to  a  clerkship  in  the  House  of  !  he  was  for  two  years  laid  aside.  On  his  re- 
Lords  ;  but  having  to  appear  before  that  '  covery  in  1775,  ho  took  to  gardening,  to  hare- 
august  body,  he  was  overcome  by  nervous  :  keeping,  and  to  poetry.  This  last  became  his 
terror  and  attempted  suicide.  The  appoint-  |  favourite  employment.  In  1782,  when  he 
ment  was  of  course  given  up,  and  after  he  had 
been  some  time  at  St.  Albans  under  medical 
treatment,  he  retired  to  that  seclusion  which 
he  never  afterwards  left.     He  went  first  to 


was  past  fifty,  he  published  his  first  volume, 
containing  '  Table  Talk,'  '  The  Progress  of 
Error,'  '  Conversation,'  '  Expostulation,' 
'  Hope,'  '  Charity,'  etc.,  all  of  them  marked 
Huntingdon,  where  his  brother  resided.  There  ;  by  an  earnest  tone,  and  containing  several 
he  formed  an  acquaintance  with  a  clergyman  j  protests  against  the  infidelity  which  the 
of  the  name  of  Unwin,  and  became  a  member  i  school  of  Voltaire  was  then  seeking  to  make 
of  his  family.  On  Mr.  Unwin' s  death,  he  con-  I  popular.  The  sale  was  slow,  both  from  tho 
tinned  to  reside  with  his  widow,  and  now  the   i   themes  of  which  it  treats  and  from  a  certain 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


want  of  melody  that  impaired  the  versifica- 
tion ;  but  the  book  was  warmly  praised  by 
Johnson,  then  near  his  end,  and  by  Franklin. 
Lady  Austen,  a  widow  who  had  come  to  reside 
in  that  neighbourhood,  now  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Cowper,  told  him  the  story  of 
John  Gilpin,  whose  feats  of  horsemanship  he 
was  to  immortalize,  and  advised  him  to  try 
his  hand  at  blank  verse.  This  advice 
produced  the  '  Task '  and  in  the  same 
volume  appeared  'Tirocinium,'  'John  Gilpin,' 
published  two  years  before,  and  the  '  Sofa.' 
'  The  Task,'  says  Southey,  '  is  one  of  the  best 
didactic  poems  in  our  languag'e  ;  '  'a  glorious 
poem,'  as  Bums  calls  it ;  'at  once  descriptive, 
moral,  and  satirical ; '  and  its  success  was 
instant  and  decided.  After  the  publication  of 
this  volume  Cowper  entered  upon  the  more 
arduous  work  of  the  translation  of  Homer, 
setting  himself  forty  lines  a  day.  At  length 
the  forty  thousand  verses  were  completed, 
and  in  1791  ho  published  the  whole  by  sub- 
scription in  two  volumes  quarto  ;  '  the  best 
version  of  the  great  poet,'  as  both  Southoy 
and  Wilson  think.  Meanwhile  the  friendship 
with  Lady  Austen  had  been  dissolved,  and 
Cowper  had  removed  to  Weston,  about  a 
mile  from  Olney.  Here  he  had  for  a  time  the 
society  of  his  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh,  and  of 
the  Throckmortons,  the  owners  of  Weston. 
But  his  malady  returned,  and  was  aggravated 
by  the  illness  of  Mrs.  Unwin.  Hoping  that 
both  might  be  relieved  by  a  change  of  scene, 
he  removed  again  into  Norfolk,  where  his 
friend  Hayley  was  settled.  There,  in  1796, 
Mrs.  Unwin  died ;  and  after  her  death  the 
poet  lingered  on  for  three  years  under  the 
same  dark  shadow  of  despondency,  occasionally 
writing,  and  listening  with  interest  to  all  that 
was  read  to  him,  but  without  permanent  relief. 
His  last  piece,  '  The  Castaway,'  which  shows 
no  decay  of  mental  power,  though  he  was  then 
in  his  seventieth  year,  is  amongst  the  most 
touching  poems  in  any  language. 

"Cowper's  personal  history  isone  of  the  most 
affecting  in  literature.  He  had  the  richest 
wit  and  humour,  yet  a  large  part  of  his  life 
was  spent  in  sadness.  Of  an  eminently  hum- 
ble and  confiding  spirit,  he  lived  in  dread  of 
eternal  condemnation.  He  wrote  pieces  which 
have  given  consolation  to  all  classes  of  Chris- 
tians, yet  he  himself  took  no  comfort  from 
them  ;  he  even  regarded  them  as  aggrava- 
tions of  his  guilt.  Happily  all  this  has  now 
passed  away.  He  bequeathed  an  inexhausti- 
ble treasure  to  mankind,  and  he  now  knows 
the  blessedness  he  has  so  touchingly  described. 

"  The  qualities  which  give  Cowper  a  high 
place  in  our  poesy  it  is  not  difficult  to  define. 
For  humour  and  quiet  satire  ;  for  appreciation 
of  natural  beauty  and  domestic  life  ;  for 
strong  good  sense  and  devout  piety  ;  for  public 
spirit  and  occasional  sublimity ;  for  gentle 
and  noble  sentiment ;  for  fine  descriptive 
powers  employed  with  skill  on  outward  scenes 
and  on  character ;  for  ease  and  colloquial  free- 


dom of  style  ;  and  for  the  strength  and  har- 
mony of  his  later  versification  especially,  ho 
has  rarely  been  equalled :  and  for  these 
qualities  combined  he  has  never  been  sur- 
passed. 

"And  it  is  this  combination  that  most  excites 
admiration.  His  satire  is  often  keen  but  never 
personal.  He  is  earnestly  religious,  but  his 
religion  never  blunts  his  sensibilities  to  the 
glories  of  nature  ;  nor  does  it  ever,  though 
eminently  spiritual,  unfit  him  to  appreciate 
the  sacredness  of  human  rights  or  the  fault  of 
wrong-doing.  He  has  evidently  been  polished 
by  intercourse  with  the  world,  but  he  has  pre- 
served a  very  unworldly  degree  of  purity  and 
simplicity.  Never  was  poet  more  lonely  or 
sad,  and  yet  by  none  has  domestic  hap- 
piness been  more  impressively  described. 
With  the  ripeness  and  decision  of  age,  he  has 
the  sportiveness  and  susceptibility  of  youth. 
Nor  is  it  easy  to  decide  whether  we  are  at- 
tracted most  by  the  excellence  of  each  quality 
or  by  the  softness  and  harmony  of  the  whole. 

"  No  one  of  these  qualities,  however,  nor  the 
combination  of  them  all,  is  sufficient  to  explain 
the  healthy  influence  he  exerted  on  English 
poetry  or  the  love  with  which  he  is  now  re- 
garded. He  is  practically  the  founder  of  the 
modern  school  of  poets — an  honour  he  owes 
chiefly  to  his  reality  and  naturalness.  It  is 
this  excellence  which  gives  attractiveness  to 
all  he  has  written.  Pope's  poems  are,  at 
least,  as  finished  as  the  best  of  Cowper's,  and 
more  finished  than  most  of  his  earlier  pieces. 
Young  is  often  apparently  as  religious,  some- 
times as  merry  and  certainly  as  witty.  Thom- 
son's pictures  of  nature  have  greater  variety 
and  more  ideal  beauty  than  Cowper's.  But 
Pope's  poetry  is  art,  Cowper's  nature.  Young's 
religion  and  mirth  seem  to  belong  to  two 
different  men.  From  every  line  Cowper  has 
written,  the  very  man  beams  forth,  always 
natural,  consistent,  and  unaffected ;  while  his 
descriptions  of  natui-e  excite  sensations  rather 
than  ideas,  and  the  poet  lives  and  moves  in 
every  scene.  In  short,  his  poetry  has  the 
polish  and  vigour  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
the  warmth  and  feeling  of  the  seventeenth, 
with  a  naturalness  and  a  reality  all  his  own. 
And  this  last,  the  naturalness  and  a  reality  of 
a  loving,  gentle,  devout  heart,  is  the  secret  of 
his  strength." — Dr.  Angus's  "Handbook  of 
Eng.  Lit."  pp.  234-237.  See  Allibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit.";  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit."  ; 
Gilfillan's  ed.  of  Cowper's  Poems ;  Grim- 
shawe's  "Life  of  Cowper  "  ;  Southey's  "  Life 
and  Works  of  Cowper." 


WILLIAM  HAYLEY. 

William  Hayley,  born  1745,  died  1820,  at 
one  time  a  popular  poet,  the  friend  and 
biographer  of  Cowper,  was  educated  at  Trinity 
Hall,   Cambridge.     Ho  wrote    '-Triumphs  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Temper,"  "  Triumphs  of  Music,"  poetical 
epistles,  odes,  essays,  &c.  His  Avorks  in  1785 
occupied  six  volumes. — See  Shaw's  "  Hist. 
Eng.  Lit."  ;  Beeton's  '•  Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  ; 
AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Southey's 
"  Life  and  Correspondence"  ;  "  Lond.  Month. 
Eev.,"  ciii.  267;  cv.  1;  "Blackwood's  Mag." 
xiv.  184,  303;  "Memoris  of  the  Life  and 
Writings  of  Hayley,"  written  by  hircself, 
and  edited  by  John  Johnson,  LL.D.,  1823, 
2  vols.  4to. 


DE.  EEASUMS  DAEWIN. 

Dr.  Erasmus  Darwin,  "  an  ingenious,  philo- 
sophical, though  fanciful  poet,"  says  Chambers 
in   one   of   his    best  articles,  "  was   born  at 
Elston,     near    Newark,     in    1731.      Having 
passed  with  credit  through  a  course  of  educa- 
tion at  St.  John's  college,  Cambridge,  he  ap- 
plied himself  to  the  study  of  physic,  and  took 
his  degree  of  bachelor  in  medicine  at  Edin- 
burgh in  1755.     He  then  commenced  practice 
in  Nottingham,  but  meeting  with  little  encour- 
agement, he  removed  to  Lichfield,  where  he 
long  continued  a  successful  and  distinguished 
physician.     In  1757  Dr.  Darwin  married  an 
accomphshed    lady  of  Lichfield,  Miss    Marj^ 
Howard,  by  whom  he  had  five  children,  two 
of  whom  died  in  infancy.     The  lady  herself 
died  in  1770  ;  and  after  her  decease  Darwin 
seems  to  have  commenced  his  botanical  and 
literary  pursuits.     He  was  at  first  afraid  that 
the  reputation  of  a  poet  would  injure  him  in 
his  profession  ;  but  being  firmly  estabhshed  in 
the  latter  capacity,  he  at  length  ventured  on 
publication.      At    this    time   he   lived    in    a 
picturesque    villa   in   the   neighboui-hood    of 
Lichfield,  furnished  with  a  grotto  and  fountain, 
and  here  he  began  the  formation  of  a  botanic 
garden.  The  spot  he  has  described  as  '  adapted 
to  love-scenes,  and  as  being  thence  a  proper 
residence  for  the  modem  goddess  of  botany.' 
In    1781  appeared   the  first  part  of  Darwin's 
'Botanic  Garden,'  a  poem  in   glittering  and 
polished  heroic  verse,    designed   to  describe, 
adorn,  and  allegorize  the  Linnsean  system  of 
botany.     The  Eosicrucian  doctrine  of  gnomes, 
sylphs,  nymphs,  and  salamanders,  was  adopted 
by  the  poet,  as   '  affording  a  proper  machinery 
for  a  botanic  poem,   as  it   is  probable  they 
were   originally    the  names    of    hieroglyphic 
figures  representing  the  elements.'  The  novelty 
and  ingenuity  of  Darwin's  attempt  attracted 
much   attention    and    rendered    him    highly 
popular.     In   the    same    year   the  poet   was 
called  to  attend  an  aged  gentleman,  Colonel 
Sachevoll  Pole,  of  Radbourne  Hall,  near  Derby. 
An  intimacy  was  thus  formed  with  Mrs.  Pole, 
and  the  colonel  dying,  the  poetical  physician 
in  a  few  months  afterw«,rds,  in  1781,  married 
the  fair  widow,  who  possessed  a  jointure  of 
.£600  per  annum.     Darwin  was  now  released 
from  all  prudential  fears  and  restraints  as  to 


the  cultivation  of  his  poetical  talents,  and  he 
went  on  adding  to  his  floral  gallery.  In  1789 
appeared  the  second  part  of  his  poem,  con- 
taining the  '  Loves  of  the  Plants.'  Ovid 
having,  he  said,  transmuted  men,  women,  and 
even  gods  and  goddesses  into  trees  and  flowers, 
he  had  undertaken,  by  similar  art,  to  restore 
some  of  them  to  their  original  animality,  after 
having  remained  prisoners  so  long  in  their 
respective  vegetable  mansions  : — 

'From  giant  oaks,  that  wave  their  branches 

dark. 
To  the  dwarf  moss  that  clings  upon  their  bark. 
What  beaux  and  beauties   crowd  the  gaudy 

groves. 
And  woo  and  win  their  vegetable  loves. 
How  snowdrops  cold,  and  blue-eyed  harebells 

blend 
Their  tender  tears,  as  o'er  the  streams  they 

bend  ; 
The  love-sick  violet,  and  the  primrose  pale, 
Bow  their  sweet  heads,  and  whisper  to  the 

gale  ; 
With  secret  sighs  the  virgin  lily  droops, 
And  jealous  cowsKps  hang  their  tawny  cups. 
How  the  young  rose,  in  beauty's  damask  pride, 
Drinks  the  warm  blushes  of  his  bashful  bride ; 
With  honied  lips  enamour'd  woodbines  meet, 
Clasp  with  fond  arms,  and  mix  their  kisses 

sweet ! 
Stay  thy  soft  murmuring  waters,  gentle  rill ; 
Hush,    whispering  winds  ;  ye  rustling  leaves 

bestiU; 
Eest,  silver  butterflies,  your  quivering  wings  ; 
Alight,  ye  beetles,  from  your  airy  rings  ; 
Ye  painted  moths,  your  gold-eyed  plumage  furl. 
Bow   your   wide   horns,    your    spiral    trunks 

uncurl ; 
Glitter,  ye  glow-worms,  on  your  mossy  beds  ; 
Descend,    ye    spiders,     on    your    lengthen' d 

threads ; 
Slide  here,    ye  homed  snails,  with  varnish' d 

shells ; 
Ye  bee-nymphs,  listen  in  you:;  waxen  cells  ! ' 

This  is  exquisitely  melodious  verse,  and  in- 
genious  subtle  fancy.     A  'few  passages  have 

{  moral  sentiment  and  human  interest  united  to 
the  same   powers  of    vivid  painting  and  ex- 

!    pression : — 

'  Eoll  on,  ye  stars  !  exult  in  youthful  prime, 
Mark  with  bright  curves  the  printless  steps 

of  Time  ; 
Near  and  more  near  your  beamy  cars  approach, 
And  lessening  orbs  on  lessening  orbs  encroach  ; 

I   Flowers  of  the  sky !    ye,   too,   to    age  must 
yield, 

I    Frail  as  your  silken  sisters  of  the  field  ! 
Star  after  star  from  heaven's  high  arch  shall 

j  rush, 

!    Suns  sink  on  suns,  and  systems  systems  crush, 

i    Headlong,  extinct,  to  one  dark  centre  fall, 
And  death,  and  night,  and  chaos  mingle  all ! 

■    Till  o'er  the  wreck,  emerging  from  the  storm, 

'   Immortnl  nature  lifts  her  changeful  form, 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Mounts  from  her  funeral  pyre  on  wings   of 
flame, 

And  soars  and  shines,  another  and  the  same  !  ' 

In  another  part  of  the  poem,  after  describing 
the  cassia  plant,  *  cinctured  with  gold,'  and 
borne  on  by  the  current  to  the  coasts  of  Nor- 
way with  all  its  '  infant  loves,'  or  seeds,  the 
poet,  in  his  usual  strain  of  forced  similitude, 
digresses,  in  the  following  happy  and  vigorous 
lines,  to  '  Moses  concealed  on  the  Nile,'  and 
the  slavery  of  the  Africans  : — 

•  So  the  sad  mother  at  the  noon  of  night. 
From  bloody  Memphis  stole  her  silent  flight ; 
Wrapp'd  her  dear  babe  beneath  her  folded  vest, 
And  clasp' d   the   treasure  to   her  throbbing 

breast ; 
With  soothing  whispers  hush'd  its  feeble  cry, 
Press'd  the  soft  kiss,  and  breathed  the  secret 

sigh. 
With  dauntless  steps  she  seeks   the  winding 

shore. 
Hears    unappall'd    the    glimmering    torrents 

roar  ; 
With  paper  flags  a  floating  cradle  weaves. 
And  hides  the  smiHng  boy  in  lotus  leaves  ; 
Gives  her  white  bosom  to  his  eager  lips. 
The  saJt  tears  mingling  with  the  milk  he  sips, 
Waits  on  the  reed-crown' d  brink  with  pious 

guile. 
And  trusts  the  scaly  monsters  of  the  Nile. 
Erewhile  majestic  from  his  lone  abode. 
Ambassador  of  heaven,  the  prophet  trod  ; 
Wrench'd   the   red   scourge  from  proud    op- 
pression's hands. 
And  broke,  cursed  slavery  !  thy  iron  bands. 
Hark !  heard  ye  not  that  piercing  cry. 
Which  shook  the  waves  and  rent  the  sky  ? 
E'en  now,  e'en  now,  on  yonder  western  shores 
Weeps    pale   despair,  and   writhing   anguish 

roars ; 
E'en  now  in  Afric's  groves  with  hideous  yeU, 
Fierce  slavery  stalks,  and  slips  the  dogs  of 

heU; 
From  vale  to  vale  the  gathering  cries  rebound, 
And  sable  nations  tremble  at  the  sound ! 
Ye  bands  of  senators  !  whose  suffrage  sways 
Britannia's  realms,  whom  either  Ind  obeys  ; 
Who  right  the  injured  and  reward  the  brave. 
Stretch  your  strong  arm,  for  ye  have  power 

to  save  ! 
Throned  in  the  vaulted  heart,  his  dread  resort, 
Inexorable  conscience  holds  his  court ; 
With  stiU  small  voice  the  plots  of  guilt  alarms. 
Bares    his    mask'd    brow,    his     lifted    hand 

disarms ; 
But  wrapp'd  in  night  with  terrors  all  his  own. 
He  speaks  in  thunder  when  the  deed  is  done. 
Hear  him,  ye  senates  !  hear  this  truth  sublime, 
'  He  who  allows  oppression  shares  the  crime ! ' ' 

"  The  material  images  of  Darwin  are  often 
less  happy  than  the  above,  being  both  ex- 
travagant and  gross,  and  grouped  together 
without  any  visible  connexion  or  dependence 
one  on  the  other.     He  has  such  a  throng  of 


startling    metaphors    and    descriptions,     the 
latter  drawn  out  to  an  excessive  length  and 
tiresome  minuteness,  that  nothing  is  left  to 
the  reader's  imagination,  and  the  whole  passes 
like  a  glittering  i^ageant  before  the  eye,  ex- 
citing wonder,  but  without  touching  the  heart 
or  feehngs.     As  the  poet  was  then  past  fifty, 
the  exuberance  of  his  fancy,  and  his  peculiar 
choice  of  subjects,  are  the  more  remarkable. 
A  third  part  of  the  '  Botanic  Garden '    was 
added  in   1792.     Darwin  next  published    his 
'  Zoonomia,  or   the    Laws    of    Organic    Life,' 
part    of   which  he  had    written  many  years 
previously.     This   is   a   curious  and  original 
physiological  treatise,   evincing   an  inquiring 
and  attentive  study   of  natural   phenomena. 
Dr.  Thomas  Brown,  Professor  Dugald  Stewart, 
I    Paley,  and  others,  have,  however,  successfully 
i    combated  the  positions  of  Darwin,  particvdarly 
!    his  theory  which  refers  instinct  to  sensation. 
;    In    1801  our  author  came  forward  with  an- 
\    other      philosophical     disquisition,     entitled 
I    '  Phytologia,  or  the  Philosophy  of  Agriculture 
I    and    Gardening.'      He    also    wrote   a    short 
;   treatise  on   '  Female  Education,'  intended  for 
j   the  instruction  and  assistance  of  part  of  his 
own  family.     This  was  Darwin's  last  publica- 
I   tion.     He    had    always    been    a   remarkably 
j   temperate  man.     Indeed,  he  totally  abstained 
I    from  all  fermented  and  spirituous  liquors,  and 
in  his  Botanic  Garden  he  compares  their  effects 
I   to  that  of  the  Promethean  fire.     He  was,  how- 
ever, subject  to  inflammation  as  well  as  gout, 
and   a  sudden  attack  carried  him  off  in  his 
seventy-first  year,  on  the  18th  of  April,  1802. 
Shortly  after  his  death  was  published  a  poem, 
'The     Temple    of    Nature,'    which    he   had 
ready  for  the  press,  the  preface  to  the  work 
being    dated  only    three   months  befox-e    his 
death.       The    '  Temple    of    Nature '    aimed, 
like  the  Botanic  Garden,  to  amuse  by  bringing 
distinctly  to  the  imagination  the  beautiful  and 
sublime  images  of  the  operations  of  nature. 
It  is  more  metaphysical  than  its  predecessor, 
and  more  inverted  in  style  and  diction. 

"  The  poetical  reputation  of  Darwin  was  as 
bright  and  transient  as  the  plants  and  flowers 
which  formed  the  subject  of  his  verse.  Cow- 
per  praised  his  '  song  '  for  its  rich  embellish- 
ments, and  said  it  was  as  '  strong '  as  it  was 
'  learned  and  sweet.'  '  There  is  a  fashion  in 
poetry,'  observes  Sir  Walter  Scott,  'which, 
without  increasing  or  diminishing  the  real 
value  of  the  materials  moulded  upon  it,  does 
wonders  in  facilitating  its  currency  while  it 
has  novelty,  and  is  often  found  to  impede  its 
reception  when  the  mode  has  passed  away.' 
This  has  been  the  fate  of  Darwin.  Besides 
his  coterie  at  Lichfield,  the  poet  of  '  Flora'  had 
considerable  influence  on  the  poetical  taste 
of  his  own  dsiy.  He  may  be  traced  in  the 
'Pleasures  of  Hope '  of  Campbell,  and  in  other 
young  poets  of  that  time.  The  attempt  to 
unite  science  with  the  inspirations  of  the 
Muse  was  in  itself  an  attractive  novelty,  and 
he  supported  it  with  various  and  high  powers. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. — 


His  command  of  fancy,  of  poetical  langnage, 
dazzling  metaphors,  and  sonorous  versifica- 
tion, was  well  seconded  by  his  curious  and 
multifarious  knowledge.  The  effect  of  the 
whole,  however,  was  artificial,  and  destitute 
of  any  strong  or  continuous  interest.  The 
Rosicrucian  machinery  of  Pope  was  united  to 
the  delineation  of  human  passions  and  pur- 
suits, and  became  the  auxiliary  of  Avit  and 
satire;  but  who  can  sympathize  with  the 
loves  and  metamorphoses  of  the  plants  ?  Dar- 
win had  no  sentiment  or  pathos,  except  in 
very  brief  episodical  passages,  and  even  his 
eloquent  and  splendid  versification,  for  want 
of  variety  of  cadence,  becomes  monotonous 
and  fatiguing.  There  is  no  repose,  no  cessa- 
tion from  the  glare  of  his  bold  images,  his 
compound  epithets,  and  high-toned  melody. 
Ho  had  attained  to  rare  perfection  in  the 
mechanism  of  poetry,  but  Avanted  those  im- 
pulses of  soul  and  sense,  and  that  guiding 
taste,  which  were  required  to  give  it  vitality, 
and  direct  it  to  its  true  objects." — Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  vol.  ii.  pp.  270,  271.  See 
AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Donald- 
son's "Agricult.  Biog."  ;  "Memoirs  of  Dar- 
win's Life,"  by  Anna  Seward,  Lond.  1804, 
8vo. ;  "Edin.  Eev."  iv.  230. 


MRS.  CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

"Mrs.  Charlotte  Smith  was  the  daughter 
of  Mr.  Turner,  of  Stoke  House,  in  Surrey, 
and  was  born  on  the  4th  of  May,  1749. 
She  was  remarkable  for  precocity  of 
talents,  and  for  a  lively,  playful  humour, 
that  showed  itself  in  conversation  and 
in  compositions  both  in  prose  and  verse. 
Being  early  deprived  of  her  mother,  she  was 
carelessly  though  expensively  educated,  and 
introduced  ,  into  society  at  a  very  early  age. 
Her  father  having  decided  on  a  second  mar- 
riage, the  friends  of  the  young  and  admired 
poetess  endeavoured  to  establish  her  in  life, 
and  she  was  induced  to  accept  the  hand  of 
Mr.  Smith,  the  son  and  partner  of  a  rich  West- 
India  merchant.  The  husband  was  twenty- 
one  years  of  age,  and  his  wife  fifteen  !  This 
rash  union  was  productive  of  mutual  discon- 
tent and  misery.  Mr.  Smith  was  careless 
and  extravagant,  business  Avas  neglected,  and 
his  father  dying,  left  a  Avill  so  complicated 
and  voluminous  that  no  two  lawyers  under- 
stood it  in  the  same  sense.  LaAvsuits  and 
embarrassments  were  therefore  the  p-^i-tion  of 
this  ill-starred  pair  for  all  their  after-lives. 
Mr.  Smith  was  ultimately  forced  to  sell  the 
greater  part  of  his  property,  after  he  had  been 
thrown  into  prison,  and  his  faithful  Avife  had 
shared  Avith  him  the  misery  and  discomfort 
of  his  confinement.  A  numerous  family  also 
gathered  around  them,  to  add  to  their  so- 
licitude and  difficulties.      In  1782  Mrs.  Smith 


published  a  volume  of  sonnetf?,  irregular  in 
structure,  but  marked  by  poetical  feeling  and 
expression.  They  AA-ere  favourably  received 
by  the  public,  and  at  length  passed  through 
no  less  than  eleven  editions,  besides  being 
translated  into  Erencli  and  Italian.  After 
an  unhappy  union  of  tAventy-three  years,  Mrs. 
Smith  separated  from  her  husband,  and, 
taking  a  cottage  near  Chichester,  applied  her- 
self to  her  literary  occupations  Avith  cheerful 
assiduity,  supplying  to  her  children  the  duties 
of  both  parents.  In  eight  months  she  com- 
pleted her  novel  of  '  Emmeline,'  published  in 
1788.  In  the  folloAving  year  appeared  another 
novel  from  her  pen,  entitled  '  Ethelindo ' ;  and 
in  1791  a  third,  under  the  name  of  '  Celestina.' 
She  imbibed  the  opinions  of  the  French  Ee- 
1  volution,  and  embodied  them  in  a  romance 
j  entitled  '  Desmond.'  This  Avork  arrayed 
j  against  her  many  of  her  friends  and  readers, 
{  but  she  regained  the  public  favour  by  her  tale, 
I  the  '  Old  Manor  House,'  which  is  the  best 
I  of  her  novels.  Part  of  this  work  Avas  Avritten 
j  at  Eartham,  the  residence  of  Hayley,  during 
j  the  period  of  Cowper's  visit  to  that  poetical 
retreat.  '  It  was  delightful,'  says  Hayley, 
'  to  hear  her  read  what  she  had  just  Avritten, 
for  she  read,  as  she  wrote,  with  simplicity 
and  grace.'  CoAvper  was  also  astonished  at 
the  rapidity  and  excellence  of  her  composition. 
Mrs.  Smith  continued  her  literary  labours 
amidst  private  and  family  distress.  She 
wrote  a  valuable  little  compendium  for 
children,  under  the  title  of  '  Conversations  ' ; 
'  A  History  of  British  Birds  '  ;  a  descriptive 
poem  on  '  Beachy  Head,'  &c.  The  delays  in 
the  settlement  of  her  property,  Avhich  had  been 
an  endless  source  of  vexation  and  anxiety  to 
one  possessing  all  the  susceptibility  and  ardour 
of  the  poetical  temperament,  were  adjusted 
by  a  compromise ;  but  Mrs.  Smith  had  sunk 
into  ill-health.  She  died  at  Tilford,  near 
Farnham,  on  the  28th  of  October,  1806.  The 
poetry  of  Mrs.  Smith  is  elegant  and  senti- 
mental, and  generally  of  a  pathetic  cast.  She 
Avrote  as  if  '  melancholy  had  marked  her  for 
her  oAvn.'  The  keen  satire  and  observation 
evinced  in  her  novels  do  not  appear  in  her 
verse,  but  the  same  poAvers  of  description  are 
displayed.  Her  sketches  of  English  scenery 
are  true  and  pleasing.  '  But  while  we  allow,' 
says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  'high  praise  to  the 
SAveet  and  sad  effusions  of  Mrs.  Smith's  muse, 
we  cannot  admit  that  by  these  alone  she  could 
ever  have  risen  to  the  height  of  eminence 
Avhich  we  are  disposed  to  claim  for  her  as 
authoress  of  her  prose  narratives." — Cham- 
bers' "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  pp.  273,  274. 


MISS  SUSANNA  BLAMIRE. 

"  Miss  Susanna  Blamire  was  born  at 
Cardew  Hall,  near  Carlisle,  and  remained  there 
from  the  date  of  her  birth  (1747)  till  she  was 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


twenty  years  of  age,  when  she  accompanied 
her  sister — who  had  married  Colonel  Graham, 
of  Duchray,  Perthshire — to  Scotland,  and  con- 
tinued there  some  years.  She  became  en- 
amoured of  Scottish  music  and  poetry,  and 
thus  qualified  herself  for  writing  such  sweet 
lyrics  as  '  The  Nabob '  and  '  What  ails  this 
heart  o'  mine  ?'  On  her  return  to  Cumber- 
land, she  wrote  several  pieees  illustrative  of 
Cumbrian  manners.  She  died  unmarried  in 
1794.  Her  poetical  pieces,  some  of  which  had 
been  floating  through  the  country  in  the  form 
of  popular  songs,  were  collected  by  Mr.  Pa- 
trick Maxwell,  and  published  in  1842." — 
Gilfillan's  "  Less-Kno^vn  Brit.  Poets,"  vol.  iii. 
pp.  290,  291.  See  AlHbone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit."  ;  Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


ANNA  LETITIA  BAEBAULD. 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauld,  born  1743,  died 
1825,  daughter  of  a  schoolmaster  in  Leicester- 
shire, named  Aikin,  and  wife  of  Eochemont 
Barbauld,  a  Frenchman  by  extraction,  and 
minister  of  a  dissenting  congregation  at  Pal- 
grave,  in  Suffolk.  A  little  before  her  mar- 
riage she  published  '  Miscellaneous  Poems,' 
and  soon  after  '  Hymns  in  Prose  for  Children.' 
Mr.  Barbauld  became  a  minister  of  a  church 
at  Newington  in  1802,  which  brought 
Mrs.  Barbauld  into  greater  connexion  with 
the  literary  circles  of  the  day.  Her  style  is 
simple  and  graceful,  adorned  by  much  ex- 
quisite fancy  and  imagery.  Her  most  valued 
contributions  have  been  her  sacred  pieces. 
That  on  '  The  Death  of  the  Eighteous  '  is  one 
of  the  gems  of  English  sacred  poetry. — 
See  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Beeton's 
"  Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  ;  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet. 
Eng.  Lit."  ;  "  Lon.  Monthly  Eev."  1785  ;  Bos- 
well's  "  Life  of  Johnson." 


See  Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Allibone's 
"Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.";  "Edin.  Eev."  i. 
421-426;  "Blackwood's  Mag."  xli.  409. 


MISS  ANNA  SEWAED. 

"  Miss  Anma  Seward,  born  1747,  died  1809, 
known  as  the  •  Swan  of  Lichfield,'  daughter 
of  a  canon  in  the  cathedral  of  that  city, 
wrote  '  Sonnets,'  and  a  poetical  novel,  called 
'  Louisa.'  Her  poems  were  bequeathed  to 
Walter  Scott  for  publication,  but  they  are 
now  utterly  forgotten." — Shaw's  "  Hist. 
Eng.  Lit."    See  Chambers'  "  Cyc,  Eng.  Lit." 


MES.  HUNTEE. 

"  Mrs.  Hunter,  bom  1742,  died  1821,  was  the 
wife  of  the  eminent  surgeon,  and  sister  of  Eve- 
rard  Home.  She  wrote  verses  and  songs  which 
were  extensively  read  in  their  day,  and  some  of 
whichHaydnhas  'married  to  immortal'  music." 
— Dr.  Angus's  "  Handbook  Eng.  Lit."  p,  26o. 


MES.  AMELLA  OPIE.     ^ 

"  Mrs.  Amelia  Opie,  born  1769,  died  1853. 
She  was  the  wife  of  an  artist,  herself  a 
novelist,  and  friend  of  most  of  the  literary 
celebrities  of  her  age.  She  wrote  a  volume  of 
miscellaneous  poems,  published  in  1802." — Dr. 
Angus's  "  Handbook  Eng.  Lit."  p.  266.  See 
Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


MES.  GEANT. 

"Mrs.  Grant,  widow  of  the  minister  of 
Laggan,  in  Inverness-shire,  was  born  in 
1754,  and  died  in  1838.  She  was  the  author 
of  several  able  and  interesting  prose  works. 
She  wrote  '  Letters  from  the  Mountains,' 
giving  a  description  of  Highland  scenery  and 
manners,  with  which  she  was  conversant 
from  her  residence  in  the  country ;  also 
'  Memoirs  of  an  American  lady '  (1810),  and 
'  Essays  on  the  Superstitions  of  the  High- 
landers,' which  appeared  in  1811.  The 
writings  of  this  lady  display  a  lively  and 
observant  fancy,  and  considerable  powers  of 
landscape  painting.  They  first  drew  attention 
to  the  more  striking  and  romantic  features  of 
the  Scottish  Highlands,  afterwards  so  fertile 
a  theme  for  the  ■* genius  of  Scott." — Cham- 
bers' "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  vol.  ii.  p.  279. 
See  Allibone's    "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


MES.   TIGHE. 

"  Mrs.  Mary  Tighe,  born  1774,  died  1810,  was 
the  daughter  of  the  Eev.  William  Blatchford, 
of  the  county  of  Wicklow,  Ireland.  Her 
history  seems  to  be  but  little  known  to  the 
public,  as  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  find  some 
account  of  her  life ;  but  her  early  death,  which 
took  place  at  Woodstock,  near  Kilkenny, 
March  24th,  1810,  after  six  years  of  protracted 
suffering,  has  been  commemorated  by  Moore, 
in  a  very  beautiful  lyric. 

"  Mrs,  Tighe  is]  chiefly  known  by  her  poem 
of  '  Psyche,'  in  six  cantos,  written  in  the  Spen- 
serian stanza,  founded  on  the  classic  fable  of 
Apuleius,  of  the  loves  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  or 
the  allegory  of  Love  and  the  Soul  (4'vxv)- 
Many  of  the  pictures  in  this,  the  chief  pro- 
duction of  her  muse,  are  conceived  in  the  true 
spirit  of  poetry,  while  over  the  whole  compo- 
sition is  spread  the  richest  glow  of  purified 
passion.  It  is  a  poem,  however,  to  be  read  as 
a  whole,  and  cannot  well  be  appreciated  by  any 
detached  passages.  A  luxurious,  dreamy  swect- 

62 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


ness  pervades  the  descriptions,  and  gives  them 
a  peculiar  charm,  while  the  elegance  of  the 
easy-flowing  language  attests  the  complete 
power  of  the  poet  over  her  theme.  Some  of 
her  minor  pieces  also  are  exceedingly  beau- 
tiful ;  and  the  lines  '  On  Eeceiving  a  Branch 
of  Mezereon'  are  scarcely  exceeded,  for  beauty 
and  pathos,  by  anything  of  the  kind  in  the 
language." — Cleveland's  "Eng.  Lit.  19th 
Cent." 


EOBERT    BLOOMFIELD. 

"  Eobert  Bloomfield,  born  1766,  died  1823, 
was  a  farmer's  boy,  and  became,  through  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  a  government 
clerk,  with  a  somewhat  unhappy  lot  in  both  po- 
sitions. He  wrote  '  The  Farmer's  Boy '  (1798), 
'Eural  Tales'  (1810),  'Wild  Flowers,' and  other 
pieces,  volumes  of  cheerful  description  of  rural 
life,  with  much  moral  feeling  and  smoothness  of 
versification :  his  great  fault  is  his  want  of 
passion ;  his  great  excellence,  the  truth  and 
reality  of  his  delineations.  Some  of  his  lines, 
those,  for  example,  on  the  '  Soldier's.  Home,' 
Wilson  thinks  equal  to  Bums." — Dr.  Angus's 
"  Handbook  Eng.  Lit."  p.  266.  See  Allibone's 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Drake's  "  Literary 
Hours";  "  Blackwood's  Mag."  1822. 


JOHN  LEYDEN. 

"John  Leyden,  a  distinguished  oriental 
scholar  as  well  as  a  poet,  was  a  native  of 
Denholm,  Eoxburghshire.  He  was  the  son  of 
humble  parents ;  but  the  ardent  borderer 
fought  his  way  to  learning  and  celebrity.  His 
parents,  seeing  his  desire  for  instruction,  de- 
termined to  educate  him  for  the  Church,  and 
he  was  entered  of  Edinburgh  College  in  1790, 
in  the  fifteenth  year  of  his  age.  He  made 
rapid  progress,  was  an  excellent  Latin  and 
Greek  scholar,  and  acquired  also  the  French, 
Spanish,  Italian,  and  German,  besides  study- 
ing the  Hebrew,  Arabic,  and  Persian.  He 
became  no  mean  proficient  in  mathematics 
and  various  branches  of  science.  Indeed, 
every  difficulty  seemed  to  vanish  before  his 
commanding  talents,  his  retentive  memory, 
and  robust  application.  His  college  vaca- 
tions were  spent  at  home ;  and  as  his  father's 
cottage  afforded  him  little  opportunity  for 
quiet  and  seclusion,  he  looked  out  for  accom- 
modations abroad.  '  In  a  wild  recess,'  says 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  '  in  the  den  or  glen  which 
gives  name  to  the  village  of  Denholm,  he  con- 
trived a  sort  of  furnace  for  the  purpose  of 
such  chemical  experiments  as  he  was  adequate 
to  performing.  But  his  chief  place  of  re- 
tirement was  the  small  parish  church,  a 
gloomy  and  ancient  building,  generally 
believed  in  the  neighbourhood  to  be  haunted. 
To  this    chosen    place    of     study,    usually 


locked  during  week  days,  Leyden  made 
entrance  by  means  of  a  window,  read  there 
for  many  hours  in  the  day,  and  deposited  his 
books  and  specimens  in  a  retired  pew.  It  was 
a  well-chosen  spot  of  seclusion,  for  the  kirk 
(excepting  during  divine  service)  is  rather  a 
place  of  terror  to  the  Scottish  rustic,  and  that 
of  Cavers  was  rendered  more  so  by  many  a 
tale  of  ghosts  and  witchcraft  of  which  it  was 
the  supposed  scene,  and  to  which  Leyden, 
partly  to  indulge  his  humour,  and  partly  to 
secure  his  retirement,  contrived  to  make  some 
modem  additions.  The  nature  of  his  abstruse 
studies,  some  specimens  of  natural  history,  as 
toads  and  adders,  left  exposed  in  their  spirit- 
vials,  and  one  or  two  practical  jests  played 
off  upon  the  more  curious  of  the  peasantry, 
rendered  his  gloomy  haunt  not  only  venerated 
by  the  wise,  but  feared  by  the  simple  of  the 
parish.'  From  this  singular  and  romantic 
study,  Leyden  sallied  forth,  with  his  curious 
and  various  stories,  to  astonish  his  college 
associates.  He  already  numbered  among  his 
friends  the  most  distinguished  literary  and 
scientific  men  of  Edinburgh.  On  the  expira- 
tion of  his  college  studies,  Leyden  accepted 
the  situation  of  tutor  to  the  sons  of  Mr. 
Campbell  of  Fairfield,  whom  he  accompanied 
to  the  university  of  St.  Andrews.  There  he 
pursued  his  own  researches  connected  with 
oriental  learning,  and  in  1799  published  a  sketch 
of  the  '  Discoveries  and  Settlements  of  the 
Europeans  in  Northern  and  Western  Africa.' 
He  wrote  also  various  copies  of  verses  and 
translations  from  the  northern  and  oriental 
languages,  which  he  published  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Magazine.  In  1800  Leyden  was  or- 
dained for  the  church.  He  continued,  how- 
ever, to  study  and  compose,  and  contributed 
to  Lewis's  Tales  of  Wonder  and  Scott's 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Scotish  Border.  So  ardent 
was  he  in  assisting  the  editor  of  the  Mins- 
trelsy, that  he  on  one  occasion  walked  between 
forty  and  fifty  miles,  and  back  again,  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  visiting  an  old  person  who 
possessed  an  ancient  historical  baUad.  His 
next  publication  was  a  new  edition  of  '  The 
Complaynt  of  Scotland,'  an  ancient  work 
■written  about  1548,  which  Leyden  enriched 
with  a  preliminary  dissertation,  notes,  and  a 
glossary.  He  also  undertook  the  management, 
for  one  year,  of  the  Scots'  Magazine.  His 
strong  desire  to  visit  foreign  countries  induced 
his  friends  to  apply  to  government  for  some 
appointment  for  him  connected  with  the  learn- 
ing and  languages  of  the  East.  The  only  situa- 
tion which  they  could  procure  was  that  of 
surgeon's  assistant ;  and  in  five  or  six  months, 
by  incredible  labour,  Leyden  qualified  himseK, 
and  obtained  his  diploma.  '  The  sudden 
change  of  his  profession,'  says  Scott,  *  giave 
great  amusement  to  some  of  his  friends.'  In 
December,  1802,  Leyden  was  summoned  to 
join  the  Christmas  fleet  of  Indiamen,  in  con- 
sequence of  his  appointment  as  assistant- 
surgeon  on  the  Madras   establishment.      He 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


finished  his  poem,  '  The  Scenes  of  Infancy,' 
descriptive  of  his  native  vale,  and  left  Scot- 
land for  ever.  After  his  arival  at  Madras, 
the  health  of  Leyden  gave  way,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  remove  to  Prince  of  Wales  Island. 
He  resided  there  for  some  time,  visiting  Su- 
matra and  the  Malayan  peninsula,  and  amass- 
ing the  curious  information  concerning  the 
language,  literature,  and  descent  of  the  Indo- 
Chinese  tribes,  which  afterwards  enabled  him 
to  lay  a  most  valuable  dissertation  before  the 
Asiatic  Society  at  Calcutta.  Leyden  quitted 
Prince  of  Wales  Island,  and  was  appointed  a 
professor  in  the  Bengal  college.  This  was 
soon  exchanged  for  a  more  lucrative  appoint- 
ment, namely,  that  of  a  judge  in  Calcutta.  ' 
His  spare  time  was,  as  usual,  devoted  to 
oriental  manuscripts  and  antiquities.  '  I  may 
die  in  the  attempt,'  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  '  but 
if  I  die  without  surpassing  Sir  William  Jones 
a  hundredfold  in  oriental  learning,  let  never  a 
tear  for  me  profane  the  eye  of  a  borderer.' 
The  possibility  of  an  early  death  in  a  distant 
land  often  crossed  the  mind  of  the  ambitious 
student.  In  his  '  Scenes  of  Infancy '  he  ex- 
presses his  anticipation  of  such  an  event  in  a 
passage  of  great  melody  and  pathos. 

'  The  silver  moon  at  midnight  cold  and  stiU, 
Looks,  sad  and  silent,  o'er  yon  western  hill ; 
^Vhile  large  and  pale  the  ghostly  structures 

grow, 
Rear'd  on  the  confines  of  the  world  below. 
Is  that  dull  sound  the  hum  of  Teviot's  stream  ? 
Is  that  blue  light  the  moon's,  or  tomb-fire's 

gleam  ? 
By  which  a  mouldering  pile  is  faintly  seen, 
The  old  deserted  church  of  Hazeldean, 
Where  slept  my  fathers  in  their  natal  clay, 
Till  Teviot's  waters  roU'd  their  bones  away? 
Their  feeble  voices  from  the    stream  they 

raise — 
'  Rash  youth  !  unmindful  of  thy  early  days. 
Why  didst   thou  quit  the   peasant's   simple 

lot? 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  peasant's  turf-built 

cot, 
The  ancient  graves  where  all  thy  fathers  lie, 
And  Teviot's  stream  that  long  has  murmur' d 

by? 
And  we — when  death  so  long  has  closed  our 

eyes. 
How  wUt  thou  bid  us  from  the  dust  arise. 
And  bear  our  mouldering  bones  across  the 

main. 
From  vales  that  knew  our  lives  devoid  of 

stain  ? 
Eash  youth !  beware,  thy  home-bred  virtues 

save, 
And  sweetly  sleep  in  thy  paternal  grave.'  ' 

"  In  1811  Leyden  accompanied  the  governor- 
general  to  Java.  '  His  spirit  of  romantic 
adventure,*  says  Scott,  '  led  him  literally  to 
rush  upon  death ;  for,  with  another  volunteer 
who  attended  the  expedition,  he  threw  himself 


into  the  surf,  in  order  to  be  the  first  Briton  of 
the  expedition  who  should  set  foot  upon  Java. 
"When  the  success  of  the  well-concerted  move- 
ments of  the  invaders  had  given  them  posses- 
sion of  the  town  of  Batavia,  Leyden  displayed 
the  same  ill-omened  precipitation,  in  his  haste 
to  examine  a  library,  or  rather  a  warehouse  of 
books,  in  which  many  Indian  manusoiipts  of 
value  were  said  to  be  deposited.  A  library  in 
a  Dutch  settlement  was  not,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  in  the  best  order ;  the  apart- 
ment had  not  been  regularly  ventilated,  and 
either  from  this  circumstance,  or  already 
affected  by  the  fatal  sickness  peculiar  to  Ba- 
tavia, Leyden,  when  he  left  the  place,  had  a 
fit  of  shivering,  and  declared  the  atmosphere 
was  enough  to  give  any  mortal  a  fever.  The 
presage  was  too  just :  he  took  his  bed,  and 
died  in  three  days  (August  28,  1811),  on  the 
eve  of  the  battle  which  gave  Java  to  the 
British  empire.'  The  Poetical  Remains  of 
Leyden  were  published  in  1819,  with  a  Memoir 
of  his  Life,  by  the  Rev.  James  Morton.  Sir 
John  Malcolm  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  both 
honoured  bis  memory  with  notices  of  his  life 
and  genius.  The  Great  Minstrel  has  also 
alluded  to  his  untimely  death  inr  his  '  Lord  of 
the  Isles.' 

'  Scarba's  Isle,  whose  tortured  shore 
Stills  rings  to  Corrievreckin's  roar, 

And  lonely  Colonsay ; 
Scenes  sung  by  him  who  sings  no  more, 
His  bright  and  brief  career  is  o'er, 

And  mute  his  tuneful  strains  ; 
Quench'd  is  his  lamp  of  varied  lore. 
That  loved  the  light  of  song  to  pour  : 
A  distant  and  a  deadly  shore 

Has  Leyden's  cold  remains.' 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a  ballad  by  Leyden, 
entitled  '  The  Mermaid,'  the  scene  of  which  is 
laid  at  Corrievreckin,  and  which  was  published 
with  another,  '  The  Cout  of  Keeldar,'  in  the 
Border  Minstrelsy.  His  longest  poem  is  his 
'  Scenes  of  Infancy,'  descriptive  of  his  native 
vale  of  Teviot.  His  versification  is  soft  and 
musical ;  he  is  an  elegant  rather  than  a  forcible 
poet.  His  ballad  strains  are  greatly  superior 
to  his  '  Scenes  of  Infancy.'  Sir  Walter  Scott 
has  praised  the  opening  of  '  The  Mermaid,'  as 
exhibiting  a  power  of  numbers  which,  for 
mere  melody  of  sound,  has  seldom  been  ex- 
celled in  English  poetry." — Chambers'  "  Cyc. 
Eng.  Lit."  vol.  ii.  pp.  288,  289. 


CHARLES  DIBDIN. 

Charles  Dibdin,  born  at  Southampton, 
1745,  died  1814,  an  EngKsh  actor,  dramatist, 
and  distinguished  sea-song  writer,  was  edu- 
cated at  Winchester,  and  originally  intended 
for  the  Church ;  but  going  to  London  at  the 
early  age  of  sixteen,  he  produced   an  opera 

52* 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. 


called  "  The  Shepherd's  Artifice,"  which  was 
brought  out  at  Covent  Garden.  In  1778  he 
was  appointed  musical  manager  at  Covent 
Garden.  Subsequently  he  built  the  "  Circus," 
afterwards  called  the  "  Surrey;  "  and  in  1788 
published  his  "Musical  Tour."  In  the  follow- 
ing year  he  gave  his  entertainment  called 
"  The  Whim  of  the  Moment,"  of  which  he 
was  sole  author,  composer,  and  performer. 
In  this  piece  he  sang  his  ballad  of  "  Poor 
Jack,"  which  completely  won  the  ear  of  the 
public  ;  and  from  that  time,  his  reputation  as 
a  balladist  was  established.  He  wrote  no 
fewer  than  nine  hundred  songs,  according  to 
some ;  and  twelve  hundred,  according  to  others. 
Whichever  number  is  correct  does  not  much 
signify,  as  a  soil  so  prolific  must  have  pro- 
duced many  weeds.  Many  of  his  lyrics,  how- 
ever, have  great  merit.  They  have  solaced 
the  seaman  during  long  voyages,  sustained 
him  in  the  storm,  and  inspired  him  in  battle  ; 
and  they  have  been  quoted  to  restore  the  mu- 
tinous to  order  and  discipline.  In  1805  he 
retired  from  public  life,  and  received  a  govern- 
ment pension  of  .£200  per  annum.  "  Poor 
Tom  Bowling  "  was  written  upon  a  brother  of 
his,  who  had  been  the  captain  of  an  East 
Indiaman,  and  was  twenty-nine  years  older 
than  the  author.  Thomas,  a  son  of  Charles, 
was  long  connected  with  the  London  stage  as 
an  actor  and  dramatist.  He  wrote  and  adapted 
a  vast  number  of  pieces  ;  but  none  of  them. 
are  distinguished  by  much  original  merit.  He 
also  wrote  a  work  of  amusing  "Reminis- 
cences." Died  in  Pentonville,  1841. — See 
Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit. "  ;  AUibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit." ;  "  Dibdin's  Life." 


WILLIAM  GIFFOED. 

WiUiam  Gifford,  born  at  Ashburton,  Devon- 
shire, 1756,  died  1826,  a  modern  English 
writer,  was  the  son  of  poor  parents,  and  was 
left  an  orphan  before  he  had  reached  his 
thirteenth  year.  He  was  apprenticed  to  the 
sea;  but,  disliking  that  occupation,  was  put 
to  shoemaking,  at  which  employment  he  con- 
tinued till  he  was  twenty  years  of  age.  By 
that  time  he  had  displayed  some  indications  of 
genius,  when  a  Mr.  Cookesley,  a  surgeon  of 
Ashburton,  sent  him  to  Oxford.  After  leaving 
college,  he  made  the  tour  of  Europe,  as  the 
travelling  companion  of  Lord  Belgrave  ;  and, 
on  his  return  to  England,  settled  in  London 
as  a  literary  man.  In  1794  he  published  his 
"  Baviad,"  a  poetical  satire,  which  annihilated 
the  Delia  Crusca  school  of  poets,  of  which 
Mrs.  Piozzi  formed  a  leading  member.  In  the 
following  year  his  "Maviad"  ai^peared,  and 
expose  1  the  low  state  to  which  dramatic  au- 
thorship had  then  fallen.  In  1797  he  became 
the  editor  of  the  "  Anti- Jacobin,"  established 
by  Mr.  Canning  and  other  gentlemen,  and  got 


entangled  in  a  quarrel  with  Dr.  Wolcot,  to 
whom,  as  "  Peter  Pindar,"  he  wrote  a  poetical 
epistle.  In  1802  he  published  his  translation 
of  Juvenal,  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  says  "  is 
the  best  version  ever  made  of  a  classical 
author."  In  1804  his  edition  of  Massinger 
appeared,  and,  in  1816,  that  of  Ben  Jonson. 
Subsequently,  editions  both  of  Ford  and 
Shirley  were  published,  but  not  entirely 
edited  by  him,  his  death  having  taken  place 
before  he  had  completed  them.  In  1809  he 
became  the  editor  of  the  London  "  Quarterly 
Review  ;  "  and  it  is  in  this  capacity  that  he  is 
best  known.  As  a  critic,  he  has  been  much  cen- 
sured for  his  severity,  with  which  he  mingled 
no  inconsiderable  degree  of  injustice.  "  He 
was  a  man  with  whom  I  had  no  literary  sym- 
pathies," says  Southey ;  "  perhaps  there  was 
nothing  upon  which  we  agreed,  except  great 
political  questions.  ...  He  had  a  heart 
full  of  kindness  for  all  living  creatures,  except 
authors ;  them  he  regarded  as  a  fishmonger 
regards  eels ;  or  as  Isaak  Walton  did  worms, 
slugs,  and  frogs.  I  always  protested  against 
the  indulgence  of  that  spirit  in  his  '  Review.'  " 
Scott  says  he  was  good  "  as  a  commentator ;  " 
but,  as  a  critic,  the  "  fault  of  extreme  severity 
went  through  his  critical  labours  ;  "  and,  in 
general,  he  flagellated  with  so  little  pity,  that 
people  lost  their  sense  of  the  criminal's  guilt 
in  dislike  of  the  savage  pleasure  which  the 
executioner  seemed  to  take  in  inflicting  punish- 
ment. He  held  the  editorship  of  the ' '  Review ' ' 
till  1824.— See  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit."  ; 
AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


GEORGE  CANNING. 

"  The  Right  Honourable  George  Canning, 
born  1770,  died  1827,  was,  on  the  paternal 
side,  of  Irish  extraction.  His  father  came  to 
London,  entered  himself  of  the  Middle  Temple, 
and  was  called  to  the  bar.  Meeting  with  little 
practice,  he  abandoned  the  law  for  literature, 
but  being  unable  to  maintain  himself  in  this 
new  vocation,  became  a  wine-merchant,  in 
which  capacity  he  failed,  and  died  of  a  broken 
heart.  His  mother  became  an  actress,  and 
married  an  actor.  He  also  dying,  she  was 
now  married  to  a  Mr.  Hunn,  a  linen-draper  of 
Exeter,  and  lived  long  enough  to  see  her  son 
attain  the  eminence  to  which  his  distinguished 
abilities  entitled  him.  George  was  educated 
first  at  Hyde  Abbey  School,  Winchester,  then 
at  Eton,  and  then  at  Oxford,  where  he  was 
recognized  as  a  high-class  man.  He  then  en- 
tered Lincoln's  Inn,  to  follow  the  law  as  a 
profession,  but,  being  introduced  by  Mr.  Pitt 
to  the  House  of  Commons,  ho  abandoned  the 
bar,  and  devoted  himself  whoUy  to  the  study 
of  politics.  This  was  in  1793.  In  1796  he 
was  appointed  Under-Secretary  of  State,  and 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


in  1800  received  a  fortune  of  .£100,000  by  his 
marriage  with  Joanna,  the  daughter  of  General 
Scott.  In  1804  he  was  appointed  treasurer 
of  the  navy;  and  in  1807,  a  year  after  the 
death  of  Pitt,  he  was  appointed,  for  the  second 
time,  Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs. 
In  1809  he  fought  a  duel  with  Lord  Castle- 
reagh  ;  and  in  1812  became  member  for  Liver- 
pool, which  again  elected  him  in  1814,  1818, 
and  1820.  In  1816  he  became  president  of 
the  Board  of  Control,  and  in  1822  was  named 
Governor-General  of  India,  and  was  about  to 
embark  for  that  country,  when  Lord  Castle- 
reagh,  then  Marquis  of  Londonderry,  com- 
mitted suicide.  This  circumstance  led  to  Mr. 
Canning's  relinquishing  his  appointment,  and 
again  accepting  that  of  Secretary  of  State  for 
Foreign  AfiFairs.  In  1827  he  became  Premier, 
the  great  object  of  a  long  and  arduous  poli- 
tical life.  The  last  time  he  spoke  in  Parha- 
ment  was  on  the  29th  of  June,  1827.  Born 
in  London;  died  at  the  viUa  of  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  Chiswick. — Mr.  Canning  had 
great  oratorical  ability,  with  considerable 
poetical  power,  and  much  brilliancy  of  wit. 
He  was  a  firm  supporter  of  the  cause  of 
CathoHc  emancipation,  and  the  main  pro- 
moter of  the  independence  of  Greece." — 
Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." — See  Maunder; 
Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng,  Lit." 


THOMAS  JAMES  MATHIAS. 

"  Another  satirical  poem,  which  attracted 
much  attention  in  literary  circles  at  the  time 
of  its  publication,  was  '  The  Pursuits  of 
Literature,'  in  four  parts,  the  first  of  which 
appeared  in  1794.  Though  published  anony- 
mously, this  work  was  written  by  Mr. 
Thomas  James  Mathias,  a  distinguished 
scholar,  who  died  at  Naples  in  1835.  Mr. 
Mathias  was  some  time  treasurer  of  the 
household  to  her  Majesty  Queen  Charlotte. 
He  took  his  degree  of  B.A.  in  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  in  1774.  Besides  the  '  Pursuits 
of  Literature,'  Mr.  Mathias  was  author 
of  some  '  Eunic  Odes,  imitated  from  the 
Norse  Tongue,'  '  The  Imperial  Epistle  from 
Kien-Long  to  George  III.'  (1794),  '  The  Shade 
of  Alexander  Pope,'  a  satirical  poem  (1798), 
and  various  other  light,  evanescent  pieces  on 
the  topics  of  the  day.  Mr.  Mathias  also 
wrote  some  Latin  odes,  and  translated  into 
Italian  several  English  poems.  He  wrote 
Italian  with  elegance  and  purity,  and  it  has 
been  said  that  no  Englishman,  since  the  days 
of  Milton,  has  cultivated  that  language  with 
so  much  success.  The  'Pursuits  of  Litera- 
ture' contains  some  pointed  satire  on  the 
author's  poetical  contemporaries,  and  is  en- 
riched with  a  vast  variety  of  notes,  in  which 
there  is  a  great  display  of  learning.  George 
Steovens  said  the  poem  was  merely  '  a  peg  to 


hang  the  notes  on.'  The  want  of  true  poetical 
genius  to  vivify  this  mass  of  erudition  has 
been  fatal  to  Mr.  Mathias.  His  works  appear 
to  be  utterly  forgotten." — Chambers'  "  Cyc. 
Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  pp.  296,  297. 


JOHN  WOLCOT. 

Eev.  John  Wolcott,  usually  styled  "  Peter 
Pindar,"  born  at  Dodbrooke,  Devonshire, 
about  1738,  died  in  London,  1819,  an 
eminent  English  burlesque  poet,  who  was 
educated  for  the  profession  of  medicine,  and, 
in  1767,  became  physician  to  Sir  William 
Trelawney,  governor  of  Jamaica.  He  sub- 
sequently returned  to  England,  and  entered 
into  orders ;  but  after  having  been  dis- 
appointed of  a  valuable  living  in  the  island 
of  Jamaica,  set  up  in  practice  as  a  physician 
in  Cornwall.  Having  discovered  the  self- 
taught  artist  Opie  at  Truro,  he  repaired  with 
him  to  London,  and  there  distinguished  him- 
self as  a  writer  of  burlesque  poetry.  His 
productions  principally  consisted  of  odes  and 
satires  directed  against  George  III.,  Pitt,  and 
the  leading  men  of  the  time.  A  complete 
edition  of  his  works,  in  4  vols.,  was  published 
in  1816.— See  Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit."; 
Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

Wilham  Blake,  bom  1757,  died  1828.  He 
attracted  great  attention,  as  an  engraver  and 
author,  by  the  eccentricity  of  his  genius.  His 
"  Gates  of  Paradise "  ;  "  America,  a  Pro- 
phecy ". ;  "  Illustrated  Edition  of  Young's 
'  Night  Thoughts '  "  ;  "  Illustrations  of  Blair's 
'  Grave '  "  ;  "  Songs  of  Innocence  and  Ex- 
perience"; "Vision  of  the '  Daughters  of 
Albion";  "Illustrations  of  Dante,"  are  full 
of  quaint  and  exquisite,  and  sometimes  sub- 
lime, beauty,  Charles  Lamb  says  :  "  Blake 
is  a  real  name,  I  assure  you ;  and  a  most  ex- 
traordinary man  he  is,  if  he  is  still  living. 
He  is  the  Blake  whose  wild  designs  accompany 
a  splendid  edition  of  Blair's  '  Grav6.'  He 
paints  in  water-colours  marvellous  strange 
pictures — visions  of  his  brain — which  he 
asserts  he  has  seen.  They  have  great  merit. 
I  must  look  upon  him  as  one  of  the  most  ex- 
traordinary persons  of  the  age."  Pilkington, 
in  his  "  Dictionary  of  Painters,"  writes :  "  Full 
of  feeling  and  delicacy,  and  looked  on  with 
wonder  and  respect  by  the  world."  Mr. 
Jameson  speaks  in  equally  glowing  terms  : — 
"  The  most  original,  and,  in  truth,  the  only 
new  and  original  version  of  the  scripture  idea 
of  Angels  which  I  have  met  with,  is  that  of 
William  Blake,  a  poet-painter.  Somewhat 
mad,  as  we  are  told,  if  indeed  his  madness 
were  not  rather  '  the  telescope  of  truth,' — a 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


sort  of  poetical  clairvoyance,  bringing  the 
unearthly  nearer  to  him  than  to  others." 
What  can  be  more  exquisitely  quaint  and 
beautiful  than  several,  one  in  particular,  of 
the  poems  we  have  quoted. — See  Allibone's 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  "  Sacred  and  Le- 
gendary Art,"  by  Mr,  Jameson. 


JAMES  GRAHAME. 

"  James  Grahame,  the  author  of  the  '  Sab- 
bath,* was  the  son  of  a  respectable  attorney 
in  Glasgow,  and  was  bom  in  that  city,  on 
the  22nd  of  April,  1765.  He  was  educated 
at  the  excellent  pubHc  schools  of  that  city, 
and  had  a  very  early  and  strong  desire  to  enter 
the  clerical  profession  ;  but  it  was  the  long- 
cherished  wish  of  his  father  that  he  should  be 
bred  to  his  own  calling.  Accordingly,  our  poet 
sacrificed  his  own  wishes  to  those  of  his  parent, 
and  studied  the  law.  Many  irksome  years — 
the  best  years  of  his  life — were  wasted  in  this, 
to  him  most  uncongenial  pursuit,  and  it  was 
finally  abandoned.  For  many  years,  however, 
he  toiled  on  in  it,  and,  from  a  sense  of- what  he 
owed  to  his  family,  he  gave  to  it  all  the  at- 
tention of  which  a  mind  devoted  to  higher 
purposes  was  capable. 

"  In  1804  he  published  anonymously  his 
poem  of  '  The  Sabbath.'  He  had  kept  from 
all  his  friends,  and  even  from  his  wife,  who 
was  possessed  of  a  fine  literary  taste,  aU 
knowledge  of  what  he  had  been  engaged  in, 
and  laid  a  copy  of  his  poem  on  his  parlour 
table,  as  soon  as  it  appeared.  Mrs.  Grahame 
was  led  by  curiosity  to  examine  it,  and,  while 
doing  so,  he  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  awaiting  some  remark  from  her.  At 
length  she  burst  into  enthusiastic  admiration 
of  the  performance,  and,  well  knowing  her 
husband's  weak  side,  very  naturally  added — 
'  Ah,  James,  if  you  could  produce  a  poem  like 
this  ! '  Longer  concealment  was  impossible  ; 
and  Mrs.  Grahame,  justly  proud  of  her  hus- 
band's genius,  no  longer  checked  its  bent. 

"  '  The  Sabbath '  was  warmly  received 
throughout  Scotland.  It  came  from  the 
heart ;  and  it  spoke  to  the  heart  of  the 
nation.  Grahame's  vocation  was  now  con- 
firmed ;  and,  in  the  following  two  years,  during 
the  long  recess  of  the  Scottish  courts,  he  re- 
tired with  his  family  to  a  cottage  at  KirkhiU, 
on  the  classic  banks  of  the  Esk,  and  gave 
himself  up  to 

'  Calm  contemplation  and  poetic  ease.' 

"  He  now  determined  to  abandon  the  law, 
and  zealously  prepared  himself  for  the  ministry. 
This  had  been  his  early,  his  constant  wish.  His 
appearance,  voice,  manner,  as  well  as  his 
talents  and  his  piety,  were  all  in  keeping  with 
that  calling.  He  was  ordained  in  1809,  and 
soon  after  settled  with  his  family  at  Shipton, 
in  Gloucestershire.     This  year  he   published 


his  '  British  Georgics,'  a  didactic  agricultural 
poem.  His  health  had  long  been  delicate,  and 
he  was  induced,  in  1811,  to  go  to  Edinburgh 
for  a  change  of  air  and  for  medical  advice.  But 
it  was  apparent  to  aU  that  his  days  on  earth 
could  not  be  long.  He  had  a  natural  desire 
of  breathing  his  last  in  his  own  native  city, 
and  Mrs.  Grahame  set  out  with  him,  on  the 
11th  of  September,  for  Glasgow.  He  was 
barely  able  to  reach  the  place,  and  died  there 
on  the  14th  of  September,  1811,  in  the  forty- 
seventh  year  of  his  age,  most  sincerely  and 
deeply  lamented  by  a  large  circle  of  friends. 

"  Of  the  character  of  Grahame's  poetry, 
there  is  now  scarcely  but  one  opinion.  Its 
great  charms  are  its  elevated  moral  tone,  and 
its  easy,  simple,  and  unaffected  description. 
His  '  Sabbath '  will  always  hold  its  place 
among  those  poems  which  are,  and  deserve  to 
be,  in  the  hands  of  the  people.  He  exhibits 
great  tenderness  of  sentiment,  which  runs 
through  all  his  writings,  and  sometimes 
deepens  into  true  pathos.  We  do  not  know 
any  poetry,  indeed,  that  lets  us  in  so  directly 
to  the  heart  of  the  writer,  and  produces  so 
full  and  pleasing  a  conviction  that  it  is  dictated 
by  the  genuine  feelings  which  it  aims  at  com- 
municating to  the  reader.  If  there  be  less 
fire  and  elevation  than  in  the  strains  of  some 
of  his  contemporaries,  there  is  more  truth  and 
tenderness  than  is  commonly  found  along  with 
those  qualities." — Cleveland's  "  Eng.  Lit. 
19th  Cent." 


GEORGE  CRABBE. 

"  George  Crabbe,  bom  1754,  died  1832.  If 
Cowper  be  rightly  denominated  the  poet  of 
the  domestic  hearth,  George  Crabbe  is  emi- 
nently the  poet  of  the  passions  in  humble 
life.  In  his  long  career  he  is  the  link  connect- 
ing the  age  of  Johnson  and  Burke  with  that 
of  Walter  Scott  and  Byron ;  and  his  admirable 
works,  while  retaining  in  their  form  much  of 
the  correctness  and  severity  of  the  past  age, 
exhibit  in  their  subjects  and  treatment  that 
intensity  of  human  interest  and  that  selection 
of  real  passion  which  constitute  the  distin- 
guishing characteristic  of  the  writers  who 
appeared  at  the  beginning  of  the  present 
century.  He  was  born  at  the  little  seaport- 
town  of  Aldborough,  in  Suffolk,  where  his 
father  was  an  humble  fisherman,  and  per- 
formed the  duties  of  salt-master,  or  receiver  of 
the  customs  duties  on  salt ;  and  his  child- 
hood was  miserable  through  bodily  weakness 
and  the  sight  of  continual  dissensions  between 
his  parents.  After  a  dreamy  and  studious 
childhood,  during  which  his  thirst  for  know- 
ledge was  encouraged  by  his  father,  a  man  of 
violent  passions  but  of  considerable  intel- 
lectual development  for  one  in  his  humble 
position,  young  Crabbe  was  apprenticed  to  a 
surgeon  and  apothecary,  and  first  exercised 
his   profession    in    his    native   town.       Pas- 


:?rom  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


sionately  fond  of  literature  and  botany,  his 
success  in  business  was  so  small  that  he  de- 
termined to  seek  his  fortune  in  London,  where 
he  arrived  with  only  about  <£3  in  his  pocket, 
and  several  unfinished  poems,  which  he  pub- 
lished, but  which  were  coldly  received.  After 
some  stay  in  London  he  found  himself  reduced 
to  despair,  and  even  threatened  with  a  prison 
for  some  small  debts  he  had  contracted ;  and 
after  vainly  applying  for  assistance  to  various 
persons  connected  with  Aldborough,  he  ad- 
dressed a  manly  and  affecting  letter  to  Ed- 
mund Burke,  who  immediately  admitted  him 
to  his  house  and  friendship.  From  this  mo- 
ment his  fortune  changed ;  he  was  assisted, 
both  with  money  and  ad^'ice,  in  bringing  out 
his  poem  of  '  The  Library,'  was  induced  to 
enter  the  Church,  and  was  promised  the 
powerful  influence  of  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow. 
He  became  domestic  chaplain  to  the  Duke  of 
Eutland,  and  lived  some  time  at  the  magnifi- 
cent seat  of  Beauvoir ;  but  this  dependent 
position  seems  to  have  been  accompanied  with 
circumstances  distasteful  to  Crabbe's  manly 
character.  It,  however,  enabled  him  to  marry 
a  young  lady  to  whom  he  had  been  long 
attached,  and  he  soon  after  changed  the 
splendid  restraint  of  Beauvoir  for  the  humbler 
but  more  independent  existence  of  a  parish 
priest.  From  this  period  till  his  death,  at  the 
great  age  of  seventy-eight,  his  life  was  passed 
in  the  constant  exercise  of  his  pastoral  duties 
in  various  parishes,  and  in  the  cultivation  of 
literature  and  his  favourite  science  of  botany. 
"  In  his  first  poem,  '  The  Library,'  it  was 
evident  that  Crabbe  had  not  yet  hit  upon 
the  true  vein  of  his  peculiar  and  powerful 
genius.  It  was  not  till  the  appearance  of 
'  The  Village,'  in  1783,  that  he  struck  out  that 
path  in  which  he  had  neither  predecessor  nor 
rival.  The  manuscript  of  this  poem  was  sub- 
mitted to  Johnson,  who  gave  his  advice  and 
assistance  in  the  correction  and  revision  of  the 
style.  The  success  of  '  The  Village '  was  very 
great,  for  it  was  the  first  attempt  to  paint  the 
manners  and  existence  of  the  labouring  class 
without  dressing  them  up  in  the  artificial 
colours  of  fiction.  Crabbe  allowed  about 
fourteen  years  to  pass  before  he  again  ap- 
peared before  the  public.  During  the  interval 
he  was  busied  with  his  professional  duties,  and 
enjoying  the  happiness  of  domestic  life,  which 
no  man  was  ever  more  capable  of  appreciating : 
he,  however,  does  not  appear  to  have  relaxed 
his  habit  of  composition.  His  next  work  was 
'  The  Parish  Eegister,'  in  which  the  public 
saw  the  gradual  ripening  of  his  vigorous  and 
original  genius  ;  and  this  was  followed,  at 
comparatively  short  intervals,  by  '  The  Bo- 
rough,' 'Tales  in  Verse,'  and  'Tales  of  the 
Hall.'  These,  with  the  striking  but  painful 
poems,  written  in  a  different  measure,  entitled 
*  Sir  Eustace  Gray,'  and  '  The  Hall  of  Justice,' 
make  up  j2!rabbe's  largo  and  valuable  contri- 
bution to  the  poetical  literature  of  his  country. 
Almost  all  these  works  are  constructed  upon  a 


peculiar  and  generally  similar  plan.  Crabbe 
starts  with  some  description,  as  of  the  Village, 
the  Parish  Church,  the  Borough — just  such  a 
deserted  seaport-town  as  his  native  Aid- 
borough — from  which  he  naturally  proceeds  to 
deduce  a  series  of  separate  episodes,  usually  of 
middle  and  humble  life,  appropriate  to  the 
leading  idea.  Thus,  in  '  The  Parisl^Ee^ster' 
we  have  some  of  the  most  remarkable  births, 
marriages,  and  deaths  that  are  supposed  to 
take  place  in  a  year  amid  a  rural  population ; 
in  the  '  Borough,'  the  lives  and  adventures  of 
the  most  prominent  characters  that  figure  on 
the  narrow  stage  of  a  small  provincial  town. 
The  '  Tales '  are  a  series  of  stories,  some 
pathetic  and  some  humorous,  each  complete  in 
itself ;  and  in  the  '  Tales  of  the  Hall,'  two 
brothers  whose  paths  in  life  have  separated 
them  from  boyhood,  meet  in  their  old  age, 
and  recount  their  respective  experiences.  '  Sir 
Eustace  Grey '  is  the  story  of  a  madman 
related  with  terrific  energy  and  picturesque- 
ness  by  himself ;  and  in  the  '  Hall  of  Justice ' 
a  gipsy  criminal  narrates  a  still  more  dreadful 
story  of  crime  and  retribution.  With  the 
exception  of  the  two  last  poems,  written  in  a 
peculiar  rhymed  short-lined  stanza,  Crabbe's 
poems  are  in  the  classical  ten-syllabled  heroic 
verse,  and  the  contrast  is  strange  between  the 
neat  Pope-like  regularity  of  the  metre,  and 
the  deep  passion,  the  intense  reality,  and  the 
quaint  humour  of  the  scenes  which  he  displays. 
He  thoroughly  knew  and  profoundly  analysed 
the  hearts  of  men  :  the  virtues,  the  vices,  the 
weakness,  and  the  heroism  of  the  poor  he  has 
anatomized  with  a  stern  but  not  unloving 
hand.  No  poet  has  more  subtly  traced  the 
motives  which  regulate  human  conduct ;  and 
his  descriptions  of  nature  are  marked  by  the 
same  unequalled  power  of  rendering  interest- 
ing, by  the  sheer  force  of  truth  and  exactness, 
the  most  unattractive  features  of  the  external 
world.  The  village  tyrant,  the  poacher,  the 
smuggler,  the  miserly  old  maid,  the  pauper, 
and  the  criminal,  are  drawn  with  the  same 
gloomy  but  vivid  force  as  that  with  Avhich 
Crabbe  paints  the  squahd  streets  of  the  fish- 
ing-town, or  the  fen,  the  quay,  and  the  heath. 
The  more  unattractive  the  subject  the  more 
masterly  is  the  painting,  whether  that  subject 
be  man  or  nature.  Crabbe  is  generally  accused 
of  giving  a  gloomy  and  unfavourable  view  of 
human  life ;  but  his  pathos,  when  he  is  pa- 
thetic, reaches  the  extreme  limit  which  sensi- 
bility will  bear,  and  in  such  tales  as  Phoebe 
Dawson,  Edward  Shore,  the  Parting  Hour, 
the  intensity  of  the  effect  produced  by  Crabbe 
is  directly  proportioned  to  the  simplicity  of 
the  means  by  which  the  effect  is  attained. 
In  painting  the  agonies  of  remorse,  the  wan- 
dering reason  of  sorrow  or  of  crime,  he  is  a 
master ;  and  the  story  of  '  Peter  Grimes ' 
might  be  cited  as  an  unequalled  example  of 
the  sublime  in  common  life.  None  of  the  great 
Flemish  masters  have  surpassed  Crabbe  in 
minuteness  as  well  as  in  force  of  delineation, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


and  like  them  hia  delineation  is  often  most 
impressive  when  its  subject  is  most  vile  and 
even  repulsive." — Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.," 
pp.  398-400.  See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet. 
Eng.  Lit." 


SAIVIUEL  EOGEES. 

Samuel  Rogers,  born  at  Newington  Green, 
near  London,  1763,  died  1855,  an  eminent 
English  poet,  was  the  son  of  a  London  banker, 
in  whose  house  of  business  he  was  placed,  after 
having  received  an  efficient  private  educa- 
tion. From  his  earliest  years  he  had  a  pre- 
dilection for  poetry,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three  produced  his  first  volume  of  verses,  under 
the  title  of  "An  Ode  to  Superstition,  and 
other  Poems."  Between  the  appearance  of  his 
first  publication  and  that  of  his  second,  "  The 
Pleasures  of  Memory,"  which  was  given  to  the 
world  in  1792,  he  travelled  upon  the  Continent 
and  in  Scotland.  Six  years  later  he  brought 
out  another  volume,  after  which  he  remained 
silent  during  fourteen  years ;  for  he  added 
nothing  to  his  poetical  works  until  the  year 
1812,  when  he  published  a  fragment  entitled 
"  Columbus."  During  this  interval,  however, 
he  had  retired  from  active  participation  in  the 
affairs  of  the  bank,  and  had  given  himself  to 
the  cultivation  of  the  friendship  of  the  cele- 
brities of  his  time.  "  '  The  house  of  Rogers,' 
in  St.  James's  Place,  became  a  little  paradise 
of  the  beautiful,  where,  amid  pictures  and 
other  objects  of  art,  collected  with  care  and 
arranged  with  skUl,  the  happy  owner  nestled 
in  fastidious  ease,  and  kept  up  among  his 
contemporaries  a  character  in  which  something 
of  the  Horace  was  blended  with  something 
of  the  Mecsenas." 

"  Jaqueline  "  was  put  forth  in  1814  j  "  Hu- 
man Life"  in  1819;  and  in  1822,  the  poet, 
then  sixty  years  of  age,  produced  the  first  part 
of  his  "  Italy."  The  complete  edition  of  this 
latter  poem  was  not  published  until  1836, 
when  it  appeared  in  a  magnificent  form,  having 
been  illustrated  under  his  own  direction,  by 
Stothard,  Turner,  and  Prout,  at  a  cost  of 
^10,000.  Up  to  his  ninety-first  year  he  wrote 
an  occasional  piece,  composed,  like  all  his 
works,  with  laborious  slowness,  and  polished 
line  by  line  into  elegance.  That  Rogers  was 
a  shrewd  observer  and  brilliant  talker,  besides 
a  poet,  is  evinced  by  the  publication  of  his 
"  Table  Talk,"  which  appeared  after  his  death. 
"  We  have  in  his  works  a  classic  and  graceful 
beauty,"  says  an  eminent  critic,  "no  slovenly 
or  obscure  lines ;  fine  cabinet  pictures  of  soft 
and  mellow  lustre,  and,  occasionally,  trains  of 
thought  and  association  that  awaken  or  recall 
tender  heroic  feelings."  He  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  taking  constant  exercise  till  within  a 
short  time  before  his  death,  and  was  at  last 
only  prevented  from  appearing  in  public  by  an 
accident  with  which  he  met  in  the  streets. 
Orton  inhis  "  Excelsior  "  says,  "  Wliohas  ever 


read  the  works  of  this  noble-hearted  poet, 
without  their  having  produced  a  grateful  and 
refreshing  influence,  or  without  their  fiercer 
passions  being  softened  and  calmly  elevated  ? 
— None,  surely ! 

"  Who  has  not  felt  that  a  loving  brother  is 
conversing  with  him  when  perusing  his 
'  Pleasures  of  Memory ; '  or  that  a  chaste  son 
of  nature,  with  a  classically-moulded  mind,  is 
their  guide  through  '  Italy '  ? 

"  He  has  not  Avritten  much,  certainly,  when 
we  survey  his  long  life  ; — but  we  feel  that  a 
deeply  pure  and  noble,  an  unostentatiously- 
kind  and  loving  spirit,  has  dictated  every 
line  with  which  he  has  blessed  the  world. 

"This  poet's  kindness  and  sympathy  of 
heart  are  so  deeply  felt  in  his  writings,  as 
they  have  been  displayed  in  his  life.  He  has 
not  attempted  a  flight  into  any  wild  imagi- 
native regions,  but  he  has  sought,  and  success- 
fully, to  throw  flowers  of  beauty  over  the 
rugged  paths  of  man,  and  the  ruins  o'er  which 
the  Past  has  stalked  and  shattered  with  his 
destructive  heel!"  —  See  Beeton's  "Univ. 
Biog." ;  Maunder ;  Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng, 
Lit." ;  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH, 

"  William  Wordsworth  was  born  on  the 
7th  of  April,  1770,  at  Cockermouth,  in  Cum- 
berland. His  parents  were  of  the  middle 
class,  and  designed  him  for  the  Church ;  but 
poetry  and  new  prospects  turned  him  into 
another  path.  His  pursuit  through  life  was 
poetry,  and  his  profession  that  of  stamp- 
distributor  for  the  Government,  in  the  counties 
of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.  He  made 
his  first  appearance  as  a  poet  in  1793,  by  the 
publication  of  a  thin  quarto  volume,  entitled 
'  An  Evening  Walk  ;  an  Epistle  in  Verse,  ad- 
dressed to  a  Young  Lady.'  In  the  same  year 
he  published  '  Descriptive  Sketches  in  Verse, 
taken  during  a  Pedestrian  Tour  among  the 
Alps,'  of  which  Coleridge  thus  writes  in  his 
'  Biographia  Literaria  : ' — '  During  the  last  of 
my  residence  at  Cambridge,  1794,  I  became 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Wordsworth's  first  publi- 
cation, entitled  "Descriptive  Sketches;" 
and  seldom,  if  ever,  was  the  emergence  of  an 
original  poetic  genius  above  the  literary 
horizon  more  evidently  announced.'  Two 
years  after,  the  two  poets,  then  personally 
unknown  to  each  other,  were  brought  together, 
at  Nether  Stowey,  in  Somersetshire.  Coleridge 
was  then  in  his  twenty-fourth,  and  Words- 
worth in  his  twenty-sixth  year.  A  congeniality 
of  pursuit  soon  ripened  into  intimacy,  and,  in 
September,  1798,  accompanied  by  Miss  Words- 
worth, they  made  a  tour  in  Germany. 

"  Wordsworth's  next  publication  was  the 
first  volume  of  his  '  Lyrical  Ballads,'  published 
just  after  he  had  left  for  the  Continent,  by 
Joseph  Cottle,  of  Bristol,  who  purchased  the 
copyright  for  thirty  guineas.     But  it  proved 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


a  great  failure,  and  Cottle  was  a  loser  by  the 
bargain.  The  critics  were  very  severe  upon 
it.  Jeffrey  in  the  '  Edinburgh,'  Byron  in  his 
'  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Ee viewers,'  and 
James  Smith  in  his  '  Rejected  Addresses,'  and 
others  of  less  note  in  the  literary  world,  all 
fired  their  shafts  of  reason  and  ridicule  at 
him.  Many  years,  therefore,  elapsed  before 
Mr.  Wordsworth  again  appeared  as  a  poet. 
But  he  was  not  idle ;  for  in  the  same  year  that 
witnessed  the  failure  of  his  '  Lyrical  Ballads,' 
he  wrote  his  '  Peter  Bell,'  though  he  kept  it 
by  him  many  years  before  he  published  it. 

"  Wordsworth  married,  in  the  year  1803, 
Miss  Mary  Hutchinson,  of  Penrith,  and  settled 
among  his  beloved  lakes — first  at  Grasmere, 
and  afterward  at  Eydal  Mount.  Southey's 
subsequent  retirement  to  the  same  beautiful 
country,  and  Coleridge's  visits  to  his  brother 
poets,  originated  the  name  of  the  '  Lake 
School  of  Poetry,'  by  which  the  opponents  of 
their  principles  and  the  critics  of  the  '  Edin- 
burgh Review '  distinguished  the  three  poets, 
whose  names  are  so  intimately  connected.  In 
1807,  he  put  forth  two  volumes  of  his  poems, 
and  in  the  autumn  of  1814  appeared,  in  quarto 
form,  the  celebrated  '  Excursion.'  It  consists 
of  sketches  of  life  and  manners  among  the 
mountains,  intermingled  with  moral  and  de- 
votional reflections.  It  is  merely  a  part  of  a 
larger  poem,  which  was  to  be  entitled  '  The 
Recluse,'  and  to  be  prefaced  by  a  minor  one, 
deUneating  the  growth  of  the  author's  mind, 
published  since  his  death  under  the  name  of 
'  The  Prelude.'  '  The  Recluse '  was  to  be 
divided  into  three  parts — the  '  Excursion  ' 
forms  the  second  of  these ;  the  first  book  of 
the  first  part  is  extant  in  manuscript,  but  the 
rest  of  the  work  was  never  completed. 

"  No  sooner  did  the  '  Excursion'  appear,  than 
the  critics  were  down  upon  it  with  a  vengeance. 
'  This  will  never  do,'  was  the  memorable  open- 
ing of  the  article  in  the  '  Edinburgh.'  A  few 
thought  it  '  v/ould  do,'  and  praised  it ;  but 
while  it  was  stiU  dividing  the  critics,  '  Peter 
BeU  '  appeared,  to  throw  among  them  yet 
greater  differences  of  opinion.  The  deriders 
of  the  poet  laughed  still  louder  than  before  ; 
while  his  admirers  believed,  or  affected  to  be- 
lieve, that  it  added  to  the  author's  fame. 
Another  publication  the  next  year — '  The 
White  Doe  of  Rylstone  ' — was  even  more 
severely  handled  by  one  party,  while,  with 
'  the  school,'  it  found  still  greater  favour  than 
anything  that  he  had  written.  In  1820,  he 
published  his  noble  series  of  '  Sonnets  to  the 
River  Duddon,'  which  contain  some  of  his 
finest  poetry.  Two  years  after  appeared  his 
'  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets,'  which  were  composed 
at  the  same  time  that  Southey  was  writing  his 
'  History  of  the  Church.' 

"  In  1831  he  visited  Scotland,  and,  on  his 
way  to  the  Lakes,  had  an  affecting  interview 
— the  last  he  ever  had — with  Sir  Walter,  who 
was  rapidly  failing,  and  was  about  to  set  off 
for  an  Italian  chme.    The  evening  of  the  22nd 


September  was  a  very  sad  one  in  his  antique 
library.  Lockhart  was  there,  and  Allan,  the 
historical  painter.  Wordsworth  was  also 
feeble  in  health,  and  sat  with  a  green  shade 
over  his  eyes,  and  bent  shoulders,  between  his 
daughter  and  Sir  Walter.  The  conversation 
was  melancholy,  and  Sir  Walter  remarked 
that  SmoUett  and  Fielding  had  both'^been 
driven  abroad  by  declining  health,  and  had 
never  returned.  Next  morning  he  left  Abbots- 
ford,  and  his  guests  retu-ed  with  sorrowful 
hearts.  Wordsworth  has  preserved  a  memento 
of  his  own  feelings  in  a  beautiful  sonnet.     In 

1833  he  visited  Staffa  and  lona.      The  year 

1834  was  a  sort  of  era  in  his  life,  by  the 
publication  of  his  complete  works  in  four 
volumes.  His  friends,  however,  now  began  to 
fall  around  him.  That  year  poor  Coleridge  bade 
adieu  to  his  weary  life.  This  must  have 
touched  many  a  chord  of  association  in  Words- 
worth's heart.  In  1836,  his  wife's  sister,  and 
his  constant  friend  and  companion,  died,  and 
blow  followed  blow  in  fatal  succession. 

"As  if  to  console  him  for  the  loss  of  so 
many  that  were  dear  to  his  heart,  worldly 
honours  began  to  be  heaped  upon  him.  In 
1835,  '  Blackwood's  Magazine '  came  out 
strongly  in  his  defence.  In  1839,  amid  the 
acclamations  of  the  students,  he  received  the 
degree  of  Doctor  of  Civil  Law  from  Oxford 
University.  In  1842  he  received  a  pension 
of  .£300  a  year,  with  permission  to  resign  his 
office  of  stamp-distributor  in  favour  of  his 
son.  Next  year  he  was  appointed  to  the 
laureateship  left  vacant  by  the  melancholy 
death  of  Southey.  After  this  he  lived  a  quiet 
and  dignified  life  at  Rydal,  evincing  little  '^ 
apparent  sympathy  with  the  arduous  duties 
and  activities  of  the  every-day  world — a  world 
which  he  left,  calmly  and  peacefully,  at  a  good 
old  age,  on  the  23rd  of  April,  1850. 

"  No  author  in  the  English  language  has  so 
divided  the  critics  as  William  Wordsworth. 
A  few  place  him  in  the  first  class  of  our  poets ; 
while  the  large  majority,  certainly,  of  readers 
see  nothing  in  his  poetry  that  can  fairly  give 
him  such  a  rank.     Gladly  would  I  add  my 
humble  testimony  in  unison  with  that  of  his 
ardent    admirers,  if  I   honestly  could ;   but, 
whether  right  or  wrong,  I  cannot.     I  cheer- 
fully grant  that  his  style  is  simple  and  often 
vigorous ;  that  his  versification  is  smooth  and 
easy ;    that   his   blank   verse   is    manly    and 
idiomatic ;    that    he    shows    great  power  of 
minute    and  faithful  description ;    and  that, 
throughout  his  poetry,  may  be  found  senti- 
ments of  pure  morality  and  deep  wisdom,  such 
as  must  ever  exert  a  happy  moral  influence. 
And   yet  he  never"  moves   me ;    there  is  no 
passion  in  him ;  there  seems  to  be  a  want  of 
naturalness  in  most  that  he  has  written ;  he 
'   never  warms  me  to  admiration,  or  melts  mo 
[   to  tenderness.     Southey  himself  has,  to  my 
I   mind,  well  expressed  the  real  fault  of  both 
I   his  mystical  brethren  : — '  Both  Coleridge  and 
j   Wordsworth,  powerfully  as  they    can   \vrite, 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


and  profoundly  as  they  usually  think,  have 
been  betrayed  into  the  same  fault — that  of 
making  things  easy  of  comprehension  in  them- 
selves, difficult  to  be  comprehended  by  their 
•way  of  stating  them.  Instead  of  going  to  the 
natural  springs  for  water,  they  seem  to  like 
the  labour  of  digging  wells.' 

"  The  following  estimate  of  his  character, 
from  a  recent  critic,  seems  to  me  very  just : — 
'  His  devotion  to  external  nature  had  the 
power  and  persuasiveness  of  a  passion ;  his 
perception  of  its  most  minute  beauties  was 
exquisitely  fine ;  and  his  portraitures,  both  of 
landscapes  and  figures,  were  so  distinctly  out- 
lined as  to  impress  them  on  the  mind  almost 
as  vividly  and  deeply  as  the  sight  of  them 
could  have  done.  But  he  was  defective  in  the 
stronger  passions,  and  hence,  in  spite  of  the 
minuteness  of  his  portraitures  of  character, 
he  failed  to  produce  real  human  beings  capable 
of  stirring  the  blood ;  and  what  was  even 
more  serious,  he  himseK  was  incapacitated 
from  feeling  a  genial  and  warm  sympathy  in 
the  struggles  of  modern  man,  on  whom  he 
rather  looked  as  from  a  distant  height  with 
the  commiseration  of  some  loftier  nature. 
From  the  characteristics  enumerated  arose  the 
great  faults  of  his  works.  His  landscape 
paintings  are  often  much  too  minute.  He 
dwells  too  tediously  on  every  small  object  and 
detail,  and  from  his  over-intense  appreciation 
of  them,  which  magnifies  their  importance, 
rejects  all  extrinsic  ornaments,  and  occa- 
sionally, though  exceptionally,  adopts  a  style 
bare  and  meagre,  and  even  phrases  tainted 
with  mean  associations.  Hence  all  his  per- 
sonages —  being  without  reality —  fail  to 
attract ;  and  even  his  strong  domestic  af- 
fections, and  his  love  for  everything  pure  and 
simple,  do  not  give  a  sufiicient  human  inter- 
est to  his  poems.  His  prolixity  and  tedious- 
ness  are  aggravated  by  a  want  of  artistic  skill 
in  construction ;  and  it  is  owing  to  this  that 
he  is  most  perfect  in  the  sonnet,  which  ren- 
ders the  development  of  these  faults  an  im- 
possibility, while  it  gives  free  play  to  his 
naturally  pure,  tasteful,  and  lofty  diction. 
His  imagination  was  majestic;  his  fancy  lively 
and  sparkling  ;  and  he  had  a  refined  and  Attic 
humour,  which,  however,  he  seldom  called  into 
exercise.'  "—Cleveland's  "  Eng.  Lit.  19th 
Cent." 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLEEIDGE. 

"  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  bom  1772,  died 
1834,  'the  most  imaginative  of  modern  poets,' 
was  the  son  of  the  Rev.  John  Coleridge,  vicar 
of  Ottery,  and  was  bom  at  that  place  in  the 
year  1772.  Losing  his  father  in  early  life,  ho 
obtained,  by  the  kindness  of  a  friend,  a  pre- 
sentation to  Christ  Church  Hospital,  London. 
'I  enjoyed,'  he  says,  'the  inestimable  ad- 
vantage of  a  very  sensible,  though  at  the  same 
time  a  very  severe  master,  the  Rev.  James 


Bowyer,  who  early  moulded  my  taste  to  the 
preference  of  Demosthenes  to  Cicero,  of  Homer 
and  Theocritus  to  Virgil,  and  again  of  Virgil 
to  Ovid,  &c.'  He  made  extraordinary  ad- 
vances in  scholarship,  and  amassed  a  vast 
variety  of  miscellaneous  knowledge,  but  in 
that  random,  desultory  manner  which  through 
life  prevented  him  from  accomplishing  what 
his  great  abilities  qualified  him  for  achieving. 
His  reputation  at  Christ  Church  promised  a 
brilliant  career  at  Cambridge,  which  university 
he  entered  in  1790,  in  his  nineteenth  year.  In 
1794  he  became  acquainted  with  the  poet 
Southey,  then  a  student  at  Baliol  College, 
Oxford,  and  a  warm  friendship  soon  ripened 
between  them ;  and  at  Bristol  they  formed 
the  resolution,  along  with  a  third  poet,  Lovell, 
of  founding  what  they  termed  a  Pantisocrasy, 
or  a  republic  of  pure  freedom,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Susquehanna,  in  Pennsylvania.  In  1795 
the  three  poets  married  three  sisters,  the 
Misses  Fricker,  of  Bristol,  and  thus  the  whole 
pantisocratic  scheme  was  upset. 

"  After  his  marriage,  Coleridge  settled  at 
Clevedon,  near  Bristol,  and  projected  many 
plans  of  industrious  occupation  in  the  fields 
of  literature ;  but  he  soon  became  tired  of 
this  retreat,  and  removed  to  Bristol,  where  he 
was  materially  aided  in  his  designs  of  publica- 
tion by  that  most  generous  and  sympathizing 
publisher,  Joseph  Cottle.  He  first  started  a 
weekly  political  paper,  called  the  '  Watchman,' 
most  of  which  he  wrote  himself ;  but  from  his 
indolent  irregularity,  the  work  stopped  at  the 
tenth  number.  Failing  in  this,  he  retired,  in 
the  latter  part  of  1796,  to  a  cottage  in  Nether 
Stowey,  in  Somersetshire,  on  the  grounds  of 
his  friend  and  benefactor,  Mr.  Poole,  and  near 
Mr.  "Wordsworth.  He  was  at  this  time  in  the 
habit  of  contributing  verses  to  one  of  the 
London  papers,  as  a  means  of  subsistence  ; 
and  it  was  while  residing  here  that  the  greater 
part  of  his  poems  were  composed,  though 
many  were  not  published  till  later  :  these  were 
his  '  Lyrical  Ballads,'  '  Christabel,'  the  '  An- 
cient Mariner,'  and  his  tragedy  of  '  Remorse.' 

"  In  179S  he  was  enabled,  through  the 
munificence  of  Mr.  Thomas  Wedgwood,  to 
travel  in  Germany,  and  to  study  at  some  of 
its  famed  universities.  He  was  very  indus- 
trious in  the  study  of  the  literature  and 
philosophy  of  that  country,  and  may  be  con- 
sidered as  the  introducer  of  German  philosophy 
to  the  notice  of  British  scholars.  After  his 
return  from  Germany,  Coleridge  settled  with 
his  family  at  Keswick,  in  Cumberland,  near 
the  '  Lakes,'  in  which  region  Wordsworth  ami 
Southey  resided,  and  hence  the  appellation  of 
*  Lake  Poets,'  given  to  these  three  individuals. 
In  the  meantime,  his  habit  of  opium-eating, 
into  which  he  had  been  seduced  from  its  ap- 
parent medicinal  effects,  had  gained  tremen- 
dously upon  him,  and  had  undermined  his 
health.  There  is  no  portion  of  literary  history 
more  sad  than  that  which  reveals  the  tyran- 
nical power  which  that  dreadful    habit  had 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


over  him,  and  his  repeated  but  vain  struggles 
to  overcome  it.  It  made  him  its  victim,  and 
held  him,  boimd  hand  and  foot,  with  a  giant's 
strength.  In  consequence  of  his  enfeebled 
health,  he  went  to  Malta  in  1804,  and  returned 
in  1806.  From  this  period  till  about  1816, 
he  led  a  sort  of  wandering  life,  sometimes 
with  one  friend  and  sometimes  with  another, 
and  much  of  the  time  separated  from  his 
family,  supporting  himself  by  lecturing,  pub- 
lishing, and  \vriting  for  the  London  papers. 
The  great  defect  in  his  character  was  the  want 
of  resoluteness  of  will.  He  saw  that  his  perni- 
cious habit  was  destroying  his  own  happiness, 
and  that  of  those  dearest  to  him,  entangling 
him  in  meanness,  deceit,  and  dishonesty,  and 
yet  he  had  not  the  strength  of  will  to  break  it 
off. 

"  In  1816  he  placed  himself  under  the  care 
of  Mr.  Gillman,  a  physician  in  Highgate, 
London,  and  with  his  generous  family  he  re- 
sided till  his  death.  Most  of  his  prose  works 
he  published  between  the  j'ears  1817  and  1825 
— the  two  '  Lay  Sermons,'  the  '  Biographia 
Literaria,'  the  '  Friend,'  in  three  volumes,  and 
the  'Aids  to  Reflection,'  and  the  '  Constitution 
of  the  Church  and  State.'  After  his  death, 
which  took  place  on  the  25th  of  July,  1834, 
collections  were  made  of  his  '  Table  Talk,'  and 
other  '  Literary  Remains.' 

"  Few  men  have  exerted  a  greater  influence 
upon  the  thinking  mind  of  the  nineteenth 
century  than  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  whether 
we  regard  his  poetry  or  his  prose  writings.  He 
wrote,  however,  for  the  scholastic  few  rather 
than  for  the  reading  many.  Hence  he  has 
never  become  what  may  be  called  a  popular 
writer,  and  never  will  be.  But  if  he  exerted 
not  so  great  an  influence  upon  the  popular 
mind  directly,  he  did  indirectly  through  those 
who  have  studied  and  admired  his  works,  and 
have  themselves  popularized  his  own  recondite 
conceptions.  His  '  Aids  to  Reflection  in  the 
Formation  of  a  Manly  Character'  is  a  book 
full  of  wisdom,  of  sound  Christian  morality, 
and  of  the  most  just  observations  on  life  and 
duty ;  and  from  his  '  Series  of  Essays — the 
Friend,'  might  be  culled  gems  of  rich,  and 
beautiful,  and  profound  thought  that  would 
make  a  volume  of  priceless  worth.  His  poetry 
unites  great  vividness  of  fancy  to  a  lofty 
elevation  of  moral  feeling  and  unsurpassed 
melody  and  versification ;  but  then  much  of 
it  must  be  said  to  be  obscure.  He  himself, 
in  fact,  admits  this,  when  he  says,  in  a  later 
edition  of  one  of  his  poems,  that  where  he 
appears  unintelligible,  'the  deficiency  is  in 
the  reader.'  Still,  there  is  enough  that  is 
clear  left  to  delight,  instruct,  and  exalt  the 
mind  ;  and  few  authors  have  left  to  the 
world,  both  in  prose  and  poetry,  so  much 
delicious  and  invigorating  food  on  which  the 
worn  spirit  may  feed  with  pleasure  and  profit, 
and  gain  renewed  strength  for  the  conflicts  of 
the  world,  as  this  philosophic  poet  and  poetic 
philosopher. 


"  In  conversation,  Coleridge  particularly 
shone.  Here,  probably,  he  never  had  his 
equal,  so  that  he  gained  the  title  of  the 
'  Great  Conversationalist.'  '  It  is  deeply  to 
be  regretted,'  says  an  admiring  critic,  '  that 
his  noble  genius  was,  to  a  great  extent, 
frittered  away  in  conversation,  which  he 
could  pour  forth,  unpremeditatedlj,  for 
hours,  in  uninterrupted  streams  of  vivid, 
dazzling,  original  thinking.'  '  Did  you  ever 
hear  me  preach  ? '  said  Coleridge  to  Lamb. 
'  I  never  heard  you  do  anything  else,'  was 
his  friend's  reply.  Certainly  through  this 
medium  he  watered  with  his  instructions  a 
large  circle  of  discipleship  ;  but  what  trea- 
sures of  thought  has  the  world  lost  by  his 
unwillingness  to  make  his  pen  the  mouthpiece 
of  his  mind  !  " — Cleveland's  "  Eng.  Lit.  19th 
Cent."  See  AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit."  ;  Gilfillan's  "  Literary  Gallery." 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

Robert  Southey,  bom  at  Bristol,  1774; 
died  at  Keswick,  Cumberland,  1843 ;  an 
eminent  English  poet  and  general  writer,  was 
the  son  of  a  linendraper  at  Bristol,  and  was 
sent  to  Westminster  School  in  1788,  from 
which  establishment  he  was  dismissed  four 
years  afterwards,  in  consequence  of  having 
written  a  sarcastic  attack  upon  the  system  of 
corporal  punishment  pursued  in  the  school. 
He  was,  however,  entered  of  Baliol  College, 
Oxford,  it  being  intended  that  he  should  take 
holy  orders.  For  this  pursuit  he  himself  had 
little  sympathy ;  indeed,  he  was  quite  un- 
qualified for  it,  being  then  a  sceptic  both  in 
politics  and  religion.  At  Oxford  he  declared 
that  he  learned  only  two  things — to  row  and 
to  swim ;  but,  even  while  there,  that  Hterary 
industry,  which  is  almost  without  a  parallel, 
became  a  habit  with  him.  About  a  year  after 
leaving  Oxford,  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Coleridge,  and  the  two  poets  married  on  the 
same  day  two  sisters.  After  supporting  him- 
self for  a  short  time  by  lecturing  on  history, 
in  Bristol,  he  sold  his  poem,  entitled  "Joan 
of  Arc,"  to  Cottle,  the  Bristol  bookseller,  for 
fifty  guineas.  His  maternal  uncle,  the  Rev. 
Mr,  HOI,  chaplain  of  the  British  factory  at 
Lisbon,  at  whose  expense  Southey  had  been 
kept  at  Oxford,  visited  England  shortly  after 
his  nephew's  first  appearance  as  a  poet,  and 
endeavoured  to  induce  him  to  enter  the 
Church :  but  although  Southey  had  by  thia 
time  become  reconciled  to  her  doctrines,  he 
steadily  refused  to  take  orders.  On  his  uncle's 
return  to  Lisbon,  Southey  accompanied,  and 
remained  in  Spain  and  Portugal  during  six 
months.  In  1796  he  produced  "  Letters  from 
Spain  and  Portugal ;  "  and  in  the  following 
year  entered  himself  as  a  student  of  the  law 
at  Gray's  Inn.  He  wrote  to  his  publisher, 
"  I  advance  with  sufficient  rapidity  in  Black- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Pekiod/ 


stone  and  '  Madoc'  I  hope  to  finisli  my  poem 
and  begin  my  practice  in  about  two  years." 
At  the  end  of  this  time  the  poem  was  com- 
pleted, but  the  law  was  given  up  as  imprac- 
ticable. After  a  second  visit  to  Lisbon,  he 
obtained,  upon  his  return  to  England,  an 
appointment  as  private  secretary  to  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  for  Ireland  ;  but 
in  six  months  the  poet  relinquished  what  he 
called  "a  foolish  office  and  a  good  salary." 
This  was  in  1801,  and  with  this  year  dates 
his  entrance  upon  literature  as  a  profession. 
He  obtained  sufficient  employment  from  the 
booksellers,  and  after  making  several  success- 
ful appearances  as  an  author,  he,  in  1804, 
settled  at  Greta  Hall,  near  Keswick,  Cum- 
berland, where  the  remaining  years  of  his  life 
were  passed.  In  1807  he  received  a  pension 
from  the  Government ;  in  1813  he  succeeded 
Mr.  Pye  as  poet  laureate ;  and  under  the 
ministry  of  Sir  Eobert  Peel,  a  second  pension 
of  .£300  per  annum  was  bestowed  upon  him. 
He  was  at  the  same  time  offered  a  baronetcy 
by  Sir  Eobert  ;  but  this  Southey  declined, 
because  too  poor  to  support  the  dignity.  He 
lost  his  first  wife  in  1837,  and  two  years  later 
was  united  to  Miss  Caroline  Bowles,  the 
poetess.  He  was  the  author  of  more  than  one 
hundred  volumes  of  poetry,  history,  travels, 
&c. ;  and,  moreover,  produced  one  hundred 
and  twenty-six  papers  of  various  lengths, 
upon  history,  biography,  politics,  and  general 
literature.  The  principal  efforts  of  his  life  of 
unwearied  industry  were,  "Joan  of  Arc"; 
"  Madoc  ";  "  Thalaba,  the  Destroyer  ";  *'  The 
Curse  of  Kehama,"  poems  :  the  lives  of  Nelson, 
Bunyan,  John  Wesley,  Kirke  White,  prefixed 
to  his  "  Eemains ; "  the  History  of  the 
Peninsular  War,  of  Brazil,  and  of  Portugal ; 
•'  Sir  Thomas  More  ;  or,  Colloquies  upon  the 
Church  ";  "  The  Doctor  "  ;  and  essays  moral 
and  political.  His  "  Life  and  Correspondence," 
edited  by  his  son,  were  published  in  1850.  His 
son-in-law,  the  Eev.  J.  Wood  Warter,  also 
gave  to  the  public  his  commonplace  books. — 
See  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.";  "Life  of  Southey,"  by 
Warter. 


CHAELES  LAMB. 

Charles  Lamb,  born  in  London,  1774;  died 
at  Edmonton,  1834 ;  a  distinguished  English 
essayist  and  humorist,  was  the  son  of  a  clerk 
to  Mr.  Salt,  a  bencher  of  the  Inner  Temple,  in 
which  legal  stronghold  he  first  saw  the  light. 
He  was  sent  at  an  early  age  to  Christ's  Hos- 
pital, where  Coleridge  was  his  schoolfellow. 
Eeared  in  the  very  heart  of  the  metropolis,  he 
throughout  life  evinced  a  strong  perception  of 
the  splendour,  squalidness,  excitement,  and 
oddities  of  the  great  world  of  London.  "  I 
often  shed  tears,"  he  said,  "  in  tne  motley 
Strand,  for  fulness  of  joy  at  so  much  life." 
An  impediment  in  his  speech  prevented  his 


gaining  an  exhibition  at  the  university,  and, 
in  1792,  he  became  a  clerk  in  the  India  House, 
a  post  he  retained  during  thirty-three  years. 
With  the  exception  of  one  terrible  circum- 
stance, his  life  was  very  uneventful.  In  1796 
his  sister,  worn  out  by  constant  toil  at  her 
needle,  took  her  mother's  life  in  an  uncon- 
trollable fit  of  frenzy.  He  first  appeared  as 
an  author  in  a  small  book  of  poems,  published 
in  conjunction  with  Coleridge  and  Lloyd.  Al- 
though this  was  severely  handled  by  the 
"Anti-Jacobin,"  Lamb  was  not  deterred  from 
authorship  ;  for,  some  time  afterwards,  he 
produced  a  drama,  entitled  "  John  WoodviU." 
His  delightful  "  Essays  of  Elia,"  upon  which 
his  fame  mainly  rests,  were  first  printed  in 
the  "  London  Magazine."  He  was  highly 
esteemed  by  a  large  intellectual  circle,  among 
which  may  be  named  his  life-long  friend 
Coleridge,  Leigh  Hunt,  Southey,  Eogers,  and 
Talfourd.  The  last  gentleman  published 
"  Lamb's  Letters,"  and  "  Final  Memorials," 
in  1848  ;  and  those  who  would  fully  appreciate 
his  captivating  essays,  and  morsels  of  auto- 
biography scattered  through  his  writings, 
should  consult  these  tributes  to  a  genial  and 
estimable  man.  His  complete  works  include 
two  volumes  of  verse,  the  "  Essays  of  Elia," 
and  "  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets 
who  lived  about  the  time  of  Shakspere."  The 
"Farewell  to  Tobacco,"  "Essay  on  Eoast 
Pig,"  "Christ's  Hospital  Thirty  Years  Ago," 
and  the  "Old  Benchers  of  Lincoln's  Inn," 
may  be  mentioned  as  representative  bits  of 
his  refined,  quaint,  easy  humour.  In  one  of 
his  last  essays  of  "  Elia,"  he  records  his 
feelings  on  being  released  from  drudgery  at 
the  India  House,  in  a  delightful  manner.  The 
paper  is  called  "  The  Superannuated  Man  ;  " 
and  the  event  happened  in  1825.  His  death 
was  the  consequence  of  what  was  at  first 
thought  but  a  slight  accident.  For  quaint, 
genial,  and  unconventional  humour.  Lamb 
has,  perhaps,  never  been  excelled. — See  Shaw's 
"  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." ;  Professor  Spalding ; 
Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." ;  Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  SOTHEBY. 

William  Sotheby,  born  in  London,  1757; 
died  1833 ;  an  English  writer,  who,  after 
serving  as  an  officer  in  the  10th  Dragoons, 
retired  to  his  estate  near  Southampton,  where, 
as  well  as  in  London  at  a  subsequent  period,  ho 
devoted  his  leisure  to  literature.  He  produced 
some  tragedies  and  poems,  and  translated 
Wieland's  "  Oberon,"  the  "Georgics"  of 
Virgil,  and  Homer's  "  Iliad "  and  "  Odys- 
sey." 


WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES. 

"  William  Lisle  Bowles,    born  1762,  died 
1850,  the  son  of  the  Eev,  William  Thomas 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Bowles,  vicar  of  King's-Sutton,  jS^orthampton- 
shire,  was  born  at  that  place  on  the  25th  of 
September,  1762.  In  1766  he  was  placed  on 
theWjkeham  foundation  at  Winchester,  under 
Dr.  Joseph  Warton.  Naturally  a  timid,  diffi- 
dent boy,  he  ever  expressed  a  grateful  obliga- 
tion to  the  kind  encourgement  he  received 
from  that  eminent  man,  who  sympathized  very 
cordially  with  any  manifestations  of  poetic 
talents.  During  his  last  j^ear  at  Winchester, 
he  was  at  the  head  of  the  school,  and  in  con- 
sequence of  this  distinction  he  was  elected,  in 
1781,  a  scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford. 
In  1783  he  gained  the  chancellor's  prize  for 
Latin  verse,  the  subject  being  Calpe  Obsessa, 
'The  Siege  of  Gibraltar.'  In  1789  he  pub- 
lished twenty  of  his  beautiful  sonnets,  which 
were  followed  in  the  same  year  by  '  Verses  to 
John  Howard,  on  his  State  of  the  Prisons  and 
Lazarettos,'  and  in  1790  by  '  The  Grave  of 
Howard.'  These  and  other  poetical  works 
were  collected  in  1796,  and  so  well  were  they 
received,  that  repeated  editions  were  pub- 
lished. 

"  In  1797  he  was  married  to  Magdalen, 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Charles  Wake,  pre- 
bendary of  Westminster.  She  died  some  years 
before  him,  leaving  no  cloildren.  Having  en- 
tered the  ministry,  he  obtained  the  vicarage 
of  BremhUl  in  1804,  which  was  his  constant 
residence  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
In  'the  latter  part  of  his  life  be  resided  at 
Salisbury,  where  he  died  on  the  7th  of  April, 
1850. 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  enumerate  aU  of 
Mr.  Bowles's  publications  :  but  the  following 
are  his  principal  poems.  '  The  Battle  of  the 
Nile,'  published  in  1799  ;  '  The  Sorrows  of 
Switzerland,'  in  1801 ;  '  The  Spirit  of  Dis- 
cover}', or  Conquest  of  Ocean,'  in  1805  ;  '  The 
Missionary  of  the  Andes,'  in  1815 ;  '  The 
Grave  of  the  Last  Saxon,'  in  1822  ;  '  St.  John 
in  Patmos,'  in  1832,  His  last  poetical  com- 
positions were  contained  in  a  volume  published 
in  1837,  entitled  '  Scenes  and  Shadows  of 
Daj^s  .Departed,  a  Narrative  ;  accompanied 
by  Poems  of  Youth,  and  some  other  poems  of 
Melancholy  and  Fancy,  in  the  Journey  of  Life 
from  Youth  to  Age.'  He  also  ;printed  several 
editions  of  a  pleasing  little  volume  of  simple 
poetry,  entitled  '  The  Village  Verse-Book,' 
written  to  excite  in  the  youthful  mind  the 
first  feelings  of  religion  and  humanity,  from 
familiar  rural  objects. 

"  In  1807,  Mr.  Bowles  edited  '  The  Works 
of  Alexander  Pope,  in  Verse  and  Prose,'  in 
ten  volumes;  and  in  this  labour  (it  would 
-seem  not  of  love)  he  displayed,  as  editor,  what 
is  rather  a  singular  phenomenon  in  the  literary 
world,  prepossessions  adverse  to  the  claims 
and  merits  of  his  author.  He  laid  down  this 
proposition  as  a  universal  truth,  'that  all 
images  drawn  from  what  is  beautiful  or  sub- 
lime in  the  works  of  nature,  are  more  beautiful 
and  sublime  than  any  images  drawn  from  art ; 
and  tliat  they  are    therefore,  per  se,   more 


poetical.'  The  truth  of  this  dogma  was  of 
course  warmly  disputed,  and  Campbell,  Byron, 
and  others  entered  into  the  contest  in  behalf 
of  Pope.  The  latter,  doubtless,  had  the 
better  of  the  argument :  a  pyramid  may 
raise  as  strong  emotions  in  the  breast  as  the 
mountain  ;  and,  as  Byron  said,  a  ship  in  the 
wind,  with  all  sails  set,  is  a  more~ poetical 
object  than  '  a  hog  in  the  vnnd,'  though  the 
hog  is  all  nature,  and  the  ship  all  art. 

"  Mr.  Bowles  is  probably  more  indebted  for 
his  fame  to  his  Sonnets  than  to  any  of  his  other 
writings.  Of  these,  Mr.  Hallam,  in  an  ad- 
dress recently  delivered  at  the  anniversary  of 
the  Eoyal  Society  of  Literature,  thus  speaks  : 
'  The  Sonnets  of  Bowles  may  be  reckoned 
among  the  first  fruits  of  a  new  era  in  poetry. 
They  came  in  an  age  when  a  commonplace 
facility  in  rhyming  on  the  one  hand,  and  an 
almost  nonsensical  affectation  in  a  new  school 
on  the  other,  had  lowered  the  standard  so 
much,  that  critical  judges  spoke  of  English 
poetry  ae  of  something  nearly  extinct,  and 
disdained  to  read  what  they  were  sure  to 
disapprove.  In  these  sonnets  there  was  ob- 
served a  grace  of  expression,  a  musical  versi- 
fication, and  especially  an  air  of  melancholy 
tenderness,  so  congenial  to  the  poetical  tem- 
perament, which  stiU,  after  sixty  years  of  a 
more  propitious  period  than  that  which  im- 
mediately preeeded  their  publication,  preserves 
for  their  author  a  highly  respectable  position 
among  our  poets.'  " — Cleveland's  "Eng.  Lit. 
19th  Cent."  See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit."  ;  Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


WALTEPw  SAVAGE  LANDOE. 

Walter  Savage  Landor,  born  1775,  died 
1864.  "  His  father  was  a  gentleman  of  good 
family  and  wealthy  circumstances  residing  in 
Warwickshire.  The  son  entered  Eugby  at  an 
early  age,  and  thence  proceeded  to  Trinity 
College,  Oxford.  Like  many  others  who  have 
taken  important  literary  positions,  he  left  the 
university  without  a  degree ;  and  though  in- 
tended at  first  for  the  army,  and  afterwards 
for  the  bar,  he  declined  both  professions,  and 
threw  himself  into  literature,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  a  liberal  allowance  from  his  father. 
In  1795  his  first  work — a  volume  of  poems — 
appeared,  followed  early  in  the  present  century 
by  a  translation  into  Latin  of  '  Gebir,'  one  of 
his  own  English  poems.  Landor  had  no  small 
facility  in  classical  composition,  and  he  ap- 
peared to  have  the  power  of  transporting 
himself  into  the  times  and  sentiments  of 
Greece  and  Eome.  This  is  still  more  clearly 
seen  in  the  '  Heroic  Idylls '  (1820),  in  Latin 
verse  ;  and  the  reproduction  of  Greek  thought 
in  '  The  Hellenics '  is  one  of  the  most  suc- 
cessful attempts  of  its  land.  At  the  death 
of  his  father,  the  poet  found  himself  in  pos- 
session of  an  extensive  estate,  but  longing  for 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Pesiod.-— 


a  life  of  greater  freedom  and  less  monotony  than 
that  of  an  English  country  gentleman,  he  sold 
his  patrimony,  and  took  up  his  abode  on  the 
continent,  where  he  resided  during  the  rest 
of  his  hfe,  with  occasional  visits  to  his  native 
country.  The  republican  spirit  which  led  him 
to  take  part  as  a  volunteer  in  the  Spanish 
rising  of  1808  continued  to  burn  fiercely  to 
the  last.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  defend 
tyrannicide,  and  boldly  offered  a  pension  to 
the  widow  of  any  one  who  would  murder  a 
despot.  Between  1820  and  1830  he  was  en- 
gaged upon  his  greatest  work,  '  Imaginary 
Conversations  of  Literary  Men  and  StateS' 
men.'  This  wasfoUowed  in  1831  by  '  Poems, 
'  Letters  by  a  Conservative,'  '  Satire  on  Sa 
tirists '  (1836),  '  Pentameron  and  Pentalogue 
(1837),  and  a  long  series  in  prose  and  poetry 
of  which  the  chief  are  the  '  Hellenics,'  en 
larged  and  completed,  '  Dry  Sticks  Fagoted, 
and  'The  Last  Fruit  off  an  old  Tree.'  He 
resided  towards  the  close  of  his  life  at  Bath ; 
but  some  four  or  five  years  before  his  death  a 
libel  on  a  lady,  for  which  he  was  condemned 
to  pay  heavy  damages,  drove  him  again  from 
his  country,  and  he  retired  to  his  Italian 
home  near  Florence,  and  there  in  serene  old 
age  '  the  Nestor  of  English  poets,'  one  of  the 
last  literary  links  with  the  age  of  the  French 
Republic,  passed  quietly  away.  He  died  on 
the  17th  of  September,  1864,  an  exile  from 
his  country,  misunderstood,  from  the  very 
individuality  of  his  genius,  by  the  majority  of 
his  countrymen,  but  highly  appreciated  by 
those  who  could  rightly  estimate  the  works 
he  has  left  behind  him. 

"  It  has  been  weU  said  of  the  author  of 
'  Imaginary  Conversations,'  that  no  writer 
presents  '  as  remarkable  an  instance  of  the 
strength  and  weakne  s  s  of  the  human  understand- 
ing.' Landor  was  a  man  of  refined  tastes  and 
cultured  mind.  A  gentleman  by  birth,  every 
line  of  his  writings  gives  proofs  of  the  learned 
and  polished  intellect.  But  unhappily  his 
great  powers  were  marred  by  the  heedlessness 
and  rashness  of  his  disposition,  strong  pas- 
sions, and  an  unrestrained  will.  There  is  no 
regard  for  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  others. 
He,  therefore,  is  too  fond  of  paradox  and 
unfounded  assertion.  His  opinion  must  be 
received,  because  it  is  his ;  he  runs  against 
every  one  else,  and  believes  what  no  one  else 
believes,  and  scouts  those  ideas  which  have 
received  universal  assent.  Thus,  Napoleon 
Buonaparte  was  a  man  of  no  genius ;  Alfieri 
the  greatest  man  that  Europe  has  seen  ;  Pitt 
was  a  poor  creature,  and  Fox  a  charlatan.  It 
was  this  unhappy  inconsistency,  paradox,  and 
wilfulness,  which  prevented  his  writings  ob- 
taining that  position  which  was  their  due. 
His  style  is  nervous  and  graceful.  In  the 
'  Imaginary  Conversations '  the  tones  and 
manners  of  the  age  or  individual  are  well 
rendered,  and  the  whole  work  is  evidently  that 
of  a  man  deeply  in  earnest,  yet  wanting  in  that 
gentleness,    considerateness,    and    prudence, 


which  are  required  in  a  really  valuable  pro- 
duction."— Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp. 
459,  460. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 

Thomas  Moore,  born  at  Dublin,  1789 ;  died 
1852,  a  celebrated  poet,  was  the  son  of  a 
small  tradesman  at  Dublin,  and  after  receiving 
some  education  at  a  school  in  the  same  city, 
was  entered  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in 
1794.  He  had  already  commenced  rhyme- 
making,  and  had  inserted  two  poems  in  a 
Dublin  Magazine.  His  collegiate  career  was 
somewhat  distinguished ;  but  being  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  faith,  he  was  not  permitted 
to  take  honours.  About  1799  he  went  to 
London,  and  entered  himself  of  the  Middle 
Temple,  with  the  view  of  adopting  the  law  as 
his  profession.  In  1801  he  produced  the 
"  Odes  of  Anacreon,"  which  he  had  composed 
while  at  college,  and  in  the  following  year  the 
"  Poetical  Works  of  the  late  Thomas  Little," 
a  coDection  of  lyrics  in  imitation  of  Catullus. 
He  now  began  to  be  introduced  to  the  fashion- 
able circle  in  which,  throughout  his  after-life, 
he  sought  to  move.  Through  the  influence  of 
Lord  Moira  he  was,  in  the  following  year, 
appointed  to  a  post  at  Bermuda ;  but  finding, 
on  his  arrival,  that  the  situation  was  dis- 
tasteful to  him,  he  returned  almost  immediately. 
He  pursued  his  homeward  journey  throughout 
the  United  States,  and  visited  New  York, 
Virginia,  Boston,  Niagara,  and  Quebec,  Soon 
after  his  arrival  in  England,  he  put  forth  his 
"  Odes  and  Epistles,"  which  being  severely 
criticised  by  Jeffrey,  led  to  the  "  bloodless 
duel"  between  himself  and  that  gentleman, 
satirized  by  Byron  in  his  "  EngUsh  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers."  At  this  period  he 
was  much  courted  by  the  noble  and  the 
fashionable,  and  was  a  constant  guest  at 
Holland  and  Lansdown  Houses.  He  had  a 
sweet  voice,  and  being  a  good  musician,  was 
in  the  habit  of  singing  the  melodies  of  his 
native  land  with  much  success  at  aristocratic 
reunions.  This  fact  led  to  his  engaging  him- 
seK  to  write  a  series  of  Irish  melodies,  the 
accompaniments  to  which  were  to  be  adapted 
from  Irish  airs  by  Sir  John  Stevenson.  This 
task  was  not  completed  until  1834.  Of  a 
similar  character  were  his  "National  Airs" 
and  "  Sacred  Songs."  In  1812,  his  friend 
Mr.  Perry,  editor  of  the  "Morning  Chronicle," 
negotiated  on  his  behalf  with  the  Messrs. 
Longman  the  sale  of  a  quarto  volume  of 
poems,  for  which  Moore  was  to  receive  3,000 
guineas.  Five  years  afterwards,  this  poem 
appeared  under  the  title  of  "  Lalla  Rookh," 
and  was  immediately  highly  successful.  This 
brilliant  composition  was  something  quite 
new  to  the  public,  who  were  captivated  with 
its  rich  colouring,  its  melody,  and  its  oriental 
spirit.  The  "  Fudge  Family  in  Paris  "  was 
his  next  work,  taid  was  the  result  of  a  visit 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


to  the  French  capital,  made  in  company  with 
Mr.  Rogers.  He  soon  afterwards  learned  that 
his  deputy  at  Bermuda,  "  after  keeping  back 
from  him  the  proper  receipts  of  his  office, 
had  made  free  with  the  proceeds  of  a  ship 
and  cargo  deposited  in  his  hands."  For 
this,  Doctors'  Commons  made  a  claim  upon 
him  to  the  amount  of  d£6,000.  The  poet's 
friends  proffered  assistance ;  but  he  honour- 
ably resolved  to  pay  off  the  claim  out  of  the 
earnings  of  his  pen.  The  remaining  years 
of  his  life  may  be  described  as  an  untiring 
pursuit  of  poetry,  prose,  and  fashionable 
society.  As  Byron  said,  he  dearly  loved  a 
lord,  and  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  noble.  The  simple  enu- 
meration of  his  chief  productions  vnM  show, 
however,  that  he  did  not  trifle  with  or  neglect 
the  magnificent  gifts  with  which  nature  had 
endowed  him.  During  the  subsequent  twenty 
years  he  laboured  incessantly,  and  gave  to  the 
world,  among  others,  ''  The  Loves  of  the 
Angels,'"'  a  poem;  "The  Epicurean,"  a  prose- 
poetical  romance ;  "  Fables  of  the  Holy  Al- 
liance;" "  Memoirs  of  Captain  Rock;"  "The 
Summer  Fete;  "  "The  Life  of  Lord  Edward 
Fitzgerald ;  "  '•  The  History  of  Ireland; "  and 
"  The  I^Ife  of  Sheridan."  Some  time  pre- 
viously to  the  year  1821,  Lord  Byron  entrusted 
Moore  with  his  manuscript  autobiography, 
which  was  to  be  published  for  Moore's  benefit, 
but  not  until  after  Byron's  death.  In  1821 
Moore  soid  the  MS.  to  Murray,  and  engaged 
to  edit  it  for  the  sum  of  2,000  guineas.  In 
1824  Byron  died,  but  Lady  Byron,  deeming 
that  the  publication  of  the  autobiography 
was  calculated  to  injure  the  character  of  her 
husband  and  his  family,  offered  to  repay  to  Mr. 
Murray  the  sum  he  had  advanced  to  Moore. 
This  the  poet  would  not  accede  to  ;  but,  after 
some  altercation,  Moore  himseK  repaid  the 
sum  he  had  obtained  from  the  publisher,  and 
the  MS.  was  burnt.  He,  however,  %vrote  a ' '  Life 
of  Byron  "  for  the  Messrs.  Longman  for  alike 
sum.  As  a  poet,  he  displayed  grace,  pathos, 
tenderness,  and  a  luxuriant  imagination ;  his 
melody  was  tender  and  flowing,  but  it  was 
deficient  in  power  and  naturalness.  His 
literary  merits  obtained  for  him,  in  1835,  a 
pension  of  ^6300  per  annum.  The  "  Irish 
Melodies"  and  "Lalla  Rookh"  have  passed 
through  many  editions,  and  are  still  ex- 
ceedingly popular.  During  the  last  years  of 
his  Hfe,  Moore  was  engaged  in  completing  a 
collected  edition  of  his  poetical  works,  which 
was  published  after  his  death.  His  character 
was  vain,  but  kindly,  and  many  proofs  of  his 
goodness  of  heart  appear  in  the  "  Memoirs 
and  Correspondence  of  Thomas  Moore," 
edited  by  Earl  Russell  in  1855. — Shaw's 
"Hist.  Eng.  Lit.";  Dr.  Angus's  "Handbook 
of  Eng.  Lit."  ;  Earl  Russell's  "  Memoirs  of 
Moore  ;  "  Chambers's  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.;"  Pro- 
fessor Spalding. 


JOHN   HOOKHAM   FRERE. 

John  Hookham  Frere,  born  1769,  died  1846, 
a  friend  of  Canning,  whom  he  assisted  in  the 
paper  called  "The  Anti- Jacobin,"  was  Charge 
d' Affaires  in  Spain  with  General  Moore,  and 
afterwards  Resident  at  Malta,  where  he  died, 
aged  77.  He  was  the  author  of  the -once 
celebrated  satiric  poem,  published  in  1817, 
entitled  "Pi-ospectus  and  Specimen  of  an 
intended  National  Work  by  William  and 
Robert  Whistlecraft,  &c."  It  was  written  in 
"  ollava  rima,"  and  was  a  clever  burlesque  of 
romantic  writings,  with  here  and  there  a 
touch  of  real  poetry.  It  was  the  model  on 
which  Byron  wrote  his  "Beppo."  He  was 
also  the  author  of  the  "War  Song  of  Brun- 
nenburg,"  published  by  Ellis  as  a  fourteenth 
century  production,  but  reaUy  written  by  the 
author  when  at  school  at  Eton,  during  the 
great  discussion  on  the  "  Rowley  Poems,"  by 
Chatterton.  Frere,  also,  made  an  admirable 
translation  into  English  verse  of  the  "  Achar- 
nians,"  "Knights,"  "  Birds,"  and  "Frogs" 
of  Aristophanes,  which  was  printed  at  Malta. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

Thomas  Campbell,  bom  at  Glasgow  1777, 
died  at  Boulogne  1844,  one  of  the  most 
chaste  of  modern  poets,  was  the  youngest  of 
a  famUy  consisting  of  eleven  sons  and  daugh- 
ters. After  passing  through  the  University 
of  Glasgow,  in  which  he  excelled  as  a  Greek 
scholar,  he  went  to  Edinburgh,  where,  in 
1799,  he  published  his  "Pleasures  of  Hope," 
which  Byron,  who  ought  to  be  a  judge,  pro- 
nounced to  be  "  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
didactic  poems  in  the  language."  It,  how- 
ever, has  some  of  the  faults  of  a  juvenile 
performance,  notwithstanding  the  splendour 
of  its  diction,  and  the  fervour  with  which  it 
is  throughout  imbued.  The  profits  arising 
from  this  performance  enabled  him  to  visit 
the  Continent.  During  this  tour  he  had  a 
view  from  a  distance  of  the  battle  of 
Hohenlinden,  which  he  afterwards  celebrated 
in  his  epic  poem  of  that  name.  On  his  re- 
turn to  Edinburgh  he  continued  to  write,  but 
in  1803  removed  to  London,  where  he  began 
to  pursue  literature  as  a  profession.  In  1806 
he  received  from  the  Fox  Ministry  a  pension 
of  d6200  a  year,  which  he  enjoyed  for  life. 
In  1809  he  published  his  "  Gertrude  of 
Wyoming,"  which  Lord  Jeffrey  pronounced 
"  a  polished  and  pathetic  poem  in  the  old 
style  of  English  pathos  and  poetry."  It  is 
unquestionably  superior  to  the  "  Pleasures  of 
Hope"  in  purity  of  diction,  and  in  every 
other  quahty  its  equal.  In  1820  he  became 
the  editor  of  the  "  New  Monthly  Magazine," 
which  post  he  held  till  1830.  In  1824  ap- 
peared his  "  Theodoric,"  a  poem  of  great 
sweetness,  though  deficient  in  power.  In 
1831  he  established  the  "  Metropolitan  Maga- 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


zine,"  wliich  he  managed  only  a  short  time. 
In  1842  he  published  his  "  Pilgrim  of 
Glencoe,"  which  did  not  raise  his  poetical 
character  above  the  point  it  already  had  at- 
tained. During  his  intervals  of  repose  from 
severer  duties,  he  occasionally  produced  smaller 
ejffusions,  which,  from  their  strength  and 
beauty,  have  long  kept  possession  of  the 
poptilar  mind.  His  lyrics  are,  perhaps,  the 
noblest  bursts  of  poetical  feeling,  fervour, 
and  enthusiasm,  that  have  ever  flashed  from 
any  poet.  Campbell,  also,  wrote  several 
prose  biographies  and  other  works.  He  was 
elected  twice  to  the  Lord  Rectorship  of 
Glasgow  University,  and  took  an  active  part 
in  forming  the  London  University,  now  Uni- 
versity College,  which  he  indeed  claimed  the 
merit  of  originating.  His  body  rests  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  where,  near  the  centre 
of  the  Poet's  Corner,  there  is  a  marble  statue 
of  him  by  Marshall. — Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng. 
Lit.";  Dr.  Angus's  "Handbook";  Beeton's 
"Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  ;  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet. 
Eng.  Lit." 


MATTHEW  GEEGORY  LEWIS. 

Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  born  in  London, 
1775,  died  at  sea  1818,  an  English  novelist, 
was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  man,  who  was 
Deputy  Secretary-at-War.  After  studying  at 
Christchurch,  he  went  to  Germany,  where  he 
became  acquainted  with  Gothe,  and  imbibed 
a  taste  for  the  mysterious  and  the  tragic.  The 
best-known  of  his  romances  is  the  "  Monk," 
first  published  in  1794,  a  work  charged  with 
horrors  and  libertinism  of  spirit.  He  was, 
nevertheless,  a  kind  and  charitable  man,  as 
was  evidenced  by  his  treatment  of  the  slaves 
upon  the  Jamaica  estates  he  inherited  from 
his  father.  He  was  a  fluent  versifier,  and  his 
"  Alonzo  the  Brave  "  is  still  found  to  contain 
interest.  In  1812  he  produced  a  drama 
entitled  "  Timour  the  Tartar,"  and  subse- 
quently a  work  called  "  Residence  in  the 
West  Indies,"  since  reprinted  in  Murray's 
Home  and  Colonial  Library. 


WALTER   SCOTT. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in 
1771,  died  l&v32.  His  mother  was  daughter 
of  Dr.  Rutherford,  Professor  of  Medicine  in 
the  University  of  that  city.  By  both  sides 
he  was  connected  with  those  ancient  Border 
families  whose  deeds  and  characters  his 
genius  was  to  make  immortal.  A  weakly 
constitution,  and  a  lameness  which  he  con- 
tracted in  early  life,  induced  his  friends  to 
send  him  into  the  country,  and  his  boyhood 
was  spent  near  Kelso,  within  reach  of  many 
of  the  scenes  which  he  has  enshrined  in  his 
writings.  When  but  thirteen  years  of  age  he 
read    Percy's    "  Reliques,"    and    that    work 


acted  upon  his  fancy  as  Spenser's  "Fairy 
Queen"  acted  upon  the  fancy  of  Cowley, 
exciting  an  intense  love  for  poetry,  and  es- 
pecially for  poetry  of  the  ballad  form.  At 
the  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  and  at  the 
University,  he  gained  no  great  character  for 
scholarship,  being  averse  to  Greek,  addicted 
to  athletic  sports,  and  fond  of  miscellaneous 
reading.  He  acquired,  however,  a  taste  for 
German  literature,  which  was  then  beginning, 
under  the  patronage  of  Henry  Mackenzie, 
the  author  of  the  "  Man  of  Feeling,"  to 
attract  attention.  Afterwards,  among  his 
first  literary  productions,  he  published,  in 
1796,  translations  of  Burger's  "  Lenore  "  and 
"  The  Wild  Huntsman."  At  Gilsland  he 
became  acquainted  with  Miss  Carpenter, 
whom  he  married.  The  young  couple  retired 
from  Edinburgh  to  reside  at  Lasswade,  and 
I  Scott's  life  was  henceforth  one  of  severe 
j  study.  In  1799  appeared  his  translation  of 
"  Gotz  of  the  Iron  Hand,"  and  the  same 
year  he  obtained  the  appointment  of  Sherijff- 
substitute  of  Selkirkshire,  worth  about  <£300 
a  year.  Scott  now  made  some  of  his  raids, 
as  he  called  them,  into  the  districts  of  Liddes- 
dale  and  Annandale,  in  continuation  of  a 
plan  he  had  already  formed  for  collecting 
Border  ballads.  In  1802  the  result  appeared 
in  the  publication  of  the  "  Minstrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border."  In  the  care  with  which 
this  work  was  compiled,  containing,  as  it  did, 
some  forty  pieces  never  before  published,  and 
in  the  wide  and  picturesque  learning  with 
which  the  whole  was  illustrated,  might  have 
been  seen  the  germs  of  that  taste  for  romantic 
poetry,  as  well  as  for  antiquarian  lore, 
which  was  soon  to  make  him,  in  those  fields, 
the  first  man  of  his  country  or  age.  He  next 
edited  the  romance  of  "  Sir  Tristram,"  which 
he  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  Thomas 
the  Rhymer,  who  flourished  about  1280. 
This  tale  he  illustrated  with  a  commentary, 
and  completed  by  adding  a  number  of  lines  in 
imitation  of  the  original.  He  now  changed 
his  residence  to  Ashestiel  on  the  Tweed,  and 
in  1805  published  "The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,"  the  first  of  those  works  which 
were  to  exercise  such  influence  on  our  later 
literature.  The  success  of  this  volume  was 
immense,  and  it  suggested  to  Scott  that 
poetry  was  his  calling  rather  than  the  bar. — 
Shaw's  "Hist.  Eng.  Lit.";  Dr.  Angus's 
"  Handbook  "  ;  Chambers's  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  ; 
Maunder' s  "Biog.  Diet.";  Beeton's  "Diet. 
Univ.  Biog."  ;  "  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,"  by 
J.  G.  Lockart ;  Washington  Irving' s  Sketch 
of  his  Visit  to  Abbotsford. 


GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON. 

"  George  Gordon,  Lord  Byron,  was  born  in 
Loudon  in  1788,  and  was  the  son  of  an 
unprincipled  profligate  and  of  a  Scottish 
heiress  of  ancient  and  illustrious  extraction, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


but  of  a  temper  so  passionate  and  uncon- 
trolled, that  it  reached,  in  its  capricious 
alternations  of  fondness  and  violence,  very 
nearly  to  the  limit  of  insanity.  Her  do^vry 
was  speedily  dissipated  by  her  worthless 
husband ;  and  the  lady,  with  her  boy,  was 
obliged  to  retire  to  Aberdeen,  where  they 
lived  for  several  years  in  verj' straitened  circum- 
stances. The  future  poet  inherited  from  his 
mother  a  susceptibility  almost  morbid,  which 
such  a  kind  of  early  training  must  have  still 
further  aggravated.  His  personal  beauty  was 
remarkable ;  but  that  fatality  that  seemed  to 
poison  in  him  all  the  good  gifts  of  fortune  and 
nature,  in  giving  him  '  a  head  that  sculptors 
loved  to  model,'  afflicted  him  -with  a  slight 
malformation  in  one  of  his  feet,  which  was 
ever  a  source  of  pain  and  mortification  to  his 
vanity.  Ho  was  about  eleven  years  old  when 
the  death  of  his  grand-uncle,  a  strange,  eccen- 
tric, and  misanthropic  recluse,  made  him  heir- 
presumptive  to  the  baronial  title  of  one 
of  the  most  ancient  aristocratic  houses  in 
England — a  house  which  had  figured  in  our 
history  from  the  time  of  the  Crusades,  and 
had  been  for  several  generations  notorious 
for  the  vices,  and  even  crimes,  of  its  reprasen- 
tatives.  With  the  title  he  inherited  large, 
though  embarra'ssed  estates,  and  the  noble 
picturesque  residence  of  Newstead  Abbey, 
near  Nottingham.  This  sudden  change  in  the 
boy's  prospects  of  course  relieved  both  mother 
and  child  from  the  pressure  of  almost  sordid 
poverty ;  and  ho  -was  sent  first  to  Han-ow 
School,  and  afterwards  to  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  At  school  he  distinguished  him- 
self by  his  moody  and  passionate  character, 
and  by  the  romantic  intensity  of  his  youthful 
friendships.  Precocious  in  everything,  he  had 
already  felt  with  morbid  violence  the  senti- 
ment of  love.  At  college  he  became  no- 
torious for  the  irregularities  of  his  conduct, 
for  his  contempt  of  academical  discipline,  and 
for  his  friendship  with  several  young  men  of 
splendid  talents  but  sceptical  principles.  He 
was  a  greedy,  though  desultory  reader,  and 
his  imagination  appears  to  have  been  es- 
pecially attracted  to  Oriental  history  and 
travels. 

"  It  was  while  at  Cambridge  that  Byron 
made  his  first  literary  attempt  in  the  publica- 
tion of  a  small  volume  of  fugitive  poems, 
entitled  '  Hours  of  Idleness,  by  Lord  Byron, 
a  Minor.'  This  collection,  though  in  no  re- 
spect inferior  to  the  youthful  essays  of  ninety- 
nine  out  of  every  hundred  young  men,  was 
seized  upon  and  most  severely  criticised  in  the 
•  Edinburgh  Review,'  a  literary  journal  then 
just  commencing  that  career  of  brilliant 
innovation  which  rendered  it  so  formidable. 
The  judgment  of  the  reviewer  as  to  the  total 
want  of  value  in  the  poems  was  perfectly 
just ;  but  the  unfairness  consisted  in  so 
powerful  a  journal  invidiously  going  out  of 
its  way  to  attack  such  a  very  humble  produc- 
tion as  a  volume  of  feeble  and  pretentious 


commonplaces  written  by  a  j'oung  lord.  The 
criticism,  however,  threw  Byron  into  a  frenzy 
of  rage.  He  instantly  set  about  taking  his 
revenge  in  the  satire  '  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers,'  in  which  he  involved  in 
one  common  storm  of  invective  not  only  his 
enemies  of  the  'Edinburgh  Eeview,'^  bnt( 
almost  all  the  literary  men  of  the  day — Walter 
Scott,  Moore,  and  a  thousand  others,  from 
whom  he  had  received  no  provocation  what- 
ever. He  soon  became  ashamed  of  his 
unreasoning  and  indiscriminate  violence ; 
tried,  but  vainly,  to  suppress  the  poem  ;  and 
became  indeed,  in  after-life,  the  friend  and 
sincere  admirer  of  many  of  those  whom  he 
had  lampooned  in  this  burst  of  youthful  re- 
taliation. Though  written  in  the  classical,, 
declamatory,  and  regular  style  of  Gifford, 
himself  an  imitator  of  Pope,  the  '  English 
Bards  '  shows  a  fervour  and  power  of  expres- 
sion which  enables  us  to  see  in  it,  dimly,  the 
earnest  of  Byron's  intense  and  fiery  genius, 
which  was  afterwards  to  exhibit  itself  under 
such  different  literary  forms. 

"Byron  now  went  abroad  to  travel,  and 
visiting  countries  then  little  frequented,  and 
almost  unknown  to  English  society,  he  filled 
his  mind  with  the  picturesque  life  and  scenery 
of  Greece,  Turkey,  and  the  East;  and  ac- 
cumulated those  stories  of  character  and 
description  which  he  poured  forth  with  such 
royal  splendour  in  his  poems.  The  two  first 
cantos  of  '  Childe  Harold '  absolutely  took  the 
public  by  storm,  and  carried  the  enthusiasm 
for  Byron's  poetry  to  a  pitch  of  frenzy  of  which 
we  have  now  no  idea,  and  at  once  placed  him 
at  the  summit  of  social  and  literary  popu- 
larity. These  were  followed  in  rapid  and 
splendid  succession  by  those  romantic  tales, 
written  somewhat  upon  the  plan  which  Scott's 
poems  had  rendered  so  fashionable,  the 
'Giaour,'  'Bride  of  Abydos,'  'Corsair,'  'Lara.' 
As  Scott  had  dra\vn  his  materials  from  feudal 
and  Scottish  life,  Byron  broke  up  new  ground 
in  describing  the  manners,  scenery,  and  wild 
passions  of  the  East  and  of  Greece — a  region  as 
picturesque  as  that  of  his  rival,  as  well  known 
to  him  by  experience,  and  as  new  and  fresh  to 
the  pubHc  he  addressed.  Returning  to  Eng- 
land in  the  full  blaze  of  his  dawning  fame,  the 
poet  became  the  lion  of  the  day.  His  life 
was  passed  in  fashionable  frivolities,  and  he 
drained,  with  feverish  avidity,  the  intoxicating 
cup  of  fame.  He  at  this  period  married  Miss 
Milbanke,  a  lady  of  considerable  expectations ; 
but  the  union  was  an  unhappy  one,  and 
domestic  disagreements  were  embittered  by 
improvidence  and  debt.  In  about  a  year, 
Lady  Byron,  by  the  advice  of  her  family,  and 
of  many  distinguished  lawyers  who  were  con- 
sulted on  the  subject,  suddenly  quitted  her 
husband ;  and  the  reasons  for  taking  this  step 
will  ever  remain  a  mystery.  The  scandal  of 
the  separation  deeply  wounded  the  poet,  who 
to  the  end  of  his  life  asserted  that  he  never 
knew  the  real  motive    of   the  divorce ;  and 

53 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


the  society  of  the  fashionable  world,  passing 
with  its  usual  caprice  from  exaggerated 
idolatry  to  as  exaggerated  hostility,  pursued 
its  former  darling  with  a  furious  howl  of  re- 
probation. He  again  left  England  ;  and  from 
thenceforth  his  life  was  passed  uninterruptedly 
on  the  Continent,  in  Switzerland,  in  Greece, 
and  at  Rome,  Pisa,  Ravenna,  and  Venice,- 
where  he  solaced  his  embittered  spirit  with 
misanthropical  attacks  upon  all  that  his 
countrymen  held  sacred,  and  gradually  plunged 
deeper  and  deeper  into  a  slough  of  sensuality 
and  vice.  Wliile  at  Geneva  he  produced  the 
third  canto  of  '  Childe  Harold,'  '  The  Prisoner 
of  Ohillon,'  '  Manfred,'  and  '  The  Lament  of 
Tasso.'  Between  1818  and  1821  he  was  prin- 
cipally residing  at  Venice  and  Ravenna  ;  and 
at  this  period  he  wrote  '  Mazeppa,'  the  five 
first  cantos  of  '  Don  Juan,'  and  most  of  his 
tragedies,  as  '  Marino  Fahero,'  '  Sardanapa- 
Ins,'  '  The  Two  Foscari,'  '  Werner,'  '  Cain,' 
and  *  The  Deformed  Transformed,'  in  many  of 
which  the  influence  of  Shelley's  literary 
manner  and  philosophical  tenets  is  more  or 
less  traceable ;  and  here,  too,  he  terminated 
*Don  Juan,'  at  least  as  far  as  it  ever  was 
completed.  The  deep  profligacy  of  his  private 
life  in  Italy,  which  had  undermined  his  con- 
stitution as  well  as  degraded  his  genius,  was 
in  some  measure  redeemed  by  an  illegitimate, 
though  not  ignoble  connexion  with  the  young 
/Countess  Guiccioli,  a  beautiful  and  accom- 
jplished  girl,  united  by  a  marriage  of  family 
interest  with  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her 
grandfather.  In  1823,  Byron,  who  had  deeply 
■sympathized  with  revolutionary  efforts  in 
Italy,  and  was  wearied  with  the  companion- 
fihip  of  Leigh  Hunt  and  others  who  surrounded 
ihim,  determined  to  devote  his  fortune  and  his 
influence  in  aid  of  the  Greeks,  then  struggling 
for  their  independence.  He  arrived  at  Mis- 
.solonghi  at  the  beginning  of  1824  ;  and  after 
giving  striking  indications  of  his  practical 
rtalents,  as  well  as  of  his  ardour  and  self- 
!sacrifice,  he  succumbed  under  the  marsh  fever 
lof  that  unhealthy  region,  rendered  still  more 
•deleterious  by  the  excesses  which  had  ruined 
3iis  constitution.  He  died,  amid  the  lamenta- 
tions of  the  Greek  patriots,  whose  benefactor 
.he  had.  been,  and  amid  the  universal  sorroAv 
of  civilized  Europe,  on  the  19th  of  April, 
1824,  at  the- early  age  of  thirty-six. 

"  The  plan  of  '  Childe  Harold,'  though  well 
adapted  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  de- 
scriptive and  meditative  passages,  and  carrying 
the  reader  through  widely-distant  scenes,  is 
■.not  very  probable  or  ingenious.  It  is  a  series 
of  gloomy  but  intensely  poetical  monologues, 
pat  into  the  mouth  of  a  jaded  and  misan- 
thropic voluptuary,  who  takes  refuge  from 
his  disenchantment  of  pleasure  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  lovely  or  historical 
scones  of  travel.  The  first  canto  principally 
describes  Portugal  and  Spain,  and  contains 
many  powerful  pictures  of  the  great  battles 
which     rendered    memorable     the    struggle 


between  those  oppressed  nationalities,  aided 
by  England,  against  the  colossal  power  of 
Napoleon.  Thus  we  have  the  tremendous 
combat  of  Talavera,  and  scenes  of  Spanish 
life  and  manners,  as  the  bull-fight.  The  second 
canto  carries  the  wanderer  to  Greece,  Albania, 
and  the  ^gean  Archipelago  ;  and  here  Byron 
gave  the  first  earnest  of  his  unequalled  genius 
in  reproducing  the  scenery  and  the  wild  life  of 
those  picturesque  regions.  In  the  third  canto, 
which  is  perhaps  the  finest  and  intensest  in 
feeling  of  them  all,  Switzerland,  Belgium, 
and  the  Rhine  give  splendid  opportunities,  not 
only  for  pictures  of  nature  of  consummate 
beauty,  but  of  incidental  reflections  on 
Napoleon,  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  and  the  groat 
men  whose  glory  has  thrown  a  new  magic 
over  those  enchanting  scenes.  This  canto 
also  contains  the  magnificent  description  of 
the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  and  bitter  and  melan- 
choly but  sublime  musings  on  the  vanity  of 
military  fame.  In  the  fourth  canto  the  reader 
is  borne  successively  over  the  fairest  and 
most  touching  scenes  of  Italy — ^Venice,  Fer- 
rara,  Florence,  Rome,  and  Ravenna  ;  and  not 
only  the  immortal  dead,  but  the  great  monu- 
ments of  painting  and  sculpture  are  described 
with  an  intensity  of  feeling  that  had  never 
before  been  seen  in  poetry.  The  poem  is 
written  in  the  nine-lined  or  Spenserian  stanza ; 
and  in  the  beginning  of  the  first  canto  the 
poet  makes  an  effort  to  give  something  of  the 
quaint  and  archaic  character  of  the  'Fairy 
Queen,'  by  adopting  old  v.'ords,  as  Spenser  had 
done  before  him ;  but  he  very  speedUy,  and 
with  good  taste,  throws  off  the  useless  and 
embarrassing  restraint.  In  intensity  of  feeling, 
in  richness  and  harmony  of  expression,  and 
in  an  imposing  tone  of  gloomy,  sceptical,  and 
misanthropic  reflection,  '  Childe  Harold ' 
stands  alone  in  our  literature ;  and  the  free- 
dom and  vigour  of  the  flow,  both  as  regards 
the  images  and  the  language,  make  it  one  of 
the  most  impressive  works  in  literature. 

"  The  romantic  tales  of  Byron  are  so 
numerous  that  it  will  be  impossible  to  examine 
them  in  detail.  They  are  all  marked  by  si- 
milar peculiarities  of  thought  and  treatment, 
though  they  may  differ  in  the  kind  and  degree 
of  their  respective  excellences.  '  The  Giaour,' 
'The  Siege  of  Corinth,'  'Mazeppa,'  'Parisina,' 
'  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,'  and  '  The  Bride  of 
Abydos,'  are  written  in  that  somewhat  irre- 
gular and  flowing  versification  which  Scott 
brought  into  fashion  ;  while  '  The  Corsair,' 
'  Lara,'  and  '  The  Island,'  are  in  the  regular 
English  rhymed  heroic  measure.  It  is  difficult 
to  decide  which  of  these  metrical  forms  Byron 
uses  with  greater  vigour  and  effect.  In  '  The 
Giaour,'  '  Siege  of  Corinth,'  '  The  Bride '  and 
'  Corsair,'  the  scene  is  laid  in  Greece  or  the 
Greek  Archipelago ;  and  picturesque  contrasts 
between  the  Christian  and  Mussulman,  as  well 
as  the  dramatic  scenery,  manners,  and  costume 
of  those  regions,  are  poAverfuUy  set  before 
the  reader.     These  poems  have  in  general  a 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


fragmentary  character:  they  are  made  up  of 
imposing-  and  intensely  interesting  moments  of 
passion  and  action.  Neither  in  these  nor  in 
any  of  his  works  does  Byron  show  the  least 
power  of  delineating  variety  of  character. 
There  are  but  two  personages  in  all  his  poems 
— a  man  in  whom  unbridled  passions  have 
desolated  the  heart,  and  left  it  hard  and  im- 
penetrable as  the  congealed  lava-stream,  or 
only  capable  of  launching  its  concealed  fires 
at  moments  of  strong  emotion ;  a  man  con- 
temptuous of  his  kind,  whom  he  rules  by  the 
very  force  of  that  contempt,  sceptical  and 
despairing,  yet  feeling  the  softer  emotions 
with  an  intensity  proportioned  to  the  rarity 
with  which  he  jaolds  to  them.  The  woman  is 
the  woman  of  the  East — sensual,  devoted,  and 
loving,  but  loving  with  the  unreasoning  attach- 
ment of  the  lower  animals.  These  elements  of 
character,  meagre  and  unnatural  as  they  are, 
are,  however,  set  before  us  ^vith  such  consum- 
mate force  and  intensity,  and  are  framed,  so 
to  say,  in  such  brilliant  and  picturesque  sur- 
roundings, that  the  reader,  and  particularly 
the  young  and  inexperienced  reader,  invariably 
loses  sight  of  their  contradictions  ;  and  there 
is  a  time  when  all  of  us  have  thought  the 
sombre,  scowling,  mysterious  heroes  of  Byron 
the  very  ideal  of  all  that  is  noble  and  ad- 
mirable. Nothing  can  exceed  the  skill  with 
wliich  the  most  picturesque  light  and  shade  is 
thrown  upon  the  features  of  these  Rembrandt- 
like  or  rather  Tintoretto-like  sketches.  In  all 
those  poems  we  meet  with  inimitable  descrip* 
tions,  tender,  animated,  or  profound,  whicli 
harmonize  with  the  tone  of  the  dramatis  per- 
sonae  :  thus  the  famous  comparison  of  enslaved 
Greece  to  a  corpse,  in  the  '  Giaour,'  the  night- 
scene  and  the  battle-scene  in  the  '  Corsair ' 
and  '  Lara,'  the  eve  of  the  storming  of  the 
city  in  the  '  Siege  of  Corinth,'  and  the  fiery 
energy  of  the  attack  in  the  same  poem,  the 
exquisite  opening  lines  in  '  Parisina,'  besides 
a  multitude  of  others,  might  be  adduced  to 
l^rove  Byron's  extraordinary  genius  in  com- 
municating to  his  pictures  the  individuality 
and  the  colouring  of  his  own  feelings  and  cha- 
racter— proceeding,  in  this  respect,  in  a  manner 
preciselj'  opposed  to  Walter  Scott,  whose 
scenes  are,  as  it  were,  reflected  in  a  mirror,  and 
take  no  colouring  from  the  poet's  o-vm  indi- 
viduality. If  Scott's  picturesque  faculty  be 
like  that  of  the  pure  surface  of  a  lake,  or  the 
colourless  plane  of  a  mirror,  that  of  Byron 
resembles  those  tinted  glasses  which  convey 
to  a  landscape  viewed  through  them  the  yellow 
gleam  of  a  Cuyp,  or  the  sombre  gloom  of  a 
Zurbaran.  '  Lara '  is  undoubtedly  the  sequel 
of  the  '  Corsair,'  the  returned  Spanish  noble 
of  mysterious  adventures  is  no  other  than 
Conrad  of  the  preceding  poem,  and  the  dis- 
guised page  is  Gulnare.  The  '  Siege  of  Co- 
rinth' is  remarkable  for  the  extraordinary 
variety  and  force  of  its  descriptions — a  va- 
riety greater  than  will  gexerally  be  found  in 
Byron's   tales.      '  Parisina '  derives  its  chief 


interest  from  the  deep  pathos  with  which  the 
author  has  invested  a  painful  and  even  repul- 
sive story;  and  in  the  'Prisoner  of  Chillon' 
the  hopeless  tone  of  sorrow  and  viucomplaining 
suffering  which  runs  through  the  whole  gives 
it  a  strong  hold  upon  the  reader's  feelings. 
'  Mazeppa,'  though  founded  upon  the  adven- 
tures of  an  historical  person,  is  singularly  and 
almost  ludicrously  at  variance  with  the  real 
character  of  the  hero.  The  powerfully- written 
episode  of  the  gallop  of  the  wild  steed,  with 
the  victim  lashed  on  his  back,  makes  the 
reader  forget  all  incongruities. 

"  In  '  Beppo  '  and  the  '  Vision  of  Judgment ' 
Bj-ron  has  ventured  upon  the  gay,  airy,  and 
satirical.  The  former  of  these  poems  is  a 
little  episode  of  Venetian  intrigue  narrated  in 
singularly  easy  verse,  and  exhibiting  a  minute 
knowledge  of  the  details  of  Italian  manners 
and  society.  It  is  not  perhaps  over  moral, 
but  it  is  exquisitely  playful  and  sparkling. 
The  '  Vision '  is  a  most  severe  attack  upon 
Southey,  in  which  Byron  vigorously  repels  the 
accusations  brought  by  his  antagonist  against 
the  alleged  immorality  of  his  j^oems,  and 
carries  the  war  into  the  enemy's  country, 
showing  up  with  unmerciful  bitterness  the 
contrast  between  Southey' s  former  extreme 
liberalism  and  his  then  rabid  devotion  to 
Court  principles,  and  parodying  the  very  poor 
and  pretentious  verses  which  Southey,  as  Poet 
Laureate,  composed  as  a  sort  of  apotheosis  of 
George  III.  Though  somewhat  ferocious  and 
tmculent,  the  satire  is  brilliant,  and  contains 
many  picturesque  and  even  beautiful  passages, 
and  was  certainly,  under  the  circumstances  of 
provocation,  a  fair  and  allowable  attack.  The 
'  Island,'  in  four  cantos,  is  a  striking  incident 
extracted  from  the  narrative  of  the  famous 
mutiny  of  the  Bounty,  when  Captain  Bligh 
and  his  officers  were  cast  off  by  his  rebellious 
crew  in  an  open  boat,  and  the  mutineers, 
under  the  command  of  Christian,  established 
themselves  in  half -savage  life  on  Pitoaim's 
Island,  where  theii'  descendants  were  recently 
living.  Among  the  less  commonly  read  of 
Byron's  longer  poems  I  may  mention  the  '  Age 
of  Bronze,'  a  vehement  satirical  declamation  ; 
the  '  Curse  of  Minerva,'  directed  against  the 
spoliation  of  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon  by 
Lord  Elgin,  in  which  the  description  of  sunset, 
forming  the  opening  of  the  poem,  is  inexpres- 
sibly beautiful ;  the  '  Lament  of  Tasso,'  and 
the  '  Prophecy  of  Dante,'  the  latter  written  in 
the  difficult  terza  riuia,  the  first  attempt,  I 
believe,  of  any  English  poet  to  employ  that 
measure.  The  '  Dream  '  is  in  some  respects 
the  most  complete  and  touching  of  Byron's 
minor  works.  It  is  the  narrative,  in  the  form 
of  a  vision,  of  his  early  love-sorrow  for  Mary 
Chaworth.  There  is  hardly,  in  the  whole 
range  of  literature,  so  tender,  so  lofty,  and  so 
condensed  a  life-drama  as  that  narrated  in 
these  verses.  Picture  after  picture  is  softly 
shadowed  forth,  all  peirvaded  by  the  same 
mournful  /rlow,  and    '  the  doom  of   the  two 

53* 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


creatures '  is  set  before  us  in  all  its  hopeless 
misery. 

"  The  di-amatic  works  of  Byron  are  in  many 
respects  the  precise  opposite  of  what  might  a 
priori  have  been  expected  from  the  peculiar 
character  of  his  genius.  In  form  they  are 
cold,  severe,  lofty,  partaking  far  more  of  the 
manner  of  Alfieri  than  of  that  of  Shakspeare. 
Artful  involution  of  intrigue  they  have  not, 
but  though  singularly  destitute  of  powerful 
passion,  they  are  full  of  intense  sentiment. 
The  finest  of  them  is  '  Manfred,'  which,  how- 
ever, is  not  so  much  a  drama  as  a  dramatic 
poem,  in  some  degree  resembling  '  Faust,'  by 
which  indeed  it  was  suggested.  It  consists 
not  of  action  represented  in  dialogue,  but  of 
a  series  of  sublime  soliloquies,  in  which  the 
mysterious  hero  describes  nature,  and  pours 
forth  his  despair  and  his  self-pity.  The  scene 
with  which  it  opens  has  a  strong  resemblance 
to  the  first  monologue  of  Goethe's  hero ;  and 
the  invocation  of  the  Witch  of  the  Alps,  the 
meditation  of  Manfred  on  the  Jungfrau,  the 
description  of  the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum,  are 
singularly  grand  and  touching  as  detached 
passages,  but  have  no  dramatic  -cohesion. 
In  this  work,  as  well  as  in  '  Cain,'  we  see  the 
full  expression  of  Byron's  sceptical  spirit, 
and  the  tone  of  half  melancholy,  half  mocking 
misanthropy  which  colours  so  much  of  his 
writings,  and  which  was  in  him  partly  sincere 
and  partly  put  on  for  effect ;  for  Byron  was 
far  from  that  profound  conviction  in  his  anti- 
religious  doctrines  which  glows  so  fervently 
through  every  page  written  by  his  friend 
Shelley,  who  unquestionably  exerted  a  very 
powerful  influence  upon  Byron  at  one  part  of 
his  career.  The  more  exclusively  historical 
pieces — '  Marino  Faliero,'  '  The  Two  Foscari ' 
— are  derived  from  Venetian  annals ;  but 
neither  in  the  one  nor  in  the  other  has  Byron 
clothed  the  events  vnih  that  living  and  intense 
reality  which  the  subjects  would  have  received, 
I  will  not  say  from  Shakspeare,  but  even  from 
Eowe  or  Otway.  There  is  in  these  dramas  a 
complete  failure  in  variety  of  character  ;  and 
the  interest  is  concentrated  on  the  obstinate 
harping  of  the  principal  personages  upon  one 
topic — their  own  wrongs  and  humiliations. 
This  is  indeed  at  times  impressive,  and,  aided 
by  Byron's  magnificent  powers  of  expression, 
gives  us  noble  occasional  tirades ;  but  it  is 
essentially  undramatic,  for  it  is  inconsistent 
with  that  play  and  mutual  action  and  reaction 
of  one  character  or  passion  upon  another,  in 
which  dramatic  interest  essentially  consists. 
In  '  Sardanapalus,'  the  remoteness  of  the 
epoch  chosen,  and  our  total  ignorance  of  the 
interior  life  of  those  times,  remove  the  piece 
into  the  region  of  fiction.  But  the  character 
of  Myrrha,  though  beautiful,  is  an  ana- 
chronism and  an  impossibiUty  ;  and  the  an- 
tithetic contrast  between  the  effeminacy  and 
sudden  heroism  in  Sardanapalus  belongs 
rather  to  the  satire  or  to  the  moral  disquisi- 
tion than  to  tragedy.     '  Werner,'   a  piece  of 


domestic  interest,  is  bodily  borrowed,  as  far 

as  regards  its  incidents,  and  even  much  of  its 

dialogue,  from  the  Hungarian's  Story  in  Miss 

Lee's    '  Canterbury   Tales.'     It   still   retains 

{    possession  of  the  stage,  because,  like  '  Sarda- 

i    napalus,'  it  gives  a  good  opportunity  for  the 

I    display  of  stage  decoration  and  declamation  ; 

'    but  Byron's  share  in  its  composition  extends 

!   little   further   than  the   cutting  up  of  Miss 

Lee's  prose  into  tolerably  regular  but  often 

i    very  indifferent  lines. 

j  "  '  Don  Juan '  is  the  longest,  the  most 
,  singular,  and  in  some  respects  the  most 
1  characteristic  of  Byron's  poems.  It  is, 
indeed,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  sig- 
nificant productions  of  the  age  of  revolution 
and  scepticism  which  almost  immediately 
:  preceded  its  appearance.  It  is  written  in 
;  octaves,  a  kind  of  versification  borrowed  from 
j  the  Italians,  and  particularly  from  the  half 
j  serious  half  comic  writers  who  followed  in 
I  the  wake  of  Ariosto.  The  outline  of  the 
I  story  is  the  old  Spanish  legend  of  Don  Juan 
de  Teuorio,  upon  which  have  been  founded  so 
many  dramatic  works ;  among  the  rest  the 
'  Festin  de  Pierre,'  of  Moliere,  and  the  im- 
mortal opera  of  Mozart.  The  fundamental 
idea  of  the  atheist  and  voluptuary  enabled 
Byron  to  carry  his  hero  through  various  ad- 
ventures, serious  and  comic,  to  exhibit  his 
imrivalled  power  of  description,  and  left  him 
unfettered  by  any  necessities  of  time  and 
place.  Byron's  Don  Juan  is  a  young  Spanisli 
hidalgo,  whose  education  is  described  with 
strong  satiric  power,  intermingled  with  fre- 
quent and  bitter  personal  allusions  to 
those  against  whom  the  author  has  a  grudge  ; 
and  being  detected  in  a  scandalous  intrigue 
with  a  married  woman,  he  is  obliged  to  leave 
Spain.  He  embarks  on  board  a  ship  which  is 
wrecked  in  the  Greek  Archipelago,  all  hands 
perishing  after  incredible  sufferings  in  an  open 
boat,  and  is  thrown  exhausted  and  almost 
dying  on  one  of  the  smaller  Cyclades.  Here 
he  is  cherished  and  sheltered  by  Haidee,  a 
lovely  Greek  gii-1,  the  half-savage  daughter  of 
Lambro,  the  master  of  the  isle,  now  absent 
on  a  piratical  expedition.  Haidee  and  Juan 
are  married,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  wedding 
festivities  Lambro  returns,  Juan  is  over- 
powered, wounded,  and  put  on  board  the 
pirate's  vessel  to  be  carried  to  Constantinople, 
and  Haidee  soon  afterwards  dies  of  grief  and 
despair.  Juan  is  exposed  for  sale  in  the 
slave-market  at  Stamboul,  attracts  the  notice 
of  the  favourite  Sultana,  who  buys  him  and 
introduces  him  in  the  disguise  of  an  odalisque 
into  the  seraglio ;  but  Juan  refuses  the  love 
of  Gulbeyaz,  and  afterwards  escapes  from 
I  Constantinople  in  company  with  Smith,  an 
Englishman  whom  he  has  encountered  in 
slavery.  The  hero  is  then  made  to  arrive  at 
the  siege  of  Izmail  by  the  Russian  army 
under  Souvaroff ;  the  horrible  details  of  the 
storming  and  capture  of  the  city  are  borrowed 
from  ofticial  and  historical  sources,  and  repro- 


i'Vom  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


duced  with  the  same  fidelity  as  the  pictures  of 
the  shipwreck  from  Admiral  Byron's  narrative 
of  his  own  calamities.  Juan  distinguishes 
himself  in  the  assault,  and  is  selected  to  carry 
the  bulletin  of  victory  to  the  Empress 
Catherine.  The  Court  of  St.  Petersburg  is 
then  described,  and  Juan  becomes  the  favour- 
ite and  lover  of  the  Northern  Semiramis  ;  but 
his  health  giving  way,  he  is  sent  on  a  diplo- 
matic mission  to  England.  Here  the  author 
gives  us  a  very  minute  and  sarcastic  account 
of  English  aristocratic  society,  and  in  the 
midst  of  what  promises  to  turn  out  an  amus- 
ing though  not  over  moral  adventure  the 
narrative  abruptly  breaks  off.  '  Don  Jiian,'  in 
the  imj)erfect  state  in  which  it  was  left,  con- 
sists of  sixteen  cantos,  and  there  is  no  reason 
why  it  should  not  have  been  indefinitely  ex- 
tended. It  was  the  author's  intention  to 
bring  his  hero's  adventures  to  a  regular  termi- 
nation, but  so  desultoi-y  a  series  of  incidents 
have  no  real  coherency.  The  merit  of  this 
extraordinary  poem  is  the  richness  of  ideas, 
thoughts,  and  images,  which  form  an  absolute 
plethora  of  witty  allusion  and  sarcastic  re- 
flection ;  and  above  all  the  constant  passage 
from  the  loftiest  and  tenderest  tone  of  poetry 
to  the  most  familiar  and  mocking  style. 
These  transitions  are  incessant,  and  the  arti- 
fice of  such  sudden  change  of  sentiment  which 
at  first  dazzles  and  enchants  the  reader,  iilti- 
mately  wearies  him.  The  tone  of  morality 
is  throughout  very  low  and  selfish,  even 
materialistic  :  evei-ythiug  in  turn  is  made  the 
subject  of  a  sneer,  and  the  bi'illiant  but 
desolating  lightning  of  Byron's  sarcasm  blasts 
alike  the  weeds  of  hypocrisy  and  cant,  and 
the  flowers  of  faith  and  the  holiest  affections. 
This  Mephistopheles-like  tone  is  rendered 
more  effective  by  perpetual  contrast  with  the 
vvarmest  outbursts  of  feeling  and  the  most 
admirable  descriptions  of  nature  :  the  air  of 
superiority  which  is  implied  in  the  very  nature 
of  sarcasm  renders  '  Don  Juan '  peculiarly 
dangerous,  as  it  is  peculiarly  fascinating,  to 
young  readers.  In  spite  of  much  superficial  flip- 
pancy, this  poem  contains  an  immense  mass 
of  profound  and  melancholy  satire,  and  in  a 
very  large  number  of  serious  passages  Byron 
has  shown  a  power,  picturesqueness,  and  pathos 
which  in  other  works  may  indeed  be  paralleled, 
but  cannot  be  surpassed." — Shaw's  "  Hist. 
Eng.  Lit.,"'  pp.  435  to  444.  See  Allibone's 
"Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.";  "  Edin.  Rev.,"  xxvii., 
27  ;  "  Quarterly  Rev.,"  xii.,  172  ;  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  "Letters"  to  Mr.  Morritt,  May  12, 1812, 
to  Lord  Byron,  July  3  and  16,  1812 ;  Lock- 
hart's  "  Life  of  Scott  "  ;  Macaulay  in  "  Edin. 
Rev.,"  June,  1831,  in  his  "  Crit.  and  Histor. 
Essays,"  1854,  vol.  i.,  345,  347,  348  ;  "  Con- 
versations of  Lord  Byron,"  by  Thomas  Med- 
win  ;  "  The  Last  Days  of  Byron,"  by  Major 
Wm.  Parry ;  "  Lord  Byron  and  some  of  his 
Contemporaries,"  by  Leigh  Hunt ;  "  Conver- 
sations on  Religion  with  Lord  Byron  and 
Others,"    by  James    Kennedy,    M.D.,   1830; 


j  "  Conversations  with  Lord  Byron,"  by  Lady 
Blessington,  1836;  "Life  of  Byron,"  by 
John  Gait,  1837  ;  "  Life  of  Lord  Byron,"  by 
I  Armstrong,  1846 ;  "  Recollections  of  the  Last 
i  Days  of  Byron  and  Shelley,"  by  E.  J.  Tre- 
!  lawney,  1858 ;  Moir's  "  Sketches  of  Poet. 
j  Lit.  of  the  Past  Half  Cent."  ;  Alison's  "Hist. 
j  of  Europe,"  1815-52,  chap.  v.  :  Newstead 
I  Abbey  in  Washington  Irving' s  "  Crayon  Mis- 
j  cellanies"  ;  "  Quar.  Rev.,"  vols,  vii.,  x.,  xi., 
j  xix.,  xxvii.,  xxxviii. ;  Articles  of  Lord  Jeffrey 
j  in  "Edin.  Rev.,"  vols,  ix.,  xix.,  xxi.,  xxiii, 
I  xxvii.,  xxviii.,  xxix.,  xxxv.,  xxxvi.,  xxxviii. ; 
'.  Articles  in  "  North  American  Rev.,"  vols,  v., 
xiii.,  227,  450,  xxi.,  xxxi.,  xxxvi.,  Ix.  ;  Moore's 
;   "  Life  of  Byron." 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

"  The  life  of  this  poet,  who  was  bora  in 
1792,  and  died  in  1822,"  says  Dr.  Angus,  "is 
not  unlike  Byron's.  There  was  a  similar  title 
to  wealth  and  honours,  the  same  boyhood  of 
fierce  passion,  an  unhappy  training,  an  early 
manhood  of  blighted  domestic  life — blighted 
by  his  own  foUy  and  crime,  a  spirit  of  atheistic 
revolt  against  all  religious  and  social  claims ; 
though  this  last  was  greatly  diminished  to- 
wards the  close  of  his  course,  after  his  mar- 
riage with  the  daughter  of  William  Godwin, 
and  might  have  been  diminished  much  more, 
had  his  life  not  terminated  prematurely  by 
drowning  when  he  was  but  thirty  years  old. 

"  From  earliest  years  he  showed  poetic 
tastes,  and  when  only  eighteen  he  produced 
the  atheistical  poem  of  '  Queen  Mab,'  written 
in  the  rhythm  of  Southey's  '  Thalaba,'  and 
containing  passages  of  great  melody  and 
beaiity.  The  fault  of  this  poem,  besides  its 
sceptical  notes,  mere  repetitions  of  the  sneers 
of  Voltaire  and  others,  is  the  vagueness  of  the 
meaning.  His  next  piece  was  '  Alastor,  or 
the  spirit  of  SoKtude,'  intended  to  sketch  the 
sufferings  of  a  genius  like  his  own  :  he  thirsts 
for  a  friend  who  shall  understand  and  sympa- 
thize with  him,  and,  blighted  by  disappoint- 
ment, sinks  into  an  untimely  grave.  The 
descriptions  of  scenery  in  this  poem  are  sin- 
gularly rich  and  beautiful :  the  whole  is 
written  in  blank  verse.  '  The  Revolt  of 
Islam,'  wi'itten  while  the  poet  resided  at 
Marlow,  has  the  same  peculiarities  of  thought 
and  style  as  '  Alastor,'  though  with  less 
human  interest  and  more  energy.  '  Hellas ' 
and  '  The  Witch  of  Atlas '  belong  more  or 
less  to  the  same  class  as  '  Queen  Mab  : '  all 
contain  attacks  on  kingcraft,  priestcraft,  re- 
ligion, and  marriage,  with  airy  pictures, 
scenes,  and  beings  of  the  utmost  indistinct- 
ness and  unearthly  splendour.  In  Italy  he 
wrote  his  '  Adonais,'  an  elegy  on  the  death  of 
Keats,  a  toiiching  monument  over  the  grave 
of  his  friend.  Here,  also,  he  composed  the 
'  Prometheus  Unbound,'  a  classic  drama,  and 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


in  the  following  year,  1819,  '  The  Cenci,'  a 
tragedy,  one  of  the  finest  of  the  poet's  produc- 
tions, a  tale  that  reminds  the  reader  of  the 
dramas  of  Otway.  His  odes  on  '  The  Skylark' 
and  '  The  Cloud  '  are  more  poetical  and  perfect 
than  any  other  of  his  pieces.  '  The  Sensitive 
Plant '  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  beauty  and 
gracefulness  of  his  versification,  of  the  fanci- 
fulness  of  his  imagery,  and  of  the  profound- 
ness of  his  meaning,  which  now  seems  within 
our  grasp  and  again  eludes  it." — "  Handbook 
Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  253,  254. 


JOHN  KEATS. 

"John  Keats,  born  in  Moorfields,  London, 
1796,  died  1821,  was  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon 
in  his  fifteenth  year.  During  his  apprentice- 
ship he  devoted  most  of  his  time  to  poetry,  j 
and  in  1817  he  published  a  volume  of  juvenile  j 
poems.  This  was  followed,  in  1818,  by  his 
long  poem  '  Endymion,'  which  was  severely 
censured  by  the  '  Quarterly  Eeview,'  an  attack 
which  has  been  somewhat  erroneously  de- 
scribed as  the  cause  of  his  death.  It  is  pro- 
bable that  it  gave  a  rude  shock  to  Keats' s 
liighly  sensitive  nature,  and  to  a  physical 
condition  much  weakened  by  the  attention 
which  he  had  bestowed  upon  a  dying  brother. 
But  he  had  a  constitutional  tendency  to  con- 
sumption, which  would  most  likely  have  deve- 
loped itself  under  any  circumstances.  He  went 
for  the  recovery  of  his  health  to  Eome,  where 
he  died  on  the  24th  of  February,  1821.  In 
the  previous  year  he  had  published  another 
volume  of  poems,  '  Lamia,'  '  Isabella,'  &c.,  in 
which  was  included  the  fragment  of  his  re- 
markable poem  entitled  '  Hyperion.' 

"  It  was  the  misfortune  of  Keats  to  be 
either  extravagantly  praised  or  unmercifully 
condemned.  This  arose  on  the  one  hand  from 
the  extreme  partiality  of  friendship,  and  on 
the  other  from  resentment  of  that  friendship, 
connected  as  it  was  with  party  politics  and 
with  peculiar  views  of  society.  That  which 
is  most  remarkable  in  his  works  is  the  won- 
derful profusion  of  figurative  language,  often 
exquisitely  beautiful  and  luxuriant,  but  some- 
times purely  fantastical  and  far-fetched.  The 
peculiarity  of  Shelley's  style,  to  which  we  may 
give  the  name  of  incantation,  Keats  carries 
to  extravagance — one  word,  one  image,  one 
rhyme  suggests  another,  till  we  quite  lose 
sight  of  the  original  idea,  which  is  smothered 
in  its  own  sweet  luxuriance,  like  a  bee  stifled 
in  honey.  Shakspeare  and  his  school,  upon 
whose  manner  Keats  undoubtedly  endeavoured 
to  form  his  style  of  writing,  have,  it  is  true, 
this  peculiarity  of  language ;  but  in  them  the 
images  never  run  away  with  the  thought — the 
guiding  master-idea  is  ever  present.  These 
poets  never  throw  the  reins  on  their  Pegasus, 
even  when  soaring  to  'the  brightest  heaven 
of  invention.'      With  them  the  images  are 


produced  by  a  force  acting  ah  intra ;  like  wild 
flowers  springing  from  the  very  richness  of 
the  ground.  In  Keats  the  force  acts  ah  extra  ; 
the  flowers  are  forcibly  fixed  in  the  earth,  as 
in  the  garden  of  a  child,  who  cannot  wait  till 
they  grow  there  of  themselves.  Keats  deserves 
high  praise  for  one  very  pe(?uliar  and  original 
merit :  he  has  treated  the  classical  mythology 
in  a  way  absolutely  new,  representing  the 
Pagan  deities  not  as  mere  abstractions  of  art, 
nor  as  mere  creatures  of  popular  belief,  but 
giving  them  passions  and  affections  like  our 
own,  highly  purified  and  idealized,  however, 
and  in  exquisite  accordance  with  the  lovely 
scenery  of  ancient  Greece  and  Italy,  and  with 
the  golden  atmosphere  of  primeval  existence. 
This  treatment  of  a  subject,  which  ordinary 
readers  would  consider  hopelessly  worn  and 
threadbare,  is  certainly  not  Homeric,  nor  is  it 
Miltonic,  nor  is  it  in  the  manner  of  any  of  the 
great  poets  who  have  employed  the  mythological 
imagery  of  antiquity ;  but  it  is  productive  of 
very  exquisite  pleasure,  and  must,  therefore, 
be  in  accordance  with  true  principles  of  art. 
In  '  Hyperion,'  in  the  '  Ode  to  Pan,'  in  the 
verses  on  a  '  Grecian  Urn,'  we  find  a  noble 
and  airy  strain  of  beautiful  classic  imagery, 
combined  with  a  perception  of  natural  loveli- 
ness so  luxuriant,  so  rich,  so  dehcate,  that  the 
rosy  dawn  of  Greek  poetry  seems  combined 
with  aU  that  is  most  tenderly  pensive  in  the 
calm  sunset  twilight  of  romance.  Such  of 
Keats' s  poems  as  are  founded  on  more  modern 
subjects — '  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,'  for  example, 
or  '  The  Pot  of  Basil,'  a  beautiful  anecdote 
versified  from  Boccacio  —  are,  to  our  taste, 
inferior  to  those  of  his  productions  in  which 
the  scenery  and  personages  are  mythological. 
It  would  seem  as  if  the  severity  of  ancient 
art,  which  in  the  last-mentioned  works  acted 
as  an  involuntary  check  upon  a  too  luxuriant 
fancy,  deserted  him  when  he  left  the  antique 
world ;  and  the  absence  of  true,  deep,  intense 
pa^ssion  (his  prevailing  defect)  becomes  neces- 
sarily more  painfully  apparent,  as  well  as  the 
discordant  mingling  of  the  prettinesses  of  mo- 
dern poetry  with  the  directness  and  unaffected 
i^implicity  of  Chaucer  and  Boccacio.  But 
Keats  was  a  true  poet.  If  we  consider  his 
extreme  youth  and  delicate  health,  his  solitary 
and  interesting  self-instruction,  the  severity 
of  the  attacks  made  upon  him  by  hostile  and 
powerful  critics,  and  above  all  the  original 
richness  and  picturesqueness  of  his  concep- 
tions and  imagery,  even  when  they  run  to 
waste,  he  appears  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  of 
the  young  poets — resembling  the  Milton  of 
'  Lycidas,'  or  the  Spenser  of  the  '  Tears  of  the 
Muses.' " — Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,"  pp.  456, 
457. 


BISHOP  HEBEE. 

"  Eeginald    Heber,    the    son  of  the  Eev. 
Eeginald    Heber,    was    born   at    Malpas,    in 


From  17S0  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


Cheshire,  on  the  21st  of  April,  1783.  His 
youth  was  distinguished  by  a  precocity  of 
talent,  docility  of  temper,  a  love  of  reading, 
and  a  veneration  for  religion.  The  eagerness, 
indeed,  with  which  he  read  the  Bible  in  his 
early  years,  and  the  accuracy  with  which  he 
remembered  it,  were  quite  remarkable.  After 
completing  the  usual  course  of  elementary  in- 
struction, he  entered  the  University  of  Oxford 
in  1800.  In  the  first  year  he  gained  the  Uni- 
versity priae  for  Latin  verse,  and  in  1803  he 
wrote  his  poem  of  '  Palestine,'  which  was 
received  with  distinguished  applause.  His 
acadomical  career  was  brilliant  from  its  com- 
mencement to  its  close.  After  taking  his 
degrse,  and  gaining  the  University  prize  for 
the  best  English  prose  essay,  he  set  out,  in 
1805.  on  a  continental  tour.  He  returned  the 
following  year,  and  in  1807  '  took  orders,'  and 
was  settled  in  Hodnet,  in  Shropshire,  where 
for  many  years  he  discharged  the  duties  of 
his  large  parish  with  the  most  exemplary 
assiduit}'. 

"  In  1809  he  married,  and  in  the  same  year 
pubHshed  a  series  of  hymns,  •  appropriate  for 
Sundays  and  principal  hoHdays  of  the  j'ear.' 
In  1812,  he  commenced  a  '  Dictionary  of  the 
Bible,'  and  published  a  volume  of  '  Poems  and 
Translations,'  the  translations  being  chiefly 
from  Pindar.  After  being  advanced  to  two 
or  three  ecclesiastical  preferments,  in  1822 
he  received  the  offer  of  the  bishopric  of  Cal- 
cutta, made  vacant  by  the  death  of  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton.  Never,  it  is  behoved,  did  any  man 
accept  an  oifico  from  a  higher  sense  of  duty. 
He  was  in  the  possession  of  affluence — ^had 
the  fairest  prospects  before  him — and  had 
recently  built  at  Hodnet  a  parsonage-house, 
combining  every  comfort  "svith  elegance  and 
beauty.  But  his  exalted  piety  considered  this 
call  as  a  call  from  Heaven,  from  which  he 
might  not  shrink,  and  he  resolutely  deter- 
mined to  obey  the  summons.  Accordingly,  in 
1823,  he  embarked  for  India,  where  he  arrived 
in  safetA',  '  with  a  field  before  him  that  might 
challenge  the  labours  of  an  apostle,  and,  we 
will  venture  to  say,  with  as  much  of  the  spirit 
of  an  apostle  in  him  as  has  rested  on  any  man 
in  these  latter  days.'  Indeed,  he  was  pecu- 
liarly well  qualified  to  fill  this  high  and 
responsible  station,  as  well  by  his  amiable  and 
conciliatory  temper  as  by  his  talents,  learning, 
and  zeal  in  the  cause  of  Christianity.  He  en- 
tered with  great  earnestness  upon  his  duties, 
and  had  already  made  many  long  journeys 
through  his  extensive  field  of  labour,  when  he 
was  suddenly  cut  off  by  an  apoplectic  fit, 
which  seized  him  while  batliing,  at  Trichino- 
poly,  on  the  3rd  of  April,  1826. 

"  Besides  the  works  of  Bishop  Heber  al- 
ready mentioned,  there  were  published,  after 
his  death,  '  Parish  Sermons  at  Hodnet,'  in 
two  volumes,  and  a  '  Narrative  of  a  Journey 
through  the  Upper  Provinces  of  India,  from 
Calcutta  to  Bombay,'  in  two  volumes." — 
Cloveland's"Eng.Lit.l9thCent.,'.'pp.l80,181. 


CHAELES  WOLFE. 

"  Charles  Wolfe,  the  youngest  son  of 
Theobald  Wolfe,  Esq.,  was  born  in  Dublin 
on  the  14th  of  December,  1791.  As  a 
youth,  he  showed  great  precocity  of  talent, 
united  to  a  most  amiable  disposition.  After 
the  usual  preparatory  studies,  in  which  he 
distinguished  himself,  he  entered  the  Uni- 
versity of  Dublin  in  1809.  He  immediately 
attained  a  high  rank  for  his  classical  attain- 
ments, and  for  his  true  poetic  talent ;  and  the 
first  year  of  his  college  course  he  obtained  a 
prize  for  a  poem  upon  '  Jugurtha  in  Prison.' 
Before  he  left  the  University,  he  wrote  a 
number  of  pieces  of  poetry  that  were  truly 
beautiful,  but  especially  that  one  on  which  his 
fame  chiefly  rests,  the  '  Lines  on  the  Buiial  of 
Sir  John  Moore.' 

"In  1814,  he  took  his  bachelor's  degree, 
and  entered  at  once  upon  the  study  of  divinity. 
In  1817,  he  was  ordained  as  curate  of  the 
church  of  Ballyclog,  in  Tyrone,  and  afterwards 
of  Donoughmore.  His  most  conscientious  and 
incessant  attention  to  his  duties  in  a  wild  and 
scattered  parish  soon  made  inroads  upon  his 
health,  and  he  was  advised  to  go  to  the  south 
of  France  as  the  most  hkely  means  to  avert 
the  threatened  malady — consumption.  He 
remained  but  little  more  than  a  month  at 
Bordeaux,  and  returned  home,  appearing  to 
have  been  benefited  by  the  voyage.  But  the 
fond  hopes  of  his  friends  were  soon  to  bo 
blasted — the  fatal  disease  had  taken  too 
strong  a  hold  upon  its  victim — and,  after  a 
protracted  illness,  accompanied  with  much 
suffering,  which  he  bore  with  great  Christian 
fortitude  and  patience,  he  expired  on  the  21st 
of  February,  1823,  in  the  thirty-second  year 
of  his  age."— Cleveland's  "Eng.  Lit.  19th 
Cent.,"  pp.  131,  132. 


HERBERT  KNOWLES. 

"Herbert  Knowles,  bom  1798,  died  1817, 
a  native  of  Canterbury,  produced,  when  a 
youth  of  eighteen,  several  fine  religious 
stanzas,  which,  being  published  in  the  '  Quar- 
terly Review,'  soon  obtained  general  circula- 
tion and  celebrity  :  they  have  much  of  the 
steady  faith  and  devotional  earnestness  of 
Cov/pcr." — Chambers's  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.," 
voL  ii.  p.  411. 


ROBERT  POLLOK. 

"  Robert  PoUok,  a  Scotch  poet,  who  was 
educated  for  the  Church,  but  produced,  before 
he  had  attained  his  26th  year,  a  very  remark- 
able poem,  entitled  '  The  Course  of  Time.* 
Upon  the  recommendation  of  Professor  Wilson, 
Messrs.  Blackwood,  of  Edinburgh,  published 
the  Avork,  which  attracted  the  most  unqualified 
admiration  in  the  religious  world.    It  speedily 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. 


ran  through  several  editions ;  having  in  the  j 

year  1857  attained  its  twenty-first.  The  young'  j 

poet's  constitution  was  frail,  and  was  under-  I 

mined  by  his  intense  application.      He  was  ' 

preparing    to    start    for  Italy,  but  died    at  \ 

Southampton,   1827 ;    born  in  Eenfrewshire,  } 
1799." — Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog."     See 
Chambers's  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  p.  412. 


JAMES  MONTGOMEEY. 

James  Montgomery,  born  at  Irvine,  Ayr-    ; 
shire,  1771;  died  at  Sheffield,  1854;   an  Eng-    : 
I         lish  poet,  was  the  son  of  a  Moravian  preacher,    i 
j         and  was  sent  to  be  educated  at  the  settlement    i 
I         of  that  sect  at  Fulneck,  near  Leeds.     There   \ 
he  was  distinguished   for   his  indolence  and   ! 
melancholy  ;  and,  although  poetry  and  fiction    | 
were  forbidden,  he  contrived  to  read,   clan-    I 
destinely,  "  Eobinson  Crusoe  "  and  Cowper's    \ 
poems.     His  inattention  to  his  studies  caused   \ 
him  to  be  placed  by  the  school  authorities   j 
with  a  shopkeeper,  from  whom,  in  1789,  he   \ 
ran  away.     A  few  months  afterwards,  he  sent   j 
a  volume  of  poems  to  a  London  bookseller,    | 
and  followed  it  himself  to  the  great  metro-    ! 
polls.     The   poems    were   declined,    but  the    i 
young  poet  obtained  a  situation  in  the  pub-    ! 
lisher's  office.     In  1791  he  wrote  a  tale,  his    ■ 
first   prose  production,   for  the    "Bee,"    an    \ 
Edinburgh   periodical,   and   soon   afterwards    ■ 
published  a  novel,  which  was  declined,  because    \ 
the   hero   gave   utterance   occasionally   to   a    ! 
strong   expression.      The  young  author  was   j 
greatly  hurt  at  this,  for  he  was  of  a  deeply   \ 
religious  cast  of  mind,  and  imagined  he  had   ; 
only  done  that  which  v/as  right  in  imitating   | 
Fielding   and   Smollett.      He  returned   to   a   i 
situation  for  some  time,  and  at  length  entered 
the  service  of  Mr.  Gales,  a  printer  and  book- 
seller  at   Sheffield,    who    permitted   him   to 
■write   political    articles    for   the    "  Sheffield 
Eegister,"  a  paper  conducted  on  what  was 
then  called  revolutionary  principles.     A  war- 
rant being  issued   for  the   apprehension   of 
Gales,   he  fled  to  America,  and  Montgomery 
started  a  paper  on  "peace  and  reform  "  prin- 
ciples,   called  the  "  Sheffield  Iris,"    and  was 
soon  afterwards  indicted  for  producing  some 
doggrel  verses,  which  had  been  brought  to  his 
printing-office  to  be  printed.     For  this  he  was 
fined  ^20,  and  sentenced  to  three  months'  im- 
prisonment.    On  another  occasion,   for  pub- 
lishing an  account  of  a  riot  at  Sheffield,  he 
was  fined  £,30,  and  was  imprisoned  for  six 
months.      His   subsequent   career  was  com- 
paratively uneventful.     In  1806  he  produced 
"The    Wanderer     in    Smtzerland,"     which 
quickly  ran  through  three  editions,  and  was 
subsequently  followed   by  other   and   better 
works  of  the  same  nature,  the  chief  of  which 
were — "The  West  Indies,"  "The  World  be- 
fore the  Flood,"  and  "  Greenland,"  a  poem 
descriptive  of  the  establishment  of  the  Mo- 


ravians in  that  desolate  region,  which  sect  he 
had  again  joined.  In  1823  he  produced 
"  Original  Hymns  for  Public,  Private,  and 
Social  Devotion."  In  1825  he  resigned  the 
editorship  of  the  "  Sheffield  Iris :  "  where- 
upon he  was  entertained  at  a  public  dinner 
by  his  fellow  townsmen.  His  interesting 
"  History  of  Missionary  Enterprise  in  the 
South  Seas"  was  produced  in  1830.  Five 
years  later  he  was  offered  the  chair  of  rhe- 
toric in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  which 
he  declined.  Sir  Eobert  Peel  about  the  same 
time  bestowed  upon  him  a  pension  of  ,£150, 
In  1836  he  left  the  house  of  his  old  emploj'cr, 
Gales,  where  he  had  lived  during  forty  years, 
for  a  more  convenient  abode.  He  delivered 
several  courses  of  lectures  upon  "  The  British 
Poets "  at  Newcastle- on-Tyne  and  other 
places,  during  some  years ;  but,  in  1841,  he 
visited  his  native  country  on  a  missionary 
tour.  His  last  effort  was  a  lecture  "  On  some 
Passages  of  English  Poetry  but  little  known  " 
Orton  writes  of  James  Montgomery  : — "  A 
universally  beloved  poet  of  the  Goldsmith 
genus.  His  patriotic  and  philanthropic  prin- 
ciples cast  a  halo  around  his  name  and  illume 
his  works.  His  poems  against  slavery  are 
the  breathings  of  a  noble  and  free-born  soul. 
There  are  many  passages  in  '  The  West 
Indies '  of  surpassing  loveliness,  and  which 
have  often  brought  tears  to  our  eyes.  In 
his  '  Greenland,'  the  descriptions  of  nature 
in  that  clime  are  often  magnificent.  The 
mountainous  icebergs  swim  distinctly  and 
flash  their  light  before  our  mental  sight,  and 
there  is  an  icy  clearness  and  freshness  about 
the  whole.  The  wondrous  superstitions  of 
that  ignorant  country  are  finely  and  graphi- 
cally told,  and  we  feel,  whilst  perusing  this  fine 
poem  (even  though  it  be  in  summer),  a  cold 
but  bracing  atmosphere  enveloping  us,  so 
strong  is  its  effect  on  the  imagination.  But 
as  he  is  beloved  by  every  child  who  knows 
his  works  (and  who  does  not  ?)  as  well  as 
'  children  of  an  older  growth,'  we  will  only 
add  our  blessings,  and  bid  him  adieu." — 
"Excelsior,"  p.  61.  See  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng. 
Lit,";  Dr.  Angus's  "Handbook";  Gilfillan's 
"  Gallery  Lit.  Portraits  "  ;  Chambers's  "  Cyc. 
Eng.  Lit." 


THE  HON.  WILLIAM  E.  SPENCEE. 

"  The  Hon.  William  Eobert  Spencer,  born 
1770,  died  1834,  published  occasional  poems 
of  that  description  named  vers  de  societe,  v/hose 
highest  object  is'  to  gild  the  social  hour.  They 
were  exaggerated  in  compliment  and  adulation, 
and  wittih^  pai'odied  in  the  '  Eejected  Ad- 
dresses.' As  a  companion,  Mr.  Spencer  was 
much  prized  by  the  brilliant  circles  of  the 
metropolis  ;  but  falling  into  pecuniary  diffi- 
culties, ho  removed  to  Paris,  where  he  died. 
His  poems  were  collected  and  published  in 
1835.      Sir    Walter    Scott,    who    knew   and 


F-rom  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


esteemed  Spencer,  quotes  the  following 
'  fine  lines '  from  one  of  his  poems,  as 
expressive  of  his  own  feelings  amidst  the 
wreck  and  desolation  of  his  fortunes  at 
Abbotsford  : — 

The  shade  of  youthful  hope  is  there, 
That  linger'd  long,  and  latest  died ; 

Ambition  all  dissolved  to  air, 

With  phantom  honours  by  his  side. 

What  empty  shadows  glimmer  nigh  ? 

They  once  were  Friendship,  Truth,  and 
Love ! 
Oh !  die  to  thought,  to  memory  die, 

Since  lifeless  to  my  heart  ye  prove !  " 

— Chambers's  "Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  voL  ii.  pp. 
420-21. 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT. 

James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt,  bom  at  South- 
gate,  Middlesex,  1784  ;  died  1859  ;  an  English 
poet,  essayist,  and  critic,  was  the  son  of  a 
West  Indian  gentleman,  who  was  resident  in 
America  when  the  War  of  Independence  burst 
forth.  Being  a  stanch  royalist,  he  was  com- 
pelled to  seek  refuge  in  England,  where  he 
entered  into  orders,  and  afterwards  became 
tutor  to  Mr.  Leigh,  nephew  to  the  Duke  of 
Chandos.  Leigh  Hunt  was  educated  with 
Coleridge,  Lamb,  and  Barnes,  at  Christ's 
Hospital,  London,  which  he  left  at  fifteen. 
He  had  already  written  verses,  which  were 
published  under  the  title  of  "  Juvenilia ;  or,  a 
Collection  of  Poems  written  between  the  Ages 
of  Twelve  and  Sixteen."  After  leaving  school, 
he  first  became  assistant  to  his  brother 
Stephen,  an  attorney  and  afterwards  obtained 
a  clerkship  in  the  War-office.  In  1805,  his 
brother  John  started  "  The  News,"  and  for 
this  paper  Leigh  wrote  reviews  of  books  and 
theatrical  criticisms.  These  last  were  com- 
posed in  a  more  elegant  style  than  had  been 
the  case  with  such  literary  performances 
hitherto  ;  and,  in  1807,  he  edited  them, 
and  published  the  series,  under  the  title  of 
"Critical  Essays  on  the  Performers  of  tlie 
London  Theatres."  A  year  afterwards,  he 
resigned  his  situation  in  the  War-office,  to 
undertake  the  joint  editorship  of  the  "  Exa- 
miner "  newspaper,  which  he  and  his  brother 
John  had  established.  The  bold  political 
strictures  of  this  print  caused  its  proprietors 
to  undergo  three  Government  prosecutions. 
The  first  was  in  1810,  for  an  attack  on  the 
regency;  this  was,  however,  abandoned.  But 
next  year,  the  Hunts  were  again  tried  by  Lord 
Ellenborough,  for  alleged  seditious  sentiments 
expressed  in  an  article  on  military  flogging. 
On  this  occasion,  the  emarkable  defence  of 
Lord  (then  Mr.)  Brougham  greatly  contributed 
to  their  acquittal  by  the  jury.  A  third  article, 
in  which  the  Prince-Regent  was  severely  cri- 
ticised, and  called  "  an  Adonis  of  fifty,"  led 


to  their  being  condemned  to  two  years'  im- 
prisonment, with  a  fine  of  d£500  each.     This 
sentence  caused  Hunt  to  become  \evy  popular, 
and  to  receive  the  sympathy  of  Bj^ron,  Lamb, 
I    Keats,  Shelley,  and  Moore.    While  in  prison  he 
wrote  "  The  Descent  of  Liberty,  a  Masque," 
I    ''  The  Story  of  Rimini,"  and  "  The  Feast  of 
i    the  Poets  ; "    and,  on  liis  release,  Eeat?  ad- 
j   dressed  to  him  his  fine  sonnet,  "  Written  on 
I    the  Day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left  Prison." 
His  next  literary  labour  was  "  Foliage ;  or, 
Poems  Original  and  translated  from  the  Greek 
of   Homer,    Theocritus,  &c."      In    1818,  he 
commenced  a  small  periodical  after  the  model 
of  Addison's  "  Spectator,"   &c.,  called    "  In- 
dicator."    In  1823,  the  "  Quarterly  Review  " 
attacks  on  the  "  Cockney  school "  of  poets, 
to  which  he  belonged,  elicited  from  his  pen  a 
satire  against  Mr.  Gifford,  its  editor,  called 
"  Ultra  Crepidarius."     His  fortunes  were  at 
this  period  at  a  very  low  ebb,  and  he  was  in- 
duced to  accept  the  kind  invitation  of  Shelley 
to  go  to  Italy,  where  himself  and  Lord  Byron 
then  were.      But  SheUey  meeting  his  death 
almost  as  soon  as  Hunt  had  reached  Italy,  he, 
for   some    time,   resided    with    Lord    Byron, 
leaving  his  house,  however,  with  feelings  less 
friendly  than  he  had  entered  it.      In  1S28, 
after  his    return  to    England,  he    published 
"  Lord  Byron  and  some  of  his  Contemporaries, 
with  Recollections  of  the  Author's  Life  and 
his  Visit  to  Italy,"  a  book  which  contained 
severe   criticims   of    Lord    Byron's    personal 
character,  but  which,  at  a  later  period,  Hunt 
admitted  were  of  too  harsh  a  nature.    During 
the    subsequent    ten    years,    he   edited    the 
"  Companion,"  a  sequel  to  the  "  Indicator ;  " 
wrote    "  Captain    Sword  and  Captain  Pen," 
contributed  to  the  magazines  and  reviews,  and 
published  a  play — "The  Legend  of  Florence." 
In  addition    to  these,  he  superintended   the 
publication  of   the  dramatic   works  of   Wy- 
cherlj-,  Farquhar,  and  Congreve  ;  wrote  "  The 
Palfrey:  a  Love  Storj--  of  Old  Times;"   pro- 
duced a  "Volume  of   Selections,  called  "  One 
Hundred  Romances  of  Real  Life  ;  "  and  ^vrote 
a  second  novel  of  a  more  ambitious  nature 
than  the  first,  under  the  title  of  "  Sir  Ralph        i 
Esher;    or,  Memoirs  of  a  Gentleman  of  the 
Court  of  Charles  II."     Leading,  henceforth, 
the    uneventful   life    of    a   studious  man    of 
letters,  the  record  of   his  career  is  nothing 
more  than  a  catalogue  of  the  names  of  his 
Kterary  productions,  with  the  dates  of  their 
publication.     Firstly,  there  are  his  essays  and 
criticisms  on  poets  and  poetry.     Of  these  the 
chief    are    "Imagination  and  Fancy,"  "Wit 
and  Humour,"   "  Men,  Women,  and  Books," 
"A  Jar  of  Honey  from  Mount  Hybla,"  and 
"  A  Book  for  the  Corner."    Among  his  genial, 
chattj'',  antiquarian  sketches,  we  have  "  The 
Town  :      its     Remarkable     Characters     and 
Events,"  and  "  The  Old  Court  Suburb;    or. 
Memorials  of  Kensington,  Regal,  Critical,  and 
Anecdotal."  "Stories  from  the  Italian  Poets, 
v/ith    Lives',"    and    the    dramatic    works    of 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


Sheridan,  were  of  similar  character  with,  his 
former  editions  of  Congreve,  &o.  His  last 
efforts  were  his  Autobiography,  in  3  vols., 
published  in  1853,  and  "  The  Eeligion  of  the 
Heart:  a  Manual  of  Faith  and  Duty."  He 
became  the  recipient,  in  1847,  of  a  pension  of 
.£200  per  annum  from  the  drown,  lie  died  in 
1859. 


JAMES   SMITH. 

James  Smith,  bom  1775,  died  1839,  known 
best  in  connexion  with  his  brother  Horace, 
wrote  clever  parodies  and  criticisms  in  the 
"  Picnic,"  the  "  London  Eeview,"  and  the 
"  Monthly  Mirror."  In  the  last  appeared 
those  imitations,  from  his  own  and  brother's 
hand,  which  were  published  in  1813  as  "  The 
Eejected  Addresses ;  "  one  of  the  most  suc- 
cessful and  popular  works  that  has  ever  ap- 
peared. James  wrote  the  imitations  of 
Wordsworth,  Cobbett,  Southej'',  Coleridge,  and 
Crabbe ;  Horace,  those  of  Scott,  Moore, 
Monk  Lewis,  Fitzgerald,  and  Dr.  Johnson. 


HOEACE    SMITH. 

Horace  Smith,  bom  1779,  died  1849,  was  a 
more  voluminous  writer  than  his  brother.  He 
was  the  author  of  several  novels  and  verses. 
"  Brambletye  House,"  1826,  was  in  imitation 
of  Scott's  historical  novels.  Besides  this  he 
wrote  "Tor  Hill,"  "  Walter  Colyton,"  "The 
Moneyed  Man,"  "  The  Merchant,"  and  several 
others.  His  best  performance  is  the  "Address 
to  the  Mummy,"  some  parts  of  which  exhibit 
the  finest  sensibility  and  an  exquisite  poetic 
taste. 


PEOFESSOE  JOHN  WILSON. 

Professor    John   Wilson,    born   at.  Paisley 
1785,  died    at   Edinburgh  1854,    an  eminent 


JOHN  CLASE. 

John  Clare,  bom  at  Helpstone,  Northampton- 
shire, 1793;  the  son  of  a  farm- labourer,  who 
was  early  sent  to  Avork  in  the  fields.  "Wlien 
he  became  able  to  read  he  purchased  a  few 
books,  and,  bj'  degrees,  initiated  himself  into 
composition  in  verse.  In  1818  he  produced  a 
"  Sonnet  to  the  Setting  Sun,"  which  attracted 
the  notice  of  a  bookseller  at  Stamford,  and  led 
to  the  publication  of  a  small  volume  entitled 
"Poems  descriptive  of  EuralLife  andScenery," 
which  was  favourably  received.  He  subse- 
quently produced  the  "Village  Minstrel,  and 
other  Poems ;  "  and,  in  1836,  the  "  Eural 
Muse."  These  are  all  pleasing  effusions,  but 
exhibiting  neither  strength  nor  '  much 
originality. 


Scotch  poet  and  essayist,  who  received  his 
education  at  Oxford.  After  taking  his  degrees 
in  arts,  he  quitted  the  University,  and  retired 
to   the  beautiful   estate   of  EUery,   on  Lake 
Windermere.      He  had  spent  some  portion  of 
the  year  in  Edinburgh,  and  there  made  the 
I   acquaintance  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  spoke 
of  him  in  a  letter  as  "  an  eccentric  genius." 
After   putting   forth  some  minor  lyrical  at- 
tempts, he,  in  1812,  published   "  The  Isle  of 
Patmos,"    which    was   well   received.      His 
I   prepossessions,  both  political  and  literary,  led 
him  to  attach  himself  to  the  little  band  of 
;   young  Tories,  with  Scott  at  their  head,  who 
caiased      "Blackwood's     Magazine"    to     be 
started  as  an  outlet  of  Scottish  Toryism.     In 
:    1816   Wilson   produced     "The   City   of   the 
■   Plague  ; "  in   1820  he  was  nominated  to  the 
'   chair  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  University  of 
;   Edinburgh.     He  next  published  "  Lights  and 
I   Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,"  and  the  "Trials  of 
I   Margaret    Lyndsay,"    political   articles,    and 
literary  criticisms.      In   1825   he   began  his 
'   celebrated  "Noctes  Ambrosianfe,"  under  the 
!   name  of  Christopher  North.      In  the  interval 
1    (1836-46)    he    wrote,  as    a  pendant    to   the 
I   "  Noctes,"    his    "  Dies  Boreales,"  but  these 
i   met  with  less   success.     In  1855  a  collected 
edition  of  his   works   was  commenced. — See 
Shaw's     "  Hist.   Eng.    Lit." ;     Dr.   Angus's 
"  Handbook  Eng.  Lit.  "  ;  Professor  Spalding ; 
Gilfillan's  "  Gal.  of  Lit.  Port." 


I  J.  H.  WIFFEN. 

'  "J.  H.  Wiffen,  born  near  Wobum  1792, 
died  185G,  an  English  poet  and  translator, 
who     was    a    member     of     the    Society    of 

I  Friends,  and  for  some  years  followed  the 
profession  of  schoolmaster.  His  earliest 
efforts  in  literature  were  some  poems  con- 
tributed to  the  Eev.  M.  Parry's  "  History  of 
Woburn,"  and  a  volume  of  verse,  entitled 
"  Aonian  Hours."  In  1819  he  received  the 
appointment  of  private  secretary  to  the  Duke 
of  Bedford.  As  a  translator,  he  produced 
Tasso's  "Jerusalem  Delivered,"  and  the 
poems  of  Gao-'cilasso  de  la  Yega.  As  an 
original     writer,    he    published    "  Historical 

I  Memoirs  of  the  House  of  Sussell." — Beeton's 
Diet.  L^niv.  Biog." 


FELICIA  HEMANS. 

"Felicia  Hemans,  born  1793,  died  1835. 
Female  author  .ship  in  England  is  of  com- , 
paratively  modern  date.  After  the  period 
when  the  maiden  queen  condescended  to  figure 
as  a  little  occidental  luminary  in  poetry,  a 
single  star  or  two  glitters  in  the  sky  of  the 
17th  century ;  they  begin  to  assemble  in 
greater  numbers  in  the  18th  ;  and  in  the  con- 
clusion of  that  century  and  the  commeB^ement 


From  1780  to  1S66.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


of  the  present  the  literature  of  England 
presents  the  names  of  many  females,  in  all 
departments  of  knowledge,  of  pro-eminent  or 
of  respectable  merit.  We  regret  that  we  are 
forced  to  confine  our  selection  to  the  name 
that  has  been  universally  acknowledged  to 
stand  at  the  head  of  our  English  poetesses. 

"  Mrs.  Hemans,  originally  Miss  Felicia 
Dorothea  Browne,  was  the  daughter  of  a 
merchant,  a  native  of  Ireland,  and  born  in 
Liverpool,  in  September,  1793.  The  failure  of 
her  father  in  trade  caused  the  retirement  of 
the  family  into  Wales,  and  the  childhood  of 
the  poetess  was  spent  among  the  inspiring 
f-cenery  of  Denbighshire.  From  a  child  she 
was  a  versifier,  and  produced  her  first  publica- 
tion at  the  age  of  fifteen.  At  that  of  eighteen 
she  was  married  to  Captain  Hemans.  The 
union  was  unhappy  ;  her  husband  six  years 
afterwards,  for  his  health,  went  to  Italy,  and, 
Avithout  any  formal  deed  of  separation,  "they 
never  met  again."  Mrs.  Hemans  continued 
in  her  Welsh  seclusion,  the  exertions  of  her 
pen,  the  education  of  her  children,  and  the 
duties  of  religion  and  benevolence,  furnishing 
her  with  ample  employment.  She  died  in 
Dublin,  diu'ing  a  visit  to  her  brother,  Major 
Browne,  in  1835.  Her  deathbed  was  an 
affecting  scene  of  Christian  fortitude,  resigna- 
tion, and  hope. 

"Mrs.  Hemans,  like  several  modem  writers, 
is  most  popular  in  her  minor  poems.  Delicacy 
of  feehng,  warmth  of  affection  and  devotion, 
depth  of  sympathy  with  nature,  and  harmony 
and  brilliancy  of  language,  are  the  features  of 
these  charming  little  pieces.  Her  larger  works 
have  the  same  characteristics,  but  become 
languid  and  fatiguing  from  their  very  unifor- 
mity of  sweetness.  Her  translations  from 
modern  languages,  and  her  chivaMc  poems, 
exhibit  great  spirit  and  splendour  of  associa- 
tion and  imagery.  Over  her  whole  poetry,  in 
the  phrase  of  Sir  W.  Scott,  there  is  too  much 
flower  for  the  fruit.  Her  style  has  been 
peculiarly  popular  in  America,  and  much  of 
the  later  American  poetry  is  moulded  on  it. 
The  larger  works  of  Mrs.  Hemans  are  '  The 
Sceptic ; '  '  The  Vespers  of  Palermo '  (a 
tragedy) ;  '  The  Forest  Sanctuary  ; '  '  Eecords 
of  Woman.'  " — Scrymgeour's  "  Poetry  and 
Poets  of  Britain,"  pp.  4G7,  468.  See  S.  C. 
HaU's  "  Book  of  Gems." 


BEENAED  BAETON. 

Bernard  Barton,  born  1784,  died  1849,  was 
^  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  the 
amount  of  attention  v/hich  he  attracted  is 
perhaps  mainly  owing  to  the  then  unusual 
phenomenon  which  he  presented  of  a  Quaker 
poet — ^the  title,  indeed,  by  which  he  came  to 
be  commonly  known.  He  published  a  volume 
of  "  Metrical  Effusions  "  in  1812  ;  "Napoleon, 
and    other  Poems,"  1822;    "Poetic  Vigils," 


1824;  "Devotional Verses,"  1826.  Numerous 
other  pieces  appeared  separately,  and  in 
magazines. 


L.  E.  LANDON. 

"  L.  E.  Landon,  born  1802,  died  IS 3S— our 
English  Sappho.  Her  piind  was  a  golden  urn 
filled  with  lusciously-scented  rose-leaves,  but, 
alas  !  the  breath  of  life  was  not  there.  Her 
heart  was  a  crushed  rose-leaf,  yet  giving  forth 
from  that  bruising  the  richest  fragrance  of 
pensive  Poesy. 

"  She  lived  in  the  world  as  in  a  lone  gloomy 
cavern,  and  scarcely  saw  through  its  twilight 
the  flowers  that  bloomed  around ;  her  imagi- 
nation (and  she  was  all  imagination)  feasting 
onlj'  on  those  entwined  by  the  dewy  fingers  of 
IMomory  and  Fancy,  the  tearful  dews  of  twi- 
light lay  thick  upon  them,  and  she  sickened 
and  died  through  excess  of  fragrance ;  for, 
hoAvever  delicious  the  breath  of  flowers,  it  is 
alas  !  also  true,  that,  in  too  great  a  profusion, 
it  is  poisonous,  and  bears  on  its  pinions  the 
angel  of  death ! 

"  Thus,  then,  did  L.  E.  L.  breathe  her  last ; 
and  bitter  tears  of  love  fell  fast  and  watered 
the  flowers  o'er  her  early  grave  ! 

"  Like  Sappho,  she  sang  of  passionate  love ; 
like  Sappho,  she  paired  the  way  to,  and  dropped 
into,  an  untimely  and  tragical  grave!" — 
Orton's  "  Excelsior,"  pp.  41,  42.  See  D.  M. 
Moir's  '  Poetical  Literature  of  the  Past  Half 
Century;"  S.  C.  Hall's  "  Book  of  Gems." 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

Joanna  Baillie,  born  at  Bothwell,  near 
Glasgow,  1762,  died  1851,  the  daughter  of  a 
Presbyterian  clergyman,  lived  the  greater  part 
of  her  life  at  Hampstead.  She  wrote  various 
plays,  of  which  her  tragedy  of  "  De  Mont- 
fort"  is  perhaps  the  finest. 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 

"William  Knox,  a  young  poet  of  consider- 
able talent,  who  died  in  Edinburgh  in  1825, 
aged  thirty-six,  was  author  of  '  The  Lonely 
Hearth,'  'Songs  of  Israel,'  'The  Harp  of 
Zion,'  &c.  Sir  Walter  Scott  thus  mentions 
Knox  in  his  diary  : — '  His  father  was  a  re- 
spectable yeoman,  and  he  himself,  succeeding 
to  good  farms  under  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch, 
became  too  soon  his  own  master,  and  plunged 
into  dissipation  and  ruin.  His  talent  then 
showed  itself  in  a  fine  strain  of  pensive  poetry.* 
Knox  spent  his  later  years  in  Edinburgh, 
under  his  father's  roof,  and,  amidst  all  his 
errors,  was  ever  admirably  faithful  to  the 
domestic  affections — a  kind  and  respectful  son, 
and  an  attached  brother.     He  experienced  on 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


several  occasions  substantial  proofs  of  tliat 
generosity  of  Scott  towards  his  less  fortunate 
brethren,  which  might  have  redeemed  his  in- 
finite superiority  in  Envy's  OAvn  bosom.  It 
was  also  remarkable  of  Knox  tliat,  from  the 
force  of  early  impressions  of  piety,  he  was 
able,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  most  deplorable 
dissipation,  to  command  his  mind  at  intervals 
to  the  composition  of  verses  alive  with  sacred 
fire,  and  breathing  of  Scriptural  simplicity  and 
tenderness." — Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.," 
vol.  ii.  p.  453. 


THOMAS  PRINGLE. 

Thomas  Pringle,  born  at  Blaiklaw,  Teviot- 
dale,  1789,  died  1834,  a  Scotch  poet  and 
writer  of  travels,  was  the  son  of  a  farmer,  and 
educated  at  the  Grammar-school  of  Kelso  and 
the  University  of  Edinburgh.  After  pubhshing 
several  minor  effusions,  he  started  the  "  Edin- 
burgh Monthly  Magazine,"  having  among  his 
coadjutors  Lockhart,  Dr.  Brewster,  Hogg,  and 
Wilson.  Pringle,  experiencing  some  pecuniary 
embarrassments,  separated  from  the  peiiodical, 
and  in  1820  went  out  with  his  brothers  to 
the  Gape  of  Good  Hope.  Through  the  in- 
fluence of  Scott  and  others,  he  obtained  the 
post  of  librarian  to  the  Government  at  Cape 
Town.  He  also  set  up  an  academy,  and 
started  a  newspaper,  when  his  print,  "  The 
South- African  Journal,"  having  been  declared 
by  the  governor  to  contain  a  libel  upon  him, 
Pringle  fell  under  the  ban  of  the  Government 
authorities,  and  in  time  became  ruined  in  his 
prospects.  In  1826  he  returned  to  London. 
The  remaining  years  of  his  life  were  spent  as 
a  working  literary  man.  His  chief  works 
were  "A  Narrative  of  a  Eesidence  in  South 
Africa,"  "An  Account  of  English  Settlers  in 
Albany,  South  Africa,"  and  several  small 
collections  of  poems.  His  poetry  is  fluent  and 
pleasing. 


ROBERT  MONTGOMERY. 

Robert  Montgomery,  born  1808,  died  1855, 
a  popular  preacher  at  Percy  Chapel,  Charlotte 
Street,  Bedford  Square.  His  poems  passed 
through  numerous  editions ;  but  they  are 
stilted  and  unnatural  in  expression.  Their 
religious  subjects,  and  the  clever  pufling  which 
they  received,  contributed  to  their  success. 
The  chief  of  them  were  the  "  Omnipresence 
of  the  Deity,"  "Satan,"  "Luther,"  "Mes- 
siah," and  "  Oxford."  He  is  perhaps  best 
known  by  the  scathing  criticism  which  he 
received  in  the  celebrated  essay  by  Macaulay. 


thou  man  of  the  most  opposite  qualities,  wit 
and  pathos,  yet  brightly  excellent  in  each  ! 

"  Whoever  knows  thy  Avorks  loves  thee 
deeply,  and  pities  thy  unfortunate  lot.  How 
could  the  World  let  its  most  loving  and  feeling 
son  die  in  such  utter  poverty  ? 

"  Hood's  poems  of  wit  are  the  drollest,  and 
his  poems  of  sympathy  on  behalf  of  his  suffer- 
ing and  forgotten  fellow-creatures  are  the 
most  deeply  touching,  yea,  harrowing,  in  their 
noble  earnestness,  ever  written. 

"  Who,  knowing  even  his  well-known  '  Song 
of  the  Shirt '  and  '  Bridge  of  Sighs,'  can  ever 
cease    to    deluge    his    name  with  eudearing 
epithets  ?     Our  tears  flow,    and  we   become 
all  heart ! 
j        "  Let  the  present  age  do  that  justice  to  his 
■    memory   which    may    partly    atone    for    his 
i    sorrows  and  neglect  when  living  ! 
i        "  The  world  should  never   be    without    a 
'    Hood,  to  sing  the  sorrows  of   the  wretched 
•    and  forlorn,  and  appeal  to  their  more  fortunate 
brethren    in   their  behalf  !  " — Orton's    "  Ex- 
celsior," p.  55.      See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet. 
Eng.  Lit.";  S.  C.  Hall's  "Book  of  Gems;" 
i    Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog. ;  "  D.  M.  Moir's 
j    "  Poetical  Literature  of  the  Past   Half -Cen- 
tury." 


THOMAS  HOOD. 

"Thomas    Hood,  born    1798,    died    1842. 
Poor  Hood  !  who  does  not  honour  thy  name. 


THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 

i 

j        "  He  was,  next  to  Moore,  the  most  success- 
:    fnl  song-writer  of  our  age.     His  most  attrac- 
;    tive   lyrics   turned   on   the  distresses  of  the 
;   victims  of  the  affections  in  elegant  life ;  but 
I   his  muse  had  also  her  airy  and  cheerful  strain, 
!   and  he  composed  a  surprising  number  of  light 
j   dramas,  some  of  which  show  a  likelihood  of 
j   maintaining  their  ground  on  the  stage.     He 
j   was  bom  in  1797,  the  son  of  an  eminent  and 
j   wealthy  solicitor,   near  Bath.     Destined  for 
the  church,  he  studied  for  some  time  at  Oxford, 
but  could  not  settle  to  so  sober  a  profession, 
and  ultimately  came  to  depend  chiefly  on  lite- 
rature for   support.     His   latter  years   were 
marked  by  misfortunes. 

"  This  amiable  poet  died  of  jaundice  in  1839. 

His  songs  contain  the  pathos  of  a  section  of 

our  social  system  ;  but  they  are  more  calculated 

to  attract  attention  by  their  refined  and  happy 

j   diction,   than   to   melt   us   by  their   feeling. 

)   Several  of  them,  as  '  She  wore  a  wreath  of 

;   roses,'  '  Oh  no,  we  never  mention  her,'  and  'We 

I   met — 'twas  in  a  crowd,'  attained  to  an  extra- 

I   ordinary  popularity.     Of  his  livelier  ditties, 

;    '  I'd  be  a  butterfly '  was  the  most  felicitous  : 

1   it  expresses  the  Horatian  philosophy  in  terms 

j   exceeding  even  Horace  in  gaiety." — Chambers' 

I   "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  p.  471.  4 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 

"  Hartley  Coleridge,  born  1796,  died  1849, 
the  eldest  son  of  Samuel  Coleridge,  produced 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


some  excellent  poems,  and  from  1820  to  1831 
was  a  contributor  to  '  Blackwood's  Magazine.' 
He  also  wrote  some  excellent  biographies  of 
'  The  Worthies  of  Yorkshire  and  Lancashire.' 
He  lived  mostly  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
lakes  Grasmere  and  Eydal,  pleasing  himself, 
rather  than  pleasing  others,  by  the  indulgence 
of  an  unfortunate  propensity  to  intemperance, 
which  he  had  contracted  at  college,  and  which 
never  left  him  through  life." — Beeton's  "  Diet. 
Univ.  Biog."  See  AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit." 


N.  T.  CAEEINGTON. 

The  subject  of  our  present  paper  was  born 
at  Plymouth,  in  1777,  of  respectable  parent- 
age. Nothing  remarkable  occurred  in  his  life 
until  he  reached  his  sixteenth  year,  when  ho 
was  apprenticed  to  Mr.  Thomas  Foot,  a  mea- 
surer :  the  pursuits  of  liis  profession,  however, 
were  unsuitable  to  his  literary  predilections. 
The  love  of  poetry,  as  embodied  in  the  beauti- 
ful creations  of  God,  had  taken  possession  of 
his  soul,  and  when  once  under  the  dominion 
of  that  delightful  passion,  we  feel  a  growing 
dislike  to  noise  and  bustle  ;  it  leads  its  vo- 
taries to  the  contemplation  of  Nature  in  all 
her  loveliness  and  grandeur  ;  it  leads  them  to 
meditate  amid  her  solitary  haunts  and  quiet 
seclusions;  every  flower  is  rich  with  a  thousand 
memories,  every  shrub  with  a  thousand  as- 
sociations. Literature  stamps  an  everlasting 
charm  and  an  everlasting  truth  on  those 
scenes  which  rise  in  simple  majesty  around 
us. 

In  the  dockyard  there  could  be  little  that 
was  congenial ;  its  noiso  was  little  suited  to 
the  spirit  that  had  learned  to  love  the  crea- 
tions of  poet  and  of  painter.  He  might, 
indeed,  have  dreamt  of  beautiful  things  while 
at  his  labours ;  he  might  have  depicted  the 
blushing  scenery  of  nature,  colouring  it  with 
the  golden  and  purple  tints  of  his  fancy  ;  he 
might  have  listened  to  the  sweet  music  of 
heaven  and  earth  ;  but  ever  and  anon  the 
truth  would  come  that  he  was  far  from  these, 
and  they  far  from  him. 

Each  day,  as  it  glided  by,  bore  mth  its 
fading  glories  the  entreaties  of  our  poet  for 
a  change  of  situation :  it  was  in  vain  he 
asked ;  the  boon  Avas  refused.  After  some 
three  years  of  hope  and  fear  he  ran  away. 
He  had  no  sooner  done  this,  than  he  felt  the 
effects  of  his  own  rashness,  for  not  having 
courage  to  return  home,  he  seemed  an  out- 
cast and  an  exile.  In  this  emergency  he 
entered  on  "  shipboard,"  and  soon  after  was 
present  at  the  victory  off  Cape  St.  Vincent, 
on  the  14th  of  Februarj'-,  1797.  Having 
written  some  verses  on  the  occasion,  the  first 
he  ever  penned,  they  met  the  eye  of  his  cap- 
tain, who  appreciated  their  merits,  and  became 
deeply  interested  in  their  author.  Having 
learned  his  story,  he  promised  to  send  him  to 


his  parents  immediately  on  their  arrival  in 
'  England.  The  youthful  bard  soon  obtained 
forgiveness,  and  was  once  more  reinstated  in 
the  home  of  infancy.  He  was  now  allowed  to 
choose  his  own  j)rofession,  and  ere  very  long- 
became  a  public  schoolmaster. 

Seven  years  after  this,  we  find  him  removed 
to  Maidstone,  in  Kent.     In  1805~he  married, 
i   and  continued  to  pursue  his  avocation  with 
I   success   until   1809,    when    he    returned    to 
Plymouth,   at  the   earnest   request   of    some 
friends,  who  were  anxious  to  place  their  sons 
under  his  care ;  he  remained  here  till  within 
six  months  of  his  death :  his  duties  allowed 
him  little  or  no  recreation.     In  1820  he  pro- 
I   duced  his  "  Banks  of  Tamar,"  which  was  well 
'    received  ;  and  four  years  afterwards  he  pub- 
lished "  Dartmoor,"  with  still  greater  success. 
Friends  now  gathered  round  him,  and  even 
royalty   itself   smiled.      He   continued    from 
this  time  to  write  occasional  pieces  for  maga- 
zines until  disabled  by  sickness.      In    1830 
he   relinquished  his  school   and  removed  to 
'   Bath,  where  he  died  a  few  months  afterwards. 
i   His  burial-place  seems  suited  to  his  character : 
I   it  lies  in  the  secluded  village  of  Combehay, 
I   somewhat    more   than   three  miles  from  his 
:   latest  residence,  "  deep  sunk  "  in  a  romantic 
and  sequestered  vale. 

Our  author's  finest  poem  is,  tmquestion- 
ably,  "  Dartmoor."  It  is  marked  by  much 
truth  and  beauty,  and  its  strain  is  lively  and 
joyous ;  there  are  a  few  melancholy  notes,  a 
few  pensive  touches ;  its  versification  is  in 
general  harmonious,  and  its  description 
;  strong  and  characteristic  ;  its  imagery  correct, 
'  and  its  associations  pleasant ;  its  episodes  are 
full  of  sweetness  ;  it  scents  of  the  gorse  and 
broom  which  grow  on  our  heaths,  and  sounds 
with  the  murmuring  of  brooks  and  the  dashing 
of  the  rushing  torrent. 

And  who  is  there  amongst  us  who   feels 
not   the   power   of    local   sympathy  ?      How 
beautiful  and  bright  those  hills  up  which  wo 
toiled   in  childhood !  how   thick   they   stand 
with   sweet   associations!    how  lovely  those 
I   woodbine  lanes  along  which  our  feet  used  to 
stray,  and  what  remembrances  entwine  their 
green  hedge-rows  and  shady  trees  !     The  very 
wild-flowers    that    trembled   in  the   evening 
breeze   seemed   more   exquisite  than   others. 
How  quiet  and  calm  the  village  we  were  ac- 
customed   to     visit,    with    its    straw-roofed 
'   cottages,   low  porches,    and    latticed  panes, 
■with  its  ancient  church  and  ivied  parsonage  ! 
There  seems  to  be  a  deeper  shade  in  those 
yews  that  skirted  the  church-yard,  and  a  more 
softened  repose  breathed  overthe  lonely  graves. 
And  thus  we  ever  cling  to  those  streams,  and 
I   walks,  and  flowers,  and    trees,  and  peaceful 
huts,  and  Elizabethan  mansions  we  gazed  on 
in  bygone  years;  memory  adorns  them  with 
:   a  more  than  rainbow  beauty 
i       The    sky    of    Italy    may   be   bright   and 
'   sunny,  but  the  sky  which  mantled  over  the 
place  of  owr  birth,  and  which  witnessed  ovu- 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Peeiod. — 


youthful  sports,  seems  to  us  more  st>nny  and 
more  bright.  Other  lands  may  be  graced 
with  the  narcissus  and  the  orange-blossom, 
and  may  be  breathed  on  by  gentle  winds  and 
balmy  gales,  and  there  may  be  silvery 
whisperings  in  their  woods ;  but  that  nook 
which  beheld  us  laughing  in  the  joyance  of 
childhood  seems -to  be  graced  with  sweeter 
flowers  and  breathed  on  by  more  softened 
gales  ;  and  from  out  its  woods  comes  a  more 
silvery  music.  Other  countries  may  be  decked 
with  high-crested  mountains  and  deep  dark 
lakes  reflecting  in  their  still  waters  the  mag- 
nificent sunset  and  sunrise  and  the  resplendent 
glory  of  the  starry  host ;  but  there  is  a  retreat 
which  yields  to  us  thoughts  more  stirring 
and  feelings  more  throbbing  than  any  of 
these. 

There  are  times  when  the  soft  and  volup- 
tuous please  not,  when  we  seek  the  solitary 
region  ;  t.he  stern  features  of  nature  are  then 
more  suited  to  the  soul ;  we  love  its  severer 
beauties ;  the  voice  of  waters  amid  thesolem- 
nity  of  seeming  desolation  is  proper  music, 
none  other  is  desirable.  The  singing  of  the 
birds  harmonizes  not,  the  cooing  of  the  dove 
is  unwelcome ;  the  whispering  of  trees,  hum 
of  bees,  and  tinglings  of  the  sheep-bell  belong 
not  to  creation  in  its  wilder  domains.  The 
silvery  chime  of  the  chapel-beU  would  be 
ungrateful ;  nothing  but  the  torrent's  hoarse 
and  dashing  sounds  are  in  accordance.  In 
such  a  spot,  all  solitary  and  alone,  sublime 
thoughts  will  often  pass  over  the  spirit,  and 
shake  it  as  with  a  storm  ;  a  mightier  power 
is  disclosed,  a  more  tremendous  energy;  the 
busy  world  is  shut  out,  the  transient  affairs 
of  mortals  shrink  into  littleness ;  the  immortal 
stands  divested  of  its  earthliness  ;  we  feel,  as 
it  were,  a  new  being.  "With '  the  vast  sky 
above,  and  the  wide  waste  below,  the  mind 
puts  on  its  highest  and  loftiest  attributes. — 
See  Allibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit. ;"  D.  M. 
Moir's  "Poetical  Lit.  of  the  Past  Half- 
Century." 


sublime  tale  of  all  European  imitations." — 
Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  See  Allibone's 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  BECKFORD. 

"  "William  Beckford,  born  1770,  died  near 
Bath,  1844,  the  only  legitimate  son  of  Alder- 
man Beckford,  who,  in  the  time  of  George  III., 
was  twice  mayor  of  London.  He  is  known  by 
his  great  wealth,  which  enabled  him  to  erect 
the  magnificent  structure  called  Fonthill ;  and 
by  his  being  the  anther  of  '  "Vathek,'  and 
several  other  Avorks.  This  work  is  an  Arabian 
tale,  which  was  composed  at  one  sitting. 
'  It  took  me,'  said  he,  '  three  days  and  two 
nights  of  hard  labour.  I  never  took  off  my 
clothes  the  whole  time.'  It  is  a  work  of  great 
genius,  and,  according  to  Byron,  for  correct- 
ness of  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and 
power  of  imagination,  the  most  eastern  and 


JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART. 

"  John  Gibson  Lockhart,  born  at  Cambus- 
nethan,  Scotland,  1794,  died  at  Abbotsford 
1854,  a  modern  English  writer,  author  of  the 
'  Life  of  Sir  "Walter  Scott,'  and  other  valuable 
contributions  to  literature,  was  the  son  of  a 
minister  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  of  Scot- 
land, and  was  educated  at  Glasgow  University, 
and  afterwards  at  Balliol  College,  Oxford. 
After  a  short  sojourn  in  Germany,  he  went  to 
Edinburgh  in  1816,  intending  to  practise  the 
law  at  the  Scottish  bar.  He  soon,  however, 
became  a  prominent  member  of  a  small  band 
of  Scotch  writers,  whose  chief  was  Wilson. 
In  1817,  on  the  establishment  of  '  Blackwood's 
Magazine,'  Lockhart  was  one  of  its  principal 
writers.  The  Toryism  of  the  new  periodical, 
and  of  its  writers,  caused  both  to  become 
especial  favourites  with  Sir  "Walter  Scott, 
whose  political  views  were  of  the  same  nature. 
Lockhart,  in  a  short  time,  became  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  great  novelist,  who  advanced  his 
interests  on  every  occasion.  In  1820  he 
married  Sophia,  eldest  daughter  of  Scott,  and 
went  to  reside  at  Abbotsford.  During  the 
succeeding  five  years  he  worked  with  great 
industry  and  success  in  literature.  He  pro- 
duced, among  others,  'Valerius,  a  Roman 
story ; '  '  Adam  Blair,  a  story  of  Scottish 
Life ; '  '  The  Life  of  Burns  ; '  '  The  Life  of 
Napoleon  ; '  and  published  his  translations  of 
the  Spanish  Ballads.  In  1826  he  became 
editor  of  the  '  Quarterly  Review,'  and  retained 
the  appointment  until  1853.  In  biography 
and  biographical  sketches  he  was  particularly 
excellent,  as  is  attested  by  his  '  Life  of  Scott,' 
and  the  smaller  piece,  entitled  '  Theodore 
Hook.'  His  health  becoming  delicate,  he  re- 
signed the  editorship  of  the  '  Quarterly  Re- 
view,' and  went  to  Rome  in  1853  ;  but,  after 
a  short  stay,  he  took  up  his  residence  in 
Scotland." — Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


T.  K.  HERVEY. 

T.  K.  Hervey  was  born  in  Manchester,  in 
1804.  After  receiving  his  education  at  Oxford 
and  Cambridge,  he  devoted  some  time  to  legal 
studies ;  but  soon  abandoned  Coke  and  Black- 
stone  for  the  more  congenial  pursuit  of  letters. 
He  published  "  Australia,  and  other  Poems  ;  " 
"  The  Poetical  Sketch-Book ;  "  "  Illustrations 
of  Modern  Sculpture;"  "The  English  He- 
licon ; "  "  The  Book  of  Christmas."  The 
genius  of  T.  K.  Hervey,  for  he  has  genius  at 


From  1780  to  18GG.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


once  pathetic  and  refined,  is  not  nnallied  to 
that  of  Pringle  and  Watts,  but  with  a  dash  of 
Thomas  Moore.  He  writes  uniformly,  with 
taste  and  elaboration,  polishing  the  careless 
and  rejecting  the  crude ;  and  had  he  addressed 
himself  more  earnestly  and  unreservedly  to 
the  task  of  composition,  I  have  little  doubt, 
from  several  specimens  he  has  occasionally 
exhibited,  that  he  might  have  occupied  a 
higher  and  more  distinguished  place  in  our 
poetical  literature  than  he  can  be  said  to  have 
attained.  His  "  Australia,"  and  several  of 
his  lyrics,  were  juvenile  pledges  of  future  ex- 
cellence which  maturity  can  scarcely  be  said 
to  have  fully  redeemed. — See  Moir's  "  Poet, 
Lit.  of  the  Past  Half -Century  ;  "  Allibone's 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit. ;"  "British  Critic," 
Aug.  1824;  "Literary  Gazette,"  1829,  p. 
360;  Dr.  Hawks's  (New  York)  "Church 
Record  ;  "  "  Blackwood's  Mag.,"  xvii.  98,  99  ; 
xix.  88,  89 ;  "  Men  of  the  Time,"  1856. 


RIGHT   HON.  JOHN   WILSON  CROKER. 

"  Right  Hon.  John  Wilson  Croker,  born  in 
Gal  way,  Ireland,  1780 ;  died  at  Hampton, 
1857  ;  was  educated  for  the  bar,  and,  in  1800, 
was  entered  a  student  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  He 
devoted  much  of  his  time,  however,  to  litera- 
ture and  politics,  displaying  in  the  latter  field 
strong  Tory  tendencies.  In  1807  ho  became 
Member  of  Parliament  for  Downpatrick,  in 
Ireland,  and  in  1809  Secretary  to  the  Ad- 
miralty. This  post  ho  held  for  twenty  years, 
during  which  he  sat  as  Member  in  the  House 
for  various  boroughs.  Meanwhile  he  'was 
almost  continually  engaged  with  his  pen,  and 
v/as  a  ready  and  versatile  writer.  His  most 
extensive  production  is  an  edition  of  '  Bos- 
well's  Life  of  Johnson,'  which  Macaulay 
criticised  with  great  sevcritj'-  in  the  '  Edin- 
burgh Review.'  Ho  wrote,  besides,  '  Stories 
from  the  History  of  England,'  and  edited 
'  The  Suffolk  Papers,'  '  Walpole's  Letters  to 
Lord  Hertford,'  and  several  other  works." — 
Beaton's  "  Diet,  of  Univ.  Biog." 


MRS.  SOUTHEY. 

"Mrs.  Southey,  born  1787,  died  1854,  a 
popular  poetess,  and  wife  of  the  Poet-Laureate, 
was  the  only  child  of  Captain  Charles  Bowles, 
of  Buckland,  near  Lymington.  Her  earliest 
production  was  the  '  13irthday.'  But  for  more 
than  twenty  years,  the  writings  of  Caroline 
Bowles  were  published  anonymously,  and  it 
was  not  until  after  the  publication  of  '  Ellen 
Fitz-Arthur,'  and  several  of  the  pathetic 
novelettes  which  she  had  contributed  to 
'  Blackwood's  Magazine '  under  the  title  of 
'  Chapters  on  Churchyards,'   that  her  name 


and  identity  became  known  beyond  a  limited 
circle.  Among  the  friends  who  had  been  at- 
tracted to  her  by  her  genius,  in  the  earlier 
part  of  her  career,  were  the  poets  Southey  and 
Bowles  ;  the  former  of  whom  became  her 
husband  in  1839.  At  the  date  of  the  mar- 
riage,  Southey  had  been  a  v/idower  two  years, 
his  former  wife  having  been  virtually  dead  to 
him  for  many  more.  On  his  death,  Mrs. 
Southey  was  left  with  means  insufficient,  in 
her  state  of  health,  to  provide  the  ordinary 
comforts  of  life  ;  but  M^as  placed  on  the  Civil 
List  for  a  pension  of  ^62 00  a  j^ear.  The  prin- 
cipal of  Mrs.  Southey's  works  are  'Ellen 
Fitz-Arthur  :  a  Poem  ; '  '  The  Widow's  Tale, 
and  other  Poems ; '  '  Solitary  Hours,'  prose 
and  verse  ;  '  Chapters  on  Churchyards  ; ' 
'  Tales  of  the  Factories  ; '  and  '  Robin  Hood, 
a  Fragment,  by  the  late  Robert  Southey  and 
Caroline  Bowles  :  ^vith  other  Poems.'  " — 
Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


ELIZABETH  BRO"V\rNING. 

"  Elizabeth  Browning,  originally  Miss  Bar- 
rett, wife  of  the  poet ;  born  in  London,  date 
unknown ;  died  at  Florence,  in  1861  ;  gave 
early  indications  of  genius,  and  was  educated 
with  the  utmost  care.  At  the  age  of  seven- 
teen she  published  '  An  Essay  of  Mind,  with 
other  Poems ; '  and  in  1838  appeared  her 
'  Seraphim,'  which  was  succeeded  by  <  The 
Romaunt  of  the  Page,'  '  The  Drama  of  Exile,' 
'  Isabel's  Child,'  '  Casa  Guidi  Windows,'  and 
several  miscellaneous  pieces,  all  of  which 
occupy  a  high  place  in  our  poetical  literature. 
Besides  these  original  works,  she  had  trans- 
lated the  '  Prometheus  Bound,'  of  JEschylus, 
and  contributed  a  series  of  papers  to  the 
London  '  Athenreum  '  on  the  Greek-Christian 
poets.  In  1850  appeared  her  '  Aurora  Leigh,' 
which  has  many  admirers." — Beeton's  "Diet. 
Univ.  Biog." 


DAVID  MACBETH  MOIR. 

"  David  Macbeth  Moir,  born  at  Musselburgh, 
1798  ;•  died  1851 ;  a  modern  poet  and  prose 
writer,  who  was  educated  for  and  practised 
the  medical  profession.  He  made  his  first 
appearance  as  an  author  in  1812,  by  publish- 
ing a  small  volume  of  poems.  He  next  wrote 
for  some  local  magazines  and  journals,  and, 
at  the  commencement  of  '  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine,' he  became  a  contributor  to  its  pages, 
and  remained  so  until  his  death.  For  the 
same  magazine  he  also  wrote  '  The  Auto- 
biography of  Mansie  Wauch.'  In  1831  he 
pubKshed  the  '  Outlines  of  the  Ancient 
History  of  Medicine,'  and,  in  the  same  year, 
exerted  himself  energetically  while  the  cholera 
raged  in  Musselburgh,  where  he  practised  his 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


profession,  and  subsequently  published  a 
pamphlet  entitled  '  Practical  Observations  on 
Malignant  Cholera.'  In  1851  he  delivered  a 
course  of  lectures  upon  the  '  Poetical  Litera- 
ture of  the  Past  Century,'  at  the  Edinburgh 
Philosophical  Institution.  As  a  poet,  he  was 
tender  and  pathetic,  rather  than  forcible  and 
original.  His  poetical  works  were  collected 
in  1852,  and  to  them  was  prefixed  his  life. 
Dr.  Moir  was  a  graceful  essayist,  and  a  com- 
petent man  of  science,  and  was,  moreover,  a 
kind  and  excellent  man." — ^Beetou's  "  Diet. 
Univ.  Biog." 


GEORGE  CEOLY. 

"  George  Croly  was  bom  in  Ireland  toward 
the  close  of  the  last  century,  and  was  educated 
in  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  he  took  his 
regular  Master's  degree,  and  was  ordained 
'  deacon  and  priest '  in  Ireland.  After  this 
he  went  to  England  to  settle,  and  was  recom- 
mended by  Lord  Brougham  (though  differing 
much  from  him  in  public  views)  to  the  living 
of  St.  Stephen's  church,  Walbrook,  London, 
where  he  still  continues,  discharging  his  duties 
with  assiduity,  and  with  a  true  zeal  for  the 
cause  of  the  truth  and  the  gospel.  He  is  an 
independent  thinker  and  writer,  and  prefers 
freedom  of  thought  and  speech  to  preferment 
in  '  the  church.' 

"Eew  authors  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
who  have  written  so  much,  have  written  so 
well  as  Dr.  Croly.  His  prose  style  is  clear, 
rich,  idiomatic,  and  at  times  eloquent ;  while 
as  a  poet  he  has  many  great  and  shining 
qualities — '  a  rich  command  of  language, 
whether  for  the  tender  or  the  serious,  an  ear 
finely  attuned  to  musical  expression,  a  fertile 
and  lucid  conceptive  power,  and  an  intellect 
at  once  subtle  and  masculine.  Hundreds  of 
copies  of  verses  from  his  indefatigable  pen, 
some  of  them  of  surpassing  excellence,  lie 
scattered  about — rich  bouquets  of  unowned 
flowers  —  throughout  the  wide,  unbounded 
fields  of  periodical  literature.' 

"  The  following,  I  believe,  is  a  full  list  of 
Dr.  Croly' s  works.  While  they  are  so  highly 
creditable  to  the  learning  and  talents  of  their 
author,  they  give  evidence  of  an  astonishing 
industry  that  could  accomplish  so  much,  inde- 
pendent of  his  parochial  duties.  Theolo- 
gical :  '  Divine  Providence ;  or,  Three  Cycles 
of  Revelation  ;'  '  A  New  Interpretation  of  the 
Apocalypse;'  'The  True  Idea  of  Baptism;' 
'  Sermons  Preached  at  St.  Stephen's,  Wal- 
brook ; '  '  Sermons  on  Important  Subjects  ; ' 
'  Speeches  on  the  Papal  Aggression ; '  Pam- 
phlets on  '  Marriage  with  a  Deceased  Wife's 
Sister,'  and  on  the  'Proposed  Admission  of 
Jews  into  Parliament.'  Political  and  Mis- 
cellaneous :  '  The  Political  Life  of  Edmund 
Burke ; '  '  The  Personal  History  of  George  IV. ;' 
'  Historical  Essays  on  Luther,  &c. ; '  '  Sala- 
thiel'  (the  Wandering  Jew),  3  vols. ;  '  Marston; 


or,  the  Soldier  and  Statesman,'  3  vols. ;  '  Cha- 
racter  of   Curran's  Eloquence  and  Politics.' 
Poetical  :  '  Paris  in  1815,  and  other  Poems ;' 
I    'Catiline,   a    Tragedy,    Avith   other   Poems;' 
I    '  The  Angel  of  the  World,'  an  Arabian,  and 
I    '  Sebastian,'   a  Spanish  tale ; '   '  Poems  Illus- 
;   rative  of  Gems  from  the  Antique ;'   '  Scenes 
1   from  Scripture,'  and  a  vast  body  of  miscel- 
!   laneous  poetry  scattered  through  the  periodical 
i   literature  of  the   dav." — Cleveland's    "Eng. 
;   Lit.  19th  Cent.     See"  Gilfillan's  "  Gallery  of 
Literary  Portraits;"  Allibone's  "Diet.  Eng. 
Lit." 


LORD  MACAULAY. 

!  "  Lord  Macaulay,  born  October  25, 1800,  died 
;  1859.  He  was  the  son  of  Zachary  Macaulay,  an 
;  ardent  philanthropist  and  one  of  the  earliest 
!  opponents  of  the  slave  trade.  Educated  at 
I  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  of  which  College 
;  he  became  a  Fellow,  and  called  to  the  bar  at 
;  Lincoln's  Inn,  he  suddenly  achieved  a  literary 
i  reputation  by  an  article  on  Milton,  in  the 
i  '  Edinburgh  Review,'  in  1825.  This  was  the 
first  of  a  long  series  of  brilliant  literary  and 
!  historical  essays  which  he  contributed  to  the 
same  periodical.  He  entered  Parliament  in 
;  1830,  and  was  almost  immediately  acknow- 
I  ledged  to  be  one  of  the  first  orators  in  the 
'  House.  He  went  to  India  in  1834  as  a 
I  Member  of  the  Council  in  Calcutta  and  as 
:  President  of  the  Law  Commission.  Soon  after 
':  his  retux'n  he  was  elected  by  the  city  of  Edin- 
:  burgh  as  their  representative  in  Parliament 
:  (1840),  and  became  successively  Secretary  at 
War  and  Paymaster  of  the  Forces.  He  lost 
;  his  election  in  1847,  in  consequence  of 
i  opposing  the  religious  prejudices  of  his  con- 
•  stituents,  and  from  this  time  he  devoted  all  his 
i  powers  to  the  undivided  cultivation  of  letters. 
Although  he  sat  in  Parliament  again  from 
!  1852  to  1856,  he  took  little  part  in  the  debates 
\  of  the  House.  He  was  raised  to  the  peerage 
i   in  1857. 

"Macaulay  is  distinguished  as  a  Poet,  an 

Essayist,   and  an  Historian.     His   'Lays  of 

Ancient  Rome'  are  the  best  known  of   his 

poems  ;  but  the  lines  which  he  wrote  upon 

his  defeat  at  Edinburgh  in  1847,  and  in  which 

he  turns  for  consolation  to  literature,  are,  in 

j    our  judgment,  the  finest  of  all  his  poetical 

[   pieces.     His  Essays  and  his  History  will,  in 

I   virtue  of  their  inimitable  style,  always  give 

I   Macaulay  a  high  place  among  English  classics. 

j   His  style   has  been  well  characterized  by  a 

I   friendly    but    discerning    critic :  —  'It   was 

eminently  his  own,  but  his  own  not  by  strange 

words,  or   strange  collocation  of   words,   by 

phrases    of     perpetu^    occurreace,    or     the 

straining  after  original  and  striking  terms  of 

expression.     Its  characteristics   were   vigour 

and  animation,  copiousness,  clearness,  above 

all   sound   English,    now    a   rare   excellence. 

The  vigour  and  life  were  unabating ;  perhaps 


From  1780  to  1SG6.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


in  that  conscious  strength  which  cost  no 
exertion  he  did  not  always  gauge  and  measure 
the  force  of  his  own  words.  Those  who 
studied  the  progress  of  his  writing  might 
perhaps  see  that  the  full  stream,  though  it 
never  stagnated,  might  at  first  overflow  its 
banks  ;  in  later  days  it  ran  with  a  more  direct, 
undivided  torrent.  His  copiousness  had 
nothing  tumid,  dift'use,  Asiatic ;  no  ornament 
for  the  sake  of  o'rnament.  As  to  its  clear- 
ness, one  may  read  a  sentence  of  Macaulay 
twice  to  judge  of  its  full  force,  never  to  com- 
prehend its  meaning.  His  English  was  pure, 
both  in  idiom  and  in  words,  pure  to  fasti- 
diousness ;  not  that  he  discarded,  or  did  not 
make  free  use  of,  the  plainest  and  most  homely 
terms  (he  had  a  sovereign  contempt  for  what 
is  called  the  dignity  of  history,  Avhich  would 
keep  itself  above  the  vulgar  tongue),  but  every 
word  must  be  genuine  English,  nothing  that 
approached  real  vulgarity,  nothing  that  had 
not  the  stamp  of  popular  use,  or  the  authority 
of  sound  English  writers,  nothing  unfamiliar 
to  the  common  ear.' 

"  JIacaulay's  Essays  are  philosophical  and 
historical  disquisitions,  embracing  a  vast 
range  of  subjects  ;  but  the  larger  number  and 
the  most  important  relate  to  English  History. 
These  Essays,  however,  were  only  preparatory 
to  his  great  work  on  the  '  History  of  Eng- 
land,' which  he  had  intended  to  write  from 
the  accession  of  James  II.  to  the  time  imme- 
diately preceding  the  French  Revolution.  But 
of  this  subject  he  lived  to  complete  only  a 
portion.  The  two  first  volumes,  published  in 
1849,  contain  the  reign  of  James  II.  and  the 
Eevolution  of  1688 ;  two  more,  which  ap- 
peared in  1855,  bring  down  the  reign  of 
William  III.  to  the  peace  of  RyswickinlG97; 
while  a  fifth,  published  m  1861,  after  the 
author"  s  death,  nearly  completes  the  history 
of  that  reign.  Macaulay,  in  a  Review  of  Sir 
James  Mackintosh's  '  History  of  the  Revolu- 
tion,' observed  that  'a  History  of  England, 
written  throughout  in  this  manner,  would  be 
the  most  fascinating  book  in  the  language. 
It  would  be  more  in  request  at  the  circulating: 
libraries  than  the  last  novel.'  The  unex- 
ampled popularity  of  Macaulay's  own  History 
verified  the  prediction.  In  a  still  earlier 
I'ssay  he  had  remarked  that  we  had  good 
historical  romances  and  good  historical  essays, 
but  no  good  histories ;  and  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  he  has,  to  a  great  extent,  attained 
his  ideal  of  a  perfect  history,  which  he  defines 
to  be  '  a  compound  of  poetry  and  philosophy, 
impressing  general  rules  on  the  mind  by  a 
vivid  representation  of  particular  characters 
and  incidents.'  " — Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit." 


English  poet,  who  was  an  iron-merchant  at 

Sheffield,  and  became  famous  as  a  writer  of 

'  Rhymes '   against  the   Corn   Laws.      These 

first  appeared  in  a  local  paper,  after  their 

I   author  had  settled  at  Sheffield,  and  produced 

I    a  powerful  eftect  upon  all  who   read   them. 

I   When  they  re-appeared  in  a  single  volume,  in 

I   conjunction  with  '  The  Ranter,'  he  no  longer 

i    sung  in  comparative  obscurity,  but  commanded'- 

i   a  wide  circle  of  admirers.   In  1 834  a  collected 

I   edition   of   his   works   was   published.      His 

effusions  have  procured  for  him  the  right  of 

I   being  emphatically  the  bard  of  Yorkshire,  as 

I   he  is  certainly,  like  Crabbe,  the  poet  of  the 

i   poor  and  of  the  Corn  Law  struggle,  before  that 

I    ended  in  the  triumphal  achievement  of  the 

;   aspirations  of  his  muse." — Beeton's  "  Diet. 

i    Univ.  Biog." 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

"Ebenezer  Elliott,  born  near  Rotherham, 
Yorkshire,  1781,  died  near  Barnsley,  1849,  an 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

Robert  Burns  was  the  greatest  poet  that 
Scotland  ever  produced ;  born  at  AUoway,  near 
Ayr,  in  1759  ;    died  1796.       He  received  a 
common  school  education.  His  chief  advances 
in  general  knowledge  he  owed  to  the  books 
he  read,  among  which  he  mentions    as    fa- 
vourites the  "  Spectator,"  the  works  of  Pope, 
and  the  poems  of  Allan  Ramsay ;  among  un- 
printed  books  were  the  songs  and    ballads, 
mostly  of  unknown  authorship,  which  then 
circulated  through  that  part  of  Scotland,  and 
some  of  which  were  collected  by  Percy  and  by 
Scott.     A  little  later  Burns'  reading  became 
more  extensive,  and  to  his  list  of  favourites 
were  added  Thomson,  Shcnstone,  Sterne,  and 
i    Henry  Mackenzie.      When  sixteen  years  of 
j   age  he  fell  in  love,  and  his  feelings,  as  he  tells 
I   us,  at   once  burst   into   a  song.      His    first 
j    volume  of  poetry  was  issued,  in  1786,  from  the 
j    provincial  press  of   Kilmarnock :    it  became 
I   immediately    popular,    and    has    ever    since 
j    exercised  the  greatest  influence  on  the  mind 
i   and  taste  of  Scotland. 

I  His  "Tam  O'Shanter"  was  deemed  by 
j  Bums  himself  to  be  his  best  piece,  and  in  thiis 
I  judgment  Campbell,  Wilson,  and  Montgomery 
!  concur.  The  combination  it  exhibits  of  the 
j  terrible  and  the  ludicrous  is  very  charac- 
teristic. His  "  Bruce' s  Address,"  "  A 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  "  The  Mountain 
Daisy,"  "The  Mousie's  Nest,"  and  his  lyric 
to  "Mary  in  Heaven"  are  equally  charac- 
teristic, though  in  a  very  different  strain ;  as 
are  "  Mary  Morrison"  and  "  Ae  fond  Kiss," 
— "  a  poem  that  contains,"  says  Scott,  "  the 
essence  of  a  thousand  love- tales."  Indeed, 
nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  Burns  than  his 
range  of  subjects,  and  the  api;)ropriatene3s, 
both  of  language  and  of  feeling,  with  which 
he  treats  them.  Romantic  landscape,  the 
superstitions  of  the  country,  the  delights  of 
good  fellowship,  the  aspirations  of  ambition, 
the  passion  of  love — all  are  treated  with  a 
master  hand,  while    he  displays  in  each,  as 

54 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. 


occasion  requires,  tlie  pathos  of  Sterne  or  of 
Eichardson,  the  humour  of  Smollett,  the  de- 
scriptive power  of  Thomson,  and  the  sarcasm 
of  Pope  or  of  Churchill :  though  all  are  too 
often  disfigured  with  irreverence  and  licen- 
tiousness. His  songs,  however,  are  the  main 
foundation  of  his  popularity  :  of  these  he  has 
written  upwards  of  two  hundred  with  great 
geniality  and  power.  The  common  Scottish 
dialect  was  never  used  with  more  freshness  or 
grace  than  by  him.  The  success  of  his  poetry 
induced  him  to  take  the  farm  of  Ellisland, 
near  Dumfries,  where  he  married  his  "  bonny 
Jean,"  and  united  the  functions  of  exciseman 
with  those  of  a  farmer.  He  entered  upon  his 
new  occupation  at  Whitsuntide,  1788.  The 
farming  proved  a  bad  speculation.  In  1791 
he  relinquished  it,  and  removed  to  Dumfries, 
subsisting  entirely  upon  his  income  in  the 
Excise,  which  yielded  ^£70  a  year.  In  this 
office,  a  dangerous  one  to  men  of  his  ten- 
dencies, intemperance  graduallly  gained  upon 
him ;  disappointment  and  self-reproach  em- 
bittered his  life ;  want  threatened  him ;  and 
in  his  thirty-seventh  year  he  sank  into  an 
untimely  grave.  A  more  mournful  history 
the  records  of  our  literature  do  not  supply. 
It  must  be  added  that  in  his  poems  are  sad 
proofs  that  he  quarrelled  with  the  moral 
teaching  of  Presbyterianism,  as  well  as  with 
what  he  deemed  its  narrowness  and  doctrines. 
His  youth  and  early  manhood,  his  simplicity 
and  genius,  it  is  impossible  to  contemplate 
without  admiration ;  but  his  closing  years 
were  darkened  by  neglect,  and,  alas  !  by  low 
habits  unworthy  of  his  fame.  His  letters, 
published  in  Dr.  Currie's  "Life  of  Burns," 
must  be  read  by  all  who  would  understand  his 
character,  though  they  give  a  less  favourable 
impression  of  his  naturalness  and  simplicity 
than  his  poems. — See  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng. 
Lit.;"  Dr.  Angus's  "Handbook." 


ALEXANDER  WILSON. 

"  Alexander  Wilson,  a  distinguished 
naturalist,  was  also  a  Scottish  poet.  He 
was  a  native  of  Paisley,  and  born  July  6th, 
1766.  He  was  brought  up  to  the  trade  of  a 
weaver,  but  afterwards  preferred  that  of  a 
pedlar,  selling  muslin  and  other  wares.  In 
1789  he  added  to  his  other  commodities  a 
prospectus  of  a  volume  of  poems,  trusting,  as 
he  said, — 

'  If  the  pedlar  should  fail  to  be  favour 'd 
with  sale. 

Then  I  hope  you'll  encourage  the  poet.' 

He  did  not  succeed  in  either  character ;  and 
after  publishing  his  poems  he  returned  to  the 
loom.  In  1792  he  issued  anonymously  his 
best  poem,  'Watty  and  Meg,"  which  was  at 
first  attributed  to  Burns.  A  foolish  personal 
satire,  and  a  not  very  wiso  admiration  of  the 


principles  of  equality  disseminated  at  the  time 
of  the  French  Revolution,  drove  Wilson  to 
America  in  the  year  1794.  There  he  was  once 
more  a  weaver  and  a  pedlar,  and  afterwards  a 
schoolmaster.  A  love  of  ornithology  gained 
upon  him,  and  he  wandered  over  America, 
collecting  specimens  of  birds.  In  1808  ap- 
peared his  first  volume  of  the  'American 
Ornithology,'  and  he  continued  collecting  and 
publishing,  traversing  swamjps  and  forests  in 
quest  of  rare  birds,  and  undergoing  the  greatest 
privations  and  fatigues,  till  he  had  committed 
an  eighth  volume  to  the  press.  He  sank  under 
his  severe  labours  on  the  23rd  of  August,  1813, 
and  was  interred  Avith  public  honours  at  Phila- 
delphia. In  the  '  Ornithology '  of  Wilson  we 
see  the  fancy  and  descriptive  powers  of  the 
poet.  The  following  extract  is  part  of  his 
account  of  the  bald  eagle,  and  is  extremely 
vivid  and  striking  : — 

"  '  The  celebrated  cataract  of  Niagara  is  a 
noted  place  of  resort  for  the  bald  eagle,  as  well 
on  account  of  the  fish  procured  there,  as  for 
the  numerous  carcases  of  squirrels,  deer,  bears, 
and  various  other  animals,  that,  in  their  at- 
tempts to  cross  the  river  above  the  falls,  have 
been  dragged  into  the  current,  and  preci- 
pitated down  that  tremendous  gulf,  where, 
among  the  rocks  that  bound  the  rapids  below, 
they  furnish  a  rich  repast  for  the  vulture,  the 
raven,  and  the  bald  eagle,  the  subject  of  tho 
present  account.  Ho  has  been  long  known  to 
naturalists,  being  common  to  both  continents, 
and  occasionally  met  with  from  a  very  high 
northern  latitude  to  the  borders  of  the  torrid 
zone,  but  chiefly  in  the  vicinity  of  the  sea, 
and  along  the  shores  and  cliffs  of  our  lakes 
and  large  rivers.  Formed  by  nature  for 
braving  the  severest  cold,  feeding  equally 
on  the  produce  of  the  sea  and  of  the  land, 
possessing  powers  of  flight  capable  of  out- 
stripping even  the  tempests  themselves, 
unawed  by  anything  but  man,  and,  from  the 
ethereal  heights  to  which  he  soars,  looking 
abroad  at  one  glance  on  an  immeasurable  ex- 
panse of  forests,  fields,  lakes,  and  ocean  deep 
below  him,  he  appears  indifferent  to  the  little 
localities  of  change  of  seasons,  as  in  a  few 
minutes  he  can  pass  from  summer  to  winter, 
from  the  lower  to  the  higher  regions  of  the 
atmosphere,  the  abode  of  eternal  cold,  and  from 
thence  descend  at  will  to  the  torrid  or  the 
arctic  regions  of  the  earth.  He  is,  therefore, 
found  at  all  seasons  in  the  countries  he  in- 
habits ;  but  prefers  such  places  as  have  been 
mentioned  above,  from  the  great  partiality  he 
has  for  fish. 

"  '  In  procuring  these,  he  displays,  in  a  very 
singular  manner,  the  genius  and  energy  of 
his  character,  which  is  fierce,  contemplative, 
daring,  and  tyrannical ;  attributes  not  exerted 
but  on  particular  occasions,  but  when  put 
forth,  overpowering  all  opposition.  Elevated 
on  the  high  dead  limb  of  some  gigantic  tree 
that  commands  a  wide  view  of  tho  neighbour- 
ing shore  and  ocean,  he  seems  calmly  to  con- 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


template  the  motions  of  the  various  feathered 
tribes  that  pursue  their  busy  avocations 
below ;  the  snow-white  gulls  slowly  winnowing 
the  air  ;  the  busy  tring-aj  coursing  along  the 
sands ;  trains  of  ducks  streaming  over  the 
surface ;  silent  and  watchful  cranes  intent 
and  wading ;  clamorous  crows ;  and  all  the 
winged  multitudes  that  subsist  by  the  bounty 
of  this  vast  liquid  magazine  of  nature.  High 
over  all  these  hovers  one  whose  action  in- 
stantly arrests  his  whole  attention.  By  his 
wide  curvature  of  wing,  and  sudden  suspension 
in  air,  he  knows  him  to  be  the  fish-hawk, 
settling  over  some  devoted  victim  of  the  deep. 
His  eye  kindles  at  the  sight,  and  balancing 
himself  with  haK-opened  wings  on  the  branch, 
he  v/atches  the  result.  Down,  rapid  as  an 
arrow  from  heaven,  descends  the  distant 
object  of  his  attention,  the  roar  of  his  wings 
reaching  the  ear  as  it  disappears  in  the  deep, 
making  the  surges  foam  around.  At  this 
moment  the  eager  looks  of  the  eagle  are  all 
ardour ;  and,  levelling  his  neck  for  flight,  he 
sees  the  fish-hawk  once  more  emerge,  strug- 
gling with  his  prey,  and  mounting  in  the  air 
with  screams  of  exultation.  These  are  the 
signal  for  our  hero,  who,  launching  into  the 
air,  instantly  gives  chase,  and  soon  gains  on 
the  fish-hawk  ;  each  exerts  liis  utmost  to 
mount  above  the  other,  displajong  in  these 
rencontres  the  most  elegant  and  sublime  aerial 
evolutions.  The  unencumbered  eagle  rapidly 
advances,  and  is  just  on  the  point  of  reaching 
his  opponent,  when,  with  a  sudden  scream, 
probably  of  despair  and  honest  execration,  the 
latter  drops  liis  fish  :  the  eagle,  poising  him- 
self for  a  moment,  as  if  to  take  a  more  certain 
aim,  descends  Hke  a  whirlwind,  snatches  it  in 
his  grasp  ere  it  reaches  the  water,  and  bears 
his  ill-gotten  booty  silently  away  to  the 
woods.' 

"  By  way  of  preface,  '  to  invoke  the  cle- 
mency of  the  reader,'  Wilson  relates  the 
following  exquisite  trait  of  simplicity  and 
nature : — 

"  '  In  one  of  my  late  visits  to  a  friend  in 
the  country,  I  found  their  youngest  son,  a  fine 
boy  of  eight  or  nine  years  of  age,  who  usually 
resides  in  town  for  his  education,  just  return- 
ing from  a  ramble  through  the  neighbouring 
woods  and  fields,  where  he  had  collected  a 
large  and  very  handsome  bunch  of  wild 
flowers,  of  a  great  many  diff'erent  colours ; 
and,  presenting  them  to  his  mother,  said, 
"  Look,  my  dear  mamma,  what  beautiful 
flowers  I  have  found  gromng  on  our  place ! 
Why,  all  the  woods  are  full  of  them !  red, 
orange,  and  blue,  and  'most  every  colour. 
Oh  !  I  can  gather  you  a  whole  parcel  of  them, 
much  handsomer  than  these,  all  grooving  in 
oiir  woods !  Shall  I,  mamma  ?  Shall  I  go 
and  bring  you  more  ?  "  The  good  woman  re- 
ceived the  bunch  of  flowers  with  a  smile  of 
affectionate  complacency ;  and,  after  admiring 
for  some  time  the  beautiful  simplicity  of 
Nature,  gave    her  willing  consent,  and    the 


little  fellow  went  off  on  the  wings  of  ecstacy 
to  execute  his  delightful  commission. 

"  '  The  similarity  of  this  little  boy's  en- 
thusiasm to  my  own  struck  me,  and  the  reader 
will  need  no  explanations  of  mine  to  make  the 
application.  Should  my  country  receive  with 
the  same  gi-acious  indulgence  the  specimens 
which  I  here  humbly  present  her ;  should  she 
express  a  desire  for  me  to  go  and  bring  her 
more,  the  highest  wishes  of  my  ambition  will 
be  gratified  ;  for,  in  the  language  of  my  little 
friend,  our  whole  woods  are  full  of  them,  and 
I  can  collect  hundreds  more,  much  handsomer 
than  these.' 

"  The  ambition  of  the  poet-naturalist  was 
amply  gratified." — Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng. 
Lit."  vol.  ii.  p.  486-87.  , 


HECTOR  MACNEILL. 

Hector  Macneill  was  born  in  1746,  and  died 
in  1818.  He  was  brought  up  to  a  mercantile 
life,  but  was  unsuccessful  in  most  of  his 
business  affairs.  In  1789  he  published  a 
legendary  poem,  "  The  Harp  ;  "  and  in  1795 
his  moral  tale,  "  Scotland's  Skaith ;  or,  the 
History  o'  Will  and  Jean."  The  object  of 
this  latter  production  was  to  depict  the  evils 
of  intemperance.  He  wrote  several  Scottish 
lyrics.  The  latter  years  of  the  poet  were 
spent  in  comparative  comfort  in  Edinburgh, 
where  he  enjoyed  the  refined  and  literary 
society  of  the  Scottish  capital  till  an  advanced 
age. — See  Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


ROBERT  TANNAHILL. 

"  Robert  Tannahill,  a  lyrical  poet  of  a 
superior  order,  whose  songs  rival  all  but  the 
best  of  Burns' s  in  popularity,  was  born  in 
Paisley  on  the  3rd  of  June,  1774.  His  edu- 
cation was  limited,  but  he  was  a  diligent 
reader  and  student.  He  was  early  sent  to 
the  loom,  weaving  being  the  staple  trade  of 
Paisley,  and  continued  to  follow  his  occupation 
in  liis  native  town  until  his  twenty-sixth  year, 
when,  with  one  .of  his  younger  brotlicrs,  he 
removed  to  Lancashire-  There  he  continued 
two  years,  when  the  declining  state  of  his 
father's  health  induced  him  to  return.  He 
arrived  in  time  to  receive  the  dying  blessing 
of  his  parent,  and  a  short  time  afterwards 
we  find  him  writing  to  a  friend — '  My  brother 
Hugh  and  I  are  aU  that  now  remain  at  home, 
with  our  old  mother,  bending  under  age  and 
frailty  ;  and  but;  seven  years  back,  nine  of  us 
used  to  sit  at  dinner  together.'  Hugh 
married,  and  the  poet  was  left  alone  with  his 
widowed  mother.  On  this  occasion  he  adopted 
a  resolution  which  he  has  expressed  in  the 
following  lines : — 

54'^ 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


THE   FILIAL   VOW. 

Why  heaves  my  mother  oft  the  deep- 
drawn  sigh  ? 

Wliy  starts  the  big  tear  glistening  in  her 
eye? 

Why  oft  retire  to  hide  her  bursting 
grief  ? 

Why  seeks  she  not,  nor  seems  to  wish 
relief  ? 

'Tis  for  my  father,  mouldering  with  the 
dead, 

My  brother,  in  bold  manhood,  lowly  laid ; 

And  for  the  pains  which  age  is  doom'd 
to  bear, 

She  heaves  the  deep-drawn  sigh,  and 
drops  the  secret  tear. 

Yes,  partly  these  her  gloomy  thoughts 
employ. 

But  mostly  this  o'erclouds  her  every  joy; 

She  grieves  to  think  she  may  be  burden- 
some, 

Now  feeble,  old,  and  tottering  to  the 
tomb. 

0  hear   me.  Heaven  !     and    record  my 

vow ; 
Its     non- performance     let     thy     wrath 
pursue  ! 

1  swear,  of    what   thy  iDrovideuce   may 

give. 
My  mother  shall   her   due   maintenance 

have. 
'Twas  hers  to  guide  me  through  life's 

early  day. 
To  point  out  virtue's  paths,  and  lead  the 

way  : 
Now,  while  her  powers  in  frigid  languor 

sleep, 
'Tis  mine  to  hand  her  down  life's  rugged 

steep ; 
With  all  her  little  weaknesses  to  bear, 
Attentive,  kind,  to  soothe  her  every  care. 
'Tis   Nature   bids,  and   truest    pleasure 

flows 
From  lessening  an  aged  parent's  woes. 

"  The  filial  piety  of  Tannahill  is  strikingly 
apparent  from  this  effusion,  but  the  inferiority 
of  the  lines  to  any  of  his  Scottish  songs 
shows  how  little  at  home  he  was  in  English. 
His  mother  outlived  him  thirteen  years. 
Though  Tannahill  had  occasionally  composed 
verses  from  a  very  early  age,  it  was  not  till 
after  this  time  that  he  attained  to  anything 
beyond  mediocrity.  Becoming  acquainted 
with  Mr.  E.  A.  Smith,  a  musical  composer, 
the  poet  applied  himself  sedulously  to  lyrical 
composition,  aided  by  the  encouragement  and 
the  musical  taste  of  his  friend.  Smith  set 
some  of  his  songs  to  original  and  appropriate 
airs,  and  in  1807  the  poet  ventured  on  the 
publication  of  a  volume  of  poems  and  songs, 
of  which  the  first  impression,  consisting  of 
900  copies,  were  sold  in  a  few  weeks.  It  is 
related  that  in  a  solitary  walk  on  one  occasion 


his  musings  were  interrupted  by  the  voice  of 
a  country  girl  in  an  adjoining  field  singing  by 
herself  a  song  of  his  own — 

'  We'll  meet  beside  the  dusky  glen,  on  i 

yon  burnside — '  ' 

and  he  used  to  say  he  was  more  pleased  at 
this  evidence  of  his  popularity,  than  at  any 
tribute  which  had  ever  been  paid  him.  He 
afterwards  contributed  some  songs  to  Mr. 
George  Thomson's  '  Select  Melodies,'  and 
exerted  himself  to  procure  Irish  airs,  of  which 
he  was  very  fond.  Whilst  delighting  all  classes  I 
of  his  countrymen  with  his  native  songs,  the  ■ 
poet  fell  into  a  state  of  morbid  despondency, 
aggravated  bj'-  bodily  weakness,  and  a  ten- 
dency to  consumption.  He  had  prepared  a 
new  edition  of  his  poems  for  the  press,  and 
sent  the  manuscript  to  Mr.  Constable,  the 
publisher ;  but  it  was  returned  by  that  gentle- 
man, in  consequence  of  his  having  more  new 
works  on  hand  than  he  could  undertake  that 
season.  This  disappointment  preyed  on  the 
spirits  of  the  sensitive  poet,  and  his  me- 
lancholy became  deep  and  habitual.  He 
burned  all  his  manuscripts,  and  sank  into  a 
state  of  mental  derangement.  Returning 
from  a  visit  to  Glasgow  on  the  17th  of  May, 
1810,  the  unhappy  poet  retired  to  rest ;  but 
'  suspicion  having  been  excited,  in  about  an 
hour  afterwards  it  was  discovered  that  he  had 
stolen  out  unperceived.  Search  was  made  in 
every  direction,  and  by  the  dawn  of  the 
morning  the  coat  of  the  poet  was  discovered 
lying  at  the  side  of  the  tunnel  of  a  neigh' 
bouring  brook,  pointing  out  but  too  surely 
where  his  body  was  to  be  found.'  Tannahill 
Avas  a  modest  and  temperate  man,  devoted  to 
his  kindred  and  friends,  and  of  unblemished 
purity  and  correctness  of  conduct.  His  lament-  _ 
able  death  arose  from  no  want  or  irregularit}',  ' 
but  was  solely  caused  by  that  morbid  disease 
of  the  mind  which  at  length  overthrew  his 
reason.  The  poems  of  this  ill-starred  son  of 
genius  are  greatly  inferior  to  his  songs.  They 
have  all  a  commonplace  artificial  character. 
His  lyrics,  on  the  other  hand,  are  rich  and 
original  both  in  description  and  sentiment. 
His  diction  is  copious  and  luxuriant,  par- 
ticularly in  describing  natural  objects  and  the 
peculiar  features  of  the  Scottish  .mdscape. 
His  simplicity  is  natural  and  unaflTected ;  and 
though  ho  appears  to  have  possessed  a  deeper 
sympathy  with  nature  than  with  the  workings 
of  human  feeling,  or  even  the  passion  of  love, 
he  is  often  tender  and  pathetic.  His  '  Gloomy 
Winter's  now  awa' '  is  a  beautiful  concentra- 
tion of  tenderness  and  melody." — Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  vol.  ii.  pp.  490-91. 


EICHAED  GALL. 

Eichard  Gall,  born  1776,  died   1800.     He 


Front  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


■vvaa  contemporary  with  Tannahill,  and  pos- 
sessed a  kindred  tasto  of  song  writing. 


JOHN  MAYNE. 

"  John  Mayne,  author  of  the  '  Siller  Gun,' 
'  Glasgow,'  and  other  poems,  was  a  native  of 
Dumfries;  born  in  the  year  1761,  and  died 
in  London  in  1836.  He  was  brought  up  to 
the  printing  business,  and  whilst  apprentice 
in  the  '  Dumfries  Journal '  office,  in  1777,  in 
his  sixteenth  year,  he  published  the  germ  of 
liis  '  Siller  Gun '  in  a  quarto  page  of  twelve 
stanzas.  The  subject  of  the  poem  is  an  an- 
cient custom  in  Dumfries,  called  '  Shooting 
for  the  Siller  Gun,'  the  gun  being  a  small 
silver  tube  presented  by  James  VI.  to  the  in- 
corporated trades  as  a  prize  to  the  best 
marksman.  This  poem  Mr.  Mayne  continued 
to  enlarge  and  improve  up  to  the  time  of  his 
death.  The  twelve  stanzas  expanded  in  two 
years  to  two  cantos  ;  in  another  year  (1780) 
the  poem  was  published — enlarged  to  three 
cantos — in  '  Euddiman's  Magazine  ; '  and  in 
1808  it  was  published  in  London  in  four  cantos. 
This  edition  was  seen  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
who  said  (in  one  of  his  notes  to  the  '  Lady  of 
the  Lake')  'that  it  surpassed  the  efforts,  of 
Fergusson,  and  came  near  to  those  of  Burns.' 
In  1836  the  '  Siller  Gun '  was  again  reprinted 
with  the  addition  of  a  fifth  canto.  Mr.  Mayne 
Avas  author  of  a  short  poem  on  '  Hallo- 
ween,' printed  in  '  Euddiman's  Magazine '  in 
1780;  and  in  1781  he  published  at  Glasgow 
his  fine  ballad  of  '  Logan  Braes,'  which  Burns 
had  seen,  and  two  lines  of  which  he  copied 
into  his  '  Logan  Water.'  The  '  Siller  Gun '  is 
humorous  and  descriptive,  and  is  happy  in 
both.  The  author  is  a  shrewd  and  lively 
observer,  full  of  glee,  and  also  of  gentle  and 
affectionate  recollections  of  his  native  town 
and  all  its  people  and  pastimes.  The  ballad 
of  '  Logan  Braes '  is  a  simple  and  beautiful 
lyric,  superior  to  the  more  elaborate  version 
of  Burns.  Though  long  resident  in  London 
(as  proprietor  of  the  '  Star  '  newspaper),  Mr. 
Mayne  retained  his  Scottish  enthusiasm  to 
the  last ;  and  to  those  who,  like  ourselves, 
rooollect  him  in  advanced  life,  stopping  in  the 
midst  of  his  duties,  as  a  public  journalist,  to 
trace  some  remembrance  of  his  native  Dum- 
fries and  the  banks  of  the  Nith,  or  to  hum 
over  some  rural  or  pastoral  song  which  he  had 
heard  forty  or  fifty  years  before,  his  name,  as 
vvell  as  his  poetry,  recalls  the  strength  and 
permanency  of  early  feelings  and  associations." 
— Chambers'  "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  vol.  ii.  pp.  492- 
93. 


SIE  ALEXANDEE  BOSWELL. 

"  Sir  Alexander  Boswell,  born  1775,   died 
1822,  the  eldest  son  of  Johnson's  biographer, 


was  author  of  some  amusing  songs,  which  are 
still  very  popular.  '  Auld  Gudeman,  ye're  a 
Druchen  Carle,'  'Jenny's  Bawbee,'  Jenny 
Dang  the  Weaver,'  &c.,  display  considerable 
comic  humour,  and  coarse  but  characteristic 
painting.  The  higher  qualities  of  simple 
rustic  grace  and  elegance  he  seems  never  to 
have  attempted.  In  1803  Sir  Alexander  col- 
lected his  fugitive  pieces,  and  published  them 
under  the  title  of  '  Songs  chiefly  in  the  Scottish 
Dialect.'  In  1810  he  published  a  Scottish 
Dialogue,  in  the  style  of  Fergusson,  called 
'  Edinburgh,  or  the  Ancient  Eoyalty  ;  a  Sketch 
of  Manners,  by  Simon  Gray.'  This  sketch  is  j 
greatly  overcharged.  Sir  Alexander  was  an 
ardent  lover  of  our  early  literature,  and  re- 
printed several  works  at  his  private  printing- 
press  at  Auchinleck.  When  politics  ran  high,  ' 
lie  unfortunately  wrote  some  personal  satires, 
for  one  of  which  he  received  a  challenge  from 
Mr.  Stuart,  of  Dunearn.  The  parties  met  at 
Auchtertool,  in  Fifeshire :  conscious  of  his 
error.  Sir  Alexander  resolved  not  to  fire  at  his 
opponent ;  but  Mr.  Stuart's  shot  took  effect, 
and  the  unfortunate  baronet  fell.  He  died 
from  the  wound  on  the  following  day,  the  26th 
of  March,  1822.  He  had  been  elevated  to  the 
baronetcy  only  the  year  previous." — Cham- 
bers' "  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit."  vol.  ii.  p.  494. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

"  Allan  Cunningham,  born  1785,  died  1842. 
This  poet,  novelist,  and  miscellaneous  writer, 
was  born  of  comparatively  humble  parentage 
in  Dumfries-shire.  He  began  life  as  a  stone- 
mason ;  but  his  early  literary  ability  was  such 
that,  being  introduced  to  Cromek,  the  editor 
of  '  Eemains  of  Nithsdale  and  Galloway  Song,' 
and  undertaking  to  procure  contributions  to 
that  work,  he  sent  to  the  Editor,  as  genuine 
remains,  compositions  of  his  own.  Cromek 
had  slighted  some  original  pieces  shown  to 
him  as  the  production  of  Cunningham,  and  in 
retaliation,  the  young  poet  presented  him  with 
fabricated  '  antiques.'  These  form  the  bulk 
of  Cromek' s  collection.  The  cheat  was  long 
unsuspected  ;  but  the  suspicious  sagacity  of 
the  Ettrick  Shepherd  and  others,  especially 
Professor  Wilson  (see  'Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine,' Dec,  1819),  ultimately  demonstrated 
the  imposition,  much  to  the  reputation  of  the 
real  author. 

"  Mr.  Cunningham  repaired,  in  1810,  to 
London,  and  obtaining  an  appointment  of 
trust  in  the  sculptor  Chantrey's  studio,  ho 
settled  himself  here  for  life.  In  this  congenial 
position  of  comfort  and  independence,  he 
possessed  opportunities  for  the  employment 
of  his  active  pen,  and  for  intercourse  with 
men  of  kindred  genius.  His  warm  heart,  his 
honest,  upright,  and  independent  character, 
attracted  the  affectionate  esteem  and  respect 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


of  all  Avho  enjoyed  his  acquaintance.     He  died 
in  London  in  1842. 

"  His  larg-er  works  are,  tlie  '  Maid  of  Elvar,' 
a  species  of  epic  in  Spenserian  stanzas,  illus- 
trative of  Dumfries- shire  in  days  of  yore ; 
and  '  Sir  Marmaduke  Maxwell,'  a  wild 
tumultuous  collection  of  Border  superstitions. 
His  reputation  rests  chiefly  on  his  smaller 
pieces,  which  are  airy,  natural,  and  intensely 
Scotch ;  vigorous  and  even  splendid  in  their 
higher  moods,  affectingly  pathetic  in  their 
softer  strains.  His  novels, '  PaulJones,'  &c.,  are 
full  of  glittering  description,  and  exaggerated 
and  unnatural  character."  —  Scrymgeour's 
"  Poetry  and  Poets  of  Britain,"  p.  436.  See 
AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit. ;"  D_.  M. 
Moir's  "  Poetical  Literature  of  the  Past  Half- 
Century ;  "  S.  C.  Hall's  "Book  of  Gems." 


JAMES  HOGG. 

James  Hogg,  born  in  Ettrick  Yale,  Selkirk- 
shire, 1770,  died  1835,  known  better  .as  the 
"Ettrick  Shepherd."  His  school  was  the 
mountain's  side,  where  he  kept  the  cattle  and 
sheep.  His  education  was  scanty  j  but  a 
quick  and  retentive  memory,  great  natural 
gifts,  and  a  fine  appreciation  of  the  wondrous 
scenes  around  him,  called  up  the  slumbering 
muse,  and  in  1801  he  published  a  small 
volume  of  songs.  "The  Mountain  Bard" 
followed  in  1807.  Soon  afterwards  he  left 
his  occupation  and  resided  at  Edinburgh, 
supporting  himself  entirely  by  his  pen.  The 
"Queen's  Wake"  (1813)  brought  him  into 
very  favourable  notice.  It  was  followed  by 
"Mador  of  the  Moor,"  "Winter  Evening 
Tales,"  &c.  Hog'g's  chief  delight  was  in 
legendary  tales  and  folk  lore.  Fancy,  rather 
than  the  description  of  life  and  manners,  is 
the  prevailing  character  of  the  poet's  writings. 
A  modern  critic  says — "  He  wanted  art  to 
construct  a  fable,  and  taste  to  give  due  effect 
to  his  imagery  and  conceptions.  But  there 
are  few  poets  who  impress  us  so  much  with 
the  idea  of  direct  inspiration,  and  that  poetry 
is  indeed  an  art '  unteachable  and  untaught.'  " 
— See  Shaw's  "  Hist.  Eng.  Lit. ;  "  Beeton's 
"Diet.  Univ.  Biog. ;"  Maunder;  Chambers' 
"  Cyc.  Eng.  Lit." 


WILLIAM  TENNANT. 

"  William  Tennant,  born  at  Easter- An- 
struther,  Fife,  1785;  died  1848  :•  a  Scotch  poet, 
who  studied  for  a  short  time  at  the  University 
of  St.  Andrews.  He  was  so  unfortunate  as 
to  lose  the  use  of  his  feet  while  still  young. 
Unaided,  he  taught  himself  German,  Por- 
tuguese, Hebrew,  Syriac,  Chaldaic,  and  other 
languages.  After  spending  many  years  as  a 
schoolmaster  and   classical    teacher,  he,    in 


1835,  received  the  appointment  of  professor  o 
Oriental  languages  in  the  University  of  St 
Andrews.  He  wrote  three  dramas,  exhibiting 
considerable  poetical  power;  the  well-known 
poem  of  '  Anster  Fair,'  '  The  Life  of  Allan 
Eamsay,'  and  other  works." — Beeton's  "Diet. 
Univ.  Biog."  See  D.  M.  Moir's  "  Poetical 
Literature  of  the  Past  HaK-Century." 


WILLIAM  MOTHEEWELL. 

"  Wniiam  Motherwell,  born  1798,  died  1835, 
poet  and  journalist;  when  a  youth,  obtained  a 
situation  in  the  sheriff  clerk's  office  at  Paisley, 
where  he  continued  for  many  years.  In  1827 
he  published  an  interesting  and  pleasing  col- 
lection of  ballads,  entitled  'Minstrelsy,  An- 
cient and  Modern ; '  and  was  afterwards 
successively  editor  of  the  '  Paisley  Magazine,' 
'  Paisley  Advertiser,'  and  the  '  Glasgow 
Courier.'  In  1833  was  published  a  collected 
edition  of  his  own  poems,  some  of  which 
possess  a  pathos  and  an  intensity  of  feeling 
seldom  equalled.  These  qualities  are  strikingly 
exhibited  in  his  '  Jeanie  Morrison,'  and  '  My 
heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie.'  an  address  by  a 
dying  girl  to  her  lover  ;  while  his  success  in 
imitating  the  old  mystic  ballad  is  well  exempli- 
fied in  the  '  Ettin  Lang  of  Sillerwood,'  '  Hol- 
bert  the  Grim,'  and  other  pieces.  Some  years 
after  his  death,  a  monument  to  his  memory 
was  erected  by  subscription  in  the  necropolis 
of  his  native  city,  Glasgow." — ^Beeton's  "Diet. 
Univ.  Biog."  See  Chambers's  "  Cyc.  Eng. 
Lit." 


EOBEET  NICOLL. 

"  Eobert  NicoU,  born  in  Perthshire,  1814 ; 
died  1837  ;  a  Scotch  poet,  the  son  of  parents 
in  humble  circumstances,  and  whose  efforts  at 
self -education  were  pursued  under  the  most 
disadvantageous  circumstances.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-one  he  produced  a  small  volume  of 
poems,  which  became  exceedingly  popular,  and 
passed  through  several  editions.  He  shortly 
afterwards  obtained  the  post  of  editor  of  the 
'  Leeds  Times,'  which,  under  his  control,  was 
more  than  tripled  in  its  circulation.  His  prose 
writings  consisted,  for  the  most  part,  of  poli- 
tical articles  contributed  to  the  before-men- 
tioned print,  and  were  marked  by  strongly 
liberal  sentiments  and  a  clear,  energetic  style. 
His  health,  which  had  always  been  frail,  and 
was  probably  shattered  by  his  youthful 
studies,  gave  way  after  he  had  been  engaged 
upon  his  editorial  duties  about  a  year ;  and 
he  removed  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  died 
almost  as  soon  as  he  had  reached  manhood." 
— Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


EGBERT  GILFILLAN. 

Robert  Gilfillan,  a  native  of  Dunfermline, 
has  written  songs  marked  by  much  gentle  and 
kindly  feehng,  and  a  smooth  flow  of  versifica- 
'  tion,  Avhich  makes  them  eminently  suitable  for 
being  set  to  music. — See  Chambers'  "  Cyc. 
Eng.  Lit.,"  Tol.  ii. 


WILLIAM  LAIDLAW. 

"William  Laidlaw  is  son  of  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd's  master  at  Blackhouse.  All  who 
have  read  Lockhart's  'Life  of  Scott,'  know 
how  closely  Mr.  Laidlaw  was  connected  with 
the  illustrious  baronet  of  Abbotsford.  He 
was  his  companion  in  some  of  his  early  wan- 
derings, his  friend  and  land-steward  in  ad- 
vanced years,  his  amanuensis  in  the  com- 
position of  some  of  his  novels,  and  he  was 
one  of  the  few  who  watched  over  his  last  sad 
and  painful  moments.  '  Lucy's  Flittin'  '  is 
deservedly  popular  for  its  unaffected  tender- 
ness and  simplicity.  In  printing  the  song, 
Hogg  added  the  last  four  lines  to  '  complete 
the  story.'  " — Chambers'  "Cyc.  Eng.  Lit.," 
vol.  ii.  p.  507. 


JAMES  HISLOP. 

"  James  Hislop  was  born  of  humble  parents 
in  the  parish  of  Kirkconnel,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Sanquhar,  near  the  source  of  the 
Nith,  in  July,  1798.  He  was  employed  as  a 
shepherd-boy  in  the  vicinity  of  Airsmoss, 
where,  at  the  gravestone  of  a  party  of  slain 
Covenanters,  he  composed  the  striking  poem, 
'  The  Cameronian's  Dream.'  He  afterwards 
became  a  teacher,  and  his  poetical  effusions 
having  attracted  the  favourable  notice  of  Lord 
Jeffrej^  and  other  eminent  literary  characters, 
he  was,  through  their  influence,  appointed 
schoolmaster^  first  on  board  the  Doris,  and 
subsequently  the  Tweed  man-of-war.  He  died 
on  the  4th  December,  1827,  from  fever  caught 
by  sleeping  one  night  in  the  open  air  upon  the 
island  of  St.  Jago.  His  compositions  display 
an  elegant  rather  than  a  vigorous  imagination, 
much  chasteness  of  thought,  and  a  pure  but 
ardent  love  of  nature." — Chambers'  "  Cyc. 
Eng.  Lit.,"  vol.  ii.  p.  508. 


WILLIAM  ATTOUN. 

"  William  Aytoun,  author  of  '  Lays  of  the 
Scottish  Cavaliers,'  was  a  member  of  the 
Edinburgh  bar,  but  never,  we  believe,  devoted 
himself  to  any  extent  to  the  severer  duties  of 
his  profession.  He  was  long,  however,  one  of 
the  standing  wits  of  the  Parliament  House, 
as  the  law  courts  of  Edinburgh  are  locally 


denominated.  He  succeeded  Mr.  Moir  as 
Professor  of  Literature  and  Belles  Lettres  in 
the  university  of  Edinburgh,  where  his  lec- 
tures— full  of  pith,  energy,  and  distinguished 
by  fine  literary  taste — were  in  great  vogue. 
Professor  Aytoun  was  for  some  years  one  of 
the  chief  contributors  to  '  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine,' and  few  numbers  appeared  from  which 
his  hand  was  absent.  At  the  time  of  the 
railway  mania  he  flung  off  a  series  of  papers, 
— the  first  entitled,  '  How  we  got  up  the  Glen 
Mutchkin  Eailwaj'.'  descriptive  of  the  doings 
in  the  Capel  Court  of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow ; 
papers  which  for  broad,  vigorous  humour,  and 
feUcitous  setting  forth  of  genuine  Scotch  cha- 
racter, are  almost  unrivalled.  Under  the  nom 
de  guen'c  of  Augustus  Dun shunner — then  first 
adopted — the  professor  frequently  contributed 
pieces  of  off-hand  criticism  on  books  and  men 
to  '  Blackwood,'  taking  especial  delight  in 
showing  up  what  he  conceives  to  be  the  weak 
points  of  the  Manchester  school ;  and,  hu- 
morous though  the  general  tone  of  the  papers 
bo,  hesitating  not  to  dash  headlong  at  piles 
of  statistics  intended  to  prop  up  the  fallen 
cause  of  protection.  Aytoun' s  politics,  as 
may  be  inferred  from  his  sole  work  published 
in  an  independent  form,  the  'Lays  of  the 
Scottish  Cavaliers,'  were  high  Tory,  or,  rather, 
they  amount  to  a  sort  of  poetic  and  theoretical 
Jacobitism,  which  finds  vent  in  enthusiastic 
laudation  of  the  Marquis  of  Montrose  and  the 
Viscount  Dundee,  as  models  of  Scottish 
heroes.  The  ballads  in  question  are  strongly 
tinged  by  deep  national  feeling,  and  remind 
the  reader  of  Macaulay's  '  Lays  of  Ancient 
Eome:'  and,  from  the  more  picturesque  natm-e 
of  the  subject,  are,  perhaps,  even  still  more 
highly  coloured.  '  Edinburgh  after  flodden,' 
the  '  Death  of  Montrose,'  and  the  '  Battle  of 
Killiecrankie,'  are  strains  which  Scotchmen 
will  not  Avillingly  let  die.  Professor  Aytoun 
married  one  of  the  daughters  of  Professor 
Wilson,  otherwise  Christopher  North." — 
"  Men  of  the  Time."  See  Allibone's  "  Crit. 
Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


HENEY  HAET  MILMAN. 

"  We  are  surprised  that  this  poet  is  not 
more  universally  known  by  his  countrymen  ! 

"  There  is  an  oriency  of  colour  about  his 
imagination  that  dyes  every  object  upon  which 
it  falls  with  the  richest  tints.  Or  it  may  be 
compared  to  the  richly- stained  window  of 
some  dim  cathedral,  which  throws  on  every 
spot  or  figure  over  which  the  light  passing 
through  it  falls,  a  most  heavenly  and  saintly 
glory. 

"  His  '  Fall  of  Jerusalem '  has  a  fresh 
breezy  beauty  and  deHghtfulness  about  it, 
joined  with  a  vigorous  action,  that  carries  us 
on  a  bold,  rapid  stream  to  its  conclusion. 

"  His  other  poems  show  great  command  of 
powerful  and  yet  classical  language,  a  chaste 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


elegance  of  thought,  a  profusion  of  glowing 
imagery,  and  a  vigorous  manly  spirit  that  do 
him  honour  both  as  a  man  and  a  Christian 
minister." — "  Excelsior,"  p.  50. 


SYDNEY  YENDYS. 

"  Eome  has  been  the  subject  of  many  a  song 
of  triumph  and  many  a  note  of  woe  : — in  her 
youth,  when  she  sat  upon  the  seven  hills  like 
a  new-fledged  eagle,  sunning  herself  in  the 
eye  of  heaven  ;  in  her  full  maturity,  when  she 
waved  her  wings  above  the  universe,  and  went 
forth  conquering  and  to  conquer ;  in  the 
autumn  of  her  splendour,  when  the  clouds 
began  to  close — when  the  long-baffled  waves, 
with  steady  march,  rolled  on  to  cover  her ; 
and  when,  her  energies  exhausted,  her  power 
paralyzed,  she  tottered  on  her  base,  and  fell 
from  the  foremost  place  in  the  firmament, 
like  Lucifer  the  morning  star.  Macaulay 
sings — 

'  Hail  to  the  Grand  Asylum, 

Hail  to  the  hill-tops  seven ! 
Hail  to  the  fire  that  bvirns  for  aye. 

And  the  shield  that  fell  from  Heaven  !  * 

He  tells  us  of  the  dauntless  courage  and  the 
high  resolve,  the  love  of  country  and  the  love 
of  home,  the  affection  that  burnt  like  a  Vestal- 
flame  in  a  Eoman's  heart  and  the  blood  that 
ran  like  fire  along  a  Eoman's  veins  ;  how  the 
mystic  horseman  fought  in  the  battle  by  the 
Lake  Eegillus,  and  how  good  Horatius  kept 
the  bridge  in  the  brave  days  of  old.  We  hear 
from  Bulwer  how  Eienzi  ruled  and  how  he 
fought  g.nd  how  he  fell,  and  how  all  Eome  itself 
was  the  funeral  pile  of  the  last  of  the  Eoman 
Tribunes.  Byron,  in  verses  as  magnificent 
and  melancholy  as  the  ruins  he  celebrates, 
gives  us  the  last  act  of  the  mighty  drama,  the 
diadem  dashed  down,  the  sceptre  snapped,  the 
'  royalty  in  ruins :  '  while  Shelley,  with  a 
spirit  as  ethereal  as  the  moonlight,  wanders 
among  the  shattered  battlements  and  fallen 
fanes,  and  touches  with  his  sad  and  solemn 
beauty,  like  flowers  upon  a  warrior's  grave, 
the  hoary  vestiges  of  the  Imperial  City.  And 
now  we  have  another  poet  discoursing  upon  the 
same  theme,  but  striking  a  different  string. 
'  Up  for  the  Cross  and  Freedom  ! '  The  eye 
is  not  for  ever  closed  in  death,  the  soul  is  not 
for  ever  departed  :  it  is  there  yet — it  lives — 
it  breathes.  The  sun  ye  thought  had  looked 
his  last  upon  you  from  the  weeping  west  shall 
gather  up  his  glories  once  again,  and  flash 
with  all  the  splendour  of  his  prime.  Ye 
thought  that  Liberty  was  lost,  the  toy  of 
fools,  the  sport  of  fiends,  the  fancy-haunting 
dream  of  shackled  men  :  but  lo !  a  beacon- 
fire  in  the  distance ;  it  spreads  from  mount  to 
mount,  from  height  to  height,  and  the  red 
flame  flings  a  lustre  on  the  midnight  heavens, 
and, lights  up  on  the  earth  faces  sad,  but  stern 


and  resolute  ;  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  build- 
ings that  encircled  their  illustrious  forefathers, 
upon  the  soil  where  the  Caesars  trod,  and  be- 
neath the  firmament  that  canopied  the  Cresars' 
kingdom,  they  swear  that  Eome  shall  yet  be 
free. 

"  Vittorio  Santo  goes  forth  as  a  Missionary 
of  Freedom ;  devotes  himself  to  the  task  of 
rousing  up  his  countrymen,  and  inciting  them 
to  shake  off  the  Austrian  yoke.  And,  depend 
upon  it,  before  a  man  surrenders  himself  thus 
unreservedly  to  a  noble  cause,  he  must  count 
the  cost.  No  holiday  game  will  life  be  to  him, 
no  gentle  transit  down  the  stream  of  Time — 
no  pleasant  dwelling  with  the  eyes  and  smiles 
of  happy  children  round  him  —  no  joyful 
greeting  of  kinsfolk  —  no  tranquil  resting 
at  the  close  of  life  among  his  old  familiar 
vscenes — no  peaceful  gathering  of  his  ashes  to 
his  fathers  when  his  day  is  done.  He  must 
up  and  arm  himself  for  a  conflict  such  as  fev/ 
can  stand.  He  must  '  bear  all  things,  believe 
all  things,  hope  all  things,  endure  all  things.' 
His  must  be  the  forty  years'  sojourn  in  the 
wilderness,  to  catch  at  last,  perchance,  but  a 
glimpse  of  the  promised  land  afar  off.  He 
must  be  content  to  '  sit  in  the  gate  and  be  the 
heathen's  jest,  silent  and  self-possessed.'  He 
must  count  upon  the  curses  of  the  world,  the 
flippancy,  the  carelessness,  the  cold  contempt 
of  those  he  would  arouse ;  the  deadly  sickness 
of  a  bleeding  heart,  a  baffled  hope,  an  enter- 
prise abortive.  He  must  be  '  all  things  to  all 
men  : '  he  must  till  the  barren  soil,  that  yields 
as  harvest  naught  but  thorns  and  briars  ;  he 
must  see  the  flame  of  enthusiasm  leap  up  and 
then  die  out  in  darkness,  like  a  midnight 
rocket  from  a  sinking  ship ;  he  must  expect 
to  find  his  passionate  appeals  fall  dead — pro- 
fitless as  dew  upon  the  desert ;  he  must  lead 
on  the  forlorn  hope  and  perish  in  the  breach  ; 
he  must  be  the  scapegoat  doomed  to  bear  the 
labour  and  the  toil,  '  the  fastings,  th-a  foot- 
v,'anderings,'  the  feai-ful  weight  of  thought  and 
care  and  anxious  expectation. 

"  The  world  considers  such  a  character  a 
fool.  Who,  say  they,  l>ut  a  madman  would 
sacrifice  ease,  comfort,  respectability,  for  the 
sake  of  following  the  phantom  of  a  dis- 
tempered brain  ;  a  visionary  good  which  never 
can  be  grasped.  The  world  has  set  up  images 
of  clay  and  fallen  down  and  worshipped  them, 
and  the  smoke  of  ton  thousand  sacrifices  has 
gone  up  like  a  frowning  cloud,  and  hangs 
between  earth  and  heaven,  shutting  out  the 
blessed  light.  And  when  one  rises  who  will 
only  bow  before  the  sacred  presence  of  the 
Truth  ;  one  with  deep  vision  to  detect  the 
counterfeit,  and  a  loud  prophet-voice  to  give 
his  spirit  utterance, — when  he  smites  down 
the  idol,  and  standing  on  its  reeking  ruins, 
bids  its  blinded  votaries  shake  their  fetters 
off — he  has  to  undergo  Vittorio  Santo' s  perils 
and  to  share  Vittorio  Santo's  doom. 

"  But  to  the  Poem,  which  is  a  record  of  the 
Missionary    of    Freedom  as   he   pursues   his 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


arduous  task.  We  meet  him  in  various  dis- 
guises, and  exorcising  his  influence  upon  dif- 
ferent natures — now  smiting  upon  the  '  cold, 
proud,  rocky  heart '  of  the  worldling,  now 
flashing  out  his  thoughts  like  lightning  upon 
the  careless  crowd  :  teaching  the  minstrels  in 
their  own  souls'  language  the  noblest  theme 
that  can  inspire  their  song ;  and  evoking  from 
the  depths  of  vroman's  gentle  nature  that 
mQd  but  spiritual  splendour  which  is  the 
crowning  glory  of  a  great  cause,  like  the 
crescent  on  the  brow  of  night.  Time  would 
fail  us  vrere  we  to  expatiate  upon  each  several 
scene ;  we  must  therefore  content  ourselves 
with  presenting  one  or  two  extracts  and 
introducing  a  few  comments. 

"  The  opening  of  the  poem  strikes  us  as 
being  vei-y  powerfully  conceived.  The  sun  is 
setting  and  his  last  streaks  of  glory  are  light- 
ing up  the  heavens,  the  '  purple  heavens  '  of 
Eome.  They  touch  with  all  their  sad  and 
solemn  beauty  the  cramped  and  fettered  limbs 
of  her  who  once  was  mistress  of  the  world. 
They  flit  among  the  tovrers  and  battlements 
which  flash  the  splendour  back  no  more  ;  but 
receive  the  sunshine  shudderingly,  and  with  a 
fearful  air,  like  a  prisoner  through  the  grated 
window  of  his  cell :  '  and  still  the  bright 
beams  come  and  go  as  they  were  wont  to  do, 
and  seem  to  wonder  why  they  meet  not  with 
the  olden  welcome.  Upon  an  ancient  battle- 
field a  band  of  youths  and  maidens  meet; 
they  sing  and  dance  although  their  land  is  a 
desolation  and  themselves  but  slaves  : — they 
dance  upon  the  spot  where  their  great  fathers 
fought  and  bled  to  bind  another  chaplet  round 
the  laurelled  brows  of  what  was  then  their 
Country.  The  Missionary  approaches,  dis- 
guised as  a  monk,  and  bids  them  stop,  they 
dance  UTJon  a  grave — the  grave  that  holds  his 
Mother  !  They  yield  to  his  solicitations  and 
withdraw  a  space  :  he  follows  and  begs  them 
lo  forgive  his  vehemence,  and  bids  them  listen 
how  he  loved  his  Mother  : — 

'  She  loved  mo,  nursed  me. 
And  fed  my  soul  with  light.     Morning 

and  Even, 
Praying,  I  sent  that  soul  into  her  eyes, 
And  knew  what  heaven  was  though  I  was 

a  child, 
I  grew  in  stature  and  she  grew  in  good- 
ness. 
I  was  a  grave  child ;  looking  on  her  taught 

me 
To  love  the  beautiful :  and  I  had  thoughts 
Of  Paradise,  when  other  men  have  hardly 
Look'd  out  of  doors  on  earth.   (Alas !  alas  ! 
That   I   have   also   learn' d   to   look   on 

earth 
When  other  men  see  Heaven.)     I  toil'd, 

but  ever, 
As  I  became  more  holy,  she  seem'd  holier ; 
Even  as  when  climbing  mountain-tops, 

the  sky 
Grows  ampler,  higher,  purer  as  ye  rise.' 


"And  then  he  tells  them  how  strange 
robbers  seized  her,  bound  her,  while  he  and 
all  her  other  children  denied  her  in  her  agony : 
counted  out  the  gold  that  bought  her  pangs ; 
and  when  she  lifted  up  her  shackled  hands 
and  prayed  forgiveness  for  them — struck  her ! 
The  wellnigh  quenched  but  still  existing  spirit 
of  his  auditors  is  roused  by  this  tale  ot  vio- 
lence, and  with  execrations  they  attempt  to 
kill  him,  when  he  bids  them  stand  off,  for  they 
are  partners  in  the  wrongs  and  sharers  in  the 
unhallowed  gain;  that  his  Mother  is  their 
Mother : — 

'  Her  name  is  Eome.     Look  round. 
And  see  those  features  which  the   sun 

himself 
Can  hardly  leave  for  fondness.       Look 
j  upon 

!        Her  mountain  bosom,  where  the  very  sky 
1       Beholds  with  passion  :  and  with  the  last 
proud 
Imperial  sorrow  of  dc^jected  empire, 
i        She  ^vraps  the  purple  roiiiid  her  outraged 
'  breast, 

j        And  even  in  fetters  cannot  be  a  slave.' 

'        "And  then  he   launches   into  a  long  and 
'    eloquent  harangue  :  he  dresses  up  the  past  in 
all   its  ancient  pomp,   as    sunset    streaming 
'   through  stained  windows  lights  up  the  dust- 
dimmed  statues  of  ancestral  rulers  :  he  shows 
,   them  their  present  state,  a  life  in  death — a 
mockery   of    existence  —  '  a    broken    mirror, 
j   which  the  glass  in  every  fragment  multiplies  :' 
,    and  looking  forward,  with  a  prophet's  vision 
;   he  evokes  the  phantoms  of  the  future,  the 
'   glories  nebulous  as  yet,  but  destined  to  become 
j   the  stars  of    earth — the    fixed  and    flashing 
i   diadems  upon  the  brow  of  Time.    Then  by  his 
j    Country's  wrongs, — 

'  By  her  eternal  youth, 
And  coi'ternal  utterless  dishonour, 
Her  toils,  her  stripes,  her  agonies,  her 

scars — 
And  her  undying  beauty — 
By  her  long  agony  and  bloody  sweat. 
Her  passion   of    a   thousand   years,  her 

glory. 
Her  pride,  her  shame,  her  worlds  subdued 

and  lost. 
He  swears  She  shall  be  free  ! ' 

Alas !  the  heartless  slaves  have  stolen  away 
one  by  one,  and  when  the  poor  enthusiast 
looks  to  find  an  answering  echo  to  his  great 
appeal,  he  is  alone  with  the  grass  and  the 
ruins  and  the  broad  blue  sky  and  the  soft 
wind  of  heaven.  And  yet  not  quite  alone  : 
for  one  of  the  band  of  revellers,  a  Eoman 
maiden,  has  been  attracted,  spell-bound  by 
the  words  that  have  fallen,  like  flakes  of  fire 
from  a  burst  bombshell,  from  Vittorio  Santo's 
tongue  :  and  now  she  timidly  approaches  him 
and  asks  if  there  be  no  office  in  the  great  work 
j   which  Eome's  daughters  can  fill — no  services 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Pektod. — 


which  they  can  render  to  their  common 
mother.  A  mig-hty  change  has  passed  upon 
her  spirit  in  these  few  brief  moments :  the 
missionary,  all  unconscious,  held  the  master- 
key  of  her  affections,  and  now  she  is  his  in  life 
and  death. 

*  Alas  !  the  love  of  women,  it  is  known 

To  be  a  lovely  and  a  fearful  thing  ; 
All   that    they  have    upon    that   die    is 
thrown.' 

She  knows  he  has  entered  upon  a  perilous  ■ 
enterprise — that  he  carries  his  life  in  his  hand  ;  '■ 
but  she  will  surrender  fortune,  fame,  friends,  j 
everything,  to  be  his  follower,  to  execute  his  | 
orders,  and  to  live  within  the  shadow  of  his 
presence.  But  what  can  she  do  ?  What  part 
in  the  drama  can  she  sustain  ?  Woman  can- 
not grasp  an  abstract  idea.  This  Rome,  this 
Country,  this  impersonation  of  the  frowning 
ruins  which  she  saw  around  but  bewildered  her : 
she  wanted  to  observe  some  glance  of  '  human 
nature  in  the  idol's  eyes ' — some  touch  of 
human  feeling  in  the  Queen  they  strove  to 
reinstate — some  symbol  of  humanity  upon  the 
banners  of  the  host.  It  was  Rome  she  loved 
personified  in  Rome's  deliverer ;  it  was  Santo' s 
wild  and  witching  words  that  woke  the  music 
from  her  heart-strings,  and  so  she  strives  to 
do  his  will,  to  prove  herself  not  unworthy  of 
her  leader.  And  nobly  does  she  execute  her 
mission :  Vittorio  is  imprisoned  by  a  libertine 
young  lord,  Francesca  purchases  his  freedom 
at  the  price  of  herself,  and  '  in  her  superb  high 
loveliness,  whose  every  look  enhanced  the 
ransom,'  begs — 

*  Another  maiden    hour  for  prayer  and 

tears. 
Francesca  wore  a  poniard.     She  is  now 
A  maid  for  ever.* 

"  The  poet  has  displayed  a  very  high  degree 
of  talent  in  the  conception  of  this  character. 
The   labyrinthine   mazes  of  passion  are    de- 
veloped with  a  master  hand.     The  dazzling, 
blinding  rush  of  fresh  thoughts  and  feelings 
evoked   mysteriously,    like    the   fabled   well- 
spring  of  Helicon,  from  the  heart  of  the  young 
Italian  girl :  the  moments  of  doubt,  suspense, 
hesitation  :  the  conflict  between  fear  and  love 
— the  fear  of  offending,  of  being  cast  off  as 
useless,  of  being  but  a  drag  upon  the  chariot- 
wheels  of  the  emancipator :    the  love  which 
has  dawned  suddenly  upon  her  like  an  Oriental 
sunrise,  and  which  she  knows  cannot  perish 
but  with  her  existence — the  love  which  would 
be  contented  with  the  humblest  post  in  his 
great  enterprise :  the  set  determination  to  do 
the  wishes  of  her  master — and  the  woman's 
weakness  asking    for  some  tangible   reaUt^^, 
some  symbol  of  the  divinity  she  is  to  serve — 
some  star  to  twinkle  with  a  human  radiance 
on  what,  to  her,  would  else  be  but  one  broad 
and   blinding  blue — the    still,   intense    com- 
munings with  her  own  spirit  when  she  learns 
that    lie  is  doomed  to  die  by  '  the  greatest 


libertine  in  Milan ' — the  shudderings  of  soul 
as  she  contemplates  her  scheme  for  his  libera- 
tion, and  her  last  act  of  glorious  self-forget- 
f  ulness,  when  she  accomplishes  her  object,  and 
baffling  the  base  hopes  of  the  tyrant,  dies  ; 
and  in  dying  shows  the  greatness  of  a  woman's 
heart,  the  unsullied  lustre  of  a  woman's  love. 
There  is  to  us  something  inexpressibly  touch- 
ing in  this  portrait,  so  pure,  so  exalted,  yet  so 
true  to  nature ;  something  which  appeals  to 
our  best  feelings,  and   nobly  vindicates  the 
noble  origin  of  our  common  humanity.     And 
it  is  not  merely  a  fine  idea  of  the   poet,  a 
beautiful  creation   of  the  fancy  with  a  rain- 
bow's brilliancy  and  a  rainbow's  unsubstantial 
life :  it  is  the  personification  of  a  great  fact, 
a  special  instance  of  the  love  which  lies  about 
us  like  the  grass  upon  the  meadows.     True, 
the  sacrifices  woman  has  to  make  now  are  not 
what  they  were  then  ;   but  though  the  light 
has  come  down  from  the  mountains  to  the 
valleys — no  more  a  beacon  but  a  household 
fire — it  still  exists.     Ten  thousand  silent  wit- 
nesses are  standing  round  us  of  the  fact,  more 
eloquent  in  their  silence.     There  are  sacrifices 
offered  up  every  day  within  our  ken  as  noble 
as  the  Roman  girl's,  ^nd  the  more  we  con- 
template and  admire  them  the  better  will  our 
lives  become.  We  cannot  bear  the  vulgar  hand 
which  rudely  tears  away  the  veil  that  hides  so 
many  sacred  scenes  ;  but  we  give  honour  to 
the  man  who  shows  us  Woman  in  her  noble 
nature,  her  generous  devotion  of  herseK  to 
others  ;  for  we  feel  he  gives  an  impulse  to  our 
spirit,  subdues  our  miserable  selfishness,  in- 
spires us  with  a  hopeful  and  a  healthy  spirit, 
lightens   our  burden   in    this    lingering   life- 
journey,  and  lifts  us  nearer  Heaven  ! 

'  Thou  little  child. 
Thy  mother's  joy,  thy  father's  hope — 

thou  bright. 
Pure  dwelling  where  two  fond  hearts  keep 

their  gladness — 
Thou  little  potentate  of  love,  who  comest 
With  solemn  sweet  dominion  to  the  old. 
Who    see    thee   in    thy    merry    fancies 

charged 
With  the  grave  embassage  of  that  dear 

past, 
When  they  were  young  like  thee — thou 

vindication 
Of  God — thou  living  witness  against  all 

men 
Who  have  been  babes — thou  everlasting 

promise 
Which  no  man  keeps — thou  portrait  of 

our  nature. 
Which  in  despair  and  pride  we  scorn  and 

worship — 
Thou  household-god,  whom  no  iconoclast 
Hath  broken ! ' 

"  That  strain  falls  on  us  like  a  snow-flake 
on  a  fevered  lip  :  Childhood  gleams  on  us  once 
again — those  early  days  when  we  were  inno- 
cent and  happy,  when  earth  with  its  flowers 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


and  sunshine  seemed  a  Paradise  wliicli  would 
never  pass  away — when  the  moon  and  the 
stars  were  a  mystery,  and  we  believed  that 
God  was  up,  far  away  in  the  great  blue 
lieaven — when  we  felt  as  secure  in  the  domestic 
circle,  as  Adam  did  within  the  '  cherubim-de- 
fended battlements '  of  Eden.  Childhood  ! 
Before  the  serpent  drew  its  trail  across  our 
path  and  dimmed  the  lustre  which  it  takes  a 
life-long  labour  to  regain — before  we  tasted  of 
the  Trees  of  Life  and  Knowledge  and  found 
them  dust  and  ashes  in  our  mouth — '  Trees 
of  death  and  madness.'  An  immeasurable 
gulf  divides  us  from  that  blessed  .time — we 
have  passed  from  out  that  dream-land  where 
we  were  supremely  happy  in  our  ignorance — 
we  have  plunged  into  the  fiery  furnace  of  the 
world,  and  taken  part  in  its  toils  and  throb- 
bings,  and  restless  heaving  passions.  We 
have  felt  the  fever-strife  of  existence — the 
elements  which  constitute  at  once  the  blessing 
and  the  bane  of  manhood.  Many  a  hard  lesson 
have  we  learned,  many  an  agonizing  thought 
has  maddened  our  brain,  and  many  a  wild 
woe  has  swept  across  our  heart-strings  and 
struck  oiit  harsh  discord.  Love  has  looked 
upon  us  with  her  heavenly  eyes,  like  a  fairy 
from  a  fountain,  and  then  died  away  in  bub- 
bling music,  leaving  us  longing  to  follow  her, 
but  not  knowing  whither.  Fame,  Fortune, 
all  the  wreckers'  lights  the  world  hangs  out 
to  tempt  poor  mortals  to  destruction  on  its  reefs 
and  shoals,  have  met  us.  Death  has  thro\vn  his 
shadow  on  our  path,  and  muffled  in  his  mantle 
those  we  called  our  own.  And  then  in  some 
still  moment — some  hour  when  we  are  sitting 
silently  over  our  lonely  fireside,  the  ghosts  of 
our  early  days  appear  like  '  gleams  of  a  re- 
moter world  ' — old  thoughts,  old  feelings,  old 
associations,  come  to  life  again — then,  gazing 
on  the  laughing  landscape  we  have  left  for 
ever,  the  golden  sunrise  which  has  gathered 
to  a  burning  heat,  the  fresh  young  corn-blade 
which  has  matured  through  many  a  storm  and 
sunbeam  till  it  bows  beneath  the  weight  of  its 
own  age  and  longs  for  the  sickle  ; — who  has 
not  sometimes  wished  he  was  a  child  again  ? 
Sometimes  the  wish  steals  on  us  when  the 
white-robed  past  confronts  the  sin-stained 
present,  and  aggravates  its  hue  by  contrast ; 
but  life  was  breathed  into  the  frame  of  each 
that  he  might  answer  a  purpose,  and  we  must 
ever  Onward  !  Knowledge  is  power,  though 
it  be  stamped  into  the  spirit  ^vith  a  burning 
brand :  and  he  acts  nobly  who  girds  himself 
up  for  action.  There  may  be  tears  for  him, 
and  throbbings  of  the  heart,  and  passionate 
sad  voices  from  the  past ;  there  may  be  soli- 
tude and  silence — the  solitude  of  a  being 
friendless  in  a  peopled  world :  but  let  him 
pass  on  with  a  resolved  but  stricken  spirit, 
believing  that  the  path  he  treads  is  that  of 
duty  and  the  goal  is  God  ;  and  be  shaH.  find 
that  knowledge,  purified  by  faith,  is  better 
than  unconscious  innocence  :  his  shall  be  the 
crystal    calmness   of    the   current   that   has 


passed  the  rapid  and  the  precipice,  and  gone 
to  rest  in  some  sequestered  spot,  the  mirror 
of  the  Heaven  that  hangs  above  it. 

"  Let  us  glance  for  a  moment  at  the  closing 
scene.  The  Monk  has  fulfilled  his  mission, 
the  task  which  was  appointed  him  he  has 
accomplished :  and  now  prisoned,  condemned, 
sentenced  to  die  on  the  morrow,  he  knnw^  his 
hour  has  come.  A  number  of  his  partisans 
are  gathered  in  the  dungeon  to  bid  him  fare- 
well, to  hear  his  parting  words,  to  listen  to 
the  last  instructions  of  their  leader  ere  he 
passes  from  them  for  ever,  and  leaves  them 
to  carry  on  the  cause  alone.  It  is  a  solemn 
and  a  critical  moment.  He  is  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  death  and  on  the  brink  of  the  un- 
seen world :  the  stormy  past  lies  behind  him 
like  the  dashing  ocean  in  the  wake  of  the 
bark  that  nears  the  haven.  He  has  stemmed 
the  flood  and  grappled  with  the  fury  of  the 
whirlwind.  He  has  lived  among  the  strife  of 
elements,  the  war  of  deadly  passions.  Ho  had 
to  kindle  the  first  feeble  watch-fire,  and  fan 
its  faint  and  sickly  flame  ;  he  had  to  seek 
materials  to  work  upon,  and  then  to  mould 
them  to  his  purpose ;  he  had  to  teach  the 
ignorant,  to  stimulate  the  faint-hearted,  to 
cheer  the  wavering,  to  check  the  undisciplined 
ardour  of  the  over-zealous — and  all  alone. 
But  now  his  voice  is  softened,  and  a  calm-like 
sunset  rests  upon  his  noble  features. 

'  Let  us  brighten 
This  last  best  hour  with  thoughts  that, 

shining  through 
To-morrow's  tears,  shall  set  in  our  worst 

cloud 
The  bow  of  promise.' 

*'  He  puts  away  from  him  now  the  sound  of 
war,  the  shock  of  arms,  the  noise  of  hosts, 
the  banners  and  the  blazoned  ensigns ;  and 
he  endeavours  to  instU  into  the  minds  of  his 
followers  a  knowledge  of  their  higher  duty, 
of  a  more  difiicult  but  nobler  task  which  may 
be  theirs.     He  bids  them — 

*  Learn  a  prophet's  duty : 
For  this  cause  is  he  born,  and  for  this 

cause, 
For  this  cause  comes  he  to  the  world, — 

to  hear 
Witness.' 

"  Truly,  as  his  audience  thought,  'tis  a  hard 
saying — Who  shall  hearit  ?  It  is  comparatively 
easy  when  the  commander  says,  '  Up  and  at 
them,'  to  charge  down  the  hill  upon  the  enemy, 
like  the  Life  Guards  at  Waterloo  ;  but  it  is  a 
greater  and  a  hundred-fold  more  difiicult  task 
to  stand  as  those  Guards  stood  for  seven  mortal 
hours  upon  the  eminence  without  stirring 
a  step  or  firing  a  shot.  It  is  a  gallant  thing 
to  fight  with  the  free  and  the  brave  in  defence 
of  our  country,  our  shrines,  our  hearth-stones, 
and  our  fathers'  sepulchres — action  animates 
and  prevents  the  spirits  drooping ;  companions 
in  arms,  though  they  be  few,  incite  us  on :  we 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


fling  fear,  doubt,  irresolution  to  the  winds — 
and  death  is  indifferent  to  us,  for  we  know 
that  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier  if  it  does  not 
bind  his  brow.     But  to  hear  icitness  ! 

'  Speak,  speak  thy  message  ; 
The  world  runs  post  for  thee.     The  good 

by  nature, 
The  bad  by  fate ; — whom  the  avenging 

gods 
Having  condemn'd  have  first  demented. 

Know 
By   virtue   of    that    madness   they   are 

thine. 
Lay-brothers  working  where  the  sanctity 
Of  thine  high  office  comes  not.     Savage 

friends 
Who,  scattering  in  their  wrath  thv beacon, 

light 
The  fire  that  clears  the  wilderness.     Un- 
conscious 
Disciples,  writing  up  the  martyr's  title 
In    Hebrew,    Greek,    and   Latin    on  his 

cross. 
Love  him  Avho  loves  thee ;  his  sweet  love 

hath  bought 
A  place  in  Heaven.     Bat  love  him' more 

who  hates, 
For  he  dares  hell  to  serve  thee.    Pray  for 

him 
"^Vho   hears    thee    gladly;     it   shall    be 

remember' d 
On  high.     But,  martyr !  count  thy  debt 

the  greater 
To    the    reviler ;    he    hath   bought   thy 

triumph 
With  his  own  soul.  In  all  thy  toils  forget 

not 
That  whoso  sheddeth  his  life's  blood  for 

thee 
Is  a  good  lover  ;  but  thy  great  apostle, 
Thy  ministering  spirit,  thy  spell-bound, 
World-working   giant,   thy   head    hiero- 

phant 
And    everlasting    high    priest,    is    that 

sinner 
Who  sheds  thine  own.' 

*'  To  hear  ii-itnoss  !  what  a  world  of  mean- 
ing lies  hidden  in  these  few  words  !  how  many 
of  the  grandest  elements  of  human  nature  it 
requires  to  mould  a  character  like  this  I  Every 
man  values  the  honest  hearty  good  word  of 
his  neighbours  ;  and  there  are  associations 
gathered  roimd  the  heart  of  each  of  us  which 
it  is  impossible  to  efi'ace.  To  be  estranged 
from  those  we  have  lived  with  and  loved  from 
infancy — to  pass  from  under  the  shadow  of 
the  faith  that  has  fostered  us — to  look  upon 
old  sights,  old  haunts,  familiar  scenes,  and 
find  they  are  but  fiends  to  mock  us  with  a 
memory  of  what  once  was — to  see  contempt 
and  scorn  assume  the  place  where  love  was 
wont  to  reign — to  know  that  the  aftections  we 
prized  more  than  life  are  changed  to  worm- 
wood— to  watch  our  tried  and  trusted  friends 
deliberately  range  themselves  in  the  foemen's 


ranks — to  have  the  harrowing  conviction 
burned  in  upon  the  soul  that  we  must  go  on 
now  alone — go  along  the  path  we  have  chosen, 
and  forego  all  the  pleasures  on  which  we 
counted  to  render  existence  endurable — these, 
these  things  try  the  temper  and  the  tone  of 
spirit — these  constitute  a  frightful  and  a  fiery 
ordeal  at  which  human  nature  shudders.  And 
yet  all  this  must  frequently  be  undergone  for 
the  cause  of  Truth.  The  alternative  is  a 
terrible  one,  and  many  waver  ;  but  such  have 
not  the  elements  of  real  greatness  in  them, 
the  qualities  which  constitute  one  who  must 
bear  Witness.  The  world  has  its  laws  and 
customs,  its  usages  and  ordinances ;  and 
woe  to  the  man  who  sets  himself  in  opposition 
to  these.  The  world  has  its  idols,  its  creed, 
its  rule  of  faith — woe  to  the  man  who  rises 
and  declares  its  worship  blasphemy — its  creed 
a  falsehood — its  rule  of  faith  a  damnable  de- 
lusion. Woe !  truly ;  but  unutterable  woe 
would  it  be  if  these  men  did  not  rise  up  ever 
and  anon,  to  smite  the  lazy  blood  into  the 
cheeks  of  humanity  ;  to  exorcise  the  demon 
that  directs  the  rabid  multitude ;  to  breathe 
a  holier  feeling  through  a  land  defaced  by 
blood  and  crime.  They  are  the  pioneers  of 
Freedom,  the  vanguard  of  the  hosts  of  Truth. 
And  their  fate  is  to  be  reviled  and  ridiculed — 
blasphemed  and  buff"etted  —  tortured  body 
and  soul  with  all  the  ingenuity  of  cruelty. 
Well — so  it  is,  and  so  it  will  be  :  they  have 
counted  the  cost;  their  death-smile  is  the  calm 
of  conquest ;  and — 

'  They  flee  far 
To  a  sunnier  strand  : 
And  follow  Love's  folding  star 
To  the  evening  land.' 

'*  Vittorio  Santo  is  one  of  these — and  now 
his  last  hour  has  come.  He  has  to  take  a 
final  look  at  that  cause  which  he  has  watched 
alone  from  its  cradle :  which  he  has  reared 
amid  ten  thousand  obstacles,  and  guided 
through  ten  thousand  dangers  :  he  is  leaving 
it  in  the  hands  of  his  followers,  and  with  all 
the  solemnity  of  sorrow,  with  all  the  majesty 
of  a  man  sublime  in  suffering  and  crowned 
with  the  diadem  of  death,  he  endeavours  to 
form  their  minds,  to  instil  into  them  those 
great  principles  which  have  regulated  his  own 
career.  He  gives  them  a  glimpse  of  the  higher 
mysteries,  and  strives  to  stimulate  their  souls 
to  pierce  the  mist  which  hides  them  from  the 
common  ken.  He  labours  to  communicate  to 
them  that  strong,  calm,  deep,  earnest  feeling 
which  is  an  ark  of  refuge  to  a  persecuted  cause, 
and  still  on  every  cloud  that  either  frowns  or 
falls  imprints  the  bow  of  promise.  Thus 
having  spoken  words  of  comfort  and  assurance 
to  the  companions  of  his  toil,  having  done 
everything  in  his  power  for  the  promotion  of 
the  enterprise — with  peace  upon  his  brow,  he 
passes  from  them  like  the  orb  of  day  into  the 
chambers  of  the  West :  and  then — '  the  night 
Cometh ; ' — but  it  is  a  '  night  of  stars.*    The 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


greater  luminary  has  set,  yet  his  '  apostle 
lights '  have  caught  the  mantle  that  fell  from 
him  as  he  ascended,  and  ere  the  musket- shots 
of  the  minions  of  the  tyrant  have  passed 
through  his  body,  there  is  a  band  of  twenty 
thousand  insurgents  at  the  gates — led  on  by 
a  woman ! 

'  Yes  !  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeath'd  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  oft,  is  ever  won.' 

You  may  place  what  barriers  ye  will  in  the 
way  of  Truth  and  Liberty — ye  cannot  stop 
tliem.  You  may  burn  and  slay  and  torture 
their  votaries  ;  you  may  drive  them  into  the 
mountains  ;  you  may  scatter  their  ashes  to  the 
winds  and  waters  : — from  grave  and  guillotine 
and  gory  block  proceeds  an  influence  that 
passes  like  electric  fluid  through  the  hearts  of 
men  and  mocks  your  mad  endeavour. 

'  Truth  is  the  equal  sun. 

Ripening  no  less  the  hemlock  than  the 
■vine. 

Truth  is  the  flash  that  turns  aside  no 
more 

From  castle  than  from  cot.  Truth  is  a 
spear 

Thrown  by  the  blind.  Truth  is  a  Ne- 
mesis 

Which  leadeth  her  beloved  by  the  hand 

Through  all  things  ;  giving  him  no  task 
to  break 

A  bruised  reed,  but  bidding  him  stand 
firm 

Though  she  crush  worlds.' 

"  Truth  is  the  hidden  treasure  which  a 
baffled  and  bewildered  universe  has  been  en- 
gaged in  seeking  for  six  thousand  years. 
"What  is  Truth  ?  'Tis  a  question  which  has 
been  often  asked  :  by  the  broken  heart  and 
the  bleeding  breast ;  by  the  dauntless  spirit 
and  the  undimmed  eye.  It  has  been  asked  in 
the  full  triumph  of  faith,  when  the  light  of 
eternity  illuminated  the  world-mysteries ;  it 
has  gone  up  to  heaven  with  the  stifled  sob 
from  the  stricken  spirit ;  it  has  been  uttered 
to  the  silent  forest  by  the  lonely  anchorite  ; 
it  has  been  proclaimed  in  the  majesty  of  hope, 
in  the  agony  of  despair,  in  the  ghastly 
eloquence  of  death.  Truth  stands  ever  in 
still,  silent  beauty,  like  a  star  which  reeks  not 
of  the  clouds  which  come  and  go,  and  make 
wild  warfare  in  the  heavens.  These  shall  pass 
away — the  strife  of  tongues  shall  cease — the 
vain  possessions  and  pursuits  of  earth  shall 
vanish  from  their  votaries — the  workmen  on 
the  walls  and  battlements  of  this  vast  Babel- 
tower  shall  be  arrested  in  their  labour  like 
the  moon  at  Ajalon — the  incubus  shall  be  re- 
moved from  the  bosom  of  humanity,  and  the 
emancipated  universe  shall  recognize  their 
victim  and  their  Conqueror — the  solution  of 
this  world-enigma — the  Everlasting  Truth. 
But  then  the  end  c®meth.  Meanwhile  there 
must  be  agony  and  tears  and  death ;    there 


must  be  the  faggot  and  the  fire  ;  there  must 
be  hollow-heartedness  and  mockery  :  for 
battle  must  be  waged  between  the  true  and 
false  till  time  shall  be  no  more.  There  will 
be— 

'  Dim  echoings — 
Not    of  the   truth,  but   witnessiKg  the 

truth—  ^ 

Like  the  resounding  thunder  of  the  rock 
AVhich  the  sea  passes — rushing  thoughts 

like  heralds. 
Voices  which  seem  to  clear  the  way  for 

greatness, 
Cry   advent    in    the    soul,  like   the   far 

shoutings 
That  say  a  monarch  comes.     These  must 

goby. 
And  then  the  man  who  can  outwatch  this 

vigil 
Sees  the  apocalypse.' 

"  There  is  a  hearty  purpose  and  a  solemn 
earnestness  in  '  The  Roman '  which  we  think 
is  calculated  to  teach  an  admirable  lesson  to, 
and  produce  a  powerful  eflTect  upon,  the  minds 
of  the  present  age.  Never  perhaps  was  it 
more  necessary  to  inculcate  independent 
thought  and  self-reliance ;  never  more  re- 
quisite to  guard  individuals  against  losing 
their  identity  in  the  mass ;  never  more  need- 
ful to  fix  the  image  of  Truth  in  the  heart,  and 
tend  it  day  and  night  as  the  virgins  watched 
the  fire  of  Vesta.  Our  poet  shows  us  the 
dignity  of  nran — the  power  he  can  exercise, 
the  active  power  of  kindling  great  thoughts 
in  his  fellow-men — rousing  them  up  from 
their  lethargic  sleep — snapping  the  fetters 
which  cramp  their  spiritual  freedom,  and 
bidding  them  pursue  the  path  which  God  has 
placed  before  them,  and  along  which  duty 
guides  them — peradventure  to  a  grave.  He 
shows  us  also  Man's  passive  power — the 
nobler  of  the  two,  and  by  far  the  more  dif- 
ficult to  practise — the  power  which  can  impel 
the  soul  right  onward,  like  an  arrow  to  its 
mark ;  which  yields  not  to  the  sun-smile  of 
fortune  nor  to  the  pitiless  peltings  of  the 
tempest-cloud :  the  power  from  which  the 
shafts  of  scorn  fall  off  with  deadened  point ; 
which  walks  unscathed  through  the  fiery 
furnace  of  a  nation's  mockery  :  and  gazes 
with  an  unblenched  eye  upon  the  ghastliest 
insignia  of  death.  He  shows  us  Pity  bending 
with  unutterable  tenderness  ;  Love  sacrificing 
self  at  the  altar  of  its  divinity ;  Resolution  stern 
as  fate,  sheathing  the  spirit  as  in  a  panoply 
of  steel ;  Hope,  baffled,  bleeding,  but  like  the 
dolphin,  beautiful  in  death  ;  Faith  lifting  its 
flashing  eyes  to  Heaven,  and  speaking  forth 
the  words  of  inspiration.  He  takes  us  by  the 
hand  and  conducts  us  reverently  among  the 
ruins  of  the  past — he  leads  us  within  the 
circle  of  its  magic  presence,  and  bids  us  look 
and  wonder. 

"  We   must   conclude   as   we   commenced. 
What  went  ye  out  for  to  see  ?     '  The  moral  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. 


all  human  tales ' — the  melancholy  monument 
and  memento  of  mortal  grandeur  and  mortal 
vanity — the  City  of  the  dead,  who  erst  was 
Queen  of  Nations — the  Time-swept,  but  Time- 
conquering,  Capitol — Imperial  Home. 

'  All  through  the  lorn 
Vacuity  winds  came  and  went,  but  stirr'd 
Only  the  flowers  of  yesterday.     Upstood 
The  hoar  unconscious  walls,  bisson  and 

bare, 
Like  an  old  man,  deaf,  blind,  and  grey,  in 

whom 
The  years  of  old  stand  in  the  sun,  and 

murmur 
Of    childhood    and    the    dead.       From 

parapets 
"Where  the  sky  refts,  from  broken  niches 

— each 
More  than  an  Olympus, — for  gods  dwelt 

in  them, — 
Below,  from  senatorial  haunts  and  seat? 
Imperial,  where  the  ever-passing  fates 
Wore  out  the  stone,  strange  hermit  birds 

croak' d  forth 
Sorrowful    sounds,  like  watchers  on  the 

heights 
Crying  the   hours    of   ruin.     When  the 

clouds 
Dress'd   every  myrtle    on  the   walls   in 

mourning, 
i  With  calm  prerogative  the  eternal  pile 
Impassive  shone  with  the  unearthly  hght 
Of  immortality.     When  conquering  suns 
Triumph' d  in  jubilant  earth,  it  stood  out 

dark 
With  thoughts  of  ages  :  like  some  mighty 

captive 
Upon  his  deathbed  in  a  Chi-istian  land, 
And  lying,  through  the  chant  of  Psalm 

and  Creed, 
Unshriven  and  stern,  with  peace  upon  his 

brow. 
And  on  his  lips  strange  gods.' 

"  Ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust :  we  will 
not  disturb  the  majestic  repose,  nor  break  the 
silence  which  broods  above  the  princely  se- 
pulchre ;  but  we  will  be — 

'  Like  some  village  children 
Who  found  a  dead  king  on  a  battle-field, 
And  with  decorous  care  and  reverent  pity 
Composed  the  lordly  niin,  and  sat  down 
Graver  without  tears.'  " 


— Lester's 
462., 


Criticisms,"  3rd   edit.,  pp.  440- 


P.  J.  BAILEY. 

P.  J.  Bailey,  born  1816,  a  member  of  the 
bar,  son  of  the  proprietor  of  the  "  Nottingham 
Mercury,"  is  the  author  of  "  Festus,"  "  The 
Angel  World,"  and  "  The  Mystic."  Few 
poems  upon  their  first  appearance  have  ex- 
cited so  much  attention  as  "  Festus."  Bailey 
was  but  about  twenty  years  of  age  when  this 


poem  was  finished.  The  second  edition,  pub- 
lished in  1842,  was  much  enlarged,  and  in 
later  editions  it  has  been  still  further  aug- 
mented, to  about  three  times  its  original  length. 
It  contains  many  exquisite  passages  of  genuine 
poetry,  and  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
books  of  the  present  century. 


BEYAN  WALLEE  PEOCTER. 

"  Bryan  Waller  Procter,  born  about  1790, 
a  modem  EngHsh  poet,  generally  known  under 
the  pseudonym  of  Barry  Cornwall.  He  was 
educated  for  the  legal  profession,  and,  during 
many  years,  held  an  important  appointment 
as  one  of  the  commissioners  of  lunacy.  His 
first  volume  of  poems  was  produced  in  1819, 
under  the  title  of  '  Dramatic  Scenes,  and  other 
Poems.'  His  'English  Songs,'  Memoir  and 
Essay  prefixed  to  an  edition  of  Shakspere, 
'  Marcian  Colonna,'  and  others,  evinced,  in 
their  author,  the  possession  of  a  graceful  and 
refined  order  of  mind.  Some  of  his  songs 
became  popular ;  and  one  of  his  tragedies 
(that  entitled  'Mirandola')  which  was  pro- 
duced at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  was  highly 
successful.  A  collection  of  some  charming  I 
essays  and  tales  in  prose  by  him  was  pub- 
lished in  America." — Beeton's  "  Diet,  Univ. 
Biog." 


CHARLES  SWAIN. 

"Charles  Swain, born  at  Manchester,  1803, 
a  modern  English  writer,  known  as  the  '  Man- 
chester Poet,'  was  educated  for  commercial 
I   pursuits ;  but  after  spending  fourteen  years 
!   in  the  office  of  his  uncle,  the  proprietor  of 
:   large  dye-works,  he  abandoned  commerce  to 
:   acquire  the  art  of  engraving,  which  he  after- 
j   wards   practised   as  a  profession.     His  first 
1   essay  in  poetry  was  made  in  1828,  at  which 
I   time  he  produced  a  collection  of  lyrics,  upon 
I    subjects  of   history  and    imagination.       His 
:    later   works   were,   'Beauties  of   the  Mind,' 
1    '  Dryburgh  Abbey,  an  Elegy  upon  the  Death 
j   of    Sir   Walter    Scotfc,'    'English    Melodies,' 
'  Dramatic  Chapters,'  and  '  Rhymes  for  Child- 
,    hood.'     To  evince  their  respect  for  him  his 
fellow-townsmen  presented  him  with  a  testi- 
monial."— Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

"  Alfred  Tennyson,  bom  1810.  He  received 
the  'Laurel''  after  the  death  of  Wordsworth 
in  1850.  He  first  appeared  as  a  poet  under 
his  own  name  in  1830,  in  his  twentieth  year. 
A  second  volume  of  poems  was  issued  in  1833, 
and  in  1842  he  re-appeared  with  two  volumes 
of  '  Poems,'  many  of  which  were  his  early 
pieces   altered    and    retouched.      His    other 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


works  are,  '  The  Princess,  a  Medley,'  1847  ; 
'  In  Memoriam,'  1850  (the  latter  a  series  of 
beautiful  elegiac  poems  on  the  death  of  his 
young  friend  Arthur  Hallam,  son  of  the  his- 
torian) ;  '  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,'  1852 ;  and  '  Maud,  and  other 
Poems,'  1855.  The  popularity  of  Mr.  Tenny- 
son has  been  steadily  on  the  increase,  and  he 
has  a  band  of  devoted  worshippers.  His 
chief  defect  is  obscurity  of  expression,  with  a 
certain  mannerism.  The  characteristics  of 
his  poetry  lie  rather  in  its  external  dress  of 
imagery  and  language,  tha,n  in  any  bias  to- 
wards a  particular  line  of  thought  or  subject. 
His  pieces  might  be  classed,  in  the  manner  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth,  into  Poems  of  the  Affections; 
Poems  of  the  Fancy ;  Studies  from  Classical 
Statuary  and  Gothic  Eomance,  &c.  Many  of 
them,  from  the  apparent  unintelligibility  of 
their  external  shape,  have  been  supposed  to 
bear  an  esoteric  meaning.  The  '  Princess,' 
especially,  apparently  a  Gothic  romance  in  a 
drawing-room  dress,  has  been  supposed  to 
figure  forth  not  merely  the  position  which 
women  and  their  education  hold  in  the  scale 
of  modern  civilization,  but  to  indicate  also 
the  results  of  modem  science  on  the  relations, 
affections,  and  employments  of  society.  The 
verso  of  Mr.  Tennyson  is  a  composite  melody, 
it  has  great  power  and  large  compass ; 
original,  yet  delightfully  mingled  with  the 
notes  of  other  poets.  His  mind  is  richly 
stored  with  objects  which  he  invests  some- 
times with  the  sunny  mists  of  Coleridge, 
sometimes  with  the  amiable  simplicity  of 
Wordsworth,  or  the  palpable  distinctness  of 
Hood.  His  late  works  reflect  the  thought  and 
contemplation  of  the  age."  —  Scrymgeour's 
"  Poetry  and  Poets  of  Britain,"  p.  503-4. 

Orton  says  of  Tennyson  : — "  Not  exactly 
cypress,  but  a  wreath  of  weeping  willow, 
should  encircle  his  name.  He  is  enamoured 
with  ideal  beauty  and  purity  of  soul,  and  he 
sings  the  praises  of  holy  and  exalted  friend- 
ship more  than  the  warmer  passion  of  Love. 
He  may  be  characterized  as  an  elevated  phi- 
losopher with  a  poet's  expression,  which  a 
delicate  perception  of  the  beautiful  and  true 
has  given  him. 

"  His  harp  is  not  strung  with  strings  whose 
wild,  loud  notes  shall  first  awaken,  and  then 
petrify  the  snoring  World,  but  with  sUken, 
silvery,  gossamer  chords,  whose  fairj"-  melody 
is  heard  only  by  the  delicate  spiritual  ear. 

"  Yet  keeps  ho  perhaps  too  close  to  the 
shores  of  Time,  and  dares  not,  or  will  not, 
sail  the  mighty  oceans  of  mind,  and  bring  us, 
like  golden  fruit,  from  beyond  their  distant 
shores  sublime  and  inspiriting  ideas  of  Fu- 
turity. He  keeps  his  wings  too  closely  furled, 
when  we  consider  his  poetical  powers ! 

"  May  Time  give  him  courage  and  bear  him 
happiness ; — root  up  the  willow  which  points, 
with  its  thousand  drooping  and  nerveless 
arms,  to  the  cold  earth,  and  transplant  the 
Poplar,  which  ever  points,  with  its  one  firm, 


!  giant  finger,  to  the  bright,  glorious,  and 
!  joy-inspiring  Heavens!"  —  "Excelsior,"  p. 
I    23. 

j  So  classical,  so  full  of  refined  beauty, 
j  breathing  all  the  spirit  of  loveliness.  How 
I  exquisite  his  (Enone — "  Dear  Mother  Ida, 
i  hearken,  ere  I  die."  How  the  plaintive 
I  language  breaks  on  the  air  in  delieioua.  ac- 
cents !  We  think  we  see  the  gentle  (Jb^none 
and  the  three  fair  deities  of  Olympus,  with 
the  sunbeam  darting  through  the  vine-leaves, 
and  the  olive  upon  their  '  finely-chiselled ' 
forms,  so  moulded  to  perfect  symmetry.  She 
recals  all  the  tenderness  of  her  love — "  Dear 
Mother  Ida,  hearken,  ere  I  die  !  "  The  sylvan 
shades,  and  the  clear  streams,  and  the  grassy 
meads,  and  the  flowery  banks,  and  the  modest 
violet,  and  the  golden  crocus,  seem  to  echo  in 
softest  whispers  to  the  melancholy  prayer — 
"  Dear  Mother  Ida,  hearken,  ere  I  die."  And 
the  rippling  of  the  waters,  and  the  light  blue 
of  heaven,  and  the  fleecy  clouds,  and  the  rich 
perfumes  of  rose  and  hyacinths,  re-echo  in 
tones  of  deep,  still  witchery — "  Dear  Mother 
Ida,  hearken,  ere  I  die."  The  dulcet  cadence 
floats  over  the  dark  waves  of  ocean;  and 
faithful  (Enone,  with  her  clustering  hair  and 
serene  countenance,  lifts  her  dewy  eye  to  the 
broad  canopy  of  midnoon,  and  once  more 
throbs  out — ''  Dear  Mother  Ida,  hearken,  ere 
I  die ! " 


THOMAS  AIRD. 

"  Thomas  Aird,  born  at  Bowden,  Eoxburgh- 
shire,  1802,  an  original  poet  of  considerable 
power,  a  contributor  to  periodical  literature, 
and  author  of  the  '  Old  Bachelor  in  the  Old 
Scottish  Village,'  '  Eeligious  Characteristics,' 
and  '  The  Devil's  Dream,'  a  poem  pronounced 
'  a  wonderful  piece  of  weird,  supernatural  ima- 
gination,' He  was  editor  of  the  '  Edinburgh 
Weekly  Journal,'  the  '  Dumfries  Herald,'  and 
of  an  edition  of  the  poems  of  Dr.  Moir,  the 
'  Delta  '  of  '  Blackwood's  Magazine.'  " — 
Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ.  Biog."  See  Allibone's 
"  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit." 


EDWIN  ATHERSTONE. 

Edwin  Atherstone,  a  truly  great  poet.  He 
has  published  "  The  Last  Days  of  Hercula- 
neum,"  "  Abradates  and  Panthea,"  "  The 
Fall  of  Nineveh,"  and  other  works.  His 
productions  display  "  power  and  vigour, 
splendid  diction,  and  truly  poetic  feeling." 


ALAEIC  A.  WATTS. 

"  Alaric  Alexander  Watts,  born  in  London, 
1799,  a  modem  English  poetical  writer,  who, 
in  early  life,  became  the  literary  assistant  to 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Sevsntw  Pekiod. — 


Crabbe,  the  writer  of  the  '  Technological 
Dictionary,'  and  having-  put  forth  a  small 
collection  of  poems  in  1822,  which  obtained 
some  success,  he  was  appointed  editor  of  the 
'  Leeds  Intelligencer,'  and  subsequently  of  the 
'  Manchester  Courier.'  In  1825  he  commenced 
the  publication  of  the  '  Literary  Souvenir,' 
which  was  continued  as  an  annual  until  1836. 
This  work  contained  contributions  bj"-  Camp- 
bell, Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge,  and  was 
illustrated  by  Turner,  Leslie,  Roberts,  and 
other  emirwsnt  artists,  the  engravings  being 
executed  by  Heath,  assisted  bj''  the  best  en- 
gravers of  the  day.  He  also  attempted  to 
establish  a  fine-art  journal,  called  '  The 
Poetical  Album ; '  but  it  ceased  to  appear 
after  the  second  year.  In  1833  he  commenced 
the  '  United  Service  Gazette,'  of  which  he 
remained  the  editor  until  1843.  He  was 
subsequently  connected  Avith  the  '  Standard  ' 
and  other  newspapers.  A  collected  edition  of 
his  poetical  pieces  appeared  in  1851,  with  the 
title  of  '  Lyrics  of  the  Heart,'  and  two  years 
subsequently,  he  received  a  pension  of  .£100 
per  annum  fi-om  the  Government." — Beeton's 
"  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


LORD  HOUGHTON. 

"  Lord  Houghton,  born  1809,  a  modern 
English  politician,  poet,  and  prose  writer.  A 
few  years  after  concluding  his  university 
career  at  Cambridge,  he  was  elected  Member 
of  Parliament  for  Pontefract,  and  distinguished 
himself  therein  as  a  zealous  supporter  of  all 
questions  relative  to  popular  education  and 
complete  religious  ec[uality.  His  literary 
efforts  were  various  in  kind  and  of  an  excellent 
character.  As  a  poet,  he  produced  '  Poems 
of  Many  Years,'  '  Memorials  of  Many  Scenes,' 
'  Poems,  Legendary  and  Historical,'  and '  Palm 
Leaves.'  His  '  Life,  Letters,  and  Literary 
Remains  of  John  Keats '  was  an  appreciative 
and  delightful  commemoration  of  departed 
genius.  He  was  understood  to  have  been  the 
writer  of  several  interesting  articles  in  the 
'  Westminster  Review.'  He  published  several 
of  his  speeches,  delivered  from  his  place  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  wrote  a  number  of 
political  pamphlets,  the  most  important  of 
which  were  '  Thoughts  on  Party  Politics,' 
*  Real  Union  of  England  and  Ireland,'  and 
'  The  Events  of  1848.'  "—Beeton's  "  Diet. 
Univ.  Biog." 


ELIZA  COOK. 

Eliza  Cook,  born  1817,  the  daughter  of  a 
tradesman  in  the  borough  of  Southwark, 
London,  gained  considerable  reputation,  when 
in  her  twentieth  year,  as  a  poetical  contributor 
to  some  of  the  higher  class  of  London  pe- 
riodicals— "The  New  Monthly  Magaainc," 
"The  Metropolitan,"  "The  Literary  Gazette," 


{    &c.      In  1840  a  volume  of  her  poems  was 
I    published  in  London,  and  was  reproduced  in 
I    New  York,  in  1844,  under  the  title  of  "  Melaia, 
;    and   other  Poems."      Many  editions  of   her 
I    poems  have  since  been  published  in  England 
j   and  America.     "  The  Old  Arm  Chair,"  "  The 
j   Old   Farm    Gate,"    "  Home   in   the   Heart," 
1   "  The  Last  Good-bye,"  and  "  I  Muiss  thee,  my 
I   Mother! "  are  known  and  loved  by  thousands, 
I   both  old   and   young.     In  September,    1849, 
:   appeared  the  first  number  of  "  Eliza  Cook's 
1   Journal."      Professor  Cleveland  says  :  "  The 
characteristics  of  her  poetry  are  great  free- 
dom,  ease,  and  heartiness  of  sentiment  and 
expression  ;  and  she  makes  you  feel  at  once 
that  her  whole  heart  is  in  all  she  writes  ;  that 
!    she  gives  full  utterance  to  the  depths  of  her 
\    soul — a  soul  that  is  in  sympathy  with  all  that 
:   is  pure  and  true." — Cleveland's  "  Enq-.   Lit. 
19th  Cent."    See  AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng. 
Lit." 


WILLIAM  AND  MARY  HOWITT. 

"  William  Howitt,  born  at  Heanor,  Derby- 
shire, 1795,  a  living  English  litterateur,  the 
son  of  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends, 
who  educated  him  and  his  five  brothers  in  the 
principles  of  Quakerism.  Although  he  had 
been  sent  to  several  schools  kept  by  Quakers, 
his  education  Avas  almost  entirely  owing  to 
his  own  perseverance.  Up  to  his  twenty- 
eighth  year,  when  he  married  and  commenced 
with  his  wife  a  career  of  literature,  his  tim.o 
had  been  spent  in  acquiring  mathematical  and 
scientific  knowledge,  in  studying  the  classical 
authors,  and  in  mastering  the  German, 
French,  and  Italian  tongues.  His  studies 
were  varied  by  rambles  in  the  country, 
shooting,  and  fishing ;  and  these  again  led 
him  to  obtain  an  amount  of  information 
relative  to  English  rural  life  and  nature, 
which  was  afterwards  reproduced  in  his  works. 
The  lady  who  became  his  wife  was,  like  him- 
self, a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and 
strongly  imbued  with  literary  tastes.  In  1823, 
the  first  year  of  their  marriage,  they  published 
together  a  volume  of  poems,  entitled,  '  The 
Forest  Minstrel,'  and  followed  it  up  by  con- 
tributions to  the  '  Amulet,'  '  Literary  Sou- 
venir,' and  other  annuals  then  in  vogue. 
These  contributions,  with  some  origmal  pieces, 
were  collected  and  published,  in  1827,  under 
the  title  of  '  The  Desolation  of  Eyam,'  &c. 
'  The  Book  of  the  Seasons,'  '  Popular  History 
of  Priestcraft,'  '  Tales  of  the  Pantika  ;  or.  Tra- 
ditions of  the  most  Ancient  Times,'  'Rural  Life 
!  of  England,'  '  Colonization  and  Christianity,' 
i  and  several  other  works,  were  produced  by 
;  him  during  the  ten  following  years.  In  1839 
j  and  succeeding  year,  he  wrote  his  'Boy's 
;  Country  Book,'  and  '  Visits  to  Remarkable 
'■■  Places.'  In  1840  he  went  to  Germany  for  the 
:  purpose  of  educating  his  children,  and  his 
[  sojourn  there  led   to  the  production  of   the 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


•  Rural  and  Domestic  Life  of  Germany/ 
'  German  Experiences,'  &c.  In  1847  and  the 
four  foUowiug-  years  he  published  his  '  Homes 
and  Haunts  of  the  most  eminent  English 
Poets,'  'The  Hall  and  Hamlet;  or,  Scenes  and 
Characters  of  Country  Life,'  '  The  Year-Book 
of  the  Country,'  and  a  novel,  '  Madame  Dor- 
rington  of  the  Dene.'  In  1846  he  contributed 
to  the  '  People's  Journal,'  and  afterwards 
became  part  proprietor  of  it ;  but  a  quarrel 
between  himself  and  his  partner  led  him  to 
establish  a  rival  publication — '  Howitt's 
Journal,'  which,  however,  like  its  predecessor, 
was  subsequently  unsuccessful.  In  1852  he, 
with  his  two  sons  and  Mr.  R.  H.  Home,  sailed 
for  Australia,  where  he,  for  some  time,  worked 
as  a  '  digger.'  He  also  visited  Tasmania, 
Sydney,  «fec.,  and  communicated  his  observa- 
tions in  a  number  of  letters  to  the  '  Times* 
newspaper,  which  he  afterwards  collected  and 
published,  with  some  new  matter,  under  the 
title  of  '  Land,  Labour,  and  Gold,'  in  1855." 


her  observation    of    nature  accurate  and  in- 
tense." 

"  Sweet  Mary  Howitt  I  her  name  brings 
magic  with  it,  let  us  see  it  when  and  where 
we  will !  It  is  one  crowded  with  pleasant 
associations  ;  telling  of  wisdom  learned  by 
the  v/ayside  and  under  the  hedgerows ; 
breathing  perfumes — not  the  perfumes  ofT^alls 
and  routs — of  violets  and  wild  flowers ;  lead- 
ing the  mind  to  pure  and  pleasant  thought- 
fulness." — "  New  Monthly  Mag."  See  Row- 
ton's  "  Female  Poets  of  Great  Britain ;  " 
AUibone's  "  Crit.  Diet.  Eng.  Lit.;"  Mrs.  S. 
C.  Hall ;  Allan  Cunningham's  "  Biog.  and 
Crit.  Hist,  of  Lit.  of  Last  Eifty  Years." 


'•  Mary  Both  am  Howitt,  bom  at  Uttoxeter, 
Staffordshire,  about  1804,  an  English  au- 
thoress, wife  of  the  above,  came  of  a  family 
of  Quakers,  and  commenced  her  literary 
career,  shortly  after  her  marriage,  with  a 
volume  of  poems,  called '  The  Forest  Minstrel.' 
After  having  published  several  volumes  of 
gi-aceful  poetry,  and  a  number  of  books  for 
the  young,  she,  on  visiting  Germany  with  her 
husband,  proceeded  to  acquire  the  Swedish 
and  Danish  languages,  with  a  view  of 
translating  the  novels  of  Miss  Bremer  and 
the  tales  of  Hans  C.  Andersen.  The  trans- 
lations of  Miss  Bremer's  works  were  pub- 
lished between  1844  and  1852 ;  and  the 
'  Improvisatore,'  a  reproduction  in  English  of 
Andersen's  novel,  in  1857.  Besides  being  an 
industrious  contributor  to  the  periodicals,  she 
wrote  a  volume  of  '  Ballads,  and  other  Poems  ; ' 
'  Sketches  of  Natural  History  in  Verse  ; ' 
two  novels,  called  '  The  Heir  of  Wast-Way- 
laud,'  and  '  Wood  Leighton ; '  and  translated 
'Ennemoser's  History  of  Magic'  for  Bohn's 
'  Scientific  Library.'  The  valuable  work  en- 
titled '  Literature  and  Romance  of  Northern 
Europe,'  published  as  the  joint  production  of 
herself  and  husband,  is  almost  entirely  her 
work." — ^Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 

"  There  can  be  no  surer  proof  of  the 
genuineness  of  the  poetical  power  possessed 
by  Mary  Howitt,  than  the  fact  that  her  fine 
pieces  ever  recur  again  and  again  to  the 
memories  of  all  imaginative  readers.  This 
can  be  only  owing  to  their  feminine  tender- 
ness, their  earnest  tone,  their  gentle  music, 
and  their  simple  but  genuine  nature." — 
Moir's  "  Sketches  of  Poet  Lit.  of  the  Past 
Half  Cent." 

Christopher  North,  in  his  "  Noctes  Am- 
Urosiana;,"  says  : — "  Her  language  is  chaste 
and  simple,  her  feeling  tender  and  pure,  and 


REV.  THOMAS  DALE,  M.A. 

Rev.  Thomas  Dale,  M.A.,  Canon  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral  and  late  Vicar  of  St.  Pancras,  poet 
and  popular  author,  was  bom  at  Pentonville, 
London,  August,  1797.  His  mother  died 
when  he  was  but  three  years  old;  and  his 
father,  having  married  again,  went  to  the 
West  Indies  to  edit  a  public  journal  there, 
where  he  also  died,  leaving  his  only  son.  A 
presentation  to  Christ's  Hospital  was 
eventually  obtained  for  him,  where,  under 
the  late  Dr.  TroUope,  by  whom  he  was  most 
kindly  treated,  he  received  a  superior  classical 
education.  In  1817  he  entered  the  University 
of  Cambridge,  having  previously  published  his 
"  Widow  of  Nain,"  which  was  speedily  fol- 
lowed by  the  "  Outlaw  of  Taurus,"  and  "  Trad 
and  Adah,  a  Tale  of  the  Flood,"  his  first  work 
passing  through  six  editions  within  a  very 
short  period.  He  was  ordained,  in  1823,  first 
curate  of  St.  Michael's,  Cornhill,  London; 
and  afterwards,  in  1835,  by  the  special  favour 
of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  appointed  to  be  Vicar  of 
St.  Bride's.  In  1843,  through  the  same  in- 
fluence, he  became  a  Canon  of  St.  Paul's ; 
and,  in  1846,  Vicar  of  St.  Pancras.  He  had 
previously  held  the  Lectureship  of  St.  Mar- 
garet, Lothbury ;  but  resigned  it  in  1849. 
With  the  exception  of  his  poems,  of  which  a 
collected  edition  was  published  in  1836,  his 
edition  of  Cowper,  and  his  translation  of 
Sophocles,  his  later  writings  are  exclusively 
religious,  consisting  chiefly  of  Sermons — 
"The  Domestic  Liturgy  and  Family  Chap- 
lain," "  The  Sabbath  Companion,"  &c.  They 
display  a  fine  tone  of  thought,  solid  erudition, 
and  the  purest  taste. 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED. 

I  Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed,  bom  1802, 
!  died  1839,  son  of  Mr.  Sergeant  Praed,  entered 
i  the  House  of  Commons,  and  became  Secretary 
I  of  the  Board  of  Control.  His  early  life  and 
[  writings  gave    promise   of  future  eminence. 

55 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


While  at  Eton,  he  started  "  The  Etonian," 
and  was  one  of  the  chief  contributors  to 
"  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine."  His  poems, 
which  have  been  recently  published  in  a 
collected  form,  are  some  of  the  most  remark- 
able which  have  appeared  in  modem  times. 


COVENTRY  PATMORE. 

Coventry  Patmore,  an  English  poet,  was 
bom  at  Woodford,  in  Essex,  23rd  July, 
1823.  His  father  was  in  his  day  a  well-known 
literary  celebrity,  and  in  1846  Mr.  Coventry 
Patmore  became  an  Assistant  Librarian  to 
the  British  Museum,  which  office  he  continues 
to  hold.  He  has  published  three  volumes,  of 
which  the  second,  the  "  Angel  in  the  House," 
is  a  poem  of  undoubted  merit ;  but  the  third, 
"Faithful  for  ever,"  has  been  severely 
criticised.  He  is  understood  to  be  a  con- 
tributor to  the  "  Edinburgh  Review." 


ALEXANDER   SMITH.      ' 

Alexander  Smith,  a  poet,  was  born  on  31st 
of  December,  1830,  at  Kilmarnock,  Ayrshire. 
His  early  intention  was  to  qualify  himseK  for 
the  ministry,  but  circumstances  of  various 
kinds  prevented  him  from  entering  on  the 
preparatory  studies.  While  following  the 
business  of  a  lace-pattern  designer  in  Glas- 
gow, he  began  to  write  verses,  and  sent  some 
extracts  from  his  first  sustained  poem  to  the 
Rev.  George  GilfiUan,  of  Dundee,  then  under- 
stood to  be  one  of  the  writers  for  the  "  Critic," 
who  inserted  them  in  that  journal.  His  "  Life 
Drama"  was  afterwards  published,  and, 
although  severely  criticised,  was  admitted  on 
all  hands  to  contain  lines  of  the  highest 
poetical  merit.  In  1854  Mr.  Smith  was 
elected  to  the  secretaryship  of  the  Edinburgh 
University.  His  "Life  Drama"  and  "City 
Poems  "  are  his  principal  works. 


THE  VERY  REV.  HENRY  ALFORD,  D.D. 

The  Very  Rev.  Henry  Alford,  D.D.,  Dean 
of  Canterbury,  a  poet  and  Biblical  critic,  was 
bom  in  London  in  1810,  and  educated  at 
Ilminster  Grammar  School,  and  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.  He  has  published 
several  poetic  productions,  which  have  been 
well  ^  received,  has  held  several  University 
appointments,  and  various  preferments 
in  the  Church.  His  editions  of  the  Greek 
New  Testament  have  been  carefully  prepared. 
He  is  also  the  author  of  several  papers,  con- 
tributed to  serials  and  other  periodical  pub- 
lications, and  his  work  entitled  "  The  Poets 
of  Greece  "  exhibits  an  intimate  and  correct 
knowledge  of  the  language.     He  has  pubHshed 


many  volumes  of  sermons,  and  critical 
memoirs  on  matters  pertaining  to  ancient 
history.  Owing  to  his  eminent  talents  as 
a  preacher,  he  was  appointed,  by  Lord 
Palmerston,  Dean  of  Canterbury,  in  1857. 


ARCHBISHOP  TRENCH. 

Archbishop  Trench,  a  scholar,  poet,  and 
divine,  was  bom  at  Dublin  in  September, 
1807,  and  graduated  at  Cambridge  in  1829, 
after  which  he  spent  some  years  in  travelling 
abroad.  While  holding  the  incumbency  of 
Cardridge,  Hants,  he  published,  in  1838,  two 
volumes  of  poems.  These,  having  been  well 
received  by  the  public,  were  followed  by 
"  Genoveva,"  "  Elegiac  Poems,"  which  also 
elicited  favourable  notices.  In  1841  he  be- 
came Curate  to  the  present  Bishop  of  Oxford, 
at  Alverstoke,  and  afterwards  Rector  of 
Itchinstoke.  He  was  also  Hulscan  Lecturer 
at  Cambridge,  and  in  1847  he  was  appointed 
to  the  important  office  of  Theological  Professor 
in  King's  College,  London.  On  the  death  of 
Dr.  Buckland,  which  caused  a  vacancy  in  the 
Deanery  of  Westminster,  he  was  nominated  to 
that  office,  since  which  he  has  been  preferred 
to  the  Archbishopric  of  Dublin.  His  sermons 
are  considered  eloquent  and  impressive. 
Those  preached  at  the  special  services  for  the 
working  classes,  delivered  at  Westminster 
Abbey,  have  been  attended  by  very  crowded 
congregations.  He  has  published  several 
works  on  theological  subjects  ;  among  these 
are  "  Notes  on  the  Parables,"  "  Notes  on  the 
Miracles,"  "  The  Sermon  on  the  Mount,"  &c. ; 
and  his  lectures  on  the  "  English  Language  " 
and  on  the  "Study  of  Words"  have  had  a 
large  circulation. 


GERALD  MASSEY. 

Gerald  Massey,  an  EngKsh  poet,  was  born 
May,  1828,  near  Tring,  in  Herts.  His  parents 
were  so  steeped  in  poverty  that  the  children 
received  scarcely  any  education.  When  only 
eight  years  old,  Gerald  was  sent  to  work  in  a 
neighbouring  silk  mill;  but  the  mill  being 
burned  down,  the  boy  took  to  straw  plaiting. 
He  had  learned  to  read  at  a  penny  school ; 
and,  when  fifteen,  went  up  to  London  as  an 
errand  boy,  and  spent  all  his  spare  time  in 
reading  and  writing.  When  out  of  a  situa- 
tion, he  has  gone  without  a  meal  to  purchase 
a  book.  His  first  appearance  in  print  was  in 
a  provincial  paper;  he  published  a  small 
collection  of  his  verses  in  his  native  town, 
and  during  the  political  excitement  of  1848 
edited  a  cheap  paper  called  the  "  Spirit  of 
Freedom."  His  writing  was  so  bold  and 
vigorous,  that  his  political  manifestations  cost 
him  five  situations  in  eleven  months.  He  was 
a  warm  advocate  of  the  co-operative  system, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


and  thus  was  introduced  to  the  Kev.  Charles 
Kingsley  and  others  who  were  promoting  that 
movement.  Still  continuing  to  write,  his 
name  began  to  be  known ;  and  in  1853 
"  Christabel "  took  the  public  completely  by 
surprise.  Five  editions  of  the  work  were 
published  in  two  years  ;  his  pecuniary  circum- 
stances improved  in  proportion  to  his  fame 
as  a  poet ;  and  in  1855  he  removed  to  Edin- 
burgh, where  in  1856  he  issued  "  Craigcrook 
Castle,"  in  his  own  estimation  his  best  work. 
A  collected  edition  of  his  poems  has  lately  been 
published. 


CHAELES  MACKAY. 

Charles  Mackay,  a  poet  and  journalist, 
•was  born  at  Perth,  in  1814,  He  is  a  de- 
scendant of  an  honourable  Highland  family, 
the  Mackays  of  Strathnever.  Having  received 
the  rudiments  of  his  education  in  London,  he 
was  in  1827  sent  to  a  school  at  Brussels,  and 
ho  remained,  in  Belgium  and  Germany  for 
some  years.  On  his  return  to  this  country  he 
abandoned  his  intention  of  entering  the  East 
India  Service,  for  which  he  had  been  originally 
intended  by  his  uncle,  General  Mackay,  and 
devoted  himself  to  literature.  In  1835,  after 
the  publication  of  a  small  volume  of  poems 
which  attracted  the  notice  of  Mr.  John  Black, 
he  became  connected  with  the  "  Morning 
Chronicle."  While  employed  in  his  arduous 
studies  as  sub-editor  of  a  daily  paper,  Mr. 
Mackay  pubhshed  two  poetical  works,  "  The 
Hope  of  the  World,"  and  "  The  Salamandrine," 
a  thu'd  edition  of  which,  illustrated  by  Gilbert, 
appeared  in  1856  ;  within  the  same  period  he 
published  three  works  in  prose,  viz.,  "  The 
Thames  and  its  Tributaries,"  "Popular 
Delusions,"  and  "  Longbeard,  Lord  of  Lon- 
don, a  Eomance."  In  1844  he  removed  from 
London  to  Glasgow,  to  succeed  the  late  Mr. 
Weir  as  editor  of  the  "Argus,"  then  a  lead- 
ing liberal  journal  in  the  West  of  Scotland. 
During  his  residence  in  Scotland  he  produced 
"  The  Legends  of  the  Isles,  and  other  Poems," 
"  A  Series  of  Twelve  Letters  to  Lord  Morpeth 
on  the  Education  of  the  People,"  and  a 
volume  entitled  "  The  Scenery  and  Poetry  of 
the  English  Lakes  :  a  Summer  Ramble."  He 
also  published  "Voices  from  the  Crowd," 
which  contained  the  spirit-stirring  song 
"  The  Good  Time  Coming."  It  was  while  Mr. 
Mackay  remained  in  Scotland  that  he  received 
from  the  University  of  Glasgow  the  honorary 
degree  of  LL.D.  In  1847  he  returned  to  the 
metropolis,  where  he  succeeded  to  the  political 
editorship  of  the  "  Illustrated  London  News." 
He  published,  in  1848,  his  "  Town  Lyrics  ;  " 
in  1850,  "  Egeria,  or  the  Spirit  of  Nature ;  and 
other  Poems,"  to  which  was  prefixed  "  An 
Inquiry  into  the  alleged  Anti-poetical 
Tendencies  of  the  present  Age."  In  1851  he 
edited  for  the  Percy  Society,  with  Notes  and 
an  Introduction,   an    important   antiquarian 


work,  entitled  "  A  Collection  of  Songs  and 
Ballads  relative  to  the  London  'Prentices  and 
Trades,  and  to  the  Affairs  of  London 
generally,  during  the  Fourteenth,  Fifteenth, 
and  Sixteenth  Centuries."  He  also  edited 
"A  Book  of  English  Songs,"  and  "A  Book 
of  Scottish  Songs,  with  Notes  andL  Observa- 
tions." In  1856  Dr.  Mackay  published  the 
"  Lump  of  Gold,"  and  in  the  following  year 
"  Under  Green  Leaves,"  two  poetical  works 
abounding  with  verses  of  the  utmost  melody, 
rich  with  the  choicest  English  epithets  and 
phrases.  After  the  publication  of  these  works 
Dr.  Mackay  made  a  tour  to  America,  where 
he  delivered  lectures  upon  "  Poetry  and  Song," 
receiving  everywhere  a  cordial  and  enthusiastic 
reception;  his  poetry  and  songs,  owing  per- 
haps to  the  higher  standard  of  education  in 
the  Northern  States,  being  well  known  and 
appreciated  among  our  Transatlantic  cousins. 
After  his  return  to  this  country  he  published 
his  "  Life  and  Liberty  in  America,"  which 
is  characterized  in  the  Athencexim  as  a  bright, 
fresh,  and  hopeful  book  ;  worthy  of  an 
author  whose  songs  are  oftenest  heard  on 
the  Atlantic.  He  also  edited  a  Christmas 
book,  entitled  "The  Home  Affections  as 
portrayed  by  the  Poets."  Dr.  Mackay  lately 
published  a  narrative  poem,  entitled  "  A 
Man's  Heart,"  and  has  just  edited  "A 
Collection  of  the  Jacobite  Ballads  of  Scot- 
land." He  has  been  actively  engaged  in 
journalism,  and  was  connected  with  the 
"London  Review."  Like  all  the  great  song- 
writers, Dr.  Mackay  is  a  ipusician,  and  the 
composer  of  all  the  melodies  published  mth 
many  of  his  songs.  He  possesses  in  a  high 
degree  the  rare  faculty  of  a  true  lyric  poet, 
that  of  working  his  words  and  music  up  into 
harmony  and  unison  with  the  feelings  they 
express. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 
"  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  Dr.  Arnold,  the 
well-known  and  highly-esteemed  Master  of 
Rugby  School,  and  was  born  at  Laleham, 
1822.  He  won  the  Newdegate  prize  for 
English  verse  at  Oxford  in  1843,  and  became 
a  fellow  of  Oriel  College  in  1845.  He  was 
elected  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford  in  1857. 
He  has  taken  an  active  part  in  the  promotion 
of  middle-class  education,  and  has  contributed 
largely  to  the  periodical  literature  of  the  day." 
— Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


WILLIAM  COX  BENNETT. 
"  He  was  bom  at  Greenwich  in  1820,  and, 
as  a  modem  English  song- writer,  his  poems  of 
childhood  and  other  home  subjects  have 
deservedly  attained  celebrity.  His  first  volume 
of  '  Poems'  was  published  1847  ;  '  War  So  ngs, 
1857  ;  '  Queen  Eleanor's  Vengeance  and 
other    Poems,'    1858;    'Songs   by    a  Song- 

55* 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  period. 


writer,'  and  'Baby  May  and  other  Poems 
on  Infants,'  both  in  1859.  His  verses  have 
a  large  number  of  readers  as  well  in  America 
as  in  England,  and  he  is  now  a  contributor  to 
the  Weekly  Dispatch  newspaper." — Beeton's 
"Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


EOBERT  BROWNING. 

'•  Robert  Browning  is  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  modern  English  poets.  He  was 
born  near  London  in  1812,  In  1836  he 
published  '  Paracelsus,'  which  was  favourably 
received;  and  in  1837  produced  'Strafford,'  a 
tragedy,  in  which  Mr.  Macready,  the  actor, 
personated  the  hero.  His  other  works  are 
'  Sordello,'  '  Pippa  Passes,'  '  The  Blot  in  the 
Scutcheon,'  '  King  Victor  and  King  Charles,' 
'Dramatic  Lyrics,'  'Return  of  the  Druses,' 
*  Colombe'sBirth-dny,'  'Dramatic  Romances,' 
&c.  Of  all  his  writings,  perhaps  his  '  Pippa 
Passes '  and  '  The  Blot  in  the  Scutcheon  ' 
are  the  best.  His  latest  work,  '  The  Ring 
and  the  Book,'  appeared  in  1868." — Beeton's 
"  Diet.  Univ.  Biog.' 

Criticising  the  "  Ring  and  the  Book,"  the 
Atlienceitm,  in  one  of  its  numbers  published  in 
1869,  on  the  publication  of  the  last  volume, 
thus  spoke  of  it : — 

"At  last,  the  ojw.s  magnum  of  our  generation 
lies  before  the  world — the  '  ring  is  rounded  '  ; 
and  we  are  left  in  doubt  which  to  admire 
most,  the  supremely  precious  gold  of  the 
material  or  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the  work- 
manship. The  fascination  of  the  work  is  still 
so  strong  upon  us,  our  eyes  are  still  so  spell- 
bound by  the  immortal  features  of  Pompilia 
(which  shine  through  the  troubled  mists  of 
the  story  with  almost  insufferable  beauty), 
that  we  feel  it  difficult  to  write  calmly  and 
without  exaggeration ;  yet  we  must  record  at 
one 6  our  conviction,  not  merely  that  '  The 
Ring  and  the  Book  '  is  beyond  all  parallel  the 
supremest  poetical  achievement  of  our  time, 
but  that  it  is  the  most  precious  and  X)rofound 
spiritual  treasure  that  England  has  produced 
since  the  days  of  Shakspeare.  Its  intellec- 
tual Greatness  is  as  nothing  compared  with 
tts  transcendent  spiritual  teaching.  Day 
after  day  it  grows  into  the  soul  of  the  reader, 
until  all  the  outlines  of  thought  are  brightened 
and  every  mystery  of  the  world  becomes  more 
and  more  softened  into  human  emotion.  Once 
and  for  ever  must  critics  dismiss  the  old  stale 
charge  that  Browning  is  a  mere  intellectual 
giant,  difficult  of  comprehension,  hard  of  as- 
similation. This  great  book  is  difficult  of 
comprehension,  is  hard  of  assimilation ;  not 
because  it  is  obscure  —  every  fibre  of  the 
thought  is  clear  as  day ;  not  because  it  is  in- 
tellectual,— and  it  is  intellectual  in  the  highest 
sense, — ^but  because  the  capacity  to  compre- 
hend such  a  book  must  be  spiritual ;  because, 
although  a  child's  brain  might  grasp  the 
general  features  of  the  picture,  only  a  purified 


nature  could  absorb  and  feel  its  profoundest 
meanings.  The  man  who  tosses  it  aside  be- 
cause it  is  '  difficult '  is  simply  adopting  a 
subterfuge  to  hide  his  moral  littleness,  not 
his  mental  incapacity.  It  would  be  unsaTe  to 
predict  anything  concerning  a  production  so 
many-sided ;  but  we  quite  believe  that  its  true 
public  lies  outside  the  literary  circle,  that  men 
of  inferior  capacity  will  grow  by  the  aid  of  it, 
and  that  feeble  women,  once  fairly  initiated 
into  the  mystery,  will  cling  to  it  as  a  succour 
passing  all  succour  save  that  which  is  purely 
religious.  Is  it  not  here  that  we  find  the 
supremacy  of  Shakspeare' s  greatness?  Shaks- 
peare, so  far  as  we  liave  been  able  to  observe, 
places  the  basis  of  his  strange  power  on  his 
appeal  to  the  draff  of  humanity.  He  is  the 
delight  of  men  and  women  by  no  means 
brilliant,  by  no  means  subtle  ;  while  he  holds 
with  equal  sway  the  sympathies  of  the  most 
endowed.  A  small  intellect  may  reach  to  the 
heart  of  Shakspearean  power ;  not  so  a  small 
nature.  The  key  to  the  mystery  is  spiritual. 
Since  Shakspeare  we  have  had  m^ny  poets — 
poets,  we  mean,  offering  a  distinct  addition 
to  the  fabric  of  human  thought  and  language. 
We  have  had  Milton,  with  his  stately  and 
crystal  speech,  his  special  disposition  to 
spiritualize  polemics,  his  profound  and  silent 
contemplation  of  heavenly  processions.  We 
have  had  Dryden,  with  his  nervous  filter- 
ings of  English  diction  ;  and  we  have  had  the 
so-called  Puritan  singers,  with  their  sweetly 
English  fancies  touched  with  formal  charitj-, 
like  wild  flowers  sprinkled  with  holy  water. 
In  latter  days,  we  have  been  wealthy  indeed. 
Wordsworth  has  consecrated  Nature,  given 
the  hills  a  new  silence,  shown  in  simple  lines 
the  solemnity  of  deep  woods  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  running  brooks.  Keats  and  Shelley 
caught  up  the  solemn  consecration,  and 
uttered  it  with  a  human  passion  and  an 
ecstatic  emotion  that  were  themselves  a 
revelation.  Byron  has  made  his  Epimethean 
and  somewhat  discordant  moan.  Numberless 
minor  men,  moreover,  have  brightened  old 
outlines  of  thought  and  made  clear  what 
before  was  dim  with  the  mystery  of  the 
original  prophet.  In  our  own  time,  Carlyle 
— a  poet  in  his  savage  way — has  driven  some 
new  and  splendid  truths  (and  as  many  errors) 
into  the  heart  of  the  people.  But  it  is  doubt- 
ful, very  doubtful,  if  any  of  the  writers  we 
have  named — still  less  any  of  the  writers  we 
have  not  named — stands  on  so  distinct  and 
perfect  a  ground  of  vantage  as  to  be  al- 
together safe  as  a  human  guide  and  helper. 
The  student  of  Wordsworth,  for  example,  is 
in  danger  of  being  hopelessly  narrowed  and 
dwarfed,  unless  he  turns  elsewhere  for 
qualities  quite  un-Wordsworthian ;  and  the 
same  is  true  of  the  students  of  Milton  and  of 
Shelley.  Of  Shakspeare  alone  (but  perhaps, 
to  a  certain  extent,  of  Burns)  would  it  be 
safe  to  say,  'Communion  with  Ms  soul  ia 
ample  in  itself ;  his  thought  must  freshen,  can 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


never  cramp,  is  ever  many-sided  and  full  of 
the  free  air  of  the  world.'  This,  then,  is 
supremely  sigrnificant,  that  Shakspeare —  un- 
like the  Greek  dramatists,  unlike  the  Biblical 
poets,  unlike  all  English  singers  save  Chaucer 
only — had  no  special  teaching  whatever  He 
was  too  human  for  special  teaching.  He 
touched  all  the  chords  of  human  life  ;  and  life, 
so  far  from  containing  any  universal  lesson, 
is  only  a  special  teaching  for  each  individual 
— a  sibylline  riddle,  by  which  each  man  may 
educate  himself  after  his  own  fashion." 


JOHN  KEBLE,  M.A. 

"  JohnKeble,  M.A.,  a  highly  popular  writer 
of  sacred  poetry,  for  many  years  vicar  of 
Hursley,  in  Hampshire.  Soon  after  taking 
his  B.A.  degree  he  was  chosen  fellow  of  Oriel 
College,  Oxford ;  and  from  1831  to  1841  was 
professor  of  poetry  at  his  university.  His 
chief  works  are  the  '  Christian  Year,'  of  which 
thousands  of  copies  have  been  sold,  and 
*  Lyra  Innocentiura.'  Born  1792  ;  died  1856." 
— Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


HON.  CAEOLINE  ELIZABETH  SAEAH 
NORTON. 

"  This  modern  English  poetess  was  one  of 
the  three  daughters  of  Thomas  Sheridan,  son 
of  the  celebrated  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 
She  was  bom  in  1808.  Her  father  dying 
while  she  was  still  very  young,  her  care 
devolved  upon  her  mother,  who  gave  her  a 
high  education.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  she 
became  the  wife  of  the  Hon.  George  Chappie 
Norton,  the  barrister  and  police-magistrate,  a 
union  which  proved  an  unhappy  one.  In 
1829  she  commenced  her  career  of  authorship 
by  publishing  anonymously  the  '  Sorrows  of 
Rosalie,'  a  tale,  and  other  poems.  In  the 
following  year  she  achieved  the  greatest 
success  as  a  poetess,  with  the  production  of 
her  '  Undying  One,'  and  other  poems,  which 
the  Quarterly  Review  declared  to  be  worthy 
of  Lord  Byron.     The  '  ChHd  of  the  Islands,'' 

•  Aunt   Carry's   Ballads   for    Children,'    and 

*  Stuart  of  Dunleath,'  a  novel,  were  her  sub- 
sequent works.  In  1854  her  warm  sympathies 
with  the  social  ^vrongs  of  her  sex  found  ex- 
pression in  a  work  entitled  '  English  Laws  for 
Women  in  the  19th  Century.'  This  work  was 
privately  printed  ;  but  a  very  large  circulation 
was  obtained  for  a  later  effort  of  the  same 
character,  wliich  was  named  '  A  Letter  to  the 
Queen  on  Lord  Chancellor  Cran worth's  Mar- 
riage and  Divorce  Bill.'  In  1862  she  published 
a  poem  entitled  '  The  Lady  of  Garaye,'  which 
met  with  considerable  public  favour." — 
Beeton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

"Alexander  Smith,  a  modern  Scotch  poet, 
Avas  born  in  1830,  and  died  Jan.  5, 1867.  He  was 
intended  for  the  ministry  ;  but  circumstances 
having  conspired  to  prevent  his  entering  upon 
the  necessary  course  of  study,  he  was  put  to 
the  business  of  a  lace-designer  in~^Gla"sgow ; 
while  following  which,  he  devoted  his  leisure 
to  the  composition  of  ver.ses.  Having  for- 
warded some  extracts  from  his  '  Life  Drama  ' 
to  the  Rev.  George  Gilfillan,  of  Dundee,  that 
gentleman  was  so  highly  pleased  with  the 
youthful  poet's  effusions  as  to  obtain  a  place 
for  them  in  the  columns  of  the  Critic.  Ho 
subsequently  produced  '  City  Poems '  and 
'Edwin  of  Deira,"  and  three  volumes  of  prose, 
entitled  '  Dreamthorp,'  '  A  Summer  in  Skye,' 
and  'Alfred  Hagart's  Household';  he  also 
edited  an  edition  of  the  works  of  Burns.  In 
1854  he  was  appointed  secretary  to  the  Edin- 
burgh University.' — Beeton's  "Diet.  Univ. 
Biog." 


RICHARD  CHENEYIX  TRENCH,  D.D. 

"  The  present  Archbishop  of  Dublin  is  best 
known  as  a  modern  English  philologer.  He 
was  born  in  1807,  and  after  completing  his 
studies  at  the  University  of  Cambridge,  entered 
into  orders,  and  became  a  country  curate. 
His  earliest  efforts  in  literature  were  as  a 
poet,  in  imitation  of  the  chaste  style  of 
Wordsworth.  After  obtaining  some  profer- 
ment in  the  Church,  ha  became  in  1846  a 
select  preacher  at  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
and  in  1856,  alter  the  death  of  Dr.  Buckland, 
was  appointed  Dean  of  Westminster.  In 
1864  he  succeeded  Dr.  Whately  as  Archbishop 
of  Dublin.  His  most  important  works  were, 
'  Notes  on  the  Miracles,'  '  Proverbs  and  their 
Lessons,'  '  Synonyms  of  the  New  Testament,' 
and  '  The  Study  of  Words.' " — Beeton's 
"  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


ERNEST  JONES. 

"  Ernest  Jones  was  educated  in  Germany, 
and  having  kept  his  terms  as  a  law-student  of 
the  Middle  Temple,  was  called  to  the  bar  in 
1844.  In  the  following  year  he  joined  the 
Chartist  movement,  and  soon  became  one  of 
the  most  conspicuous  and  active  leaders  of  the 
party;  remaining  so  until  Chartism  expired 
in  1858.  During  this  period  he  edited  the 
People's  Paper  and  other  Chartist  periodicals. 
In  1848  he  was  tried  for  making  a  seditious 
speech,  and  condemned  to  two  years'  im- 
prisonment. He  stood  for  Halifax  in  1847, 
and  Nottingham  in  1853  and  1857,  without 
success.  In  January,  1869,  when  it  was  sup- 
posed that  Mr.  Hugh  Birley  would  lose  his 
seat  for  Manchester,  through  being  a  govern- 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


ment  contractor  at  the  time  of  his  election, 
Mr.  Jones  was  chosen  by  ballot  to  fill  the 
expected  vacancy  against  Mr.  Milner  Gibson, 
but  died  a  few  days  after.  He  was  an  honest 
politician,  for  he  refused  a  large  fortune  rather 
than  give  up  his  principles.  He  wrote  the 
'  Eevolt  of  Hindostan,'  '  The  Battle  Day,' 
and  other  poems.  He  was  born  about  1820." 
—Beaton's  "  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


EEV.  CHAELES  KINGSLEY. 

"  The  Eev.  Charles  Kingsley,  a  distinguished 
modern  novelist   and  essayist.     At  fourteen 
years  of  age  he  became  the  pupil  of  the  Eev. 
Derwent  Coleridge,  son  of  the  poet :  he  after- 
wards went  to  Cambridge  University,  where 
he  distinguished  himself  both  in  classics  and 
mathematics.     He  was  at  first  intended  for 
the   law,   but    the    church   was    afterwards 
chosen.     In  1842  he  was  appointed  curate  of 
Eversley,  in  Hampshire  ;  two  years  later  he 
succeeded  to  the  same  living.     He  married, 
about   the   same   time,    a   daughter   of    Mr. 
Grenfell,  who  represented  Truro   and. Great 
Marlow  in  Parliament  for  many  years,  and 
whose  other  daughter   became  the   wife    of 
the  eminent  historian  Mr.  J.  A.  Froude.     His 
first  acknowledged  contributions  to  literature 
were    a  volume  of    '  Village    Sermons,*    and 
'  The  Saint's  Tragedy,'  a  drama  in  verse,  pub- 
lished in  1848.      '  Alton  Locke,  Tailor  and 
Poet,'   was   his   third   essay,   and,   from   its 
first  appearance,  it  commanded  the  greatest 
attention.     The  bold  and  earnest  views  of  its 
author — '  the  Chartist  clergyman,'  as  he  was 
called — sank  deeply  into  the  public  mind.  This 
novel  has  been  several  times  reprinted  ;  its 
treatment  of    social  and  political   questions- 
remaining  as  fresh  and  valuable  as  when  the 
book  first  came  before  the  pubHc.      A  second 
novel, — '  Yeast,   a  Problem,'   was  first   pub- 
lished in  '  Eraser's  Magazine,'  and  afterwards 
reprinted  in  1851  :    this   is   a   philosophical 
rather  than  a  political  novel.    His  subsequent 
works  were  '  Hypatia  ;  or,  New  Foes  with  an 
old   Face,'     a  beavttiful    descriptive    fiction, 
illustrating  the  times  of  the  early  Christian 
church  in  the  East ;  '  Westward  Ho  !  or,  the 
Voyages  and  Adventures  of  Sir  Amyas  Leigh 


in  the  Eeign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  !  '  and  '  Two 
Years  Ago.'  These  novels,  by  their  great 
excellence,  have  placed  their  author  among  the 
foremost  of  recent  writers.  Mr.  Kingsley 
also  produced  a  volume  for  juvenile  reading, 
called  '  The  Heroes,'  in  which  the  deeds  of 
some  great  chiefs  of  the  Grecian  mythology 
are  narrated  in  a  captivating  manner. 
Among  the  more  important  of  his  religious 
writings  may  be  enumerated,  '  The  Message 
of  the  Church  to  Labouring  Men,'  *  Sermons 
on  National  Subjects,  preached  in  a  Village 
Church,'  and  '  Sermons  for  the  Times ;  '  all 
of  these  being  inspired  by  a  pure,  generous, 
and  enlightened  Christian  feeling.  He  ex- 
pounded mental  philosophy  in  his  '  Phaeton  ; 
or,  Loose  Thoughts  for  Loose  Thinkers,'  and 
hia  '  Alexandria  and  her  Schools ; '  while,  for 
natural  philosophy  and  the  observation  of 
nature,  he  contributed  his  '  Glaucus ;  or,  the 
Wonders  of  the  Shore.'  He  likewise  wrote 
for  Fraser's  Magazine,  the  North  British 
Review,  and  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica. 
His  last  works  of  importance  are  '  The 
Eoman  and  the  Teuton,'  lectures  delivered  at 
Cambridge  in  1864  ;  and  a  novel  entitled 
'  Heraward  the  Wake  ;  or,  the  Last  of  the 
English.'  A  bold,  independent,  and  earnest 
thinker,  Mr.  Kingsley,  in  every  one  of  his 
popular  and  excellent  work. ,  contributed  to 
elevating  the  tone  of  modern  society,  and  to 
giving  it  a  more  enlarged  and  refined  appreci- 
ation of  the  good,  beautiful,  and  true,  whether 
in  art  or  nature.  He  succeeded  Sir  James 
Stephen  as  professor  of  modern  history  in  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  in  1859.  Born  at 
Holne  Vicarage,  Devonshire,  1819." — Beeton's 
"  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


HENEY  KINGSLEY. 

"  Henry  Kingsley,  brother  of  the  preceding', 
was  educated  at  King's  College,  London,  and 
at  Oxford.  In  1852  he  went  to  Australia, 
from  which  he  returned  in  1858.  He  contri- 
buted to  'Fraser's'  and  '  Macmillan's' 
magazines ;  '  Eavenshoe,'  '  Geojffiy  Hamlyn,' 
and  '  The  Hillyars  and  the  Burtons,'  being  the 
best  known  of  his  productions.  Bom  1830."— 
Beeton's  *'  Diet.  Univ.  Biog." 


SEVENTH    PEEIOD. 


From  1780  to  1866. 


I077.-~THE  CHAEACTER  OF  CHATHAM. 

A.  Patriots,  alas !  tlie  few  that  have  been 
found 

Where    most    they    flourish,    upon    English 

ground, 
The  country's  need  have  scantily  supplied ; 
And  the  last  left  the  scene  when  Chatham 

died. 

B.  Not  so ;  the  virtue  still  adorns  our  age, 
Though  the  chief  actor  died  upon  the  stage. 
In  him  Demosthenes  was  heard  again ; 
Liberty  taught  him  her  Athenian  strain ; 
She  clothed  him  with  authority  and  awe, 
Spoke  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  looks  gave 

law. 
His  speech,  his  form,  his  action  full  of  grace, 
And  all  his  country  beaming  in  his  face, 
He  stood  as  some  inimitable  hand 
Would  strive  to  make  a  Paul  or  Tully  stand. 
No  sycophant  or  slave  that  dared  oppose 
Her  sacred  cause,  but  trembled  when  he  rose ; 
And  every  venal  stickler  for  the  yoke, 
Felt   himself   crush' d  at    the   first   word   he 

spoke. 

Coicper.-^Born  1731,  Died  1800. 


1078.— THE  GREENLAND 
MISSIONARIES. 

That  sound  bespeaks  salvation  on  her  way, 

The  trumpet  of  a  life-restoiing  day ; 

'Tis  heard   where    England's   eastern    glory 

shines, 
And  in  the  gulfs  of  her  Cornubian  mines. 
And  still  it  spreads.     See  Germany  send  forth 
Her  sons  to  pour  it  on  the  farthest  north  j 
Fired  with  a  zeal  peculiar,  they  defy 
The  rage  and  rigour  of  a  polar  sky. 
And  plant  successfidly  sweet  Sharon's  rose 
On  icy  plains  and  in  eternal  snows. 

Oh   bless'd  within   the   enclosure   of   your 

rocks. 
Nor   herds  have   ye   to   boast,   nor  bleating 

flocks ; 
No  fertilizing  streams  your  fields  divide, 
That  show  reversed  the  villas  on  their  side : 


No  groves  have  ye;   no  cheerful  sound  of 

bird. 
Or  voice  of  turtle  in  your  land  is  heard ; 
Nor  grateful  eglantine  regales  the  smell 
Of  those   that   walk    at   evening    where    ye 

dwell; 
But   Winter,    arm'd   with    terrors   here    un- 
known, 
Sits  absolute  on  his  unshaken  throne. 
Piles  up  his  stores  amidst  the  frozen  waste. 
And  bids  the  mountains  he  has  built  stand 

fast ; 
Beckons  the  legions  of  his  storms  away 
From  happier  scenes  to   make  your  lands  a 

prey; 
Proclaims  the  soil  a  conquest  he  has  won, 
And  scorns  to  share  it  with  the  distant  sun. 
Yet  Truth  is  yours,  remote,  unenvied  isle ! 
And  Peace,  the  genuine  offspring  of  her  smile ; 
The  pride  of  letter' d  ignorance,  that  binds 
In  chains  of  error  our  accomplish'd  minds. 
That  decks  with  all  the  splendour  of  the  true, 
A  false  religion,  is  unknown  to  you. 
Nature  indeed  vouchsafes  for  our  delight 
The  sweet  vicissitudes  of  day  and  night ; 
Soft  airs  and  genial  moisture  feed  and  cheer 
Field,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  creature 

here; 
But  brighter  beams  than  his  who  fires  the 


Have  risen  at  length  on  your  admiring  eyes. 
That  shoot  into  your  darkest  caves  the  day 
From  which  our  nicer  optics  turn  away. 

CoiiTer.—Bo'nv  1731,  Died  1800. 


1079.— RURAL  SOUNDS. 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds. 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.     Mighty  winds 
That  sweep  the   skirt   of  some  far-spreading 

wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  ocean  on  his  winding  shore. 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind, 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast. 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering  all  at  once. 


CowpEr..] 


FEOM  "CONVERSATION." 


[Seventh  Period. 


Nor  loss  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighbouring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and  chiming  as  they 

fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 
Nature  inanimate  displays  sweet  sounds. 
But  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 
To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
Ten  thousand   warblers  cheer   the  day,  and 

one 
The   livelong   night;  nor  these  alone  whoso 

notes 
Nice-finger' d  art  must  emulate  in  vain, 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sub- 
lime 
In  still-repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, 
The  jay,  the  pie,  and  even  the  boding  owl 
That  hails  the  rising  jnoon,  have  charms  for 

me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh. 
Yet  heard   in    scenes   where  peace   for   ever 

reigns, 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

Coivper.—Born  1731,  Died  1800. 


loSo.— FROM  "  CONVERSATION." 

The  emphatic  speaker  dearly  loves  to  oppose. 
In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  nose, 
As  if  the  gnomon  on  his  neighbour's  phiz, 
Touch'd  with  a  magnet,  had  attracted  his. 
His  whisper'd  theme,  dilated  and  at  large. 
Proves  after  all  a  wind  gun's  airy  charge — 
An  extract  of  his  diary — no  more — 
A  tasteless  journal  of  the  day  before. 
He  walk'd  abroad,  o'ertaken  in  the  rain, 
Call'd   on   a   friend,   drank   tea,   stept   home 

again ; 
Resumed  his  purpose,  had  a  world  of  talk 
With  one  he  stumbled  on,  and  lost  his  walk ; 
I  interrupt  him  with  a  sudden  bow. 
Adieu,  dear  sir,  lest  you  should  lose  it  now. 
A  graver  coxcomb  we  may  sometimes  see, 
Quite  as  absurd,  though  not  so  light  as  he : 
A  shallow  brain  behind  a  serious  mask, 
An  oracle  within  an  empty  cask, 
The  solemn  fop,  significant  and  budge ; 
A  fool  with  judges,  amongst  fools  a  judge  ; 
He  says  but  little,  and  that  little  said, 
Owes  all  its  weight,  like  loaded  dice,  to  lead. 
His  \nt  invites  you  by  his  looks  to  come, 
But  when  you  knock,  it  never  is  at  home : 
'Tis  like  a  parcel  sent  you  by  the  stage. 
Some  handsome  present,  as  your  hopes  pre- 
sage; 
'Tis  heavy,  bulky,  and  bids  fair  to  prove 
An  absent  friend's  fidelity  of  love; 


But    when    unpack' d,    your    disappointment 

groans 
To  find  it  stuff' d  with  brickbats,  earth,  and 
stones. 
Some   men    employ  their  health — an  ugly 
trick — 
In  making  known  how   oft   they  have  been 

sick, 
And  give  us  in  recitals  of  disease 
A  doctor's  trouble,  but  without  the  fees  : 
Relate  how  many  weeks  they  kept  their  bed, 
How  an  emetic  or  cathartic  sped ; 
Nothing  is  slightly  touch'd,  much  less  forgot ; 
Nose,    ears,    and   eyes   seem  present  on   the 

spot. 
Now  the  distemper,  spite  of  draught  or  pill. 
Victorious  scem'd,  and  now  the  doctor's  skill ; 
And  now — alas !  for  unforeseen  mishaps ! 
They  put  on  a  damp  nightcap,  and  relapse  ; 
They  thought  they  must  have  died,  they  were 

so  bad. 
Their  peevish  hearers  almost  wish  they  had. 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every  touch, 
You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much : 
You  speak  with  life,  in  hopes  to  entertain^ 
Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain ; 
You  fall  at  once  into  a  lower  key. 
That's  worse,  the  drone-pipe  of  a  humble  bee. 
The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a  light ; 
You    rise   and    drop    the    curtain — now   'tis 

night. 
He  shakes  with  cold — you  stir  the  fire,  and 

strive 
To  make  a  blaze — that's  roasting  him  alive. 
Serve  him  with  venison,  and  he  chooses  fish ; 
With  sole — that's  just  the  sort  he  would  not 

wish. 
He  takes  what  he  at  first  profess'd  to  loathe, 
And  in  due  time  feeds  heartily  on  both ; 
Yet  still  o'erclouded  with  a  constant  frown, 
He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down. 
Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  every  plan. 
Himself  should  work  that  wonder,  if  he  can. 
Alas !  his  efforts  double  hiS  distress. 
He  likes  yours  little  and  his  own  still  less  ; 
Thus  always  teasing  others,  always  teased, 
His  only  pleasure  is  to  be  displeased. 

I  pity  bashful  men,  who  feel  the  pain 
Of  fancied  scorn  and  undeserved  disdain, 
And  bear  the  marks  upon  a  blushing  face 
Of  needless  shame  and  self-imposed  disgrace. 
Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute, 
The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 
We  sometimes  think  we  could  a  speech  pro- 
duce 
Much  to   the   purpose,  if   our  tongues  were 

loose ; 
But  being  tried,  it  dies  upon  the  lip. 
Faint  as  a  chicken's  note  that  has  the  pip ; 
Our  wasted  oil  unprofitably  burns, 
Like  hidden  lamps  in  old  sepulchral  urns. 

Coicper.—Born  1731,  Died  18Q0. 


.From  1780  to  18G6. 


ON  HIS  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 


[COWPEK 


1 08 1. —ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  HIS 
MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  Language  !     Life  has 

pass'd 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smiles  I 

poe, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else,  how  distinct  they  saj^ 
"  Grieve  not,   my  child,   chase  all  thy   fears 

away !  " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize. 
The  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To   quench   it)  here    shines  on  me  still  the 

same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honour,  with  an  artless  song 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  : 
And  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief ;        • 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elj'sian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother  !  when  I  learn' d  that  thou  wast 
dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unseen,  a  kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  Avindow,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 
But  was  it  such  ?     It  was.     Where  thou  art 

gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
]\Iay  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The   parting    sound    shall   i)ass    my   lips  no 

more  ! 
Thy  niaidens  grieved  themselves  at  my  con- 
cern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  a  quick  return : 
What  ardently  I  Avish'd  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived; 
By  disappointment  every  day  beguiled. 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  ray  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  Itoarn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no 
more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  call'd  the  pastoral  house  oiar 


but  the  record  fair, 
of    all    thy    kindness 


Short-lived  possession 
That    memory    keeps 

there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly 

laid ;  ^ 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum  ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow' d 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and 

glow'd : 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy   constant   flow   of    love,   that   know   no 

fall. 
Ne'er    roughen'd     by    those    cataracts    and 

breaks. 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes  ; 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memoi'y's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorn' d  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed 

here. 
Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the 

hours. 
When,    playing    with    thy   vcstm-e's    tissued 

flowers. 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  jirick'd  them  into  i:)aper  with  a  pin 
(And    thou   wast    happier   than   myself    the 

while. 
Would  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and 

smile). 
Could  those  few  pleasant  hours  again  appear. 
Might' one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 

here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such. 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 
That  I  should  ill  requites  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,    as    a   gallant    bark   from   Albion's 

coast 
(The    storms   all   weather'd    and    the    ocean 

cross' d). 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven' d  isle, 
Where   spices   breathe    and  brighter  seasons 

smile. 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around    her,    fanning    light    her    streamers 

gay; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift  !  hast  reach' d 

the  shore 
"  Where   tempests    never   beat    nor    billows 

roar  ;  " 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since,  has  anchor'd  at  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest. 
Always     from     port    withheld,    always    dis- 
tress'd — 


COWPER.] 


TO  MAKY. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Me   howKng    winds   drive   devious,   tempest- 
toss' d, 
Sails  ript,  seams  opening'  wide,  and  compass 

lost ;  ' 

And   day   by  day  some    current's   thwarting 

force 
Sets    me    more   distant    from    a   prosperous 

course. 
But  oh  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and 

he! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loms  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth. 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  pass'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again  : 
To   have   renew'd  the  joys   that   once  were 

mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And,  whUe  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe,  me  left. 
Coivper.—Bom  1731,  Died  1800. 


1082.— TO  MAEY  (MRS.  UNWIN). 

The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past 

Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 

Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  our  last ! 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow  ; 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary : 

Thy  needles,  once  a  Shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more. 

My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part. 
And  all  thy  threads,  with  magic  art, 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart. 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 

Like  language  utter' d  in  a  dream  ; 

Yet  mo  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary ! 


For,  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign ; 
Yet  gently  press' d,  press  gently  mine. 

My  Mary! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two  ;  yet  still  thou  lov'st. 

My  Mary ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  press'd  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary ! 

But  ah  !  by  constant  heed  I  know, 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show. 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Mary ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary ! 

Cow:per.^Bor.i  1731,  Died  1800. 


1083.— ENGLISH  LIBEETY. 

We  love 
The   king   who   loves   the   law,   respects   his 

bounds, 
And   reigns    content  within   them ;    him    wc 

serve 
Freely  and  with  delight,  who  leaves  us  free  : 
But  recollecting  stiU  that  he  is  man. 
We  trust  him  not  too  far.     King  though  ho 

be, 
And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak, 
And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still ; 
May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  powers, 
Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant : 
Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.     He  is  ours 
To  administer,  to  guard,  to  adorn  the  state, 
But  not  to  warp  or  change  it.     We  are  his 
To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause, 
True  to  the  death,  but  not  to  be  his  slaves. 
Mark  now  the  difference,  ye  that  boast  your 

love 
Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours. 
We  love  the  man,  the  paltry  pageant  you  ; 
We  the  chief  patron  of  the  commonwealth, 
You  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes  ; 
We  for  the  sake  of  liberty,  a  king, 
You  chains  and  bondage  for  a  tyrant's  sake; 
Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 
In  reason,  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 
Yours,  a  blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod, 
And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


[COWPER. 


Were  kingsliip  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 
Sterling,  and  worthy  of  a  wise  man's  wish, 
I  would  not  be  a  king  to  be  beloved 
Causeless,    and    daub'd     with    undisceming 

praise, 
Where  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne, 
Not  to  the  man  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 
'Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume  ; 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.     All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men, 
Is  evil ;  hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progress  in  the  road  of  science,  blinds 
The  eyesight  of  discovery,  and  begets 
In  those  that  suffer  it  a  sordid  mind, 
Bestial,  a  meagre  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man's  noble  form. 
Thee  therefore    still,   blameworthy  as    thou 

art, 
With  all    thy  loss  of    empire,   and  though 

squeezed 
By  public  exigence,  till  annual  food 
Fails  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state, 
Thee  I  account  still  happy,  and  the  chief 
Among  the  nations,  seeing  thou  art  free. 
My  native  nook  of  earth  !  thy  clime  is  rude, 
Replete  with  vapours,  and  disposes  much 
All  hearts   to  sadness,  and  none  more  than 

mine : 
Thine  unadulterate  manners  are  less  soft 
And  .plausible  than  social  life  requires. 
And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art 
To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 
From  nature's  bounty — that  humane  address 
And  sM'eetness,  ^\'ithout  which  no  pleasure  is 
In  converse,  either  starved  by  cold  reserve. 
Or  flush' d  with  fierce  dispute,   a    senseless 

brawl. 
Yet  being  free,  I  love  thee :  for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content. 
Disgraced   as   thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou 

art, 
To  seek  no  sublunary  rest  beside. 
But  once  enslaved,  farewell !  I  could  endure 
Chains   nowhere   patiently  ;     and    chains    at 

home, 
Where  I  am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 
Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain 
Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 
That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 
And  shock  me.     I  should  then  with  double 

pain 
Feel  aU  the  rigour  of  thy  fickle  clime ; 
And,  if  I  must  bewail  the  blessing  lost, 
For  which  our  Hampdens  and   our  Sidneys 

bled, 
I  would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies 
Milder,  among  a  people  less  austere  ; 
In   scenes   which,    having    never   known   me 

free. 
Would  not  reproach  me  for  the  loss  I  felt. 
Do  I  forebode  impossible  events, 
And  tremble  at  vain  dreams  ?     Heaven  grant 

I  may  ! 
But  the  age  of  virtuous  politics  is  past. 
And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 


Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere, 
And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.      He  that 

takes 
Deep  in  his  soft  credulity  the  stamp 
Design' d  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 
Of  liberty,  themselves  the  slaves  of  lust. 
Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith. 
And    lack    of    knowledge,    and    with  -cause 

enough  : 
For  when  was  public  virtue  to  be  found 
Where  private   was  not  ?      Can  he  love  the 

whole 
Wlio    loves    no    part  ?     He    be    a    nation's 

friend. 
Who  is  in  truth  the  friend  of  no  man  there  ? 
Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country's  cause 
Who   slights   the   charities,    for   whose   dear 

sake 
That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  beloved  ? 
'Tis   therefore    sober   and    good    men   are 

sad 
For  England's  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale 
And  sickly,  while  her  champions .  wear  their 

hearts 
So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain. 
Healthful  and  undisturb'd  by  factious  fumes. 
Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  general  weal. 
Such  were  they  not  of  old,  whose  temper' d 

blades 
Dispersed  the  shackles  of  usurp' d  control, 
And  hew'd  them  link  from  link  ;  then  Albion's 

sons 
Were  sons  indeed  ;  they  felt  a  filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a  mother's  wrongs ; 
And,  shining  each  in  his  domestic  sphere. 
Shone   brighter   still,    once   call'd    to   public 

view. 
'Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequester' d  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on, 
Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event ; 
And,  seeing  the  old  castle  of  the  state, 
That  promised  once  more  firmness,  so  assail' d 
That  all  its  tempest-beaten  turrets  shako. 
Stand  motionless  expectants  of  its  fall. 
All  has  its  date  below  ;  the  fatal  hour 
Was  register' d  in  heaven  ere  time  began. 
We  turn  to  dust,  and  aU  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too :  the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay. 
Time   ploughs    them    up,    and  not    a    trace 

remains. 
We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock  : 
A  distant  age  asks  where  the  fabric  stood : 
And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  search'd  in  vain. 
The  undiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

Coivx>cr.  —  B mi  1731,  Died  18oo. 


1084.— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

,Hark  !     'tis  the  twanging  horn  o'er   yonder 

bridge. 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  Moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright ; — 


COWPER.] 


THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 

With    spatter'd   boots,    strapp'd    waist,    and 

frozen  locks  ; 
News  from  all  nations  lumb'ring  at  his  back. 
True   to   his   charge,    the    close-pack' d    load 

behind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn ; 
And,  having  dropp'd  th'   expected  bag,  pass 

on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch. 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some  ; 
To  him  indiff'rent  whether  grief  or  joy. 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  faU  of  stocks. 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With   tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's 

cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill. 
Or  charged  with  am'rous    sighs    of    absent 

swains, 
C::  uymphs  responsive,  equally  afifect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  O  th'  important  budget !  usher' d  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What    are    its     tidings  ?     have    our    troops 

awaked  ? 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugg'd, 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave  ? 
Is  India  free  ?  and  does  she  wear  her  jilumed 
And  jewell'd  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still  ?     The  grand  debate, 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit. 
And  the   loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them 

all; 
I  bum  to  set  th'  imprison' d  Avranglers  free, 
And   give   them    voice    and    utt'rance    once 

again. 
Now  stir  the  fire,   and  close  the  shutters 

fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round. 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  ev'ning  in. 
Not  such  his  ev'ning,  who  with  shining  face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and  squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow-points   through   both 

his  sides, 
Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage  : 
Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage. 
Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 
This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work  ! 
Wliich  not  even  critics  criticise ;  that  holds 
Inquisitive  Attention,  while  I  read, 
East  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the 

fair, 
Though    eloquent    themselves,    yet    fear   to 

break ;  , 

AVhat  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life. 
Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 
Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge 
That  tempts  Ambition.     On  the  summit  see 


The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes ; 

He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them  !     At  his 

heels, 
Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends, 
And  with  a  dext'rous  jerk  soon  twists  him 

down. 
And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 
Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence  in  soft 
Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take  ; 
The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 
T'  engross  a  moment's  notice  ;  and  yet  begs. 
Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts. 
However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 
Sweet    bashfulness !    it  claims  at   least   this 

praise ; 
The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense. 
That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 
Cat'racts  of  declamation  thunder  here  : 
There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 
In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost ; 
While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 
With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes. 
The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 
But  gay  confusion  ;  roses  for  the  cheeks, 
And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age, 
Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 
Heav'n,  earth,  and  ocean,  plunder'd  of  their 

sweets, 
Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews, 
Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  fav'rite  airs, 
Ethereal  journeys,  submarine  exploits. 
And  Katterfelto,  with  his  hair  on  end 
At  his  own  wonders,  wond'ring  for  his  bread. 
'Tis    pleasant  through     the   loop-holes  of 

retreat. 
To  peep  at  such  a  world ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great.  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her 

gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjured  ear. 
Thus  sitting  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height. 
That  lib'rates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations  ;  I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war 
Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me  ; 
Grieves,    but   alarms  me  not.     I  mourn  the 

pride 
And  av'ricc;  that  make  man  a  wolf  to  man, 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats, 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart. 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flow'r  to  flow'r,  so  he  from  land  to  land  ; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans  ; 
He  sucks  intelligence  in  ev'ry  clime, 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his  deck. 
Ascend  his  topmast,  through  his  peering  eyes 
Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes ; 


From  1780  to  18GG.]         WINTER  EVENING  IN  THE  COUNTEY 


[COWPER 


Wliile  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock, 
Runs  the  great  cu'cuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

0  Winter,  ruler  of  th'  inverted  year, 
Thy  scatter' d  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  fiU'd, 
Thy   breath    congeal'd    upon   thy    lips,    thy 

cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other 

snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapp'd  in 

clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels. 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slipp'ry  way, 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st. 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art !     Thou  hold'st  the 

Sun 
A  pris'ner  in  the  yet  undawning  east. 
Short' ning  his    journey    between   morn   and 

noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease. 
And  gath'ring,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group, 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crovvn  thee  king  of  intimate  delights. 
Fire-side  enjoyments,  home-bora  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturb'd  Retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  ev'ning,  know. 
No  rattling  wheels  stop    short  before  these 

gates  ; 
No  powder'd  pert,  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings  ;  no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the 

sound, 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake  : 
But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task. 
The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flow'r, 
AVrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn. 
Unfolds  its  bosom ;    buds,    and    leaves,  and 

sprigs, 
And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed. 
Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair ; 
A  wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  of  flow'rs,  that 

blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 
The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by  one 
Made  vocal  for  th'  amusement  of  the  rest ; 
The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet 

sounds 
The   touch   from    many   a    trembling    chord 

shakes  out ; 
And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 
And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still ; 
Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 
On  female  industry  :  the  threaded  steel 
Flies  s^\'iftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 
The  vol'ame  closed,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.     A  Roman  meal ; 
Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
DeUcious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 
Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors, 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade, 


Enjoy'd,  spare  feast !  a  radish  and  an  egg. 
Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull, 
Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth : 
Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world. 
Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God, 
That  made  them,  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 
Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  hi»^  praise 
A  jaiTing  note.     Themes  of  a  graver  tone, 
Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 
While  we   retrace    with    Mem'ry's    pointing 

wand, 
That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  reviev/. 
The  dangers   we    have   'scaped,   the   broken. 

snare, 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliv'rance  found 
Unlook'd    for,  life  preserved,   and   peace  re- 
stored, 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 
"  O  ev'nings  worthy  of  the  gods  !  "  exclaim'd 
The  Sabine  bard.     O  ev'nings  I  reply. 
More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours. 
As  more  illumined,  amd  Avith  nobler  truths. 
That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love  enjoy. 

Coirpcr.—Born  1731,  Died  1800. 


1085.— WINTER  EVENING  IN  THE 
COUNTRY. 

Come,    Evening,     once    again,     season    of 

peace  ; 
Return,  sweet  Evemng,  and  continue  long  ! 
Methinks  I  sec  thee  in  the  streaky  west. 
With    matron-step    slow-moving,    while    the 

night 
Treads    on   thy   sweeping   train  !     one    hand 

employ' d 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird   and    beast,   the   other   charged  for 

man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day  : 
Not  sumptuously  adorn' d,  nor  needing  aid. 
Like    homely-featured    night,    of    clustering 

gems  ; 
A  star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow, 
Suffices  thee ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  her§ :  not  worn  indeed  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone. 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come  then,   and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary 

calm. 
Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift ; 
And  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet's  toil ; 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit ; 
Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels. 
When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to 

please, 
I   slight  thee  not,  but   make   thee  welcome 

still. 


OOWPEB."] 


WINTEE  EVENING  IN  THE  COUNTEY,       [Seventh  Pbkiod.— 


Just   when    our   drawing-rooms    begin    to 

blaze 
"With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a  mirror,  in  which  he  of  Gath, 
Goliah,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk 
Whole  without  stooping,  towering  crest  and 

aU, 
My  pleasures  too  begin.     But  me  perhaps 
The  glowing  hearth  may  satisfy  a  while 
With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 
The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits 
Dancing  uncouthly  to  the  quivering  flame. 
Not  undelightful  is  an  hour  to  me 
•  So  spent  in  parlour  twilight :  such  a  gloom 
Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 
The    mind    contemplative,    with    some    new 

theme 
Pregnant,  or  indisposed  alike  to  all. 
Laugh   ye   who   boast    your  more    mercurial 

powers, 
That  never  felt  a  stupor,  know  no  pause, 
Nor  need  one ;  I  am  conscious,  and  confess 
Fearless  a  soul  that  does  not  always  think. 
Me  oft  has  fancy,  ludicrous  and  wild. 
Soothed   with    a  waking   dream    of    houses, 

towers, 
Trees,    churches,    and    strange   visages,    ex- 
press'd 
In  the  red  cinders,  wliile  with  poring  eye 
I  gazed,  myself  creating  what  I  saw. 
Nor  less  amused  have  I  quiescent  watch' d 
The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars 
Pendulous,  and  foreboding  in  the  view 
Of  superstition,  j)rophesying  still, 
Though  still  deceived,   some  stranger's  near 

approach. 
'Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose 
In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought, 
And  sleeps  and  is  refresh' d.     Meanwhile  the 

face 
Conceals  the  mood  lethargic  with  a  mask 
Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man 
Were  task'd  to  his  fuU  strength,  absorb'd  and 

lost. 
Thus  oft,  reclined  at  ease,  I  lose  an  liour 
At  evening,  tiU  at  length  the  freezing  blast, 
That   sweeps   the   bolted    shutter,    summons 

home 
The  recollected  powers  ;  and  snapping  short 
The   glassy   threads    with   which   the    fancy 

weaves 
Her  brittle  toUs,  restores  me  to  mj'^self. 
How  calm  is  my  recess  ;  and  how  the  frost, 
Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  endear 
The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoy' d  within  ! 
I  saw  the  Avoods  and  fields  at  close  of  day, 
A  variegated  show  ;  the  meadows  green, 
Though  faded ;   and  the  lauds,  where  lately 

waved 
The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown, 
Upturn'd  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share. 
I  saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 
With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  grazed 
By  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His   favourite  herb  ;    while  all  the  leafless 

groves 


j   That  skirt  the  horizon  wore  a  sable  hue. 
Scarce  noticed  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change  ! 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  perform' d, 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes. 
Fast  falls  a  fleecy  shower :  the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and  with  never-ceasing  lapse 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below. 
Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives 
Gladly    the     thickening     mantle  ;     and    the 

green 
And  tender   blade,    that   fear'd   the   chilling 

blast. 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil. 
In   such   a  world,    so   thorny,    and  where 

none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted ;  or,  if  found, 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side, 
It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguish' d  than  ourselves  ;  that 

thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 
And  sympathize  with  others  suffering  more. 
Ill  fares    the    traveller    now,    and    he    that 

•  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogg'd  wheels ;    and  in  its  sluggish 

pace 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 
The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  \vide, 
While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting   chests.     He,   form'd   to 

bear 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 
With  haK-shut  eyes,  and  pucker' d  cheeks,  and 

teeth 
Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One   hand   secures  his  hat,   save  when  with 

both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 
Resoimding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 
O  happy — and  in  my  account  denied 
That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  i«  endued — thrice  happy  thou  ! 
Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed 
The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpair"d. 
The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 
Thy   vigorous   pulse  ;     and    the   unhealthful 

east, 
That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every 

bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 
Thy  days   roll   on   exempt    from    household 

care ;  , 

Thy    waggon    is    thy   wiie  ;     and   the   poor 

beasts 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro. 
Thine    helpless    charge,    dependent    on    thy 

care. 
Ah,   treat   them    kindly ;    rude   as   thou  ap- 

pearest. 


From  1780  to  1866.]     OPENING  OF   THE  SECOND  BOOK  OF  "  THE  TASK."    [Cowper. 


Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy !  which  the 

great 
With  needless  hurry  whirl' d   from   place   to 

place, 
Humane    as    they   would   seem,   not   always 

show. 
Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat, 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  night  like  this, 
And  have  a  friend  in  every  feeling  heart. 
Warm'd,  while   it   lasts,   by  labour,  all   day 

long 
They  brave  the  season,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 
ni  clad,  and  fed  but  sparely,  time  to  cool. 
The    frugal    housewife    trembles    while    she 

lights 
Her    scanty    stock     of     brushwood,    blazing 

clear. 
But  djdng  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 
The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well ; 
And,  while   her  infant   race,  with  outspread 

hands 
And   crowded  knees,   sit   cowering  o'er  the 


Retires,  content  to  quaj^e,  so  they  be  warm'd. 
The   man  feels  least,  as,  more   inured  than 

she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  moved  by  his  severer  toil : 
Yet  he,  too,  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 
The  taper  soon  extinguish'd,  which  I  saw 
Dangled  along  at  the  cold  finger's  end 
Just  when  the  day  declined,  and  the  brown 

loaf 
Lodged   on    the    shelf,    half    eaten    without 

sauce 
Of  savoury  cheese,  or  butter,  costlier  stiU. 
Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge  ;  for,  alas, 
AVhere  penury  is  felt,  the  thought  is  chain'd, 
And  sweet  colloquial  pleasures  are  but  few ! 
With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.     All  the 

care 
Ingenious  parsimony  takes,  but  just 
Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed  and  stool. 
Skillet   and   old   carved    chest,   from    public 

sale. 
They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands  ;   but  other  boast  have 

none 
To  soothe  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to 

beg. 
Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 
I  praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair. 
For  ye  are  worthy ;  choosing  rather  far 
A  dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earn'd. 
And  eaten  with  a  sigh,  than  to  endure 
The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  ;  liberal  of  their  aid 
To  clamorous  importunity  in  rags, 
But  ofttimes  deaf   to  supphants  who  would 

blush 
To  wear  a  tatter'd  garb,  however  coarse, 
Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth  : 
These  ask  with  painful  shyness,  and,  refused 
Because  deserving,  silently  retire  ! 
But  be  ye  of  good  courage  !     Time  itself 


Shall   much   befriend  you.     Time  shall  give 

increase ; 
And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well-train' d, 
But   helpless,  in  few  years    shall   find  their 

hands, 
And   labour   too.      Meanwhile   ye   shall    not 

want 
What,   conscious    of    your   virtues,— we-  can, 

spare, 
Nor  what  a  wealthier  than  ourselves  may  send. 
I  mean  the  man  who,  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 

Coivpe;\—Born  1731,  Died  1800. 


io86. 


-OPENING  OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK 
OF  "THE  TASK." 


0  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contignity  of  shade. 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit. 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 

Might   never    reach   me    more.      My   ear   is 

pain'd, 
My  soul  is  sick,  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage,  with  which  earth  is 

fiU'd. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  nat'ral  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  sever' d  as  the  flax. 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  colour" d  like  his  own;  and  having  power 
T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else. 
Like  kindred  drops,  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys; 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot. 
Chains  him,  and   tasks   him,  and  exacts  his 

sweat 
With   stripes,   that   Mercy   with   a   bleeding 

heart 
Weeps,  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man  ?     And  what  man,  seeing 
•      this, 

And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush. 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 

1  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  wliile  I  sleep. 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd. 
No  :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myseK  the  slave, 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We    have   no    slaves    at    home — Then    why 

abroad  ? 
And  they  themselves,  once  ferried  o'er  the 

wave 


CowPER.]              THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.    [Seventh  Period.— 

That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 

Smack   went   the   whip,    round   went    the 

Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England;    if   their 

wheels, 

lung-s 

W^ere  never  folk  so  glad ; 

Receive  onr  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 

The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 

And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 

John  Gilpin  at  lus  horse's  side 
Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  xip  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride. 

And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 

Of   all   your   empire ;    that,    where   Britnin's 

povi^er 

But  soon  came  down  again  ; 

Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reach' d  had  he. 

Coivpcr.—Born  1731,  ricd  1800. 

His  journey  to  begin, 

When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 
So  down  he  came ;  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 

1087.— THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

JOHN  GILPIN. 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Of  credit  and  renown. 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 

A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 

AVhen  Betty  screaming  came  down  stairs, 

Of  famous  London  town. 

'•  The  wine  is  loft  behind  !  " 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear. 
Though  Avedded  wo  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

Good  lack  !  quoth  he — yet  bring  it  me. 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  Avhich  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day, 
And  we  will  then  repair 

Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 
All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul !) 
Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved. 
And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child, 
Myself  and  children  three, 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear. 

Through  which  the  belt  he  drew. 
And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side. 

Will  fill  the  chaise ;  so  you  must  ride 

To  make  his  balance  true. 

On  horseback  after  we. 

He  soon  replied,  I  do  admire 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Of  womankind  but  one. 

Equipp'd  from  top  to  toe. 

And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear ; 

His  long  red  cloak,  well  brush' d  and  neat, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

I  am  a  linen-draper  bold, 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

As  all  the  world  doth  know. 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 

And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Fiill  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go. 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  That's  well  said ; 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear. 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 

We  will  be  furnish' d  with  our  own, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear.              » 

Which  gaU'd  him  in  his  seat. 

John  GUpin  kiss'd  his  loving  wife ; 

So  fair  and  softly,  John  he  cried. 

O'erjoy'd  was  he  to  find 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain  ; 

That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

That' trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

But  yet  was  not  allow'd 

Wlio  cannot  sit  upright. 

To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

He  grasp'd  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stay'd, 

His  horse,  which  never  in  that  sort 

Where  they  did  all  get  in  ; 

Had  handled  been  before, 

Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin- 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

From  1780  to  1866.]       THE  DIVEETING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 


[COWPFK. 


Away  went  Gilpia,  neck  or  nought ; 

Away  went  hat  and  wi<? ; 
He  little  dreamt  when  he  set  out 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both. 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

• 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung ; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  scream' d, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  Well  done  ! 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around ; 
He  carries  weight !  he  rides  a  race  ! 

"Tis  for  a  thousand  pound ! 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

"Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shatter' d  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen. 
Which  made  his  horse's  flank^  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seem'd  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced  : 
Foi-  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  he  did  play. 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay. 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  si)ied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

Stop,    stop,     John    Gilpin!  —  Here's    the 
house — 

They  all  aloud  did  cry ; 
The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired : 

Said  Gilpin — So  am  I ! 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 
For  why  ?  his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 


So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will. 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's      — -  — 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbour  in  such  trim. 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him : 

Wliat  news?  what  news  ?  your  tidings  tell — 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come. 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  P 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  : 

I  came  because  your  horse  would  come ; 

And,  if  I  well  forebode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here — 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
IJeturn'd  him  not  a  single  word. 

But  to  the  house  went  in. 

AVhence  straight  became  with  hat  and  wig; 

A  wig  that  flow'd  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear. 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  show'd  his  ready  wit. 
My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case. 

Said  John,  It  is  my  wedding  day. 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  ab  Ware. 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

I  am  in  haste  to  dine ; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shaU  go  back  for  mine. 

Ah,  luckless  speech  and  bootless  boast ! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear ; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar. 
And  gallop' d  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

56 


CtoWPEK.] 


EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig : 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first ; 

For  why  ? — ^they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down, 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pull'd  out  haK-a-crown ; 

And  thus  \mto  the  youth  she  said. 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well. 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain  ! 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done, 
The  frighted  steed  ho  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  post-boy  at  his  heels. 
The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry : — 

Stop  thief !  stop  thief !  a  highwayman  ! 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 
And  all  and  each  that  pass'd  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space ; 
The  tollmen  thinking  as  before 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town ; 
Nor  stopp'd  till  where  ho  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing  long  live  the  king,. 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ; 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see  ! 

Coit'per.— I^om  1731.  Died  1800. 


!o88.— EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL. 

Dear  Joseph — five-and-twenty  years  ago — 
Alas,  how  time  escapes  ! —  'tis  even  so — 
With  frequent  intercourse,  and  always  sweet. 
And  always  friendly,  we  were  wont  to  cheat 
A  tedious  hour — and  now  wo  never  meet ! 
As  some  grave  gentleman  in  Terence  says. 


('Twas  therefore  much  the  same  in   ancient 

days,) 
Good  lack,    we   know  not    what    to-morrow 

brings — 
Strange  fluctuation  of  all  human  things  ! 
True.     Changes  will  befall,  and  friends  may 

part. 
But  distance  only  cannot  change  the  heart : 
And,  were  I  call'd  to  prove  th'  assertion  true. 
One  proof  should  serve — a  reference  to  you. 
Whence  comes  it  then,  that  in  the  wane  of 
life, 
Though  nothing  have  occurr'd  to  kindle  strife. 
We  find  the  friends  we  fancied  we  had  won. 
Though    num'rous   once,  reduced   to  few  or 

none  ? 
Can  gold  grow  worthless,  that  has  stood  the 

touch  ? 
No ;  gold  they  seem'd,  but  they  were  never 
such. 
Horatio's    servant    once,    with    bow    and 
cringe. 
Swinging  the  parlour  door  upon  its  hinge. 
Dreading  a  negative,  and  overaAv'd 
Lest  he  shotdd  trespass,  begg'd  to  go  abroad. 
"  Go,    fellow  I  —  whither  ?  "  —  turning   short 

about — 
"  Nay.     Stay  at  home — you're  always  going 

out." 
"  'Tis  but  a  step,   sir,    just  at  the   street's 

end." 
"  For  what  ?  " — "  An  please  you,  sir,  to  see  a 

friend." 
"A  friend!"     Horatio  cried,  and  seem'd  to 

start — 
"  Yea,  marry  shalt    thou,   and   with   all  my 

heart. — 
And  fetch  my  cloak ;   for,  though  the  night 

be  raw, 
I'll  see  him  too — the  first  I  ever  saw." 

I  knew  the  man,  and  knew  his  nature  mild, 
And  was  his  playtliing  often  when  a  child ; 
But  somewhat  at  that  moment  pinch' d  him 

close. 
Else  he  was  seldom  bitter  or  morose. 
Perhap.5  his  confidence  just  then  betray' d, 
His  grief  might  prompt  him  with  the  speech 

he  made ; 
Perhaps   'twas   mere    good-humour   gave   it 

birth, 
The  harmless  play  of  pleasantry  and  mirth. 
Howe'er  it  was,  his  language  in  my  mind. 
Bespoke  at  least  a  man  that  knew  mankind. 
But  not  to  moralize  too  much  and  strain, 
To  prove  an  evil,  of  which  aU  complain, 
(I  hate  long  arguments  verbosely  spun,) 
One  story  more,  dear  Hill,  and  I  have  done. 
Once  on  a  time  an  emp'ror,  a  wise  man. 
No  matter  where,  in  China,  or  Japan, 
Decreed,  that  whosoever  should  olfend 
Against  the  well-known  duties  of  a  friend, 
Competed  once  should  ever  after  wear 
But  half  a  coat,  and  show  his  bosom  bare. 
The  punishment  importing  this,  no  doubt, 
That  all   was  naught  within,  and  all  found 
out. 


From  1780  to  18G6.]     INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  TOMB  OF  COWPER. 


[Wm.  Haylet, 


O  happy  Britain  !  we  have  not  to  fear 
Such  hard  and  arbitrary  measure  here ; 
Else,  could  a  law,  like  that  which  I  relate, 
Once  have  the  sanction  of  our  triple  state, 
Some  few,  that  I  have  known  in  days  of  old. 
Would  run  most   dreadful  risk   of   catching- 
cold  ; 
While  you,  my  friend,  whatever  wind  should 

blow, 
Might  traverse  England  safely  to  and  fro, 
An  honest  man,  close-button' d  to  the  chin, 
Broad    cloth    without,    and    a    warm    heart 
within. 

Coivper.—Bom  1731,  IHed  1800. 


1089.— TRIBUTE    TO    A    MOTHER,    ON 
HER  DEATH. 

For  me  who  feel,  whene'er  I  touch  the  lyre, 
My  talents  sink  below  my  proud  desire  ; 
Who  often  doubt,  and  sometimes  credit  give, 
When  friends  assure  me  that  my  verse  will 

live  ; 
Whom  health,    too   tender    for   the  bustling 

throng. 
Led  into  pensive  shade  and  soothing  song  ; 
Whatever  fortune  my  unpohshed  rhymes 
May  meet  in  present  or  in  future  times. 
Let    the    bleat    art    my    grateful    thoughts 

employ. 
Which  soothes  my  sorrow  and  augments  my 

joy; 

Whence    lonely   peace    and    social    pleasure 

springs. 
And    friendship    dearer  than    the    smile    of 

kings. 
While  keener  poets,  querulously  proud, 
Lament  the  ill  of  poesy  aloud. 
And  magnify  with  irritation's  zeal, 
Those  common  evils  we  too  strongly  feel, 
The  envious  comment  and  the  subtle  style 
Of  specious  slander,  stabbing  with  a  smile ; 
Frankly  I  wish  to  make  her  blessings  known, 
And  think  those  blessings  for  her  ills  atone ; 
Nor  would  my  honest  pride  that  praise  forego, ' 
Which  makes  MaHgnity  yet»more  my  foe. 
If  heartfelt  pain  e'er  led  me  to  accuse 
The  dangerous  gift  of  the  alluring  Muse, 
'Twas  in   the   moment   when    my  verse   im- 

press'd  • 

Some  anxious  feelings  on  a  mother's  breast. 
O   thou  fond   spirit,    who   with    pride    hast 

smiled, 
And  frown' d  ^vith  fear  on  thy  poetic  child, 
Pleased,  yet  alarm'd,  when  in  his  boyish  time 
He    sigh'd    in    numbers    or    he   laugh'd   in 

rhyme  ; 
While    thy    kind     cautions    warn'd    him    to 

beware 
Of  Penury,  the  bard's  perpetaal  snare ; 
Marking  the  early  temper  of  his  soul. 
Careless  of  wealth,  nor  fit  for  base  control ! 


Thou  tender  saint,   to    whom  he  owes  muck 

more 
Than  ever  child  to  parent  owed  before ; 
In  life's  first  season,  when  the  fever's  flame 
Shrunk  to  deformity  his  shriveDed  frame, 
And  turned  each  fairer  image  in  his  brain 
To  blank  confusion  and  her  crazy  train,    -  _ 
'Twas  thine,  with  constant  love,  through  lin- 
gering years, 
To  bathe  thy  idiot  orphan  in  thy  tears ; 
Day  after  day,  and  night  succeeding  night. 
To  turn  incessant  to  the  hideous  sight. 
And  frequent  watch,  if  haply  at  thy  view 
Departed  reason  might  not  dawn  anew  ; 
Though  medicinal  art,  with  pitying  care. 
Could  lend  no  aid  to  save  thee  from  despair. 
Thy  fond  maternal  heart  adhered  to  hope  ani 

prayer ; 
Nor  prayed  in  vain  :  thy   child  from  powers 

above 
Received  the  sense  to  feel  and  bless  thy  love. 
O  might  he  thence  receive  the  happy  skill, 
And  force  proportioned  to  his  ardent  will, 
W^ith  truth's  unfading  radiance  to  emblaze 
Thy  virtues,  worthy  of  immortal  praise  ! 
Nature,  who  deck'd  thy  form  with  beauty'* 

flowers, 
Exhausted  on  thy  soul  her  finer  powers ; 
Taught  it  with  all  her  energy  to  feel 
Love's  melting  softness,    friendship's   fervii 

zeal, 
The  generous  purpose  and  the  active  thought. 
With  charity's  diflusive  spirit  fraught. 
There  all  the  best  of  mental  gifts  she  placed. 
Vigour  of  judgment,  purity  of  taste, 
Superior  parts  without  their  spleenful  leaven. 
Kindness  to  earth  and  confidence  in  heaven- 
While  my  fond  thoughts  o'er  all  thy  merits 

roll, 
Thy  praise  thus  gushes  from  my  filial  soiil ; 
Nor  will  the  public  with  harsh  rigour  blame 
This  my  just  homage  to  thy  honoured  name  ; 
To  please  that  public,  if  to  please  be  mine, 
Thy  virtues  train' d  me — let   the    praise    be 

thine. 

William  Hayley.—Born  1745,  Died  1820- 


1090.— INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  TOMB  OF 
"^       COWPER. 

Ye  who  with  warmth  the  public  triumph  feel 
Of  talents  dignified  by  sacred  zeal. 
Here,  to  devotion's  bard  devoutly  just, 
Pay  your  fond  tribute  due  to  Cowper's  dust ! 
England,  exulting  in  his  spotless  fame. 
Ranks  with  her  dearest    sons    his  favourite 

name. 
Sense,  fancy,  wit,  suffice  not  all  to  raise 
So  clear  a  title  to  affection's  praise  : 
His  highest  honours  to  the  heart  belong ; 
His  virtues  form'd  the  magic  of  ^is  song. 

William  Hayley.—Bom  1745,  Died  1820. 
56  * 


Wm.  Haylet.] 


ON  THE  TOMB  OF  MRS:  UNWIN. 


[Seventh  Period. 


109 1. —ON  THE  TOMB  OF  MES.  UNWIN. 

Trusting  in  God  with  all  her  heart  and  mind, 
This  woman  proved  magnanimously  kind  ; 
Endured  affliction's  desolating  hail, 
And   watch' d   a   poet    through    misfortune's 

vale. 
Her  spotless  dust  angelic  guards  defend  ! 
It  is  the  dust  of  Unwin,  Cowper's  friend. 
That  single  title  in  itself  is  fame, 
For  all  who  read  his  verse  revere  her  name. 

William  Haylcy.—Born  1745,  Died  1820. 


1092.— DESTRUCTION      OF      SENNA- 
CHERIB'S  ARMY. 

From  Ashur's  vales  when  proud  Sennacherib 

trod, 
Poured   his   swoln    heart,    defied    the    living 

God, 
Urged  with   incessant   shouts   his   glittering 

powers, 
And   Judah   shook   through    all    her    massy 

towers ; 
Round  her   sad    altars    press   the   prostrate 

crowd, 
Hosts  beat  their  breasts,  and  suppliant  chief- 
tains bow'd ; 
Loud  shrieks  of  matrons  thrill' d  the  troubled 

air, 
And  trembling   virgins   rent   their   scatter'd 

hair; 
High  in  the  midst  the  kneeling  king  adored, 
Spread  the   blaspheming    scroll    before    the 

Lord, 
Raised    his    pale    hands,    and   breathed    his 

pausing  sighs, 
And  fix'd  on  heaven  his  dim  imploring  eyes. 
"Oh  !  mighty  God,  amidst  thy  seraph  throng 
Who   sit'st  sublime,  the  judge  of  right  and 

wrong  ; 
Thine  the  wide  earth,  bright  sun,  and  starry 

zone, 
That    twinkling  journey   round   thy    golden 

throne  ; 
Thine  is  the  crystal  source  of  life  and  light. 
And    thine    the    realms   of    death's    eternal 

night. 
Oh !  bend  thine  ear,  thy  gracious  eye  incline, 
Lo  !  Ashur's  king  blasphemes  thj'  holy  shrine. 
Insults  our  offerings,  and  derides  our  vows. 
Oh!    strike    the    diadem    from    his   impious 

brows, 
Tear   from  his   murderous   hand  the  bloody 

rod. 
And  teach  the  trembling  nations  '  Thou  art 

God  ! ' " 
Sylphs  !   in  what  dread  array  with  pennons 

broad. 
Onward  ye  floated  o'er  the  ethereal  road ; 
Called  each  dank   steam  the  reeking  marsh 

exhales, 
Contagious  vapours  and  volcanic  gales  ; 


Gave  the  soft  south  with  poisonous  breath  to 

blow, 
And  roll'd  the  dreadful  whirlwind  on  the  foe  ! 
Hark  !    o'er   the  camp  the  venom'd  tempest 

sings, 
Man  falls  on  man,  on  buckler  buckler  rings  : 
Groan    answers    groan,    to   anguish    anguish 

yields, 
And  death's  loud  accents  shake   the   tented 

fields ! 
High  rears  the  fiend  his  grinning  jaws,  and 

wide 
Spans  the  pale  nations  with  colossal  stride. 
Waves  his  broad  falchion  with  uplifted  hand, 
And  his  vast  shadow  darkens  all  the  land. 

Erasmus  Darwin. — Born  1731,  Died  1802. 


[093. 


-THE  BELGIAN  LOVERS  AND 
THE  PLAGUE. 


Thus  when  the  plague,  upborne  on  Belgian 

air, 
Look'd    through    the  mist,    and    shook    his 

clotted  hair, 
O'er    shrinking     nations    steer'd    malignant 

clouds. 
And  rain'd  destruction  on  the  gaping  crowds  ; 
The     beauteous    Mgle    felt    the    envenom'd 

dart, 
Slow   roll'd  her  eye  and  feebly  throbb'd  her 

heart : 
Each    fervid   sigh   seem'd   shorter   than   the 

last. 
And   starting  friendship   shunn'd  her  as  she 

pass'd. 
With  weak  unsteady  step  the  fainting  maid 
Seeks  the  cold  garden's  solitary  shade, 
Sinks  on  the  pillowy  moss  her  drooping  head, 
And  prints  with  lifeless  limbs  her  leafy  bed. 
On  wings  of  love  her  plighted  swain  pursues. 
Shades  her  from  winds  and  shelters  her  from 

dews. 
Extends  on  tapering  poles  the  canvass  roof, 
Spreads  o'er  the  straw- wove  mat  the  flaxen 

woof; 
Sweet    buds    and    blossoms    on   her  bolster 

strows. 
And   binds   his   kerchief    round    her    aching 

brows ;  * 

Soothes  with  soft  kiss,  with  tender  accents 

charms, 
And  clasps  the  bright  infection  in  his  arms. 
With   pale   and   languid   smiles  the  grateful 

fair 
Applauds  his  virtues  and  rewards  his  care ; 
Mourns  with  wet  cheek  her  fair  companions 

fled. 
On    timorous    step,    or    number'd   with    the 

dead ; 
Calls  to  her  bosom  all  its  scattered  rays, 
And  pours  on  Thyrsis  the  collected  blaze ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


PHILANTHEOPY.— MR.  HOWAED. 


[Erasmus  DARwiir. 


Braves  the  chill  nigrht,  caressing'  and  caress'd, 
And  folds  her  hero-lover  to  her  breast. 
Less  bold,  Leander,  at  the  dusky  hour, 
Eyed,  as  he  swam,  the  far  love-lighted  tower  ; 
Breasted  with   struggling   arms   the   tossing 

wave, 
And  sunk  benighted  in  the  watery  grave. 
Less  bold,  Tobias  claim' d  the  nuptial  bed, 
Where  seven  fond  lovers  by  a  fieiid  had  bled ; 
And  drove,  instructed  by  his  angel  guide, 
The  enamoured  demon  from  the  fatal  bride. 
Sylphs  !  while  your  winnowing  pinions  fanned 

the  air, 
And  shed  gay  visions  o'er  the  sleeping  pair, 
Love    round    their    couch    effused    his    rosy 

breath. 
And  with  his  keener  arrows  conquer'd  death. 

Erasmus  Banvin. — Bom  1731,  Died  1802. 


1094.— DEATH  OF  ELIZA  AT  THE 
BATTLE  OF  MINDEN. 

So  stood  Eliza  on  the  wood-crown'd  h^ght, 
O'er  Minden's  plain,  spectatress  of  the  fight. 
Sought  with  bold  eye  amid  the  bloody  strife 
Her  dearer  self,  the  partner  of  her  life  ; 
From  hill  to  hill  the  rushing  host  pursued, 
And  vicw'd  his  banner,  or  believed  she  view'd. 
Pleased  with  the  distant  roar,  with  quicker 

tread 
Fast  by  his  hand  one  lisping  boy  she  led ; 
And  one  fair  girl  amid  the  loud  alarm 
Slept  on  her  kerchief,  cradled  by  her  arm  ; 
While   round    her    brows    bright    beams    of 

Honour  dart, 
And   Love's   warm   eddies   circle   round    her 

heart. 
Near   and    more    near   the    intrepid    beauty 

press'd, 
Saw  through  the  driving  smoke  his  dancing 

crest ; 
Saw  on  his  helm,  her  virgin  hands  inwove, 
Bright   stars   of   gold,  and   mystic   knots   of 

love; 
Heard  the  exulting  shout,  "  They  run  !  they 

run  !" 
"Great  God!"  she   cried,  "He's  safe!    the 

battle's  won !  " 
A  ball  now  hisses  through  the  airy  tides 
(Some    fury    wing'd     it,    and     some    demon 

guides  !), 
Parts  the  fine  locks  her  graceful  head  that 

deck, 
Wounds   her   fair   ear,   and    sinks    into    her 

neck  ; 
The  red  stream,  issuing  from  her  azure  veins. 
Dyes  her  white  veil,  her  ivory  bosom  stains. 
"  Ah  me  !  "    she   cried,    and    sinking    on  the 

ground, 
Kiss'd    her   dear  babes,    regardless    of    the 

wound ; 


"  Oh,  cease  not  yet  to  beat,  thou  vital  urn  ! 
Wait,     gushing     life,    oh     wait     my    love's 

return  !  " 
Hoarse  barks  the  wolf,  the  vulture  screams 

from  far ! 
The  angel  pity  shuns  the  walks  of  war ! 
"  Oh  spare,  ye  war-hounds,  spare  their  tender 

age ; 
On   me,  on   me,"   she   cried,   "  exhaust   your 

rage !  " 
Then   with   weak    arms    her  weeping   babes 

caress'd, 
And,   sighing,  hid  them  in  her  blood-stain'd 

vest. 
From  tent   to   tent   th'  impatient  warrior 

flies, 
Fear  in  his  heart  and  frenzy  in  his  eyes ; 
Eliza's  name  along  the  camp  he  c-Jls, 
"  Eliza  "  echoes  through  the  canvass  walls  ; 
Quick  through  the  murmuring  gloom  his  foot- 
steps tread. 
O'er  groaning  heaps,  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Vault  o'er  the  plain,  and  in  the  tangled  wood, 
Lo  I  dead  Eliza  weltering  in  her  blood  ! 
Soon    hears   his    listening  son   the   welcome 

sounds, 
With    open     arms    and     sparkling     eye    he 

bounds : 
"  Speak  low,"  he  cries,  and  gives  his  little 

hand, 
"  Eliza  sleeps  upon  the  dew-cold  sand  ^ " 
Poor    weeping    babe     with     bloody     fingers 

press'd. 
And    tried    with    pouting    lips   her    milkless 

breast  ; 
"Alas  !     we    both    with    cold    and     hunger 

quake — 
Why    do    you    weep  ? — Mamma    will     soon 

awake." 
"  She'll  wake  no  more !  "  the  hapless  mourner 

cried, 
Upturn'd  his  eyes,  and  clasp' d  his  hands,  and 

sigh'd ; 
Stretch' d  on  the  ground,  a  while  entranced  he 

lay. 
And  press'd  warm  kisses  on  the  lifeless  clay ; 
And    then    upsprung    with    wild    convulsive 

start, 
And  all  the  father  kindled  in  his  heart : 
"  Oh  heavens  !  "  he  cried,  "  my  first  rash  vow 

forgive ; 
These   bind    to    earth,    for  these   I   pray  to 

live  !  " 
Eound  his  chill  babes  he  wrapp'd  his  crimscn 

vest. 
And    clasp' d    them    sobbing    to    his    aching 

breast. 

Erasmus  Darwin. — Bom  1731,  Died  1802. 


1095.— PHILANTHROPY— ME.  HOWARD. 

And  now,  philanthropy  !  thy  rays  divine 
Dart  round  the  globe  from  Zembla  to  the  lino 


Erasmus  Dakwin.] 


PERSUASION  TO  MOTHERS. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


O'er   each   dark   prison   plays   the    cheering 

Hght, 
Like  northern  lustres  o'er  the  vault  of  night. 
From  realm  to  realm,  with  cross  or  crescent 

crown'd, 
Where'er  mankind  and  misery  are  found. 
O'er  burning  sands,  deep  waves,  or  wilds  of 

snow, 
Thy  Howard  journeying  seeks  the  house   of 

woe. 
Down  many  a  winding  step  to  dungeons  dank, 
Where    anguish     wails     aloud,    and     fetters 

clank  ; 
To  caves  bestrew' d  with  many  a  mouldering 

bone, 
And  cells  whose  echoes  only  learn  to  groan  ; 
Where    no   kind    bars    a   whispering    friend 

disclose, 
Noi  sunbeam  enters,  and  no  zephyr  blows, 
He  treads,  unemulous  of  fame  or  wealth, 
Profuse  of  toil,  and  prodigal  of  health. 
With  soft  assuasive  eloquence  expands 
Power's  rigid  heart,  and  opes  his  clenching 

hands ; 
Leads  stem-eyed  Justice  to  the  dark  domains, 
If  not  to  sever,  to  relax  the  chains  ; 
Or    guides     awaken' d     mercy    through    the 

gloom. 
And  shows  the  prison,  sister  to  the  tomb  ! 
Gives  to  her  babes  the  self -devoted  wife. 
To  her  fond  husband  liberty  and  life  ! 
The  spirits  of  the  good,  who  bend  from  high 
Wide  o'er  these  earthly  scenes  their  partial 

eye, 
When  first  array'd  in  Virtue's  purest  robe. 
They  saw  her  Howard  traversing  the  globe  ; 
Saw  round  his  brows  her  sun-like  glory  blaze 
In  arrowy  circles  of  unwearied  rays  ; 
Mistook  a  mortal  for  an  angel  guest. 
And   ask'd  what   seraph  foot  the  earth  im- 
press'd. 
Onward    he   moves  !      Disease     and     Death 

retire. 
And     Diurmuring     demons     hate     him     and 

admire  ! 

Erasmus  Dancin. — Born  1731,  Died  1802. 


1096.— PERSUASION    TO    MOTHERS   TO 
SUCKLE  THEIR  OWN  CHILDREN. 

Connubial   Fair  I     whom   no   fond   transport 

warms 
To  lull  your  infant  in  maternal  arms  ; 
Who,   bless' d    in   vain   with  tumid    bosoms, 

hear 
His  tender  wailings  with  unfeeling  ear  ; 
The  soothing  kiss  and  milky  rill  deny 
To   the    sweet    pouting    lip   and     glistening 

eye ', — 
Ah!  what  avails  the  cradle's  damask  roof, 
The  eider  bolster,  and  embroider' d  woof ! 


Oft  hears  the  gilded  coueh  unpitied  plains, 
And  many  a  tear  the  tassel'd  cushion  stains  ! 
No  voice  so  sweet  attunes  his  cares  to  rest, 
So  soft  no  piUow  as  his  mother's  breast  I-^ 
Thus  charm' d  to  sweet  repose,  when  twilight 

hours 
Shed  their  soft  influence  on  celestial  bowers. 
The  cherub  Innocence,  with  smile  divine. 
Shuts  his  white  wings,  and  sleeps  on  beauty's 

shrine. 
Erasmus  Darwin. — Bom  1731,  Died  1802. 


1097.— SONG  TO  MAT. 

Bom  in  yon  blaze  of  orient  sky, 

Sweet  May  !  thy  radiant  form  unfold ; 

Unclose  thy  blue  voluptuous  eye. 

And  wave  thy  shadowy  locks  of  gold. 

For  thee  the  fragrant  zephyrs  blow, 
For  thee  descends  the  sunny  shower ; 

The  rills  in  softer  muymurs  flow. 

And  brighter  blossoms  gem  the  bower. ' 

Light  graces  deck'd  in  flowery  wreaths 
And  tiptoe  joys  their  hands  combine  ; 

And  5L,ove  his  sweet  contagion  breathes. 
And,  laughing,  dances  round  thy  shrine. 

Warm  with  new  life,  the  glittering  throng 
On  quivering  fin  and  rustling  wing, 

Delighted  join  their  votive  song, 

And  hail  thee  Goddess  of  the  Spring  ! 
Erasmus  Darwin. — Born  1731,  Died  1802. 


1098.— SONG  TO  ECHO. 
I. 

Sweet  Echo  !  sleeps  thy  vocal  shell, 
Where  this  high  arch  o'erhangs  the  dell ; 
While  Tweed,  with  sun-reflecting  streams, 
Chequers  thy  rocks  with  dancing  beams  ? 


Here  may  no  clamours  harsh  intrude, 
No  brawling  hound  or  clarion  rude ; 
Here.no  fell  beast  of  midnight  prowl. 
And  teach  thy  tortured  cliffs  to  howL 


Bo  thine  to  pour  these  vales  along 
Some  artless  shepherd's  evening  song; 
While  night's  sweet  bird  from  yon  high  spray 
Responsive  listens  to  his  lay. 


And  if,  like  me,  some  love-lorn  maid 
Should  sing  her  sorrows  to  thy  shade. 
Oh  !  sooth  her  breast,  ye  rocks  around^ 
With  softest  sympathy  of  sound. 

Erasmus  Darwin. — Born  1731,  Died  1802. 


From  1780  to  1866.]    EECOLLECTIONS  OF  ENGLISH  SCENERY.       [Charlotte  Smith. 


I099._0N   THE    DEPARTURE    OF   THE 
NIGHTINGALE. 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods,  a  long  adieu ! 

Farewell  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year  ! 
Ah  !  'twill  be  long  ere  thou  shalt  sing  anew, 

And  pour  thy  music  on  the  night's  dull  ear. 
"Whether   on    spring    thy   wandering    flights 
await, 
Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell. 
The   pensive   muse    shall    own   thee   for  her 
mate, 
And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well. 
With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall 
glide 
Through  the   lone  brake   that  shades  thy 
mossy  nest ;  » 

And   shepherd  girls  from  eyes  profane  shall 
hide 
The  gentle  bird  who  sings  of  pity  best : 
For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections  move, 
And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow  und  to  love  ! 

Charlotte  Smith.— Born  1749,  Died  1806. 


1 100.— WRITTEN    AT    THE    CLOSE    OF 
SPRING. 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove ; 
Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nursed  in 
dew, 
Anemonies  that  spangled  every  grove. 

The    primrose   wan,    and    harebell    mildly 
blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell. 
Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 
And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths 
again. 
Ah,  poor  humanity  !  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day. 
Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care 

Bid  all  fhy  fairy  colours  fade  away ! 
Another   May   new   buds    and    flowers    shall 

bring  ; 
Ah  I  why  has  happiness  no  second  Spring  ? 

Should   the   lone   wanderer,   fainting   on   his 
way, 
Rest  for  a  moment  of  the  sultry  hours. 
And,  though   his   path   through   thorns   and 
roughness  lay. 
Pluck  the  wild  rose  or  woodbine's  gadding 
flowers  ; 
Weaving  gay  wreaths  beneath  some  sheltering 
tree. 
The  sense  of  sorrow  he  a  while  may  lose  ; 
So  have  I  sought  thy  flowers,  fair  Poesy  ! 
So  charm' d  my  way  with  friendship  and  the 
Muse. 
But  darker  now  grows  life's  unhappy  day, 
Dark  with  new  clouds  of  evil  yet  to  come  ; 


Her  pencil  sickening  Fancy  throws  away, 

And  weary  Hope  recKnes  Tipon  the  tomb. 
And  points  my  wishes  to  that  tranquil  shore, 
Where  the  pale  spectre  Care  pursues  no  more ! 
Charlotte  Smith.— Born  1749,  Died  1806. 


lOI. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    ENGLISH 
SCENERY. 


Haunts  of  my  youth  ! 
Scenes  of  fond  day-dreams,  I  behold  ye  yet ! 
Where   'twas   so   pleasant    by   thy  northern 

slopes. 
To  climb  the  winding  sheep-path,  aided  oft 
By   scatter'd   thorns,    whose   spiny  branches 

bore 
Small    woolly   tufts,    spoils    of    the   vagrant 

lamb. 
There  seeking  shelter  from  the  noon-day  sun  : 
And  pleasant,  seated  on  the  short  soft  turf, 
To  look  beneath  upon  the  hollow  Avay, 
While  heavily  upward  moved   the   labouring 

wain. 
And  stalking  slowly  by,  the  sturdy  hind. 
To    ease    his   panting   team,  stopp'd  with  a 

stone 
The  grating  wheel. 

Advancing  higher  stiU, 
The  prospect  widens,  and  the  village  church 
But  little  o'er  the  lowly  roofs  around 
Rears  its  gray  belfry  and  its  simple  vane ; 
Those  lowly  roofs  of  thatch  are  half  conceal' d 
By  the  rude  ai-ms  of  trees,  lovely  in  spring ; 
When    on    each    bough  the   rosy    tinctured 

bloom 
Sits  thick,  and  promises  autumnal  plenty. 
For  even  those  orchards  round   the  Norman 

farms, 
Which,  as  their  owners  mark'd  the  promised 

fruit. 
Console  them,  for  the  vineyards  of  the  south 
Surpass  not  these. 

Where  woods  of  ash  and  beech, 
And  partial  copses  fringe  the  green  hill  foot. 
The  upland  shepherd  rears  his  modest  home  ; 
There  wanders  by  a  little  nameless  stream 
That  from  the  hill  wells  forth,  bright  now, 

and  clear, 
Or  after  rain  with  chalky  mixture  gray. 
But  still  refreshing  in  its  shallow  course 
The  cottage  garden  ;  most  for  use  design'd, 
Yet  not  of  beauty  destitute.     The  vine 
Mantles  the  little  casement ;  yet  the  briar 
Drops  fragrant  dew  among  the  July  flowers  ; 
And  pansies  ray'd,  and  freak'd,  and  mottled 

pinks. 
Grow  among  balm  and  rosemary  and  rue  ; 
There  honej'suckles  flaunt,  and  roses  blow 
Almost    uncultured ;    some   with  dark   green 

leaves 
Contrast    their    flowers    of     pure     unsullied 

white 


Susanna  Blamire.] 


THE  NABOB. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Others  like  velvet  robes  of  regal  state 
Of  richest  crimson  ;  while,  in  thorny  moss 
Enshrined  and  cradled,  the  most  lovely  wear 
The  hues  of  youthful  beauty's  glowing  cheek. 
With  fond  regret  I  recollect  e'en  now 
In  spring  and  summer,  what  delight  I  felt 
Among  these  cottage  gardens,  and  h:-"?  much 
Such  artless  nosegays,  knotted  with  a  rush 
By  village  housewife  or  her  ruddy  maid. 
Were    welcome    to    me  ;     soon    and    simply 

pleased. 
An  early  worshipper  at  nature's  shrine, 
I    loved    her    rudest    scenes — warrens,    and 

heaths, 
And     yellow    commons,     and      birch-shaded 

hollows. 
And  hedgerows  bordering  unfrequented  lanes. 
Bower' d   with   wild   roses   and  the    clasping 

woodbine. 

Charlotte  Smith.— Born  1749,  Died  1806. 


II02.— THE  NABOB. 

When  silent  time,  wi'  lightly  foot. 

Had  trod  on  thirty  .years, 
I  sought  again  my  native  land 

Wi'  mony  hopes  and  fears. 
Wha  kens  gin  the  dear  friends  I  left 

May  still  continue  mine  ? 
Or  gin  I  e'er  again  shall  taste 

The  joys  I  left  langsyne  ! 

As  I  drew  near  my  ancient  pile, 

My  heart  beat  a'  the  way ; 
Ilk  place  I  passed  seemed  yet  to  speak 

O'  some  dear  former  day  ; 
Those  days  that  follow'd  me  afar, 

Those  happy  days  o'  mine, 
Whilk  made  mo  think  the  present  joys 

A'  naething  to  langsyne  : 

The  ivied  tower  now  met  mj'  eye. 

Where  minstrels  used  to  blaw  ; 
Nae  friend  stepp'd  forth  wi'  open  hand, 

Nae  weel-kenn'd  face  I  saw ; 
Till  Donald  tottered  to  the  door, 

Wham  I  left  in  his  prime, 
And  grat  to  see  the  lad  return 

He  bore  about  langsj-ne. 

I  ran  to  ilka  dear  friend's  room. 

As  if  to  find  them  there, 
I  knew  where  ilk  ane  used  to  sit. 

And  hang  o'er  mony  a  chair  ; 
Till  soft  remembrance  threw  a  veil 

Across  the?e  een  o'  mine, 
I  closed  the  door,  and  sobb'd  aloud. 

To  think  on  anld  langsyne  ! 

Some  pensy  chiels,  a  new  sprung  race. 
Wad  next  their  welcome  pay, 

Wha  shudder'd  at  my  Gothic  wa's, 
And  wish'd  my  groves  away. 


"  Cut,  cut,"  they  cried,  "  those  aged  elms, 
Lay  low  j'on  mournfu'  pine." 

Na !  na  !  our  fathers'  names  grow  there, 
Memorials  o'  langsyne. 

To  wean  me  frae  these  waefu'  thoughts* 

They  took  me  to  the  town  ; 
But  sair  on  ilka  weel-kenned  faca 

I  miss'd  the  youthfu'  bloom. 
At  balls  they  point' d  to  a  nymph 

Wham  a'  declared  divine  ; 
But  sure  her  mother's  blushing  checks 

Were  fairer  far  langsyne  ! 

In  vain  I  sought  in  music's  sound 

To  find  that  magic  art. 
Which  oft  in  Scotland's  ancient  lays 

Has  thrill'd  through  a'  my  heart. 
The  sang  had  mony  an  artfu'  turn  ; 

My  ear  confess'd  'twas  fine  ; 
But  miss'd  the  simple  melody 

I  listen' d  to  langsyne. 

Ye  sons  to  comrades  o'  my  youth, 

Forgie  an  auld  man's  spleen, 
Wha    'midst    your    gayest    scenes    still 
mourns 

The  days  he  ance  has  seen. 
When  time  has  pass'd  and  seasons  fled, 

Your  hearts  will  feel  like  mine  ; 
And  aye  the  sang  will  maist  delight 

That  minds  ye  o'  langsyne  ! 

Susanna  Blamire. — Boni  1747,  Died  1794. 


103.— WHAT  AILS  THIS  HEAET  O' 
MINE? 

What  ails  this  heart  o'  mine  ? 

What  ails  this  watery  ee  ? 
What  gars  me  a'  turn  pale  as  death 

When  I  take  leave  o'  thee  ? 
When  thou  art  far  aw  a', 

Thou'lt  dearer  grow  to  me  ; 
But  change  o'  place  and  change  o'  folk 

May  gar  thy  fancy  joe. 

When  I  gae  out  at  e'en. 

Or  walk  at  morning  air. 
Ilk  rustling  bush  will  seem  to  say 

I  used  to  meet  thee  there. 
Then  I'll  sit  down  and  cry, 

And  live  aneath  the  tree, 
And  when  a  leaf  fa's  i'  my  lap, 

I'll  ca't  a  word  frae  thee. 

I'll  hie  me  to  the  bower 

That  thou  wi'  roses  tied. 
And  where  wi'  mony  a  blushing  bud 

I  strove  myself  to  hide. 
I'll  doat  on  ilka  spot 

Where  I  ha'e  been  wi'  thee  ; 
And  ca'  to  mind  some  kindly  word 

Hy  ilka  burn  and  tree. 
Susanna  Blaniirc. — Born  1747,  Died  1794. 


From  1780  to  186G.] 


HYMN  TO  CONTENT. 


[Anna  L.  Barbauld. 


1 104.— ODE  TO  SPEING. 

Sweet  daughter  of  a  rough  and  stormy  sire, 
Hoar    Winter's    blooming    child,    delightful 
Spring ! 

Whose  unshorn  locks  with  leaves 

And  swelling  buds  are  crown' d ; 

From  the  green  islands  of  eternal  j'outh 
(Crown'd  with  fresh  blooms  and  ever-springing 
shade), 

Turn,  hither  turn  thy  step, 

O  thou,  whose  powerful  voice 

More  sweet  than  softest  touch  of  Doric  reed 
Or    Lydian    flute,    can    soothe   the    madding 
winds, 

And  through  the  stormy  deep 

Breathe  thy  own  tender  calm. 

Thee,  best  beloved  I  the  virgin  train  await 
With  songs  and  festal  rites,  and  joy  to  rove 

Thy  blooming  wilds  among, 

And  vales  and  dewy  lawns, 

With  imtired  feet ;  and  cull  thy  earliest  sweets 
To  weave  fresh  garlands  for  the  glo\ving  brow 
Of  him,  the  favour'd  youth 
Tliat  prompts  their  whisper'd  sigh. 

Unlock    thy    copious    stores ;    those   tender 

showers 
That  drop  their  sweetness  on  the  infant  buds. 

And  silent  dews  that  swell 

Tho  milky  ear's  green  stem. 

And  feed  the  flowering  osier's  early  shoots  ; 
And  call  those  winds,  which  through  the  whis- 
pering boughs 

With  warm  and  pleasant  breath 

Salute  the  blowing  flowers. 

Now  let  me  sit  beneath  the  whitening  tliorn, 
And  mark  thy  spreading  tints  steal  o'er  the 
dale ; 

And  watch  with  patient  eye 

Thy  fair  unfolding  charms. 

O  nymph,  approach  !  while  yet  the  temperate 

sun 
With  bashful  forehead,  through  the  cool  moist 
air 
Throws  his  young  maiden  beams. 
And  with  chaste  kisses  woos 

The  earth's  fair  bosom  ;  while  the  streaming 

veil 
Of  lucid  clouds,  with  kind  and  frequent  shade. 

Protects  thy  modest  blooms 

From  his  severer  blaze. 

Sweet  is  thy  reign,   but  short :  the  red  dog- 
star 
Shall  scorch    thy   tresses,    and  the  mower's 
scythe 
'  Thy  greens,  thy  flowerets  all, 
Eemorseless  shall  destroy. 


Eeluctant  shall  I  bid  thee  then  farewell ; 
For  O  !  not  all  that  Autumn's  lap  contains. 

Nor  Summer's  ruddiest  fruits, 

Can  aught  for  thee  atone. 

Fair  Spring !    whose    simplest  promise  more 

delights 
Then  all  their   largest  wealth,  and^through 
the  heart 
Each  joy  and  new-born  hope 
With  softest  influence  breathes. 

Anna  L.  Barha.uUl—Born  1743,  Died  1825. 


1 105.— TO    A  LADY,  WITH  SOME 
PAINTED  FLOWEES. 

Flowers  to  the  fair :  to  you  these  flowers  I 

bring. 
And   strive   to    greet    you   with    an    earlier 

spring. 
Flowers  sweet,  and   gay,    and  delicate    like 

you; 
Emblems  of  innocence,  and  beauty  too. 
With  flowers  the  Graces  bind   their   yellow 

hair, 
And  flowery  wreaths  consenting  lovers  wear. 
Flowers,  the  sole  luxury  which  nature  knew. 
In  Eden's  pure  and  guiltless  garden  grew. 
To  loftier  forms  are  rougher  tasks  as  sign 'd  ; 
The  sheltering  oak  resists  the  stormy  wind, 
Tho  tougher  yew  repels  invading  foes. 
And  the  tall  pine  for  future  navies  grows  : 
But  this  soft  familj'  to  cares  unknown. 
Were  bom  for  pleasure  and  delight  alone. 
Gay  without  toil,  and  lovely  without  art, 
They  spring  to  cheer  the  sense  and  glad  the 

heart. 
Nor  blush,  my  fair,  to  own  you  copy  these  ; 
Your     best,     your    sweetest    empire    is — to 

please. 

Anna  L.  Barhauld.—Bom  1743,  Died  1825. 


1 106.— HYMN  TO  CONTENT. 

O  thou,  the  nymph  with  placid  eye  ! 
O  seldom  found,  yet  ever  nigh  ! 

Eeceive  my  temperate  vow  : 
Not  all  the  storms  that  shake  the  pole 
Can  e'er  disturb  tby  halcyon  soul, 

And  smooth  the  unalter'd  brow. 

0  come,  in  simple  vest  array'd. 
With  all  thy  sober  cheer  display'd, 

To  bless  my  longing  sight ; 
Thy  mien  composed,  thy  even  pace. 
Thy  meek  regard,  thy  matron  grace. 

And  chaste  subdued  delight. 

No  more  by  varying  passions  beat, 
O  gently  guide  my  pilgrim  feet 
To  find  thy  hermit  cell ; 


Anna  L.  Babbauld.] 


WASHING  DAY. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


"Where  in  some  pure  and  equal  sky, 
Beneath  thy  soft  indulgent  eye, 
The  modest  virtues  dwell. 

Simplicity  in  Attic  vest, 

And  Innocence  "with  candiS  breast, 

And  clear  undaunted  eye  ; 
And  Hope,  who  points  to  distant  years, 
Fair  opening  through  this  vale  of  tears, 

A  vista  to  the  sky. 

There   Health,   through   whose   calm   bosom 

glide  , 

The  temperate  joys  in  even- tide, 

That  rarely  ebb  or  flow  ; 
And  Patience  there,  thy  sister  meek, 
Presents  her  mild  unvarying  cheek 

To  meet  the  offer' d  blow. 

Her  influence  taught  the  Phrygian  sage 
A  tyrant  master's  wanton  rage 

With  settled  smiles  to  wait : 
Inured  to  toil  and  bitter  bread. 
He  bow' d  his  meek  submissive  head, 

And  kiss'd  thy  sainted  feet. 

But  thou,  oh  nymph  retired  and  coy  !    . 
In  what  brown  hamlet  dost  thou  joy 

To  tell  thy  tender  tale  ? 
The  lowliest  children  of  the  ground, 
Moss-rose  and  violet,  blossom  round, 

And  lily  of  the  vale. 

0  say  what  soft  propitious  hour 

1  best  may  choose  to  hail  thy  power, 

And  court  thy  gentle  sway  ? 
^Vhen  autumn,  friendly  to  the  Muse, 
Shall  thy  own  modest  tints  diffuse. 

And  shed  thy  milder  day. 

When  eve,  her  dewy  star  beneath. 
Thy  balmy  spirit  loves  to  breathe, 

And  eery  storm  is  laid  ; 
If  such  an  hour  was  e'er  thy  choice, 
Oft  let  me  hear  thy  soothing  voice 

Low  whispering  through  the  shade. 

Anna  L.  Barhauld.—Born  1743,  Died  1825. 


1107.— WASHING  DAY. 

The  Muses  are  tum'd  gossips  ;  they  have  lost 
The  buskin' d  step,  and   clear  high-sounding 

phrase. 
Language  of   gods.       Come,    then,    domestic 

Muse, 
In  slip-shod  measure  loosely  prattling  on, 
Of  farm  or  orchard,  pleasant  curds  and  cream, 
Or  droning  flies,  or  shoes  lost  in  the  mire 
By  little  whimpering  boy,  with  rueful  face — 
Come,  Muse,  and  sing  the  dreaded  washing 

day. 

Ye  who  beneath  the  yoke  of  wedlock  bend, 
With  bow'd  soul,  full  well  ye  ken  the  day 


Which    week,    smooth    sliding    after    week, 

brings  on 
Too  soon  ;  for  to  that  day  nor  peace  belongs. 
Nor   comfort ;    ere   the   first   gray  streak  of. 

dawn. 
The    red-arm- d    washers     come     and    chase 

repose. 

Nor   pleasant    smile,   nor   quaint    device    of 

mirth, 
Ere  visited  that  day  ;  the  very  cat. 
From  the  wet   kitchen  scared,    and   reeking 

hearth, 
Visits  the  parlour,  an  unwonted  guest. 
The  silent  breakfast  meal  is  soon  despatch' d,' 
Uninterrupted,  save  by  anxious  looks 
Cast  at  the  louring  sky,  if  sky  should  lour. 

From  that  last  evil,  oh  preserve  us,  heavens  ! 
For  should  the  skies  pour  down,  adieu  to  all 
Remains  of  quiet ;  then  expect  to  hear 
Of  sad  disasters — dirt  and  gravel  stains 
Hard  to  efface,  and  loaded  lines  at  once 
Snapp'd  short,  and  linen  horse  by  dog  thrown 

down. 
And  all  the  petty  miseries  of  life. 

Saints  have  been  calm   while  stretch' d  upon 

the  rack. 
And  Montezuma  smiled  on  burning  coals  ; 
But  never  yet  did  housewife  notable 
Greet  with  a  smile  a  rainy  washing  day. 
But  grant  the  welkin  fair,  require  not  thou 
Who  call'st  thyself,    perchance,   the   master 

there. 
Or  study  swept,  or  nicely  dusted  coat. 
Or  usual  'tendance  ;  ask  not,  indiscreet. 
Thy  stoclrings  mended,  though  the  yawning 

rents 
Gape  wide  as  Erebus ;  nor  hope  to  find 
Some  snug  recess  impervious.     Should'st  thou 

try 
The  '  custom' d  garden  walks,  thine  eye  shall 

rue 
The  budding  fragrance  of  thy  tender  shrubs. 
Myrtle   or     rose,    all    crush'd    beneath    the 

weight 
Of  coarse-check' d  apron,  with  impatient  hand 
Twitch'd     off     when     showers    impend;     or 

crossing  lines 
Shall  mar  thy  musings,  as  the  wet  cold  sheet 
Flaps  in  thy  face  abrupt.     Woe  to  the  friend 
Whose  evil  stars  have    urged  him    forth  to 

claim 
On  such  a  day  the  hospitable  rites  ; 
Looks  blank  at  best,  and  stinted  courtesy 
Shall  he  receive  ;  vainly  he  feeds  his  hopes 
With  dinner  of  roast  chicken,  savoury  pie. 
Or  tart  or  pudding  ;  pudding  he  nor  tart 
That  day  shall  eat ;  nor,  though  the  husband 

try- 
Mending   what   can't    be    helped — to    kindle 

mirth 
From  cheer  deficient,  shall  his  consort's  br®w 
Clear  up  propitious  ;  the  unlucky  guest 
In  silence  dines,  and  early  slinks  away. 


Frovi  1780  to  1866.] 


PRAISE  TO  GOD. 


[Anna  L.  Babbauld. 


I  well  remember,  when  a  child,  the  awe 
This  day  struck  into  me  ;  for  then  the  maids, 
I  scarce  knew  why,  looked   cross,  and  drove 

me  from  them ; 
Nor  soft  caress  could  I  obtain,  nor  hope 
Usual  indnlgencies ;  jelly  or  creams, 
Relique  of  costly  suppers,  and  set  by 
For  me  their  petted  one  ;  or  butter' d  toast, 
When  butter  was  forbid ;  or  thrilling'  tale 
Of  ghost,  or  witch,  or  murder.     So  I  went 
And  sheltered  me  beside  the  parlour  fire  ; 
There    my  dear  grandmother,    eldest    of   all 

forms, 
Tended  the   little   ones,    and   watched   from 

harm. ; 
Anxiously  fond,  though  oft  her  spectacles 
With  elfin  cunning  hid,  and  oft  the  pins 
Drawn  from  her  ravell'd  stocking  might  have 

soured 
One  less  indulgent. 

At  intervals  my  mother's  voice  was  heard 
Urging  despatch  ;  briskly  the  work  went  on, 
All   hands   employed  to   wash,   to   rinse,   to 

wring. 
Or  fold,  and  starch,  and  clap,  and  iron,  and 

plait. 

Then  would  I  sit  me  down,  and  ponder  much 
Why    washings    were ;     sometimes    through 

hoUow  hole 
Of  pipe  amused  we  blew,  and  sent  aloft 
The  floating  bubbles  ;  little  dreaming  then 
To  see,  Montgolfier,  thy  silken  ball 
Ride  buoyant   tlxrough  the   clouds,    so   near 

approach 
The  sports  of  children  and  the  toils  of  men. 

Earth,    air,    and    sky,    and   ocean   hath    its 

bubbles, 
And  verse  is  one  of  them — this  most  of  all. 
Anna  L.  Barhduld.—Born  1743,  Died  1825. 


iio8.— THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VIRTUOUS. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies  ! 

When  sinks  a  righteous  soul  to  rest, 
How  mildly  beam  the  closing  eyes, 

How  gently  heaves  th'  expiring  breast ! 

So  fades  a  summer  cloud  away, 

So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are  o'ei*. 

So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 
So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shore. 

Triumphant  smiles  the  victor  brow, 

Fann'd  by  some  angel's  purple  wing: — 

Where  is,  O  Grave  !  thy  victory  now  ? 
And  where,  insidious  Death  !  thy  sting? 

Farewell,  conflicting  joys  and  fears. 

Where  light  and  shade  alternate  dwell  I 

How  bright  th'  unchanging  morn  appears  ; — 
Farewell,  inconstant  world,  farewell ! 


Its  duty  done, — as  sinks  the  day, 
Light  from  its  load  the  spirit  flies  ; 

While  heaven  and  earth  combine  to  say 
"  Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies  I  '* 

Anna  L.  Barhauld.^Born  1743,  Died  1825. 


1 109. 


COME  UNTO  ME." 


Come,  said  Jesus'  sacred  voice — 
Come  and  make  my  joaths  yotu.*  choice ! 
I  will  guide  you  to  your  home — 
Weary  pilgrim,  hither  come ! 

Thou  who,  houseless,  sole,  forlorn. 
Long  hast  borne  the  proud  world's  scorn, 
Long  hast  roam'd  the  barren  waste. 
Weary  pilgrim,  hither  haste  ! 

Ye  who,  toss'd  on  beds  of  pain, 
Seek  for  ease,  but  seek  in  vain — 
Ye  whose  swollen  and  sleepless  eye* 
Watch  to  see  the  morning  rise — 

Ye  by  fiercer  anguish  torn, 

In  strong  remorse  for  guilt  who  mourn. 

Here  repose  your  heavy  care — 

A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear ! 

Sinner,  come  !  for  here  is  found 
Balm  that  flows  from  every  wound — - 
Peace,  that  ever  shall  endure — 
Rest  eternal,  sacred,  sure. 

AnnaL.  Barhauld.—Born  1743,  Died  1825. 


mo.— PRAISE  TO  GOD. 

Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise. 

For  the  love  that  cro^vns  our  days — 

Bounteous  source  of  every  joy. 

Let  Thy  praise  our  tongues  employ ! 

For  the  blessings  of  the  field, 
For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 
For  the  vine's  exalted  juice. 
For  the  generous  olive's  use ; 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain. 
Yellow  sheaves  of  ripen'd  grain. 
Clouds  that  drop  their  fattening  dews, 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse — 

All  that  Spring,  with  bounteous  hand. 
Scatters  o'er  the  smiling  land  ; 
All  that  liberal  Autumn  pours 
From  her  rich  o'erflowing  stores  : 

These  to  Thee,  my  God,  we  owe — 
Source  whence  all  our  blessings  flow  ! 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 


Anka  Sewabd.] 


THE  ANNIVERSAEY. 


[Seventh  PEPaoD.— 


Yet  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear — 
Should  the  fig-tree's  blasted  shoot 
Drop  her  green  untimely  fruit — 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 
Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store — 
Though  the  sickening  flocks  should  fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall — 

Should  Thine  alter' d  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain, 
Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 
And  the  rising  year  destroy  ; 

Tet  to  Thee  my  soul  should  raise 

Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 

And,  when  every  blessing's  flown, 

Love  Thee — for  Thyself  alone. 

Anna  L.  Barlaxdil.—Bom  1743,  Dial  1825. 


nil.— THE  ANNIYERSAEY. 

Ah,  lovely  Lichfield  !  that  so  long  hast  shone 
In  blended  charms  peculiarly  thine  own  ; 
Stately,  yet  rural ;  through  thy  choral  day 
Though  shady,   cheerful,   and   though   quiet, 

gay; 
How   interesting,    how   loved,    from  year  to 

year, 
How   more  than   beauteous   did  thy   scenes 

appear ! 
Still  as  the  mild  Spring  chased  the  wintry 

gloom, 
Devolved   her   leaves,    and    waked    her   rich 

perfume, 
Thou,  with  thy  fields  and  groves  around  thee 

spread, 
Lift'st,  in  unlessen'd  grace,  thy  spiry  head ; 
But  many  a  loved  inhabitant  of  thine 
Sleeps  where  no  vernal  sun  will  ever  shine. 
Why  fled  ye  all  so  fast,  ye  happy  hours. 
That  saw  Honora's  eyes  adorn  these  bowers  ? 
These  darling  bowers,  that  much  she  loved  to 

hail, 
The   spires    she   called   "  the   Ladies   of  the 

Vale!" 
Fairest  and  best ! — Oh  !  can  I  o'er  forget 
To  thy  dear  kindness  my  eternal  debt  ? 
Life's  opening  paths  how  tenderlj^ it  smoothed. 
The  joys   it    heighten' d,    and   the    pains    it 

soothed  ? 
No,  no  I  my  heart  its  sacred  memory  boars, 
Bright  'mid    the    shadows   of    o'erwhelming 

years ; 
When  mists  of  deprivation  round  me  roll, 
'Tis  the  soft  sunbeam  of  my  clouded  soul. 

Ah,  dear  Honora  !  that  remember' d  day, 
First  on   these   eyes  when    shone   thy  early 

ray! 
Scarce  o'er  my  head  twice  seven  gay  springs 

had  gone. 
Scarce   five   o'er   thy  unconscious   childhood 

flown. 


When,  fair  as  their  young  flowers,  thy  infant 

frame 
To  our  glad  walls  a  happy  inmate  came. 

0  summer  morning  of  unrivall'd  light ! 
Fate  wrapt  thy  rising  in  prophetic  white  I 
June,  the  bright  month,  when  nature  joys  to 

wear 
The  livery  of  the  gay,  consummate  year, 
Gave  that  envermiled  dayspring  all  her  powers, 
Gemm'd  the  light  leaves,  and  glow'd  upon  the 

flowers ; 
Bade  her  plumed  nations  hail  the  rosy  ray 
With  warbled  orisons  from  every  spray. 
Purpureal  Tempo,  not  to  thee  belong 
More   poignant    fragrance    or    more   jocund 

song. 
Thrice   happy    day !    thy   clear   auspicious 

Ught 
Gave  "  future  years  a  tincture  of  thy  white  ;  " 
Well  may  her  strains  thy  votive  hymn  decree, 
Whose  sweetest  pleasures  found  their  source 

in  thee ; 
The  purest,  best  that  memory  explores, 
Safe  in  the  past's  inviolable  stores. 
The  ardent  progress  of  thy  shining  hours 
Beheld  me  rove  through  Lichfield's  verdant 

bowers. 
Thoughtless  and  gay,  and  volatile  and  vain. 
Circled  by  nymphs  and  youths,  a  frolic  train  ; 
Though  conscious  that  a  little  orphan  child 
Had  to  my  parents'  guidance,  kind  and  mild. 
Recent    been   summon' d,    when   disease   and 

death 
Shed  dark  stagnation  o'er  her  mother's  breath. 
While  eight  sweet  infants'  wailful  cries  de- 
plore 
What  not  the  tears  of  innocence  restore  ; 
And  while  the  husband  mourn'd  his  widow'd 

doom, 
And  hung  despondent  o'er  the  closing  tomb. 
To  us  this  loveliest  scion  he  consign' d, 
Its  beauty  blossoming,  its  opening  mind. 
His  heartfelt  loss  had  drawn  my  April  tears, 
But  childish,  womanish,  ambiguoiis  years 
Find  all  their  griefs  as  vanishing  as  keen ; 
Youth's  rising  sun    soon  gilds   the  showery 

scene. 
On  the  expected  trust  no  thought  I  bent. 
Unknown  the  day,  unheeded  the  event. 
One  sister  dear,  from  spleen,  from  falsehood 

free. 
Rose  to  the  verge  of  womanhood  with  me ; 
Gloom'd  by  no  envy,  by  no  discord  jarr'd. 
Our  pleasures  blended,  and  our  studies  shared  ; 
And  when  with  day  and  waking  thoughts  they 

closed. 
On  the  same  couch  our  agile  limbs  reposed. 
Amply  in  friendship  by  her  virtues  blest, 

1  gave  to  youthful  gaiety  the  rest; 
Considering  not  how  near  the  period  drew. 
When  that  transplanted  branch  should  meet 

our  view, 
Wlioso  intellectual  fruits  were  doom'd  to  rise. 
Food  of  the  future's  heart-expanding  joys  ; 
Bom  to  console  mc  when,  by  Fate  severe, 
The  Much-Beloved  should  press  a  timeless  bior. 


Froir.  1780  to  1SG6.] 


THE  LOT  OF  THOUSANDS. 


[Mrs.  Hunter. 


My  friend,  my  sister,  from  my  arms  be  torn, 
Sickening  and  sinking  on  her  bridal  mom ; 
While  Hymen,  speeding  from  this  mournful 

dome, 
Should   drop    his    darken' d   torch   upon   her 

tomb. 
'Twas  eve  ;  the  sun,  in  netting  glory  drest, 
Spread   his    gold    skirts   along    the    crimson 

west; 
A  Sunday's  eve  !     Honora,  bringing  thee. 
Friendship's  soft  Sabbath  long  it  rose  to  me, 
When  on  the  wing  of  circling  seasons  borne. 
Annual  I  hailed  its  consecrated  morn. 

In  the  kind  interchange  of  mutual  thought, 
Our  home  myself,  and  gentle  sister  sought ; 
Our  pleasant  home,  round  which  the  ascending 

gale 
Breathes  all  the  freshness  of  the  sloping  vale  ; 
On  her  green  verge  the  spacious  walls  arise, 
View   her  fair   fields,    and  catch   her   balmy 

sighs ; 
See  her  near  hills  the  bounded  prospect  close, 
And  her  blue  lake  in  glassy  breadth  repose. 
With  arms  entwined,  and   smiHng   as   we 

talk'd, 
To  the  maternal  room  we  careless  walk'd. 
Where  sat  its  honour' d   mistress,  and   with 

smile 
Of  love  indulgent,  from  a  floral  pile 
The  gayest  glory  of  the  summer  bower 
Cull'dfor  the  new-arrived — the  human  flower, 
A  lovely  infant-girl,  who  pensive  stood 
Close  to  her  knees,   and  charm' d   us   as  we 

view'd. 
O  !  hast  thou  mark'd  the  sum'mer's  budded 

rose. 
When   'mid    the    veiling    moss    its    crimson 

glows  ? 
So  bloom' d  the  beauty  of  that  fairy  form, 
So  her  dark  locks  with  golden  tinges  warm, 
Play'd  round  the  timid  curve  of  that  white 

neck. 
And  sweetly  shaded  half  her  blushing  cheek. 
O !  hast  thou  seen  the  star  of  eve  on  high, 
Through   the  soft   dusk  of   summer's  balmy 

sky 
Shed  its  green  light,  and  in  the  glassy  stream 
Eye  the  mild  reflex  of  its  trembling  beam  ? 
So  look'd  on  us  with  tender,  bashful  gaze, 
The  destined  charmer  of  our  youtiiful  days ; 
Whose  soul  its  native  elevation  join'd 
To  the  gay  wildness  of  the  infant  mind ; 
Esteem  and  sacred  confidence  impress 'd, 
While   our   fond   arms    the   beauteous    child 

caress'd. 

Anna  Seward.— Born  1747,  Died  1809. 


1 1 12.— SONG. 

The  season  comes  when  first  we  met. 

But  you  return  no  more  ; 
Why  cannot  I  the  days  foi-get, 

Which  time  can  ne'er  restore  ? 


O  days  too  sweet,  too  bright  to  last, 
Are  you  indeed  for  ever  past  ? 

The  fleeting  shadows  of  delight, 

In  memory  I  trace ; 
In  fancy  stop  their  rapid  flight, 

And  all  the  past  replace : 
But,  ah  !  I  wake  to  endless  woes,  _ 
And  tears  the  fading  visions  close  ! 

2Irs.  Hunter.'— Born  1742,  Died  1821. 


H13.--SONG. 

O  tuneful  voice !  I  still  deplore 

Those  accents  which,  though  heard  no  more. 

Still  vibrate  on  my  heart ; 
In  echo's  cave  I  long  to  dwell, 
And  still  would  hear  the  sad  farewell, 

When  we  were  doom'd  to  part. 

Bright  eyes,  O  that  the  task  were  mine 
To  guard  the  liquid  fires  that  shine, 

And  round  your  orbits  play ; 
To  watch  them  with  a  vestal's  care, 
And  feed  with  smiles  a  light  so  fair. 

That  it  may  ne'er  decay ! 

Mrs.  Hunter.— Bora  1742,  Died  1821. 


1 1 14.  — TO  MY  DAUGHTER,  ON  BEING 
SEPARATED  FROM  HER  ON  HER 
MARRIAGE. 

Dear  to  my  heart  as  life's  warm  stream 
Wliich  animates  this  mortal  clay, 

For  thee  I  court  the  waking  dream, 
And  deck  with  smiles  the  future  day ; 

And  thus  beguile  the  present  pain 

With  hopes  that  we  shall  meet  again. 

Yet,  will  it  be  as  when  the  past 

Twined  every  joy,  and  care,  and  thought. 
And  o'er  our  minds  one  mantle  cast 

Of  kind  affections  finely  wrought  ? 
Ah  no  !  the  groundless  hope  were  vain. 
For  so  we  ne'er  can  meet  again  ! 

May  he  who  claims  thy  tender  heart 
Deserve  its  love,  as  I  have  done  ! 

For,  kind  and  gentle  as  thou  art, 
If  so  beloved,  thou'rt  fairly  won. 

Bright  may  the  sacred  torch  remain. 

And  cheer  thee  till  we  meet  again ! 

Mrs.  Hunter.— Born  1742,  Died  1821. 


1 1 15. —THE  LOT  OF  THOUSANDS. 

When  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart. 
By  secret  sorrow  close  conceal' d. 


Mrs.  Opie.] 


THE  OEPHAN  BOY'S  TALE. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


We  shrink  lest  looks  or  words  impart 
What  must  not  be  reveal' d. 

'Tis  hard  to  smile  when  one  would  weep  ; 

To  speak  when  one  would  silent  be ; 
To  wake  when  one  should  wish  to  sleep, 

And  wake  to  agony. 

Yet  such  the  lot  by  thousands  cast 
Who  wander  in  this  world  of  care, 

Ajid  bend  beneath  the  bitter  blast, 
To  save  them  from  despair. 

But  nature  waits  her  guests  to  greet, 
Where  disappointment  cannot  come ; 

And  time  guides  with  imerring  feet 
The  weary  wanderers  home. 

Mrs.  Hunter.^Boni  1742,  Died  1821. 


1116.— THE  OEPHAN  BOY'S  TALE. 

Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake. 

And  hear  a  helpless  orphan's  tale, 
Ah  !  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake, 

'Tis  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale. 
Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride. 

And  my  brave  father's  hope  and  joy ; 
But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died, 

And  I  am  now  an  ophan  boy. 

Poor  foolish  child !  how  pleased  was  I 

When  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came, 
Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

And  see  the  lighted  windows  flame  ! 
To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought. 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  my  joy ; 
For  with  my  father's  life  'twas  bought, 

And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy. 

The  people's  shouts  were  long  and  loud, 

My  mother,  shuddering,  closed  her  ears  ; 
"  Eejoice  !  rejoice  !  "  still  cried  the  crowd ; 

My  mother  answer'd  with  her  tears. 
"  WTiy  are  you  crying  thus,"  said  I, 

"  While  others  laugh  and  shout  with  joy  ? 
She  kiss'd  me — and  with  such  a  sigh  ! 

She  call'd  me  her  poor  orphan  boy. 

"  What  is  an  orphan  boy  ?  "  I  cried. 
As  in  her  face  I  look'd,  and  smiled  ; 

My  mother  through  her  tears  replied, 
"  You'U  know  too  soon,  ill-fated  chUd  !" 

And  now  they've  toll'd  my  mother's  knell, 
And  I'm  no  more  a  parent's  joy  ; 

0  lady,  I  have  learn' d  too  well 

■  WTmt  'tis  to  be  an  orphan  boy  I 

Oh  !  were  I  by  your  bounty  fed  ! 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide — 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread  ; 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep  ! — ah  P — this  to  me  ? 

You'll  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ  ? 


Look  down,  dear  parents  !  look,  and  see 
Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy  ! 

Mrs.  Opie.— Bom  1769,  Died  1853. 


1 1 17.— A  LAMENT. 

There  was  an  eye  whose  partial  glance 
Could  ne'er  my  numerous  failings  see ; 

There  was  an  ear  that  still  imtired 
Could  listen  to  kind  praise  of  me. 

There  was  a  heart  Time  only  made 
For  me  with  fonder  feelings  burn ; 

And  which  whene'er,  alas  !  I  roved, 
Still  longed  and  pined  for  my  return. 

There  was  a  lip  which  always  breathed 

E'en  short  farewells  with  tones  of  sadness ; 

There  was  a  voice  whose  eager  sound 

My  welcome  spoke  with  heartfelt  gladness. 


There  was  a  mind,  whose  vigorous  powers 
On  mine  its  fostering  influence  threw  ; 

And  called  my  humble  talents  forth. 
Till  thence  its  dearest  joys  it  drew. 

There  was  a  love  that  oft  for  me 
With  anxious  fears  would  overflow  ; 

And  wept  and  pray  for  me,  and  sought 
From  future  ills  to  guard — but  now 

That  eye  is  closed,  and  deaf  that  ear. 
That  lip  and  voice  are  mute  for  ever  ! 

And  cold  that  heart  of  faithful  love, 

Which  death  alone  from  mine  could  sever  ! 

And  lost  to  me  that  ardent  mind. 
Which  loved  my  varied  tasks  to  see ; 

And,  Oh  !  of  all  the  praise  I  gain'd. 
This  was  the  dearest  far  to  me. 

Now  I,  unloved,  uncheer'd,  alone. 
Life's  dreary  wilderness  must  tread, 

Till  He  who  loves  the  broken  heart 
In  mercy  bids  me  join  the  dead. 

But,  "Father  of  the  fatherless," 

0  !  Thou  that  hear'st  the  orphan's  cry. 
And  "  dwellest  with  the  contrite  heart," 

As  weU  as  in  "  Thy  place  on  high." — 

0  Lord  !  though  like  a  faded  leaf, 
That's  sever' d  from  its  parent  tree, 

1  struggle  down  life's  stormy  tide, 
That  awful  tide  which  leads  to  Thee.  — 

Still,  Lord  !  to  thee  the  voice  of  praise 

Shall  spring  triumphant  from  my  breast ; 
Since,  though  I  tread  a  weary  way, 

1  trust  that  he  I  mourn  is  blest  ! 

Mrs.  Opic.—Born  1769,  Died  1853. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  HIGHLAND  POOR. 


[Mrs.  Grant. 


1 1 18.— SONG. 

Go,  youth  beloved,  in  distant  glades 

New  friends,  new  hopes,  new  joys  to  find  ! 
Yet  sometimes  deign,  'midst  fairer  maids, 

To  think  on  her  thou  leav'st  behind. 
Thy  love,  thy  fate,  dear  youth,  to  share, 

Must  never  be  my  happy  lot ; 
But  thou  mayst  grant  this  humble  prayer, 

Forget  me  not !  forget  me  not ! 

Yet,  should  the  thought  of  my  distress 

Too  painful  to  thy  feelings  be, 
Heed  not  the  wish  I  now  express. 

Nor  ever  deign  to  think  on  me  : 
But  oh  !  if  grief  thy  steps  attend. 

If  want,  if  sickness  be  thy  lot, 
And  thou  requii-e  a  soothing  friend. 

Forget  me  not !  forget  me  not ! 

Mrs.  Opic.—Born  1769,  Died  1853. 


1 1 19.— ON  A  SPEIG  OF  HEATH. 

Flower  of  the  waste  !  the  heath-fowl  shuns 
For  thee  the  brake  and  tangled  wood — 

To  thy  protecting  shade  she  runs. 
Thy  tender  buds  supply  her  food  ; 

Her  young  forsake  her  downy  plumes, 

To  rest  upon  thy  opening  blooms. 

Flower  of  the  desert  though  thou  art ! 

The  deer  that  range  the  mountain  free, 
The  graceful  doe,  the  stately  hart. 

Their  food  and  shelter  seek  from  thee ; 
The  bee  thy  earliest  blossom  greets, 
And  draws  from  thee  her  choicest  sweets. 

Gem  of  the  heath  !  whose  modest  bloom 
Sheds  beauty  o'er  the  lonely  moor  ; 

Though  thou  dispense  no  rich  perfume. 
Nor  yet  with  splendid  tints  allure. 

Both  valour's  crest  and  beauty's  bower 

Oft  hast  thou  deck'd,  a  favourite  flower. 

Flower  of  the  wild  !  whose  purple  glow 
Adorns  the  dusky  mountain's  side, 

Not  the  gay  hues  of  Iris'  bow, 
Nor  garden's  artful  varied  pride, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  sweets  could  cheer, 

Like  thee,  the  hardy  mountaineer. 

Flower  of  his  heart !  thy  fragrance  mild 
Of  peace  and  freedom  seem  to  breathe  ; 

To  pluck  thy  blossoms  in  the  \\dld. 
And  deck  his  bonnet  with  the  wreath, 

"Where  dwelt  of  old  his  rustic  sires. 

Is  all  his  simple  wish  requires. 

Flower  of  his  dear-loved  native  land  ! 

Alas,  when  distant  far  more  dear ! 
When  he  from  some  cold  foreign  strand, 

Looks  homeward  through  the  blinding  tear, 
How  must  his  aching  heart  deplore, 
That  home  and  thee  he  sees  no  more  ! 

Mrs.  Grant.— Born  1754,  Died  1838. 


120.— THE  HIGHLAND  POOE. 


the 


Where   yonder   ridgy   moiintains   bound 

scene. 
The  narrow  opening  glens  that  intervene 
Still  shelter,  in  some  lowly  nook  obscure. 
One   poorer   than    the    rest — where    all    are 

poor ;  —     _ 

Some  widowed  matron,  hopeless  of  relief. 
Who  to  her  secret  breast  confines  her  grief ; 
Dejected  sighs  the  wintry  night  away. 
And  lonely  muses  all  the  summer  day  : 
Her   gallant   sons,    who,  smit  with  honour's 

charms, 
Pursued  the  phantom  Fame  through  war's 

alarms, 
Return  no  more;    stretch' d   on   Hindostan's 

plain. 
Or  sunk  beneath  the  unfathomable  main  ; 
In  vain  her  eyes  the  watery  waste  explore 
For  heroes — fated  to  return  no  more ! 
Let   others    bless    the    morning's   reddening 

beam. 
Foe    to    her    peace — it    breaks    the   illusive 

dream 
That,  in  their  prime  of  manly  bloom  confest, 
Eestored  the  long-lost  warriors  to  her  breast ; 
And  as  they  strove,  with  smiles  of  filial  love. 
Their  widowed  parent's  anguish  to  remove. 
Through   her   small   casement  broke  the  in- 
trusive day, 
And  chased  the  pleasing  images  away  ! 
No  time  can  e'er  her  banish' d  joys  restore. 
For  ah !  a  heart  once  broken  heals  no  more. 
The  dewy  beams  that  gleam  from  pity's  eye. 
The  "  stiU  small  voice  "  of  sacred  sympathy. 
In  vain  the  mourner's  sorrows  would  beguile, 
Or  steal  from  weary  wo  one  languid  smile  ; 
Yet   what    they    can    they    do — the    scanty 

store. 
So  often  open'd  for  the  wandering  poor, 
To  her  each  cottager  complacent  deals, 
While   the   kind   glance    the    melting    heart 

reveals  ; 
And  stiU,  when  evening  streaks  the  west  with 

gold. 
The   milky  tribute  from  the  lowing  fold 
With  cheerful  haste  officious  children  bring, 
And   every   smiling   flower    that    decks    the 

spring  : 
Ah  !  little  know  the  fond  attentive  train. 
That  spring  and  flowerets  smile  for  her  in 

vain  : 
Yet  hence  they  learn  to  reverence  modest  woe. 
And  of  their  little  all  a  pax*t  bestow. 
Let   those   to   wealth   and  proud  distinction 

born. 
With  the  cold  glance  of  insolence  and  scorn 
Eegard  the   suppliant  wretch,    and    harshly 

grieve 
The  bleeding  heart  their  bounty  would  relieve  : 
Far  different  these;  while  from  a  bounteous 

heart 
With  the  poor  sufi'erer  they  divide  a  part ; 
Humbly  they  o'svn  that  all  they  have  is  given 
A  boon  precarious  from  indulgent  Heaven  : 


Mary  Tighe.]  THE  MAEEIAGE  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.     [Seventh  Period.— 


And  the  next  blighted  crop  or  frosty  spring 
Themselves  to  equal  indigence  may  bring. 

3Irs,  Gmnt—Boni  1754,  Died  1838. 


1 12 1. —THE  MAERIAGE  OF  CUPID  AND 
PSYCHE  J  PSYCHE'S  BANISHMENT. 

-She  rose,  and  all  enchanted  gazed 


On  the  rare  beauties  of  the  pleasant  scene  : 
Conspicuous  far,  a  lofty  palace  blazed 
Upon  a  sloping  bank  of  softest  green ; 
A  fairer  edifice  was  never  seen  ; 
The  high-rang' d  columns   own   no   mortal 

hand, 
But    seem    a    temple    meet   for   Beauty's 

queen ; 
Like    polished     snow    the    marble    pillars 
stand, 
In  grace-attemper' d  majesty,  sublimely  grand. 

Gently  ascending  from  a  silvery  flood. 
Above  the  palace  rose  the  shaded  hill, 
The  lofty  eminence  was  crown' d  with  Avood, 
And  the  rich   lawns,   adorn' d  by  nature's 

skill, 
The  passing  breezes  with  their  odours  fill ; 
Here  ever-blooming  groves  of  orange  glow, 
And   here    all    flowers,    which   from   their 

leaves  distil 
Ambrosial  dew,  in  sweet  succession  blow,  ■ 
And  trees  of  matchless  size  a  fragrant  shade 

bestow. 

The  sun  looks  glorious  'mid  a  sky  serene. 
And  bids  bright  lustre  sparkle  o'er  the  tide  ; 
The  clear  blue  ocean  at  a  distance  seen, 
Bounds  the  gay  landscape  on  the  western 

side. 
While  closing  round  it  with  majestic  pride. 
The  lofty  rocks  mid  citron  groves  arise  ; 
"  Sure  some  divinity  must  here  reside," 
As  tranced  in  some  bright  vision,  Psyche 

cries. 
And  scarce  beheves  the  bliss,  or  trusts  her 

charmed  eyes. 

When  lo  !  a  voice  divinely  sweet  she  hears, 
From   xmseen  lips   proceeds   the    heavenly 

sound  : 
"  Psyche  approach,  dismiss  thy  timid  fears. 
At  length  his  bride  thy  longing  spouse  has 

found, 
And  bids  for  thee  immortal  joys  abound  ; 
For  thee  the  palace  rose  at  his  command. 
For  thee  his  love  a  bridal  banquet  crown' d; 
He   bids   attendant   nymphs    around   thee 

stand. 
Prompt  every  wish  to  serve — a  fond  obedient 

band." 

Increasing  wonder  fiU'd  her  ravish'd  soul. 
For  now  the  pompous  portals  open'd  wide, 


There,    pausing   oft,    with   timid   foot   she 

stole 
Through  haUs  high-domed,    enrich'd    with 

sculptured  pride. 
While  gay  saloons  appear' d  on  either  side, 
In  splendid  vista  opening  to  her  sight ; 
And  all  vclth  precious  gems  so  beautified, 
And  furnish' d  with  such  exquisite  delight, 
That  scarce  the  beams  of  heaven  emit  such 

lustre  bright. 

The  amethyst  was  there  of  violet  hu6 
And  there  the  topaz  shed  its  golden  ray, 
The  chrysoberyl,  and  the  sapphire  blue 
As  the  clear  azure  of  a  sunny  day, 
Or  the  mild   eyes   where  amorous  glances 

play ; 
The    snow-white   jasper,    and    the    opal's 

flame, 
The  blushing  ruby,  and  the  agate  gray, 
I        And  there  the  gem  which  bears  his  luckless 

name 
Whose  death,   by  Phoebus  mourn"d,  insured 

him  deathless  fame. 

There  the  green  emerald,  there  cornelians 

glow, 
And  rich  carbuncles  pour  eternal  Hght, 
With  all  that  India  and  Peru  can  show, 
Or  Labrador  can  give  so  flaming  bright 
To     the     charm'd    mariner's    half-dazzled 

sight : 
The  coral- paved  baths  with  diamonds  blaze  ; 
And  all  that  can  the  female  heart  delight 
Of  fair  attire,  the  last  recess  displays. 
And  all  that  luxury  can  ask,  her  eye  surveys. 

Now  through   the    hall    melodious    music 

stole. 
And    self-prepared    the    splendid   banquet 

stands. 
Self -poured  the  nectar  sparkles  in  the  bowl. 
The  lute  and  viol,  touch' d  by  unseen  hands. 
Aid  the  soft  voices  of  the  choral  bands ; 
O'er  the  full  board  a  brighter  lustre  beams 
Than  Persia's  monarch  at  his  feast  com- 
mands : 
For  sweet  refreshment  all  inviting  seems 
To  taste  celestial  fpod,  and  pure  ambrosial 
streams. 

I        But    when   meek   eve  hung  out  her  dewy 
star, 
And  gently  veiled  with  gradual  hand  the 

sky, 
Lo  !  the  bright  folding  doors  retiring  far. 
Display  to  Psyche's  captivated  eye 
All     that     voluptuous     ease     could     o'er 

supply 
To  soothe  the  spirits  in  serene  repose  : 
Beneath  the  velvet's  purple  canopy. 
Divinely  form'd  a  downy  couch  arose, 
'   While  alabaster  lamps  a  milky  light  disclose. 

Once  more  she  hears  the  hymeneal  strain ; 
Far  other  voices  now  attune  the  lay  ; 


From  1780  to  1866.]         THE  MAEEIAGE  OF  CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.  [Makt  Tighe. 


The     swelling     sounds     approach,    awhile 

remain, 
And  then  retiring,  faint  dissolved  away  ; 
The  expiring  lamps  emit  a  feebler  ray, 
And    soon   in   fragrant  death  extinguish' d 

He: 
Then  virgin  terrors  Psyche's  soul  dismay. 
When  through    th'    obscuring   gloom   she 

nought  can  spy. 
But  softly  rustling  sounds  declare  some  being 

nigh. 

Oh,  you  for  whom  I  write !  whose  hearts 

can  melt 
At  the  soft   thrilKng  voice   whose   power 

you  prove, 
You  know  what  charm,  unutterably  felt, 
Attends  the  unexpected  voice  of  love  : 
Above  the  lyre,  the  lute's  soft  notes  above. 
With   sweet    enchantment    to   the    soul  it 

steals, 
And  bears  it  to  Elysium's  happy  grove ; 
You  best  can  tell  the  rapture  Psyche  feels. 
When  love's  ambrosial  lip  the  vows  of  Hymen 

seals. 

"  'Tis  he,  'tis  my  deliverer !  deep  imprest 
Upon  my  heart  those  sounds  I  well  recall," 
The   blushing   maid  exclaim' d,  and  on  his 

breast 
A  tear  of  trembling  ecstasy  let  fall. 
But,  ere  the  breezes  of  the  morning  call 
Aurora  from  her  purple,  humid  bed. 
Psyche  in  vain  explores  the  vacant  hall ; 
Her  tender  lover  from  her  arms  is  fled, 
WTiile  sleep  his  downy  wings    had    o'er  her 

eyelids  spread. 

***** 
Illumined   bright  now  shines  the  splendid 

dome. 
Melodious  accents  her  arrival  hail : 
But   not    the  torch's  blaze  can  chase  the 

gloom. 
And  all  the  soothing  powers  of  music  fail ; 
Trembling  she  seeks  her  couch  with  horror 

pale,  • 

But  first  a  lamp  conceals  in  secret  shade. 
While  unknown  terrors  all  her  soul  assail. 
Thus   half    their    treacherous    counsel    is 

obey'd. 
For  still  her  gentle  soul  abhors  the  murderous 

blade. 

And  now  with  softest  whispers  of  delight, 
Love   welcomes   Psyche    still  more  fondly 

dear; 
Not   unobserv'd,    though    hid    in    deepest 

night. 
The  silent  anguish  of  her  secret  fear. 
He  thisks  that  tenderness  excites  the  tear, 
By  the  late  image  of  her  parent's  grief, 
And  half  offended  seeks  in  vain  to  cheer  ; 
Yet,    while    he    speaks,    her   sorrows  feel 
relief. 
Too   soon  more  keen  to  sting  from  this  sus- 
pension brjef ! 


Allow'd  to  settle  on  celestial  eyes, 
Soft  sleep,  exulting,  now  exerts  his  sway. 
From  Psyche's  anxious  piUow  gladly  flies 
To  veil  those  orbs,  whose  pure  and  lambent 

ray 
The  powers  of  heaven  submissively  obey. 
Trembling  and  breathless  then  shs  softly 

rose. 
And  seized  the  lamp,   where   it  obscurely 

lay, 
With  hand  too  rashly  daring  to  disclose 
The  sacred  veil  which  hung  mysterious  o'er 

her  woes. 

Twice,  as  with  agitated  step  she  went, 
The   lamp   expiring   shone    with    doubtful 

gleam. 
As   though   it   warn'd   her  from  her  rash 

intent : 
And  twice  she  paused,  and  on  its  trembling 

beam 
Gazed  with  suspended  breath,  while  voices 


With  murmuring  sound  along  the  roof  to 

sigh; 
As  one  just  waking  from  a  troublous  dream, 
With  palpitating  heart  and  straining  eye, 
StiU  fix'd  with  fear  remains,  still  thinks  the 

danger  nigh. 

Oh,  daring  Muse  !  wilt  thou  indeed  essay 
To   paint   the   wonders   which   that    lamp 

covild  show  ? 
And  canst  thou  hope  in  living  words  to  say 
The  dazzling  glories  of  that  heavenly  view  ? 
Ah  !   well  I  ween,  that  if  with  pencil  true 
That  splendid  vision  could  be  well  express' d, 
The  fearful  awe  imprudent  Psyche  knew 
Would  seize  with  rapture  every  wondering 

breast, 
Wlien  Love's  all-potent  charms  divinely  stood 

confess'd. 

All  imperceptible  to  human  touch. 
His  "svings  display  celestial  essence  light ; 
The  clear  effulgence  of  the  blaze  is  such, 
The  brilliant   plumage    shines  so  heavenly 

bright. 
That  mortal  eyes   turn   dazzled  from  the 

sight ; 
A  youth  he  seems,  in  manhood's  freshest 

years ; 
Bound    his    fair    neck,    as    chnging    with 

delight. 
Each  golden  curl  resplendently  appears, 
Or    shades    his    darker    brow,    which   grace 

majestic  wears : 

Or   o'er    his    guileless    front    the   ringlets 

bright 
Their  rays  of  sunny  lustre  seem  to  throw, 
That  front  than  polished  ivory  more  white  ! 
His  blooming  cheeks  with  deeper  blushes 

glow 
Than  roses  scatter' d  o'er  a  bed  of  snow : 
While  on  his  lips,  distill'd  in  balmy  dews 


Maut  Tighe.] 


THE  LILY. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


(Those  lips    di-vine,    that    even   in    silence 

know 
The  heart  to  touch),  persuasion  to  infuse, 
Still  hangs  a  rosy  charm  that  never  vainly 

sues. 

The  friendly  curtain  of  indulgent  sleep 
Disclosed  not  yet  his  eyes'  resistless  sway, 
But  from  their  silky  veil  there  seem'd  to 

peep 
Some  brilliant  glances  with  a  softened  ray, 
Which  o'er  his  features  exquisitely  play. 
And   all  his   polish' d    Hmbs    suffuse   with 

light. 
Thus  through  some  narrow  space  the  azure 

day, 
Sudden  its  cheerful  rays  diffusing  bright, 
Wide  darts  its  lucid  beams,  to  gild  the  brow 

of  night. 

His  fatal  arrowa  and  celestial  bow 
Beside  the  couch  were  negligently  thrown, 
Nor   needs   the   god   his  dazzling  arms  to 

shoAv 
His  glorious  birth  ;  such  beauty  round  him 

shone 
As   sure   could   spring   from  Beauty's  self 

alone ; 
The  bloom   which  glow'd    o'er  all  of  soft 

desire 
Could  well  proclaim  him  Beauty's  cherish' d 

son : 
And   Beauty's   self    will   oft  those  charms 

admire. 
And    steal   his   witching   smile,   his   glance's 

living  fire. 

Speechless  with  awe,  in  transport  strangely 

lost, 
Long  Psyche  stood  with  fix'd  adoring  eye ; 
Her  limbs  immovable,  her  senses  toss'd 
Between  amazement,  fear,  and  ecstasy. 
She  ha-ngs  enamour'd  o'er  the  deity. 
Till  from  her  trembling  hand  extinguish' d 

falls 
The  fatal  lamp — he  starts — and  suddenly 
Tremendous    thunders    echo    through    the 

halls, 
While  ruin's  hideous   crash   bursts   o'er   th' 

affrighted  walls. 

Dread  horror  seizes  on  her  sinking  heart, 
A  mortal  chillness  shudders  at  her  breast, 
Her  soul  shrinks  fainting  from  death's  icy 

dart. 
The   groan   scarce    utter'd    dies   but   half 

express' d. 
And    down    she    sinks    in    deadly    swoon 

oppress'd  ; 
But    when   at   length,    awaking   from   her 

trance. 
The  terrors  of  her  fate  stand  all  confess'd, 
In  vain  she  casts  around  her  timid  glance  ; 
The   rudely  frowning  scenes  her  former  joys 

enhance. 


No  traces  of  those  joys,  alas,  remain  ! 

A  desert  solitude  alone  appears  ; 

No  verdant  shade  relieves  the  sandy  plain, 

The  wide-spread  waste  no  gentle  fountain 

cheers ; 
One  barren  face  the  dreary  prospect  wears  : 
Nought  through  the  vast  horizon  meets  her 

eye 
To  calm  the  dismal  tumult  of  her  fears  ; 
No  trace  of  human  habitation  nigh  : 
A  sandy  wild  beneath,  above  a  threatening 

sky. 
Mary  TigJie.—Bom  1773,  Died  1810. 


1 1 22.— THE  LILY. 

How  withered,  perish'd  seems  the  form 

Of  yon  obscure  unsightly  root ! 
Yet  from  the  blight  of  wintry  storm, 

It  hides  secure  the  precious  fruit. 

The  careless  eye  can  find  no  grace, 

No  beauty  in  the  scaly  folds, 
Nor  see  within  the  dark  embrace 

What  latent  loveliness  it  holds. 

Yet  in  that  bulb,  those  sapless  scales, 

The  lily  wraps  her  silver  vest. 
Till  vernal  suns  and  vernal  gales 

Shall  kiss  once  *more  her  fragrant  breast. 

Yes,  hide  beneath  the  mouldering  heap 
The  undelighting  slighted  thing  ; 

There  in  the  cold  earth  buried  deep, 
In  silence  let  it  wait  the  spring. 

Oh !  many  a  stormy  night  shall  close 
In  gloom  upon  the  barren  earth, 

While  still,  in  undisturb'd  repose, 
Uninjured  lies  the  future  birth  : 

And  Ignorance  with  sceptic  eye, 

Hope's  patient  smile  shall  wondering  view ; 
^r  mock  her  fond  credulity, 

As  her  soft  tears  the  spot  bedew. 

Sweet  smile  of  hope,  delicious  tear ! 

The  sun,  the  shower  indeed  shall  come  ; 
The  promis'd  verdant  shoot  appear. 

And  nature  bid  her  blossoms  bloom. 

And  thou,  O  virgin  queen  of  spring  ! 

Shalt,  from  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed. 
Bursting  thy  green  sheath's  silken  string, 

Unveil  thy  charms  and  perfume  shed  ; 

Unfold  thy  robes  of  purest  white. 

Unsullied  from  their  darksome  grave, 

And  thy  soft  petals'  silvery  light 
In  the  mild  breeze  unfettered  waVfe. 

So  Faith  shall  seek  the  lowly  dust  ' 
Where  humble  Sorrow  loves  to  Ke, 

And  bid  her  thus  her  hopes  intrust. 
And  watch  with  patient,  ^cheerful  eye ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  FAEMER'S  LIFE. 


[RoBT.  Bloomfield. 


And  bear  the  long,  cold  wintry  night, 
And  bear  her  own  degraded  doom  ; 

And  wait  till  Heaven's  reviving  light, 
Eternal  spring !  shall  burst  the  gloom. 

Mary  Tighe.—Born  1773,  Died  1810. 


1 123. 


-THE  FARMER'S  LIFE. 


The  farmer's  life  displays  ra  every  part 
A  moral  lesson  to  the  sensual  heart. 
Though  in  the  lap  of  plenty,  thoughtful  still, 
He  looks  beyond  the  present  good  or  Ul ; 
Nor  estimates  alone  one  blessing's  worth, 
From  changeful  seasons,  or  capricious  earth ! 
But  views  the  future  with  the  present  hours, 
And  looks  for  failures  as  he  looks  for  showers ; 
For  casual  as  for  certain  want  prepares, 
And   round   his   yard   the   reeking   haystack 

rears ; 
Or  clover,  blossom' d  lovely  to  the  sight, 
His  team's  rich  store  through  many  a  wintry 

night. 
What  though  abundance  round  his  dwelling 

spreads. 
Though  ever  moist  his  self-improving  meads 
Supply  his  dairy  with  a  copious  flood. 
And  seem  to  promise  unexhausted  food ; 
That  promise  fails  when  buried  deep  in  snow. 
And  vegetative  juices  cease  to  flow. 
For  this   his  plough  turns   up  the  destined 

lands. 
Whence  stormy  winter  draws  its  full  demands  ; 
For  this  the  seed  minutely  small  he  sows, 
Whence,  sound  and  sweet,  the  hardy  turnip 

^ows. 
But  how  unlike  to  April's  closing  days  ! 
High  climbs  the  sun  and  darts  his  powerful 

rays; 
Whitens  the  fresh-drawn  mould,  and  pierces 

through 
The  cumbrous  clods  that  tumble  round  the 

plough. 
O'er  heaven's  bright  azure,  hence  with  jojrful 

eyes 
The  farmer  sees  dark  clouds  assembling  rise  ; 
Borne  o'er  his  flelds  a  heavy  torrent  falls, 
And  strikes  the  earth  in  hasty  driving  squalls. 
"  Right   welcome  down,  ye  precious  drops," 

he  cries ; 
But  soon,  too  soon,  the  partial  blessing  flies.  • 
"  Boy,  bring  the  harrows,  try  how  deep  the 

rain 
Has  forced  its  way."    He  comes,  but  comes  in 

vain  ; 
Dry  dust  beneath  the  bubbling  surface  lurks, 
And  mocks  his  pains  the  more  the  more  he 

works. 
Still,  'midst  huge  clods,  he  plunges  on  forlorn, 
That  laugh  his  harrows  and  the  showers  to 

scorr.. 
E'en  thus  the  living  clod,  the  stubborn  fool. 
Resists  the  stormy  lectures  of  the  school, 


Till  tried  with   gentler  means,  the  dunce  to 

please, 
His  head  imbibes  right  reason  by  degrees  ; 
As    when   from   eve   till    morning's   wakeful 

hour, 
Light  constant  rain  evinces  secret  power, 
And,  ere  the  day  resumes  its  wonted  smiles. 
Presents  a  cheerful  easy  task  for  Giles. 
Down  with  a  touch  the  mellow  soil  is  laid, 
And  yon  tall  crop  next  claims  his  timely  aid ; 
Thither  well-pleased  he  hies,  assured  to  find 
Wild   trackless   haimts,    and   objects   to   his 

mind. 
Shut  up  from  broad  rank  blades  that  droop 

below. 
The  nodding  wheat-ear  forms  a  graceful  bow, 
With    milky   kernels    starting    full    weigh' d 

down. 
Ere  yet  the   sun  hath  tinged  its  head  with 

brown : 
There  thousands  in  a  flock,'for  ever  gay. 
Loud  chirping  sparrows  welcome  in  the  day, 
And  from  the  mazes  of  the  leafy  thorn 
Drop  one  by  one  upon  the  bending  com. 
Giles  with  a  pole  assails  their  close  retreats, 
And    round    the    grass-grown    dewy    border 

beats. 
On  either  side  completely  overspread, 
Here  branches  bend,  there  com  o'erstoops  his 

head. 
Green  covert  hail !  for  through  the  varying 

year 
No  hours  so  sweet,  no  scene  to  him  so  dear. 
Here  Wisdom's  placid  eye  delighted  sees 
His  frequent  intervals  of  lonely  ease. 
And  with  one  ray  his  infant  soul  inspires, 
Just  kindling  there  her  never-dying  fires. 
Whence  solitude  derives  peculiar  charms. 
And  heaven-directed  thought  his  bosom  warms. 
Just  where  the  parting  bough's  light  shadows 

play, 
Scarce  in  the  shade,  nor  in  the   scorching 

day, 
Stretch'd  on  the  turf  he  lies,  a  peopled  bed, 
Where   swarming  insects    creep   around   his 

head. 
The    small   dust-colour'd  beetle   climbs  with 

pain 
O'er  the   smooth   plantain  leaf,   a   spacious 

plain  ! 
Thence  higher  still,  by  countless  steps  con- 
vey'd, 
He  gains  the  summit  of  a  shivering  blade, 
And  flirts  his  filmy  wings,  and  looks  around, 
Exulting  in  his  distance  from  the  ground. 
The  tender  speckled  moth  here  dancing  seen. 
The  vaulting  grasshopper  of  glossy  green, 
And  all  prolific  Summer's  sporting  train. 
Their  Httle  lives  by  various  powers  sustain. 
But  what  can  unassisted  vision  do  ? 
What  but  recoil  where  most  it  would  pursue ; 
His  patient  gaze  but  finish  with  a  sigh, 
When  Music  waking  speaks  the  skylark  nigh. 
Just  starting  from  the  corn,  he  cheerily  sings, 
And  trusts  with  conscious  pride  his  downy 

wings; 

57* 


RoBT.  Bloomfield.]        banquet  OF  AN  ENGLISH  SQUIEE.        [Seventh  Period.— 


Still  louder  breathes,  and  in  the  face  of  day- 
Mounts  up,  and  calls    on  Giles  to  mark  his 

way. 
Close  to  his  eyes  his  hat  he  instant  bends, 
And  forms  a  friendly  telescope,  that  lends 
Just  aid  enough  to  dull  the  glaring  light, 
And  place  the  wandering  bird  before  his  sight, 
That  oft  beneath  a  light  cloud  sweeps  along, 
Lost  for  awhile,  yet  pours  the  varied  song ; 
The  eye  still  follows,  and  the  cloud  moves  by. 
Again  he  stretches  up  the  clear  blue  sky ; 
His  form,  his  motion,  undistinguish'd  quite, 
Save   when  he  wheels  direct  from  shade  to 

Hght: 
E'en  then  the  songster  a  mere  speck  became, 
Gliding  like  fancy's  bubbles  in  a  dream, 
The  gazer  sees ;  but  yielding  to  repose, 
Unwittingly  his  jaded  eyelids  close. 
Delicious  sleep !     From  sleep  who  could  for- 
bear, 
With  guHt  no  more  than  Giles,  and  no  more 

care; 
Peace  o'er  his  slumbers  waves  her  guardian 

wing, 
Nor   Conscience   once   disturbs    him   with   a 

sting ; 
He  wakes  refresh' d  from  every  trivial  pain. 
And  takes  his  pole,  and  brushes  round  again. 
Its   dark  green  hue,  its   sicklier   tints  all 

fail, 
And  ripening  harvest  rustles  in  the  gale. 
A  glorious  sight,  if  glory  dwells  below, 
Where  heaven's  munificence  makes  all  things 

show. 
O'er  every  field  and  golden  prospect  found. 
That  glads  the  ploughman's  Sunday  morning's 

round ; 
When  on  some  eminence  he  takes  his  stand, 
To  judge  the  smiling  produce  of  the  land. 
Here  Vanity  slinks  back,  her  head  to  hide ; 
What  is  there  here  to  flatter  human  pride  ? 
The  towering  fabric,  or  the  dome's  loud  roar, 
And  steadfast  columns  may  astonish  more. 
Where  the  charm' d  gazer  long  delighted  stays, 
Yet  traced  but  to  the  architect  the  praise ; 
Whilst  here  the  veriest  clown  that  treads  the 

sod. 
Without  one  scruple  gives  the  praise  to  God  ; 
And  twofold  joys  possess  his  raptured  mind, 
From  gratitude  and  admiration  join'd. 
Here,    'midst    the   boldest   triumphs   of    her 

worth. 
Nature  herself  invites  the  reapers  forth ; 
Dares  the  keen  sickle  from  its  twelvemonth's 

rest, 
And  gives  that  ardour  which  in  every  breast 
From  infancy  to  ago  alike  appears, 
When  the  first  sheaf  its  plumy  top  uprears. 
No    rake    takes    here   what    Heaven   to    all 

bestows — 
Children  of  want,  for  you  the  bounty  flows  ! 
And  every  cottage  from  the  plenteous  store 
Receives  a  burden  nightly  at  its  door. 

Hark !  where  the  sweeping  scythe  now  rips 

along ; 
Each  sturdy  mower,  emulous  and  strong, 


Whose  writhing  form  meridian  heat  defies, 
Bends  o'er  his  work,  and  every  sinew  tries  ; 
Prostrates  the  waving  treasure  at  his  feet. 
But  spares  the  rising  clover,  short  and  sweet. 
Come    Health!    come    Jollity!    light-footed 

come ; 
Here  hold  your  revels,   and  make  this  your 

home. 
Each  heart  awaits  and  hails  you  as  its  own  : 
Each  moisten' d  brow  that  scorns  to  wear  a 

frown : 
The  unpeopled   dwelling   mourns  its  tenants 

stray'd : 
E'en  the  domestic  laughing  dairymaid 
Hies  to  the  field  the  general  toil  to  share. 
Meanwhile  the  farmer  quits  his  elbow-chair, 
His  cool  brick  floor,  his  pitcher,  and  his  ease, 
And  braves  the  sultry  beams,  and  gladly  sees 
His  gates  thrown  open,  and  his  team  abroad, 
The  ready  group  attendant  on  his  word 
To  turn  the  swath,  the  quivering  load  to  rear, 
Or  ply  the  busy  rake  the  land  to  clear. 
Summer's    light   garb   itseK    now   cumbrous 

grown. 
Each  his  thin  doublet  in  the  shade   throws 

down : 
Where  oft  the  mastiff  skulks  with  half- shut 

eye. 
And  rouses  at  the  stranger  passing  by ; 
While  unrestrain'd  the  social  converse  flows. 
And   every   breast   Love's   powerful  impulse 

knows, 
And  rival  wits  with  more  than  rustic  grace 
Confess  the  presence  of  a  pretty  face. 

Robert  Bloomfield.—Born  1766,  Died  1823. 


1 1 24.— BANQUET    OF    AN    ENGLISH 
SQUIRE. 

Then  came  the  jovial  day,  no  streaks  of  red 
O'er   the   broad  portal   of    the    morn    were 

spread, 
But  one  high-sailing  mist  of  dazzling  v/hite, 
A  screen  of  gossamer,  a  magic  light, 
Doom'd    instantly,    by    simplest    shepherd's 

ken, 
To  reign  awhile,  and  be  exhaled  at  ten. 
O'er   leaves,    o'er    blossoms,    by    his    power 

restored, 
Forth   came   the  conquering  sun  and  look'd 

abroad  ; 
Millions  of  dew-drops  feU,  yet  milUons  hung, 
Like   words   of   transport   trembling   on   the 

tongue, 
Too  strong  for  utterance.      Thus  the  infant 

boy. 
With  rosebud  cheeks,  and  features  tuned  to 

joy. 
Weeps  while  he  struggles  with  restraint  or 

pain ; 
But  change  the  scene,  and  make  him  laugh 

again, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  SOLDIER'S  HOME. 


[EoBT.  Bloomfield. 


His  heart  rekindles,  and  his  cheek  appears 
A  thousand  times  more   lovely   through  his 

tears. 
From  the  first  glimpse  of  day,  a  busy  scene 
Was  that   high- swelling  lavm,  that  destined 

green, 
Wliich  shadowless  expanded  far  and  wide, 
The  mansion's  ornament,  the  hamlet's  pride ; 
To  cheer,  to  order,  to  direct,  contrive. 
Even  old  Sir  Ambrose  had  been  up  at  five ; 
There  his  whole  household   labour'd   in   his 

view — 
But  hght  is  labour  where  the  task  is  new. 
Some   wheeled   the  turf  to   build    a    grassy 

throne 
Round  a  huge  thorn  that  spread  his  boughs 

alone, 
Rough-rined  and  bold,  as  master  of  the  place ; 
Five  generations  of  the  Higham  race 
Had  pluck'd  his  flowers,  and  still  he  held  his 

sway, 
Waved  his  white  head,  and  felt  the  breath  of 

May. 
Some   from   the   greenhouse    ranged    exotics 

round, 
To  bask  in  open  day  on  English  ground  : 
And  'midst  them  in  a  hne  of  splendour  drew 
Long  wreaths  and  garlands  gather'd  in  the 

dew. 
Some  spread  the  snowy  canvass,  propp'd  on 

high 
O'er  sheltering  tables  with  their  whole  supply; 
Some  swung  the  biting  scythe  with  merry  face, 
And  cropp'd  the  daisies  for  a  dancing  space ; 
Some  roll'd  the  mouldy  barrel  in  his  might, 
From  prison  darkness  into  cheerful  light. 
And  fenced  him  round  with  cans ;  and  others 

bore 
The  creaking  hamper  with  its  costly  store  ; 
WeU  cork'd,  well  flavour'd,  and  well  tax'd, 

that  came 
From  Lusitanian  mountains  dear  to  fame, 
Whence  Gama  steer' d,  and  led  the  conquering 

way 
To  eastern  triumphs  and  the  realms  of  day. 
A  thousand  minor  tasks  fill'd  every  hour. 
Till  the  sun  gain'd  the  zenith  of  his  power, 
When  every  path  was  thronged  with  old  and 

young. 
And  many  a  skylark  in  liis  strength  upsprung 
To  bid  them  welcome.     Not  a  face  was  there 
But,  for  May-day  at  least,  had  banish' d  care  ; 
No  cringing  looks,  no  pauper  tales  to  tell, 
No   timid  glance — ^they  knew  their  host  too 

well — 
Freedom  was  there,  and  joy  in  every  eye  : 
Such    scenes  were   England's   boast  in  days 

gone  by. 
Beneath   the   thorn   was   good   Sir  Ambrose 

found, 
His  guests  an  ample  crescent  form'd  around  ; 
Nature's  own  carpet  spread  the  space  between. 
Where   blithe   domestics   plied   in   gold   and 


The  venerable  chaplain  waved  his  wand. 
And  silence  follow' d  as  he  stretch' d  his  hand 


The  deep  carouse  can  never  boast  the  bliss, 

The  animation  of  a  scene  like  this. 

At  length  the  damask' d  cloths  were  whisk' d 

away 
Like  fluttering  sails  upon  a  summer's  day ; 
The  hey-day  of  enjoyment  found  repose ; 
The  worthy  baronet  majestic  rose. 
They   view'd   him,    while  his  ale  wa^  filling- 

round. 
The  monarch  of  his  own  paternal  ground. 
His   cup   was  full,   and  where  the  blossoms 

bow'd 
Over  his  head.  Sir  Ambrose  spoke  aloud. 
Nor  stopp'd  a  dainty  form  or  phrase  to  cull. 
His  heart  elated,  like  his  cup  was  full : — 
"  Full  be  your  hopes,  and  rich  the  crops  that 

faU; 
Health  to  my  neighbours,  happiness  to  all." 
Dull  must   that   clown   be,  dull  as  winter's 

sleet, 
Who  would  not  instantly  be  on  his  feet : 
An   echoing  health  to  mingling  shouts  give 

place, 
"  Sir  Ambrose  Higham  and  his  noble  race  !  " 

Robert  Bloowfield.—Bom  1766,  Died  1823. 


1 1 25. —THE  SOLDIER'S  HOME. 

My  untried  Muse  shall  no  high  tone  assume, 
Nor   strut   in   arms — farewell    my    cap   and 

plume  ! 
Brief  be  my  verse,  a  task  within  my  power ; 
I  teU  my  feehngs  in  one  happy  hour : 
But  what  an  hour  was  that !  when  from  the 

main 
I  reach' d  this  lovely  valley  once  again  ! 
A  glorious  harvest  fill'd  my  eager  sight. 
Half  shock' d,  half  waving  in  a  flood  of  light ; 
On  that  poor  cottage  roof  where  I  was  born. 
The  sun  look'd  down  as  in  life's  early  morn. 
I  gazed  around,  but  not  a  soul  appear' d ; 
I  listen' d  on  the  threshold,  nothing  heard  ; 
I  called  my  father  thrice,  but  no  one  came ; 
It  was  not  fear  or  grief  that  shook  my  frame, 
But  an  o'erpowering  sense  of  peace  and  home. 
Of  toils  gone  by,  perhaps  of  joys  to  come. 
The  door  invitingly  stood  open  wide  ; 
I  shook  my  dust,  and  set  my  staff  aside. 
How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that    cooler 

air. 
And  take  possession  of  my  father's  chair  ! 
Beneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame, 
Appear'd  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 
Cut  forty  years  before !  The  same  old  clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart  a 

shock 
I  never  can  forget.     A  short  breeze  sprung. 
And    while   a   sigh    was    trembling    on    my 

tongue. 
Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs  behind, 
And  up  they  flew  like  banners  m  the  wind  ; 


RoBT.  Bloomfield.] 


TO  HIS  WIFE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down  they 

went, 
And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I  had  spent 
Far    from    my    native    land.     That    instant 

came 
A  robin  on  the  threshold ;  though  so  tame, 
At  first  he  look'd  distrustful,  almost  shy, 
And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast  eye, 
And  seem'd  to  say  (past  friendship  to  renew) 
"  Ah  ha !  old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you  ?  " 
Through    the    room    ranged    the   imprison' d 

humble  bee, 
And  bomb'd,  and  bounced,  and  struggled  to 

be  free  ; 
Dashing  against  the  panes  with  sullen  roar, 
That   threw  their  diamond    sunlight    on  the   | 

floor ;  I 

That    floor,  clean    sanded,   where    my  fancy 

stray'd,  i 

O'er  undulating  waves  the  broom  had  made ;      I 
Reminding  me  of  those  of  hideous  forms  | 

That  met  us  as  we  pass'd  the  Cape  of  storms,    j 
Where  high  and  loud  they  break,  and  peace    ! 

comes  never  ; 
They  roll  and   foam,  and  roll    and  foam  for 

ever. 
But  here  was  peace,  that  peace  which  home 

can  yield ; 
The  grasshopper,  the  partridge  in  the  field. 
And  ticking  clock,  were  aU  at  once  become 
The  substitute  for  clarion,  fife,  and  drum. 
While    thus    I    mused,    still    gazing,    gazing 

still, 
On  beds  of  moss  that  spread  the  window-sill, 
I  deem'd  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had    been    so    lovely,   brilhant,    fresh,    and 

green, 
And  guess' d  some  infant  hand  had  placed  it 

there, 
And  prized  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 
Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubhng  rose ; 
My  keart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose  ; 
I  could  not  reckon  nainutes,  hours,  nor  years, 
But  rose  at  once,  and  bursted  into  tears ; 
Then,  like  a  fool,  confused,  sat  down  again, 
And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame  and 

pain; 
I  raved  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost. 
And   glory's   quagmire,  where  the  brave  are 

lost. 
On  carnage,  fire,  and  plunder  long  I  mused, 
And    cursed    the   murdering  weapons   I   had 

used. 
Two  shadows  then  I  saw,  two  voices  heard. 
One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a  child's  appear' d. 
In  stepp'd  my  father  with  convulsive  start. 
And  in  an  instant  clasp' d  me  to  his  heart. 
Close  by  him  stood  a  little  blue-eyed  maid  ; 
And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man  said, 
"  Come  hither,  Nancy,  kiss  me  once  again. 
This  is  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home  from 

Spain." 
The   child   approach' d,  and  with  her  fingers 

Hght, 
Stroked    my    old    eyes,   almost    deprived    of 

sight. 


But  why  thus  spin  my  tale — thus  tedious  be  ? 
Happy  old  soldier  !  what 's  the  world  to  me ! 

Robert  Bloomfield.— Born  1766,  Died  1823. 


1 1 26.— TO  HIS  WIFE. 

I  rise,  dear  Mary,  from  the  soundest  rest, 

A    wandering,    way-worn,     musing,     singing 

guest. 
I  claim  the  privilege  of  hill  and  plain  ; 
Mine  are  the  woods,  and  all  that  they  con- 
tain ; 
The  unpolluted  gale,  which  sweeps  the  glade  ; 
All  the  cool  blessings  of  the  solemn  shade  ; 
Health,  and  the  flow  of  happiness  sincere  ; 
Yet  there's  one  wish — I  wish  that  thou  wert 

here ; 
Free  from  the  trammels  of  domestic  care, 
With  me  these  dear  autumnal  sweets  to  share ; 
To  share  my  heart's  ungovernable  joy, 
And  keep  the  birthday  of  our  poor  lame  boy. 
Ah  !  that 's  a  tender  string  !     Yet  since  I  find 
That  scenes  like  these  can  soothe  the  harass'd 

mind. 
Trust  me,  'twould  set  thy  jaded  spirits  free. 
To  wander  thus  through  vales  and  woods  with 

me. 
Thou  know'st  how  much  I  love  to  steal  away 
From   noise,  from  uproar,  and    the  blaze  of 

day; 
With   double  transport  would    my  heart    re- 
bound 
To  lead    thee  where  the  clustering  nuts  are 

found  ; 
No  toilsome  efforts  would  our  task  demand. 
For  the   brown  treasure  stoops   to  meet  the 

hand. 
Round  the  tall  hazel  beds  of  moss  appear 
In  green  swards  nibbled  by  the  forest  deer, 
Sun,   and   alternate   shade ;     while   o'er   our 

heads 
The  cawing  rook  his  glossy  pinions  spreads  ; 
The    noisy    jay,    his    wild     woods     dashing 

through  ; 
The    ring-dove's    chorus,    and    the    rustling 

bough ; 
The   far-resounding   gate ;     the    kite's    shrill 

scream  ; 
The  distant  ploughman's  halloo  to  his  team. 
This  is  the  chorus  to  my  soul  so  dear  ; 
It  would   delight    thee    too,  wert   thou   but 

here  : 
For  we  might  talk  of   home,  and  muse  o'er 

days 
Of    sad   distress,    and    Heaven's   mysterious 

ways  ; 
Our  chequer' d  fortunes  with  a  smile  retrace. 
And  build  new  hopes  upon  our  infant  race  ; 
Pour  our  thanksgivings  forth,   and  weep  the 

while  ; 
Or  pray  for  blessings  on  our  native  isle. 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


LINES  TO  MY  CHILDREN. 


[RoBT.  Bloomfield. 


But  vain  the  wish  !     Majy,  thy  sighs  forbear, 
Nor  grudge  the  pleasure  which  thou  canst  not 

share ; 
Make  home  delightful,  kindly  wish  for  me, 
And  I'll  leave  hills,  and  dales,  and  woods  for 

thee. 

B&hert  Bloomfield.— Born  1766,  IHed  1823. 


1 127.— SONG  FOR  A  HIGHLAND  DROVER 
RETURNING  FROM  ENGLAND. 

Now  fare-thee-well,   England  :  no  further  I'll 

roam  ; 
But  follow  my  shadow  that  points  the  way 

home : 
Your  gay  southern  shores  shall  not  tempt  me 

to  stay  ; 
For  my  Maggy's  at  home,  and  my  children  at 

play! 
'Tis  this    makes  my  bonnet  sit  light  on  my 

brow, 
Gives  my  sinews  their  strength  and  my  bosom 

its  glow. 


my     companions, 


Farewell,     mountaineers 

adieu  ; 
Soon,  many  long  miles  when  I'm  severed  from 

you, 
I  shall  miss  your  white  horns  on  the  brink  of 

the  bum, 
And  o'er  the  rough  heaths,  where  you'll  never 

return  ; 
But  in  brave    English  pastures   you  caimot 

complain. 
While  your  drover  speeds  back  to  his  Maggy 


For  the  glory  of  Scotland  reigns  warm  in  my 

breast, 
And  fortitude  grows  both  from  toil  and  from 

rest ; 
May  your  deeds  and  your  worth  be  for  ever 

in  view, 
And  may  Maggj'  bear  sons  not  unworthy 

you. 

Love,  why   do   you  urge    me,   so  weary  and 

poor? 
I  cannot  step  faster,  I  cannot  do  more  : 
I've  passed  silver  Tweed ;  e'en  the  Tay  flows 

behind ; 
Yet  fatigue  I'll  disdain ; — my  reward  I  shall 

find; 
Thou,  sweet  smile  of  innocence,  thou  art  my 

prize ; 
And  the  joy  that  will  sparkle  in  Maggy's  blue 

eyes. 

She'll  watch  to  the  southward ; — perhaps  she 

will  sigh, 
That  the  way  is  so  long,  and  the  mountains 

so  high ; 
Perhaps  some  huge  rock  in  the  dusk  she  may 

see, 
And  will  say  in  her  fondness,  "  that  surely  is 

he!  " 
Good  wife,  you're  deceived :  I'm  still  far  from 

my  home  ; 
Go,  sleep,  my  dear  Maggy, — to-morrow   I'll 

corae.  * 

Robert  Bloomfield.— Born  1766,  Died  1823. 


112S. 


-LINES   ADDRESSED    TO   MY 
CHILDREN. 


O  Tweed  !  gentle  Tweed,  as  I  pass  your  green 

vales, 
More  than  life,  more  than  love,  my  tired  spirit 

inhales ;  i 

There  Scotland,  my  darling,   Hes  full  in  my   j 

view,  j 

With  her  bare-footed  lasses  and  mountains  so   ' 

blue ;  I 

To  the  mountains  away  my  heart  bounds  like 

the  hind. 
For  home  is  so  sweet,  and  my  Maggy  so  kind. 

As  day  after  day  I  still  follow  my  course, 
And  in  fancy  trace  back  every  stream  to  its 

source, 
Hope  cheers  me  up  hUls,  where  the  road  lies 

before. 
O'er  hills  just  as  high,  and  o'er  tracks  of  wild 

moor; 
The  keen  polar  star  nightly  rising  to  view  ; 
But  Maggy's  my  star,  just  as  steady  and  true. 

O    ghosts   of   my   fathers !       O   heroes,  look 
down  I  ^        ! 

Fix  my  wandering  thoughts  on  your  deeds  of    ! 
renown  ; 


Genius  of  the  forest  shades. 

Lend  thy  power,  and  lend  thine  ear ; 
A  stranger  trod  thy  lonely  glades, 

Amidst  thy  dark  and  bounding  deer  ; 
Inquiring  childhood  claims  the  verse, 

O  let  them  not  inquire  in  vain  ; 
Be  with  me  while  I  thus  rehearse 

The  glories  of  thy  sylvan  reign. 

Thy  deUs  by  wintry  currents  worn. 

Secluded  haunts,  how  dear  to  me ! 
From  all  but  nature's  converse  borne, 

No  ear  to  hear,  no  eye  to  see. 
Their  honour'd  leaves  the  green  oaks  rear'd, 

And  crown' d  the  upland's  graceful  swell ; 
While  answering  through  the  vale  was  heard 

Each  distant  heifer's  tinkling  bell. 

Hail,  greenwood  shades,  that,  stretching  far. 

Defy  e'en  summer's  noontide  power, 
When  August  in  his  burning  car 

Withholds  the  clouds,  withholds  the  shower. 
The  deeptoned  low  from  either  hill, 

Down  hazel  aisles  and  arches  green 
(The  herd's  rude  tracks  from  rill  to  rill), 

Roar'd  echoing  through  the  solemn  scene. 


John  Leyden.] 


DYING  IN  A  FOEEIGN  LAND. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


From  my  chann'd  "heart  the  numbers  sprung, 

Thoug-h  birds  had  ceased  the  choral  lay  ; 
I  pour'd  wild  raptures  from  my  tongue, 

And  gave  deUcious  tears  their  way. 
Then,  darker  shadows  seeking  still, 

"Where  human  foot  had  seldom  strayed, 
I  read  aloud  to  every  hill 

Sweet  Emma's  love,  "the  Nut-brown  maid." 

Shaking  his  matted  mane  on  high, 

The  gazing  colt  would  raise  his  head, 
Or  timorous  doe  would  rushing  fly, 

And  leave  to  me  her  grassy  bed  ; 
Where,  as  the  a2ure  sky  appeared 

Through  bowers  of  ever  varying  form, 
'Midst  the  deep  gloom  methought  I  heard 

The  daring  progress  of  the  storm. 

How  would  each  sweeping  ponderous  bough 

Eesist,  when  straight  the  whirlwind  cleaves, 
Dashing  in  strengthening  eddies  through 

A  roaring  wilderness  of  leaves  ? 
How  would  the  prone  descending  shower 

From  the  green  canopy  rebound  ? 
How  would  the  lowland  torrents  pour  ? 

How  deep  the  pealing  thunder  sound  ? 

But  peace  was  there  :  no  lightnings  blazed ; 
,  No  clouds  obscured  the  face  of  heaven ; 

Down  each  green  opening  while  I  gazed, 

My  thoughts  to  home  and  you  were  given. 
0,  tender  minds  !  in  life's  gay  morn. 

Some  clouds  must  dim  your  coming  day  ; 
Yet  bootless,  pride  and  falsehood  scorn, 

And  peace  like  this  shall  cheer  your  way. 

Now,  at  the  dark  wood's  stately  side, 

Well  pleased  I  met  the  sun  again ; 
Here  fleeting  fancy  travell'd  wide  ; 

My  seat  was  destined  to  the  main. 
For  many  an  oak  lay  stretch' d  at  length. 

Whose  trunks  (with  barknolonger  sheathed) 
Had  reach' d  their  full  meridian  strength 

Before  your  father's  father  breathed ! 

Perhaps  they'll  many  a  conflict  brave 

And  many  a  dreadful  storm  defy  ; 
Then,  groaning  o'er  the  adverse  wave. 

Bring  home  the  flag  of  victory. 
Go,  then,  proud  oaks,  we  meet  no  more  ! 

Go,  grace  the  scenes  to  me  denied. 
The  white  cliffs  round  my  native  shore. 

And  the  loud  ocean's  swelling  tide. 

"  Genius  of  the  forest  shades," 

Sweet  from  the  heights  of  thy  domain, 
When  the  gray  evening  shadow  fades, 

To  view  the  country's  golden  grain  ; 
To  view  the  gleaming  village  spire 

'Midst  distant  groves  unknown  to  me — 
Groves  that,  grown  bright  in  borrow'd  fire. 

Bow  o'er  the  peopled  vales  to  thee. 

Where  was  thy  elfin  train,  that  play 

Round  Wake's   huge  oak,  their  favourite 
tree. 

Dancing  the  twilight  hours  away  ? 
Why  were  they  not  revealed  to  me  ? 


Yet,  smiling  fairies  left  behind. 
Affection  brought  you  aU  to  view  ; 

To  love  and  tenderness  resigned. 

My  heart  heaved  many  a  sigh  f cr  you.  - 

Wlien  morning  still  unclouded  rose, 

Eefresh'd  with  sleep  and  joyous  dreams. 
Where  fruitful  fields  with  woodlands  close, 

I  traced  the  births  of  various  streams. 
From  beds  of  clay,  here  creeping  rills, 

Unseen  to  parent  Ouse,  would  steal ; 
Or,  gushing  from  the  northward  hills, 

Would  glitter  through  Tove's  winding  dale. 

But  ah  !  ye  cooling  springs,  farewell ! 

Herds,  I  no  more  your  freedom  share ; 
But  long  my  grateful  tongue  shall  teU 

What  brought  your  gazing  stranger  there. 
"  Genius  of  the  forest  shades," 

Lend  thy  power,  and  lend  thine  ear ; 
But  dreams  still  lengthen  thy  long  glades, 

And  bring  thy  peace  and  silence  here. 

Robert  Bloomfield.—Born  1766,  Died  1823. 


1 129.— DYING  IN  A  FOREIGN  LAND. 

The  silver  moon  at  midnight  cold  and  still, 
Looks,  sad  and  silent,  o'er  yon  western  hill ; 
■While  large  and  pale  the  ghostly  structures 

grow, 
Rear'd  on  the  confines  of  the  world  below. 
Is   that    duU    sound    the    hum    of    Teviot's 

stream  ? 
Is  that  blue  light  the  moon's,  or  tomb-fire's 

gleam  ? 
By  which  a  mouldering  pile  is  faintly  seen. 
The  old  deserted  church  of  Hazeldean, 
Where  slept  my  fathers  in  their  natal  clay. 
Till  Teviot's  waters  roUed  their  bones  away  ? 
Their    feeble    voices  from    the    stream   they 

raise — 
"  Rash  youth  !  unmindful  of  thy  early  days, 
Why  didst   thou   quit   the  peasant's    simple 

lot? 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  peasant's  turf -built 

cot. 
The  ancient  graves  where  all  thy  fathers  lie, 
And  Teviot's  stream  that  long  has  murmur'd 

by? 
And  we — when  death  so  long  has  closed  our 

eyes. 
How  wilt  thou  bid  us  from  the  dust  arise, 
And    bear  our  mouldering   bones  across  the 

main. 
From   vales  that    knew  our   lives  devoid  of 

stain  ? 
Rash  youth  !  beware,  thy  home-bred  virtues 
I  save, 

j   Arcs  sweetly  sleep  m  thy  paternal  grave." 

I  John  Leyden.— Born  1775,  Died  1811. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  MERMAID. 


[John  Leyden. 


1 130.— SONNET  ON  SABBATH  MOEN. 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn, 
That   scarcely  wakes  while  all  the   fields  are 

still; 
A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne, 
A  graver  murmur  echoes  from  the  hill, 
And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn ; 
The  skj'lark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 
Hail,  light  serene !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  I 
The  sky  a  placid  yellow  lustre  throws  ; 
The  gales  that  lately  sigh'd  along  the  grove 
Have   hushed    their   drowsy   wings   in   dead 

repose  ; 
The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move  ; 
So  soft  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose  ! 

John  Leyden. — Born  1775,  Died  1811. 


II' 


•ODE  TO  AN  INDIAN  GOLD 
COIN. 


Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine  ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  ? 
How  can  I  love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright,  whom  I  have  bought  so  dear  ? 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear 
For  tvrilight  converse,  arm  in  arm  ; 

The  jackal's  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  cheer. 

By  Cherical's  dark  wandering  streams. 
Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild, 

Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 
Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  a  child, 
Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 

By  Esk  or  Eden's  classic  wave, 

Where  loves  of  youthand  friendships  smiled, 

Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yeUow  slave  ! 

Fade,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory  fade  ! 

The  perish' d  bliss  of  youth's  first  prime. 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played, 

Revives  no  more  in  after-time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 
I  haste  to  an  untimely  grave  ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soar'd  sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine  !  thy  yellow  light 
Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear. 

A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer  : 
Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a  tear, 

That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine ; 
Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a  fear ! 

I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 
I  left  a  heart  that  loved  me  true ! 

I  cross'd  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 
To  roam  in  climes  tmkind  and  new. 


The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 
Chill  on  my  withered  heart ;  the  grave 

Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view — 
An3.  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Ha  !  com'st  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 

A  wanderer's  banished  heart  forlorn^ 
Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 

Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  was  borne  ? 

From  love,  from  friendship,  country,  torn, 
To  memory's  fond  regrets  the  prey ; 

VUe  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I  scorn ! 
Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay  ! 

John  Leyden. — Born  1775,  Died  1811. 


1 132.— THE  MERMAID. 

On  Jura's  heath  how  sweetly  swell 
The  murmurs  of  the  mountain  bee  ! 

How  softly  mourns  the  writhed  shell 
Of  Jura's  shore,  its  parent  sea  ! 

But  softer  floating  o'er  the  deep. 

The  Mermaid's  sweet  sea-soothing  lay, 

That  charm' d  the  dancing  waves  to  sleep, 
Before  the  bark  of  Colonsay. 

Aloft  the  purple  pennons  wave. 

As,  parting  gay  from  Crinan's  shore. 

From  Morven's  wars,  the  seamen  brave 
Their  gallant  chieftain  homeward  bore. 

In  youth's  gay  bloom,  the  brave  Macphail 
Still  blamed  the  Ungering  bark's  delay  : 

For  her  he  chid  the  flagging  sail. 
The  lovely  maid  of  Colonsay. 

"  And  raise,"  he  cried,  "the  song  of  love. 
The  maiden  sung  with  tearful  smile, 

"SVhen  first,  o'er  Jura's  hills  to  rove. 
We  left  afar  the  lonely  isle  !  " 

"  When  on  this  ring  of  ruby  red 

Shall  die,"  she  said,  "  the  crimson  hue, 

Know  that  thy  favourite  fair  is  dead. 
Or  proves  to  thee  and  love  untrue." 

Now,  lightly  poised,  the  rising  oar 
Disperses  wide  the  foamy  spray, 

And  echoing  far  o'er  Crinan's  shore, 
Resounds  the  song  of  Colonsay. 

"  Softly  blow,  thou  western  breeze, 
Softly  rustle  through  the  sail ! 

Soothe  to  rest  the  f  arrowy  seas. 

Before  my  love,  sweet  western  gale  ! 

Where  the  wave  is  tinged  with  red, 
And  the  russet  sea-leaves  grow, 

Mariners,  with  prudent  dread, 
Shun  the  shelving  reefs  below. 


OHN  LeTDEN.] 


THE  MEEMAID. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


As  you  pass  through  Jura's  sound, 
Bend  your  course  by  Scarba's  shore ; 

Shun,  O  shun,  the  gulf  profound, 
Where  Corrievreckin's  surges  roar  ! 

If  from  that  unbottom'd  deep, 

With  wrinkled  form  and  wreathed  train, 
O'er  the  verge  of  Scarba's  steep. 

The  sea-snake  heave  his  snowy  mane, 

Unwarp,  unwind  his  oozy  coils. 

Sea-green  sisters  of  tbe  main, 
And  in  the  gulf  where  ocean  boils, 

The  unwieldy  wallowing  monster  chain. 

Softly  blow,  thou  western  breeze, 

Softly  rustle  through  the  sail ! 
Soothe  to  rest  the  furrow' d  seas, 

Before  my  love,  sweet  western  gale  !  " 

Thus  all  to  soothe  the  chieftain's  wo, 
Far  from  the  maid  he  loved  so  dear, 

The  song  arose,  so  s6ft  and  slow. 
He  seem'd  her  parting  sigh  to  hear. 

The  lonely  deck  he  paces  o'er. 

Impatient  for  the  rising  day, 
And  still  from  Crinan's  moonlight  shore,' 

He  turns  his  eyes  to  Colonsay. 

The  moonbeams  crisp  the  curling  surge, 
That  streaks  with  foam  the  ocean  green  ; 

While  forward  stiU  the  rowers  urge 
Their  course,  a  female  form  was  seen. 

That  sea-maid's  form,  of  pearly  light. 
Was  whiter  than  the  downy  spray, 

And  round  her  bosom,  heaving  bright, 
Her  glossy  yellow  ringlets  play. 

Borne  on  a  foamy  crested  wave, 

She  reached  amain  the  bounding  prow. 

Then  clasping  fast  the  chieftain  brave. 
She,  plunging,  sought  the  deep  below. 

Ah !  long  beside  thy  feigned  bier. 

The  monks  the  prayer  of  death  shall  say, 

And  long  for  thee,  the  fruitless  tear. 
Shall  weep  the  maid  of  Colonsaj'^ ! 

But  downward  like  a  powerless  corse. 
The  eddying  waves  the  chieftain  bear ; 

He  only  heard  the  moaning  hoarse 
Of  waters  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

The  murmurs  sink  by  slow  degrees, 
No  more  the  waters  round  him  rave ; 

LuU'd  by  the  music  of  the  seas. 
He  lies  within  a  coral  cave. 

In  dreamy  mood  reclines  he  long, 
Nor  dares  his  tranced  eyes  unclose, 

Till,  warbling  wild,  the  sea-maid's  song 
Far  in  the  crystal  cavern  rose. 

Soft  as  that  harp's  unseen  control, 
In  morning  dreams  which  lovers  hear, 

WTiose  strains  steal  sweetly  o'er  the  soul. 
But  never  reach  the  waking  ear. 


As  sunbeams  through  the  tepid  air. 

When  clouds  dissolve  the  dews  unseen, 

Smile  on  the  flowers  that  bloom  more  fair, 
And  fields  that  glow  with  livelier  green— 

So  melting  soft  the  music  fell ; 

It  seem'd  to  soothe  the  fluttering  spray — 
"  Say,  heard' st  thou  not  these  wild  notes  swell : 

Ah  !  'tis  the  song  of  Colonsay." 

Like  one  that  from  a  fearful  dream 
Awakes,  the  morning  light  to  view, 

And  joys  to  see  the  purple  beam. 
Yet  fears  to  find  the  vision  true. 

He  heard  that  strain,  so  wildly  sweet, 
"Which  bade  his  torpid  languor  fly  ; 

He  fear'd  some  speU  had  bound  his  feet, 
And  hardly  dared  his  limbs  to  try. 

"  This  yellow  sand,  this  sparry  cave, 
Shall  bend  thy  soul  to  beauty's  sway; 

Can'st  thou  the  maiden  of  the  wave 
Compare  to  her  of  Colonsay  ?  " 

Roused  by  that  voice  of  silver  sound. 
From  the  paved  floor  he  lightly  sprung. 

And  glancing  wild  his  eyes  around 

Where  the  fair  nymph  her  tresses  wrung, 

No  form  he  saw  of  mortal  mould  ; 

It  shone  like  ocean's  snowy  foam  ; 
Her  ringlets  waved  in  living  gold. 

Her  mirror  crystal,  pearl  the  comb. 

Her  pearly  comb  the  siren  took, 

And  careless  bound  her  tresses  wild ; 

Still  o'er  the  mirror  stole  her  look, 
As  on  the  wondering  youth  she  smiled. 

Like  music  from  the  greenwood  tree, 
•   Again  she  raised  the  melting  lay  ; 
"  Fair  warrior,  wilt  thou  dwell  with  me, 
And  leave  the  maid  of  Colonsay  ? 

Fair  is  the  crystal  hall  for  me 

With  rubies  and  with  emeralds  set ; 

And  sweet  the  music  of  the  sea 

Shall  sing,  when  we  for  love  are  mot. 

How  sweet  to  dance  with  gliding  feet 

Along  the  level  tide  so  green, 
Eesponsive  to  the  cadence  sweet 

That  breathes  along  the  moonlight  scene  ! 

And  soft  the  music  of  the  main 

Rings  from  the  motley  tortoise-shell, 

While  moonbeams  o'er  the  watery  plain 
Seem  trembling  in  its  fitful  swell. 

How  sweet,  when  billows  heave  their  head, 
And  shake  their  snowy  crests  on  high, 

Serene  in  Ocean's  sapphire-bed 

Beneath  the  tumbling  surge  to  lie ; 

To  trace,  with  tranquil  step,  the  deep, 
Where  pearly  drops  of  frozen  dew 

In  concave  shells  unconscious  sleep. 
Or  shine  with  lustre,  silvery  blue  ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  MERMAID. 


[John  Leyden. 


Then  all  the  summer  sun,  from  far, 
Pour  through  the  wave  a  softer  ray ; 

While  diamonds  in  a  bower  of  spar, 
At  eve  shall  shed  a  brighter  day. 

Xor  stormy  wind,  nor  wintry  gale, 
That  o'er  the  angry  ocean  sweep, 

Shall  e'er  our  coral  groves  assail, 
Calm  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

Through  the  green  meads  beneath  the  sea, 
Enamour' d  we  shall  fondly  stray — 

Then,  gentle  warrior,  dwell  with  me. 
And  leave  the  maid  of  Colonsay !  " 

"  Though  bright  thy  locks  of  glistening  gold, 
Fair  maiden  of  the  foamy  main  ! 

Thy  life-blood  is  the  water  cold, 

While  mine  beats  high  in  every  vein  : 

If  I,  beneath  thy  sparry  cave, 

Should  in  thy  snowy  arms  recline, 

Inconstant  as  the  restless  wave, 

My  heart  would  grow  as  cold  as  thine." 

As  cygnet  down,  proud  swell'd  her  breast, 
Her  eye  confess'd  the  pearly  tear : 

His  hand  she  to  her  bosom  press' d, 
"  Is  there  no  heart  for  rapture  here  ? 

These  limbs,  sprung  from  the  lucid  sea, 
Does  no  warm  blood  their  currents  fill. 

No  heart-pulse  riot,  wild  and  free, 
To  joy,  to  love's  delicious  thrill  ? " 

"  Though  aU  the  splendour  of  the  sea 
Around  thy  faultless  beauty  shine, 

That  heart,  that  riots  wild  and  free, 
Can  hold  no  sympathy  ^vith  mine. 

These  sparkling  eyes,  so  wild  and  gay. 
They  swim  not  in  the  light  of  love ; 

The  beauteous  maid  of  Colonsay, 
Her  eyes  are  milder  than  the  dove ! 

E'en  now,  within  the  lonely  isle. 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  tears  for  me  ; 

And  canst  thou  think  that  siren  smile 
Can  lure  my  soul  to  dwell  with  thee  ?  " 

An  oozy  film  her  limbs  o'erspread, 
Unfolds  in  length  her  scaly  train  ; 

She  toss'd  in  proud  disdain  her  head. 
And  lash'd  with  webbed  fin  the  main. 

"  Dwell  here  alone  !  "  the  Mermaid  cried, 
"  And  view  far  off  the  sea-nymphs  play  j 

The  prison- wall,  the  azure  tide, 
Shall  bar  thy  steps  from  Colonsay. 

Whene'er,  like  ocean's  scaly  brood, 
I  cleave  with  rapid  fin  the  wave. 

Far  from  the  daughter  of  the  flood, 
Conceal  thee  in  this  coral  cave. 

I  feel  my  former  soul  return, 

It  kindles  at  thy  cold  disdain  ; 
And  has  a  mortal  dared  to  spurn 

A  daughter  of  the  foamy  main!  " 


She  fled,  around  the  crystal  cave 

The  rolling  waves  resume  their  road  ; 

On  the  broad  portal  idly  rave. 

But  enter  not  the  nymph's  abode. 

And  many  a  weary  night  went  by. 

As  in  the  lonely  cave  he  lay  ; 
And  many  a  sun  roll'd  through  the^ky; 

And  pour'd  its  beams  on  Colonsay. 

And  oft  beneath  the  silver  moon 
He  heard  afar  the  Mermaid  sing  ; 

And  oft  to  many  a  meting  tune, 

The  shell-form' d  lyres  of  ocean  ring. 

And  when  the  moon  went  down  the  sky. 
Still  rose,  in  dreams,  his  native  plain, 

And  oft  he  thought  his  love  was  by. 

And  charm' d  him  with  some  tender  strain 

And  heart-sick,  oft  he  waked  to  weep. 
When  ceased  that  voice  of  silver  sound, 

And  thought  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep 
That  wall'd  his  crystal  cavern  round. 

But  still  the  ring,  of  ruby  red, 

Retain'd  its  vivid  crimson  hue. 
And  each  despairing  accent  fled. 

To  find  his  gentle  love  so  true. 

When  seven  long  lonely  months  were  gone. 
The  Mermaid  to  his  cavern  came, 

No  more  misshapen  from  the  zone, 
But  like  a  maid  of  mortal  frame. 

"  O  give  to  me  that  ruby  ring, 
That  on  thy  finger  glances  gay. 

And  thou  shalt  hear  the  Mermaid  sing 
The  song  thou  lovest  of  Colonsay." 

"  This  ruby  ring,  of  crimson  grain, 

Shall  on  thy  finger  glitter  gay, 
If  thou  wilt  bear  me  through  the  main 

Again  to  visit  Colonsay." 

"  Except  thou  quit  thy  former  love, 
Content  to  dwell  for  aye  AAdth  me. 

Thy  scorn  my  finny  frame  might  move 
To  tear  thy  limbs  amid  the  sea." 

"  Then  bear  me  swift  along  the  main, 

The  lonely  isle  again  to  see. 
And  when  I  here  return  again, 

I  plight  my  faith  to  dwell  with  thee." 

An  oozy  film  her  limbs  o'erspread, 
While  slow  unfolds  her  scaly  train ; 

With  gluey  fangs  her  hands  were  clad ; 
She  lash'd  with  webbed  fin  the  main. 

He  grasps  the  Mermaid's  scaly  sides, 
As  with  broad  fin  she  oars  laer  way ; 

Beneath  the  silent  moon  she  glides, 
That  sweetly  sleeps  on  Colonsay. 

Proud  swells  her  heart  !  she  deems  at  last 
To  lure  him  with  her  silver  tongue. 

And,  as  the  shelving  rocks  she  pass'd, 
She  raised  her  voice,  and  sweetly  sung. 


John  Leyden.] 


TO  lANTHE. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


In  softer,  sweeter  strains  she  sung, 
Slow  gliding  o'er  the  moonlight  bay, 

When  light  to  land  the  chieftain  sprung. 
To  hail  the  maid  of  Colonsay. 

O  sad  the  Mermaid's  gay  notes  fell. 

And  sadly  sink  remote  at  sea  ! 
So  sadly  mourns  the  writhed  shell 

Of  Jura's  shore,  its  parent  sea. 

And  ever  as  the  year  returns. 

The  charm-bound  sailors  know  the  day  ; 
For  sadly  still  the  Mermaid  mourns 

The  lovely  chief  of  Colonsay. 

John  Leyden. — Born  1775,  Died  1811. 


1 1 33.— TO  lANTHE. 

Again,  sweet  siren,  breathe  again 
That  deep,  pathetic,  powerful  strain, 

Whose  melting  tones  of  tender  woe 
Fall  soft  as  evening's  summer  dew. 
That  bathes  the  pinks  and  harebells  blue 

Which  in  the  vales  of  Teviot  blow. 

Such  was  the  song  that  soothed  to  rest, 
Far  in  the  Green  Isle  of  the  west, 

The  Celtic  warrior's  parted  shade; 
Such  are  the  lonely  sounds  that  sweep 
O'er  the  blue  bosom  of  the  deep, 

When  shipwreck' d  mariners  are  laid. 

Ah !  sure  as  Hindu  legends  tell, 
When  music's  tones  the  bosom  swell. 

The  scenes  of  former  life  return ; 
Ere,  sunk  beneath  the  morning  star, 
We  left  our  parent  climes  afar, 

Immur'd  in  mortal  forms  to  mourn. 

Or  if,  as  ancient  sages  ween, 
Departed  spirits,  half  unseen, 

Can  mingle  with  the  mortal  throng, 
'Tis  when  from  heart  to  heart  we  roll 
The  deep-toned  music  of  the  soul, 

That  warbles  in  our  Scottish  song. 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  awful  dread, 
The  plaintive  music  of  the  dead  ! 

They  leave  the  amber  fields  of  day : 
Soft  as  the  cadence  of  the  wave. 
That  murmurs  round  the  mermaid's  grave, 

They  mingle  in  the  magic  lay. 

*  *  *  * 

Sweet  sounds  !  that  oft  have  soothed  to  rest 
The  sorrows  of  my  guileless  breast, 

And  charm' d  away  mine  infant  tears  : 
Fond  memory  shall  your  strains  repeat. 
Like  distant  echoes,  doubly  sweet. 

That  in  the  wild  the  traveller  hears. 

And  thus  the  exil'd  Scotian  maid, 
By  fond  alluring  leva  betray' d 

To  visit  Syria's  date-crown'd  shore, 


In  plaintive  strains  that  soothed  despair. 
Did  "  Both  well's  banks  that  bloom  so  fair," 
And  scenes  of  early  youth,  deplore. 

Soft  syren  !  whose  enchanting  strain 
Floats  wildly  round  my  raptur'd  brain, 

I  bid  your  pleasing  haunts  adieu  ! 
Yet,  fabling  fancy  oft  shall  lead 
My  footsteps  to  the  silver  Tweed, 

Through  scenes  that  I  no  more  must  view. 

John  Leyden. — Born  1775,  Died  1811. 


1 134.— ODE  TO  THE  EVENING  STAE. 

How  sweet  thy  modest  light  to  view. 
Fair  Star,  to  love  and  lovers  dear  ! 

While  trembling  on  the  falling  dew, 
Like  beauty  shining  through  a  tear. 

Or,  hanging  o'er  that  mirror-stream. 
To  mark  that  image  trembling  there. 

Thou  seem'st  to  smile  with  softer  gleam. 
To  see  thy  lovely  face  so  fair. 

Though,  blazing  o'er  the  arch  of  night, 
The  moon  thy  timid  beams  outshine. 

As  far  as  thine  each  starry  light ; — 
Her  rays  can  never  vie  with  thine. 

Thine  are  the  soft  enchanting  hours, 
When  twilight  lingers  on  the  plain. 

And  whispers  to  the  closing  flowers 
That  soon  the  sun  will  rise  again. 

Thine  is  the  breeze  that,  murmuring  bland 
As  music,  wafts  the  lover's  sigh, 

And  bids  the  yielding  heart  expand 
In  love's  delicious  ecstasy. 

Fair  Star  !  though  I  be  doom'd  to  prove 
That  rapture's  tears  are  mixed  with  pain, 

Ah,  still  I  feel  'tis  sweet  to  love  ! 
But  sweeter  to  be  loved  again. 

John  Leyden. — Born  1775,  Died  1811. 


1135.— SCOTLAND. 

Land  of  my  fathers  ! — though  no  mangrove 
here 
O'er  thy  blue  streams  her  flexile  branches  rear; 
Nor  scaly  palm  her  finger' d  scions  shoot ; 
Nor  luscious  guava  wave  her  yellow  fruit : 
Nor  golden  apples  glimmer  from  the  tree  ; — 
Land  of  dark  heaths  and  mountains,  thou  art 
free  ! 

Untainted  yet,  thy  stream,  fair  Teviot !  runs. 
With  unatoned  blood  of  Gambia's  sons; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


LOVE  AND  GLOEY. 


[Charles  Dibdin. 


No  drooping  slave,  with  spirit  bow'd  to  toil, 
Grows,  like  the  weed,  self-rooted  to  the  soil, 
Nor  cringing  vassal  on  these  pansied  meads 
Is  bought  and  barter' d,  as  the  flock  he  feeds. 
Free  as  the  lark  that  carols  o'er  his  head, 
At  dawn  the  healthy  ploughman  leaves  his  bed. 
Binds  to  the  yoke  his  sturdy  steers  -with  care, 
Anjd,  whistling  loud,  directs  the  mining  share  : 
Free  as  his  lord,  the  peasant  treads  the  plain, 
And  heaps  his  harvest  on  the  groaning  wain ; 
Proud  of  his  laws,  tenacious  of  his  right, 
And  vain  of  Scotia's  old  unconquer'd  might. 

John  Leyden. — Born  1775,  Died  1811. 


1 136.— THE  TAE  FOE  ALL  WEATHEES. 

I  sail'd  fr®m  the  Downs  in  the  "  Nancy," 

My  jib  how  she  smack' d  through  the  breeze ! 
She's  a  vessel  as  tight  to  my  fancy 

As  ever  sail'd  on  the  salt  seas. 
So  adieu  to  the  white  cliffs  of  Britain, 

Our  girls  and  our  dear  native  shore  ! 
For  if  some  hard  rock  we  should  split  on, 

We  shall  never  see  them  any  more. 
But  sailors  were  born  for  all  weathers, 

Great  guns  let  it  blow,  high  or  low, 
Our  duty  keeps  us  to  our  tethers. 

And  where  the  gale  drives  we  must  go. 

When  we  enter'd  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar 

I  verily  thought  she'd  have  sunk. 
For  the  wind  began  so  for  to  alter, 

She  yaw'd  just  as  tho'  she  was  drunk. 
The  squall  tore  the  mainsail  to  shivers, 

Helm  a-weather,  the  hoarse  boatswain  cries ; 
Brace  the  foresail  athwart,  see  she  quivers, 

As  through  the  rough  tempest  she  flies. 
But  sailors  wore  born  for  all  weathers, 

Great  guns  let  it  blow,  high  or  low. 
Our  duty  keeps  us  to  our  tethers. 

And  where  the  gale  drives  we  must  go. 

The  storm  came  on  thicker  and  faster, 

As  black  just  as  pitch  was  the  sky, 
When  truly  a  doleful  disaster 

Befel  three  poor  sailors  and  I. 
Ben  Buntline,  Sam  Shroud,  and  Dick  Handsail, 

By  a  blast  that  came  furious  and  hard, 
Just  while  we  were  furling  the  mainsail, 

Were  every  soul  swept  from  the  yard. 
But  sailors  were  born  for  all  weathers, 

Great  guns  let  it  blow,  high  or  low, 
Our  duty  keeps  us  to  oiir  tethers, 

And  where  the  gale  drives  we  must  go. 

Poor  Ben,  Sam,  and  Dick  cried  peccavi, 

As  for  I,  at  the  risk  of  my  neck, 
While  they  sank  down  in  peace  to  old  Da*vy, 

Caught  a  rope,  and  so  landed  on  deck. 
Well,  what  would  you  have  ?  We  were  stranded. 

And  out  of  a  fine  jolly  crew 
Of  three  hundred  that  sail'd,  never  landed 

But  I  and,  I  think,  twenty-two. 


But  sailors  were  born  for  all  weathers, 
Great  guns  let  it  blow,  high  or  low. 

Our  duty  keeps  us  to  our  tethers. 

And  where  the  gale  drives  we  must  go. 

Charles  DibdAn. — Born  1745,  Died  1814. 


1137.— SIE  SIDNEY  SMITH. 

Gentlefolks,  in  my  time,  I've  made  many  a 
rhyme, 
But  the  song  I  now  trouble  you  with 
Lays   some   claim    to    applause,    and    you'll 
grant  it,  because 
The  subject's  Sir  Sidney  Smith,  it  is ; 
The  subject's  Sir  Sidney  Smith. 

We  aU  know  Sir  Sidney,  a  man  of  such  kidney. 

He'd  fight  every  foe  he  could  meet ; 
Give  him  one  ship  or  two,  and  without  more 
ado, 
He'd  engage  if  he   met   a  whole   fleet,  he 

would ; 
He'd  engage  if  he  met  a  whole  fleet. 

Thus  he  took,  every  day,  all  that  came  in  his 
way, 
Till  fortune,  that  changeable  elf, 
Order'd  accidents  so,  that,  while  taking  tho 
foe. 
Sir  Sidney  got  taken  himself,  he  did ; 
Sir  Sidney  got  taken  himself. 

His  captors,  right  glad  of  the  prize  they  now 
had, 
Eejected  each  offer  we  bid, 
And    swore   he    should    stay,    lock'd   up   till 
doomsday, 
!       But  he  swore  he'd  be  hang'd  if  he  did,  ho 

did; 
I       But  he  swore  he'd  be  hang'd,  if  he  did. 
I 
So  Sir  Sid  got  away,  and  his  gaoler  next  day 

Cried  "  Sacre,  diable,  morbleu  ! 
Mon  prisonnier  'scape,  I  'ave  got  in  von  scrape, 
And  I  fear  I  must  run  away,  too,  I  must ; 
I  fear  I  must  run  away  too." 

Charles  Dihdin.—Born  1745,  Died  1814. 


1 1 38.— LOVE  AND  GLOEY. 

Young  Henry  was  as  brave  a  youth 
As  ever  graced  a  gallant  story ; 

And  Jane  was  fair  as  lovely  truth, 
She  sigh'd  for  Love,  and  he  for  Glory 

With  her  his  faith  he  meant  to  plight, 
And  told  her  many  a  gallant  story ; 

Till  war,  their  coming  joys  to  blight, 
Call'd  him  away  from  Love  to  Glory ! 


Charles  Dibdin.J 


NONGTONGPAW. 


[Seventh  Pebiod.- 


Young  Henry  met  the  foe  with  pride  ; 

Jane  follow' d,  fought !  ah,  hapless  story  ! 
In  man's  attire,  by  Henry's  side, 

She  died  for  Love,  and  he  for  Glory. 

Clmrles  Dibdin.—Bom  1745,  Died  1814. 


1 139.— NONGTONGPAW. 

John  Boll  for  pastime  took  a  prance, 

Some  time  ago,  to  peep  at  France  ; 

To  talk  of  sciences  and  arts. 

And  knowledge  gain'd  in  foreign  parts. 

Monsieur,  obsequious,  heaffd  him  speak, 

And  answer' d  John  in  heathen  Greek  : 

To  all  he  ask'd,  'bout  all  he  saw, 

'Twas,  "  Monsieur,  je  vous  n'entends  pas." 

John,  to  the  Palais-Royal  come. 

Its  splendour  almost  struck  him  dumb. 

"  I  say,  whose  house  is  that  there  here  ?" 

"  House !     Je  vous  n'entends  pas.  Monsieur." 

"  WTiat,  Nongtongpaw  again  !  "  cries  John  ; 

"  This  fellow  is  some  mighty  Don : 

No  doubt  he's  plenty  for  the  maw, 

I'll  breakfast  with  this  Nongtongpaw." 

John  saw  Versailles  from  Marly' s  height, 

And  cried,  astonish'd  at  the  sight, 

"  Whose  fine  estate  is  that  there  here  ?" 

"  State  !     Je  vous  n'entends  pas,  Monsieur." 

"  His  ?  what,  the  land  and  houses  too  ? 

The  fellow's  richer  than  a  Jew  : 

On  everything  he  lays  his  claw  ! 

I  should  like  to  dine  with  Nongtongpaw." 

Next  tripping  came  a  courtly  fair, 

John  cried,  enchanted  with  her  air, 

"  What  lovely  wench  is  that  there  here  ?" 

"  Ventch  !    Je  vous  n'entends  pas,  Monsieur." 

"  What,  he  again  ?     Upon  my  life  ! 

A  palace,  lands,  and  then  a  wife 

Sir  Joshua  might  delight  to  draw  : 

I  should  like  to  sup  with  Nongtongpaw." 

"But  hold  !  whose  funeral's  that?"  cries  John. 
' '  Je  vous  n'entends  pas.' ' — ' '  What,  is  he  gone  ? 
Wealth,  fame,  and  beauty  could  not  save 
Poor  Nongtongpaw  then  from  the  grave  ! 
His  race  is  run,  his  game  is  up, — 
I'd  with  him  breakfast,  dine  and  sup  ; 
But  since  he  chooses  to  withdraw. 
Good  night  t'  ye,  Mounseer  Nongtongpaw  !" 

Cha/rles  Dihdin. — Bom  1745,  Died  1814. 


1 1 40.— TOM  BOWLING. 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew; 
No  more  he'll  hear  the  tempest  howling, 

For  death  has  broach'd  him  to. 


His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty. 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft, 
Faithful,  below,  he  did  his  duty. 

But  now  he's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed, 

His  virtues  were  so  rare, 
His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted. 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair : 
And  then  he'd  sing  scr  blithe  and  jolly, 

Ah,  many's  the  time  and  oft ! 
But  mirth  is  tum'd  to  melancholy. 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather. 

When  He,  who  all  commands. 
Shall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together. 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 
Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tara  despatches. 

In  vain  Tom's  life  has  doff'd. 
For,  though  his  body's  under  hatches, 

His  soul  is  gone  aloft. 
Charles  Dihdin.— Born  1745,  Died  1814. 


1 141. —THE  GRAVE  OF  ANNA. 

I  wish  I  was  where  Anna  lies, 

For  I  am  sick  of  lingering  here ; 
And  every  hour  affection  cries, 

Go  and  partake  her  humble  bier, 

I  wish  I  could  !     For  when  she  died, 
I  lost  my  all ;  and  life  has  proved 

Since  that  sad  hour  a  dreary  void  ; 
A  waste  unlovely  and  unloved. 

But  who,  when  I  am  tum'd  to  clay, 

Shall  duly  to  her  grave  repair, 
And  pluck  the  ragged  moss  away. 

And  weeds  that  have  "  no  business  there  ?" 

And  who  with  pious  hand  shall  bring 

The  flowers  she  cherish'd,  snow-drops  cold. 

And  violets  that  unheeded  spring 
To  scatter  o'er  her  hallow'd  mould? 

And  who,  while  memory  loves  to  dwell 

Upon  her  name  for  ever  dear. 
Shall  feel  his  heart  with  passion  swell. 

And  pour  the  bitter,  bitter  tear  ? 

I  did  it ;  and  would  fate  allow, 

Should  visit  still,  should  still  deplore — 

But  health  and  strength  have  left  me  nov/, 
And  I,  alas  !  can  weep  no  more. 

Take  then,  sweet  maid  !  this  simple  strain, 

The  last  I  offer  at  thy  shrine  ; 
Thy  grave  must  then  undeck'd  remain. 

And  all  thy  memory  fade  with  mine. 

And  can  thy  soft  persuasive  look. 

Thy  voice  that  might  with  music  vie,. 

Thy  air  that  every  gazer  took. 
Thy  matchless  eloquence  of  eye ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  A  TUFT  OF  EAELY  VIOLETS. 


[Wm.  Gifford. 


Thy  spirits  frolicsome  as  good, 
Thy  courage  by  no  ills  dismay'd, 

Thy  patience  by  no  wrongs  subdued, 
Thy  gay  good-humour,  can  they  fade  ? 

Perhaps — but  sorrow  dims  my  eye ; 

Cold  turf  which  I  no  more  must  view, 
Dear  name  which  I  no  more  must  sigh, 

A  long,  a  last,  a  sad  adieu ! 

William  Giford. — Bom  1756,  Died  1826. 


1 142.— GREENWICH  HILL. 

Though  clouds  obscured  the  morning  hour, 
And  keen  and  eager  blew  the  blast. 

And  drizzling  fell  the  cheerless  shower, 
As,  doubtful,  to  the  skiff  we  pass'd : 

All  soon,  propitious  to  our  prayer, 
Gave  promise  of  a  brighter  day ; 

The  clouds  dispersed  in  purer  air. 
The  blasts  in  zephyrs  died  away. 

So  have  we,  love,  a  day  enjoy'd, 

On  which  we  both — and  yet,  who  knows  ?- 
May  dweU  with  pleasure  unalloy'd, 

And  dread  no  thorn  beneath  the  rose. 

How  pleasant,  from  that  dome-crown'd  hill. 
To  view  the  varied  scene  below. 

Woods,  ships,  and  spires,  and,  lovelier  still, 
The  circling  Thames  majestic  flow  ! 

How  sweet,  as  indolently  laid, 

We  overhung  that  long-drawn  dale, 

To  watch  the  chequer' d  light  and  shade 
That  glanced  upon  the  shifting  sail ! 

And  when  the  shadow's  rapid  growth 
Proclaim'd  the  noon-tide  hour  expired. 

And,  though  unwearied,  "nothing  loath,'* 
We  to  our  simple  meal  retired ; 

The  sportive  wile,  the  blameless  jest. 
The  careless  mind's  spontaneous  flow. 

Gave  to  that  simple  meal  a  zest 
Which  richer  tables  may  not  know. 

The  babe  that  on  the  mother's  breast 
Has  toy'd  and  wanton'd  for  awhile. 

And,  sinking  in  unconscious  rest. 
Looks  up  to  catch  a  parting  smile ; 

Feels  less  assured  than  thou,  dear  maid, 
When,  ere  thy  ruby  lips  could  part 

(As  close  to  mine  thy  cheek  was  laid), 
Thine  eyes  had  open'd  all  thy  heart. 

Then,  then  I  mark'd  the  chasten' d  joy 
That  lightly  o'er  thy  features  stole, 

From  vows  repaid  (my  sweet  employ). 
From  truth,  from  innocence  of  soiJ : 


TMiile  every  word  dropt  on  my  ear 
So  soft  (and  yet  it  seem'd  to  thrill), 

So  sweet  that  'twas  a  heaven  to  hear. 
And  e'en  thy  pause  had  music  still. 

And  0  !  how  like  a  fairy  dream 

To  gaze  in  silence  on  the  tide,  —     -^ 

WhUe  soft  and  warm  the  sunny  gleam 
Slept  on  the  glassy  surface  wide  ! 

And  many  a  thought  of  fancy  bred. 
Wild,  soothing,  tender,  undefined, 

Play'd  lightly  round  the  heart,  and  shed 
Delicious  languor  o'er  the  mind. 

So  hours  like  moments  wing'd  their  flight, 
Till  now  the  boatmen  on  the  shore. 

Impatient  of  the  waning  light, 
Eecall'd  us  by  the  dashing  oar. 

Well,  Anna,  many  days  like  this 
I  cannot,  must  not  hope  to  share ; 

For  I  have  found  an  hour  of  bliss 
Still  follow' d  by  an  age  of  care. 

Yet  oft  when  memory  intervenes — 
But  you,  dear  maid,  be  happy  still, 

Nor  e'er  regret,  midst  fairer  scenes. 
The  day  we  pass'd  on  Greenwich  Hill. 

William  Gifford.— Born  1756,  Died  1826. 


1 143.— TO  A  TUFT  OF  EAELY  VIOLETS. 

Sweet  flowers  !  that  from  your  humble  beds 

Thus  prematurely  dare  to  rise, 
And  trust  your  unprotected  heads 

To  cold  Aquarius'  watery  skies ; 

Eetire,  retire  !  these  tepid  airs 
Are  not  the  genial  brood  of  May ; 

That  Sun  with  light  malignant  glares. 
And  flatters  only  to  betray. 

Stem  winter's  reign  is  not  yet  past — 
Lo  !  while  your  buds  prepare  to  blow, 

On  icy  pinions  comes  the  blast, 

And  nips  your  root,  and  lays  you  low. 

Alas,  for  such  ungentle  doom  ! 

But  I  will  shield  you,  and  supply 
A  kindlier  soil  on  which  to  bloom, 

A  nobler  bed  on  which  to  die. 

Come  then,  ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest 

And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away ; 
O  come,  and  grace  my  Anna's  breast. 

Ye  droop,  fond  flowers  !  but,  did  ye  know 
What  worth,  what  goodness  there  reside. 

Your  cups  with  liveliest  tints  would  glow, 
And    spread    their    leaves   with  conscious 
pride; 


Geo.  Canning.] 


THE  FEIEND  OF  HUMANITY. 


rSEVENTH  Period. — 


For  there  has  liberal  nature  join'd 

Her  riches  to  the  stores  of  art, 
And  added  to  the  vigorous  mind 

The  soft,  the  sympathizing  heart. 

Come  then,  ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest. 

And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away; 
0  come,  and  grace  my  Anna's  breast. 

0  !  I  should  think — ^that  fragrant  bed 
Might  I  but  hope  with  you  to  share — 

Years  of  anxiety  repaid 

By  one  short  hour  of  transport  there. 

More  bless' d  your  lot,  ye  there  shall  live 
Your  little  day ;  and  when  ye  die. 

Sweet  flowers  !  the  grateful  Muse  shall  give 
A  verse — the  sorrowing  maid  a  sigh. 

While  I,  alas  !  no  distant  date. 

Mix  with  the  dust  from  whence  I  came, 

Without  a  friend  to  weep  my  fate. 
Without  a  stone  to  tell  my  name. 

William  Gifford.—Bom  1756,  Jyied  1826. 


II 44.— THE     FEIEND     OF     HUMANITY 
AND  THE  KNIFE-GEINDER. 

Feiend  of  Humanity. 

Needy  Knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going  ? 
liough  is   your  road,  your    wheel  is  out  of 

order  ; 
Bleak  blows  the  blast — your  hat  has  got  a 

hole  in't, 

So  have  your  breeches  ! 

Weary  Knife-grinder !  little  think  the  proud 


Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  tumpike- 
Eoad,   what    hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day, 
"  Knives  and 

Scissors  to  grind  0  !  " 

Tell  mo,    Knife-grinder,   how   came   you    to 

grind  knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  squire,  or  parson  of  the  parish. 
Or  the  attorney  ? 

Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game  ? 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining  ? 
Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  Httle 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 

(Have  you  not  read  the  Eights  of  Man,  by 

Tom  Paine  ? ) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story. 


Knife-Grindee. 

Story  !  God  bless  you !  I  have  none  to  tell, 

sir; 
Only  last  night  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see, 

were 

Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice  ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish- 
Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honour's  health 

in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  wiU  give  me  sixpence  ; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir. 

Friend  of  Humanity. 

I  give  thee  sixpence  !  I  will  see  thee  d d 

first — 
Wretch  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse 

to  vengeance — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded. 
Spiritless  outcast ! 

Canning.— Born  1770,  Died  1827. 


II 45 .—SONG  BY  ROGERO  IN 
EOVEES." 


THE 


Whene'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 
This  dungeon  that  I'm  rotting  in, 
I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
nivcrsity  of  Gottingen. 

Sweet  kerchief,  check' d  with  heavenly  blue, 

Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in — 
Alas,  Matilda  tlien  was  true  ! 
At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Barbs  !  barbs  !  alas  !  how  swift  you  flew. 

Her  neat  post- wagon  trotting  in  ! 
Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view; 
Forlorn  I  languish' d  at  the  U- 

iiiversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

This  faded  form  !  this  pallid  hue  ! 

This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in, 
My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I  enter' d  at  the  U- 

niversityof  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 


From  1780  to  1866.1 


THE  PILGRIMS  AND  THE  PEAS. 


[De.  Wolcot. 


There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew, 

Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen  ! 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  Tu- 
tor, law  professor  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou  vain  world,  adieu. 

That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in : 
Here  doom'd  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
el, never  shall  I  see  the  U- 

niversityof  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

George  Canning. -^Born  3770,  Died  1827. 


1 146.— LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS 

ELDEST  SON. 

Though  short  thy  span,  God's   unimpeach'd 

decrees, 
Which   made  that  shorten' d  span   one   long 

disease ; 
Yet,  merciful  in  chastening,  gave  thee  scope 
For  mild  redeeming  virtues,  faith  and  hope, 
Meek  resignation,  pious  charity ; 
And,  since  this  world  was  not  the  world  for 

thee, 
Far   from    thy  path   removed,   with    partial 

care, 
Strife,    glory,    gain,    and    pleasure's   flowery 

snare ; 
Bade  earth's  temptations  pass  thee  harmless 

by, 
And  fix'd  on  Heaven  thine  unreverted  eye  ! 
Oh  !  mark'd  from  birth,  and  nurtured  for  the 

skies  ! 
In  youth,  with  more  than  learning's  wisdom 

wise  ! 
As  sainted  martyrs,  patient  to  endure  ! 
Simple  as  unwean'd  infancy,  and  pure  ! 
Pure  from  all  stain  (save  that  of  human  clay, 
^Vhich  Christ's   atoning  blood    hath  wash'd 

away)  ! 
By  mortal  suflferings  now  no  more  oppress' d, 
Mount,  sinless  spirit,  to  thy  destined  rest ! 
While     I — reversed     our     nature's    kindlier 

doom — 
Pour  forth  a  father's  sorrows  on  thy  tomb. 

George  Canning.— Born  1770,  Died  1827. 


1 147.— THE  PILGRIMS  AND  THE  PEAS. 

A  brace  of  sinners,  for  no  good, 

Were  order' d  to  the  Virgin  Mary's  shrine, 
Who  at  Loretto  dwelt  in  wax,  stone,  wood, 

And  in  a  curl'd  white  wig  look'd  wondrous 
fine. 


Fifty   long   miles   had   these   sad   rogues   to 

travel, 
With  something  in  their  shoes  much  worse 

than  gravel : 
In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse, 
The  priest  had  order' d  peas  into^their  shoes. 

A  nostrum  famous  in  old  popish  times 
For  purifying  souls  that  stunk  with  crimes, 

A  sort  of  apostolic  salt, 

That  popish  parsons  for  its  powers  exalt, 
For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet. 
Just  as  our  kitchen  salt  keeps  meat. 

The  knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day. 
Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray  ; 

But  very  different  was  their  speed,  I  wot : 
One  of  the  sinners  gallop'd  on, 
Light  as  a  bullet  from  a  gun ; 

The  other  Hmp'd  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

One  saw  the  Virgin,  soon  peccavi  cried  ; 

Had  his  soul  whitewash' d  all  so  clever. 
When  home  again  he  nimbly  hied. 

Made  fit  with  saints  above  to  live  for  ever. 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say, 
He  met  his  brother  rogue  about  half-way. 
Hobbling  with  outstretch' d  hams  and  bending 

knees, 
Cursing  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  peas ; 
His   eyes   in   tears,  his  cheeks  and  brow  in 

sweat, 
Deep  sympathizing  with  his  groaning  feet. 

"  How    now ! "    the    light-toed    whitewash'd 
pilgrim  broke, 
"  You  lazy  lubber !  " 
"  Confoxmd  it !  "   cried   the  t'other,  "'tis  no 

joke; 
My  feet,  once  hard  as  any  rock, 
Are  now  as  soft  as  blubber. 

Excuse  me.  Virgin  Mary,  that  I  swear  : 
As  for  Loretto,  I  shall  not  get  there  ; 
No  !  to  the  devil  my  sinful  soul  must  go, 
For  hang  me  if  I  ha' n't  lost  every  toe  ! 

But,  brother  sinner,  do  explain 
How  'tis  that  you  are  not  in  pain — 

What   power   hath    work'd   a   wonder  for 
your  toes — 
Whilst  I,  just  like  a  snail,  am  crawling. 
Now  swearing,  now  on  saints  devoutly  bawling. 
Whilst    not    a   rascal   comes   to   ease   my 
woes? 

How  is't  that  you  can  like  a  greyhound  go, 

Merry  as  if  nought  had  happen' d,  burn  ye  .^" 
•'Why,"    cried    the    other,    grinning,    "you 
must  know, 
That  just  before  I  ventured  on  my  journey, 
To  walk  a  Httle  more  at  ease, 
I  took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  peas." 

Dr.  Wolcot— Born  1738,  Died  1819. 
58 


Dr.  Wolcot.] 


DE.  JOHNSON'S  STYLE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


1148.— DE.  JOHNSON'S  STYLE. 

I  own  I  like  not  Johnson's  turgid  style, 
That  gives  an  inch  the  importance  of  a  mile, 
Casts  of  manure  a  wagon-load  around, 
To  raise  a  simple  daisy  from  the  ground  ; 
Uplifts  the  club  of  Hercules — for  what  ? 
To  crush  a  butterfly  or  brain  a  gnat ; 
Creates  a  whirlwind  from  the  earth,  to  draw 
A  goose's  feather  or  exalt  a  straw ; 
Sets   wheels   on  wheels   in   motion — such    a 

clatter 
To  force  up  one  poor  nipperkin  of  water ; 
Bids  ocean  labour  with  tremendous  roar, 
To  heave  a  cockle-shell  upon  the  shore  ; 
Alike  in  every  theme  his  pompous  art. 
Heaven's  awful  thunder  or  a  rumbling  cart ! 

l>r.  Wolcot— Born  1738,  Died  1819. 


1 149. 


-ADVICE  TO  LANDSCAPE 
PAINTEES. 


Whate'er  you  wish  in  landscape  to  excel, 

London 's  the  very  place  to  mar  it ; 
Believe  the  oracles  I  tell. 

There's  very  little  landscape  in  a  garret. 
Whate'er  the  flocks  of  fleas  you  keep, 
'Tis  badly  copying  them  for  goats  and  sheep  ; 
And  if  you'll  take  the  poet's  honest  word, 
A  bug  must  make  a  miserable  bird. 

A  rushlight  in  a  bottle's  neck,  or  stick, 
111  represents  the  glorious  orb  of  morn ; 

Nay,  though  it  were  a  candle  with  a  wick, 
'Twoxild  be  a  representative  forlorn. 

I  think,  too,  that  a  man  would  be  a  fool, 
For  trees,  to  copy  legs  of  a  joint  stool ; 

Or  even  by  them  to  represent  a  stump  : 
Also  by  broomsticks — which,  though  well  he 

rig 
Each  with  an  old  fox-colour' d  wig, 

Must  make  a  very  poor  autumnal  clump. 

You'll  say,  "  Yet  such  ones  oft  a  person  sees 
In  many  an  artist's  trees  ; 
And  in  some  paintings  we  have  all  beheld 
Green  baize  hath  surely  sat  for  a  green  field  : 
Bolsters  for   mountains,   hills,   and  wheaten 

mows; 
Cats  for  ram-goats,  and   curs  for  bulls  and 

cows." 

All  this,  my  lads,  I  freely  grant ; 
But  better  things  from  you  I  want. 
As  Shakspoare  says  (a  bard  I  much  approve), 
"  List,  list !  oh,  list !    if  thou  dost  painting 
love." 

Claude  painted  in  the  open  air ! 
Therefore  to  Wales  at  once  repair, 

Where   scenes   of  true  magnificence  you'll 
find; 


Besides  this  great  advantage — if  in  debt. 
You'll  have  with  creditors  no  tete-a-tete ; 

So  leave  the  bull-dog  bailiffs  all  behind  ; 
Who,  hunt  you  with  what  noise  they  may, 
Must  hunt  for  needles  in  a  stack  of  hay. 

Dr.  Wolcot— Boi-n  1738,  Died  1819. 


1 1 50. 


Once 


-THE  APPLE  DUMPLINGS  AND 
A  KING. 


on    a    time,    a    monarch,    tired    with 
whooping, 
Whipping  and  spurring, 
Happy  in  worrying 
A  poor  defenceless  harmless  buck 
(The  horse  and  rider  wet  as  muck), 
From    his    high     consequence    and    wisdom 
stooping, 
Enter' d  through  curiosity  a  cot, 
Where  sat  a  poor  old  woman  and  her  pot. 

The  wrinkled,  blear-eyed,  good  old  granny. 
In    this    same    cot,   illumed    by    many    a 
cranny, 
Had  finish' d  apple  dumplings  for  her  pot : 
In  tempting  row  the  naked  dumpLings  lay, 
When  lo  !  the  monarch,  in  his  usual  way. 
Like  lightning  spoke,  "  What's  this  ?  what's 
this  ?  what,  what  ?  " 

Then  taking  up  a  dumpling  in  his  hand, 
His  eyes  with  admiration  did  expand ; 

And  oft  did  majesty  the  dumpling  grapple  : 
he  cried, 
"  'Tis  monstrous,  monstrous  hard,  indeed ! 
What  makes  it,  pray,  so  hard  ?  "     The  dame 
replied. 
Low  curtsying,  "  Please  your  majesty,  the 
apple." 
"  Very  astonishing  indeed  !  strange  thing  ! " 
(Turning   the   dumpling   round)   rejoin' d  the 
king. 
"  'Tis  most  extraordinary,  then,  all  this  is — 
It  beats  Pinette's  conjuring  all  to  pieces  : 
Strange  I  should  never  of  a  dumpling  dream  ! 
But,  goody,  tell  me  where,  where,  where's  the 
seam  ?  " 

'•  Sir,  there's  no  seam,"  quoth  she  ;  "  I  never 

knew 
That  folks  did  apple  dumplings  sew." 
"  No  !  "  cried  the  staring  monarch  with  a  grin ; 
"  How,  how  the  devil  got  the  apple  in  ?  " 

On  which  the  dame  the  curious  scheme  re- 
veal'd 
By  which  the  apple  lay  so  sly  conceal' d. 

Which  made  the  Solomon  of  Britain  start ; 
Who  to  the  palace  with  full  speed  repair' d. 
And  queen  and  princesses  so  beauteous  scared 

All  with  the  wonders  of  the  dumpling  art. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


WHITBREAD'S  BEE  WERT. 


[Dr.  Wolcot. 


There  did  he  labour  one  whole  week  to  show 
The  wisdom  of  an  apple-dumpling  maker ; 

And,  lo  !  so  deep  was  majesty  in  dough, 
The  palace  seem'd  the  lodging  of  a  baker  ! 

Dr.  Wolcot— Born  1738,  Died  1819. 


ii5i._WHITBREAD'S   BEEWEEY 
VISITED  BY  THEIE  MAJESTIES. 

Full  of  the  art  of  brewing  beer, 

The  monarch  heard  of  Whitb read's  fame ; 
Quoth   he   unto    the    queen,    "  My  dear,  my 

dear, 
Whitbread   hath   got   a    marvellous    great 

name. 
Charly,  we  must,  must,  must  see  Whitbread 

brew — 
Rich  as  us,  Charly,  richer  than  a  Jew. 
Shame,  shame  we  have  not  yet  his  brewhouse 

seen  !  " 
Thus  sweetly  said  the  king  unto  the  queen. 

Eed  hot  with  novelty's  delightful  rage, 
To  Mister  Whitbread  forth  he  sent  a  page, 

To  say  that  majesty  proposed  to  view, 
With  thirst   of    wondrous    knowledge    deep 

inflamed, 
His  vats,  and  tubs,  and  hops,  and  hogsheads 
famed, 
And  learn  the  noble  secret  how  to  brew. 

Of  such  undreamt-of  honour  proud. 
Most  rev'rently  the  brewer  bow'd ; 
So  humbly  (so  the  humble  story  goes). 
He  touch' d  e'en  terra  firma  with  his  nose  ; 

Then  said  unto  the  page,  hight  BiUy  Eamus, 
"  Happy  are  we  that  our  great  king  should 

name  us 
As  worthy  unto  majesty  to  show 
How  we  poor  Chiswell  people  brew." 

Away  sprung  BUly  Eamus  quick  as  thought : 
To  majesty  the  welcome  tidings  brought, 
How    Whitbread     staring    stood    like     any 

stake, 
And  trembled  ;  then  the  civil  things  he  said  ; 
On   which    the   king   did   smQe  and  nod  his 

head ; 
For   monarchs   like   to  see  their   subjects 

quake ; 

Such  horrors  unto  kings  most  pleasant  are, 
Proclaiming  reverence  and  humility : 

High   thoughts,    too,    all    these    shaking  fits 
declare. 
Of  kingly  grandeur  and  great  capability  ! 

People  of  worship,  wealth,  and  birth, 
Look  on  the  humbler  sons  of  earth. 

Indeed  in  a  most  humble  light,  God  knows ! 


High  stations  are  like  Dover's  towering  cliffs, 
Where  ships  below  appear  like  little  skiffs. 
The    people    walking   on    the   strand   like 
crows. 

Muse,  sing   the  stir  that   happy   Whitbread 

made :  _ 

Poor  gentleman  !  most  terribly  afraid 

He  should  not  charm   enough   his   guests 

divine, 
He  gave  his  maids  new  aprons,  gowns,  and 

smocks ; 
And  lo !  two  hundred  pounds  were  spent  in 

frocks, 
To  make  the  apprentices  and  draymen  fine  : 
Busy  as  horses  in  a  field  of  clover, 
Dogs,    cats,    and    chairs,    and   stools,   were 

tumbled  over, 
Amidst  the  Whitbread  rout  of  preparation, 
To  treat  the  lofty  ruler  of  the  nation. 

Now  moved  king,  queen,  and   princesses   so 

grand, 
To  visit  the  first  brewer  in  the  land ; 
Who  sometimes  swills  his  beer  and  grinds  his 

meat 
In  a  snug  comer,  christen' d  Chiswell  Street ; 
But  oftener,  charm' d  with  fashionable  air. 
Amidst  the  gaudy  great  of  Portman  Square. 

Lord  Aylesbury,  and  Denbigh's  lord  also, 

His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Montague  likewise, 
With  Lady  Harcourt  join'd  the  raree  show. 
And  fix'd  all  Smithfield's  wond'ring  eyes  : 
For  lo !   a  greater  show  ne'er   graced  those 

quarters. 
Since    Mary    roasted,  '  just    like   crabs,    the 
martyrs. 

Thus  was  the  brewhouse  fiU'd  with  gabbling 

noise. 
Whilst  draymen,  and  the  brewer's  boys, 

Devour' d  the  questions  that  the  king  did 

ask ; 
In  different  parties  were  they  staring  seen, 
Wond'ring  to   think   they   saw   a   king   and 

queen ! 
Behind  a  tub  were  some,  and  some  behind 

a  cask. 

Some   draymen   forced   themselves  (a  pretty 

luncheon) 
Into  tl^e  mouth  of  many  a  gaping  puncheon  : 
And    through    the    bung-hole    wink'd    with 
curious  eye, 
To  view  and  be  assured  what  sort  of  tilings 
Were  princesses,  and  queens,  and  kings, 
For   whose   most   lofty   station  thousands 
sigh  ! 
And  lo  !  of  all  the  gaping  puncheon  clan, 
Few   were   the   mouths  that  had  not  got  a 
man; 

Now  majesty  into  a  pump  so  deep 
Did  with  an  opera-glass  so  curious  peep  : 
Examining  with  care  each  wondrous  matter 
That  brought  up  water  ! 


Dr.  WoLCOT.j 


WHITBEEAD'S  BREWEET. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Thus  have  I  seen  a  magpie  in  the  street, 
A  chattering  bird  we  often  meet, 
A  bird  for  curiosity  well  known, 

With  head  awry, 

And  cunning  eye. 
Peep  knowingly  into  a  marrow -bone. 

And  now  his  curious  majesty  did  stoop 

To  count  the  nails  on  every  hoop  ; 

And  lo  !  no  single  thing  came  in  his  way, 

That,  full  of  deep  research,  he  did  not  say, 

"What's    this?    hae    hae  ?      What's    that? 

■Wliat'sthis? 
What's  that?" 
So  quick  the  words  too,  when  he  deign'd  to 

speak, 
As  if  each  syllable  would  break  its  neck. 

Thus,  to   the   world   of   great   whilst  others 

crawl, 
Our  sov'reign  peeps  into  the  world  of  small : 
Thus  microscopic  geniuses  explore 

Things  that  too  oft  the  public  scorn  ; 
Yet  swell  of  useful  knowledges  the  store. 

By  finding  systems  in  a  peppercorn. 

Now  boasting  Whitbread  serious  did  declare, 
To  make  the  majesty  of  England  stare, 
That  he  had  butts  enough,  he  knew. 
Placed  side  by  side,  to  reach  to  Kew ; 
On  which  the  king  with  wonder  swiftly  cried, 
"  What,  if  they  reach  to  Kew,  then,  side  by 

side, 
What  would  they  do,  what,  what,  placed 

end  to  end  ?  " 
To  whom,  with  knitted  calculating  brow. 
The  man  of  beer  most  solemnly  did  vow. 

Almost  to  Windsor  that  they  would  extend : 
On  which  the  king,  with  wondering  mien, 
Eepeated  it  unto  the  wondering  queen ; 
On  which,  quick  turning  round  his  halter'd 

head. 
The    brewer's    horse,    with  face  astonish' d, 

neigh' d ; 
The    brewer's    dog,    too,   pour'd  a  note  of 

thunder, 
Battled  his   chain,    and  wagg'd  his  tail  for 

wonder. 

Now  did  the  king  for  other  beers  inquire, 
For  Calvert's,  Jordan's,  Thrale's  entire ; 
And  after  talking  of  these  different  beers, 
Ask'd  Whitbread  if  his  porter  equall'd  theirs. 

This  was  a  puzzling  disagreeing  question. 
Grating  like  arsenic  on  his  host's  digestion  ; 
A  kind  of  question  to  the  Man  of  Cask 
That  even  Solomon  himself  would  ask. 

Now  majesty,  alive  to  knowledge,  took 
A  very  pretty  memorandum-book. 
With  gilded  leaves  of  asses' -skin  so  white, 
And  in  it  legibly  began  to  write — 

Memorandum. 

A  charming  place  beneath  the  grates 
For  roasting  chestnuts  or  potates. 


Mem. 

'Tis  hops  that  give  a  bitterness  to  beer. 
Hops   grow   in   Kent,    says  Whitbread,  and 
elsewhere. 

Qu.a;RE. 

Is   there   no  cheaper   stuff?    where   doth   it 

dwell? 
Would  not  horse-aloes  bitter  it  as  well  ? 

Mem. 

To  try  it  soon  on  our  small  beer — 
'Twill  save  us  several  pounds  a  year. 

Mem. 

To  remember  to  forget  to  ask 

Old  Whitbread  to  my  house  one  day. 

Mem. 

Not  to  forget  to  take  of  beer  the  cask, 
The  brewer  offer' d  me,  away. 

Now,  having  pencill'd  his  remarks  so  shrewd, 
Sharp  as  the  point  indeed  of  a  new  pin, 

His  majesty  his  watch  most  sagely  view'd, 
And  then  put  up  his  asses'-skin. 

To  Whitbread  now  deign'd  majesty  to  say, 
"  "^NTiitbread,    are   all    your    horses    fond    of 

hay?" 
"  Yes,  please  your  majesty,"  in  humble  notes 
The  brewer  answer' d — "Also,  sire,  of  oats; 
Another  thing  my  horses,  too,  maintains. 
And    that,    an't    please    your    majesty,    are 

grains." 

"  Grains,    grains  !  "    said    majesty,    "  to    fill 

their  crops  ? 
Grains,  grains  ! — that  comes  from  hops — yes, 

hops,  hops,  hops  ?  " 
Here  was  the  king,  like  hounds  sometimes,  at 

fault— 
"  Sire,"  cried  the  humble  brewer,    "  give  me 


Your  sacred  majesty  to  undeceive  ; 
Grains,  sire,  are  never  made  from  hops,  but 
malt." 

"  True,"   said  the  cautious   monarch   with  a 

smile, 
"  From  malt,  malt,  malt — I  meant  malt  all 

the  while." 
"Yes,"  with  the  sweetest  bow,  rejoin'd  the 

brewer, 
"An't    please    your   majesty,   you   did,    I'm 

sure." 
"  Yes,"  answer'd  majesty,  with  quick  reply, 
"I  did,  I  did,  I  did,  I,  I,  I,  I." 

Now  did  the  king  admire  the  bell  so  fine. 
That  daily  asks  the  draymen  aU  to  dine ; 
On  which  the  beU  rung  out  (how  very  proper  !) 
To  show  it  was  a  bell,  and  had  a  clapper. 
And  now  before    their    sovereign's    curious 
eye — 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


EPIGEAM  ON  SLEEP. 


TDr.  Wolcot. 


Parents    and    children,    fine    fat    hopeful 
sprigs, 
All    snuffling,    squinting,    grunting   in   their 
stye — 
Appear' d  the   brewer's  tribe  of  handsome 
pigs; 
On   -which   the   observant   man    who    fills   a 

throne, 
Declared  the  pigs  were  vastly  like  his  own ; 
On  which  the  brewer,  swallow' d  up  in  joys, 
Fear  and  astonishment  in  both  his  eyes. 
His  soul  brimful  of  sentiments  so  loyal, 

Exclaim'd,  "  O  heavens  !  and  can  my  swine 
Be  deem'd  by  majesty  so  fine  ? 
Heavens !  can   my   pigs  compare,  sire,    with 
pigs  royal  ?  " 

To  which  the  king  assented  with  a  nod ; 

On  which  the  brewer  bow'd,  and  said,  "  Good 

God !  " 
Then  wiuk'd  significant  on  Miss, 
Significant  of  wonder  and  of  bliss, 

Wlio,  bridling  in  her  ohin  divine, 
Cross'd  her  fair  hands,  a  dear  old  maid, 
And  then  her  lowest  curtsy  made 

For  such   high  honour   done   her   father's 
s\vine. 

Now  did  his  majesty,  so  gracious,  say 
To  Mister  Whitbread  in  his  flying  way, 

"Wliitbread,  d'ye  nick  th'  exciseman  now 
and  then  ? 
Hae  ?  what  ?  Miss  Whitbread 's  still  a  maid,  a 
maid  ? 
Wliat,  what's  the  matter  with  the  men  ? 

D'ye  hunt  ? — hae,  hunt  ?     No  no,  you  arc  too 
old; 
You'll  be  lord-mayor — lord-mayor  one  day  ; 
Yes,  yes,  I've  heard  so ;  yes,  yes,  so  I'm  told; 

Don't,  don't  the  fine  for  sheriff  pay  ; 
I'll  prick  you  every  year,  man,  I  declare  ; 
Yes,  Whitbread,  yes,  yes,  you  shall  be  lord- 
mayor. 

Whitbread,  d'ye  keep  a   coach,  or  job  one, 
pray? 
Job,  job,  that's  cheapest ;  yes,  that's  best, 
that's  best. 
You  put  your  liveries  on  the  draymen — hae  ? 
Hae,  Whitbread !  you  have  feather' d  well 
your  nest. 
What,  what's  the  price  now,  hae,  of  all  your 

stock  ? 
But,  Whitbread,  what's  o'clock,  pray,  what's 

o'clock?  " 
Now  Whitbread  inward  said,  "  May  I  be  curst 
If  I  know  what  to  answer  first." 

Then  search' d  his  brains  with  ruminating 
eye; 
But  ere  the  man  of  malt  an  answer  found, 
Quick  on  his  heel,  lo,  majesty  tum'd  round, 
Skipp'd  off,  and  balk'd  the  honour  of  reply. 

Dr.  Wolcot.— Born  1738,  Died  1819. 


1152.— LOED  GEEGOEY. 

"Ah  ope,  Lord  Gregory,  thy  door, 

A  midnight  wanderer  sighs  ; 
Hard  rush  the  rains,  the  tempests  roar. 

And  lightnings  cleave  the  skies." 

"  Who  comes  with  woe  at  this  dreamight, 

A  pilgrim  of  the  gloom  ? 
If  she  whose  love  did  once  dehght, 

My  cot  shall  yield  her  room." 

"  Alas  !  thou  heard' st  a  pilgrim  mourn 
That  once  was  prized  by  thee  : 

Think  of  the  ring  by  yonder  burn 
Thou  gav'st  to  love  and  me. 

But  shouldst  thou  not  poor  Marion  know, 

I'U  turn  my  feet  and  part ; 
And  think  the  storms  that  round  me  blow, 

Far  kinder  than  thy  heart." 

Br.  Wolcot.— Bom  1738.  Died  1819. 


1 1 53.— MAY  DAY. 

The  daisies  peep  from  every  field, 
And  violets  sweet  their  odour  yield  ; 
The  purple  blossom  paints  the  thorn. 
And  streams  reflect  the  blush  of  morn. 
^Hhen  lads  and  lasses  all,  be  gay, 
For  this  is  nature's  holiday. 

Let  lusty  Labour  drop  his  flail, 
Nor  woodman's  hook  a  tree  assail ; 
The  ox  shall  cease  his  neck  to  bow, 
And  Clodden  yield  to  rest  the  plough. 
Then  lads,  &c. 

Behold  the  lark  in  ether  float, 
While  rapture  swells  the  liquid  note  ! 
What  warbles  he,  with  merry  cheer  ? 
"  Let  Love  and  Pleasure  rule  the  year  !" 
Then  lads,  &c. 

Lo  !  Sol  looks  down  with  radiant  eye. 
And  throws  a  smile  around  his  sky  ; 
Embracing  hill,  and  vale,  and  stream, 
And  warming  nature  with  his  beam. 
Then  lads,  «&c. 

The  insect  tribes  in  mjrriads  pour, 
And  kiss  with  zephyr  every  flower  ; 
Shall  these  our  icy  hearts  reprove, 
And  tell  us  we  are  foes  to  Love  ? 
Then  lads,  &c. 

Br.  Wolcot.— Born  1738,  Bied  1819. 


1 1 54.— EPIGEAM  ON  SLEEP. 

Come,    gentle    sleep !    attend    thy   votary's 

prayer, 
And,  though    death's    image,  to    my    couch 

repair ; 


Dr.  Wolcot.] 


TO  MY  CANDLE. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


How  sweet,  though  lifeless,  yet  with  life  to 

lie, 
And,  without  dying,  O  how  sweet  to  die ! 

J}r.  Wolcot— Bom  1738,  Died  1819. 


1 155.— TO  MY  CANDLE. 

Thou  lone  companion  of  the  spectred  night ! 
I  wake  amid  thy  friendly  watchful  light, 

To  steal  a  precious  hour  from  lifeless  sleep. 
Hark,  the  wild  uproar  of  the  winds  !  and  hark, 
HeU's  genius  roams  the  regions  of  the  dark. 

And  swells  the  thundering  horrors  of  the 
deep. 

From  cloud  to  cloud  the  pale  moon  hurrying 

flies, 
Now    blacken' d,    and   now   flashing   through 
the  skies ; 
But  all  is  silence  here  beneath  thy  beam. 
I  own  I  labour  for  the  voice  of  praise — 

For   who   would    sink    in   dull    oblivion's 
stream  ? 
Who  would  not  hve  in  songs  of  distant  days  ? 

Thus  while  I  wondering  pause  o'er  Shakspere's 

page, 
I  mark  in  visions  of  delight  the  sage, 

High  o'er  the  wrecks  of  man,  who  stands 
sublime ; 
A  column  m  the  melancholy  waste 
(Its  cities  humbled  and  its  glories  past). 

Majestic  'mid  the  solitude  of  time. 
Yet  now  to  sadness  let  me  yield  the  hour — 
Yes,  let  the  tears  of  purest  friendship  shower  ! 

I  view,  alas  !  what  ne'er  should  die — 
A  form  that  wakes  my  deepest  sigh — 

A  form  that  feels  of  death  the  leaden  sleep — 
Descending  to  the  realms  of  shade, 
I  view  a  pale-eyed  panting  maid ; 

I  see  the  Virtues  o'er  their  favourite  weep. 

Ah  !  could  the  Muse's  simple  prayer 

Command  the  envied  trump  of  fame. 
Oblivion  should  Eliza  spare — 

A  world  should  echo  with  her  name. 
Art  thou  departing,  too,  my  trembling  friend  ? 
Ah,  draws  thy  little  lustre  to  its  end  ? 

Yes,  on  thy  frame  Fate  too  shall  fix  her 
seal — 
O  let  me  pensive  watch  thy  pale  decay  ; 
How  fast  that  frame,  so  tender,  wears  away, 

How  fast  thy  life  the  restless  minutes  steal ! 

How  slender  now,  alas  I  thy  thread  of  fire  ! 
Ah  !  falling — falling — ready  to  expire  ! 

In  vain  thy  struggles,  all  will  soon  be  o'er. 
At  life  thou  snatchest  with  an  eager  leap  ; 
Now  round  I  see  thy  flame  so  feeble  creep, 

Faint,  lessening,  quivering,  glimmering,  now 
no  more  ! 


Thus  shall  the  sons  of  science  sink  away, 
And  thus  of  beauty  fade  the  fairest  flower — 

For  where' s  the  giant  who  to  Time  shaU  say 
"  Destructive  tyrant,  I  arrest  thy  power !" 

Dr.  Wolcot— Born  1738,  Died  1819. 


1 1 56.— SCOTLAND. 

How     pleasant:    came     thy     rushing,    silver 

Tweed  ! 
Upon  my  ear,  when,  after  roaming  long 
In   southern   plains,  I've    reach'd   thy  lovely 

bank  ! 
How    bright,    renowned    Sark  !     thy    little 

stream, 
Like  ray  of  column' d  light  chasing  a  shower. 
Would  cross  my  homeward  path  ;    how  sweet 

the  sound. 
When  I,  to  hear  the  Doric  tongue's  reply, 
Would  ask  thy  well-known  name  ! 

And  must  I  leave, 
Dear  land,  thy  bonny  braes,  thy  dales^ 
Each  haunted  by  its  wizard  stream,  o'erhung 
With  all  the  varied  charms  of  bush  and  tree  ? 
And   must   I  leave    the   friends  of   youthful 

years, 
And  mould  my  heart  anew,  to  take  the  stamp 
Of  foreign  friendships  in  a  foreign  land. 
And    learn    to    love   the   music    of     strange 

tongues ! 
Yes,  I  may  love  the  music  of  strange  tongues. 
And  mould  my  heart  anew  to  take  the  stamp 
Of  foreign  friendships  in  a  foreign  land  : 
But  to  my  parched  mouth's  roof  cleave  this 

tongue, 
My  fancy  fade  into  the  yellow  leaf. 
And  this  oft-pausing  heart  forget  to  throb. 
If,  Scotland  !  thee  and  thine  I  e'er  forget. 

James  Grahame. — Born  1765,  Died  1811. 


1 157.— A  SPEING  SABBATH  WALK. 

Most  earnest  was  his  voice  !    most  mild  his 

look, 
As  with  raised  hands  he  bless'd  his  parting 

flock. 
He  is  a  faithful  pastor  of  the  poor  ; 
He    thinks    not    of     himself ;    his    Master's 

words, 
"  Feed,  feed  my  sheep,"  are  ever  at  his  heart, 
The  cross  of  Christ  is  aye  before  his  eyes. 
Oh  how  I  love  with  melted  soul  to  leave 
The    house    of    prayer,    and    wander    in    the 

fields 
Alone !     What  though  the  opening  spring  be 

chill! 


from  1780  to  1866.] 


A  SUMMER  SABBATH  WALK. 


[James  Gkahame. 


What  though  tho  lark,  check' d  in  his   airy- 
path, 
Eke  out  his  song,  perch'd  on  the  fallow  clod, 
That  still  o'ertops  the  blade  !     What  though 

no  branch 
Have  spread  its  foUage,  save  the  willo-w  wand, 
That    dips    its    pale    leaves    iu    the    swollen 

stream ! 
"What   though   the   clouds   oft   lower !     their 

threats  but  end 
In  sunny  showers,  that  scarcely  fill  the  folds 
Of  moss-couch'd  violet,  or  interrupt 
The  merle's  dulcet  pipe — melodious  bird  ! 
He,    hid    behind    the    milk-white    sloe-thorn 

spray 
{Whose  early  flowers  anticipate  the  leaf). 
Welcomes  the  time  of  buds,  the  infant  year. 

Sweet  is  the  sunny  nook  to  which  my  steps 
Have  brought   me,  hardly  conscious  where  I 

roam'd, 
irnlieeding  where — so  lovely,  all  around. 
The  works  of  God,  array' d  in  vernal  smile  ! 

Oft  at  this  season,  musing  I  prolong 
My  devious  range,  till,  sunk  from  view,  tho 

sun 
Emblaze,    with     upward-slanting     ray,     tho 

breast 
And  >ving  unquivering  of  the  wheeling  lark, 
Descending  vocal  from  her  latest  flight. 
While,  disregardful  of  yon  lonely  star — 
The    harbinger    of     chill     night's    glittering 

host — 
Sweet  redbreast,  Scotia's  Philomela,  chants 
In  desultory  strains  his  evening  hymn. 

James  Orahame. — Born  1765,  Died  1811. 


1158.— A  SUMMER  SABBATH  WALK. 

Delightful  is  this  loneliness  ;  it  calms 

My  heart :    pleasant  the  cool   beneath  these 

elms 
That    throw   across   the    stream    a   moveless 

shade. 
Here  nature  in  her  midnoon  whisper  speaks  ; 
How  iDcaceful  every  sound  1 — tho  ring-dove's 

plaint, 
Moan'd  from  the  forest's  gloomiest  retreat, 
While  every  other  woodland  lay  is  mute, 
Save  when  the  \vi-en  flits  from  her  down-coved 

nest. 
And    from    the    root- sprigs    trills    her    ditty 

clear — 
The     grasshopper's     oft-pausing    chii*p — the 

buzz, 
Angrily  shrill,  of  moss-entangled  bee, 
That    soon  as  loosed   booms  with  fuU  twang 

away — 
The  sudden  rushing  of  the  minnow  shoal 
Scared    from    the    shallows    by   my  passing 

tread. 
Dimpling    the    water  glides,  with  here    and 

there 


A  glossy  fly,  skimming  in  circlets  gay 

The  treacherous  surface,  while  the  quick-eyed 

trout 
Watches  his  time  to  spring  ;  or  from  above, 
Some    feather'd    dam,   purveying  'mong    the 

boughs. 
Darts  from  her  perch,  and   to  her  plumeless 

brood 
Bears  off   the  prize.     Sad  emblem   of    man's 

lot! 
He,  giddy  insect,  from  his  native  leaf 
(Where    safe    and    happily  he    might    have 

lurk'd) 
Elate  upon  ambition's  gaudy  wings. 
Forgetful  of  his  origin,  and  worse,    • 
Unthinking  of  his  end,  flies  to  the  stream, 
And  if  from  hostile  vigilance  he  'scape, 
Buoyant  he  flutters  but  a  little  while,  ' 
Mistakes  the  inverted  image  of  the  sky 
For   heaven  itself,    and,    sinking,    meets   his 

fate. 
Now,  let   me   trace   the  stream   up  to   its 

source 
Among  the  hills,  its  runnel  by  degrees 
Diminishing,  the  murmur  turns  a  tinkle. 
Closer  and  closer  still  the  banks  approach, 
Tangled    so    thick    with  pleaching    bramble 

shoots, 
With  brier  and  hazel  branch,  and  hawthorn 

spray. 
That,  fain  to  quit  the  dingle,  glad  I  mount 
Into  the  open  air :  grateful  the  breeze 
That  fans  my  throbbing  temples  !    smiles  t'.ie 

plain 
Spread   wide   below :    how   sweet   the  placid 

view  ! 
But,    oh !    more    sweet    the   thought,    heart- 
soothing  thought. 
That   thousands    and    ten   thousands  of   the 

sons 
Of  toil  partake  this  day  the  common  joy 
Of  rest,  of  peace,  of  viewing  hill  and  dale. 
Of  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  woods, 
And  blessing  him  who  gave  the  Sabbath-day. 
Yes  !  my  heart  flutters  with  a  freer  throb, 
To    think    that  now   the   townsman  wanders 

foith 
Among  the  fields  and  meadows,  to  enjoy 
The  coolness  of  the  day's  decline,  to  see 
His  children  sport  around,  and  simply  pull 
The  flower  and  weed  promiscuous,  as  a  boon 
Which  proudly  in  his  breast  they  smiling  fix. 

Again  I  turn  me  to  the  hill,  and  trace 
The   wizard    stream,    now    scarce   to  bo    dis- 
cern'd, 
Woodless    its    banks,  but    green   with  ferny 

leaves. 
And  thinly  strew' d  with   heath-bells  up  and 

down. 
Now,  when  the  downward  sun  has  left  the 

glens. 
Each  mountain's  rugged  lineaments  are  traced 
Upon  the  adverse  slope,  where  stalks  gigantic 
The  shepherd's   shadow  thrown  athwart  tho 

chasm. 
As  on  tho  topmost  ridge  he  homeward  hies. 


James  Grahame.] 


AN  AUTUMN  SABBATH  WALK. 


Seventh  Period, — 


How  deep  the  husli !    the  torrent's   channel 

dry, 

Presents  a  stony  steep,  the  echo's  haunt. 
But  hark  a  plaintive  sound  floating  along  ! 
'Tis  from  yon  heath-roof  d  shieling ;  now  it 

dies 
Away,  now  rises  full ;  it  is  the  song 
Which  He,  who  listens  to  the  hallelujahs  ; 
Of  choiring  seraphim,  delights  to  hear  ; 
It  is  the  music  of  the  heart,  the  voice 
Of  venerable  age,  of  guileless  youth, 
In  kindly  circle  seated  on  the  ground 
Before  their  wicker  door.     Behold  the  man  !    ' 
The  grandsire  and  the  saint ;  his  silvery  locks 
Beam  in  the  parting  ray;  before  him  lies. 
Upon  the  smooth-cropt  sward,  the  open  book, 
His  comfort,  stay,  and  ever-new  delight ; 
While  heedless  at  a  side,  the  lisping  boy 
Fondles    the    lamb    that    nightly  shares  his 

couch. 

James  Grahame. — Bom  1765,  Died  1811. 


1 159.— AN  AUTUMN  SABBATH  WALK. 

When   homeward    bands   their  several  ways 

disperse, 
I  love  to  linger  in  the  narrow  field 
Of  rest,  to  wander  round  from  tomb  to  tomb. 
And  think  of  some  who  silent  sleep  below. 
Sad   sighs  tho  wind  that  from  these  ancient 

elms 
Shakes  showers  of  leaves  upon  the  wither'd 


The  sere   and  yellow  wreaths,  with  eddying 

sweep, 
Fill    up    the    furrows   'tween    the    hillock' d 

graves. 
But  list  that  moan !  'tis  the  poor  blind  man's 

dog. 
His   guide   for   many   a   day,    now    come   to 

mourn 
The  master  and  the  friend — conjunction  rare  ! 
A  man,  indeed,  he  was  of  gentle  soul. 
Though  bred  to  brave  the  deep  :  the  lightning's 

flash 
Had  dimm'-d,  not  closed,  his  mild  but  sightless 

eyes. 
He  was  a  welcome  guest  through  all  his  range 
(It  was  not  wide) ;  no  dog  would  bay  at  him  : 
Children  would  run  to  meet  him  on  his  way. 
And  lead  him  to  a  sunny  seat,  and  climb 
His  knee,  and  wonder  at  his  oft-told  tales. 
Then  would  he  teach  the  elfins  how  to  plait 
The  rushy  cap  and  crown,  or  sedgy  ship  : 
And  I  have  seen  him  lay  his  tremulous  hand 
Upon  their  heads,  while  silent  moved  his  lips. 
Peace  to  thy  spirit,  that  now  looks  on  me 
Perhaps  wdth  greater  pity  than  I  felt 
To  see  thee  wandering  darkling  on  thy  way. 

But  let  mc  quit  this  melancholy  spot. 
And  roam  where  nature  gives  a  parting  smile. 
As  yet  tho  blue-bells  linger  on  tho  sod 


That  copse   the  sheepfold  ring;    and   in  the 

woods 
A  second  blow  of  many  flowers  appears, 
Flowers    faintly    tinged,    and    breatliing  -no 

perfume. 
But  fruits,  not  blossoms,  form  the  woodland 

wreath 
That    circles    Autumn's    brow.      The    ruddy 

haws 
Now  clothe  the  half-leaf 'd  thorn ;  the  bramblo 

bends 
Beneath  its  jetty  load  ;  the  hazel  hangs 
With  auburn  bunches,  dipping  in  the  stream 
That  sweeps  along,  and  threatens  to  o'erflow 
The   leaf-strewn   banks :     oft,    statue-like,    1 

gaze. 
In  vacancy  of  thought,  upon  that  stream. 
And  chase,  with  dreaming  eye,  the  eddying 

foam, 
Or  rowan's  cluster' d  branch,  or  harvest  sheaf, 
Borne  rapidly  adown  the  dizzying  flood. 

James  Graliavie. — JBorTi  1765,  Died  1811. 


1 160.— A  WINTEE  SABBATH  WALK. 

How  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scene  !  deep, 

deep 
The  stillness  of  the  winter  Sabbath  day — 
Not  even  a  foot-fall  heard.     Smooth  are  the 

fields, 
Each  hoUow  pathway  level  with  the  plain  : 
Hid  are  the  bushes,  save  that  here  and  there 
Are    seen  the   topmost    shoots    of    brier   or 

broom. 
High-ridged   the    whirled    drift    has    almost 

reach 'd 
The   powder' d   key- stone   of  the  churchyard 

porch. 
Mute  hangs  the  hooded  bell;    the  tombs  lie 

buried ; 
No  step  approaches  to  the  house  of  prayer. 
The  flickering  fall  is  o'er :  the  clouds  dis- 
perse, 
And  show  the  sun,  hung    o'er  the  welkin's 

verge. 
Shooting  a  bright  but  ineffectual  beam 
On  all  the  sparkling  waste.     Now  is  the  time 
To  visit  nature  in  her  grand  attire. 
Though  perilous  the  mountainous  ascent, 
A  noble  recompense  the  danger  brings. 
How  beautiful  the  plain  stretch' d  far  below. 
Unvaried  though  it  be,  save  by  yon  stream 
With  azure  windings,  or  the  leafless  wood ! 
But  what  the  beauty  of  the  plain,  compared 
To  that  sublimity  which  reigns  enthroned, 
Holding  joint  rule  with  solitude  divine, 
Among  yon  rocky  fells  that  bid  defiance 
To  steps  the  most  adventurously  bold  ? 
There  silence  dwells  profound ;  or  if  the  cry 
Of    high-poised    eagle    break   at     times   the 

hush. 
The  mantled  echoes  no  response  return. 


Frovi  1780  to  1866.] 


A  SCOTTISH  COUNTRY  WEDDING. 


[James  Graha3ie. 


But  let  me  now  explore  the  deep-sunk  dell. 
No  foot-print,  save  the  covey's  or  the  flock's, 
Is  seen  along  the  rill,  where  marshy  springs 
Still  rear  the  grassy  blade  of  vivid  green. 
Beware,  ye  shepherds,  of    these    treacherous 

haunts. 
Nor  linger  there  too  long  :  the  wintry  day 
Soon  closes  ;  and  full  oft  a  heavier  fall, 
Heap'd   by   the  blast    fills  up  the  shelter' d 

glen, 
While,  gurgling  deep  below,  the  buried  rill 
Mines  for    itself   a  snow-coved   way !       Oh, 

then. 
Your  helpless  charge  drive  from  the  tempting 

spot, 
And  keep   them    on  the    bleak    hill's  stormy 

side. 
Where  night- winds  sweep  the  gathering  drift 

away: 
So   the   great   Shepherd   leads  the   heaven-y 

flock 
From  faithless  pleasures,  full  into  the  storms 
Of  life,  where  long  they  bear  the  bitter  blast. 
Until  at  length  the  vernal  sun  looks  forth, 
Bedimm'd  with  showers  ;  then  to  the  pastures 

green 
He  brings  them  where  the  quiet  waters  glide, 
The  stream  of  life,  the  Siloah  of  the  soul. 

James  Grahame. — Born  1765,  Died  1811. 


Ii6i.— THE     BURIAL    OF    THE 
EIGHTEOUS. 

But  wood  and  wild,  the  mountain  and  the 

dale, 
The  house  of  prayer  itself, — no  place  inspires 
Emotions  more  accordant  with  the  day. 
Than  does  the  field  of    graves,    the  land  of 

rest : — 
Oft  at  the  close  of  evening  prayer,  the  toll, 
The  solemn  funeral-toll,  pausing,  proclaims 
The   service    of    the    tomb :    the   homeward 

crowds 
Divide  on  either  hand ;  the  pomp  draws  near ; 
The  choir  to  meet  the  dead  go  forth,  and  sing, 
"  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life." 
Ah    me !    these    youthful    bearers   robed   in 

white, 
They  tell  a  mournful  tale ;    some   blooming 

friend 
Is  gone,  dead  in  her  prime  of  years : — 'Twas 

she, 
The  poor  man's  friend,  who,  when  she  could 

not  give. 
With   angel  tongue    pleaded    to   those    who 

could; 
With  angel  tongue  and  mild  beseeching  eye. 
That  ne'er  besought  in  vain,  save  when  she 

pray'd 
For  longer  life,  with  heart  resign' d  to  die, — 
Eejoiced  to  die  ;  for  happy  visions  bless'd 


Her  voyage's  last  days,  and  hovering  round, 
Alighted  on  her  soul,  giving  presage 

That  heaven  was  nigh  : O  what  a  burst 

Of  rapture  from  her  lips  !  what  tears  of  joy 
Her  heavenward  eyes  suffused  !     Those  eyes 

are  closed ; 
But  all  her  loveliness  is  not  yet  flown_L 
She  smiled  in  death,  and  still  her  cold  pale 

face 
Retains  that  smile  ;  as  when  a  waveless  lake, 
In  which  the  wintry  stars  all  bright  appear, 
Is  sheeted  by  a  nightly  frost  witli  ice. 
Still  it  reflects  the  face  of  heaven  tmchanged, 
Unruffled  by  the  breeze  or  sweeping  blast. 
Again    that    kneU!       The    slow     procession 

stops : 
The  paU  withdrawn,  Death's  altar,  thick  em- 

boss'd 
With  melancholy  ornaments — (the  name, 
The  record  of  her  blossoming  age), — appears 
Unveil'd,  and  on  it  dust  to  dust  is  thrown, 
The  final  rite.     Oh  !  hark  that  sullen  sound  ! 
Upon  the  lower' d  bier  the  shovell'd  clay 
Falls  fast,  and  fills  the  void. 

Ja7nes  Graliame. — Born  1765,  Died  1811. 


ii62,—A    SCOTTISH    COUNTEY 
WEDDING. 

Now,    'mid    the*  general    glow    of    opening 

blooms, 
Coy  maidens  blush   consent,  nor    slight  the 

gift^ 
From  neighbouring   fair    brought  home,  till 

now  refused. 
Swains,  seize  the  sunny  hours  to  make  your 

hay, 
For  woman's  smiles  are  fickle  as  the  sky : 
Bespeak  the  priest,  bespeak  the  minstrel  too, 
Ere  May,  to  wedlock  hostile,  stop  the  banns. 
Th'   appointed   day  arrives,    a   blithesome 

day 
Of  festive  jollity ;  yet  not  devoid 
Of  soft  regret  to  her  about  to  leave 
A  parent's  roof;  yes,  at  the  word,  join  hands, 
A  tear  reluctant  starts,  as  she  beholds' 
Her  mother's  looks,  her  father's  silvery  hairs. 
But  serious  thoughts  take  flight,  when  from 

the  bam. 
Soon  as  the  bands  are  knit,  a  jocund  sound 
Strikes  briskly  up,  and  nimble  feet  beat  fast 
Upon  the  earthen  floor.       Through  many  a 

reel 
With  various  steps  uncouth,  some  new,  some 

old. 
Some  all  the  dancer's   own,    with  Highland 

flings 
Not  void  of  grace,  the  lads  and  lasses  strive 
To  dance  each  other  down;    and  oft    when 

quite 
Forespent,    the    fingers  merrily  crack'd,  the 

bound. 


James  Gkahame.] 


THE  IMPEESSED  SAILOE  BOY. 


[Seventh  Pekiod.- 


The    rallying  shout   well-timed,    and   sudden 

change 
To  sprightlier  tune,  revive  the  flagging  foot, 
And  make  it  feel  as  if  it  tripp'd  in  air. 

When    all  are  tired,  and  all  his  stock  of 
.    reels 
The  minstrel  o'er  and  o'er  again  has  run. 
The  cheering  flagon  circles  rotmd  ;  meanwhile, 
A  soften'd  tune,  and  slower  measure,  flows 
Sweet  from  the  strings,  and  stills  the  bois- 
terous joy. 
May  be  The  Bcainy  Broom  of  Cowdenknowes 
(If  simply  play'd,  though   not  with    master 

hand), 
Or  Patie's  Mill,  or  Bush  aboon  Traquair, 
Inspire    a    tranquil     gladness     through    the 

breast ; 
Or  that  most  mournful  strain,  the  sad  lament 
For  Flodden-field,  drives    mirth   from    every 

face. 
And  makes  the  firmest  heart  strive  hard  to 

curb 
The  rising  tear ;  till,  with  unpausing  bow, 
The  blithe  strathspey  springs  up,  reminding 

some 
Of  nights  when  Gow's  old  arm  (nor  old  the 

tale). 
Unceasing,    save    when    reeking    cans   went 

round. 
Made  heart  and  heel  leap  light  as  bounding 

roe. 
Alas  !  no  more  shall  we  behold  that  look 
So  venerable,  yet  so  blent  with  mirth. 
And  festive  joy  sedate ;  that  ancient  garb 
Unvaried — tartan  hose  and  bonnet  blue  ! 
No  more  shall  beauty's  partial  eye  draw  forth 
The  full  intoxication  of  his  strain. 
Mellifluous,  strong,  exuberantly  rich  ! 
No  more  amid  the  pauses  of  the  dance 
Shall  he  repeat  those  measures,  that  in  days 
Of  other  years  could  soothe  a  falling  prince, 
And  light  his  visage  with  a  transient  smile 
Of  melancholy  joy — like  autumn  sun 
Gilding  a  sere  tree  with  a  passing  beam  ! 
Or  play  to  sportive  children  on  the  green 
Dancing  at  gloaming  hour ;  or  willing  cheer. 
With  strains  unbought,  the  shepherd's  bridal 
-     day! 

But  light  now  failing,  glimmering  candles 
.    shine 
In  ready  chandeliers  of  moulded  clay  * 
Stuck  round  the  walls,  displaying  to  the  view 
The  ceiling  rich  with  cobweb-drapery  hung. 
Meanwhile,  from  mill  and  smiddy,  field  and 

bam. 
Fresh  groups  come  hastening  in ;  but  of  them 

all, 
The  miller  bears  the  gree,  as  rafter  high 
He  leaps,  and,  lighting,  shakes  a  dusty  cloud 

all  round. 
In  harmless  merriment,  protracted  long, 
The  hours  glide  by.      At  last,   the  stocking 

thrown. 
And  duly  every  gossip  rite  performed. 
Youths,  maids,  and  matrons,  take  their  several 

ways ; 


While  drouthy  carles,  waiting  for  the  moon, 
Sit  down  again,  and  quaff  till  daylight  dawn. 

James  Grahame. — Born  1765,  Died  1811. 


Low  in  a  glen, 
Down  which    a    little    stream   had   furrow'd 

deep, 
'Tween    meeting    birchen   boughs,    a   shelvy 

channel. 
And  brawKng  mingled  with  the  western  tide  ; 
Far  up  that  stream,  almost  beyond  the  roar 
Of  storm-bulged  breakers,  foaming  o'er  the 

rocks 
With  furious  dash,  a  lowly  dwelling  lurk'd. 
Surrounded  by  a  circlet  of  the  stream. 
Before  the  wattled  door,  a  greensward  plat, 
With  daisies  gay,  pastured  a  playful  lamb  ; 
A  pebbly  path,  deep  worn,  led  up  the  hill, 
Winding     among    the    trees,    by   wheel    un- 
touch'd, 
Save    when    the   winter    fuel     was    brought 

home — 
One  of  the  poor  man's  yearly  festivals. 
On  every  side  it  was  a  shelter' d  spot. 
So  high  and  suddenly  the  woody  steeps 
Arose.     One  only  way,  downward  the  stream, 
Just    o'er    the    hollow,    'tween   the   meeting 

boughs. 
The  distant  wave  was  seen,   with  now    and 

then 
The  glimpse  of  passing  sail ;  but  when  the 

breeze 
Crested  the  distant  wave,  this  little  nook 
Was  all  so  calm,  that,  on  the  limberest  spray. 
The  sweet  bird  chanted  motionless,  the  leaves 
At   times   scarce   fluttering.      Here   dwelt   a 

pair. 
Poor,  humble,  and  content ;  one  son  alone. 
Their  WilHam,  happy  lived  at  home  to  bless 
Their  downward  years  ;  he,  simple  youth. 
With  boyish  fondness,  fancied  he  could  love 
A  seaman's  life,  and  with  the  fishers  sail'd, 
To    try  their  ways  far    'mong    the  western 

isles, 
Far  as  St.  Kilda's  rock-wall'd  shore  abrupt, 
O'er  which  he  saw  ton  thousand  pinions  wheel 
Confused,    dimming    the    sky :    these  dreary 

shores 
Gladly  he  left— he  had  a  homeward  heart : 
No  more  his  wishes  wander  to  the  waves. 
But  still  he  loves  to  cast  a  backward  look. 
And  tell  of  all  he  saw,  of  all  he  learn'd ; 
Of  pillar' d  Stafi"a,  lone  lona's  isle. 
Where   Scotland's  kings  are  laid  ;  of  Lewis, 

Skye, 
And  of  the  mainland  mountain-circled  lochs ; 
And  he  would  sing  the  rowers'  timing  chant 
And  chorus  wild.  Once  on  a  summer's  eve. 
When  low  the  sun  behind  the  Highland  hills 
Was  almost  set,  he  sung  that  song  to  cheer 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SONNET. 


[H.  KiRKE  White. 


The  aged  folks  ;  upon  the  inverted  quern 
The  father  sat ;  the  mother's  spindle  hung 
Forgot,  and  backward  twirl'd  the   half-spun 

thread ; 
Listening  with  partial,  well-pleased  look,  she 

gazed 
Upon  her  son,  and  inly  bless' d  the  Lord, 
That  he  was  safe  return' d.      Sudden  a  noise 
Bursts  rushing  through  the  trees  ;  a  glance  of 

steel 
Dazzles  the  eye,  and  fierce  the  savage  band 
Glare  all  around,  then  single  out  their  prey. 
In  vain  the  mother  clasps  her  darling  boy  ; 
In  vain  the  sire  offers  their  little  all : 
William  is  bound  ;  they  follow  to  the  shore, 
Implore,  and  weep,  and  pray ;  knee-deep  they 

stand, 
And  view  in  mute  despair  the  boat  recede. 

James  (Jrahame. — Born  1765,  Died  1811. 


1 1 64.— TO  MY  SON. 

Twice    has    the    sun  commenced  his  annual 

round, 
Since   first   thy    footsteps    totter'd   o'er   the 

ground  ; 
Since  first  thy  tongue  was  tuned  to  bless  mine 

ear, 
By  faltering  out  the  name  to  fathers  dear. 
Oh  !  nature's  language,  with  her  looks  com- 
bined. 
More  precious  far  than  periods  thrice  refined  ! 
Oh !  sportive  looks  of  love,  devoid  of  guile, 
I  prize  you  more  than  beauty's  magic  smile  ; 
Yes,  in  that  face,  unconscious  of  its  charm, 
I  gaze  with  bliss  unmingled  with  alarm. 
Ah,  no  !  full  oft  a  boding  horror  flies 
Athwart  my  fancy,  uttering  fateful  cries. 
Almighty  Power  !  his  harmless  life  defend, 
And,  if  we  part,  'gainst  me  the  mandate  send. 
And  yet  a  wish  will  rise — would  I  might  live, 
Till  added  years  his  memory  firmness  give  ! 
For,  oh  !  it  would  a  joy  in  death  impart 
To  think  I  still  survived  within  his  heart ; 
To  think  he'll  cast,  midway  the  vale  of  years, 
A  retrospective  look  bedimm'd  with  tears. 
And  tell,  regretful,  how  I  look'd  and  spoke  ; 
What  walks  I  loved,  where  grew  my  favourite 

oak  ; 
How  gently  I  would  lead  him  by  the  hand  ; 
How  gently  use  the  accent  of  command ; 
What  lore  I  taught  him,   roaming  wood  and 

wild, 
And  how  the  man  descended  to  the  child  ; 
How   well   I  loved   with   him,    on    Sabbath 

morn, 
To  hear  the  anthem  of  the  vocal  thorn, 
To  teach  religion,  unallied  to  strife, 
And  trace  to  him  the  way,  the  truth,  the  life. 

But  far  and  farther  still  my  view  I  bend. 
And  now  I  see  a  child  thy  steps  attend ; 


To  yonder  churchyard-wall  thou  takest  thy 

way, 
While  round  thee,    pleased,  thou  see'st  the 

infant  play ; 
Then  lifting  him,    while  tears   suffuse  thine 

eyes, 
Pointing,  thou  tell'st  him,  There^hy^rand- 

sire  lies. 

James  G-mhame. — Born  1765,  Died  18]  1. 


1 1 65  .—TO  AN  EAELY  PEIMEOSE. 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine. 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,   when    young    Spring   first   questioned 

Winter's  sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue    blooms,   brought   forth   amid  the 

storms 
Of  chill  adversity ;  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While   every   bleaching   breeze   that   on   her 

blows. 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast. 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

H.  Kirke  White.— Born  1785,  Died  1806. 


1 1 66.— SONNET. 

What  art  thou,  Mighty  One  !  and  where  thy 
seat  ? 
Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the 

lands. 

And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 

The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet ; 

Stem  on  thy  dark- wrought  car  of  cloud  and 

wind. 

Thou  guid'st  the  northern  storm  at  night's 

dead  noon, 
Or,  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  monsoon, 
Disturb'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 
In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 

Dost  thou  repose  ?  or  in  the  solitude 
Of  sTiltry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears    nightly   howl    the    tiger's   hungry 
brood  ? 


H.  KiRKE  White.] 


TKH  STAll  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


Vain  thought!  the  confines  of  his  throne  to 

trace, 
"Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless 

space. 

ff.  Kirke  White.— Born  1785,  Died  1806. 


1167.— THE  STAE  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

When  marshall'd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky  ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train. 
Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

Hark  !  hark  !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem ; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud — the  night  was  dark ; 
The  ocean  yawn'd — and  rudely  blow'd 

The  wind  that  toss'd  my  foundering- bark. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 

When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all. 
It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And  fiirough  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall, 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moor'd — ^my  perils  o'er, 
I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

For  ever  and  for  evermore, 

The  Star— the  Star  of  Bethlehem  ! 

H.  Ki/rke  White.^Born  1785,  Died  1806. 


[68.— A  HYMN  FOE  FAMILY  WOESHIP. 

0  Lord  !  another  day  is  fiown. 

And  we,  a  lonely  band, 
Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne. 

To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

And  wilt  thou  bend  a  listening  ear 

To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 
Thou  wilt !  for  thou  dost  love  to  hear 

The  song  which  meekness  pours. 

And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  wilt  deign, 

As  we  before  thee  pray  ; 
For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train, 

And  we  are  less  than  they. 

O  let  thy  grace  perform  its  part. 

And  let  contention  cease ; 
And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 

Thine  everlasting  peace  ! 


Thus  chasten'd,  cleansed,  entirely  thine, 

A  flock  by  Jesus  led  ; 
The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine 

In  glory  on  our  head. 

And  thou  Avilt  turn  our  wandering  feet, 

And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way ; 
Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 

The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 

H.  Kirlce  JVldte.—Born  11So,Died  1806. 


1 1 69.— THE  CHEISTIAD. 

Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme. 
With  self -re  war  ding  toil ;  thus  far  have 
sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 
The   lyre   which   I   in   early   days   have 

strung ; 
And   now  my  spirits   faint,  and  I  have 
hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour. 
On  the  dark  cypress ;    and   the  strings 

which  rung 
With  Jesus'   praise,  their  harpings   now 
are  o'er, 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are 
heard  no  more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  reanimate  the  lay  ? 
Oh  !  Thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 
Thou  who   dost  listen  when  the  humble 

pray, 
One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day; 
One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ! 
I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way. 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to 
thee. 
Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that 
I  am  free. 

/  H.  Kirle  White.— Born  1785,  Died  1806. 


1 1 70. 


-THE  SHIPWEECKED  SOLITAEY'S 
SONG'.— TO  THE  NIGHT. 


Thou,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night ! 
I  woo  thee  from  the  watch-tower  high, 
Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
Of  lonely  mariner. 

The  winds  are  whistling  o'er  the  wolds, 
The  distant  main  is  moaning  low  ; 
Come,  let  us  sit  and  weave  a  song — 
A  melancholy  song ! 

Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  mom, 
And  sweet  the  noontide's  fervid  beam, 
But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calm 
That  marks  thy  mournful  reign. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


FEOM  CLIFTON  GEOVE. 


[H.  KiRKE  White. 


I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year, 
And  never  human  voice  have  heard ; 
I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year 
A  solitary  man. 

And  I  have  lingered  in  the  shade, 
From  sultry  noon's  hot  beam  ;  and  I 
Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door, 
To  sing  my  evening  song. 

And  I  have  hail'd  the  gray  morn  high 
On  the  blue  mountain's  misty  brow, 
And  tried  to  tune  my  little  reed 
To  hymns  of  harmony. 

But  never  could  I  tsne  my  reed, 
At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet 
As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 
I  hail'd  thy  star-beam  mild. 

The  day-spring  brings  not  joy  to  me, 
The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace  ! 
But  oh  !  when  darkness  robes  the  heavens, 
My  woes  are  mix'd  with  joy. 

And  then  I  talk,  and  often  think 
Aerial  voices  answer  me  ;  , 

And  oh  !  I  am  not  then  alone — 
A  solitary  man. 

And  when  the  blustering  winter  winds 
Howl  in  the  woods  that  clothe  my  cave, 
I  lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat. 

And  pleasant  are  my  dreams. 

And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  wife  ; 
And  Fancy  gives  mo  back  my  child ; 
She  gives  me  back  my  little  home. 
And  all  its  placid  joys. 

Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour 
That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  bliss, 
To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 
The  same  dull  sounds  again. 

H.  Kirhe  Wliite.—Bom  1785,  Died  1806. 


1171.— FEOM  CLIFTON  GEOVE. 

Lo !  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  lingering  light. 
And  day's  last  vestige  takes  its  silent  flight. 
No  more  is  heard  the  woodman's  measured 

stroke 
Which,  with  the  dawn,  from  yonder  dingle 

broke ; 
No  more,  hoarse  clamouring  o'er  the  uplifted 

head,^, 
The  crows  assembling,  seek  their  wind-rock' d 

bed. 
Still'd   is    the    village    hum  —  the  woodland 

sounds 
Have  ceased  to  echo  o'er  the  dewy  grounds. 


And  general  silence  reigns,  save  when  below. 
The  murmuring  Trent  is  scarcely  heard   to 

flow ; 
And   save   when,    swung   by   'nighted   rustic 

late, 
Oft,  on  its  hinge,  rebounds  the  jarring  gate  : 
Or,  when  the  sheep-bell,  in  the  distant  ^ale, 
Breathes  its  wild  music  on  the  downy  gale. 

Now,  when  the  rustic  wears  the  social  smile, 
Eeleased  from  day  and  its  attendant  toil, 
And  draws  his  household  roimd  their  evening 

fire. 
And  tells  the  oft-told  tales  that  never  tire  : 
Or,  where  the  town's  blue  turrets  dimly  rise 
And  manufacture  taints  the  ambient  skies. 
The  pale  mechanic  leaves  the  labouring  loom. 
The  air-pent  hold,  the  pestilential  room, 
And  rushes  out,  impatient  to  begin 
The  stated  course  of  customary  sin  : 
Now,  now,  my  solitary  way  I  bend 
Where  solemn  groves  in  awful  state  impend. 
And  cliffs,  that  boldly  rise  above  the  plain. 
Bespeak,  blest  Clifton  !  thy  sublime  domain. 
Here,  lonely  wandering  o'er  the  sylvan  bower, 
I  come  to  pass  the  meditative  hour ; 
To  bid  awhile  the  strife  of  passion  cease. 
And  woo  the  calms  of  solitude  and  peace. 
And  oh !  thou  sacred  power,  who  rear'st  on 

high 
Thy  leafy  throne  where  waving  poplars  sigh .' 
Genius    of    woodland    shades !    whose    mild 

control 
Steals  with  resistless  witchery  to  the  soul, 
Come  with  thy  wonted  ardour  and  inspire 
My  glowing  bosom  with  thy  hallow' d  fire. 
And  thou,  too,  Fancy !  from  thy  starry  sphere, 
Where  to  the  hymning  orbs  thou  lend'st  thine 

ear. 
Do  thou  descend,  and  bless  my  ravish'd  sight, 
Veil'd  in  soft  visions  of  serene  delight. 
At  thy  command  the  gale  that  passes  by 
Beaxs  in  its  whispers  mystic  harmony. 
Thou  wavest  thy  wand,  and  lo !  what  forms 

appear ! 
On  the  dark  cloud  what  giant  shapes  career ! 
TJie  ghosts  of  Ossian  skim  the  misty  vale, 
Ajid  hosts  -of  sylphids  on  the  moon-beam  sail. 

This  gloomy  alcove,  darkling  to  the  sight. 
Where  meeting  trees  create  eternal  night ; 
Save  when  from  yonder  stream  the  sunny  ray 
Eeflected  gives  a  dubious  gleam  of  day ; 
Eecalls  endearing  to  my  alter' d  mind. 
Times,  when  beneath  the  boxen  hedge  reclined 
I   watch' d    the    lapwing   to    her    clamorous 

brood ; 
Or  lured  the  robin  to  its  scatter' d  food ; 
Or  woke  with  song  the  woodland  echo  wild. 
And  at  each  gay  response  delighted,  smiled. 
How  oft,  when   childhood   threw  its  golden 

ray 
Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  happy  day, 
Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary  boy. 
When  the  hoarse  tempest  shook  the  vaulted 

sky, 


H.  Kteke  White.] 


A  HYMN. 


[Cetis^ittii  Pesiod. — 


And  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  on  the  eddying  storm  ; 
And  heard,  while  awe  congeal'd  my  inmost 

soul, 
His  voice  terrific  in  the  thunders  roll. 
With  secret  joy,  I  view'd  with  vivid  glare, 
The  voUey'd  lightnings  cleave  the  sullen  air; 
And,  as  the  warring  winds  around  reviled. 
With  awful  pleasure  big, — I  heard  and  smiled. 
Beloved  remembrance  ! — Memory   which   en- 
dears 
This  silent  spot  to  my  advancing  years. 
Here  dwells  eternal  peace,  eternal  rest, 
In  shades  like  these  to  live,  is  to  be  blest, 
While  happiness  evades  the  busy  crowd, 
In  rural  coverts  loves  the  maid  to  shroud. 
And  thou,  too.  Inspiration,  whose  wild  flame 
Shoots  with   electric  swiftness   through   the 

frame. 
Thou  here  dost  love  to  sit,  with   up-turn'd 

eye. 
And  listen  to  the  stream  that  murmurs  by. 
The  woods  that  wave,  the  gray-owl's  silken 

flight. 
The  mellow  music  of  the  listening  night. 
Congenial  calms  more  welcome  to  my  breast 
Than  maddening  joy  in  dazzling  lustre  drest. 
To   heaven    my  prayers,  my  daily  prayers  I 

raise. 
That  ye  may  bless  my  unambitious  days, 
Withdrawn,  remote,  from  aU  the  haunts  of 

strife 
May  trace  with  me  the  lowly  vale  of  life, 
And  when  her  banner  Death  shall   o'er  me 

wave. 
May  keep  your  peaceful  vigils  on  my  grave. 
Now,    as   I   rove,  where   wide   the    prospect 

grows, 
A  livelier  light  upon  my  vision  flows. 
No    more    above,    th'     embracing    branches 

meet ; 
No  more  the  river  gurgles  at  my  feet, 
But   seen   deep   down   the   cliff's   impending 

side 
Through  hanging  woods,  now  gleams  its  silver 

tide. 
Dim  is  my  upland  path, — across  the  Green    , 
Fantastic  shadows  fling,  yet  oft  between 
The  chequer'd  glooms,  the  moon  her  chaste 

ray  sheds, 
Where  knots  of  blue-bells  droop  their  graceful 

heads. 
And  beds  of  violets  blooming  'mid  the  trees, 
Load  with    waste    fragrance    the    nocturnal 

breeze. 

Say,  why   does   man,   while   to   his   opening 

sight 
Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight, 
And  Nature  bids  for  him  her  treasures  flow, 
And  gives  to  him  alone  his  bliss  to  know, 
Why  does  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms  ? 
Why  clasp  the  siren  Pleasure  to  his  arms  ? 
And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous 

•breath, 
Though  fraught  with  ruin,  infamy,  and  death  ? 


Could  he,  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyments  clings, 
Know   what   calm   joy   from    purer    sources 

springs, 
Could  he  but  feel  how  sweet,  how  free  from 

strife. 
The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life, 
No  moi-e  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure, 
The  deadly  chalice  would  no  more  aUure, 
But  the  sweet  potion  he  was  wont  to  sip. 
Would  turn  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 

H.  KirTce  Wliite.—Born  1785,  Died  1806. 


1 1 72.— A  HYMN. 

0  Lord,  my  God,  in  mercy  turn ; 
In  mercy  hear  a  sinner  mourn ! 
To  Thee  I  call,  to  Thee  I  cry. 

Oh !  leave  me,  leave  me  not  to  die ! 

1  strove  against  Thee,  Lord,  I  know ; 

I  spurn' d  thy  grace,  I  mock'd  thy  law; 
The  hour  is  past — the  day 's  gone  by, 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  die. 

0  pleasures  past,  what  are  ye  now 
But  thorns  about  my  bleeding  brow  ? 
Spectres  that  hover  round  my  brain, 
And  aggravate  and  mock  my  pain. 

For  pleasure  I  have  given  my  soul ; 
Now,  Justice,  let  thy  thunders  roll ! 
Now,  Vengeance,  smile — and  with  a  blow, 
Lay  the  rebellious  ingrate  low. 

Yet,  Jesus,  Jesus  !  there  I'll  cling ; 
I'll  crowd  beneath  his  sheltering  wing ; 
I'll  clasp  the  cross  ;  and,  holding  there. 
Even  me,  oh  bliss  ! — his  wrath  may  spare. 

H.  Eirlce  White.— Born  1785,  Died  1806. 


1 1 73  .—THE  PAEISH  WORKHOUSE  AND 
APOTHECAEY. 

Theirs   is   yon  house  that  holds   the   parish 

poor. 
Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken 

door; 
There,   where   the  putrid    vapours   flagging, 

play, 
And  the  duU  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the 

day; 
There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents' 

care; 
Parents,  who  know  no  children's  love,  dwell 

there ; 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 
Forsaken  wives  and  mothers  never  wed. 
Dejected  widows  with  unheeded  tears. 
And  crippled  age  "svith  more  than  childhood 

fears  ; 


From  1780  to  18S6.] 


ISAAC  ASHFOED. 


[Gso.  Crabbe. 


The  lame,  the  blind,  and,  far  the  happiest  they ! 
The  moping  idiot  and  the  madman  gay. 

Here,  too,  the  sick  their  final  doom  receive, 
Here  brought   amid  the  scenes   of    grief,  to 

grieve, 
Where  the  loud  groans  from  some  sad  chamber 

flow, 
Mix'd  with  the  clamours  of  the  crowd  below ; 
Here  sorrowing,  they  each  kindred  sorrow  scan, 
And  the  cold  charities  of  man  to  man  : 
Whose  laws  indeed  for  ruin'd  age  provide. 
And  strong  compulsion  plucks  the  scrap  from 

pride ; 
But  still  that  scrap  is  bought  with  many  a 

sigh. 
And  pride  imbitters  what  it  can't  deny. 
Say  ye,  oppress' d  by  some  fantastic  woes, 
Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose  ; 
Who   press   the   downy  couch,   while   slaves 

advance 
With  timid  eye,  to  read  the  distant  glance ; 
Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease, 
To  name  the  nameless  ever-new  disease ; 
Who    with    mock    patience   dire   complaints 

endure, 
Which  real  pain,  and  that  alone,  can  cure ; 
How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie, 
Despised,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die  ? 
How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath 
Where  all  that's  wretched  pave  the  way  for 

death  ? 
Such  is  that   room  which  one  rude   beam 

divides, 
And  naked  rafters  form  the  sloping  sides  ; 
Where  the  vile  bands  that  bind  the  thatch  are 

seen, 
And  lath  and  mud  are  all  that  lie  between  ; 
Save  one  dull  pane,  that,  coarsely  patch'd, 

gives  way 
To  the  rude  tempest,  yet  excludes  the  day : 
Here,  on  a  matted  flock,  with  dust  o'erspread. 
The  drooping  wretch  reclines  his  languid  head; 
For  him  no  hand  the  cordial  cup  applies, 
Or  wipes  the  tear  'that  stagnates  in  his  eyes ; 
No  friends  with  soft  discourse  his  pain  beguile, 
Or  promise  hope  till  sickness  wears  a  smile. 

But  soon  a  loud  and  hasty  summons  calls. 
Shakes  the  thin  roof,  and  echoes  round  the 

walls ; 
Anon,  a  figure  enters,  quaintly  neat, 
All  pride  and  business,  bustle  and  conceit, 
With  looks  unalter'd  by  these  scenes  of  wo. 
With  speed  that,  entering,  speaks  his  haste 

to  go ; 
He  bids  the  gazing  throng  around  him  fly, 
And  carries  fate  and  physic  in  his  eye ; 
A  potent  quack,  long  versed  in  human  ills. 
Who  first  insults  the  victim  whom  he  kills  ; 
Whose  murderous  hand  a  drowsy  bench  protect, 
And  whose  most  tender  mercy  is  neglect. 
Paid  by  the  parish  for  attendance  here. 
He  wears  contempt  upon  his  sapient  sneer  ; 
In  haste  he  seeks  the  bed  where  misery  lies, 
Impatience  mark'd  in  his  averted  eyes; 
And,  some  habitual  queries  hurried  o'er, 
Without  reply,  he  rushes  on  the  door ; 


His  drooping  patient,  long  inured  to  pain. 
And  long  unheeded,  knows  remonstrance  vain  j 
He  ceases  now  the  feeble  help  to  crave 
Of  man ;  and  silent  sinks  into  the  grave. , 

George  Crahhe.—Born  1754,  Died  1832. 


1 1 74. 


-ISAAC  ASHFORD,  A  NOBLE 
PEASANT. 


Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  nought  allied, 
A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 
Noble  he  was,  contemning  aU  things  mean, 
His  truth  unquestion'd  and  his  soul  serene : 
Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid ; 
At  no  man's  question  Isaac  look'd  dismay'd : 
Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace ; 
Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face ; 
Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  soul  approved, 
Cheerful  he  seem'd,  and  gentleness  he  loved ; 
To  bHss  domestic  he  his  heart  resign'd. 
And  with  the  firmest,  had  the  fondest  mind ; 
Were  others  joyful,  he  look'd  smiling  on, 
And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none ; 
Good  he  refused  with  future  ill  to  buy, 
Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caused  reflection's  sigh ; 
A  friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 
No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distress'd  ; 
(Bane  of  the  poor !  it  wounds  their  weaker  mind 
To  miss  one  favour  which  their  neighbours  find) 
Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic-pride  removed ; 
He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  loved : 
I  mark'd  his  action  when  his  infant  died. 
And  his  old  neighbour  for  offence  was  tried ; 
The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrow' d 

cheek, 
Spoke  pity  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak. 
If  pride  were  his,  'twas  not  their  vulgar  pride, 
WTio,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great  deride ; 
Nor  pride  in  learning,  though  my  clerk  agreed, 
If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might  succeed ; 
Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knew 
None  his  superior,  and  his  equals  few  : 
But  if  that  spirit  in  his  soul  had  place, 
It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace ; 
A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gain'd. 
In  sturdy  boys  to  virtuous  labours  train' d  r. 
Pride  in  the  power  that  guards  his  country's 

coast. 
And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast ; 
Pride  in  a  hfe  that  slander's  tongue  defied. 
In  fact,  a  noble  passion,  misnamed  pride. 

He  had  no  party's  rage,  no  sect'ry's  whim; 
Christian  and  countryman  was  all  with  him  ; 
True   to    his    church   he   came,    no   Sunday- 
shower 
Kept  him  at  home  in  that  important  hour ; 
Nor  his  firm  feet  could  one  persuading  sect 
By  the  strong  glare  of  their  new  light  direct : 
"  On  hope,  in  mine  own  sober  light,  I  gaze, 
But  should  be  blind  and  lose  it  in  your  blaze." 
In  times  severe,  when  many  a  sturdy  .swain 
Felt  it  his  pride,  lais  comfort  to  complain, 


Geo.  Cuabbe.] 


PHCEBE  DAWSON. 


[Seventh  Period.-— 


Isaac  their  wants  -would  soothe,  his  own  would 

hide, 
And  feel  in  that  his  comfort  and  his  pride. 
At  length  he  found,  when  seventy  years  were 

run, 
His  strength  departed  and  his  labour  done  ; 
When,  save  his  honest  fame,  he  kept  no  more  ; 
But  lost  his  wife  and  saw  his  children  poor ; 
'Twas  then  a  spark  of — say  not  discontent — 
Struck  on  his  mind,  and  thus  he  gave  it  vent : 
"  Kind  are  your  laws  ('tis  not  to  be  denied) 
That  in  yon  house  for  ruin'd  age  provide, 
And  they  are  just ;  when  young,  we  give  you 

aU, 
And  then  for  comforts  in  our  weakness  call. 
Why  then  this  proud  reluctance  to  be  fed, 
To  join  your  poor  and  eat  the  parish-bread  ? 
But  yet  I  linger,  loath  with  him  to  feed 
Who  gains  his  plenty  by  the  sons  of  need  : 
He  who,  by  contract,  all  your  paiipers  took, 
And  gauges  stomachs  with  an  anxious  look : 
On  some  old  master  I  could  well  depend ; 
See  him  with  joy  and  thank  him  as  a  friend ; 
But  ill  on  him  who  doles  the  day's  supply, 
And  counts  our  chances  who  at  night  may  die  : 
Yet  help  me,  Heaven!  and  let  me  not  com- 
plain 
Of  what  befaUs  me,  but  the  fate  sustain." 
Such  were  his  thoughts,  and  so  resign' d  he 

grew; 
Daily  he  placed  the  workhouse  in  his  view  ! 
But  came  not  there,  for  sudden  was  his  fate, 
He  dropt  expiring  at  his  cottage-gate. 

I  feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer, 
And  view  his  seat,  and  sigh  for  Isaac  there ; 
I  see  no  more  those  white  locks  thinly  spread 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honour' d  head ; 
No  more  that  awful  glance  on  playful  wight 
Compell'd  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the  sight ; 
To  fold  his  j&ngers  all  in  dread  the  while, 
Till  Mister  Ashford  soften' d  to  a  smile  ; 
No   more  that   meek  and  suppliant  look  in 

prayer. 
Nor    the  pure  faith   (to  give  it  force)   are 

there :  .  .  .  . 
But  he  is  blest,  and  I  lament  no  more, 
A  wise  good  man  contented  to  be  poor. 

George  Cro.hhe. — Bom  1754,  Died  1832. 


1 1 75. —PHOEBE  DAWSON. 

Two  summers  since,  I  saw  at  Lammas  fair, 
The  sweetest  flower  that  ever  blossom' d  there  ; 
When  Phoebe  Dawson  gaily  cross'd  the  green, 
In  haste  to  see  and  happy  to  be  seen ; 
Her  air,  her  manners,  all  who  saw  admired, 
Courteous    though    coy,   and   gentle   though 

retired ; 
The  joy  of  youth  and  health  her  eyes  dis- 
played, 
And  ease  of  heart  her  every  look  conveyed ; 
A  native  skill  her  simple  robes  express' d, 
A3  with  untutor'd  elegance  she  dress' d ; 


The  lads  around  admired  so  fair  a  sight, 

And  Phoebe  felt,  and  felt  she  gave,  delight. 

Admirers  soon  of  every  age  she  gain'd. 

Her  beauty  won  them  and  her  worth  retain'd; 

Envy  itself  coiild  no  contempt  display. 

They  wish'd  her  well,  whom  yet  they  vfish'd 

away; 
Correct  in  thought,   she  judged   a  servant's 

place 
Preserved  a  rustic  beauty  from  disgrace ; 
But  yet  on  Sunday-eve,  in  freedom's  hour. 
With  secret  joy  she  felt  that  beauty's  power ; 
When  some  proud  bliss  upon  the  heart  would 

steal. 
That,  poor  or  rich,  a  beauty  still  must  feel. 
At  length,  the  youth  ordain'd  to  move  her 

breast. 
Before  the  swains  with  bolder  spirit  press'd ; 
With   looks    less    timid    made    his    passion 

known, 
And  pleased  by  manners,  most  unlike  her  own ; 
Loud  though  in  love,  and  confident  though 

young ; 
Fierce  in  his  air,  and  voluble  of  tongue ; 
By  trade  a  tailor,  though,  in  scorn  of  trade. 
He  served  the  squire,  and  brush' d  the  coat  he 

made; 
Yet  now,  would  Phoebe  her  consent  afford, 
Her  slave  alone,  again  he'd  mount  the  board ; 
With  her  should  years  of   growing  love   be 

spent. 
And  growing  wealth : — she  sigh'd  and  look'd 

consent. 
Now,  through  the  lane,  up  hill,  and  cross 

the  green 
(Seen  by  but  few  and  blushing  to  be  seen — 
Dejected,  thoughtful,  anxious,  and  afraid), 
Led  by  the  lover,  walk'd  the  silent  maid : 
Slow  through  the  meadows  roved  they  many 

a  mile, 
Toy'd  by  each  bank  and  trifled  at  each  style ; 
Where,  as  he  painted  every  blissful  view. 
And  highly  colour' d  what  he  strongly  drew, 
The  pensive  damsel,  prone  to  tender  fears, 
Dimm'd  the   false    prospect   with   prophetic 

tears : 
Thus  passed  the  allotted  hours,  till,  lingering 

late. 
The  lover  loiter' d  at  the  master's  gate ; 
There  he  pronounced  adieu!  and  yet  would 

stay, 
Till    chidden  —  soothed  —  intreated  —  forced 

away ! 
He  would  of  coldness,  though  indulged,  com- 
plain. 
And  oft  retire  and  oft  return  again ; 
When,  if  his  teasing  vex'd  her  gentle  mind. 
The  grief  assumed  compell'd  her  to  be  kind ! 
For  he  would  proof  of  phghted  kindness  crave, 
That  she  resented  first,  and  then  forgave, 
And  to  his  grief  and  penance  yielded  more 
Than  his  presumption  had  required  before : — 

Ah !     fly    temptation,    youth ;     refrain ! 
refrain ! 

Each  yielding  maid  and  each  presuming 
swain! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


AN  ENGLISH  FEN— GIPSIES. 


[Geo.  Crabbe. 


Lo !  now  with  red  rent  cloak  and  bonnet 

black, 
And  torn  green  gown  loose   hanging  at  her 

back, 
One  who  an  infant  in  her  arms  sustains, 
And  seems  in  patience  striving  with  her  pains ; 
Pinch'd  are  her  looks,  as  one  who  pines  for 

bread, 
Whose  cares  are  growing  and  whose  hopes  are 

fled; 
Pale  her  parch' d  lips,  her  heavy  eyes  sunk  low. 
And  tears  unnoticed  from  their  channels  flow; 
Serene  her  manner,  till  some  sudden  pain 
Frets  the  meek  soul,  and  then  she's  calm  again ; 
Her  broken  pitcher  to  the  pool  she  takes, 
And  every  step  with  cautious  terror  makes ; 
For  not  alone  that  infant  in  her  arms. 
But  nearer  cause  her  anxious  soiil  alarms  ; 
With  water  burden' d  then  she  picks  her  way, 
Slowly  and  cautious,  in  the  chnging  clay ; 
Till,  in  mid-green,  she  trusts  a  place  unsound, 
And  deeply  plunges  in  the  adhesive  ground ; 
Thence,  but  with  pain,  her  slender  foot  she 

takes, 
While  hope  the  mind  as  strength  the  frame 

forsakes ; 
For  when  so  full  the  cup  of  sorrow  grows. 
Add  but  a  drop,  it  instantly  o'erflows. 
And  now  her   path  but   not   her   peace   she 

gains. 
Safe   from  her  task,  but  shivering  with  her 

pains  ; 
Her  home  she  reaches,  open  leaves  the  door. 
And  placing  first  her  infant  on  the  floor. 
She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  wind,  and  sits. 
And  sobbing  struggles  with  the  rising  fits ; 
In  vain,  they  come,  she  feels  th'  inflating  grief, 
That  shuts  the  swelling  bosom  from  relief ; 
That  speaks  in  feeble  cries  a  soul  distress' d, 
Or  the  sad  laugh  that  cannot  be  repress'd ; 
The  neighbour-matron  leaves  her  wheel,  and 

flies 
With  all  the  aid  her  poverty  supplies ; 
Unfee'd,  the  calls  of  nature  she  obeys. 
Not  led  by  profit,  not  allured  by  praise ; 
And  waiting  long,  till  these  contentions  cease. 
She  speaks  of  comfort,  and  departs  in  peace. 
Friend  of  distress  !  the  mourner  feels  thy 

aid. 
She  cannot  pay  thee,  but  thou  wilt  be  paid. 
But  who  this  child  of  weakness,  want,  and 

care? 
'Tis  Phoebe  Dawson,  pride  of  Lammas  fair ; 
Who  took  her  lover  for  his  sparkling  eyes. 
Expressions  warm,  and  love-inspiring  lies  : 
Compassion  first  assail'd  her  gentle  heart 
For  all  his  suffering,  all  his  bosom's  smart : 
"And  then  his  prayers !  they  would  a  savage 

move, 
And  win  the  coldest  of  the  sex  to  love." 
But  ah  !  too  soon  his  looks  success  declared. 
Too  late  her  loss  the  marriage-rite  repair' d  ; 
The  faithless  flatterer  then  his  vows  forgot, 
A  captious  tyrant  or  a  noisy  sot : 
If  present,  raihng  till  he  saw  her  pain'd ; 
If  absent,  spending  what  their  labours  gain'd; 


Till  that  fair  form  in  want  and  sickness  pined, 
And  hope  and  comfort  fled  that  gentle  mind. 

Then  fly  temptation,  youth ;  resist  I 
refrain  ! 

Nor  let  me  preach  for  ever  and  in  vain ! 

George  Crahhe.—Born  l754,-IHei_1832. 


1 1 76.— AN  ENGLISH  FEN— GIPSIES. 

On  either  side 
Is  level  fen,  a  prospect  wild  and  wide, 
I   With  dikes  on  either   hand  by  ocean's   self 
j  supplied : 

j    Far  on  the  right  the  distant  sea  is  seen, 
i   And   salt   the   springs   that  feed   the  marsh 
!  between : 

Beneath  an    ancient    bridge,   the   straiten' d 

flood 
RoUs   through    its    sloping    banks   of    slimy 

mud; 
Near  it  a  sunken  boat  resists  the  tide. 
That  frets  and  hurries  to  the  opposing  side  ; 
The  rushes  sharp  that  on  the  borders  grow. 
Bend  their  brown   flowerets   to   the    stream 

below. 
Impure  in  all  its  course,  in  all  its  progress 

slow: 
Here  a  grave  Flora  scarcely  deigns  to  bloom. 
Nor  wears  a  rosy  blush,  nor  sheds  perfume  ; 
The  few  dull  flowers  that  o'er  the  place  are 

spread. 
Partake  the  nature  of  their  fenny  bed. 
Here  on  its  wiry  stem,  in  rigid  bloom. 
Grows  the  salt  lavender  that  lacks  perfume ; 
Here   the  dwarf   sallows  creep,  the    septfoil 

harsh, 
And  the  soft  slimy  mallow  of  the  marsh ; 
Low  on  the  ear  the  distant  billows  sound. 
And  just  in  view  appears  their  stony  bound ; 
Nor   hedge   nor   tree    conceals    the    glo-sving^ 

sun ; 
Birds,  save  a  watery  tribe,  the  district  shun, 
Nor  chirp  among  the  reeds  where  bitter  waters 

run. 
Again,  the  country  was  inclosed,  a  wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  cither  side ; 
Where,  lo !  a  hollow  on  the  left  appear' d. 
And  there  a  gipsy  tribe  their  tent  had  rear'd  ; 
'Twas  open  spread  to  catch  the  morning  sun, 
And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun, 
When  two  brown  boys  just  left  their  grassy 

seat, 
The   early   traveller   with    their    prayers   to 

greet ; 
While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand, 
He  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand ; 
Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  clj, 
Prepared  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try ; 
Sudden  a  look  of  languor  he  descries. 
And  well-feign' d  apprehension  in  her  eyes ; 
Train' d,  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  fac3 
He  mark'd  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race, 

59 


f       Geo.  Ceabbe.] 


THE  DYING  SAILOE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Wlien  a  light  laugh  and  roguish  leer  express' d 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast ; 
Forth  from  the  tent  her  elder  brother  came, 
Who  seem'd  oflFended,  yet  forbore  to  blame 
The  young  designer,  but  could  only  trace 
The  looks  of  pity  in  the  traveller's  face. 
Within  the  father,  who  from  fences  nigh, 
Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire's  supply, 
Watch' d  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  de- 
jected by ; 
On  ragged  rug,  just  borrow' d  from  the  bed. 
And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed, 
In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dress'd, 
Eeclined  the  wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast ; 
In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  remain' d, 
Of  vigour  palsied,  and  of  beauty  stain' d ; 
Her  bloodshot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate 
Were  wrathful  turn'd,  and  seem'd  her  wants 

to  state, 
Cursing  his  tardy  aid.     Her  mother  there 
With  gipsy  state  engross'd  the  only  chair  j 
Solemn   and   dull   her   look ;    with  such  she 

stands, 
And   reads    the    milkmaid's   fortune   in   her 

hands, 
Tracing  the  lines  of  life;   assumed  through 

years, 
Each  feature  noAV  the  steady  falsehood  wears  ; 
With  hard   and   savage   eye   she    views    the 

food. 
And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood. 
Last   in   the   group,  the  worn- out  grandsire 

sits 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits  ; 
Useless,  despised,  his  worthless  labours  done, 
And  half  protected  by  the  vicious  son, 
Who  half-supports  him,  he  with  heavy  glance 
Views   the   young  ruflfians  who  around  him 

dance. 
And,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years  ; 
Through  what  strange  course  of  misery,  vice, 

deceit, 
.Must  wildly  wander  each  unpractised  cheat ; 
What  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and 

pain, 
Sport   of    fierce    passions,   must   each    child 

sustain, 
Ere  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end, 
Without  a  hope,  a  comfort,  or  a  friend ! 

George  Crahhe.—Born  1754,  Died  1832. 


1177.— THE  DYING  SAILOE. 

Yes  !  there  are  real  mourners. — I  have  seen 
A  fair,  sad  girl,  mild,  sufi'ering,  and  serene ; 
Attention  (through  the  day)  her  duties  claim' d, 
And  to  be  useful  as  resign' d  she  aim'd : 
Neatly  she  drest,  nor  vainly  seem'd  t'  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect ; 
But,  when  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep. 
She  ccught  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep : 


Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  display' d, 
That  faithful  memory  brings  to  sorrow's  aid  : 
For  then  she  thought  on  one  regretted  youth. 
Her  tender  trust,  and  his  unquestion'd  truth  : 
In  every  place   she   wander' d,  where   they'd 

been. 
And  sadly- sacred  held  the  parting  scene, 
Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave — that 

place 
With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace  ; 
For  long  the  courtship  was,  and  he  would  say. 
Each  time  he  sail'd, — "  This  once,  and  then 

the  day :" 
Yet  prudence  tarried ;  but,  when  last  he  went. 
He  drew  from  pitying  love  a  full  consent. 

Happy  he  sail'd,  and  great  the  care  she 

took, 
That   he    should    softly   sleep,    and    smartly 

look; 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck ; 
And  every  comfort  men  at  sea  can  know. 
Was  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow : 
For  he  to    Greenland    sail'd,  and  much  she 

told, 
How  he  should  gu^rd  against  the  climate's 

cold, 
Yet  saw  not  danger ;  dangers  he'd  withstood, 
Nor  could  she  trace  the  fever  in  his  blood : 
His  messmates   smiled   at   flushings   on    his 

cheek, 
And   he   too    smiled,   but   seldom   would   he 

speak ; 
For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain, 
With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  explain ; 
Hope  was  awaken'd,  as  for  home  he  sail'd, 
But  quickly  sank,  and  never  more  prevaU'd. 

He  call'd  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a 

sigh 
A  lover's  message — "  Thomas,  I  must  die : 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast. 
And  gazing,  go  ! — if  not,  this  trifle  take, 
And  say,  till  death  I  wore  it  for  her  sake ; 
Yes  !    I    must    die — blow   on,    sweet   breeze, 

blow  on ! 
Give  me  one  look,  before  my  life  be  gone, 
Oh  !  give  me  that,  and  let  me  not  despair, 
One    last    fond    look — and    now    repeat  the 

prayer." 

He   had  his  wish,  had  more ;    I  will  not 
paint 
The  lovers'  meeting :  she  beheld  him  faint, — 
With  tender  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view, 
Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew  ; 
He  tried  to  smile,  and,  half  succeeding,  said, 
"  Yes  !  I  must  die ;"  and  hope  for  ever  fled. 

Still  long  she  nursed  him ;  tender  thoughts, 

meantime. 
Were    interchanged,    and    hopes    and    views 

sublime. 
To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away : 


JProm  1780  io  Vc 


EEFLECTIONS. 


[Geo.  Cijabbe. 


With  him  she  pray'd,  to  him  his  Bible  read, 
Soothed  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching 

head ; 
She   came  with  smiles  the   hour  of   pain  to 

cheer ; 
Apart,  she  sigh'd  ;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear  ; 
Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a  cloud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave,   j 

One  day  he  lighter  seem'd,  and  they  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot ; 
They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seem'd  to 

think, 
Yet  said  not  so — "  perhaps  he  will  not  sink :" 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appear' d, 
A  sudden  vigour  in  his  voice  was  heard ; — 
She  had  been  reading  in  the  book  of  prayer. 
And  led   him  forth,   and   placed  him   in  his 

chair ; 
Lively  he  seem'd,  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew. 
The  friendly  many,  and  the  favourite  few ; 
Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall. 
But  she  has  treasured,  and  she  loves  them  all ; 
When  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people— death  has  made  them  dear. 
He  named  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she 

prest, 
And  fondly   whisper'd,    "  Thou  must   go   to 

rest. " 
'•I  go,"  he  said;  but,  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His  hand  more  cold,  and   fluttering  was  the 

sound ! 
Then  gazed  affrighten'd;    but   she  caught  a 

last, 
A  dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  past ! 

She  placed  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above. 
Neatly  engraved — an  offering  of  her  love ; 
For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her 

bed, 
Awake  alike  to  duty  and  the  dead  ; 
She  would  have  grieved,  had  friends  presumed 

to  spare 
The  least  assistance — 'twas  her  proper  care. 

Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will 

sit. 
Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit ; 
But,  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round, 
And  careless    seem,   for    she   would  not   be 

found  ; 
Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hour  employ, 
While   visions    please    her,    and   while   woes 

destroy. 

Forbear,  sweet  maid !  nor  be  by  fancy  led. 
To  hold  mysterious  converse  with  the  dead  ; 
For  sure  at  length  thy  thoughts,  thy  spirit's 

pain. 
In  this  sad  conflict,  will  disturb  thy  brain ; 
All  have  their  tasks   and   trials ;    thine    are 

hard, 
But  short  the  time,  and  glorious  the  reward  ; 
Thy  patient  spirit  to  thy  duties  give, 
Sogard  the  dead,  but,  to  the  living,  live 

George  Crahbe. — Born  1754,  Died  1832. 


1 1 78.— EEFLECTIONS. 

When  all  the  fiercer  passions  cease 

(The  glory  and  disgrace  of  youth) ; 
Wlien  the  deluded  soul  in  peace, 

Can  listen  to  the  voice  of  truth  ; 
When  we  are  taught  in  whom  to  tF 

And  how  to  spare,  to  spend,  to  give 
(Our  prudence  kind,  our  pity  just), 

'Tis  then  we  rightly  learn  to  live. 
Its  weakness  when  the  body  feels ; 

Nor  danger  in  contempt  defies ; 
To  reason  when  desire  appeals. 

When  on  experience  hope  relies ; 
When  every  passing  hour  we  prize, 

Nor  rashly  on  our  folhes  spend, 
But  use  it,  as  it  quickly  flies. 

With  sober  aim  to  serious  end ; 
When  prudence  bounds  our  utmost  views. 

And  bids  us  wrath  and  wrong  forgive  | 
When  we  can  calmly  gain  or  lose  : — 

'Tis  then  we  rightly  learn  to  live. 
Yet  thus,  when  we  our  way  discern, 

And  can  upon  our  care  depend. 
To  travel  safely,  when  we  learn. 

Behold  !  we're  near  our  journey's  end ; 
We've  trod  the  maze  of  error  round, 

Long  wandering  in  the  winding  glade ; 
And,  now  the  torch  of  truth  is  found. 

It  only  shows  us  where  we  stray' d : 
Light  for  ourselves,  what  is  it  worth. 

When  we  no  more  our  way  can  choose  T 
For  others,  when  we  hold  it  forth. 

They,  in  their  pride,  the  boon  refuse. 
By  long  experience  taught,  we  now 

Can  rightly  judge  of  friends  and  foes, 
Can  all  the  worth  of  these  allow. 

And  all  their  faults  discern  in  those ; 
Relentless  hatred,  erring  love. 

We  can  for  sacred  truth  forego ; 
We  can  the  warmest  friend  reprove. 

And  bear  to  praise  the  fiercest  foe  : 
To  what  effect  ?     Our  friends  are  gono 

Beyond  reproof,  regard,  or  care ; 
And  of  our  foes  remains  there  one, 

The  mild  relenting  thoughts  to  share 
Now  'tis  our  boast  that  we  can  quell 

The  wildest  passions  in  their  rage  ; 
Can  their  destructive  force  repel, 

And  their  impetuous  wrath  assuage  : 
Ah  !  Virtue,  dost  thou  arm,  when  now 

This  bold  rebellious  race  are  fled ; 
When  all  these  tyrants  rest,  and  thou 

Art  warring  with  the  mighty  dead  ? 
Eevenge,  ambition,  scorn  and  pride, 

And  strong  desire,  and  fierce  disdain, 
The  giant-brood  by  thee  defied, 

Lo !  Time's  resistless  strokes  have  slain. 
Yet  Time,  who  could  that  race  subdue 

(O'erpowering  strength,  appeasing  rage), 
Leaves  yet  a  persevering  crew. 

To  try  the  failing  powers  of  age. 
Vex'd  by  the  constant  call  of  these, 

Virtue  awhile  for  conquest  tries ; 
But  weary  grown,  and  fond  of  ease, 

She  makes  with  them  a  compromise : 
59* 


Geo.  Chabbe.] 


THE  WIFE'S  FUNERAL. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. — 


Avarice  himseK  she  gives  to  rest, 

But  rules  Mm  with  her  strict  commands, 
Bids  Pity  touch  his  torpid  breast, 

And  Justice  hold  his  eager  hands. 
Yet  is  there  nothing  men  can  do, 

When  chilling  age  comes  creeping  on  ? 
Cannot  we  yet  some  good  pursue  ? 

Are  talents  buried  ?  genius  gone  ? 
If  passions  slumber  in  the  breast, 

If  follies  from  the  heart  be  fled  ; 
If  laurels  let  us  go  in  quest, 

And  place  them  on  the  poet's  head. 
Yes,  we'll  redeem  the  wasted  time, 

And  to  neglected  studies  flee  ; 
We'll  build  again  the  lofty  rhyme, 

Or  live,  Philosophy,  with  thee  : 
For  reasoning  clear,  for  flight  sublime. 

Eternal  fame  reward  shall  be ; 
And  to  what  glorious  heights  we'U  climb, 

The  admiring  crowd  shall  envying  see. 
Begin  the  song !  begin  the  theme  ! — 

Alas  !  and  is  Invention  dead  ? 
Dream  we  no  more  the  golden  dream  ?  . 

Is  Mem'ry  with  her  treasures  fled  ? 
Yes,  'tis  too  late, — now  Eeason  guides 

The  mind,  sole  judge  in  all  debate  ; 
And  thus  th'  important  point  decides, 

For  laurels,  'tis,  alas  !  too  late. 
What  is  possess' d  we  may  retain. 
But  for  new  conquests  strive  in  vain. 
Beware  then.  Age,  that  what  was  won. 

If  life's  past  labovirs,  studies,  views, 
Be  lost  not,  now  the  labour's  done. 

When  all  thy  part  is, — not  to  lose  ; 
When  thou  canst  toil  or  gain  no  more, 
Destroy  not  what  was  gain'd  before. 
For,  all  that's  gain'd  of  all  that's  good. 

When  time  shall  his  weak  frame  destroy 
(Their  use  then  rightly  understood). 

Shall  man  in  happier  state  enjoy. 
Oh  !  argument  for  truth  divine, 

For  study's  cares,  for  virtue's  strife ; 
To  know  th'  enjoyment  will  be  thine. 

In  that  renew' d,  that  endless  life  ! 

George  Crabhe.—Born  1754,  IHed  1832. 


1179.— THE  WIFE'S  FUNERAL. 

Then  died,  lamented,  in  the  strength  of  life, 

A  valued  mother,  and  a  faithful  wife  : 

Called  not  away,  when  time  had  loosed  each 

hold 
On  the  fond  heart,  and  each  desire  grew  cold ; 
But  when,  to  aU  that  knit  us  to  our  kind. 
She  felt  fast  bound,  as  charity  can  bind  ; — 
Not  when  the  ills  of  age,  its  pain,  its  care,  * 
The  drooping  spirit  for  its  fate  prepare ; 
And,  each  affection  failing,  leaves  the  heart 
Loosed   from    life's    charm,    and    willing  to 

depart : — 
But  all  her  ties  the  strong  invader  broke. 
In   all   their    strength,   by    one    tremendous 

stroke ! 


Sudden  and  swift  the  eager  pest  came  on, 
And  terror  grew,  till  every  hope  was  gone, 
Stni  those  ai'ound  appear' d  for  hope  to  seek  • 
But   view'd   the    sick,    and    were    afraid    to 

speak. 
Slowly   they   bore,  with   solemn    step,  the 

dead; 
When  grief  grew  loud,  and  bitter  tears  were 

shed, 
My  part  began  :  a  crowd  drew  near  the  place, 
Awe  in  each  eye,  alarm  in  every  face ; 
So  swift  the  ill,  and  of  so  fierce  a  kind. 
That  fear  with  pity  mingled  in  each  mind ; 
Friends  with  the  husband  came,  their  griefs 

to  blend ; 
For  good-man  Frankford  was  to  all  a  friend. 
The  last-born  boy  they  held  above  the  bier ; 
He  knew  not  grief,  but  cries   express' d  his 

fear ; 
Each  different  age  and  sex  reveal'd  its  pain, 
In  now  a  louder,  now  a  lower  strain  ! 
While   the    meek    father,  listening   to   their 

tones, 
Swell'd  the  full  cadence  of  the  grief  by  groans. 

The  elder  sister  strove  her  pangs  to  hide. 
And  soothing  words  to  younger  minds  applied  : 
"  Be  still,  be  patient,"  oft  she  strove  to  stay  I 
But  fail'd  as  oft,  and  weeping  turned  away. 
Curious  and  sad,  upon  the  fresh-dug  hill, 
The  village  lads  stood  melancholy  still ; 
And  idle  children,  wandering  to  and  fro. 
As  nature  guided,  took  the  tone  of  woe. 

Arrived   at   home,   how    then    they   gazed 

around. 
In   every  place — where    she — no    more    was 

found  : — 
The  seat  at  table  she  was  wont  to  fill ; 
The  fire- side  chair,  still  set,  but  vacant  still ; 
The  garden- walks,  a  labour  all  her  own ; 
The  latticed  bower,  with  trailing  shrubs  o'er- 

grown ; 
The  Sunday  pew  she  filled  with  all  her  race, — 
Each  place  of  hers  was  now  a  sacred  place  : 
That,  while  it  called  up  sorrows  in  the  eyes, 
Pierced  the  full  heart,  and  forced  them  still 

to  rise. 
Oh  sacred  sorrow  !  by  whom  souls  are  tried, 
Sent  not  to  punish  mortals,  but  to  guide ; 
If  thou  art  mine  (and  who  shall  proudly  dare 
To  tell  his  Maker,  he  has  had  a  share  r) 
Still  let  me  feel  for  Avhat  thy  pangs  are  sent. 
And  be  my  guide,  and  not  my  punishment  \ 

George  Crahhe.—Born  1754,  Died  1832. 


I       1 180.— FROM  THE  "  PLEASURES  OF 
i  MEMORY." 

TT^'ilight's  soft  dews    steal    o'er  the  village 

green. 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonise  the  scene. 
Stilled  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet 

broke, 
"When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 


Samuel  Eogees.]        FROM  '-  THE  PLEASUEES  OF  MEMORY.' 


[Samuel  Eogees. 


The  peasants  flock' d    to    hear    the  minstrel 
play, 

And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 

Her  wheel  at  rest  the  matron  thrills  no  more 

With  treasured  tales  and  legendary  lore. 

All,  all  are  fled ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 

To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 

All,  all  are  fled ;  yet  still  I  linger  here  ! 

What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear  ? 
Mark  yon  old   mansion  frowning  through 
the  trees, 

Whose    hollow    turret    w6os    the    whistling 
breeze. 

That  casement,   arch'd  %vith    ivy's  brownest 
shade, 

First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  con- 
vey'd. 

The    mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass- 
grown  court, 

Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport ; 

When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new. 

And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 
See,  through  the   fractured    pediment    re- 
veal'd, 

Where   moss   inlays    the    rudely    sculptured 
shield, 

The  martin's  old  hereditary  nest. 

Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow' d  guest ! 
#  #  # 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene, 

The  tangled  wood-walk  and  the  tufted  green  ! 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live  ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  light  can 

give. 
Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns 

below, 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm. 
When  nature  fades  and  life  forgets  to  charm  ; 
Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke  ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept  and  the  poet's  song. 
What  soften'd  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals. 
When  o'er  the  landscape  Time's  meek  twilight 


As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 
Thy  temper'd  gleams  of  happiness  resign'd. 
Glance  on  the  darken' d  mirror  of  the  mind. 
The  school's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses 

gray. 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Tvlute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Cjuickening  my  truant  feet  across  the  lawn : 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear. 
Some   little  friendship  formed  and  cherished 

here; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,"  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions  and  romantic  dreams. 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  gipsy's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed  ; 
Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  with  silent  awe. 
Her  tatter' d  mantle  and  her  hood  of  straw  ; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  cauldron  brimming  o'er ; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore, 


Imps  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlets  bred, 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed  ; 
Whose  dark  eyes    flash'd    through    locks  of 

blackest  shade, 
When  in  the  breeze   the   distant  watch-dog 

bayed : 
And  heroes  fled  the  sibyl's  mutter' dirallr 
"WTiose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard  wall. 
As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew, 
And  traced  the  hne  of    life  with    searching 

view. 
How  throbb'd  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes 

and  fears. 
To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years  ! 
Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flush' d  my 

breast ; 
This  truth  once  known — to    bless   is    to  bo 

blest  ! 
W^e  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-gray), 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt. 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt : 
As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store. 
And  sigh'd  to  think  that  little  was  no  more. 
He  breathed  his   prayer,    "  Long  may  such 

goodness  live ! ' ' 
'Twas  all  he  gave — 'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 


Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore  ; 
From  Reason's  faintest  ray  to  Newton  soar. 
What  different    spheres    to  human  bliss  as- 

sign'd  ! 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  ! 
Yet   mark    in    each    these   mystic   wonders 

wrought ; 
Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 
j        Th'   adventurous  boy  that  asks  his  little 

share. 
And  hies  from  home  with    many  a  gossip's 

pray'r, 
Tvirns  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  once  more  to 

see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees. 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the 

breeze. 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 
The  churchyard  yews  round  which  his  fathers 

sleep ; 
All  rouse  Reflection's  sadly  pleasing  train. 
And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Tupia  dared  explore 
Arts    yet    untaught,    and    worlds   unknown 

before. 
And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  woo'd  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swell'd  their  strange  expanse  of 

sail ; 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu, 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe, 
And  all  his  soul  best   loved — such  tears  he 

shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 
Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast. 
Long  watch' d  the  streaming  signal  from  the 

mast ; 


Samuel  Eogess.]       FROM  "  THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY."      [Seventh  Period.— 


Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye, 
And  fairy  forests  fringed  the  evening  sky. 
So  Scotia's  queen,  as    slowly  dawned  the 

day, 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  bless'd  the  beacon's  glimmering 

height, 
That  faintly  tipp'd  the  feathery  surge  with 

light ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portray' d 
Each  castled  cliff  and  Jorown  monastic  shade  : 
All  touch' d  the  talisman's  resistless  spring. 
And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the 

wing ! 
Thus    kindred    objects    kindred    thoughts 

inspire. 
As  summer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 
And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of 

youth, 
Warm  as   the  life,    and    with    the  mirror's 

truth. 
Hence  home-felt  pleasure  prompts  the  patriot's 

sigh; 
This   makes   him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to 

die. 
For  this  yoirng  Foscari,  whose  hapless'  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away. 
To  sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey, 
When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause. 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws  ; 
Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant  no 

more. 
And   chains  and    torture    hail'd    him  to  the 

shore. 
And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  im- 
part; 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempo's  classic  vale 
Glance  through  the  gloom  and  whisper  in  the 

gale; 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell, 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
'Twas  ever  thus.     Young  Ammon,  when  he 

sought 
Where  Ilium  stood,  and  where  Pelides  fought, 
Sat  at  the  helm  himself.     No  meaner  hand 
Steer'd    through    the   Avaves,    and   when   he 

struck  the  land. 
Such  in  his  soul  the  ardour  to  explore, 
Pelides-like,  he  leap'd  the  first  ashore. 
'Twas  ever  thus.     As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb 
We  bless  the'  shade,   and   bid    the    verdure 

bloom  : 
So  Tully  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time, 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime  ; 
When  at  his  feet  in  honour'd  dust  disclosed, 
Th'  immortal  sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung 
Where  once  a  Plato  taught,  a  Pindar  sung ; 
Who  now    but  meets  him  musing,  when  he 

roves 
His  ruin'd  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ? 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him 

roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul  ? 


\       And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait 
gives  : 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives  ! 
I    Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid ; 
!    And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade  1 
:    Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep, 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep : 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
j   The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
j   The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
!   Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play  ; 
I   He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
!   Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 
!        What  though  the  iron  school  of  war  erase 
I   Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace  ; 
;   What  though  the  fiend's  torpedo-touch  arrest 
j   Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast ; 
j    Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside. 

And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 
I       Th'   intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a  foreign 
shore. 
Condemned  to  chmb  his    mountain-cliffs    nc 

more, 
If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild 
Which  on  those  cliffs   his   infant  hours  be- 
guiled, 
Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him 

rise. 
And  sinks  a  martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

Ask  not  if    courts    or  camps  dissolve  the 
charm  : 
Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm  ? 
Why  great  Navarre,  when  France  and  freedom 

bled. 
Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest-shed  ? 
When  Dioclesian's  self -corrected  mind 
Th'  imperial  fasces  of  a  world  resign'd. 
Say  why  we  trace  the  labours  of  his  spado 
In  calm  Salona's  philosophic  shade  ? 
Say,   when  contentious  Charles  renounced  & 

throne, 
To  muse  with  monks  unletter'd  and  unknown, 
What  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew  ? 
What  claimed  the  sorrows  of  a  last  adieu  ? 
The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his   tranquil 

breast 
Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppress'd. 
Undamp'd  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct 
glows 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows ; 
Glows  in  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  irapress'd. 
The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail ; 
And  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale, 
The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound. 
And  with  young  vigour  wheels  the  pasture 
round. 
Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Lean'd  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale  ; 
Oft    have    his    lips     the     grateful     tribute 

breathed. 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 
When  o'er  the  blasted    heath    the    day  dc- 

chned. 
And  on  the  scathed  oak  warred  the  winter- 
wind; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


FROM  "HUMAN  LIFE. 


[Samuel  Eogeks. 


When  not  a  distant  taper's  twinkling  ray 
Gleam'd  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his 

way  ; 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening 

ear, 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near  : 
Then    did    his    horse    the    homeward    track 

descry, 
The  track  that    shunn'd    his  sad    inquiring 

eye; 
And  win  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent, 
With  warmth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 
That  his  charm 'd  hand  the  careless  rein  re- 
sign'd. 
And  doubts    and    terrors  vanish' d  from  his 

mind. 
Recall  the  traveller,  whose  alter' d  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain-storm ; 
And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet  ? 
His  faithful  dog's  already  at  his  feet ! 
Yes,  though  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the 

door, 
Though  all  that  knew  him  know  his  face  no 

more, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each,. 
With    that     mute    eloquence    which    passes 

speech. 
And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die  ! 
Yet  who  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly  ? 
The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of 

earth, 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 
These,  when  to  guard    Misfortune's    sacred 

grave, 
Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid 

dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest  or  the  vows  of  love  ? 
Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points 

her  flight  ? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  bless'd  the 

sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains 

rise, 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies  : 
'Tis  vain  !  through  ether's  pathless  wild  she 

goes. 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 
Sweet  bird  !  thy  truth  shall  Harlem's  walls 

attest, 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When,  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief. 
With  looks  that  ask'd,   yet  dared  not  hope 

relief, 
Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valour 

clung. 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
'Twas  thine  to  animate  her  closing  eye  ; 
Alas  !  'twas  thine  perchance  the  first  to  die, 
Crush' d  by  her  meagre  hand  when  welcomed 

from  the  sky. 
Hark  !  the  bee  winds  her  small  but  mellow 

horn 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course. 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 


'Tis  noon — 'tis  night.        That  eye  so  finely 

wrought, 
Beyond    the   search  of    sense,    the    soar   of 

thought. 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind  ; 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined  ! 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
Who  bids    her  soul  with  conscious  triumph 

swell  ? 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  that  charmed  her  as   she 

flew? 
Hail,  Memory,  hail !  thy  universal  reign 
Guards   the    least   link   of   Being's    glorious 

chain. 

*  *  * 

As  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  Gothic  tower 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour, 
Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall ; 
The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace 
Steal  from  each  year  a  melancholy  grace  ! 
And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand, 
As  the  heart  opens  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
And,  with  a  brother's   warmth,  a    brother's 

smile, 
The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle  ; 
So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confest, 
Stamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast ; 
Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  view'd, 
However  trivial,  and  however  rude. 
But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh, 
With  every  claim  of  close  affinity  ! 

Han,   Memory,    hail !    in   thy    exhaustless 

mine 
From  age  to  ageunnumber'd  treasures  shine  ! 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey. 
And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway ! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone  ; 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer- visions  die, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky ; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo,  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away! 
But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  ? 
These,  Avhen  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her 

flight. 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light ; 
And   gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of 

rest, 
Where    Virtue  triumphs,   and   her    sons    are 

blest ! 
Samuel  Rogers.— Born  1762,  Died  1855. 


ii8i.— FROM  "HUMAN  LIFE." 

The  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky. 

The     bees     have    humm'd      their    noontide 

lullaby ; 
Still  in  the  vale  the  village  bells  ring  round, 
Still  in  Llewellyn  hall  the  jests  resound ; 


Samuel  Bogeks.]  FEOM  "  THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS."      [Seventh  Period.— 


For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 
Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their 

prayer, 
And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 
The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 
A  few    short    years,  and  then  these  sounds 

shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale  ; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sir- 
loin; 
The  ale,    now    brew'd,  in    floods  of    amber 

shine  ; 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
'Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days. 
The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 
"  'Twas    on   her   knees    he   sat   so    oft    and 

smiled." 
And    soon     again    shall    music    swell    the 

breeze  ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the 

trees 
Vestures  of    nuptial  white;    and    hymns  be 

sung. 
And  violets  scatter' d  round ;    and  old    and 

young, 
In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green. 
Stand  still    to  gaze,  and,    gazing,  bless  the 

scene. 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side, 
Moves  in  her  virgin  veil  the  gentle  bride. 
And  once,  alas  !  nor  in  a  distant  hour. 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower ; 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are 


What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy  ! 
He  walks,  he  speaks.       In  many  a   broken 

word 
His    wants,  his  wishes,  and    his    griefs   are 

heard. 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies. 
When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  sur- 
prise. 
Lock'd  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue), 
As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings, 
And,  cheek    to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she 

sings, 
How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 
Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss 

impart ; 
Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like    the  brooding 

dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  mother's  love ! 
But  soon  a  nobler  task  demands  her  care. 
I   Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer, 
Telling  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there  ! 
And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 
His    wandering    eye — now    many  a  written 

thought 
Never  to  die,  with  many  a  lisping  sweet. 
His   moving,    murmuring   lips    endeavour  to 

repeat. 
Samuel  Rogers. — Born  1762,  Died  1855. 


And  weeping  heard  where  only  joy  has  been ; 
When,  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his 

door. 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more. 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went 

before. 
And  such  is  human  life ;  so  gKding  on, 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone  ! 
Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange, 
As  full,    methinks,    of    wild  and   wond'rous 

change. 
As  any  that  the  wand' ring  tribes  require. 
Stretch' d  in  the  desert  round  their  evening 

fire; 
As  any  sung  of  old,  in  hall  or  bower. 
To    minstrel-harps    at    midnight's    witching 

hour ! 

*  *  # 

The  day  arrives,  the  moment  wish'd  and 

feared  ; 
The  child  is  bom,  by  many  a  pang  endeared. 
And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry  ; 
Oh  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  ej'e  ! 
He  comes — she  clasps  him.     To   her  bosom 

press' d, 
He  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 
Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  stranger 

knows  I 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows  ! 
As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy. 


1182.— FEOM  "THE  VOYAGE   OF 
COLUMBUS." 

The  sails  were  furl'd  ;  with  many  a  melt- 
ing close. 
Solemn  and  slow  the  evening  anthem  rose, 
Eose  to  the  Virgin.     'Twas  the  hour  of  day, 
When  setting  suns  o'er  summer  seas  display 
A  path  of  glory,  opening  in  the  west 
To  golden  climes  and  islands  of  the  blest ; 
And  human  voices,  on  the  silent  air. 
Went  o'er  the  waves  in  songs  of    gladness 

there  ! 
Chosen  of  men  !      'Twas  thine,  at  noon  of 

night,    . 
First  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimmering 

light 
(Emblem  of  Truth  divine,  whose  secret  ray 
Enters  the  soul  and  makes  the  darkness  day  !) : 
"  Pedro  !  Eodrigo  !  there  methought  it  shone  ! 
There — in    the   west ;    and  now,    alas !    'tis 

gone  ! — 
'Twas    all    a  dream  !    we  gaze  and    gaze  in 

vain ! 
But  mark    and    speak   not,    there   it   comes 

again ! 
It  moves  ! — what    form  unseen,  what    being 

there 
With  torch-like  lustre  fires  the  murky  air  ? 
His  instincts,   passions,    say,    how  like    our 

own! 
Oh  !  when  will  day  reveal  a  world  unknown  ?  " 


From  1780  to  1866.J 


GINEVEA. 


[Samuel  Eogers. 


Long  on  the  deep  the  mists  of  morning  lay, 
Then  rose,  revealing  as  they  roll'd  away 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the   shadowy 

floods : 
And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given, 
Embraced  and  wept  as  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
When  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran, 
And,  on  our  faces,  bless'd  the  wondrous  man ; 
Say,  was  I  then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 
Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies  ? 
'•  Glory  to  God !  "  unnumber'd  voices  sung, 
'•  Glory  to  God !"  the  vales  and   mountains 

rung, 
Voices  that  hail'd  creation's  primal  morn, 
And  to  the  shepherds  sung  a  Saviour  born. 
Slowly,  bareheaded,  through   the  surf  we 

bore 
The  sacred  cross,    and,  kneeling,  kiss'd   the 

shore. 
But  what  a  scene  was  there !      Nymphs  of 

romance. 
Youths    graceful    as    the    fawn,    with   eager 

glance, 
Spring  from  the  glades,  and  down  the  alleys 

peep, 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to 

steep. 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 
"  Come  and  behold  the  children  of  the  Sun  I  " 
When  hark,  a  signal  shot  I       The  voice,  it 

came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame  ! 
They  saw,  they  heard ;  and  up  the  highest 

hill. 
As  in  a  picture,  all  at  once  were  still ! 
Creatures     so    fair,    in    garments    strangely 

wrought. 
From  citadels,  with   Heaven's  own    thunder 

fraught, 
Check' d  their  light  footsteps — statue-like  they 

stood 
As  worshipp'd  forms,  the  Genii  of  the  Wood  ! 
At  length  the  spell  dissolves  !  The  warrior's 

lance 
Eiings  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance  ! 
And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state  ! 
Still  where  it  moves  the  mse  in  council  wait ! 
See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of 

gold. 
And  ebon  chair  of  many  a  serpent-fold  ; 
These  now    exchanged    for  gifts  that  thrice 

surpass 
The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of 

brass. 
What  long-drawn  tube  transports  the  gazer 

home. 
Kindling    with    stars    at   noon   th'  ethereal 

dome ! 
'Tis  here  :  and  here  circles  of  solid  light 
Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight ; 
As  man  to  man  another  self  disclose. 
That  now   with   terror  starts,  with  triumph 

glows ! 
Then  Cora  came,  the  youngest  of  her  race, 
And  in  her  hands  she  hid  her  lovelv  face  ; 


Yet  oft  by  stealth  a  timid  glance  she  cast, 
And  now  with  playful  step  the  mirror  pass'd, 
Each  bright  reflection  brighter  than  the  last ! 
And  oft  behind  it  flew,  and  oft  before  ; 
The  more  she  search' d,  pleased  and  perplex' d 

the  more  ! 
And  look'd   and   laugh' d,  and    blushld  with 

quick  surprise ! 
Her  lips  all  mirth,  all  ecstasy  her  eyes  ! 

But  soon  the  telescope  attracts  her  view  : 
And  lo,  her  lover  in  his  light  canoe 
Rocking,  at  noontide,  on  the  silent  sea, 
Before  her  lies  !     It  cannot,  cannot  be. 
Late  as  he  left  the  shore,  she  linger' d  there. 
Till,  less  and  less,  he  melted  into  air  ! 
Sigh  after  sigh  steals  from  her  gentle  frame. 
And    say — that    murmur  —  was    it    not    his 

name  ? 
She  turns,    and    thinks,    and,   lost    in    wild 


Gazes  again,  and  could  for  ever  gaze  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. — Born  1762,  Died  1855. 


1 1 83.— GINEVEA. 

If    thou    shouldst    ever  come  by   choice  or 

chance 
To  Modena,  where  still  religiously 
Among  her.  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 
Bologna's  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandine), 
Stop  at  a  palace  near  the  Eeggio-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses. 
Will  long  detain  thee ;  through  their  arch'd. 

walks. 
Dim  at  noonday,  discovering  many  a  glimpse 
Of  knights  and  dames,  such  as  in  old  romance, 
And  lovers,  such  as  in  heroic  song. 
Perhaps  the  two,  for  groves  were  their  delight, 
That  in  the  spring-time,  as  alone  they  sat. 
Venturing  together  on  a  tale  of  love, 
Eead  only  part  that  day.     A  summer  sun 
Sets  ere  one  half  is  seen ;  but,  ere  thou  go. 
Enter  the  house — prithee,  forget  it  not — • 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 

'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth. 
The  very  last  of  that  illustrious  race, 
Done  by  Zampieri — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half-open,  and  her  finger  up. 
As  though  she  said  "  Beware  !  "     Her  vest  of 

gold 
'Broider'd  with  flowers,  and  clasp'd  from  head 

to  foot. 
An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp  ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls,     But  then  her  face, 


Samusl  Eogers.] 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 


rSEVENTH  Period. 


So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 

The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 

It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has 

fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken-chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scripture-stories  from  the  life  of  Christ ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor. 
That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture  ;  and  thou  wilt  not, 
When  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  they  told  me 
there. 
She  was  an  only  child ;  from  infancy 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  sire. 
Her  mother  dying  of  the  gift  she  gave, 
That  precious  gift,  what  else  remain' d  to  him  ? 
The  young  Ginevra  was  his  all  in  life. 
Still  as  she  grew,  for  ever  in  his  sight ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride. 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,   and  her  first 
love. 
Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety, 
Her   pranks    the    favourite  theme    of    every 

tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour  ; 
Now,  frowning,    smiling,  for   the   hundredth 

time, 
The  nurse,   that  ancient   lady,  preached   de- 
corum ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 
Great  was  the  joy ;  but  at  the  bridal  feast. 
When  all   sat  dowji,  the  bride  was  wanting 

there. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  father  cried, 
"  'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love  !  " 
And   fill'd  his   glass   to   all;    but   his   hand 

shook, 
And    soon   from   guest   to    guest  the    panic 

spread. 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas  !  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  bo  guess'd 
But  that  she  was  not !     Weary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and  forthwith 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived  ;  and  long  mightst  thou  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  some- 
thing. 
Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not 

what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgot. 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery, 
That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed ;  and  'twas 
said 


By  one  as  younj:,  as  thoughtles  as  Ginevra, 
"Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking  place  ?" 
'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said  ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton. 
With  here   and    there  a  pearl,    an  emerald- 
stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold  ! 
All  else  had  perished — save  a  nuptial  ring. 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"  Ginevra."        There    then  had  she  found  a 

grave ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  conceal' d  herself. 
Fluttering    with   joy    the    happiest    of    the 

happy ; 
When  a  spring-lock  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fasten' d  her  down  for  ever  ! 

Samuel  Rogers.  — Born  1762,  Died  1855. 


1 1 84. —THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile — 
Tho'  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  ros3'  lips  still  wear  a  smile 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs  ! 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow  : 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know  ! 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast  : 
— And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !     Above  controul 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee  : 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
E-emain  witldn  its  sanctuary  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. — Born  1762,  Died  1855. 


1 1 85  .—A  WISH. 

Mine  be'  a  cot  beside  the  hiU  ; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear  ; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill. 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest  ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet-gown  and  apron  blue. 


From  1780  to  1866]         THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  U; 


[Wordsworth. 


The  village-church  among'  the  trees, 
Wliere  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  Heaven. 
Samuel  Rogers.— Bom  1762,  Died  1855. 


1 1 86.— AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there  ; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange  groves  and  myrtle  bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound; 
Of  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day, 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  sUent  greenwood  pftiade  : 
These  simple  joys  that  never  fail, 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 

Samuel  Rogers. — Born  1762,  Died  1855. 


1187.— TO  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Child   of    the    sun!    pursue    thy    rapturous 

flight. 
Mingling  with  her   thou  lov'st   in  fields  of 

Hght; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  paradise  unfold, 
Quaff  fragrant   nectar   from    their    cups    of 

gold. 
There   shall  thy   wings,  rich  as  an  evening 

sky. 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy  ! 
Yet   wert   thou   once  a  worm,  a  thing  that 

crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb  and 

slept. 
And  such  is  man  ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

Samuel  Rogers. — Born  1762,  Died  1855. 


1 1 88.— ON  A  TEAR. 

Oh  that  the  chemist's  magic  art 
Could  crystallise  this  sacred  treasure  ! 
Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 


The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell. 
Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloc's  eye  ; 
Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cjU — 
The  spring  of  Sensibility! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light. 
In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine-;    - 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright, 
Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul  ! 
Who-  ever  fliest  to  bring  relief, 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme. 
In  every  chme,  ia  every  age  ; 
Thou  charm' st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream, 
In  Reason's  philosopliic  page. 

That  very  law  which  moulds  a  tear. 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere. 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 

Samuel  Roger s.-^-Bom  1762,  Died  1855. 


1 1 89.— LONDON,  1802. 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  ; 
England  hath  need  of  thee ;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  ;  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  ; 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  hke  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the 

sea; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens — majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  v/ay 
In  cheerful  godUness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowHest  duties  on  herself  didst  lay. 

Wordsxvortli.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1 1 90.— THE    WORLD    IS    TOO    MUCH 
WITH  US. 

The   world  is   too  much  with  us  ;    late  and 

soon. 
Getting    and   spending,    we    lay    waste    our 

powers : 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have   given   our  hearts   away,  a   sordid 

boon ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 


Wordsworth.]      ON  KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL,  CAMBEIDGE.  [Seventh  Period.— 


It  moves  us  not.     Great  God !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  : 
So  might  I,  standing  oh  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have   glimpses   that   would    make    me    less 

forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Wordsworth.— Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1 191. --ON    KING'S    COLLEGE    CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE. 

Tax  not  the  royal  saint  with  vain  expense, 
With    ill-match' d    aims    the    architect    who 

plann'd, 
Albeit  labouring  for  a  scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  scholars  only,  this  immense 
And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence  ! 
Give  all  thou  canst ;  high  Heaven  rejects  the 

lore 
Of  nicely  calculated  less  or  more ; 
So   deem'd  the  man  who   fashioned  for  the 

sense 
These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
Self -poised,    and   scoop' d   into   ten  thousand 

cells, 
Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where   music 

dwells 
Lingering — and   wandering   on,    as   loath   to 

die  ; 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth 

proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

Wordsworth.— Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1 1 92.— LINES. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began  ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man  ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

Wordsworth.— Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1 193.— LUCY. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways. 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise. 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone. 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ; 
Fair  as  a  star  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 


She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh. 

The  difference  to  me  ! 

Wordsworth. — Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1194.— A  POETEAIT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

"When  first  she  gleam' d  upon  my  sight ; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 

A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  mil. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill, 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright. 
With  something  of  an  "angel  light. 

Wordsworth.— Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1195.— TINTERN  ABBEY. 

Five  years  have  pass'd ;   five  summers,  with 

the  length 
Of  five  long  winters  ;  and  again  I  hear 
These   waters,  rolling   from   their   mountain 

springs 
With  a  sweet  inland  murmur.     Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  clifi's, 
Which  Qu  a  wild,  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion,  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These  plots  of  cottage  ground,  these  orchard 

tufts, 
Which,    at    this    season,  with   their   unripe 

fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,   and  lose  them- 
selves 


From  1780  to  1866." 


TINTERN  ABBEY. 


[Wordsworth. 


Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 
These    hedgerows,    hardly   hedgerows,    little 

lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild;    these  pastoral 

farms 
Green   to    the  very  door ;     and   wreaths    of 

smoke 
Sent  up  in  silence  from  among  the  trees, 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem, 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where,  by  his  fire, 
The  hermit  sits  alone. 

Though  absent  long, 
These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been  to  me, 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart. 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration — feelings,  too, 
Of  unremember'd  pleasure  ;  such,  perhaps, 
As  may  have  had  no  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremember'd  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  subhme  ;  that  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lighten' d  ;  that  serene  and  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on. 
Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  Ibody,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft. 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight,  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart. 
How  oft  in  spirit  have  I  turned  to  thee, 
O  sylvan  Wye  ! — thou  wanderer  through  the 

woods — 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turn'd  to  thee  ! 
And   now,   with  gleams  of   half -extinguish' d 

thought. 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While    here    I    stand,    not    only   -svith    the 


Of    present    pleasure,     but     with     pleasing 

thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was 

when  first 
I  came  among  these  hiUs  ;  when,  like  a  roe, 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 


Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
"VMierever  nature  led  :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than 

one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  nature 

then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish- days 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  aU  gone 

by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract   * 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  ;  the  tall  rock, 
The   mountain,    and   the   deep    and    gloomy 

wood. 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to 

me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrow'd  from    the   eye.      That    time    is 

past. 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more. 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint    I,  nor   mourn,    nor   murmur  j     other 

gifts 
Have  follow'd,  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learn' d 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of    thoughtless    youth,   but   hearing    often- 
times 
The  still  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor   harsh    nor   grating,   though    of    ample 

power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All     thinking     things,    all     objects     of     a}] 

thought. 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  1 

stiU 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From   this   green   earth ;    of  all  the  mighty 

world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the   guardian   of  my  heart,  and 

soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor,  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ;  thou,  my  dearest  friend. 
My   dear,    dear   friend,    and   in  thy  voice    I 

catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  Hghts 
Of  thy  ^vild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 


Wordsworth.] 


TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  sister  !    And  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With     lofty    thoughts,    that     neither     evil 

tongues, 
flash  judgments,  nor   the   sneers  of    selfish 

rsen, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  aga.inst  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk  ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee  :  and  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all   sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;    oh  ! 

then. 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 
Should   be   thy  portion,  with   what   healing 

thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 
And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  perchance, 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these 

gleams 
Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together ;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  nature,  hither  came. 
Unwearied  in  that  service  :  rather  say 
With  warmer  love,  oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
And   this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to 

me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy 

sake. 

Wordsworth. — Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1 1 96.— TO  A  HIGHLAND  GIEL. 

Sweet  Highland  girl !  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  those  gray  rocks  ;  that  household  lawn 

Those  trees,  a  veU  just  half  withdrawn  ; 

This  faU  of  water,  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake ; 

This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode 

In  truth,  unfolding  thus,  ye  seem 
Like  something  fashion' d  in  a  dream ; 


Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 
Yet,  dream  or  vision  as  thou  art, 
I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart : 
God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years  ! 
I  neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers  ; 
And  yet  my  eyes  are  fill'd  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away  : 
iFor  never  saw  I  mien  or  face. 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scatter' d,  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
Th'  embarrass' d  look  of  shy  distress 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness  : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  mountaineer  : 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread  ! 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred  ! 
And  scemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 
With  no  restraint,  bat  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech ; 
A  bondage  sweetly  brook'd,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind. 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind, 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 

0  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress 
A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess  ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality  : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 
Of  the  wild  sea  ;  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 
Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to* see  ! 
Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be— 
Thy  father — anything  to  thee  ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 
.  Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 
Joy  have  I  had ;  and  going  hence, 

1  bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes  : 
Then,  why  should  I  be  loath  to  stir  ? 
I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her  ; 
To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past. 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Nor  am  I  loath,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  girl !  from  thee  to  part ; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old. 
As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 
As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small. 
The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 
And  thee,  the  spirit  of  them  all ! 

Wordsworth.— Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


ODE. 


[Wordsworth. 


1 197.— AN  OLD  MAN'S  EEFLECTIONS. 

Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers, 

How  merrily  it  goes  ! 
'Twill  mtirmur  on  a  thousand  years, 

And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 

Beside  the  fountain's  brink. 

My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirr'd ; 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  ; 

And  yet,  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away, 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

The  Blackbird  in  the  summer  trees, 

The  Lark  upon  the  hill, 
Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 

A  foolish  strife ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 

Is  beautiful  and  free.  ^ 

But  we  are  press'd  with  heavy  laws  ; 

And,  often  glad  no  more. 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

Wordsivorth.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1 1 98.— ODE. 

INTIMATIONS       OF       IMMMORTALITT       FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS    OF    EARLY   CHILDHOOD. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 

stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparell'd  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see 
no  more  ! 

The  Eainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  Eose  ; 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; — 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  pass'd  away  a  glory  from  the 
earth. 


Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The    heavens    laugh    with    you     in     your 
jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss  I  feet, — I  feel  it 
aU. 
Oh,  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen. 
While  the  earth  herseK  is  adorning. 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  pulling, 

On  every  side. 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers ;    while  the  sun  shines 
warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm. 

I  hear,  I  hear,  what  joy  I  hear  ! 
— But  there 's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  look'd  upon. 

Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is 
gone ; 
The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat. 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 

The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star. 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  Cometh  from  afar  ; 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But,  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  natural  kind  ; 
And,   even    with   something   of    a    mother's 

mind. 

And  no  unworthy  aim. 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man. 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

*  *  «  * 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth 

breed 
Perpetual  benedictions  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his 

breast : — 


Wordsworth.] 


YAEEOW  VISITED. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  songs  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questioning's 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised, 
High    instincts,    before     which    our    mortal 

nature 
Did  tremble,  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  ! 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us — cherish — and  have  power  to 
make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never ; 
Which    neither     listlessness,     nor   mad    en- 
deavour, 

Nor  man,  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  : 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither  ; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, — 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then,  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so 

bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  thy  sight, — 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of   splendour  in  the   grass,  of   glory  in  the 
flower ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind, 
In  the  primal  sympathy, 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be, 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering, 
In   the   faith    that    looks    through 
death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  oh,  ye   fountains,    meadows,  hills,    and 

groves. 
Think  not  of  any  severing  of  your  loves  ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 
I  only  have  relinquish' d  one  delight. 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  brooks,  which  down  their  channels 

fret, 
Even    more   than  when  I  tripp'd    lightly  as 

they; 


The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are 

won. 
Thanks   to   the   human  heart   by  which  wc 

live ; 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears  ; 
To    me   the    meanest   flower  that   blows  can 

give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

Wordsivorth.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1 199.— YAEEOW  VISITED. 

And  is  this  Yarrow  ? — this  the  stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherished. 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perish' d  ! 

Oh  that  some  minstrel's  harp  were  near, 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness. 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  ! 

Yet  why  ? — a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontroU'd  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  aU  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths.  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted ; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  Vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness  ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection  ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  t'  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding  ? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  movmd 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding  : 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool. 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning. 

The  water-wraith  ascended  thrice, 

And  gave  his 'doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  lay  that  sings 

The  haunts  of  happy  lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove. 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers : 

And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 

That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love  ; 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 
To  fond  imagination, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 


[Wordsworth. 


Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation : 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy  ; 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decay'd, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Eiich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature ; 

And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves, 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary  ! 

The  shatter'd  front  of  Newark's  towers, 

Eenown'd  in  border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in  ; 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength ; 

And  age  to  wear  away  in  ! 

Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

It  promises  protection 

To  studious  ease,  and  generous  cares. 

And  every  chaste  affection  ! 

How  sweet  on  this  autumnal  day, 

The  wild  wood's  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  true  love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather  I 

And  what  if  I  en^vreath'd  my  own ! 

'Twere  no  offence  to  reason  ; 

The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see — but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee  ; 

A  ray  of  fancy  still  survives — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee  ! 

Thy  ever  youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure  ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe, 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  heights, 
They  melt — and  soon  must  vanish ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine — 
Sad  thought !  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow  ! 
'Will  d^weU  with  me — to  heighten  joy, 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 

Wordsivorth.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


I20O.--T0  A  DISTANT  FEIEND. 

Why  art  thou  silent  ?  Is  thy  love  a  plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  ? 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  ? 

Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant, 
Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing  care — 
The  nund's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 
For  nought   but  what  thy    happiness   could 
spare. 


Speak ! — though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once 

free  to  hold 
A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine. 
Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cok4 

Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  fill'd  with  snow 
'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine— 
Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their   end 
may  know ! 

Wordsivorth.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


I20I.— TO  THE  SKYLAEK. 

Ethereal  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost   thou    despise    the  earth    where    cares 

abound  ? 
Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music 

still ! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond 
Mount,  daring  warbler  ! — that  love-prompted 

strain 
— 'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond — 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  : 
Yet  might' st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  !  to 

sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  Spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 

Whence  thou  dost  pour   upon   the   world  a 

flood 
Of  harmony  with  instinct  more  divine ; 
Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam — 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of   Heaven  and 

Home ! 

Wordsivorth.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


I202.--T0  THE  CUCKOO. 

0  blithe  new-comer !     I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice : 

O  Cuckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  bird. 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear  ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing 

A  voice,  a  mystery  j 

60 


"Wordsworth.] 


COMPOSED  AT  NETDPATH  CASTLE..        [Seventh  Period. 


The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  daj's 
I  listen'd  to  ;  that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Throug-h  woods  and  on  the  green  ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love  ; 
StUl  long'd  for,  never  seen  ! 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee  ! 

Wordsioortn.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1203.— COMPOSED  AT  NETDPATH  CAS- 
TLE, THE  PEOPERTY  OF  LORD 
QUEENSBEERY,  1803. 

Degenerate  Douglas  !  O  the  unworthy  lord  ! 
"Whom  mere    despite  of    heart  could  so  far 

please 
And  love  of  havoc  (for  with  such  disease 
Fame  taxes  him)    that  he  could  send  forth 

word 

To  level  with  the  dust  a  noble  horde, 

A  brotherhood  of  venerable  trees. 

Leaving  an  ancient  dome,  and  towers  like 
these 

Beggar' d  and  outraged  ! — Many  hearts  de- 
plored 

The  fate  of  those  old  trees ;   and    oft  with 

pain 
The  traveller  at  this  day  will  stop  and  gaze 
On  wrongs,  which  Nature  scarcely  seems  to 

heed : 

For  shelter'd  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays, 
And    the   pure   mountains,    and  the  gentle 

Tweed, 
And  the  green  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 

Wordsworth.— Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1204.-— UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE. 
Sept.  3,  1802. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning :  silent,  bare. 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples 

lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky. 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 


Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep  ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

Wordsworth.— Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1205.— ADMONITION  TO  A  TRAVELLER. 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye  ! 
— The  lovely  cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 
Hath  stirr'd  thee  deeply ;  with  its  own  dear 

brook. 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky  ! 

But  covet  not  the  abode — O  do  not  sigh 
As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look ; 
Intruders  who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 
This  precious  leaf  with  harsh  impiety : 

— Think  what  the  home  would  be  if  it  were 

thine. 
Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants  ! — Roof, 

window,  door. 
The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 

The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine : 
Yea,  all  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 
On  which  it    should   be  touch' d  would  melt 
away ! 

Wordstvorth.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1206.— THE  REAPER. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field. 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself ; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 
O  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt. 
Among  Arabian  sands : 
No  sweeter  voice  was  ever  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago  : 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain. 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again ! 


From  1780  to  1866.1 


TO  SLEEP. 


[WOEDSWORTH. 


Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ; 
I  listen' d  till  I  had  my  fill ; 
And  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

WordswortK—Bo-ni  1770,  Died  1850. 


I207.~THE  DAFFODILS. 

I  wander' d  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretch' d  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : — 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company ! 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What. wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought  j 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

Wordsworth.— Bo^-n  1770,  Died  1850. 


I208.— TO  THE  DAISY. 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Sweet  Daisy  !  oft  I  talk  to  thee 

For  thou  art  worthy, 
Thou  unassuming  commonplace 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace 

Which  love  makes  for  thee  ! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit  and  play  -with  similes, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising ; 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame, 
As  is  the  humour  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 


A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port ; 

Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  court. 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations  ; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest ; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  defy. 
That  thought  comes  next — and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over. 
The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold ! 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold 
That  spreads  itself,  some  fairy  bold 

In  fight  to  cover. 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star. 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee  ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
SeK- poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest ; — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 

Who  shall  reprove  thee  ! 

Sweet  flower  !  for  by  that  name  at  last 

When  all  my  reveries  are  past 

I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  Creature ! 
That  breath' st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
)       Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
I       My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 
Of  thy  meek  nature  ! 
Wordsworth.— Bom  1770,  Died  1850. 


1209.— BY  THE  SEA. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  Sea  r 
Listen  !  the  mighty  being  is  awake, 
And  doth  Avith  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  child!  dear  girl!  tliat  walk'st  with  me 

here, 
If  thou  appear  untouch' d  by  solemn  thought 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divide  : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 
And  worship' st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

Wordsworth.— Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


1210.— TO  SLEEP. 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 

60* 


WORDSWOUTH.] 


WEITTEN  IN  EAELY  SPRING. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Murmuring;   the  fall  of    rivers,    winds    and 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he. 

seas, 

With  hair  of  glittering  gray  ; 

Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure 

As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 

sky  ;— 

On  a  spring  holiday. 

I've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  still  I  lie 
Sleepless ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  utter' d  from  my  orchard  trees, 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more  I 

lay 
And   could    not   win    thee,    Sleep !    by    any 

stealth : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away  : 
Without   Thee    what    is   all    the    morning's 

wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of    fresh  thoughts   and  joyous 

health ! 

Wordsivcyrtn.—Born  1770,  Died  1850. 


121 1.— WRITTEN  IN  EAELY  SPRING. 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 

While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined. 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 

Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Natm-e  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  sweet  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trail'd  its  -wreaths  ; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopp'd  and  play'd. 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seem'd  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 
To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man  ? 

WordsivoHli.—Boni  1770,  Died  1850. 


I2I2.~THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 

We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun  ; 
And  Matthew  stopp'd.  he  look'd,  and  said 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  !  " 


And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass 
And  by  the  steaming  rills, 
We  travell'd  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hUls. 

"  Our  work,"  said  I,  "  was  well  begun  ; 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun. 
So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?  " 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop  ; 
And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top. 
To  me  he  made  reply  : 

"  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this,  which  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

And  just  above  yon  slope  of  com 
Such  colours,  and  no  other. 
Were  in  the  sky  that  April  morn 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 

With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave. 
And  coming  to  the  church  stopp'd  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 
And  then  she  sang  : — she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay  ; 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more — 
For  so  it  seem'd, — than  tiU  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

And  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew 
A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare  ; 
Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white  : 
To  -see  a  child  so  very  fair, 
It  was  a  pure  delight ! 

No  foimtain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E'er  tripp'd  with  foot  so  free ; 
She  seem'd  as  happy  as  a  wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 

There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine ; 
I  look'd  at  her,  and  look'd  again : 
And  did  not  wish  her  mine !  " 

— Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 
Methinks  I  see  him  stand, 
As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 

Words icorth.— Bom  1770,  Died  1850. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  HOLLY  TEEE. 


[EOBT.  SOUTHET. 


1 21 3.— THE  WIDOWED  MOTHEE. 


How  beautiful  is  niglit ! 
A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air ; 
No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor 
stain, 
Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven  : 
In  full-orb' d  glory,  yonder  moon  divine 
EoUs  through  the  dark-blue  depths. 
Beneath  her  steady  ray 
The  desert-circle  spreads, 
Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  with  the  sky. 
How  beautiful  is  night ! 


Who,  at  this  untimely  hour. 
Wanders  o'er  the  desert  sands  ? 
No  station  is  in  view, 
Nor  palm-grove  islanded  amid  the  waste. 

The  mother  and  her  child. 
The  widow'd  mother  and  the  fatherless  boy, 
They,  at  this  untimely  hour, 
Wander  o'er  the  desert  sands. 


Alas  !  the  setting  sun 

Saw  Zeinab  in  her  bliss, 

Hodeirah's  wife  beloved, 

The  fruitful  mother  late, 
Whom,  when  the  daughters  of  Arabia  named, 
They  Avish'd  their  lot  like  hers  :' 
She  v.-anders  o'er  the  desert  sands 

A  -wretched  widow  now, 
The  fruitful  mother  of  so  fair  a  race ; 

With  only  one  preserved, 
She  wanders  o'er  the  wilderness. 


No  tear  relieved  the  burden  of  her  heart ; 
Stunii'd  with  the  heavy  woe,  she  felt  like  one 
Half- wakened  from  a  midnight  dream  of  blood. 
But  sometimes,  when  the  boy 
Would  wet  her  hand  with  tears. 
And,  looking  up  to  her  fix'd  countenance, 
Sol)  out  the  name  of  Mother,  then  did  she 
Utter  a  feeble  groan. 
At  Icuj^th,  collecting,  Zeinab  turn'd  her  eyes 
To  Heaven,  exclaiming,  "  Praised  be  the  Lord ! 
He  gave,  He  takes  away  ! 
The  Lord  our  God  is  good  !  " 

Robert  Southcy.—Born  1774,  Died  1843. 


1 2 14.— A  MOONLIGHT  SCENE. 

How  calmly,  gliding  through  the  dark  blue 

sky, 
The   midnight   moon  ascends !      Her    placid 

beams, 
Throucrh  thinly- scatter' d  leaves,   and  boughs 

grotesque, 


Mottle  with  mazy  shades  the  orchard  slope  ; 
Here  o'er  the  chestnut's  fretted  foliage,  gray 
And    massy,    motionless   they   spread;    here 

shine 
Upon     the    crags,    deepening    with    blacker 

night 
Their  chasms:  and  there  the  glittering -ttrgen- 

try 
Eipples  and  glances  on  the  confluent  streams. 
A  lovelier,  purer  light  than  that  of  day 
Bests  on  the  hills  ;  and  oh  !  how  awfully. 
Into  that  deep  and  tranquil  firmament. 
The  summits  of  Auseva  rise  serene  ! 
Tlie  watchman  on  the  battlements  partakes 
The  stillness  of  the  solemn  hour  ;  he  feels 
The  silence  of  the  earth ;  the  endless  sound 
Of  flowing  water  soothes  him ;  and  the  stars, 
Which  in  that  brightest  moonlight  well  nigh 

quench'd. 
Scarce  visible,  as  in  the  utmost  depth 
Of  yonder  sapphire  infinite,  are  seen. 
Draw  on  with  elevating  influence 
Towards  eternity  the  attemper' d  mind. 
Musing    on    worlds    beyond    the    grave,    lie 

stands. 
And  to  the  Virgin  Mother  silently 
Breathes  forth  her  hymn  of  praise. 

Robert  Southey.—Born  1774,  Died  1843. 


12 1 5.— THE   HOLLY  TEEE. 

Oh,  Eeader !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  Holly  Tree? 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves. 
Order' d  by  an  InteUigence  so  wise. 
As  might  confoimd  the  Atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

Wrinkled  and  keen ; 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Can  reach  to  wound  ; 
But,  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 
Smooth  and  unarm' d    the    pointless    leaves 
appear. 

I  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

AikI  moralize  ; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  Holly  Tree 

Can  emblems  see, 
Wherewith    perchance    to  make   a  pleasant 

rhyme, 
One  v/hich  may  profit  in  the  after-tim.e. 

Thus,    though    abroad    perchance    I    might 
ap]iear 

Har.sh  and  austere ; 
To  those,  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude, 

Eeserved  and  rude ; — 
Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be. 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly  Tree. 


EOBT.  SOUTHET.l 


THE  ALDEEMAN'S  FUNERAL. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


And   should  my  youth,   as  youth  is  apt,   I 

know, 

Some  harshness  sho"w, 
All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away, 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  shonld  be 
like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly  Tree. 

And  as  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green, 
The  Holly  leaves  a  sober  hue  display 

Less  bright  than  they ; 
But,  when  the   bare  and  wintry   woods   we 

see. 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  Holly  Tree  ? 

So  serions  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng- ; 
So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 

More  grave  than  they ; 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  bo 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  Holly  Tree. 

RoheH  Smithey.—Bom  1774,  Died  1843. 


1216.— THE  ALDEEMAN'S  FUNEEAL. 

This  man  of  half  a  million 
Had  all  these  public  virtues  which  you  praise  : 
But  the  poor  man  rung  never  at  his  door ; 
And  the  old  beggar,  at  the  pubHc  gate, 
Who,    all   the    summer   long,  stands   hat   in 

hand. 
He  knew  how  vain  it  was  to  lift  an  eye 
To  that  hard  face.     Yet  he  was  always  found 
Among  your  ten  and  twenty  pound  subscribers, 
Your  benefactors  in  the  newspapers. 
His  alms  were  money  put  to  interest 
In  the  other  world, — donations  to  keep  open 
A  running  charity  account  with  Heaven, — 
Eetaining  fees  against  the  Last  Assizes, 
When,  for  the  trusted  talents,  strict  account 
Shall  be  required  from  all,  and  the  old  Arch- 
Lawyer 
Plead  his  own  cause  as  plaintiff. 

*  *  *  # 

Who  should  lament  for  him,  Sir,  in  whose 

heart 
Love  had  no  place,  nor  natural  charity  ? 
The  parlour  spaniel,  when  she  heard  his  step, 
Eose  slowly  from  the  hearth,  and  stole  aside 
With  creeping  pace;    she   nev^er   raised  her 

eyes 
To  woo  kind  words  from  him,  nor  laid  her 

head 
Upraised  upon  his  knee,  Avith  fondling  whine. 
How  could  it  be  but  thus  ?     Arithmetic 
Was  the  sole  science  he  was  ever  taught ; 
The  multiplication-table  was  his  Creed, 
His  Pater-noster,  and  his  Decalogue. 
When  yet   he  was  a  boy,  and  should   have 

breathed 
The  open  air  and  sunshine  of  the  fields, 
To  give  liis  blood  its  natural  spring  and  play. 


He,  in  a  close  and  dusky  counting-house, 
Smoke-dried,  and  sear'd,  and  shrivell'd  up  his 

heart. 
So,  from  the  way  in  Vtrhich  he  was  train' d  up. 
His  feet  departed  not ;  he  toil'd  and  moil'd, 
Poor    muckworm  I    through    his    three-score 

years  and  ten. 
And  when  the  earth  shall  now  be  shovell'd  on 

him, 
If  that  which  served  him  for  a  soul  were  still 
Within  its  husk,  'twould  still  be  dirt  to  dirt. 

Bohert  Southey.—Bom  1774,  Died  1843. 


1217.— LOVE. 

They  sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  die. 
With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 
In  Heaven  Ambition  cannot  dwell, 
Nor  Avarice  in  the  vaults  of  Hell ; 
Earthly,  these  passions  are  of  earth. 
They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth  : 
But  Love  is  indestructible. 
Its  holy  flame  for  ever  burneth  ; 
From  Heaven  it  came,  to  Heaven  returneth ; 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest. 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  opprest. 
It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  hath  in  Heaven  its  perfect  rest : 
It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  eare. 
But  the  harvest  time  of  Love  is  there. 

Bohert  Southey.—Born  1774,  Died  1843. 


12 1 8.— THE  MISEE'S  MANSION. 

Thou  mouldering  mansion,  whose  embattled 
side 
Shakes  as  about  to  fall  at  every  blast ; 
Once  the  gay  pile  of  splendour,  wealth,  and 
pride. 
But  now  the  monument  of  grandeur  past. 

Fallen  fabric  !  pondering  o'er  thy  time-traced 
walls. 

Thy  mouldering,  mighty,  melancholy  state ; 
Each  object  to  the  musing  mind  recalls 

The  sad  vicissitudes  of  varying  fate. 

Thy  tall  towers  tremble  to  the  touch  of  time. 
The   rank    weeds   rustle   in    thy    spacious 
courts  ; 
Fill'd  are  thy  wide  canals  with  loathly  slime. 
Where,  battening  undisturb'd,  the  foul  toav^ 
sports. 

Deep  from  her  dismal  dwelling  yells  the  owl, 

The  shrill  bat  flits  around  her  dark  retreat ; 
And  the  hoarse  daw,  when  loud  the  tempests 
howl. 
Screams  as  the  wild  winds  shako  her  secret 
seat. 


Form  1780  to  1866.] 


AFTER  BLENHEIM. 


[ROBT.  SOUTHET. 


'Twas  here  Avaro  dwelt,  who  daily  told 
His  useless  heaps  of  wealth  in  selfish  joy ; 

Who  loved  to  ruminate  o'er  hoarded  gold, 
And  hid  those  stores  he  dreaded  to  employ. 

In  vain  to  him  benignant  Heaven  "bestow'd 
The  golden  heaps  to  render  thousands  blest; 

Smooth  aged  penury's  laborious  road, 

And  heal  the  sorrows  of  aflBtiction's  breast. 

For,  like  the  serpent  of  romance,  he  lay 

Sleepless   and   stern    to  guard  the  golden 
sight ; 
With  ceaseless  care  he  watch'd  his  heaps  by 
day,  I 

With  causeless  fears  he  a^oniz«d  by  night. 

Ye  honest  rustics,  whose  diurnal  toil  j 

Enrich'd  the  ample  fields  this  churl  possest ; 

Say,  ye  who  paid  to  him  the  annual  spoil, 
With  all  his  riches,  was  Avaro  blest  ? 

Rose  he,  like  you,  at  mom,  devoid  of  fear, 
His  anxious  vigils  o'er  his  gold  to  keep  ? 

Or  sunk  he,  when  the  noiseless  night  was  near, 
As  calmly  on  his  couch  of  down  to  sleep  ? 

Thou  wretch !  thus  curst  with  poverty  of  soul, 
What  boot  to  thee  tlie  blessings  fortune 
gave? 
YHiat  boots  thy  wealth   above   the   world's 
control. 
If  riches  doom  their  churlish  lord  a  slave  ? 

Chill'd  at  thy  presence  grew  the  stately  halls, 
Nor  longer  echoed  to  the  song  of  mirth ; 

The  hand  of  art  ne  more  adorn' d  thy  walls, 
Nor  blazed  with  hospitable  fires  the  hearth. 

On  well-worn  hinges  turns  the  gate  no  more, 
Nor  social  friendship  hastes  the  friend  to 
meet; 
Nor,  when  the  accustom' d  guest  draws  near 
the  door. 
Run  the  glad  dogs,  and  gambol  round  his 
feet. 

Sullen  and  stem  Avaro  sat  alone, 

In  anxious  wealth  amid  the  joyless  hall, 
Nor  heeds  the  chilly  hearth  with  moss  o'er- 
grown, 
Nor  sees  the  green  slime  mark  the  moulder- 
ing waU. 

For  desolation  o'er  the  fabric  dwells. 

And  time,  on  restless  pinion,  hui-ried  by ; 
Lovid  from  her  chimney'd  seat  the  night-bird 
yells. 
And  through  the  shatter' d  roof  descends  the 
sky. 

Thou  melancholy  mansion  !  much  mine  eye 
Delights  to  wander  o'er  thy  sullen  gloom. 

And  mark  the  daw  from  yonder  turret  fly. 
And  muse   how   man   himself    creates   his 
doom. 


For  here,  had  justice  reign'd,  had  pity  known 
With  genial  power  to  sway  Avaro' s  breast, 

These  treasured  heaps  which  fortune  made  his 
own. 
By  aiding  misery  might  himself  have  blest. 

And  charity  had  oped  her  golden  store. 

To  work  the  gracious  will  of  Heaven  intent. 

Fed  from  her  superflux  the  craving  poor, 
And  paid  adversity  what  Heaven  had  lent. 

Then  had  thy  turrets  stood  in  all  their  state. 
Then  had  the  hand  of  art  adorn'd  thy  wall, 

Swift  on  its  well-worn  hinges  tum'd  the  gate. 
And  friendly  converse  cheer' d  the  echoing 
hall. 

Then  had  the  village  youth  at  vernal  hour 
Hung    round    with    flowery    wreaths    thy 
friendly  gate. 

And  blest  in  gratitude  that  sovereign  power 
That  made  the  man  of  mercy  good  as  great. 

The  traveller  then   to  view  thy  towers  had 
stood. 
Whilst  babes  had  lisp'd  their  benefactor's 
name,  ^ 
And  call'd  on  Heaven  to  give  thee  every  good. 
And  told  abroad  thy  hospitable  fame. 

In  every  joy  of  life  the  hours  had  fled, 

Wliilst  time  on  downy  pinions  hurried  by, 

'Till  agevrith  silver  hairs  had  graced  thy  head, 
Wean'd  from  the  world,  and  taught  thee 
how  to  die. 

And,  as  thy  liberal  hand  had  shower'd  around 

The  ample  wealth  by  lavish  fortune  given. 
Thy  parted  spirit  had  that  justice  found, 
And  angels  hymn'd  the  rich  man's  soul  to 
heaven. 
Eolert  Southei/.—Bom  1774,  Died  1843. 


1 2 19.— AFTER  BLENHEIM. 

It  was  a  summer  evening. 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done. 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there  had  found 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found  ; 

That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  bo}', 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head. 

And  with  a  natural  sigh 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory." 


EOBT.  SOUTHEY.] 


THE  SCHOLAR. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


"  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  here  about ; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out. 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder- waiting  eyes ; 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for." 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 
I  could  not  well  make  out. 

But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then. 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground. 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly : 
So  mth  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  newborn  baby  died : 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun : 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
.  After  a  famous  victory. 

Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro*  won 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene." 

"  Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing !  " 
Said  Httle  Wilhelmine. 

"  Nay  .  .  nay  .  .  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 

'"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ?  " 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

"  Why  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 

"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 

Bohert  Southey. — Born  1774,  Died  1843. 


1 220.— THE  SCHOLAR. 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past ; 

Around  me  I  behold, 

Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old  : 

My  never  failing  friends  are  they, 

With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 


With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal 

And  seek  relief  in  woe ; 

And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 

My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 

With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years. 

Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 

And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 

Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead ;  anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  Futurity ; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust. 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

Rolert  Southey.— Born  1774,  Died  1843. 


1 22 1. —YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

With  cheerful  step  the  traveller 

Pursues  his  early  way. 
When  first  the  dimly-dawning  east 

Reveals  the  rising  day. 

He  bounds  along  his  craggy  road. 

He  hastens  up  the  height, 
And  all  he  sees  and  all  he  hears 

Administer  delight. 

And  if  the  mist,  retiring  slow. 

Roll  round  its  wavy  white, 
He  thinks  the  morning  vapours  hide, 

Some  beauty  from  his  sight. 

But  when  behind  the  western  clouds 

Departs  the  fading  day. 
How  wearily  the  traveller 

Pursues  his  evening  way ! 

Sorely  along  the  craggy  road 

His  painful  footsteps  creep, 
And  slow,  with  many  a  feeble  pause, 

He  labours  up  the  steep. 

And  if  the  mists  of  night  close  round. 

They  fill  his  soul  with  fear ; 
He  dreads  some  unseen  precipice. 

Some  hidden  danger  near. 

So  cheerfully  does  youth  begin 
Life's  pleasant  morning  stage; 

Alas  !  the  evening  traveller  feels 
The  fears  of  wary  age  ! 
Rohcrt  Southey.— Born  1774,  Died  1843. 


1222.— THE  COMPLAINTS  OF  THE  POOR 

And  wherefore  do  the  poor  complain  ? 
The  rich  man  ask'd  of  me  ;  .  .  . 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  mCHCAPE  EOCK. 


[EOBT.  SOUTHEY. 


Come  walk  abroad  with  me,  I  said, 
And  I  will  answer  thee. 

*Twas  evening,  and  the  frozen  streets 

Were  cheerless  to  behold, 
And  we  were  wrapt  and  coated  well, 

And  yet  we  were  a-cold. 

We  met  an  old  bare-headed  man. 
His  locks  were  thin  and  white : 

I  ask'd  him  what  he  did  abroad 
In  that  cold  winter's  night : 

The  cold  was  keen,  indeed,  he  said, 

But  at  home  no  fire  had  he. 
And  therefore  he  had  come  abroad 

To  ask  for  charity. 

We  met  a  young  bare-footed  child, 
And  she  begg'd  loud  and  bold : 

I  ask'd  her  what  she  did  abroad 
When  the  wind  it  blew  so  cold : 

She  said  her  father  was  at  home, 

And  he  lay  sick  a-bed, 
And  therefore  was  it  she  was  sent 

Abroad  to  beg  for  bread. 

We  saw  a  woman  sitting  down 

Upon  a  stone  to  rest, 
She  had  a  baby  at  her  back 

And  another  at  her  breast : 

I  ask'd  her  why  she  loiter'd  there 
When  the  night- wind  was  so  chill : 

She  tum'd  her  head  and  bade  the  child 
That  scream'd  behind,  be  still ; 

Then  told  us  that  her  husband  served, 

A  soldier,  far  away, 
And  therefore  to  her  parish  she 

Was  begging  back  her  way. 

We  met  a  girl,  her  dress  was  loose, 

And  sunken  was  her  eye. 
Who  with  a  wanton's  hollow  voice 

Address'd  the  passers-by ; 

I  ask'd  her  what  there  was  in  guilt 

That  could  her  heart  allure 
To  shame,  disease,  and  late  remorse : 

She  answer'd  she  was  poor. 

I  tum'd  me  to  the  rich  man  then, 

For  silently  stood  he,  .  .  . 
You  ask'd  me  why  the  poor  complain. 

And  these  have  answer'd  thee  ! 

Robert  Southey.—Bom  1774,  Died  1843. 


"You  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young 
man  cried, 
"  The  few  locks  that  are  left  you  are  gray ; 
You  are  hale.  Father  William,  a  hearty  old 
man; 
Xow  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 


"  In  the  days  of  my  youth,"  Father  William 
replied,  ^ 
"  I  rememljer'd  that  youth  would  fly  fast. 
And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigour  at 
first, 
That  I  never  might  need  them  at  last." 

"  You  are  old,  Father   William,"  the  young 
man  cried, 
"  And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away  ; 
And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are 
gone; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 

"In  the  days  of  my  youth,"  Father  WiUiam 
replied, 

"  I  remember'd  that  youth  could  not  last ; 
I  thought  of  the  future ;  whatever  I  did. 

That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past." 

"You  are  old.  Father  William,"  the  young 
man  cried, 
"  And  life  must  be  hast'ning  away ; 
You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse  upon 
death ; 
Now  teU  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 

"  I  am  cheerful,  young  man,"  Father  William 
replied, 
"  Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage ; 
In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remember'd  my 
God, 
And  He  hath  not  forgotten  my  age." 

Ilobert  Southey.—Bom  1774,  Died  1843. 


1224.— THE  INCHCAPE  EOCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea. 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be, 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion. 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock 
The  waves  flow'd  over  the  Inchcape  Eock ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell. 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  good  old  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Eock  ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Eock  was  hid  by  the  surges'  swell. 
The  Mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Eock, 
And  blest  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay. 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 

The  sea-birds  scream'd  as  the}^  wheel'dround,^ 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green ; 
Sir  Ealph  the  Eover  walk'd  his  deck, 
And  he  fix'd  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 


EOBT.  SOITTHEY.] 


BISHOP  HATTO. 


[Seventh  Pebiod. — 


He  felt  the  cheering-  power  of  spring-, 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing ; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Eover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Eock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lower'd,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Eock  they  go ; 

Sir  Ealph  bent  over  from  the  boat. 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell,  with  a  gurgling  sound. 

The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around ; 

Quoth  Sir  Ealph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to 

the  Eock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ealph  the  Eover  sail'd  away, 
He  scour'd  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now  grown  rich  with  plunder' d  store. 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high  ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Eover  takes  his  stand. 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ealph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon. 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"  Can'st  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers  roar  ? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore ; 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell. 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong ; 
Though  the    wind    hath    fallen,    they    drift 

along, 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock : 
Cried  they,  "  It  is  the  Inchcape  Eock !" 

Sir  Ealph  the  Eover  tore  his  hair, 
He  curst  himself  in  his  despair ; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side. 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide, 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Eover  hear, 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  fiends  below  were  ringing  his  kneU. 

Itolcrt  Boutliey. — Born  1774,  Died  1843. 


1225.— BISHOP  HATTO. 

The  sunmier  and  autumn  had  been  so  wet. 
That  in  winter  the  corn  was  growing  yet ; 
'Twas  a  piteous  sight  to  see  all  around 
The  grain  lie  rotting  on  the  ground. 


Every  day  the  starving  poor 
Crowded  around  Bishop  Hatto's  door, 
For  he  had  a  plentiful  last  year's  store ; 
And  all  the  neighbourhood  could  tell 
His  granaries  were  furnish' d  well. 

At  last  Bishop  Hatto  appointed  a  day 
To  quiet  the  poor  without  delay  ; 
He  bade  them  to  his  great  barn  repair, 
And  they  should  have  food  for  the  winter 
there. 

Eejoiced  such  tidings  good  to  hear. 
The  poor  folk  flock' d  from  far  and  near  ; 
The  great  bam  was  full  as  it  could  hold 
Of  women  and  children,  and  young  and  old. 

Then  when  he  saw  it  could  hold  no  more 
Bishop  Hatto  he  made  fast  the  door  ; 
And  while  for  mercy  on  Christ  they  call, 
He  set  fire  to  the  barn  and  burnt  them  all. 

"  r  faith,  'tis  an  excellent  bonfire  !  "  quoth  he, 
"  And  the  country  is  greatly  obliged  to  me, 
For  ridding  it  in  these  times  forlorn 
Of  rats,  that  only  consume  the  com." 

So  then  to  his  palace  returned  he, 

And  he  sat  down  to  supper  merrily, 

And  he  slept  that  night  like  an  innocent 

man. 
But  Bishop  Hatto  never  slept  again. 

I  In  the  morning  as  he  enter'd  the  hall, 
Where  his  picture  hung  against  the  wall, 

j  A  sweat  like  death  all  over  him  came, 
For  the  rats  had  eaten  it  ont  of  the  frame. 

I  As  he  look'd  there  came  a  man  from  the 
farm, 

i   He  had  a  countenance  white  with  alarm  ; 
"  My  lord,  I  open'd  your  granaries  this  morn, 
And  the  rats  had  eaten  all  your  corn." 

Another  came  running  presently, 

And  he  was  pale  as  pale  could  be, 

"  Fly  !  my  Lord  Bishop,  fly,"  quoth  he, 

"  Ten  thousand  rats  are  coming  this  way — 

The  Lord  forgive  you  for  yesterday  !  " 

"I'll  go  to  my  tower  on  the  Ehine,"  replied 

he, 
"  Tis  the  safest  place  in  Germany  ; 
The  walls  are  high,  a^d  the  shores  are  steep. 
And  the   stream   is   strong,   and  the   water 

deep." 

Bishop  Hatto  fearfuUy  hasten' d  away. 
And  he  cross' d  the  Ehine  without  delay, 
And  reach' d  his  tower  and  barr'd  with  care 
All  the  windows,  doors,  and  loopholes  there. 

He  laid  him  down  and  closed  his  eyes, 
But  soon  a  scream  made  him  arise ; 
He  started,  and  saw  two  eyes  of  flame 
On   his   pillow   from   whence   the   screaming 
came. 


Vrom  1780  io  1866.] 


MAEY,  THE  MAID  OP  THE  INN. 


[ROBT.  SOUTHET. 


He  listen'd  and  look'd ;  it  was  only  the  eat; 
But   the   Bishop   he   grew   more  fearful  for 

that, 
For  she  sat  screaming-,  mad  with  fear, 
At  the  army  of  rats  that  was  drawing  near. 

For  they  have  swum  over  the  river  so  deep, 
And  they  have  climb'd  the  shores  so  steep, 
And  up  the  tower  their  way  is  bent 
To  do  the  work  for  which  they  were  sent. 

They   are   not  to   be  told  by  the  dozen   or 

score, 
By  thousands  they  come,  and  by  myriads  and 

more; 
Snch  numbers  had  never  been  heard  of  before, 
Such  a  judgment  had  never  been  witness' d  of 

yore. 

Down  on  his  knees  the  Bishop  fell, 

And  faster  and  faster  his  beads  did  he  teU, 

As  louder  and  louder  drawing  near 

The  gnawing  of  their  teeth  he  could  hear. 

And  in  at  the  windows,  and  in  at  the  door, 
And  through  the    walls   helter-skelter  they 

pour, 
And  down  from  the  ceiling,  and  up  through 

the  floor. 
From  the  right  and  the  left,  from  behind  and 

before, 
From  within  and  without,  from  above   and 

below. 
And  all  at  once  to  the  Bishop  they  go. 

They  have   whetted   their   teeth  against  the 

stones. 
And  now  they  pick  the  Bishop's  bones ; 
They  gnaw'd  the  flesh  from  every  limb, 
For  they  were  sent  to  do  judgment  on  him. 

I?o&ei-i  Southey.—Borii  1774,  Died  1843. 


1226.— MAEY,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  INN. 

Who   is   yonder  poor  maniac,  whose  wildly 
fix'd  eyes 
Seem  a  heart  overcharged  to  express  ? 
She    weeps  not,   yet  often  and  deeply  she 

sighs ; 
She  never  complains,  but  her  silence  implies 
The  composure  of  settled  distress. 

No  pity   she  looks  for,   no  alms   doth    she 


Nor  for  raiment  nor  food  doth  she  care  : 
Through  her  tatters  the  -winds  of  the  winter 

blow  bleak 
On  that   wither' d  breast,  and  her  weather- 
worn cheek 
Hath  the  hue  of  a  mortal  despair. 

Yet  cheerful  and  happy,  nor  distant  the  day, 

Poor  Mary  the  Maniac  hath  been  ; 
The   traveller  remembers  who  journey'd  this 
way 


No  damsel  so  lovely,  no  damsel  so  gay, 
As  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 

Her  cheerful  address  fill'd  the  g-nests  with 
delight 
As  she  welcom'd  them  in  with  a  smile ; 
Her  heart  was  a  stranger  to  childish  afi'right. 
And   Mary  would   walk    by    the"   Abbey   at 
night 
When  the  wind  whistled  down  the  dark 
aisle. 

She  loved,  and  young  Eichard  had  settled  the 
day, 
And  she  hoped  to  be  happy  for  life  ; 
But   Eichard  was   idle    and   worthless,   and 

they 
Who  knew   him  would  pity  poor  Mary  and 
say 
That  she  was  too  good  for  Ms  wife. 

'Twas  in  autumn,  and  stormy  and  dark  was 
the  night, 
And  fast  were  the  windows  and  door ; 
Two  guests  sat  enjoying  the  fire  that  burnt 

bright. 
And,  smoking  in  silence  with  tranquil  delight, 
They  listen'd  to  hear  the  wind  roar. 

"  'Tis  pleasant,"  cried  one,  "  seated  by  the 
fireside 
To  hear  the  wind  whistle  without." 
"  What  a  night  for  the  Abbey !  "  his  comrade 

replied, 
"Metliinks  a  man's  courage  would  now  be 
well  tried. 
Who  should  wander  the  ruins  about. 

I  myself,  like  a   schoolboy,  should  tremble  to 
hear 
The  hoarse  ivy  shake  over  my  head ; 
And   could  fancy  I  saw,  half  persuaded  by 

fear. 
Some  ugly  old  abbot's  giim  spirit  appear, 
For  this  wind  might  awaken  the  dead  !  " 

"  I'll  wager  a  dinner,"  the  other  one  cried, 
"  That  Mary  would  venture  there  now." 
"  Then   wager   and  lose !  "    with  a  sneer  he 

replied, 
"  I'll   warrant   she'd   fancy   a   ghost  by   her 
side. 
And  faint  if  she  saw  a  white  cow." 

"Will   Mary    this    chaise    on    her    courage 
allow  ? " 
His  companion  exclaimed  with  a  smile  ; 
"  I  shall  win — for  I  know  she  will  venture 

there  now 
And  earn  a  new  bonnet  by  bringing  a  bough 
From  the  elder  that  grows  in  the  aisle." 

With  fearless  good-humour  did  Mary  comply, 

And  her  way  to  the  Abbey  she  bent ; 
The  night  was  dark,  and  the  wind  was  high. 
And  as  hollowly  howling  it  swept  through  the 
sky. 
She  shiver'd  with  cold  as  she  went. 


SOBT.  SOUTHEY.] 


ST.  ROMUALD. 


[Seventh  Period, — 


O'er  the  path  so  well  known  still  proceeded 
the  maid, 
Where  the  Abbey  rose  dim  on  the  sight ; 
Through  the  gatewixy  she  enter'd,  she  felt  not 

afraid, 
Yet  the  ruins  were  lonely  and  wild,  and  their 
shade 
Seem'd  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  the  night. 

AU  around  her  was  silent  save  when  the  rude 
blast 
Howl'd  dismally  round  the  old  pile ; 
Over  weed-cover'd  fragments   she  fearlessly 

pass'd, 
And  arrived  at  the  innermost  ruin  at  last, 
Where  the  elder-tree  grew  in  the  aisle. 

Well  pleased  did   she   reach  it,  and  quickly 
drew  near, 
And  hastily  gather'd  the  bough ; 
When  the  sound  of  a  voice  seem'd  to  rise  on 

her  ear, 
She  paused,  and  she  listen'd  intently,  in  fear, 
And  her  heart  panted  painfully  now. 

The  wind  blew,  the  hoarse  ivy  shook  over  her 
head, 
She  listen'd,  nought  else  could  she  hear ; 
The  wind  fell;  her  heart  sunk  in  her  bosom 

^vith  dread, 
For   she  heard  in   the  ruins   distinctly  the 
tread 
Of  footsteps  approaching  her  near. 

Behind  a  wide  column  half  breathless  with 
fear 
She  crept  to  conceal  herseK  there  : 
That  instant   the   moon    o'er   a   dark   cloud 

shone  clear. 
And  she  saw  in  the  moonlight  two  ruflEians 
ax)pear, 
And  between  f^em  a  corpse  they  did  bear. 

Then  Mary  could  feel  the  heart-blood  curdle 
cold; 
Again  the  rough  wind  hurried  by — 
It  blew  oflP  the  hat  of  the  one,  and  behold, 
Even  close  to    the    feet  of    poor    Mary   it 
roll'd,— 
She  felt,  and  expected  to  die. 

"  Curse  the  hat !  "  he  exclaims.     "  Nay,  come 
on  till  wo  hide 
The  dead  body,"  his  comrade  replies. 
She  beholds  them  in  safety  pass  on  by  her 

side, 
She  seizes  the  hat,  fear  her  courage  supplied. 
And  fast  through  the  Abbey  she  flies. 

She  ran  with  wild  speed,  she  rush'd  in  at  the 
door. 
She  gazed  in  her  terror  around. 
Then   her   limbs   could    support    their    faint 

burden  no  more, 
And  exhausted  and  breathless  she  sank  on  the 
floor, 
Unable  to  utter  a  sound. 


Ere  yet  her  pale  lips  could  the  story  impart. 

For  a  moment  the  hat  met  her  view ; 
Her  eyes  from  that  object  convulsively  start. 
For — what  a  cold  horror  then  thrill'd  through 
her  heart 
When  the  name  of  her  Richard  she  knew  ! 

Where  the  old  Abbey  stands,  on  the  Common 
hard  by. 
His  gibbet  is  now  to  be  seen ; 
His  irons  you  still  from  the  road  may  espy ; 
The  traveller  beholds  them,  and  thinks  with 
a  sigh 
Of  poor  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 

Eohert  Soutliey.—Boni  1774,  Died  1843. 


1227.— ST.  ROMUALD. 

One  day,  it  matters  not  to  know 
How  many  hundred  years  ago, 
A  Frenchman  stopt  at  an  inn  door  : 
The  Landlord  came  to  welcome  him  and  chat 

Of  this  and  that, 
For  he  had  seen  the  traveller  there  before. 
"  Doth  holy  Romuald  dwell 
Still  in  his  cell  ?  " 

The   Traveller   ask'd,    "or  is   the   old   man 
dead  ? " 
"No  ;  he  has  left  his  loving  flock,  and  we 
So  great  a  Christian  never  more  shall  see," 
The   Landlord   answer' d,    and   he   shook  his 
head. 
"  Ah,  sir,  we  knew  his  worth  ! 
If  ever  there  did  live  a  saint  on  earth  ! 
Why,  sir,  he  always  used  to  wear  a  shirt 
For  thirty  days,  all  seasons,  day  and  night. 
Good  man,  he  knew  it  was  not  right 
For   Dust   and    Ashes    to    fall    out    with 

Dirt! 
And  then  he  only  hung  it  out  in  the  rain, 
And  put  it  on  again. 

There  has  been  perilous  work 
With   him   and  the   Devil   there   in    yonder 
ceU; 
For  Satan  used  to  maul  him  like  a  Turk. 
There  they  would  sometimes  fight, 
All  through  a  winter's  night, 
From  sunset  until  mom. 
Ho  with  a  cross,  the  Devil  with  his  horn  ; 
The  Devil  spitting  fire  with  might  and  main, 
Enough  to  make  St.  Michael  half  afraid  : 
He  splashing  holy  water  till  he  made 
His  red  hide  hiss  again, 
And  the  hot  vapour  fiU'd  the  smoking  cell. 
This  was  so  common  that  his  face  became 
All  black  and  yellow  with  the  brimstone 
flame. 
And  then  he  smelt ...  0  dear,  how  he  did 
smell ! 

Then,  sir,  to  see  how  he  would  mortify 
The  flesh  !     If  any  one  had  dainty  fare. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


A  FAEEWELL  TO  TOBACCO. 


[Charles  Lam  e. 


Good  man,  he  wonld  come  there, 
And  look  at  all  the  delicate   things,  and 
cry, 
"  O  belly,  belly. 
You     would    be    gormandizing    now,    I 
know; 
But  it  shall  not  be  so ! 
Home  to  your  bread  and  water,  home,  I  tell 
ye!" 

"  But,"  quoth  the  Traveller,  "  wherefore  did 
he  leave 
A  flock   that   knew   his   saintly  worth   so 

well  ?  "- 
"Why,"    said  the   Landlord,    "Sir,   it   so 
befell 
He  heard  unluckily  of  our  intent 
To  do  him  a  great  honour ;  and  you  know 
He  was  not  covetous  of  fame  below, 
And  so  by  stealth  one  night  away  he  went." 

'•  "What  might  this  honour  be  ?  "  the  Traveller 
cried. 
"Why,  sir,"  the  host  replied, 
"  We  thought  perhaps  that  he  might  one  day 
leave  us  ; 
And  then  should  strangers  have 
The  good  man's  grave. 
A  loss  like  that  would  naturally  grieve  us, 
For  he'll  be  made  a  saint  of,  to  be  sure. 
Therefore    we    thought    it    prudent    to 
secure 
His  relics  while  we  might ; 
And  so  we  meant  to  strangle  him  one  night." 

Robert  Sout1mj,—Bo,')iV7i,  Died  1843. 


1228.— TO  HESTEE. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  suppl}-, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavour. 

A  montli  or  more  she  hath  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed, 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  stop,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flush'd  her  spirit. 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call : — if  'twas  not  pride> 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied. 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool : 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 


My  sprightly  neighbour  !  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 
Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day,_ 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  fore-warning? 

Charles  Lamb.— Born  1775,  Died  1835. 


1229.— A  FAEEWELL  TO  TOBACCO. 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 

Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse, 

If  I  can  a  passage  see 

In  this  word-perplexity, 

Or  a  fit  expression  find. 

Or  a  language  to  my  mind 

(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant), 

To  take  leave  of  thee.  Great  Plant ! 

Or  in  any  terms  relate 

Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate : 

For  I  hate,  yet  love  thee  so, 

That,  whichever  thing  I  show. 

The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 

A  constrain' d  hyperbole. 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 

More  from  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 
Bacchus'  black  servant,  negro  fine ; 
Sorcerer,  that  mak'st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion. 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake. 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women :  thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  way. 
While  thou  suck'st  the  lab'ring  broath 
Faster  than  kisses  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us. 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  u^, 
And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us  ; 
While  each  man,  through  thy  hcight'niilg 

steam. 
Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem,^ 
And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfxilness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us. 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features. 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  Chimeras, 
Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us  ; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.     But  what  art  thou, 


Cj'::asles  Lamb.]                      THE  OLD  FAMTTJAR  FACES.                [Seventh  Pesiod.— 

That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 

Or,  as  men,  constrain'd  to  part 

What  his  deity  can  do, 

With  what 's  nearest  to  their  heart, 

As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 

While  their  soxtow  's  at  the  height, 

Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  ? 

Lose  discrimination  quite, 

Some  few  vapours  thou  mayst  raise, 

And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall. 

The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 

To  appease  their  frantic  gaU, 

But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart. 

On  the  darling  thing  whatever, 

Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 

Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born, 

Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

The  old  worid  was  sure  forlorn 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 

Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 

Friendliest   of   plants,  that   I   must)  leave 
thee ; 

The  god's  victories  than  before 

AU  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 

For  thy  sake,  Tobacco,  I 

Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 

Would  do  anything  but  die. 

These,  as  stale,  Ave  disallow, 

And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 

Or  judge  of  thee  meant :  only  thou 

His  true  Indian  conquest  art ; 

But  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 

And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 

A  king's  consort,  is  a  queen 

The  reformed  god  now  weaves 

Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 

A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Any  tittle  of  her  state. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume ; 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sov'reigu  to  the  brain : 

Though  a  widow,  or  divorced. 
So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced. 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Katherine  of  Spain ; 

Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel. 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Eoses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys ; 
Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician. 

And  debarr'd  the  fuU  fruition 
Of  thy  favours,  I  may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odours,  that  give  life 

Stinking' st  of  the  stinking  kind, 

Tiike  glances  from  a  neighbour's  wife ; 

Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 

And  stiU  live  in  the  by-places 

Africa,  that  brags  her  foison, 

And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces  ; 

Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison  ; 

And  in  thy  borders  take  delight. 

Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 

An  unconquer'd  Canaanite. 

Hemlock,  aconite 

Charles  Lamh.—Born  1775,  Died  1835. 

Nay,  rather, 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue  ; 

BKsters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you. 

'Twas  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee ; 
None  e'er  prpsper'd  who  defamed  thee  ; 

1230.— THE  OLD  FAMILIAE  FACES. 

Irony  all,  and  feign'd  abuse, 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  compa,Tiions, 

Such  as  perplex'd  lovers  use 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school- 

At a  need,  when,  in  despair 

days  ; 

To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Or  in  part  but  to  express 

That  exceeding  comeliness 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing. 

Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 

Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with    my  bosom 

They  borrow  language  of  dislike ; 

cronies ; 

And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 

AH,  aU  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 
Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see 

her; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Basilisk,  and  all  that 's  evil, 
Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 

Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 

Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more  ; 

Like  an  ingrato  I  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 

Friendly  Trait' ress,  loving  Foe — 

Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Not  that  she  is  truly  so. 

But  no  other  way  they  know 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my 

A  contentment  to  express. 

childhood  ; 

Borders  so  upon  excess. 

Earth    seem'd    a    desert  I    was   bound   to 

That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 

traverse, 

Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 

Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  GIPSY'S  MALISON. 


[Chakles  Lamb. 


Friend    of    my  bosom,   thou    more    than    a 

brother, 
Why   wert    not    thou    bom  in   my   father's 

dwelHng  ? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have 
left  me, 

And  some  are  taken  from  me  ;  all  are  de- 
parted ; 

All,  aU  are  gone,  the  old  famUiar  faces. 

Charles  Lamh.—Born  1775,  Died  1835. 


1231.— ON  AN  INFANT  DYI^a  AS  SOON 
AS  BOEN. 

I  saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 

A  curious  frame  of  Natui-e's  work ; 

A  flow'ret  crushed  in  the  bud 

A  nameless  piece  of  Babyhood 

Was  in  her  cradle-coffin  lying ; 

Extinct,  with  scarce  the  sense  of  dying : 

So  soon  to  exchange  the  imprisoning  womb 

For  darker  closets  of  the  tomb  ! 

She  did  but  ope  an  eye,  and  put 

A  clear  beam  forth,  then  straight  up  shut 

For  the  long  dark :  ne'er  more  to  see 

Through  glasses  of  mortality. 

Riddle  of  destiny,  who  can  show 

What  thy  short  visit  meant,  or  know 

What  thy  errand  here  below  ? 

Shall  we  say,  that  Nature  blind 

Check' d  her  hand,  and  changed  her  mind 

Just  when  she  had  exactly  wrought 

A  finish'd  pattern  without  fault  ? 

Could  she  flag,  or  could  she  tire, 

Or  lack'd  she  the  Promethean  fire 

(With     her     nine     moons'    long      ■workings 

sicken' d) 
That  should  thy  little  limbs  have  quicken'd  ? 
Limbs  so  firm,  they  seem'd  to  assure 
Life  of  health,  and  days  mature : 
Woman's  self  in  miniature  ! 
Limbs  so  fair,  they  might  supply 
(Themselves  now  but  cold  imagery) 
The  sculptor  to  make  Beauty  by. 
Or  did  the  stem-eyed  Fate  descry 
That  babe  or  mother,  one  must  die ; 
So  in  mercy  left  the  stock 
And  cut  the  branch ;  to  save  the  shock 
Of  young  years  widow' d,  and  the  pain 
When  Single  State  comes  back  again 
To  the  lone  man  who,  reft  of  wife. 
Thenceforward  drags  a  maimed  life  ? 
The  economy  of  Heaven  is  dark. 
And  wisest  clerks  have  miss'd  the  mark 
Why  human  buds,  like  this,  should  fall 
More  brief  than  fly  ephemeral 
That  has  his  day  ;  while  shrivell'd  crones 
Stiffen  with  age  to  stocks  and  stones  ; 
And  crabbed  use  the  conscience  sears 
In  sinners  of  an  hundred  years. 
— Mother's  prattle,  mother's  kiss, 
Baby  fond,  thou  ne'er  wilt  miss : 


Rites,  which  custom  does  impose, 

Silver  bells,  and  baby  clothes ; 

Coral  redder  than  those  lips 

Which  pale  death  did  late  eclipse ; 

Music  framed  for  infants'  glee, 

Whistle  never  tuned  for  thee  ; 

Though  thou  want'st   not,  thou^shalt  have 

them. 
Loving  hearts  were  they  which  gave  them. 
Let  not  one  be  missing  ;  nurse, 
See  them  laid  upon  the  hearse 
Of  infant  slain  by  doom  perverse. 
Why  should  kings  and  nobles  have 
Pictured  trophies  to  their  grave, 
And  we,  churls,  to  thee  deny 
Thy  pretty  toys  with  thee  to  lie — 
A  more  harmless  vanity  ? 

Clw/rles  Lamb. — Born  1775,  BiedL  1835. 


1232.— THE  CHRISTENING. 

Array' d — a  half -angelic  sight — 

In  vests  of  pure  baptismal  white, 

The  mother  to  the  Font  doth  bring 

The  little  helpless,  nameless  thing 

With  hushes  soft  and  mUd  caressing, 

At  once  to  get — a  name  and  blessing. 

Close  by  the  babe  the  priest  doth  stand, 

The  cleansing  water  at  his  hand 

Which  must  assoil  the  soul  within 

From  every  stain  of  Adam's  sin. 

The  infant  eyes  the  mystic  scenes. 

Nor  knows  what  all  this  wonder  means ; 

And  now  he  smiles,  as  if  to  say, 

"  I  am  a  Christian  made  this  day ;  " 

Now  frighted  clings  to  nurse's  hold, 

Shrinking  from  the  water  cold, 

Whose  virtues,  rightly  understood, 

Are,  as  Bethesda's  waters,  good. 

Strange  words— The  World,  The  Fleah,  The 

Devil- 
Poor  babe,  what  can  it  know  of  evil  ? 
But  we  must  silently  adore 
Mysterious  truths,  and  not  explore. 
Enough  for  him,  in  after  times, 
When  he  shall  read  these  artless  rhymes, 
If,  looking  back  upon  this  day 
With  quiet  conscience,  he  can  say, 
"  I  have  in  part  redeem' d  the  pledge 
Of  my  baptismal  privilege  ; 
And  more  and  more  will  strive  to  flee 
All    which    my  sponsors  kind   did  then   re- 
nounce for  me." 

Charles  Lamb. — Born  1775,  Died  1835. 


1233.— THE  GIPSY'S  MALISON. 

"  Suck,  baby,  suck  !    mother's  love  grows  by 

giving; 
Drain  the  sweet  founts  that  only  thrive  by 

wasting : 


Charles  Lamb.] 


CHILDHOOD. 


[Seventh  Period. — . 


Black   manhood   comes,  when   riotous  guilty 

living 
Han  is   thee  the  cup  that    shall   be  death  in 

tasting. 

Kiss,  baby,    kiss  !     mother's    lips    shine    by 

kisses  ; 
Choke  the  warm  breath  that  else  would  fall 

in  blessings : 
Black  manhood  comes,  when  turbulent  guilty 

blisses 
Tend  thee  the  kiss  that  poisons  'mid  caress- 

ings. 

Hang,  baby,  hang  !    mother's  love  loves  such 

forces  ; 
Strain  the  fond  neck  that  bends  still  to  thy 

clinging : 
Black  manhood  comes,  when  violent  lawless 

courses 
Leave  thee  a  spectacle  in  rude  air  swinging.'* 

So  sang  a  wither' d  beldam  energetical. 
And  bann'd  the  ungiving  door  with  lips  pro- 
phetical. 

Charles  Laval.— Born  1775,  Died  1835. 


1234.— CHILDHOOD. 

In  my  poor  mind  it  is  most  sweet  to  muse 
Upon  the  days  gone  by  ;  to  act  in  thought 
Past  seasons  o'er,  and  be  again  a  child  ; 
To  sit  in  fancy  on  the  turf-clad  slope, 
Down  which  the  child  would  roll ;    to  pluck 

gay  flowers, 
Make   posies   in  the  sun,  which  the   child's 

hand 
(Childhood  offended  soon,  soon  reconciled,) 
Would  throw    away,  and    straight   take   up 

again, 
Then  fling  them  to  the  winds,  and  o'er  the 

lawn 
BoiTud  with  so  playful  and  so  light  a  foot, 
That    the   press'd   daisy  scarce  declined  her 

head. 

ClwA-les  Lamb. — Born  1775,  Died  1835. 


1235.— STAFFA. 

Staffa,  I  scaled  thy  summit  hoar, 

I  pass'd  beneath  thy  arch  gigantic, 
Whose  pillar'd  cavern  swells  the  roar, 
When  thunders  on  thy  rocky  shore 
The  roll  of  the  Atlantic. 

That  hour  the  wind  forgot  to  rave. 

The  surge  forgot  its  motion, 
And  every  pillar  in  thy  cave 
Slept  in  its  shadow  on  the  wave, 
Unrippled  by  the  ocean. 


Then  the  past  age  before  me  came, 

When  'mid  the  lightning's  sweep, 
Thy  isle  with  its  basaltic  frame. 
And  every  column  wreath'd  with  flame, 
Burst  from  the  boiling  deep. 

When  'mid  lona's  -svrecks  meanwhile 

O'er  sculptured  graves  I  trod. 
Where   Time   had   strewn    each    mouldering 

aisle 
O'er  saints  and  kings  that  rear'd  the  pile, 

I  hail'd  the  eternal  God : 
Yet,   Staffa,  more  I  felt  his  presence  in  thy 

cave 
Than  where  lona's  cross  rose  o'er  tlie  western 

wave. 

William  Sotliehj.—Born  1757,  Bled  1833. 


1236.— APPEOACH  OF  SAUL  AND  HIS 
GUAEDS  AGAINST  THE  PHILIS- 
TINES. 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  clash  and  clang 
Of  shaken  cymbals  cadencing  the  pace 
Of  martial  movement  regular  ;  the  swell 
Sonorous  of  the  brazen  trump  of  war  ; 
Shrill  twang  of  harps,  soothed  by  melodious 

chime 
Of  beat  on  silver  bars ;  and  sweet,  in  pause 
Of  harsher  instrument,  continuous  flow 
Of  breath,  through  flutes,  in  symphony  with 

song, 
Choirs,    whose  match' d  voices  fill'd  the  air 

afar 
With  jubilee  and  chant  of  triumph  hymn  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  irregular  burst 
Of  loudest  acclamation  to  each  host 
Saul's    stately  advance   proclaim'd.       Before 

him,  youths 
In  robes   succinct  for   swiftness ;    oft    they 

struck 
Their  staves  against  the  ground,  and  wam'd 

the  throng 
Backward   to    distant    homage.       Next,   his 

strength 
Of  chariots  roU'd  with  each  an  arm'd  band  ; 
Earth  groan'd  afar  beneath  their  iron  wheels  : 
Part    arm'd    with    scythe    for    battle,    part 

adorn' d 
For  triumph.     Nor  there  wanting  a  led  train 
Of  steeds  in  rich  caparison,  for  show 
Of  solemn  entry.     Eound  about  the  king. 
Warriors,  his  watch  and  ward,    from  every 

tribe 
Drawn  out.     Of  these  a  thousand  each  selects, 
Of  size  and  comeliness  above  their  peers, 
Pride  of  their  race.     Eadiant  their  armour : 

some 
In  silver  cased,  scale  over  scale,  that  play'd 
All  pliant  to  the  litheness  of  the  limb ; 
Some  mail'd  in  twisted  gold,  link  within  link 
Flexibly  ringed  and  fitted,  that  the  eye 
Beneath  the  yielding  panoply  pursued, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SONG  OF  THE  VIKGINS. 


[AVji.  SoTiivnv. 


When  act  of  war  the  strength  of  man  pro- 
voked, 
The  motion  of  the  muscles,  as  they  work'd 
In  rise  and  fall.     On  each  left  thigh  a  sword 
Swung  in  the  'broider'd  baldric ;  each  right 

hand 
Grasp'd  a  long-shadomng  spear.      Like  them, 

their  chiefs 
Array' d ;  save  on  their  shields  of  solid  ore, 
And  on    their  helm,   the    graver's    toil    had 

wrought 
Its  subtlety  in  rich  device  of  war  ; 
And  o'er  their  mail,  a  robe,  Punicean  dye. 
Gracefully  play'd  ;  where  the  wing'd  shuttle, 

shot 
By  cunning  of  Sidonian  virgins,  wove 
Broidui-e  of  many-colour'd  figures  rare. 
Bright  glow'd  the  sun,  and  bright  the  bur- 
nish'd  mail 
Of    thousands,  ranged,  whose  pace  to  song 

kept  time ; 
And  bright  the  glare  of  spears,  and  gleam  of 

crests, 
And  flaunt  of  banners  flashing  to  and  fro 
The  noonday  beam.      Beneath  their  coming, 

earth 
Wide  glitter'd.     Seen  afar,  amidst  the  pomp, 
Gorgeously  mail'd,  but  more  by  pride  of  port 
Known,  and  superior  stature,  than  rich  trim 
Of  war  and  regal  ornament,  the  king. 
Throned    in    triumphal    car,    with    trophies 

graced. 
Stood  eminent.     The  lifting  of  his  lance 
Shone  like    a    sunbeam.       O'er  his    armour 

flow'd 
A  robe,  imperial  mantle,  thickly  stanr'd 
With  blaze  of  orient  gems;    the  clasp  that 

bound 
Its  gather' d  folds  his  ample  chest  athwart. 
Sapphire ;  and  o'er  his  casque,  where  rubies 

burnt, 
A  cherub  flamed  and  waved  his  wings  in  gold. 

William  Sothehy.—Born  1757,  Died  1833. 


1237.  —  SONG    OF    THE    VIEGINS 
CELEBRATING  THE  VICTORY. 

Daughters  of    Israel!    praise  the  Lord  of 

Hosts  ! 
Break  into  song !     With  harp  and  tabret  lift 
Your  voices   up,    and    weave    with   joy  the 

dance  ; 
And  to  your  twinkling  footsteps  toss  aloft 
Your  arras ;  and  from  the  flash  of   cymbals 

shake 
Sweet  clangour,  measuring  the  giddy  maze. 
Shout  ye  !  and  ye  !  make  answer,  Saul  hath 

slain 
His    thousands ;    David    his    ten   thousands 

slain. 
Sing  a  new  song.       I   saw   them  in  their 

xage; 
I  saw  the  gleam  of  spears,  the  flash  of  swords. 


That  rang  against  our  gates.     Tlio  warders' 

watch 
Ceased  not.     Tower  answer' d  tower :  a  warn- 
ing voice 
Was  heard  without ;  the  cry  of  v*'oe  within  : 
The  shriek  of  virgins,  and  the  wail  of  licr, 
The  mother,  in  her  anguish,  who  fore-wept, 
Wept  at  the  breast  her  babe  as  now  no  more. 
Shout  ye  !  and  ye  !  make  answer,  Saul  hath 

slain 
His    thousands ;    David   his    ten    thousands 

slain. 
Sing  a  new  song.     Spake  not  the  insulting 

foe.? 
I  will  pursue,  o'ertake,  divide  the  spoil. 
My  hand    shall    dash  their    infants    on   the 

stones  ; 
The  ploughshare  of  my  vengeance  shall  draw 

out 
The  furrow,  where  the  tower  and  fortress  rose. 
Before  my  chariot  Israel's  chiefs  shall  clank 
Their  chains.      Each  side  their  virgin  daugh- 
ters groan  ; 
ErewhUe   to    weave    my   conquest   on    their 

looms. 
Shout  ye  I  and  ye  !  make  answer,  Saul  hath 

slain 
His    thousands ;    David    his   ten    thousands 

slain. 
Thou  heard' st,  O  God  of   battle  !      Thou, 

whose  look 
Snappeth    the    spear    in    sunder.        In    thy 

strength 
A  youth,  thy  chosen,  laid  their  champion  low. 
Saul,    Saul    pursues,    o'ertakes,    divides    the 

spoil ; 
Wreathes  round  our  necks   these   chains   of 

gold,  and  robes 
Our  limbs  with  floating  crimson.      Then  re- 
joice. 
Daughters    of    Israel !     from    your    cymbals 

shake 
Sweet  clangour,    hymning  God  I  the  Lord  of 

Hosts  ! 
Ye !    shout !    and  ye !    make  answer,    Saul 

hath  slain 
His    thousands ;    David    his    ten    thousands 

slain. 
Such  the    hymned    harmony,   from  voices 

breathed 
Of  virgin  minstrels,  of  each  tribe  the  prime 
For  beauty,  and  fine  form,  and  artful  touch 
Of  instrument,  and  skill  in  dance  and  song ; 
Choir  answering  choir,  that  on  to  Gibeah  led 
The  victors  back  in  triumph.     On  each  neck 
Play'd  chains  of  gold ;  and,  shadowing  their 

charms 
With  colour  like  the  blushes  of  the  morn, 
Robes,  gift  of  Saul,  round  their  hght  limbs, 

in  toss 
Of  cymbals,  and  the  many-mazed  dance, 
Floated  like    roseate    clouds.       Thus,    these 

came  on 
In  dance  and  song ;    then,    multitudes   that 

swell' d 
The  pomp  of  triumph,  and  in  circles  ranged 

61 


W.  L.  Bowles.] 


TO  TIME. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Arotmd  the  altar  of  Jehovah,  brought 
Freely  their  offerings  ;  and  with  one  accord 
Sang,  "  Glory,  and  praise,  and  worship  unto 

God." 
Loud    rang    the    exultation.         Twas    the 

voice 
Of  a  free  people  from  impending  chains 
Eedeem'd;    a -people    proud,   whose   bosom 

beat 
With  fire  of  glory  and  renown  in  arms 
Triumphant.     Loud  the  exultation  rang. 
There,   many   a   wife,  whose   ardent  gaze 

from  far 
Singled  the   warrior   whose   glad    eye    gave 

back 
Her  look  of  love.     There,  many  a  grandsire 

held 
A  blooming  boy  aloft,  and  'midst  the  array 
In  triumph,  pointing  with  his  staff,  exclaim'd, 
"  Lo,  my  brave  son!  I  now  may  die  in  peace." 
There,  many  a  beauteous  virgin,  blushing 

deep. 
Flung  back  her  veil,  and,  as  the  warrior  came, 
Hail'd  her  betrothed.      But,  chiefly,  on  one 

alone 
All  dwelt. 

William  Sotheby.—Born  1757,  Died  1833. 


1238.— TO  TIME. 

0  Time  !  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay 
Softest  on    sorrow's    wound,    and    slowly 

thence 
(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 
The  faint  pang  stealest,  unperceived,  away ; 
On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last. 

And  think  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter 

tear 
That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul  held 
dear, 

1  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past, 

And  meet   life's    peaceful    evening  with    a 

smile — 

As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour. 

Sings    in    the    sunbeam    of    the   transient 

shower, 

Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the  while  : 

Yet,  ah !  how  much  must  that    poor    heart 

endure 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone,   a 
cure ! 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Bom  1762,  Died  1850. 


1239.— HOPE. 

As  one  who,  long  by  wasting  sickness  worn, 
Weary  has  watch' d  the  lingering  night,  and 

heard, 
Heartless,  the  carol  of  the  matin  bird 

Salute  his  lonely  porch,  now  first  at  morn 


Goes  forth,  leaving  his  melancholy  bed  ; 

He  the  green  slope  and  level  meadow  views, 
Delightful  bathed  in  slow  ascending  dews ; 
Or  marks  the  clouds  that  o'er  the  mountain's 

head. 
In  varying  forms,  fantastic  wander  white  ; 
Or  turns  his  ear  to  every  random  song 
Heard  the    green    river's    winding    marge 
along. 
The   whilst    each    sense  is    steep'd    in   still 

delight : 
With  such  delight  o'er  all  my  heart  I  feel 
Sweet  Hope  !  thy  fragrance  pure  and  healing 
incense  steal. 

TF.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1240.— THE  GREENWICH  PENSIONERS. 

When  evening  listen'd  to  the  dripping  oar. 

Forgetting  the  loud  city's  ceaseless  roar. 

By  the   green  banks,   where   Thames,    with 

conscious  pride, 
Reflects  that  stately  structure  on  his  side, 
Within   whose   walls,  as   their  long   labours 

close, 
The  wanderers  of  the  ocean  find  repose, 
We  wore  in  social  ease  the  hours  away, 
The  passing  visit  of  a  summer's  day. 

Whilst  some  to  range   the    breezy  hill   are 

gone, 
I  linger' d  on  the  river's  marge  alone ; 
Mingled  with  groups  of  ancient  sailors  gray, 
And  watch'd  the  last  bright  sunshine  steal 

away. 

As  thus  I  mused  amidst  the  various  train 
Of  toil-worn  wanderers  of  the  perilous  main. 
Two   sailors — well   I   mark'd    them    (as   the 

beam 
Of  parting  day  yet  linger' d  on  the  stream, 
And  the  sun  sank  behind  the  shady  reach) — 
Hasten' d    with    tottering    footsteps    to    the 

beach. 
The  one  had  lost  a  limb  in  Nile's  dread  fight; 
Total  eclipse  had  veil'd  the  other's  sight 
For  ever  !     As  I  drew  more  anxious  near, 
I  stood  intent,  if  they  should  speak,  to  hear  ; 
But  neither  said  a  word  !      He  who  was  blind 
Stood  as  to  feel  the  comfortable  wind 
That  gently  lifted  his  gray  hair  :  his  face 
Seem'd  then  of   a  faint  smile  to    wear  the 

trace. 

The  other  fix'd  his  gaze  upon  the  light 
Parting;    and    when   the   sun   had   vanish'd, 

quite, 
Methought  a  startling  tear  that  Heaven  might 

bless, 
Unfelt,  or  felt  with  transient  tenderness, 
Came  to  his  aged  eyes,  and  touch' d  his  cheek ! 
And  then,  as  meek  and  silent  as  before, 
Back  hand-in-hand  they  went,  and   left  the 

shore. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


AT  OXFOED,  1786. 


[W.  L.  Bowles. 


As    they    departed  through    the    unheeding 

crowd, 
A  caged  bird  sung  from  the  casement  loud ; 
And  then  I  heard  alone  that  blind  man  say, 
"  The  music  of  the  bird  is  sweet  to-day !  " 
I  said,  "  O  Heavenly  Father  !  none  may  know 
The  cause  these  have  for  silence  or  for  wo  I  " 
Here  they  appear  heart- stricken  or  resign'd 
Amidst  the  unheeding  tumult  of  mankind. 

There  is  a  world,  a  pure  unclouded  clime, 
Where  there  is  neither  grief,  nor  death,  nor 

time  ! 
Nor  loss  of  friends  !     Perhaps  when  yonder 

beU 
Beat  slow,  and  bade  the  dying  day  farewell. 
Ere  yet  the  glimmering  landscape  sunk  to  night, 
They   thought   upon   that   world   of   distant 

light; 
And  when  the  blind  man,  lifting  light  his  hair, 
Felt   the  faint    wind,    he    raised  a    warmer 

prayer ; 
Then  aigh'd,  as  the  blithe  bii-d  sung  o'er  his 

head, 
"  No  morn  will  shine  on  me  till  I  am  dead !  " 

W.  L.  Boivlcs.—Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1 24 1. —THE  GEEENWOOD. 

Oh  !  when  't  is  summer  weather. 
And  the  yellow  bee,  with  fairy  sound. 
The  waters  clear  is  humming  round, 
Ajid  the  cuckoo  sings  unseen. 
And  the  leaves  are  waving  green — 

Oh  !  then  't  is  sweet,  r 

In  some  retreat, 
To  hear  the  murmuring  dove, 
With  those  whom  on  earth  alone  we  love. 
And  to  wind  through  the  greenwood  together. 

But  when  't  is  winter  weather, 

And  crosses  grieve. 

And  friends  deceive, 
»         And  rain  and  sleet 

The  lattice  beat, — 

Oh !  then  't  is  sweet 

To  sit  and  sing 
Of   the  friends  with  whom,  in    the  days  of 

Spring, 
We  roam'd  through  the  greenwood  together. 

W.  L.  Bmvles.—Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1242.— COME  TO  THESE  SCENES  OF 
PEACE. 

Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace, 

Where,  to  rivers  murmuring, 

The  sweet  birds  all  the  Summer  sing, 

Where  cares,  and  toil,  and  sadness  cease ! 

Stranger,  does  thy  heart  deplore 

Friends  whom  thou  wilt  see  no  more  ? 

Does  thy  wounded  spirit  prove 


Pangs  of  hopeless,  sever'd  love  ? 
Thee,  the  stream  that  gushes  clear — 
Thee,  the  birds  that  carol  near 
Shall  soothe,  as  silent  thou  dost  lie 
And  dream  of  their  wild  lullaby  ; 
Come  to  bless  these  scenes  of  peace. 
Where  cares,  and  toil,  and  sadness  cease. 
W.  L.  Boioles.—Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1243. 


AT 


-ON    THE    FUNEEAL    OF 
CHAELES  I., 

NIGHT    IN    ST.    George's  chapel, 

WINDSOR. 

The  castle  clock  had  toll'd  midnight, 
With  mattock  and  with  spade — 

And  silent,  by  the  torches'  light — 
His  corpse  in  earth  we  laid. 

The  coffin  bore  his  name ;  that  those 

Of  other  years  might  know. 
When  earth  its  secret  should  disclose. 

Whose  bones  were  laid  below. 

"  Peace  to  the  dead  !  "  no  children  sung. 

Slow  pacing  up  the  nave ; 
No  prayers  were  read,  no  knell  was  rung. 

As  deep  we  dug  his  grave. 

We  only  heard  the  winter's  wind, 

In  many  a  sullen  gust. 
As  o'er  the  open  grave  inclined, 

We  murmured,  "  Dust  to  dust !  " 

A  moonbeam  from  the  arch's  height 
Stream'd,  as  avc  placed  the  stone 

The  long  aisles  started  into  light, 
And  all  the  windows  shone. 

We  thought  we  saw  the  banners  then 

That  shook  along  the  walls, 
Whilst  the  sad  shades  of  mailed  men 

Were  gazing  on  the  stalls. 

'T  is  gone  ! — ^Again  on  tombs  defaced 

Sits  darkness  mci'e  profound ; 
And  only  by  the  torch  we  traced 

The  shadows  on  the  ground. 

And  now  the  chilling,  freezing  air 

Without  blew  long  and  loud  ; 
Upon  our  knees  we  breathed  one  prayer, 

Wliere  he  slept  in  his  shroud. 

We  laid  the  broken  marble  floor, — 

No  name,  no  trace  appears  ! 
And  when  we  closed  the  sounding  door, 

We  thought  of  him  Avith  tears. 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1244.— AT  OXFOED,  1786. 

Bereave  me  not  of  Fancy's  shadowy  dreams, 
Which  won  my  heart,    or    when  the    gay 

career 
Of  life  begun,  or  when  at  times  a  tear 


W.  L.  Bowles.] 


WRITTEN  AT  TYNEMOUTH. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Sat  sad  on  memory's  cheek — though  loftier 

themes 
Await  th'  awaken'd  mind,  to  the  high  prize 
Of    wisdom,  hardly  eam'd   with  toil    and 

pain, 
Aspiring  patient ;  yet  on  life's  wide  plain 
Loft  fatherless,  where  many  a  wanderer  sighs 
Hourly,  and  oft  our  road  is  lone  and  long, 
'T  were  not  a  crime,  should    we  a   while 

delay 

Amid  the  sunny  field ;  and  happier  they 

Who,  as  they  journey,  woo  the  charm  of  song, 

To  cheer  their  way — till  they  forget  to  weep, 

And  the  tired  sense  is  hush'd,  and  sinks  to 

sleep. 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1245.  —  WRITTEN  AT  TYNEMOUTH, 
NOETHUMBEELAND,  AFTEE  A 
TEMPESTUOUS  VOYAGE. 

As  slow  I  climb  the  cliff's  ascending  side, 
Much  musing  on  the  track  of  terror  past, 
When  o'er  the  dark  wave  rode  the  howling 
blast, 
Pleased   I  look  back,  and  view  the  tranquil 

tide 
.That  laves  the  pebbled  shore  :    and  now  the 
beam 
Of  evening  smiles  on  the  grey  battlement. 
And   yon   forsaken   tow'r   that   Time    has 
rent : — 
The  lifted  oar  far  off  with  silver  gleam 
Is    touch'd,  and    hush'd    is  all   the  billowy 


Soothed  by  the  scene,  thus  on  tired  Nature's 

breast 
A  stillness  slowly  steals,  and  kindred  rest ; 
While   sea-sounds    lull   her,   as  she  sinks  to 

sleep. 
Like  melodies  which  mourn  upon  the  lyre, 
Waked   by  the  breeze,  and,  as  they  mourn, 
e:!^ire  ! 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1246.— AT  BAMBOEOUGH  CASTLE. 

Ye   holy  Towers  that  shade  the  wave-worn 
steep, 
Long  may  ye   rear  your   aged  brows  sub- 
lime, 
Though,  hurrying  silent  by,  relentless  Time 
Assail     you,     and     the    winter    whirlwind's 


For   far    from    blazing   Grandeur's   crowded 
halls. 
Here  Charity  hath  fix'd  her  chosen  seat. 
Oft   list'ning  tearful  when  the  wild  winds 
beat 
With   hollow    bodings    round    your    ancient 
walls : 


And  Pity,  at  the  dark  and  stormy  hour 

Of    midnight,  when   the   moon   is   hid   on 

high. 
Keeps    her    lone   watch   upon    the    topmost 

tow'r, 
And  turns  her  ear  to  each  expiring  cry ; 
Blest  if  her  aid  some  fainting  wretch  might 

save, 
And  snatch  him  cold  and  speechless  from  the 

wave. 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1247.— TO  THE  EIVEE  WENSBECK. 

While  slowly  wanders  thy  soquester'd  stream, 
Wensbeck  !      the     mossy-scatter'd     rocks 

among, 
In  fancy's  ear  still  making  plaintive  song 
To  the  dark  woods  above,  that  waving  seem 
To  bend  o'er  some  enchanted  spot ;  removed 
From  life's  vain  coil,  I  listen  to  the  wind, 
And  think    I   hear  meek    sorrow's  plaint, 
reclined 
O'er  the  forsaken  tomb  of  one  she  loved  ! — 
Fair    scenes  !      ye    lend     a     pleasure,     long 
unknown, 
To  him  who  passes  weary  on  his  way — 
The  farewell  tear,  which  now  he  turns  to 
pay, 
Shall  thank  you ; — and  whene'er  of  pleasures 

flown 
His  heart  some  long-lost  image  would  renew, 
Delightful  haunts  !  he  will  remember  you. 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850 


1248.— TO  THE  EIVEE  TWEED. 

O  Tweed !    a  stranger,  that  with  wandering 
feet 
O'er   hill   and  dale  has   journey'd  many  a 

mile 
(If  so  his  weary  thoughts  he  might  beguile), 
Delighted    turns    thy    beauteous    scenes    to 

greet. 
The  waving  branches  that  romantic  bend 
O'er    thy   tall    banks,    a    soothing   charm 

bestow  ; 
The    murmurs    of     thy    wand'ring     wave 
below 
Sccra  to  his  ear  the  pity  of  a  friend. 
Delightful   stream  !    though   now   along   thy 
shore, 
"When    spring    returns    in    all  her  wonted 
pride, 
The  shepherd's  distant  pipe  is  heard  no  more. 

Yet  here  with  pensive  peace  could  I  abide. 
Far    from    the    stormy    world's    tumultuous 
roar, 
To  muse  upon  thy  banks  at  eventide. 

W.  L.  Bowlcs.—Born  1762,  Died  1850 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHERWELL. 


[W.  L.  Bowles. 


1249.— SONNET. 

Evening,  as  slow  thy  placid  shades  descend, 
Veiling  with  gentlest   hush  the  landscape 

still, 
The  lonely  battlement,  and  farthest  hill, 
And    wood,  I    think  of   those  that  have   no 

friend. 
Who  now,  perhaps,  by  melancholy  led. 

From  the  broad  blaze  of  day,  where  plea- 
sure flaunts, 
Retiring,  wander  'mid  thy  lonely  haunts 
Unseen  ;    and  watch  the  tints  that  o'er  thy 

bed 
Hang  lovely,  to  their  pensive  fancy's  ej'^e 
Presenting    fairy   vales,    where    the    tired 

mind 
Might  rest,  beyond    the  murmurs  of  man- 
kind, 
Nor  hear  the  hourly  moans  of  misery  ! 
Ah !  beauteous  views,  that  Hope's  fair  gleams 

the  while 
Should   smile   like   you,    and  perish  as  they 
smile  ! 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  BieO.  1850. 


1250.— ON  LEAVING  A  VILLAGE  IN 
SCOTLAND. 

Clysdale,  as  thy  romantic  vales  I  leave. 
And  bid  farewell  to  each  retiring  hill. 
Where  fond  attention  seems  to  linger  still, 
Tracing  the  broad  bright  landscape ;  much  I 

grieve 
That,    mingled   with   the    toiling   crowd,   no 
more 
I  may  return  your  varied  views  to  mark. 
Of  rocks  amid  the  sunshine  tow' ring  dark. 
Of  rivers  winding  wild,  and  mountains  hoar, 
Or  castle  gleaming  on  the  distant  steep  ! — 
For  this  a  look  back  on  thy  hills  I  cast. 
And  many  a  soften'd  image  of  the  past 
Pleased   I   combine,    and    bid    remembrance 

keep. 
To   soothe   me  with   fair  views   and   fancies 

rude. 
When  I  pursue  my  path  in  solitude. 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Bom  1762,  Died  1850. 


125 1. —SONNET. 

O  Time  !  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay 
Softest    on    sorrow's    wound,    and    slowly 

thence 
(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 
The  faint  pang  stealest  unperceived  away  ; 
On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last, 

And  think,  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter 

tear 
That    flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul   held 
dear, 


I  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past. 

And    meet    life's    peaceful    evening    with  a 

smile — 
As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour, 
Sings   in   the    sunbeam,    of    the   transient 

show'r 
Forgetful,    though    its    wings   are    wet    the 

while  : — 
Yet   ah !    how  much  must   that   poor  heart 

endure. 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee    alone,  a 

cure ! 

IF.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1252.— ON  A   DISTANT  VIEW  OF 
ENGLAND. 

Ah  !     from  mine  eyes  the    tears    unbidden 
start. 
As    thee,   my   country,    and   the   long-lost 

sight 
Of  thy  own  cliffs,  that  lift  their  summits 
white 
Above  the  wave,  once  more  my  beating  heart 
With  eager  hope  and  filial  transport  hails ! 
Scenes   of    my   youth,    reviving    gales    ye 

bring, 
As   when   erewhile    the   tuneful    morn    of 
spring 
Joyous  awoke  amidst  your  blooming  vales, 
And  till'd  with  fragrance  every  painted  plain  r 
Fled  are  those  hours,  and  all  the  joys  they 

gave ! 
Yet  still  I  gaze,  and  count  each  rising  wave 
That  bears  me  nearer  to  your  haunts  again ; 
If  haply,  'mid  those  woods  and  vales  so  fair. 
Stranger  to  Peace,  I  yet  may  meet  her  there, 
W.  L.  Bowles.— Bom  1762,  Died  1850. 


1253.— TO  THE  RIVER  CHERWELL, 
OXFORD. 

CherweU!    how   pleased   along   thy  willow'd 
hedge 
Erewhile    I    stray'd,    or   when    the   morn 

began 
To  tinge  the  distant  turret's  gleamy  fan. 
Or  evening  glimmer'd  o'er  the  sighing  sedge  ! 
And  now  reposing  on  thy  banks  once  more, 
I  bid  the  pipe  farewell,  and  that  sad  lay 
Whose  music  on  my  melancholy  way 
I  woo'd  :  amid  thy  waving  willows  hoar 
Seeking  awhile  to  rest — tiU  the  bright  sun 
Of  joy  return,  as  when  Heaven's  beauteous 

bow 
Beams  on  the  night-storm's  passing  wings 
below : 
Whate'er  betide,  yet  something  have  I  won 
Of  solace,  that  may  bear  me  on  serene. 
Till   Eve's   last   hush   shall   close   the   silent 
scene, 

W.  L.  Bowles.—Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


W.  L.  Bowles.] 


SONNET. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


1254 


,— SONNET. 


As  one  who,  long  by  wasting  sickness  worn, 
Weary  has  watch'd  the  ling'ring  night,  and 

heard 
Heartless  the  carol  of  the  matin  bird 
Salute  his  lonely  porch,  now  first  at  morn 
Goes  forth,  leaving  his  melancholy  bed ; 
He  the  green  slope  and  level  meadow  views. 
Delightful  bathed  with  slow-ascending  dews; 
Or  marks  the  clouds,  that  o'er  the  mountain's 

head 
In  varying  forms  fantastic  wander  white  ; 
Or  turns  his  ear  to  every  random  song, 
Heard  the  green  river's  winding  marge  along, 
The    whilst  each    sense    is    steep' d    in   still 

delight. 
With  such  delight,  o'er  all  my  heart  I  feel, 
Sweet  Hope  !    thy  fragrance  pure  and  healing 
incense  steal ! 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  BiedL  1850. 


1255.— APEIL,  1793. 

Whose  was  that  gentle  voice,  that  whispering 
sweet. 
Promised   methought  long   days   of    bliss 

sincere  ? 
Soothing  it  stole  on  my  deluded  ear, 
Most  like  soft  music,  that  might  sometimes 

cheat 
Thoughts   dark   and   drooping!      'Twas   the 
voice  of  Hope. 
Of  love,  and   social   scenes,  it   seem'd   to 


Of  truth,  of  friendship,  of  affection  meek ; 
That,  oh !    poor  friend,  might  to  life's  down- 
ward slope 
Lead  us  in  peace,  and  bless  our  latest  hours. 

Ah  me !  the  prospect  sadden'd  as  she  sung ; 

Loud  on  my  startled  ear  the  death-bell  rung; 
ChiU  darkness  wrapt  the  pleasurable  bow'rs, 
Whilst  Horror,  pointing  to  yon  breathless  clay, 
"  No   peace   be  thine,"    exclaim'd ;    "  away, 
away  !  " 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Bom  1762,  IHed  1850. 


1256.— NETLEY  ABBEY. 

Fall'n  pile !  I  ask  not  what  has  been  thy  fate  ; 
But  when  the  weak  winds,  wafted  from  the 

main, 
Through  each  reaifc  arch,  like  spirits  that 
complain. 
Come  hollow  to  my  ear,  I  meditate 
On  this  world's  passing  pageant,  and  the  lot 
Of   those  who  once   fuH   proudly  in  their 

prime 
And  beauteons  might  have  stood,  till  bow'd 
by  time 
Or  injury,  their  early  boast  forgot, 
They  may  have  fallen  like  thee  :    pale  and 
forlorn. 


Their  brow,  besprent  with  thin  hairs,  white 
as  snow. 
They  lift,  majestic  yet ;  as  they  would  scoru 
This  short-Hved  scene  of  vanity  and  woe  ; 
Whilst  on  their  sad  looks  smilingly  they  bear 
The  trace  of  creeping  age,  and  the  dim  hue  of 
care ! 

W.  L.  Boiules.—Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1257.— MAY,  1793. 

How  shall  I  meet  thee.  Summer,  wont  to  fill 
My  heart  with  gladness,  when  thy  pleasant 

tide 
First  came,  and  on  each  coomb's  romantic 
side 
Was  heard  the  distant  cuckoo's  hollow  bill  ? 
Fresh  fiow'rs  shall  fringe  the  wild  brink  of 
the  stream. 
As  with -the  songs  of  joyance  and  of  hope 
The  hedge-rows  shall  ring  loud,  and  on  the 
slope 
The  poplars  sparkle  in  the  transient  beam  ; 
The  shrubs  and  laurels  which  I  loved  to  tend. 
Thinking   their  May-tide   fragrance  might 
delight, 
With  many  a  peaceful  charm,  thee,  my  best 
friend, 
Shall  put  forth  their  green  shoot,  and  cheer 
the  sight ! 
But  I  shall  mark  their  hues  with  sick'ning 


And  weep  for  her  who  in  the  cold  grave  lies  ! 
W.  L.  Boxdcs.—Bovn  1762,  Died  1850. 


1258.— ON  EEVISITING  OXFOED. 

I  never  hear  the  sound  of  thy  glad  bells, 
Oxford  !  and  chime  harmonious,  but  I  say 
(Sighing  to  think  how  time  has  worn  away), 
"  Some  spirit  speaks  in  the  sweet  tone  that 
swells, 
Heard  after  years  of  absence,  from  the  vale 
Where   Cherwell   ^vinds."      Most    true    it 
speaks  the  tale 
Of  days  departed,  and  its  voice  recalls 
Hours  of  delight  and  hope  in  the  gay  tide 

Of  life,  and  many  friends  now  scatter' d  wide 
By  many  fates. — Peace  be  within  thy  waUs  ! 
I  have  scarce  heart  to  visit  thee ;  but  yet, 
Denied  the  joys  sought  in  thy  shades, — 

denied 
Each  better  hope,  since  my  poor  *****  died. 
What  I  have  owed  to  thee,  my  heart  can  ne'er 
forget ! 

W.  L.  Boxoles.—Born  1762,  Bled  1850. 


1259. 


-ON   THE   DEATH   OF  THE  EEV. 
WILLIAM  BENWELL. 

Tliou  earnest  with  kind  looks,  when  on  the 
brink 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SHEEP-FOLD. 


[W.  L.  Bowles. 


Almost  of  death  I  strove,  and  with  mild 

voice 
Didst  soothe  me,  bidding  my  poor  heart 
rejoice, 
Though  smitten  sore  :  Oh,  I  did  little  think 
That  thou,  my  friend,  woTild'st  the  first  victim 
faU 
To  the  stern  King  of  Terrors !  thou  didst  fly, 
By  pity  prompted,  at  the  poor  man's  cry  ; 
And  soon  thyself  wert  stretch' d  beneath  the 

pall, 
Livid  Infection's  prey.     The  deep  distress 
Of  her,  who  best  thy  inmost  bosom  knew. 
To  whom  thy  faith  was  vow'd,  thy  soul  was 
true, 
What  pow'rs  of  falt'ring  language  shall  ex- 
press ? 
As  friendship  bids,  I  feebly  breathe  my  own. 
And  sorrowing  say,  "  Pure  spirit,  thou    art 
gone ! " 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Bom  1762,  Died  1850. 


[26o.- 


-ON   EEVIEWING   THE    FOEE- 
GOING. 


I  turn  these  leaves  with  thronging  thoughts, 
and  say, 
"  Alas !  how  many  friends  of  youth  are  dead, 
How  many  visions  of  fair  hope  have  fled, 
Since  first,  my  Muse,  we  met:" — So  speeds 
away 
Life,  and  its  shadows  ;  yet  we  sit  and  sing. 
Stretch' d  in  the  noontide  bower,  as  if  the  day 
Declined  not,  and  we  yet  might  trill  our  lay 

Beneath  the  pleasant  morning's  purple  wing 
That    fans  us,   while   aloft  the  gay  clouds 
shine  ! 
Oh,  ere  the  coming  of  the  long  cold  night, 
Religion,  may  vre  bless  thy  purer  light. 
That   still    shall  warm  us,  when  the  tints 

decline 
O'er  earth's  dim  hemisphere,  and  sad  we  gaze 
On  the  vain  visions  of  our  passing  days ! 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1 26 1. —PATH  OF  LIFE. 

Oh  Lord — in  sickness  and  in  health, 

To  every  lot  resign' d, 
Grant  me,  before  all  worldly  wealth, 

A  meek  and  thankful  mind. 

As  life,  thy  upland  path  we  tread, 

And  often  pause  in  pain, 
To  think  of  friends  and  parents  dead, 

Oh  !  let  us  not  complain. 

The  Lord  may  give  or  take  away. 
But  nought  our  faith  can  move, 

"While  we  to  Heaven  can  look,  and  say, 
"  Our  Father  lives  above." 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762  Died  1850. 


1262.— StlN-EISE. 

When  from  my  humble  bed  I  rivse, 

And  see  the  morning  Sun  ; 
Who,  glorious  in  the  eastern  skies. 

His  journey  has  begun ; 

I  think  of  that  Almighty  powfir,- 
Which  caU'd  this  orb  from  night ; 

I  think  how  many  at  this  hour 
Eejoice  beneath  its  light. 

And  then  I  pray,  in  every  land. 

Where'er  this  light  is  shed, 
That  all  who  live  may  bless  the  hand 

Which  gives  their  daily  bread. 

W.  L.  Boivles.—Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1263.— SUMMEE'S  EVENING. 

As  homeward  by  the  evening  star 

I  pass  along  the  plain, 
I  see  the  taper's  light  afar 

Shine  through  our  cottage-pane. 

My  brothers  and  my  sisters  dear, 

The  child  upon  the  knee, 
Spring,  when  my  hastening  steps  they  hear, 

And  smile  to  welcome  me. 

And  when  the  fire  is  growing  dim, 

And  mother's  labours  cease, 
I  fold  my  hands,  and  say  my  hymn, 

And  "  lay  me  down  in  peace." 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1 264.— SPEING.— CUCKOO. 

The  bee  is  humming  in  the  sun. 

The  yellow  cowslip  springs, 
And  hark  !  from  yonder  woodland's  side, 

Again  the  cuckoo  sings  ! 

*'  Cuckoo— Cuckoo !  "  no  other  note, 

She  sings  from  day  to  day  ; 
But  I,  though  a  poor  cottage-girl, 

Can  work,  and  read,  and  pray. 

And  whilst  in  knowledge  I  rejoice. 
Which  heavenly  truth  displays, 

Oh  !  let  me  still  employ  my  voice. 
In  my  Eedeemer's  praise. 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850, 


1265.— SHEEP-FOLD. 

The  sheep  were  in  the  fold  at  night ; 

And  now,  a  new-bom  lamb 
Totters  and  trembles  in  the  light, 

Or  bleats  beside  its  dam. 

How  anxiously  the  mother  tries. 

With  evei-y  tender  care, 
To  screen  it  from  inclement  skies, 

And  the  cold  morning  air  ! 


W.  L.  Bowles.] 


PEIMROSE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


The  hail-storm  of  the  east  is  fled. 

She  seems  with  joy  to  swell, 
While  ever  as  she  bends  her  head, 

I  hear  the  tinkling  bell. 

So  while  for  me  a  mother's  praj'er 

Ascends  to  Heaven  above, 
May  I  repay  her  tender  care 

With  gratitude  and  love. 

W.  L.  BowUs.—Boni  1762,  Died  1850. 


1266.— PEIMEOSE. 

'Tis  the  first  primrose  !  see  how  mcc!:, 

Yet  beautiful  it  looks ; 
As  just  a  lesson  it  may  speak 

As  that  which  is  in  books. 

While  gardens  show  in  flow'ring  pride. 

The  lily's  stately  ranks, 
It  loves  its  modest  head  to  hide 

Beneath  the  bramble-banks. 

And  so  the  little  cottage-maid 

May  bloom  unseen  and  die  ; 
But  she,  when  transient  flow' rets  fade, 

Shall  live  with  Christ  on  high. 

ir.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  l>ic'l  1850. 


1267.— BIRD'S  NEST. 

In  yonder  brake  there  is  a  nest. 
But  come  not,  George,  too  nigh, 

Lest  the  poor  mother  frighten' d  thence, 
Should  leave  her  young,  and  fly. 

Think  with  what  pain,  through  many  a  day, 
Soft  moss  and  straw  she  brought ; 

And  let  our  own  dear  mother's  care 
Be  present  to  our  thought. 

And  think  how  must  her  heart  deplore, 

And  droop  with  grief  and  pain, 
If  those  she.rear'd,  and  nursed,  and  loved, 

She  ne'er  should  see  again. 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  BIclI  1850. 


1 268.— WINTER.— REDBREAST. 

Poor  Robin  sits  and  sings  alone, 
When  showers  of  dri^ang  sleet, 

By  the  cold  winds  of  winter  blown, 
The  cottage  casement  beat. 

Come,  let  us  share  our  chimney-nook. 

And  dry  his  dripping  wing ; 
See,  little  Mary  shuts  her  book. 

And  cries,  "  Poor  Robin,  sing." 


Methinks  I  hear  his  faint  replj' — 
"  When  cowslips  deck  the  plain. 

The  lark  shall  carol  in  the  sky, 
And  I  shall  sing  again. 

But  in  the  cold  and  wintry  day 

To  you  I  owe  a  debt. 
That  in  the  sunshine  of  the  May, 

I  never  can  forget." 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Diecl  1850. 


1269.— BUTTERFLY  AND  BEE. 

Methought  I  heard  a  butterfly 

Say  to  a  labouring  bee, 
"  Thou  hast  no  colours  of  the  sky. 

On  painted  wings  like  me  !  " 

"  Poor  child  of  vanity,  those  dyes 

And  colours  bright  and  rare 
(With  mild  reproof  the  bee  replies). 

Are  all  beneath  my  care. 

Content  I  toil  from  morn  to  eve. 

And  scorning  idleness, — 
To  tribes  of  gaudy  sloth  I  leave 

The  vanities  of  dress." 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1270.— GLOW-WORM. 

Oh !  what  is  this  which  shines  so  bright. 

And  in  the  lonely  place 
Hangs  out  his  small  green  lamp  at  night. 

The  dewy  bank  to  grace  ? 

It  is  a  glow-worm — Still  and  pale 
It  shines  the  whole  night  long, 

When  only  stars.  Oh  !  nightingale. 
Seem  list'ning  to  thy  song. 

And  so,  amid  the  world's  cold  night, 

Through  good  report  or  ill, 
Shines  out  the  humble  Christian's  light. 

As  lonely  and  as  still. 

W.  L.  Bowles.— Born  1762,  Died  1850. 


1271.— STAR-LIGHT  FROST. 

The  stars  are  shining  over  head, 

In  the  clear  frosty  night ; 
So  will  they  shine  when  we  are  dead. 

As  countless  and  as  bright. 

For  brief  the  time  and  short  the  space 
That  e'en  the  proudest  have. 

Ere  they  conclude  their  various  race 
In  silence  and  the  grave. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


IPHIGENIA  AND  AGAMEMNON. 


[W.  S.  Landor. 


But  the  pure  soul  from  dust  shall  rise, 

By  our  great  Saviour's  aid, 
When  the  last  trump  shall  rend  the  skies, 

And  all  the  stars  shall  fade. 

W.  L.  Boicles.—Born  1762,  Dial  1850. 


1272.— THE  MAID'S  LAMENT. 

I  loved  him  not :  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone, 
I  check' d  him  while  he  spoke :  yet  could  he 


Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 

My  love  could  ho  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  v/hen  he  found 

'Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death  ! 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me ;  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lone  bosom  bums 
With  stifling  heat,  hea-\ang  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted   his   soft   heart :    for 
years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears  ! 
"  Merciful  God !  "  such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

"  These  may  she  never  share  !  " 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell  athwart  the  churchyard 
gate 

His  name  and  Kfe's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  ye  be, 

And  oh  !  pray,  too,  for  me  ! 

W.  S.  Landor.— Born  177S,  Died  1864. 


1273.— THE  BEIEE. 

My  brier  that  smelledst  sweet. 
When  gentle  Spring's  first  heat 
Ean  through  thy  quiet  veins ; 
Thou  that  could' st  injure  none. 
But  would'st  be  left  alone. 
Alone  thou  leavest  me,  and  nought  of  thine 
remains. 

What !  hath  no  poet's  lyre 
O'er  thee,  sweet-breathing  brier, 

Hung  fondly  ill  or  well  ? 
And  yet,  methinks,  with  thee 
A  poet's  sympathy, 
Whether  in    weal  or   woe,  in  life  or  death, 
might  dwell. 

Hard  usage  both  must  bear, 
Few  hands  your  youth  will  rear. 
Few  bosoms  cherish  you  = 


Your  tender  prime  must  bleed 
Ere  you  are  sweet ;  but,  freed 
From  life,  you  then  are  prized;  thus 
are  poets  too. 

W.  8.  Landor.— Born  1775,  Died.  1864. 


prized 


1274.— CHILDEEN. 

Children  are  what  the  mothers  are. 
No  fondest  father's  fondest  care 
Can  fashion  so  the  infant  heaii; 
As  those  creative  beams  that  dart, 
With  all  their  hopes  and  fears,  upon 
The  cradle  of  a  sleeping  son. 

His  startled  eyes  with  wonder  see 
A  father  near  him  on  his  knee, 
Who  wishes  all  the  while  to  trace 
The  mother  in  his  future  face ; 
But  't  is  to  her  alone  uprise 
His  wakening  arms  ;  to  her  those  eyes 
Open  with  joy  and  not  surprise. 

W.  S.  Landor.— Born  1775,  Died  1864. 


1 275. —IPHIGENIA  AND  AGAMEMNON. 

Iphigenia,  when  she  heard  her  doom 

At  Aulis,  and  when  aU  beside  the  king 

Had  gone  away,  took  his    right  hand,   and 

said: 
"  O  father  !  I  am  young  and  very  happy. 
I  do  not  think  the  pious  Calchas  heard 
Distinctly  what  the  goddess  spake ; — old  age 
Obscures  the  senses.     If  my  nurse,  who  knew 
My  voice  so  well,  sometimes  misunderstood, 
WTiile  I  was  resting  on  her  knee  both  arms. 
And  hitting  it  to  make  her  mind  my  words. 
And  looking  in  her  face,  and  she  in  mine. 
Might  not  he,  also,  hear  one  word  amiss. 
Spoken  from  so  far  off,  even  from  Olympus  ?  " 
The  father  placed  his  cheek  upon  her  head, 
And  tears  dropt  down  it ;   but  the  king  of 

men 
Eeplied  not.     Then  the  maiden  spake  once 

more  : 
"  0  father  !  say  est  thou  nothing  ?     Hearest 

thou  not 
Me,  whom  thou  ever  hast,  until  this  hour, 
Listen' d  to  fondly,  and  awaken' d  me 
To  hear  my  voice  amid  the  voice  of  birds, 
When  it  was  inarticulate  as  theirs, 
And  the  down  deadened  it  within  the  nest  ?  " 
He  moved  her  gently  from  him,  sUent  still ; 
And  this,  and  this  alone,  brought  tears  from 

her. 
Although  she  saw  fate  nearer.   Then  with  -ighs : 
"  I  thought  to  have  laid  down  my  hair  before 
Benignant  Artemis,  and  not  dimmed 
Her  polished  altar  with  my  virgin  blood ; 
I  thought  to  have  selected  the  white  flowers 


W.  S.  Landor.] 


TO  MACAULAY. 


[Seventh  Period.' 


To  please  the-nymplis,  and  to  have  asked  of 

each 
By  name,  and  with  no  sorrowfvJ  regret, 
Whether,  since  both  my  parents  willed  the 

change, 
I   might    at    Hjonen's   feet    bend    my   clipt 

brow; 
And    (after    these    who    mind   us    girls   the 

most) 
Adore  our  own  Athene,  that  she  would 
Eegard  me  mildly  with  her  azure  eyes — 
But,  father,  to  see  you  no  more,  and  see 
Your  love,  O  father  !  go  ere  I  am  gone  !  " 
Gently  he  moved  her  off,  and  drew  her  back, 
Bending  his  lofty  head  far  over  hers  ; 
And  the  dark  depths  of  nature  heaved  and 

burst. 
He  tiurned  away — not  far,  but  silent  still. 
She  now  first  shuddered  ;  for  in  him,  so  nigh, 
So  long   a   silence   seem'd   the  approach  of 

death, 
And  like  it.     Once  again  she  raised  her  voice  : 
"  0  father  !  if  the  ships  are  now  detain' d, 
And  all  your  vows  move  not  the  gods  above. 
When  the  knife  strikes  me  there  will  be  one 

prayer 
The  less  to  them ;  and  purer  can  there  be 
Any,  or  more  fervent,  than  the    daughter's 

prayer 
For  her  dear  father's  safety  and  success  ?  " 
A  groan  that  shook  him  shook  not  his  resolve. 
An  aged  man  now  entered,  and  without 
One  word,  stepped  slowly  on,  and  took  the 

■^vrist 
Of  the  pale  maiden.     She  look'd  up,  and  saw 
The  fillet  of  the  priest  and  calm  cold  eyes. 
Then  tum'd  she  where  her  parent  stood,  and 

cried : 
"  0  father  !    grieve  no  more  :  the  ships  can 

sail." 

TF.  S.  L(imhr.—Borii  1775,  Died  1864. 


1276.— TO  MACAULAY. 

The  dreamy  rhymer's  measured  snore 
Falls  heavy  on  our  ears  no  more  ; 
And  by  long  strides  are  left  behind 
The  dear  delights  of  womankind, 
Who  wage  their  battles  like  their  loves, 
In  satin  waistcoats  and  kid  gloves. 
And  have  achieved  the  crowning  work 
When  they  have  truss' d  and  skewer' d  a  Turk. 
Another  comes  with  stouter  tread, 
And  stalks  among  the  statelier  dead : 
He  rushes  on,  and  haQs  by  turns 
High-crested  Scott,  broad-breasted  Burns  ; 
And  shows  the  British  youth,  who  ne'er 
Will  lag  behind,  what  Romans  were. 
When  all  the  Tuscans  and  their  Lars 
Shouted,  and  shook  the  towers  ©f  Mars. 

W.  S.  Landor.—Born  1775,  Dtad  1864. 


1277.— THE  ONE  GRAY  HAIE. 

The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies. 

And  love  to  hear  them  told ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listen'd  to  many  a  one — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew 
old. 

I  never  sat  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom's  song, 

But  pretty  lies  loved  I 
As  much  as  any  king — 
When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 
And  (must  it  then  be  told  ? )  when  youth  had 
quite  gone  by. 

Alas  !  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot, 

When  one  pert  lady  said — 
"  O,  Landor  !  I  am  quite 
Bewilder' d  with  affright ; 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now ! )  a  white  hair  on  your 
head ! " 

Another,  more  benign, 
Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine, 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  she  had  found 
That  one,  and  twirl'd  it  round. — 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair. 

W.  8.  Landor.—Born  1775,  Died  1864. 


[278.- 


'TIS    THE   LAST    EOSE    OF 
SUMMER. 


'Tis  the  last  rose  of  Summer 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone : 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  ! 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one, 

To  pine  on  the  stem  ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping. 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow. 

When  friendships  decay. 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away  ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  wither' d. 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh  !  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 

Thomas  Moore.— Born  1780,  Di€dl852. 


From  1780  to  1866.]      AND  DOTH  NOT  A  MEETING  LIKE  THIS. 


[THOg.  Moore. 


I279._\VEEATHE   THE  BOWL. 

Wreathe  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul, 
The  brightest  Wit  can  fiud  us  ; 

We'll  take  a  flight 

Towards  heav'n  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 

Should  Love  amid 

The  wreaths  be  hid 
That  Joy,  the  enchanter,  brings  us, 

No  danger  fear 

WTiUe  wine  is  near — 
We'll  drown  him  if  he  stings  us. 

Then  wreathe  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul, 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us  ; 

We'll  take  a  flight 

Towards  heav'n  to-night. 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 

'Twas  nectar  fed 

Of  old,  it's  said. 
Their  Junos,  Joves,  Apollos  ; 

And  man  may  brew 

His  nectar  too ; 
The  rich  receipt's  as  follows  : — 

Take  wine  like  this  ; 

Let  looks  of  bliss 
Around  it  well  be  blended  ; 

Then  bring  Wit's  beam 

To  warm  the  stream. 
And  there's  your  nectar,  splendid  ! 

So  wreathe  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul. 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us  ; 

We'll  take  a  flight 

Towards  heav'n  to-night. 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us  ! 

Say,  why  did  Time 

His  glass  sublixae 
Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly, 

AVhen  wine  he  knew 

Runs  brisker  through, 
And  sparkles  far  more  brightly  ? 

Oh,  lend  it  us, 

And,  smiling  thus, 
The  glass  in  two  we'd  sever, 

Make  pleasure  glide 

In  double  tide, 
And  fill  both  ends  for  ever  ! 

Then  wreathe  the  bowl 

With  flowers  of  soul, 
The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 

We'll  take  a  flight 

Towards  heav'n  to-night, 
And  leave  duU  earth  behind  us  I 
Thomas  Moore.— Bcyrn  1780  med  1852. 


1280. 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  PAIR. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


Wit's  electric  flame 

Ne'er  so  swiftly  passes 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care  ""     ~ 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  they  say. 

Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions, 
And  bring  down  its  ray 

From  the  starred  dominions  : — 
So  we,  sages,  sit. 

And  'mid  bumpers  bright'ning. 
From  the  heaven  of  wit 

Draw  down  all  its  lightning. 

Would' st  thou  know  what  first 

Made  our  souls  inherit 
This  ennobling  thirst 

For  wine's  celestial  spirit? 
It  chanced  upon  that  day. 

When,  as  bards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  living  fires  that  warm  us : 

The  careless  Youth,  when  up 

To  glory's  fount  aspiring, 
Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfer' d  fire  in. — 
But  oh  his  joy,  when,  round 

The  halls  of  heaven  spying 
Among  the  stars,  he  fotmd 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying  ! 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl. 

Remains  of  last  night's  pleasure, 
With  which  the  sparks  of  soul 

Mix'd  their  burning  treasure. 
Hence  the  goblet's  shower 

Hath  such  spells  to  win  us  ; 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  that  flame  within  us. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Thomas  Moore.— Bo^rn  1780,  Died  1852. 


1 28 1. —AND  DOTH  NOT  A  MEETING 
LIKE  THIS. 

And   doth   not    a  meeting    like    this    make 

amends 
For  all  the  long  years  I've  been  wand' ring 

away — 
To    see  thus  around  me    my   youth's    early 

friends, 
As  smiling  and  kind  as  in  that  happy  day  ? 
Though  haply  o'er  some   of  your  brows,  as 

o'er  mine, 
The  snow-fall  of  Time  may  be  stealing — what 

then  ? 


Thos.  Mooke.] 


FEIEND  OF  MY  SOUL. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Like  Alps  in  the  sui.set,  thvis  lighted  by  wine, 
We'll  wear  the  gay  tinge  of  Youth's   roses 
again. 

What  soften'd  remembrances  come  o'er  the 

heart, 
In  gazing  on  those  we've  been  lost  to  so  long  ! 
The  sorrows,  the  joys,   of    which  once  they 

were  part. 
Still  round  them,  like  visions  of  yesterday, 

throng ; 
As  letters  some  hand  hath  invisibly  traced, 
When  held  to  the  flame  will  steal  out  on  the 

sight. 
So  many  a  feeling,  that  long  seem'd  effaced, 
The  warmth  of  a  moment  like  this  brings  to 

light 

And  thus,  as  in  memory's  bark  we  shall  glide, 
To  visit  the  scenes  of  our  boyhood  anew, 
Though  oft  we  may  see,  looking  down  on  the 

tide, 
The   ^vreck    of     full    many    a    hope   shining 

through ; 
Yet  still,  as  in  fancy  we  point  to  the  flowors 
That  once  made  a  garden  of  all  the  gay  shore. 
Deceived   for    a   moment,  we'll    think    them 

still  ours. 
And  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  Life's  morning 

once  more. 

So  brief  our  existence,  a  glimpse,  at  the  most. 
Is  all  we  can  have  of  the  few  we  hold  dear ; 
And  oft  even  joy  is  unheeded  and  lost 
For  want  of  some  heart  that  could  echo  it,  near. 
Ah,  well  may  we  hope,  when  this  short  life 

is  gone. 
To  meet  in   some  world  of  more  permanent 

bliss ; 
For  a  smile,  or  a  grasp  of  the  hand,  hastening 

on, 
Is  all  we  enjoy  of  each  other  in  this. 

But,  come,  the  more  rare  such  delights  to  the 

heart. 
The  more  we  should  welcome,  and  bless  them 

the  more ; 
They're  ours    when  we  meet — ^they  are  lost 

when  we  part — 
Like  birds  that  bring  Summer,  and  fly  when 

'tis  o'er. 
Thus  circling  the  cup,  hand  in  hand,  ere  we 

drink. 
Let   Sympathy  pledge  us,  through  pleasure, 

through  pain. 
That,  fast  as  a  feeling  but  touches  one  link. 
Her  magic  shall  send  it  direct   through   the 

chain. 

Tliomas  Moore. — Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


1282.— FEIEND  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Friend  of  my  soul !  this  goblet  sip— 
'Twill  chase  the  pensive  tear  ; 

'Tis  not  so  sweet  as  woman's  lip, 
But,  O  !  'tis  more  sincere. 


Like  her  delusive  beam, 

'Twill  steal  away  the  mind. 
But  like  affection's  dream, 

It  leaves  no  sting  behind- 
Come,  twine  the  wreath,  thy  brows  to  shade — 

These  flowers  were  culled  at  noon  ; 
Like  woman's  love  the  rose  will  fade, 

But  ah  !  not  half  so  soon  : 
For  though  the  flower's  decay' d, 

Its  fragrance  is  not  o'er ; 
But  once  when  love's  betray 'd. 

The  heart  can  bloom  no  more. 

Thomas  Moore.— Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


283.-00  WHERE  GLORY  WAITS 
THEE ! 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee  ; 
But,  while  Fame  elates  thee, 

0  still  remember  me  ! 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

0  then  remember  nic  ! 
Other  arms  may  press  thee. 
Dearer  friends  caress  thee— 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee 

Sweeter  far  may  be ; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest. 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

O  then  remember  mo  ! 

When,  at  eve,  thou  revest 
By  the  star  thou  lovest, 

0  then  remember  me  ! 
Think  when  home  returning, 
Bright  we've  seen  it  burning, 

O,  thus  remember  me  ! 
Oft  as  summer  closes, 
When  thine  eye  reposes 
On  its  lingering  roses, 

Once  so  loved  by  thee. 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them  ; 

O  then  remember  me  ! 

When,  around  thee  dying, 
Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

O  then  remember  me  ! 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

O,  still  remember  me  ! 
Then  should  music,  stealing 
AU  the  soul  of  feeling, 
To  thy  heart  appealing. 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee — 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee  ; 

O  then  remember  me  ! 

Thomas  Moore. — Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 


[Thos.  Moore. 


1284.— FLY  TO  THE  DESERT. 


Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with 

Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 

But,  O !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt, 

Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without  ? 

Our  rocks  are  rough  ;  but  smiling  there 
Th'  acacia  wares  her  yellow  hair — 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare  ;  but  do^vn  their  slope 
The  silvery-footed  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  gaily  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

Then  come — thy  Arab  maid  mil  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree — 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loveliness. 

O  I  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, — 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 
Predestined  to  have  aU  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then  ! 

So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
"When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone ; 
New  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years. 

Then  fly  with  me, — if  thou  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A  gem  away,  that  thou  hadst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  be  worn ; 

Come,  if  the  love  thoix  hast  for  me, 
Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first  'tis  by  the  lapwing  found. 

But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipp'd  image  from  its  base, 
To  give  to  me  the  ruin'd  place — 

Then,  fare  thee  well ;  I'd  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine. 
Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine ! 

TJiomas  Moore.—Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


1285.  —  THE     HARP     THAT    ONCE 
THROUGH  TARA'S  HALLS. 

The  harp  that  onoe  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed. 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls, 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 


So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days. 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise. 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ;        ~     - 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives         ' 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

Thomas  Moore.— Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


1286.— SONG. 

As  by  the  shore,  at  break  of  day, 
A  vanquish' d  chief  expiring  lay, 
Upon  the  sands,  with  broken  sword, 

He  traced  his  farewell  to  the  free ; 
And,  there,  the  last  unfinish'd  word 

He  dying  wrote,  was  "  Liberty  !  " 

At  night  a  sea-bird  shriek' d  the  knell 
Of  him  who  thus  for  Freedom  fell ; 
The  words  he  wrote,  ere  evening  came, 

Were  cover'd  by  the  sounding  sea ; — 
So  pass  away  the  cause  and  name 

Of  him  who  dies  for  Liberty ! 

Thomas  Moore.— Bom  1780,  Died  1852. 


1287.— 0!   BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME. 

O  !  breathe  not  his  name  !  let  it   sleep  in  the 

shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonor'd  his  relics  are  laid ; 
Sad,   sQent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we 

shed, 
As  the  night  dew  that  falls  on  the  grave  o'er 

his  head. 

But  the  night  dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence 

it  weeps. 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where 

he  sleeps ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret 

it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his   memory  green   in  our 

souls. 

TJiomas  Moore. — Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


1288.— THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

Those  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells  L 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells. 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime  I 


Thos.  Moore.] 


AERANMOEE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away  • 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay, 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone — 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on ; 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

Tlwmas  Moore.— Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


1289.— AEEANMORE. 

G  !  Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore, 

How  oft  I  dream  of  thee  ! 
And  of  those  days  when  by  thy  shore 

I  wander'd  young  and  free, 
FuU  many  a  path  I've  tried  since  then, 

Through  pleasure's  fltowery  maze. 
But  ne'er  could  find  the  bliss  again 

I  felt  in  those  sweet  days. 

How  blithe  upon  the  breezy  cliffs 

At  sunny  mom  I've  stood, 
With  heart  as  bounding  as  the  skiffs 

That  danced  along  the  flood ! 
Or  when  the  western  wave  grew  bright 

With  daylight's  parting  wing. 
Have  sought  that  Eden  in  its  light 

Which  dreaming  poets  sing — 

That  Eden  where  th'  immortal  brave 

Dwell  in  a  land  serene — 
Whose  bowers  beyond  the  shining  wave, 

At  sunset,  oft  are  seen ; 
Ah,  dream,  too  full  of  saddening  truth ! 

Those  mansions  o'er  the  main 
Are  like  the  hopes  I  built  in  youth — 

As  sunny  and  as  vain  ! 

Tliomas  Moore.— Bom  1780,  Died  1852. 


1290.— MIEIAM'S  SONG. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ! 
Jehovah  has  triumph' d — ^his  people  are  free. 
Sing — for  the  pride  of  the  tyrant  is  broken, 
His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid  and 

brave. 
How  vain  was  their  boasting ! — ^the  Lord  hath 

but  spoken, 
And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the 

wave. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ! 
Jehovah  has  triumph' d — ^his  people  are  free. 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord, 
His  word  was  our  arrow,  his  breath  was  our 

sword ! — 
^Tio  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 
Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her 

pride? 


For  the  Lord  hath  look'd  out  from  his  pillar  of 
glory, 
And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dash'd  in 
the  tide. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea  I 
Jehovah  has  triumph' d,  his  people  are  free. 

Thoinas  Moore. — Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


1291.— ECHOES. 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 
To  Music  at  night 
When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she 
And  far  away  o'er  lawns  and  lakes 
Goes  answering  light ! 


Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far 

And  far  more  sweet 

Than  e'er,  beneath  the  moonlight's  star, 

Of  horn  or  lute  or  soft  guitar 

The  songs  repeat. 

'Tis  when  the  sigh, — in  youth  sincere 
And  only  then. 

The  sigh  that's  breathed  for  one  to  hear — 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  Dear 
Breathed  back  again. 

T/iomas  Moore. — Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


1292.— THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHEE  DAYS. 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  : 
The  smiles,  the  tears 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken ; 
The  eyes  that  shene. 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  Hnk'd  together 
I've  seen  around  me  fall 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled 
Whose  garlands  dead. 
And  all  but  he  departed ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

Thomas  Moore.— Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


From  1780  to  1866.]      WAR  SONG  ON  VICTOEY  OF  BEUNNENBUEG.       [J.  H.  Feeee. 


1293.— THE  JOURNEY  ONWAEDS. 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loth  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  ns; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us ! 

"When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 

We  talk  with  joyous  seeming — 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming ; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
O,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us  ! 

And  when  in  other  climes  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting. 
Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting ; 
We  think  how  gi-eat  had  been  our  bliss 

If  Heaven  had  but  assign' d  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us ! 

As  travellers  oft  look  back  at  eve 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing, — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consign' d  us. 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 

Thomas  Moore.— Born  1780,  Died  1852. 


1294.— ME.  MUEEAY'S  PEOPOSAL. 

I've  a  proposal  here  from  Mr.  Murray. 
He  offers  handsomely — the  money  down ; 
My  dear,  you  might  recover  from  your  flurry, 
In  a  nice  airy  lodging  out  of  town, 
At  Croydon,  Epsom,  anjryvhere  in  Surrey  3 
If  every  stanza  brings  us  in  a  crown, 
I  think  that  I  might  venture  to  bespeak 
A  bedroom  and  front  parlour  for  next  week. 

Tell  me,  my  dear  Thalia,  what  you  think ; 
Your  nerves  have  undergone  a  sudden  shock ; 
Your  poor  dear  spirits  have  begun  to  sink ; 
On  Banstead  Downs    you'd  muster  a    new 

stock, 
And  I'd  be  sure  to  keep  away  from  drink, 
And  always  go  to  bed  by  twelve  o'clock. 
We'll   travel    down    there    in    the    morning 

stages ; 
Our  verses  shall  go  down  to  distant  ages. 

And  here  in  town  we'll  breakfast  on  hot  rolls, 
And  you  shall  have  a  better  shawl  to  wear ; 
These  pantaloons  of  mine  are  chafed  in  holes  ; 
By  Monday  next  I'll  compass  a  new  pair 


Come  now,  fling  up   the  cinders,   fetch   the 

coals, 
And  take  away  the  things  you  hung  to  air ; 
Set  out  the  tea-things,  and  bid  Phoebe  bring 
The  kettle  up.     Arms  and  the  Monks  I  sing. 

J.  H.  Frere.—Boni  1769^ied  1846. 


1295.— THE  GIANTS  AND  THE  ABBEY. 

Oft  that  wild  untutor'd  race  would  draw, 
Led  by  the  solemn  sound  and  sacred  light, 
Beyond  the  bank,  beneath  a  lonely  shaw, 
To  listen  all  the  livelong  summer  night. 
Till  deep,  serene,  and  reverential  awe 
Environ' d  them  with  sUent  calm  delight. 
Contemplating  the  minster's  midnight  gleam, 
Eeflected  from  the  clear  and  glassy  stream. 

But   chiefly,  when  the   shadowy  moon  had 

shed 
O'er  woods  and  waters  her  mysterious  hue, 
Their  passive  hearts  and  vacant  fancies  fed 
With  thoughts  and  aspirations    strange  and 

new, 
TiU  their  brute   soiils  with  inward  working 

bred 
Dark  hints  that  in  the  depths  of  instinct 

grew 
Subjective — not  from  Locke's  associations. 
Nor  David  Hartley's  doctrine  of  vibrations. 

Each  was  ashamed  to  mention  to  the  others 

One  haK  of  all  the  feelings  that  he  felt, 

Yet  thus  far  each  would  venture — "  Listen, 

brothers, 
It  seems  as  if  one  heard  Heaven's  thunders  melt 
In  music ! " 

J".  H.  Frere.—Bom  1769,  Died  1846. 


1296.— WAE  SONG  ON  THE  VICTOEY  OF 
BRUNNENBUEG. 

The  gates  were  then  thrown  open, 

and  forth  at  once  they  rush'd, 
The  outposts  of  the  Moorish  hosts 

back  to  the  camp  were  push'd ; 
The  camp  was  all  in  tumult, 

and  there  was  such  a  thimder 
Of  cymbals  and  of  drums, 

as  if  earth  would  cleave  in  sunder. 
There  you  might  see  the  Moors 

arming  themselves  in  haste, 
And  the  two  main  battles 

how  they  were  forming  fast ; 
Horsemen  and  footmen  mixt, 

a  countless  troop  and  vast. 
The  Moors  are  moving  forward, 

the  battle  soon  must  join, 
"  My  men  stand  here  in  order, 

ranged  upon  a  line  ! 
Let  not  a  man  move  from  his  rank 

before  I  give  the  sign." 


Thos.  Campbell.] 


HOPE  TRIUMPHANT  IN  DEATH. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Pero  Bermuez  lieard  the  word, 

but  ho  could  not  refrain, 
He  held  the  banner  in  his  hand, 

he  gave  his  horse  the  rein  ; 
"  You  see  yon  foremost  squadron  there, 

the  thickest  of  the  foes, 
Noble  Cid,  God  be  your  aid, 

for  there  j'our  banner  goes  ! 
Let  him  that  serves  and  honours  it, 

show  the  duty  that  he  owes." 
Earnestly  the  Cid  caU'd  out, 

"  For  heaven's  sake  be  still !  " 
Bermuez  cried,  "  I  cannot  hold," 

so  eager  was  his  will. 
He  spurr'd  his  horse,  and  drove  him  on 

amid  the  Moorish  rout : 
They  strove  to  win  the  banner, 

and  compass' d  him  about. 
Had  not  his  armour  been  so  true, 

he  had  lost  either  life  or  limb  ; 
The  Oid  call'd  out  again, 

"  For  heaven's  sake  succour  him  !" 
Their  shields  before  their  breasts, 

forth  at  once  they  go, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest 

level!' d  fair  and  low  ; 
Their  banners  and  their  crests 

waving  in  a  row. 
Their  heads  all  stooping  down 

towards  the  saddle  bow. 
The  Cid  was  in  the  midst, 

his  shout  was  heard  afar, 
"  I  am  Rui  Diaz, 

the  champion  of  Bivar ; 
Strike  amongst  them,  gentlemen, 

for  sweet  mercies'  sake  !  " 
There  where  Bermuez  fought 

amidst  the  foe  they  brake ; 
Three  hundred  banner'd  knights, 

it  was  a  gallant  show ; 
Three  hundred  Moors  they  kill'd, 

a  man  at  every  blow : 
When  they  whecl'd  and  turn'd, 

as  many  more  lay  slain. 
You  might  see  them  raise  their  lances, 

and  level  them  again. 
There  you  might  see  the  breastplates, 

how  they  were  cleft  in  twain, 
And  many  a  Moorish  shield 

lie  scatter' d  on  the  plain. 
The  pennons  that  were  white 

mark'd  with  a  crimson  stain, 
The  horses  running  wild 

whose  riders  had  been  slain. 

J.  H.  Frcrc.—Born  1769,  Died  1846. 


I297.~H0PE  TRIUMPHANT  IN 
DEATH. 

Unfading   Hope  !    when   life's   last  embers 
burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return  ; 


Heaven    to    thy    charge    resigns    the    awful 

hour  ! 
Oh !     then   thy   kingdom    comes !     Immortal 

Power  ! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-bom  rapture 

The   quivering  lip,    pale   check,    and  closing 

eye  ! 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day — 
Then,    then,    the    triumph    and    the    trance 

begin  ! 
And  all  the  Phoenix  spirit  burns  within  ! 

Oh  !  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose. 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes  ! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  parting  spirit  sigh. 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die  I 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravell'd  by  the  sun  ! 
Where  Time's  far- wandering  tide  has   never 

run, 
From  your  unfathom'd  shades,  and  viewless 

spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears. 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and 

loud, 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud ! 
While    Nature     hears,    with     terror-mingled 

trust. 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust ; 
And,  like   the   trembling   Hebrew,  when   he 

trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  call'd  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss, 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss  ! 

Daughter  of  Faith,  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb  ! 
Melt,    and    dispel,    ye    spectre-doubts,    that 

roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  on  the  parting  soul ! 
Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  dismay. 
Chased  on  his  night- steed  by  the  star  of  day  I 
The  strife  is  o'er — the  pangs  of  Nature  close. 
And   life's   last   rapture    triumphs    o'er    her 

woes. 
Hark  !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  Heaven  undazzled  by  the  blaze, 
On  heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky, 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody  ; 
Wild  as  that  hallow'd  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale. 
When  Jordan  hush'd  his  waves,  and  midnight 

still 
Watch' d  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill  ! 

Soul  of  the  just !  companion  of  the  dead  ! 
Where   is   thy   home,  and  whither  art  thou 

fled? 
Back  to  its  heavenly  sonroe  thy  being  goes, 
Swift   as   the   comet  wheels    to    whence  he 

rose  ; 
Doom'd  on  his  airy  path  awhile  to  bum. 
And    doom'd,     like     thee,     to    travel,     and 

return. — 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


MATERNAL  CAEE. 


[Thos.  Campbell. 


Hark !    from   the    world's    exploding    centre 

driven, 
With   sounds   that   shook   the  firmament   of 

Heaven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far, 
On  bickering  wheels,  and  adamantine  car ; 
From  planet  whirl' d  to  planet  more  remote, 
He  visits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought ; 
But,  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is 

run. 
Curbs  the   red  yoke,  and   mingles  with  the 

sun ! 
So  hath  the  traveller  of  earth  unfurl'd 
Her    trembling   wings,    emerging    from    the 

world ; 
And  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod. 
Sprung  to  her  source,  the  bosom  of  her  God ! 

TJiomas  Cam^phell.—Bom  1777,  Died  1844. 


1298.— DOMESTIC  LOVE. 

Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover's  thought 
Some    cottage-home,    from    towns    and   toil 

remote. 
Where  love  and  lore    may  claim  alternate 

hours. 
With  peace  embosom' d  in  Idalian  bowers  ! 
Remote  from  busy  life's  bewildered  way. 
O'er   aU   his  heart   shall  Taste  and   Beauty 

sway; 
Free  on  the  sunny  slope  or  winding  shore, 
With  hermit-steps  to  wander  and  adore  ! 
There    shall    he    love,    when     genial     mom 

appears, 
Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears, 
To  watch  the  brightening  roses  of  the  sky. 
And  muse  on  nature  with  a  poet's  eye  ! 
And  when  the  sun's  last  splendour  lights  the 


The  woods  and  waves,  and  murmuring  -winds 


When  fairy  harps  the  Hesperian  planet  hail. 
And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale, 
His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains 

sv/'ell 
Their    shadowy    grandeur    o'er    the    narrow 

deU; 
Where    mouldering    piles   and  forests  inter- 
vene. 
Mingling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green ; 
No  circHng  hills  his  ravished  eye  to  bound, 
Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean  blazing  all  around  ! 
The   moon   is   up — the  watch-tower  dimly 
burns — 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns ; 
But  pauses  oft  as  winding  rocks  convey 
The  stOl  sweet  fall  of  music  far  away  ; 
And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile. 
To  watch   the   dying   notes,  and   start,  and 
smile ! 
Let  -svinter  come  !  let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The   darkening  world,  and   tempest-troubled 
deep; 


Though  boundless  snows  the  wither' d   heath 

deform, 
And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the 

storm, 
Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay. 
With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day  ! 
And  when  its  short  and  suUen  noon^s  o^er, 
The    ice-chained   waters    slumbering   on   the 

shore, 
How  bright  the  faggots  in  his  little  hall 
Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured 

wall ! 
How   blest   he  names,   in    love's    familiar 

1;pne, 
The   kind   fair  friend  by  nature   mark'd  his 

own ; 
And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind. 
Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 
Since  when  her  empire  o'er  his  heart  began — 
Since  first  he  called  her  his  before  the  holy 

man  ! 
Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome, 
And  light  the  wintry  paradise  of  home  ; 
And  let  the  half -uncurtained  window  hail 
Some  wayworn  man  benighted  in  the  vale  ! 
Now,    while    the   moaning  night-wind   rages 

high. 
As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled 

sky; 
While   fiery  hosts   in    heaven's    wide   circle 

play, 

And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  milky  way  ; 
Safe   from   the   storm,  the  meteor,    and  the 

shower. 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn 

hour; 
With  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit  beguile 
A  generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a  smile  ! 

Thomas  Cam^hell—Bom  1777,  Died  1844. 


1299.— MATERNAL  CAEE. 

Lo !    at  the   couch    where    infant    beauty 


Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps ; 
She,  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lies, 
Smiles  on  her  slumbering  child  with  pensive 

eyes, 
And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy — 
"  Sleep,    image    of     thy    father,    sleep,    my 

boy: 
No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine  j 
No   sigh   that   rends   thy  father's  heart  and 

mine ; 
Bright  as  his  manly  sire,  the  son  shall  be 
In  form  and  soul ;  but,  ah  !  more  blest  than 

he  ! 
Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love,  at  last, 
Shall   soothe  this   aching   heart   for   all   the 

past — 
With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 
And    chase   the    world's     ungenerous    soon: 

away. 

62 


Thos.  Campbell.] 


BATTLE  OF  WYOMING. 


[Seventh  Period. 


And  say,  when  summon' d  from  the  world 

and  thee, 
I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree  ; 
Wilt    thou,    sweet   mourner !     at    my    stone 

appear. 
And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near  ? 
Oh,   wilt    thou    come,    at    evening  hour,   to 

shed 
The  tears  of  Memory  o'er  my  narrow  bed  ; 
With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclined, 
Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind, 
Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that   murmur 

low, 
And  think  on  all  my  love,  and  all  my  wx)e  ?" 

So  speaks  affection,  ere  the  infant  eye 
Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply  ; 
But    when    the    cherub   lip   hath   learnt   to 

claim 
A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name ; 
Soon  as  the  playful  innocent  can  prove 
A  tear  of  pity,  or  a  smile  of  love. 
Or  cons  his   murmuring    task    beneath   her 

care. 
Or  lisps  with  holy  look  his  evening  prayer, 
Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive,  sits  to  hear 
The  mournful  ballad  warbled  in  his  ear ; 
How  fondly  looks  admiring  Hope  the  while, 
At  every  artless  tear,  and  every  smile  ! 
How  glows  the  joyous  parent  to  descry 
A  guileless  bosom,  true  to  sympathy  ! 

Thomas  Camphell.—Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


1300.— BATTLE   OF    WYOMING,    AND 
DEATH  OF  GEETEUDE. 

Heaven's  verge  extreme 
Reverberates  the  bomb's  descending  star — 
And  sounds  that  mingled  laugh,  and  shout, 

and  scream, 
To  freeze  the  blood,  in  one  discordant  jar, 
Eung  to  the  pealing  thunderbolts  of  war. 
"VVhoop     after     whoop     with    rack    the    ear 

assail' d. 
As  if  unearthly  fiends  had  burst  their  bar  ; 
While  rapidly  the  marksman's  shot  prevail'd : 
And  ay,  as  if  for  death,  some  lonely  trumpet 

wailed. 

Then  look'd    they  to  the  hills,   where  fire 

o'erhung 
The  bandit  groups  in  one  Vesuvian  glare  ; 
Or  swept,  far  seen,  the  tower,  whose  clock 

unrung, 
Told  legible  that  midnight  of  despair. 
She  faints — she  falters  not — the  heroic  fair, 
As  he  the  sword  and  plume  in  haste  array' d. 
One   short   embrace — he   clasp' d  his  dearest 

care ; 
But  hark  !  what  nearer  war-drum  shakes  the 

glade  ! 
Joy,  joy  !    Columbia's  friends  are  trampling 

through  the  shade ! 


Then  came  of  every  race  the  mingled  swarm, 
Far  rung  the  groves  and  gleam'd  the  midnight 

grass 
With  flambeau,  javelin,  and  naked  arm  ; 
As  warriors  wheel'd  their  culverins  of  brass. 
Sprung  from  the  woods,  a  bold  athletic  mass, 
Whom  virtue  fires,  and  liberty  combines  : 
And  first  the  wild  Moravian  yagers  pass. 
His  plumed  host  the  dark  Iberian  joins ; 
And   Scotia's   sword   beneath   the   Highland 

thistle  shines. 

And  in  the  buskined  hunters  of  the  deer 

To   Albert's   home  with    shoat    and  cymbal 

throng, 
Eoused   by  their  warlike  pomp,  and  mirth, 

and  cheer. 
Old  Outalissi  woke  his  battle-song. 
And,  beating  with  his  war-club  cadence  strong, 
Tells  how  his  deep-stung  indignation  smarts  ; 
Of  them   that   wrapt    his    house   in   flames, 

erelong 
To  whet  a  dagger  on  their  stony  hearts. 
And   smile   avenged   ere   yet  his  eagle  spirit 

parts. 

Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  father  rose. 

Pale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 

Of  martyr-light  the  conflagration  throws  ; 

One  hand  upon  his  lovely  child  he  lays, 

And   one    the    uncover' d    crowd    to    silence 

sways ; 
While,    though    the     battle-flash    is     faster 

driven — 
Unaw'd,  with  eye  unstartled  by  the  blaze, 
He  for  his  bleeding  country  prays  to  Heaven, 
Prays  that  the  men  of  blood  themselves  may 

be  forgiven. 

Short  time  is  now  for  gratulating  speech  : 

And  yet,  beloved  Gertrude,  ere  began 

Thy   country's  flight  yon  distant  towers   to 

reach, 
Look'd  not  on  thee  the  rudest  partisan 
With  brow  relax' d  to  love  ?     And  murmurs 

ran, 
As  round  and  round  their  willing  ranks  they 

drew. 
From  beauty's  sight  to  shield    the    hostile 

van. 
Grateful  on  them  a  placid  look  she  threw. 
Nor  wept,  but  as  she  bade  her  mother's  grave 

adieu ! 

Past  was  the  flight,  and  welcome  seem'd  the 

tower. 
That  like  a  giant  standard-bearer  frown' d 
Defiance  on  the  roving  Indian  power. 
Beneath,  each  bold  and  promontory  mound 
With      embrasure      emboss' d     and     armour 

crown' d, 
And  arrowy  frize,  and  wedged  ravelin, 
Wove  like  a  diadem  its  tracery  round 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green ; 
Here   stood   secure   the   group,    and   eyed   a 

distant  scene, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BATTLE  OF  WYOMING. 


[Thos.  Campbell. 


A   scene  of  death  1    where  fires  beneath  the 

sun, 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow ; 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done, 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seem'd  to  blow  : 
There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  wo  ! 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasp'd  her  hands  of 


On  Waldegrave's    shoulder,  half    within   his 

arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  huSh'd  its 

wild  alarm ! 

But  short  that  contemplfrtion — sad  and  short 
The    pause    to    bid   each   much-loved    scene 

adieu  ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort. 
Where    friendly     swords    were    drawn,    and 

banners  flew ; 
Ah !    who   could  deem  that  foot  of    Indian 

crew 
Was  near  ? — yet  there,  with  lust  of  murderous 


Gleam'd  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view, 
The     ambush' d    foeman's    eye  —  his     volley 

speeds, 
And  Albert,  Albert  falls  !  the  dear  old  father 

bleeds ! 

And    tranced     in     giddy     horror,     Gertrude 

swoon' d ; 
Yet,   while   she    clasps    him    Kfeless   to   her 

zone. 
Say,  burst  they,  borrow'd  frdfn  her  father's 

wound, 
These  drops  ?   Oh  God  !   the  life-blood  is  her 

own'. 
And  faltering,  on   her   Waldegrave's   bosom 

thrown — 
"  Weep  not,  O  love  !  "  she  cries,  "  to  see  me 

bleed ; 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's   peace   commiserate ;    for   scarce  I 

heed 
These  wounds ;  yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is 

death  indeed ! 

Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress ; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat — oh  I 

think. 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  wo's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness. 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship 

just. 
Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I  am  laid 

in  dust ! 

Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart, 

The    scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will 

move. 
Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 
And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 


j    With   thee,    as   with   an  angel,  through  the 

!  grove 

''    Of  peace,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 

i    In   heaven ;    for   ours   was  not  like   earthly 

j  love. 

And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  ?^ 
No !   I  shall  love  thee  stiU,  when  death  itself 
is  past. 

Half  could  I  bear,   methinks,  to  leave   this 
earth, 
I   And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the 
j  sun, 

;    If  I  had  hved  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  pledge.     But  shall  there  then  be 
none. 

In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  ? 

Yet   seems  it,   even  while  life's  last  pulses 
I  run, 

I   A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be, 
I   Lord  of  my  bosom's  love !   to  die  beholding 
I  thee  ! " 

I   Hush'd  were  his   Gertrude's  lips  !    but  stiU 
j  their  bland 

And  beautiful  expression  seem'd  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die !    and  still  his 
i  hand 

She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah,  heart  I    where  once   each   fond  affection 

dwelt. 
And   features   yet   that    spoke   a   soul  more 

fair. 
Mute,  gazing,  agonizing  as  he  knelt — 
Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair 
He  heard  some  friendly  words  ;  but  knew  not 
what  they  were. 

For   now   to    mourn    their  judge   and  child 

arrives 
A  faithful  band.     With  solemn  rites  between 
'Twas  sung  how  they  were  lovely  in  their 

Lives, 
And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 
Touch' d  by  the  music  and  the  melting  scene. 
Was    scarce    one    tearless    eye    amidst    the 

crowd — 
Stern  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were 

seen 
To  veil  their  eyes,  as  pass'd  each  much-loved 

shroud — 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  wo  dissolved 

aloud. 

Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 

Its    farewell   o'er   the   grave   of    worth   and 

truth  ; 
Prone  to  the  dust  aflflicted  Waldegrave  hid 
His  face  on  earth ;  him  watch' d,  in  gloomy 

ruth, 
His  woodland  guide :  but  words  had  none  to 

soothe 
The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation's  name  ; 
Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth, 

62* 


Thos.  Campbell.] 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAE. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


He  watch'd,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that 

came, 
CoBvoisive,  agTie-like,   across  his  shuddering 

frame  ! 

"  And  I  could  weep,"  the  Oneyda  chief 

His  descant  wildly  thus  begun  ; 

"  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 

The  death-song  of  my  father's  son, 

Or  bow  this  head  in  wo  ! 

For,  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath. 

To-morrow  Areouski's  breath, 

That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death, 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe  : 

And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy. 

The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy ! 

But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given 

By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep, 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 

Forbid  not  thee  to  weep : 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host. 

Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve, 

To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve. 

Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 

Of  her  who  loved  thee  most : 

She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight ! 

Thy  sun — thy  heaven — of  lost  delight ! 

To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die. 

But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurl'd. 

Ah  !  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly. 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world  ? 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers ; 

Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours  ; 

Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bowers  : 

And  should  we  thither  roam. 

Its  echoes  and  its  empty  tread 

Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead ! 

Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue. 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaffd, 

And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 

Ah  !  there,  in  desolation  cold. 

The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone, 

Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mouldering  bone. 

And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown. 

Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp  ;  for  there 

The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair ! 

But  hark,  the  trump !  to-morrow  thou 
In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears : 
Even  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll ; 
He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thii-st — 
He  bids  me  dry  the  last — the  first — 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi's  soul; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief  !  " 

Thomas  Campbell. — Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


1301.— TO  THE  EVENING  STAE. 

Star  that  bringest  home  tke  bee. 
And  sett'st  the  weary  laborer  free  ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies. 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst,  far  off,  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs  when  toil  is  done. 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirr'd 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse  ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art. 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven. 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

Thomas  Campbell.— Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


1302.— SONG. 

How  delicious  is  the  \vinning 
Of  a  kiss  at  Love's  beginning, 
■When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there's  no  untjdng  ! 

Yet,  remember,  'midst  your  wooing, 
Love  has  bliss,  but  Love  has  rueing ; 
Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle  ; 
Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  he  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries, 
Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries ; 
Longest  stays  when  sorest  chidden  ; 
Laughs  and  flies  when  press' d  and  bidden. 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly ; 
Bind  its  odor  to  the  lily ; 
Bind  the  aspen  ne'er  to  quiver  ; 
Then  bind  Love  to  last  for  ever ! 

Thomas  Campbell. — Bom  1*111.  Di^  1844, 


1303.— LOCHIEL'S   WAENING. 
Wizard — Lochiel. 

W^IZARD. 

Lochiel,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day 

When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle 

array ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of   Culloden    are  scatter'd  in 

fight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and 

crown ; 
Woe,  woe  to   the   riders  that  trample   them 

down  ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


LOCHIEL'S  WAENING. 


'Thos.  Campbell. 


Proud    Clunberland    prances,    insulting   the 

slain, 
And  their  hoof -beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the 

plain. 
But  hark!  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning 

of  war 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
'Tis  thine,  oh  GlenuUln !    whose  bride   shaU. 

await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the 

gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  :  no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin  !  to  death  and  captivity  led — 
Oh  weep  !  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the 

dead; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave, 
Culloden  that  reeks  with   the  blood   of   the 

brave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling 

seer! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear. 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

WIZARD. 

Ha !  laugh' st    thou,  Lochiel,    my   vision    to 

scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall 

be  torn  ! 
Say,  rush'  d  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of 

the  north  ? 
Lo!  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he 

rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on 

high! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed — for  the  spoiler  is 

nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?     Why  shoot  to 

the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament 

east? 
'Tis  the   fire-shower    of   ruin,  all  dreadfully 

driven 
From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of 

heaven. 
Oh,  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whose   banners   arise    on    the    battlements' 

height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to 

bum ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where 

it  stood. 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing 

brood, 

LOCHIEL. 

False  Wizard,  avaunt !  I  have  marshall'd  my 

clan ; 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are 

one  ! 


They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and 

their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of 

death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the 

shock ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on 

the  rock  ! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ; 
When    her    bonneted    chieftains    to   victory 

crowd, 
Clanronald   the   dauntless,     and    Moray   the 

proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array — 


Lochiel,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day  ; 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  1  may  seal. 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  re- 
veal ; 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Culloden' s  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With   the   bloodhounds   that   bark    for    thy 

fugitive  king. 
Lo !    anointed  by  Heaven    with  the  vials  of 

wrath, 
Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 
Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from 

my  sight : 
Rise,  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his 

flight ! 
'Tis  finish'd.      Their  thunders  are  hush'd  on 

the  moors  : 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But    where     is     the     iron-bound    prisoner? 

where  ? 
For  the  rod  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts    he   the  ocean-wave,    banish'd, 

forlorn. 
Like  a  hmb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding 

and  torn  ? 
Ah  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near  ; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black   is    the 

bier ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling.     0  !  Mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 
And    his     blood-streaming   nostril    in   agony 

swims. 
Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it  ceases 

to  beat, 
With  the  smoke  of    its  ashes  to  poison  the 

gale 


Down,  soothless  insulter !  I  trust  not  the 

tale  ! 
For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 
So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strew'd 

in  their  gore, 
Like  ocean- weeds  heap'd  on  the  surf -beaten 

shore, 


Thos.  Campbell. 


HOHENLINDEN. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Lochiel,  tmtainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 
While  the  kindling  of   life  in  his  bosom  re- 
mains, 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  liis  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the 

foe! 
And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed 
of  fame. 

TJiomas  Camphell. — Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


1 304.— HOHENLINDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array 'd,     - 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh' d 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven ; 
Then  rush'd  the  steeds  to  battle  driven  ; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flash' d  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  those  fires  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  crimson' d  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  shall  be  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn  ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun. 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave. 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet; 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  bo  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

TJiomas  Camphell. — Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


1305.— YE  MARINEES  OF  ENGLAND. 

A  NAVAL   ODE. 
I. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas  ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years. 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 


Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe  ! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 
WhQe  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  -winds  do  blow. 

II. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  ! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave. 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 

Tour  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

III. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ;         , 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain- wave, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below. 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn. 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

Wlien  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow — ■ 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Camphell. — Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


1306.— BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 


Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown. 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And   her   arms    along    the    deep    proudly 

shone ; 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a  bold  determined  hand, 
And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 


Like  leviathans  afloat 
Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine 
While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line — 


From  1780  to  18GG.] 


LOED  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTEE. 


[Thos.  Campbell. 


It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime. 
As  they  drifted  on  their  path 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time. 


But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 

To  anticipate  the  scene ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

"  Hearts  of  oak  !  "  our  captain  cried;  when 

each  *;un 
I^rom  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 


Again  !  again !  again  ! 
And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 
TlU  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 
To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ; 
Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom- 
Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 
As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail, 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 
Light  the  gloom. 

V. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then. 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave  : 

^'  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  ; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring  ; 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  king." 


Then  Denmark  bless' d  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew    his  shades    from  the 

day. 
While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight. 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light ; 
Died  away. 

VII. 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise  ! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

Whilst  thy  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 

And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar. 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore  ! 


Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 
Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 
On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 
With  the  gallant  good  Eiou — 


Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o'er  their 

grave! 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 
Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave ! 

Thomas  Camphell.—Born  17?7,~7Kei«^1844. 


1307.— LOED  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTEE. 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound. 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 

And  I'U  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?  " 

"0,  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle. 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together ; 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen. 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

El:s  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride  ; 

ShoCld  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  ^'viil  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  hd'^Q  slain  her  lover  P  " 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  HigMazid  wight, 
"  I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  reau^.- 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 
But  for  your  winsome  lady. 

And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace ; 

The  water- wraith  was  shrieking  ; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  stUl  as  wUder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men — 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  0  haste  thee,  haste  !"  the  lady  cries, 
"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies. 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her — 
When,  0  !  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing — 
Lord  Ullin  reach'd  that  fatal  shore ; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 


Thos.  Campbell.] 


THE  SOLDIEE'S  DEEAM. 


[Seventh  Period. 


For  sore  dismay' d  through,  storm  and  shade 

His  child  he  did  discover ; 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretch' d  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back  !    come   back  !  "  he  cried  in 
grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water  ; 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter  ! — O  my  daughter  !  " 

'Twas  vain : — the  loud  waves    lash'd    the 
shore, 

Eetum  or  aid  preventing. 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

Thomas  Camphell. — Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


1308.— THE  SOLDIEE'S  DEEAM. 

Oar  bugles  sang  truce;  for  the  night-cloud 
had  lower' d. 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in 
the  sky ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  over- 
power'd — 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to 
die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet   of 
straw, 
By  the  wolf-aoa,ring  fagot  that  guarded  the 
slain, 
At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw. 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I   dreamt    it 
again. 

Methought    from   the   battle-field's   dreadful 
array 
Far,  far  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track  : 
'Twas  Autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the 
way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcom'd 
me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  traversed  so  oft 
In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom 
was  young ; 
I    heard    my    own   mountain-goats   bleating 
aloft, 
And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn- 
reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I 
swore 
From  my  home  and    my  weeping  friends 
never  to  part ; 
My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er. 
And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness 
of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us ! — rest ;  thou  art  weary 
and  worn  ! — 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to 
fitav; 


But  sorrow    return'd    with  the    dawning  of 
mom, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted 
away. 

Thomas  Camplell. — Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


1309.— HALLOWED  GEOUND. 

What's  hallow' d  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That's  hallow' d  ground  where,  mourn' d  and 

miss'd. 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kiss'd  : — 
But  where' s  their  memory's  mansion  ?     Is't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers  ? 
No  !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound  ; 
The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallow' d  down  to  earth's  profound, 

And  up  to  Heaven  ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old ; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Eun  molten  still  in  memory's  mould ; 

And  will  not  cool 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
'Tis  not  the  sculptur'd  piles  you  heap  ! — 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom, 
Or  genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind  * 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind — 
And  is  he  dead  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws  : — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause  ! 

Give  that !  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums,  and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  space  ? 

The  colors  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE  SAILOE. 


[ToHs.  Campbell. 


And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  ! — But  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal. 
The  cause  of  truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  peace  and  love. 

Peace !  love  ! — the  cherubim  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  devotion's  shrine  ! 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not ; 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Eeligion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
And  pompous  rites  ia  domes  august  ? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt. 
That  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chaunt. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man  ! 
Thy  temples — creeds  themselves  grow  wan  ! 
But  there's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 

Its  space  is  Heaven ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling. 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing. 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Made  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing" 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars  !  are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death,  your  worlds  obscure  ? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time : 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime. 

Immortal  dawn. 

What's  hallow' d  ground  ?      'Tis  what  gives 

birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  ! — 
Peace  !  Independence  !  Truth  !  go  forth, 

Earth's  compass  round ; 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 

AU  hallow'd  ground ! 

Thomas  Campbell.— Born  17,77,  Died  1844. 


1 310.— THE  PAEEOT. 

A  parrot,  from  the  Spanish  main, 

Full  yoimg  and  early  caged  came  o'er, 

With  bright  wings,  to  the  bleak  domain 
Of  Mulla's  shore. 


To  spicy  groves  where  he  had  won 
His  plumage  of  resplendent  hue, 

His  native  fruits,  and  skies,  and  sun, 
He  bade  adieu. 

For  these  he  changed  the  smoke  of  turf, 
A  heathery  land  and  misty  sky,        ^ 

And  tum'd  on  rocks  and  raging  surf 
His  golden  eye. 

But  petted  in  our  climate  cold. 

He  lived  and  chatter' d  many  a  day ; 

Until  with  age,  from  green  and  gold 
His  -wings  grew  grey. 

At  last  when  blind,  and  seeming  dumb. 
He  scolded,  laughed,  and  spoke  no  more, 

A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  MuUa's  shore ; 

He  hail'd  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech. 
The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied ; 

Flapp'd  round  the  cage  with  joyous  screech, 
Dropt  down,  and  died. 

Thomas  Campbell. — Born  1777,  IKed  1844. 


131 1.— NAPOLEON  AND  THE  SAILOE. 

A  TRUE    STOUT. 

Napoleon's  banners  at  Boulogne 
Arm'd  in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffer'xi  him — ^I  know  not  how — 
Unprison'd  on  the  shore  to  roam ; 

And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks,  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over, 

With  envy,  they  could  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer. 

If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banish'd  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning — dreaming — doating, 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating; 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 
The  livelong  day  laborious ;  lurking 

Until  he  launch'd  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  'twas  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched :  such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  cross' d  a  ferry. 


Thos. Campbell.] 


ADELGITHA. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


For  ploughing  in  the  salt  sea-field, 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder ; 

Untarr'd,  uncompass'd,  and  unkeel'd, 
No  sail — no  i-udder. 

From  neighbouring'  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skiff  "vvith  wattled  willows  ; 

And  thus  equipp'd  he  would  have  pass'd 
The  foaming  billows — 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 

His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering ; 
TiU  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 

Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 
Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger ; 

And  in  his  wonted  attitude, 
Address' d  the  stranger : — 

**  Eash  man  that  wouldst  yon  channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  faShion'd; 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassion'd." 

"  I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad ; 

"  But — absent  long  from  one  another — 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 

To  see  my  mother." 

"And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said, 
"  Ye've  both  ray  favour  fairly  won  ; 

A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold, 

And  with  a  flag  of  truce  commanded 
He  should  be  shipp'd  to  England  Old, 
•  And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 
To  find  a  dinner  plain  and  hearty  ; 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte, 

Tliomas  Camphell. — Born  1777,  Died  1844. 


13 1 2.— ADELGITHA. 

The  ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded. 

And  sad  pale  Adelgitha  came, 
When  forth  a  valiant  champion  bounded, 

And  slew  the  slanderer  of  her  fame. 

She  wept,  deliver' d  from  her  danger ; 

But  when  he  knelt  to  claim  her  glove — 
"  Seek  not,"  she  cried,  "  oh  !  gallant  stranger, 

For  hapless  Adelgitha' s  love. 

For  he  is  in  a  foreign  far  land 

Whose  arms  should  now  have  set  me  free  ; 
And  I  must  wear  the  willow  garland 

For  him  that 's  dead  or  false  to  me." 

"  Nay  !  say  not  that  his  faith  is  tainted  !  " 
He  raised  his  visor — at  the  sight 

She  fell  into  his  arms  and  fainted  ; 
It  was  indeed  her  ovm.  true  knight ! 

Thomas  Camplcll.—Bom  1777,  Died  1844. 


1313.--ALONZO  THE  BE  AVE  AND  THE 
PAIE  IMOGINE. 

A  warrior  so  bold,  and  a  virgin  so  bright, 

Conversed  as  they  sat  on  the  green  ; 
They    gazed     on     each     other    with    tender 

delight : 
Alonzo    the    Brave    was    the   name    of   the 
knight — 
The  maiden's,  the  Fair  Imogine. 

"  And,  oh ! "  said  the  youth,  "  since  to-morrow 
I  go 
To  fight  in  a  far  distant  land, 
Your  tears  for  my  absence  soon  ceasing  to 

flow. 
Some    other    will   court   you,   and    you  will 
bestow 
On  a  wealthier  suitor  your  hand  !  " 

"  Oh  !   hush  these   suspicions,"  Fair  Imogine 
said, 

"  Offensive  to  love  and  to  me  ; 
For,  if  you  be  living,  or  if  you  be  dead, 
I  swear  by  the  Virgin  that  none  in  your  stead 

Shall  husband  of  Imogine  be. 

If  e'er  I,  by  lust  or  by  wealth  led  aside, 

Forget  my  Alonzo  the  Brave, 
God  grant  that,  to  punish  my  falsehood  and 

pride. 
Your  ghost  at  the  marriage  may  sit  by  my 

side, 
May  tax  me  with  perjury,  claim  me  as  bride. 
And  bear  me  away  to  the  grave  !  " 

To  Palestine  hasten' d  the  hero  so  bold, 

His  love  she  lamented  him  sore  ; 
But  scarce  had  a  twelvemonth  elapsed,  when, 

behold  ! 
A  baron,  all  cover' d  with  jewels  and  gold. 

Arrived  at  Fair  Imogine' s  door. 

His    treasures,    his    presents,    his    spacious 
domain. 

Soon  made  her  untrue  to  her  vows  : 
He  dazzled  her  eyes,  he  bewilder'd  her  bram  ; 
He  caught  her  affections,  so  light  and  so  vain. 

And  carried  her  home  as  his  spouse. 

And  now  had  the  marriage  been  blest  by  the 
priest ; 
The  revelry  now  was  begun  ; . 
The  tables  they  groan' d  with  the  weight  of 

the  feast. 
Nor    yet    had   the   laughter   and    merriment 
ceased. 
When  the  bell  at  the  castle  toli'd — one. 

Then   first    with    amazement    Fair   Imogine 
found 
A  stranger  was  placed  by  her  side  : 
His  air  was  terrific  ;  he  utter'd  no  sound — 
He  spake  not,  he  moved  not,  he  look'd  not 
around — 
But  earnestly  gazed  on  the  bride. 


From  1780  ip  1866.] 


LOVE  OF  COUNTRY. 


[SiK  W.  Scott. 


His  vizor  was  closed,  and  gigantic  his  heiglit, 

His  armour  was  sable  to  view  ; 
All  pleasure  and  laughter  were  hush'd  at  his 

sight ; 
The  dogs,   as  they  ej^ed   him,   drew  back  in 
aflWght ; 
The  Hghts  in  the  chamber  burn'd  blue ! 

His  presence  all  bosoms  appear' d  to  dismay ; 

The  guests  sat  in  silence  and  fear ; 
At  length  spake  the  bride — while  she  trembled 

— "  I  pray 
Sir  knight,  that  your  helmet  aside  you  would 
lay, 
And  deign  to  partake  of  our  cheer." 

The  lady  is  silent ;  the  stranger  complies — 

His  vizor  he  slowly  unclosed ; 
Oh,  God !   what  a  sight  met  Fair  Imogine's 

eyes ! 
Y^That   words    can    express    her    dismay  and 
surprise 
When  a  skeleton's  head  was  exposed ! 

All  present  then  utter'd  a  terrified  shout. 
All  tum'd  with  disgust  from  the  scene  ; 

The  worms  they  crept  in,  q,nd  the  worms  they 
crept  out, 

And  sported  his  eyes  and  his  temples  about. 
While  the  spectre  address' d  Imogine  : 

"  Behold  me,  thoti  false  one,  behold  me  !  "  he 

cried, 
"  Eemember  Alonzo  the  Brave  ! 
God  grants  that,  to  punish  thy  falsehood  and 

pride, 
My  ghost  at  thy  marriage  should  sit  by  thy 

side; 
Should  tax  thee  with  perjury,  claim  thee  as 

bride. 
And  bear  thee  away  to  the  grave  !  " 

Thus    saying,  his   arms   round  the    lady  he 
wound. 
While  loudly  she  shriek'd  in  dismaj^ ; 
Then  sunk  with  his  prey  through  the  wide- 
yawning  ground, 
T^or  ever  again  was  Fair  Imogine  found, 
Or  the  spectre  that  bore  her  away. 

Not  long  lived  the  baron ;    and  none,  since 
that  time, 

To  inhabit  the  castle  presume  ; 
For  chronicles  tell  that,  by  order  sublime, 
There  Imogine  suffers  the  pain  of  her  crime, 

And  mourns  he?  deplorable  doosa. 

At  midnight,  four  times  in  each  year,  does 
her  sprite. 

When  mortals  in  slumber  are  bound, 
Array'd  in  her  bridal  apparel  of  white, 
Appear  in  the  hall  with  the  skeleton  knight. 

And  shriek  as  he  whirls  her  around  ! 

While  they  drink  out  of  skulls  newly  torn 
from  the  grave, 
DancinsT  round  them  the  spectres  are  seen  ; 


Their  liquor  is  blood,  and  this  horrible  stave 
They  howl :    "To  the  health  of   Alonzo  the 
Brave, 
And  his  consort,  the  Fair  Imogine  !  " 

M.  Q.  Lewis.— Born  1773,  IKcd  1818. 


1314- 


-DESCRIPTION  OF  MELROSE 
ABBEY. 


If  thou  would' st  view  fair  Melrose  aright. 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 

Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white  ; 

When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 

Streams  on  the  ruin'd-  central  tower ; 

When  buttress  and  buttress  alternately. 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory ; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery. 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and 
die ; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  hoard  to  rave. 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's 
grave, 

Then  go — but  go  alone  the  while — 

Then  view  St.  David's  ruin'd  pile ; 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear. 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair  ! 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone, 

Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone. 
By  foliaged  tracery  combined ; 

Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand 

'Twixt  poplars  straight  the  ozier  wand, 
In  many  a  freakish  knot,  had  tAvined  ; 

Then    framed   a    spell,  when   the    work  was 
done. 

And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone. 
The  silver  Hght,  so  pale  and  faint, 
Show'd  many  a  prophet  and  many  a  saint ; 

Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed  ; 
Full  in  the  midst,  his  cross  of  red 
Triumphant  Michael  brandished. 

And  trampled  the  apostate's  pride. 
The  moonbeam  kiss'd  the  holy  pane, 
And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  bloody  stain. 

Sir  W.  Scott— Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 


13 1 5. —LOVE  OF  COUNTRY. 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Wliose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd. 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  tum'd 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such'  there  breathe,  go  mark  him  well : 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth,  as  wish  can  claim ; 


Sir  W.  Scott.] 


DEATH  OF  MAEMION". 


[Seventh  Period. 


Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 

Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 

And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 

To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 

Unwept,  unhonour'd,  and  unsung. 

O  Caledonia  !  stem  and  wild. 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 
Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 
Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood. 
Land  of  my  sires  !  what  mortal  hand 
Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band 
That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand ! 
Still  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene. 
Think  what  is  now  and  what  hath  been, 
I       Seems  as  to  me,  of  all  bereft. 

Sole  friends  thy  woods   and    streams   were 

left; 
And  thus  I  love  them  better  still, 
Even  in  extremity  of  ill." 
By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  me  stray, 
Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way  ; 
Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break, 
Although  it  chiU  my  wither'd  cheek  ; 
StiU  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  stone, 
Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone. 
The  bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

Sir  W.  Scott— Born  1771,  Died  1832. 


1316.— DEATH  OF  MAEMION. 

When,  doff'd  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 

Arovmd  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  : 

"  Where  's    Harry    Blount  ?      Fitz-Eustace 
where  ? 

Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ! 

Eedeem  my  pennon — charge  again  ! 

Cry — '  Marmion  to  the  rescue  ! ' — Vain ! 

Last  of  my  race,  on  battle  plain 

That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  ! 

Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  : — fl}' ; 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring  ; 
TeU  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. 

Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  : 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field  ; 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield  : 
Edmund  is  down — my  life  is  reft ; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 
Or  victory  and  England 's  lost. 
Must  I  bid  twice  ?     Hence,  varlets  !  fly  I 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die." 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay  ; 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmur' d — "  Is  there  none, 

Of  all  ray  halls  have  nurst. 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring. 
To  slake  my  dying  thirst !  " 


O,  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease, 

Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 

And  variable  as  the  shade 

By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made  ; 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 

A  ministering  angel  thou  ! 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said. 

When,  with  the  baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  -wrongs,  and  fears ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears. 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stoop' d  her  by  the  runnel's  side, 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew  ; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain  wide, 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark  red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  ! — ^behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain-cell. 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark. 
In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half -worn  letters  say, 

Brink .  ^carg .  pilgrim .  lirinfe .  anti  ♦  prag  ♦ 
jFor .  tfjc .  kinii  ♦  soul .  of .  .Sgljil .  ©rcg » 

a^jo .  built .  tljis .  cross .  anti .  Suell . 
She  fill'd  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion' s  head; 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought. 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 
Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stoop' d  his  brow  to  lave — 
"  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 
"  Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head  ?  " 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose — 
"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare ; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !  " 

"  Alas  !  "  she  said,  "  the  while — - 
O  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She died  at  Holy  Isle." 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground. 

As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound  : 

Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide. 

In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 

"  Then  it  was  truth  !  " — he  said — "  I  knew 

That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. 

I  would  the  fiend,  to  whom  belongs 

The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 
Would  spare  me  but  a  day ! 

For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 

And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 
Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  ! — this  dizzy  trance — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

With  fruitless  labour  Clara  bound. 
And  strove  to  staunch  the  gushing  wound  : 
The  monk,  with  unavailing  cares. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN. 


[SiE  W.  Scott. 


Exhausted  all  the  church's  prayers ; 
Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 
A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear, 
And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear, 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
"  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  do^vn  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles   war's  rattle  with  groans  of 
the  dying !  " 

So  the  notes  rung ; 
"  Avoid  thee,  fiend  ! — with  cruel  hand, 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  ! 
O  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  givace  divine  ; 

O  think  on  faith  and  bliss  ! 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this." 
Tlie  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now  trebly  thundering  swell' d  the  gale, 

And — Stanley  !  was  the  cry  ; 
A  hght  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  : 
With  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted  "  Victory  ! 
Charge,  Chester,  charge  !     On,  Stanley,  on  !  " 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Bo^m  1771,  Died  1832. 


131 7.— YOUNG  LOCHINVAR. 

Oh,    young    Lochinvar   is   come   out   of    the 

west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was 

the  best ; 
And   save  his  good  broad-sword  he  weapon 

had  none. 
He  rode  all  unarm' d,  and  he  rode  all  alone  ! 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There    never    was    knight    like     the    young 

Lochinvar ! 

He  stay'd  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopp'd  not 

for  stone, 
He  swam  the  Esk  river  where  ford  there  was 

none — 
But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 
The  bride   had  consented,  the   gallant    came 

late : 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 
Was    to     wed    the    fair    EUen     of    brave 

Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  enter' d  the  Netherby  Hall, 
'Mong  bride' s-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers, 

and  all ! 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his 

sword — 
For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a 

word — 
"  O   come   ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye   in 

war  ? 
Or  to   dance   at    our  bridal  ?    young    Lord 

Lochinvar ! " 


'*'  I  long  woo'd  your  daughter,  my  suit   you 

denied  : 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its 

tide ! 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of 

mine,  ^ 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  onb  cup  of 

wine ! 
There  be  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by 

far, 
That   would   gladly  be  bride   to   the    young 

Lochinvar !  " 

The  bride  kiss'd  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took 

it  up, 
He  quaff 'd  off  the  wine,  and  he  tlirew  down 

the  cup ! 
She  look'd  down  to  blush,  and  she  look'd  up 

to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her 

eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could 

bar — 
"  Now  tread   we  a    measure  !  "    said  young 

Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace  ! 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did 

fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet 

and  plume, 
And    the   bride-maidens  whisper' d,    "  'Twere 

better  by  far 
To  have  match' d  our  fair  cousin  with  young 

Lochinvar  !  " 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her 

ear. 
When  they  reach' d   the  hall  door,  and    the 

charger  stood  near. 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung  ! 
"  She  is  won  !    we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush, 

and  scaur; 
They'U  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow  !  "  quoth 

young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong   Graemes  of    the 

Netherby  clan ; 
Fosters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode 

and  they  ran  ; 
There  was  racing  and    chasing   on  Cannobie 

Lea, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they 

see ! 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have   ye   e'er  heard   of   gallant   like    young 

Lochinvar  ? 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Born  1771,  Died  1832. 


13 1 8.— JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN. 

"  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladye — 
Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 


SiE  W.  Scott.] 


SONG. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  shall  bo  his  bride ; 
And  ye  shall  be  his  bride,  lodye, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen." — 
But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

*'  Now  let  this  wilful  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale  ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  lord  of  Langley  dale  : 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen." — 
But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

*'  A  chain  of  gold  ye  shall  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfry  fresh  and  fair  ; 
And  you  the  foremost  of  them  a* 

Shall  ride,  our  forest  queen." — 
But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning  tide ; 

The  tapers  glimmer'd  fair ; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  knight  and  dame  are  there  : 
They  sought  her  both  by  bower  and  ha' ; 

The  ladye  was  not  seen. — 
She  's  o'er  the  border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 


13 19.— SONG. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 
The  bracken  curtain  for  my  head. 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread. 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary  ; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid. 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid. 
My  vesper  song  thy  wail,  sweet  maid ! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary ! 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 

The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow  j 

I  dare  not  thiak  upon  thy  vow. 

And  aU  it  promised  me,  Mary. 
No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know ; 
When  bursts  Clan- Alpine  on  the  foe, 
His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow. 

His  foot  Kke  arrow  free,  Mary, 

A  time  will  come,  with  feeling  fraught ! 
For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought, 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary  ! 
And  if  return' d  from  conquer' d  foes. 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close. 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose 

To  my  dear  bride  and  me,  Mary  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Born  1771,  Died  1832. 


1320.— SONG. 

"  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  muid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  I 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine  ! 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

My  love ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow — 

The  rose  is  budding  fain ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turn'd  his  charger  as  he  spake. 

Upon  the  river  shore ; 
He  gave  his  bridle  reins  a  shake, 

Said,  "  Adieu  for  evermore. 

My  love ! 
And  adieu  for  evermore." 

Sir  W.  Scott— Born  1771,  Died  1832. 


1 32 1. —BOEDER  BALLAD. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale ! 

Why  the  de'il  dinna  ye  march  forward  in 
order  ? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale  I 
All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  over  the  Border ! 
Many  a  banner  spread 
Flutters  above  your  head. 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 
Mount  and  make  ready,  then, 
Sons  of  the  mountain  glen. 
Fight  for  the   Queen   and    our  old  Scottish 
glory. 

Come   from   the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are 
grazing ; 
Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the 
roe; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing ; 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the 
bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding ; 
War- steeds  are  bounding ; 
Stand  to  your  arms,  and  march  in  good  order. 
England  shall  many  a  day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Born  1771,  Died  1832. 


1322.— PIBROCH  OF  DONUIL  DHU. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew. 

Summon  Clan-Conuil ! 


From  1780  to  1866.1 


CADYOW  CASTLE. 


[SiK  W.  Scott. 


Come  away,  come  away — 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  Commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky  j 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one  j 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 

The  bride  at  the  altar  ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  : 
Come  with  yoiir  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  ronded ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded ! 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster — 
Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom. 

Tenant  and  master  ! 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come — 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 

Sir  W.  Scott— Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 


Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain. 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever. 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 


1323.— COEONACH. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain. 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font  re- appearing 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow  j 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 
The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary. 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  Autumn  winds  rushing, 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Eed  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 


1324.— HYMN  OF  THE   HEBEEW  MAID. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved. 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came. 
Her  father's  God  before  her  moved. 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonish' d  lands, 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimson'd  sands 

Eeturn'd  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise. 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answer' d  keen ; 
And  Zion's  daughters  pour'd  their  lays. 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze — 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  ; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen. 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen, 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  O,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night. 
Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams — 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said,  the  blood  of  goats, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize — 
A  contrite  heart,  and  humble  thoughts, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Died  1771,  Born  1832. 


1325.— CADYOW  CASTLE. 

When  princely  Hamilton's  abode 
Ennobled  Cadyow's  Gothic  towers. 

The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flow'd, 
And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours. 

Then,  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound, 
So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall. 

And  echoed  light  the  dancer's  bound, 
As  mirth  and  music  cheer' d  the  hall. 

But  Cadyow's  towers,  in  ruins  laid, 
And  vaults  by  ivy  mantled  o'er, 

Thrill  to  the  music  of  the  shade. 
Or  echo  Evan's  hoarser  roar. 


Sib  W.  Scott.] 


CADYOW  CASTLE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Yet  still  of  Cadyow's  faded  fame 

You  bid  me  tell  a  minstrel  tale, 
And  tune  my  harp  of  border  frame 

On  the  wild  banks  of  Evandale. 

Tor  thou,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pride, 
From  pleasure's  lighter  scenes  can  turn, 

To  draw  obKvion's  pall  aside. 

And  mark  the  long-forgotten  urn. 

Then,  noble  maid,  at  thy  command 
Again  the  crumbled  walls  shall  rise ; 

Lo,  as  on  Evan's  bank  we  stand, 
The  past  returns — the  present  flies. 

Where,  with  the  rocks'  wood-covered  side. 
Were  blended  late  the  ruins  green, 

Eise  turrets  in  fantastic  pride. 

And  feudal  banners  flaunt  between : 

Whore  the  rude  torrent's  brawling  course 
Was  shagg'd  with  thorn  and  tangling  sloe, 

The  ashler  buttress  braves  its  force, 
And  ramparts  frown  in  battled  row. 

'Tis  night — the  shades  of  keep  and  spire 
Obscurely  dance  on  Evan's  stream  ; 

And  on  the  wave  the  warder's  fire 
Is  chequering  the  moonlight  beam. 

Fades  slow  their  light ;  the  east  is  grey  ; 

The  weary  warder  leaves  his  tower ; 
Steeds  snort ;  uncoupled  stag-hounds  bay, 

And  merry  hunters  quit  the  bower. 

The  drawbridge  falls — they  hurry  out — 

Clatters  each  plank  and  swinging  chain, 
As,  dashing  o'er,  the  jovial  rout 
.  IJrge  the  shy  steed  and  slack  the  rein. 

First  of  his  troop  the  chief  rode  on  ; 

His  shouting  merry-men  shout  behind  ; 
The  steed  of  princely  Hamilton 

Was  fleeter  than  the  mountain  wind. 

From  the  thick  copse  the  roebucks  bound, 
The  startled  red  deer  scuds  the  plain, 

For  the  hoarse  bugle's  warrior-sound 
Has  roused  their  mountain  haunts  again. 

Through  the  huge  oaks  of  Evandale, 

Whose  limbs  a  thousand  years  have  worn, 

What  sullen  roar  comes  do^vn  the  gale. 
And  drowns  the  hunter's  pealing  horn  ? 

Mightiest  of  all  the  beasts  of  chase 

That  roam  in  woody  Caledon, 
Crashing  the  forest  in  his  race. 

The  mountain  bull  comes  thundering  on. 

Fierce  on  the  hunter's  quiver' d  hand 
He  rolls  his  eyes  of  swarthy  glow. 

Spurns,  with  black  hoof  and  horn,  the  sand. 
And  tosses  high  his  mane  of  snow. 

Aim'd  weU,  the  chieftain's  lance  has  flown, 
Struggling  in  blood  the  savage  lies  ; 

His  roar  is  sunk  in  hollow  groan, — 

Sound,  merry  huntsmen,  sound  the  pryse  ! 


'Tis  noon — against  the  knotted  oak 

The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear ; 
Curls  through  the  trees  the  slender  smoke. 

Where  yeomen  dight  the  woodland  cheer. 

Proudly  the  chieftain  mark'd  his  clan, 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown. 

Yet  miss'd  his  eye  the  boldest  man 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 

"  Why  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place, 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  woe  to  share  ? 

Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace  ? 
Why  shares  he  not  our  hunter's  fare  ?  " 

Stern  Claude  rephed,  with  darkening  face 
(Grey  Paisley's  haughty  lord  was  he), 

"  At  merry  feast  or  buxom  chase 
No  more  the  warrior  wilt  thou  see. 

Few  suns  have  set  since  Woodhouselee 

Saw  Bothwellhaugh' s  bright  goblets  foam, 

When  to  his  hearths,  in  social  glee. 
The  war-worn  soldier  turn'd  him  home. 

There,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes, 
His  Margaret,  beautiful  and  mild. 

Sat  in  her  bower,  a  pallid  rose. 

And  peaceful  nursed  her  new-bom  child. 

Oh,  change  accursed  !  pass'd  are  those  days ; 

False  Murray's  ruthless  spoilers  came, 
And,  for  the  hearth's  domestic  blaze, 

Ascends  destruction's  volumed  flame. 

What  sheeted  phantom  wanders  wild. 

Where    mountain   Esk   through  woodland 
flows, 

Her  arms  enfold  a  shadowy  child, — 
Oh !  is  it  she,  the  pallid  rose  ? 

The  'wilder'd  traveller  sees  her  gHde, 
And  hears  her  feeble  voice  with  awe, — 

'  Eevenge,'  she  cries,  '  on  Murray's  pride, 
And  woe  for  injured  Bothwellhaugh  ! '  " 

He  ceased — and  cries  of  rage  and  grief 
Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band. 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  chief, 

And  half  unsheathed  his  Arran  brand. 

But  who,  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream,  and  rock. 
Rides  headlong  with  resistless  speed. 

Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed  ; 

Whose  cheek  is  pale,  whose  eyeballs  glare, 
As  one  some  vision' d  sight  that  saw  ; 

Whose  hands  are  bloody,  lose  his  hair  ? — 
'Tis  he,  'tis  he,  'tis  Bothwellhaugh  ! 

From  gory  selle  and  reeling  steed 

Sprung  the  fierce  horseman  with  a  bound, 

And,  reeking  from  the  recent  deed, 
He  dash'd  his  carbine  on  the  ground. 

Sternly  he  spoke — "  'Tis  sweet  to  hear 
In  good  greenwood  the  bugle  blown, 

But  sweeter  to  Revenge's  ear 
To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  OUTLAW. 


[Sir  W.  Scott. 


Your  slaughter' d  quarry  proudly  trode 
At  dawning  morn  o'er  dale  and  down. 

But  prouder  base-bom  Murray  rode 

Through  old  LinUthgow's  crowded  town. 

From  the  wild  Border's  humbled  side 
In  haughty  triumph  marched  he  ; 

While  Knox  relax' d  his  bigot  pride, 
And  smiled  the  traitorous  pomp  to  see. 

But  can  stern  power  with  all  her  vaunt, 
Or  pomp,  with  all  her  courtly  glare, 

The  settled  heart  of  Vengeance  daunt, 
Or  change  the  purpose  of  Despair  ? 

With  hackbut  bent,  my  secret  stand, 
Dark  as  the  purposed  deed,  I  chose ; 

And  mark'd  where,  mingling  in  his  band, 
Troop'd  Scottish  pikes  and  English  bows. 

Dark  Morton,  girt  with  many  a  spear, 
Murder's  foul  minion,  led  the  van  ; 

And  clash'd  their  broadswords  in  the  rear 
The  wild  Macfarlane's  plaided  clan. 

Glencairn  and  stout  Parkhead  were  nigh, 
Obsequious  at  their  regent's  rein. 

And  haggard  Lindsay's  iron  eye, 
That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain. 

'Mid  pennon' d  spears,  a  steely  grove. 
Proud  Murray's  plumage  floated  high ; 

Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move, 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh. 

From  the  raised  vizor's  shade  his  eye, 
Dark  rolling,  glanced  the  ranks  along  ; 

And  his  steel  truncheon,  waved  on  high, 
Seem'd  marshalling  the  iron  throng. 

But  yet  his  sadden'd  brow  confess'd 
A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe  ; 

Some  fiend  was  whispering  in  his  breast — 
Beware  of  injured  Bothwellhaugh. 

The  death-shot  parts — the  charger  springs- 
Wild  rises  tumult's  startling  roar  ! 

And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings — 
Rings  on  the  ground-*— to  rise  no  more. 

What  joy  the  ra,ptured  youth  can  feel 
To  hear  her  love  the  loved  one  tell — 

Or  he  who  broaches  on  his  steel 
The  wolf  by  whom  his  infant  fell ! 

But  dearer  to  my  injured  eye 

To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll ; 

And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy 
To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  soul. 

My  Margaret's  spectre  glided  near. 
With  pride  her  bleeding  victim  saw, 

And  shriek' d  in  his  death-deafen' d  ear. 
Remember  injured  Bothwellhaugh  ! 

Then  speed  thee,  noble  Chatlerault ! 

Spread  to  the  wind  thy  banner'd  tree  ! 
Each  warrior  bend  his  Clydesdale  bow  ! 

Murray  is  fallen  and  Scotland  free  !  " 


Vaidts  every  warrior  to  his  steed ; 

Loud  bugles  join  their  wild  acclaim — 
"  Murray  is  fallen,  and  Scotland  freed  ! 

Couch,  Arran,  couch  thy  spear  of  flame  !  " 

But  see,  the  minstrel  vision  fails, — 

The  glimmering  spears  are  seen  no  more ; 

The  shouts  of  war  die  on  the  gales, 
Or  sink  in  Evan's  lonely  roar. 

For  the  loud  bugle,  pealing  high, 

The  blackbird  whistles  down  the  vale. 

And  sunk  in  ivied  ruins  lie 

The  banner'd  towers  of  Evandale. 

For  chiefs,  intent  on  bloody  deed, 

And  Vengeance  shouting  o'er  the  slain, 

Lo  !  high-bom  Beauty  rules  the  steed, 
Or  graceful  guides  the  silken  rein. 

And  long  may  peace  and  pleasure  own 
The  maids  who  list  the  minstrel's  tale  ; 

Nor  e'er  a  ruder  guest  be  known. 
On  the  fair  banks  of  Evandale. 

Sir  W.  Scott— Born  1771,  Died  1832. 


1326.— THE  OUTLAW. 

0  BrignaU  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 
And  Gi'eta  woods  are  green. 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  gi-ace  a  summer-queen. 
And  as  I  rode  hj  Dalton  Hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle- wall 

AVas  singing  merrily : 
"  O  Brignall  Banhs  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." 

"  If,  Maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me. 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may. 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May." 
Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green  ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

1  read  you  by  your  bugle-horn 

And  by  your  palfry  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood." 
"  A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light ; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn. 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night." 
Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay ; 
I  would  I  were  ^vith  Edmund  there 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May ! 

63 


Sib  W.  Scott.] 


A  SERENADE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


With  burnish' d  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum." 
^  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 
And  O  !  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May ! 

Maiden  !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'U  die  ! 
The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 

Were  better  mate  than  I ! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough. 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now." 

CHOBUS. 

Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer-queen. 

Sir  W.  Scott— Born  1771,  Died  1832. 


1327.— A  SERENADE. 

jaji !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh. 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea. 
The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bower. 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trill' d  all  day. 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

'The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear  ; 
To  Beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above. 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky, 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

Sir  W.  Scott— Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 


3328.— WHERE  SHALL  THE  LOVER 
REST? 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast 

Parted  for  ever  ? 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 

Sounds  the  far  billow. 
Where  early  violets  die 

Under  the  willow. 
Eleu  loro 

Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 


There,  through  the  summer  day 

Cool  streams  are  laving  : 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving ; 
There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  for  ever, 
Never  again  to  wake 

Never,  O  never ! 
Eleu  loro 

Never,  0  never ! 

Where  shaU  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver. 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin,  and  leave  her  ? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying. 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying ; 
Eleu  loro 

There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  falsehearted ; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap 

Ere  life  be  parted  : 
Shame  and  dishonour  sit 

By  his  grave  ever ; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it 

Never,  O  never ! 
Eleu  loro 

Never,  O  never ! 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 


1329.— THE  MAID  OF  NEIDPATH. 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see, 

And  lovers'  ears  in  hearing ; 
And  love,  in  life's  extremity, 

Can  lend  an  hour  of  cheering. 
Disease  had  been  in  Mary's  bower 

And  slow  decay  from  mourning, 
Though  now  she  sits,  on  Neidpath's  tower 

To  v^atch  her  Love's  returning. 

All  sunk  and  dim  her  eyes  so  bright. 

Her  form  decay' d  by  pining. 
Till  through  her  wasted  hand,  at  night. 

You  saw  the  taper  shining. 
By  fits  a  sultry  hectic  hue 

Across  her  cheek  was  flying ; 
By  fits  so  ashy  pale  she  grew 

Her  maidens  thought  her  dying. 

Yet  keenest  powers  to  see  and  hear 

Seem'd  in  her  frame  residing  ; 
Before  the  watch-dog  prick' d  his  ear 

She  heard  her  lover's  riding; 
Ere  scarce  a  distant  form  was  kenn'd 

She  knew  and  waved  to  greet  him. 
And  o'er  the  battlement  did  bend 

As  on  the  wing  to  meet  him. 


Frtrm  1780  to  1866.]                              HINTING  SONG.                                    [Sib  W.  Scott. 

He  came — ^lie  pass'd — an  heedless  gaze 

'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride. 

As  o'er  some  stranger  glancing ; 

And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 

Her  welcome,  spoke  in  faltering  phrase, 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 

Lost  in  his  courser's  prancing — 

If  'tis  not  fiU'd  by  EosabeUe." 

The  castle  arch,  whose  hollow  tone 

Eeturns  each  whisper  spoken, 

— O'er  Eoslin  all  that  dreary  night 

Could  scarcely  catch  the  feeble  moan 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam  ; 

Which  told  her  heart  was  broken. 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 

And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 

It  glared  on  EosUn's  castled  rock, 

It  ruddied  all  the  copse- wood  glen  ; 
'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 

And  seen  from  cavern' d  Hawthornden. 

1330.— THF.  PEIDE  OF  YOUTH. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 

Proud  Maisio  is  in  the  wood, 

Where  Eoslin' s  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie. 

Walking  so  early ; 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud. 

Sweet  Eobin  sits  on  the  bush 

Sheath' d-rin  his  iron  panoply. 

Singing  so  rarely. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 

"  Tell  m.e,  thou  bonny  bird, 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale ; 

When  shall  I  marry  me  ?  " 

Shone  every  pillar  foHage-bound, 

— "  When  six  braw  gentlemen 

And  glimmer' d  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye." 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high. 

"  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair — 

Birdie,  say  truly  ?  " 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 

— "  The  grey-headed  sexton 

The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

• 

There  are  twenty  of  Eoslin' s  barons  bold 

The  glowworm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle , 

Shall  Hght  thee  steady ; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold. 

The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

But  the  sea  holds  lovely  EosabeUe  ! 

Welcome,  proud  lady." 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there 

Sir  W.  ScoU.—Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds 

sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Eosabelle. 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Bom  1771,  Bied  1832. 

1331.— EOSABELLE. 

0  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 

Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Eosabelle. 

1332.— HUNTING  SONG. 

"  Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

And,  gentle  lady,  deign  to  stay  I 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day ; 

Eest  thee  in  Castle  Eavensheuch, 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting- spear ; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelHng, 

The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white ; 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly ; 

Merrily  merrily  mingle  they, 

The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Whose    screams  forebode  that  wreck   is 

nigh. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming. 

A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  lady  gay 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming. 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Eavensheuch ; 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day  ?  " 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay 

*"Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

To-night  at  Eoslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  lady-mother  there 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

^     Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

To  the  greenwood  haste  away ; 

63* 

Sib  W.  Scott.] 


THE  PALMER. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tail  of  size ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd ; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay ; 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 

Eun  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 

Time,  stem  huntsman  !  who  can  baulk, 

Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk ; 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott— Bom  1771,  IHed  1832. 


1333.— THE  PALMER. 

"  Open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show  ! 

Keen  blows  the  northern  wind  ! 
The  glen  is  white  with  the  drifted  snow. 

And  the  path  is  hard  to  find. 

No  outlaw  seeks  your  castle  gate. 

From  chasing  the  king's  deer. 
Though  even  an  outlaw's  wretched  state 

Might  claim  compassion  here. 

A  weary  Palmer  worn  and  weak, 

I  wander  for  my  sin ; 
O,  open,  for  our  Lady's  sake  ! 

A  pilgrim's  blessing  win  ! 

The  hare  is  crouching  in  her  form, 

The  hart  beside  the  hind ; 
An  aged  man,  amid  the  storm, 

No  shelter  can  I  find. 

Tou  hear  the  Ettrick's  sullen  roar. 

Dark,  deep,  and  strong  is  he, 
And  I  must  ford  the  Ettrick  o'er, 

Unless  you  pity  me. 

The  iron  gate  is  bolted  hard. 

At  which  I  knock  in  vain ; 
The  owner's  heart  is  closer  barr'd. 

Who  hears  me  thus  complain. 

Farewell,  farewell !  and  Heaven  grant. 

When  old  and  frail  you  be, 
You  never  may  the  shelter  want, 

That's  now  denied  to  me  !  " 

The  Ranger  on  his  couch  lay  warm, 

And  heard  him  plead  in  vain ; 
But  oft,  amid  December's  storm, 

He'll  hear  that  voice  again : 

For  lo,  when  through  the  vapours  dank 

Mom  shone  on  Ettrick  fair, 
A  corpse,  amid  the  alders  rank. 

The  Palmer  welter' d  there. 

Sir  W.  Scott— Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 


1334.— THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 

The  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle  horn. 
To  horse,  to  horse  !  halloo,  halloo  ! 

His  fiery  courser  snuffs  the  morn, 

And  thronging  serfs  their  lords  pursue. 

The  eager  pack,  from  couples  freed, 

Dash  through  the  bush,  the  brier,  the  brake; 

While  answering  hound,  and  horn,  and  steed. 
The  mountain  echoes  startling  wake. 

The  beams  of  God's  own  haUow'd  day 
Had  painted  yonder  spire  mth  gold, 

And  calling  sinful  man  to  pray. 

Loud,  long,  and  deep  the  bell  had  toll'd. 

But  still  the  Wildgrave  onward  rides ; 

Halloo,  halloo  I  and,  hark  again  ! 
Wlien  spurring  from  opposing  sides, 

Two  stranger  horsemen  join  the  train. 

Who  was  each  stranger,  left  and  right. 
Well  may  I  guess  but  dare  not  tell ; 

The  right-hand  steed  was  silver  white, 
The  left,  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  right-hand  horseman,  young  and  fair. 
His  smile  was  like  the  morn  of  May  ; 

The  left,  from  eye  of  tawny  glare. 
Shot  midnight's  lightning's  lurid  ray. 

He  waved  his  huntsman's  cap  on  high, 
Cried,  "  Welcome,  welcome,  noble  lord  ! 

What  sport  can  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
To  match  the  princely  chase  afford  ?  " 

"  Cease  thy  loud  bugle's  clanging  kneU," 
Cried  the  fair  youth  with  silver  voice ; 

"  And  for  devotion's  choral  swell. 

Exchange  this  rude  unhallow'd  noise; 

To-day  th'  ill-omen'd  chase  forbear. 
Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane ; 

To-day  the  warning  Spirit  hear. 

To-morrow  thou  mayst  mourn  in  vain." 

"  Away,  and  sweep  the  glades  along !  " 
The  sable  hunter  hoarse  replies ; 

"  To  muttering  monks  leave  matin  song. 
And  bells,  and  books,  and  mysteries." 

The  Wildgrave  spurr'd  his  ardent  steed. 
And,  launching  forward  with  a  bound, 

"  Who,  for  thy  drowsy  priestKke  rede. 
Would  leave  the  jovial  horn  and  hound  ? 

Hence,  if  our  manly  sport  offend  ! 

With  pious  fools  go  chant  and  pray ; 
Well  hast  thou  spoke,  my  dark-brow'd  friend, 
I       Halloo,  halloo  !  and,  hark  away !  " 

j   The  V/ildgrave  spurr'd  his  courser  light, 
I        O'er  moss  and  moor,  o'er  holt  and  hill ; 
!   And  on  the  left  and  on  the  right, 

Each  stranger  horseman  foUow'd  still. 

Up  springs  from  yonder  tangled  thorn 
A  stag  more  white  than  mountain  snow ; 

And  louder  rang  the  Wildgrave's  horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward  !  holla,  ho  !  " 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 


[Sir  W.  Scott. 


A  heedless  wretch  has  cross'd  the  way  : 
He  gasps,  the  thundering  hoofs  below ; 

But  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may, 

Still  "  Forward,  forward  !  "  on  they  go. 

See  where  yon  simple  fences  meet, 

A  field  with  autumn's  blessing  crown'd ; 

See,  prostrate  at  the  Wildgrave's  feet, 
A  husbandman,  with  toil  embrown'd. 

"  O  mercy,  mercy,  noble  lord ! 

Spare  the  poor's  pittance,"  was  his  cry, 
"  Eam'd  by  the  sweat  these  brows  have  pour'd, 

In  scorching  hour  of  fierce  July." 

Earnest  the  right-hand  stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey ; 

Th'  impetuous  Earl  no  warning  heeds, 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 

"  Away,  thou  hound !  so  basely  bom  ! 

Or  dread  the  scourge's  echoing  blow !  " 
Then  loudly  rang  his  bugle  horn, 

"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !  " 

So  said,  so  done ;  a  single  bound 

Clears  the  poor  labourer's  humble  pale  ; 

While  follows  man,  and  horse,  and  hound, 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 

And  man,  and  horse,  and  hound,  and  horn, 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along ; 

While,  joying  o'er  the  wasted  com, 

Fell  Famine  marks  the  maddening  throng. 

Again  uproused,  the  timorous  prey 

Scours  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill ; 

Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  decay, 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

Too  dangerous  solitude  appear'd ; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd ; 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to  shroud. 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  and  holt  and  hill. 
His  track  the  steady  bloodhounds  trace ; 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  unwearied  still. 
The  furious  Earl  pursues  the  chase. 

Full  lowly  did  the  herdsman  fall ; 

"  O  spare,  thou  noble  Baron,  spare 
Those  herds,  a  widow's  little  all ; 

These  flocks,  an  orphan's  fleecy  care  !  " 

Earnest  the  right-hand  stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey  ; 

The  Earl  nor  prayer  nor  pity  heeds, 
But  furious  keeps  the  onward  way. 

"  TJnmanner'd  dog  !     To  stop  my  sport 
Vain  were  thy  cant  and  beggar  whine. 

Though  human  spirits  of  thy  sort 

Were  tenants  of  these  carrion  kine  !  " 

Again  he  winds  his  bugle  horn, 

"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !  " 

And  through  the  herd  in  ruthless  scorn 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  tp  go. 


In  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall ; 

Down  sinks  their  mangled  herdsman  near ; 
The  murderous  cries  the  stag  appal, — 

Again  he  starts  new-nerved  by  fear. 

With  blood  besmear'd,  and  white  with  foam, 
While  big  the  tears  of  angnisit  pour, 

He  seeks  amid  the  forest's  gloom 

The  humble  hermit's  hallow' d  bower. 

But  man,  and  horse,  and  horn,  and  hound, 

Fast  ratthng  on  his  traces  go ; 
The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 

With  "  Hark  away !  and  holla,  ho  !  " 

All  mild  amid  the  rout  profane, 

The  holy  hermit  pour'd  his  prayer ; 

"  Forbear  with  blood  God's  house  to  stain; 
Eevere  His  altar,  and  f orbeax ! 

The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to  plead, 
I        Which,  wrong' d  by  cruelty  or  pride, 
Draw  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  head ; — 
Be  wam'd  at  length,  and  turn  aside." 

Still  the  Fair  Horseman  anxious  pleads ; 

The  Black,  wild  whooping,  points  the  prey : 
Alas  !  the  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 

But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 

"  Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong. 
Thy  altar  and  its  rights  I  spurn ; 

Not  sainted  martyrs'  sainted  song. 

Not  God  himself  shaU  make  me  turn !  " 

He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds  his  horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !  " 

But  off  on  whirlwind's  pinions  borne, 
The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hermit  go. 

And  horse,  and  man,  and  horn,  and  hound, 
And  clamour  of  the  chase  was  gone ; 

For  hoofs,  and  howls,  and  bugle  sound, 
A  deadly  silence  reign' d  alone. 

Wild  gazed  th'  affrighted  Earl  around ; 

He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn ; 
In  vain  to  call ;  for  not  a  sound 

Could  from  his  anxious  lips  be  borne. 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds ; 

No  distant  baying  reach' d  his  ears ; 
His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground. 

The  quickening  spur  unmindful  bears. 

Still  dark  and  darker  frown  the  shades, 
Dark,  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 

And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades, 
Save  what  a  distant  torrent  gave. 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbled  head 
At  length  the  solemn  silence  broke ; 

And  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red, 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke, 

"  Oppressor  of  creation  fair ! 

Apostate  spirits'  harden'd  tool ! 
S  comer  of  God,  scourge  of  the  poor  ! 

The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 


Sir  W.  Scott.] 


CHEISTMAS. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Be  chased  for  ever  through  the  wood ; 

For  ever  roam  th'  affrighted  wild  ; 
And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud, 

God's  meanest  creature  is  His  child." 

'Twas  hush'd :  one  flash  of  sombre  glare 
With  yellow  tinged  the  forest's  brown ; 

Up  rose  the  Wildgrave's  bristling  hair, 
And  horror  chill' d  each  nerve  and  bone. 

Cold  pour'd  the  sweat  in  freezing  rill ; 

A  rising  wind  began  to  sing ; 
A  louder,  louder,  louder  still, 

Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its  wing. 

Earth  heard  the  caU ;  her  .entrails  rend ; 

From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a  yell, 
Mix'd  with  sulphureous  flames,  ascend 

The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

What  ghastly  huntsman  next  arose, 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

His  eye  like  midnight  lightning  glows, 
His  steed  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  Wildgrave  flies  o'er  bush  and  thorn, 
With  many  a  shriek  of  helpless  woe ; 

Behind  him  hound,  and  horse,  and  horn ; 
And  "  Hark  away,  and  hoUa,  ho !  " 

Sir  W.  Scott— Bom  1771,  Died  1832, 


I335-— CHEISTMAS. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 

Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  roU'd, 

And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 

With  all  his  hospitable  train, 

Domestic  and  religious  rite 

Gave  honour  to  the  holy  night ; 

On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung ; 

On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung ; 

That  only  night  in  all  the  year. 

Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 

The  damsel  donn'd  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 

The  hall  was  dress' d  with  hoUy  green ; 

Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go, 

To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 

Then  open'd  wide  the  Baron's  hall 

To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all : 

Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 

And  Ceremony  doff'd  his  pride. 

The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes. 

That  night  might  village  partner  choose  ; 

The  Lord,  underogating,  share 

The  vulgar  game  of  "  post  and  pair." 

All  hail'd,  with  uncontroU'd  delight, 

And  general  voice,  the  happy  night, 

That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 

Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

Sir  W.  Scott—Bom  1771,  Died  1832. 


1236.— HYMN"  FOE  THE  DEAD. 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away ! 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinner's  stay? 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day  ? 

When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll ; 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread, 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead ! 

Oh  !  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day, 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay. 
Be  Thou  the  trembling  sinner's  stay. 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away ! 

Sir  W.  Scott.— Born  1771,  Died  1832. 


1337— TO  THOMAS  MOOEE. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 
But  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here 's  a  double  health  to  thee  ! 

Here 's  a  sigh  for  those  that  love  tne, 
And  a  smile  for  those  who  hate ; 

And,  whatever  sky  's  above  me, 
Here 's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me. 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  ! 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824 


1338.— MAID  OF  ATHENS. 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part. 
Give,  O,  give  uie  back  my  heart  I 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go. 

By  those  tresses  unconfinod, 
Woo'd  by  each  JEgoan  wind  ; 
By  those  Hds  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheek«'  blooming  tinge 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 


From  1780  io  1866.] 


THE  DEEAM. 


[Lord  Bteobt. 


By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe. 

Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone 
Think  of  me,  sweet,  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul. 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No  ! 

Lonl  Byron.— Bot-n  1788,  Dieoi  1824. 


[339.— THE  GIEL  OF  CADIZ. 


Oh,  never  talk  again  to  me 

Of  northern  climes  and  British  ladies  ; 
It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see, 

Like  me,  the  lovely  Girl  of  Cadiz. 
Although  her  eyes  be  not  of  blue. 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  EngUsh  lasses', 
How  far  its  own  expressive  hue 

The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses  ! 


Prometheus-like,  from  heaven  she  stole 

The  fire"  that  through  those  silken  lashes 
In  darkest  glances  seeirjs  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes ; 
And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthen'd  flow  her  raven  tresses. 
You'd  swear  each  chastering  lock  could  feel, 

And  curl'd  to  give  her  neck  caresses. 

III. 

Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo, 

And  frigid  even  in  possession ; 
And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love's  confession  ; 
But,  born  beneath  a  brighter  sun. 

For  love  ordain' d  the  Spanish  maid  is, 
And  who, — when  fondly,  fairly  won, — 

Enchants  you  like  the  Girl  of  Cadiz  ? 


The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette, 

Nor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble  ; 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate. 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  or  sold — 

Howe'er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely  ; 
And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

'TwiU  love  you  long,  and  love  you  dearly. 


The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 

Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial ; 
For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 

Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain 

She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger ; 
And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 


And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star, 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero  ; 
Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero  ; 
Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  haiid 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hcopeir- 
Or  joins  devotion's  choral  band 

To  chant  the  sweet  and  haUow'd  vesper  r 

VII. 

In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move- 

Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her. 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove. 

Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder ; 
Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  roam 

Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  is-^ 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  Girl  of  Cadiz- 

Lord  Byron.— Boo-n  1788,  IHed  1824L 


1340.— STANZAS  FOE  MUSIC. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me  : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing. 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming-.. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving- 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep,. 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  asleep  ; 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee. 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1S24L 


[341.— THE  DEEAM. 


Our   life    is   twofold  :     sleep   hatli   its   owe. 

world — 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death   and    existence :     sleep   hath  its   owei 

world. 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality  ; 
And    dreams     in     their    development     have 

breath. 
And   tears,  and  tortures,  and   the  touch  of 

joy; 
They    leave     a     weight     upon    our    waking 

thoughts ; 
They  take  a  weight  from  ofi^  our  waking  toils ; 
They  do  divide  our  being  ;  they  become 


Lord  Byron.] 


THE  DEEAM. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 

And  Isok  like  heralds  of  Eternity ; 

They   pass    like    spirits    of   the   past, — they 

speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future ;  they  have  power — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they 

will; 
They  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanish' d  shadows — are  they  so  ? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?     What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ? — the  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have    been,   and 

give 
A    breath   to   forms   which    can    outlive   all 

flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision,  which  I  dream' d 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 


I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth     . 

Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 

Green  and  of  mild  declivity  ;  the  last, 

As  'twere  the  cape,  of  a  long  ridge  of  such. 

Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base. 

But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 

Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and   the  abodes  of 

men 
Scatter' d  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ; — the  hill 
Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array — so  fix'd. 
Not  by  the  sport  of  Nature,  but  of  man  : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing — ^the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath  ; 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful ; 
And    both    were    young — yet    not    alike    in 

youth.   . 
As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers  ;  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth. 
And  that  was  shining  on  him  ;  he  had  look'd 
Upon  it  tUl  it  could  not  pass  away  ; 
He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers  ; 
She  was  his  voice ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But   trembled   on   her  words  ;     she  was  his 

sight, 
For  his  eye  follow' d  hers,  and  saw  with  hers. 
Which   colour'd    all    his    objects  ; — ^he    had 

ceased 
To  live  within  himself ;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all ;  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch   of   hers,  his   blood  would    ebb  and 

flow, 
And    his    cheek   change    tempestuously — his 

heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 
But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share  : 


Her  sighs  were  not  for  him ;  to  her  he  was 
Even   as    a  brother — but    no    more  ;     'twas 

much  ; 
For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him — 
Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 
Of  a  time-honour'd  race. — It  was  a  name 
Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not 

— and  why  ? 
Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — 'when  she 

loved 
Another.     Even  now  she  loved  another  ; 
And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar,  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

III. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion ;  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison' d. 

Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 

The  Boy  of  whom  I  spake  ; — he  was  alone, 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro.     Anon 

He    sate   him    down,  and   seized    a  pen  and 

traced 
Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of ;    then  he 

lean'd 
His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook,  as 

'twere 
With  a  convulsion — then  arose  again  ; 
And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did 

teal: 
What  he  had  written  ;  but  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  ho  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  quiet.     As  he  paused. 
The  lady  of  his  love  re-enter' d  there  ; 
She  was  serene  and  smiling  then ;  and  yet 
She   knew    she    was   by  him  beloved  ;     she 
knew — 
'   How  quickly  comes  such  knowledge  !  that  his 
I  heart 

I   Was  darken' d  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
;   That  he  was  wretched  ;  but  she  saw  not  all. 
He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced;  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came. 
He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow 

steps 
Retired  ;  ^ut  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 
For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles.     He       j 

pass'd 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall ; 
And,    mounting   on   his    steed,  he   went   his 

way; 
And    ne'er    repass'd    that    hoary    threshold 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The    Boy  was  sprung   to  manhood.      In  the 

wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home. 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams ;    he  was 

girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects ;  he  was  not 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  DEEAM. 


[Loud  Btron. 


Himself  like  what  lie  had  been ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  last  lie  lay, 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couoh'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruin'd  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them  ;    by  his  sleeping 

side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten' d  near  a  fountain ;  and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while. 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around  ; 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky — 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  bo  seen  in  Heaven. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better.     In  her  home, 
A   thousand    leagues   from   his, — her   native 

home, — 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty.     But  behold  ! 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief. 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 
As  if  its  Kd  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
What  could  her  grief  bo  ? — She  had  all  she 

loved  ; 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish. 
Or  ill-repress'd  affection,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  loved  him 

not, 
Nor    given   him  cause   to  deem  himself    be- 
loved ; 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  wliich  proy'd 
Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
The    Wanderer    was    return' d — I    saw    him 

stand 
Before  an  altar,  with  a  gentle  bride ; 
Her  face  was  fair ;    but  was  not  that  which 

made 
The  starhght  of  his  Boyhood.     As  he  stood, 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The    self -same    aspect,    and     the  'quivering 

shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude  ;  and  then — 
As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came ; 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet ;  and  he  spoke 
The    fitting   vows,   but   heard   not    his    own 

words  ; 
And  all  things  reel'd  around  him ;   he  could 

see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should 

have  been — 


But  the  old  mansion,  and    the  accustom'd 

haU, 
And    the    remember'd    chambers,    and     the 

place, 
The   day,  the    hour,  the    sunshine,   and    the 

shade — 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  placeman  d  hour. 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny — came  back 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the 

Hght  : 
What   business    had    they  there   at   such   a 

time  ? 

VII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
The  Lady  of  his  love — 0  !  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 
Had  wander'd   from   its  dwelling  ;     and  her 

eyes. 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things ; 
And  forms  impalpable,  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world    calls   frenzy ;    but   the 

wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift ; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  phantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

VIII. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  Wanderer  was  alone,  as  heretofore  ; 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone. 
Or  were  at  war  with  him  ;  he  was  a  mark 
For  blight  and  desolation — compass' d  round 
With    Hatred    and    Contention ;     Pain   was 

mix'd 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him ;  until, 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days. 
He  fed  on  poisons  ;  and  they  had  no  power, 
But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment.     He  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many 

men; 
And  made  him  friends  of  mountains.     With 

the  stars, 
And  the  quick  spirit  of  the  Universe, 
He  held  his  dialogues  !  and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 
To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  open'd  wide, 
And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 
A  marvel  and  a  secret — Be  it  so. 


My   dream  was    past  :      it  had   no    further 

change. 
It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 
Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced 

out 
Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 
To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


Lord  Bykon.] 


WHRN  WE  TWO  PAETED. 


[Seventh  Period. 


[342.— WHEN  WE  TWO  PAETED. 

When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss ; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning" 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame  ; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 
A  shudder  comes-  o'er  me — 

Why  wort  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well. 
Long,  long,  shall  I  rue  thee 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee  ? — 

In  silence  and  tears. 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and 

chill, 
And   their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for 

ever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all 

wide, 
But  throiigh  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of 

his  pride  ; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the 

turf, 
And  cold  as  the   spray   of    the  rock-beating 

surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his 

mail ; 
And   the  tents  were  all   silent,   the   banners 

alone. 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their 

wail ; 
And   the   idols   are  broke  in  the   temple  of 

Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the 

sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the 

Lord! 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1343.— THE    DESTRUCTION    OF 
SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came    down  like   the  wolf    on 

the  fold,  i 

And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and 

gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars 

on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep 

Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer 

is  green. 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were 

seen ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn 

hath  flown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither' d  and 

strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on 

the  blast. 
And   breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he 

pass'd  ; 


1344.— SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  POET. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung  ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet ; 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream' d  that  Greece  might  still  be  free  ; 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salarais ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations — all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 

And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 


Froin  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  PEISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


[LoKD  Byron. 


The  heroic  lay  is  timeless  now — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 
And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  P — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopyla) ! 

"What !  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  no  ! — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall. 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one,  arise — we  come,  we  come  !  " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — ^in  vain  !  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call. 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manher  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave— 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  ^vill  not  think  of  themes  like  these  ! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  ; 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still  at  least  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  \vine  ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there  perhaps  some  seed  is  sown 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells  ; 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks. 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid. 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Snnium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 

Lord  Byron. — Bom  1788,  Died  1824. 


1345.— THE  PEISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

Eternal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind ! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty,  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vaidt's  day  less 

gloom — 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyr- 
dom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings   on  every 

wind. 
Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  'twas  trod 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace, 

Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod. 
By    Bonnivard  !  —  May    none    those    marks 

efface ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 

In  a  single  night. 

As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears ; 

My  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not  with  toil. 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose ; 
For  they  have  been  a  dijngeon's  spoil. 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd  and  barr'd — forbidden  fare. 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffer' d  chains  and  courted  death. 
That  father  perish' d  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place. 
We  were  seven,  who  now  are  one — 

Six  in  youtl'.,  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  persecution's  rage; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd — 
Dying  as  their  father  died. 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 


Lord  Bteon.] 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


[Seventh  Period. 


There  are  seven  pillars,  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old ; 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprison' d  ray — 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left — 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp. 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp  ; 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing. 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er ; 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 


They  chain' d  us  each  to  a  column  stone ; 
And  we  were  three — ^yet,  each  alone. 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace ; 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight ; 
And  thus  together,  yet  apart — 
Fetter' d  in  hand,  but  join'd  in  heart ; 
'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth. 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each — 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old. 
Or  song  heroically  bold ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone. 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon- stone, 

A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free, 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be ; 
It  might  be  fancy — ^but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 


I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three ; 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 

I  ought  to  do,  and  did,  my  best — 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved. 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven — 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved ; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free), 

A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  tiU  its  summer's  gone — 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light. 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun  : 

Aild  thus  he  was,  as  pure  s-nd  brght, 


And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  naught  but  other's  ills ; 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  wo 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 

V. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind. 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  ;  but  not  in  chains  to  pine. 
His  spirit  wither' d  with  their  clank ; 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so,  perchance,  in  sooth,  did  mine  ! 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on,  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hiUs, 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf 
To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls, 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below, 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement. 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthrals ; 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave, 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay ; 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd. 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high, 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 
And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd ; 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 


I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined ; 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined. 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food  ; 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care. 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat ; 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moisten' d  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men, 
Like  brutes,  within  an  iron  den. 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  ; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side. 
]5ut  why  delay  the  truth  ? — he  died. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


[Lord  Btbon- 


I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead. 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  unlock' d  his  chain, 
And  scoop' d  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought ; 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freebom  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh'd,  and  laid  him  there, 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above  * 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love  ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant — 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument  I 

VIII. 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower. 

Most  cherish' d  since  his  natal  hour. 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  aU  his  race. 

His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care — for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free — 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  wither' d  on  the  stalk  away. 

O  God !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood : 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood ; 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swollen,  convulsive  motion 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  sin,  delirious  with  its  dread ; 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 

Unmix' d  with  such — but  sure  and  slow. 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

S®  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind. 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind ; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 

"Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur,  not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot — 

A  Httle  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise ; 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — ^lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most. 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less. 

I  listen' d,  but  I  could  not  hear — 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished : 


I  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bo\ind, 

And  rush'd  to  him  :  I  found  him  not. 

I  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot ; 

I  only  lived — I  only  drew 

Th'  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew ; 

The  last,  the  sole,  the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

AVhich  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — ^both  had  ceased  to  breathe* 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still — 

Alas  !  my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 


What  next  befell  me  then  and  ther 
I  know  not  well — I  never  knew. 

First  came  the  loss  of  light  and  air, 
And  then  of  darkness  too. 

I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none : 

Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone  ; 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 

As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray ; 

It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day ; 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light. 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight ; 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness,  without  a  place  ; 

There  were  no  stars,  no  earth,  no  time, 

No  check,  no  change,  no  good,  no  crime  ; 

But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 

Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death — 

A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness. 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless. 


A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain — 

it  was  the  carol  of  a  bird ; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again — 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard  ; 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise. 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then,  by  dull  degrees,  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track  : 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before ; 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch' d  as  fond  and  tame. 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree — 
A  lovely  bird  with  azure  wings. 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  mo  ! 


Lord  Btbon.] 


THE  PEISONER  OF  CHTLLON. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


T  never  saw  its  like  before — 

I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more. 

It  seem'd,  like  me,  to  want  a  mate, 

But  was  not  half  so  desolate ; 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 

None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 

And,  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 

Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 

I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine ; 

But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird  !     I  could  not  wish  for  thine — 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought,  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile  ! — 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me  j 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  'twas  mortal  well  I  knew ; 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flo^vn, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone — 
Lone  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone  as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere. 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue  and  earth  is  gay. 


A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate — 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate. 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so — 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe ; 
But  so  it  was — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain ; 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun — 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 
And  my  crush' d  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 


I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall : 
It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 

For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape ; 

Aad  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 

A  wider  prison  unto  me  ; 

No  child,  no  sire,  no  kin  had  I, 

No  partner  in  my  misery. 

I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 

For  thought  of  them  had  made  mo  mad ; 

But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 

To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  be^d 

Once  more  upon  the  mountains  hio-h 

The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 


I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same  ; 
They  were  not  changed,  like  me,  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide,  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Ehone  in  fullest  flow ; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush ; 
I  saw  the  white- wall' d  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle. 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile — 

The  only  one  in  view ; 
A  small,  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor ; 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze. 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing. 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous,  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast — 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly ; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled,  and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load ; 
It  was  as  in  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save ; 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days — 

I  kept  no  count,  I  took  no  note — 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote ; 
At  last  came  men  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where ; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me. 
Fetter' d  or  fetterless  to  be ; 

I  learn' d  to  love  despair. 
And  thus,  when  they  appear'd  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast. 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  sacred  home. 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watch' d  them  in  their  sullen  trade  ; 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play — 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race. 
Had  power  to  kUl ;  yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn' d  to  dwell. 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are : — even  I 
Eegain'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

Lord  Byron.— Bom  1788,  Died  1824. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


APOSTEOPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN. 


[LoED  Bykon. 


1346.— THE  GLADIATOE. 

The  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread 

power ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the   shadow  of  the  midnight 

hour 
With   a   deep   awe,   yet   all  distinct   from 

fear ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls 

rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives   from  thee   a   sense   so  deep  and 

clear, 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been. 
And    grow    unto    the    spot,   all-seeing,    but 

unseen. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran. 
In  murmur'd  pity,  or  loud-roar'd  applause. 
As    man   was    slaughter'd  by   his   fellow- 
man. 
And  wherefore  slaughter'd  ?  wherefore,  but 

because 
Such  were  the  bloody  circus'  genial  laws, 
And    the    imperial    pleasure.      "Wherefore 

not? 
What    matters    where   we   faU  to  fill  the 

maws 
Of  worms — on  battle  plains  or  listed  spot  ? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors 
rot. 

I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie  . 
He  leans  upon  his  hand  ;  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  droop' d  head  sinks  gradually  low : 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing 

slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  first  of   a  thunder-shower ;    and 

now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  ;  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd 

the  wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not ;  his  eyes 
Were  with   his   heart,    and   that   was   far 

away  ; 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost,  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay  ; 
There   were   his   young  barbarians   all   at 

play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their 

sire. 
Butcher' d  to  make  a  Eoman  holiday. 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood.     Shall   he 

expire, 
And  unavenged  ?     Arise,  ye  Goths,  and  glut 

your  ire  ! 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1347.— APOSTEOPHE  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods. 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 


There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar ; 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 
From    these    our    interviews,    in   which   I 

steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What   I   can  ne'er  express,   yet   cannot    all 

conceal. 

EoU  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — 

roU! 
Ten   thousand    fleets   sweep   over  thee  in 

vain; 
Man    marks    the    earth    with     ruin  —  his 

control 
Stops   with  the  shore;    upon   the  watery 

plain 
The   wrecks   are   all  thy   deed,   nor    doth 

remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own; 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He   sinks   into  thy   depths  with  bubbling 

groan — 
Without  a  grave,  unkneU'd,  uncoffin'd,   and 

unknown. 

His   steps   are   not   upon   thy   paths — thy 

fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength 

he  wields 
For     earth's     destruction     thou    dost    all 

despise. 
Spurning   him    from    thy    bosom    to    the 


And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful 

spray. 
And   howling    to    his   gods,    where    haply 

Kes 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And   dashest  him  again  to  earth :  there  let 

him  lay. 

The   armaments   which   thunderstrike    the 

walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take, — 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war  : 
These   are   thy  toys,   and,    as   the    snowy 


They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which 
mar 
Alike    the    Armada's     pride,    or     spoUs    of 
Trafalgar. 

Thy   shores   are    empires,    changed   in   aU 

save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Eome,  Carthage, — what  are 

they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were 

free. 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  ;  their  shores  obey, 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 


Lord  Byron.] 


DESCRIPTION  OF  HAIDEE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts :    not   so 

thou; 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play. 
Time   writes   no   wrinkle    on    thine   azure 

brow : 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest 

now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's 

form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed — ^in  breeze,  or  gale,  or 

storm, 
Icing  the  pole ;  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving;     boundless,     endless,     and 

sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;   each 
zone 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goes  forth,  dread,  fathom- 
less, alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean !    and  my 

joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :    from  a 

boy 
I  wanton' d  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear ; 
For  I  was,  as  it  were,  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do 

here. 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824.. 


1348.— DESCRIPTION  OF  HAIDES. 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold , 

That  sparkled  o'er  the  auburn  of  her  hair ; 
Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were 
roU'd 
In  braids  behind ;  and  though  her  stature 
were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a  female  mould. 
They  nearly  reach' d  her  heels ;  and  in  her 
air 
There  was  a  something  which  bespoke  com- 
mand, 
As  one  who  was  a  lady  in  the  land. 

Her  hair,  I  said,  was  auburn  ;  but  her  eyes 
Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same 
hue, 
Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 

Deepest  attraction ;  for  when  to  the  view 
Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance 
flies. 
Ne'er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow 
flow  : 
'Tis  as  the'  snake  late  coU'd,  who  pours  his 

length. 
And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strenQ:th. 


Her  brow  was  white  and  low;    her  cheek's 
pure  dye, 
Like  twilight,  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun  ; 
Short  upper  lip — sweet  lips !    that    make  us 
sigh 
Ever  to  have  seen  such ;  for  she  was  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a  statuary 

(A    race    of    mere    impostors    when    all's 
done — 
I've  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real, 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal). 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1349- 


HAIDEE    VISITS      THE 
WRECKED  DON  JUAN. 


SHIP- 


And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came. 
And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps 
drew, 
While  the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first 
flame. 
And  young  Aurora  kiss'd  her  lips  v^^ith  dew, 
Taking  her  for  her  sister ;  just  the  same 
Mistake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing  fke 
two. 
Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair. 
Had  all  the  advantage  too  of  not  being  air. 

And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidee  stepp'd 

All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That,  like  an  infant,  Juan  sweetly  slei^t : 
And  then  she  stopp'd  and  stood  as  if   in 
awe 
(For  sleep  is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  crept 

And  wrapt  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw. 
Should  reach  his  blood ;  then  o'er  him,  still 

as  death. 
Bent  with  hush'd  lips,  that  drank  his  scarce- 
drawn  breath. 

And  thus,  like  to  an  angel  o'er  the  dying 

Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  lean'd ;  and 
there 
All  tranquilly  the  shipwreck' d  boy  was  lying, 

As  o'er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirless  air  : 
But  Zoe  the  mean  time  some  eggs  was  frying. 

Since,  after  aU,  no  doubt  the  youthful  pair 
Must  breakfast,  and  betimes — lest  they  should 

ask  it. 
She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket. 

*  #  *  * 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers,  and  of  eyes. 

And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 
A  lesson  in  her  tongue  ;  but  by  sui-mise, 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  her 
look : 
As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies, 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book  : 
Thus  Juan  learn' d  his  alx^ha  beta  better 
From  Haidee' s  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

'Tis   pleasing    to   be   school' d   in   a   strange 
tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes — that  is,  I  mean 


From  1780  to  I860.]  HAIDEE  AND  JTJAN  AT  THE  FEAST. 


[Lord  Byroit. 


Wlieii  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are 
young; 
As   was  the  case,  at  least,  where  I  have 
been ; 

They  smile  so  when  one's  right,  and    when 
one's  wrong 
They  smile  still  more,  and  then  there  in- 
tervene 

Pressure  of   hands,    perhaps   even   a   chaste 
kiss ; — 

I  Icam'd  the  little  that  I  know  by  this. 

LorQl  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1350.— HAIDEE  AND  JUAN  AT  THE 
FEAST. 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 

On  crimson  satin,  border'd  with  paJe  blue  ; 
Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 
Of    the     apartment — and    appear' d    quite 
new; 
The    velvet    cushions — for     a    throne    more 
meet — 
Were  scarlet,   from  whose  glowing  centre 
grew 
A  sun  emboss'd  in  gold,  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian-like,  were  seen  all  light  to  issue. 

Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain, 
Had  done  their  work  of  splendour ;  Indian 
mats 
And  Persian  carpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to 
stain. 
Over  the  floors  were  spread ;  gazelles  and 
cats, 
And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such-like  things, 
that  gain 
Their  bread  as  ministers  and  favourites — 
that's 
To  say,  by  degradation — mingled  there 
As  plentiful  as  in  a  court  or  fair. 

There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors,  and 
The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 

With  mother-of-pearl  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand, 
Or   were   of  tortoise-shell   or  rare   woods 
made. 

Fretted  with  gold  or  silver — by  command. 
The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  spread 

With  viands  and  sherbets  in  ice — and  wine — 

Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dine. 

Of  all  the  dresses,  I  select  Haidee' s : 

She   wore   two    jelicks — one   was   of    pale 
yellow ; 
Of  azure,  pink,  and  white,  was  her  chemise — 
'Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  Uke  a  little 
billow ; 
With  buttons  formed  of  pearls  as  large  as 
peas, 
All  gold  and  crimson    shone    her    j click's 
fellow, 


And  the  striped  white   gauze  baracan  that 

bound  her, 
Like    fleecy   clouds   about   the   moon,  flow'd 

round  her. 

One  large  gold  bracelet  clasp'd  each  lovely 
arm,  ~ 

Lockless — so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 
That  the  hand  stretch'd  and  shut  it  without 
harm. 

The  limb  which  it  adorn'd  its  only  mould ; 
So  beautiful — its  very  shape  would  charm. 

And  clinging  as  if  loath  to  lose  its  hold : 
The  purest  ore  enclosed  the  whitest  skin 
That  e'er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in. 

Around,  as  princess  of  her  father's  land, 

A  light  gold  bar,  above  her  instep  roU'd, 
Announced  her  rank;  twelve  rings  were  on 
her  hand  ; 
Her  hair  was  starr'd  with  gems  ;  her  veil's 
fine  fold 
Below  her  breast  was  fasten' d  with  a  band 
Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce 
be  told  ; 
Her  orange-silk  full  Turkish  trousers  furl'd 
About  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 

Her  hair's  long  auburn  waves,  down  to  her 
heel 
Flow'd  like  an  alpine  torrent,  which  the  sun 
Dyes  with  his  morning  Hght — and  would  con- 
ceal 
Her  person  if  allow'd  at  large  to  run, 
And  still  they  seem'd  resentfully  to  feel 

The  silken  fillet's  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 
Their  bonds    whene'er  some  Zephyr  caught 

began 
To  offer  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 

Bound  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life  ; 

The  very  air  seem'd  lighter  from  her  eyes, 
They  were  so  soft,  and  beautiful,  and  rife. 

With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies, 
And  pure  as  Psyche  ere  she  grew  a  wife — 

Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties ; 
Her  overpowering  presence  made  you  feel 
It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel. 

Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as   night,  v/ero 
tinged 
(It  is  the  country's  custom),  but  in  vain  ; 
i'or  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly 
fringed, 
The  glossy  rebels  mock'd  the  jetty  stain, 
And  in  her  native  beauty  stood  avenged  : 
Her  nails  were  touch 'd  with  henna;    but 
again 
The  power  of  art  was  turn'd  to  nothing,  for 
They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 

The  henna  should  be  deeply  dyed,  to  make 
The  skin  relieved  appear  more  fairly  fair ; 
She  had  no  need  of  this — day  ne'er  will  break 
On  mountain-tops  more  heavenly  white  than 
her ; 

64 


Lord  Btron.] 


THE  DEATH  OF  HAIDEE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


The  eye  might  doubt  if  it  were  well  awake, 

She  was  so  like  a  vision  ;  I  might  err, 
But  Shakspeare  also  says,  'tis  very  silly 
"  To  gild  refined  gold,  or  paint  the  lily." 

Juan  had  on  a  shawl  of  black  and  gold, 
But  a  white  baracan,  and  so  transparent 

The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold. 
Like  small  stars  through  the  milky- way  ap- 
parent ; 

His  turban,  furl'd  in  many  a  graceful  fold. 
An  emerald  aigrette  v/ith  Haidee's  hair  in't 

Surmounted  as  its  clasp — a  glowing  crescent, 

Whose   rays   shone   ever   trembling,  but  in- 
cessant. 

And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  suite, 
Dwarfs,  dancing- girls,  black  eunuchs,  and 
a  poet ; 
'"Which  made  their  new  establishment    com- 
plete ; 
The  last  was  of  great  fame,  and  liked  to 
show  it : 
His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet — 
And  for  his  theme — he  seldom  sung  below 
it, 
He  being  paid  to  satirise  or  flatter, 
As  the  Psalms  say,  "  inditing  a  good  matter." 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1351.— THE  DEATH  OF  HAIDEE. 

Afric  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth, 

Her  human  clay  is  kindled ;  full  of  power 
For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth, 
The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the   planet's 
hour. 
And,  like  the  soil  beneath  it,  will  bring  forth : 
Beauty  and  love  were   Haidee's  mother's 
dower ; 
But  her  large  dark  eye  show'd  deep  Passion's 

force. 
Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

Her  daughter,  tempered  with  a  milder  ray. 
Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and 
fair,. 

Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder,  they  display 
Terror  to  earth  and  tempest  to  the  air. 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way ; 
But,  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair. 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins. 

Even  as  the  simoom  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's  gore, 
And  he  himself  o'ermaster'd  and  cut  down; 

His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor 
Where  late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own  ; 

Thus  much  she   view'd   an    instant    and    no 
more — 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive 
groan  ; 

On  her  sire's  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 

Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  fell'd. 


A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure 
dyes 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which 
ran  o'er. 
And  her  head  droop' d  as  when  tlte  lily  lies 
O'ercharged  with  rain  :  her  summon' d  hand- 
maids bore 
Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes  ; 
Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their 
store : 
But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 
Like  one  life  could  not  hold  nor  death  destroy. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though 
chill— 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red ; 
She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seem'd  absent 
still; 
No  hideous  sign  proclaim' d  her  surely  dead : 
Corruption  came  not,  in  each  mind  to  kill 

All  hope  :  to  look  upon  her  sweet  faice  bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for   it  seem'd  full  of 

soul — 
She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the 
whole. 

The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 
When  exquisitely  chisell'd,  still  lay  there. 

But  fix'd  as  marble's  unchanged  aspect  throws 
O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair  ; 

O'er  the  Laocoon's  all  eternal  throes, 
And  ever- dying  gladiator's  air, 

Their  energy  like  life  forms  all  their  fame. 

Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same. 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake, 
Eather  the  dead,  for  life  seem'd  something 
new; 
A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 

Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a  heavy  ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still 
true 
Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the 

cause — 
For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 

She  look'd  on  many  a  face  with  vacant  eye. 
On  manj'-  a  token  without  knowing  what ; 
She  saw  them  watch  her  without  asking  why, 
And  reck'd  not  who  around  her  pillow  sat : 
Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not ;  not  a 
sigh 
Eeheved   her  thoughts ;    duU  silence   and 
quick  chat 
Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served  ;  she 

gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not ; 
Her  father  watch' d,  she  turn'd    her   eyes 


She  recognised  no  being,  and  no  spot, 
However  dear  or  cherish' d  in  their  day ; 

They  changed    from   room  to  room,  but  all 
■   forgot ; 
Gentle,  but  without  memory,  she  lay  ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 


[Lord  Byron. 


At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain 

be  weaning 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  wax'd  full  of  fearful 

meaning. 

And  then  a  slave  bethought  her  of  a  harp  : 
The  hax'per  came  and  tuned  his  instrument : 

At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp, 
On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent ; 

Then  to  the  wall  she  turn'd,  as  if  to  warp 
Her   thoughts   from    sorrow    through   her 
heart  re-sent ; 

And  he  began  a  long  low  island  song 

Of  ancient  days  ere  tyranny  gi'ew  strong. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 
In  time  to  his  old  tune :  he  changed  the 
theme, 
And  sung  of  Love ;   the  fierce  name  struck 
through  all 
Her  recollection  ;  on  her  flash' d  the  dream 
Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  caU. 

To  be  so  being :  in  a  gushing  stream 
The  tears  rush'd  forth  from  her  o'erclouded 

brain, 
Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in 
rain. 

Short  solace,  vain  relief !    thought  came  too 
quick. 
And   wliirl'd  her   brain   to   madness ;    she 
arose 
As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwelt  among  th^sick, 

And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes  ; 
But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek, 
Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its 
close ; 
Hers  was  a  frenzy  which  disdain'd  to  rave, 
Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to  save. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  wither' d  thus ;  at 
last, 
Without  a  groan,    or    sigh,  or  glance,  to 
show 
A  parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  pass'd : 
And  they  who  watch' d  her  nearest  could 
not  know 
The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 

Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and  slow. 
Glazed    o'er    her    eyes — the    beautiful,    the 

black — 
Oh  to  possess  such  lustre,  and  tlien  lack  ! 

She  died,  but  not  alone  ;  she  held  within 
A  second  principle  of  life,  which  might 

Have  dawn'd  a  fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin ; 
But  closed  its  little  being  without  light. 

And  went  down  to  the  grave  unborn,  wherein 
Blossom  and  bough  ho  wither'd  with  one 
bUght ; 

In  vain  the  dews  of  heaven  descend  above 

The  bleeding  flower  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 

Thus  lived — thus  died  she  ;  never  more  on  her 
Shall  sorrow  light  or  shame.     She  was  not 
made 
Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to 

bear. 


Which  colder  hearts   endure  till  they  are 
laid 
By  age  in  earth  :  her  days  and  pleasures  were 

Brief,  but  delightful — such  as  had  not  stay'd 
Long  with  her  destiny ;  but  she  sleeps  well 
By  the  sea-shore  whereon  she  loved_to  ilwell. 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 

Its  dwellings  do\vn,  its  tenants  pass'd  away, 

None  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is  there; 
And  nothing  outward  tells  of  hviman  clay ; 

Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so  fair ; 
No  one  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say 

What  was  ;  no  dirge  except  the  hollow  seas 

Mourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1352.— ALL  FOE  LOVE. 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story ; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our 

glory  ; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of   sweet  two-and- 

twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so 

plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns   to    the  brow 

that  is  wrinkled  ? 
'Tis   but   as   a   dead    flower    with   May-dew 

besprinkled : 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that 

is  hoary — 
Wliat  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only 

give  glory  ? 

0  Fame ! — if    I    e'er    took    delight   in   thy 

praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding 

phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one 

discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love 

her. 

There   chiefly   I   sought   thee,   there   only   I 

f  oimd  thee ; 
Her  glance   was   the   best  of  the  rays  that 

surround  thee ; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright 

in  my  story, 

1  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Lied  1824. 


1353.— SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  sides, 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes, 
Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaveu  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

64*. 


Lord  Bteox.1 


ELEGY  ON  THYEZiL 


[Seventh  Period 


One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less 
Had  half  Impair'd  the  nameless  grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 
Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, — 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1354.— ELEGY  ON  THYEZA. 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth ; 
And  forms  so  soft  and  charms  so  rare 

Too  soon  return' d  to  Earth  ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  v/hero  thou  liest  low 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow 

So  I  behold  them  not : 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved  and  long  must  love. 

Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  toll 
'Tis  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last, 

As  fervently  as  thou 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  mo. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours  ; 

The  worst  can  be  bu.t  mine  : 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lours 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey ; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch' d, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away. 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf. 

Than  see  it  pluck' d  to-day  ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  boar 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 


I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade  ; 
The  night  that  follow' d  such  a  mom 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade  : 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last, 

Extinguish'd,  not  decay'd  ; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed 
To  think  I  was  not  near,  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed : 
To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face. 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace. 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head ; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again.. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Eeturns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught  except  its  living  years. 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1355.— YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

There 's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that 

it  takes  away 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in 

feeling's  dull  decay ; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush 

alone  which  fades  so  fast. 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere 

youth  itself  be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  .gpirits  float   above  the 

wreck  of  happiness 
Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of 

excess  : 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only 

points  in  vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver' d  sail  shall 

never  stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal   coldness  of   the  soul   like 

death  itself  comes  down  ; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not 

dream  its  own  ; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain 

of  our  tears, 
And    though  the   eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis 

where  the  ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and 

mirth  distract  the  breast, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more 

their  former  hope  of  rest ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  NIGHT  BEFOEE  WATERLOO. 


[Lord  Byron. 


'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret 

Avreathe, 
All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn 

and  grey  beneath. 

O  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  or  be  what  I 

have  been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o'er  many 

a  vanish' d  scene, — 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  aH 

brackish  though  they  be, 
So  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of   life,  those 

tears  would  flow  to  me  I 

Lord  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1821. 


1356.— VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAE. 

The  King  was  on  his  throne. 

The  Satraps  throng'd  the  hall : 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 

In  Judah  deem'd  divine — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  heathen's  wine ! 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand : 
The  fingers  of  a  man  ; — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice ; 
All  bloodless  wax'd  his  look. 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear. 

The  wisest  of  the  earth. 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear. 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldea's  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill ; 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore  ; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage. 

They  saw — but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land , 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, 
He  heard  the  king's  command. 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth ; 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view  ; 
He  read  it  on  that  night, — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

"Belshazzar's  grave  is  made, 


He,  in  the  balance  weigh' d, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay  ; 
The  shroud  his  robe  of  state, 

His  canopy  the  stone  ; 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate  ! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne  !  "  _    _ 
Lord  Brjron.—Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


His  kingdom  pass'd  away 


I357._T0  BELSHAZZAE. 

Belshazzar  !  from  the  banquet  turn. 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fulness  fall ; 
Behold  !  while  yet  before  thee  burn 

The  graven  words,  the  glowing  wall, 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall 

Crown' d  and  anointed  from  on  high  ; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  worst  of  aU — 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die  ? 

Go  !  dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow — 

Grey  hairs  but  poorly  wreathe  with  them  ; 
Youth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now. 

More  than  thy  very  diadem. 
Where  thou  hast  tarnish' d  every  gem : — 

Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by. 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  even  slaves  contemn ; 

And  learn  like  better  men  to  die  ! 

Oh !  early  in  the  balance  weigh'd. 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth, 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decay' d. 

And  loft  thee  but  a  mass  of  earth. 
To  Bee  thee  moves  the  scorner's  mirth : 

But  tears  in  Hope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth — 

Unfit  to  govern,  hve,  or  die. 

Lord  Bijron.—Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


1358. 


-THE  NIGHT  BEFOEE 
BATTLE  OF  WATEELOO. 


THE 


There  was  a  sound  of  reveh*y  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave 

n>en; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake 

again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a 

rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ? — No ;  'twas  but  the 

wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On   with   the   dance  !    let  joy  be    uncon- 

fined ; 
No    sleep    till     morn    when     Youth    and 

Pleasure  meet 


Shelley.] 


OPENING  OF  QUEEN  MAB. 


[Seventh  Period. 


To  chase  the  glowing   Hours  with  flying 

feet— 
But,   hark! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in 

once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm !  Arm  !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening 

roar ! 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's   fated  chieftain ;    he  did 

hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic 

ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd 

it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too 

well 
Which   stretch' d  his   father  on   a  bloody 

bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could 

quell : 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fight- 
ing, fell. 

Ah  !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and 
fro, 

And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of 
distress. 

And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour 
ago 

Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveli- 
ness ; 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as 
press 

The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking 
sighs 

Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated;  who  could 


If  ever  more   should  meet  those  mutual 
eyes, 
Since  upon  nights  so  sweet  such  awful  mom 
could  rise  ? 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the 

steed. 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering 

car, 
Went    pouring     forward    with    impetuous 


And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Eoused  up  the  soldier  ere  the    morning 

star ; 
"While  throng' d  the   citizens   with  terror 

dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white   lips — "  The  foe  ! 

They  come !  they  come  !  " 

And  wUd  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gather- 
ing" rose! 

The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's 
hiUs 

Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon 
foes : — 


How   in   the   noon   of    night  that  pibroch 
thrills, 

Savage  and  shrill!     But  with  the  breath 
which  fills 

Their    mountain-pipe,    so    fill    the    moun- 
taineers 

With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 

The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And    Evan's,  Donald's  fame   rings   in   each 
clansman's  ears ! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green 

leaves, 
Dewy   with   nature's   tear-drops,    as    they 

pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall 

grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder 

cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  frdl  of  lusty  life. 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay. 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of 

strife. 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in   arms, — the 

day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array ! 
The    thunder- clouds    close   o'er  it,   which 

when  rent 
The  earth  is  cover' d  thick  with  other  clay. 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and 

pent, 
Eider  and  horse, — friend,  foe,  in  one  red  burial 

blent ! 

Lonl  Byron.— Born  1788,  Died  1824. 


I359-— OPENING  OF  QUEEN  MAB. 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  ! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon. 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue ; 
The  other,  rosy  as  the  mom 

When,  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world : 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power, 

Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres, 

Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 

Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  snow. 
That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 

As  breathing  marble,  perish  ? 

Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ? 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  CLOUD. 


[Shelley. 


Spare  nothing  but  a  gloomy  tlieme 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralize  ? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 

Stealing  o'er  sensation, 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 

Chaseth  into  darkness  ? 

Will  lanthe  walce  again, 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Wliose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life,  and  rapture  from  her  smile. 

Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed. 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath, 

The  baby  Sleep  is  piUow'd : 

Her  golden  tresses  shade 

The  bosom's  stainless  pride. 
Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 

Around  a  marble  column. 

Hark  !  whence  that  rushing  soimd  ? 

'Tis  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a  lonely  ruin  swells. 
Which,  wandering  on  the  echoing  shore, 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening : 
'Tis  softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh ; 
'Tis  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre^whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep  : 

Those  lines  of  rainbow  light 
Are  like  the  moonbeams  when  they  fall 
Through  some  cathedral  window,  but  the  teints 

Are  such  as  may  not  find 

Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  fairy  queen ! 
Celestial  coursers  paw  the  unyielding  air ; 
Their  filmy  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl, 
And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light : 

These  the  queen  of  speUs  drew  in  ; 

She  spread  a  charm  around  the  spot. 
And  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal  car, 

Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently, 
Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 

Shellexj.—Born  1792,  Died  1822. 


1360.— THE  CLOUD. 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings   are  shaken   the   dews  that 
waken 

The  sweet  birds  every  one, 
When  rock'd  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under ; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 


And  all  the  night  'tis  my  piUow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiej  bowers 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits  ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fetter' d  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  SiDtioa, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  riUs,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hiUs, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves,  remains ; 
And   I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  bine 
smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes. 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings  ; 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath, 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  aii-y  nest, 

As  stiU  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin 
roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  river,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on 
high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and 
swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam  proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof. 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march. 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chain'd  to  my 
chair. 

Is  the  million-colour' d  bow ; 
The  sphere-fire  above,  its  soft  colours  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 


ShelleIt.] 


TO  A  SKYLAEK. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


I       I  am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
i       I  pass  through  the  pores  cf  the  ocean  and 
j  shores ; 

I  I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 

For  after  the  rain,  when,  Avith  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbfeams,  with  their  con- 
vex gleams. 
Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  ray  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from 
the  tomb, 
I  rise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

Shelley.— Born  1792,  Bled  1822. 


1361.— TO  A  SKYLAEK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still,  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever, 
singest. 

In  the  golden  lightening 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening. 
Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  daylight, 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 
delight. 

Keen  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear. 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  loeams,  and  heaven  is 
overflow' d. 

What  then  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 


Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 
not. 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  he? 
bower. 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  floAvors  and  grass,  which  screen  it 
from  the  view. 

Like  a  rose  embower' d 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower' d. 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy- 
winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Eain-awaken'd  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Jo3''Ous,  and  clear,  and  freeh,  thy  music  doth 
surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  ; 

I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wane 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Match' d  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden 
want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
"\^'liat  love  of  thine  own  kind  P  what  ignorance 
of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal 
stream  ? 


From  1780  to  ISee.'] 


TO  THE  NIGHT. 


[Shelley. 


We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught : 
Our   sweetest   songs   are  those   that  tell   of 
saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  could  come 
near. 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delight  and  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skiU  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the 
ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening 
now. 


Shelley. — Born 


Died  1822 


1562.— LINES  TO  AN  INDIAN  AIR. 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how  ? 
To  thy  chamber-window,  Sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
The  champak  odours  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint 
It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine 
O  beloved  as  thou  art ! 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
]\Iy  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 
jMy  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; 
O  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

Shelley.— Bom  1792,  Died  1822. 


1363.— I  FEAR  THY  KISSES. 

I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden  j 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine : 


My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burthen  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion ; 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine ; 
Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine.  ~^    - 

Shelley.— Bom  1792,  Died  1S22. 


1364.— LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 
And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 
With  a  sweet  emotion ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single. 
All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle — 
Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven  , 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdain' d  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 
And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea — 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 
If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 

Shelley.— Born  1792,  Died  1822. 


1365.— TO  THE  NIOHT. 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave. 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  day. 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  Vv^ander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee  ; 
^Vhen  light   rode  high,   and   the  dew  was 

gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee. 

Tlay  brother  Death  came,  and  cried 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee 


Shet.t.et.]                                      the  flight  OF  LOYE.                    [Seventh  Period.— 

Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? — And  I  replied 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 

No,  not  thee ! 

The  worship  the  heart  Hfts  above 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not  : 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Soon,  too  soon — 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 

The  devotion  to  something  afar 

Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night- 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Shelley.— Bom  1792,  Died  1822. 

Come  soon,  soon ! 
Shelley.— Born  1792,  Died  1822. 

1368.— INVOCATION. 
Earely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

1366.— THE  FLIGHT  OF  LOVE. 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter' d, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead ; 

"Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 
Many  a  day  and  night  ? 

When  the  cloud  is  scatter' d, 

Many  a  weary  night  and  day 

The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 

Sweet  tones  are  remember'd  not ; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  ? 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 

As  music  and  splendour 

Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 

Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute. 

All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

The  heart's  echoes  render 

No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 

Like  the  wind  through  a  ruin'd  cell, 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembhng  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismay'd; 

Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Eeproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near. 

And  reproach  thou  wiit  not  hear. 

Wlien  hearts  have  once  mingled. 

Love  flrst  leaves  the  well-built  nest ; 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

The  weak  one  is  singled 

To  a  merry  measure ; — 

To  endure  what  it  once  possest. 

Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

0  Love  !  who  bewailest 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure  ; — 

The  frailty  of  aU  things  here, 
Why  choose  you  the  frailest 

Pity  then  wiU  cut  away 

Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilb  stay. 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier  ? 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high ; 

The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drest 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thco 

And  the  starry  night ; 

Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 

When  the  golden  mists  are  bom. 

Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 
Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 

I  love  snow  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost ; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms. 

When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 

Shelley.— Born  1792,  Died  1822. 

Everything  almost 

Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 

Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

1367.--ONE  WOED  IS  TOO  OFTEN 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

PROFANED. 

And  such  society 

As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good ; 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

BetAveen  thee  and  me 

For  me  to  profane  it, 

What  diff' rence  ?  but  thou  dost  possess 

One  feeHng  too  falsely  disdain' d 
For  thee  to  disdain  it. 

The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

I  love  Love — ^though  he  has  wings. 

For  prudence  to  smother, 

And  like  light  can  flee ; 

And  Pity  from  thee  more  dea^ 

But  above  all  other  things. 

Than  that  from  another. 

Spirit,  I  love  thee — 

From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  A  LADY,  WITH  A  GUITAE. 


[Shelley. 


Thou  art  love  and  life !  O  come ! 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home ! 

Shelley.— Lorn  1792,  Died  1822. 


1369.— STANZAS  WEITTEN  IN  DEJEC- 
TION NEAR  NAPLES. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 
The  "waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright. 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  light : 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight — 
The  winds',  the  birds',  the  ocean-floods'- 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strewn ; 

I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 

Like    light    dissolved    in     star -showers 

thrown : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone ; 
The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion — 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my 

emotion. 

Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  Content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found. 
And  walk'd  with  inward  glory  crown'd — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure ; 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ; 
To  me  that  cup   has  been  dealt  in  another 
measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
j  I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

I  And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 

I  Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me. 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
I  My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 

I        Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Shelley.— Bom  1792,  Died  1822. 


Which  yet  survive,  stamp'd  on  these  lifeless 

things, 
The  hand  that  mock'd  them  and  the   heart 

that  fed  ; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 
"  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair  1" 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Eound  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away, 

Shelley.-Born  1792,  Died  1822. 


1370.— OZYMANDIAS  OF  EGYPT. 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said :    Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of 

stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand 
Half   sunk,    a   shatter'd   visage    lies,    whose 

fro^vn 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell   that   its   sculptor  weU    those    passions 

read 


1371.— TO  A  LADY,  WITH  A  GUITAR. 

Ariel  to  Miranda : — Take 

This  slave  of  music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him,  who  is  the  slave  of  thee ; 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou. 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow. 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again 

And,  too  intense,  is  turn'd  to  pain. 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken ; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who 

From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own  ; 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell. 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon 

In  her  interlunar  swoon 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel ; 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  Star  of  birth 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity  : 

Many  changes  have  been  run 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has   track' d  your   steps   and  served  your 

will. 
Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 
This  is  all  remember' d  not ; 
And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  si)rite  is 
Imprison' d  for  some  fault  of  his 
In  a  body  like  a  grave — 
From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave 
For  his  service  and  his  sorrow 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  viol  wrought 
To  echo  aU  harmonious  thought, 
Fell'd  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 
The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 
Kock'd  in  that  repose  divine 
On  the  wind-swept  Apennine  ;  / 


Shelley.] 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND. 


TSeventh  Pekiod. 


And  dreaming,  some  of  autumn  past, 

And  some  of  spring'  approaching'  fast, 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  sliowers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love ;  and  so  this  tree, — 

O  that  such  our  death  may  be  ! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  hapx)ier  form  again : 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar ; 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply 

To  all  who  question  skUfully 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own ; 

"Whispering  in  enamour'd  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells ; 

— For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies. 

Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 

And  the  many- voiced  fountains  ; 

The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills. 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  riUs, 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew. 

And  airs  of  evening  ;  and  it  knew 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round. 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way  : 

— All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  toll 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well 

The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions  ;  and  no  more 

Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before 

By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 

But,  sweetly  as  it  answers  will 

Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 

It  keeps  its  highest  holiest  tone 

For  one  beloved  Friend  alone. 

Shelley.— Born  1792,  Died  1822. 


1372.— ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND. 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves 

dead 
Are  driven,  like   ghosts  from   an   enchanter 


Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 
The   winged  seeds,  where  they  lie   cold  and 

low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 
Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 


Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere ; 
Destroyer  and  Preserver ;  Hear,  O  hear  ! 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's' 

commotion. 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are 

shed 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of   Heaven 

and  Ocean, 
Angels   of    rain    and    lightning;    there    are 

spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 
Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim 

verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height — 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou 

dirge 
Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 
Of  vapours,  from  whoso  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst :  O 

hear ! 

Thou   Avho    didst   waken   from   his    summer- 
dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay 
Lull'd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams 
Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 
AU  overgrown  Avith  azure  moss  and  flowers 
So  sv/eet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  thoni ! 

Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 
Cleave    themselves    into    chasms,   while    far 

below 
The  sea-blooms   and  the  oozy  v/oods  which 

wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 
Thy -voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  0  hear  ! 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 

A  wave   to    pant   beneath   thy   power,    and 

share 
The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  Thou,  0  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 
The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven. 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  the  skyey  speed 
Scarce  seem'd  a  vision,  I  would  ne'er  have 

striven 
As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 

0  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 

1  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !  I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight   of  hours   has   chain' d  and 

bow'd 
One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and 

proud. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 
Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 


From  1780  to  18G6.]  HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 


[Shelley. 


Sweet  thougli  in   sadness.     Be  thou,    Spirit 

fierce, 
My  spirit !  be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 
Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  wither'd  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth ; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse. 
Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguish'd  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawaken'd  earth 
The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     O  Wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 

Shelley.— Born  1792,  Died  1822. 


1374.— THE  WIDOW  BIED. 

A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 

No  flower  upon  the  ground. 
And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 

Shelley.— Born  1792,  Died  1822. 


1375- 


-HYMN    TO    INTELLECTUAL 
BEAUTY. 


1373.— AUTUMN. 

The  •warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is 

wailing. 
The  bare  boughs  are  sighin'g,  the  pale  flowers 
are  dying ; 

And  the  year 
On  the  earth  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of 
leaves  dead 

Is  lying. 
Come,  Months,  come  away, 
From  November  to  May, 
In  your  saddest  array, — 
Follow  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  year,  1 

And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre,   i 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipt  worm  is 

crawling, 
The    rivers     are    swelling,    the    thunder    is 
knelling  j 

For  the  year  ;  1 

The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards 
each  gone 

To  his  dwelling. 
Come,  Months,  come  away ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gi'ey ; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play  ; 
Ye,  foUow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 

Shelley.— Born  1792,  Died  1822. 


The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  power 
Floats,  though  unseen,  among  us — visiting 
This  various  v/orld  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  feom.  flower  to 

flower ; 
Like    moonbeams,   that    behind    some    piny 
mountain  shower, 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance, 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  -widely  spread, 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine 

upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  where  art  thou 
gone  ? 
Why   dost   thou  pass   away   and   leave   our 

state. 
This   dim,   vast   vale   of    tears,   vacant   and 
desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves    rainbows    o'er    yon    mountain 
river  J 
Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is 
shown  ; 
Wliy  fear,  and  dream,    and   death,    and 

birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom  ;  why  man  has  such  a  scope 
For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 

No  voice   from   some   sublimer   world    hath 
ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given  ; 
Therefore  the  names  of  demon,  ghost,  and 
heaven. 
Remain  the  records  of  thoir  vain  endeavour — 
Frail  spells,  whose  uttcr'd  charm  might  not 
avail  to  sever 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy   light   alone,   Kke   mist   o'er  mountains 
driven. 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument. 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  Kfe's  unquiet  dream. 

Love,    hope,    and     self-esteem,    like    clouds 
depart,  • 
And   come,  for   some   uncertain    moments 

lent. 
Man  were  immortal  and  omnipotent 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  within 
his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lover's  eyes  ! 
Thou  that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment, 


Shelley.] 


MTJTABILITY. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Like  darkness  to  a  dying-  flame  ! 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came  ! 
Depart  not,  lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

"While  yet   a  boy  I  sought   fop  ghosts,  and 
sped 
Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave, 

and  ruin, 
And    starlight    wood,    with    fearful    steps 
pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  call'd  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our 
youth  is  fed ; 
I  was  not  heard  ;  I  saw  them  not. 
"^Vhen  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  Avinds  are 
wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming, 
Sudden  thy  shadow  fell  on  me — 
I  shriek'd,  and  clasp' d  my  hands  in  ecstasy  ! 

1  vow'd  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 
To  thee  and  thine  ;    have   I  not  kept  the 

vow? 
With   beating   heart  and   streaming  eyes, 
even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave.     They  have  in 
vision' d  bowers 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Out  watch' d  with  me  the  envious  night : 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 
Unlink'd  with  hope  that   thou  wouldst 

free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery — 
That  thou,  O  awful  loveliness, 
Wouldst   give  whate'er  these   words   cannot 
express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
"When  noon  is  past ;  there  is  a  harmony 
In  Autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Wliich  through  the  summer  is  not  heard,  nor 

seen. 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 

Its  calm — to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee — 
Wliom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 

Shelley.— Bom  1792,  Died  1822. 


1 37C.— MUTABILITY. 

The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  dies ; 
All  that  we  wish  to  stay 

Tempts,  and  then  fliers  ; 
What  is  this  world's  delight  ? 
Lightning  that  mocks  the  night. 
Brief  even  as  bright. 


Virtue,  how  frail  it  is  ! 

Friendship  too  rare  ! 
Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 

For  proud  despair ! 
But  we,  though  soon  they  fall. 
Survive  their  joy,  and  all 
Which  ours  we  call. 

Whilst  skies  are  blue  and  bright. 

Whilst  flowers  are  gay. 
Whilst  eyes  that  change  ere  night 

Make  glad  the  day. 
Whilst  yet  the  calm  hours  creep. 
Dream  thou  !  and  from  thy  sleep 
Then  wake  to  weep. 

Shelley.— Born  1792,  Died  1822. 


1377 —PASSAGE  OF  THE  EED  SEA. 

For  many  a  coal-black  tribe  and  cany  spear, 
The  hireling  giiards  of  Misraim's  throne,  were 

there. 
From  distant   Gush  they  troop' d,   a  warrior 

train, 
Siwah's  green  isle  and  Senaar's  marly  plain  : 
On  either  wing  their  fiery  coursers  check 
The  parch'd  and  sinewy  sons  of  Amalek  ; 
While  close  behind,  inured  to  feast  on  blood, 
Deck'd  in  Behemoth's  spoils,  the  tall  Shan- 

galla  strode. 
'Mid  blazing  helms  and  bucklers  rough  with 

gold. 
Saw  ye  how  swift  the  scythed  chariots  roll'd  ? 
Lo,  these  are   they  whom,  lords   of    Afric's 

fates. 
Old    Thebes    hath   pour'd    through    all    her 

hundred  gates, 
Mother    of     armies  !       How    the     emeralds 

glow'd, 
Where,  flush'd  v;ith   power  and   vengeance, 

Pharaoh  rode  ! 
And   stoled    in  white,  those   brazen    wheels 

before, 
Osiris'  ark  his  swarthy  wizards  bore  ; 
And  still  responsive  to  the  trumpet's  cry. 
The  priestly  sistrum  murmur' d — Victory!  '" 
Why  swell  these  shouts  that  rend  the  desert's 

gloom  ? 
Whom  come  ye  forth  to  combat  ? — warriors, 

whom  ? 
These  flocks  and  herds — this  faint  and  weary 

train — 
Red  from  the  scourge,  and  recent  from  the 

chain  ? 
God   of    the   poor,    the  poor  and    friendless 

save  ! 
Giver  and  Lord  of  freedom,  help  the  slave ! 
North,  south,  and  west,  the  sandy  whirlwinds 

fly, 

The  circling  horns  of  Egypt's  chivalry. 

On  earth's  last  margin  throng  the  weeping 

train ; 
Their  cloudy  guide  moves  on: — ''And  must 

we  swim  the  main  ?  " 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


FROM  BISHOP  HEBER'S  JOURNAL. 


[Bp.  Hebee. 


'Mid  the  light    spray  their  snorting  camels 

stood, 
Nor  bathed  a  fetlock  in  the  nauseous  flood  ; 
He  comes — ^their  leader  comes  ! — the  man  of 

God 
O'er  the  wide  waters  lifts  his  mighty  rod, 
And    onward  treads.      The    circling    waves 

retreat, 
In    hoarse    deep   murmurs,    from    his     holy 

feet ; 

And  the  chased  surges,  inly  roaring,  show 
The  hard  wet  sand  and  coral  hUls  below. 
j  With  limbs  that  falter,  and   with   hearts 

that  swell, 
Down,  down  they  pass — a  steep  and  slippery 

deU; 
Around  them  rise,  in  pristine  chaos  hurl'd, 
The  ancient  rocks,  the  secrets  of  the  world  ; 
And    flowers   that  blush  beneath  the   ocean 

green, 
And  caves,  and  sea-calves'  low-roof  d  haunt, 

are  seen. 
Down,    safely    do^vn   the   narrow   pass   they 

tread ; 
The  beetling  waters  storm  above  their  head ; 
While  far  behind  retires  the  sinking  day, 
And  fades  on  Edom's  hills  its  latest  ray. 

Yet  not  from  Israel  fled  the  friendly  light. 
Or  dark  to  them  or  cheerless  came  the  night. 
Still  in  their  van,  along  that  dreadful  road. 
Blazed  broad  and  fierce  the  brandish' d  torch 

of  God. 
Its  meteor  glare  a  tenfold  lustre  gave 
On  the  long  mirror  of  the  rosy  wave  ; 
W^hile  its  blest  beams  a  sunlike  heat  supply. 
Warm    every   cheek,    and    dance    in    every 

eye — 
To  them  alone — for  Misraim's  wizard  train 
Invoke  for  light  their  monster-gods  in  vain ; 
Clouds  heap'd  on  clouds  their  struggling  sight 

confine. 
And  tenfold  darkness  broods  above  their  line. 
Yet  on  they  fare  by  reckless  vengeance  led. 
And  range  unconscious  through  the  ocean's 

bed; 
Till   midway   now — that    strange    and    fiery 

form 
Sliow'd  his  dread  visage  light' ning  through 

the  storm  ; 
With  withering  splendour  blasted   all   their 

might. 
And  brake  their  chariot  wheels,  and  marr'd 

their  coursers'  flight. 
"Fly,  Misraim,  fly!"     The  ravenous  floods 

they  see. 
And,  fiercer  than  the  floods,  the  Deity. 
"  Fly,   Misraim,   fly  !  "     From  Edom's  coral 

strand 
Again   the   prophet    stretch' d    his    dreadful 

wand. 
With  one  wild  crash  the  thundering  waters 

sweep, 
And  all  is  waves — a  dark  and  lonely  deep  ; 
Yet  o'er  those   lonely  waves  such  murmurs 

past. 
As  mortal  wailing  swell' d  the  nightly  blast. 


And  strange  and  sad  the  whispering  breezes 

bore 
The  groans  of  Egypt  to  Arabia's  shore. 

Oh  !  welcome  came  the  morn,  where  Israel 

stood 
In  trustless  wonder  by  the  avenging  flood  ! 
Oh  !    welcome  came   the   cheerful   morn,  to 

show 
The  drifted  -wreck  of  Zoan's  pride  below ! 
The  mangled  limbs  of  men — ^the  broken  car — 
A  few  sad  relics  of  a  nation's  war ; 
Alas,  how  few  !     Then,  soft  as  Elim's  well. 
The  precious  tears  of  new-born  freedom  fell. 
And    he,    whose   harden'd   heart    ahke    had 

borne 
The  house  of  bondage  and  the  oppressor's 

scorn. 
The   stubborn   slave,  by  hope's  new  beams 

subdued. 
In  faltering  accents  sobb'd  his  gratitude, 
Till  kindling  into  warmer  zeal,  around 
The  virgin  timbrel  waked  its  silver  sound  ; 
And  in  fierce  joy,  no  more  by  doubt  supprest. 
The  struggling  spirit  throbb'd   in   Miriam's 

breast. 
She,  with  bare  arms,  and  fixing  on  the  sky 
The  dark  transparence  of  her  lucid  eye, 
Pour'd  on  the  winds  of  heaven  her  wild  sweet 

harmony. 
"  Where  now,"  she  sang,  "  the  tall  Egyptian 

spear  ? 
On's    sunlike    shield,    and      Zoan's    chariot, 

where  ? 
Above     their    ranks    the    whelming    waters 

spread. 
Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed !  " 
And  every  pause  between,  as  Miriam  sang. 
From  tribe  to  tribe  the  martial  thunder  rang, 
And     loud     and     far    tlieir    stormy    chorus 

spread — 
"  Shout,      Israel,      for      the      Lord      hath 

triumphed ! " 

Bis1w]p  Heler.—Born  1783,  Died  1826. 


1378. 


-FROM   BISHOP    HEBER'S 
JOURNAL. 


If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 
How  fast  would  evening  fail 

In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove, 
Listening  the  nightingale ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee. 
How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  Gunga's  mimic  sea ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 
When  on  our  deck  reclined. 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay. 
And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 


Bp.  Hebek.] 


AN  EVENING  WALK  IN  BENGAL. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 

My  twilight  steps  I  giiidc, 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam 

I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 

The  lingering  noon  to  cheer, 
But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eye, 

Thy  meek  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  or  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on !  then  on !  where  duty  leads, 

My  course  be  onward  still ; 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads. 

O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course,  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates, 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain ; 
For  sweet  the  bhss  us  both  awaits 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 

Across  the  dark-blue  sea  ; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  ! 

Bisliop  Hcher.—Born  1783,  Died  1826. 


I379.-«.AN  EVENING  WALK  IN 
BENGAL. 

Our  task  is  done  ! — on  Gunga's  breast 
The  sun  is  sinking  down  to  rest ; 
And,  moor'd  beneath  the  tamai-ind  bough, 
Our  bark  has  found  its  harbour  now. 
With  furled  sail  and  painted  side, 
Behold  the  tiny  frigate  ride : 
Upon  her  deck,  'mid  charcoal  gleams. 
The  Moslem's  savoury  supper  steams ; 
While  all  apart,  beneath  the  wood, 
The  Hindoo  cooks  his  simpler  food. 

Come,  walk  with  me  the  jungle  through- 
If  yonder  hunter  told  us  true, 
Far  off,  in  desert  dank  and  rude, 
The  tiger  holds  its  solitude ; 
Now  (taught  by  recent  harm  to  shun 
The  thunders  of  the  English  gun) 
I        A  dreadful  guest  but  rarely  seen, 
Eetums  to  scare  the  village  green. 
Come  boldly  on ;  no  venom'd  snake 
Can  shelter  in  so  cool  a  brake — 
Child  of  the  sun,  he  loves  to  lie 
'Midst  nature's  embers,  parch' d  and  dry, 
Where  o'er  some  tower  in  ruin  laid. 
The  peepul  spreads  its  haunted  shade  ; 
Or  round  a  tomb  his  scales  to  wreathe, 
Fit  warder  in  the  gate  of  Death. 
Come  on ;  yet  pause  !     Behold  us  now 
Beneath  the  bamboo's  arched  bough. 
Where,  gemming  oft  that  sacred  gloom, 
Glows  the  geranium's  scarlet  bloom ;. 


And  winds  our  path  through  many  a  bower 

Of  fragrant  tree  and  giant  flower — 

The  ceiba's  crimson  pomp  display' d 

O'er  the  broad  plantain's  humbler  shade. 

And  dusk  anana's  prickly  glade  ; 

While  o'er  the  brake,  so  wild  and  fair, 

The  betel  waves  his  crest  in  air ; 

With  pendant  train  and  rushing  wings. 

Aloft  the  gorgeous  peacock  springs ; 

And  he,  the  bird  of  hundred  dyes. 

Whose  plumes  the  dames  of  Ava  prize. 

So  rich  a  shade,  so  green  a  sod, 

Our  English  fairies  never  trod  ! 

Yet  who  in  Indian  bowers  has  stood, 

But  thought  on  England's  "  good  greenwood; " 

And  bless'd,  beneath  the  palmy  shade, 

Her  hazel  and  her  hawthorn  glade  ; 

And  breath'd  a  prayer  (how  oft  in  vain  !) 

To  gaze  upon  her  oaks  again  ? 

A  truce  to  thought — the  jackal's  cry 

Eesounds  Hke  sylvan  revelry ; 

And  through  the  trees  yon  faiHng  ray 

Will  scantly  serve  to  guide  our  way. 

Yet  mark,  as  fade  the  upper  skies, 

Each  thicket  opes  ten  thousand  eyes — 

Before,  beside  us,  and  above. 

The  fire-fly  lights  his  lamp  of  love, 

Eetreating,  chasing,  sinking,  soaring. 

The  darkness  of  the  copse  exploring ; 

AVhile  to  this  cooler  air  confest, 

The  broad  dhatura  bares  her  breast, 

Of  fragrant  scent  and  virgin  white, 

A  pearl  around  the  locks  of  night ! 

Still  as  we  pass,  in  soften'd  hum 

Along  the  breezy  alleys  come 

The  village  song,  the  horn,  the  drum  : 

Still  as  we  pass,  from  bush  and  brier 

The  shrill  cigala  strikes  his  lyre ; 

And  what  is  she  whose  liquid  strain 

Thrills  through  yon  copse  of  sugar-cane  ? 

I  know  that  soul-entrancing  swell, 

It  is — ^it  must  be — Philomel ! 

Enough,  enough,  the  rustling  trees 

Announce  a  shower  upon  the  breeze, 

The  flashes  of  the  summer  sky 

Assume  a  deeper,  ruddier  dye ; 

Yon  lamp  that  trembles  on  the  stream. 

From  forth  our  cabin  sheds  its  beam  ; 

And  we  must  early  sleep,  to  find 

Betimes  the  morning's  healthy  wind. 

But  oh  I  with  thankfvd  hearts  confess 

E'en  here  there  may  be  happiness ; 

And  He,  the  bounteous  Sire,  has  given 

His  peace  on  earth — his  hope  of  heaven. 

Bislwp  Heher.—Born  1783,  Died  1S2G. 


1380.— EPIPHANY. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning. 
Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  thine 
aid! 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning. 
Guide  where  our  infant  Eedeemer  is  laid 


From  1780  to  1866.]  LINES  WEITTEN  IN  A  CHUECHYAED.    [Herbert  Knowles. 


Cold  on  his  cradle  the  dew-drops  are  shining ; 

Low  lies  His  bed  with  the  beasts  of  the 
stall; 
Angels  adore  Him  in  slumber  reclining — 

Maker,  and  Monarch,  and  Saviour  of  all. 

Say,  shall  we  yield  Him,  in  costly  devotion, 

Odors  of  Edom,  and  offerings  divine — 
Gems  of   the   mountain,   and   pearls   of   the 
ocean — 
Myrrh  from  the  forest,  and  gold  from  the 
mine  ? 

Vainly  we  offer  each  ample  oblation. 

Vainly  with  gold  would  His  favor  secure  ; 

Eicher  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration, 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sous  of  the  morning, 
Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  thine 
aid! 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 
Guide  where  our  infant  Eedeemer  is  laid ! 

Bishoxo  Ueher.—Born  1783,  Died  182C. 


1381.— THOU  AET  GONE  TO  THE 
GEAVE. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — ^^ve  no  longer 
dei)lore  thee. 
Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass 
the  tomb ; 
The  Saviour  has  passed  through  its  portals 
before  thee, 
And  the   lamp   of  His  love  is   thy  guide 
through  the  gloom. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — we  no  longer 
behold  thee, 
Nor  tread  the  rough  i)ath  of  the  world  by 
thy  side : 
But  the  wide  r.nns  of  mercy  arc  spread  to 
enfold  thee, 
And  sinners  may  hope,  since  the  Sinless  has 
died. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — and,  its  mansion 
forsaking, 
Perhaps  thy  tried  spirit  in  doubt  linger' d 
long, 
But  the  sunshine  of  heaven  beam'd  bright  on 
thy  waking, 
And  the  song  whieli  thou  heard' .it  was  the 
seraphim's  song. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — ^but  'twere  wrong 
to  deplore  thee, 
■\^Tien   God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian, 
thy  guide ; 
He  gave  thee,  and  took  thee,  and  soon  will 
restore  thee, 
Where    death   hath    no    sting,    since    the 
Saviour  hath  died. 

Bishop  Heher.—Born  1783,  Died  1826. 


1382.— SPEING. 

When  spring  unlocks  the  flowers  to  paint  the 

laughing  soil ; 
When  summer's  balmy   showers  refresh  the 

mower's  toil ; 
"When  winter  binds  in  frosty  chains-the-fallow 

and  the  flood, — 
In  God  the  earth  rejoiceth  still,  and  owns  his 

Maker  good. 

The  birds  that  wake  the  morning,  and  those 

that  love  the  shade. 
The  winds  that  sweep  the  mountain  or  lull  the 

drowsy  glade. 
The  sun  that  from  his  amber  bower  rejoiceth 

on  his  way, 
The  moon  and  stars  their  Master's  name  in 

silent  pomp  display. 

Shall  man,  the  lord  of  nature,  expectant  of 

the  sky — 
Shall  man,  alone  unthankful,  his  little  praise 

deny  ? 
No;  let    the    year    forsake    his   course,   the 

seasons  cease  to  be. 
Thee,   Master,   must  we    always  love,    and. 

Saviour,  honour  thee. 

The  flowers  of  spring  may  wither,  the  hope 

of  summer  fade, 
The  autumn  droop  in  winter,  the  bird  forsake 

the  shade. 
The  winds  be  lull'd,  the  sun  and  moon  forget 

their  old  decree, — 
But  we,  in  nature's  latest  hour,  0  Lord,  will 

cling  to  thee  ! 

Bishop  Heher. — Bom  1783,  Died  1826. 


1383.--LINES    WEITTEN    IN    THE 

CHUECHYAED  OF  EICHMOND, 

YOEKSHIEE. 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here. 
If  thou  wilt,  let  us  build — but  for  whom  ? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear ; 
But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  with 

gloom 
The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of  the 
tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?     Ah  no '. 
Affrighted,  he  shrinketh  away ; 

For  see,  they  would  pin  him  below 
In  a  small  narrow  cave,  and,  begirt  with  cold 

clay. 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey. 

To  Beauty  ?     Ah  no  !  she  forgets 
The  charms  which  she  wielded  before  ; 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he  frets 
The   skin   which  but   yesterday   foola   could 

adore. 
For  the  smoothness  it  held  or  the  tin  twhich 
it  wore. 

65 


Jas.  Montgomery.]                                    NIGHT.                                    [Seventh  Period.— 

Shall  WG  build  to  the  purple  of  Pride, 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams  ; 

The  trappings  which  dizen  the  proud  ? 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 

Alas  !  they  are  all  laid  aside, 

When  truth  that  is  and  truth  that  seems, 

And    here's    neither    dress   nor   adornments 

Blend  in  fantastic  strife  ; 

allow'd. 

Ah  !  visions  less  beguiling  far 

But  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe  of 

Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are  !                 \ 

the  shroud. 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil ;                                      ! 

To  Eiches  ?     Alas !  'tis  in  vain ; 

To  plough  the  classic  field, 

Who  hid  in  their  turns  have  been  hid ; 

Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 

The  treasures  are  squandered  again ; 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ;                                 j 

And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  forbid 

Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught. 

But  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark  coffin 
Hd. 

That  poets  sang  or  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep  ;                                    ' 

To  the  pleasures  which  Mirth  can  afford, 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 

i       The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer  ? 

Those  graves  of  memory  where  sleep 

Ah  !  here  is  a  plentiful  board  ! 

The  joys  of  other  years  ; 

But  th«  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful 

Hopes  that  were  angels  in  their  birth. 

cheer, 

But  perish' d  young  like  things  on  earth ! 

And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller  here. 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch  ; 

Shall  we  bmld  to  Affection  and  Love  ? 

On  ocean's  dark  expanse 

Ah  no  !  they  have  wither'd  and  died, 

To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above. 

The  full  moon's  earliest  glance, 

Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters,  are  laid  side  by 

That  brings  unto  the  home-sick  mind                  ^ 

side. 

All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care  ; 

Unto  Sorrow  ? — the  Dead  cannot  grieve ; 

Brooding  on  hours  misspent,  * 

Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 

To  see  the  spectre  of  despair 

Which  Compassion  itself  could  relieve. 

Come  to  our  lonely  tent ; 

Ah,  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  love,  hope,  or 

Tiike  Brutus,  'midst  his  slumbering  host, 

fear; 

Startled  by  Caesar's  stalwart  ghost. 

Peace  !  peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one 

here. 

Night  is  the  time  to  rnxxse  ; 

Then  from  the  eye  the  soul 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must  bow  ? 

Takes  flight,  and  with  expanding  views 

Ah  no  !  for  his  empire  is  known. 

Beyond  the  starry  pole. 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow ! 

Descries  athwart  the  abyss  of  night                    , 

Beneath  the  cold  dead,  and  around  the  dark 

The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

stone. 

Are   the  signs  of   a  sceptre  that  none  may 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray  ; 

disown. 

Our  Saviour  oft  withdrew 

To  desert  mountains  far  away  ; 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  ^vill  build. 

So  will  his  followers  do  ; 

And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise  ! 

Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod, 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it  ful- 
fiU'd; 
1        And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of   the  great 

And  hold  communion  there  with  God, 

Night  is  the  time  for  death ; 

sacrifice, 

When  all  around  is  peace, 

Who  bequeath' d  us  them  both  when  He  rose 

Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath. 

to  the  skies. 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease : 

Think  of  heaven's  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 

Herhert  Knoivles.—Born  1798,  Died  1817. 

To  parting  friends — such  death  be  mine  ! 

James  Montgomery. — Born  1771,  Died  1854. 

1384.— NIGHT. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest ; 

1385.— THE  GliAVE. 

How  sweet,  when  labours  close, 

To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 

The  curtain  of  repose, 

A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found, 

Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay  the  head 

They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 

Upon  our  own  delightful  bed  ! 

1 

Low  in  the  ground. 

From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  GRAVE. 


[Jas.  Montgomeet. 


Tlie  storm  that  wrecks  the  wmter  sky 
No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose, 
Than  summer  evening's  latest  sigh 

That  shuts  the  rose. 

I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 
And  aching  heart-  beneath  the  soil, 
To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 

From  all  my  toil. 

For  misery  stole  me  at  my  birth, 
And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild  : 
I  perish  ;  O,  my  mother  earth  ! 

Take  home  thy  child  ! 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined, 
Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee  ; 
Nor  leave  one  wretched  trace  behind 
Resembling  me. 

Hark  !   a  strange  sound  affrights  mine  ear ; 
My  pulse,  my  brain  runs  wild — I  rave  : 
Ah  !  who  art  thou  whose  voice  I  hear  ? 
•'  I  am  the  Grave  ! 

The  Grave,  that  never  spake  before, 
Hath  found  at  length  a  tongue  to  chide  : 

0  listen !  I  will  speak  no  more  : 

Be  silent,  pride  ! 
i 
Art  thou  a  wretch,  of  hope  forlorn, 
The  victim  of  consuming  care  ? 
Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 
By.fell  despair  ? 

Do  foul  misdeeds  of  former  times 
Wring  with  remorse  thy  guilty  breast  ? 
And  ghosts  of  unforgiven  crimes 

Murder  thy  rest  ? 

Lash'd  by  the  furies  of  the  mind. 

From   wrath    and   vengeance    wouldst    thou 

flee? 
Ah  !  think  not,  hope  not,  fool !  to  find 
A  friend  in  me. 

By  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb, 
Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell ! 
By  the  dread  secrets  of  my  womb  ! 

By  death  and  hell ! 

1  charge  thee  live  !    repent  and  pray ; 
In  dust  thine  infamy  deplore  ; 
There  yet  is  mercy  ;  go  thy  way. 

And  sin  no  more. 

Art  thou  a  mourner  ?     Hast  thou  known 
The  joy  of  innocent  delights  ? 
Endearing  days  for  ever  flown, 

And  tranquil  nights  ? 

0  live !  and  deeply  cherish  still 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past : 
Rely  on  Heaven's  unchanging  wiU 

For  peace  at  last. 

Art  thou  a  wanderer  ?     Hast  thou  seen 
O'erwhelming  tempests  drown  thy  bark  ? 
A  shipwreck' d  sufferer,  hast  thou  been 
Misfortune's  mark  ? 


Though  long  of  winds  and  waves  the  sport, 
Condemn' d  in  wretchedness  to  roam. 
Live  !  thou  shalt  reach  a  sheltering  port, 
A  quiet  home. 

To  friendship  didst  thou  trust  thyfame^P 
And  was  thy  friend  a  deadly  foe, 
"Who  stole  into  thy  breast,  to  aim 
A  surer  blow  ? 

Live  !  and  repine  not  o'er  his  loss, 
A  loss  unworthy  to  be  told : 
Thou  hast  mistaken  soi-did  dross 

For  friendship's  gold. 

Go,  seek  that  treasure,  seldom  found, 
Of  power  the  fiercest  griefs  to  calm, 
And  soothe  the  bosom's  deepest  wound 
With  heavenly  balm. 

bid  woman's  charms  thy  youth  beguile. 
And  did  the  fair  one  faithless  prove  ? 
Hath  she  betray' d  thee  with  her  smile, 
And  sold  thy  love  ? 

Live  !  'twas  a  false  bewildering  fire : 
Too  often  love's  insidious  dart 
Thrills  the  fond  soul  with  wild  desire. 
But  kills  the  heart. 

Thou  yet  shalt  know  how  sweet,  how  dear, 
To  gaze  on  listening  beauty's  eye  ! 
To  ask — and  pause  in  hope  and  fear 
Till  she  reply ! 

A  nobler  flame  shall  warm  thy  breast, 
A  brighter  maiden  faithful  prove  ; 
Thy  youth,  thine  age,  shall  yet  be  blest 
In  woman's  love. 

Whate'er  thy  lot,  whoe'er  thou  be, 
Confess  thy  folly,  kiss  the  rod. 
And  in  thy  chastening  sorrows  see 
The  hand  of  God. 

A  bruised  reed  he  will  not  break ; 
AflBictions  all  his  children  feel ; 
He  wounds  them  for  his  mercy's  sake ; 
He  wounds  to  heal ! 

Humbled  beneath  his  mighty  hand, 
Prostrate  his  Providence  adore  : 
'Tis  done  ! — Arise  !  He  bids  thee  stand. 
To  fall  no  more. 

Now,  traveller  in  the  vale  of  tears  ! 
To  realms  of  everlasting  light, 
Through  time's  dark  wilderness  of  years, 
Pursue  thy  flight. 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found ; 
And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground  ; 

The  soul,  of  origin  divine, 
God's  glorious  image,  freed  from  clay. 
In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine 
A  star  of  day  I 


Jas.  Montgomery.]                   ASPIRATIONS  OF  YOUTH.                  [Seventh  Period.— 

The  san  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 

He  loved — but  whom  he  loved  the  grave 

A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky  ; 

Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb  : 

The  soul,  immortal  as  its  sire, 

0  she  was  fair  !  but  nought  could  save 

Shall  never  die." 

Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

James  Montgomery. — Born  1771,  Died  1854. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Encounter' d  all  that  troubles  thee  : 

He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been  ; 
He  is — what  thou  shalt  be. 

1386.— ASPIRATIONS  OF  YOUTH. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night, 

Higher,  higher  wiU  we  climb, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and  main, 

Up  to  the  mount  of  glory, 

Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light, 

!                 That  our  names  may  live  through  time 

To  him  exist  in  vain. 

j                      In  our  country's  story  ; 

1                  Happy,  when  her  welfare  calls, 

1                 He  who  conquers,  he  who  falls. 

1 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 

That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw. 
Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 

1                Deeper,  deeper  let  us  toil 

No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

!                     In  the  mines  of  knowledge  ;                 , 

The  annals  of  the  human  race. 

1                 Nature's  wealth  and  learning's  spoil 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began, 

Win  from  school  and  coUege  ; 

Of  him  afi^ord  no  other  trace 

Delve  v*e  there  for  richer  gems 

Than  this — there  lived  a  man  ! 

Than  the  stars  of  diadems. 

James  Montgomery. — Born  1771,  Died  1854. 

Onward,  onward  may  we  press 

Through  the  path  of  duty  ; 
Virtue  is  true  happiness, 

Excellence  true  beauty. 

1388.— PEAYEp.. 

Minds  are  of  celestial  birth, 

Make  we  then  a  heaven  of  earth. 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire 

Closer,  closer  let  us  knit 

Utter'd  or  unexpress'd; 
The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 

Hearts  and  hands  together, 

That  trembles  in  €110  breast. 

■\Vhere  our  fireside  comforts  sit, 

In  the  wildest  weather  ; 

Prayer  is  the  burthen  of  a  sigh. 

0 !  they  wander  wide  who  roam 

The  falling  of  a  tear ; 

For  the  joys  of  life  from  home. 

The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

Jarnes  Montgomery. — Born  1771,  Died  1854. 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

That  infant  lips  can  try  ; 
Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 

1387.— THE  COMMON  LOT. 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath. 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

The  Christian's  native  air  ; 

There  lived  a  man  :  and  who  was  he  ? 

His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death  : 

Mortal !  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 

He  enters  heaven  by  prayer. 

That  man  resembled  thee. 

' 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 

Returning  from  his  ways  ; 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unkno^vn : 

While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice. 

i          His  name  has  perish'd  from  the  earth, 

And  say  "  Behold  he  prays  1  " 

This  truth  survives  alone  : 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one, 

That  joy,  and  grief,  and  hope,  and  fear. 

In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind, 

Alternate  triumph' d  in  his  breast ; 

When  with  the  Father  and  his  Son 

His  bliss  and  woe — a  smile,  a  tear  ! 

Their  fellowship  they  find. 

Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  on  earth  alone  : 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb, 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads  ; 

The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall ; 

And  Jesus,  on  the  eternal  throne. 

We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him. 

For  sinners  intercedes. 

For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

0  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 

He  suflTer'd — but  his  pangs  are  o'er ; 

The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way, 

Enjoy'd— but  his  delights  are  fled  ; 

The  path  of  prayer  thyself  hast  Lrod  : 

Had  friends — ^his  friends  are  now  no  more ; 

Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray  ! 

And  foes — ^his  foes  are  dead. 

James  Montgomery.— Born  1771,  Died  1854... 

From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  A  DAISY. 


[Jas.  Montqomert. 


1389.— HOME. 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside  ; 
Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener  light, 
And  milder  moons  emparadise  the  night ; 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valour,  truth, 
Time-tutor'd  age,  and  love-exalted  youth  : 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The    wealthiest   isles,    the   most   enchanting 

shores. 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  fair, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air ; 
In  every  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 
Touch'd  by  remembrance,  trembles   to    that 

pole; 
For  in  this  land  of  heaven's  peculiar  grace. 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race, 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest, 
"Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casta  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 
While  in  his  soften'd  looks  benignly  blend 
The    sire,   the    son,    the    husband,    brother, 

friend ; 
Here  woman  reigns  ;    the  mother,  daughter, 

wife, 
Strew  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of 

life! 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye. 
An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie  ; 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet. 
And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 
Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be 

found  ? 
Ai-t  thou  a  man  ? — a  patriot  ? — look  around ; 
O,    thou    shalt    find,    howe'er  thy   footsteps 

roam. 
That   land  thy    country,  and  that    spot   thy 

home  ! 
James  Montgomery. — Born  1771,  Died  1854. 


1390.— A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

A  Mother's  Love, — how  sweet  the  name 

What  is  a  Mother's  love  ? 
— A  noble,  pure,  and  tender  flame. 

Enkindled  from  above. 
To  bless  a  heart  of  earthly  mould ; 
The  warmest  love  that  can  grow  cold ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

To  bring  a  helpless  babe  to  light. 

Then,  while  it  lies  forlorn, 
To  gaze  upon  that  dearest  sight. 

And  feel  herself  new-born. 
In  its  existence  lose  her  own, 
And  live  and  breathe  in  it  alone ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

Its  weakness  in  her  arms  to  bear  ; 

To  cherish  on  her  breast, 
Feed  it  from  Love's  own  fountain  there, 

And  hill  it  there  to  rest ; 


Then,  while  it  slumbers,  watch  its  breath. 
As  if  to  guard  from  instant  death  ; 
This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

To  mark  its  growth  from  day  to  day. 
Its  opening  charms  admire,  

Catch  from  its  eye  the  earliest  ray        ~ 
Of  intellectual  fire  ; 

To  smile  and  listen  while  it  talks. 

And  lend  a  finger  when  it  walks  ; 
This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

And  can  a  Mother's  Love  grow  cold  ? 

Can  she  forget  her  boy  ? 
His  pleading  innocence  behold, 

Nor  weep  for  grief — for  joy  ? 
A  Mother  may  forget  her  child, 
While  wolves  devour  it  on  the  wild  ; 

Is  this  a  Mother's  Love  ? 

Ten  thousand  voices  answer  "  No  !  '* 

Ye  clasp  your  babes  and  kiss ; 
Your  bosoms  yearn,  your  eyes  o'erflow  r 

Yet,  ah  !  remember  this, — 
The  infant,  rear'd  alone  for  earth. 
May  live,  may  die, — to  curse  his  birth ; 

— Is  this  a  Mother's  Love  ? 

A  parent's  heart  may  prove  a  snare  ; 

The  child  she  loves  so  well, 
Her  hand  may  lead,  with  gentlest  care, 

Down  the  smooth  road  to  hell ; 
Nourish  its  frame, — destroy  its  mind  : 
Thus  do  the  blind  mislead  the  blind. 

Even  with  a  Mother's  Love. 

Blest  infant !  whom  his  mother  taught 

Early  to  seek  the  Lord, 
And  pour'd  upon  his  dawning  thought 

The  day-spring  of  the  word ; 
This  was  the  lesson  to  her  son 
— Time  is  Eternity  begun  : 

Behold  that  Mother's  Love. 

Blest  Mother  !  who,  in  wisdom's  path 

By  her  own  parent  trod. 
Thus  taught  her  son  to  flee  the  wrath. 

And  know  the  fear,  of  God  : 
Ah,  youth  !  like  him  enjoy  your  prime  ; 
Begin  Eternity  in  time, 

Taught  by  that  Mother's  Love. 

That  Mother's  Love  ! — ^how  sweet  the  name  ! 

What  was  that  Mother's  Love  ? 
— The  noblest,  purest,  tenderest  flame. 

That  kindles  from  above. 
Within  a  heart  of  earthly  mould. 
As  much  of  heaven  as  heart  can  hold. 
Nor  through  eternity  grows  cold  : 

This  was  that  Mother's  Love. 

James  Montgomery. — Bom  1771,  Died  1854, 


1 39 1. —TO  A  DAISY. 

There  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower 
With  silver  crest  and  golden  eye. 


Jas.  Montgomery.]         THE  EEIGN  OF  CHRIST  ON  EAETH.        [S^sventh  Period. 


That  welcomes  every  changing  hour, 
And  weathers  every  sky. 

The  prouder  beauties  of  the  field, 
In  gay  but  quick  succession  shine ; 
Race  after  race  their  honours  yield, 
They  flourish  and  decline. 

But  this  small  flower,  to  Nature  dear. 
While  moons  and  stars  their  courses  run, 
Enwreathes  the  circle  of  the  year,  ■ 
Companion  of  the  sun. 

It  smiles  upon  the  lap  of  May, 
To  sultry  August  spreads  its  charm. 
Lights  pale  October  on  his  way, 
And  twines  December's  arm. 

The  purple  heath  and  golden  broom. 
On  moory  mountains  catch  the  gale  ; 
O'er  lawns  the  lily  sheds  perfume, 
The  violet  in  the  vale. 

But  this  bold  floweret  climbs  the  hill. 
Hides  in  the  forest,  haunts  the  glen, 
Plays  on  the  margin  of  the  rill, 
Peeps  round  the  fox's  den. 

Within  the  garden's  cultured  round 
It  shares  the  sweet  carnation's  bed; 
And  blooms  on  consecrated  ground 
In  honour  of  the  dead. 

The  lambkin  crops  its  crimson  gem ; 
The  wild  bee  murmurs  on  its  breast ; 
The  blue-fly  bends  its  pensile  stem. 
Light  o'er  the  skylark's  nest. 

'Tis  Flora's  page — in  every  place. 
In  every  season,  fresh  and  fair ; 
It  opens  with  perennial  grace, 
And  blossoms  everywhere. 

On  waste  and  woodland,  rock  and  plain, 
Its  humble  buds  unheeded  rise  ; 
The  rose  has  but  a  summer  reign ; 
The  Daisy  never  dies ! 

James  Montgomery. — Bom  1771,  Died  1854. 


1392. 


-THE  REIGN  OF  CHRIST  ON 
EARTH. 


Hail  to  the  Lord's  anointed — 

Great  David's  greater  Son  ! 
Hail,  in  the  time  appointed. 

His  reign  on  earth  begun  ! 
He  comes  to  break  oppression, 

To  set  the  captive  free, 
To  take  away  transgression. 

And  rule  in  equity. 

He  comes  with  succour  speedy 
To  those  who  suffer  wrong ; 

To  help  the  poor  and  needy, 
And  bid  the  weak  be  strong ; 


To  give  them  songs  for  sighing, 
Their  darkness  turn  to  light, 

Whose  souls,  condemn' d  and  dying, 
Were  precious  in  His  sight. 

By  such  shall  He  be  feared 

"While  sun  and  moon  endure — 
Beloved,  obey'd,  revered ; 

For  He  shall  judge  the  poor, 
Through  changing  generations. 

With  justice,  mercy,  truth, 
While  stars  maintain  their  stations 

Or  moons  renew  their  youth. 

He  shall  come  down  like  showers 

Upon  the  fruitful  earth, 
And  love,  joy,  hope,  like  flowers, 

Spring  in  His  path  to  birth  ; 
Before  Him,  on  the  mountains. 

Shall  Peace,  the  herald,  go, 
And  Righteousness,  in  fountains, 

From  hill  to  valley  flow. 

Arabia's  desert-ranger 
■  To  Him  shall  bow  the  knee, 
The  Ethiopian  stranger 

His  glory  come  to  see  ; 
With  offerings  of  devotion 

Ships  from  the  isles  shall  meet, 
To  pour  the  wealth  of  ocean 

In  tribute  at  His  feet. 

Kings  shall  fall  down  before  Him, 

And  gold  and  incense  bring ; 
All  nations  shall  adore  Him, 

His  praise  all  people  sing  ; 
For  He  shall  have  dominion 

O'er  river,  sea,  and  shore. 
Far  as  the  eagle's  pinion 

Or  dove's  light  wing  can  soar. 

For  Him  shall  prayer  unceasing, 

And  daily  vows,  ascend — 
His  kingdom  still  increasing, 

A  kingdom  without  end  ; 
The  mountain-dews  shall  nourish 

A  seed  in  weakness  sown, 
Whose  fruit  shall  spread  and  floxu'ish, 

And  shake  like  Lebanon. 

O'er  every  foe  victorious, 

He  on  His  throne  shall  rest, 
From  age  to  age  more  glorious, 

All-blessing  and  all-blest ; 
The  tide  of  time  shall  never 

His  covenant  remove  ; 
His  name  shall  stand  for  ever ; 

That  name  to  us  is — Love. 

James  Montgomery . — Boriv  1771,  Died  1854. 


1393.— THE  STRANGER  AND  HIS 
FRIEND. 

A  poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief 
Hath  often  cross' d  me  on  my  way, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BETH  GfiLEET. 


[Hon.  "W.  E.  Spencek. 


Wlao  sued  so  humbly  for  relief 

That  I  could  never  answer  "  Nay." 
I  had  not  power  to  ask  His  name, 
Wliither  He  went,  or  whence  He  came ; 
Yet  there  was  something  in  His  eye 
That  won  my  love, — I  knew  not  why. 

Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 
He  enter' d.     Not  a  word  He  spake. 

Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread, 

I  gave  Him  all ;  He  bless' d  it,  brake, 

And  ate ; — but  gave  me  part  again. 

Mine  was  an  angel's  portion  then ; 

For  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 

That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 

I  spied  Him  whore  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock;  His  strength  was 
gone ; 
The  heedless  water  mock'd  His  thirst  j 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on. 
I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up ; 
Thrice  from  the  stream  He  drain' d  my  cup, 
Dipp'd,  and  return' d  it  running  o'er ; — 
I  drank  and  never  thirsted  more. 


'Twas  night ;  the  floods  were  out, — it  blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof ; 
I  heard  His  voice  abroad,  and  flew 

To  bid  Him  welcome  to  my  roof ; 
I  warm'd,  I  clothed,  I  cheer'd  my  guest — 
Laid  Him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 
Then  made  the  earth  my  bed,  and  seem'd 
In  Eden's  garden  whOe  I  dream'd. 

Stripp'd,  wounded,  beaten  nigh  to  death, 

I  found  Him  by  the  highway  side ; 
I  roused  His  pulse,  brought  back  His  breath, 

Revived  His  spirit,  and  supplied 
Wine,  oil,  refreshment ;  He  was  heal'd. 
I  had,  myself,  a  )vound  conceal' d — 
But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart. 
And  peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 

In  prison  I  saw  Him  next,  condemn'd 
To  meet  a  traitor's  doom  at  mom  ; 

The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I  stemm'd, 

And  honour' d   Him   'midst    shame   and 
scorn. 

My  friendship's  utmost  zeal  to  try, 

He  ask'd  if  I  for  him  would  die ; 

The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill, 

But  the  free  spirit  cried,  "  I  will." 

Then  in  a  moment,  to  my  view. 

The  stranger  darted  from  disguise ; 

The  tokens  in  His  hands  I  knew — 
My  Saviour  stood  before  mine  eyes. 

He  spake ;  and  my  poor  name  he  named — 

"  Of  Me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed ; 

These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be ; 

Fear  not !  thou  didst  them  unto  Me." 

James  Montrjomery. — Borii  1771,  BiedL  1854. 


1394.— THE  FIELD  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed. 

At  eve  hold  not  thine  hand — 
To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed — 

Broad-cast  it  o'er  the  land. 

Beside  all  waters  sow,  ^ 

The  highway  furrows  stock — 
Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow, 

Scatter  it  on  the  rock. 

The  good,  the  fruitful  ground 

Expect  not  here  nor  there, 
O'er  hUl  and  dale  by  plots  'tis  found  : 

Go  forth,  then,  everywhere. 

Thou  know'st  not  which  may  thrive — 

The  late  or  early  sown ; 
Grace  keeps  the  precious  germs  alive, 

When  and  wherever  strown. 

And  duly  shall  appear, 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strength. 
The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ear. 

And  the  full  corn  at  length. 

Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain — 
Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry 

Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain 
For  gamers  in  the  sky. 

Thence,  when  the  glorious  end. 

The  day  of  God  is  come, 
Thb  angel-reapers  shall  descend, 

And  heaven  cry  "  Harvest  home !  " 

James  Montgomery. — Bom  1771,  Died  1854. 


1 393  .—BETH  GELERT,  OR  THE  GRAVE 
OF  THE  GREYHOUND. 

The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound. 

And  cheerly  smiled  the  mom ; 
And  many  a  brach,  and  many  a  hound, 

Obeyed  Llewelyn's  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a  louder  blast. 

And  gave  a  lustier  cheer, 
"  Come,  Gelert,  come,  wert  never  last 

Llewelyn's  horn  to  hear. 

Oh  where  doth  faithful  Gelert  roam. 

The  flower  of  all  his  race ; 
So  true,  so  brave — a  lamb  at  home, 

A  lion  in  the  chase  ?  " 

'Twas  only  at  Llewelyn's  board 

The  faithful  Gelert  fedj 
He  watch' d,  he  served,  he  cheer'd  his  lord, 

And  sentinel'd  his  bed. 

In  sooth  he  was  a  peerless  hound, 

The  gift  of  royal  John ; 
But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  fibund. 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 


Hon.  W.  E.  Spencek.]        WIFE,  CHILDREN,  AND  FRIENDS.        [Seventh  Pekiod.— 


And  now,  as  o'er  the  rocks  and  dells 

The  gallant  chidings  rise, 
All  Snowden's  craggy  chaos  yells 

The  many-mingled  cries ! 

That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 

The  chase  of  hart  and  hare ; 
And  scant  and  small  the  booty  i^roved, 

For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased  Llev/elyn  homeward  hied, 

When,  near  the  portal  seat, 
His  truant  Gelert  he  espied, 

Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But,  when  he  gain'd  his  castle-door. 

Aghast  the  chieftain  stood  ; 
The  hound  all  o'er  was  smear' d  with  gore ; 

His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 

Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise ; 

Unused  such  looks  to  meet, 
His  favourite  check'd  his  joyful  guise. 

And  crouch'd  and  lick'd  his  feet. 

Onward,  in  haste,  Llewelyn  pass'd, 

And  on  went  Gelert  too ; 
And  still,  where'er  his  eyes  he  cast, 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shock' d  his  view. 

O'ertum'd  his  infant's  bed  he  found, 
With  blood-stain'd  covert  rent ; 

And  all  around  the  walls  and  ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  caU'd  his  child — no  voice  replied — 

He  search' d  with  terror  wild  ; 
Blood,  blood  he  found  on  every  side. 

But  nowhere  found  his  child. 

*'  HeU-hound !  my  child's  by  thee  devour'd,' 

The  frantic  father  cried ; 
And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 

He  plunged  in  Gelert' s  side. 

His  suppliant  looks,  as  prone  he  fell, 

No  pity  could  impart ; 
But  still  his  Gelert' s  dying  yell 

Pass'd  heavy  o'er  his  heart. 

Aroused  by  Gelert's  dying  yeU, 
Some  slumberer  waken' d  nigh  : 

What  words  the  parent's  joy  could  tell 
To  hear  his  infant's  cry ! 

Conceal' d  beneath  a  tumbled  heap 
His  hurried  search  had  miss'd. 

All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep. 
The  cherub  boy  he  kiss'd. 

Nor  scathe  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  dread. 

But,  the  same  couch  beneath, 
Ley  a  gaunt  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead, 

Tremendous  stiU  in  death. 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn's  pain  ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear ; 
His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain 

To  save  Llewelyn's  heir : 


Vain,  vain  was  aU  Llewelyn's  wo ; 

"  Best  of  thy  kind  adieu ! 
The  frantic  blow  which  laid  thee  low 

This  heart  shall  ever  rue." 

And  now  a  gallant  tomb  they  raise, 
With  costly  sculpture  deck'd ; 

And  marbles  storied  with  his  praise 
Poor  Gelert's  bones  protect. 

There,  never  could  the  spearman  pass. 

Or  forester  unmoved ; 
There,  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 

Llewelyn's  sorrow  proved. 

And  there  he  hung  his  horn  and  spear, 

And  there,  as  evening  fell. 
In  fancy's  ear  he  oft  would  hear 

Poor  Gelert's  dying  yell. 

And,  till  great  Snowden's  rocks  grow  old, 
And  cease  the  storm  to  brave, 

The  consecrated  spot  shall  hold 
The  name  of  "  Gelert's  Grave." 

Hon.  W.  E.  Silencer.— Born  1770,  Blcil  1834. 


1396.— WIFE,  CHILDREN,  AND 
FRIENDS. 

When  the  black-lctter'd  list  to  the  gods  was 
presented 
(The   list   of    what   fate   for    each   mortal 
intends). 
At  the  long  string   of   ills   a   kind    goddess 
relented. 
And     slipp'd    in     three    blessings  —  wife, 
children,  and  friends. 

In  vain  surly  Pluto  maintain'd  he  was  cheated, 
For  justice   divine  could  not  compass  its 
ends  ; 
The  scheme  of  man's  penance  he  swore  was 
defeated, 
For    earth    becomes    heaven    with  —  wife, 
children,  and  friends. 

If  the  stock  of  our  bliss  is  in  stranger  hands 
vested, 
The   fund  ill    secured,    oft   in   bankruptcy 
ends ; 
But   the  heart   issues  bills  which  are  never 
protested. 
When  drawn  on  the  firm  of — wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

Though  valour  still  glows  in  his  life's  dying 
embers, 
The   death-wounded  tar,   who   his   colours 
defends, 
Drops  a  tear  of  regret  as  he  dying  remembers 
How   bless' d    was    his    home   with — wife, 
children,  and  friends. 


From  1780  to  1866.]                 TO  T.  L.  H.,  SIX  YEARS  OLD.                        [Leigh  Hunt. 

The   soldier,  whose  deeds  live  immortal  iu 

Though  thy  small  blind  eyes  pursue  it ; 

story, 

Nor  the  arms  that  draw  thee  to  it ; 

AVhom  duty  to  far  distant  latitudes  sends, 

Nor  the  eyes  that,  while  they  fold  thee. 

Witli  transport  would  barter  old  ages  of  glory 

Never  can  enough  behold  thee  ! 

For  one  happy  day  with — wife,   children, 
and  friends. 

Leigh  Hunt. — Born  1784,  Died  1859. 

Thoucrh  spice-breathing  gales  on  his  caravan 
hover, 
Though  for  him  Arabia's  fragrance  ascends. 

The  merchant  stiU  thinks  of  the  woodbines 

1398.— TO  T.   L.   H.,    SIX    YEARS    OLD, 

that  cover 

DURING  A  SICKNESS. 

The    bower    where    he    sat    with  —  wife, 
children,  and  friends. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy ; 

The  day-spring  of  youth  still  unclouded  by 

And  balmy  rest  about  thee 

sorrow, 

Smooths  off  the  day's  annoy. 

Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends  ; 

I  sit  me  down,  and  think 

But  drear  is  the  twilight  of  age,  if  it  borrow 

Of  aU  thy  winning  ways  : 

No  warmth  from  the  smile  of — wife,  children. 

Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 

and  friends. 

That  I  had  less  to  praise. 

Lot  the  breath  of  renown  ever  freshen  and 

Thy  sidelong  pillow'd  meekness, 

nourish 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid. 

The  laurel  which  o'er  the  dead  favourite 

Thy  heart  in  pain  and  weakness. 

bends ; 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid ; 

Over  me  wave  the  willow,  and  long  may  it 

The  little  trembling  hand 

flourish, 

That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears, 

Bedew'd  with  the  tears  of— wife,  children. 

These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 

and  friends. 

Dread  memories  for  years. 

Let  us  drink,  for  my  song,  growing  graver  and 
graver, 
To  subjects  too  solemn  insensibly  tends ; 

Sorrows  I've  had  severe  ones, 
I  >vill  not  think  of  now ; 

And  calmly  'midst  my  dear  ones, 

Let  us  drink,  pledge  me  high,  love  and  virtue 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow  ; 

shall  flavotir 

But  when  thy  fingers  press 

The  glass  which  I  fill  to — wife,  children, 

And  pat  my  stooping  head, 

and  friends. 

I  cannot  bear  the  gentleness — 

The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Hon.  W.  B.  Sjpenccr. — Born  1770,  Died  1834. 

Ah  !  firstborn  of  thy  mother, 

When  life  and  hope  were  new, 
Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother, 

Thy  sister,  father,  too  ; 

1 397 -—ON  THE  BIETH  OF  THE 

My  light  where'er  I  go. 

PEINCESS  ROYAL. 

My  bird,  when  prison-bound. 

My  hand  in  hand  companion — no. 

Behold  where  thou  dost  lie, 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

Heeding  naught,  remote  on  high  ! 

Naught  of  all  the  news  we  sing 

To  say  "  He  has  departed  "— 

Dost  thou  know,  sweet  ignorant  thing ; 

"  His  voice" — "his face  " — "is gone;" 

Naught  of  planet's  love  nor  people's ; 

To  feel  impatient-hearted, 

Nor  dost  hear  the  giddy  steeples 

Yet  feel  we  must  bear  on ; 

Carolling  of  thee  and  thine, 

Ah,  I  could  not  endure 

As  if  heaven  had  rain'd  them  wine ; 

To  whisper  of  such  wo. 

Nor  dost  care  for  all  the  pains 

Unless  I  felt  this  sleep  insure 

Of  iishers  and  of  chamberlains. 

That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Nor  the  doctor's  learned  looks. 
Nor  the  very  bishop's  books. 
Nor  the  lace  that  wraps  thy  chin. 
No,  nor  for  thy  rank  a  pin. 
E'en  thy  father's  loving  hand 
Nomse  dost  thou  vmderstand, 
When  he  makes  thee  feebly  grasp 
His  finger  with  a  tiny  clasp  ; 
Nor  dost  thou  know  thy  very  mother's 

Yes,  still  he's  fix'd,  and  sleeping ! 

This  silence  too  the  while — 
Its  very  hush  and  creeping 

Seem  whispering  as  a  smile  : 
Something  divine  and  dim 

Seems  going  by  one's  ear. 
Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim. 

Who  say,  "  We've  finish'd  here." 

Balmy  bosom  from  another's. 

Leigh  Hunt.— Born  1784,  Died  1850. 

Leigh  Hunt.] 


THE  GEASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CEICKET.     [Seventh  Pebiod.- 


I399._T0  THE    GEASSHOPPEE    AND 
THE  CEICKET. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole   voice    that's    heard   amidst  the  lazy 
noon, 
"When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning 

brass ; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too 

soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome 
tnne 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ; 
Oh,  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth. 
Both  have  your  sunshine ;  both,  though  small, 
are  strong 
At  your  clear  hearts  ;  and  both  were  sent  on 
earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 
In-doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirth. 

Leigh  Hunt. — Born  1784,  Died  1859. 


1400.— CHOEUS  OF  FLOWEES. 

We  are  the  sweet  flowers. 
Born  of  sunny  showers, 
(Think,  whene'er  you  see  us,  what  our  beauty 
saith  ;) 
Utterance,  mute  and  bright, 
Of  some  unknown  delight, 
We  fill  the  air  -svith  pleasure,  by  our  simple 
breath : 
All  who  see  us  love  us — 
We  befit  all  places  ; 
Unto  sorrow  we  give  smiles — and  unto  graces, 
graces. 

Mark  our  ways,  how  noiseless 
All,  and  sweetly  voiceless, 
Though   the   March-winds  pipe  to  make  our 
passage  clear ; 
Not  a  whisper  tells 
Where  our  small  seed  dwells. 
Nor  is  known  the  moment  green  when  our 
tips  appear. 
We  thread  the  earth  in  silence. 
In  silence  build  our  bowers — 
And  leaf  by  leaf  in  silence  show,  till  we  laugh 
a-top,  sweet  flowers. 

The  dear  lumpish  baby, 
Humming  with  the  May-bee, 
Hails    us    with    liis    bright  star,   stumbling 
through  the  grass ; 
The  honey-dropping  moon, 
On  a  night  in  June, 
Kisses  our  pale  pathway  leaves,  that  felt  the 
bridegi'oom  pass. 
Age,  the  wither' d  dinger, 
On  us  mutely  gazes, 
And  wraps  the  thought  of  his  last  bed  in  his 
childhood's  daisies. 


See  (and  ecom  aU  dnller 
Taste)  how  Heaven  loves  colour ; 
How   great  Nature,  clearly,  joys  in  red  and 
green  ; 
What  sweet  thoughts  she  thinks 
Of  violets  and  pinks, 
And  a  thousand  flushing  hues  made   solely  to 
be  seen  : 
See  her  whitest  lilies 
Chill  the  silver  showers, 
And  what  a  red  mouth  is  her  rose,  the  woman 
of  her  flowers. 

Uselessness  divinest, 

Of  a  use  the  finest, 
Painteth  us,  the  teachers  of  the  end  of  use ; 

Travellers,  weary-eyed, 

Bless  us,  far  and  wide ; 
Unto  sick  and  prison 'd  thoughts  we  give  sud- 
den truce : 

Not  a  poor  town  window 

Loves  its  sickliest  planting, 
But  its  wall  speaks  loftier  truth  than  Babylo- 
nian vaunting. 

Sagest  yet  the  uses 

Mix'd  with  our  sweet  juices. 

Whether  man  or  May-fly  profit  of  the  balm  ; 
As  fair  fingers  heal'd 
Knights  from  the  olden  field, 

We  hold  cups  of  mightiest  force  to  give  the 
wildest  calm. 
Even  the  terror,  poison, 
Hath  its  plea  for  blooming ; 

Life  it  gives  to  reverent  lips,  though  death  to 
the  i^resuming. 

And  oh  !  our  sweet  soul-taker, 

That  thief,  the  honey-maker. 
What  a  house  hath  he,  by  the  thymy  glen  i 

In  his  talking  rooms 

How  the  feasting  fumes, 
Tin  the  gold  cups  overflow  to  the  mouths  of 
men  ! 

The  butterflies  come  aping 

Those  fine  thieves  of  ours. 
And  flutter  round  our  rifled  tops,  like  tickled 
flowers  with  flowers. 

See  those  tops,  how  beauteous  ! 
What  fair  service  duteous 
Eouud  some  idol  waits,  as  on  their  lord  the 
Nine. 
Elfin  court  't  would  seem, 
And  taught,  perchance,  that  dream 
Which  the  old  Greek  mountain  dreamt,  upon 
nights  divine. 
To  expound  such  wonder 
Human  speech  avails  not, 
Yet  there  dies  no  poorest  weed,  that  such  a 
glory  exhales  not. 

Think  of  all  these  treasures. 
Matchless  works  and  pleasures. 
Every  one  a  marvel,  more  than  thotught  can 
say; 
Then  think  in  what  bright  showers 
We  thicken  fields  and  bowers, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


JAFFAE. 


[Leigh  Hunt 


And  with  what  heaps  of  sweetness  half  stifle 
wanton  May  ; 
Think  of  the  mossy  forests 
By  the  bee-birds  haunted, 
And  all  those  Amazonian  plains,  lone  lying 
as  enchanted. 

Trees  themselves  are  ours ; 

Fruits  are  born  of  flowers ; 
Peach,  and  rougliest  nut,   were  blossoms  in 

,        the  Spring  ; 

The  lusty  bee  knows  well 

The  news,  and  comes  pell-mell, 
And  dances  in  the  gloomy  thicks  with  dark- 
some antheming ; 

Beneath  the  very  burden 

Of  planet-pressing  ocean, 
We    wash    our   smiling   cheeks   in    peace — a 
thought  for  meek  devotion. 

Tears  of  Phoebus — missings 
Of  Cytherea's  kissings, 
Have  in  us  been  found,  and  wise  men  find 
them  still ; 
Drooping  grace  unfurls 
Still  Hyacinthus'  curls, 
And   Narcissus   loves   himself   in  the  selfish 
riU; 
Thy  red  lip,  Adonis, 
Still  is  wet  with  morning ;  , 

And  the  step  that  bled  for  thee  the  rosy  brier 
adorning. 

O  !  true  things  are  fables, 
Fit  for  sagest  tables, 
And    the    flowers    arc    true  things — yet   no 
fables  they  ; 
Fables  were  not  more 
Bright,  nor  loved  of  yore — 
Yet  they  grew  not,  like  the  flowers,  by  every 
old  pathway  ; 
Grossest  hand  can  test  us — 
Fools  may  prize  us  never — 
Yet  we  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise — marvels  sweet 
for  ever. 

Who  shall  say  that  flowers 
Dress  not  heaven's  own  bowers  ? 
Who  its  love,  without  us,  can  fancy — or  sweet 
floor? 
Who  shall  even  dare 
To  say  we  sprang  not  there — 
And  came  not  down,  that  Love  might  bring 
one  piece  of  heaven  the  more  ? 
O  !  pray  believe  that  angels 
From  those  blue  dominions 
Brought  us  in  their  white  laps  down,  'twixt 
their  golden  pinions. 

Leigh  Runt— Born  1784,  Died  1859. 


140 1. —THE   NUN. 


If  you  become  a  nun,  dear, 
A  friar  I  will  be  ; 


In  any  cell  you  run,  dear, 

Pray  look  behind  for  me. 
The  roses  all  turn  pale,  too  ; 
The  doves  all  take  the  veil,  too  ; 

The  blind  will  see  the  show  : 
What !  you  become  a  nun,  nty  dear? 

I'll  not  believe  it,  no  ! 

II. 

If  you  become  a  nun,  dear, 

The  bishop  Love  will  be ; 
The  Cupids  every  one,  dear. 

Will  chant,  "  We  trust  in  thee  !  '* 
The  incense  will  go  sighing. 
The  candles  fall  a  dying, 

The  water  turn  to  wine  : 
What !  you  go  take  the  vows,  my  dear  ? 

You  may — ^but  they'll  be  mine. 

Leigh  Hunt.— Born  17 84<y  Died  1859. 


1402.— ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  hite  room. 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  : 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold. 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"  What  writest  thou  ?" — The  vision  raised  its 

head. 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  ail  sweet  accord. 
Answer' d — "  The  names   of  those  who  love 

the  Lord." 
"  And  is  mine  one  ?  "  said  Abou ;  "  Nay,  not 

so," 
Replied  the  angel. — Abou  spoke  more  low. 
But   cheerly   still ;    and   said,  "  I  pray  thee, 

then. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The   angel   wrote,    and   vanish'd.     The  next 

night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  show'd  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had 

bless'd — 
And,  lo  !  Ben  Adhem' s  name  led  all  the  rest ! 

Leigh  Hunt.— Born  1784,  Died  1859. 


1403.— JAFFAR. 

Jaffar,  the  Barmecide,  the  good  Vizier, 

The  poor  man's  hope,  the  friend  without  a 

peer. 
Jaffar  was  dead,  slain  by  a  doom  unjust ; 
And  guilty  Haroun,  sullen  with  mistrust 
Of  what  the  good,  and  e'en  the  bad  might  say, 
Ordain'd  that  no  man  hving  from  that  day 
Should   dare  to  speak   his  name  on  pain  of 

death. 
All  Araby  and  Persia  held  their  breath. 


Leigh  Hunt.] 


MAHMOUD. 


[Sevehtth  Period. — 


All  but  the  brave  Mondeer. — He,   proud  to 

show 
How  far  for  love  a  grateful  soul  could  go, 
And  facing  death  for  very  scorn  and  grief 
(For  his  great  heart  wanted  a  great  relief), 
Stood  forth  in  Bagdad,  daily  in  the  square 
Where  once  had  stood  a  happy  house,  and 

there 
Harangued  the  tremblers  at  the  scymitar 
On  all  they  owed  to  the  divine  Jaffar. 

"  Bring  me  this  man,"  the  caliph  cried  :  the, 

man 
Was  brought,  was  gazed  upon.     The  mutes 

began 
To  bind  his  arms.   "  Welcome,  brave  cords  !" 

cried  he ; 
"  From  bonds  far  worse  Jaffar  deliver' d  me ; 
From   wants,    from    shames,    from    loveless 

household  fears ; 
Made   a  man's   eyes    friends   with   delicious 

tears ; 
Restor'd  me,  loved  me,  put  me  on  a  par 
Wifch  his  great  self.     How  can  I  pay  Jaffar?" 

Haroun,  who  felt  that  on  a  soul  Hke  this 
The  mightiest  vengeance  could  but  fall  amiss, 
Now  deign' d  to  smile,  as  one  great  lord  of 

fate 
Might  smile  upon  another  half  as  great. 
He  said,  "  Let  worth  grow  frenzied  if  it  will ; 
The  caliph's  judgment  shall  be  master  stiU. 
Go,  and  since  gifts  so  move  thee,  take  this 

gem. 
The  richest  in  the  Tartar's  diadem, 
And  hold  the  giver  as  thou  deemest  fit." 

*'  Gifts ! "  cried  the   friend.     He   took ;   and 

holding  it 
High  toward  the  heavens,  as  though  to  meet 

his  star, 
Exclaim'd,  "  This,  too,  I  owe  to  thee,  Jaffar," 

Leigh  Hunt— Born  1784,  Died  1859. 


1404.— MAHMOUD. 

There  came  a  man,  making  his  hasty  moan 
Before  the  Sultan  Mahmoud  on  his  throne. 
And  crying  out — "  My  sorrow  is  my  right, 
And  I  will  see  the  Sultan,  and  to-night." 

"Sorrow,"    said   Mahmoud,    "is   a  reverend 

tiling : 
I  recognise  its  right  as  king  with  king ; 
Speak   on."      "A    fiend    has    got   into   my 

house," 
Exclaim'd  the  staring  man,  "  and  tortures  us  : 
One   of   thine   ofticors ; — he    comes,   the   ab- 

horr'd, 
And  takes  possession  of  my  house,  my  board. 
My  bed : — I  have  two  daughters  and  a  wife. 
And   the  wild  villain  comes  and  makes   me 

mad  with  hfe." 


"Is  he  there  now ? "  said  Mahmoud.     " No, 

he  left 
The  house  when  I  did,  of  my  wits  bereft ; 
And  laugh' d  me  down  the  street  because  I 

vow'd 
I'd  bring  the  prince  himself  to  lay  him  in  his 

shroud. 
I'm  mad  with  want,  I'm  mad  with  misery, 
And  Oh,   thou  Sultan  Mahmoud,  God  cries 

out  for  thee  !  " 

The  Sultan  comforted  the  man  and  said, 

"  Go  home,  and  I  will  send  thee  wine  and 

bread 
(For  he  was  poor),  and  other  comforts.     Go  ; 
And   should  the   wretch   return    let    Sultan 

Mahmoud  know." 

In  two  days'   time,  with   haggard   eyes  and 

beard, 
And  shaken  voice,  the  suitor  re-appeared. 
And  said,  "  He's  come." — Mahmoud  said  not 

a  word, 
But  rose  and  took  four  slaves  each  with  a 

sword. 
And  went  with  the  vext  man.     They  reach 

the  place, 
And  hear  a  voice  and  see  a  female  face. 
That  to  the  window  flutter'd  in  affright. 
"  Gp  in,"   said  Mahmoud,  "  and  put  out  the 

light; 
But  tell  the  females  first  to  leave  the  room  ; 
And   when   the   drunkard  follows   them,  we 

come." 

The  man   went   in.  .  There   was  a  cry,  and 

hark ! 
A  table  falls,  the  window  is  struck  dark ; 
Forth  rush  the  breathless  women,  and  behind 
With   curses   comes    the   fiend  in   desperate 

mind. 
In  vain  :  the  sabres  soon  cut  short  the  strife. 
And  chop  the  shrieking  wretch,  and  drink  his- 

bloody  life. 

"Now  light  the  light,"  the  Sultan  cried  aloud. 
'Twas  done ;  he  took  it  in  his  hand  and  bow'd 
Over  the  corpse,  and  look'd  upon  the  face  ; 
Then  tum'd  and  knelt  beside  it  in  the  place^. 
And  said  a  prayer,  and  from  his  Hps  there 

crept 
Some  gentle  words  of  pleasure,  and  he  wept. 

In  reverent  silence  the  spectators  wait, 
Then  bring   him   at  liis  call  both  wine  and 

meat; 
And  when  ho  had  refresh' d  his  noble  heart. 
He  bade  his  host  be  blest,   and  rose  up  to 

depart. 

The  man  amaz'd,  all  mildness  now  and  tears. 
Fell  at  the  Sultan's  feet  with  many  prayers, 
And  begg'd  him  to  vouchsafe  to  teU  his  slave. 
The  reason  first  of  that  command  he  gave 
About  the  light :  then  when  he  saw  the  face. 
Why  he  knelt  down  ;  and  lastly,  how  it  was 
That  fare  so  poor  as  his  detain'd  him  in  the 
place. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SUMMER  MORNING. 


[John  Clare. 


The  Sultan  said,  with  much  humanity, 

"  Since  first  I  heard  thee  come,  and  heard  thy 

cry, 
I  could  not  rid  me  of  a  dread  that  one 
By  whom  such  daring-  villanics  were  done, 
Must  be  some  lord  of  mine,  perhajis  a  lawless 

son. 
"Whoe'er  he  was,  I  knew  my  task,  but  fear'd 
A  father's  heart,  in  case  the  worst  appear'd. 
For  this  I  had  the  light  put  out.     But  when 
I  saw  the  face  and  foimd  a  stranger  slain, 
I  knelt  and  thank'd  the  sovereign  arbiter. 
Whose  work  I  had  perform' d  through  pain 

and  fear. 
And  then  I  rose  and  was  refresh' d  with  food. 
The  first  time  since  thou  cam'st  and  marr'd'st 

my  solitude." 

Leiyh  Hunt— Born  1784,  Died  1859. 


1405.— TO  THE  GLOWWORM. 

Tasteful  illumination  of  the  night, 

Bright  scatter'd,  twinkling  star  of  spangled 

earth ! 
Hail  to  the  nameless  colour'd  dark  and  light, 
The  witching  nurse  of  thy  illumined  l)irth. 
In  thy  still  hour  how  dearly  I  delight 
To  rest  my  weary  bones,  from  labour  free  ; 
In  lone  spots,  out  of  hearing,  out  of  sight, 
To  sigh  day's  smother'd  pains ;  and  pause  on 

thee, 
Bedecking  dangling  brier  and  ivied  tree. 
Or  diamonds  tipping  on  the  grassy  spear ; 
Thy  pale-faced  glimmering  light  I  love  to  see. 
Gilding   and  glistering  in  the  dewdrop  near  : 
O   still-hour's   mate  !   my  easing  heart  sobs 

free, 
While  tiny  bents  low   bend   with   many   an 

added  tear. 

John  Clare— Born  1793,  Died  18G4. 


1406.— FROM  "THE  FATE  OF  AMY.' 

The  flowers  the  sultry  summer  kills 

Spring's  milder  suns  restore  ; 
But  innocence,  that  fickle  charm. 

Blooms  once,  and  blooms  no  more. 

The  awains  who  loved  no  more  admire, 
Their  hearts  no  beauty  warms; 

And  maidens  triumph  in  her  fall 
That  envied  once  her  charms. 

Lost  was  that  sweet  simplicity ; 

Her  eyes  bright  lustre  fled  ; 
And  o'er  her  cheeks,  where  roses  bloom' d, 

A  sickly  paleness  spread. 

So  fades  the  flower  before  its  time, 

■Where  cankerworm^s  assail ; 
So  droops  the  bud  upon  its  stem 

Beneath  its  sickly  gale. 

John  Clare.— Born  1793,  Died  1864. 


1407.— WHAT  IS  LIFE  ? 

And  what  is  Life  ?     An  hour-glass  on  the  run, 
A  mist  retreating  from  the  morning  sun, 
A  busy,  bustling,  still-repeated  dream. 

Its  length  ?     A  minute's  pause,  a  moment's 
thought.  —  — 

And  Happiness  ?     A  bubble  on  the  stream, 

That  in  the  act  of  seizing  shrinks  to  nought. 

And   what   is   Hope?     The   puffing   gale   of 
morn. 
That   robs   each   flowret  of  its  gem — and 
dies  ; 
A  cobweb,  hiding  disappointment's  thorn. 
Which  stings  more  keenly  through  the  thin 
disguise. 

And  what  is  Death  ?     Is  stiU  the  cause  nn- 

f  ound  ? 

That  dark  mysterious  name  of  horrid  sound  ? 

A  long  and  lingering  sleep  the  weary  crave. 

And    Peace  ?      Where     can     its     happiness 

abound  ? 

No  where  at  all,  save;  heaven  and  the  grave. 

Then  what   is   Life  ?     When  stripp'd  of  its 
disguise, 

A  thing  to  be  desired  it  cannot  be  ; 
Since  everything  that  meets  our  foolish  eyes 

Gives  proof  sufficient  of  its  vanitj'. 
'Tis  but  a  trial  all  must  undergo, 

To  teach  unthankful  mortal  how  to  prize 
That  happiness  vain  man's  denied  to  know, 

Until  he's  call'd  to  claim  it  in  the  skies. 

John  Clare.— Born  1793,  Died  1804. 


i4o8.~SUMMER  MORNING. 

'Tis  sweet  to  meet  the  morning  breeze, 
Or  list  the  giggling  of  the  brook  ; 

Or,  stretch'd  beneath  the  shade  of  trees. 
Peruse  and  pause  on  nature's  book. 

Wlien  nature  every  sweet  prepares 
To  entertain  our  wish'd  delay — 

The  images  which  morning  Avears, 
The  wakening  charms  of  early  day ! 

Now  let  me  tread  the  meadow  paths, 
Where  glittering  dew  the  ground  illumes, 

As  sprinkled  o'er  the  withering  swaths 
Their  moisture  shrinks  in  sweet  perfumes. 

And  hear  the  beetle  sound  his  horn, 
And  hear  the  skylark  whistling  nigh. 

Sprung  from  his  bed  of  tufted  com, 
A  hailing  minstrel  in  the  sky. 

First  sunbeam,  calling  night  away 

To  see  how  sweet  thy  summons  seems  ; 

Split  by  the  willow's  wavy  gray. 
And  sweetly  dancing  on  the  streams. 


i       John  Clare."] 


THE  PRIMEOSE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


How  fine  the  spider's  web  is  spun, 

Unnoticed  to  vulgar  eyes  ; 
Its  silk  thread  glittering  in  the  sun 

Art's  bungling  vanity  defies. 

Roaming  while  the  dewy  fields 

'Neath  their  morning  burthen  lean. 

While  its  crop  my  searches  shields, 
Sweet  I  scent  the  blossom'd  bean. 

Making  oft  remarking  stops  ; 

Watching  tiny  nameless  things 
Climb  the  grass's  spiry  tops 

Ere  they  try  their  gauzy  wings. 

So  emerging  into  light, 

From  the  ignorant  and  vain 
Fearful  genius  takes  her  flight, 

Skimming  o'er  the  lowly  plain. 

John  Clare.— Born  1793,  I>led  1864. 


1409.— THE  PRIMROSE. 

A   SONNET. 

Welcome,  pale  primrose  !  starting  up  between 
Dead  matted  leaves  of  ash  and  oak  that 

strew 
The  every  lawn,   the   wood,  and  spinney 
through, 
'Mid  creeping  moss  and  ivy's  darker  green ; 
How  much    thy    presence    beautifies    the 
ground ! 
How  sweet  thy  modest  unafTocted  pride 
Glows  on  the  sunny  bank  and  wood's  warm 
side  ! 
And  where  thy  fairy  floWers  in  groups  are 
found, 
Tlie  schoolboy  roams  enchantedly  along, 

Plucking  the  fairest  with  a  rude  delight : 

While  the  meek  shepherd  stops   his  simple 

song, 

.  To  gaze  a  moment  on  the  pleasing  sight ; 

O'erjoy'd  to  see  the  flowers  that  truly  bring 

The  welcome  news  of  sweet  returning  spring. 

John  Clare. — Born  1793,  Died  1864. 


1410.— THE  THRUSH'S  NEST. 

A   SONNET, 

Within  a  thick  and  spreading  hawthorn  bush 
That  overhung  a  molehill  largo  and  round, 
I  heard  from  mom  to  mom  a  meiTy  thrush 
Sing  hymns  of  rapture,  while  I  drank  the 
sound 
With  joy — and  oft  an  unintruding  guest, 

I  watch' d  her  secret  toils  from  day  to  day  ; 
How  tme  she  warp'd  the  moss  to  form  her 
nest, 
And    modell'd   it  within   with    wood    and 
clay. 


And  by  and  by,  like  heath-bells  gUt  with  dew, 
There    lay  her  shining  eggs    as  bright  as 

flowers, 
Ink-spotted  over,  shells  of  green  and  blue  ; 
And   there    I   witness'd,    in    the    summer 
hours, 
A  brood  of  nature's  minstrels  chirp  and  fly, 
Glad  as  the  sunshine  and  the  laughing  sky. 

John  Clare. — Born  1793,  Died  1864. 


141 1.— FIRST-LOVE'S    RECOLLECTIONS. 

First-love  wiU  with  the  heart  remain 

When  its  hopes  are  all  gone  by  ; 
As  frail  rose-blossoms  still  retain 

Their  fragrance  when  they  die  : 
And  joy's  first  dreams  will  haunt  the  mind 

With  the  shades  'mid  which  they  sprung, 
As  summer  leaves  the  stems  behind 

On  which  spring's  blossoms  hung. 

Mary,  I  dare  not  call  thee  dear, 

I've  lost  that  right  so  long ; 
Yet  once  again  I  vex  thine  ear 

With  memory's  idle  song. 
I  felt  a  pride  to  name  thy  name, 

But  now  that  pride  hath  flown. 
And  burning  blushes  speak  my  shame. 

That  thus€  love  thee  on. 

How  loth  to  part,  how  fond  to  meet, 

Had  we  two  used  to  be  ; 
At  sunset,  with  what  eager  feet 

I  hasten' d  unto  thee  ! 
Scarce  nine  days  pass'd  us  ere  we  met 

In  spring,  nay,  wintry  weather ; 
Now  nine  years'  suns  have  risen  and  set. 

Nor  found  us  once  together. 

Thy  face  was  so  familiar  grown, 

Thyself  so  often  nigh, 
A  moment's  memory  when  alone. 

Would  bring  thee  in  mine  eye  ; 
But  now  my  very  dreams  forget 

That  witching  look  to  trace ; 
Though  there  thy  beauty  lingers  yet, 

It  wears  a  stranger's  face. 

When  last  that  gentle  check  I  prest. 

And  heard  thee  feign  adieu, 
I  little  thought  that  seeming  jest 

Would  prove  a  word  so  true  ! 
A  fate  like  this  hath  oft  befell 

Even  loftier  hopes  than  ours  ; 
Spring  bids  full  many  buds  to  swell. 

That  ne'er  can  grow  to  flowers. 

John  Clare.— Bom  1793,  Died  1864. 


141 2.— D AWNINGS  OF  GENIUS. 

In  those  low  paths  which  poverty  surrounds, 
The   rough    rude  ploughman,  off  his    fallow 
grounds 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SCENES  AND  MUSINGS. 


[John  Claee. 


(That  necessary  tool  of  wealth  and  pride), 
While  moil'd  and  sweating,  by  some  pasture's 

side. 
Will  often  stoop,  inquisitive  to  trace 
The  opening  beauties  of  a  daisy's  face  ; 
Oft  will  he  witness,  with  admiring  eyes. 
The  brook's  sweet  dimples    o'er  the  pebbles 

rise ; 
And  often  bent,  as  o'er  some  magic  spell, 
He'll   pause  and   pick  liis  shaped  stone  and 

sheU  : 
Eaptures  the  while  his  inward  powers  inflame. 
And  joys  delight  him  which  lie  cannot  name  ; 
Ideas  picture  pleasing  views  to  mind, 
For   which    his  language    can   no    utterance 

find; 
Increasing  beauties,  freshening  on  his  sight, 
Unfold   new  charms,  and    witness   more  de- 

hght; 
So  while  the  present  please,  the  past  decay, 
And  in  each  other,  losing,  melt  away. 
Thus  pausing  wild  on  all  he  saunters  b}'. 
He  feels  enraptured,  though   he  knows    not 

why; 
And  hums  and  mutters  o'er  his  joys  in  vain. 
And   dwells    on    something   which   he    can't 

explain. 
The  bursts  of  thought  with  which  his  soul 's 

perplex' d 
Are   bred    one   moment,   and   are    gone    the 

next ; 
Yet  still   the  heart  will    kindling  sparks  re- 
tain. 
And   thoughts   will   rise,    and   Fancy   strive 


So  have  I  mark'd  the  dying  ember's  light, 
When   on    the   hearth   it    fainted    from   my 

sight, 
With  glimmering  glow  oft  redden  up  again, 
And    sparks    crack  brightening   into   life    in 

vain ; 
Still  lingering  out  its  kindling  hope  to  rise, 
Till  faint,  and  fainting,  the  last  twinkle  dies. 
Dim  burns  the  soul,  and  throbs  the  flutter- 
ing heart, 
Its  painful  pleasing  feelings  to  impart ; 
Till  by  successless  sallies  wearied  quite, 
The     memory   fails,    and    Fancy   takes    her 

flight: 
The  wick,  confined  within  its  socket,  dies, 
Borne  down    and    smother' d    in   a  thousand 
sighs. 

Jolin  Clare— Bom  1793,  Died  1864. 


1413.— SCENES  AND  MUSINGS  OF  THE   I 
PEASANT  POET.  j 

Each    opening   season,  and    each    opening   I 

scene. 
On  his  wild  view  still   teem'd  with   fresh 

delight ; 
E'en  winter's  storms  to  him  have  welcome 

been. 


That  brought  him  comfort  in  its  long  dark 

night. 
As   joyful   listening,  while  the   fire  burnt 

bright, 
Some  neighbouring  labourer's  superstitious 

tale,  __    _ 

How    "  Jack-a-lantern,"    with     his     wisp 

alight. 
To  drown  a  'nighted  traveller  once  did  fail, 
i    He  knowing  well  the  brook  that  whimper'd 

down  the  vale. 

I        And  tales  of  fairy -land  he  loved  to  hear, 
I        Those  mites  of  human  forms,  like  skimming 
I  bees. 

That  fly  and  flirt  about  but  everywhere ; 
The    mystic    tribes    of    night's    unnerving 
j  breeze. 

That  through  a  lock-hole  even  creep  with 

ease : 
The  freaks  and  stories  of  this  elfin  crew, 
kh  !  Lubin  gloried  in  such  things  as  these  ; 
How  they  rewarded  industry  he  knew. 
And  how  the  restless  slut  was  pinched  black 
and  blue. 

How  ancient  dames  a  fairy's  anger  fear'd. 

From  gossip's  stories  Lubin  often  heard  ; 

How  they  on  every  night  the  hearthstone 
clear' d, 

And,  'gainst    their  visits,  all   things    neat 
prepared, 

As  fays  nought    more  than  cleanliness  re- 
gard; 

When   in    the    morn    they  never  fail'd    to 
share 

Or  gold  or  silver  as  their  meet  reward, 

Dropt  in  the  water  superstition's  care. 
To    make   the  charm  succeed,  had   cautious 
placed  there. 

And    thousands    such    the    village    keeps 

alive ; 
Beings  that  people  superstitious  earth. 
That  e'er  in  rural  manners  will  survive. 
As  long  as  wild  rusticity  has  birth 
To  spread  their  wonders  round  the  cottage- 
hearth. 
On    Lubin' s   mind   these  deeply  were    im- 

press'd  ; 
Oft  fear  forbade  to  share  his  neighbour's 

mirth  : 
And  long  each  tale,  by  fancy  newly  dress'd, 
Brought  fairies  in  his  dreams,  and  broke  his 
infant  rest. 

He  had  his  dreads  and  fears,  and  scarce 

could  pass 
A  churchyard's   dreary  mounds   at    silent 

night, 
But  footsteps  trampled  through  the  rustling 

grass, 
And   ghosts   'hind    grave-stones   stood    in 

sheets  of  white ; 
Dread    monsters    fancy   moulded    on    his 

sight ; 


John  Clake.] 


SCENES  AND  MUSINGS.. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Soft   would    he   step   lest   they   his   tread 

should  hear, 
And   creep   and   creep   till   past   his    wild 

affright  ; 
Then  on  wind's  wings  would  rally,  as    it 

were, 
So    swift    the   wild    retreat    of    childhood's 

fancied  fear. 

And  when  fear  left  him,  on  his  corner- seat 
Much  would  he  chatter  o'er  each  dreadful 

tale ; 
Tell  how  he  heard  the  sound  of  'proaching 

feet. 
And   warriors  jingling  in   their   coats   of 

mail ; 
And  lumping  knocks  as  one  would  thump  a 

flail; 
Of  spirits  conjured  in  the  charnel  floor ; 
And  many  a  mournful  shriek  and  hapless   j 

wail, 
"Where    maids,    self-murder'd,    their    false 

loves  deplore ; 
And  from  that  time  would  vow  to  tramp  on   j 

nights  no  more. 

O !  who  can  speak  his  jcys  when  spring's 

young  morn, 
From   wood   and   pasture,  open'd    on  his 

view  ! 
When   tender  green   buds  blush  upon  the 

thorn. 
And   the  first   primrose  dips  its   leaves  in 

dew : 
Each    varied   charm   how   joy'd  would    he 

pursue. 
Tempted  to  trace   their  beauties   through 

the  day ; 
Grey-girdled  eve  and  morn  of  rosy  hue 
Have  both  beheld  him  on  his  lonely  way, 
Far,    far    remote    from  boys,  and  their   un- 

pleasing  play. 

Sequester' d  nature  was  his  heart's  delight ; 
Him    v/ould   she  lead    through  wood   and 

lonely  plain, 
Searching  the  pooty  from  the  rushy  dike ; 
And  while  the  thrush  sang  her  long-silenced 

strain. 
He  thought  it  sweet,  and  mock'd   it  o'er 

again ; 
And  while  he  pluck' d  the  primrose  in  its 

pride. 
He  ponder'd  o'er  its  bloom  'tween  joy  and 

pain  ; 
And  a  rude  sonnet  in  its  praise  he  tried, 
Where   nature's  simple   way  the  aid  of   art 

supplied. 

The  freshen'd  landscapes  round,  his  routes 

unfurl' d, 
The  fine-tinged   clouds    above,  the   woods 

bdlow, 
Each  met  his  eye  a  new-revealing  world, 
Delighting   more   as   more    he   learn' d   to 

know  ; 
Each  journey  sweeter,  musing  to  and  fro. 


Surrounded  thus,  not  Paradise  more  sweet ; 

Enthusiasm  made  his  soul  to  glow  ; 

His    heart    ^\ith   wild    sensations   used   to 

beat ; 
As  nature  seemly  sang,  his  mutterings  would 

repeat. 

Upon  a  molehill  oft  he  dropt  him  down, 
To  take  a  prospect  of  the  circKng  scene, 
Marking    how    much   the    cottage    roof's 

thatch  brown 
Did  add  its  beauty  to  the  budding  green 
Of  sheltering  trees   it   humbly  peep'd  be- 
tween ; 
The  stone-rock' d  waggon  with  its  rumbling 

sound; 
The  windmill's   sweeping  sails  at  distance 

seen  ; 
And  every  form  that    crowds  the  circliii','- 
round, 
j   Wliere  the  sky,  stooping,   seems  to  kiss  the 
meeting  ground. 

And  dear  to  him  the  rural  sports  of  May, 
When  each  cot-threshold  mounts  its  hailing 

bough, 
And  ruddy  milkmaids  weave  their  garlands 

gay, 
Upon  the  green  to  crown  the  earliest  cow  ; 
When   mirth  and   pleasure    wear  a  joyful 

brow ; 
And  join  the  tumult  with  unbounded  glee, 
The  humble  tenants  of  the  pail  and  plouj,''h  : 
He  loved  "  old  sports,"  by  them  revived,  to 

see. 
But  never  cared  to  join  in  their  rude  revelry. 

O'er  brook-banks  stretching,  on  the  pasture- 
sward 
He   gazed,    far    distant    from    the   jocund 

crew ; 
'Twas  but  their  feats  that  ciaim'd  a  slight 

regard ; 
'Twas  his — his  pastimes  lonely  to  pursue — 
Wild  blossoms  creeping   in   the    grass   to 

view, 

Scarce  peeping  up  the  tiny  bent  as  high, 

Betingod  with'  glossy  yellow,  red  or  blue. 

Unnamed,  unnoticed  but  by  Lubin's  eye, 

That  like  low  genius  sprang,  to  bloom  their 

day  and  die. 

O !    who  can  tell  the  sweets  of  Maj^-day's 
morn. 

To  waken  rapture  in  a  feeling  mind  ; 

When  the    gilt    east  unveils   her   dappled 
dawn. 

And   the    gay  woodlark    has   its   nest  re- 
sign'd. 

As  slow  the  sun  creeps  up  the  hill  behind  ; 

Morn  reddening  round,  and  daylight's  spot- 
less hue, 

As  seemingly  with  rose  and  lily  lined ; 

While  all  the  prospect  round  beams  fair  to 
view, 
Like  a  sweet  opening  flower  with  its  unsullied 
dew. 


Frovi  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  THEATRE. 


[Jas.  and  Horace  b'MiTH. 


Ah !    often  brushing  through  the  dripping 


Has    he   been    seen    to    catch   this    early 
charm, 

Listening  the  "  love-song  "  of  the  healthy- 
lass 

Passing  with  milk-pail  on  her  well-turn' d 
arm  ; 

Or    meeting     objects    from    the     rousing 
farm — 

The  jingling  plough-teams  driving  down  the 
steep, 

Waggon    and    cart  ;     and    shepherd-dogs' 
alarm, 

Eaising  the  bleatings  of  unfolding  sheep. 
As  o'er  the  mountain  top  the  red  sun  'gins  to 
peep. 

Nor   could    the    day's   decline  escape  his 

gaze  ; 
He  loved  the  closing  as  the  rising  day. 
And  oft  would  stand  to  catch  the  setting 

rays, 
Whose  last   beams  stole  not  unperceived 

away  ; 
When,  hesitating  hke  a  stag  at  bay, 
The  bright  unwearied  sun  seem'd  loath  to 

drop. 
Till  chaos'  night-hounds  hurried  him  away. 
And  drove  him  headlong  from  the  mountain 

top, 
Ajid  shut  the  lovely  scene,  and  bade  all  nature 

stop. 

With  contemplation's   stores  his  mind  to 

fill, 
O  doubly  happy  would  he  roam  as  then, 
When  the  blue  eve  crept  deeper  round  the 

hill, 
While  the  coy  rabbit  ventured  from  his 

den, 
And  weary  labour  sought  his  rest  again  ; 
Lone  wanderings    led    him    haply  by   the 

stream, 
Where  unperceived  he  'joy'd  his  hours  at 

will. 
Musing     the    cricket    twittering    o'er    its 

dream. 
Or  watching  o'er  the  brook  the  moonlight's 

dancing  beam. . 

And  here  the  rural  muse  might  aptly  say, 
As  sober  evening  sweetly  siles  along, 
How  she  has  chased  black  ignorance  away. 
And  warm'd  his  artless  soul  with  feelings 

strong, 
To  teach  his  reed  to  warble  forth  a  song  ; 
And  how  it  echoed  on  the  even-gale, 
All     by    the     brook     the     pasture-flowers 

among  : 
But  ah  !  such  trifles  are  of  no  avail — 
There 's  few  to  notice  him,  or  hear  his  simple 

tale. 

O  Poverty  !  thy  frowns  were  early  dealt 
O'er  him  who  moum'd  thee,  not  by  fancy 
led 


To  whine  and  wail  o'er  woes  he  never  felt, 
Staining    his    rhymes  with  tears  he  never 

shed. 
And  heaving  sighs  a  mock  song  only  bred : 
Alas  !  he  knew  too  much  of  every  pain 
That  shower'd  full  thick  on  his  unshelter'd 

head ; 
And  as  his  tears  and  sighs  did  erst  com- 
plain. 
His  numbers  took  it  up,  and  wept  it   o'er 
again. 

John  Clare.-^Bom  1793,  Died  1864. 


1414.--THE   THEATRE.— BY   THE   EEV. 
G.  C.  [CEABBE.] 

'Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  five  to  six. 
Our   long   wax   candles,   with    short    cotton 

wicks. 
Touch' d  by  the  lamplighter's  Promethean  art, 
Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start : 
To  see  red  Phoebus  through  the  gallery  pane 
Tinge   witti  his    beam  the  beams    of    Drury 

Lane, 
While  gradual  parties  fill  our  widen'd  pit. 
And  gape,  and   gaze,  and  wonder,  ere   they 

sit.     *     * 
What  various  swains  our  motley  walls  con- 
tain ! 
Fashion  from  Moorfields,  honour  from  Chick 

Lane ; 
Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  resort, 
Bankrupts   from  Golden  Square  and   Eiches 

Court ; 
From  the  Haymarket  canting  rogues  in  grain. 
Gulls    from   the   Poultry,    sots   from   Water 

Lane  ; 
The  lottery  cormorant,  the  auction  shark. 
The    full-price    master,    and    the    half-price 

clerk  ; 
Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery  door. 
With  pence  twice  five,  they  want  but  two- 
pence more. 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  twopence  spares, 
And    sends    them  jumping    up  the   gallery 

stairs. 
Critics  we  boast  who  ne'er  their  malice  baulk 
But  talk  their  minds,  we  wish  they'd  min 

their  talk ; 
Big  worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live, 
Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  He  they  give ; 
Jews  from  St.  Mary  Axe,  for  jobs  so  wary, 
That    for   old    clothes   they'd   even  axe   St. 

Mary; 
And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pate. 
Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait ; 
Who  oft,  when  we  our  house  lock  up,  carouse 
With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a  lock-up  house. 
Yet    here,    as    elsewhere,   chance   can  joy 

bestow. 
Where  scowling  fortune  seem'd  to  threaten 

woe. 
John  Eichard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Esquire ; 

66 


JAS.  AND  Horace  Smith.] 


THE  BABY'S  DEBUT. 


[Seventh  Pebiod. — 


But  when  John  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Bines, 

Emannel  Jennings  polish'd  Stubbs's  shoes. 

Emanuel  Jennings  brought  liis  youngest  boy 

Up  as  a  corn  cutter — a,  safe  employ  ; 

In  Holywell  Street,  St.  Pancras,  he  was  bred 

(At  number  twenty- seven,  it  is  said), 

Facing    the   pump,    and  near   the   Granby's 

Head. 
He  would  have  bound  him  to  some   shop  in 

town, 
But    with   a   premium    he   could    not    come 

down  : 
Pat    was    the    urchin's    name,   a    red- hair' d 

youth, 
Fonder    of    purl    and    skittle-grounds     than 

truth. 
Silence,  ye  gods !    to  keep  your  tongues  in 

awe. 
The  muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw. 
Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat ; 
But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat ; 
Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew. 
And  spurn'd  the  one,  to  settle  in  the  two. 
How  shall  he  act  ?     Pay  at  the  gallery  door 
Two  sliillings  for  what  cost  when  new  but 

four  ? 
Or  till  half  price,  to  save  his  shilling,  wait. 
And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half-past  eight  ? 
Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief, 
John  Mullins  whispers,   "  Take  my  handker- 
chief." 
"Thank   you;"   cries  Pat,    "but  one  won't 

make  a  Hne." 
"  Take  mine,"    cried  Wilson.    "  And,"  cried 

Stokes,  "take  mine." 
A  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties, 
Where  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies. 
Like  Iris'  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  hue, 
Starr'd,  striped,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and 

blue. 
Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 
George  Green  below,  with  palpitating  hand. 
Loops  the  last  'kerchief  to  the  beaver's  band  ; 
Upsoars  the  prize ;    the  youth,  with  joy  un- 

feign'd, 
Eegain'd  the  felt,  and  felt  what  he  regain'd, 
While    to   the   applauding  galleries  grateful 

Pat 
Made  a  low  bow,  and'  touch' d  the  ransom' d 

hat.     *     * 

James  and  Horace  Smith. — About  1812. 


141 5.— THE  BABY'S  DEBUT.— BY  W.  W. 
[WORDSWOETH.] 

My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 
And  I  was  eight  on  New  Year's  Day; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson's  shop 
Papa  (he  's  my  papa  and  Jack's) 
Bought  me,  last  week,  a  doll  of  wax, 

And  brother  Jack  a  top. 


Jack 's  in  the  pouts,  and  this  it  is, 

He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  his. 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes. 
Takes  out  the  doll,  and,  oh  my  stars ! 
He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars, 

And  melts  off  half  her  nose  ! 

Quite  cross,  a  bit  of  string  I  beg, 
And  tie  it  to  his  peg-top's  peg, 

And  bang,  with  might  and  main, 
Its  head  against  the  parlour  door  : 
Off  flies  the  head,  and  hits  the  floor, 

And  breaks  a  window-pane. 

This  made  him  cry  with  rage  and  spite ; 
Well,  let  him  cry,  it  serves  him  right. 

A  pretty  thing,  forsooth  ! 
If  he  's  to  melt,  all  scalding  hot, 
Half  my  doll's  nose,  and  I  am  not 

To  draw  his  peg-top's  tooth  ! 

Aunt  Hannah  heard  the  window  break, 
And  cried,  "  O  naughty  Nancy  Lake, 

Thus  to  distress  your  aunt : 
No  Drury  Lane  for  you  to-day  !  " 
And  while  papa  said,  "  Pooh,  she  may  !  " 

Mamma  said,  "  No,  she  shan't !  " 

Well,  after  many  a  sad  reproach, 
They  got  into  a  hackney  coach. 

And  trotted  down  the  street. 
I  saw  them  go  :  one  horse  was  blind  ; 
The  tails  of  both  hung  down  behind ; 

Their  shoes  were  on  their  feet. 

The  chaise  in  which  poor  brother  Bill 
Used  to  be  drawn  to  Pentonville, 

Stood  in  the  lumber  room  : 
I  wiped  the  dust  from  off  the  top, 
While  Molly  mopp'd  it  with  a  mop, 

And  brush'd  it  with  a  broom. 

My  uncle's  porter,  Samuel  Hughes, 
Came  in  at  six  to  black  the  shoes 

(I  always  talk  to  Sam)  : 
So  what  does  he,  but  takes  and  drags 
Me  in  the  chaise  along  the  flags, 

And  leaves  me  where  I  am. 

My  father's  walls  are  made  of  brick. 
But  not  so  tall,  and  not  so  thick 

As  these  ;  and,  goodness  me  ! 
My  father's  beams  are  made  of  wood. 
But  never,  never  half  so  good 

As  these  that  now  I  see. 

What  a  large  floor !  'tis  like  a  town  ! 
The  carpet,  when  they  lay  it  down. 

Won't  hide  it,  I'll  be  bound  : 
And  there 's  a  row  of  lamps ;  my  eye  ! 
How  they  do  blaze  I  I  wonder  why 

They  keep  them  on  the  ground. 

At  first  I  caught  hold  of  the  wing, 
And  kept  away  ;  but  Mr.  Thing- 

Urabob,  the  prompter  man. 
Gave  with  his  hand  my  chaise  a  shove, 
And  said,  "  Go  on,  my  pretty  love; 

Speak  to  'em,  little  Nan. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


A  TALE  OF  DRUEY  LANE.        [Jas.  and  Horace  Smith:. 


You've  only  got  to  curtsey,  whisp- 
er, hold  your  chin  up,  laugh  and  lisp, 

And  then  you're  sure  to  take  : 
I've  known  the  day  when  brats  not  quite 
Thirteen  got  fifty  pounds  a  night. 

Then  why  not  Nancy  Lake  ?  " 

But  while  I'm  speaking,  where 's  papa  ? 

And  where 's  my  aunt  ?  and  where 's  mamma  ? 

Where 's  Jack  ?  Oh,  there  they  sit ! 
They  smile,  they  nod  ;  I'll  go  my  ways, 
And  order  round  poor  Billy's  chaise, 

To  join  them  in  the  pit. 

And  now,  good  gentlefolks,  I  go 
To  join  mamma,  and  see  the  show  ; 

So,  bidding  you  adieu, 
I  curtsey,  like  a  pretty  miss. 
And  if  you'll  blow  to  me  a  kiss, 

I'll  blow  a  kiss  to  you. 

James  and  Horace  Smith. — About  1812. 


1416.— A  TALE    OF  DEURY   LANE.— BY 
W.  S.  [SCOTT.] 
*  *  #  # 

As  chaos  which,  by  heavenly  doom, 
Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom, 
Started  with  terror  and  surprise, 
When  light  first  flash' d  upon  her  eyes  : 
So  London's  sons  in  nightcap  woke, 

In  bedgown  woke  her  dames, 
For  shouts  were  heard  'mid  fire  and  smoke, 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke, 

"  The  playhouse  is  in  flames." 
And  lo  !  where  Catherine  Street  extends, 
A  fiery  tale  its  lustre  lends 

To  every  window-pane  : 
Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 
And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort. 
And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport, 

A  bright  ensanguined  drain  ; 
Meux's  new  brewhouse  shows  the  light, 
Rowland  Hill's  chapel,  and  the  height 

Where  patent  shot  they  sell : 
The  Tennis  Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 
Partakes  the  ray,  with  Surgeons'  Hall, 
The  Ticket  Porters'  house  of  call, 
Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall, 
Wright's  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal, 

And  Richardson's  hotel. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  far  and  wide, 
Across  the  Thames' s  gleaming  tide, 
To  distant  fields  the  blaze  was  borne ; 
And  daisy  white  and  hoary  thorn, 
In  borrow'd  lustre  seem'd  to  sham 
The  rose  or  red  sweet  Wil-li-am. 

To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 

Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury's  mound. 
As  from  a  lofty  altar  rise. 

It  seem'd  that  nations  did  conspire, 

To  offer  to  the  god  of  fire 
Some  vast  stupendous  sacrifice  ! 


The  summon' d  firemen  woke  at  call, 
And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all. 
Starting  from  short  and  broken  snoose, 
Each  sought  his  ponderous  hobnail' d  shoes  : 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied. 
Plush  breeches  next  in  crimson  dyed, 

His  nether  bulk  einbraced  ; 
Then  jacket  thick  of  red  or  blue. 
Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 
The  engines  thunder' d  through  the  street. 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete. 
And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 

Along  the  pavement  paced.     *     * 

E'en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed. 
For  sadder  scene  was  ne'er  disclosed ; 
Without,  within,  in  hideous  show, 
Devouring  flames  resistless  glow. 
And  blazing  rafters  downward  go. 
And  never  halloo  "  Heads  below  !  " 

Nor  notice  give  at  all : 
The  firemen,  terrified,  are  slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrent  flow, 

For  fear  the  roof  should  fall. 
Back,  Robins,  back  !     Crump,  stand  aloof  ! 

Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls  ! 
Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof. 
For,  lo  !  the  blazing  rocking  roof 

Down,  down  in  thunder  falls  ! 

An  awful  pause  succeeds  the  stroke, 
And  o'er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke, 
Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud, 
Conceal'd  them  from  the  astonish'd  crowd. 
At  length  the  mist  awhile  was  clear' d, 
When  lo  !  amid  the  wreck  uprear'd. 
Gradual  a  moving  head  appear' d. 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
'Twas  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 
Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  woe, 
"  A  Muggins  to  the  rescue,  ho  !  " 

And  pour'd  the  hissing  tide  : 
Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain. 
And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain. 
For  rallying  but  to  fall  again. 

He  totter' d,  sunk,  and  died  ! 
Did  none  attempt,  before  he  feU, 
To  succour  one  they  loved  so  well  ? 
Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire 
(His  fireman's  soul  was  all  on  fire) 

His  brother  chief  to  save ; 
But  ah  !  his  reckless  generous  ire 

Served  but  to  share  his  grave ! 
'Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams, 
Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke. 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 
But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench 
Destroying  sight,  o'erwhelm'd  him  quite ; 

He  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 
Still  o'er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved. 
His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved  ; 
"  Whitford  and  Mitford  ply  your  pumps  ; 
You,  Clutterbuck,  come,  stir  your  stumps ; 

66* 


James  Smith.] 


THE  UPAS  IN  MAEYBONE  LANE. 


[■Seventh  Pebiod. — 


Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps  ? 

A  fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps  ! 

What   are   they  fear'd    on  ?    fools — 'od    rot 

'em  !  " 
Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom.     *     * 

James  and  Horace  Smith. — About  1812. 


1417.— THE  UPAS  IN  MARYBONE  LANE. 

A  tree  grew  in  Java,  whose  pestilent  rind 

A  venom  distill' d  of  the  deadliest  kind  ; 

The   Dutch   sent   their   felons   its  juices    to 

draw, 
And  who  return' d  safe,  pleaded  pardon  by 

law. 

Face-muffled,  the  culprits  crept  into  the  vale, 

Advancing  from  windward  to  'scape  the  death- 
gale; 

How  few  the  reward  of  their  victory  earn'd ! 

For  ninety-nine  perish' d  for  one  who  re- 
turn'd. 

Britannia  this  Upas-tree  bought  of  Mynheer, 

Removed  it  through  Holland,  and  planted  it 
here  ; 

'Tis  now  a  stock -plant  of  the  genus  wolf's- 
bane, 

And  one  of  them  blossoms  in  Marybone  Lane. 

The  house  that  surrounds  it  stands  first  in  the 

row, 
Two  doors  at  right  angles  swing  open  below  ; 
And  the  children  of  misery  daily  steal  in, 
And  the  poison  they  draw  they  denominate 

Gin. 

There   enter   the   prude,   and  the   reprobate 

hoy, 
The  mother  of  grief,  and  the  daughter  of  joy. 
The  serving-maid  slim,  and  the  serving-man 

stout. 
They  quickly  steal  in,   and  tbey  slowly  reel 

out. 

Surcharged  with  the  venom,  some  walk  forth 

erect, 
Apparently  baffling  its  deadly  effect ; 
But,  sooner  or  later,  the  reckoning  arrives, 
And  ninety-nine  perish  for  one  who  survives. 

They  cautious  advance  with  slouch' d  bonnet 

and  hat, 
They  enter  at  this  door,  they  go  out  at  that ; 
Some  bear  off  their  burden  with  riotous  glee, 
But  most  sink  in  sleep  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

Tax,  Chancellor  Van,  the  Batavian  to  thwart. 

This  compound  of  crime  at  a  sovereign  a 
quart ; 

Let  gin  fetch  per  bottle  the  price  of  cham- 
pagne, 

And  hew  down  the  Upas  in  Marybone  Lane. 
Jam,es  Smith.— Bom  1775,  Died  1839. 


1418.— ADDEF]SS   TO   THE    MUMMY  IN 
BELZONI'S  EXHIBITION. 

And  thou  hast  walk'd  about  (how  strange  a 
story  I) 
In   Thebes'    streets   three   thousand  years 
ago, 
When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory. 

And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 
Those  temples,  palaces,  and  pUes  stupendous, 
Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous  ! 

Speak  !     for   thou  long   enough  hast   acted 

dumby ; 
Thou  hast  a  tongue,  come,  let  us  hear  its 

tune; 
Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs  above  ground, 

mummy  ! 
Eevisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures. 
But  with  thy  bones  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and 

features. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recoUect — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the   Sphinx's 
fame  ? 
Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 
Is  Pompey's  pUlar  really  a  misnomer  ? 
Had   Thebes   a  hundred  gates,  as   sung   by 
Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade — 
Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 
In    Memnon's     statue,    which    at    sunrise 
play'd  ? 
Perhaps    thou    wert    a    priest  —  if    so,    my 

struggles 
Are    vain,    for    priestcraft    never    owns    its 
juggles. 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pmion'd  flat. 
Has  hob-a-nobb'd  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to 


Or  dropp'd  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat, 
Or  doff'd    thine    own   to   let  Queen   Dido 
pass, 
Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 
A  torch  at  the  great  Temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  arm'd, 
Has     any     Roman     soldier     manl'd     and 
knuckled. 
For  thou   wert   dead,    and   buried,    and    em- 
balm'd, 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled : 
Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 
Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou     couldst     develop,     if     that    wither' d 
tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have 
seen. 
How  the  world  look'd  when  it  was  fresh  and 
young, 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it  green ; 


From  1780  io  1866.] 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWEES. 


[Horace  Smith. 


Or  was  it  then  so  old,  that  history's  pages 
Contain' d  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  silent,  incommunicative  elf ! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ?  then  keep  thy  vows ; 
But  prithee  tell  us  something  of  thyself ; 
Eeveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house  ; 
Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slum- 

ber'd, 
What    hast    thou    seen — what    strange   ad- 
ventures number"  d  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended, 
We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange 

mutations ; 
The  Eoman  empire  has  begun  and  ended, 
New  worlds  have  risen — we  have  lost  old 

nations, 
And   countless   kings    have   into   dust    been 

humbled, 
Whilst    not    a    fragment    of    thy   flesh   has 

crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head, 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cam- 
byses, 
March' d  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering 
tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Or  us,  Apis,  Isis, 
And    shook    the    pyramids    with    fear    and 

wonder, 
When,  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confess'd. 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  : 
A  heart  has  throbb'd  beneath  that  leathern 
breast. 
And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have 
roU'd  : 
Have  children  climb'd  those  knees,  and  kiss'd 

that  face  ? 
What  was   thy  name   and   station,   age   and 
race? 

Statue  of  flesh — immortal  of  the  dead  ! 
Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 

Posthumous    man,    who    quit'st   thy  narrow 
bed. 
And    standest   undecay'd   within   our  pre- 
sence. 

Thou   wilt   hear   nothing   till    the  judgment 
morning. 

When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  ^vith 
its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever  ? 

Oh,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalm' d  and  pure 
In    living  virtue,   that,   when   both   must 
sever. 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume. 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom. 

Horace  Smith. — Born  1779,  Died  1849. 


14 1 9.— HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

Day-stars !  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn  to 
twinkle 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation. 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation !        _^ 

Ye  matin  worshippers  !  who  bending  lowly 

Before  the  uprisen  sun — God'slidlesseye — 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high ! 

Ye  bright  mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tessellate. 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create  ! 

'Neath  cloister'd  boughs,  each  floral  bell  that 
Bwingeth 
And  toUs  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air. 
Makes  sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and 
column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand. 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn, 
Which  God  hath  plann'd  ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder. 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon 
supply — 
Its   choir  the   winds   and   waves,    its   organ 
thunder, 

Its  dome  the  sky. 

There — as  in  solitude  and  shade  T  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  or,  stretch' d  upon 
the  sod. 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God — 

Your   voiceless   lips,    O  Flowers,    are    living 
I  preachers, 

j        Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book, 
I    Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
j  From  loneliest  nook. 

[  Floral  Apostles !  that  in  dewy  splendour 

}       "  Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without  a 

I  crime," 

;  0  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 

'  Your  lore  sublime  ! 

"  Thou  wort  not,  Solomon  !  in  all  thy  glory, 
Array'd,"    the   lilies    cry,    "in    robes   like 
ours; 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !  Ah,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers  !  " 

In     the     sweet-scented    pictures,    Heavenly 
Artist ! 
With  which  thou  paintest  Nature's  wide- 
spread hall. 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all. 


Horace  Smith.] 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GEOEGE  III. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. 


Not  useless  are  ye,  Flowers  !  though   made 
for  pleasure : 
Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and 
night, 
Prom  every   source   your   sanction   bids   me 
treasure 

Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 
For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish 
scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori. 
Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Posthumous  glories !  angel-like  collection  ! 
Upraised  from   seed    or    bulb    interred   in 
earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I,  0  God,  in  churchless  lands  remaining. 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  divines. 
My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining. 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines  ! 

Horace  Smith.— Born  1779,  Died.  1849. 


1420.— ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GEOEGE  III. 

WRITTEN   UNDER  WINDSOR  TERRACE. 

I  saw  him  last  on  this  terrace  proud, 
Walking  in  health  and  gladness, 

Begirt  with  his  court ;  and  in  all  the  crowd 
Not  a  single  look  of  sadness. 

Bright  was  the  sun,  the  leaves  were  green — 

Blithely  the  birds  were  singing ; 
The  cymbals  replied  to  the  tambourine, 

And  the  bells  were  merrily  ringing. 

I  have  stood  with  the  crowd  beside  his  bier, 
When  not  a  word  was  spoken — 

When  every  eye  was  dim  with  a  tear, 
And  the  silence  by  sobs  was  broken. 

I  have  heard  the  earth  on  his  coffin  pour 
To  the  muffled  drums,  deep  rolling, 

While  the  minute  gun,  with  its  solemn  roar. 
Drown' d  the  death-bells'  tolling. 

The  time — since  he  walk'd  in  his  glory  thus, 
To  the  grave  till  I  saw  him  carried — 

Was  an  age  of  the  mightiest  change  to  us, 
But  to  him  a  night  unvaried. 

A  daughter  beloved,  a  queen,  a  son, 
And  a  son's  sole  child,  have  perish' d ; 

And  sad  was  each  heart,  save  only  the  one 
By  which  they  were  fondest  cherish' d ; 

For  his  eyes  were  seal'd  and  his  mind  was 
.  dark, 

And  he  sat  in  his  age's  lateness — 
Like  a  vision  throned,  as  a  solemn  mark 

Of  the  frailty  of  human  greatness  ; 


His  silver  beard,  o'er  a  bosom  spread 

Unvex'd  by  life's  commotion, 
Like  a  yearly  lengthening  snow-drift  shed 

On  the  calm  of  a  frozen  ocean. 

StiU  o'er  him  Oblivion's  waters  lay, 

Though  the  stream  of  life  kept  flowing ; 

When  they  spoke  of  our  king,  'twas  but  to 
say 
The  old  man's  strength  was  going. 

At  intervals  thus  the  waves  disgorge. 

By  weakness  rent  asunder, 
A  piece  of  the  Avreck  of  the  Eoyal  George, 

To  the  people's  pity  and  wonder. 

He  is  gone  at  length — he  is  laid  in  the  dust, 
Death's  hand  his  slumbers  breaking  ; 

For  the  coffin' d  sleep  of  the  good  and  just 
Is  a  sure  and  bKssful  waking. 

His  people's  heart  is  his  funeral  urn  ; 

And  should  sculptured  stone  be  denied  him, 
There  will  his  name  be  found,  when  in  turn 

We  lay  our  heads  beside  him. 

Horace  Smith. — Born  1779,  Died  1849. 


142 1. —TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

Art  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth. 
Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth  ? 
Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  heavenly  blue, 
That  stray  along  that  forehead  fai-r, 
Lost  'mid  a  gleam  of  golden  hair  ? 
Oh  !  can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a  being  doom'd  to  death  ; 
Those  features  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent ; 
Or,  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 
A  phantom  of  a  blessed  dream  ? 

A  human  shape  I  feel  thou  art — 
I  feel  it  at  my  beating  heart. 
Those  tremors  both  of  soul  and  sense 
Awoke  by  infant  innocence  ! 
Though  dear  the  forms  by  Fancy  wove, 
We  love  them  with  a  transient  love ; 
Thoughts  from  the  living  world  intrude 
Even  on  her  deepest  solitude : 
But,  lovely  child !  thy  magic  stole 
At  once  into  my  inmost  soul, 
With  feelings  as  thy  beauty  fair, 
And  left  no  other  vision  there. 

To  me  thy  parents  are  unknown  ; 
Glad  would  they  be  their  child  to  own ! 
And  well  they  must  have  loved  before. 
If  since  thy  birth  they  loved  not  more. 
Thou  art  a  branch  of  noble  stem. 
And,  seeing  thee,  I  figure  them. 
What  many  a  childless  one  would  give, 
If  thou  in  their  still  home  wouldst  live ! 
Though  in  thy  face  no  family  line 
Might  sweetly  say,  "  This  babe  is  mine  !  " 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 


[John  Wilson. 


In  time  thou  wouldst  become  the  same 
As  their  own  child, — all  but  the  name. 

How  happy  must  thy  parents  be 
Who  daily  live  in  sight  of  thee  ! 
Whose  hearts  no  greater  pleasure  seek 
Than  see  thee  smile,  and  hear  thee  speak, 
And  feel  all  natural  griefs  beguiled 
By  thee,  their  fond,  their  duteous  child. 
What  joy  must  in  their  souls  have  stirr'd 
When  thy  first  broken  words  were  heard — 
Words,  that,  inspired  by  heaven,  express'd 
The  transports  dancing  in  thy  breast ! 
And  for  thy  smile  ! — thy  lip,  cheek,  brow, 
Even  while  I  gaze,  are  kindhng  now. 

I  caU'd  thee  duteous  ;  am  I  wrong  ? 
No  !  truth,  I  feel,  is  in  my  song : 
Duteous,  thy  heart's  still  beatings  move 
To  God,  to  nature,  and  to  love  ! 
To  God  ! — for  thou,  a  harmless  child, 
Hast  kept  his  temple  undefiled  : 
To  nature  ! — for  thy  tears  and  sighs 
Obey  alone  her  mysteries  : 
To  love  I — for  fiends  of  hate  might  see 
Thou  dwell' st  in  love,  and  love  in  thee. 
Wliat  wonder  then,  though  in  thy  dreams 
Thy  face  with  mystic  meaning  beams  ? 

Oh!  that  my  spirit's  eye  could  see 
Whence  burst  those  gleams  of  ecstasy  ! 
That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 
To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years ; 
Thou  smilest  as  if  thy  soul  were  soaring 
To  heaven,  and  heaven's  God  adoring. 
And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 
May  bless  an  infant's  sleeping  eye  ? 
What  brighter  throne  can  brightness  find 
To  reign  on,  than  an  infant's  mind. 
Ere  sin  destroy,  or  error  dim, 
The  glory  of  the  seraphim  ? 

But  now  thy  changing  smiles  express 
Intelligible  happiness. 
I  feel  my  soul  thy  soul  partake. 
What  grief !  if  thou  wouldst  now  awake  ! 
With  infants  happy  as  thyself 
I  see  thee  bound,  a  playful  elf ; 
I  see  thou  art  a  darling  child. 
Among  thy  playmates  bold  and  wild  ; 
They  love  thee  well ;  thou  art  the  queen 
Of  aU  their  sports,  in  bower  or  green ; 
And  if  thou  livest  to  woman's  height, 
In  thee  wiU  friendship,  love,  delight. 

And  live  thou  surely  must ;  thy  Hfe 
Is  far  too  spiritual  for  the  strife 
Of  mortal  pain  ;  nor  could  disease 
Find  heart  to  prey  on  smiles  like  these. 
Oh !  thou  wilt  be  an  angel  bright — 
To  those  thou  lovost,  a  saving  light — 
The  staff  of  age,  the  help  sublime 
Of  erring  youth,  and  stubborn  prime  ; 
And  when  thou  goest  to  heaven  again. 
Thy  vanishing  be  like  the  strain 
Of  airy  harp — so  soft  the  tone 
The  ear  scarce  knows  when  it  is  gone ! 

Thrice  blessed  he  whose  stars  design 
His  pure  spirit  to  lean  on  thine. 
And  watchful  share,  for  days  and  years, 
Thy  sorrows,  joys,  sighs,  smiles,  and  tears  ! 


For  good  and  guiltless  as  thou  art. 

Some  transient  griefs  will  touch  thy  heart — 

Griefs  that  along  thy  alter' d  face 

Will  breathe  a  more  subduing  grace 

Than  even  those  looks  of  joy  that  lie 

On  the  soft  cheek  of  infancy. 

Though  looks,  God  knows,  are  cradled  there. 

That  guilt  might  cleanse,  or  soothe  despair. 

Oh  !  vision  fair !  that  I  could  be 
Again  as  young,  as  pure,  as  thee  ! 
Vain  wish!  the  rainbow's  radiant  form 
May  view,  but  cannot  brave,  the  storm ; 
Years  can  bedim  the  gorgeous  dyes 
That  paint  the  bird  of  Paradise ; 
And  years,  so  Fate  hath  order' d,  roU 
Clouds  o'er  the  summer  of  the  soul. 
Yet,  sometimes,  sudden  sights  of  grace, 
Such  as  the  gladness  of  thy  face, 
O  sinless  babe,  by  God  are  given 
To  charm  the  wanderer  back  to  heaven. 

No  common  impulse  hath  me  led 
To  this  green  spot,  thy  quiet  bed, 
Where,  by  mere  gladness  overcome. 
In  sleep  thou  dreamest  of  thy  home. 
When  to  the  lake  I  would  have  gone, 
A  wondrous  beauty  drew  me  on — 
Such  beauty  as  the  spirit  sees 
In  glittering  fields  and  moveless  trees. 
After  a  vrarm  and  silent  shower 
Ere  falls  on  earth  the  twilight  hour. 
What  led  me  hither,  all  can  say 
Who,  knowing  God,  his  will  obey. 

Thy  slumbers  now  cannot  be  long  j 
Thy  little  dreams  become  too  strong 
For  sleep — too  like  realities  ; 
Soon  shall  I  see  those  hidden  eyes. 
Thou  wakest,  and  starting  from  the  ground, 
In  dear  amazement  look'st  around , 
Like  one  who,  little  given  to  roam. 
Wonders  to  find  herself  from  home  ! 
But  when  a  stranger  meets  thy  view, 
Glistens  thine  eye  with  wilder  hue. 
A  moment's  thought  who  I  may  be, 
Blends  with  thy  smiles  of  courtesy. 

Fair  was  that  face  as  break  of  dawn, 
When  o'er  its  beauty  sleep  was  drawn, 
Like  a  thin  veil  that  half  conceal'd 
The  light  of  soul,  and  half  reveal'd. 
While  thy  hush'd  heart  with  visions  wrought. 
Each  trembling  eyelash  moved  with  thought; 
And  things  we  dream,  but  ne'er  can  speak, 
Like  clouds  came  floating  o'er  thy  cheek — 
Such  summer-clouds  as  travel  light. 
When  the  soul's  heaven  lies  calm  and  bright — 
Till  thou  awoke  st ;  then  to  thine  eye 
Thy  whole  heart  leapt  in  ecstasy  ! 
And  lovely  is  that  heart  of  thine. 
Or  sure  those  eyes  could  never  shine 
With  such  a  wild,  yet  bashful  glee, 
Gay,  half-o'ercome  timidity ! 
Nature  has  breathed  into  thy  face 
A  spirit  of  unconscious  grace — 
A  spirit  that  Hes  never  still. 
And  makes  thee  joyous  'gainst  thy  will : 
As  sometimes  o'er  a  sleeping  lake 
Soft  airs  a  gentle  rippling  make. 


John  Wilson.] 


THE  SABBATH  DAY. 


[Seventh  Period, — 


Till,  ere  we  know,  the  strangers  fly, 
And  water  blends  again  with  sky 

O  happy  sprite  !  didst  thou  but  know 
What  pleasures  through  my  being  flow 
From  thy  soft  eyes !  a  holier  feeling 
From  their  blue  light  could  ne'er  be  stealing ; 
But  thou  wouldst  be  more  loth  to  part, 
And  give  me  more  of  that  glad  heart. 
Oh  !  gone  thou  art !  and  bearest  hence 
The  glory  of  thy  innocence. 
But  with  deep  joy  I  breathe  the  air 
That  kiss'd  thy  cheek,  and  fann'd  thy  hair, 
And  feel,  though  fate  our  lives  must  sever. 
Yet  shall  thy  image  live  for  ever ! 

John  Wilson,— Born  1788,  Died  1854. 


1422.— THE  SABBATH-DAY. 

When  by  God's  inward  light,  a  happy  child, 

I  walk'd  in  joy,  as  in  the  open  air. 

It  seem'd  to  my  young  thought  the  Sabbath 

smiled 
With  glory  and  with  love.     So  still,  so  fair, 
The  heavens   look'd   ever   on  that   hallow' d 

mom. 
That,    without    aid    of    memory,    something 

there 
Had  surely  told  me  of  its  glad  return. 
How  did  my  little  heart  at  evening  burn. 
When,  fondly  seated  on  my  father's  knee. 
Taught   by  the  lip  of  love,  I  breathed  the 

prayer. 
Warm  from  the  fount  of  infant  piety ! 
Much   is  my  spirit  changed ;  for  years  have 

brought 
Intenser  feeling  and  expanded  thought ; 
— Yet,  must  I  envy  every  child  I  see ! 

John  Wilson.— Born  1788,  Died  1854. 


1423.— LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  LONELY 
BURIAL-GROUND  IN  THE  HIGH- 
LANDS. 

How  mournfully  this  burial-ground 
Sleeps  'mid  old  Ocean's  solemn  sound, 
Who  rolls  his  bright  and  sunny  waves 
All  round  these  deaf  and  silent  graves  ! 
The  cold  wan  light  that  glimmers  here, 
The  sickly  wild  flowers  may  not  cheer ; 
If  here,  with  solitary  hum. 
The  wandering  mountain-bee  dotl»  come, 
'Mid  the  pale  blossoms  short  his  stay, 
To  brighter  leaves  he  booms  away. 
The  sea-bird,  with  a  wailing  sound, 
Alighteth  softly  on  a  mound, 
And,  like  an  image,  sitting  there 
For  hours  amid  the  doleful  air, 
Seeraeth  to  tell  of  some  dim  union. 
Some  wild  and  mystical  communion. 
Connecting  with  his  parent  sea 
This  lonesome  stoneless  cemetery. 


This  may  not  be  the  burial-place 
Of  some  extinguish' d  kingly  race. 
Whose  name  on  earth  no  longer  known, 
Hath  moulder  d  with  the  mouldering  stone. 
That  nearest  grave,  yet  brown  with  mould. 
Seems  but  one  summer- twilight  old ; 
Both  late  and  frequent  hath  the  bier 
Been  on  its  mournful  visit  here  : 
And  yon  green  spot  of  sunny  rest 
Is  waiting  for  its  destined  guest. 

I  see  no  little  kirk — no  beU 

On  Sabbath  tiukleth  through  this  dell ; 

How  beautiful  those  graves  and  fair. 

That,  lying  round  the  house  of  prayer, 

Sleep  in  the  shadow  of  its  grace  ! 

But  death  hath  chosen  this  rueful  place 

For  his  own  undivided  reign  ! 

And  nothing  tells  that  e'er  again 

The  sleepers  wiU  forsake  their  bed — 

Now,  and  for  everlasting  dead. 

For  Hope  with  Memory  seems  fled ! 

Wnd- screaming  bird !  unto  the  sea 
Winging  thy  flight  reluctantly. 
Slow  floating  o'er  these  grassy  tombs 
So  ghost-hke,  with  thy  snow-white  plumes. 
At  once  from  thy  wild  shriek  I  know 
What  means  this  place  so  steep' d  in  woe  I 
Here,  they  who  perish' d  on  the  deep 
Enjoy  at  last  unrocking  sleep  ; 
For  ocean,  from  his  wrathful  breast. 
Flung  them  into  this  haven  of  rest. 
Where  shroudless,  coffinless,  they  lie — 
'Tis  the  shipwreck' d  seaman's  cemetery. 

Here  seamen  old,  with  grizzled  locks. 

Shipwreck' d  before  on  desert  rocks. 

And  by  some  wandering  vessel  taken 

From  sorrows  that  seem  God-forsaken, 

Home-bound,  here  have  met  the  blast 

That  wreck' d  them  on  death's  shore  at  last ! 

Old  friendless  men,  who  had  no  tears 

To  shed,  nor  any  place  for  fears 

In  hearts  by  misery  fortified. 

And,  without  terror,  sternly  died. 

Here  many  a  creature  moving  brig,'ht 

And  glorious  in  fuU  manhood's  might, 

Who  dared  with  an  untroubled  eye 

The  tempest  brooding  in  the  sky. 

And  loved  to  hear  that  music  rave. 

And  danced  above  the  mountain-wave. 

Hath  quaked  on  this  terrific  strand, 

AH  flung  like  sea- weeds  to  the  land ; 

A  whole  crew  lying  side  by  side, 

Death-dash'd  at  once  in  all  their  pride. 

And  here  the  bright-hair' d  fair-faced  boy, 

Who  took  with  him  all  earthly  joy. 

From  one  who  weeps  both  night  and  day 

For  her  sweet  son  borne  far  away. 

Escaped  at  last  the  cruel  deep. 

In  all  his  beauty  lies  asleep ; 

While  she  would  yield  all  hopes  of  grace 

For  one  kiss  of  his  pale  cold  face  ! 

Oh  !  I  could  wail  in  lonely  fear, 

For  many  a  woeful  ghost  sits  here. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


PLAGUE  SCENES. 


[John  Wilson. 


All  weeping  with  their  fixed  eyes  ! 
And  what  a  dismal  sound  of  sighs 
Is  mingling  with  the  gentle  roar 
Of  small  waves  breaking  on  the  shore ; 
While  ocean  seems  to  sport  and  play- 
In  mockery  of  its  wretched  prey  ! 

And  lo  !  a  white-^ving'd  vessel  sails 
In  sunshine,  gathering  all  the  gales 
Fast  freshening  from  yon  isle  of  pines 
That  o'er  the  clear  sea  waves  and  shines. 
I  turn  me  to  the  giiostly  crowd, 
All  smear' d  with  dust,  without  a  shroud. 
And  silent  every  blue  swoUen  lip  ! 
Then  gazing  on  the  sunny  ship, 
And  listening  to  the  gladsome  cheers 
Of  all  her  thoughtless  mariners, 
I  seem  to  hear  in  every  breath 
The  hollow  under-tones  of  death, 
Who,  all  unheard  by  those  who  sing. 
Keeps  tune  with  low  wild  murmuring, 
And  points  with  his  lean  bony  hand 
To  the  pale  ghosts  sitting  on  this  strand, 
Then  dives  beneath  the  rushing  prow. 
Till  on  some  moonless  night  of  woe 
He  drives  her  shivering  from  the  steep, 
Down — down  a  thousand  fathoms  deep. 

John  Wilson. — Born  1788,  Died  1854. 


1424.— THE  MIDNIGHT  OCEAN. 

It  is  the  midnight  hour  : — the  beauteous 

sea, 
Calm  as  the  cloudless  heaven,  the  heaven 

discloses. 
While  many  a  sparkling  star,  in  quiet  glee, 
Far  down  within  the  watery  sky  reposes. 
As  if  the  Ocean's  heart  were  stirr'd 
With  inward  Hfe,  a  sound  is  heard, 
Like  that  of  dreamer  murmuring  in  his  sleep  ; 
'Tis  partly  the  billow,  and  partly  the  air, 
That  lies  like  a  garment  floating  fair 
Above  the  happy  deep. 
The  sea,  I  ween,  cannot  be  fann'd 
By  evening  freshness  from  the  land. 
For  the  land  it  is  far  away  ; 
But  God  hath  will'd  that  the  sky-born  breeze 
In  the  centre  of  the  loneliest  seas 
Should  ever  sport  and  play. 
The  mighty  Moon  she  sits  above, 
Encircled  with  a  zone  of  love, 
A  zone  of  dim  and  tender  light 
That  makes  her  wakeful  eye  more  bright : 
She  seems  to  shine  with  a  sunny  ray, 
And  the  night  looks  like  a  mellow'd  day  ! 
The  gracious  Mistress  of  the  Main 
Hath  now  an  undisturbed  reign, 
And  from  her  silent  throne  looks  down, 
As  upon  children  of  her  own. 
On  the  waves  that  lend  their  gentle  breast 
In  gladness  for  her  couch  of  rest ! 

John  Wilson. — Born  1788,  Died  ISo-l. 


1425.— THE  EVENING  CLOUD. 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow  : 
Long  had  I  watch' d  the  glory  moving  on 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seem'd,  and  floated  slow  ! 
Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest : 
While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to 

blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  West. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul ! 
To   whose    white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is 

given ; 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 
Eight  onwards  to  the  golden  gates  of  Heaven, 
Where,  to  the  eye  of  faith,  it  peaceful  lies. 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 

John  Wilso'ii. — Born  1788,  Died  1854. 


1426.— PLAGUE  SCENES. 

Together  wiU  ye  walk  through  long,  long 
streets. 
All  standing  silent  as  a  midnight  church. 
You   will   hear   nothing  but   the  broAvn  red 


Eusthng  beneath  your  feet ;  the  very  beating 
Of  your  own  hearts  will  awe  you  ;  ^he  smafl 

voice 
Of  that  vain  bauble,  idly  counting  time. 
Will  speak  a  solemn  language  in  the  desert. 
Look   up   to    heaven,  and   there   the    sultry 

clouds, 
Stni    threatening    thunder,    lour  with   grim 

delight. 
As  if  the  Spirit  of  the  Plague  dwelt  there. 
Darkening  the  city  with  the  shadows  of  death. 
Know  ye  that  hideous  hubbub  ?    Hark,  far  off 
A  tumult  like  an  echo  !     On  it  comes. 
Weeping  and  wailing,   shrieks  and    groaning 

prayer ; 
And,  louder  than  all,  outrageous  blasphemy. 
The  passing  storm  hath  left  the  silent  streets. 
But  are  these  houses  near  you  tenantless  ? 
Over  your  heads,  from  a  window,  suddenly 
A  ghastly  face  is  thrust,  and  yells  of  death 
With  voice  not  human.     Who  is  lie  that  flies. 
As  if  a  demon  dogg'd  him  on  his  path  ? 
With  ragged  hair,  white  face,  and  bloodshot 

eyes, 
Eaving,  he  rushes  past  you ;  till  he  falls, 
As   if   struck  by  lightning,  down   upon   th6 

stones, 
Or,  in  blind  madness,  dash'd  against  the  wall, 
Sinks  backward  into  stillness.     Stand  aloof, 
And  let  the  Pest's  triumphant  chariot 
Have  open  way  advancing  to  the  tomb. 
See  how  he  mocks  the  pomp  and  pageantry 
Of  earthly  kings  !  a  miserable  cart,  ° 
Heap'd  up  with  human  bodies ;  dragg'd  along 
By  pale  steeds,  skeleton-anatomies  ! 
And  onwards  urged  by  a  wan  meagre  wretch, 


John  Wilson.] 


ADDEESS  TO  A  WILD  DEER. 


Seventh  Period. — 


Doom'd  never  to  return  from  the  foul  pit, 
Whither,  with  oaths,   he  drives   liis  load   of 

horror. 
Would  you  look  in  ?     Gray  hairs   and  golden 


Wan  shriveU'd  cheeks  that  have  not  smiled 

for  years, 
And  many  a  rosy  visage  smiling  still ; 
Bodies    in    the    noisome    weeds   of    beggary 

wrapt, 
With  age  decrepit,  and  wasted  to  the  bone  ; 
And  youthful  frames,  august  and  beautiful. 
In  spite  of  mortal  pangs, — there  lie  they  all. 
Embraced  in  ghastliness  !    But  look  not  long, 
For  haply,  'mid  the  faces  glimmering  there, 
The  well-known  cheek  of  some  beloved  friend 
Will  meet  thy  gaze,  or  some  small  snow-white 

hand, 
Bright  with  the  ring  that  holds  her  lover's 

hair. 
Let  me  sit  down  beside  you.     I  am  faint 
Talking  of  horrors  that  I  look'd  upon 
At  last  without  a  shudder. 

John  Wilson.— Bom  1788,  Died  1854. 


1427.— ADDEESS  TO  A  WILD  DEEE. 

Magnificent  creature  !  so  stately  and  bright ! 
In    the    pride    of    thy   spirit    pursuing    thy 

flight ; 
For  what  hath  the   child   of  the  desert  to 

dread. 
Wafting  up  his  own  mountains  that  far  beam- 
ing head ; 
Or  borne  like  a  whirlwind  down  on  the  vale  ! 
Hail !  king  of  the  wild  and  the  beautiful  ! — 

haU! 
Hail !    idol  divine  ! — whom  nature  hath  borne 
O'er  a  hundred  hill-tops  since  the  mists  of  the 

morn. 
Whom  the  pilgrim  lone  wandering  on  moun- 
tain and  moor, 
As  the  vision  glides  by  him,  may  blameless 

adore  : 
For  the  joy  of  the  happy,  the  strength  of  the 

free, 
Are  spread  in  a  garment  of  glory  o'er  thee. 
Up  !    up   to   yon   cliff !    like   a  king   to  his 

throne ! 
O'er  the  black  silent  forest  piled  lofty  and 

lone — 
A  throne  which  the  eagle  is  glad  to  resign 
Unto   footsteps   so   fleet   and   so  fearless   as 

thine. 
There  the  bright  heather  springs  up  in  love  of 

thy  breast, 
Lo  !  the  clouds  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  are  at 

rest; 
And  the  race  of  the  wild  winds  is  o'er  on 'the 

hill! 
In  the  hu«h  of  the  mountains,  ye  antlers  lie 

still!  — 


Though  your  branches  now  toss  in  the  storm 

of  delight, 
Like  the  arms  of  the  pine  on  yon  shelterless 

height. 
One     moment  —  thou     bright      apparition — 

delay  ! 
Then  melt  o'er  the  crags,  like  the  sun  frqm 

the  day. 

His  voyage  is  o'er — as  if  struck  by  a  spell. 
He  motionless   stands   in   the   hush   of    the 

dell; 
There  softly  and  slowly  sinks  down  on  his 

breast, 
In   the    midst   of  his  pastime   enamour'd  of 

rest. 
A   stream   in   a   clear  pool  that   endeth   its 

race — 
A    dancing     ray   chain' d    to    one    sunshiny 

place — 
A    cloud    by   the    winds    to    calm    solitude 

driven — 
A  hurricane  dead  in  the  silence  of  heaven. 

Fit  couch  of  repose  for  a  pilgrim  like  thee : 

Magnificent  prison  enclosing  the  free ; 

With    rock- wall    encircled  —  with    precipice 

crown' d —  , 

Which,  awoke  by  the  sun,  thou  canst  clear  at 
I         a  bound, 
'Mid  the  fern  and  the  heather  kind  nature 

doth  keep 
One  bright  spot  of  green  for  her  favourite's 


And  close  to  that  covert,  as  clear  to  the  skies 
When  their  blue  depths  are  cloudless,  a  little 

lake  lies. 
Where  the  creature   at  rest   can   his  image 

behold. 
Looking  up  through  the  radiance  as  bright  and 

as  bold. 

Yes  :   fierce  looks  thy  nature,  e'en  hush'd  in 

repose — 
In  the  depths  of  thy  desert  regardless  of  foes. 
Thy  bold  antlers  call  on  the  hunter  afar, 
With  a  haughty  defiance  to  come  to  the  war. 
No  outrage  is  war  to  a  creature  like  thee  ; 
The  buglehom  fills  thy  wild  spirit  with  glee. 
As  thou  bearest  thy  neck  on  the  wings  of  the 

wind, 
And  the  laggardly  gaze-hound  is  toiling  be- 
hind. 
In   the   beams   of  thy  forehead,  that  gUtter 

with  death. 
In  feet  that  draw  power  from  the  touch  of  the 

heath — 
In  the  wide  raging  torrent  that  lends  thee  its 

roar — 
In  the  cliff  that  once  trod,  must  be  tr(d\  n 

no  more — 
Thy  trust — 'mid  the  dangers  that   threa  ea 

thy  reign  : 
— But  what  if  the  stag  on  the  mountain  be 

slain? 


Fo'om  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  WIDOWED  MOTHEE. 


[John  Wilson. 


On  the  brink  of  the  rock — lo !  lie  standeth  at 

bay, 
Like  a  victor  that  falls  at  the  close  of  the 

day — 
While  the  hunter  and  hound  in  their  terror 

retreat 
From   the   death   that   is   spurn 'd   from   his 

furious  feet ; 
And  his  last  cry  of  anger  comes  back  from  the 

skies, 
As  nature's  fierce  son  in  the  wilderness  dies. 

John  Wilson.— Bom  1788,  Died  1854. 


1428.— MAEY. 

Three  days  before  my  Mary's  death, 
We  walk'd  by  Grassmere  shore  ; 

"Sweet    Lake!"    she    said,    with    faltering 
breath, 
"  I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more  !  " 

Then  turning  round  her  languid  head. 

She  look'd  me  in  the  face. 
And  whisper' d,  "  When  thy  friend  is  dead, 

Eemember  this  lone  place." 

Vainly  I  struggled  at  a  smile, 

That  did  my  fears  betray  ; 
It  seem'd  that  on  our  darling  isle 

Foreboding  darkness  lay. 

My  Mary's  words  were  words  of  truth ; 

None  now  behold  the  Maid ; 
Amid  the  tears  of  age  and  youth, 

She  in  her  grave  was  laid. 

Long  days,  long  nights,  I  ween,  were  past 

Ere  ceased  her  funeral  knell ; 
But  to  the  spot  I  went  at  last 

Where  she  had  breathed  "  farewell !  " 

Methought,  I  saw  the  phantom  stand 

Beside  the  peaceful  wave  ; 
I  felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand — 

Then  look'd  towards  her  grave. 

Fair,  fair  beneath  the  evening  sky 

The  quiet  churchyard  lay  : 
The  taU  pine-grove  most  solemnly 

Hung  mute  above  her  clay. 

Dearly  she  loved  their  arching  spread, 

Their  music  wild  and  sweet, 
And,  as  she  wish'd  on  her  deathbed, 

Was  buried  at  their  feet. 

Around  her  grave  a  beauteous  fence 
Of  wild-flov/ers  shed  their  breath. 

Smiling  Kke  infant  innocence 
Within  the  gloom  of  death. 

Such  flowers  from  bank  of  mountain  brook 

At  eve  we  used  to  bring, 
When  every  httle  mossy  nook 

Betray' d  returning  Spring. 


Oft  had  I  fix'd  the  simple  wreath 

Upon  her  virgin  breast ; 
But  now  such  flowers  as  form'd  it,  breathe 

Around  her  bed  of  rest. 

Yet  aU  within  my  silent  soul, 

As  the  hush'd  air,  was  calm  ; 
The  natural  tears  that  slowly  stole, 

Assuaged  my  grief  like  balm. 

The  air  that  seem'd  so  thick  and  dull 

For  months  unto  my  eye  ; 
Ah  me  !  how  bright  and  beautiful 

It  floated  on  the  sky ! 

A  trance  of  high  and  solemn  bliss 

From  purest  ether  came  ; 
'Mid  such  a  heavenly  scene  as  this, 

Death  is  an  empty  name  ! 

The  memory  of  the  past  retum'd 

Like  music  to  my  heart, — 
It  seem'd  that  causelessly  I  mourn' d, 

When  we  were  told  to  part. 

"  God's  mercy,"  to  myself  I  said, 

"  To  both  our  souls  is  given — 
To  me,  sojourning  on  earth's  shade ; 

To  her — a  Saint  in  heaven  !  " 

John  Wilson.— Born  1788,  Died  1854. 


1429.— THE  WIDOWED  MOTHEE. 

Beside  her  babe,  who  sweetly  slept, 
A  widow'd  mother  sat  and  wept 

O'er  years  of  love  gone  by ; 
And  as  the  sobs  thick-gathering  came, 
She  murmur' d  her  dead  husband's  name 

'Mid  that  sad  lullaby. 

Well  might  that  lullaby  be  sad, 
For  not  one  single  friend  she  had 

On  this  cold-hearted  earth  ; 
The  sea  will  not  give  back  its  prey — 
And  they  were  wrapt  in  foreign  clay 

Who  gave  the  orphan  birth. 

Steadfastly  as  a  star  doth  look 
Upon  a  little  murmuring  brook. 

She  gazed  upon  the  bosom 
And  fair  brow  of  her  sleeping  son — 
"  O  merciful  Heaven  !  when  I  am  gone 

Thine  is  this  earthly  blossom !  " 

While  thus  she  sat — a  sunbeam  broke 
Into  the  room  ;  the  babe  awoke. 

And  from  its  cradle  smiled  ! 
Ah  me  !  what  kindhng  smiles  met  there ! 
I  know  not  whether  was  more  fair. 

The  mother  or  her  child  ! 

With  joy  fresh-sprung  from  short  alarms, 
The  smiler  stretch' d  his  rosy  arms, 

And  to  her  bosom  leapt — 
All  tears  at  once  were  swept  away. 
And  said  a  face  as  bright  as  day, — 

"  Forgive  me  that  I  wept !  " 


EOBT.  POLLOK.] 


THUS  STOOD  HIS  MIND. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Sufferings  there  are  from  nature  sprung, 
Ear  liath  not  heard ,  nor  poet's  tongue 

May  venture  to  declare  ; 
But  this  as  Holy  Writ  is  sure, 
*'  The  griefs  she  bids  us  here  endure 

She  can  herself  repair  !  " 

John  Wilson.— Born  1788,  ]>ied  1854. 


1430.— THUS  STOOD  HIS  MIND. 

Thus  stood  his  mind,  when  round  him  came 

a  cloud. 
Slowly  and  heavily  it  came,  a  cloud 
Of  ills  we  mention  not ;  enough  to  say, 
'Twas  cold,  and  dead,  impenetrable  gloom. 
He  saw  its  dark  approach,  and  saw  his  hopes, 
One  after  one,  put  out,  as  nearer  still 
It  drew  his  soul ;  but  fainted  not  at  first, 
Fainted  not  soon.     He  knew  the  lot  of  man 
Was  trouble,  and  prepared  to  bear  the  worst ; 
Endure  whate'er  shoiild  come,  without  a  sigh 
Endure,  and  drink,  even  to  the  very  dregs. 
The   bitterest  cup  that  Time  could  measure 

out ; 
And,  having  done,  look  up,  and  ask  for  more. 

He  call'd  Philosophy,  and  with  his  heart 
Eeason'd.     He  call'd  Religion,  too,  but  call'd 
Reluctantly,  and  therefore  was  not  heard. 
Ashamed  to  be  o'ermatch'd  by  earthly  woes, 
He  sought,  and  sought  with  eye  that  dimm'd 

apace, 
To  find  some  avenue  to  light,  some  place 
On  which  to  rest  a  hope  ;  but  sought  in  vain, 
Darker  and  darker  still  the  darkness  grew. 
At    length   he    sank ;    and    Disappointment 

stood 
His  only  comforter,  and  mournfully 
Told  all  was  pass'd.     His  interest  in  life, 
In  being,  ceased  :  and  now  he  seem'd  to  feel, 
And  shudder' d  as  he  felt,  his  powers  of  mind 
Decaying  in  the  spring-time  of  his  day. 
The    vigorous     weak     became ;     the     clear, 

obscure ; 
Memory  gave  up  her  charge  ;  decision  reel'd ; 
And  from  her  flight  Fancy  return' d,  return' d 
Because  she  found  no  nourishment  abroad. 
The   blue   heavens  wither' d ;    and  the  moon 

and  sun, 
And  all  the   stars,  and  the  green  earth,  and 

morn 
And  evening  wither'd ;    and    the    eyes,   and 

smiles, 
And  faces  of  aU  men  and  women,  wither'd, 
Wither'd  to  him  ;  and  all  the  universe, 
Like  something  which  had  been,  appear' d,  but 

now 
Was  dead,  and  mouldering  fast   away.     He 

tried 
No  more  to  hope,  wish'd  to  forget  his  vow, 
Wish'd   to   forget  his   harp;  then  ceased  to 

wish. 
That  was  his  last ;  enjoyment  now  was  done. 
He  had  no  h'ope,  no  wish,  and  scarce  a  fear. 


Of  being  sensible,  and  sensible 
Of  loss,  he  as  some  atom  seem'd,  which  God 
Had  made  superfluously,  and  needed  not    ' 
To  build  creation#vith ;  but  back  again 
To  nothing  threw,  and  left  it  in  the  void, 
With  everlasting  sense  that  once  it  was. 
Oh !  who  can  tell  what  days,  what  nights 

he  spent, 
Of  tideless,  waveless,  sailless,  shoreless  woe  ! 
And  who  can  tell  how  many,  glorious  once, 
To  others  and  themselves  of  promise  full, 
Conducted  to  tliis  pass  of  human  thought, 
This  wilderness  of  intellectual  death. 
Wasted,    and  pined,  and  vanish' d  from  the 

earth. 
Leaving  no  vestige  of  memorial  there  ! 

Robert  PolloTc.—Born  1799,  Dial  1827. 


143 1. —HELL. 

Equipp'd  and  bent  for  heavei^  I  left  yon 

world, 
My  native  seat,  which  scarce  your  eye  can 
I  reach, 

Rolling  around  her  central  sun,  far  out 
On  utmost  verge  of  light :  but  first  to  see 
Wliat  lay  beyond  the  visible  creation,   • 
Strong  curiositj''  my  flight  impeli'd. 
Long  was  my  way,  and  strange.     I  pass'd  the 

bounds 
Which  God  doth  set  to  light,  and  life,  and 

love; 
Where  darkness  meets  with  d&j — where  order 

meets 
Disorder,   dreadful,    waste,    and    wild ;    and 

down 
The  dark,  eternal,  uncreated  night 
Ventur'd  alone.     Long,  long  on  rapid  wing 
I  sail'd  through  empty,  nameless  regions  vast, 
Where  utter  Nothing  dwells,   unform'd  and 

void. 
There  neither  eye,  nor  ear,  nor  any  sense 
Of  being  most  acute,  finds  object ;  there 
For  aught  external  still  you  search  in  vain. 
Try  touch,  or  sight,  or  smell ;  try  what   you 

will, 
You  strangely  find  nought  but  yourself  alone. 
But  why  should  I  in  words  attempt  to  tell 
What  that  is  like,  which  is  and  yet  is  not  ? 
This  past,  my  path  descending,  led  me  still 
O'er  unclaim'd  continents  of  desert  gloom 
Immense,  where  gravitation,  shifting,  turns 
The  other  way  ;  and  to  some  dread,  unknown, 
Infernal  centre  downwards  weighs  :  and  now, 
Far  travell'd  from  the  edge  of  darkness,  far 
As   from   that   glorious    mount    of    God,    to 

light's 
Remotest  limb,  dire  sights  I  saw,  dire  sounds 
I  heard  ;  and  suddenly,  before  my  eye 
A  wall  of  fiery  adamant  sprung  up, 
Wall,  mountainous,  tremendous,  flajning  high 
Above    all    flight    of    hope.     I    paused   and 

look'd 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


HELL. 


[EOBT.  POLLOK. 


And  saw,  where'er  I  look'd  upon  that  mound, 
Sad  figures  traced  in  fire,  not  motionless, 
But  imitating  Ufe.     One  I  remark' d 
Attentively ;  but  how  shall  I  describe 
What   nought   resembles   else   my   eye  hath 

seen  ? 
Of  worm  or  serpent  kind  it  something  look'd, 
But  monstrous,  with  a  thousand  snaky  heads, 
Eyed  each  with  double  orbs  of  glaring  wrath  ; 
And  with  as  many  tales,  that  twisted  out 
In  horrid  revolution,  tipp'd  with  stings  ; 
And   all  its   mouths,   that  wide  and   darkly 

gaped. 
And  breathed  most  poisonous  breath,  had  each 

a  sting, 
Fork'd,  and  long,  and  venomous,  and  sharp  ; 
And  in  its  writhings  infinite,  it  grasp'd, 
Malignantly,   what  seem'd  a  heart,  swollen, 

black, 
And  quivering  with  torture  most  intense  ; 
And  still  the  heart,  with  anguish  throbbing 

high. 
Made  effort  to  escape,  but  could  not ;  for, 
Howe'er  it  tum'd — and  oft  it  vainly  turn'd — 
These  complicated  foldings  held  it  fast. 
And  still  the  monstrous  beast,  with  sting  of 

head 
Or  tail  transpierced  it,  bleeding  evermore. 
What  this  could  image,   much  I  search' d  to 

know; 
And  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  and  wonder'd 

long, 
A  voice,  from  whence  I  knew  not,  for  no  one 
I  saw,  distinctly  whisper' d  in  my  ear 
Those  words :  "  This  is  the  worm  that  never 

dies." 
Fast  by  the  side  of  this  unsightly  thing 
Another  was  portray'd,  more  hideous  stOl ; 
Who  sees  it  once,  shall  wish  to  see'tnomore  : 
For  ever  undescribed  let  it  remain ! 
Only  this  much  I  may  or  can  unfold  : 
Far  out  it  thrust   a   dart,  that  might   have 

made 
The  knees  of  terror  quake,  and  on  it  hung. 
Within  the  triple  barbs,  a  being,  pierced 
Through  soul  and  body  both.     Of  heavenly 

make 
Original  the  being  seem'd,  but  fallen, 
And  worn  and  wasted  with  enormous  woe 
And  still  around  the  everlasting  lance 
It     writhed     convulsed,    and  utter'd   mimic 

groans  ; 
And    tried   and   wish'd,    and  ever  tried  and 

wish'd 
To  die  :  but  could  not  die.    Oh  !  horrid  sight ! 
I   trembling   gazed,    and  listen'd,  and  heard 

this  voice 
Approach  my  ear :  "  This  is  eternal  death." 
Nor  these  alone  :  upon  that  burning  wall, 
In  horrible  emblazonry,  were  limn'd 
An  shapes,  aU  forms,  all  modes  of  wretched- 
ness. 
And  agony,  and  grief,  and  desperate  woe. 
And  prominent  in  characters  of  fire. 
Where'er  the  eye  covdd  light,  these  words  you 

read: 


"  Who  comes  this  way  behold,  and  fear  to 

sin  ! " 
Amazed  I  stood ;  and  thought  such  imagery 
Foretoken'd  within  a  dangerous  abode. 
But  yet  to  see  the  worst,  a  wish  arose  : 
For  Virtue,  by  the  holy  seal  of  God 
Accredited  and  stamp' d,  imm6rtal  aU,   _ 
And  all  invulnerable,  fears  no  hurt. 
As  easy  as  my  wish,  as  rapidly, 
I   through   the   horrid   rampart   pass'd,    un- 
scathed 
And  unopposed ;  and,  poised  on  steady  wing, 
I  hovering  gazed.     Eternal  Justice  !  Sons 
Of  God !  tell  me,  if  you  can  teH,  what  then 
I  saw — what  then  I  heard !     Wide  was  the 

place, 
And  deep  as  wide,  and  ruinous  as  deep. 
Beneath,  I  saw  a  lake  of  burning  fire, 
With  tempest  toss'd  perpetually ;  and  still 
The  waves  of  fiery  darkness  'gainst  the  rocks 
Of  dark  damnation  broke,  and  music  made 
Of  melancholy  sort ;  and  overhead 
And  aU  around,  wind  warr'd  with  wind,  storm 

howl'd 
To    storm,     and    lightning,    fork'd-lightning 

cross 'd, 
And  thunder    answer' d  thunder, — muttering- 

sounds 
Of  sullen  wrath,  and  far  as  sight  could  pierce, 
Or  down  descend  in  caves  of  hopeless  depth, 
Through  aU  that  dungeon  of  unfading  fire, 
I  saw  most  miserable  beings  walk. 
Burning  continually,  yet  unconsumed ; 
For  ever  wasting,  yet  enduring  stiU ; 
Dying  perpetually,  yet  never  dead. 
Some  wander' d  lonely  in  the  desert  flames. 
And  some,  in  fell  encounter,  fiercely  met. 
With    curses    loud    and    blasphemous,    thab 

made 
The  cheek    of    darkness  pale;    and   as   they 

fought 
And   cursed,    and   gnash'd   their   teeth,    and 

wish'd  to  die, 
Their  hollow  eyes  did  utter  streams  of  woe. 
And  there  were  groans  that  ended  not,  and 

sighs 
That  always  sigh'd,  and  tears  that  ever  wept, 
And  ever  fell,  but  not  in  Mercy's  sight. 
And  Sorrow,  and  Eepentance,  and  Despair 
Among  them  walk'd ;   and    to    their  thirsty 

lips 
Presented  frequent  cups  of  burning  gall. 
And  as  I  listen'd,  I  heard  these  beings  curse 
Almighty   God,    and  curse   the    Lamb,    and 

curse 
The  earth,  the  resurrection  morn ;  and  seek. 
And  ever  vainly  seek,  for  utter  death  ! 
And  to  their  everlasting  anguish  still. 
The  thunders  from  above  responding  spoke 
These  words,  which,  through  the  caverns  of 

perdition 
Forlornly  echoing,  fell  on  every  ear : 
'•'  Ye  knew  your  duty,  but  ye  did  it  not." 
And  back  again  recoil' d  a  deeper  groan  : 
A  deeper  groan  !  oh,  what  a  groan  was  that ! 
I  waited  not,  but  swift  on  speediest  wing. 


EOBT.  POLLOK.] 


A  SCENE  OF  EAELY  LOVE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


With  Tinaccustoin'd  thoughts  conversing,  back 
Retraced  my  venturous   path   from   dark  to 
light. 

RoheH  Polloh.—Born  1799,  Died  1827. 


1432.— A  SCENE  OF  EAELY  LOVE. 

It  was  an  eve  of  autumn's  holiest  mood ; 
The    corn-fields,  bathed   in   Cynthia's   silver 

light, 
Stood  ready  for  the  reaper's  gathering  hand. 
And   all   the   winds   slept   soundly.     Nature 

seem'd. 
In  silent  contemplation,  to  adore 
Its  Maker.     Now  and  then,  the  aged  leaf 
Fell  from  its  fellows,  rustling  to  the  ground  ; 
And,  as  it  fell,  bade  man  think  on  his  end. 
On   vale   and  lake,   on  wood   and  mountain 

high, 
With  pensive  wing  outspread,  sat  heavenly 

Thought 
Conversing  with  itself.     Vesper  look'd  forth 
From  out  her  western  hermitage,  and  smiled ; 
And  up  the  east,  unclouded,  rode  the  moon. 
With  all  her  stars,  gazing  on  earth  intense. 
As  if  she  saw  some  wonder  walking  there. 

Such  was  the  night,  so  lovely,  still,  serene, 
When,  by  a  hermit  thorn  that  on  the  hiU 
Had  seen  a  hundred  flowery  ages  pass, 
A  damsel  kneel'd,  to  offer  up  her  prayer — 
Her  prayer  nightly  offer' d,  nightly  heard. 
This   ancient  thorn   had  been   the  meeting- 
place 
Of  love,  before  his  country's  voice  had  call'd 
The,  ardent  youth  to  fields  of  honour,  far 
Beyond  the  wave ;  and  hither  now  repair' d. 
Nightly,  the  maid,  by  God's  all-seeing  eye 
Seen  only,  while  she  sought  this  boon  alone — 
Her  lover's  safety  and  his  quick  return. 
In  holy  humble  attitude  she  kneel'd, 
And  to  her  bosom,  fair  as  moonbeam,  press'd 
One  hand,  the  other  lifted  up  to  heaven. 
Her   eye,   upturn' d,    bright   as   the    star   of 

mom. 
As  violet  meek,  excessive  ardour  streara'd. 
Wafting  away  her  earnest  heart  to  God. 
Her  voice,  scarce  utter' d,  soft  as  zephyr  sighs 
On  morning  lily's  cheek,  though  soft  and  low, 
Yet  heard  in  heaven,  heard  at  the  mercy-seat. 
A  tear-drop  wander' d  on  her  lovely  face ; 
It  was  a  tear  of  faith  and  holy  fear, 
Pure  as  the  drops  that  hang  at  dawning  time, 
On  yonder  willows,  by  the  stream  of  life. 
On  her  the  moon  look'd  steadfastly ;  the  stars. 
That  circle  nightly  round  the  eternal  throne. 
Glanced  down,  well  pleased;  and  everlasting 

love 
Gave  gracious  audience  to  her  prayers  sincere. 

O  had  her  lover  seen  her  thus  alone, 
Thus  holy,  wrestling  thus,  and  all  for  him  ! 
Nor  did  he  not ;  for  ofttimes  Providence, 
With  unexpected  joy,  the  fervent  prayer 
Of  faith  surprised.     Return' d  from  long  delay 


With  glory  crown'd  of  righteous  actions  won' 
The    sacred    thorn,   to    memory    dear,    first 

sought 
The  youth,  and  found  it  at  the  happy  hour. 
Just  when  the  damsel  kneel'd  herself  to  pray. 
Wrapp'd  in  devotion,  pleading  with  her  God, 
She  saw  him  not,  heard  not  his  foot  approach. 
All  holy  images  seem'd  too  impure 
To  emblem  her  he  saw.     A  seraph  kneel'd, 
Beseeching  for  his  ward,  before  the  throne, 
Seem'd  fittest,  pleased  him  best.     Sweet  was 

the  thought ! 
But  sweeter  still  the  kind  remembrance  came. 
That  she  was  flesh  and  blood,  form'd  for  him- 
self, 
The  plighted  partner  of  his  future  life. 
And   as  they   met,    embraced,   and   sat,   em- 
bower'd 
In  woody  chambers  of  the  starry  night, 
Spirits  of  love  about  them  minister'd, 
And  God,  approving,  bless'd  the  holy  joy ! 

Robert  Pollok.—Born  1799,  Died  1827. 


1433.— THE  DEATH  OF  THE  YOUNG 
MOTHER. 

Our  sighs  were  numerous,  and  profuse  our 

tears. 
For  she  we  lost  was  lovely,  and  we  loved 
Her  much.     Fresh  in  her  memory,  as  fresh 
As  yesterday,  is  yet  the  day  she  died: 
It  was  an  April  day ;  and  blithely  all 
The  youth  of  nature  leap'd  beneath  the  sun, 
And   promised   glorious   manhood;    and   our 

hearts 
Were  glad,  and  round  them  danced  the  light- 
some blood. 
In  healthy  merriment,  when  tidings  came 
A  child  was  bom ;  and  tidings  came  again, 
Tiat  she  who  gave  it  birth  was  sick  to  death : 
So  swift  trode  sorrow  on  the  heels  of  joy ! 
We   gather' d   round   her   bed,  and  bent  our 

knees 
In  fervent  supplication  to  the  Throne 
Of   Mercy,  and   perfumed   our   prayers   with 

sighs 
Sincere,  and  penitential  tears,  and  looks 
Of  self-abasement ;  but  we  sought  to  stay 
An  angel  on  the  earth,  a  spirit  ripe 
For  heaven ;  and  Mercy,  in  her  love,  refused  : 
Most  merciful,  as  oft,  when  seeming  least ! 
Most  gracious,  when  she  seem'd  the  most  to 

frown  ! 
The  room  I  well  remember  and  the  bed 
On  which  she  lay,  and  all  the  faces,  too, 
That  crowded  dark  and  mournfully  around. 
Her  father  there  and  mother,  bending  stood; 
And  down  their  aged  cheeks  feU  many  drops 
Of  bitterness.     Her  husband,  too,  was  there, 
And  brothers,  and  they  wept ;  her  sisters,  too, 
Did  weep,  and  sorrow  comfortless ;  and  I, 
Too,  wept,  though  not  to  weeping  given ;  and 

all 


Prom  1780  to  1866.] 


FRIENDSHIP. 


[ROBT.  POLLOK 


Within  the  house  was  dolorous  and  sad. 
This  I  remember  well ;  but  better  still 
I  do  remember,  and  will  ne'er  forget, 
The  dying  eye  !     That  eye  alone  was  bright. 
And  brighter  grew  as  nearer  death  approach' d : 
As  I  have  seen  the  gentle  little  flower 
Look  fairest  in  the  silver  beam  which  fell 
Reflected  from  the  thunder-cloud  that  soon 
Came  down,  and  o'er  the  desert  scatter'd  far 
And  wide  its  loveliness.     She  made  a  sign 
To  bring  her  babe ;  'twas  brought,  and  by  her 

placed ; 
She  look'd  upon  its  face,  that  neither  smiled, 
Nor  wept,  nor  knew  who  gazed  upon't,  and 

laid 
Her  hand  upon  its  little  breast,  and  sought 
For  it,  with  look  that  seem'd  to  penetrate 
The  heavens,  unutterable  blessings,  such 
As  God  to  dying  parents  only  granted, 
For  infants  left  behind  them  in  the  world. 
"  God  keep  my  child  !  "  we  heard  her  say,  and 

heard 
No  more.     The  Angel  of  the  Covenant 
Was  come,  and,  faithful  to  his  promise,  stood 
Prepared  to  walk  with  her  through  death's 

dark  vale. 
And  now  her  eyes  grew  bright,  and  brighter 

stiU, 
Too  bright  for  ours  to  look  upon,  suffused 
With  many  tears,  and  closed  without  a  cloud. 
They  set  as  sets  the  morning  star,  which  goes 
Not  down  behind  the  darken'd  west,  nor  hides 
Obscured  among  the  tempest  of  the  sky, 
But  melts  away  into  the  light  of  heaven. 

Robert  PolloTc.—Born  1799,  IHed  1827. 


1434.— FRIENDSHIP. 

Not  unremember'd  is  the  hour  when  friends 
Met.     Friends,  but  few  on  earth,  and  there- 
fore dear ; 
Sought  oft,  and  sought  almost  as  oft  in  vain ; 
Yet  always  sought,  so  native  to  the  heart, 
So  much  desired  and  coveted  by  all. 
Nor  wonder   those — thou  wonderest  not,  nor 

need'st. 
Much  beautiful,  and  excellent,  and  fair, 
Than   face   of   faithful   friend,   fairest  when 


In  darkest  day  ;  and  many  sounds  were  sweet, 
Most  ravishing  and  pleasant  to  the  ear ; 
But  sweeter  none  than  voice  of  faithful  friend, 
Sweet   always,    sweetest    heard    in    loudest 

storm. 
Some  I  remember,  and  will  ne'er  forget ; 
My  early  friends,  friends  of  my  evil  day ; 
Friends  in  my  mirth,  friends  in  my  misery 

too; 
Friends  given  by  God  in  mercy  and  in  love  ; 
My  counsellors,  my  comforters,  and  guides; 
My  joy  in  grief,  my  second  bliss  in  joy  ; 
Companions  of  my  young  desires  ;  in  doubt. 
My  oracles,  my  wings  in  high  pursuit. 
O,  I  remember,  and  will  ne'er  forget 


Our  meeting  spots,  our  chosen  sacred  hours. 
Our  burning  words  that  utter' d  all  the  soul. 
Our  faces  beaming  with  unearthlj'  love  ; 
Sorrow  with  sorrow  sighing,  hope  with  hope 
Exulting,  heart  embracing,  heart  entire. 
As  birds  of  social  feather  helping  each 
His  fellow's  flight,  we  soar'd  into  -tlie  skies, 
And  cast  the   clouds  beneath  our  feet,  and 

earth. 
With  all  her  tardy  leaden-footed  cares, 
And  talk'd  the  speech,  and  ate  the  food  of 

heaven ! 
These  I  remember,  these  selectest  men. 
And  would   their   names  record  ;    but  what 

avails 
My   mention   of   their   named?      Before   the 

throne 
They  stand  illustrious  'mong  the  loudest  harps. 
And  will  receive  thee  glad,    my  friend  and 

theirs — 
For   all   are   friends   in   heaven,   all  faithful 

friends ; 
And  many  friendships  in  the  days  of  time 
Begun,  are  lasting  here,  and  growing  still ; 
So  grows  ours  evermore,  both  theirs  and  mine. 
Nor  is  the  hour  of  lonely  walk  forgot 
In  the  wide  desert,  where  the  view  was  large. 
Pleasant  were  many  scenes,  but  most  to  me 
The  solitude  of  vast  extent,  untouch' d 
By  hand  of  heart,  where  nature  sow'd  herself. 
And  reap'd  her  crops ;  whose  garments  were 

the  clouds ; 
Whose   minstrels   brooks;    whose  lamps  the 

moon  and  stars ; 
Whose  organ-choir  the  voice  of  many  waters  ; 
Whose  banquets  morning  dews ;  whose  heroes 

storms ; 
Whose  warriors  mighty  winds ;  whose  lovers 

flowers ; 
Whose  orators  the  thunderbolts  of  God ; 
Whose  palaces  the  everlasting  hills ; 
Whose  ceUing  heaven's  unfathomable  blue  ; 
And  from  whose  rocky  turrets  battled  high 
Prospect   immense   spread   out   on   all   sides 

round, 
Lost  now  beneath  the  welkin  and  the  main, 
Now  wall'd  with  hills  that  slept  above  the 

storm. 
Most  fit  was  such  a  place  for  musing  men. 
Happiest   sometimes   when    musing   without 

aim. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  wondrous  sort  of  bliss 
The  lonely  bard  enjoy'd  when  forth  he  walk' d, 
Unpurposed ;  stood,   and  knew  not  why ;  sat 

down, 
And  knew  not  where ;  arose,  and  knew  not 

when ; 
Had   eyes,  and  saw  not;   ears,  and  nothing 

heard ; 
And  sought — sought  neither  heaven  nor  earth 

— sought  nought. 
Nor  meant  to  think ;  but  ran  meantime  through 

vast 
Of  visionary  things,  fairer  than  aught 
That    was ;  and    saw    the    distant    tops    of 

thoughts, 


EOBT.   POLLOK.] 


HAPPINESS. 


[Seventh  Period, — 


Whicli  men  of  common  stature  never  saw, 
Greater  than  aught  that  largest  worlds  could 

hold, 
Or  give  idea  of,  to  those  who  read. 
He  enter' d  into  Nature's  holy  place, 
Her  inner  chamber,  and  beheld  her  face 
Unveiled  ;  and  heard  unutterable  things, 
And  incommunicable  visions  saw  ; 
Things  then  unutterable,  and  visions  then 
Of  incommunicable  glory  bright ; 
But  by  the  lips  of  after-ages  form'd 
To  words,  or  by  their  pencil  pictured  forth  ; 
Who,  entering  farther  in,  beheld  again, 
And  heard  unspeakable  and  marvellous  things, 
Which  other  ages  in  their  turn  reveal' d, 
And  left  to  others  greater  wonders  stiU. 

Rolert  Polloli.—Born  1799,  Died  1827. 


1435.— HAPPINESS. 

Whether  in  crowds  or  solitudes,  in  streets 
Or  shady  groves,  dwelt  Happiness,  it  seems 
In  vain  to  ask  ;  her  nature  makes  it  vain ; 
Though  poets  much,  and  hermits,  talk'd  and 

sung 
Of  brooks  and  crystal  founts,  and  weeping 

dews, 
And  myrtle  bowers,  and  solitary  vales. 
And  with  the  nymph  made  assignations  there, 
And  woo'd  her  with  the  love-sick  oaten  reed  ; 
And  sages  too,  although  less  positive. 
Advised  their  sons  to  court  her  in  the  shade. 
Delirious  babble  all !     Was  happiness. 
Was  self -approving,  God  approving  joy. 
In  drops  of  dew,  however  pure  ?  in  gales, 
However  sweet  ?  in  wells,  however  clear  ? 
Or  groves,  however  thick  with  verdant  shade  ? 
True,  these  were  of  themselves  exceeding 

fair; 
How  fair  at  morn  and  even  !  worthy  the  walk 
Of  loftiest  mind,  and  gave,  when  all  within 
Was  right,  a  feast  of  overflowing  bliss  ; 
But  were  the  occasion,  not  the  cause  of  joy. 
They  waked  the  native  fountains  of  the  soul 
Which    slept    before,   and   stirr'd    the   holy 

tides 
Of  feeling  up,  giving  the  heart  to  drink 
From  its  own  treasures  draughts  of  perfect 

sweet. 
The  Christian  faith,  which  better  knew  the 

heart 
Of  man,  him  thither  sent  for  peace,  and  thus 
Declared :  Who  finds  it,  let  him  find  it  there  ; 
Who  finds  it  not,  for  ever  let  him  seek 
In  vain;  'tis  God's  most  holy,  changeless  will. 

True  Happiness  had  no  localities. 
No  tones  provincial,  no  peculiar  garb. 
Where   Duty   went,    she  went,   with  Justice 

went. 
And  went  with  Meekness,  Charity,  and  Love. 
Where'er  a  tear  was  dried,  a  wounded  heart 
Bound  up,  a  bruised  spirit  with  the  dew 
Of  sympathy  anointed,  or  a  pang 


Of  honest  suffering  soothed,  or  injury 
Eepeated  oft,  as  oft  by  love  forgiven ; 
Where'er  an  evil  passion  was  subdued, 
Or  Virtue's  feeble  embers  fann'd ;  where'er 
A  sin  was  heartily  abjured  and  left ; 
Where'er  a  pious  act  was  done,  or  breathed 
A  pious  prayer,  or  wish'd  a  pious  wish  ; 
There  was  a  high  and  holy  place,  a  spot 
Of  sacred  Hght,  a  most  religious  fane. 
Where  Happiness,  descending,  sat  and  smiled. 

But  there  apart,  in  sacred  memory  lives 
The  mom  of  life,  first  morn  of  endless  days, 
Most  joyful  mom !  Nor  yet  for  nought  the 

joy. 
A  being  of  eternal  date  commenced, 
A  young  immortal  then  was  bom  !     And  who 
Shall  tell  what  strange  variety  of  bliss 
Burst  on  the  infant  soul,  when  first  it  look'd 
Abroad  on  God's  creation  fair,  and  saw 
The  glorious  earth  and  glorious  heaven,  and 

face 
Of  man  sublime,  and  saw  aU  new,  and  felt 
All  new  !  when  thought  awoke,  thought  never 

more 
To  sleep  !  when  first  it  saw,  heard,  reasoned, 

will'd. 
And   triumph' d  in  the  warmth  of  conscious 

Hfe! 
Nor  happy  only,  but  the  cause  of  joy, 
Which  those  who  never  tasted  always  mourn' d. 
What   tongue ! — no    tongue   shall   tell   what 

bliss  o'erflow'd 
The  mother's   tender  heart  while  round  her 

hung 
The  offspring  of  her  love,  and  lisp'd  her  name 
As    living    jewels    dropp'd    unstain'd     from 

heaven, 
That  made  her  fairer  far,  and  sweeter  seem 
Than  every  ornament  of  costliest  hue  ! 
And  who   hath   not   been    ravish' d,    as    she 

pass'd 
With  all  her  playful  band  of  little  ones. 
Like  Luna  with  her  daughters  of  the  sky. 
Walking  in  matron  majesty  and  grace  ? 
All  who  had  hearts  here  pleasure  found  :  and 

oft 
Have  I,  when  tired  with  heavy  task,  for  tasks 
Were  heavy  in  the  world  below,  relax'd 
My  weary    thoughts   among    their    guiltless 

sports, 
And  led  them  by  their  little' hands  a-field. 
And  watch  them  run  and  crop  the  tempting 

flower — 
Which   oft,    unask'd,  they  brought  me,  and 

bestow' d 
With  smiHng  face,  that  waited  for  a  look 
Of   praise — and   answer' d  curious  questions, 

put 
In  much  simplicity,  but  ill  to  solve  ; 
And   heard   their   observations    strange   and 

new ; 
And  settled  whiles  their  little  quarrels,  soon 
Ending  in  peace,  and  soon  forgot  in  love. 
And  still  E  look'd  upon  their  loveliness, 
And  sought  through  nature  for  similitudes 
Of  perfect  beauty,  innocence,  and  bliss, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  TEE   UEES  OF  THE  DEEP. 


[Mrs.  Hemans. 


And  fairest  imagery  around  me  throng' d  ; 
Dewdropsat  day-spring  on  a  seraph's  locks, 
Roses  that  bathe  about  the  well  of  life, 
Young    Loves,    young    Hopes,     dancing    on 

morning's  cheek, 
Gems  leaping  in  the  coronet  of  Love ! 
So  beautiful,  so  full  of  life,  they  seem'd 
As  made  entire  of  beams  of  angels'  eyes. 
Gay,  guileless,  sportive,  lovely  little  things  ! 
Playing  around  the  den  of  sorrow,  clad 
In  smiles,  beheving  in  their  fairy  hopes, 
And  thinking  man  and  woman  true  !  all  joy, 
Happy  all  day,  and  happy  all  the  night ! 

Robert  Pollol.—Born  1799,  Died  1827. 


1436.— THE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 

The  stately  Homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand  ! 
Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees, 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land. 
The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 

Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam. 
And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England ! 

Around  theix-  hearths  by  night. 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light ! 
There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  song. 

Or  childhood's  tale  is  told. 
Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England  ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath-hours  ! 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-beU's  chime 

Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn ; 
All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

The  cottage  Homes  of  England  ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 
Thej'-  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 
Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves, 
And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep. 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall. 
May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  rear'd 

To  guard  each  hallow' d  wall ! 
And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves. 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 
■\Vhere  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  country  and  its  God  ! 

Mrs.  Hemans. — Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1437.— THE  TREASUEES  OF  THE  DEEP. 

What  hidest  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and 
cells, 
Thou  hoUow-sounding  and  mysterious  main  ? 
Pale   gUstening  pearls,  and  rainbow-colour' d 
shells, 
Bright  things  which  gleam  unreck'd  of  and 
in  vain. 
Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea  ! 

We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet   more,   the   depths  have    more !      What 
wealth  untold. 
Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  still- 
ness, lies ! 
Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold, 

Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  Argosies. 
Sweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful 
main  ! 

Earth  claims  not  these  again  ! 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more  !     Thy  waves 
have  roll'd 
Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by ! 
Sand  hath  fiU'd  up  the  palaces  of  old, 

Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  haUs  of  revelry  ! 
Dash  o'er  them,  Ocean  !  in  thy  scornful  play, 
Man  yields  them  to  decay  ! 

Yet  more  !  the  billows  and  the  depths  have 
more ! 
High  hearts  and  brave  are  gather' d  to  thy 
breast  ! 
They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar — 
The   battle-thunders   will  not   break  their 
rest. 
Keep  thy  red  gold   and  gems,  thou  stormy 
grave ! 

Give  back  the  true  and  brave ! 

Give  back  the   lost  and   lovely !     Those  for 
whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so 
long ; 
The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breath- 
less gloom. 
And  the  vain  yearning  woke  'midst  festal 
song  ! 
Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles,  thy  towers  o'er- 
thrown — 

But  all  is  not  thine  own  ! 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down  ; 
Dark  flow  thy  tides  o'er  manhood's  noble 
head, 
O'er  youth's  bright  locks,  and  beauty's  flowery 
crown ! 
Yet  must  thou  hear  a  voice — Eestore  the 
Dead! 
Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  things  from 
thee  !— 

Eestore  the  Dead,  thou  Sea ! 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Barn  1793,  B^cd  1835. 
67 


Mrs.  Hemans.] 


THE  VOICE  OF  SPEING. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


1438.— THE  VOICE  OF  SPEING. 

I  come,  I  come !  ye  have  call'd  me  long, 

I   come   o'ec  the   mountains  with  light  and 

song ; 
Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening 

earth. 
By  the  mnds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth, 
By  the  primrose  stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I  pass. 

I  have  breathed  on  the  South,  and  the  chest- 
nut-flowers 

By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest- 
bowers  : 

And  the  ancient  graves,  and  the  fallen  fanes, 

Are  veil'd  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains. 

But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 

To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb  ! 

I   have  pass'd  o'er   the  hills  of  the  stormy 

North, 
And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 
The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 
And  the  reindeer  bounds  through  the  pasture 

free, 
And  the  pine  has  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 
And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  step  has 

been. 

I  have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a  gentle 

sigh, 
And  caird  out  each  voice  of  the  deep-blue  sky. 
From  the  night  bird's  lay  through  the  starry 

time, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes. 
When  the  dark  fir-bough  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I  have  loosed 

the  chain ; 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main, 
They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain- 
brows, 
They  are  flinging  spray  on  the  forest-boughs. 
They  are   bursting  fresh   from  their  sparry 

caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves. 

Come  forth,  O  ye  children  of  gladness,  come  ! 
Where  the  violets  lie  may  now  be  your  home. 
Ye  of  the  rose-cheek  and  dew-bright  eye. 
And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly ; 
With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous 

lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine,  I  may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  careworn  men, 
The  waters  are  sparkling  in  wood  and  glen ; 
Away  from  the  chamber  and  dusky  hearth. 
The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth  ; 
Their    light    stems  thrill  to   the   wild-wood 

strains, 
And  Youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

The  summer  is  hastening,  on  soft  winds  borne, 
Ye  may  press   the    grape,  ye   may  bind  the 
com: 


For  me  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore — 
Ye  are  mark'd  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more. 
I  go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell, 
And  the  flowers  are  not  Death's — fare  ye  well, 
farewell ! 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1439.— THE  GEAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side. 
They  fill'd  one  home  with  glee ; 

Their  graves  are  sever' d,  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 

O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow ; 
She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight — 

Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 

One,  'midst  the  forest  of  the  west. 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one, 

He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep ; 
He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dress'd 

Above  the  noble  slain  : 
He  wrapt  his  colours  round  his  breast. 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  one — o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fann'd  ; 

She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play'd 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree ; 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray'd 

Around  one  parent  knee  ! 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheer' d  with  song  the  hearth — 

Alas  !  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 
And  nought  beyond,  on  earth ! 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1440.— MAEGUEEITE  OF  FEANCE. 

The  Moslem  spears  were  gleaming 

Eound  Damietta's  towers. 
Though  a  Christian  banner  from  her  wall 

Waved  free  its  lily-flowers. 
Ay,  proudly  did  the  banner  wave, 

As  queen  of  earth  and  air ; 
But  faint  hearts  throbb'd  beneath  its  folds 

In  anguish  and  despair. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BRING  FLOWERS. 


[Mrs,  Hema-ns. 


Deep,  deep  in  Paynim  dungeon 

Their  kingly  chieftain  lay, 
And  low  on  many  an  eastern  field 

Their  knighthood's  best  array. 
'Twas  mournful  when  at  feasts  they  met, 

The  wine-cup  round  to  send ; 
For  each  that  touch'd  it  silently 

Then  miss'd  a  gallant  friend ! 

And  mournful  was  their  vigil 

On  the  beleaguer'd  wall, 
And  dark  their  slumber,  dark  with  dreams 

Of  slow  defeat  and  fall. 
Yet  a  few  hearts  of  chivalry 

Rose  high  to  breast  the  storm, 
And  one — of  all  the  loftiest  there — 

Thrill'd  in  a  woman's  form. 

A  woman  meekly  bending 

O'er  the  slumber  of  her  child, 
With  her  soft,  sad  eyes  of  weeping  love, 

As  the  Virgin  Mother's  mild. 
Oh  !  roughly  cradled  was  thy  babe, 

'Midst  the  clash  of  spear  and  lance, 
And  a  strange,  wild  bower  was  thine,  young 
queen ! 

Fair  Marguerite  of  France  ! 

A  dark  and  vaulted  chamber, 

Like  a  scene  for  wizard-^ell, 
Deep  in  the  Faracenic  gloom 

Of  the  warrior  citadel ; 
And  there  'midst  arms  the  couch  was  spread, 

And  with  banners  curtain' d  o'er. 
For  the  daughter  of  the  minstrel-land 

The  gay  Proven9al  shore  ! 

For  the  bright  queen  of  St.  Louis, 

The  star  of  court  and  hall ! 
But  the  deep  strength  of  the  gentle  heart 

Wakes  to  the  tempest's  call ! 
Her  lord  was  in  the  Paynim's  hold. 

His  soul  with  grief  oppress' d. 
Yet  calmly  lay  the  desolate, 

With  her  young  babe  on  her  breast ! 

There  were  voices  in  the  city, 

Voices  of  wrath  and  fear — 
"  The  walls  grow  weak,  the  strife  is  vain — 

We  will  not  perish  here  ! 
Yield  !  yield !  and  let  the  Crescent  gleam 

O'er  tower  and  bastion  high  ! 
Our  distant  homes  are  beautiful — 

We  stay  not  here  to  die  !  " 

They  bore  those  fearful  tidings 

To  the  sad  queen  where  she  lay — 
They  told  a  tale  of  wavering  hearts, 

Of  treason  and  dismay  : 
The  blood  rush'd  through  her  pearly  cheek, 

The  sparkle  to  her  eye — 
"  Now  call  me  hither  those  recreant  knights 

From  the  bands  of  Italy  !  " 

Then  through  the  vaulted  chambers 

Stern  iron  footsteps  rang  ; 
And  heavily  the  sounding  floor 

Gave  bank  the  sabre's  clang. 


They  stood  around  her — steel-clad  men,   ' 

Moulded  for  storm  and  fight, 
But  they  quail' d  before  the  loftier  soul 

In  that  pale  aspect  bright. 

Yes !  as  before  the  falcon  shrinksL^  _ 

The  bird  of  meaner  wing, 
So  shrank  they  from  the  imperial  glance 

Of  her — that  fragile  thing  ! 
And  her  flute-like  voice  rose  clear  and  high 

Through  the  din  of  arms  around — 
Sweet,  and  yet  stirring  to  the  soul, 

As  a  silver  clarion's  sound. 

"  The  honour  of  the  Lily 

Is  in  your  hands  to  keep. 
And  the  banner  of  the  Cross,  for  Him 

Who  died  on  Calvary's  steep  : 
And  the  city  which  for  Christian  prayer 

Hath  heard  the  holy  bell — 
And  is  it  these  your  hearts  would  yield 

To  the  godless  infidel  ? 

Then  bring  me  here  a  breastplate 

And  a  helm,  before  ye  fly. 
And  I  will  gird  my  woman's  form, 

And  on  the  ramparts  die  ! 
And  the  boy  whom  I  have  borne  for  woe. 

But  never  for  disgrace, 
Shall  go  within  mine  arms  to  death 

Meet  for  his  royal  race. 

Look  on  him  as  he  slumbers 

In  the  shadow  of  the  lance  ! 
Then  go,  and  with  the  Cross  forsake 

The  princely  babe  of  France ! 
But  tell  your  homes  ye  left  one  heart 

To  perish  undefiled ; 
A  woman,  and  a  queen,  to  guard 

Her  honour  and  her  child !  " 

Before  her  words  they  thrill'd,  like  leaves 

When  winds  are  in  the  wood ; 
And  a  deepening  murmur  told  of  men 

Roused  to  a  loftier  mOod, 
And  her  babe  awoke  to  flashing  swords^ 

Unsheathed  in  many  a  hand, 
As  they  gather' d  round  the  helpless  One, 

Again  a  noble  band ! 

"  We  are  thy  warriors,  lady ! 

True  to  the  Cross  and  thee  ; 
The  spirit  of  thy  kindling  w®rds 

On  every  sword  shall  be ! 
Rest,  with  thy  fair  child  on  thy  breast ! 

Rest — we  will  guard  thee  well ! 
St.  Denis  for  the  Lily-flower 

And  the  Christian  citadel !  " 

Mrs.  Hemans. — Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


144 1. —BRING  FLOWERS. 

Bring  flowers,  young  flowers,  for  the  fostal 

board. 
To  wreathe  the  cup  ere  the  wine  is  pour'd ! 

67* 


Mrs.  Hemans.] 


CASABIANCA. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Bftng  flowers  !  they  are  springing  in  wood  and 

vale : 
Their  breath  floats  out  on  the  southern  gale, 
And  the  touch  of  the  sunbeam  hath  waked  the 

rose, 
To  deck  the  hall  where  the  bright  wine  flows. 

Bring  flowers   to   strew  in   the   conqueror's 

path ! 
He   hath    shaken   thrones   with   his   stormy 

wrath : 
He  <5omes  with  the  spoils  of  nations  back. 
The  vines  lie  crush'd  in  his  dhariot's  track, 
The  turf  looks  red  where  he  won  the  day. 
Bring  flowers  to  die  in  the  conqueror's  way  ! 

Bring  flowers  to  the  captive's  lonely  cell ! 
They  have  tales  of  the  joyous  woods  to  tell — 
Of  the  free  blue  streams,  and  the  glowing  sky, 
And  the  bright  world  shut  from  his  languid 

eye; 
They  will  bear  him  a  thought  of  the  sunny 

hours, 
And   the  dream   of  his   youth.      Bring  him 

flowers,  wild  flowers ! 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  for  the  bride  to 

wear! 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair. 
She  is  leaving  the  home  of   her  childhood's 

mirth. 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth, 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side. 
Bring  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young 

bride ! 

Bring"  flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  bier  to 

shed, 
A  crown  for  the  brow  of  the  early  dead  ! 
For  this  through  its  leaves  hath  the  white 

rose  burst, 
For  this  in  the  woods  was  the  violet  nursed  ! 
Though  they  smile  in  vain  for  what  once  was 

ours, 
They  are  love's  last  gift.     Bring  ye  flowers, 

pale  flowers ! 

Bring  flowers  to  the  shrine  where  wo  kneel  in 

prayer — 
They  are  nature's  offering,  their  place  is  there ! 
They  speak  of  hope  to  the  fainting  heart. 
With  a  voice  of  promise  they  come  and  part. 
They  sleep  in  dust  through  the  wintry  hours, 
They  break   forth   in   glory.     Bring  flowers, 

bright  flowers  ! 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1442.— CASABIANCA. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
Whence  all  but  he  had  fled  ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 


Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm  ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  brave  though  childlike  form. 

The  flames  roll'd  on — he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word ; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below. 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  call'd  aloud — "  Say,  father,  say 

If  yet  my  task  is  done  !  " 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  father !  "  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  ; " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  roU'd  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  liis  waving  hair, 
And  look'd  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still  yet  brave  despair. 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  father,  must  I  stay  ?  " 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapp'd  the  ship  in  splendour  wild. 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high. 
And  stream' d  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  biu'st  of  thunder-sound — 

The  boy ! — oh,  where  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strew' d  the  sea ! — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 
That  well  had  borne  their  part ; 

But  the  noblest  thing  that  perish' d  there 
Was  that  young  faithful  heart. 

Mrs.  Hemans. — Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1443.— THE  HOUE  OF  PRAYER. 

Child,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play, 
While  the  red  light  fades  away  ; 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye. 
Ever  following  silently ; 
Father,  by  the  breeze  of  eve 
Call'd  thy  harvest- work  to  leave — 
Pray  :  ere  yet  the  dark  hours  bo, 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee. 

Traveller,    in  the  stranger's  land, 
Far  from  thine  own  household  band  ; 
Mourner,  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone  ; 
Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell ; 
Sailor,  on  the  darkening  sea — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knco. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


A  FATHEE  BEADING  THE  BIBLE. 


[Mrs.  Hemans. 


"Warrior  that,  from  battle  won, 
Breathest  now  at  set  of  sun ; 
Woman,  o'er  the  lowly  slain, 
"Weeping  on  his  burial-plain  ; 
Ye  that  triumph,  ye  that  sigh, 
Kindred  by  one  holy  tie. 
Heaven's  first  star  alike  ye 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee. 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Bom  1793,  Died  1835. 


1444.— PASSING  AWAY. 

It  is  written  on  the  rose, 

In  its  glory's  fuU  array ; 
Bead  what  those  buds  disclose — 
"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  skies 

Of  the  soft  blue  summer  day ; 
It  is  traced  on  sunset's  dyes — 

"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  trees, 

As  their  young  leaves  glistening  play, 
And  on  brighter  things  than  these — 
"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  brow, 

Where  the  spirit's  ardent  ray 
Lives,  bums,  and  triumphs  now — 
"  Passing  away." 

It  is  written  on  the  heart, 
Alas  !  that  there  Decay 
Should  claim  from  Love  a  part — 
"  Passing  away." 

Friends  !  friends  ! — oh !  shaU  we  meet 

In  a  land  of  purer  day, 
"Where  lovely  things  and  sweet 
Pass  not  away  ? 

Shall  we  know  each  other's  eyes, 

And  the  thoughts  that  in  them  lay 
When  we  mingled  sympathies 

"Passing  away?" 

Oh  !  if  this  may  be  so. 

Speed,  speed,  thou  closing  day  ! 
How  blest  from  earth's  vain  show 
To  pass  away  ! 

Mrs.  Hemans. — Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1445.— THE  BETTEE  LAND. 

I  hear  thee  speak  of  the  better  land, 
Thou  call'st  its  children  a  happy  band ; 
Mother  !  oh,  where  is  that  radiant  shore  ? 
Shall  we  not  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more  ? 
Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows, 
And  the  fire-flies  glance  through  the  myrtle 
boughs  ? 

Not  there  ;  not  there,  my  child. 


Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  rise, 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies  ? 
Or  'midst  the  green  islands  of  glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze. 
And   strange    bright    birds    on   their   starry 

wings 
Bear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  tmng^^ 
Not  there ;  not  there,  my  child. 

Is  it  far  away  in  some  region  old, 
"Wliere  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of  gold  ? 
Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine. 
And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine, 
And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  tho  coral 

strand — 
Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better  land  ? 
Not  there ;  not  there,  my  child. 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy, 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of  joy ; 
Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair. 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there  ; 
Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom  ; 
For  beyond  the  clouds,  and  beyond  the  tomb. 
It  is  there  ;  it  is  there,  my  child. 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Bom  1793,  Died  1835. 


1446.— A   FATHEE    EEADING    THE 
BIBLE. 

'Twas  early  day,  and  sunlight  stream'd 

Soft  through  a  quiet  room. 
That  hush'd,  but  not  forsaken,  seem'd, 

StiU,  but  with  nought  of  gloom. 
For  there,  serene  in  happy  age, 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  Father  communed  with  the  page 

Of  Heaven's  recorded  love. 

Pure  fell  the  beam,  and  meekly  bright, 

On  his  gray  holy  hair, 
And  touch' d  the  page  with  tenderest  hght, 

As  if  its  shrine  were  there  ! 
But  oh  !  that  patriarch's  aspect  shone 

With  something  lovelier  far — 
A  radiance  all  the  spirit's  own, 

Caught  not  from  sun  or  star. 

Some  word  of  life  e'en  then  had  met 

His  calm  benignant  eye  ; 
Some  ancient  promise,  breathing  yet 

Of  Immortality  ! 
Some  martyr's  prayer,  wherein  the  glow 

Of  quenchless  faith  survives  : 
While  every  feature  said — "  I  know 

That  my  Eedeemer  lives  !  " 

And  silent  stood  his  children  by,  . 

Hushing  their  very  breath. 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thoughts  o'ersweeping  death. 
Silent — yet  did  not  each  young  breast 

With  love  and  reverence  melt  ? 


Mrs.  Hemans.] 


TO  A  FAMILY  BIBLE. 


[Seventh  Peeiod. — 


Oh  !  blest  be  those  fair  girls,  and  blest 
That  home  where  God  is  felt ! 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1447.— TO  A  FAMILY  BIBLE. 

What  household  thoughts  around  thee,  as 

their  shrine, 
CUng    reverently  ? — of     anxious     looks     be- 
guiled, 
My  mother's  eyes,  upon  thy  page  divine, 
Each   day   were    bent — her   accents    gravely 

mild. 
Breathed  out  thy  love :    whilst  I,  a  dreamy 

child. 
Wander' d  on  breeze-like  fancies  oft  away. 
To  some  lene  tuft  of  gleaming  spring-flowers 

wild. 
Some    fresh-discover'd    nook    for    woodland 

play, 
Some    secret   nest  :     yet    would   the   solemn 

Word 
At   times,  with    kindlings   of    young  wonder 

heard, 
Fall  on  my  waken' d  spirit,  there  to  be 
A    seed    not    lost  ; — for    which,    in    darker 

years, 
O  Book  of   Heaven  !     I   pour,  with  grateful 

tears. 
Heart  blessings  on  the  holy  dead  and  thee  ! 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1448.— THE  CHILD'S  FIEST  GEIEF. 

"  Oh  !  call  my  Brother  back  to  me ! 

I  cannot  play  alone  ; 
The  summer  comes  with  flower  and  bee — 

Where  is  my  Brother  gone  ? 

The  butterfly  is  glancing  bright 

Across  the  sunbeam's  track ; 
I  care  not  now  to  chase  its  flight — 

Oh !  call  my  Brother  back  ! 

The  flowers  run  wild — the  flowers  we  sow'd 

Around  our  garden  tree  ; 
Our  vine  is  drooping  with  its  load — ■ 

Oh  !  call  him  back  to  me  !" 

"  He  could  not  hear  thy  voice,  fair  child, 

He  may  not  come  to  thee  ; 
The  face  that  once  like  spring-time  smiled 

On  earth  no  more  thou'lt  see. 

A  rose's  brief  bright  life  of  joy, 

Such  unto  him  was  given  ; 
Go — thou  must  play  alone,  my  boy  ! 

Thy  Brother  is  in  heaven !" 

"  And  has  he  left  his  birds  and  flowers, 

And  must  I  call  in  vain  ? 
And,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

Will  he  not  come  again  ? 


And  by  the  brook,  and  in  the  glade, 

Are  all  our  wanderings  o'er  ? 
Oh  !  while  my  Brother  with  me  play'd. 

Would  I  had  loved  him  more." 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1449.— WILLOW  SONG. 

Willow  !  in  thy  breezy  moan 

I  can  hear  a  deeper  tone  ; 

Through  thy  leaves  come  whispering  low 

Faint  sweet  sounds  of  long  ago — 

Willow,  sighing  willow  I 

Many  a  mournful  tale  of  old 
Heart-sick  Love  to  thee  hath  told. 
Gathering  from  thy  golden  bough 
Leaves  to  cool  his  burning  brow — 

Willow,  sighing  willow  1 

Many  a  swan-like  song  to  thee 

Hath  been  sung,  thou  gentle  tree  ; 

Many  a  lute  its  last  lament 

Down  thy  moonlight  stream  hath  sent — 

Willow,  sigliing  willow  I 

Therefore,  wave  and  murmur  on. 
Sigh  for  sweet  affections  gone, 
And  for  tuneful  voices  fled. 
And  for  Love,  whose  heart  hath  bled. 

Ever,  willow,  willow ! 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


1450.— THE  WANDERING  WIND. 

The  Wind,  the  wandering  Wind 

Of  the  golden  summer  eves — 
Whence  is  the  thrilling  magic 

Of  its  tones  amongst  the  leaves  ? 
Oh  !  is  it  from  the  waters, 

Or  from  the  long,  tall  grass  ? 
Or  is  it  from  the  hollow  rocks 

Through  which  its  breathings  pass  ? 

Or  is  it  from  the  voices 

Of  all  in  one  combined. 
That  it  wins  the  tone  of  mastery  ? 

The  Wind,  the  wondering  Wind  ! 
No,  no  !  the  strange,  sweet  accents 

That  with  it  come  and  go. 
They  are  not  from  the  osiers. 

Nor  the  fir-trees  whispering  low. 

They  are  not  of  the  waters. 

Nor  of  the  cavern' d  hill ; 
'Tis  the  human  love  within  us 

That  gives  them  power  to  thrill : 
They  touch  the  links  of  memory 

Around  our  spirits  twined. 
And  we  start,  and  weep,  and  tremble, 

To  the  Wind,  the  wandering  Wind  ! 
Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 


[Mrs.  Hemans. 


145 1. —THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGEIM 
FATHEES  in  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  breaking  waves  dash'd  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  toss'd ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hnug  dark, 

The  hiUs  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moor'd  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New-England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came ; 
Not  with  the  roU  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame ; . 

Not  as  the  flying  come. 

In  silence  and  in  fear  : — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea ; 

And   the    sounding   aisles  of  the  dim  woods 
rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free  ! 

The  ocean  eagle  soar'd 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam ; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roar'd — 

This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band : 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there. 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod. 
They   have   left   unstain'd   what  there 
found — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  IHed  1835. 


they 


1452.— THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 

"  Why    wouldst   thou    leave    me,    O    gentle 

child  ? 
Thy  home  on  the  mountain  is  bleak  and  wild — 
A  straw-roof'd  cabin,  with  lowly  wall ; 
Mine  is  a  fair  and  pillar' d  hall, 
Where  many  an  image  of  marble  gleams, 
A.nd  the  sunshine  of  pictures  for  ever  streams." 


"  Oh !  green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers 
play, 

Through  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  sum- 
mer's day ; 

They  find  the  red  cup-moss  where  they  climb. 

And  they  chase  the  bee  o'er  the  scented 
thyme,  _ 

And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flower  blooms 
they  know : 

Lady,  kind  lady !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Content  thee,  boy  !  in  my  bower  to  dwell ; 
Here   are   sweet   sounds   which   thou   lovest 

well : 
Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon. 
Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune. 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  a  bird 
Whose    voice   was   ne'er  in    thy    mountain 

heard." 

"  Oh !  my  mother  sings  at  the  twilight's  fall, 
A  song  of  the  hills  far  more  sweet  than  all ; 
She  sings  it  under  our  own  green  tree 
To  the  babe  half  slumbering  on  her  knee ; 
I  dreamt  last  night  of  that  music  low — 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Thy  mother  is  gone  from  her  cares  to  rest ; 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  on  her  quiet  breast ; 
Thou  wouldst  meet  her  footstep,   my  boy,  no 

more. 
Nor  hear  her  song  at  the  cabin  door. 
Come  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyards  nigh. 
And   we'll   pluck   the   grapes   of  the  richest 

dye." 

"  Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away  ? — 
But   I   know  that  my  brothers  are  there  at 

play— 
I   know   they  are   gathering  the   fox-glove's 

bell, 
Or  the  long  fern  leaves  by  the  sparkling  well ; 
Or  they  launch  their  boats  where  the  bright 

streams  flow — 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Fair  child,  thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now ; 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain's  brow; 
They  have  left  the  fern  by  the  spring's  green 

side. 
And  the  streams  where  the  fairy  barks  were 

tied. 
Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot. 
For  the  cabin  home  is  a  lonely  spot." 

"  Are   they   gone,    all  gone    from  the  sunny 

hill  ?— 
But   the  bird  and  the  blue-fly    rove    o'er  it 

still ; 
And  the  red-deer  bound  in  their  gladness  free. 
And  the  heath  is  bent  by  the  singing  bee, 
And  the  waters  leap,  and  the  fresh  winds  bio  w 
Lady,  kind  lady  '  0,  let  me  go." 

Mrs.  Hemans.— Born  1793,  Died  1835, 


Bernard  Barton.] 


POWER  AND  GENTLENESS. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


I453._P0WER  AND   GENTLENESS,   OR 
THE  CATARACT  AND  THE  STREAMLET. 

Noble  the  mountain  stream, 
Bursting  in  grandeur  from  its  vantage-ground ; 

Glory  is  in  its  gleam 
Of     brightness — thunder     in     its    deafening 
sound! 

Mark,  how  its  foamy  spray, 
Tinged  by  the  sunbeams  with  reflected  dyes, 

Mimics  the  bow  of  day 
Arching  in  majesty  the  vaulted  skies ; 

Thence,  in  a  summer-shower, 
Steeping  the  rocks  around — 0  !  tell  me  where 

Could  majesty  and  power 
Be  clothed  in  forms  more  beautifully  fair  ? 

Yet  lovelier,  in  my  view, 
The  streamlet  flowing  silently  serene ; 

Traced  by  the  brighter  hue, 
And  livelier  growth  it  gives — itself  unseen  ! 

It  flows  through  flowery  meads, 
Gladdening  the  herds  which  on  its    margin 
browse ; 

Its  quiet  beauty  feeds 
The  alders  that  o'ershade  it  with  their  boughs. 

Gently  it  murmurs  by 
The   village   churchyard :    its   low,   plaintive 
tone, 

A  dirge-like  melody. 
For  worth  and  beauty  modest  as  its  own. 

More  gaily  now  it  sweeps 
By  the  small    school-house  in  the  sun-shine 
bright ; 

And  o'er  the  pebbles  leaps, 
Like  happy  hearts  by  holiday  made  light. 

May  not  its  course  express. 
In  characters  which  they  who  run  may  read. 

The  charms  of  gentleness. 
Were  but  its  still  small  voice  allow'd  to  plead  ? 

What  are  the  trophies  gain'd 
By  power,  alone,  with  aU  its  noise  and  strife. 

To  that  meek  wreath,  unstain'd, 
Won  by  the  charities  that  gladden  life  ? 

Niagara's  streams  might  fail. 
And  human  happiness  be  undisturb'd : 

But  Egypt  would  turn  pale. 
Were  her  still  Nile's  o'erflowing  bounty  curb'd  I 

Bernard  Barton. — Born  1784,  IHed  1849. 


1454.— TO  THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE. 

Fair  flower  that  shunn'st  the  glare  of  day, 
Yet  lov'st  to  open,  meekly  bold, 

To  evening's  hues  of  sober  gray, 
The  cup  of  paly  gold  ; 


Be  thine  the  offering  owing  long 
To  thee,  and  to  this  pensive  hour, 

Of  one  brief  tributary  song. 
Though  transient  as  thy  flower. 

I  love  to  watch,  at  silent  eve. 

Thy  scatter' d  blossoms'  lonely  light, 

And  have  my  inmost  heart  receive 
The  influence  of  that  sight. 

I  love  at  such  an  hour  to  mark 

Their  beauty  greet  the  night-breeze  chill. 
And  shine,  'mid  shadows  gathering  dark, 

The  garden's  glory  still. 

For  such,  'tis  sweet  to  think  the  while. 
When  cares  and  griefs  the  breast  invade, 

Is  friendship's  animating  smile 
In  sorrow's  dark'ning  shade. 

Thus  it  bursts  forth,  like  thy  pale  cup, 
Glist'ning  amid  its  dewy  tears. 

And  bears  the  sinking  spirit  up 
Amid  its  chilling  fears. 

But  still  more  animating  far, 

If  meek  Religion's  eye  may  trace, 

Even  in  thy  glimmering  earth-bom  star, 
The  holier  hope  of  Grace. 

The  hope,  that  as  thy  beauteous  bloom 
Expands  to  glad  the  close  of  day, 

So  through  the  shadows  of  the  tomb 
May  break  forth  Mercy's  ray. 

Bema/rd  Barton. — Born  1784,  Died  1849. 


1455.— THERE  BE  THOSE. 

There  be  those  who  sow  beside 
The  waters  that  in  silence  glide, 
Trusting  no  echo  will  declare 
Whose  footsteps  ever  wander'd  there. 

The  noiseless  footsteps  pass  away. 
The  stream  flows  on  as  yesterday ; 
Nor  can  it  for  a  time  be  seen 
A  benefactor  there  had  been. 

Yet  think  not  that  the  seed  is  dead 
Which  in  the  lonely  place  is  spread ; 
It  lives,  it  lives — the  Spring  is  nigh, 
And  soon  its  life  shall  testify. 

That  silent  stream,  that  desert  ground, 
No  more  unlovely  shall  be  found ; 
But  scatter'd  flowers  of  simplest  grace 
Shall  spread  their  beauty  round  the  place. 

And  soon  or  late  a  time  will  come 
When  witnesses,  that  now  are  dumb. 
With  grateful  eloquence  shall  tell 
From  whom  the  seed,  there  scatter'd,  fell. 

Bernard  Barton. — Born  1784,  Died  1849. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  SOLITAEY  TOMB. 


[Bernard  Bakton. 


1456.— NOT  OUES  THE  VOWS. 

Not  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  plight 

Their  troth  in  sunny  weather, 
While  leaves  are  green,  and  skies  are  bright, 

To  walk  on  flowers  together. 

But  we  have  loved  as  those  who  tread 

The  thorny  path  of  sorrow. 
With  clouds  above,  and  cause  to  dread 

Yet  deeper  gloom  to-morrow. 

That  thorny  path,  those  stormy  skies, 
Have  drawn  our  spirits  nearer ; 

And  render'd  us,  by  sorrow's  ties, 
Each  to  the  other  dearer. 

Love,  bom  in  hours  of  joy  and  mirth, 
With  mirth  and  joy  may  perish  ; 

That  to  which  darker  hours  gave  birth 
Still  more  and  more  we  cherish. 

It  looks  beyond  the  clouds  of  time, 
And  through  death's  shadowy  portal ; 

Made  by  adversity  sublime, 
By  faith  and  hope  immortal. 

Bernard  Bwrton. — Born  1784,  Died  1849. 


i457._STANZAS  ON  THE  SEA. 

Oh  !  I  shall  not  forget,  until  memory  depart, 
When  first  I  beheld  it,  the  glow  of  my  heart ; 
The  wonder,  the  awe,  the  delight  that  stole 

o'er  me, 
Wlien  its  billowy  boundlessness  open'd  before 

me. 
As  I  stood  on  its  margin,  or  roam'd  on  its 

strand, 
I  felt  new  ideas  within  me  expand, 
Of  glory  and  grandeur,  unknown  till  that  hour. 
And  my  spirit  was  mute  in  the  presence  of 

power ! 
In   the    surf-beaten   sands   that   encircled   it 

round, 
In    the   billow's   retreat,    and   the   breaker's 

rebound, 
In  its  white-drifted  foam,  and  its  dark -heaving 

green, 
Each  moment  I  gazed,  some  fresh  beauty  was 

seen. 
And  thus,  while  I  wander' d  on  ocean's  bleak 

shore, 
And  survey'd  its  vast  surface,  and  heard  its 

waves  roar, 
I  seem'd  wrapt  in  a  dream  of  romantic  delight, 
And  haunted  by  majesty,  glory,  and  might ! 

Bernard  Barton. — Bom  1784,  Died  1849. 


1458.— THE  SOLITAEY  TOMB. 

Not  a  leaf  of  the  tree  which  stood  near  me 
was  stirr'd, 
Though  a  breath  might  have  moved  it  so 
lightly; 


Not  a  farewell  note  from  a  sweet  singing  bird 
Bade  adieu  to  the  sun  setting  brightly. 

The  sky  was  cloudless  and  calm,  except 

In  the  west,  where  the  sun  was  descending ; 

And  there  the  rich  tints  of  the  rainbow  slept, 
As    his    beams    with    their    beanty   were 
blending. 

And  the  evening  star,  with  its  ray  so  clear, 

So  tremulous,  soft,  and  tender. 
Had  lit  up  its  lamp,  and  shot  down  from  its 
sphere 

Its  dewy  dehghtful  splendour. 

And  I  stood  all  alone  on  that  gentle  hill, 
With  a  landscape  so  lovely  before  me ; 

And  its  spirit  and  tone,  so  serene  and  still, 
Seem'd  silently  gathering  o'er  me. 

Far  off  was  the  Deben,  whose  briny  flood 
By  its  winding  banks  was  sweeping  ; 

And  just  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  where  I  stood 
The  dead  in  their  damp  graves  were  sleepiag. 

How   lonely    and    lovely   their    resting-place 
seem'd ! 
An  enclosure  which  care  could  not  enter ; 
And  how  sweetly  the  gray  lights  of  evening 
gleam 'd 
On  the  solitary  tomb  in  its  centre  ! 

When  at  morn  or  at  eve  I  have  wander'd  near, 

And  in  various  lights  have  view'd  it. 
With   what  difi'ering  forms,  unto   friendship 


Has  the  magic  of  fancy  endued  it ! 

Sometimes  it  has  seem'd  like  a  lonely  sail, 
A  white  spot  on  the  emerald  billow ; 

Sometimes  like  a  lamb,  in  a  low  grassy  vale, 
Stretch' d  in  peace  on  its  verdant  pillow. 

But  no  image  of  gloom,  or  of  care,  or  strife, 
Has  it  ever  given  birth  to  one  minute ; 

For  lamented  in  death,  as  beloved  in  life, 
Was  he  who  now  slumbers  within  it. 

He  was  one  who  in  youth  on  the  stormy  seas 
Was  a  far  and  a  fearless  ranger ; 

Who,  borne  on  the  billow,  and  blown  by  the 
breeze, 
Counted  lightly  of  death  or  of  danger. 

Yet  in  this  rude  school  had  his  heart  still 
kept 
All  the  freshness  of  gentle  feeling ; 
Nor  in  woman's  warm  eye  has  a  tear  ever 
slept 
More  of  softness  and  kindness  reveahng. 

And  here,  when  the  bustle  of  youth  was  past. 
He  lived,  and  he  loved,  and  he  died  too ; 

Oh !    why  was  affection,  which   death  could 
outlast, 
A  more  lengthen' d  enjoyment  denied  to 


Bernard  Barton.] 


BISHOP  HUBEET. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


But  here  he  slumbers  !  and  many  there  are 
Who  love  that  lone  tomb  and  revere  it ; 

And  one  far  off  who,  hke  eve's  dewy  star, 
Though  at  distance,  in  fancy  dwells  near  it. 

Berna/rd  Barton. — Bom  1784,  Died  1849. 


1459- 


-BISHOP  HUBEET. 


'Tis  the  hour  of  even  now, 

When,  with  pensive,  thoughtful  brow. 

Seeking  truths  as  yet  unknown. 

Bishop  Hubert  walks  alone. 

Eain  would  he,  by  earnest  thought, 

Nature's  secret  laws  be  taught ; 

Learn  the  destinies  of  man. 

And  Creation's  wonders  scan. 

From  these  data  he  would  trace 

Hidden  mysteries  of  grace, 

Dive  into  a  deeper  theme, 

Solve  Eedemption's  glorious  scheme. 

So  he  flings  aside  to-day 

Mitre's  pomp  and  crozier's  sway, 

Seeks  the  desert's  silent  scene 

And  the  marge  of  ocean  green. 

Far  he  has  not  roam'd  before, 

On  that  soHtary  shore, 

He  has  found  a  little  child. 

By  its  seeming  play  beguiled. 

On  the  drifted,  barren  sand 

It  has  scoop'd,  with  baby  hand. 

Small  recess,  in  wliich  might  float 

Sportive  Fairy's  tiny  boat. 

From  a  hollow  shell,  the  while, 

See  !  'tis  filling,  with  a  smile. 

Pool,  as  shallow  as  may  be. 

With  the  waters  of  the  sea. 

Hear  the  smihng  Bishop  ask, 

What  can  mean  such  infant  task  ? 

Mark  that  infant's  answer  plain  : 

"  'Tis  to  hold  yon  mighty  main  !  " 

*'  Foolish  trifler,"  Hubert  cries, 

"  Open,  if  thou  canst,  thine  eyes. 

Can  a  shallow  scoop'd  by  thee 

Hope  to  hold  yon  boundless  sea  ? 

Know'st  thou  not  its  space  transcends 

All  thy  fancy  comprehends  ? 

Ope  thy  childish  eyes,  and  know 

Fathomless  its  depths  below." 

Soon  that  child,  on  ocean's  brim, 

Opes  its  eyes,  and  turns  to  Him  !  . 

Well  does  Hubert  read  its  look — 

Glance  of  innocent  rebuke  ; 

While  a  voice  is  heard  to  say  : 

"  If  the  pool,  thus  scoop'd  in  play. 

Cannot  hold  yon  mighty  sea, 

Vain  must  thy  researches  be. 

Canst  thou  hope  to  make  thine  own 

Secrets  known  to  God  alone  ? 

Can  thy  faculties  confined 

Fathom  the  Eternal  Mind  ?  " 

Bishop  Hubert  turns  away  ; 

He  has  learnt  enough  to-day — 


Learnt  how  little  man  can  know 

While  a  pilgrim  here  below. 

Bernard  Barton. — Born  1784, DiecZ  1349. 


1460.— FEOM  THE  IMPEOVISATEICE. 

I  loved  him  as  young  Genius  loves, 

When  its  own  wild  and  radiant  heaven 
Of  starry  thought  burns  with  the  light. 

The  love,  the  life,  by  passion  given. 
I  loved  him,  too,  as  woman  loves — 

Eeckless  of  sorrow,  sin,  or  scorn  : 
Life  had  no  evil  destiny 

That,  with  him,  I  could  not  have  borne  ! 
I  had  been  nursed  in  palaces ; 

Yeb  earth  had  not  a  spot  so  drear. 
That  I  should  not  have  thought  a  home 

In  Paradise,  had  he  been  near ! 
How  sweet  it  would  have  been  to  dwell. 
Apart  from  all,  in  some  green  dell 
Of  sunny  beauty,  leaves,  and  flowers  ; 
And  nestling  birds  to  sing  the  hours  1 
Our  home,  beneath  some  chestnut's  shade, 
But  of  the  woven  branches  made  : 
Our  vesper  hymn,  the  low  wone  wail 
The  rose  hears  from  the  nightingale ; 
And  waked  at  morning  by  the  call 
Of  music  from  a  waterfall. 
But  not  alone  in  dreams  like  this. 
Breathed  in  the  very  hope  of  bliss, 
I  loved :  my  love  had  been  the  same 
In  hush'd  despair,  in  open  shame. 
I  would  have  rather  been  a  slave, 

In  tears,  in  bondage  by  his  side, 
Than  shared  in  all,  if  wanting  him. 

This  world  had  power  to  give  beside ! 
My  heart  was  wither' d — and  my  heart 

Had  ever  been  the  world  to  me  : 
And  love  had  been  the  first  fond  dream, 

Whose  life  was  in  reality. 
I  had  sprung  from  my  solitude. 

Like  a  young  bird  upon  the  wing, 
To  meet  the  arrow ;  so  I  met 

My  poison' d  shaft  of  suffering. 
And  as  that  bird,  with  drooping  crest 
And  broken  wing,  will  seek  his  nest. 
But  seek  in  vain  :  so  vain  I  sought 
My  pleasant  home  of  song  and  thought. 
There  was  one  spell  upon  my  brain, 
Upon  my  pencil,  on  my  strain  ; 
But  one  face  to  my  colours  came ; 
My  chords  replied  but  to  one  name — 
Lorenzo  ! — all  seem'd  vow'd  to  thee. 
To  passion,  and  to  misery  ! 

L.  E.  Landon.—Born  1802,  Died  1839. 


1461.— CEESCENTIUS. 

I  look'd  upon  his  brow — no  sign 
Of  guilt  or  fear  was  there  ;. 


■  —  I 
From  1780  to  1866.]                  LITTLE  EED  EIDING  HOOD.                         [L.  E.  Landon. 

He  stood  as  proud  by  tliat  death-shrine 

Of  the  future  dreaming. 

As  even  o'er  despair 

Weary  of  the  past, 

He  had  a  power ;  in  his  eye 

For  the  present  scheming — 

There  was  a  quenchless  energy, 

AH  but  what  thou  hast. 

A  spirit  that  could  dare 

The  deadliest  form  that  death  could  take, 

No,  thou  art  delighting 

And  dare  it  for  the  daring's  sake. 

In  thy  summer  home  ;                 ~" 

Where  the  flowers  inviting 

He  stood,  the  fetters  on  his  hand, 

•      Tempt  the  bee  to  roam  ; 

He  raised  them  haughtily ; 

Where  the  cowslip,  bending 

And  had  that  grasp  been  on  the  brand, 

With  its  golden  bells. 

It  could  not  wave  on  high 

Of  each  glad  hour's  ending 

With  freer  pride  than  it  waved  now ; 

With  a  sweet  chime  tells. 

Around  he  look'd  with  changeless  brow 

On  many  a  torture  nigh  ; 

All  wild  creatures  love  him 

The  rack,  the  chain,  the  axe,  the  wheel, 

When  he  is  alone ; 

And,  worst  of  all,  his  own  red  steel. 

Every  bird  above  him 

Sings  its  softest  tone. 

I  saw  him  once  before ;  he  rode 

Thankful  to  high  Heaven, 

Upon  a  coal-black  steed, 

Humble  in  thy  joy. 

And  tens  of  thousands  throng'd  the  road. 

Much  to  thee  is  given, 

And  bade  their  warrior  speed. 

Lowly  shepherd  boy. 

His  helm,  his  breastplate,  were  of  gold, 
And  graved  with  many  dint,  that  told 

L.  E.  Lcmdon.—Born  1802,  Died  1839. 

Of  many  a  soldier's  deed  ; 

The  sun  shone  on  his  sparkling  mail, 

And  danced  his  snow-plume  on  the  gale. 

But  now  he  stood  chain'd  and  alone, 

1463.— LI'i'l'LE  EED  EIDING  HOOD. 

The  headsman  by  his  side, 

The  plume,  the  helm,  the  charger  gone ; 

Come  back,  come  back  together. 

The  sword,  which  had  defied 

All  ye  fancies  of  the  past, 

The  mightiest,  lay  broken  near  ; 

Ye  days  of  April  weather, 

And  yet  no  sign  or  sound  of  fear 

Ye  shadows  that  are  cast 

Came  from  that  lip  of  pride  ; 

By  the  haunted  hours  before  ! 

And  never  king  or  conqueror's  brow 

Come  back,  come  back,  my  Childhood  ; 

Wore  higher  look  than  did  his  now. 

Thou  art  summon' d  by  a  spell 

From  the  green  leaves  of  the  wildwood. 

He  bent  beneath  the  headsman's  stroke 

From  beside  the  charmed  well, 

With  an  uncover' d  eye  ; 

For  Eed  Eiding  Hood,  the  darhng, 

A  wild  shout  from  the  numbers  broke 

The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ! 

Who  throng'd  to  see  him  die. 

It  was  a  people's  loud  acclaim. 

The  fields  were  cover'd  over 

The  voice  of  anger  and  of  shame. 

With  colours  as  she  went ; 

A  nation's  funeral  cry, 

Daisy,  buttercup,  and  clover 

Eiome's  wail  above  her  only  son, 

Below  her  footsteps  bent ; 

Her  patriot  and  her  latest  one. 

Summer  shed  its  shining  store ; 

L.  E.  Landon.— Born  1802,  Died  1839. 

She  was  happy  as  she  press'd  them 
Beneath  her  little  feet ; 

She  pluck' d  them  and  caress' d  them ; 
They  were  so  very  sweet. 

They  had  never  seem'd  so  sweet  before. 

1462.— THE  SHEPHEED  BOY. 

To  Eed  Eiding  Hood,  the  darling. 

The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

Like  some  vision  olden 

Of  far  other  time. 

How  the  heart  of  childhood  dances 

When  the  age  was  golden, 

Upon  a  sunny  day  ! 

In  the  young  world's  prime. 

It  has  its  own  romances. 

Is  thy  soft  pipe  ringing. 

And  a  wide,  wide  world  have  they  ! 

0  lonely  shepherd  boy : 

A  world  where  Phantasie  is  king, 

Y\7^hat  song  art  thou  singing. 

Made  all  of  eager  dreaming  ; 

In  thy  youth  and  joy  ? 

When  once  grown  up  and  tall — 

Now  is  the  time  for  scheming — 

Or  art  thou  complaining 

Then  we  shall  do  them  all  ! 

Of  thy  lonely  lot. 

Do  such  pleasant  fancies  spring 

And  thine  own  disdaining. 

For  Eed  Eiding  Hood,  the  darling. 

Dost  ask  what  thou  hast  not  ? 

The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ? 

L.  E.  Landon.] 


NIGHT  AT  SEA. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


She  seems  like  an  ideal  love, 

The  poetry  of  childhood  shown, 
And  yet  loved  with  a  real  love, 

As  if  she  were  our  own — 

A  younger  sister  for  the  heart ; 
Like  the  woodland  pheasant, 

Her  hair  is  brown  and  bright ; 
And  her  smile  is  pleasant, 

With  its  rosy  light, 

Never  can  the  memory  part 
With  Red  Eiding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

Did  the  painter,  dreaming 

In  a  morning  hour, 

Catch  the  fairy  seeming 

Of  this  fairy  flower  ? 

Winning  it  with  eager  eyes 
From  the  old  enchanted  stories. 
Lingering  with  a  long  delight 
On  the  unf orgotten  glories 
Of  the  infant  sight  ? 

Giving  us  a  sweet  surprise 
In  Eed  Eiding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ! 

Too  long  in  the  meadow  staying. 

Where  the  cowslip  bends, 
With  the  buttercups  delaying 
As  with  early  friends. 

Did  the  little  maiden  stay. 
Sorrowful  the  tale  for  us  ; 
"     We,  too,  loiter  'mid  life's  flowers, 
A  little  while  so  glorious. 

So  soon  lost  in  darker  hours. 

All  love  lingering  on  their  way. 
Like  Eed  Eiding  Hood,  the  darling. 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

L.  E.  Landon.—Born  1802,  Died  1839. 


Hurried    and    anxious,    my    vex'd    life    has 


And  memory  wears  a  soft  accusing  brow. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  thiiik  of  you  ? 

The  very  stars  are  strangers,  as  I  catch  them 
Athwart    the    shadowy    sails    that    swell 
above ; 
I  cannot  hope  that  other  eyes  will  watch  them 

At  the  same  moment  with  a  mutual  love. 
They  shine  not  there,  as  here  they  now  are 
shining ; 
The   very   hours  are  changed. — Ah,  do  ye 
,p 


1464.— NIGHT  AT  SEA. 

The  lovely  purple  of  the  noon's  bestowing 
Has   vanish'd  from  the    waters,   where  it 
•    flung 
A  royal  colour,  such  as  gems  are  throwing 

Tyrian  or  regal  garniture  among. 
'Tis  night,  and  overhead  the  sky  is  gleaming. 
Thro'  the  slight  vapour  trembles  each  dim 
star  ; 
I  turn  away — my  heart  is  sadly  dreaming 
Of  scenes  they  do  not  hght,  of  scenes  afar. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you  ? 

By  each  dark  wave  around  the  vessel  sweeping, 
Farther  am  I  from  old  dear  friends  removed  j 
TOl  the  lone  vigil  that  I  now  am  keeping, 
I   did   not  know  how  much  you  were  be- 
loved. 
How  m.any  acts  of  kindness  little  heeded. 
Kind  looks,  kind  words,  rise  half  reproach- 
ful now ! 


O'er  each  home  pillow  midnight  is  declining- 
May  some  kind  dream  at  least  my  image 
keep  ! 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you  ? 

Yesterday  has  a  charm.  To-day  could  never 
Fling  o'er  the  mind,  which  knows  not  till 
it  parts 
How  it  turns  back  with  tenderest  endeavour 
To  fix  the  past  within  the  heart  of  hearts. 
Absence  is  full  of  memory,  it  teaches 

The  value  of  all  old  familiar  things  ; 
The  strengthener  of  affection,  while  it  reaches 
O'er  the  dark  parting,  with  an  angel's 
wings. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you  ? 

The  world,  with  one  vast  element  omitted — 

Man's  own  especial  element,  the  earth  ; 
Yet,  o'er  the  waters  is  his  rule  transmitted 
By  that  great  knowledge  whence  has  power 
its  birth. 
How   oft   on  some   strange   loveliness  while 
gazing 
Have  I  wish'd  for  you — beautiful  as  new, 
The  purple  waves  like  some  ynld  army  raising 
Their    snowy    banners    as    the   ship    cuts 
through. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you  ? 

Bearing  upon  its  w^ings  the  hues  of  morning. 
Up  springs  the  flying  fish  like  life's  false 
joy, 
Which  of  the  sunshine  asks  that  frail  adorning 

Whose  very  light  is  fated  to  destroy. 
Ah,  so  doth  genius  on  its  rainbow  pinion 
Spring   from   the   depths   of   an   unkindly 
world  ; 
So    spring    sweet   fancies   from   the   heart's 
dominion — 
Too  soon  in  death  the  scorch' d-up  wing  is 
furl'd. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Whate'er  I  see  is  link'd  with  thoughts 
of  you. 

No  life  is  in  the  air,  but  in  the  waters 

Are    creatures,     huge,    and    terrible    and 
strong ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  ENDYMION. 


[L.  E.  Landon. 


The    sword-fish   and   the  shark  pursue  their 
slaughters, 
War  universal  reigns  these  depths  along, 
like  some  new  island  on  the  ocean  springing, 
Floats  on  the  surface  some  gigantic  whale. 
From  its  vast  head  a  silver  fountain  flinging, 
Bright  as  the  fountain  in  a  fairy  tale. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

I  read  such   fairy  legends  while  with 
you. 

Light  is  amid  the  gloomy  canvas  spreading. 

The  moon  is  whitening  the  dusky  sails, 
From  the  thick  bank  of  clouds  she  masters, 
shedding 
The   softest  influence  that  o'er  night  pre- 
vails. 
Pale    is    she  like  a  young  queen  pale  with 
splendour, 
Haunted  with  passionate  thoughts  too  fond, 
too  deep ; 
The  very  glory  that  she  wears  is  tender, 
The  very  eyes  that  watch  her  beauty  fain 
would  weep. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I  think  of  you  ? 

Sunshine  is  ever  cheerful,  when  the  morning 
Wakens  the  world    with    cloud-dispelling 
eyes; 
The  spirits  mount  to  glad  endeavour,  scorning 

What  toil  upon  a  path  so  sunny  Ues. 
Sunshine  and  hope  are   comrades,   and  their 
weather 
Calls  into  life  an  energy  like  Spring's  ; 
But  memory  and  moonhght  go  together, 
Eeflected  in  the  light  that  either  brings. 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  thmk  of  me,  then  ?     I  think 
of  you. 

The  busy  deck  is  hush'd,  no  sounds  are  waking 

But  the  watch  pacing  silently  and  slow ; 
The  waves  against  the  sides  incessant  break- 
ing, 
And  rope  and  canvas  swaying  to  and  fro. 
Tlie  topmast- sail,  it  seems  like  some  dim  pin- 
nacle 
Cresting  a  shadowy  tower  amid  the  air ; 
While  red  and  fitful  gleams  come  from  the 
binnacle, 
The  'only  light   on   board  to   guide  us — 
where  ? 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Far  from  my  native  land,  and  far  from 
you. 

On  one    side    of  the    ship,   the  moonbeam's 
shimmer 
In  luminous  vibrations  sweeps  the  sea. 
But  where  the  shadow  falls,  a  strange,  pale 
glimmer 
Seems,    glow-worm    like,    amid   the  waves 
to  be. 

1       All   that    the   spirit   keeps    of   thought   and 
I  feeling, 

I  Takes  visionary  hues  from  such  an  hour ; 


But  while  some  phantasy  is  o'er  me  stealing, 
I  start — remembrance  has  a  keener  power  : 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

From  the  fair  dream  I  start  to  think  of 
you. 

A  dusk  line  in  the  moonlight — I  discover 

What  all  day  long  vainly  I  sought  to  catch  ; 
Or  is  it  but  the  varying  clouds  that  hover 

Thick  in  the  air,  to  mock  the  eyes  that 
watch  ? 
No :  well  the  sailor  knows  each   speck,    ap- 
pearing. 

Upon  the  tossing  waves,  the  far-off  strand ; 
To  that  dark  line  our  eager  ship  is  steering. 

Her  voyage  done — to-morrow  we  shall  land. 

L.  E.  Landon.— Bom  1802,  Died  1839. 


1465.— THE   AWAKENING    OF 
ENDYMION. 

Lone  upon  a  mountain,  the  pine-trees  waihng 
roxmd  him, 
Lone  upon  a  mountain  the  Grecian  youth 
is  laid ; 
Sleep,  mystic  sleep,  for  many  a  year  has  bound 
hhn. 
Yet  his  beauty,  like  a  statue's,  pale  and  fair, 
is  undecay'd. 

When  Avill  he  awaken  ? 

When   will    he    awaken?   a  loud  voice  hath 
been  crying 
Night  after  night,  and  the  cry  has  been  in 
vain; 
Winds,  woods,  and  waves  found  echoes  for 
replying. 
But   the   tones   of  the  beloved  ones  were 
never  heard  again. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Ask'd  the  midnight's  silver  queen. 

Never  mortal  eye  has  look'd  upon  his  sleep- 
ing; 
Parents,  kindred,  comrades,  have  mourn' d 
for  him  as  dead  ; 
By  day  the  gather' d  clouds  have  had  him  in 
their  keeping, 
And  at  night  the  solemn  shadows  round  his 
rest  are  shed. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Long  has  been  the  cry  of  faithful  Love's  im- 
ploring ; 
Long   has   Hope   been  watching  with  soft 
eyes  fix'd  above ; 
When  will  the  Fates,  the  life  of  life  restoring, 
Own    themselves     vanquish'd    by     much- 
enduring  Love  ? 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Asks  the  midnight's  weary  queen. 


L  'E.  Landon.] 


HANNIBAL'S  OATH. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Beautiful  the    sleep    that   she  has  watch' d 
untiring, 
Lighted  up  with  visions  from  yonder  radiant 
sky, 
Full  of  an  immortal's  glorious  inspiring, 
Soften'd   by  a   woman's  meek  and   loving 
sigh. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

He  has  been  dreaming  of  old  heroic  stories, 
And  the   Poet's   world  has  enter' d  in  his 
soul; 
He   has   grown    conscious  of  life's  ancestral 

glories, 
When  sages  and  when  kings  first  upheld  the 
mind's  control. 

When  wiU  he  awaken  ? 
Asks  the  midnight's  stately  queen. 

Lo,  the  appointed  midnight !  the  present  hour 
is  fated ! 
It  is  Endymion's  planet  that  rises  on  the 
air; 
How  long,  how  tenderly  his  goddess  love  has 
waited, 
Waited  with  a  love  too  mighty  for  despair  ! 
Soon  he  will  awaken. 

Soft  amid  the  pines  is  a  sound  as  if  of  singing, 
Tones  that  seem  the  lute's  from  the  breath- 
ing flowers  depart ; 
Not  a  wind  that  wanders  o'er  Mount  Latmos 
but  is  bringing 
Music    that    is    murmur' d   from   Nature's 
inmost  heart. 

Soon  he  will  awaken 
To  his  and  midnight's  queen  ! 

Lovely  is   the   green  earth, — she  knows  the 
hour  is  holy ; 
Starry   are   the   heavens,   lit   with  eternal 
joy; 
Light  like  their  own  is  dawning  sweet  and 
slowly 
O'er  the  fair  and  sculptured  forehead '  of 
that  yet  dreaming  boy. 

Soon  he  will  awaken  ! 

Eed  as  the    red   rose  towards  the  morning 
turning, 
Warms   the   youth's   lip   to  the  watcher's 
near  his  own ; 
While  the  dark  eyes  open,  bright,  intense,  and 
burning 
With   a  life  more  glorious  than,  ere  they 
closed,  was  known. 

Yes,  he  has  awaken'd 
For  the  midnight's  happy  queen ! 

What  is  this  old  history,  but  a  lesson  given. 
How  true  love  still  conquers  by  the  deep 
strength  of  truth — 
How  all  the  impulses,  whose  native  home  is 
heaven. 
Sanctify  the  visions  of  hope,  and  faith,  and 
youth  ? 

'Tis  for  such  they  waken  ! 


When  every  worldly  thought   is  utterly   for- 
saken. 
Comes  the  starry  midnight,  felt  by  |^iife's 
gifted  few ; 
Then  will    the    spirit  from  its  earthly  sleep 
awaken 
To   a  being   more  intense,  more  spiritual, 
and  true. 

So  doth  the  soul  awaken, 
Like  that  youth  to  night's  fair  queen  ! 

L.  E.  Lomdon.—Bom  1802,  Died  1839. 


1466.— HANNIBAL'S  OATH. 

And  the  night  was  dark  and  calm. 
There  was  not  a  breath  of  air ; 

The  leaves  of  the  grove  were  still. 

As  the  presence  of  death  was  there ; — 

Only  a  moaning  sound 

Came  from  the  distant  sea ; 
It  was  as  if,  like  life, 

It  had  no  tranquillity. 

A  warrior  and  a  child 

Pass'd  through  the  sacred  wood, 
Which,  like  a  mystery. 

Around  the  temple  stood. 

The  warrior's  brow  was  worn 

With  the  weight  of  casque  and  plume. 
And  sun-burnt  was  his  cheek, 

And  his  eye  and  brow  were  gloom. 

The  child  was  young  and  fair. 
But  the  forehead  large  and  high, 

And  the  dark  eyes'  flashing  light 
Seem'd  to  feel  their  destiny. 

They  enter'd  in  the  temple. 

And  stood  before  the  shrine ; 
It  stream'd  with  the  victim's  blood, 

With  incense  and  with  wine. 

The  ground  rock'd  beneath  their  feet. 

The  thunder  shook  the  dome ; 
But  the  boy  stood  firm,  and  swore 

Eternal  hate  to  Eome. 

There's  a  page  in  history 

O'er  which  tears  of  blood  were  wept, 
And  that  page  is  the  record 

How  that  oath  of  hate  was  kept. 

L.  E.  Landon.— Born  1802,  Died  1839. 


1467.— THE  GEASP  OF  THE  DEAD. 

'Twas  in  the  battle-field,  and  the  cold  pale 
moon 
Look'd  down  on  the  dead  and  dying ; 
And  the  wind  pass'd  o'er  with  a  dirge  and  a 
wail, 
Where  the  young  and  brave  were  lying. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


LAST  VEESES  OF  L.  E.  L. 


[L.  E.  Landon. 


With  his  father's  sword  in  his  red  right  hand, 
And  the  hostile  dead  around  him, 

Lay  a  youthful  chief:  but  his  bed  ^as  the 
ground, 
And  the  grave's  icy  sleep  had  bound  him. 

A  reckless  rover,  'mid  death  and  doom, 
Pass'd  a  soldier,  his  plunder  seeking. 

Careless  he  stept,  where  friend  and  foe 
Lay  aUke  in  their  life-blood  reeking. 

Drawn  by  the  shine  of  the  warrior's  sword. 

The  soldier  paused  beside  it : 
He  wrench' d  the  hand  with  a  giant's  strength, 

But  the  grasp  of  the  dead  defied  it. 

He  loosed  his  hold,  and  his  English  heart 
Took  part  with  the  dead  before  him  ; 

And  he  honour' d  the  brave  who  died  sword  in 
hand. 
As  with  soften'd  brow  he  leant  o'er  him. 

"  A  soldier's  death  thou  hast  boldly  died, 

A  soldier's  grave  won  by  it : 
Before  I  would  take  that  sword  from  thine 
hand. 

My  own  life's  blood  should  dye  it. 

Thou  shalt  not  be  left  for  the  carrion  crow, 
Or  the  wolf  to  batten  o'er  thee  ; 

Or  the  coward  insult  the  gallant  dead. 
Who  m  life  hath  trembled  before  thee." 

Then  dug  he  a  grave  in  the  crimson  earth, 
Where  his  warrior  foe  was  sleeping ; 

And  he  laid  him  there  in  honour  and  rest, 
With  his  sword  in  his  own  brave  keeping ! 

L.  E.  Landon.— Born  1802,  Died  1839. 


1468.— THE  TROUBADOUE. 

He  raised  the  golden  cup  from  the  board, 
It  sparkled  with  purple  wealth, 

He  kiss'd  the  brim  her  lip  had  prest, 
And  drank  to  his  ladye's  health. 

Ladye,  to-night  I  pledge  thy  name. 
To-morrow  thou  shalt  pledge  mine ; 

Ever  the  smile  of  beauty  should  light 
The  victor's  blood-red  wine. 

There  are  some  flowers  of  brightest  bloom 

Amid  thy  beautiful  hair. 
Give  me  those  roses,  they  shall  be 

The  favour  I  will  wear. 

For  ere  their  colour  is  wholly  gone. 
Or  the  breath  of  their  sweetness  fled, 

They  shall  be  placed  in  thy  curls  again, 
But  dyed  of  a  deeper  red. 

The  warrior  rode  forth  in  the  morning  light. 
And  beside  his  snow-white  plume 

Were  the  roses  wet  with  the  sparkling  dew. 
Like  pearls  on  their  crimson  bloom. 


The  maiden  stood  on  her  highest  tower, 

And  watch'd  her  knight  depart ; 
She  dash'd  her  tear  aside,  but  her  hand 

Might  not  still  her  beating  heart. 

AU  day  she  watch'd  the  distant  clouds 

Float  on  the  distant  air, 
A  crucifix  upon  her  neck. 

And  on  her  lips  a  prayer. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  twilight  came 
With  her  banner  of  pearlin  grey. 

And  then  afar  she  saw  a  band 
Wind  down  the  vale  their  way. 

They  came  like  victors,  for  high  o'er  their 
ranks 

Were  their  crimson  colours  borne , 
And  a  stranger  pennon  droop'd  beneath, 

But  that  was  bow'd  and  torn. 

But  she  saw  no  white  steed  first  in  the  ranks. 

No  rider  that  spurr'd  before ; 
But  the  evening  shadows  were  closing  fast, 

And  she  could  see  no  more. 

She  turn'd  from  her  watch  on  the  lonely  tower 

In  haste  to  reach  the  hall, 
And  as  she  sprang  down  the  winding  stair, 

She  heard  the  drawbridge  fall. 

A  hundred  harps  their  welcome  rung. 

Then  paused,  as  if  in  fear ; 
The  ladye  enter' d  the  hall,  and^saw 

Her  true  knight  stretch'd  on  his  bier. 

L.  E.  Landon.— Bom  1802,  Died  1839. 


1469.— LAST  VEESES  OF  L.  E.  L. 

A  star  has  left  the  kindling  sky— 

A  lovely  northern  Kght ; 
How  many  planets  are  on  high. 

But  that  has  left  the  night. 

I  miss  its  bright  familiar  face, 

It  was  a  friend  to  me  ; 
Associate  with  my  native  place. 

And  those  beyond  the  sea. 

It  rose  upon  our  English  sky, 

Shone  o'er  our  English  land, 
And  brought  back  many  a  loving  eye. 

And  many  a  gentle  hand. 

• 

It  seem'd  to  answer  to  my  thought. 

It  call'd  the  past  to  mind. 
And  with  its  welcome  presence  brought 

AU  I  had  left  behind. 

The  voyage  it  lights  no  longer  ends 

Soon  OQ  a  foreign  shore  ; 
How  can  I  but  recall  the  friends 

That  I  may  see  no  more  ? 


Joanna  Baillie  ] 


ADDEESS  TO  MISS  AGNES  BAILLIE.        [Seventh  Period.- 


Fresh  from  the  pain  it  was  to  part — 

How  could  I  bear  the  pain  ? 
Yet  strong  the  omen  in  my  heart 

That  says — ^We  meet  again. 

Meet  with  a  deeper,  dearer  love ; 

For  absence  shows  the  worth 
Of  an  from  which  we  then  remove, 

Friends,  home,  and  native  earth. 

Thou  l©vely  polar  star,  mine  eyes 

Still  turn'd  the  first  on  thee. 
Till  I  have  felt  a  sad  surprise. 

That  none  look'd  up  with  me. 

But  thou  hast  sunk  upon  the  wave. 
Thy  radiant  place  unknown  ; 

I  seem  to  stand  beside  a  grave. 
And  stand  by  it  alone. 

Farewell !  ah,  would  to  me  were  given 

A  power  upon  thy  light ! 
What  words  upon  our  English  heaven 

Thy  loving  rays  should  write  ! 

Kind  messages  of  love  and  hope     - 

Upon  thy  rays  should  be  ; 
Thy  shining  orbit  should  have  scope 

Scarcely  enough  for  me. 

Oh,  fancy  vain,  as  it  is  fond, 

And  little  needed  too  ; 
My  friends  !  I  need  not  look  beyond 

My  heart  to  look  for  you. 

L.  E.  Landon.—Born  1802,  Died  1839. 


1470.— ADDEESS  TO  MISS  AGNES 
BAILLIE  ON  HEE  BIETHDAY. 

Dear  Agnes,  gleam'd  with  joy  and  dash'd  with 

tears 
O'er  us  have  glided  almost  sixty  years 
Since   we   on  Both  well's  bonny   braes   were 

seen 
By  those  whose  eyes  long  closed  in  death  ha,VG 

been — 
Two  tiny  imps,  who  scarcely  stoop' d  to  gather 
The  slender  harebell  on  the  purple  heather ; 
No  taller  than  the  foxglove's  spiky  stem. 
That  dew  of  morning  studs  with  silvery  gem. 
Then  every  butterfly  that  cross'd  our  view 
With  joyful  shout  was  greeted  as  it  flew  ; 
And  moth,  and  lady-bird,  and  beetle  bright, 
In  sheeny  gold,  were  each  a  wonci'ous  sight. 
Then  as  we  paddled  barefoot,  side  by  side, 
AmoEg  the  sunny  shallows  of  the  Clyde, 
Minnows  or  spotted  parr  with  twinkling  fin. 
Swimming  in  mazy  rings  the  pool  within. 
A  thrill  of  gladness  through  our  bosoms  sent. 
Seen  in  the  power  of  early  wonderment. 

A  long  perspective  to  my  mind  appears. 
Looking  behind  me  to  that  line  of  years ; 


And  yet  through  every  stage  I  still  can  trace 
Thy  vision' d  form,  from  childhood's  morning 

grace 
To    woman's    early   bloom — changing,    how 

soon! 
To  the  expressive  glow  of  woman's  noon ; 
And  now  to  what  thou  art,  in  comely  age, 
Active  and  ardent.     Let  what  will  engage 
Thy  present  moment — whether  hopeful  seeds 
In  garden-plat  thou  sow,  or  noxious  weeds 
From  the  fair  flower  remove,  or  ancient  lore 
In  chronicle  or  legend  rare  explore, 
Or  on  the  parlour  hearth  with  kitten  play, 
Stroking  its  tabby  sides,  or  take  thy  way 
To  gain  with  hasty  steps  some  cottage  door. 
On  helpful  errand  to  the  neighbouring  poor — 
Active  and  ardent,  to  my  fancy's  eye 
Thou  still  art  young,  in  spite  of  time  gone  by. 
Though   oft   of    patience    brief    and   temper 


Well  may  it  please  me,  in  life's  later  scene. 
To  think  what  now  thou  art  and  long  to  me 
hast  been. 

'Twas  thou  who  woo'dst  me  first  to  look 
Upon  the  page  of  printed  book. 
That  thing  by  me  abhorr'd,  and  with  address 
Didst  win  me  from  my  thoughtless  idleness. 
When  all  too  old  become  with  bootless  haste 
In  fitful  sports  the  precious  time  to  waste. 
Thy  love  of  tale  and  story  was  the  stroke 
At  which  my  dormant  fancy  first  awoke, 
And  ghosts  and  witches  in  my  busy  brain 
Arose  in  sombre  show  a  motley  train. 
This  new-found  path  attempting,  proud  was  I 
Lurking  approval  on  thy  face  to  spy, 
Or  hear  thee  say,  as  grew  thy  roused  attention, 
'•'  What !    is  this  story  all  thine  own  inven- 
tion ?  " 

Then,  as  advancing  through  this  mortal  span. 

Our  intercourse  with  the  mix'd  world  began ; 
j   Thy  fairer  face  and  sprightlier  courtesy 
I    (A  truth  that  from  my  youthful  vanity 
I   Lay  not  conceal' d)  did  for  the  sisters  twain, 

Where'er  we  went,  the  greater  favour  gain  ; 

While,  but  'for   thee,  vex'd  with  its  tossing 
I  tide, 

j   I  from  the  busy  world  had  shrunk  aside. 
I   And  now,  in  later  years,  with  better  grace, 
!   Thou  help'st  me  still  to  hold  a  welcome  place 
j   With  those  whom  nearer  neighbourhood  have 
I  made 

The  friendly  cheerers  of  our  evening  shade. 

With  thee  my  humours,  whether  gi-ave  or 

gay, 
Or  gracious  or  untoward,  have  their  way. 
Silent  if  dull — oh,  precious  privilege  ! — 
I  sit  by  thee  ;  or  if,  cull'd  from  the  page 
Of   some   huge   ponderous   tome  which,    but 

thyself. 
None  e'er  had  taken  from  its  dusty  shelf, 
Thou  read'st  me  curious  passages  to  speed 
The  winter  night,  I  take  but  little  heed. 
And  thankless  say,  "  I  cannot  listen  now," 
'Tis  no  offence ;  albeit,  much  do  I  owe 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 


[Joanna  Baillie. 


To  these,  thy  nightly  offerings  of  affection, 
Drawn  from  thy  ready  talent  for  selection ; 
For  still  it  seem'd  in  thee  a  natural  gift 
The  letter'd  grain  from  letter'd  chaff  to  sift. 

By  daily  use  and  circumstance  endear' d, 
Things  are  of  value  now  that  once  appear' d 
Of  no  account,  and  without  notice  pass'd. 
Which  o'er  dull  life  a  simple  cheering  cast ; 
To  hear  thy  morning  steps  the  stair  descend- 
in?, 
Thy  voice  with  other  sounds  domestic  blend- 
ing; 
After  each  stated  nightly  absence,  met 
To  see  thee  by  the  morning  table  set, 
Pouring  from  smoky  spout  the  amber  stream 
Which  sends  from  saucer' d  cup  its  fragrant 

steam : 
To  see  thee  cheerly  on  the  threshold  stand. 
On  summer  morn,  with  trowel  in  thy  hand 
For  garden- work  prepared;  in  winter's  gloom 
From    thy   cold  noonday   walk   to   see   thee 

come, 
In  furry  garment  lapt,  with  spatter' d  feet, 
And  by  the  fire  resume  thy  wonted  seat ; 
Ay,  even  o'er  things  like  these  soothed  age  has 

thrown 
A  sober  charm  they  did  not  always  own — 
As  winter  hoarfrost  makes  minutest  spray 
Of  bush  or  hedgeweed  sparkle  to  the  day 
In  magnitude  and  beauty,  which,  bereaved 
Of  such  investment,  eye  had  ne'er  perceived. 

The  change  of  good  and  evil  to  abide, 
As   partners  link'd,  long   have  we,   side   by 

side. 
Our  earthly  journey  held ;  and  who  can  say 
How  near  the  end  of  our  united  way  ? 
By  nature's  course  not  distant ;  sad  and  'reft 
Will  she  remain — the  lonely  pilgrim  left. 
If  thou  art  taken  first,  who  can  to  me 
Like  sister,  friend,  and  home-companion  be  ? 
Or  who,  of  wonted  daily  kindness  shorn. 
Shall   feel   such  loss,    or   mourn   as   I   shall 

mourn? 
And  if  I  should  be  fated  first  to  leave 
This  earthly  house,  though  gentle  friends  may 

grieve, 
And  he  above  them  all,  so  truly  proved 
A  friend  and  brother,  long  and  justly  loved. 
There  is  no  living  wight,  of  woman  bom. 
Who  then  shall  mourn  for  me  as  thou  wilt 


Thou  ardent,  liberal  spirit !  quickly  feeling 
The  touch  of  sympathy,  and  kindly  dealing 
With  sorrow  or  distress,  for  ever  sharing 
The    unhoarded    mite,    nor    for    to-morrow 

caring — 
Accept,  dear  Agnes,  on  thy  natal  day. 
An  unadorn'd,  but  not  a  careless  lay. 
Nor  think  this  tribute  to  thy  virtues  paid 
From  tardy  love  proceeds,   though  long  de- 

lay'd. 
Words  of  affection,  howsoe'er  express'd, 
The  latest  spoken  still  are  deem'd  the  beste 


Few  arc   the  measured  rhymes  I   now   may 

write ; 
These  are,  perhaps,  the  last  I  shall  indite. 

Joanna  Baillie. — Born  1762,  Bied  1851. 


147 1. —THE  BLACK  COCK. 

Good-morrow  to  thy  sable  beak, 
And  glossy  plumage,  dark  and  sleek ; 
Thy  crimson  moon  and  azure  eye — 
Cock  of  the  heath,  so  wildly  shy ! 
I  see  thee  slowly  cowering  through 
That  wiry  web  of  silver  dew. 
That  twinkles  in  the  morning  air 
Like  casement  of  my  lady  fair. 

A  maid  there  is  in  yonder  tower, 
Who,  peeping  from  her  early  bower. 
Half  shows,  like  thee,  with  simple  wile, 
Her  braided  hair  and  morning  smile. 
The  rarest  things,  with  wayward  will, 
Beneath  the  covert  hide  them  still ; 
The  rarest  things,  to  light  of  day. 
Look  shortly  forth  and  break  away. 

One  fleeting  moment  of  delight 

I  warm'd  me  in  her  cheering  sight ; 

And  short,  I  ween,  the  time  will  be 

That  I  shall  parley  hold  with  thee. 

Through  Snowdon's  mist,  red  beams  the  day; 

The  climbing  herd-boy  chants  his  lay ; 

The  gnat-flies  dance  their  sunny  ring ; 

Thou  art  already  on  the  wing. 

Joanna  Baillie. — Bom  1762,  Bied  1851. 


1472.— THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 

All  white  hung  the  bushes  o'er  Elaw's  sweet 

stream, 
And   pale  from   its   banks    the    long   icicles 

gleam ; 
The  first  peep  of  morning  just  peers  through 

the  sky, 
And  here,  at  thy  door,  gentle  Mary,  am  I. 

With  the  dawn  of  the  year,  and  the  dawn  of 

the  light, 
The  one  that  best  loves  thee  stands  first  in  thy 

sight ; 
Then  welcomed,  dear  maid,  with  my  gift  let 

me  be, 
A  ribbon,  a  kiss,  and  a  blessing  for  thee  ! 

Last  year,  of  earth's  treasures  I  gave  thee  my 

part. 
The  new  year  before  it  I  gave  thee  my  heart ; 
And  now,  gentle  Mary,  I  greet  thee  again, 
When  only  this  hand  and  a  blessing  remain ! 

Though  time  should  run  on  with  his  sack  full 

of  care. 
And  wrinkle  thy  cheek,  maid,  and  whiten  thy 

hair, 

68 


Joanna  Baillie.] 


THE  KITTEN. 


[Seventh  Pekiod.— 


Yet  still  on  this  morn  shall  my  offering  be 
A  ribbon,  a  kiss,  and  a  blessing  for  thee  ! 

Joanna  Baillie. — Born  1762,  Died  1851. 


1473.— THE  KITTEN. 

Wanton  droll,  whose  harmless  play- 
Beguiles  the  rustic's  closing  day, 
When  drawn  the  evening  fire  about, 
Sit  aged  Crone  and  thoughtless  Lout, 
And  child  upon  his  three-foot  stool. 
Waiting  till  his  supper  cool ; 
And  maid,  whose  cheek  outblooms  the  rose. 
As  bright  the  blazing  fagot  glows, 
Who,  bending  to  the  friendly  light. 
Plies  her  task  with  busy  sleight ; 
Come,  show  thy  tricks  and  sportive  graces. 
Thus  circled  round  with  merry  faces. 

Backward  coil'd,  and  crouching  low. 
With  glaring  eyeballs  watch  thy  foe, 
The  housewife's  spindle  whirling  round. 
Or  thread,  or  straw,  that  on  the  ground 
Its  shadow  throws,  by  urchin  sly 
Held  out  to  lure  thy  roving  eye  ; 
Then,  onward  stealing,  fiercely  spring 
Upon  the  futile,  faithless  thing. 
Now,  wheeling  round,  with  bootless  skill, 
Thy  bo-peep  tail  provokes  thee  still. 
As  oft  beyond  thy  curving  side 
Its  jetty  tip  is  seen  to  glide  ; 
Till,  from  thy  centre  starting  fair, 
Thou  sidelong  rear'st,  with  rump  in  air, 
Erected  stiff,  and  gait  awry, 
Like  madam  in  her  tantrums  high : 
Though  ne'er  a  madam  of  them  all, 
Whose  silken  kirtle  sweeps  the  hall, 
More  varied  trick  and  whim  displays. 
To  catch  the  admiring  stranger's  gaze. 
«  #  #  # 

The  featest  tumbler,  stage-bedight, 
To  thee  is  but  a  clumsy  wight, 
Who  every  limb  and  sinew  strains 
To  do  what  costs  thee  little  pains ; 
For  which,  I  trow,  the  gaping  crowd 
Requites  him  oft  with  plaudits  loud. 
But,  stopp'd  the  while  thy  wanton  play, 
Applauses,  too,  thy  feats  repay : 
For  then  beneath  some  urchin's  hand. 
With  modest  pride  thou  tak'st  thy  stand, 
Wliile  many  a  stroke  of  fondness  glides 
Along  thy  back  and  tabby  sides. 
Dilated  swells  thy  glossy  fur, 
And  loudly  sings  thy  busy  pur. 
As,  timing  well  the  equal  sound, 
Thy  clutching  feet  bepat  the  ground, 
And  all  their  harmless  claws  disclose, 
Like  prickles  of  aji  early  rose  ; 
While  softly  from  thy  whisker' d  cheek 
Thy  half-closed  eyes  peer  mild  and  meek. 

But  not  alone  by  cottage-fire 
Do  rustics  rude  thy  feats  admire ; 
The  learned  sage,  whose  thoughts  explore 
The  widest  range  of  human  lore. 


Or,  with  unfetter' d  fancy,  fly 
Through  airy  heights  of  poesy. 
Pausing,  smiles  with  alter' d  air 
To  see  thee  climb  his  elbow-chair, 
Or,  struggling  on  the  mat  below, 
Hold  warfare  with  his  slipper' d  toe. 
The  widow' d  dame,  or  lonely  maid, 
Who  in  the  stiU  but  cheerless  shade 
Of  home  unsocial  spends  her  age. 
And  rarely  turns  a  letter' d  page  ; 
Upon  her  hearth  for  thee  lets  fall 
The  rounded  cork,  or  paper-ball. 
Nor  chides  thee  on  thy  wicked  watch 
The  ends  of  ravell'd  skein  to  catch. 
But  lets  thee  have  thy  wayward  will, 
Perplexing  oft  her  sobei  skill. 
Even  he,  whose  mind  of  gloomy  bent, 
In  lonely  tower  or  prison  pent. 
Reviews  the  coil  of  former  days. 
And  loathes  the  world  and  all  its  ways  ; 
What  time  the  lamp's  unsteady  gleam 
Doth  rouse  him  from  his  moody  dream, 
Feels,  as  thou  gambol' st  round  his  seat. 
His  heart  with  pride  less  fiercely  beat, 
And  smiles,  a  link  in  thee  to  find 
That  joins  him  still  to  living  kind. 

Whence  hast  thou,  then,  thou  witless  Puss, 
The  magic  power  to  charm  us  thus  ? 
Is  it  that  in  thy  glaring  eye 
And  rapid  movements  we  descry, 
While  we  at  ease,  secure  from  ill, 
The  chimney-corner  snugly  fill, 
A  lion,  darting  on  the  prey, 
A  tiger,  at  his  ruthless  play  ? 
Or  is  it,  that  in  thee  we  trace, 
With  all  thy  varied  wanton  grace, 
An  emblem  view'd  with  kindred  eye, 
Of  tricksy,  restless  infancy  ? 
Ah  !  many  a  lightly  sportive  child, 
Who  hath,  like  thee,  our  wits  beguiled, 
To  dull  and  sober  manhood  grown. 
With  strange  recoil  our  hearts  disown. 
Even  so,  poor  Kit !  must  thou  endure, 
When  thou  becomest  a  cat  demure, 
Full  many  a  cuff  and  angry  word, 
Chid  roughly  from  the  tempting  board. 
And  yet,  for  that  thou  hast,  I  ween, 
So  oft  our  favour' d  playmate  been. 
Soft  be  the  change  which  thou  shalt  prove. 
When  time  hath  spoil' d  thee  of  our  love ; 
Still  be  thou  deem'd,  by  housewife  fat, 
A  comely,  careful,  mousing  cat, 
"Whose  dish  is,  for  the  public  good, 
Replenish' d  oft  with  savoury  food. 

Nor,  when  thy  span  of  life  is  past, 
Be  thou  to  pond  or  dunghill  cast. 
But  gently  borne  on  good  man's  spade. 
Beneath  the  decent  sod  be  laid, 
And  children  show,  with  glistening  eyes. 
The  place  where  poor  old  Pussy  lies. 

Joanna  Baillie. — Born  1762,  Died  1861. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  "  SONGS  OF  ISEAEL.' 


[William  Knox- 


1474. 


-OPENING  OF  THE 
ZION." 


SONGS  OF 


Harp  of  Zion,  pure  and  holy. 

Pride  of  Judah's  eastern  land, 
May  a  child  of  guilt  and  folly 

Strike  thee  with  a  feeble  hand  ? 
May  I  to  my  bosom  take  thee, 

Trembling  from  the  prophet's  touch, 
And  with  throbbing  heajrt  awake  thee 

To  the  strains  I  love  so  much  ? 

I  have  loved  thy  thrilling  numbers, 

Since  the  dawn  of  childhood's  day; 
Since  a  mother  soothed  my  slumbers 

With  the  cadence  of  thy  lay ; 
Since  a  little  blooming  sister 

Clung  with  transport  round  my  knee, 
And  my  glowing  spirit  bless' d  her 

With  a  blessing  caught  from  thee  ! 

Mother — sister — both  are  sleeping 

Where  no  heaving  hearts  respire. 
Whilst  the  eve  of  age  is  creeping 

Bound  the  wdow'd  spouse  and  sire. 
He  and  his,  amid  their  sorrow. 

Find  enjoyment  in  thy  strain  : 
Harp  of  Zion,  let  me  borrow 

Comfort  from  thy  chords  again  ! 

Willimi  Knox.— Born  1789,  Died  1825. 


1475.— DIRGE  OF  RACHEL. 

And  Rachel  lies  in  Ephrath's  land, 
Beneath  her  lonelj'  oak  of  weeping ; 

With  mouldering  heart  and  -withering  hand, 
The  sleep  of  death  for  ever  sleeping. 

The  spring  comes  smiling  down  the  vale, 
The  lilies  and  the  roses  bringing ; 

But  Rachel  never  more  shall  hail 

The  flowers  that  in  the  world  are  springing. 

The  summer  gives  his  radiant  day. 

And  Jewish  dames  the  dance  are  treading ; 

But  Rachel  on  her  couch  of  clay, 
Sleeps  all  unheeded  and  unheeding. 

The  autumn's  ripening  sunbeam  shines. 
And  reapers  to  the  field  is  calling ; 

But  Rachel's  voice  no  longer  joins 
The  choral  song  at  twilight's  falling. 

The  winter  sends  his  drenching  shower, 
And  sweeps  liis  howling  blast  around  her ; 

But  eartlily  storms  possess  no  power 

To  break  the  slumber  that  hath  bound  her. 


William  Ki 


-Born  1789,  Died  1825. 


1476.--A  VIRTUOUS  WOMAN. 

Thou  asketh  what  hath  changed  my  heart, 
And  where  hath  fled  my  youthful  folly  ? 


I  tell  thee,  Tamar's  virtuous  art 
Hath  made  my  spirit  holy. 

Her  eye — as  soft  and  blue  as  even, 

When  day  and  night  are  calmly  meeting — 

Beams  on  my  heart  like  light  from  heavenj 
And  purifies  its  beating. 

The  accents  fall  from  Tamar's  lip 

Like  dewdrops  from  the  rose-leaf  dripping, 
When  honey-bees  all  crowd  to  sip, 

And  cannot  cease  their  sipping. 

The  shadowy  blush  that  tints  her  cheek, 

For  ever  coming — ever  going, 
May  well  the  spotless  fount  bespeak 

That  sets  the  stream  aflowing. 

Her  song  comes  o'er  my  thrilling  breast 
Even  like  the  harp-string's  holiest  measures. 

When  dreams  the  soul  of  lands  of  rest 
And  everlasting  pleasures. 

Then  ask  not  what  hath  changed  my  heart, 
Or  where  hath  fled  my  youlMul  folly — 

I  tell  thee,  Tamar's  virtuous  art 
Hath  made  my  spirit  holy. 

William  Knox.— Born  1789,  Died  1825. 


I477._»C0NCLUSI0N  OF  THE 
OF  ISRAEL." 


SONGS 


My  song  hath  closed,  the  holy  dream 
That  raised  my  thoughts  o'er  all  below, 

Hath  faded  like  the  lunar  beam, 
And  left  me  'mid  a  night  of  woe — 

To  look  and  long,  and  sigh  in  vain 

For  friends  I  ne'er  shall  meet  again. 

And  yet  the  earth  is  green  and  gay ; 

And  yet  the  skies  are  pure  and  bright ; 
But,  'mid  each  gleam  of  pleasure  gay, 

Some  cloud  of  sorrow  dims  my  sight ; 
For  weak  is  now  the  tenderest  tongue 
That  might  my  simple  songs  have  sung. 

And  like  Gilead's  drops  of  balm, 

They  for  a  moment  soothed  my  breast ; 

But  earth  hath  not  a  power  to  calm 
My  spirit  in  forgetful  rest. 

Until  I  lay  me  side  by  side 

With  those  that  loved  me,  and  have  died. 

They  died — and  this  a  world  of  woe, 
Of  anxious  doubt  and  chilling  fear ; 

I  wander  onward  to  the  tomb, 

With  scarce  a  hope  to  linger  here  : 

But  with  a  prospect  to  rejoin 

The  friends  beloved,  that  once  were  mine. 

William  Knox.— Born  1789,  Died  1825 


68  = 


THOMAS   PrINQLE.I 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


1478.— AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  turn  to  the  past ; 
And  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears, 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years  ; 
And  the  shadows  of  things  that  have  long 

since  fled, 
Flit  over  the  brain    like   the   ghosts  of   the 

dead — 
Bright    visions    of    glory  that    vanish' d    too 

soon — 
Day-dreams    that    departed    ere    manhood's 

noon — 
Attachments  by  fate  or  by  falsehood  reft — 
Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left — 
And  my  Native  Land  !  whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  my  heart  like  electric  flame  ; 
The  home  of  my  childhood — the  haunts  of  my 

prime ; 
All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous 

time. 
When  the  feelings  were  young  and  the  world 

was  new, 
Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Paradise  opening  to 

view  ! 
All — all  now  forsaken,  forgotten,  or  gone ; 
And  I,  a  lone  exile,  remember' d  of  none, 
My   high    aims    abandon' d,   and    good    acts 

undone — 
Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun  ; 
With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger 

may  scan, 
I  fly  to  the  Desert  afar  from  man. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  ; 
When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life. 
With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and 

strife  ; 
The  proud  man's  frown,  and  the  base  man's 

fear; 
And  the  scorner's  laugh,  and  the  sufferer's 

tear; 
And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and 

foUy, 
Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy ; 
When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are 

high. 
And   my   soul   is   sick   with   the   bondman's 

sigh — 
Oh,   then  !    there  is  freedom,  and   joy,   and 

pride. 
Afar  in  the  Desert  alone  to  ride  ! 
There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the   champing 

steed, 
And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed. 
With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand 
(The  only  law  of  the  Desert  land) ; 
But  'tis  not  the  innocent  to  destroy. 
For  I  hate  the  huntsman's  savage  joy. 

Afar  in  the  Desei-t  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side ; 


Away — away  from  the  dwellings  of  men. 

By  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  and   the  buffalo's 

glen  ; 
By  valleys  remote,  where  the  oribi  plays ; 
i    Where  the  gnoo,  the  gazelle,  and  the  harto- 
i  beest  graze  ; 

i  And  the  gemsbok  and  eland  unkunted  recline 
i  'By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o'ergrown  with 
j  wild  vine  ; 

And    the   elephant^  browses   at  peace  in  his 

wood  ; 
And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the 

flood; 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  Vley,  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking 
his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride. 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 

O'er  the  brown   Karroo  where  the  bleating 
cry 

Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively ; 

Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 

In   fields    seldom   freshen' d    by  moisture   or 
rain  ; 

And  the  stately  koodoo  exultingly  bound?, 

Undisturb'd    by    the    bay  of     the    hunter's 
hounds ; 

And   the   timorous    quagha's    wild  whistling 
neigh 

Is  heard  by  the  brak  fountain  far  away ; 

And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 

Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste ; 

And  the  vulture  in  circles  wheels  high  over- 
head, 

Greedy  to  scent  and  to  gorge  on  the  dead ; 

And     the    grisly    wolf,    and     the    shrieking 
jackal, 

Howl  for  their  prey  at  the  evening  fall ; 
i    And  the  fiend-like  laugh  of  hyenas  grim, 

Fearfully  startles  the  twilight  dim. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 

Away — away  in  the  wilderness  vast, 

Where   the    white    man's    foot    hath   never 

pass'd, 
And  the  quiver' d  Koranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  cross' d  with  his  roving  clan  : 
A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 
Which  man  hath  abandon' d  from  famine  and 

fear; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone. 
And  the  bat  flitting  forth  from  his  old  hollov/ 

stone ; 
"Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root,. 
Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot : 
And  the  bitter  melon,  for  food  and  drink. 
Is   the   pilgrim's   fare,    by   the    Salt   Lake's 

brink  : 
A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osier'd  sides  ; 
Nor  reedy  pool,  nor  mossy  fountain. 
Nor  shady  tree,  nor  cloud-capp'd  mountain, 
Are  found — to  refresh  the  aching  eye  : 
But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky. 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


THE  STAREY  HEAVENS. 


[ROBT.  MONTGOMERT. 


And  the  black  horizon  round  and  round, 
Without  a  living-  sight  or  sound, 
Tell  to  the  heart,  in  its  pensive  mood, 
That  this  is — Nature's  Solitude. 

And  here — while  the  night-winds  round   me 

sigh, 
And   the  stars  burn  bright   in  the  midnight 

sky, 

As  I  sit  apart  by  the  cavern' d  stone, 
j       Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave  alone. 

And  feel  as  a  moth  in  the  Mighty  Hand 
That    spread   the   heavens  and   heaved   the 

land — 
A   "  still   small  voice "   comes  through  the 

wild 
(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child), 
"Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear — 
Saying  "  Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near  !  " 

Thomas  Pringlc—Born  1788,  Died  1834. 


1479.— THE  LION  AND  GIRAFFE. 

Wouldst  thou  view  the  lion's  den  ? 

Search  afar  from  haunts  of  men — 

Where  the  reed-encircled  rill 

Oozes  from  the  rocky  hill, 

By  its  verdure  far  descried 

'Mid  the  desert  brown  and  wide. 

Close  beside  the  sedgy  brim, 

Couchant,  lurks  the  lion  grim ; 

Watching  till  the  close  of  day 

Brings  the  death-devoted  prey. 

Heedless  at  the  ambush' d  brink, 

The  tall  giraffe  stoops  down  to  drink  ; 

Upon  him  straight,  the  savage  springs 

With  cruel  joy.     The  desert  rings 

With  clanging  sound  of  desperate  strife — 

The  prey  is  strong,' and  he  strives  for  life. 

Plunging  off  with  frantic  bound 

To  shake  the  tyrant  to  the  ground. 

He  shrieks — he  rushes  through  the  waste, 

With  glaring  eye  and  headlong  haste. 

In  vain  ! — the  spoiler  on  his  prize 

Rides  proudly — tearing  as  he  flies. 

For  life — the  victim's  utmost  speed 

Is  muster' d  in  this  hour  of  need. 

For  life — for  life — his  giant  might 

He  strains,  and  pours  his  soul  in  flight ; 

And  mad  with  terror,  thirst,  and  pain. 

Spurns  with  wild  hoof  the  thundering  plain. 

"Tis  vain  ;  the  thirsty  sands  are  drinking 

His  streaming  blood — his  strength  is  sinking  ; 

The  victor's  fangs  are  in  his  veins — 

His  flanks  are  streak' d  with  sanguine  stains — 

His  panting  breast  in  foam  and  gore 

Is  bathed — he  reels — his  race  is  o'er. 

He  falls — and,  with  convulsive  throe, 

Resigns  his  throat  to  the  ravening  foe  ! 

— And  lo  !  ere  quivering  life  is  fled, 

The  vultures,  wheeling  over  head. 

Swoop  down,  to  watch  in  gaunt  array. 

Till  the  gorged  tyi-ant  quits  his  prey. 

Thomas  Pringle. — Born  1788,  Died  1834. 


1480.— THE  EMIGRANT'S  FAREWELL. 

Our  native  land — our  native  vale — 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviotdale, 

And  Cheviot  mountains  blue. 

Farewell,  ye  hills  of  glorious  deeds, 
And  streams  renown' d  in  song — 

Farewell,  ye  braes  and  blossom' d  meads, 
Our  hearts  have  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  the  blithesome  broomy  knowes. 
Where  thyme  and  harebells  grow — 

Farewell,  the  hoary,  haunted  howes, 
O'erhung  vnth  birk  and  sloe. 

The  mossy  cave  and  mouldering  tower 

That  skirt  our  native  dell — 
The  martyr's  grave,  and  lover's  bower, 

We  bid  a  sad  farewell ! 

Home  of  our  love  !  our  father's  home  ! 

Land  of  the  brave  and  free  ! 
The  sail  is  flapping  on  the  foam 

That  bears  us  far  from  thee  ! 

We  seek  a  wild  and  distant  shore, 

Beyond  the  western  main — 
We  leave  thee  to  return  no  more, 

Nor  view  thy  cliffs  again  ! 

Our  native  land — our  native  vale — 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Farewell  to  bonny  Teviotdale, 

And  Scotland's  mountains  blue ! 

Thomas  rringle.—Boni  1788,  Died  1834. 


148 1. —THE  STARRY  HEAVENS. 

Ye  quenchless  stars  !  so  eloquently  bright. 
Untroubled  sentries  of  the  shadowy  night, 
While  half  the   world    is  lapp'd    in  downy 

dreams. 
And  round  the  lattice  creep  your  midnight 

beams. 
How  sweet  to  gaze»upon  your  placid  eyes, 
I   In  lambent  beauty  looking  from  the  skies  ! 
I   And  when,  oblivious  of  the  world,  we  stray 
At  dead  of  night  along  some  noiseless  way, 
How   the    heart    mingles  jvith   the    moonlit 
j  hour, 

,  As  if  the  starry  heavens  suffused  a  power  ! 
Full  in  her  dreamy  light,  the  moon  presides. 
Shrined  in  a  halo,  mellowing  as  she  rides ; 
And  far  around,  the  forest  and  the  stream' 
Bathe  in  the  beauty  of  her  emerald  beam ; 
The   lull'd  winds,   too,  are  sleeping  in  their 

caves. 
No  stormy  murmurs  roll  upon  the  waves ; 
Nature  is  hush'd,  as  if  her  works  adored,' 
Still'd  by  the  presence  of  her  living  Lord  ! 
And  now,  while  through  the  ocean-mantling 

haze 
A  dizzy  chain  of  yellow  lustre  plays, 


BOBT.  MONTaaMERY.] 


PICTTJEE  OF  WAE. 


[Seventh  Period.' 


And  moonlight    loveliness    hath    veil'd    the 

land, 
Go,   strang-er,  muse  thou  by  the  wave-worn 

strand  : 
Centuries  have  glided  o'er  the  balanced  earth, 
Myriads  have  bless'd,    and    myriads   cursed 

their  birth  ; 
Still,  yon  sky-beacons  keep  a  dimless  glare, 
Unsullied    as    the    God   who   throned   them 

there ! 
Though     swelling     earthquakes     heave     the 

astounded  world. 
And  king  and  kingdom  from  their  pride  are 

hurl'd. 
Sublimely  calm,  they  run  their  bright  career, 
Unheedful  of  the  storms  and  changes  here. 
We  want  no  hymn  to  hear,  or  pomp  to  see, 
For  all  around  is  deep  divinity  ! 

Robert  Montgomery. — Born  1807,  Died  1855. 


1482.— PICTUEE  OF  WAE. 

Spirit  of  light  and  life  !  when  battle  rears 
Her  fiery  broAV  and  her  terrific  spears  ; 
When    red-mouth' d    cannon    to   the    clouds 

uproar. 
And   gasping  thousands    make  their  beds  in 

gore, 
While  on  the  billowy  bosom  of  the  air 
Eoll  the  dead  notes  of  anguish  and  despair  ! 
Unseen,    thou    walk'st    upon    the    smoking 

plain. 
And  hear'st  each  groan  that  gurgles  from  the 

slain  ! 

List !  war-peals  thunder  on  the  battle-field  ; 
And  many  a  hand  grasps  firm  the  glittering 

shield. 
As   on,  with  helm  and   plume,  the  warriors 

come. 
And  the  glad  hills  repeat  their  stormy  drum  ! 
And  now  are  seen  the  youthful  and  the  gray, 
With  bosoms  firing  to  partake  the  fray ; 
The   first,  with   hearts   that  consecrate   the 

deed, 
All  eager  rush  to  vanquish  or  to  bleed  ! 
Like  young  waves  racing  in  the  morning  sun, 
That  rear  and  leap  with  reckless  fury  on  ! 

But  mark  yon  war-worn  man,  who  looks  on 

high. 
With   thought   and    valour   mirror' d   in   his 

eye  ! 
Not  all  the  gory  revels  of  the  day 
Can  fright  the  vision  of  his  home  away ; 
The  home  of  love,  and  its  associate  smiles. 
His  wife's  endearment,  and  his  baby's  \viles  : 
Fights  he  less  brave  through  recollected  bliss. 
With  step  retreating,  or  with  sword  remiss  ? 
Ah    no  !     remember' d   home's  the  warrior's 

charm, 
Speed  to  his  sword,  and  vigour  to  his  arm ; 


For  this  he  supplicates  the  god  afar, 

Fronts  the  steel'd  foe,  and   minglea  in  the 


The  cannon 's  hush'd  ! — nor  drum,  nor  clarion 

sound  : 
Helmet  and  hauberk  gleam  upon  the  ground  ; 
Horseman   and   horse   lie  weltering  in  their 

gore ; 
Patriots  are  dead,  and  heroes  dare  no  more  ; 
While  solemnly  the  moonhght   shrouds  the 

plain, 
And  lights  the  lurid  features  of  the  slain  ! 

And  see  !   on  this  rent  mound,  where  daisies 

sprung, 
A  battle-steed  beneath  his  rider  flung ; 
Oh !  never  more  he'll  rear  with  fierce  delight, 
Eoll  his  red  eyes,  and  rally  for  the  fight ! 
Pale  on  his  bleeding  breast  the  warrior  lies, 
While  from  his  ruffled  lids  the  white  swell' d 

eyes 
Ghastly  and  grimly  stare  upon  the  skies  ! 

Afar,  with  bosom  bared  unto  the  breeze. 
White  lips,  and  glaring  eyes,  and  shivering 

knees, 
A  widow  o'er  her  martyr'd  soldier  moans. 
Loading  the  night-wind  with  delirious  groans  ! 
Her  blue-eyed  babe,  unconscious  orphan  he  I 
So  sweetly  prattling  in  his  cherub  glee, 
Leers  on  his  lifeless  sire  with  infant  wile, 
And   plays   and   plucks   him   for  a   parent's 

smile ! 

But  who,  upon  the  battle-wasted  plain, 
Shall  count  the  faint,  the  gasping,  and  the 

slain  ? 
Angel  of  Mercy  !  ere  the  blood-fount  chill. 
And  the  brave  heart  be  spiritless  and  stiU, 
Amid  the  havoc  thou  art  hovering  nigh. 
To   calm  each  groan,   and   close  each  dying 

eye, 
And  waft  the  spirit  to  that  halcyon  shore, 
Where  war's  loud  thunders  lash  the  winds  no 


Rolert  Montgomery. — Born  1807,  Died  1855, 


1483.— LOST  FEELINGS. 

Oh  !  weep  not  that  our  beauty  wears 
Beneath  the  wings  of  Time  ; 

That  age  o'erclouds  the  brow  with  cares 
That  once  was  raised  sublime. 

Oh  !  weep  not  that  the  beamless  eye 
No  dumb  delight  can  speak ; 

And  fresh  and  fair  no  longer  Ke 
Joy- tints  upon  the  cheek. 

No  !  weep  not  that  the  rvun-trace 

Of  wasting  time  is  seen, 
Around  the  form  and  in  the  face 

Where  beauty's  bloom  has  been. 


From  1780  to  1866.]                                        SONG.                                            [I'^omas  Hood. 

But  mourn  the  inward  wreck  we  feel 

Where  are  ye,  early-purling  streams, 

As  hoary  years  depart, 

Whose  waves  reflect  the  morning  beams 

And  Time's  effacing  fingers  steal 

And  colours  of  the  skies  ? 

Young  feelings  from  the  heart ! 

My  rills  are  only  puddle-drains 

Robert  Montgomery. — Bom  1807,  Died  1855. 

From  shambles,  or  reflect  the  stains 
Of  calimanco-dyes !                  —     _ 

Sweet  are  the  little  brooks  that  run 

O'er  pebbles  glancing  ia  the  sun, 

Singing  in  soothing  tones  : 

14S4.— TOWN  AND  COUNTEY. 

Not  thus  the  city  streamlets  flow  ; 

They  make  no  music  as  they  go, 

Oh  !  well  may  poets  ma,ke  a  fuss 

Though  never  "  off  the  stones." 

In  summer  time,  and  sigh  "  0  rus !  " 

1                  Of  London  pleasures  sick  : 

Where  are  ye,  pastoral  pretty  sheep. 

{          My  heart  is  all  at  pant  to  rest 

That  wont  to  bleat,  and  frisk,  and  leap 

i          In  greenwood  shades — my  eyes  detest 

Beside  your  woolly  dams  ? 

This  endless  meal  of  brick  ! 

Alas  !  instead  of  harmless  crooks, 

My  Corydons  use  iron  hooks, 

"What  joy  have  I  in  June's  return  ? 

And  skin — not  shear — the  lambs. 

My  feet  are  parch'd,  my  eyeballs  burn, 

I  scent  no  flowery  gust ; 

The  pipe  whereon,  in  olden  day. 

But  faint  the  flagging  zephyr  springs, 

The  Arcadian  herdsman  used  to  play 

With  diy  Macadam  on  its  wings, 

Sweetly — here  soundeth  not ; 

And  turns  me  "  dust  to  dust." 

But  merely  breathes  unwholesome  fumes ; 

Meanwhile  the  city  boor  consumes 

My  sun  his  daily  course  renews 

The  rank  weed — *'  piping  hot." 

Due  east,  but  with  no  eastern  dews ; 

The  path  is  dry  and  hot ! 

All  rural  things  are  vilely  mock'd, 

His  setting  shows  more  tamely  still, 

On  every  hand  the  sense  is  shock' d 

He  sinks  behind  no  purple  hill, 

With  objects  hard  to  bear : 

But  down  a  chimney-pot ! 

Shades— -vernal  shades ! — where  wine  is  sold ! 

And  for  a  turfy  bank,  behold 

Oh  !  but  to  hear  the  milkmaid  blithe ; 

An  Ingram's  rustic  chair ! 

Or  early  mower  whet  his  scythe 

The  dewy  meads  among  ! 

Where  are  ye,  London  meads  and  bowers, 

My  grass  is  of  that  sort — alas ! 

And  gardens  redolent  of  flowers 

•          That  makes  no  hay — called  sparrow-grass 

Wherein  the  zephyr  wons  ? 

By  folks  of  vulgar  tongue ! 

Alas  !  Moor  Fields  are  fields  no  more : 

See  Hatton's  Garden  brick'd  all  o'er ; 

Oh !  but  to  smell  the  woodbine  sweet  I 

And  that  bare  wood — St.  John's. 

I  think  of  cowslip  cups — but  meet 

With  very  vile  rebuffs  ! 

No  pastoral  scenes  procure  me  peace ; 

For  meadow-buds  I  get  a  whiff 
Of  Cheshire  cheese — or  only  sniff 
The  turtle  made  at  Cuff's. 

I  hold  no  Leasowes  in  my  lease. 

No  cot  set  round  with  trees  : 
No  sheep-white  hill  my  dwelling  flanks ; 

And  omnium  furnishes  my  banks 

How  tenderly  Eousseau  reviewed 

With  brokers — not  with  bees. 

i          His  periwinkles ! — mine  are  strewed  I 
My  rose  blooms  on  a  gown ! 
I  hunt  in  vain  for  eglantine. 

Oh !  well  may  poets  make  a  fuss 
In  summer  time,  and  sigh  "  0  rus  !  " 

And  find  my  blue-bell  on  the  sign 
That  marks  the  Bell  and  Crown. 

Of  city  pleasures  sick  : 
My  heart  is  all  at  pant  to  rest 
In  greenwood  shades — my  eyes  detest 

j          Where  are  ye,  birds,  that  blithely  wing 

This  endless  meal  of  brick  ! 

I          From  tree  to  tree,  and  gaily  sing 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 

Or  mourn  in  thickets  deep  ? 

My  cuckoo  has  some  ware  to  sell. 

The  watchman  is  my  Philomel, 
My  blackbird  is  a  sweep ! 

Where  are  ye,  linnet,  lark,  and  thrush, 

r48s.--SONG. 

That  perch  on  leafy  bough  and  bush, 

j                  And  tune  the  various  song  ? 

It  was  not  in  the  winter 

i          Two  hurdy-gurdists,  and  a  poor 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 

Street-Handel  grinding  at  my  door, 

It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

Are  all  my  "  tuneful  throng." 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd  ! 

Thomas  Hood.] 


A  PAEENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  SON. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


That  churlish  season  never  frowu'd 

On  early  lovers  yet ; 
Oh  no  ! — the  world  was  newly  crown' d 

With  flowers  when  first  we  met. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  gc. 

But  still  you  held  me  fast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

We  pluck' d  them  as  we  pass'd  ! 

"WTiat  else  could  peer  my  glowing  dheek, 

That  tears  began  to  stud  ? 
And  when  I  ask'd  the  like  of  love, 
'You  snatch' d  a  damask  bud — 

And  oped  it  to  the  dainty  core, 

Stni  blowing  to  the  last ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

We  pluck' d  them  as  we  pass'd ! 

Thomas  Hood. — Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


i486.— A  PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  SON, 
AGED  THEEE  YEAES  AND  FIVE 
MONTHS. 

Thou  happy,  happy  olf  ! 
(But  stop — first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself ! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear  !) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite  ! 

With  spirits  feather  light, 
Untouch'd  by  sorrow,  and  unsoil'd  by  sin, 
(Good    heavens !    the   child  is   swallowing   a 
pin!) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck. 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 
(The  door !  the  door !  he'll  tumble  down  the 
stair !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire  !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a 

link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  (Drat  the  boy ! 

There  goes  my  ink !) 

Thou  cherub — ^but  of  earth ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  Fays  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 
(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail !) 
Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 
Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny, 
(Another  tumble — that's  his  precious  nose  !) 

Thy  father's  pride  and  hope  ! 
(He' 11  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping- 
rope  !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamp' d  from  nature's 
mint, 

(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 


Thou  young  domestic  dove ! 
(He'll  have  that  jug  off  with  another  shove  !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymenial  nest! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 
(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  plan  i) 
Touch'd  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawningf 
life, 

(He's  got  a  knife  I) 

Thou  enviable  being  ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  fore- 
seeing, 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 

Toss  the  light  ball — ^bestride  the  stick, 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick  1) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk 

With  many  a  lamblike  frisk, 
(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown!) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose ! 
(Go  to  your  mother,   child,   and  wipe  your 

nose !) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth  !) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar  !) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 
(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unless  he's  sent  above!) 

Tfiomas  Hood. — Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


1487.— FLOWERS. 

I  will  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 
Whose  head  is  turn'd  by  the  sun; 
The  tulip  is  a  courtly  quean. 
Whom,  therefore,  I  will  shun ; 
The  cowslip  is  a  country  Avench, 
The  violet  is  a  nun  ; — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
The  queen  of  every  one. 

The  pea  is  but  a  wanton  witch. 
In  too  much  haste  to  wed, 
And  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand ; 
The  wolfsbane  I  should  dread ; — 
Nor  will  I  dreary  rosemarye, 
That  always  mourns  the  dead  : — 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose. 
With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  white,  like  a  saint, 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  mc — 

And  the  daisy's  cheek  is  tipp'd  with  a  blush, 

She  is  of  such  low  degree  ; 

Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves. 

And  the  broom's  betrothed  to  the  bee; — 

But  I  will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose, 

For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 


[Thomas  Hood. 


1488.— AUTUilN. 

The  Autumn  is  old ; 
The  sere  leaves  are  flying- ; 
He  hath  gather'd  up  gold, 
And  now  he  is  dying  : 
Old  age,  begin  sighing ! 

The  vintage  is  ripe ; 
The  harvest  is  heaping ; 
But  some  that  have  sow'd 
Have  no  riches  for  reaping : — 
Poor  wretch,  fall  a- weeping ! 

The  year's  in  the  wane ; 
There  is  nothing  adorning ; 
The  night  has  no  eve. 
And  the  day  has  no  morning ; 
Cold  Winter  gives  warning ! 

The  rivers  run  chill ; 
The  red  sun  is  sinking ; 
And  I  am  grown  old, 
And  life  is  fast  shrinking ; 
Here's  enow  for  sad  thinking ! 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


1489.— TO  A  CHILD  EMBRACING  HIS 
MOTHER. 


Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 
Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again, — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 
Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  ! 

II. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes. 
And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee, — 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes ! 

III. 
Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told,— 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  press  in  woe. 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her,  lips  the  while  they  glow ! 


Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair ! 
Although  it  be  not  silver-gray — 
Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 
May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
Oh  !  revere  her  raven  hair ! 


Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 
That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer — 
For  thou  may'st  live  the  hour  forlorn 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn ! 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845, 


I490._T0  MY  DAUGHTER,  ON  HER 
BIRTHDAY. 


Dear  Fanny !  nine  long  years  ago, 
While  yet  the  morning  sun  was  low,_ 
And  rosy  with  the  eastern  glow 

The  landscape  smiled ; 
Whilst  low'd  the  newly-waken'd  herds — 
Sweet  as  the  early  song  of  birds, 
I  heard  those  first,  delightful  words, 

"  Thou  hast  a  child !  " 


Along  with  that  uprising  dew 

Tears  glisten' d  in  my  eyes,  though  few, 

To  hail  a  dawning  quite  as  new 

To  me,  as  Time : 
It  was  not  sorrow — not  annoy — 
But  like  a  happy  maid,  though  coy. 
With  grief -like  welcome,  even  Joy 

Forestalls  its  prime. 


So  may'st  thou  live,  dear !  many  years, 

In  all  the  bliss  that  life  endears. 

Not  without  smiles,  nor  yet  from  tears 

Too  strictly  kept. 
When  first  thy  infant  littleness 
I  folded  in  my  fond  caress. 
The  greatest  proof  of  happiness 

Was  this — I  wept. 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


1491.— I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white. 

The  violets,  and  tlie  lily-cups — 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built. 

And  where  my  brother  set 

The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then. 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 


Thomas  Hood.] 


FAm  D^S. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


I  remember,  I  remember 
The  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky. 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 
But  now  'tis  little  joy- 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


1492.— FAIR  INES. 
I. 

0  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 
She's  gone  into  the  west, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 
And  rob  the  world  of  rest ; 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 
The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

II. 

0  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 
Before  the  fall  of  night. 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone. 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright ; 

And  bless' d  wiU  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

1  dare  not  even  write  ! 

MI. 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side. 

And  whisper' d  thee  so  near ! — 

Were  there  no  bonnj'  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

IV. 

T  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore. 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before  ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore  ; — 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

— ^If  it  had  been  no  more  ! 


Alas !  alas  !  fair  Ines  ! 

She  went  away  -with  song, 

With  music  waiting  on  her  steps. 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng  ; 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 


Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines  ! 

That  vessel  never  bore 

So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck. 

Nor  danced  so  light  before— 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea. 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more ! 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


1493.— EUTH. 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn. 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun. 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripen' d ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  com. 

Eound  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veil'd  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks. 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said,  heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


1494.— THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

'Twas  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 
And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school : 
There  v/ere  some  that  ran  and  some  that 
leapt. 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 

And  souls  untouch' d  by  sin ; 
To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in  : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about. 

And  shouted  as  they  ran — 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth. 

As  only  boyhood  can  ; 
But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  AEAIVI. 


[Thomas  Hood. 


His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 
To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease : 

So  he  lean'd  his  head  on  his  hands,  and 
read 
The  book  between  his  knees ! 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  tum'd  it  o'er. 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside ; 
For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 

In  the  golden  eventide  ; 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  I«aden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome ; 

With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strain' d  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fix'd  the  brazen  hasp  : 
•'  O  God  !  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp !  " 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 

Some  moody  turns  he  took — 
Now  up  the  mead,  then  dovnx  the  mead, 

And  past  a  shady  nook — 
And,  lo !  ho  saw  a  little  boy 

That  pored  upon  a  book ! 

♦'  My  gentle  lad,  what  is't  you  read — 

Eomance  or  fairy  fable  ? 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable  ?  " 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance — 

"  It  is  '  The  Death  of  Abel.'  " 

The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides. 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain — 
Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 

Then  slowly  back  again ; 
And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 

And  talk'd  with  him  of  Cain ; 

And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men. 

Whose  deeds  tradition  saves  ; 
And  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen. 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves ; 
And  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn, 

And  murders  done  in  caves ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 

Shriek  upward  from  the  sod ; 
Aj',  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 

To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 
And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 

Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God ! 

He  told  how  murderers  Avalk  the  earth 

Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain — 
With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain  ; 
For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain ! 

"  And  well,"  quoth  he,  "I  know,  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe — 
^Vho  spill  life's  sacred  stream ! 


For  why  ?    Methought,  last  night  I  wrought 
A  murder,  in  a  dream ! 

One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong — 

A  feeble  man  and  old ; 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field — 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  coid-i  — 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold ! 

Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick, 

And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 
One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife — 

And  then  the  deed  was  done  : 
There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  feet 

But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone  ! 

Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bene, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill ; 
And  yet  I  fear'd  him  all  the  more. 

For  lying  there  so  still  : 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look. 

That  murder  could  not  kill ! 

And,  lo  !  the  universal  air 

Seem'd  lit  with  ghastly  flame  ; — 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame ; 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  his  hand. 
And  call'd  upon  his  name ! 

0  God !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 
Such  sense  within  the  slain ! 

But  when  I  touch'd  the  lifeless  clay> 

The  blood  gush'd  out  amain ! 
For  every  clot  a  burning  spot 

Was  scorching  in  my  brain ! 

My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal — 

My  heart  as  solid  ice ; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew^ 

Was  at  the  Devil's  price. 
A  dozen  times  I  groan'd — the  dead 

Had  never  groan'd  but  twice  ! 

And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky. 
From  the  heaven's  topmost  height, 

1  heard  a  voice — the  awful  voice 

Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite : 
'  Thou  guilty  man !  take  up  thy  dead, 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight !  ' 

And  I  took  the  dreary  body  up. 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream — 
The  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme : 
My  gentle  Boy,  remember  !  this 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream  ! 

Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow  plunge. 

And  vanish' d  in  the  pool ; 
Anon  I  cleansed  my  bloody  hands, 

And  wash'd  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  urchins  young, 

That  evening  in  the  school. 

0  Heaven  !  to  think  of  their  white  souls. 
And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 


Thomas  Hood.] 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 

Nor  join  in  evening'  hymn ; 
Like  a  devil  of  the  pit  I  seem'd, 

'Mid  holy  cherubim ! 

And  peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 

And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 
But  Guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain, 

That  lighted  me  to  bed. 
And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round 

With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 

All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep  ; 
My  fever' d  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep ; 
Eor  Sin  had  render' d  unto  her 

The  keys  of  hell  to  keep  ! 

All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 
With  one  besetting  horrid  hint. 

That  rack'd  me  all  the  time — 
A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 

Fierce  impulse  unto  crime — 

One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 

All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ! 
Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 

Did  that  temptation  crave — 
Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 

The  dead  man  in  his  grave  ! 

Heavily  I  rose  up,  as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky, 
And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild  misgiving  eye  ; 
And  I  saw  the  dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry. 

Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 

The  dew-drop  from  its  wing ; 
But  I  never  mark'd  its  morning  flight — 

I  never  heard  it  sing ; 
For  I  was  stooping  once  again 

Under  the  horrid  thing. 

With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 

I  took  him  up  and  ran ; 
There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began — 
In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I  hid  the  murder'd  man ! 

And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school. 
But  my  thought  was  other  where  ; 

As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there — 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  stiU  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep. 
For  I  knew  my  secret  there  was  one 

That  earth  refused  to  keep — 
Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 


So  wills  the  fierce  avenjring  sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones  ! 
Ay,  though  he's  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones  ! 

O  God !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Again — again,  with  dizzy  brain. 

The  human  life  I  take ; 
And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 

And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 
Will  wave  or  mould  allow ; 

The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul- 
It  stands  before  me  now  !  " 

The  fearful  Boy  look'd  up  and  saw 
Huge  drops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin's  eyelids  kiss'd, 
Two  stem-faced  men  set  out  fromi  Lynn 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 
And  Eugene  Aram  walk'd  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Bied  1845. 


1495.— THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion' d  so  slenderly — 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements, 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing ! 

Touch  her  not  scornfullj' ! 
Think  of  her  mournfully. 
Gently  and  humanly — 
Not  of  the  stains  of  lier ; 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 
Rash  and  undutif  ul ; 
Past  all  dishonour. 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers — 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 
Oozing  so  clammily. 


1 
From  1780  to  1866.]                  THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIET.                         [Thomas  Hood. 

Loop  up  hor  tresses 

1 
Dreadfully  staring 

Esca,pecl  from  the  comb — 

Through  muddy  impurity, 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses — 

As  when  with  the  daring 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses 

Last  look  of  despairing 

Where  was  her  home  ? 

Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Perishing  gloomily,          -     - 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Spurn' d  by  contumely, 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Cold  inhumanity 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 

Burning  insanity 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 

Into  her  rest ! 

Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Cross  her  hands  humbly, 

Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

As  if  praying  duinbly. 

Over  her  breast ! 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 

Of  Christian  charity 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Under  the  sun ! 

Her  evil  behaviour. 

0  !  it  was  pitiful ! 

And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 

Home  she  had  none. 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 

Sisterly,  brotherly. 

Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed — 

Love,  by  harsh  evidence. 

1496.— THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIET. 

Thrown  from  its  eminence ; 

Even  God's  providence 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

Seeming  estranged. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

So  far  in  the  river, 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch ! 

With  many  a  light 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

From  vandow  and  casement, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !  " 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

"  Work !  work  !  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

And  work — work — work. 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 

But  not  the  dark  arch. 

It's  0  !  to  be  a  slave 

Or  the  black  flowing  river ; 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 

Mad  from  life's  history, 

Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  I 

Swift  to  be  hurl'd — 

Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ' 

Work — work — work 

In  she  plunged  boldly — 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 

No  matter  how  coldly 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

The  rough  river  ran — 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam — 

Over  the  brink  of  it ! 

Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep. 

Picture  it — think  of  it ! 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ! 

Dissolute  Man ! 

0,  Men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it. 

0,  Men,  with  mothers  and  wives  I 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out. 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly— 

Stitch — stitch — stitch. 

Lift  her  with  care  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt — 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly- 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread. 

Young,  and  so  fair ! 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt ! 

Ere  her  limbs,  frigidly, 

But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death— 

Stiffen  too  rigidly. 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 

Decently,  kindly, 

I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

Smooth  and  compose  them ; 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Staring  so  blindly ! 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 

Thomas  Hood.]                                  THE  DEATH-BED.                         [Seventh  Period. — 

0  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak. 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

So  slowly  moved  about. 

As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

Work — work— work  ! 

To  eke  her  living  out.                                         j 

My  labour  never  flags ; 

,    ,     ,          .                        '           ! 

And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

A  crust  of  bread— and  rags. 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied —                            ! 

That  shatter' d  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

And  a  wall  so  blank  ray  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  I 

For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and  sad, 
And  chni  with  early  showers. 

Work — work — work  ! 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ! 

Another  morn  than  ours. 

Work — work — work — 

Tlwmas  Hood. — Born  1798,  Died  1845. 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band — 

Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumb'd, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

1498.— THE  WATER  LADY. 

Work — work — work 

I. 

In  the  dull  December  light ' 

Alas  !  that  moon  should  ever  beam 

And  work — work — work. 

To  show  what  man  should  never  see  !— 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ! — 

I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 

While  underneath  the  eaves 

And  fair  was  she  ! 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

II. 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

I  staid  awhile,  to  see  her  throw 

Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head. 

Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ! 

III. 

For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

I  staid  a  little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore,  in  place  of  red, 
The  bloom  of  water — tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 

Oh  I  but  for  one  short  hour — 

A  respite  however  brief ! 

IV. 

No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

I  staid  to  watch,  a  little  space. 

But  only  time  for  Grief  ! 

Her  parted  lips,  if  she  would  sing  ; 

A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart ; 

The  waters  closed  above  her  face 

But  in  their  briny  bed 

With  many  a  ring. 

My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

V. 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  " 

And  still  I  staid  a  little  more — 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

Alas  !  she  never  comes  again  ! 

And  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

I  throw  ray  flowers  from  the  shore, 

A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

And  watch  in  vain. 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

VI. 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

I  know  my  life  will  fade  away — 

And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 

I  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine ; 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  ricli ! — 

For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt !  " 

But  she's  divine. 

Tliomas  Hood.—Bo'ni  1798,  Died  1845. 

Thomas  Hood.—Born  1798,  Died  1845. 

I497-— THE  DEATH-BED. 

1499.— SONG. 

We  watched  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

0  Lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 

And  flowery  tapestrie — 

As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

There  's  living  roses  on  the  bush, 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

And  blossoms  on  the  tree. 

From  1780  to  1866.]     WHEEE  DO  FAIRIES  HIDE  THEER  HEADS. 


[T.  H.Bayly. 


Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 

Some  random  bud  will  meet ; 
Thou  canst  not  tread  but  thou  wilt  find 

The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 

'Tis  like  the  birthday  of  the  world, 

When  earth  was  bom  in  bloom ; 
The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes, 

The  air  is  all  perfume  ; 
There  's  crimson  buds,  and  white  and  blue — 

The  very  rainbow  showers 
Have  turn'd  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 

And  sown  the  earth  with  flowers. 

There  's  fairy  tulips  in  the  east — 

The  garden  of  the  sun  ; 
The  very  streams  reflect  the  hues, 

And  blossom  as  they  run  ; 
While  morn  opes  like  a  crimson  rose, 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers  : 
Then,  lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 

Thou  twinest  into  flowers  ! 

Thomas  Hood.— Born  1798,  Died  1845. 


1500.— TO  HIS  WIFE. 

Oh  !  hadst  thou  never  shared  my  fate, 
More  dark  that  fate  would  prove. 

My  heart  were  truly  desolate 
Without  thy  soothing  love. 

But  thou  hast  suffer' d  for  my  sake. 

Whilst  this  relief  I  found. 
Like  fearless  lips  that  strive  to  take 

The  poison  from  a  wound. 

My  fond  affection  thou  hast  seen, 

Then  judge  of  my  regret. 
To  think  more  happy  thou  hadst  been 

If  we  had  never  met ! 

And    has   that   thought   been   shared    by 
thee? 

Ah,  no  !  that  smiling  cheek 
Proves  more  unchanging  love  for  me 

Than  labour'd  words  could  speak. 

But  there  are  true  hearts  which  the  sight 

Of  sorrow,  summons  forth ; 
Though  kno^vn  in  days  of  past  delight, 

We  knew  not  half  their  worth. 

How  unlike  some  who  have  profess'd 

So  much  in  friendship's  name, 
Yet  calmly  pause  to  think  how  best 

They  may  evade  her  claim. 

But  ah  !  from  them  to  thee  I  turn, 
They'd  make  me  loathe  mankind, 

Far  better  lessons  I  may  learn 
From  thy  more  holy  mind. 


The  love  that  gives  a  charm  to  home, 

I  feel  they  cannot  take  : 
We'll  pray  for  happier  years  to  come. 

For  one  another's  sake. 

T.  Haynes  Bayly.— Born  1797,  Died  1839. 


1501.— THINK  NOT  OF  THE  FUTUEE. 

Think  not  of  the  future,  the  prospect  is  un- 
certain ; 
Laugh  away  the    present,  while   laughing 
hours  remain  : 
Those  who   gaze  too    boldly  through  Time's 
mystic  curtain. 
Soon  will  wish  to  close  it,  and  dream  of  joy 
again, 
I,  like  thee,  was    liappj',  and,  on  hope  rely- 

Thought  the  present  pleasure  might  revive 
again : 
But   receive   my   counsel — Time     is    always 
flying ; 

Then  laugh  away  the  present,  while  laugh- 
ing hours  remain. 

I  have  felt  unkindness,  keen  as  that  which 
hurts  thee  ; 
I   have  met  with  friendship,  fickle  as  the 
wind  ; 
Take  what  friendship  offers,  ere  its  warmth 
deserts  thee  ; 
Well  I  know  the  kindest  may  not  long  be 
kind. 
Would  you  waste  the  pleasure  of  the  summer- 


Thinking    that    the    winter    must    return 
again  ? 
If    our    summer 's   fleeting,    surely  that 's   a 
reason 
For  laughing  off  the  present,  while  laughing 
hours  remain. 

T.  Haynes  Bayly.— Born  1797,  Died  1839. 


1502.— 0!   WHERE   DO  FAIRIES   HIDE 
THEIR  HEADS  ? 

0  !  where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads, 

When  snow  lies  on  the  hills — 
When  frost  has  spoil'd  their  mossy  beds, 

And  crystallized  their  rills  ? 
Beneath  the  moon  they  cannot  trip 

In  circles  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And  draughts  of  dew  they  cannot  sip, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 

Perhaps,  in  small,  blue  diving-bells, 
They  plunge  beneath  the  waves, 

Inhabiting  the  wreathed  shells 
That  lie  in  coral  caves. 


Coleridge,] 


THE  EIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAEINEE.     [Seventh  Period.— 


Perhaps,  in  red  Vesuvius, 

Carousals  they  maintain  ; 
And  cheer  their  little  spirits  thus, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 

When  they  return  there  will  be  mirth, 

And  music  in  the  air, 
And  fairy  wings  upon  the  earth, 

And  mischief  everywhere, 
The  maids,  to  keep  the  elves  aloof, 

Will  bar  the  doors  in  vain  ; 
No  key-hole  will  be  fairy-proof, 

When  green  leaves  come  again. 

T.  Haynes  Bayly.— Born  1797,  Died  1839. 


[503.— THE    EIME    OF    THE    ANCIENT 
MAEINEE. 


It  is  an  ancient  mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three  ; 

"  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

The  bridegroom's  doors  are  open'd  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set ; 
Mayst  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand  ; 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 

"  Hold  off ;  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon  ;  " 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye— 
The  wedding-guest  stood  still. 
And  listens  like  a  three-years'  child  ; 
The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone, 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner. 

The  shiptwas  cheer'd,  the  harbour  clear'd, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill. 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ; 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day. 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon 

The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Eed  as  a  rose  is  she  ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 


The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast. 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  mariner. 

And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong  ; 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings. 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dripping  prow. 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 

And  forward  bonds  his  head. 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roar'd  the  blast. 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow. 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 
And  ice  mast-high  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  cliflFs 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  ; 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken— 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around ; 

It  crack' d  and  growl' d,  and  roar'd  and  howl'd, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  albatross. 
Through  the  fog  it  came  ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hail'd  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew ; 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steer' d  us  through ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind, 

The  albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day  for  food  or  play. 

Came  to  the  mai-iner's  hollo  ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perch' d  for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmer' d  the  white  moonshine. 

•'  God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner, 
From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus  ! 
Why  look'st  thou  so  .^  "     With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  albatross. 


The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind. 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow ; 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 


Fr<yi}i  1780  to  18G6.]      THE  EIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAEINEE. 


[Coleridge. 


And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 
And  it  woitld  work  'em  wo ; 
For  all  averr'd  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 
Ah,  wretch,  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay- 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  sun  uprist ; 

Then  all  averr'd  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 

The  furrow  follow'd  free  ; 

"We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  Ave  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  sun  at  noon 
Eight  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  thaia  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water  everywhere. 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 
Water,  water  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot ;  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils. 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  follow'd  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  wither' d  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah,  well-a-day !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross  the  albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


There  pass'd  a  weary  time.     Each  throa 
Was  itarch'd,  and  glazed  each  eye. 
A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 


!   How  glazed  each  weary  eye  ! 
'   When  looking  westward  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seem'd  a  little  speck, 
,   And  then  it  seem'd  a  mist ; 
I    It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last  - 
!   A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

!   A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist  I 
;   And  stUl*  it  near'd  and  near'd  : 
I   A  s  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite. 
It  plunged,  and  tack'd,  and  veer'd. 

'   With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
I   We  could  not  laugh  nor  wail ; 
I   Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ; 
j   I  bit  my  arm,  I  suck'd  the  blood. 
And  cried,  A  sail !  a  sail ! 

I   With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

!   Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 
Gramercy  they  for  joy  did  grin. 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See !  see  !  I  cried,  she  tacks  no  more. 
Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel. 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame, 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done, 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Eested  the  broad  bright  sun ; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

And  straight  the  sun  was  fleck'd  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peer'd 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  !  thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud, 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ; 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate ;  ^ 

And  is  that  woman  aU  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  death,  and  are  there  two  ? 
Is  death  that  woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yeUow  as  gold ; 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  nightmare  Life-in-death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came. 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  ; 

"  The  game  is  done  !  I've  won  !  I've  won  !  " 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  sun's  rim  dips,  the  stars  rush  out. 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

69 


Coleridge.] 


THE  EIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAEINEE.     [Seventh  Period.— 


We  listen' d  and  look'd  sideways  up ; 

Eear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seem'd  to  sip. 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The    steersman's   face   by  his  lamp  gleam'd 

white; 
From  the  saUs  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogg'd  moon. 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh. 
Each  turn'd  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan), 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropp'd  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  wo  ! 
And  every  soul  it  pass'd  me  by 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow. 


"  I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner, 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown. 

As  is  the  ribb'd  sea-sand. 

I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 
And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown." 
Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding-guest, 
This  body  dropp'd  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on,  and  so  did  I. 

I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  sea. 
And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 
I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  look'd  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gush'd, 
A  wicked  whisper  oame,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the 

sky. 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  ; 
The  look  with  which  they  look'd  on  me 
Had  never  pass'd  away. 


An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  oh !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  moon  went  up  thp  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide : 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside. 

Her  beams  bemock'd  the  sultry  main. 
Like  April  hoarfrost  spread ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay 
The  charm' d  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watch' d  the  water  snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white. 

And  when  they  rear'd,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watch' d  their  rich  attire  : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black. 

They  coil'd  and  swam ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

O  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare : 

A  spring  of  love  gush'd  from  my  heart, 

And  I  bless'd  them  unaware  : 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  bless'd  them  xmaware. 

The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

PART   V. 

0  sleep  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing. 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 
That  had  so  long  remain' d, 

1  dreamt  that  they  were  fill'd  with  dew ; 
And  when  I*  woke  it  rain'd. 

!   My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
j   My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 

Sure  I  had  drunken  ia  my  dreams, 

And  stiU  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  : 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind  : 
It  did  not  come  anear ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
!   That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 


From  1780  to  1866.]      THE  EIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAEINEE. 


[COLERIDaE. 


The  ripper  air  burst  into  life ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen ; 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  pour'd  down  from  one  black  cloud ; 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  moon  was  at  its  side  : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  Hghtning  fell  Avith  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reach'd  the  ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groan' d,  they  stirr'd,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise, 

Tlie  helmsman  steer' d,  the  ship  moved  on, 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 

Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  : 

The  body  and  I  puU'd  at  one  rope. 

But  he  said  nought  to  me. 

"  I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner  !  " 

Be  calm,  thou  wedding-guest ! 

'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 

Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when  it  dawn'd,  they  dropp'd  their  arms. 

And  cluster' d  round  the  mast; 

Sweet    sounds     rose    slowly    through     their 

mouths. 
And  from  their  bodies  pass'd. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  sun ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mix'd,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes,  a-dropping  from  the  sky, 
I  heard  the  skylark  sing ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seem'd  to  fill  the  sea  and  air, 
With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song. 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased ;  yet  still  the  saUs  made  on 
A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 
A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 


That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe  ; 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship. 
Moved  onward  from  beneath.  —   — 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep. 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 
The  spirit  slid ;  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fix'd  her  to  the  ocean ; 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then,  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 
She  made  a  sudden  bound ; 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head. 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay 
I  have  not  to  declare ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  retum'd, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discem'd 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"  Is'it  he  ?  "  quoth  one,  "  Is  this  the  man? 
By  him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  albatross ! 

The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice. 

As  soft  as  honey-dew ; 

Quoth  he,  "  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do." 


FIRST   VOICE. 

But  tell  me !  teU  me  !  speak  again. 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? 

SECOND    VOICE. 

Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord. 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast. 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? 

69* 


Coleridge.] 


THE  EIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAEINEE.     [Seventh  Period.— 


SECOND   VOICE. 

The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly !  more  high,  more  high  ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated ; 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
■\Vhen  the  mariner's  trance  is  abated. 

I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  ; 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter ; 
All  fix'd  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  pass'd  away ; 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs. 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt ;  once  more 

I  view'd  the  ocean  green, 

And  look'd  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  having  once  turn'd  round,  walks  on, 
And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me. 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  ; 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fann'd  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship. 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh  !  drearh  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 
The  lighthouse  top  I  see  ? 
Is  this  the  hiU  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ? 
Is  this  mine  own  countreo  ? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 
O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less 
That  stands  above  the  rock  : 
The  moonlight  steep'd  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 


And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colours  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

Those  crimson  shadows  were  : 

I  turn'd  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

0  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat ; 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand  : 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land. 
Each  one  a  lovely  light. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice ;  but  O  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

1  heard  the  pilot's  cheer ; 

My  head  was  turn'd  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  pilot  and  the  pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice : 

It  is  the  hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  albatross's  blood. 


This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon  and  eve — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  near'd  :  I  heard  them  talk, 
"  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair 
That  signal  made  but  now  ?  " 

"  Strange,  by  my  faith  !  "  the  hermit  said — 

"  And  they  answer' d  not  our  cheer  ! 

The   planks   look'd  warp'd !    and   see   those 

sails. 
How  thin  they  arc  and  sere  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 
Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


HYMN  BEFOEE  SUNEISE. 


[Coleridge. 


My  forest-brook  along ; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snov/, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young." 

"  Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a-feard  " — "  Push  on,  push  on  !  " 
Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirr'd ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread  : 
It  reach'd  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunn'd  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drown' d 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship. 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shriek' d. 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  pray'd  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars :  the  pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laugh'd  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

"  Ha !  ha !  "  quoth  he,  "  full  plain  I  see. 

The  devil  knows  how  to  row." 

1       And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 
I       I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 

The  hermit  stepp'd  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

j       "  O  shrieve  me,  shriere  me,  holy  man  !  " 

i       The  hermit  cross' d  his  brow. 

"  Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "I  bid  thee  say 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?  " 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrench'd 

With  a  woful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour 
That  agony  returns ; 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me  : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 


What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  I 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bridemaids  singing  are  : 
And  hark  !  the  little  vesper  bell 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 

O  wedding-guest !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company ! 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray. 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  I 

Farewell,  farewell ;  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest : 
Ho  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
I   He  made  and  loveth  all. 

j   The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright. 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar. 
Is  gone  :  and  now  the  wedding-gueat 
Turn'd  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunn'd, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Coleridge.— Born  1772,  Died  1834. 


1504.— HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE  IN 
THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course?    so    long   he    seems   to 

pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines. 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above. 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black,  ■ 
An  ebon  mass  ;  methinks  thou  piercest  it. 
As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine. 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 
O   dread   and   silent   mount !     I   gazed  upon 

thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 


Coleridge.] 


LOVE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Did'st  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in 

prayer, 
I  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  be^iling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my 

thought, 
Tea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy ; 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there. 
As    in    her    natural    form,    s wetted    vast   to 

heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy.     Awake, 
Voice    of    sweet    song !      awake,    my    heart, 

awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,    sole  sovran  of  the 

vale! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night. 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,   or  when  they 

sink  ! 
Companion  of  the  morning  star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  !  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  fill'd  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 
Who  call'd  you  forth  from  night  and   utter 

death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  call'd  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
For  ever  shatter' d,  and  the  same  for  ever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 
Your  strength,    your  speed,    your  fury,  and 

your  joy. 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 
Here  let  the  biUows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls !    ye  that  from  the  mountain's 

brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,    methinks,    that    heard   a    mighty 

.  voice, 
And    stopp'd    at   once    amid   their   maddest 

plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who    made    you    glorious   as    the    gates    of 

heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the 

sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?    Who,  with  living 

flowers 
Of    loveliest  blue,    spread   garlands  at  vour 

feet  ? 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome 

voice ! 


Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  eoul-liko 

sounds ! 
And  they,   too,   have    a   voice,   yon  piles  of 

snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God ! 

Ye    living   flowers    that    skirt   the  eternal 

frost ! 
Ye    wild    goats    sporting  round  the    eagle's 

nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm  ! 
Ye    lightnings,     the    dread    arrows    of     the 

clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Once    more,    hoar  mount !    with  thy  sky- 
pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure 

serene. 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou,  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain  !  thou. 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bow'd  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base, 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with 

tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapoury  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Eise,  O  ever  rise ; 
Eise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth  ! 
Tliou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven. 
Great  Hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun. 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

Coleridge.— Born  1772,  Died  1834. 


1505.— LOVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
Are  all  but  ministers  of  love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man. 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 


Vrom  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


[Coleridge.       j 


I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang-  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen' d  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
For  well  she  knev/  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  ;  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen' d  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
Which  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  that  ho  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

But  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once, 
In  green  and  sunny  glade. 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight  i 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  land ; 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasp'd  his  knees, 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain. 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ; 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach' d 

That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty. 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 

Disturb'd  her  soid  mth  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill' d  my  guileless  Genevieve — 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng ; 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherish' d  long  ! 


She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 
She  blush' d  with  love  and  virgin  shame; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  she  stept  aside  ; 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept»— 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye. 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  press' d  me  with  a  meek  embrace. 
And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art. 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears  ;  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride  ! 

Coleridge.— Born  1772,  Died  1834. 


1506.— THE  NIGHTINGALE, 

No  cloud,  no  relict  of  the  sunken  day 
Distinguishes  the  West ;  no  long  thin  slip 
Of  sullen  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 
Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge  ! 
You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath. 
But  hear  no  murmuring ;  it  flows  silently 
O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.     All  is  still ; 
A  balmy  night !  and  though  the  stars  be  dim, 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall 

find 
A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 
And  hark !  the  Nightingale  begins  its  song — 
"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy  "  bird  ! 
A  melancholy  bird  !     Oh,  idle  thought ! 
In  Nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 
But  some  night- wandering  man,  whose  heart 

was  pierced 
With  the  remembrance  of  a  grievous  wrong. 
Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love 
(And  so,  poor  wretch!  fill'd  all  things  vnth 

himself. 
And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 
Of  his  own  sorrow) — he,  and  such  as  he, 
First  named  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain. 
And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit — 
Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 
When  he  had  better  far  have  stretch' d  his 

limbs 
Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest-dell, 
By  sun  or  moonlight ;  to  the  influxes 
Of  shapes,  and  sounds,  and  shifting  elements, 
Surrendering  his  whole  spirit ;  of  his  song 
And  of  his  fame  forgetful !  so  his  fame 
Should  share  in  Nature's  immortality — 
A  venerable  thing ! — and  so  his  song 


Coleridge.] 


FEOST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 
Be  loved  like  Nature  !     But  'twill  not  be  so  ; 
And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical, 
Who    lose   the    deepening    twilights    of   the 

Spring 
In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still, 
Full  of  meek   sympathy,   must   heave   their 

sighs 
O'er  Philomela's  pity-pleading  strains. 

My  friend,  and   thou,   our    sister !    we   have 

learnt 
A  different  lore  :  we  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature's  sweet  voices,  always  full  of  love 
And  joyance  I     'Tis  the  merry  Nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes. 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Woidd  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburthen  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music  ! 

And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge. 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not ;  and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood  ; 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up  ;  and  grass, 
Thin   grass   and    kingcups   grow   within  the 

paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 
So  many  nightingales.     And  far  and  near. 
In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove, 
They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  song, 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 
And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug. 
And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than 

aU— 
Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony 
That,  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might 

almost 
Forget  it  was  not  day  !     On  moon-lit  bushes, 
Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed. 
You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigs, 
Their   bright,  bright    eyes,    their   eyes    both 

bright  and  fuU, 
Glistening,  while    many  a  glowworm  in   the 

shade 
Lights  up  her  love-torch. 

A  most  gentle  maid, 
Who  dweUeth  in  her  hospitable  homo 
Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve 
(Even  like  a  lady  vow'd  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove), 
Glides  through  the  pathways — she  knows  all 

their  notes, 
That  gentle  maid !  and  oft,  a  moment's  Space, 
What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud. 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence ;  till  the  moon. 
Emerging,  hath  awaken' d  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy. 
As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A    hundred    airy    harps!       And     she     hath 

watch' d 
Many  a  nightingale  perch' d  giddily 


On  blossomy  twig   still   swinging  from   the 

breeze, 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song, 
Like  tipsy  Joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

Farewell,  0  warbler  !  tiU  to-morrow  eve  ; 
And  you,  my  friends !  farewell,  a  short  fare- 
well ! 
We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly, 
And  now  for  our  dear  homes.  —  That  strain 

again  ! 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  me !     My  dear  babe, 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound. 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp. 
How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear. 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up. 
And  bid  us  listen !     And  I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Nature's  playmate.     He  knows 

well 
The  evening-star ;  and  once  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's 

dream), 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard-plot, 
And   he   beheld  the   moon  ;    and,    hush'd  at 

once. 
Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently. 
While    his    fair    eyes,    that   swam    with    un- 

dropp'd  tears. 
Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moonbeam !    Well  I — 
It  is  a  father's  tale  :  But  if  that  Heaven. 
Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grow 

up 
Familiar   with    these    songs,  that    with   the 

night 
He  may  associate  joy. — Once  more,  farewell, 
Sweet  Nightingale  !     Once  more,  my  friends  ! 

farewell. 

Coleridge.— Born  1772,  Died  1834. 


1507.— FEOST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelp'd  by  any  wind.     The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark  again  !  loud  as  before. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest. 
Have  left  me  to  that  solitude  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings  :  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'Tis  calm  indeed !  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.     Sea,  hiU,  and  wood, 
This   populous   village ! — sea,    and    hill,  and 

wood. 
With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life 
Inaudible  as  dreams  !  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low-burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not ; 
Only  that  film,  which  flutter' d  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  Nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live. 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


KUBLA  KHAN. 


[Coleridge. 


Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  Spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  thought. 

But  0  !  how  oft. 
How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind, 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger  !  and  as  oft, 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birthplace,  and  the  old  church- 
tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair-day, 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stu-r'd  and  haunted  me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most    like    articidate    sounds    of    things    to 

come  I 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things  I  dreamt 
Lull'd  me  to  sleep,  and   sleep  prolong' d  my 

dreams ! 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  mom, 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  eye 
Fix'd   with   mock'd    study  on  my  swimming 

book — 
Save  if  the  door  half  open'd,  and  I  snatcli'd 
A  hasty  glance ;  and  still  my  heart  leap'd  up, 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face. 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved. 
My   playmate   when   we   both   were   clothed 

alike ! 
Dear  babe,   that  sleepest   cradled  by  my 

side. 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep 

calm. 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt   learn    far  other 

lore 
And  in  far  other  scenes  I     For  I  was  rear'd 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim. 
And  saw  naught  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But   thou,    my   babe  1    shalt    wander   like   a 

breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountains,  and  beneath  the  clouds. 
Which   image   in  their  bidk  both  lakes  and 

shores 
And  mountain  crags.     So  shalt  thou  see  and 

hear 
Tlio  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher  I  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore    all    seasons    shall   be   sweet  to 

thee  : 
Whether  the  Summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greeimess,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes   in  the  sun-thaw;    whether  the  eve- 
drops  fall. 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 


Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon. 

Coleridge.— Bom  1772,  Died  1834. 


1508.— SONG. 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell, 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel ! 
So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep,  long,  lingering  knell. 

And  at  evening  evermore, 

In  a  chapel  on  the  shere. 

Shall  the  chaunter,  sad  and  saintly, 

YeUow  tapers  burning  faintly. 

Doleful  masses  chaunt  for  thee — 

Miserere  Domine ! 

Hark !  the  cadence  dies  away 

On  the  quiet  moonlight  sea ; 
The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say, 

Miserere  Domine ! 

Coleridge.— Born  1772,  Died  1834. 


1509.— KUBLA  KHAN. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree. 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran. 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five-miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  ; 
wAjid  there  were  gardens,  bright  with  sinuoua 

rills. 
Where    blossom'd   many   an   incense-bearing 

tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills. 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  O !    that   deep    romantic   chasm,    which 

slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedam  cover ! 
A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil 

seething, 
As  if    this    earth    in   fast   thick   pants  were 

breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced, 
Amid  whose  swift,  half -intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 
Or  chajffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail ; 
And  'mid  these    dancing  rocks  at  once  and 

ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles,  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through   wood   and    dale,    the    sacred  river 


COLEKIDGE.] 


SEVERED  FRIENDSHIP. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


Then  reach' d  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  Mfeless  ocean : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war. 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves, 
There  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device — 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 
A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw  ; 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  mn  me 
That,  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air — 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  beware 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

Coleridge.— Born  1772,  Died  1834. 


15  lo.— SEVERED  FRIENDSHIP. 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 
And  life  is  thorny ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love. 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine. 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother  : 
They  parted — ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining — 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder ; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between ; 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  wean. 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Coleridge. — Born  1 772,  Bied  1834. 


15 1 1. —EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade. 
Death  came  with  friendly  care ; 

The  opening  bud  to  heaven  convey' d, 
And  bade  it  blossom  there. 

Coleridge.— Born  1772,  Died  1834. 


15 12.— ANSWER   TO  A  CHILD'S 
QUESTION. 

!   Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say?  The  sparrow, 
j  the  dove, 

1   The  linnet,  and  thrush  say  "I   love,  and   I 
j  love  ! " 

'■   In  the  winter  they're  silent,  the  wind  is  so 
'  strong ; 

What  it  says  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud 

song. 
But  green  leaves,  and   blossoms,  and  sunny 

warm  weather. 
And  singing  and    loving — all  come  back    to- 
gether. 
But   the  lark  is  so  brimful  of    gladness  and 

love. 
The  green   fields    below  him,  the    blue    sky 

above, 
That  he   sings,  and    he    sings,  and    for  ever 

sings  he, 
"  I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me." 

Coleridge.— Born  1772,  Died  1834. 


15 13.— THE  COMMENCEMENT  OF 
"DARTMOOR." 

Lovely  Devonia !  land  of  flowers  and  songs  ! 
To  thee  the  duteous  lay.     Thou  hast  a  cloud 
For  ever  in  thy  sky — a  breeze,  a  shower, 
For   ever   on   thy   meads ; — yet   where   shall 

man, 
Pursuing  Spring  around  the  globe,  refresh 
His   eye   with   scenes   more   beauteous   than 

adorn 
Thy  fields  of  matchless  verdure !     Not  the 

south — 
The  glowing  south,  with  all  its  azure  skies. 
And  aromatic  groves,  and  fruits  that  melt 
At  the  rapt  touch,  and  doep-hued  flowers  that 

light 
Their  tints  at  zenith  suns — has  charms  like 

thine, 
Though  fresh  the  gale  that  ruffles  thy  wild 

seas. 
And  wafts   the   frequent   cloud.     I  own   the 

power 
Of  local  sympathy,  that  o'er  the  fair 
Throws  more  divine  allurement,  and  o'er  all 
The  great  more  grandeur;    and  my  kindling 

muse. 
Fired  by  the  universal  passion,  pours. 
Haply,  a  partial  lay.     Forgive  the  strain, 
Enamour'd,  for  to  man  in  every  clime. 
The  sweetest,  dearest,  noblest  spot  below. 
Is  that  which  gives  him  birth ;  and  long  it 

wears 
A  charm  unbroken,  and  its  honour'd  name, 
HaUow'd  by  memory,  is  fondly  breathed 
With  his  last  lingering  sigh. 

N.  T.  Carrinqton.—Born  1777,  Died  1830,       I 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


ENGLAND'S  LANDSCAPE. 


[N.  T.  Carringtox. 


1 5 14.— DARTMOOR. 

In  sunlight  and  in  shade — 
Repose  and  storm, — wide  waste !    I  since  have 

trod 
Thy  hill  and  dale  magnificent.     Again 
I  seek  thy  solitudes  profound,  in  this 
Thy  hour  of  deep  tranquillity,  when  rests 
The  sunbeam  on  thee,  and  thy  desert  seems 
To  sleep  in  the  unwonted  brightness — calm 
But  stern :  for,  though  the  spirit  of  the  spring 
Breathes  on  thee,  to  the  charmer's  whisper 

kind 
Thou  listenest  not,  nor  ever  puttest  on 
A  robe  of  beauby,  as  the  fields  that  bud 
And  blossom  near  thee.     Yet  I  love  to  tread 
Thy  central  wastes  when  not  a  sound  intrudes 
Upon  the  ear,  but  rush  of  wing,  or  leap 
Of  the  hoarse  waterfall.     And,  oh,  'tis  sweet 
To  list  the  music  of  thy  torrent  streams  ; 
For  thou  too  hast  thy  minstrelsies  for  him 
Who  from  their  liberal  mountain-urn  delights 
To  trace  thy  waters,  as  from  source  to  sea 
They  rush  tumultuous. 

N.  T.  Carrington. — Born  1777,  DiecZ  1830. 


15 1 5  .—THE  PIXIES  OF  DEVON. 

They  are  flown, 
Beautiful  fictions  of  our  fathers,  wove 
In  Superstition's  web  when  Time  was  young, 
And  fondly  loved    and   cherish' d :    they  are 

floAvn 
Before    the    wand    of     Science !     Hills    and 

vales, 
Mountains  and  moors  of  Devon,  ye  have  lost 
The  enchantments,  the  delights,  the  visions 

all, 
The  elfin  visions  that  so  bless' d  the  sight 
In  the  old  days  romantic.     Nought  is  heard, 
Now,     in     the     leafy    world,     but     earthly    j 

strains — 
Voices,  yet  sweet,  of  breeze,  and   bird,  and 

brook. 
And  waterfall ;  the  day  is  silent  else, 
And  night  is  strangely  mute  !  the  hymnings 

high — 
The  immortal  music,  men  of  ancient  times 
Heard  ravish' d  oft,  are  flown !      0  ye  have 

lost. 
Mountains,  and    moors,  and   meads,  the  ra- 
diant throngs 
That  dwelt  in  your  green  solitudes,  and  fiU'd 
The  air,  the  fields,  with  beauty  and  with  joy 
Intense  ;  with  a  rich  mystery  that  awed 
The    mind,    and    flung    around    a    thousand 

hearths 
Divinest    tales,  that   through  the  enchanted 

year 
Found  passionate  listeners  ! 

The  very  streams 
Brighton'd  with  visitings  of  these  so  sweet 
Ethereal  creatures  !     They  were  seen  to  rise 


From  the  charm'd  waters,  which  still  brighter 

grew 
As  the  pomp  pass'd  to  land,  until  the  eye 
Scarce  bore  the  unearthly  glory.    Where  they 

trod, 
Young  flowers,  but  not  of  this  world's  growth, 

arose,  —    _ 

And  fragrance,  as  of  amaranthine  bowers, 
Floated  upon  the  breeze.     And  mortal  eyes 
Look'd  on  their  revels  all  the  luscious  night ; 
And,  unreproved,  upon  their  ravishing  forms 
Gazed  wistfully,  as  in  the  dance  they  moved, 
Voluptuous  to  the  thrilling  touch  of  harp 
Elysian ! 

And  by  gifted  eyes  were  seen 
Wonders — in  the  still  air  ;  and  beings  bright 
And  beautiful,  more  beautiful  than  throng 
Fancy's  ecstatic  regions,  peopled  now 
The  sunbeam,  and  now  rode  upon  the  gale 
Of   the    sweet    summer   noon.      Anon    they 

touch 'd 
The  earth's  delighted  bosom,  and  the  glades 
Seem'd  greener,  fairer — and  the    enraptured 

woods 
Gave  a  glad  leafy  murmur — and  the  rills 
Leap'd  in  the  ray  for  joy  ;  and  all  the  birds 
Threw  into  the  intoxicating  air  their  songs, 
All  soul.     The  very  archings  of  the  grove, 
Clad  in  cathedral  gloom  from  age  to  age. 
Lighten' d  with   living    splendours  ;    and   the 

flowers. 
Tinged  with  new  hues  and  lovelier,  upsprung 
By  millions  in  the  grass,  that  rustled  now 
To  gales  of  Araby  ! 

The  seasons  came 
In  bloom  or  blight,  in  glory  or  in  shade  ; 
The    shower  or  sunbeam   fell   or  glanced   as 


1 5 1 6.— ENGLAND' S  LANDSCAPE. 

Fair  is  thy  level  landscape,  England,  fair 
As  ever  nature  form'd !     Away  it  sweeps, 
A  ^vide,  a  smiling  prospect,  gay  with  flowers 
And    waving    grass,    and    trees    of    amplest 

growth. 
And  sparkling  rills,  and  rivers  winding  slow 


These  potent  elves.     They  steer'd  the  giant 

cloud 
Through  heaven  at  will,  and  with  the  meteor 

flash 
Came  down  in  death  or  sport ;    ay,  when  the 

storm  I 

Shook  the  old  woods,  they  rode,  on  rainbow 

wings. 
The  tempest ;  and,  anon,  they  rein'd  its  rage 
In  its  fierce  mid  career.     But  ye  have  flown. 
Beautiful  fictions  of  our  fathers  ! — flown 
Before  the  wand  of  Science,  and  the  hearths 
Of  Devon,  as  lags  the  disenchanted  year, 
Are  passionless  and  silent ! 

N.  T.  Carrington.—Born  1777,  Died  1830. 


N.  T.  Carrington.] 


BIED,  BEE,  AND  BUTTEEFLY. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Through  all  the  smooth  immense.     Upon  the 

eye 
Arise  the  village  and  the  village  spire, 
The  clustering  hamlet  and  the  peaceful  cot 
I       Clasp'd  by  the  woodbine,  and  the  lordly  dome, 
Proud  peering  'mid  the  stately  oak  and  elm 
Leaf-loving.      Sweet   the   frequent    lapse    of 

brook, 
The  poetry  of  groves,  the  voice  of  bells 
From  aged  towers,  and  labour's  manly  song 
From  cultured  fields  ups welling.     Sweet  the 

hues 
Of  all  the  fertile  land ;  and  when  the  sun 
And  shower  alternate  einpire  hold,  how  fresh, 
How  gay,  how  all-enchanting  to  the  view. 
Beheld  at  first,  the  broad  champaign  appears  ! 

N.  T.  Carrington.— Born  1777,  Died  1830. 


15 1 7.— BIRD,  BEE,  AND  BUTTEEFLY. 

Bird,  bee,  and  butterfly — the  favourite  three 
That  meet  us  ever  on  our  summer  path  ! 
And  what,  with  all  her  forms  and  hues  divine, 
Would  summer  be  without  them  ?     Though 

the  skies 
Were  blue,  and  blue  the  streams,  and  fresh 

the  fields. 
And  beautiful,  as  now,  the  waving  woods. 
And  exquisite  the  flowers ;  and   though  the 

sun 
Beam'd  from  his  cloudless  throne  from  day  to 

day, 
And,  with  the  breeze  and  shower,  more  love- 
liness 
Shed  o'er  this   lovely  world;    yet  all  would 

want 
A  charm,  if  those  sweet  denizens  of  earth 
And  air  made  not  the  great  creation  teem 
With  beauty,  grace,  and  motion  !    Who  would 

bless 
The  landscape,  if  upon  his  morning  walk 
He  greeted  not  the  feathery  nations,  perch' d, 
For  love  or  song,  amid  the  dancing  leaves  ; 
Or  wantoning  in  flight  from  bough  to  bough. 
From  field  to  field :  ah  !  who  would  bless  thee, 

June, 
If  silent,  songless  were  the  groves, — unheard 
The  lark  in  heaven  ? — And  he  who  meets  the 

bee 
Rifling  the  bloom,  and  listless  hears  his  hum. 
Incessant  ringing  through  the  glowing  day ; 
Or  loves  not  the  gay  butterfly  that  swims 
Before  him  in  the  ardent  noon,  array 'd 
In  crimson,  azure,  emerald,  and  gold ; 
With  more  magnificence  upon  his  wing — 
His  little  wing — than  ever  graced  the  robe 
Gorgeous  of  royalty — is  like  the  kine 
That  wander  'mid  the  flowers  which  gem  the 

meads, 
Unconscious  of  their  beauty. 

N.  T.  Ca.rrinrjton. — Born  1777,  Died  1830. 


1 5 18.— LOVE  AND  NATUEE. 

Long 
He  wooed  a  maid  all  innocence  and  truth. 
And  lovely  as  the  loveliest  nymph  that  treads 
Thy  banks,   swift  rushing   Ehone ;   and   she 

return' d 
His  passionate  suit,  and  every  day  that  came 
Strengthen'd    the    indissoluble    charm    that 

wound 
Itself  round  their  young  hearts.     Thy  skies 

are  blue, 
Fair  Provence,  and  thy  streams  are  clear,  and 

fringed 
By  the  lush  vine,  that  in  thy  quiet  vales 
Hangs  out  its   full   frank   clusters,   glowing 

deep 
With  richest  amethystine  tint ;  and  thou 
Hast    songs    of    witching     minstrelsy    from 

bowers 
Of  fragrance  ;  and  amid  the  deepening  shade 
Of  groves,  sweet  cots — abodes  of  health  and 

peace 
By  woodbine,  rose,  and  myrtle  sweetly  deck'd. 
But  love  has  power  to  fling  an  added  charm 
I   Even  on  the  beautiful ;  and  when  these  met. 

At  magic  eve,  the  soft,  the  sunny  south 
I   Yet  more  enchanting  seem'd ; — the  hills,  the 
I  vales 

j   Wore    an    unearthly    charm ;  —  the     crystal 
j  streams 

j   EoU'd  on  with  new-born   minstrelsies ; — the 
j  woods 

I  Were  greener,  fairer ;  and  this  world  arose 
I  To  their  quick-beaming  and  delighted  eyes, 
I   With  all  the  hues  and  forms  of  Paradise. 

N.  T.  Carrington.— Born  1777,  Died  1830. 


1519.— PEAYEE. 

Like  the  low  murmur  of  the  secret  stream. 
Which  through  dark  alders  winds  its  shaded 
way. 
My  suppliant  voice    is  heard :    Ah  !    do  not 
deem 
i        That  on  vain  toys  I  throw  my  hours  away. 

In  the  recesses  of  the  forest  vale, 
j        On  the  wild  mountain,  on  the  verdant  sod, 
j    Where  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  mom  prevail, 
j        I  v/ander  lonely,  communing  with  God. 

'    When  the  faint  sickness  of  a  wounded  heart 
I        Creeps    in   cold    shudderings    through    my 
j  sinking  frame, 

j    I  turn  to  thee — that  holy  peace  impart. 

Which  soothes  the  invokers  of  thy  awful 
name ! 

)    O  all-pervading  Spirit !  sacred  beam  ! 
I        Parent  of  life  and  light  !  Eternal  Power  ! 
Grant  me  through  obvious  clouds  one  transient 
gleam 
Of  thy  bright  essence  in  my  dying  hour  ! 

W.  Bcckford.—Born  1760,  Died  1844. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BEKNAEDO  AND  ALPHONSO. 


[J.  G.  LOCKHART. 


1520.— ECHO  ANJ)  SILENCE. 

In  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly, 
And  Autumn  in  her  lap  the  store  to  strew, 
As  'mid  -wild  scenes  I  chanced  the  Muse  to 
woo. 
Through  glens  untrod,  and  woods  thatfrown'd 

on  high, 
Two  sleeping  nymphs  with  wonder   mute   I 
spy! 
And,  lo,  she's  gone  ! — In  robe  of  dark-green 

hue 
'Twas  Echo  from  her  sister  Silence  flew, 
For  quick  the  hunter's  horn  resounded  to  the 

sky! 
In  shade  affrighted  Silence  melts  away. 

Not  so  her  sister, — Hark  !  for  onward  still, 
"With  far-heard  step,  she  takes  her  listening 
way. 
Bounding  from  rock   to  rock,  and  hill  to 

hill. 
Ah,  mark  the  merry  maid  in  mockful  play. 
With  thousand  mimic  tones  the  laughing  forest 
fill! 

Sir  Egcrton  Bnjdgcs.—Boni  17G2,  Died  1837. 


1 52 1. —TO  AUTUMN,  NEAE  HEE 
DEPAETUEE. 

Thou  Maid  of  gentle  light!  thy  straw-wove 
vest, 
And  russet  cincture ;  thy  loose  pale-tinged 

hair; 
Thy  melancholy  voice,  and  languid  air, 
As  if,  shut  up  within  that  pensive  breast, 
Some  ne'er-to-be-divulged  grief  was  prest ; 
Thy  looks  resign' d,  that  smiles  of  patience 

wear. 
While  Winter's  blasts  thy  scatter'd  tresses 
tear; 
Thee,    Autumn,    with   divinest   charms   have 

blest ! 
Let  blooming  Spring  with  gaudy  hopes  delight 
That  dazzling  Summer  shall  of  her  be  bom ; 
Let  Summer  blaze ;  and  Winter's  stormy  train 
Breathe  awful  music  in  the  ear  of  Night ; 

Thee  will  I  court,  sweet  dying  Maid  forlorn, 
And  from  thy  glance  will  cjitch  the  inspired 
strain. 

Sir  Egerton  Brydges.—Born  1762,  Died  1837. 


1522.— BEENAEDO  AND  ALPHONSO. 

With  some  good  ten  of  his  chosen  men,  Ber- 
nardo hath  appear' d 

Before  them  all  in  the  Palace  hall,  the  lying 
King  to  beard : 

With  cap  in  hand  and  eye  on  ground,  he  came 
in  reverend  guise, 

But  ever  and  anon  he  frown'd  and  flame  broke 
from  his  eyes. 


"  A  curse  upon  thee  !  "  cries  the  King,  "  who 
com'st  unbid  to  me  ; 

But  what  from  traitor's  blood  should  spring, 
save  traitors  like  to  the©  ? 

His  sire.  Lords,  had  a  traitor's  heart ;  per- 
chance our  Champion  brave 

May  think  it  were  a  pious  part  to  share  Don 
Sancho's  grave." 

"  W^hoever  told  this  tale  the  King  hath  rash- 
ness to  repeat," 

Cries  Bernard,  "  Here  my  gage  I  fling  before 
The  Liar's  feet ! 

No  treason  was  in  Sancho's  blood,  no  stain  in 
mine  doth  lie — 

Below  the  throne  what  knight  will  own  the 
coward  calumny  ? 

The  blood  that  I  like  water  shed,  when  Roland 

did  advance. 
By  secret  traitors  hii*ed  and  led,  to  make  us 

slaves  of  France  ; — 
The  life  of  King  Alphonso    I  saved  at  Eon- 

ceval, — . 
Your    words.    Lord    King,    are    recompense 

abundant  for  it  all. 

Your  horse  was  down — your  hope  was  flown — 

I  saw  the  faulchion  shine, 
That  soon  had  drank  your  royal  blood,  had  I 

not  ventured  mine ; 
But  memory  soon  of   service  done  deserteth 

the  ingrate, 
And  ye've  thank'd  the  son  for  life  and  crown 

by  the  father's  bloody  fate. 

Ye  swore  upon  your  kingly  faith,  to  set  Don 
Sancho  free. 

But,  curse  upon  your  paltering  breath,  the 
light  he  ne'er  did  see  ; 

He  died  in  dungeon  cold  and  dim,  by  Al- 
phonso's  base  decree, 

And  visage  blind,  and  stiffen' d  limb,  were  all 
they  gave  to  me. 

The  King  that  swerveth  from  his  word  hath 

stain' d  his  purple  black, 
No  Spanish  Lord  will  draw  the  sword  behind 

a  liar's  back  ; 
But  noble  vengeance  shall  bo  mine,  an  open 

hate  I'll  show — 
The   King   hath    injured    Carpio's    line,  and 

Bernard  is  his  foe." 

"  Seize— seize  him  I  " — loud  the   King   doth 

scream — "There  are  a  thousand  here — 
Let  his  foul  blood  this  instant  stream — What ! 

caitiffs,  do  ye  fear  ? 
Seize — seize  the  traitor!" — But   not  one  to 

move  a  finger  dareth, — 
Bernardo  standeth  by  the  throne,  and  calm  his 

sword  he  bareth. 

He  drew  the  faulchion  from  the  sheath,  and 
held  it  up  on  high, 

And  all  the  hall  was  still  as  death  :  cries  Ber- 
nard, "Here  am  I, 


J.  G.  LOCKHART.I 


ZARA'S  EAE-RINGS. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


And    here  is  the  sword  that  owns  no  lord, 

excepting  Heaven  and  me  ; 
Fain  would  I    know  who  dares  his  point — 

King,  Conde,  or  Grandee !  " 

Then  to  his  mouth  the  horn  he  drew — (it  hung 

below  his  cloak) — 
His  ten  true  men  the  signal  knew,  and  through 

the  ring  they  broke  ; 
With  helm  on  head,  and  blade  in  hand,  the 

knights  the  circle  brake, 
And  back  the  lordlings  'gan  to  stand,  and  the 

false  king  to  quake. 

"Ha!     Bernard,"    quoth   Alphonso,    "what 

means  this  warlike  guise  ? 
Ye  know  full  well  I  jested — ^ye  know  your 

worth  I  prize." — 
But  Bernard  turn'd  upon  his  heel,  and  smiling 

pass'd  away — 
Long  rued  Alphonso  and  his  realm  the  jesting 

of  that  day. 

J.  Q.  LocTcTiart—Bom  1794,  Died  1854. 


[523.— ZARA'S  EAE-RINGS. 


i        *'  |ily  ear-rings  !    my  ear-rings  !  they've  dropt 

into  the  well, 
And  what  to  say  to  Mu9a,  I  cannot,  cannot 

tell."— 
*Twas    thus   Granada's   fountain    by,   spoke 

Albuharez'  daughter, — 
*'  The  well  is  deep,  far  down  they  lie,  beneath 

the  cold  blue  water — 
To  me  did  Mu9a  give  them,  when  he  spake  his 

sad  farewell. 
And  what  to  say  when  he  comes  back,  alas  ! 

I  Cannot  teU. 

My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they  were  pearls 

in  silver  set, 
That  when  my  Moor  was  far  away,  I  ne'er 

shoiild  him  forget, 
That  I  ne'er  to  other  tongue  should  list,  nor 

smile  on  other's  tale. 
But  remember  he  my  lips  had  kiss'd,  pure  as 

those  ear-rings  pale — 
"When  he  comes  back  and  hears  that  I  have 

dropt  them  in  the  well, 
Oh  what  will  Mu^a  think  of  me,  I  cannot, 

cannot  tell. 

My  ear-rings!   my  ear-rings!   he'll  say  they 

should  have  been, 
Not  of  pearl  and  of  silver,  but  of  gold  and 

glittering  sheen. 
Of  jasper  and  of  onyx,  and  of  diamond  shining 

clear. 
Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with  radiance 

insincere — 
That  changeful  mind  unchanging  gems  are  not 

befitting  well — 
Thus  will  he  think, — and  what  to  say,  alas  ! 

I  cannot  tell. 


He'll  think  when  I  to  market  went,  I  loiter' d 

by  the  way ; 
He'll  think  a  willing  ear  I  lent  to  all  the  lads 
I  might  say ; 

j  He'll  think  some  other  lover's  hand  among  my 
I  tresses  noosed, 

!  From  the  ears  where  he  had  placed  them,  my 

rings  of  pearl  unloosed ; 
I   He'll  think  when  I  was  sporting  so  beside  this 
I  marble  well. 

My  pearls  fell  in, — and  what  to  say,  alas  !  I 
cannot  tell. 

He'll  say  I  am  a  woman,  and  we  are  all  the 

same; 
He'll  say  I  loved  when  he  was  here  to  whisper 

of  his  flame — 
But  when  he  went  to  Tunis  my  virgin  troth 

had  broken. 
And  thought  no  more  of  Muga,  and  cared  not 

for  his  token. 
My  ear-rings !    my  ear-rings  !    oh  !   luckless, 

luckless  well ! 
For  what  to  say  to  Muca,   alas !    I  cannot 

tell. 

I'll  tell  the  truth  to  Mu9a,  and  I  hope  he  will 

believe — 
That  I  have  thought  of  him  at  morning,  and 
I  thought  of  him  at  eve : 

[   That  musing  on  my  lover,  when  down  the  sun 
i  was  gone, 

I   His   ear-rings  in   my  hand    I    held,  by  the 
I  fountain  all  alone  : 

And  that  my  mind  was  o'er  the  sea,  when  from 

my  hand  they  fell, 
And  that  deep  his  love  lies  in  my  heart,  as 
they  lie  in  the  well." 

/.  G.  LocTchart.—Born  1794,  Died  1851. 


1524.  — THE    EXCOMMUNICATION    OF 
THE  CID. 

It  was  when  from  Spain  across  the  main  the 
Cid  had  come  to  Rome, 

He  chanced  to  see  chairs  four  and  three  be- 
neath Saint  Peter's  dome. 

"  Now  tell,  I  pray,  what  chairs  be  they  ?  " — 
"  Seven  kings  to  sit  thereon. 

As  well  doth  suit,  aU  at  the  foot  of  the  holy 
Father's  throne. 

The  Pope  he  sitteth  above  them  all,  that  they 

may  kiss  his  toe, 
Below  the  keys  the  Flower-de-lys  doth  make 

a  gallant  show ; 
For  his  great  puissance,  the  King  of  France, 

next  to  the  Pope  may  sit, 
The  rest  more  low,  all  in  a  row,  as  doth  their 

station  fit." — 


From  1780  to  18GG.] 


THE  CONVICT  SHIP. 


[T.  K.  Hervet. 


"  Ha !  "  quoth  the  Cid,  "  now  God  forbid !  it 

is  a  shame,  I  wiss, 
To  see  the  Castle  planted  beneath  the  Flower- 

de-lys. 
No  harm,  I  hope,  good  Father  Pope — although 

I  move  thy  chair." — 
In  pieces  small  he  kick'd  it  all  ('twas  of  the 

ivory  fair). 

The  Pope's  own  seat  he  from  his  feet  did  kick 

it  far  away, 
And  the  Spanish  chair  he  planted  upon  its 

place  that  day ; 
Above  them  all  he  planted   it,  and   laugh'd 

right  bitterly ; 
Looks  sour  and  bad,  I  trow  ho  had,  as  grim  as 

grim  might  be. 

Now  when  the  Pope  was  aware  of  this,  he  was 
an  angry  man. 

His  lips  that  night,  with  solemn  right,  pro- 
nounced the  awful  ba,n ; 

The  curse  of  God,  who  died  on  rood,  was  on 
that  sinner's  head — 

To  hell  and  woe  man's  soul  must  go,  if  once 
that  curse  be  laid. 

I  wot,  when  the  Cid  was  aware  of  this,  a 

woeful  man  was  he, 
At  dawn  of   day  he  came    to  pray,  at    the 

blessed  Father's  knee : 
"Absolve,  blessed  Father,    have   pity  upon 

me. 
Absolve  my  soul,  and  penance  I  for  my  sin 

will  dree." 

*'  Who  is  the  sinner,"  quoth  the  Pope,  "  that 

at  my  foot  doth  kneel  ?  " 
— "I    am    Eodrigo    Diaz — a  jpoor  Baron  of 

CastiUe."— 
Much  marvell'd  all  were  in  the  hall,  when  that 

name  they  heard  him  say. 
— "  Else  up,  rise  up,"  the  Pope  he  said,  "  I  do 

thy  guilt  away; — 

I  do  thy  guilt  away,"  he  said — "  and  my  curse 

I  blot  it  out — 
God  save  Eodrigo  Diaz,  my  Christian  champion 

stout ; — 
I  trow,  if  I  had  known  thee,  my  grief  it  had 

been  sore, 
To  curse  Euy  Diaz  de  Bivar,  God's  scourge 

upon  the  Moor." 

J.  G.  Loclhart.—Born  1794,  Died  1854. 


1525.— THE  CONVICT  SHIP. 

Morn  on  the  waters  !  and,  purple  and  bright, 
Bursts  on  the  billows  the  flushing  of  light ; 
O'er  the  glad  waves,  like  a  child  of  the  sun, 
See  the  tall  vessel  goes  gallantly  on ; 
Full  to  the  breeze  she  unbosoms  her  sail, 
And  her  pennon  streams  onward,  like  hope,  in 
the  gale ; 


The  winds  come  around  her,  in  murmur  and 

song. 
And  the   surges  rejoice    as    they  bear  her 

along: 
See  !     she    looks    up    to    the   golden-edged 

clouds, 
And    the    sailor    sings    gaily    aloft,    in    the 

shrouds : 
Onward  she  glides,  amid  ripple  and  spray. 
Over  the  watera-r-away,  and  away ! 
Bright  as  the  visions  of  youth,  ere  they  part, 
Passing  away,  like  a  dream  of  the  heart ! 
Who — as  the  beautiful  pageant  sweeps  by, 
Music  around  her,  and  sunshine  on  high — 
Pauses  to  think,  amid  glitter  and  glow. 
Oh  !     there   be    hearts    that    are    breaking 

below ! 


Night  on  the  waves ! — and  the  moon  is  on 

high, 
Hung,  like  a  gem,  on  the  brow  of  the  sky, 
Treading  its    depths  in  the    power   of    her 

might. 
And  tiirning  the  clouds,  as  they  pass  her,  to 

light ! 
Look  to  the  waters  ! — asleep  on  their  breast, 
Seems  not  the  ship  like  an  island  of  rest  ? 
Bright  and  alone  on  the  shadowy  main, 
Like  a  heart-cherish' d  home  on  some  desolate 

plain! 
Who — as  she  smiles  in  the  silvery  light, 
Spreading  her  wings  on  the  bosom  of  night, 
Alone  on  the  deep,  as  the  moon  in  the  sky, 
A  phantom  of  beauty — could  deem  with  a 

sigh, 
That   so  lovely  a  thing  is   the   mansion  of 

sin. 
And  that  souls  that  are  smitten  lie  bursting 

within  ? 
Who,  as  he  watches  her  silently  gliding, 
Eemembers  that  wave  after  wave  is  dividing 
Bosoms    that    sorrow    and   guilt    could  not 

sever. 
Hearts    which   are    parted    and   broken  for 

ever  ? 
Or    deems  that  he  watches,  afloat   on    the 

wave, 
The  deathbed  of  hope,  or  the  young  spirit's 

grave  ? 

'Tis  thus  with  our  life,  while  it  passes  along, 
Like   a  vessel   at   sea,  amidst  sunshine  and 

song! 
Gaily  we  glide,  in  the  gaze  of  the  world. 
With  streamers  afloat,  and  with  canvas  un- 

furl'd  ; 
All  gladness  and  glory,  to  wandering  eyes. 
Yet  charter' d  by  sorrow,  and  freighted  ynth. 

sighs  : 
Fading  and  false  is  the  aspect  it  wears, 
As  the  smiles  we  put  on,  just  to  cover  our 

tears ; 
And  the  withering  thoughts  which  the  world 

cannot  know, 
Like  heart-broken  exiles,  lie  burning  below ; 


T.  K.  Hervey.] 


DRY  UP  THY  TEARS,  LOVE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Whilst  the  vessel  drives  on  to  that  desolate  j 

shore,  \ 

Where  the  dreams  of  our  childhood  are  va- 
nish'd  and  o'er.  | 

T.  K.  Hervey.— Born  1804,  Died  1859. 


1526.--DEY  UP  THY  TEARS,  LOVE. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  love ! — I  fain  would  be  gay ! 
Sing  me  the  song  of  my  early  day ! 
Give  me  the  music,  so  witchingly  wild, 
That  solaced  my  sorrows  when  I  was  a  child  ! — 
Years  have  gone  by  me,  both  lonely  and  long, 
Since  my  spirit  was  soothed  by  thy  voice  in 

that  song ! 
Years  have  gone  by! — and  life's  lowlands 

are  past. 
And  I  stand  on  the  hill  which  I  sigh'd  for,  at 

last: 
But  I  turn  from  the  summit  that  once  was  my 

star, 
To  the  vale  of  my  childhood,  been  dimly  and 

far; — 
Each  blight  on  its  beauty  seems  softeu'd  and 

gone, 
Like  a  land  that  we  love,  in  the  light  of  the 

mom ! 
There  are  the  flowers  that  have  withered 

away. 
And  the  hopes  that  have  faded,  like  fairies  at 

play ; 
And  the  eyes  that  are  dimm'd,  and  the  smiles 

that  are  gone, 
And  thou,  too,  art  there ! — but  thou  still  art 

mine  own ; 
Fair  as  in  childhood,  and  fond  as  in  youth, 
Thou,  only  thou,  wert  a  spirit  of  truth  ! 
Time  hath  been  o'er  thee,  and  darken'd 

thine  eye. 
And  thoughts  are  within  thee  more  holy  and 

high ; 
Sadder  thy  smile  than  in  days  that  are  o'er. 
And  lovelier  all  that  was  lovely  before ; 
That  which  thou  wert  is  not  that  which  thou 

art, 
Thou,  too,  art  alter' d  in  all — but  in  heart ! 

Lie  on  my  bosom,  and  lead  me  along 
Over  lost  scenes,  by  the  magic  of  song ! 
What  if  I  weep  at  the  vision  of  years  ? 
Sighs  are  not  sorrows — and  joy  has  her  tears  ! 
Sad  is  my  brow,  as  thy  music  is  sad. 
But  oh !    it  is  long  since  my  heart  was  so 

glad! 
But  all  that  is  left  me  of  life's  promise  is 

here, — 
Thou,  my  young  idol,  in  sorrow  more  dear ! 
But  thy  murmurs  remind  me  of  many  away, 
And  though  I  am  glad,  love!   I   cannot  be 

gay  !— 
All  have  depai-ted  that  offer' d  like  truth, 
Save  thou — only  thou — and  the  song  of  my 

youth  ! 

T.  K.  Hervey. —Born  1804,  Died  1859. 


1527.— I  AM  ALL  ALONE. 

I  am  all  alone  ! — and  the  visions  that  play 
Round  life's  young  days,  have  pass'd  away ; 
And  the  songs  are  hush'd  that  gladness  sings, 
And  the  hopes  that  I  cherish' d  have  made 

them  wings ; 
And  the  light  of  my  heart  is  dimm'd  and  gone, 
As  I  sit  in  my  sorrow — and  all  alone ! 

And  the  forms  which  I  fondly  loved  are 

flown. 
And  friends  have  departed — one  by  one  j 
And  memory  sits,  whole  lonely  hours, 
And    weaves    her    wreath    of    hope's    faded 

flowers. 
And  weeps  o'er  the  chaplet,  when  no  or.e  is 

near 
To  gaze  on  her  grief,  or  to  chide  her  tear  ! 
And  the  hour  of  my  childhood  is  distant 

far, 
And  I  walk  in  a  land  where  strangers  are  ; 
And  the  looks  that  I  meet,  and  the  sounds 

that  I  hear. 
Are  not  light  to  my  spirit,  nor  song  to  my 

ear; 
And  sunshine  is  round  me — which  I  cannot 

see. 
And  eyes  which  beam  kindness — but  not  for 

me ! 
And  the  song  goes  round,  and  the  glowing 

smile. 
But  I  am  desolate  all  the  while ! 
And  faces  are  bright  and  bosoms  glad. 
And  nothing,  I  think,  but  my  heart  is  sad  ! 
And  I  seem  like  a  blight  in  a  region  of  bloom. 
While  I  dwell  in  my  own  little  circle  of  gloom  ! 

I  wander  about  like  a  shadow  of  pain. 
With  a  worm  in  my  breast,  and  a  spell  on  my 

brain ; 
And  I  list,  with  a  start,  to  the  gushing  of 

gladness, — 
Oh !  how  it  grates  on  a  bosom  all  sadness  ! — 
So,  I  turn  from  a  world  where  I  never  was 

knoAvn, 
To  sit  in  my  sorrow — and  all  alone. 

T.  K.  Hervey. —Born  1804,  Died  1859. 


1528.— AT  HIS  SISTER'S  GRAVE. 

The  feeling  is  a  nameless  one 
With  which  I  sit  upon  thy  stone, 
And  read  the  tale  I  dare  not  breathe, 
Of  blighted  hope  that  sleeps  beneath, 
A  simple  tablet  bears  above 
Brief  record  of  a  father's  love, 
And  hints,  in  language  yet  more  brief, 
The  story  of  a  father's  grief  : — 

Lost  spirit ! — thine  was  not  a  breast 
To  struggle  vainly  after  rest ! 
Thou  wert  not  made  to  bear  the  strife, 
Nor  labour  through  the  storms  of  life  ; 
Thy  heart  was  in  too  warm  a  mould 
To  mingle  with  the  dull  and  cold. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  PAUPER'S  DEATHBED. 


[Caroline  Southey- 


And  every  though^  that  wrong'd  thy  truth     | 
Fell  like  a  blight  upon  thy  youth ! —  { 

Thou  shouldst  have  been,  for  thy  distress,      j 
Less  pure — and  oh,  more  passionless !  | 

For  sorrow's  wasting  mildew  gave  j 

Its  tenant  to  my  sister's  grave  ! 

But  all  thy  griefs,  my  girl,  are  o'er  I 
Thy  fair  blue  eye  shall  weep  no  more  ! 
'Tis  sweet  to  know  thy  fragile  form 
Lies  safe  from  every  future  storm ! — 
Oft,  as  I  haunt  the  dreamy  gloom 
That  gathers  round  thy  peaceful  tomb, 
I  love  to  see  the  lightning  stream 
Along  thy  stone  with  fitful  gleam ; 
To  fancy  in  each  flash  are  given 
Thy  spirit's  visitings  from  heaven ; — 
And  smile  to  hear  the  tempest  rave 
Above  my  sister's  quiet  grave ! 

T.  K.  Hervey.—Born  1804,  Died  1859. 


1529.— PARTING. 

My  early  love,  and  must  we  part  ? 
Yes  !  other  wishes  win  thee  now ; 
New  hopes  are  springing  in  thy  heart. 
New  feelings  brightening  o'er  thy  brow ! 
And  childhood's  light  and  childhood's  home 
Are  all  forgot  at  glory's  call. 
Yet,  cast  one  thought  in  years  to  come 
On  her  who  loved  thee  o'er  them  all. 

When  pleasure's  bowl  is  fiU'd  for  thee-, 
And  thou  hast  raised  the  cup  to  sip, 
I  would  not  that  one  dream  of  me 
Should  chase  the  chalice  from  thy  lip  : 
But  should  there  mingle  in  the  draught 
One  dream  of  days  that  long  are  o'er. 
Then — only  then — the  pledge  be  quaff  'd 
To  her  who  ne'er  shall  taste  it  more ! 

When  love  a;id  friendship's  holy  joys 
Within  their  magic  circle  bind  thee, 
And  happy  hearts  and  smiling  eyes, 
As  all  must  wear  who  are  around  thee ! 
Remember  that  an  eye  as  bright 
Is  dimm'd — a  heart  as  true  is  broken. 
And  turn  thee  from  thy  land  of  light. 
To  waste  on  these  some  little  token. 
But  do  not  weop  ! — I  could  not  bear 
To  stain  thy  cheek  with  sorrow's  trace, 
I  would  not  draw  one  single  tear, 
For  worlds,  down  that  beloved  face. 
As  soon  would  I,  if  power  were  given, 
Pluck  out  the  bow  from  yonder  sky, 
And  free  the  prison' d  floods  of  heaven, 
As  call  one  tear-drop  to  thine  eye. 

Yet  oh,  my  love  !  I  know  not  why 
It  is  a  woman's  thought ! — but  while 
Thou  offer' st  to  my  memory. 
The  tribute  should  not  be — a  smile ! 
For,  though  I  would  not  see  thee  weep, 
The  heart,  methinks,  should  not  be  gay, 
That  would  the  fast  of  feeling  keep 
For  her  who  loves  it,  far  away. 

No !  give  me  but  a  single  sigh, 


Pure  as  we  breathed  in  happier  hours, 
When  very  sighs  were  wing'd  with  joy. 
Like  gales  that  have  swept  over  flowers ; 
That  uttering  of  a  fond  regret, 
That  strain  my  spirit  long  must  pour ; 
A  thousand  dreams  may  wait  us  yet : 
Our  holiest  and  our  first  is  o'er. 

T.  K.  Hcrvey.—Born  1804,  Died  1859. 


1530.— AUTUMN  FLOWERS. 

Those  few  pale  Autumn  flowers. 

How  beautiful  they  are  ! 
Than  all  that  went  before. 
Than  all  the  Summer  store. 

How  lovelier  far ! 

And  why  ? — They  are  the  last  I 
The  last !  the  last  1  the  last ! 
Oh !  by  that  little  word 
How  many  thoughts  are  stirr'd 
That  whisper  of  the  past  I 

Pale  flowers !  pale  perishing  flowers  ! 

Ye' re  types  of  precious  things  ; 
Types  of  those  bitter  moments. 
That  flit,  like  life's  enjoyments. 

On  rapid,  rapid  wings : 

Last  hours  with  parting  dear  ones 
(That  Time  the  fastest  spends), 

Last  tears  in  silence  shed. 

Last  words  half  utter'd, 
Last  looks  of  dying  friends. 

Who  but  would  fain  compress 

A  life  into  a  day, — 
The  last  day  spent  -with  one 
Who  ere  the  morrow's  sun 

Must  leave  us,  and  for  aye  ? 

0  precious,  precious  moments  ! 

Pale  flowers !  ye' re  types  of  those ; 
The  saddest,  sweetest,  dearest. 
Because,  like  those,  the  nearest 

To  an  eternal  close. 

Pale  flowers !  pale  perishing  flowers  ! 
I  woo  your  gentle  breath — 

1  leave  the  Summer  rose 
For  younger,  blither  brows  ; 

Tell  me  of  change  and  death. 

Caroline  Southey. — Born  1786,  Died  1854. 


[531.— THE  PAUPER'S  DEATHBED. 

Tread  softly !  bow  the  head — 
In  reverent  silence  bow  ! 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll ; 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

70 


Caroline  Southey.]                    THE  LAST  JOURNEY.                      [Seventh  Period.— 

Stranger,  however  great, 

0,  friend !  I  go  from  thee — 

With  lowly  reverence  bow  ! 

Where  the  worm  feasteth  free, 

There's  one  in  that  poor  shed — 

Darkly  to  dwell ; 

One  by  that  paltry  bed — 

Giv'st  thou  no  parting  kiss  ?                          i 

Greater  than  thou. 

Friend  !  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

0,  friend,  farewell !  " 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo !  Death  doth  keep  his  state ! 

Uplift  your  load  again ! 

Enter ! — ^no  crowds  attend — 

Take  up  the  mourning  strain — 

Enter ! — no  guards  defend 

Pour  the  deep  wail ! 

This  palace  gate. 

Lo  !  the  expected  one 

That  pavement  damp  and  cold 

To  his  place  passeth  on —                             1 

Gm.vp  '    bifl  him  lin.il  '                                           B 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread  j 

\AXCU1  V   .       Kfi-KA     II  1  1 1 1     AltMXJ,  •                                                                                   U 

One  silent  woman  stands. 

Yet,  yet — ah  !  slowly  move !                        f 

Lifting  with  meagre  hands 

Bear  not  the  form  we  love 

A  dying  head. 

Fast  from  our  sight — 

No  mingling  voices  sound — 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 
A  sob  suppress' d — again 

Let  the  air  breathe  on  him,                           . 
And  the  sun  beam  on  him 
Last  looks  of  light. 

That  short  deep  gasp — and  then 

Here  dwells  his  mortal  foe  ; 

The  parting  groan ! 

Lay  the  departed  low. 

0!  change — 0!  wondrous  change ! 

Even  at  his  gate  ! 

Burst  are  the  prison  bars  1 

Will  the  dead  speak  again— 

This  moment  there,  so  low. 

Utt'ring  proud  boasts,  and  vain 

So  agonized — and  now 

Last  words  of  hate  ?                                  ^ 

Beyond  the  stars ! 

Lo !  the  cold  lips  unclose — 

0  !  change— stupendous  change ! 

List !  list !  what  sounds  are  those, 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod  ! 

Pla,intive  and  low  ? 

The  sun  eternal  breaks ; 

"  0,  thou,  mine  enemy  ! 

The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Come  forth  and  look  on  me, 

Wakes  with  his  God. 

Ere  hence  I  go. 

Caroline  Southey.-^Bom  1786,  Died  1854. 

Curse  not  thy  foeman  now — 

Mark  !  on  his  pallid  brow 

Whosjp  spal  i«;  set  ' 

Pardoning  I  pass  thy  way ; 

Then  wage  not  war  with  clay- 

.    1532.--THE  LAST  JOURNEY. 

Pardon — forget !  " 

•            Slowly,  with  measured  tread, 

Now  all  his  labour 's  done ! 

Onward  we  bear  the  dead 

Now,  now  the  goal  is -won ! 

To  his  lone  home ; 

0,  grave,  we  come  ! 

Short  grows  the  homeward  road — 

Seal  up  the  precious  dust — 

On  -svith  your  mortal  load  ! — 

Land  of  the  good  and  just, 

0,  grave  !  we  come. 

Take  the  soul  home ! 

Yet,  yet — ah !  hasten  not 

Caroline  Southey ..—Born  1786,  Died  1854 

Past  each  remember'd  spot 

Where  he  hath  been — 
Where  late  he  walk'd  in  glee. 

These  from  henceforth  to  be 

Never  more  seen  I 

•  1533.— MAEINER'S  HYMN. 

East  ye — set  down  the  bier  I 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner ! 

One  he  loved  dwelleth  here  ; 

Christian,  God  speed  thee ! 

Let  the  dead  lie 

Let  loose  the  rudder-bands — 

A  moment  that  door  beside. 

Good  angels  lead  thee !                                " 

Wont  to  fly  open  wide 

Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Ere  he  drew  nigh. 

Tempests  ^vill  come ; 

Hearken ! — he  speaketh  yet ! — 

Steer  thy  course  steadily ; 
Christian,  steer  home ! 

"  0,  friend  !  Avilt  thou  forget 

(Friend — more  than  brother !) 

Look  to  the  weather-bow. 

How  hand  in  hand  we've  gone, 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 

Heart  with  beai-t  link'd  in  or.c — 

Let  fall  the  plummet  now. 

All  to  each  other  ? 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 

t'mn  1780  to  186G.] 


CASA  WAPPY. 


[D.  M.  MoiR. 


Eeef  in  the  foresail,  there ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast ! 
So — let  the  vessel  wear — ■ 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"  What  of  the  night,  watchman  ? 

What  of  the  night  ?  " 
"  Cloudy — all  quiet — 

No  land  j^et — all's  right." 
Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 

How !  gains  the  leak  so  fast  ? 

Clean  out  the  hold — 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise. 

Heave  out  thy  gold ; 
There — let  the  ingots  go — 

JNow  the  ship  rights  ; 
Hurra !  the  harbour  'b  near — 

Lo !  the  red  lights ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on, 

Cut  through  the  foam — 
Christian !  cast  anchor  now — 

Heaven  is  thy  home  ! 

Caroline  Southey. — Bom  1786,  Died  1854. 


1534.— CASA  WAPPY. 

And  haet  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 

Our  fond,  dear  boy — 
The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 

Where  life  is  joy  ? 
Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth ; 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  death, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell. 

As  closed  thine  eye ; 
Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 

When  thou  didst  die ; 
Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee, 
Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathom'd  agony, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Thou  wert  a  vision  of  delight 

To  bless  us  given ; 
Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight, 

A  type  of  heaven  : 
So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 
Even  less  thine  own  self  than  a  part 
Of  mine  and  of  thy  mother's  heart, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Thy  bright  brief  day  kne^v  no  decline, 

'Twas  cloudless  joy; 
Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thinC; 

Beloved  boy ! 


This  mom  beheld  thee  blithe  and  gay, 
That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay, 
And  e'er  a  third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride. 
Earth' s  undefiled ;  

Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died, 
Our  dear,  sweet  child ! 

Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate's  decree ; 

Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 

Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Do  what  I  may,  go  where  I  will. 

Thou  meet'st  my  sight ; 
There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still — 

A  form  of  light ! 
I  feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 
I  see  thee  smile,  I  hear  thee  speak — 
Till  oh !  my  heart  is  like  to  break, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Methinks  thou  smil'st  before  me  now. 

With  glance  of  stealth ; 
The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow 

In  buoyant  health : 
I  see  thine  eyes'  deep  violet  light, 
Thy  dimpled  cheek  carnation'd  bright, 
Thy  clasping  arms  so  round  and  wliite, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

The  nurseiy  shows  thy  pictured  wall, 

Thy  bat,  thy  bow, 
Thy  cloak  and  bonnet,  club  and  ball  j 

But  where  art  thou  ? 
A  corner  holds  thine  empty  chair. 
Thy  playthings  idly  scatter' d  there. 
But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Even  to  the  last  thy  every  word — 

To  glad,  to  grieve — 
Was  sweet  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 

On  summer's  eve ; 
In  outward  beauty  undecay'd, 
Death  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade, 
And  like  the  rainbow  thou  didst  fade, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

We  mourn  for  thee  when  blind  blank  night 

The  chamber  fills ; 
We  pine  for  thee  when  morn's  first  light 

Reddens  the  hills : 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 
All,  to  the  wall-flower  and  vnld  pea, 
Are  changed — we  saw  the  world  through 
thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

And  though,  perchance,  a  smile  may  gleam. 

Of  casual  mirth, 
It  doth  not  own,  whate'er  may  seem, 

An  inward  birth : 
We  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair ; 
We  miss  thee  at  thine  evening  i^rayer  I 
All  day  we  miss  thee,  everywhere, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

70* 


D.  M.  MoiB.j 


LANGSYNE. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. 


Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 

In  life's  spring  bloom, 
Down  to  the  appointed  house  below, 

The  silent  tomb. 
But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 
The  cuckoo  and  "  the  busy  bee," 
Return — ^but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

'Tis  so;  but  can  it  be  (while  flowers 

Revive  again) — 
Man's  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 

For  aye  remain  ? 
Oh !  can  it  be,  that  o'er  the  grave 
The  grass  renew' d,  should  yearly  wave. 
Yet  Grod  forget  our  child  to  save  ? — 
Casa  Wappy  I 

It  cannot  be :  for  were  it  so 

Thus  man  could  die, 
Life  were  a  mockery.  Thought  were  woe. 

And  Truth  a  lie ; 
Heaven  were  a  coinage  of  the  brain, 
Religion  frenzy.  Virtue  vain. 
And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Then  be  to  us,  0  dear,  lost  child ! 

With  beam  of  love, 
A  star,  death's  uncongenial  wild 

Smiling  above ; 
Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph's  road. 
That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Yet  'tis  sweet  balm  to  our  despair. 

Fond,  fairest  boy, 
That  heaven  is  God's,  and  thou  art  there, 

With  him  in  joy  : 
There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes. 
There  beauty's  stream  for  ever  flows, 
And  pleasure's  day  no  sunset  knows, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Farewell,  then — for  a  while,  farewell — 

Pride  of  my  heart ! 
It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell. 

Thus  torn  apart : 
Time's  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee : 
And,  dark  howe'er  life's  night  may  be. 
Beyond  the  grave  I'll  meet  with  thee, 
Casa  Wappy  I 

D.  M.  Moir.—Born  1798,  Died  1851. 


1535.— LANGSYNE. 

Langsjme ! — how  doth  the  word  come  back 

With  magic  meaning  to  the  heart. 

As  memory  roams  the  sunny  track, 

From  which  hope's  dreams  were  loath  to  part! 

No  joy  like  by-past  joy  appears ; 

For  what  is  gone  we  fret  and  pine. 

Were  life  spun  out  a  thousand  years 

It  could  not  match  Langsyne ! 


Langsyne  ! — the  days  of  childhood  warm. 
When,  tottering  by  a  mother's  knee. 
Each  sight  and  sound  had  power  to  charm, 
And  hope  was  high,  and  thought  was  free. 
Langsyne  ! — ^the  merry  schoolboy  days — 
How  sweetly  then  life's  sun  did  shine  ! 
Oh  !  for  the  glorious  pranks  and  plays, 
The  raptures  of  Langsyne. 

Langsyne ! — yes,  in  the  sound  I  hear 
The  rustling  of  the  summer  grove ; 
And  view  those  angerfeatures  near 
Which  first  awoke  the  heart  to  love. 
How  sweet  it  is  in  pensive  mood. 
At  windless  midnight  to  recline. 
And  fill  the  mental  solitude 
With  spectres  from  Langsyne  ! 

Langsyne  ! — ah,  where  are  they  who  shared 
With  us  its  pleasures  bright  and  blithe  .^ 
Kindly  with  some  hath  fortune  fared ; 
And  some  have  bowed  beneath  the  scythe 
Of  death ;  while  others  scatter' d  far 
O'er  foreign  lands  at  fate  repine. 
Oft  wandering  forth,  'neath  twilight's  star, 
To  muse  on  dear  Langsyne ! 

Langsyne ! — the  heart  can  never  be 
Again  so  full  of  guileless  truth.; 
Langsyne  ! — the  eyes  no  more  shall  see. 
Ah  no !  the  rainbow  hopes  of  youth. 
Langsyne  ! — with  thee  resides  a  speU 
To  raise  the  spirit,  and  refine. 
Farewell ! — there  can  be  no  farewell 
To  thee,  loved,  lost  Langsyne ! 

D.  M.  Moir.—Born  1798,  Died  1851. 


I536._THE  UNKNOWN  GRAVE. 

I   Who  sleeps  below  ?  who  sleeps  below  ? 

It  is  a  question  idle  all ! 
Ask  of  the  breezes  as  they  blow, 

Say,  do  they  heed,  or  hear  thy  call  ? 
They  murmur  in  the  trees  around, 
And  mock  thy  voice,  an  empty  sound ! 

A  hundred  summer  suns  have  shower' d 

Their  fostering  warmth,  and  radiance  bright ; 

A  hundred  winter  storms  have  lower' d 
With  piercing  floods,  and  hues  of  night. 

Since  first  this  remnant  of  his  race 

Did  tenant  his  lone  dwelling-place. 

Say,  did  he  come  from  East,  from  West  ? 

From  Southern  climes,  or  where  the  Pole, 
With  frosty  sceptre,  doth  arrest 

The  howling  billows  as  they  roll  ? 
Within  what  realm  of  peace  or  strife 
Did  he  first  draw  the  breath  of  life  ? 

Was  he  of  high  or  low  degree  ? 

Did  grandeur  smile  upon  his  lot  ? 
Or,  bom  to  dark  obscurity. 

Dwelt  he  within  some  lowly  cot. 


F»-om  1780  to  1866.] 


PEEICLES  AND  ASPASIA. 


[George  Crolt. 


And,  from  his  youth  to  labour  wed, 

From  toil-strung  limbs  -wrung  daily  bread  ? 

Say,  died  he  ripe,  and  full  of  years, 
Bow'd  down,  and  bent  by  hoary  eld, 

When  sound  was  silence  to  his  ears, 
And  the  dim  eyeball  sight  withheld ; 

Like  a  ripe  apple  falling  down. 

Unshaken,  'mid  the  orchard  brown; 

When  all  the  friends  that  bless' d  his  prime, 
Were  vanish' d  like  a  morning  dream ; 

Pluck'd  one  by  one  by  spareless  Time, 
And  scatter'd  in  oblivion's  stream ; 

Passing  away  all  silently. 

Like  snow-flakes  melting  in  the  sea : 

Or,  'mid  the  summer  of  his  years, 

When    round    him  throng' d    his    children 
young. 
When  bright  eyes  gush'd  with  burning  tears, 

And  anguish  dwelt  on  every  tongue. 
Was  he  cut  off,  and  left  behind 
A  widow' d  wife,  scarce  half  resign' d  ? 

Or,  'mid  the  sunshine  of  his  spring, 

Came  the  swift  bolt  that  dash'd  him  down ; 

When  she,  his  chosen,  blossoming 
In  beauty,  deom'd  him  all  her  own, 

And  forward  look'd  to  happier  years 

Than  ever  bless' d  this  vale  of  tears  ? 

By  day,  by  night,  through  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  distant  oceans  did  he  roam, 

Far  from  his  land,  a  lonely  form, 

The  deck  his  walk,  the  sea  his  home  : 

Toss'd  he  on  wild  Biscayan  wave, 

Or  whera  smooth  tides  Panama  lave  ? 

Slept  ho  within  the  tented  field. 

With  pillowing  daisies  for  his  bed  ? 

Captived  in  battle,  did  he  yield  ? 
Or  plunge  to  victory  o'er  the  dead  ? 

Oft,  'mid  destruction,  hath  he  broke 

Through  reeking  blades  and  rolling  smoke  ? 

Perhaps  he  perish' d  for  the  faith — 

One  of  that  persecuted  band. 
Who  suffer' d  tortures,  bonds,  and  death, 

To  free  from  mental  thrall  the  land, 
And,  toiling  for  the  martyr's  fame. 
Espoused  his  fate,  nor  found  a  name  ! 

Say,  was  he  one  to  science  blind, 
A  groper  in  Earth's  dungeon  dark  ? 

Or  one  who  with  aspiring  mind 
Did,  in  the  fair  creation,  mark 

The  Maker's  hand,  and  kept  his  soul 

Free  from  this  grovelling  world's  control? 

Hush  !  wild  surmise  ! — 'tis  vain — 'tis  vain — 
The  summer  flowers  in  beauty  blow, 

And  sighs  the  wind,  and  floods  the  rain, 
O'er  some  old  bones  that  rot  below  ; 

No  other  record  can  wo  trace 

Of  fame  or  fortune,  rank  or  race  l 


Then,  what  is  life,  when  thus  we  see 
No  trace  remains  of  life's  career  ? — 

Mortal !  whoe'er  thou  art,  for  thee 
A  moral  lesson  gloweth  here  ; 

Putt'st  thou  in  aught  of  earth  thy  trust  ? 

'Tis  doom'd  that  dust  shall  mix  witiuiust. 

What  doth  it  matter,  then,  if  thus. 
Without  a  stone,  without  a  name, 

To  impotently  herald  us. 

We  float  not  on  the  breath  of  fame  ; 

But,  like  the  dewdrop  from  the  flower, 

Pass,  after  glittering  for  an  hour  ? 

The  soul  decays  not,  freed  from  earth, 
And  earthly  coils,  it  bursts  away ; — 

Eeceiving  a  celestial  birth. 

And  spurning  off  its  bonds  of  clay, 

It  soars,  and  seeks  another  sphere, 

And  blooms  through  Heaven's  eternal  year ! 

Do  good ;  shun  evil ;  live  not  thou, 

As  if  at  death  thy  being  died ; 
Nor  error's  siren  voice  allow 

To  draw  thy  steps  from  truth  aside ; 
Look  to  thy  journey's  end — the  grave ! 
And  trust  in  Him  whose  arm  can  save. 

D.  M.  Moir.—Born  1798,  Died  1851. 


1537.— HYMN. 

Father  in  Heaven !  who  gave  me  breath. 
And  made  this  world  for  such  as  me, 

Eemind  me,  I  must  give,  at  death. 
Account  of  all  my  deeds  to  Thee ! 

If  from  the  track  of  duty  e'er 

My  thoughts  would  roam,  my  feet  would 
slide, 
Still  may  I  feel  that  Thou  art  near. 

And  pray  Thee,  Lord,  to  be  my  guide. 

Yes !  from  Thine  eye's  unsleeping  lid. 
And  from  Thy  presence  none  can  flee ; 

The  secret  places  are  not  hid, 

And  darkness  is  as  light  to  Thee  ! 

So  when  I  wake  to  morninf?  light. 

My  prayers  to  Thee  shall  still  ascend ; 

And  I  will  ask  Thee,  every  night. 
To  bless  my  slumbers,  and  defend ! 

D.M.  Moir.—Born  1798,  Died  1851. 


1538.— PERICLES  AND  ASPASIA. 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land. 

When  Athens  was  the  land  of  fame ; 

This  was  the  light  that  led  the  band, 
When  each  was  like  a  living  flame ; 

The  centre  of  earth's  noblest  ring, 

Of  more  than  men,  the  more  than  king. 


Geokge  Ckoly.] 


THE  FEENCH  AEMY  IN  RUSSIA. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


Yet  not  by  fetter,  nor  by  spear, 
His  sovereignty  was  held  or  won  : 

Feared — bat  alone  as  freemen  fear; 
Loved — but  as  freemen  love  alone ; 

He  waved  the  sceptre  o'er  his  kind 

By  nature's  first  great  title — mind  ! 

Resistless  words  were  on  his  tongue, 
Then  Eloquence  first  flash' d  below  ; 

Full  arm'd  to  life  the  portent  sprung, 
Minerva  from  the  Thunderer's  brow  ! 

And  his  the  sole,  the  sacred  hand, 

That  shook  her  jEgis  o'er  the  land. 

And  throned  immortal  by  his  side, 
A  woman  sits  with  eye  sublime, 

Aspasia,  all  his  spirit's  bride; 

But,  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime, 

Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage, 

Their  crime  was  in  their  darken' d  age. 

He  perish' d,  but  his  wreath  was  won ; 

He  perish' d  in  his  height  of  fame  : 
Then  sunk  the  cloud  on  Athens'  sun. 

Yet  still  she  conquer' d  in  his  name. 
Fill'd  with  his  soul,  she  could  not  die ; 
Her  conquest  was  Posterity  ! 

George  Croly.—Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


Broad  square,  loose  squadron,  rolling  like 

the  flood, 
When  mighty  torrents  from  their  channels 

leap, 
Rush'd  through  the  land  the  haughty  multi- 
tude, 
Billow  on  endless  billow ;  on  through  wood, 
O'er  rugged  hill,  down  sunless,  marshy  vale. 
The  death-devoted  moved,  to  clangour  rude 
Of  drum  and  horn,  and  dissonant  clash  of 
mail, 
Glancing  disastrous  light  before  that  sunbeam 
pale. 

Again  they  reach'd  thee,  Borodino !  still 
Upon  the  loaded  soil  the  carnage  lay. 


^539-— THE  FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA. 

Magnificence  of  ruin !  what  has  time 
In  all  it  ever  gazed  upon  of  war, 
Of  the  wild  rage  of  storm,  or  deadly  clime. 
Seen,  with  that  battle's  vengeance  to  com- 
pare? 
How   glorious   shone    the   invader's   pomp 

afar ! 
Like   pamper' d  lions  from  the  spoil  they 

came ; 
The  land  before  them  silence  and  despair. 
The  land  behind  them  massacre  and  flame ; 
Blood  will  have  tenfold  blood.   What  are  they 
now  ?     A  name. 

Homeward  by  hundred  thousands,  column- 


The  human  harvest,  now  stark,  stiff,  and 

chill, 
Friend,  foe,  stretch' d  thick  together,  clay  to 

clay ; 
In  vain  the  startled  legions  burst  away ; 
The  land  was  all  one  naked  sepulchre  .: 
The   shrinking  eye   still   glanced   on  grim 

decay, 
StiU  did  the  hoof  and  wheel  their  passage 

tear. 
Through  cloven  helms  and  arms,  and  corpses 

mouldering  drear. 

The  field  was  as  they  left  it ;  fosse  and  fort 
Steaming  with  slaughter  still,  but  desolate  ; 
The  cannon  flung  dismantled  by  its  port ; 
Each    knew  the  mound,  the  black  ravine 

whose  strait 
Was  won  and  lost,  and  throng'd  with  dead, 

tiU  fate 
Had  fix'd  upon  the  factor — half  undone. 
There  was  the  hiU,  from  which  their  eyes 

elate 
Had  seen  the  burst  of  Moscow's   golden 

zone  ; 
But  death  was  at  their  heels ;  they  shudder'd 

and  rush'd  on, 

ITie  hour  of  vengeance  strikes.     Hark  to 

the  gale ! 
As   it   bursts   hollow   through  the  rolling 

clouds. 
That  from  the   north   in   sullen  grandeur 

sail 
Like   floating   Alps.      Advancing  darknesB 

broods 
Upon  the  wild  horizon,  and  the  woods. 
Now  sinking  into  brambles,  echo  shrill, 
As  the  gust  sweeps  them,  and  those  upper 

floods 
Shoot  on  their  leafless  boughs   the  sleet- 
drops  chill. 
That   on    the   hurrying   crowds    in    freezing 

showers  distil. 

They  reach  the  wilderness  !     The  majesty 
Of  solitude  is  spread  before  their  gaze. 
Stern  nakedness — dark  earth  and  wrathful 

sky. 
If  ruins  were  there,  they  long  had  ceased  to 

blaze ; 
If   blood  was  shed,  the   ground   no   moro 

betrays, 
Even  by  a  skeleton,  the  crime  of  man ; 
Behind  them  rolls  the  deep  and  drenching 

haze. 
Wrapping  their  rear  in  night ;  before  their 

van 
The  struggling   daylight   shows   the  unmea- 

sured  desert  wan. 

Still  on  they  sweep,  as  if  their  hurrying 

march 
Could  bear  them  from  the  rushing  of  His 

wheel 
Whose  chariot  is  the  whirlwind.     Heaven' a 

clear  arch 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


EEBELLION. 


[George  Croly* 


At  once  is  cover' d  with  a  Kvid  veil ; 

In  mix'd  and  fighting  heaps  the  deep  olouds 

reel; 
Upon  the  dense  horizon  hangs  the  snn, 
In  sanguine  light,  an  orb  of  burning  steel ; 
The  snows  wheel  down  through  twihght, 

thick  and  dun ; 
Now  tremble,  men  of  blood,  the  judgment  has 

begun'. 

The  trumpet  of  the  northern  winds  has 

blown, 
And  it  is  answer' d  by  the  dying  roar 
Of   armies   on    that   boundless    field   o'er- 

thrown : 
Now  in  the  awful  gusts  the  desert  hoar 
Is  tempested,  a  sea  without  a  shore. 
Lifting  its   feathery  waves.      The   legions 

fly; 
Volley  on  volley  down  the  hailstones  pour ; 
Blind,  famish' d,  frozen,  mad,  the  wanderers 

die. 
And  djdng,  hear  the  storm  but  wilder  thunder 

by. 

Such  is  the  hand  of  Heaven !     A  human 

blow 
Had  crush'd  them  in  the  fight,  or  flung  the 

chain 
Uound  them  where  Moscow's  stately  towers 

were  low 
And  all  bestill'd.     But  Thou !  thy  battle- 
plain 
"Was  a  whole  empire  ;  that  devoted  train 
Must  war  from  day  to  day  with  storm  and 

gloom 
(Man  following,  like  the  wolves,  to  rend  the 

slain). 
Must  he  from  night  to  night  as  in  a  tomb. 
Must  fly,  toil,  bleed  for  home ;  yet  never  see 

that  home. 

George  Crohj. — Bom  1780,  Died  1861. 


1540.— TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  LADY. 

High  peace  to  the  soul  of  the  dead, 

From  the  dream  of  the  world  she  has  gone ! 
On  the  stars  in  her  glory  to  tread, 

To  be  bright  in  the  blaze  of  the  throne. 
In  youth  she  was  lovely ;  and  Time, 

When  her  rose  with  the  cypress  he  twined, 
Left  the  heart  all  the  warmth  of  its  prime, 

Left  her  eye  all  the  light  of  her  mind. 
The  summons  came  forth — and  she  died  ! 

Yet  her  parting  was  gentle,  for  those 
Whom  she  loved  mingled  tears  at  her  side — 

Her  death  was  the  mourner's  repose. 
Our  weakness  may  weep  o'er  her  bier, 

But  her  spirit  has  gone  on  the  ^ving 
To  triumph  for  agony  here, 

To  rejoice  in  the  joy  of  its  King. 

George  Crolij.—-Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


1541.—COME,  EVENING  GALE  ! 

(A.D.  1500.) 

Come,  eveninge  gale  !  the  orimsonne  rose 
Is  drooping  for  thy  sighe  of  dewe  ; 
The  hyacinthe  moves  thy  kisse  to  close 
In  slumber  sweeto  its  eye  of  blue.  —     - 

Shone,  eveninge  starre  !  the  valley- streame 
Hath  loste  the  tinges  of  the  sunne, 
And  lingers  for  thy  pearHe  beame, 
To  tell  its  bosome  daye  is  done. 

Rise,  eveninge  moone !  thy  holie  raye 
To  telle  of  heavenlie  hours  is  giv^en, 
Whenne  earthe  shall  on  our  eye  decaye, 
And  alle  our  path,  Uke  thine,  be  heavenne. 

George  Croly.—Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


1542.— THE  PAINTER. 

That  rock's  his  haunt.     There's  not  in  all 

our  hills 
A  hunter   that   can  climb   like   him.      He'll 

watch 
Before  the  lark  is  up  ;  and,  staff  in  hand. 
For  hours  stand  gazing,  by  the  eagle's  nest, 
Like  one  enamour' d  of  the  rising  sun ; 
And  then  he'll  make  his  couch  beside  a  rill, 
Which,  in  his  fantasy,  he  strews  with  shells, 
And    hangs    with    garlands    of    the    weedy 

flowers. 
Some  think  him  love-crost;    others  that  he 

deals 
With  spirits :  for  all  such  seek  loneliness. 
And  yet  I  think  him  holy,  for  he  loves 
Our   convent   walls ;    and   many  an   evening 

strays 
To  see  the  sunset  sleeping  on  its  roof 
And  its  whole  arches  ;  or  but  turns  away 
To  pore  upon  its  image  in  the  stream ; 
And   then   he'll    spread   his   book  upon   his 


And   make   a   thousand    things   of    beauty; 
then 
I  He'll  tear  the  page,  and  fling  it  to  the  mnd. 

George  Crohj.—Bom  1780,  Died  1861. 


1543.— REBELLION. 

I  had  a  vision :  evening  sat  in  gold 
Upon  the  bosom  of  a  boundless  plain, 
Cover' d    with    beauty ; — garden,    field,    and 

fold, 
Studding  the  billowy  sweep  of  ripening  grain, 
Like  islands  in  the  purple  summer  main. 
And  temples  of  pure  marble  met  the  sun. 
That  tinged  their  white  shafts  with  a  golden 

stain ; 
And  sounds  of  rustic  joy,  and  labour  done, 
Hallow'd  the  lovely  hour,  until  her  pomp  was 

gone. 


George  Ceoly.] 


A  LOWERING  EVE. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


The  plain  was  hush'd  in  twilight,  as  a  child 
Slumbers  beneath  its  slow-drawn  canopy ; 
But  sudden  tramplings  came,  and  voices  wild, 
And  tossings   of  rude  weapons  caught   the 

eye; 
And  on  the  hills,  like  meteors  in  the  sky. 
Burst  sanguine  fires  ;  and  ever  and  anon 
To  the  clash' d  spears  the  horn  gave  fierce 

reply ; 
And  round  their  beacons  trooping  thousands 

shone, 
Then  sank  like  evil  things,  and  all  was  dark 

and  lone. 

'Twas   midnight :    there  was  wrath  in  that 

wild  heaven ; 
Eai-th  was  sepulchral  dark.     At  once  a  roar 
Peal'd  round  the  mountain-tops,  like  ocean 

driven 
Before  the  thunders  on  the  eternal  shore  : 
Down  rush'd,  as  if  a  sudden  earthquake  tore 
The  bowels  of  the  hills,  a  flood  of  fire  : 
Like  lava,  mingled  spears  and  torches  pour. 
The  plain  is  deluged ;  higher  still  and  higher 
Swell  blood  and  flame,  till  all  is  like   one 

mighty  pyre. 

*Twas  dawn :  and  still  the  black  and  bloody 

smoke 
Eoll'd   o'er  the    champaign  like   a  vault  of 

stone  ; 
But    as  the  sun's  slow  wheels  the  barrier 

broke. 
He  lit  the  image  of  a  fearful  one, 
Throned  in  the  central  massacre,  alone — 
An  iron  diadem  upon  his  brow, 
A  naked  lance  beside  him,  that  yet  shone 
Purple  and  warm  with  gore ;    and  crouching 

low, 
All  men  in  one  huge  chain,  alike  the  friend 

and  foe. 

The  land  around  him,  in  that  sickly  light, 
Show'd  like  th'  upturning  of  a  mighty  grave  ; 
Strewn  with  crush' d  monuments  and  remnants 

white 
Of  man  ;  all  loneliness  ;  but  when  some  slave, 
With   faint,  fond  hand,   the   hurried   burial 

gave, 
Then  died.     The  Despot  sat  upon  his  throne. 
Scoffing  to  see  the  stubborn  traitors  wave 
At   his   least  breath.     The  good  and  brave 

were  gone 
To   exile  or  the  tomb.     Their  country's  life 

was  done ! 

George  Croly.—Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


1544.— A  LOWERING  EVE. 

There  is  a  gloomy  grandeur  in  the  sun, 
That  levels  his  last  light  along  the  shore  ; 
The  clouds  are  rolling  downwards,  stern  and 
dun: 


The  long,  slow  wave  is  streak'd  with  red,  Kke 

gore 
On  some  vast  field  of  battle  ;  and  the  roar 
Of  wave  and  wind   comes   like  the  battle's 

sound. 

#  #  *  # 

And  now    the   sun  sinks  deeper;     and   the 

clouds. 
In  folds  of  sullen  fire,  still  heavier  lower, 
TiU  the  whole   storm  the  shore  and   ocean 

shrouds. 

George  Croly. — Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


1545.— A  CALM  EVE. 

Look  on  these  waters,  with  how  soft  a  kiss 
They  woo    the   pebbled    shore!    then   steal 

away, 
Like  wanton  lovers — ^but  to  come  again, 
And  die  in  music  !     There,  the  bending  skies 
See  aU  their  stars, — and   the    beach-loving 

trees. 
Osiers  and  willows,  and  the  watery  flowers, 
That   wreathe    their   pale   roots    round    the 

ancient  stones, 
Make  pictures  of  themselves  ! 

George  Croly. — Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


1546.— SATAN. 

FROM  A  PICTURE  BY  SIR  J.  LAWRENCE. 

Prince  of  the  fallen !  around  thee  sweep 
The  billows  of  the  burning  deep, 
Above  thee  bends  the  vaulted  fire, 
Beneath  thee  bursts  the  flaming  spire ; 
And  on  thy  sleepless  vision  rise 
Hell's  living  clouds  of  agonies. 

But  thou  dost  like  a  mountain  stand, 
The  spear  uplifted  in  thy  hand  ; 
Thy  gorgeous  eye — a  comet  shorn, 
Calm  into  utter  darkness  borne  ; 
A  naked  giant,  stem,  sublime, 
Aim'd  in  despair,  and  scorning  Time. 

On  thy  curl'd  lip  is  throned  disdain. 
That  may  revenge,  but  not  complain  : 
Thy  mighty  cheek  is  firm,  though  pale. 
There  smote  the  blast  of  fiery  hail. 
Yet  wan,  wild  beauty  lingers  there. 
The  wreck  of  an  archangel's  sphere. 

No  giant  pinions  round  thee  cling ; 
Clouds  and  the  thunder  are  thy  wing ; 
Thy  forehead  wears  no  diadem. 
The  King  is  in  thine  eyeballs'  laeam  ; 
Thy  form  is  grandeur  unsubdued. 
Sole  chief  of  Hell's  dark  multitude. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


NOTEE  DAME. 


[George  Cboly. 


Yet  brighter  than  thy  brightest  hour 

Shall  rise  in  glory  and  in  power 

The  lowliest  of  the  lowly  dead, 

HIS  ransom' d,  who  shall  bruise  thy  head, 

The  myriads  for  HIS  blood  forgiven ; 

Kings  of  the  stars,  the  loved  of  Heaven  ! 

George  Croly.^Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


1547.— THE  POET'S  HOUE. 

When  day  is  done,  and  clouds  are  low, 

And  flowers  are  honey-dew. 
And  Hesper's  lamp  begins  to  glow 

Along  the  western  blue  ; 
And  homeward  wing  the  turtle-doves, 
Then  comes  the  hour  the  poet  loves. 

For  in  the  dimness  curtain'd  round, 

He  hears  the  echoes  all 
Of  cosy  vale,  or  grassy  mound. 

Or  distant  waterfall ; 
And  shapes  are  on  his  dreaming  sight. 
That  keep  their  beauty  for  the  night. 

And  still,  as  shakes  the  sudden  breeze 

The  forest's  deepening  shade. 
He  hears  on  Tuscan  evening  seas 

The  silver  serenade  : 
Or,  to  the  field  of  battle  borne, 
Swells  at  the  sound  of  trump  and  horn. 

The  star  that  peeps  the  leaves  between, 

To  him  is  but  the  light 
That,  from  some  lady's  bower  of  green, 

Shines  to  her  pilgrim  knight : 
Who  feels  her  spell  around  him  twine, 
And  hastens  home  from  Palestine. 

Or,  if  some  wandering  peasant's  song 

Come  sweeten'd  on  the  gale, 
He  sees  the  cloister's  saintly  throng — 

The  crozier,  cross,  and  veil ; 
Or  hears  the  vespers  of  the  nun, 
World-weary,  lovely,  and  undone. 

And  thus  he  thinks  the  hours  away 

In  sweet  unworldly  folly. 
And  loves  to  see  the  shades  of  grey, 

That  feed  his  melancholy  : 
Finding  sweet  speech  and  thought  in  all, 
Star,  leaf,  wind,  song,  and  waterfall ! 

Qeorge  Crohj.—Bom  1780,  Died  1861. 


1548.— NOON. 

Come,  ye  brown  oaks,  and  stoop  your  heavy 

boughs. 
Making  sweet  eve  around  my  sultry  brows  ! 
Wave  your  white  beauty,  lilies  ;   hyacinths, 

sigh ;  ^  _ 
And,  woodbine,  from  your  blossora'd  canopy. 


Stirring  the  smoothness  of  this  quiet  stream. 
Shed  on  my  eyes  some  deep,  Elysian  dream  ; 
And  come,  thou   young  and    silken-pinion' d 

Wind, 
That  the   pale   Virgin   May   sends   forth   to 

find  _ 

Her    flowers,     in    Winter's    frozen    Bosom 

sleeping ; 
Wing    round    this    leafy   bed,    in    whispers 

creeping 
Like  softest  music  on  my  slumbering  ear ; 
Until  the  murmur  of  the  grasshopper. 
And  the  fresh  odours  of  the  rose's  breath. 
Tell  me  that  Day  is  faint,  and  nigh  to  death. 
And  the  small  stars  are  waking  one  by  one  ; 
And  to  fair  Thetis'  couch  the  weary  sun  is 

gone! 

George  Croly.—Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


1549.— NOTEE  DAME. 

The  organ  peals ;   at  once,  as  some  vast 
wave, 
Bend  to  the  earth  the  mighty  multitude. 
Silent  as  those  pale  emblems  of  the  grave 
In  monumental  marble  round  them  strew'd, 
Low  at  the  altar,  forms  in  cope  and  hood 
Superb  Avith  gold- wrought  cross  and  diamond 

twine, 
Life  in  their  uptum'd  visages  subdued. 
Toss     their    untiring    censers    round    the 
shrine. 
Where  on  her  throne  of  clouds  the  Virgin  sits 
divine. 

But  only  kindred  faith  can  fitly  tell 
Of  the  high  ritual  at  that  altar  done. 
When  clash' d  the  arms,  and  rose  the  chorus- 
swell. 
Then  sank,  as  if  beneath  the  grave  'twere 

gone  ; 
Till  broke  the  spell  the  mitred  abbot's  tone. 
Deep,    touching,  solemn,    as   he   stood   in 

prayer, 
A  dazzling  form  upon  its  topmost  stone, 
And  raised,  with  hallow'd  look,  the  Host  in 
air. 
And  bless'd  with  heavenward  hand  the  thou- 
sands kneeling  there. 

Pompous  !    but  love  I  not  such  pomp  of 
prayer ; 
111  bends  the  heart  'mid  mortal  luxury, 
Eather  Jet  me  the  meek  devotion  share, 
Where,  in  their  silent  glens  and  thickets 

high, 
England,  thy  lone  and  lowly  chapels  lie. 
The  spotless  table  by  the  eastern  wall. 
The  marble,  rudely  traced  with  names  gone 

by, 
The  pale-eyed  pastor's  simple,  fervent    all ; 
Those  deeper  wake  the  heart,  where  heart  is 
all  in  all. 


Geoege  Ckolt.] 


JACOB. 


[Seventh  Peeiod.- 


If  pride  be  evil ;  if  the  holiest  sighs 
Must  come  from  humblest  hearts-;  if  man 

must  turn 
FuU  on  his  wreck  of  nature  to  be  wise : 
If    there    be    blessedness    for   those   who 

mourn; 
What  sijeak  the  purple  gauds  that  round  us 

bum  ? 
Ask  of  that  kneeling  crowd  whose  glances 

stray- 
So  restless  round  an  altar,  vestment,  urn  ; 
Can  guilt  weep  there  ?  can  mild  repentance 

pray? 
Ask,  when  this  moment's  past,  how  runs  their 
Sabbath-day  ? 

Their  Sabbath-day  !  alas  !  to  France  that 
day 
Comes  not ;  she  has  a  day  of  looser  dress, 
A  day  of  thicker  crowded  ball  and  play, 
A  day  of  folly's  hotter,  ranker  press  ; 
She  knoweth  not  its  hallow'd  happiness, 
Its    eve    of     gather'd    hearts    and   gentle 

cheer. 

George  Crohj.—Born  1780,  LiedlSGl. 


1550.— JACOB. 

The  sun  was  sinking  on  the  mountain- 
zone 
That  guards  thy  vales  of  beauty,  Palestine  ! 
And  lovely  from  the  desert  rose  the  moon. 
Yet  lingering  on  the  horizon's  purple  line, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  o'er  its  earthly  shrine. 
Up  Padan- Aram's  height,  abrupt  and  bare, 
A  pilgrim  toil'd,  and  oft  on  day's  decline 
Look'd  pale,  then  paused  for  eve's  delicious 
air ; 
I        The  summit  gain'd,  he  knelt  and  breathed  his 
evening  prayer. 

He   spread  his    cloak   and    slumber'd — 
darkness  fell 
Upon  the  twilight  hills  ;  a  sudden  sound 
Of    silver  trumpets    o'er  him    seem'd    to 

swell ; 
Clouds  heavy  with  the  tempest  gather'd 

round, 
Yet    was    the    whirlmnd    in   its    caverns 

bound ; 
Still  deeper  roU'd  the  darkness   from    on 

high. 
Gigantic  volume  upon  volume  wound — 
Above,  a  pillar  shooting  to  the  sky : 
Below,    a    mighty    sea,    that     spreads     in- 
cessantly. 

Voices    are   hoard — a    choir   of     golden 
strings  ; 
Low  winds,  whose  breath  is  loaded  with  the 

rose; 
Then  chariot-wheels — the    nearer  rush   of 

wings ; 


Pale    lightning   round    the   dark  pavilion 

glows  : 
It  thunders — the  resplendent  gates  unclose. 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance,  on  height  o'er 

height 
Rise  fiery  waving  wings,  and  star-crown'd 

brows, 
Millions    on   millions,   brighter  and   more 

bright. 
Till   all  is  lost  in   one   supreme,  unmingled 
light. 

But,   two    beside    the    sleeping   pilgrim 
stand, 
Like     cherub-kings,    with    lifted,     mighty 

plume, 
Fix'd,   sun-bright  eyes,  and  looks  of  high 

command  : 
They   tell   the    patriarch    of    his   glorious 

doom ; 
Father   of    countless    myriads    that    shall 

come. 
Sweeping  the  land  like  billows  of  the  sea, 
Bright  as  the  stars  of  heaven  from  twilight's 

gloom, 
Till  He  is  given  whom  angels  long  to  see, 
And  Israel's  splendid   line  is  crown' d   with 
Deity. 

George  Crohj .—Born  1780,  BiedL  1861. 


155 1.— THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  WORLD. 

There's  glory  on  thy  mountains,  proud  Bengal, 
"When  on  their  temples  bursts  the  morning 

sun! 
There's  glory  on  thy  marble -tower' d  wall, 
Proud  Ispahan,  beneath  his  burning  noon  ! 
There's  glory — when  his  golden  course  is  done, 
Proud  Istamboul,  upon  thy  waters  blue  ! 
But    fall'n    Damascus,   thine    was    beauty's 

throne, 
In  mom,  and  noon,  and  evening's  purple  dew. 
Of  all  from  ocean's  marge  to  mighty  Himmalu. 

East  of  the  city  stands  a  lofty  mount, 

Its  brow  with  lightning  delved  and  rent   in 

sunder ; 
And  through  the  fragment  rolls  a  little  fount. 
Whose  channel  bears  the  blast  of   fire   and 

thunder ; 
And  there  has  many  a  pilgrim  come  to  wonder; 
For  there  are  flowers  unnumber'd  blossoming. 
With  but  the  bare  and  calcined  marble  under ; 
Yet  in  all  Asia  no  such  colours  spring, 
No  perfumes  rich  as  in  that  mountain's  rocky 

ring. 

And  some,  who  pray'd  the  night  out  on  the 

hill, 
Have  said  they  heard — unless  it  was  their 

dream. 
Or  the  mere  murmur  of  the  babbling  rill, — 
Just  as  the  morn-star  shot  its  first  slant  beam, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  WORLD. 


[George  Cboly. 


A  sornid  of  music,  such  as  they  might  deem 
The  song  of   spirits — that  would   sometimes 

sail 
Close  to  their  ear,  a  deep,  delicious  stream, 
Then  sweep  away,  and  die  with  a  low  wail ; 
Then  come  again,  and  thus,  till  Lucifer  was 

pale. 

And  some,  but  bolder  still,  had  darod  to  turn 

That  soil  of  mystery  for  hidden  gold ; 

But  saw  strange,  stifling  blazes  round  them 

bum, 
And  died : — ^by  few  that  venturous  tale  was 

told. 
And  wealth  was  found ;  yet,  as  the  pilgrims 

hold, 
Though   it  was    glorious  on   the   mountain's 

brow, 
Brought  to  the  plain  it  crumbled  into  mould, 
The  diamonds  molted  in  the  hand  Uke  snow ; 
So  none  molest  tliat  spot  for  gems  or  ingots 

now. 

But  one,  and  ever  after,  round  the  hill 

He  strayed: — they  said  a  meteor  scorch'd  Ms 

sight; 
Blind,  mad,  a  warning  of   Heaven's  fearful 

wiU. 
'Twas  on  the  sacred  evening  of  "  the  Flight," 
His  spade  tum'd  up  a  shaft  of  marble  white, 
Fragment  of  some  kiosk,  the  chapiter 
A  crystal  circle,  but  at  morn's  first  light 
Rich  forms  began  within  it  to  appear, 
Sceptred   and   wtng''d,  and   then  it    sank  in 

water  clear. 

Yet  once  upon  that  guarded  mount,  no  foot 
But  of  the  Moslem  true  might  press  a  flower. 
And   of  them  none,  but  with   some  solemn 

suit 
Beyond  man's  help  might  venture  near  the 

bower : 
For,  in  its  shade,  in  beauty  and  in  power. 
For  judgment  sat  the  Angel  of  the  World : 
Sent  by  the  Prophet,  till  the  destined  hour 
That  saw  in  dust  Arabia's  idols  hurl'd. 
Then  to  the  skies  again  his  wing  should  be 

uafurl'd. 

It   came   at   last.      It   came  mth  trumpets' 

sounding. 
It  came  with  thunders  of  the  atabal. 
And   warriors'    shouts,    and    Arab   chargers' 

bounding. 
The  sacred  standard  cro^vn'd  Medina's  wall! 
From  palace  roof  and  minaret's  golden  ball 
Ten  thousand  emerald  banners  floated  free. 
Beneath,  hke  sunbeams,  through  the  gateway 

tall, 
The  emirs  led  their  steel-mail' d  chivalry. 
And  the  whole  city  rang  with  sports  and  soldier 

glee. 

Tliis  was  the  eve  of  eves,  the  end  of  war. 
Beginning  of  Dominion,  first  of  Time  ! 
When,  swifter  than  the  shooting  of  a  star, 
Mahommed  saw  the  "Vision's"  pomps  sub- 
lime ; 


Swept  o'er  the  rainbow'd  sea — the  fiery  clime, 
Heard  from  the  throne  its  will  in  thunders 

roll'd ; 
Then  glancing  on  our  world  of  woe  and  crime, 
Saw  from  Arabia's  sands  his  banner's  fold 
Wave  o'er  the  brighten'd  globe  its   sacred, 

conquering  gold. 

The  sun  was  slowly  sinlcing  to  the  west, 
Pavihon'd  with  a  thousand  glories'  dyes ; 
The  turtle-doves  were  winging  to  the  nest 
Along  the  mountain's  soft  declivities  ; 
The  fresher  breath  of  floAvers  began  to  rise. 
Like  incense,  to  that  sweet  departing  sun ; 
Faint  as  the  hum  of  bees  the  city's  cries : 
A  moment,  and  the  lingering  disk  was  gone ; 
Then  were  the  Angel's  task  on  earth's  dim 
I  orbit  done. 

I   Oft  had  he  gazed  upon  that  lovely  vale, 
But  never  gazed  -svith  gladness  such  as  now ; 
When  on  Damascus'  roofs  and  turrets  palQ 
He  saw  the  solemn  stinlight's  fainter  glow> 
With  joy  he  heard  Immauns'  voices  flow 
Like  breath  of  silver  trumpets  on  the  air ; 
The  vintagers'  sweet  song,  the  camels'  low, 
As  home  they  stalk'd  from  pasture,  pair  by 

pair, 
Flinging  their  shadows  tall  in  the  steep  sun- 
set glare. 

Then  at  his  sceptre's  wave,  a  rush  of  plumes 
Shook  the  thick  dew-drops  from  the  rosea' 

dyes; 
And,  as  embodying  of  their  waked  perfumes, 
A  crowd  of  lovely  forms,  with  lightning  eyes, 
And  flower-crown'd  hair,  and  cheeks  of  Pa- 
radise, 
Circled  the  bower  of  beauty  on  the  wing ; 
And  all  the  grove  was  rich  with  symphonies 
Of  seeming  flute,  and  horn,  and  golden  string. 
That  slowly  rose,  and  o'er  the  mount  hung 
hovering. 

The  Angel's  flashing  eyes  were  on  the  vault. 
That  now  with  lamps  of   diamonds   all  was 

hung; 
His    mighty    wings    like    tissues    heavenly. 

wrought. 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  air  were  hung. 
The  solemn  hymn's  last  harmonies  were  sung, 
The  sun  was  crouching  on  the  distant  zone : 
"Farewell"   was  breathing  on  the  Angel's 

tongue. — 
He  glanced  below.     There  stood  a  suppliant 

one. 
The  impatient  Angel  sank  in  wrath  upon  his 

throne. 

Yet    all  was    quickly    soothed — this    labour 

past, 
"  His  coronet  of  tenfold  light  was  one." 
His  glance  again  upon  the  form  was  cast, 
That  now  seem'd  dying  on  the  dazzling  stone ; 
He  bade  it  rise  and  speak.     The  solemn  tone 
Of  earth's  high  sovereign  mingled  joy  with 

fear, 
As  summer  vales  of  rose  by  lightning  shown ; 


George  Croly.1 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  WOELD. 


[Seventh  Peeiod.- 


As  the  night-fountain  in  the  desert  drear ; 
His   voice   seein'd  sudden  life  to  that   fall'n 
sujipliant's  ear. 

The  form  arose — the  face  was  in  a  veil, 

The  voice  was  low,  and  often  check' d  with 

sighs ; 
The  tale  it  utter' d  was  a  simple  tale : 
"  A  vow  to  close  a  dying  parent's  eyes 
Had  brought  its  weary  steps  from  Tripolis ; 
The  Arab  in  the  Syrian  mountains  lay, 
The  caravan  was  made  the  robber's  prize, 
The  pilgrim's  little  wealth  was  swept  away, 
Man's  help  was  vain."     Here  sank  the  voice 

in  soft  decay. 

"  And  this  is  Earth !  "  the  Angel,  frowning, 

said; 
And  from  the  ground  he  took  a  matchless  gem, 
And  flung  it  to  the  mourner,  then  outspread 
His  pinions,  like  the  lightning's  rushing  beam. 
The  pilgrim  started  at  the  diamond's  gleam, 
Glanced  up  in  prayer,  then,  bending  near  the 

throne, 
Shed    the  quick  tears  that  from  the   bosom 

stream. 
And   tried   to   speak,   but   tears   were   there 

alone ; 
The  pitying  Angel  said,  "Be  happy  and  be- 
gone." 

The  weeper  raised  the  veil ;  a  ruby  lip 

First  dawn'd  :  then  glow'd  the  young  cheek's 

deeper  hue. 
Yet  delicate  as  roses  when  they  dip 
Their  odorous  blossoms  in  the  morning  dew. 
Then  beam'd  the  eyes,  twin  stars  of  living 

blue; 
HaK  shaded  by  the  curls  of  glossy  hair, 
That  turn'd  to  golden  as  the  light  wind  threw 
Clusters  in  the  western  golden  glare. 
Yet  was  her  blue   eye   dim,   for  tears  were 

standing  there. 

He  look'd  upon  her,  and  her  hurried  gaze 
Sought  from  his  glance  sweet  refuge  on  the 

ground ; 
But  o'er  her  cheek  of  beauty  rush'd  a  blaze ; 
And,  as  the  soul  had  felt  some  sudden  wound, 
Her  bosom  heaved  above  its  silken  bound. 
He  look'd  again ;  the  cheek  was  deadly  pale  ; 
The  bosom  sank  with  one  long  sigh  profound  ; 
Yet  still  one  lily  hand  upheld  the  veil. 
And  still  one  pross'd  her  heart— that  sigh  told 

all  the  tale. 

She  stoop' d,  and  from  the  thicket  pluck' d  a 
flower. 

And  fondly  kiss'd,  and  then  with  feeble  hand 

She  laid  it  on  the  footstool  of  the  bower  ; 

Such  was  the  ancient  custom  of  the  land. 

Her  sighs  were  richer  than  the  rose  they  fann'd ; 

The  breezes  swept  it  to  the  Angel's  feet ; 

Yet  even  that  sweet,  slight  boon,  'twas' Hea- 
ven's command, 


He  must  not  touch ;  from  her,  though  doubly 

sweet, 
No   earthly   gift   must    stain   that    hallow'-d 

judgment  seat. 

Still  lay  the  flower  upon  the  splendid  spot, 

The  pilgrim  turn'd  away,  as  smote  with  shame; 

Her  eye  a  glance  of  self-upbraiding  shot ; 

'Twas  in  his  soul  a  shaft  of  living  flame. 

Then  bow'd  the  humbled  one,  and  bless'd  his 
name, 

Cross'd  her  white  arms,  and  slowly  bade  fare- 
well. 

A  sudden  faintness  o'er  the  Angel  came ; 

The  voice  rose  sweet  and  solemn  as  a  spell, 

She  bow'd  her  face  to  earth,  and  o'er  it  dropp'd 
her  veil. 

Beauty,  what  art  thou,  that  thy  slightest  gaze 

Can  make  the  spirit  from  its  centre  roll ; 

Its  whole   long   course,  a   sad  and  shadowy 

maze? 
Thou  midnight  or  thou  noontide  of  the  soul ; 
One  glorious  vision  lighting  up  the  whole 
Of  the  wide  world ;  or  one  deep,  wild  desire, 
By  day  and  night  consuming,  sad  and  sole ; 
Till  Hope,  Pride,  Genius,  nay,  till  Love's  ovm 

fire 
Desert  the  weary  heart,  a  cold  and  mouldering 

pyre. 

Enchanted  sleep,  yet  full  of  deadly  dreams ; 

Companionship  divine,  stern  solitude  ; 

Thou   serpent,   colour' d  with    the    brightest 

gleams 
That  e'er  hid  poison,  making  hearts  thy  food ; 
Woe  to  the  heart  that  lets  thee  once  intrude, 
Victim  of  visions  that  life's  purpose  steal, 
Till  the  whole  struggling  nature  lies  subdued, 
Bleeding  with  wounds  the  grave  alone  must 

heal — 
Proud  Angel,  was  it  thine  that  mortal  woe  to 

feel? 

Stni  knelt  the  pilgrim  cover' d  with  her  veil, 
But  all  her  beauty  living  on  his  eye ; 
Still  hyacinth  the  clustering  ringlets  fell, 
Wreathing  her  forehead's  poUsh'd  ivory ; 
Her  cheek  unseen  still  wore  the  rosebud's  dye ; 
She    sigh'd;    he   heard   the  sigh   beside  him 

swell. 
He  glanced  around — no  spirit  hover' d  nigh — 
Touch'd  the  fall'n  flower,  and  blushing,  sigh'd 

"  farewell !  " 
What  sound  has  stunn'd  his  ear  ?     A  sudden 

thunder-peal. 

He  look'd  on  heaven — 'twas  calm,  but  in  the 

vale 
A  creeping  mist  had  girt  the  mountain  round. 
Making  the  golden  minarets  glimmer  pale  ; 
It    scaled    the    mount — the   feeble    day  was 

drown' d. 
The  sky  was  with  its  livid  hue  embrown' d, 
But  soon  the  vapours  grew  a  circling  sea, 
Reflecting,  lovely,  from  its  blue  profound. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  WOELD. 


[George  Cboly. 


Mountain,  and  crimson  clouu,  and  blcssom'd 
tree ; 

Another  heaven  and  earth  in  bright  tran- 
quillity. 

And  on  its  bosom  swam  a  small  chaloupe, 
That  like  a  wild  swan  sported  on  the  tide ; 
The  silken  sail  that  canopied  its  poop 
Show'd  one  that  look'd  an  Houri  in  her  pride  ; 
Anon  came  spurring  up  the  mountain's  side 
A  warrior  Moslem  all  in  glittering  mail, 
That  to  his  country's  doubtful  battle  hied. 
He  saw  the  form,  he  heard  the  tempter's  tale, 
And  answer' d  with  his  own :  for  beauty  will 
prevail. 

But  now  in  storm  uprose  the  vast  mirage ; 
Where  sits  she  now  who  tempted  him  to  roam  ? 
How  shall  the  skiff  with  that  wild  sea  engage  ? 
In  vain  the  quivering  helm  is  turn'd  to  home. 
Darkening  above  the  piles  of  tumbling  foam, 
Eushes  a  shape  of  woe,  and  through  the  roar 
Peals  in  the  warrior's  ear  a  voice  of  doom. 
Doivn  plunges  the  chaloupe. — The   storm  is 

o'er; 
Heavy  and  slow  the  corpse  rolls  onward  to 

the  shore. 

The  Angel's  heart  was  smote — but  that  touch' d 

flower, 
Now  opening,  breathed  such  fragrance  subtly 

sweet, 
He  felt  it  strangely  chain  him  to  the  bower. 
He  dared  not  then  that  pilgrim's  eye  to  meet, 
But  gazed  upon  the  small  unsandall'd  feet 
Shinuig  like  silver  on  the  floor  of  rose. 
At  length  he  raised  his  glance : — the  veil's 

light  net 
Had    floated    backward    from    her    pencill'd 

brows, 
Her  eye  was  fix'd  on  heaven,  in  sad,  subUme 

repose. 

A  simple  Syrian  lyre  was  on  her  breast, 
And  on  her  crimson  lip  was  murmuring 
A  village  strain,  that  in  the  day's  sweet  rest 
Is  heard  in  Araby  round  many  a  spring, 
"When  down  the  twilight  vales  the  maidens 

bring 
The  flocks  to  some  old  patriarchal  well ; 
Or  where  beneath  the  pahns  some  desert-king 
Lies,  with  his  tribe  around  him  as  they  fell ! 
The  thunder  bm-st  again — a  long,  deep,  crash- 
ing peal. 

The  Angel  hoard  it  not,  as  round  the  range 
Of  the  blue  hill-tops  roar'd  the  volley  on. 
Uttering  its  voice  with  wild  aerial  change ; 
Now  sinking  in  a  deep  and  distant  moan, 
Like  the  last  echo  of  a  host  o'erthrown ; 
Then  rushing  with  new  vengeance  down  again, 
Shooting  the  fiery  flash  and  thunder- stone ; 
TiU  flamed,  like  funeral  pyres,  the  mountain 

chain. 
The  Angel  heard  it  not ;  its  wisdom  all  was 

vain. 


He  heard  not  even  the  strain,  though  it  had 

changed 
From  the  calm  sweetness  of  the  holy  hymn. 
His  thoughts  from  depth  to  depth  unconscious 

ranged. 
Yet  all  within  was  dizzy,  strange,  and  dim ; 
A  mist  seem'd  spreading  between  heaven  and 

him  ; 
He  sat  absorb' d  in  dreams  ;  a  searching  tone 
Came  on  his  ear — oh,  how  her  darlc  eyes  swim 
"Who  breathed  that  echo  of  a  heart  undone, 
The  song  of  early  joys,  delicious,  dear,  and 

gone  ! 

Again  it  changed. — But  now  'twas  wild  and 

grand — 
The  praise  of  hearts  that  scorn  the  world's 

control, 
Disdaining  all  but  love's  delicious  band, 
The  chain  of  gold  and  flowers,  the  tie  of  sotJ. 
Again  strange  paleness  o'er  her  beauty  stole, 
She  glanced  above,  then  stoop' d  her  glowing 

eye. 
Blue  as  the  star  that  glitter'd  by  the  pole ; 
One  tear-drop  gleam' d  :  she  dash'd  it  quickly 

by, 
And  dropp'd  the  lyre,  and  turn'd — as  if  she 

turn'd  to  die. 

The   night-breeze   from    the    mountains   had 

begun ; 
And  as  it  wing'd  among  the  clouds  of  even, 
Where,  like  a  routed  king,  the  sultan  sun 
Stni  struggled  on  the  fiery  verge  of  heaven ; 
Their  volumes  in  ten  thousand  shapes  were 

driven ; 
Spreading  away  in  boundless  palace  halls. 
Whose  lights  from  gold  and  emerald  lamps 

Avere  given ; 
Or  airy  citadels  and  battled  walls ; 
Or  sunk  in  valleys  sweet,  with  silver  water- 
falls. 

But,  for  those  sights  of  heaven  the  Angel's 

heart 
Was  all  imsettled  ;  and  a  bitter  sigh 
Burst  from  his  burning  lip,  and  with  a  start 
He  cast  upon  the  earth  his  conscious  eye. 
The  whole  horizon  from  that  summit  high 
Spread  out  in  vision,  from  the  paUid  line 
Where  old  Palmyra's  pomps  in  ruin  lie, 
Gilding  the  Arab  sands,  to  where  supine 
The   western  lustre  tinged  thy  spires,   lost 

Palestine ! 

Yet,  loveliest  of  the  vision  was  the  vale 
That  sloped  beneath  his  own  imperial  bowers ; 
Sheeted  with  colours  like  an  Indian  mail, 
A  tapestry  sweet  of  all  sun-painted  flowers, 
Balsam,    and    clove,   and    jasmines'    scented 

showers. 
And  the  red  glory  of  the  Persian  rose, 
Spreading  in  league   on  league    around  the 

towers. 
Whore,  loved  of  heaven,  and  hated  of  its  foes. 
The  Queen  of  Cities  shines,  in  calm  and  proud 

repose. 


George  Croly.] 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  WOELD. 


[Seventh  Period. 


And  still  he  gazed — and  saw  not  that  the  eve 
Was  fading  into  night.     A  sudden  thought 
Struck  to  his  dreaming  heart,  that  made  it 

heave : 
Was  he  not  there  in  Paradise  ? — that  spot 
Was  it  not  lovely  as  the  lofty  vault 
That  rose  above  him  ?     In  his  native  skies, 
Could  he  be  happy  till  his  soul  forgot — 
Oh  !  how  forget  the  being  whom  his  eyes 
Loved  as  their  light  of  light  ?     He  heard  a 

tempest  rise. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  the  vale  at  once  was  bare, 

And  o'er  it  hung  a  broad  and  sulphurous  cloud ; 

The  soil  grew  red  and  rifted  with  its  glare ; 

Down  to  their  roots  the  mountain  cedars  bow'd ; 

Along  the  gi'ound  a  rapid  vapour  flow'd, 

Yellow  and  pale,  thick  seam'd  with  streaks  of 
flame; 

Before  it  sprang  the  vulture  from  the  shroud ; 

The  lion  bounded  from  it  scared  and  tame ; 

Behind  it,  darkening  heaven,  the  mighty  whirl- 
wind came. 

Like  a  long  tulip  bed,  across  the  plain, 
A  caravan  approach' d  the  evening  well, 
A  long,  deep  mass  of  turban,  plume,  and  vaue; 
And  lovely  came  its  distant,  solemn  swell 
Of  song,  and  pilgrim-horn,  and  camel-bell. 
The  sandy  ocean  rose  before  their  eye  ; 
In  thunder  on  their  bending  host  it  fell. 
Ten  thousand  lips  sent  up  one  fearful  cry ; 
The  sound  was  still' d  at   once — ^beneath  its 
wave  they  He. 

But  two  escaped  that  up  the  mountain  sprung. 
At  those  the  dead  men's  treasure  downwards 

drew; 
One,  with  slow  steps,  but  beautiful  and  young 
Was  she,  who  round  his  neck  her  white  arms 

threw ; 
Away  the  tomb  of  sand  like  vapour  flew ; 
There,  naked,  lay  the  costly  caravan, 
A  league  of  piles  of  silk  and  gems  that  threw 
A  rainbow  Ught,  and  'mid  them,  stiff  and  wan, 
Stretch' d  by  his  camel's  flank  their  transient 

master,  man. 

The  statelier  wand'rer  from  the  height  was 

won. 
And  cap  and  sash  soon  gleam'd  with  plunder'd 

gold. 
But  now  the  desert  rose,  in  pillars  dun. 
Glowing  with  fire  like  iron  in  the  mould. 
That  wings  with  fiery  speed,  recoil' d,  sprang, 

roll'd ; 
Before  them  waned    the    moon's   ascending 

phase. 
The  clouds  above  them  shrank  the  redd'niasr 

fold: 
On  rush'd  the  giant  columns  blaze  on  blaze. 
The  sacrilegious  died,  wrapp'd  in  the  burning 

haze. 

The  Angel  sat  enthroned  within  a  dome 
Of  alabaster  raised  on  pillars  slight, 
Cm-tain'd  Avith  tissues  of  no  earthly  loom  ; 
For  spirits  Avove  the  web  of  blossoms  bright, 


Woof  of  aU  flowers  that  drink  the  morning 
I  light. 

And  with  their  beauty  figured  all  the  stone 
I    In  characters  of  mystery  and  might, 

A  more  than  mortal  guard  around  the  throne, 
I  That  in  their  tender  shade  one  glorious  dia- 
;  mond  shone. 

I    And  every  bud  round  pedestal  and  plinth, 
j   As  fell  the  evening,  turu'd  a  living  gem. 

Lighted  its  purple  lamp  the  hyacinth ; 
I    The  dahlia  pour'd  its  thousand-colour' d  gleam ; 
I    A  ruby  torch,  the  wond'ring  eye  might  deem, 
i    Hung  on  the  brow  of  some   night-watching 
I  tower. 

Where  upwards  climb'd  the  broad  magnolia's 
stem. 

An  urn  of  lovely  lustre  every  flower. 

Burning  before  the   king   of  that   illumined 
bower. 

And  nestling  in  that  arbour's  leafy  twine. 
From  cedar's  top  to  violet's  perfumed  bell, 
Were  birds,  now  hush'd,  of  forms  and  plumes 

divine. 
That,  ever  as  the  rays  upon  them  fell. 
Shot  back  such  hues  as  stain  the  Indian  shell. 
Touching  the  deep  green  shades  with  light 

from  eyes 
lacinth,  and  jet,  and  blazing  carbuncle. 
And  gold-dropt  coronets,  and  wings  of  dyes 
Touch' d  by  the  flowers  and  stars  of  their  own 

Paradise. 

The  Angel  knew  the  warning  of  that  storm  ; 

But  saw  the  shuddering  minstrel's  step  draw 
near, 

And  felt  the  whole  deep  witchery  of  her  form, 

Her  sigh  was  music's  echo  to  his  ear; 

He  loved — and  true  love  ever  banish'd  fear. 

Now  night  had  droop'd  on  earth  her  raven 
wing ; 
I   But  in  the  arbour  all  was  splendour  clear ; 
I    And  like  twin  spirits  in  its  charmed  ling, 
j    Shone  that  sweet  child  of  earth,  and  that  star- 
I  diadem'd  king. 


For  whether  'twas  the  light's  unusual  glow. 
Or  that  some  natural  change  had  on  her  come, 
Her  look,  though  lovely  still,  was  loftier  now. 
Her  tender  cheek  was  flush' d  with  brighter 

bloom ; 
Yet  in  her  azure  eye  there  gather'd  gloom, 
Like  evening's  clouds  across  its  own  blue  star, 
Then  would  a  sudden  flash  its  depths  illume ; 
And  wore  she  but  the  wing  and  gemm'd  tiar. 
She  seem'd  instinct  with  power  to  make  the 

clouds  her  car. 

She  slowly  raised  her  arm,  that,  bright  as 

snow, 
Gleam'd  like  a  rising  meteor  through  the  air, 
Shedding  white  lustre  on  her  turban' d  brow ; 
She  gazed  on   heaven,  as  wrapt   in   solemn 

prayer ; 
She  still  look'd  woman,  but  more  proudly  fair; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  WOELD. 


[Geor&e  Croly. 


And  as  she  stood  and  pointed  to  the  sky, 
With  that  fix'd  look  of  loveliness  and  care, 
The  Angel  thought  and  check'd  it  with  a  sigh, 
He  saw  some  spirit  fallen  from  immortality. 

The  silent  prayer   was   done,  and  now    she 

moved 
Faint  to  his  footstool,  and,  npon  her  knee, 
Besought  her  lord,  if  in  his  heaven  they  loved, 
That,  as  she  never  more  his  face  must  see, 
She  there  might  pledge  her  heart's  fidelity. 
She  tum'd,  and  pluck'd  a  cluster  from  the 

vine. 
And  o'er  a  chalice  waved  it,  with  a  sigh. 
Then  with  bow'd  forehead,  rear'd  before  the 

shrine 
The  crystal  cup.     The  Angel  rose  in  wrath — 

'twas  wine ! 

She  stood  ;  she  shrp.nk ;  she  totter'd.     Down 

he  sprang, 
With  one  hand  clasp' d  her  waist,  with  one 

upheld 
The  vase — his  ears  with  giddy  murmurs  rang. 
His  eye  upon  her  dying  cheek  was  spell'd ; 
He  glanced  upon  the  brim — its  bright  draught 

swell' d 
Like  liquid  rose,  its  odour  touch'd  his  brain ; 
He  knew  his  ruin,  but  his  soul  was  quell'd ; 
He  shudder' d — gazed  upon  her  cheek  again. 
Press' d  her  pale  lip,  and  to  the  last  that  cup 

did  drain. 

Th'  enchantress  smiled,  as  still  in  some  sweet 

dream. 
Then  waken'd  in  a  long,  delicious  sigh. 
And  on  the  bending  spirit  fix'd  the  beam 
Of  her  deep,  dewy,  melancholy  eye. 
The  undone  Angel  gave  no  more  reply. 
Than  hiding  his  pale  forehead  in  the  hair 
That  floated  on  her  neck  of  ivory, 
And  breathless  pressing,  with  her  ringlets  fair, 
From  his  bright  eyes  the  tears  of  passion  and 

despair. 

The  heaven  was  one  blue  vault,  inlaid  with 

gems 
Thick  as  the  concave  of  a  diamond  mine,' 
But  from  the  north  now  shot  quick  phosphor 

beams 
That  o'er  the  mount  their  purple  net  entwine  ; 
The  smallest  stars  through  that  sweet  lustre 

shine ; 
It  shakes — it  spreads,  its  glorious  streamers 

die : 
Again  light  quivers  on  the  horizon's  line, 
A  surge  of  violet  lustre  fills  the  sky, 
Then  sinks,  still  flashing,   dancing  everlast- 
ingly. 

But  wilder  wonder  smote  their  shrinking  eyes : 
A  vapour  plunged  upon  the  vale  from  heaven, 
Gloomy  as    night ;    it    tower' d   of   mountain 

size ; 
From  its  high  crater  column' d  smokes  were 

driven ; 
It  heaved  within,  as  if  pent  flames  had  striven 


With  mighty  winds  to  burst  their  prison  hold, 
Till  from  the  summit  to  the  vale  'twas  riven 
With  angry  light,  that    seem'd  in  cataracts 

roll'd, 
Silver    and    sanguine    steel,   and    the    fierce 

burning  gold. 

The  black  volcano  gave  a  hollow  roar,^ 

An  earthqualce   groan,  that   told  convulsion 

near: 
Out  rush'd  the  burthen  of  its  burning  core, 
Myriads  of  fiery  globes,  as  daylight  clear, 
The  sky  was  fiU'd  with  flashing  sphere  on 

sphere, 
Shooting   straight  upAvards   to   the    zenith's 

crown. 
The  stars  were  blasted  in  that  splendour  drear. 
The  land  beneath  in  wild  distinctness  shone 
From  the  far  billow  to  the  Desert's  pale  red 

zone. 

The  globes  have  gone  to  heights  above  all 


And  now  returning,  look  like  moonlight  rain ; 
But    half-way   down,    again    ont-flash    their 

rays; 
War  floods  the  sky,  they  cross,  whirl,  burst  in 

twain. 
Like  mighty  serpents  draw  the  mazy  train. 
Gigantic  sweeps  of  green,  gold,  scarlet  spires, 
With  pearl  and  diamond  heads  instinct  with 

living  fires. 

The  storm  of  light  is  on  the  clouds  receding. 
The  purple  streamers  wander  pale  and  thin, 
But  o'er  the  pole  an  amber  flame  is  spreading. 
In  shooting  starry  points,  and  far  within 
Revolves  a  stooping  splendour  crystalline. 
It  opens ;  but  who  sits  upon  that  throne  ? 
The  Angel  knew  the  punisher  of  sin. 
Check'd  on  his  lip  the  self -upbraiding  groan, 
Strain'd  with  wild  arms  his  love,  and  joy'd  to 
be  undone. 

And  once,  'twas  but  a  moment,  on  her  cheek 
He  gave  a  glance,  then  sank  his  hurried  eye, 
And  press' d  it  closer  on  her  dazzling  neck. 
But  even  in  that  swift. gaze  he  could  espy 
A  look  that  made  his  heart's  blood  backwards 

fly. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?     There  echoed  in  his  ear 
A  stinging  tone — a  laugh  of  mockery ! 
It  was  a  dream — it  must  be.     Oh  !  that  fear, 
When  the  heart  longs  to  know,  v/hat  it  is 
death  to  hear. 

He  glanced  again — her  eye  was  upward  still 
Fix'd. on  the  stooping  of  that  burning  car  ; 
But  through  his  bosom  shot  an  arrowy  thrill 
To  see  its  solemn,  stern,  unearthly  glare ; 
She  stood,  a  statue  of  subhme  despair, 
But  on  her  lip  sat  scorn.     His  spirit  froze, — 
His  footstep  reel'd  —  his  wan  lip  gasp'd  for 

air; 
She  felt  his  throb,  and  o'er  him  stoop'd  with 

brows 
As  evening  sweet,  and  kiss'd  him  with  a  lip  of 

rose. 


Oeorge  Croly.] 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  WOELD. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Again  she  was  all  beauty,  and  they  stood 
Still  fonder  clasp' d,  and  gazing  with  the  eye 
Of  famine  gazing  on  the  poison' d  food 
That  it  must  feed  on,  or  abstaining  die  ; 
There  was  between   them  now  no  tear   nor 

sigh; 
Theirs  was  the  deep  communion  of  the  soiil ; 
Passion's  absorbing,  bitter  luxury ; 
What  was  to  them  or  heaven  or  earth,  the 

whole 
Was  in  that  fatal  spot  where  they  stood  sad, 

and  sole. 

Th'  enchantress   first    shook   off    the   silent 

trance, 
And  in  a  voice  sweet  as  the  murmuring 
Of  summer  streams  beneath  the  moonlight's 

glance, 
Besought  the  desperate   one  to  spread  the 

wing 
Beyond  the  power  of  his  vindictive  king. 
Slave  to  her  slightest   word,   he   raised   his 

plume 
A  purple  cipud,  and  stood  in  act  to  spring 
Through  that  fierce  upward  sea  of  storm  and 

foam. 
She  wildly  kiss'd  his  hand,  and  sank,  as  in  a 

tomb. 

The  Angel  cheer' d  her.      "  No  !    let  Justice 

wreak 
Her  wrath  upon  them  both,  or  him  alone." 
The  flame  of  love's  pure  crimson  lit  her  cheek ; 
She  whisper' d,  and  his  stoop' d  ear  drank  the 

tone 
With  mad  delight.   "  Oh,  there  is  one  way,  one, 
To   save   us   both.      Are   there    not   mighty 

words 
Graved  on  the  magnet  throne  where  Solomon 
Sits  ever  guarded  by  the  genii  swords, 
To  give  thy  servant  wings  like  her  resplendent 

lord's  ?  " 

This  was  the  sin  of  sins  !  the  first,  last  crime 
In  earth  and  heaven,  unnamed,  unnameable ; 
This  from  his  gorgeous  throne,  before  all  time 
Had  smitten  Eblis  brightest  first  that  fell. 
He  started  back.     What  urged  him  to  rebel  ? 
What  led  that  soft  seducer  to  his  bower  ? 
Could  sJlo  have  laid  upon  his  soul  that  spell. 
Young,  lovely,   fond  —  yet    but    an    earthly 

flower  ? 
But  for  that  fatal  cup  he  had  been  free  that 

hour. 

But  still  its  draught  was  fever  in  his  blood. 
He    caught    the    upward,    humble,    weeping 

gleam 
Of  woman's  eye,  by  passion  all  subdued — 
He  sigh'd,  and  at  his  sigh  he  saw  it  beam  : 
Oh !  the  sweet  frenzy  of  the  lover's  dream  ! 
A  moment's  lingering,  and  they  both  mus;t 

die. 
The  lightning  round  them   shot    a    broader 

stream ; 
He  felt  her  clasp  his  knees  in  agony ; 
He  spoke  the  words  of  might— the  thunder 

gave  reply ! 


Away  !  away  !  the  sky  is  one  black  cloud. 
Shooting   the   lightnings    down   in    spire    on 

spire ; 
Now,  round  the  mount  its  canopy  is  bow'd, 
A  vault  of  stone  on  columns  of  red  fire. 
The  stars,  like  lamps,  along  its  roof  expire ; 
But  through  its  centre  bursts  an  orb  of  rays  ; 
The  Angel  knew  the  Avenger  in  his  ire  I 
The   hill-top    smoked   beneath   the    stooping 

blaze, 
The  culprits  dared  not  there  their  guilty  eye- 
balls raise. 

And  words  were  utter' d  from  that    vhirling 

sphere 
That  mortal  sense  might  never  hear  and  live. 
They  pierced  like  arrows  through  the  Angel's 

ear ; 
He   bow'd   his   head ;    'twas   vain   to  fiy  or 

strive, 
Down   comes  the  final  wrath ;  the  thunders 

give 
The  doubled  peal — the  rain  in  cataracts  sweep, 
Broad  fiery  bars  the  sheeted  deluge  rive  ; 
The  mountain  summits  to  the  valley  leap, 
Pavilion,  garden,  grove,  smoke  up  one  ruin'd 

heap. 

The  storm  stands  still !  a  moment's  pause  of 

terror  ! 
All    dungeon    dark !     Again    the   lightnings 

yawn. 
Showing  the  earth  as  in  a  quivering  mirror ; 
The  prostrate  Angel  felt  but  that  the  one 
Whose    love    had    lost    him    Paradise    was 

gone : 
He  dared  not  see  her  corpse !  he  closed  his 

eyes  ; 
A  voice  burst  o'er  him,  solemn  as  the  tone 
Of    the   last  trump — he   glanced    upon    the 

skies. 
He    saw   what   shook   his   soul  with  terror, 

shame,  surprise. 

Th'  enchantress  stood  before  him  ;  two  broad 
plumes 

Spread  from  her  shoulders  on  the  burthen' d 
air, 

Her  face  was  glorious  still,  but  love's  young 
blooms 

Had  vanish' d  for  the  hue  of  bold  despair  ; 

A  fiery  circle  crown' d  her  sable  hair ; 

And,  as  she  look'd  upon  her  prostrate  prize, 

Her  eyeballs  shot  around  a  meteor  glare, 

Her  form  tower' d  up  at  once  to  giant  size  ; 

'Twas  Eblis,  king  of  hell's  relentless  sovereign- 
ties. 

The   tempter   spoke — "Spirit,  thou   mightst 

have  stood. 
But  thou  hast  fall'n  a  weak  and  Avilling  slave. 
Now   were   thy    feeble    heart   our   serpent's 

food, 
Thy  bed  our  burning  ocean's  sleepless  wave, 
But  haughty  Heaven  controls  the  power  it 

gave, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  EXCIJESION. 


[Ebenezer   Ellio': 


Yet   art   thou   doom'd  to   wander  from  thy 

sphere 
Till  the  last  trumpet  reaches  to  the  grave, 
Till  the  sun  rolls  the  grand  concluding  year, 
Till  earth  is  paradise  ;  then   shall  thy  crime 

be  clear." 

The  Angel  Hsten'd — risen  upon  one  knee 

Eesolved  to  hear  the  deadliest  undismay'd; 

His  gold-starr'd  plume  hung  round  him 
droopingly. 

His  brow,  like  marble,  on  his  hand  was  staid. 

Still  through  the  auburn  lock's  o'erhanging 
shade 

His  face  shone  beautiful :  he  heard  his  ban ; 

Then  came  the  words  of  mercy,  sternly  said ; 

He  plunged  within  his  hands  his  visage  wan 

And  the  first  wild  sweet  tears  from  his  heart- 
pulses  ran. 

The  giant  grasp'd  him  as  he  fell  to  earth. 
And  his  black  vanes  upon  the  air  were  flung, 
A  tabernacle  dark  ;  and  shouts  of  mirth. 
Mingled  with  shriekings,  through  the  tempest 

s^vung  ; 
His  arm  around  the  fainting  Angel  clung. 
Then  on  the  clouds  he  darted  with  a  groan ; 
A  moment  o'er  the  Mount  of  Ruin  hung, 
Then  burst  through  space,  like  the  red  comet's 

cone, 
Leaving    his    track    on    heaven   a   burning, 

endless  zone. 

George  Croly.—Born  1780,  Died  1861. 


1552.— TO  THE  BEAMBLE  FLOWER. 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  schoolboy  knows, 

Wild  bramble  of  the  brake ! 
So  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose ; 

I  love  it  for  his  sake. 
Though  woodbines  flaunt  and  roses  glow 

O'er  all  the  fragrant  bowers, 
Thou  need'st  not  be  ashamed  to  show 

Thy  satin-threaded  flowers  ; 
For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  duU, 

That  cannot  feel  how  fair, 
Amid  all  beauty  beautiful. 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are  ! 
Hov*^  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill ! 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem  ! 
How  soft  thy  voice  when  woods  are  still, 

And  thou  sing'st  hymns  to  them  ; 
While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow. 

And  'mid  the  general  hush, 
A  sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough, 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush  ! 
The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone  ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead ; 
The  violet  by  the  moss'd  grey  stone 

Hath  laid  her  weary  head  ; 
But  thou,  wild  bramble  !  back  dost  bring, 

In  all  their  beauteous  power. 
The  fresh  green  days  of  life's  fair  spring. 

And  boyhood's  blossomy  hour. 


Scorn' d  bramble  of  the  brake !  once  more 

Thou  bidd'st  me  be  a  boy, 
To  gad  with  thee  the  woodlands  o'er, 

In  freedom  and  in  joy. 

Ehenezer  Elliott.— Born  1781,  Died  1849. 


1553.— THE  EXCURSION. 

Bone-weary,  many-childed,  trouble-tried  ! 
Wife  of  my  bosom,  wedded  to  my  soul ! 
Mother  of  nine  that  live,  and  two  that  died ! 
This  day,  drink  health  from  nature's  mountain 

bowl; 
Nay,    why   lament    the   doom   which   mocks 

control ? 
The  buried  are  ncffc  lost,  but  gone  before. 
Then  dry  thy  tears,  and  see  the  river  roll 
O'er  rocks,  that  crown'd  yon  time-dark  heights 

of  yore. 
Now,  tyrant-like,  dethroned,  to  crush  the  weak 

no  more. 

The  young  are  with  us  yet,  and  we  with 
them  : 

0  thank  the  Lord  for  all  he  gives  or  takes — 

The  wither'd  bud,  the  living  flower,  or  gem  ! 

And  he  wiU  bless  us  when  the  world  for- 
sakes ! 

Lo  !  where  thy  fisher-born,  abstracted,  takes, 

With  his  fix'd  eyes,  the  trout  he  cannot  see  ! 

Lo  !  starting  from  his  earnest  dream,  he 
wakes ! 

While  our  glad  Fanny,  with  raised  foot  and 
knee, 

Bears  down  at  Noe's  side  the  bloom-bow' d 
hawthorn-tree. 

Dear  children !  when  the  flowers  are  full  of 

bees; 
When  sun-touch'd  blossoms  shed  their  fragrant 

snow; 
When   song   speaks   like   a   spirit   from   the 

trees 
Whose    kindled    greenness    hath    a    golden 

glow ; 
When,  clear  as  music,  rill  and  river  flow, 
With  trembling  hues,  all    changeful,  tinted 

o'er 
By   that   bright   pencil    which   good    spirits 

know 
Alike  in  earth  and  heaven — 'tis  sweet,  once 

more, 
Above  the  sky-tinged  hills  to  see  the  storm- 
bird  soar 

'Tis  passing  sweet  to  wander,  free  as  air, 
Blithe  truants  in  the  bright  and  breeze-bless' d 

day, 
Far  from  the  town — where  stoop  the  sons  of 

care 
O'er  plans  of   mischief,  tiU  their  souls   turn 

grey,  ^^ 


Ebbnezer  Elliott.1 


PICTUEES  OF  NATIVE  GENIUS.  [Seventh  Period.- 


And  dry  as  dust,  and  dead-alive  are  they — 
Of  aU  self -buried  thing's  the  most  unbless'd  : 
O  Morn  !  to  them  no  blissful  tribute  pay  ! 
O  Night's  long-courted  slumbers  !   bring  no 

rest 
To  men  who  laud  man's  foes,  and  deem  the 

basest  best ! 

God !  would  they  handcuff  thee  ?  and,  if  they 

could. 
Chain  the  free  air,  that,  like  the  daisy,  goes 
To  every  field  ;  and  bid  the  warbling  wood 
Exchange  no  music  with  the  willing  rose 
For  love-sweet  odours,  where  the  woodbine 

blows 
And  trades  with  every  cloud,  and  every  beam 
Of  the  rich  sky !     Their  gods  are  bonds  and 

blows, 
Eocks,  and  blind  shipwreck ;   and  they  hate 

the  stream 
That  leaves  them  still  behind,  and  mocks  their 

changeless  dream. 

They  know  ye  not,  ye  flowers  that  welcome 

me. 
Thus  glad  to  meet,  by  trouble  parted  long ! 
They  never  saw  ye — never  may  they  see 
Your  dewy  beauty,  when  the  throstle's  song 
Floweth    like    starlight,    gentle,    calm,    and 

strong  ! 
Still,  Avarice,  starve  their  souls !  still,  lowest 

Pride, 
Make  them  the  meanest  of  the  basest  throng  ! 
And  may  they  never,  on  the  green  hill's  side, 
Embrace   a  chosen  flower,  and  love  it  as  a 

bride ! 

Blue  Eyebright !   loveliest  flower  of  all  that 

grow 
In    flower-loved     England !      Flower,    whose 

hedge-side  gaze 
Is  like  an  infant's !     What  heart  doth  not 

know 
Thee,  cluster' d  smiler  of  the  bank !    where 

plays 
The  sunbeam  with  the  emerald  snake,  and 

strays 
The  dazzling  rill,  companion  of  the  road 
Which  the  lone  bard  most  loveth,  in  the  days 
When  hope  and   love  are  young  ?     O  come 

abroad, 
Blue  Eyebright !  and  this  rill  shall  woo  thee 

with  an  ode. 

Awake,   blue   Eyebright,  while    the    singing 

wave 
Its  cold,  bright,  beauteous,  soothing  tribute 

drops 
From  many  a  grey  rock's  foot  and  dripping 

cave ; 
While    yonder,  lo !    the    starting    stone-chat 

hops  ! 
While  here  the  cotter's  cow  its  sweet  food 

crops  ; 
While  black-faced  ewes  and  lambs  are  bleating 

there : 


And,  bursting  through  the  briars,  the  wild  ass 

stops — 
Kicks  at  the  strangers — then  turns  round  to 

stare — 
Then  lowers  his  large  red  ears,  and  shakes  his 

long  dark  hair. 

Ebenezer  Elliott.— Born  1781,  Died  1849. 


1554.— PICTURES  OF  NATIVE   GENIUS. 

O  faithful  love,  by  poverty  embraced ! 
Thy  heart  is  fire,  amid  a  wintry  waste ; 
Thy  joys  are  roses,  born  on  Hecla's  brow  ; 
Thy  home  is  Eden,  Avarm  amid  the  snow  ; 
And  she,  thy  mate,  when  coldest  blows  the 

storm, 
Clings   then   most    fondly   to    thy   guardian 

form  ; 
E'en  as  thy  taper  gives  intensest  light. 
When  o'er  thy  bow'd  roof  darkest  falls  the 

night. 
Oh,  if  thou  e'er  hast  wrong'd   her,  if   thou 

e'er 
From  those  mild  eyes  hast  caused  one  bitter 

tear 
To  flow  unseen,  repent,  and  sin  no  more  ! 
For   richest   gems,  compared   with    her,    are 

poor; 
Gold,  weigh'd  against  her  heart,  is  light — is 

vile  ; 
And  when  thou  sufferest,  who  shall  see  her 

smile  ? 
Sighing,  ye  wake,  and  sighing,  sink  to  sleep, 
And   seldom    smile,    without  fresh,   cause   to 

weep 
(Scarce  dry  the  pebble,  by  the  wave  dash'd 

o'er. 
Another  comes,  to  wet  it  as  before) ; 
Yet   while   in   gloom  your  freezing   day  de- 
clines. 
How  fair  the  wintry  sunbeam  when  it  shines  '. 
Your  foliage,  where  no  summer  leaf  is  seen. 
Sweetly  embroiders  earth's  white  veil   with 

green ; 
And  your  broad  branches,  proud  of    storm- 
tried  strength, 
Stretch  to  the  winds  in  sport  their  stalwart 

length, 
And  .calmly  wave,  beneath  the  darkest  hour, 
The  ice-bom  fruit,  the  frost-defying  flower. 
Let  luxury,  sickening  in  profusion's  chair, 
Unwisely  pamper  his  unworthy  heir, 
And,  while  he  feeds  him,  blush  and  tremble 

too! 
But  love  and  labour,  blush  not,  fear  not  you  ! 
Your  children  (spHnters  from  the  mountain's 

side). 
With    rugged   hands,    shall    for    themselves 

provide. 
Parent  of  valour,  cast  away  thy  fear  ! 
Mother  of  men,  be  proud  without  a  tear ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


A  POET'S  EPITAPH. 


[Ebenezer  Elliott 


WMle  round    your  hearth,   the    woe-nursed 

virtues  move, 
And  all  that  manliness  can  ask  of  love  ; 
Remember  Hogarth,  and  abjure  despair  ; 
Remember  Arkwright,  and  the  peasant  Claxe, 
Burns,  o'er  the  plough,  sung  sweet  his  wood- 
notes  wild. 
And    richest    Shakspere   was   a  poor   man's 

chHd. 
Sire,  green  in  age,  nuld,  patient,  toil-inured, 
Endure  thine  evils  as  thou  hast  endured. 
Behold  thy  wedded  daughter,  and  rejoice ! 
Hear  hope's  sweet  accents  in  a  grandchild's 

voice ! 
See  freedom's  bulwarks  in  thy  sons  arise, 
And    Hampden,   Eussell,    Sydney,   in     their 

eyes ! 
And    should     some    new    Napoleon's    curse 

subdue 
All  hearths  but  thine,  let  him  behold  them 

too, 
And  timely  shun  a  deadlier  Waterloo. 

Northumbrian   vales  !     ye   saw,   in   silent 

pride, 
The  pensive  brow  of  lowly  Akenside, 
When,  poor,  yet  leam'd,  he  wander'd  young 

and  free, 
And  felt  within  the  strong  divinity. 
Scenes  of  his  youth,  where  first  he  woo'd  the 

Nine, 
His  spirit  still  is  with  you,  vales  of  Tyne  ! 
As  when  he  breathed,  your  blue-bell' d  paths 

along, 
The  soul  of  Plato  into  British  song. 

Born  in  a  lowly  hut  an  infant  slept. 
Dreamful  in  sleep,  and,  sleeping,  smiled    or 

wept : 
Silent  the  youth — the  man  was  grave  and  shy : 
His  parents   loved   to   watch  his  wondering 

eye: 
And  lo  I     he  waved   a  prophet's  hand,  and 

gave, 
"Where   the   winds    soar,  a  pathway   to   the 

wave  ! 
From  hill  to  hill  bade  air-hung  rivers  stride. 
And  flow  through  mountains  with  a  conqueror's 

pride  : 
O'er  grazing  herds,  lo  !  ships  suspended  sail, 
And   Brindley's  praise   hath  wings   in  every 

gale ! 
The  worm  came  up  to  drink  the  welcome 

shower ; 
The  redbreast  quaff'd   the  raindrop  in  the 

bower ; 
The  flaskering  duck  through  freshen' d  lilies 

swam  ; 
The  bright  roach  took  the  fly  below  the  dam ; 
Ramp'd  the  glad  colt,  and  cropp'd  the  pensile 

spray ; 
No  more  in  dust  uprose  the  sultry  way ; 
The   lark  was   in  the  cloud;    the  woodbine 

hung 
More   sweetly  o'er  the    chaflmch    while   he 

sung; 
And  the  wild  rose,  from  every  dripping  bush, 
Beheld  on  silvery  Sheaf  the  mirror' d  blush ; 


When  calmly  seated  on  his  pannier'd  ass. 

Where  travellers  hear  the  steel  hiss  as  they 
pass, 

A  milkboy,    sheltering    from    the    transient 
storm. 

Chalk' d,  on   the   grinder's   wall^  an  infant's 
form ;  ~      - 

Young  Chantrey  snuled ;    no  critic  praised  or 
blamed ; 

And  golden   promise   smiled,   and    thus    ex- 
claim'd  : — 
"  Go,    child    of     genius  !     rich    be     thine 
increase  ; 

Go — be  the  Phidias  of  the  second  Greece  !  " 

Ebenezer  Elliott.— Born  1781,  Died  1849. 


1555.— APOSTROPHE  TO  FUTURITY. 

Ye  rocks  !  ye  elements  I  thou  shoreless  main. 
In  whose  blue  depths,  worlds,  ever  voyaging. 
Freighted  with  life  and  death,  of  fate  com- 
plain. 
Things  of  immutability  !  ye  bring 
Thoughts  that  with  terror  and  with  sorrow 

wring 
The    human   breast.       Unchanged,    of    sad 

decay 
And  deathless  change  ye  speak,  like  prophets 

old, 
Foretelling  evil's  ever-present  day  ; 
And  as  when  Horror  lays  his  finger  cold 
Upon  the  heart  in  dreams,  appal  the  bold. 
O  thou  Futurity  I  our  hope  and  dread, 
Let  me  unveil  thy  features,  fair  or  foul ! 
Thou  who  shalt  see  the  grave  untenanted. 
And  commune  with  the  re-embodied  soul ! 
Tell  me  thy  secrets,  ere  thy  ages  roll 
Their  deeds,  that  yet  shall  be  on  earth,  in 

heaven, 
And   in   deep  heU,  where  rabid  hearts  with 

pain 
Must  purge  their  plagues,  and  learn   to  be 

forgiven ! 
Show  me  the  beauty  that  shall  fear  no  stain, 
And  still,  through  age-long  years,  unchanged 

remain ! 
As  one  who  dreads  to  raise  the  pallid  sheet 
Which   shrouds  the   beautiful   and    tranquil 

face 
That  yet  can  smile,  but   never  more  shall 

meet, 
With  kisses  warm,  his  ever  fond  embrace ; 
So  I  draw  nigh  to  thee,  with  timid  pace. 
And  tremble,  though  I  long  to  lift  thy  veil. 

Ehenez&r  ElUott.—Bom  1781,  IHed  1849. 


1556.— A  POET'S  EPITAPH. 

Stop,  Mortal !     Here  thy  brother  lies- 
The  Poet  of  the  Poor. 


Ebenezer  Elliott.] 


A  POET'S  PEAYEE. 


[Seventh  Pesiod. — 


His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skiea, 

The  meadow  and  the  moor  ; 
His  teachers  were  the  torn  heart's  wail 

The  tyrant  and  the  slave. 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  gaol, 

The  palace — and  the  grave  ! 
Sin  met  thy  brother  everywhere  ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blamed  ? 
From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care, 

He  no  exemption  claim' d. 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  fear'd  to  scorn  or  hate  ; 
But,  honouring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great. 
He  bless' d  the  steward,  whose  wealth  makes 

The  poor  man's  little,  more  ; 
Yet  loathed  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  plunder'd  Labour's  store. 
A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare — 
Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 

Who  drew  them  as  they  are. 

Ebenezer  Elliott— Born  1781,  Died  1849. 


1557.— A  POET'S  PEAYEE. 

Almighty  Father  !  let  thy  lowly  child. 

Strong  in  his  love  of  truth,  be  wisely  bold — 

A  patriot  bard,  by  sycophants  reviled, 

Let  him  live  usefully,  and  not  die  old ! 

Let  poor  men's  children,  pleased  to  read  his 

lays, 
Love,  for  his  sake,  the  scenes  where  he  hath 

been. 
And  when  he  ends  his  pilgrimage  of  days, 
Let  him  be  buried  where  the  grass  is  green. 
Where  daisies,  blooming  earliest,  linger  late 
To  hear  the  bee  his  busy  note  prolong ; 
There  let  him  slumber,  and  in  peace  await 
The   dawning  mom,    far    from   the    sensual 

throng, 
Who  scorn  the  windflower's  blush,  the  red- 
breast's lonely  song. 

Ebenezer  Elliott— Born  1781,  Died  1849, 


1558.— COWPEE'S  GEAVE. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crown' d 

May  feel  the  heart's  decaying — 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints 

May  weep  amid  their  praying — 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness 

As  low  as  silence  languish ; 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm 

To  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

0  poets  !  from  a  maniac's  tongue 
Was  pour'd  the  deathless  singing ! 


O  Christians !  at  your  cross  of  hope 

A  hopeless  hand  was  clinging  ! 
0  men !  this  man  in  brotherhood, 

Your  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groan' d  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 

And  died  while  ye  were  smiling. 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 

Through  dimming  tears  his  story — 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell, 

And  darkness  on  the  glory — 
And  how,  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds 

And  wandering  lights  departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face, 

Because  so  broken-hearted.  • 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify 

The  poet's  high  vocation, 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down 

In  meeker  adoration ; 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be  in  praise 

By  wise  or  good  forsaken ; 
Named  softly  as  the  household  name 

Of  one  whom  God  hath  taken ! 

With  sadness  that  is  calm,  not  gloom, 

I  learn  to  think  upon  him  ; 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness, 

On  God,  whose  heaven  hath  won  him. 
Who  suffer' d  once  the  madness-cloud 

Towards  his  love  to  blind  him ; 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along. 

Where  breath  and  bird  could  find  him  ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shatter' d  brain 

Such  quick  poetic  senses, 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars 

Harmonious  influences ! 
The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass 

His  own  did  calmly  number ; 
And  silent  shadow  from  the  trees 

Fell  o'er  him  like  a  slumber. 

The  very  world,  by  God's  constraint, 

From  falsehood's  chill  removing, 
Its  women  and  its  men  became 

Beside  him  true  and  loving ! 
And  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 

To  share  his  home-caresses, 
Uplooking  in  his  human  eyes. 

With  sylvan  tendernesses. 

But  while  in  darkness  he  remain' d, 

Unconscious  of  the  guiding, 
And  things  provided  came  without 

The  sweet  sense  of  providing, 
He  testified  this  solemn  truth, 

Though  frenzy  desolated — 
Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy 

Whom  only  God  created. 

3Irs.  Broivning.—Born  1809,  Diea  1861, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BERTHA  IN  THE  LANE. 


[Mks.  Browning. 


[559.— THE  CHILD  AND  THE  WATCHEE. 

Sleep  on,  baby  on  the  floor, 

Tired  of  all  thy  playing — 
Sleep  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 

That  you  dropp'd  away  in ; 
On  your  curls'  fair  roundness  stand 

Golden  lights  serenely ; 
One  cheek,  push'd  out  by  the  hand, 

Folds  the  dimple  inly — 
Little  head  and  little  foot 

Heavy  laid  for  pleasure  ; 
Underneath  the  lids  half- shut 

Plants  the  shining  azure  ; 
Open-soul'd  in  noonday  sun, 

So,  you  lie  and  slumber ; 
Nothing  evil  having  done, 

Nothing  can  encumber. 

I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  well, 

Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you  ? 
Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 

All  that  may  undo  you  ? 
Nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  fate  appeareth  ! 
I  smile,  too ;  for  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss ; 

I  shaU  sleep,  though  losing 
As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross, 

Sweet  is  the  reposing. 

And  God  knows,  who  sees  us  twain, 

Child  at  childish  leisure, 
I  am  aU  as  tired  of  pain 

As  you  are  of  pleasure. 
Very  soon,  too,  by  His  grace 

Gently  wrapt  around  me, 
I  shaU  show  as  calm  a  face, 

I  shall  sleep  as  soundly — 
Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings  sleeping, 
While  my  hand  must  drop  the  few 

Given  to  my  keeping — 

Differing  in  this,  that  I, 

Sleeping,  must  be  colder, 
And,  in  waking  presently. 

Brighter  to  beholder — 
Differing  in  this  beside 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me? 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Your  great  eyes  toward  me  ?), 
That  whUe  I  you  draw  withal 

From  this  slumber  solely. 
Me,  from  mine,  an  angel  shall, 

Trumpet-tongued  and  holy ! 

Mrs.  Browning. — Born  1809,  Died  1861. 


1560.— BEETHA  IN  THE  LANE. 

Put  the  broidery-frame  away. 
For  my  sewing  is  all  done ! 


The  last  thread  is  used  to-day. 
And  I  need  not  join  it  on. 
Though  the  clock  stands  at  the  noon, 
I  am  weary !  I  have  sewn, 
Sweet,  for  thee,  a  wedding-gown. 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  bed,  ~     - 

And  stand  near  me,  dearest-sweet ! 

Do  not  shrink  nor  be  afraid. 
Blushing  with  a  sudden  heat ! 
No  one  standeth  in  the  street ! — 
By  God's  love  I  go  to  meet, 
Love  I  thee  with  love  complete. 

Lean  thy  face  down !  drop  it  in 
These  two  hands,  that  I  may  hold 

'Twixt  their  palms  thy  cheek  and  chin, 
Stroking  back  the  curls  of  gold. 
'Tis  a  fair,  fair  face,  in  sooth — 
Larger  eyes  and  redder  mouth 
Than  mine  were  in  my  first  youth  ! 

Thou  art  younger  by  seven  years — 
Ah  ! — so  bashful  at  my  gaze 

That  the  lashes,  hung  with  tears, 
Grow  too  heavy  to  upraise  ! 
I  would  wound  thee  by  no  touch 
Which  thy  shyness  feels  as  such — 
Dost  thou  mind  me,  dear,  so  much  ? 

Have  I  not  been  nigh  a  mother 
To  thy  sweetness — tell  me,  dear, 

Have  we  not  loved  one  another 
Tenderly,  from  year  to  year  ? 
Since  our  dying  mother  mild 
Said,  with  accents  undefiled, 
"  Child,  be  mother  to  this  child !  " 

Mother,  mother,  up  in  heaven, 
Stand  up  on  the  jasper  sea, 

And  be  witness  I  have  given 
All  the  gifts  required  of  me ; — 
Hope  that  bless'd  me,  bHss  that  crown'd, 
Love  that  left  me  with  a  wound. 
Life  itself,  that  tum'd  around ! 

Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind. 
Thou  art  standing  in  the  room, — 

In  a  molten  glory  shrined. 
That  rays  off  into  the  gloom '. 
But  thy  smile  is  tDright  and  bleak, 
Like  cold  waves — I  cannot  speak ; 
I  sob  in  it,  and  grow  weak. 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 

One  hour  longer  from  my  soul — 

For  I  still  am  thinking  of 

Earth's  warm-beating  joy  and  dole  ! 
On  my  finger  is  a  ring 
Which  I  still  see  glittering, 
When  the  night  hides  everything. 

Little  sister,  thou  art  pale ! 

Ah,  I  have  a  wandering  brain — 
But  I  lose  that  fever-bale, 

And  my  thoughts  grow  calm  again. 

Lean  down  closer — closer  still ! 

I  have  words  thine  ear  to  fill, — 

And  would  kiss  thee  at  my  will. 


Mrs.  Browning.] 


BEETHA  IN  THE  LANE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Dear,  I  heard  thee  in  the  spring, 

Thee  and  Robert — through  the  trees, 

When  we  all  went  gathering 

Boughs  of  May-bloom  for  the  bees. 
Do  not  start  so  !  think  instead 
How  the  sunshine  overhead 
Seem'd  to  trickle  through  the  shade. 

What  a  day  it  was,  that  day ! 

HiUs  and  vales  did  openly 
Seem  to  heave  and  throb  away. 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky ; 

And  the  silence,  as  it  stood 

In  the  glory's  golden  flood. 

Audibly  did  bud — and  bud ! 

Through  the  winding  hedgerows  green, 
How  we  wander' d,  I  and  you, — 

With  the  bowery  tops  shut  in, 

And  the  gates  that  show'd  the  view- 
How  we  talk'd  there  !  thrushes  soft 
Sang  our  pauses  out,— ^or  oft 
Bleatings  took  them,  from  the  croft. 

Till  the  pleasure,  grown  too  strong. 
Left  me  muter  evermore  ; 

And,  the  winding  road  being  long, 
I  walk'd  out  of  sight,  before  ; 
And  80,  wrapt  in  musings  fond. 
Issued  (past  the  wayside  pond) 
On  the  meadow-lands  beyond. 

I  sat  down  beneath  the  beech 
Which  leans  over  to  the  lane. 

And  the  far  sound  of  your  speech 
Did  not  promise  any  pain ; 
And  I  bless'd  you  full  and  free. 
With  a  smile  stoop' d  tenderly 
O'er  the  May-flowers  on  my  knee. 

But  the  sound  grew  into  word 

As  the  speakers  drew  more  near — 

Sweet,  forgive  me  that  I  heard 
What  you  wish'd  me  not  to  hear. 
Do  not  weep  so — do  not  shake — 
Oh, — I  heard  thee.  Bertha,  make 
Good  true  answers  for  my  sake. 

Yes,  and  he  too  !  let  him  stand 

In  thy  thoughts,  untouch' d  by  blame. 

Could  he  help  it,  if  my  hand 

He  had  claim' d  with  hasty  claim  ! 
That  was  wrong  perhaps — but  then 
Such  things  be — and  will,  again  ! 
Women  cannot  judge  for  men. 

Had  he  seen  thee,  when  he  swore 
He  would  love  but  me  alone  ? 

Thou  wert  absent — sent  before 
To  our  kin  in  Sidmouth  town. 
When  he  saw  thee,  who  art  best 
Past  compare,  and  loveliest, 
He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

Could  we  blame  him  with  grave  words, 
Thou  and  I,  dear,  if  we  might  ? 

Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds 
Flying  straightway  to  the  light ; 


Mine  are  older. — Hush ! — look  out — 

Up  the  street !     Is  none  without  ? 
How  the  poplar  swings  about ! 

And  that  hour — ^beneath  the  beech — 
When  I  listen' d  in  a  dream. 

And  he  said,  in  his  deep  speech. 
That  he  owed  me  aU  esteem — 
Each  word  swam  in  on  my  brain 
With  a  dim,  dilating  pain, 
TiU  it  burst  with  that  last  strain — 

I  fell  flooded  with  a  dark. 
In  the  silence  of  a  swoon — 

When  I  rose,  still,  cold  and  stark, 
There  was  night — I  saw  the  moon  : 
And  the  stars,  each  in  its  place. 
And  the  May-blooms  on  the  grass, 
Seem'd  to  wonder  what  I  was. 

And  I  walk'd  as  if  apart 

From  myself  when  I  could  stand — 

And  I  pitied  my  own  heart. 
As  if  I  held  it  in  mj  hand — 
Somewhat  coldly — with  a  sense 
Of  fulfill' d  benevolence. 
And  a  "  Poor  thing  "  negligence. 

And  I  answer'd  coldly  too, 

When  you  met  me  at  the  door ; 

And  I  only  heard  the  dew 

Dripping  from  me  to  the  floor ; 
And  the  flowers  I  bade  you  see. 
Were  too  wither' d  for  the  bee — 
As  my  life,  henceforth,  for  me. 

Do  not  weep  so — dear — heart- warm  ! 
It  was  best  as  it  befell ! 

If  I  say  he  did  me  harm, 

I  speak  wild — I  am  not  well. 
AU  his  words  were  kind  and  good — 
He  esteem'd  me  !     Only  blood 
Euns  so  faint  in  womanhood. 

Then  I  always  was  too  grave — 
Liked  the  saddest  ballads  sung — 

With  that  look,  besides,  we  have 
In  our  faces,  who  die  yoxmg. 
I  had  died,  dear,  all  the  same — 
Life's  long,  joyous,  jostling  game 
Is  too  loud  for  my  meek  shame. 

We  arq  so  unlike  each  other. 

Thou  and  I ;  that  none  could  guess 

We  were  children  of  one  mother, 
But  for  mutual  tenderness. 
Thou  art  rose-lined  from  the  cold, 
And  meant,  verily,  to  hold 
Life's  pure  pleasures  manifold, 

I  am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

Close  beside  a  rose-tree's  root ! 

Whosoe'er  would  reach  the  rose. 
Treads  the  crocus  underfoot — 
I,  like  May-bloom  on  thorn  tree — 
Thou,  like  merry  summer-bee  ! 
Fit,  that  I  be  pluck' d  for  thee. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  SLEEP. 


[Mrs.  BROWNiNa. 


Yet  who  plucks  me  ? — no  one  mourns — 

I  have  lived  my  season  out — 
And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns 

Which  I  could  not  live  without. 

Sweet,  be  merry  !     How  the  light 

Comes  and  goes  !     If  it  be  night, 

Keep  the  candles  in  my  sight. 

Are  there  footsteps  at  the  door  ? 

Look  out  quickly.     Yea  or  nay  ? 
Some  one  might  be  waiting  for 

Some  last  word  that  I  might  say. 

Nay  ?     So  best ! — So  angels  would 

Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road — 

Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

Colder  grow  my  hands  and  feet — 
When  I  wear  the  shroud  I  made, 

Let  the  folds  lie  straight  and  neat. 
And  the  rosemary  be  spread — 
That  if  any  friend  should  come 
(To  see  thee,  sweet !),  all  the  room 
May  be  lifted  out  of  gloom. 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 
On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 

Which  at  nights,  when  others  sleep 
I  can  still  see  glittering. 
Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight, 
In  the  grave — where  it  will  light 
All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night. 

On  that  grave,  drop  not  a  tear  ! 

Else,  though  fathom-deep  the  place, 
Through  the  woollen  shroud  I  wear 

I  shall  feel  it  on  my  face. 

Rather  smile  there,  blessed  one, 

Thinking  of  me  in  the  sun — 

Or  forget  me — smiling  on  ! 

Art  thou  near  me  ?  nearer  ?  so  ! 
Kiss  me  close  upon  the  eyes. 

That  the  earthly  light  may  go 
Sweetly  as  it  used  to  rise — 
When  I  watch' d  the  morning  gray 
Strike,  betwixt  the  hills,  the  way 
He  was  sure  to  come  that  day. 

So — no  more  vain  words  be  said ! 
The  hosannahs  nearer  roll — 

Mother,  smile  now  on  thy  dead — 
I  am  death-strong  in  my  soul ! 
Mystic  Dove  aht  on  cross, 
Guide  the  poor  bird  of  the  snows 
Through  the  snow-wind  above  loss ! 

Jesus,  Victim,  comprehending 
Love's  divine  self-abnegation — 

Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending, 
And  absorb  the  poor  libation  ! 
Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher, 
Up  through  angels'  hands  of  fire  I — 
I  aspire  while  I  expire  ! — 

Mrs.  Browning.— Born  1809,  Died  1861. 


1 56 1. —THE  SLEEP. 

Of  aU  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 

Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep. 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this— _ 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved — 

The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep— 
The  senate's  shout  to  patriot's  vows — ■ 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ? 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved — 

A  little  dust  to  overweep — 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  !— 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !  "  we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelid    creep, 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

0  earth,  so  fuU  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  I 
O  delved  gold  the  wallers'  heap  ! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

"  And  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

His  dew  drops  mutely  on  the  hill ; 
His  cloud  above  it  saHeth  still, 

Though  on  its  slope  men  toil  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Yea  !  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 

In  such  a  rest  his  heart  to  keep  ; 
But  angels  say — and  through  the  word 

1  ween  their  blessed  smile  is  heard — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  juggler's  leap. 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close — 
Would,  childlike,  on  His  love  repose 

Who  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

And  friends  ! — dear  friends  ! — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep. 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall " — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Mrs.  Browning. — Born  1809,  Died  1861. 


Chakles  Wolfe.] 


THE  BUEIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOOEE.         [Seventh  Pekiod.— 


1562.— THE  BURIAL  OF  SIE  JOHN 
MOOEE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried : 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

"We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  bound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest. 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said. 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow. 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the 
dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  on  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hoUow'd  his  narrow  bed. 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er 
his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  hun ; 

But  little  he'U  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  hais  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a 
stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory ! 

Charles  Wolfe.— Bom  1791,  Ried  1823. 


1563.— THE  DEATH  OF  MAEY. 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee  ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be ; 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  pass'd, 

That  time  would  e'er  be  o'er— r 
When  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last. 

And  thou  shouldst  smUe  no  more. 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  'twill  smile  again  ; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook, 

That  I  must  look  in  vain  ; 
But  when  I  speak  thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid ; 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary,  thou  art  dead. 


If  thou  wouldst  stay,  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene, 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smile  has  been ; 
While  e'en  thy  chill  bleak  corse  I  have. 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own. 
But  there — I  lay  thee  in  the  grave. 

And  now — I  am  alone. 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 
And  I  perhaps  may  soothe  this  heart 

In  thinking  stiU  of  thee  ! 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before. 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore. 

Charles  Wolfe.— Born  1791,  Died  1823. 


1564.— SONG. 

0  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 

To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it — 
That  Nature's  form,  so  dear  of  old, 

No  more  has  power  to  charm  it ; 
Or  that  the  ungenerous  world  can  chill 

One  glow  of  fond  emotion 
For  those  who  made  it  dearer  still, 

And  shared  my  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I  view 

In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness — 
Oft  look  on  those  who  loved  them  too, 

With  fancy's  idle  gladness ; 
Again  I  long'd  to  view  the  Hght 

In  Nature's  features  glowing. 
Again  to  tread  the  mountain's  height, 

And  taste  the  soul's  o'erflowing. 

Stem  Duty  rose,  and,  frowning,  flung 

His  leaden  chain  around  me ; 
With  iron  look  and  suUen  tongue 

He  mutter' d  as  he  bound  me, — 
"  The    mountain    breeze,    the    boundless 
heaven. 

Unfit  for  toil  the  creature ; 
These  for  the  free  alone  are  given — 

But  what  have  slaves  with  Nature  ?  '^ 

Charles  Wolfe.— Bom  1791,  Died  1823. 


1565.— THE   BATTLE- OF  IVEY. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom 

all  glories  are ! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henry 

of  Navarre ! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music 

and  of  dance. 
Through    thy   corn-fields    green,    and    sunny 

vines,  0  pleasant  land  of  France  ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  PLAGUE  OF  HAILSTONES.  [Edwin  Atherstone. 


And  thou,  Eochelle,  our  own  Eochelle,  proud 

city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy 

mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in 

our  joy. 
For  cold,  and  stiff,  and   still  are  they  who 

wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah !  hurrah !  a  single  field   hath  turn'd 

the  chance  of  war, 
Hurrah !   hurrah !  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry 

of  Navarre ! 

Oh!  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at 

the  dawn  of  day. 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in 

long  array ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its 

rebel  peers, 
And  Appenzell's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's 

Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the 

curses  of  our  land  ! 
And    dark    Mayenne    was    in   the   midst,  a 

truncheon  in  his  hand ; 
And,  as  we  look'd   on  them,  we  thought  of 

Seine's  empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  aU  dabbled  with 

his  blood  ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules 

the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Heoxj  of 

Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  aU  his 

armour  drest ; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon 

his  gallant  crest. 
He  look'd  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in 

his  eye  ; 
He  look'd  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance 

was  stern  and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  roll'd 

from  wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout,  "  God 

save  our  lord  the  King." 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  faU  full 

well  he  may — 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody 

fray — 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white   plume  shine, 

amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of 

Navarre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving !  Hark  to  the 
mingled  din 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and 
roaring  culverin ! 

The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  St. 
Andre's  plain. 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and 
Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentle- 
men of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now — upon  them 
with  the  lance ! 


A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thou- 
sand spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind 
the  snow-white  crest ; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rush'd,  while, 
like  a  guiding  star. 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet 
of  Navarre.  ~ 

Now,    God    be    praised,    the    day    is    ours ! 

Mayenne  hath  turn'd  his  rein. 
D'Aumale    hath     cried    for    quarter.       The 

Flemish  Count  is  slain. 
Their   ranks   are   breaking   like   thin   clouds 

before  a  Biscay  gale ; 
The  field  is  heap'd  with  bleeding  steeds,  and 

flags,  and  cloven  mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all 

along  our  van, 
"Eemember   St.  Bartholomew!"  was  pass'd 

from  man  to  man  ; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "  No  Frenchman 

is  my  foe : 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your 

brethren  go." 
Oh !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friend- 
ship or  in  war. 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier 

of  Navarre ! 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna !      Ho  !    matrons  of 

Lucerne ! 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who 

never  shall  return. 
Ho !   Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican 

pistoles. 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for 

thy  poor  spearmen's  sords  ! 
Ho !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that 

your  arms  be  bright ! 
Ho !  burghers  of  Saint  Genevieve,  keep  watch 

and  ward  to-night ! 
For  our  God  hath  crush' d  the  tyrant,  our  God 

hath  raised  the  slave, 
And  mock'd  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the 

valour  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all 

glories  are ; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord.  King  Henry 

of  Navarre. 

Macaulay.—Born  1800,  Died  1859. 


1566.— THE  PLAGUE  OF  HAILSTONES. 

"  And  Moses  stretched  forth  his  rod  toward 
heaven  ;  and  the  Lokd  sent  thunder  and  hail ; 
and  the  fire  ran  along  upon  the  ground." 

Exodus,  ix.  23. 

The  impious  Monarch  sat  upon  his  throne. 
Defying  still  the  God  of  Israel. — 
The  sixth  foul  plague  tormented  yet  the  land. 
Corroding  boils  and  blains  :  age,  sex,  nor  rank 
Escaped,     The  hungry  infant  from  the  breast 


Edwin  Atherstone.] 


THE  PLAGUE  OF  HAILSTONES. 


[Seventh  Period, — 


Tum'd,  sickening;  and  the  mother  from  her 

child. 
On  the  new  bride  the  bridegroom  stared  aghast ; 
She  upon  him,  and  lifted  up  her  hands, 
As  at  a  serpent.     Israel's  sons  alone — 
So  was  the  hand  of  God  made  manifest — 
Walk'd  through  the  tainted  air,  and  knew  no 

spot. 

But  Pharaoh  still  was  hardened  in  his  pride 
And  would  not  let  the  oppress'd  people  go. — 
Then  the  seventh  time  the  chosen  leader  came, 
And  spake  unto  the  king : — "  0  hard  of  heart ! 
And  blind  in  unbelief  !  not  yet  seest  thou 
That  Israel's  God  is  Lord  of  all  the  earth  ? 
Six  plagues  have  come  on  thee,  and  all  the 

land  : 
Yea,  do  ye  stink  with  very  loathsomeness — 
Wilt  thou  yet  strive  against  the  living  God  ? 
And  wilt  thou  yet  his  chosen  nation  vex 
With  stripes,  and  bondage,  and  task-masters 

hard? 
Or  wilt  thou  let  them  go  from  out  the  land, 
That  they  may  sacrifice  unto  their  God ; 
Even  to  Jehovah  in  the  wilderness  ?  " 

The  awful  prophet  ceased;   and  thus  the 

king, 
With  brow  like  night,  and  eye-balls  flashing 

fire. 
Upstarting  from  his  golden  throne,  replied  : 
"Slave  and  magician!  no,  they  shall  not  go  ! — 
Who  is  your  God,  that  I  should  be  afraid 
And  hearken  to  his  voice  ? — I  know  him  not ! — 
Neither   shall   Israel   go.      The   things   thou 

didst. 
Did  not  our  sorcerers  also — or  in  part — 
Even  in  thy  sight  ? — yet  prate  they  of  their 

God? 
What  art  thou  but  a  blacker  sorcerer  ? 
Or  who  thy  God  but  him  they  also  serve  ? — 
When  from  thy  rod  a  living  serpent  came, 
Cast  they  not  also  every  man  his  rod 
That  tum'd  into  a  serpent  ? — When  to  blood 
Thy  spells  had  changed  the  waters,  play'd  not 

they 
The  cunning  trick  as  well  ? — And  for  thy  frogs, 
Brought  they  not  forth  the  loathsome  reptiles 

too?— 
And  comest  thou  here  to  boast  of  Israel's 

God— 
■Their  God  alone  ? — and  say  unto  the  king, 
*  Let  go  thy  bondsmen  now  from  out  the  land 
That  they  may  sacrifice  unto  the  Lord  ? ' — 
Who  then  is  Israel's  God  ?  I  know  him  not! — 
And  Israel  shall  not  go. — And  who  art  thou 
That  I  should  hearken  thee,  and  lift  not  up 
My  hand  to  punish  ?     Tell  me  whence  thou  art, 
And  show  a  sign  that  I  may  truly  know 
If  your  Jehovah  bo  the  God  indeed, 
Israel  his  people,  and  his  prophet  thou.'* — 

Then  Moses  lifted  up  his  hands  and  spake : 
*'  O  !  harder  than  the  millstone  !  askest  thou 
A  sign  that  God  is  God,  and  Israel 
His  people  chosen  ?     Six  signs  hast  thou  had, 
Yet  not  -believed ;  and  the  seventh  will  see, 


And  harden  yet  thy  heart,  and  heavier  task 
The  groaning  people,  and  not  let  them  go ; 
But,  at  the  last,  thyself  shall  send  them  forth, 
And  own,  in  tears,  that  Israel's  God  is  God. 
But  hearken  to  me  now,  and  I  wilj  teU 
Both  whence  I  come,  and  by  what  sign  I  know 
That  I  indeed  the  prophet  of  the  Lord 
Am  chosen  to  this  work.     On  Horeb's  mount, 
The  holy  hill,  my  father  Jethro's  flocks 
I  led  to  pasture.     Suddenly,  behold  ! 
A  bush,  and  in  the  midst  a  flame  of  fire ; 
A  fierce  flame,  yet  the  bush  was  uncousumed : 
And  in  the  fire  the  angel  of  the  Lord 
Appeared  unto  me  !     Trembling  I  went  back, 
And  tum'd  aside,  that  I  this  wondrous  sight 
Might  see,  and  why  the  bush  was  unconsumed  ; 
But,  from  the  fire,  I  heard  the  voice  of  God, 
That  called  my  name  ;  and,  fearing,  I  replied — 
'  Here   am  I ! ' — Then  He  spake  again,   and 

said, 
'  Draw  not  nigh  hither ;  put  thy  shoes  aside 
From  off  thy  feet,  for  where  thou  standest  now 
Is  holy  ground.     I  am  thy  father's  God, 
The  God  of  Abraham,  and  Isaac's  God, 
The  God  of  Jacob.' — Then  I  hid  my  eyes. 
Lest  I  should  look  upon  the  face  of  God. 
And  the  Lord  said,  '  I  surely  have  beheld 
Th'  afiiictions  of  my  people,  and  have  heard 
Their  cry,  by  reason  of  their  task-masters ; 
For  I  do  know  their  sorrows,  and  am  come 
From  the  Egyptians  to  deliver  them, 
And  bring  them  from  that  land  unto  a  land 
Flowing   with   milk   and   honey.      Therefore 

come, 
And  I  will  send  thee  unto  Pharaoh  now, 
That  thou   my  chosen  people  may'st   bring 

forth. 
The  children  of  Israel,  from  Egyptian  bonds.' 

"  Then  I  bow'd  down,  and  said  unto  the 

Lord, 
'  Who  am  I  that  to  Pharaoh  I  should  go  ? — 
And  to  the  men  of  Israel  when  I  come, 
And  say  unto  them  "  Lo  !  your  fathers'  God 
Hath  sent  me  to  you,"  if  perchance  they  ask 
"What  is  his  name?"  how  shall  I  answer 

them  ? ' 
Then  spake  the   Almighty.     'I  am  that  I 

am! — 
Thus   to   the  children   of   Israel   shalt   thou 

say, 
"  I  AM  hath  sent  me  to  you,  the  Lord  God, 
Your  father's  God,  the  God  of  Abraham, 
The  God  of  Isaac,  and  the  God  of  Jacob, 
Even  he   hath    sent  me  to   you ; "    this  my 

name 
For  ever,  my  memorial  to  all  nations. 
Go,  gather  now  the  elders  of  Israel, 
And  say  to  them,  "  The  God  of  Abraham, 
The  God  of  Isaac,  and  the  God  of  Jacob, 
Appear' d  unto  me  saying  : — Surely  I 
Have  seen  that  which  is  done  to  you  in  Egypt ; 
And  I  will  bring  you  out  from  your  aflBiction 
Unto  a  land,  a  good  land,  and  a  large. 
Flowing  with  milk  and  honey."    Then  go  ye — 
Thou  and  the  elders — to  the  king,  and  say, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  PLAGUE  OF  HAILSTONES. 


[Edwin  Atherstone. 


"  The  Lord  God  of  the  Hebrews  hath  appear'd 

Unto  us  :  we  beseech  thee  let  us  go 

A  three  days'  journey  in  the  wilderness, 

That  we  may  sacrifice  unto  the  Lord." 

But  I  am  sure  he  will  not  let  you  go. 

And  I  will  stretch  out  then  my  hand,  and  smite 

Egypt  with  all  my  wonders  in  the  midst 

Whereof  which  I  will  do ;  and  after  that 

The  king  shall  let  you  go.'     Then  to  the  Lord 

I  answer'd,  '  Surely  they  will  not  believe, 

Nor  hearken  to  my  voice  ;  for  they  will  say — 

Thou  hast  not  seen  the  Lord.'    Then  unto  me 

God   spake  :   '  Cast  now  thy  rod  upon  the 

ground.' 
Ind,  when  I  cast  it,  lo  !  it  was  a  serpent ! 
And  I  fled  from  it.     But  he  spake  again  : 
'Put  forth  thy  hand  and  take  it.'      Then  I 

stoop'd, 
And  caught  the  serpent,  and  it  was  a  rod  ! 
Then   said  the   Lord  again  :    *  Put  now  thy 

hand 
Into  thy  bosom.'     Then  I  put  my  hand 
Into  my  bosom  :  when  I  took  it  out, 
Behold !  my  hand  was  leperous  as  snow ! 
Then  said  the  Lord :  '  Put  now  again  thine  hand 
Into  thy  bosom.'    Then  I  put  my  hand 
Again  into  my  bosom,  and  behold  ! 
When  I  pluck'd  forth  my  hand,  it  had  become 
Even  as  my  other  flesh  !    Then  said  the  Lord, 
'  Surely  they  may  believe  their  fathers'  God, 
The  God  of  Abraham,  atid  Isaac's  God, 
The  God  of  Jacob,  hath  appeared  unto  thee  ! 
And  if  they  will  not  hearken  to  the  voice 
Of  the  first  sign,  yet  in  the  second  sign 
They  will  believe  :  but  if  they  still  are  deaf, 
Then  shalt  thou  take  this  rod  into  thy  hand. 
Wherewith  thou   shalt   do   signs   before  the 

king.' 

"  And  have  I  not  done  signs  and  wonders 
then  ?— 
Yet  art  thou  harden' d  still  in  unbelief, 
And  wilt  not  let  th'  oppressed  people  go  ? — 
Have  I  not  turn'd  your  waters  into  blood  ? 
Cover'd  the  land  with  frogs  ?  and  changed  to 

lice 
The  dust  ?  and  fill'd  the  air  with  swarms  of 

flies? 
All  save  the  land  of  Goshen,  where  abide 
The  chosen  race,  the  children  of  Israel  ? — 
And  didst  thou  not,  0  king !   say  :   '  Ye  shall 

go; 
Only  entreat  for  me  unto  your  God 
That  he  may  stay  his  hand'  ?     And,  after  that. 
Didst  thou  not  harden  still  thy  heart  and  say  : 
'  The  people  shall  not  go  '  ?     Then  sent  I  not 
A  murrain  on  your  cattle,  that  they  died  ? 
Horses,  and  asses,  camels,  oxen,  sheep  ? — 
But  in  the  land  of  Goshen  died  there  one  ? — 
Last,  sent  I  not  this  plague  upon  you  all, 
Boils,  blains,  and  blotches,  upon  man  and  beast. 
That  the  land  stinketh  with  your  loathsome- 
ness ? — 
And   art   thou   harden'd  still,   and  proud  of 

heart. 
And  wilt  not  let  th'  oppressed  people  go  ?  " 


Then  with  a  stern,  hoarse  voice  the  king 

replied : 
"Wily  impostor !  hence  ! — out  of  my  sight ! 
Think   not   with    cunning   lies   to   blind   the 

king ! 
Thee  and  thy  boasted  God  of  Israel 
I  do  defy  !  haste,  sorcerer  !  from  my-sight ! 
I  will  not  let  the  accursed  people  go ; 
But  will  oppress  them  with  a  heavier  hand. 
And  they  shall  cry  unto  their  God  in  vain." 
He  said,  and  started  from  his  glittering  throne, 
And  hurl'd  his  sceptre  down. 

Then  Moses  spake : 
"  Harden'd  and  proud  f  the  God  of  Israel 
Again  shall  stretch  his  rod  upon  the  land, 
And  thou  shalt  let  the  afflicted  people  go. 
Behold,  to-morrow,  even  about  this  time. 
The  Lord  shall  send  a  very  grievous  hail, 
Such  as  in  Egypt  never  hath  been  seen. 
Send   therefore  now,    and   gather   from   the 

fields 
Thy  cattle,  and  thy  sheep,  and  all  thou  hast : 
"For  upou  every  man  and  beast  found  there 
The  hail  shall  come,  that  they  shall  surely  die. 
So  shalt  thou  know  that  Israel's  God  is  God, 
And  shalt  repent,  and  bid  the  people  go." 
But  yet  the  king  was  harden'd  in  his  heart, 
And  mock'd  at  Moses  and  at  Israel's  God. 

Then  on  the  morrow  unto  Moses  spake 
The  Lord,  and  said :  "  Stretch  forth  thine  hand 

towards  the  heaven, 
That  upon  every  man,  and  beast,  and  herb. 
Throughout  the  land  of  Egypt,  may  come  hail." 

Then  Moses  stretched  forth  his  rod  towards 

the  heaven. 
And  o'er  the  sky  came   darkness,   that  the 

sun. 
As  with  a  furnace-smoke,  quench'd  utterly. 
Blackness  and  death-like  silence  all  the  land 
Made  like  a  tomb :  astonish'd,  every  tongue 
Was  mute,  and  every  limb  with  terror  shook. 

But  'soon  a  sound  far  off  was  heard  in  heaven, 
A  sound  as  of  a  coming  multitude. 
Horses  and  chariots,  rushing  furiously ; 
Then,  like  a  trumpet  opening  on  the  ear 
Came  down  a  terrible  and  mighty  wind. 
Wide  scattering,  fell  anon,  with  heavy  stroke, 
As  of  a  stone  from  a  strong  slinger'g  arm, 
The  solitary  hail ;  dark  fires  at  length 
Amid  the  black  clouds  wander' d  to  and  fro  ; 
Earth  shook,  and  heaven  with  terror  seem'd 

to  quake — 
And  all  the  plague  was  loosed. — The  voice  of 

God 
Spake  in  ten  thousand  thunders ;  fire  and  hail 
Shot  howling  down,  and  lightning  in  a  flood, 
Mix'd  with  the  hail,  and  ran  upon  the  ground ; 
And  with  the  hail,  and  thunder,  and  the  fire, 
A  mighty  wind,  that  the  huge  hailstones  smote 
Like  rocks  the  quivering  ground — like  shatter- 
ing rocks, 
Hurl'd   from   the  mountain  to  the  groaning 

plain —    ' 
Smoking  and  whirling,  rush'd  the  awful  hail, 


Edwin  Atherstone.] 


NINEVEH. 


[Seventh  Pebiod. 


Hailstones  and  fires,  tempests  and  thunders 

mix'd, 
Fell  on  the  land,  that  all  the  people  cried, 
And  trembled  at  the  anger  of  the  Lord. 
And  every  man,  and  every  beast  that  stood 
Within  the  fields,  the  hailstones  smote  and 

slew  ; 
And  every  herb  and  every  tree  brake  down 
In  all  the  land  of  Egypt. — But  the  sun 
Shone  in  the  fields  of  Goshen  pleasantly: 
Thunder,  nor  wind,  nor  fire,  nor  hailstones  fell 
For  there  the  sons  of  Israel  abode, 
The  favour'd  people,  chosen  of  the  Lord. 

Then  Pharaoh,  trembling,  unto  Moses  sent, 
And  Aaron,  and  besought  them  bitterly  : 
"  Oh  !  I  have  sinn'd  !  righteous  is  the  Lord, 
I  and  my  people  wicked.     Haste  ye  now. 
And  pray  unto  your  God  that  he  will  hold 
His  mighty  thunderings,  and  his  dreadful  hail 
And  I  will  let  the  chosen  people  go, 
And  ye  shall  stay  no  longer." 

Then  to  hinj 
Spake  Moses,  saying  :  "  When  I  shall  be  gone 
Out  of  the  city,  I  wiU  spread  my  hands 
Abroad  unto  the  Lord,  and  he  will  stay 
The  thunder  and  the  hail,  and  they  shall  cease 
So  may st  thou  know  that  all  the  earth  is  his ; 
And 'that  Jehovah  is  the  God  of  Gods. 
But  as  for  thee,  and  thine,  I  know  that  still 
Ye  wiU  not  fear  the  Lord,  nor  let  us  go." 

Then  Moses  went  from  out  the  city  straight, 
And  spread  abroad  his  hands  unto  the  Lord : 
The  thunders,   and   the  fire,  and   hailstones 


Edwin  Atherstone. 


1566  a.— NINEVEH. 

But  joyous  is  the  stirring  city  now  : 
The    moon   is   clear,  the    stars   are    coming 

forth. 
The  evening  breeze  fans  pleasantly.     Eetired 
Within  his  gorgeous  hall,  Assjo-ia's  king 
Sits  at  the  banquet,  and  in  love  and  wine 
Eevels  delighted.     On  the  gilded  roof 
A  thousand  golden  lamps  their  lustre  fling. 
And  on  the  marble  walls,  and  on  the  throne 
Gem-boss'd,   that  high   on    jasper  steps   up- 
raised, 
Like  to  one  solid  diamond  quivering  stands, 
Sun-splendours  flashing  round.     In  woman's 

garb 
The  sensual  king  is  clad,  and  with  him  sit 
A    crowd    of    beauteous   concubines.      They 

sing, 
And  roll  the  wanton  eye,  and  laugh,  arid  sigh , 
And  feed  his  ear  -vvith  honey' d  flatteries. 
And  laud  him  as  a  God.     AH  rarest  flowers, 
Bright-hued  and  fragrant,  in  the  brilliant  light 
Bloom  as  in  sunshine  :  like  a  mountain  stream, 
Amid  the  silence  of  the  dewy  eve 


Heard  by  the  lonely  traveller  through  the 

vale, 
With  dream-like  murmuring  melodious,  ' 
In  diamond  showers  a  crystal  fountain  falls. 
All  fruits  delicious,  and  of  every  clime. 
Beauteous  to  sight,  and  odoriferous. 
Invite  the  taste  ;  and  wines  of  sunny  light, 
Rose-hued,  or  golden,  for  the  feasting  Gods 
Fit  nectar :  sylph-like  girls,  and  blooming  boys, 
Flower-crown'd,   and    in    api^arel   bright   as 

spring. 
Attend  upon  their  bidding.     At  the  sign, 
From     bands     unseen,     voluptuous      music 

breathes. 
Harp,  dulcimer,  and,  sweetest  far  of  all, 
Woman's  mellifluous  voice.     What  pamper' d 

sense 
Of  luxury  most  rare  and  rich  can  ask. 
Or  thought  conceive,  is  there. 

But,  far  away, 
The  proud  and  melancholy  queen  sits  lone 
In  her  high  chamber,  breathing  the  cool  air 
That  fans  in  vain  her  hot,  indignant  brow. 
She   loathes  the  sensual  monarch ;   can  not 

stoop 
Her  noble  soul  to  share  his  orgies  foul ; 
Yet  once  hath  loved  him,  once  hath  been  be- 
loved ; 
And  now  she  thinks  upon  the  years  gone  by, 
And  sighs,  and  sheds  some  passionate  tears, 

and  looks 
On  that  gigantic  city,  spread  below 
Far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  says,  "  Alas  ! 
Thou  mighty  city,  am  I  queen  of  thee. 
Yet  desolate  ?  " 

Young  Dara,  flush' d  with  love, 
Through  the  perfumed  shades  steals  fearfully 
Of  the  proud  palace  gardens  ;  for  his  soul 
Is  with  Nehushta,  daughter  of  the  king. 
Along  the  broad,  dim,  moonlight-dappled  path 
Lightly  trips  he  ;  oft  stops,  and  looks  around  ; 
And  flings  his  dark  hair  back,  and  listens  oft. 
She  with  two  trusted  maidens,  in  a  bower 
Fragrant  with  all  delicious  flowers  that  breathe 
Their  richness  to  the  eve,  impatient  waits, 
And  blames  the  murmur  of  a  fountain  nigh 
That  drowns  his  stealthy  footstep ;  and  oft 

looks 
With  eager  eye  along  the  chequer' d  path. 
And  says,  "  Oh,  Dara,  hasten  to  me,  love  !  " 

Through  all  the  city  sounds  the  voice  of  joy 
And  tipsy  merriment.     On  the  spacious  walls, 
That,  like  huge  sea-chfl's,  gird  the  city  in, 
Myriads  of  wanton  feet   go  to  and  fro  : 
Gay  garments  rustle  in  the  scented  breeze, 
Crimson  and  azure,  purple,  green,  and  gold  ; 
Laugh,  jest,   and  passing  whisper  are  heard 

there ; 
Timbrel,  and  lute,  and  dulcimer,  and  song ; 
And  many  feet  that  tread  the  dance  are  seen, 
And  arms  upflung,  and  swaying  heads  plume- 
crown' d. 
So  is  that  city  steep' d  in  revelry. 

Edwin  Atherstone. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  THE  BATTLE. 


[Edwin  Atherstone. 


1566  b.— SARDANAPALUS. 

He  spake,  and  raised  the  goblet  to  his  lips, 
And  pour'd  the  nectar  down :  and,  when  he 

drank, 
His  concubines  drank  also,  every  one; 
And  joy  was  in  all  eyes.     Then  went  the  king-, 
Flush'd  -svith  the   wine,   and  in  his  pride  of 

power 
Glorying  ;  and  with  his  own    strong  arm  up- 
raised 
From  out  its  rest  the  Assyrian  banner  broad. 
Purple   and  edged  with  gold;  and,  standing 

then 
Upon  the  utmost  summit  of  the  mount, 
Eound,  and  yet  round — for  two  strong  men  a 

task 
Sufficient  deem'd — he  waved  the  splendid  flag. 
Bright  as  a  meteor  streaming. 

At  that  sight 
The  plain  was  in  a  stir  :  the  helms  of  brass 
Were   lifted   up,  and  glittering   spear-points 

waved. 
And  banners  shaken,  and  wide  trumpet  mouths 
Upturn' d ;   and  myriads  of   bright-harness' d 

steeds 
Were   seen   uprearing,    shaking  their    proud 

heads ; 
And  brazen  chariots  in  a  moment  sprang, 
And  clash' d  together.     In  a  moment  more 
Up  came  the  monstrous  universal  shout. 
Like  a  volcano's  burst.     Up,  up  to  heaven 
The  multitudinous  tempest  tore  its  way, 
Eocking  the  clouds :  from  all  the  swarming 

plain 
And  from  the  city  rose  the  mingled  cry, 
"  Long  live  Sardacapalus,  king  of  kings  ! 
May  the  king  live  for  ever  !  "     Thrice  the  flag 
The  monarch  waved  ;  and  thrice  the  shouts 

arose 
Enormous,  that  the  solid  walls  were  shook. 
And  the  firm  ground  made  tremble. 

At  his  height, 
A  speck  scarce  visible,  the  eagle  heard, 
And  felt  his  strong  wing  falter  :  terror-struck. 
Fluttering  and  wildly  screaming,  down  he  sank 
Down   through   the    quivering   air :    another 

shout. 
His  talons  droop,  his  sunny  eye  grows  dark, 
His  strengthless  pennons  fail,  plumb  down  he 

faUs, 
Ex'en  like  a  stone.     Amid  the  far  off  hills, 
With  eye  of  firo,  and  shaggy  mane  uprear'd, 
The  sleeping  lion  in  his  den  sprang  up ; 
Listen' d    awhile — then    laid    his    monstrous 

mouth 
Close  to  the  floor,  and  breathed  hot  roarings  out 
In  fierce  reply. 

Edwin  Atherstone. 


1566  c.— TO  THE  BATTLE. 

He  comes  at  length— 
The  thickening  thunder  of  the  wheels  is  heard 


Upon  their  hinges  roaring,  open  fly 

The  brazen  gates :  sounds  then  the  tramp  of 

hoofs — 
And  lo !  the  gorgeous  pageant,  like  the  sun. 
Flares   on   their  startled  eyes.     Four  snow- 
white  steeds, 
In  golden  trappings,  barbed  all  in  gold,  _ 
Spring  through  the  gate ;  the  lofty  chariot 

then, 
Of  ebony,  with  gold  and  gems  thick  strewn. 
Even  like  the  starry  night.     The  spokes  were 

gold, 
With  fellies  of  strong  brass  ;  the  naves  were 

brass, 
With  bumish'd   gold   o'erlaid,   and  diamond 

rimm'd; 
Steel  were  the  axles,  in  bright  silver  case ; 
The  pole  was  cased  in  silver  :  high  aloft. 
Like   a  rich   throne,  the  gorgeous  seat   was 

framed. 
Of  ivory  part,  part  silver,  and  part  gold  ; 
On  either  side  a  golden  statue  stood  : 
Upon  the  right — and  on  a  throne  of  gold — 
Great  Belus,  of  the  Assj'rian  empire  first. 
And  worshipp'd  as  a  god  ;  but,  on  the  left, 
In  a  resplendent  car  by  lions  drawn, 
A  goddess  ;  on  her  head  a  tower  ;  and,  round, 
Celestial  glory  :  this  the  deity 
Whom  most  the  monarch  worshipt ;  she  whom, 

since, 
Astarte  or  Derceto  men  have  named. 
And  Venus,  queen  of  love.     Around  her  waist 
I   A  girdle,  glittering  with  all  radiant  gems, 
i    Seem'd  heaving  to  her  breath.    Behind  the  car, 
I    Full  in  the  centre,  on  the  ebon  ground, 
!   Flamed  forth  a  diamond  sun ;  on  either  side, 

A  horned  moon  of  diamond  ;   and  beyond 
I   The  planets,  each  one  blazing  diamond. 
Such  was  the  chariot  of  the  king  of  kings. 

I        Himself  in  dazzling  armour  stands  aloft, 

i   And  rules   the  fiery  steeds.     His   shield  of 

I  gold, 

;   His  spear,  his  helm,  his  bow  and  quiver  hang 

■   Within  the  roomy  car.     Thus,  like  a  god, 

I   From  forth  the  gates  he  comes;  and  every 

I  knee 

t   Bends  to  the  ground,  and  every  voice  cries 

I  out, 

!    "  Long  live  Sardanapalus,  king  of  kings  ! 

I   May  the  king  live  for  ever!"       Thrice   he 

i  smiles, 

I    And  waves  his  hand  to  all;  and  thrice  the 

shouts 
!   To  heaven  go  up.    Then  on  his  starting  horse 
I    Springs  every  rider ;  every  charioteer 
I   Leaps  to  his  car ;  and  through  the  sounding 
streets 

The  pageant  flames,  and  on  the  dusty  plain 

Pours  forth ;   and  evermore,  from  street  to 
street, 

Euns  on  the  cry,  "  The  king  !  the  king  comes 
forth ! 

The  king  of  kings  in  his  war-chariot  comes  ; 

Long  live  Sardanapalus,  king  of  kings  ! 

May  the  king  live  for  ever !  " 


Edwin  Atherstone.] 


NEHUSHTA'S  BO  WEE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


To  the  walls 
The  cry  flies  on,  they  hear  it  on  the  plains,    ' 
The  plains  cry  out,  they  hear  it  in  the  heavens. 
On   through  the  bowing   host   the   monarch 

drives ; 
High  over  all  conspicuous,  the  bright  crown, 
Like  an  etherial  fire,  through  all  the  field 
Flashing  perpetual  light.     From  rank  to  rank, 
From  nation  unto  nation  goes  he  on ; 
And  still  aU  knees  are  bent,  all  voices  raised 
As  to  a  deity. 

Edwin  Atherstone. 


1566  (Z.— NEHUSHTA'S  BOWEE. 

Meantime,  within  the  oft-frequented  bower, 
Nehushta  sat,  and  Dara.     'Twas  a  spot 
Herself  had  chosen,  from  the  palace  walls 
Farthest  removed,  and  by  no  sound  disturb' d. 
And  by  no  eye  o'erlook'd  ;  for  in  the  midst 
Of  loftiest  trees,  umbrageous,  was  it  hid — 
Yet  to  the  sunshine  open,  and  the  airs. 
That   from    the   deep   shades   all   around  it 

breathed. 
Cool  and  sweet-scented.    Myrtles,  jessamine, 
Eoses  of  varied  hues — all  climbing  shrubs. 
Green-leaved  and   fragrant,  had  she  planted 

there, 
And  trees  of  slender  body,  fruit,  and  flower  ; 
At  early  morn  had  water' d,  and  at  eve. 
From  a  bright  fountain  nigh,  that  ceaselessly 
Gush'd  with  a  gentle  coil  from  out  the  earth, 
Its  liquid  diamonds  flinging  to  the  sun 
With  a  soft  whisper.     To  a  graceful  arch 
The  pliant  branches,  intertwined,  were  bent ; 
Flowers  some,  and  some  rich  fruits  of  gorgeous 

hues, 
Down  hanging  lavishly,  the  taste  to  please ; 
Or,  with  rich  scent,  the  smell ;  or  that  fine 


Of  beauty  that  in  forms  and  cqlours  rare 
Doth  take  delight.     With  fragrant  moss  the 

floor 
Was  planted,  to  the  foot  a  carpet  rich. 
Or,  for  the  languid  limbs,  a  downy  couch, 
Inviting  slumber.     At  the  noontide  hour, 
Here,  with  some  chosen  maidens  would  she 

come, 
Stories  of  love  to  listen,  or  the  deeds 
Of  heroes  of  old  days  :  the  harp,  sometimes. 
Herself  would  touch,  and  with  her  own  sweet 

voice 
Fill  all  the  air  with  loveliness.     But,  chief, 
When  to  his  green-wave  bed  the  wearied  sun 
Had  parted,  and  heaven's  glorious  arch  yet 

shone, 
A  last  gleam  catching  from  his  closing  eye. 
The  palace,  with  her  maidens,  quitting  then. 
Through  vistas  dim  of  tall  trees  would  she 

pass — 
Cedar,  or  waving  pine,  or  giant  palm — 
Through  orange  groves,  and  citron,  myrtle 

walks, 


Alleys  of  roses,  beds  of  sweetest  flowers, 
Their  richest  incense  to  the  dewy  breeze 
Breathing  profusely  all ;  and  having  reach'^ 
The  spot  beloved,  with  sport,  or  dance  awhile 
On  the  small  lawn  to  sound  of  dulcimer, 
The  pleasant  time  would  pass  ;  or  to  the  lute 
Give  ear  delighted,  and  the  plaintive  voice 
That  sang  of  hapless  love ;  or,  arm  in  arm. 
Amid  the  twilight  saunter,  listing  oft 
'J'he  fountain's  murmur,  or  the  evening's  sigh. 
Or  whisperings  in  the  leaves,  or,  in  his  pride 
Of  minstrelsy,  the  sleepless  nightingale 
Flooding  the  air  with  beauty  of  sweet  sounds ; 
And,  ever  as  the  silence  came  again, 
The  distant  and  unceasing  hum  could  hear 
Of  that  magnificent  city,  on  ^11  sides 
Surrounding  them.     But  oft  with  one  alone. 
One    faithful,    favoured    maiden,    would   she 

come; 
At  early  morn  sometimes,  whUe  every  flower, 
In  diamonds  glittering,  with  its  proud  weight 

bow'd ; 
When  through  the  glistering  trees  the  golden 

beams 
Aslant  their   bright  flood   pour'd,  and  every 

bird 
In  his  green  palace  sitting  sang  aloud, 
•And  all  the  air  with  youthful  fragrance  teem'd. 
Fresh  as  at  Nature's  birth :  her  pastime  then. 
The  flowers  to  tend,  to  look  upon  the  sky. 
And  on  the  earth,  and  drink  the  perfumed  air, 
And  in  the  gladness  of  all  things  be  glad. 
But  in  the  placid  twilight  hour  of  eve 
Not  seldom  came  they  :  Dara  then  the  harp 
Or  dulcimer  would  touch ;  or,  happier  still, 
His  words  of  love  into  her  listening  ear 
Distil  with  sweeter  music  than  from  string, 
Or  breathing  pipe,  though  sweet. 

Edivin  Atherstone. 


1566  e.— THE  TEIUMPHANT  EETUEN 
OF  SAEDANAPALUS. 

On  sight  more  gorgeous  never  sun  look'd 

down. 
A  myriad  gonfalons  of  bright  hue  stream'd, 
A  myriad  silver  trumpets  spake  to  heaven  ; 
Blazed  the  bright  chariots,  the  gold-spangled 

steeds 
Beneath  their  flaming  riders,  proudly  trode  ; 
Flash' d  helm,  and  shield  of  gold,  and  dazzling 

mail. 
And,  with  unnumber'd  martial  instruments 
Accompanied,  unto  the  mighty  Bel, 
And  to  Sardanapalus,  king  of  kings, 
Triumphal  hymns  the  host  together  sang. 

Her  brazen  gates  wide  flung  the  city  then, 
And  on  the  plain,  with  acclamations  loud 
The  conqueror  hailing,  countless  multitudes, 
Dense  thronging,  pour'd,  and  on  her  walls  the 

throngs 
Expecting  stood,  and  on  her  lofty  towers. 
Assyria's  damsels  there,  and  peerless  dames, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


NASEBT. 


[Macaulat. 


Like  tulip  beds,  in  richest  vesture  clad, 
Made  sunshine  seem  more  bright,  and,  to  the 

breath 
Of    the   sweet    south,    a   sweeter    fragrance 

breathed. 
But,  beautiful  amidst  the  beautiful, 
Amid  a  bright  heaven  the  one  brightest  star, 
Assyria's  goddess  queen,  in  regal  state 
Magnificent,  to  pomp  imparting  grace. 
To  triumph  majesty,  her  lord  to  meet. 
From  the  great  central  eastern  gate  came  forth. 
High  throned  upon  a  car,  with  gold  and  gems 
Refulgent,  slowly  rode  she.    Diamond  wreaths 
Amid  her  ebon  locks  luxuriant  gleam' d, 
Like  heaven's  lamps  through  the  dark ;   her 

ample  robe, 
Sky-hued,  like  to  a  waving  sapphire  glow'd ; 
And  round  one  graceful  shoulder  wreathed,  one 

arm 
Of  rose-tinged  snow,  a  web-like  drapery, 
Bright  as  a  ruby  streak  of  morning,  hung. 
Beneath  her  sweUing  bosom,  chastely  warm, 
A   golden   zone,    with   priceless    gems   thick 

starr'd, 
Flash' d  gentle  lightnings.     The  unresting  fire 
Of  diamond,  and  the  ruby's  burning  glow, 
With  the  pure  sapphire's  gentle  beam  mix'd 

there ; 
The  flamy  topaz,  with  the  emerald  cool, 
Like  sunshine  dappling  the  spring  meadows, 

play'd  ; 
Gold  was  the  clasp,  and  diamond.     Bracelets 

%ht, 
Of  emerald,  and  diamond,  and  gold. 
On  each  fine  taper' d,  pearly  wrist  she  wore ; 
And,  round  her  pillar'd  neck,  majestical, 
A  slender  chain  of  diamond,  the  weight 
Sustaining  of  one  priceless  diamond. 
Like  dawn  faint  blushing,  radiant  as  the  morn, 
That  on  her  creamy  bosom,  like  a  spark 
Of  sun-fire  on  rich  pearl  embedded,  lay. 
With  graceful  ease  and  perfect  dignity, 
Yet  womanly  softness,  like  a  shape  of  heaven, 
In  majesty  of  beauty,  pale,  serene. 
With   eye   oft   downcast,   yet   with   swelhng 

heart 
Proudly  exultant,  on  her  gorgeous  seat 
Reclined,  of  Tyrian  purple,  golden  fringed, 
Of  all  eyes  mutely  worshipp'd,  she  rode  on. 
So,  when,  victorious  o'er  the  giant  brood. 
Back  to  Olympus  came  the  Thunderer, 
Imperial  Juno,  on  her  golden  car, 
By  clouds  of  fire  upborne,  with  smile  of  love, 
Her    lord    to    meet,    and    ether- brightening 

brow. 
Through  heaven's  wide  open' d  portals  proudly 

rode. 
In  shining  cars,  behind  Assyria's  queen, 
The  sons  and  daughters  also  of  the  king, 
To  grace  the  triumph  of  the  conqueror,  came. 

He  in  his  blazing  chariot,  like  a  god, 
Exulting  rode.     His  helm  and  mail  laid  by, 
The  sunlike  crown  upon  his  head,  in  robes 
Attired,  that  like  one  waving  gem  appear'd, 
Amid  the  thunder  of  applauding  hosts. 
Onward  he  came.     His  coursers'  arching  necks 


With   gems  and   gold  were   hung ;   and,  far 

before, 
Behind,  and  round  his  chariot,  glittering  bright 
With  gold  and  gems,  like  a  phosphoric  sea, 
His  choicest  captains,  and  his  royal  guard, 
On  their  proud  treading  steeds  rode  gallantly. 

The  chariot  of  the  queen  at  hand  beheld. 
To  right  and  left  disparting,  ample  space 
In  midst  the  horsemen  left.     Low  bow'd  each 

head. 
As  the  bright  vision  pass'd,  and  silence  deep 
Of  admiration  weigh' d  upon  all  lips. 
But,  when  the  royal  chariots,  meeting,  paused, 
Then  first,  with  blushing  cheek,  stood  up  the 

queen, 
And  welcome  proud  unto  the  conqueror  gave. 

Edwin  Atherstone. 


1567.— NASEBY. 

O  !  wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph  from 

the  North, 
With  your  hands  and   your  feet,  and   your 

raiment  all  red  ? 
And   wherefore   do   your  rout  send  forth  a 

joyous  shout  ? 
And  whence  are  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press 

that  ye  tread  ? 

O !    evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the 

fruit, 
And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage  that 

we  trod ; 
For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the  haughty 

and  the  strong. 
Who  sate  in  the  high  places   and   slew  the 

saints  of  God. 

It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of 

June, 
That  we  saw  their  banners  dance  and  their 

cuirasses  shine. 
And  the  Man  of  Blood  was  there,  with  his 

long  essenced  hair. 
And  Astley,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Rupert 

of  the  Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  and 

his  sword, 
The  General  rode  along  us  to  form  us  for  the 

fight; 
When   a   murmuring  sound   broke   out,   and 

swell' d  into  a  shout 
Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the  tyrant's 

right. 

And  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  the  billow  on  the 

shore. 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging 

line  : 
For  God  !  for  the  Cause  !  for  the  Church  !  for 

the  Laws ! 
For  Charles,  King  of  England,  and  Rupert  of 

the  Rhine ! 


Macaulat.] 


SEEMON  IN  A  CHUECHYAED. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  trumpets 

and  his  drums, 
His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of  White- 

haU; 
They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks  !    Grasp  your 

pikes  !     Close  your  ranks  ! 
For  Eupert  never  comes,  but  to  conquer,  or  to 

faU. 

They  are  here — they  rush  on — we  are  broken 

— we  are  gone — 
Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on 

the  blast. 
0  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might !   0  Lord,  defend 

the  right ! 
Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name  !  and  fight 

it  to  the  last ! 

Stout  Skippen  hath  a  wound — the  centre  hath 

given  ground. 
But   hark!     what   means   this  trampling  of 

horsemen  in  the  rear  ? 
What  banner  do  I  see,  boys  ?    'Tis  he  !  thank 

God  !  'tis  he,  boys  ! 
Bear  up  another  minute  !     Brave   Oliver  is 

here  ! 

Their  heads  are  stooping  low,  their  pikes  all 

in  a  row : 
Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge  on 

the  dykes. 
Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of  the 

Accurst, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scatter'd  the  forest  of  his 

pikes. 
Fast,  fast,  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook 

to  hide 
Their   coward   heads,  predestined   to  rot  on 

Temple  Bar. 
And  he — he  turns  !    he  flies !    shame  to  those 

cruel  eyes 
That  bore  to  look  oii  torture,  and  dare  not  look 

on  war. 

Ho,  comrades !    scour  the  p.ain,  and  ere  ye 

strip  the  slain, 
First  give   another  stab  to  make  the  quest 

secure  ; 
Then  shake  from  sleeves   and  pockets  their 

broad  pieces  and  lockets, 
Th«  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the 

poor. 

Fools!  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and 
your  hearts  were  gay  and  bold. 

When  you  kiss'd  your  lily  hands  to  your  lemans 
to-day ; 

And  to-morrow  shall  the  fox  from  her  cham- 
bers in  the  rocks 

Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above  the 
prey. 

Where  •bo  your  tongues,  that  late  mock'd  at 

heaven,  and  hell  and  fate  ? 
And  the  fingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with 

your  blades  ? 


Your  perfumed  satin  clothes,  your  catches  and 

your  oaths  ? 
Your   stage-plays   and   your    sonnets  ?    your 

diamonds  and  your  spades  ? 

Down  !  down  !  for  ever  down,  with  the  mitre 
and  the  crown  ! 

With  the  Belial  of  the  Court,  and  the  Mam- 
mon of  the  Pope  I 

There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls,  there  is  wail  in 
Durham  stalls ; 

The  Jesuit  smites^his  bosom,  the  Bishop  rends 
his  cope. 

And  she  of  the  Seven  Hills  shall  movirn  her 

children's  ills, 
And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge  of 

England's  sword ; 
And  the  Kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  tremble 

when  they  hear 
Wliat  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the 

Houses  and  the  Word  ! 

Macaulay. — Born  1800,  Died  1859. 


1568.— SEEMON  IN  A  CHUECHYAED 

Let  pious  Damon  take  his  seat, 

With  mincing  step,  and  languid  smile, 
And  scatter  from  his  'kerchief  sweet, 

Sabffian  odours  o'er  the  aisle ; 
And  spread  his  little  jewelled  hand, 

And  smile  round  all  the  parish  beauties, 
And  pat  his  curls  and  smooth  his  band. 

Meet  prelude  to  his  saintly  duties. 

Let  the  thronged  audience  press  and  stare. 

Let  stifled  maidens  ply  the  fan, 
Admire  his  doctrines  and  his  hair. 

And  whisper  "  What  a  good  young  man  !  " 
While  he  explains  what  seems  most  clear, 

So  clearly  that  it  seems  perplexed, 
I'll  stay  and  read  my  sermon  here  ; 

And  skulls,  and  bones,  shall  be  the  text. 

Art  thou  the  jilted  dupe  of  fame  ? 

Dost  thou  with  jealous  anger  pine 
Whene'er  she  sounds  some  other  name, 

With  fonder  emphasis  than  thine  ? 
To  thee  I  preach  ;  draw  near  ;  attend  ! 

Look  on  these  bones,  thou  fool,  and  see 
Where  all  her  scorns  and  favours  end. 

What  Byron  is,  and  thou  must  be. 

Dost  thou  revere,  or  praise,  or  trust 

Some  clod  like  those  that  here  we  spurn ; 
Something  that  sprang  like  thee  from  dust, 

And  shall  like  thee  to  dust  return  ? 
Dost  thou  rate  statesmen,  heroes,  wits. 

At  one  sear  leaf,  or  wandering  feather  ? 
Behold  the  black,  damp,  narrow  pits. 

Where  they  and  thou  must  lie  together. 

Dost  thou  beneath  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  some  vain  woman  bend  thy  knee  ? 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SONNETS  TO  A  FKIEND. 


[Hartley  Coleridge. 


Here  take  thy  stand,  and  trample  down 
Things  that  were  once  as  fair  as  she. 

Here  rave  of  her  ten  thousand  graces. 
Bosom,  and  lip,  and  eye,  and  chin, 

While,  as  in  scorn,  the  fleshloss  faces 
Of  Hamiitons  and  Waldegraves  grin. 

Whate'er  thy  losses  or  thy  gains, 

Whate'er  thy  projects  or  thy  fears, 
Whate'er  the  joys,  whate'er  the  pains, 

That  prompt  thy  baby  smiles  and  tears  ; 
Come  to  my  school,  and  thou  shalt  learn, 

In  one  short  hour  of  placid  thought, 
A  stoicism,  more  deep,  more  stern, 

Than  ever  Zeno'a  porch  hath  taught. 

The  plots  and  feats  of  those  that  press 

To  seize  on  titles,  wealth,  or  power, 
Shall  seem  to  thee  a  game  of  chess. 

Devised  to  pass  a  tedious  hour. 
What  matters  it  to  him  who  fights 

For  shows  of  unsubstantial  good, 
Whether  his  Kings,  and  Queens,  and  Knights, 

Be  things  of  flesh,  or  things  of  wood  ? 

We  check,  and  take ;  exult,  and  fret ; 

Our  plans  extend,  our  passions  rise, 
Till  in  our  a.rdour  we  forget 

How  worthless  is  the  victor's  prize. 
Soon  fades  the  spell,  soon  comes  the  night : 

Say  will  it  not  be  then  the  same, 
Whether  we  played  the  black  or  white, 

Whether  we  lost  or  won  the  game  ? 

Dost  thou  among  these  hillocks  stray, 

O'er  some  dear  idol's  tomb  to  moan  ? 
Know  that  thy  foot  is  on  the  clay 

Of  hearts  once  wretched  as  thy  own. 
How  many  a  father's  anxious  schemes, 

How  many  rapturous  thoughts  of  lovers, 
How  many  a  mother's  cherished  dreams, 

The  swelling  turf  before  thee  covers  ! 

Here  for  the  living,  and  the  dead. 

The  weepers  and  the  friends  they  weep, 
Hath  been  ordained  the  same  cold  bed. 

The  same  dark  night,  the  same  long  sleep  ; 
Whyshouldest  thou  writhe,  and  sob,  and  rave 

O'er  those  with  whom  thou  soon  must  be  ?   ! 
Death  his  own  sting  shall  cure — the  grave 

Shall  vanquish  its  own  victory. 

Here  learn  that  all  the  griefs  and  joys. 

Which  now  torment,  which  now  beguile, 
Are  children's  hurts  and  children's  toys. 

Scarce  worthy  of  one  bitter  smile. 
Here  learn  that  pulpit,  throne,  and  press. 

Sword,  sceptre,  lyre,  alike  are  frail. 
That  Science  is  a  blind  man's  guess, 

And  History  a  nurse's  tale. 

Here  learn  that  glory  and  disgrace, 

AVisdom  and  folly,  pass  away. 
That  mirth  hath  its  appointed  space. 

That  sorrow  is  but  for  a  day  ; 
That  all  we  love,  and  all  we  hate, 

That  all  we  hope,  and  all  we  fear, 


Each  mood  of  mind,  each  turn  of  fate. 
Must  end  in  dust  and  silence  here. 

Macaulay.—Born  1800,  Died  1859. 


1569.— SONNET. 

What  was't  awaken'd  first  the  untried  ear 
Of  that  sole  man  who  was  all  humankind  ? 
Was  it  the  gladsome  welcome  of  the  wind, 
Stirring  the  leaves  that  never  yet  were  sere  ? 
The  four  mellifluous  streams  which  flow'd  so 

near. 
Their  lulling  murmurs  all  in  one  combined  ? 
The  note  of  bird  unnamed  ?      The    startlod 

hind 
Bursting  the  brake — ^in  wonder,  not  in  fear, 
Of  her  new  lord  ?     Or  did  the  holy  ground 
Send  forth  mysterious  melody  to  greet 
The  gracious  presence  of  immaculate  feet  ? 
Did  viewless  seraphs  rustle  all  around, 
Making  sweet  music  out  of  air  as  sweet  ? 
Or  his  own  voice  awake  him  with  its  sound  ? 

Hartley  Colendgc.—Born  1796,  Died  1849. 


1570.--ON  SHAKSPEEE. 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 
Deeper  than  ocean — or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  unfathom'd  centre.     Like  that  ark, 
Which  in  its  sacred  hold  uplifted  high, 
O'er  the  drown'd  hiUs,  the  human  family. 
And  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind. 
So,  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind, 
The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie, 
Thr^t  make  all  worlds.     Great  poet,  'twas  thy 

art 
To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  be 
Whate'er  Love,  Hate,  Ambition,  Destiny, 
Of  the  firm  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart 
Oan  make  of  man.     Yet  thou  wert  still  the 

same, 
Serene  of  thought,  unhiirt  by  thy  own  flame. 

HaHloy  CoUridye.—Born  1796,  Died  1849. 


1571- 


-SONNETS  TO  A  FRIEND. 


When  we  were  idlers  with  the  loitering  rills, 
The  need  of  human  love  we  little  noted  : 
Our  love  was  nature ;    and  the  peace   that 

floated 
On  the  white  mist,  and  dwelt  upon  the  hills. 
To  sweet  accord  subdued  our  wayward  wills  : 
One    soul   was    ours,    one   mind,    one    heart 

devoted, 
That,  wisely  doting,  ask'd  not  why  it  doted, 
And  ours  the  unknown  joy,  which  knowing 

kiUs. 

72 


Haktley  Coleridge.]  TO  CERTAIN  GOLDEN  FISHES. 


[Seventh  Pesioi).- 


But  now  I  find  how  dear  thou  wert  to  me  ; 
That   man   is   more    than   half    of    nature's 

treasure, 
Of  that  fair  beauty  which  no  eye  can  see, 
Of    that    sweet    music     which    no    ear    can 

measure  ; 
And  now  the  streams  may  sing  for  others' 

pleasure. 
The  hills  sleep  on  in  their  eternity. 


In  the  great  city  we  are  met  again, 

Where  many  souls  there  are  that  breathe  and 

die, 
Scarce  knowing  more  of  Nature's  potency 
Than  what  they  learn  from  heat,  or  cold,  or 

rain — 
The  sad  vicissitude  of  weary  pain  : 
For  busy  man  is  lord  of  ear  and  eye, 
And  what  hath  Nature  but  the  vast  void  sky, 
And  the  throng' d  river  toiling  to  the  main  ? 
Oh  !  say  not  so,  for  she  shall  have  her  part 
In  every  smile,  in  every  tear  that  falls. 
And  she  shall  hide  her  in  the  secret  heart, 
Where    love    persuades,     and    sterner    duty 

calls  : 
But  worse  it  were   than  death,  or  sorrow's 

smart, 
To  live  without  a  friend  within  these  walls. 


We  parted  on  the  mountains,  as  two  streams 
From  one  clear  spring  pursue   their  several 

ways  ; 
And  thy  fleet  course  hath  been  through  many 


In  foreign  lands,  where  silveiy  Padus  gleams 
To  that  delicious  sky,  whose  glowing  beams 
Biighten'd  the  tresses  that  old  poets  praise  ; 
Where    Petrarch's  patient   love    and    artful 

lays, 
And  Ariosto's  song  of  many  themes. 
Moved  the  soft  air.     But  I,  a  lazy  brook, 
As  close  pent  up  within  my  native  dell. 
Have  crept  along  from  nook  to  shady  nook. 
Where  flow' rets  blow  and  whispering  Naiads 

dwell. 
Yet  now  we  meet,  that  parted  were  so  wide. 
O'er  rough  and  smooth  to  travel  side  by  side. 

Hartley  Coleridge.— Born  1796,  Died  1849. 


1572.--TO  CERTAIN  GOLDEN  FISHES. 

Restless  forms  of  living  light. 

Quivering  on  your  lucid  wings. 

Cheating  still  the  curious  sight 

With  a  thousand  shadowings  ; 

T^  Various  as  the  tints  of  even. 

Gorgeous  as  the  hues  of  heaven, 
Reflected  on  your  native  streams 
In  flitting,  flashing,  billowy  gleams. 
Harmless  warriors  clad  in  mail 
Of  silver  breastplate,  golden  scale  ; 


Mail  of  Nature's  own  bestowing, 

With  peaceful  radiance  mildly  glowing 

Keener  than  the  Tartar's  arrow, 

Sport  ye  in  your  sea  so  narrow. 

Was  the  sun  himself  your  sire  ? 

Were  ye  born  of  vital  fire  ? 

Or  of  the  shade  of  golden  flowers, 

Such  as  we  fetch  from  eastern  bowei 

To  mock  this  murky  clime  of  ours  ? 

Upwards,  downwards,  now  ye  glance, 

Weaving  many  a  mazy  dance  ; 

Seeming  still  to  grow  in  size. 

When  ye  would  elude  our  eyes. 

Pretty  creatures  !  we  might  deem 

Ye  were  happy  as  ye  seem. 

As  gay,  as  gamesome,  and  as  blithe. 

As  light,  as  loying,  and  as  lithe. 

As  gladly  earnest  in  your  play. 

As  when  ye  gleam' d  in  fair  Cathay  ; 

And  yet,  since  on  this  hapless  earth 

There  's  small  sincerity  in  mirth. 

And  laughter  oft  is  but  an  art 

To  drown  the  outcry  of  the  heart, 

It  may  be,  that  your  ceaseless  gambols, 

Your  wheelings,  dartings,  divings,  rambles, 

Your  restl&ss  roving  round  and  round 

The  circuit  of  your  crystal  bound, 

Is  but  the  task  of  weary  pain. 

An  endless  labour,  dull  and  vain  ; 

And  while  your  forms  are  gaily  shining, 

Your  little  lives  are  inly  pining ! 

Nay — but  still  I  fain  would  dream 

That  ye  are  happy  as  ye  seem. 

Hartley  Coleridge.— Born  1796,  Died  1849. 


1573.-SONG. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  merry  lark, 

That  bids  a  blithe  good-morrow  ; 
But  sweeter  to  hark,  in  the  twinkling  dark 

To  the  soothing  song  of  sorrow. 
Oh  nightingale !     What  doth  she  ail  ? 

And  is  she  sad  or  jolly  ? 
For  ne'er  on  earth  was  sound  of  mirth 

So  like  to  melancholy. 

The  merry  lark,  he  soars  on  high, 

No  worldly  thought  o'ertakes  him  ; 
He  sings  aloud  to  the  clear  blue  sky, 

And  the  daylight  that  awakes  him. 
As  sweet  a  lay,  as  loud,  as  gay, 

The  nightingale  is  trilling; 
With  feeling  bliss,  no  less  than  his, 

Her  little  heart  is  thrilling. 

Yet  ever  and  anon  a  sigh 

Peers  through  her  lavish  mii-th  ; 
For  the  lark's  bold  song  is  of  the  sky. 

And  hers  is  of  the  earth. 
By  night  and  day,  she  tunes  her  lay. 

To  drive  away  all  sorrow  ; 
For  bliss,  alas  !  to-night  must  pass. 

And  woe  may  come  to-morrow. 

Hartley  Coleridge.— Born  1796,  Died  1849. 


From,  1780  to  1866.] 


MY  BONNIE  MAEY. 


[Robert  Burns. 


1574.— XOVEMBEE. 

The  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close 
The  little  birds  have  almost  sung  their  last, 
Their  small  notes  twitter  in  the  dreary  blast — 
That  shrill-piped  harbinger  of  early  snows ; 
The  patient  beauty  of  the  scentless  rose, 
Oft  with  the   morn's  hoar  crystal   quaintly 

glass' d, 
Hangs,  a  pale  mourner  for  the  summer  past, 
And  makes  a  little  summer  where  it  grows. 
In  the  chill  sunbeam  of  the  faint  brief  day 
The  dusky  waters  shudder  as  they  shine  ; 
The  russet  leaves  obstruct  the  straggling  way 
Of  oozy  brooks,  which  no  deep  banks  define  ; 
And  the  gaunt  woods,  in  ragged,  scant  array, 
Wrap  their  old  limbs  with  sombre  ivy  twine. 

Hartley  Colcrithjc—Borii  1796,  Died  1849. 


1575.— TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem  : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet. 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
"When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 

The  purj)ling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield. 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flowret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray' d, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'dl 


Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven. 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink, 
Till  wrench' d  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn' st  the  daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date  ; 
Stern  Euin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  crush' d  beneath  the  furrow's  weight. 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 

Robert  Burns.— Born  1759,  Died  1796. 


1576.— AE  FOND  KISS 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever 
Ae  fareweel,  alas  !  for  ever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him. 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy ; 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her  : 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met — or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure  ! 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 
Ae  farewell,  alas  !  for  ever  ! 
Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee  ! 

Robert  Burns.— Born  1759,  Died  1796. 


1577.— MY  BONNIE  MAEY. 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 

And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie ; 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie ; 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith, 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  FeiTy ; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 
72* 


Robert  Burns.] 


MARY  MOEISON. 


[Seventh  Period. 


The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready  ; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar. 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody  ; 
But  it's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

"Wad  make  me  langer  \vish  to  tarry  ; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar — 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 

Robert  Bums.^Born  1759,  Died  1796. 


1578.— MARY    MORISON. 

Oh  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  Avish'd,  the  trysted  hour  ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor  : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

Oh  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison, 

B'}bcrt  Burns.— Born  1759,  Died  179G. 


■S79'- 


-BRUCE' S  ADDRESS. 


Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victory ! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour  ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power- 
Chains  and  slavery ! 

Wlia  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Who  can  fiU  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wlia  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me  I 


By  oppression's  woes  and  pains 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proxid  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 
Let  us  do,  or  die ! 

'  Bolert  Burns.— Born  1750,  Died  1796. 


1580.— MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGH- 
LANDS. 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here ; 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 

deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the    Highlands,   farewell  to  the 

North, 
The  birth-place  of  valour,  the  country  of  worth ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 
Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  cover" d  with 

snow  ; 
Farewell   to   the    straths    and   green  valleys 

below ; 
Farewell    to   the    forests   and    wild-hanging 

woods  ; 
Farewell  to    the    torrents   and  loud-pouring 

floods. 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here. 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 

deer ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go. 


Robert  Bur: 


-Born  1759,  Died  1796, 


1581.— AULD  LANG  SYNE. 


Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne  ! 


We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we've  wander' d  mony  a  weary  foot 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BONNIE  LESLIE. 


[Egbert  Burns. 


We  twa  hae  paidl'fc  i'  the  burn 
Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine  ; 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 


And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid  willie-waught 

For  auld  land  syne  ! 

V, 

And  surely  ye'U  be  your  i^int-stowp, 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine  ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

Far  auld  lang  syne  ! 

RohcH  Burns.— Born  1759,  Died  1796. 


1583.— OF   A' 


THE    AIRTS 
CAN  BLAW. 


THE   WIND 


Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west  ; 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives,- 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best. 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  monie  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair ; 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air ; 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green — 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

Bohcrt  BHrns.—Bora  1759,  Died  1796. 


1 5 82. —C A'  THE  YOWES  TO  THE 
KNOWES. 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

Oa'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 

Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rows, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 
Hark  the  mavis'  evening  sang 
Sounding  Clouden's  woods  amang  ; 
Then  a  faulding  let  us  gang, 

My  bonnie  deai'ie. 

We'll  gae  down  by  Clouden  side. 

Thro'  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 

O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 

To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

Yonder  Clouden's  silent  towers. 
Where  at  moonshine,  midnight  hours. 
O'er  the  dewy  bending  flowers, 
Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear ; 
Thou'rt  to  love  and  heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near. 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art. 
Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart ; 
I  can  die — but  canna  part 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea, 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie, 
Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin'  my  ee. 
Ye  shall  be  my  dearie. 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rows, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Rohcrt  Burns.— Born  1759,  Died  1796. 


1584.— A  EED,  RED  ROSE. 

O,  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June  ; 

O,  my  luve 's  like  the  melodic 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I ; 
And  I  Avill  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry — 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry;  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  mj'  dear, 
While  the  sands  of  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while  ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Rohcrt  Burns.— Born  1759,  Died  1796. 


1585.— BONNIE  LESLIE. 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Leslie 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border  ? 

She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  'ler, 
And  loi'-e  but  her  for  ever  ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither. 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Leslie — 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thco  ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Leslie — 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 


Robert  Burns] 


HIGHLAND  MAEY. 


[Seventh  Pebiod.- 


The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee  ; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonuie  face, 
And  say,  "  I  canna  wrang  thee." 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 

Misfortune  sha'na  steer  thee  ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Eetum  again,  fair  Leslie  ! 

Eetum  to  Caledonia ! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

Robert  Burns. — Bom  1759,  Died  1796. 


1586.— HIGHLAND  MAEY. 

Te  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfald  her  robes 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom' d  the  gay  green  birk  ! 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom  ! 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp' d  her  to  my  bosom  ? 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  f  u'  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  ourselves  asunder  ; 
But,  O  !  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  1 

0  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

I.  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  1 
And  moxild'ring  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly  I 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

Robert  Burns.— Bom  1759,  Died  1796. 


1587.— TO  MAEY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 
That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  mom. 

Again  thou  usherest  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 


O  Mary  !  dear,  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st    thou   the    groans    that  rend    his 
breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget. 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow' d  grove. 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  Ave  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past — 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ! 

Ah !  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kiss'd  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung    with    wild    woods,     thickening, 


The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 
Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 

The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  press' d 
The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 

Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaim' d  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes. 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ; 
Time  but  th'  impression  deeper  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary  !  dear,  departed  shade  ! 

Whore  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st   thou  the    groans   that    rend    liis 
breast  ? 

Robert  Burns.— Bor.i  1759,  Died  1796. 


1588.— MY  WIFE'S    A  WINSOME  WEE 
THING. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 

I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer, 

And  neist  my  heart  I'll  wear  her. 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing. 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

The  warld's  Avrack,  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't, 
Wi'  her  I'll  blithely  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 

Robert  Burns.— Born  1759,  Died  1796. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TAM  0'  SHANTEE. 


[EOBEBT  BUSNS. 


1589.— JOHN   ANDEESON. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  Avere  first  acquent. 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonny  brow  was  brout  ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snow  ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  theg-ither, 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither  ; 
Now  we  maun  totter  doun,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

Jolm  Anderson,  my  jo. 

RoheH  Bums.— Born  1750,  Died  1796. 


1590.— HEEE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  THEM 
THAT'S  AWA. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

And  here's  to  them  that's  awa  ; 
And  wha  winna  wish  guid  luck  to  our  cause, 

May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa'  ! 
It's  guid  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It's  guid  to  be  honest  and  true, 
It's  guid  to  support  Caledonia's  cause, 

And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

And  here's  to  them  that's  awa  ; 
Here's  a  health  to  Charlie,  the  chief  o'  the 
clan, 

Altho'  that  his  band  be  sma'. 
May  liberty  meet  wi'  success  ! 

May  prudence  protect  her  fra  evil  ! 
May  tyrants  and  tyranny  tine  in  the  mist, 

And  wander  their  way  to  the  devil ! 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

And  here's  to  them  that's  awa  ; 
Here's    a   health    to   Tammie,    the   Norland 
laddie. 
That  lives  at  the  lug  o'  the  law  ! 
Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read, 
Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write . 
j       There's  nane  ever  fear'd  that  the  truth  should 

be  heard 
I  But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indite. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

And  here's  to  them  that's  awa  : 
Here's  Maitland  and  Wycombe,  and  wha  does 
na  like  'em 
We'll  build  in  a  hole  o'  the  wa'. 
Here's  timmer  that's  red  at  the  heart, 
I  Here's  fruit  that's  sound  at  the  core  I 

May  he  that  would  turn  the  buff  and  blue 
coat 
Be  turn'd  to  the  back  o'  the  door. 


Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

And  here's  to  them  that's  awa  ; 
Here's   Chieftain  M'Leod,  a  chieftain  worth 
gowd, 
Though  bred  amang  mountains  o'  snaw  ! 
Here's  friends  on  baith  sides  o'  the  Forth, 
And  friends  on  baith  sides  o'  the  Tweed ; 
And  wha  would  betray  old  Albion's  rights, 
I        May  they  never  eat  of  her  bread ! 

Eolert  Bxmis.—Bom  1759,  Died  1796. 


1591.— TAM  O'  SHANTEE. 

A   TALE. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy. 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles. 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles. 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame. 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathermg  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

Tliis  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
As  he,  frae  Ayr,  ae  night  did  canter 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses. 
For  honest  men  and  bonnie  lasses). 

O  Tam !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  uin  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skeHum, 
A  bleth'ring,  blust'rinp;,  drunken  blellum , 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober ; 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller  ; 
That  everj-  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on  ; 
That  at  the  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
1'hou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  tUl  Monday. 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown' d  in  Doon 
Or  catch' d  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  greet 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 
How  monie  lengthen' d  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  ! 

But  to  our  tale  :  Ae  market  night 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right. 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinelj'  ; 
And  at  his  elboAV  souter  Johany, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony — 
Tam  lo'cd  him  like  a  vera  brither — 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better. 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favours  secret,  sweet,  and  precious 


Egbert  Burns.] 


TAM  O'  SHANTER. 


[Seventh  Period. 


The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories  ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus  ; 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tarn  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Oare,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown' d  himself  amang  the  nappy ; 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed  ; 
Or  like  the  snow-fall  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever  ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place  ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ; 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride — 
That  hour  o'  night's  black  arch  the  keystane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 
And  sic  a  night  he  takes  the  road  in 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blaw  its  last ; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast  ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellow'd ; 
That  night  a  child  might  understand 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg 
(A  better  never  lifted  leg), 
Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire — 
Whyles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whyles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
"VVhyles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  tinawares  ; 
Kirk- Alio  way  was  drawing  nigh, 
Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd ; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck  banc  ; 
And  thro'  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
"Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder' d  bairn  ; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods  : 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 
When  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze ; 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil  ; 
Wi'  usquabae  we'll  face  the  Devil ! — 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle. 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  Deils  a  bodle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd. 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish' d, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 
And.  v.'ow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight — 


Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance  : 

Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France^ 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east. 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast — 

A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large — 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge  ; 

He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl. 

Till  roof  an'  rafters  a'  did  dirl. 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses  ; 

And  by  some  devilish  cantrips  sleight. 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light — 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 

To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer's  bancs  in  gibbet  aiiTiS  ; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns ; 

A  thief,  new  cutted  fra  a  rape, 

Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape  ; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red  rusted ; 

Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted  ; 

A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled  •; 

A  knife  a  father's  throat  had  mangled. 

Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft — 

The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 

Three  lawyers'  tongues  turn'd  inside  out, 

Wi'  lies  seam'd  like  a  beggar's  clout ; 

And  priests'  hearts,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 

Lay  stinking,  vile,  in  every  neuk : 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  a^vfu', 

Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amazed,  and  curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious  ; 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew  ; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew  ; 
They  reel'd,  they  set,they  cross'd,  they  cleckit. 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit. 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark. 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark. 

Now  Tam,  O  Tam  !  had  they  been  queans 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens  : 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  fiannen. 
Been  snaw- white  seventeen-hundcr  linen ; 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  aff  my  hurdles, 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies  ! 

But  wither' d  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock — 
I  wonder  did  na  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlle. 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  inlisted  in  the  core 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore  I 
For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish' d  monie  a  bonnie  boat. 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  beer 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear). 
Her  cutty-sark  o'  Paisley  harn. 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn — 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty. 
It  was  her  best  and  she  was  vauntic. 
Ah  !  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  gi-anni?! 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 


From  1780  to  18GG.] 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


[Robert  Burns- 


Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  (twas  a'  her  riches) — 
Wao.  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches  ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cowr, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r  ; 
To  sing  Yiovr  Nannie  lap  and  flang 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  Strang) ; 
And  how  Tarn  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd. 
Ev'n  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  f\i'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main  ; 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither — 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  I 
And  in  an  instant  a'  was  dark  ; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
"When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  bylcc  ; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 
When  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When  Catch  the  thief  !  resounds  aloud ; 
So  Maggie  runs — the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam  !  ah,  Tam  !  thou'll  get  thy  fairia'  ! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin  ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin' — 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu*  woman  ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss — 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake ; 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle  ; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle  — 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  haie, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son  take  heed ; 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  tl  e  joys  o'er  dear, 
Remember  Tam  o'  Chanter's  mare. 

Rohcrt  Burns.— Born  1759,  Dial  1796. 


1592. 


-THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY 
NIGHT. 


My  loved,  myhonour'd,  much-respected  friend  ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  ; 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end. 

My   dearest   meed   a    friend's  esteem   and 
praise. 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

"The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester' d  scene  ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,,the  guileless  ways — 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 

Ah !    tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier 
there,  I  ween. 


November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 

The  short' ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 
The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  re- 
pose. 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labour-goes — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end — 
Collects   his    spades,    his  mattocks,    and  his 
hoes. 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend  ; 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'    expectant   wee    things,    todlin,    stacher 
thro' 
To  meet  their  dad  wi'  fiichterin  noise  and 
glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle  blinkin'  bonnilie. 

His   clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wific's 
smile. 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 
Does  a'  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and 
his  toil. 

Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin'  in — 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'  ; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentic 
rin     , 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town. 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown. 
In   youthfu'   bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her 
e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  braw  new 
gown, 
Or  dcposite  her  sair-won  penny  fee. 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  thoj-  in  hard- 
ship be. 

Wi'  joy  unxeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 
An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers  ; 
1   The  social  hours,  swift-wing' d,  imnoticed  fleet ; 
'        Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 
!    The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years — 
i        Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
1   The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers, 
i        Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the 
new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due : 

Their  masters'  and  their  mistresses'  command 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey. 

An'  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  oydent  hand. 
An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  siglit,  to  jauk  or  -nlay ; 

An'  O  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 
An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night 

Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might  : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sougl^t  the 
Lord  aright  ! 

But  hark  !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 


Egbert  Burns.] 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT.         [Seventh  Period.— 


The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 
Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his 
name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel   pleased   the  mother    hears  it's  nae 
wild,  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben — 
A    strappan  youth,  he  taks  the    mother's 
eye; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit 's  no  ill  ta'en  ; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and 
kye  ; 
The  youngster's   artless  heart    o'erflowa  wi' 
joy. 
But  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  be- 
have ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae 

grave — 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn 's  respected 
like  the  lave. 

O  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 
0   heart-felt  raptures !    bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
If  Heaven  a  draught    of  heavenly   pleasui'e 
spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents 
the  evening  gale. 

Is  there,  in  human  form  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse   on    his    perjured    arts  !    dissembling 
smooth  ! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth. 

Points   to  the  parents   fondling  o'er  their 

child- 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  dis- 
traction wild  ? 

But  now    the  supper    crowns     their   simple 
board  : 
The  halesome   parritch,    chief    o'    Scotia's 
food ; 
The  soup  their  only  hawkio  does  afford. 

That  'yont  the  hallan    snugly  chows   her 
cud  ; 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck 
feU, 
An'  aft  he's  press' d,  and  aft  he  ca's  it  good  ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was 
i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  m'  serious  face 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide  j 


The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  Ha' -Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride: 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearin'  thin  and  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once    did  sweet  in    Zion 
glide 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  !  "  he  says  with 
solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 

aim ; 

Perhaps    Dundee's    wild,  warbling  measures 

rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyr's,  worthy  o'  the  name  ; 

Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heavenward  flame — 

The  sweetest  far  o'  Scotia's  holy  lays  ; 
Compared  with  these,  Itahan  trills  are  tame  ; 
The    tickled    ears    no    heart-felt  raptures 

raise — 
Nae  unison    hae  they  vv^ith  our    Creator's 
praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page  : 
How  Abraham  was  the  friend  of  God  on 
high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging 
ire  ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 
I        Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wUd,  seraphic  fire  ; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred 
lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme  : 
How    guiltless  blood    for  guilty  man  was 
shed ; 
How  He,  who   bore  in   Heaven  the  second 
name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head ; 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped — 
The  precepts  sage  they  ^vrote  to  many  a 
land; 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand. 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced 
by  Heaven's  command. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  eternal  King, 
The  saint,    the  father,    and   the    husband 
prays : 

Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing  " 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  ; 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear — 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
"While  circling    time  moves   round    in    an 


eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this^,  how  poor  rehgion's  prido. 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art. 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion's  every  grace  except  the  heart ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


A  PEDLAE'S  STOEY. 


[A.  Wilson. 


I 


Tlie  Power,  incensed,  the  pag-eant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the 

soul, 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor 
enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And   proifer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm   re- 
quest 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest. 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowerjr  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  tl^eir  little  ones  provide — 

But  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  grace  di- 
vine preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur 
springs, 
That   makes   her   loved   at   home,  revered 
abroad. 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings — 
"An  honest  man's   the  noblest    work   of 
God;" 
Andj  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind. 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load. 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Stixdied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  re- 
fined ! 

0  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soU  ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content  I 
And,  oh  !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  pre- 
vent 
From  luxury's  contagion  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much- 
loved  isle. 

O  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream' d  through  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart — 

Who  dared  to  noblj^  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part — 

(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  Thou  art — 
His  friend,  inspircr,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 

O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert  ; 

But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot  bard 
In    bright   succession  raise,  her   ornament 
and  guard  ! 

Rolcrt  Burns.— Born  1759,  Died  1796. 


1593.— A  VILLAGE  SCOLD  SUEPRISING 
HEE  HUSBAND  IN  AN  ALE-HOUSE. 

I'  the  thrang  o'  stories  tellin, 
Shakin  hands  and  jokin  queer, 

Swith !  a  chap  comes  on  the  hallan— ^ 
"  Mungo  !  is  our  Watty  here  ?  " 

Maggy's  weel-kent  tongue  and  hurry 
Darted  through  him  like  a  knife : 

Up  the  door  flew — like  a  fury 
In  came  Watty's  scoldin  wife. 

"  JNasty,  gude-for-naething  being! 

O  ye  snuffy  drucken  sow  ! 
Bringin  wife  and  weans  to  ruin, 

Drinkin  here  wi'  sic  a  crew  ! 

"  Eise  !  ye  drucken  beast  o'  Bethel ! 

Drink 's  your  night  and  day's  desire ; 
Eise,  this  precious  hour  !  or  faith  I'll 

Fling  your  whisky  i'  the  fire  !  " 

Watty  heard  her  tongue  tinhallow'd, 

Paid  his  groat  wi'  little  din, 
Left  the  house,  while  Maggy  fallow' d,. 

Flyting  a'  the  road  behin'. 

Folk  frae  every  door  came  lampin, 

Maggy  curst  them  ane  and  a', 
Clapp'd  wi'  her  hands,  and  stampin, 

Lost  her  bauchels  i'  the  snaw. 

Hame,  at  length,  she  turn'd  the  gavel, 

AVi'  a  face  as  white's  a  clout, 
Eagin  like  a  very  devil, 

Kickin  stools  and  chairs  about. 

"  Ye'U  sit  wi'  your  limmers  round  ye — 
Hang  you,  sir,  I'll  be  your  death! 

Little  hands  my  hands,  confound  you, 
But  I  cleave  you  to  the  teeth  !  " 

Watty,  wha,  'midst  this  oration. 

Eyed  her  whiles,  but  durst  na  speak, 

Sat,  like  patient  Eesignation, 

Trembling  by  the  ingle-cheek.  , 

Sad  his  wee  drap  brose  he  sippet 
(Maggy's  tongue  gaed  like  a  bell), 

Quietly  to  his  bed  he  slippet, 
Sighin  aften  to  himsel — 

"Nane  are  free  frae  some  vexation, 

Ilk  ane  has  his  ills  to  dree  ; 
But  through  a'  the  hale  creation 

Is  nae  mortal  vex'd  like  me." 

A.  Wilson.— Born  1766,  Died  1813. 


1594.— A  PEDLAE'S  STOEY. 

I  wha  stand  here,  in  this  bare  scowry  coat, 
Was  ance  a  packman,  worth  mony  a  groat ; 
I've  carried  packs  as  big's  your  meikle  table  ; 
I've  scarted  pats,  and  sleepit  in  a  stable  : 
Sax  pounds  I  wadna  for  my  pack  ance  taen. 
And  I  could  bauldly  brag  'twas  a'  mine  ain. 


Hector  Macneill.] 


THE  ALE-HOUSE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Ay  !  tliae  were  days  indeed,  that  gar'd  me 

hope,  ' 

Aiblins,  through  time  to  warsle  up  a  shop ; 
And  as  a  wife  aye  in  my  noddle  ran, 
I  kenn'd  my  Kate  wad  grapple  at  me  than. 
Oh,    Kate  was    past   compare  I    sic   cheeks ! 

sic  een  ! 
Sic  smihng  looks  !  were  never,  never  seen. 
Dear,  dear  I  loed  her,  and  whene'er  we  met. 
Pleaded  to  have  the  bridal  day  but  set  ; 
Stapp'd  her  pouches  fa'  o'  preens  and  laces, 
And  thought  mysel  weel  paid  wi'  twa  three 

kisses : 
Yet  still  she  put  it  aff  f rae  day  to  day, 
And  aften  kindly  in  my  lug  would  say, 
"  Ae  half-year  langer's  no  nae  unco  stop, 
We'll  marry  then,  and  syne  set  up  a  shop." 

Oh,  sir,  but  lasses'  words  are  saft  and  fair. 
They  soothe  our  griefs  and  banish  ilka  care  : 
Wha  wadna  toil  to  please  the  lass  he  ices  ? 
A  lover  true  minds  this  in  all  he  does. 
Finding  her  mind  was  thus  sae  firmly  bent. 
And  that  I  couldna  get  her  to  relent. 
There  was  nought  left  but  quietly  to  resign. 
To  heeze  my  pack  for  ae  lang  hard  campaign  ; 
And  as  the  Highlands  was  the  place  for  meet, 
I  ventured  there  in  spite  o'  wind  and  weet. 
Cauld  now  the  winter  blew,  and  deep  the 

snaw 
For  three  hale  days  incessantly  did  fa'  ; 
Far  in  a  muir,  amang  the  whirling  drift, 
Where  nought  was  seen  but  mountains  and 

the  lift, 
I  lost  my  road  and  wander' d  mony  a  mile, 
Maist  dead  wi'  hunger,  cauld,  and  fright,  and 

toil. 
Thus  wandering,  east  or  Avest,  I  kenn'd  na 

where, 
My    mind    o'ercome    wi'    gloom    and   black 

despair, 
Wi'  a  fell  ringe  I  plunged  at  ance,  forsooth, 
Dovm  through  a  Avreath  o'  snaw  up  to  my 

mouths 
Clean  owre  my  head  my  precious  wallet  flew. 
But  whar  it  gaed,  Lord  kens — I  never  knew ! 
What   great  misfortunes  are  pour'd  down 

on  some ! 
I  thought  my  fearfu'  hinder-end  was  come  ! 
Wi'  grief  and  sorrow  was  my  saul  owercast. 
Ilk  breath  I  drew  was  like  to  be  my  last ; 
For  aye  the  mair  I  warsled  roun'  and  roun', 
I  fand  mysel  aye  stick  the  deeper  down ; 
Till  ance,  at  length,  wi'  a  prodigious  pull, 
I  drew  my  puir  cauld  carcass  frae  the  hole. 

Lang,  lang  I  sought  and  graped  for  my  pack. 
Till  night  and  hunger  forced  me  to  come  back. 
For  three  lang  hours  I  wander' d  up  and  down, 
Till  chance  at  last  convey' d  me  to  a  town  ; 
There,  wi'  a  trembling  hand,  I  wrote  my  Kate 
A  sad  account  of  a'  my  luckless  fate. 
But  bade  her  aye  bo  kind,  and  no  despair. 
Since  life  was  left,  I  soon  would  gather  mair, 
Wi'  whilk  I  hoped,  within  a  towmont's  date. 
To  be  at  hame,  and  share  it  a'  wi'  Kate. 

Fool  that  I  was !  how  little  did  I  think 
That  love  would  soon  be  lost  for  f aut  o'  clink ! 


The  loss  o'  fair-won  wealth,  though  hard  to 

bear. 
Afore  this — ne'er  had  power  to  force  a  tear. 
I  trusted  time  would  bring  things  round  again, 
And  Kate,  dear  Kate  !  would  then  be  a'  mine 

ain : 
,    Consoled  my  mind  in  hopes  o'  better  luck — 
j   But,    oh !    what    sad   reverse !  how   thunder- 
struck ! 
When  ae  black  day  brought  Avord  frae  Eab 

my  brither. 
That — Kate  was  cried  and  married  on  anitlier  ! 
Though   a'   my  friends,  and  ilka  comrade 

sweet, 
At  ance  had  drapp'd  cauld  dead  at  my  feet ; 
Or  though  I'd  heard  the  last  day's  dreadful 

ca', 
Nae  deeper  horror  owre  my  heart  could  fa'  : 
I  cursed  mysel,  I  cursed  my  luckless  fate, 
And  grat — and  sabbing  cried,  Oh  Kate !  oh 

Kate ! 
Frae  that  day  forth  I  never  mair  did  wecl, 
But  drank,  and  ran  headforemost  to  the  deil  ! 
My  siller  vanish'd,  far  frae  hame  I  pined, 
But  Kate  for  ever  ran  across  my  mind  ; 
In  her  were  a'  my  hopes — these  hopes  were 

vain, 
And  now  I'll  never  see  her  like  again. 

A.  Wilson.— Bom  1766,  Died  1813. 


1595.— THE  ALE-HOUSE. 

In  a  howm  whose  bonny  burnie 

Whimpering  row'd  its  crystal  flood. 

Near  the  road  where  travellers  turn  aye, 
Neat  and  beild  a  cot-house  stood : 

White  the  wa's  wi'  roof  new  theekit. 
Window  broads  just  painted  red ; 

Lown  'mang  trees  and  braes  it  reekit 
Haflins  seen  and  haflins  hid. 

Up  the  gavel-end  thick  spreading 
Crap  the  clasping  ivy  green, 

Back  owre  firs  the  high  craigs  cleadin, 
Raised  a'  round  a  cosey  screen. 

Down  below  a  flowery  meadow 
Join'd  the  burnie' s  rambling  line  ; 

Here  it  was  that  Howe  the  widow 
The  same  day  set  up  her  sign. 


i    Brattling  down  the  brae,  and  near  its 
'        Bottom,  Will  first  marvelling  sees 
"  Porter,  Ale,  and  British  Spirits," 
Painted  bright  between  twa  trees. 

"  Godsake,  Tam  !  here's  walth  for  drinking  ! 

Wha  can  this  new»comcr  be  ?  " 
"  Hout,"  quo'  Tam,  "  there's  drouth  in  think- 
ing— 

Let's  in,  Will,  and  syne  we'll  see." 

Hector  MoxnelU.—Born  1746.  Dnid  1818 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


MARY  OF  CASTLE-CARY. 


[Hector  Macneill. 


1596.— THE  HUSBAND'S  RETURN. 

Sometimes  briskly,  sometimes  flaggin', 
Sometimes  helpit,  Will  gat  forth  ; 

On  a  cart,  or  in  a  wagon, 

Hirpling  aye  towards  the  north. 

Tired  ae  e'ening,  stepping  hooly, 

Pondering  on  his  thraward  fate, 
In  the  bonny  month  o'  July, 

Willie,  heedless,  tint  his  gate. 

Saft  the  southland  breeze  was  blawing, 
Sweetly  sughed  the  green  aik  wood  ; 

Loud  the  din  o'  streams  fast  fa'ing, 
Straek  the  ear  wi'  thundering  thud  : 

Ewes  and  lambs  on  braes  ran  bleating ; 

Linties  chirp' d  on  ilka  tree  ; 
Fraethe  west  the  sun,  near  setting. 

Flamed  on  Roslin's  towers  sae  hie. 

Roslin's  towers  and  braes  sae  bonny  I 
Craigs  and  water,  woods  and  glen  I 

Rofilin's  banks  unpeer'd  by  ony, 
Save  the  Muses'  Hawthomden  ! 

Ilka  sound  and  charm  delighting. 

Will  (though  hardly  fit  to  gang) 
Wander' d  on  through  scenes  inviting, 

Listening  to  the  mavis'  sang. 

Faint  at  length,  the  day  fast  closing, 

On  a  fragrant  strawberry  steep, 
Esk's  sweet  dream  to  rest  composing, 

Wearied  nature  drapt  asleep. 

"  Soldier,  rise  ! — the  dews  o'  e'ening 

Gathering,  fa'  wi'  deadly  skaith  ! — 
Wounded  soldier  !  if  complaining. 

Sleep  na  here,  and  catch  your  death." 
#  *  * 

Silent  step  he  on,  poor  falloAv  ! 

Listening  to  his  guide  before. 
O'er  green  knowo  and  flowery  hallow, 

Till  they  reach' d  the  cot-house  door. 

Laigh  it  was,  yet  sweet  and  humble ; 

Deck'd  wi'  honeysuckle  round  ; 
Clear  below  Esk's  waters  rumble, 

Deep  glens  murmuring  back  the  sound. 

Melville's  towers  sae  white  and  stately, 

Dim  by  gloaming  glint  to  view  ; 
Through  Lass  wade's  dark  woods  keek  sweetly 

Skies  sae  red  and  lift  sae  blue. 

Entering  now  in  transport  mingk 

Mother  fond  and  happy  wean. 
Smiling  round  a  canty  ingle 

Blcezing  on  a  clean  hearthstane. 

"  Soldier,  welcome  !  come  be  cheerio — 
Here  ye'se  rest  and  tak'  your  bed — 

Faint,  waes  me  !  ye  seem,  and  weary, 
Pale's  your  cheek  sae  lately  red  !  " 

"  Changed  I  am,"  sigh'd  Willie  till  her ; 

"  Changed,  nae  doubt,  as  changed  can  be ; 
Yet,  alas  !  does  Jeanie  Miller 

Nought  o'  Willie  Gairlace  see  ?  " 


Hae  ye  mark'd  the  dew  o'  morning 

Glittering  in  the  sunny  ray. 
Quickly  fa',  when,  without  warning. 

Rough  blasts  came  and  shook  the  spray  ? 

Hae  ye  seen  the  bird  fast  fleeing, 

Drap  when  pierced  by  death  mair^flflat^? 

Then  see  Jean  wi'  colour  deeing, 
Senseless  drap  at  Willie's  feet. 

After  three  lang  years'  afiliction 
(A'  their  waes  now  hush'd  to  rest), 

Jean  ance  mair,  in  fond  affection. 
Clasps  her  Willie  to  her  breast. 

Hector  Macneill— Born  1746,  Died  1818. 


1597. 


-MARY  OF  CASTLE-CARY. 


Saw  ye  my  wee  thing,  saw  ye  my  ain  thing, 

Saw  ye  my  true  love  down  on  yon  lea — 
Cross' d   she    the    meadow  yestreen    at    the 
gloaming. 
Sought  she  the  bumie  where  flowers   the 
haw-tree ; 
Her  hair  it  is  lint-white,  her  skin  it  is  milk- 
white. 
Dark  is  the  blue  of  her  soft  rolling  e'e  ; 
Red,  red  are  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than  roses. 
Where  could  my  wee  thing  wander  f  rao  me  ? 

I  saw  nae  your  wee  thing,  I  saw  nae  your  ain 
thing. 
Nor  saw  I  your  true  love  down  by  yon  lea ; 
But    I    met    my   bonnie    thing  late   in    the 
gloaming, 
Down  by  the  bumie  where  flowers  the  haw- 
troe : 
Her  hair  it  was  lint-Avhite,  her  skin  it  was 
milk-white. 
Dark  was  the  blue  of  her  soft  rolling  oe ; 
Red    were  her  ripe   lips    and  sweeter   than 
roses — 
SAveet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gave  to  me. 

It  was  nae  my  wee  thing,  it  was  nae  my  ain 
thing, 

It  was  nae  my  true  love  ye  met  by  the  tree : 
Proud  is  her  leal  heart,  and  modest  her  nature. 

She  never  loved  ony  till  ance  she  loed  me. 
Her  name  it  is  Mary,  she's  frae  Castle-Cary, 

Aft  has  she  sat  when  a  bairn  on  my  knee : 
Fair  as  your  face  is,  wert  fifty  times  fairer. 

Young  bragger,  she  ne'er  wad  gie  kisses  to 
thee. 

It  was  then  your-Mary  ;  she's  frae  Castlo-Cary, 

It  was  then  your  true  love  I  met  by  the  tree  ; 
Proud  as  her  heart  is,  and  modest  her  nature. 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gave  to  me. 
Sair  gloom' d  his  dark  brow,  blood-red  his  cheek 
grew, 

Wild  flashed  the  fire  frae  his  red  rolling  e'e : 
Ye'se  rue  sair  this  morning  your  boasts  and 
your  scorning. 

Defend  ye,  fause  traitor,  fu'  loudly  ye  lie. 


EoBT.  Tannahill.] 


THE  BRAES  0'  BALQUHITHER. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Away  wi'  beg-uilin?,  cried  the  yonth,  smiling — 
Off  went  the  bonnet,  the  lint- white  locks  flee, 
The   l)elted    plaid    fa'ing,   her   white    bosom 
shawing, 
Fair  stood   the   loved   maid  wi'  the   dark 
rolling  e'e. 
Is  it  my  wee  thing,  is  it  my  ain  thing, 

Is  it  my  true  love  here  that  I  see  ? 
0  Jamie,  forgie  me,  your  heart's  constant  to  me, 
111  never  mair  wander,  dear  laddie,  frae  thee. 
Hector  MacneilL—Born  1746,  Died  1818. 


[598.— THE  BEAES  O'  BALQUHITHER. 

Let  ns  go,  lassie,  go, 

To  the  braes  o'  Balquhither, 
Where  the  blae-berries  grow 

"Mang  the  bonnie  Highland  heather; 
Where  the  deer  and  the  roe, 

Lightly  bounding  together, 
Sport  the  lang  summer  day 

On  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 

I  will  twine  thee  a  bower 

By  the  clear  siller  fountain, 
And  I'll  cover  it  o'er 

Wi'  the  flowers  of  the  mountain ; 
I  will  range  through  the  wilds. 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  di'earie. 
And  return  wi'  the  spoils 

To  the  bower  o*  my  dearie. 

"When  the  rude  wintry  win' 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling, 
And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night  breeze  is  swelling, 
So  merrily  we'll  sing, 

As  the  storm  rattles  o'er  us. 
Till  the  dear  shieling  ring 

Wi'  the  light  lilting  chorus. 

Kow  the  summer 's  in  prime 

Wi'  the  flowers  richly  blooming. 
And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 

A'  the  moorlands  perfuming  • 
To  our  dear  native  scenes 

Let  us  journey  together. 
Where  glad  innocence  reigns 

'Mang  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 

BoheH  Tannahill. — Born  1774,  Died  1810. 


1599.— THE  BRAES  0'  GLENIFFER. 

Keen  blaws  the  win'  o'er  the  braes  o'  Gleniffer, 
The  auld  castle  turrets  are  cover'dwith  snaw; 
How  changed  frae  the  time  when  I  met  wi' 
my  lover 
Amang  the  broom  bushes  by  Stanley  green 
shaw  ! 
The  wild  flowers  o'  summer  were  spread  a'  sae 
bonnie. 
The  mavis  sang  sweet  frae  the  green  birken 
tree; 


But  far  to  the  camp  they  hae  march' d  my 
dear  Johnnie, 
And  now  it  is  winter  wi'  nature  and  me. 

Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  blithesome  and 
cheerie, 
Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  bonnie  and 
braw ; 
Now  naething  is  heard  but  the  wind  whistling 
drearie. 
And  naething  is  seen  but  the  wide-spreading 
snaw. 
The  trees  are  a'  bare,  and  the  birds  mute  and 
dowie; 
They  shake  the  cauld  drift  frae  their  wings 
as  they  flee ; 
And  chirp  out  their  plaints,  seeming  wae  for 
my  Johnnie ; 
'Tis  "winter  wi'  them,  and  'tis  winter  wi'  me. 

Yon  cauld  sleety  cloud  skiffs  alang  the  bleak 
mountain, 
And  shakes  the  dark  firs  on  the  steep  rocky 
brae, 
While  down  the  deep  glen  bawls  the  snaw- 
flooded  foimtain, 
That  murmur' d  sae  sweet  to  my  laddie  and  me. 
It's   no   its  loud   roar    on   the   wintry  wind 
swellin', 
'       It's  no  the  cauld  blast  brings  the  tear  i'  my 
e'e; 
For  oh !  gin  I  saw  but  my  bonnie  Scot's  callan, 
The  dark  days  o'  winter  were  summer  to  me. 

RohcH  Tannahill— Born  1774,  Died  1810. 


1600.— THE  FLOWER  O'  DUMBLAXE. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o'er  the  lofty  Ben- 
lomond. 
And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o'er  the 
scene, 
While   lanely  I    stray  in   the    calm   summer 
gloamin, 
To   muse    on    sweet   Jessie,   the   flower  o' 
Dumblane. 
How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi'  its  saft  fauldin' 
blossom ! 
And  sweet  is  the  birk,  wi'  its  mantle  o'  green ; 
Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this  bosom, 
Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dum- 
blane. 

She's   modest   as   ony,    and    blithe   as   she's 
bonnie ; 
For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain  : 
And  far  be  the  villain,  divested  of  feeling, 
Wha'd  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet  flower 
o'  Dumblane. 
Sing  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to  the 
e'ening ; 
Thou'rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calderwood 
glen: 
Sac  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning, 
Is   charming  young   Jessie,    the   flower  o 
Dumblane. 


F'.om  1780  to  1866.]                *  FAKE  WELL  TO  AYRSHIRE.                         [Eichard  Gall. 

♦ 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I  met  wi'   my 

Towering  o'er  the  Newton  woods, 

Jessie ! 

Lavrocks  fan  the  snaw-white  clouds  ; 

The  sports  o'  the  city  seem'd  foolish  aud 

Siller  saughs,  wi'  downie  buds, 

vain; 

Adorn  the  banks  sae  brierie  0. 

I  ne'er  saw   a  nymph  I  would  ca'   my  dear 

Round  the  sylvan  fairy  nooks. 

lassie. 

Feathery  brekans  fringe  the  rocks. 

Till  charm'd  wi'  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o" 

Neath  the  brae  the  burnie  joukS;    - 

Dumblane. 

And  ilka  thing  is  cheerie  0. 

Though    mine   were   the    station    o'    loftiest 

Trees  may  bud,  and  birds  may  sing, 

grandeur, 

Flowers  may  bloom,  and  verdure  spring, 

Amidst  its  profusion  I'd  languish  in  pain, 

Joy  to  me  they  canna  bring. 

And   reckon   as   naething  the   height   o'   its 

Unless  wi'  thee,  my  dearie  0. 

splendour. 
If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o'  Dum- 

Rohcrt TannahilL—Borii  1774,  Died  1810. 

blane. 
Bolert  Tannah ill— Born  1774,  Died  1810. 

1603.— MY  ONLY  JO  AND  DEARIE  0. 

Thy  cheek  is  0'  the  rose's  hue. 

i6oi.— THE  MIDGES  DANCE  ABOON 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0 ; 

THE  BURN. 

Thy  neck  is  like  the  siller-dew 
Upon  the  banks  sae  briery  0  , 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn ; 

Thy  teeth  are  0'  the  ivory, 

The  dews  begin  to  fa' ; 

0  sweet's  the  twinkle  0'  thine  ee  ! 

The  pairtricks  down  the  rushy  holm 

Nae  joy,  nae  pleasure,  blinks  on  me, 

Set  up  their  e'ening  ca'. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's  sang 

Rings  through  the  briery  shaw, 

The  birdie  sings  upon  the  thorn 

While  flitting  gay  the  swallows  play 

Its  sang  0'  joy,  fu'  cheerie  0, 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 

Rejoicing  in  the  summer  morn, 
Nae  care  to  mak  it  eerie  0  ; 

Beneath  the  golden  gloamin'  sky 

But  little  kens  the  sangster  sweet 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay ; 

Aught  0'  the  cares  E  hae  to  meet, 

The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains, 

That  gar  my  restless  bosom  beat, 

To  charm  the  hng'ring  day ; 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

"While  weary  yaldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  Httle  nestlings  torn. 

Wban  we  were  baimies  on  yon  brae, 

The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

And  youth  was  blinking  bonnie  0, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

Aft  we  wad  daff  the  lee-lang  day, 
Our  joys  fu'  sweet  and  mony  0 ; 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves. 

Aft  I  wad  chase  thee  o'er  the  lea. 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell ; 

And  round  about  the  thorny  tree. 

The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Or  pu'  the  wild  flowers  a'  for  thee, 

Spread  fragrance  tlu-ough  the  dell. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry, 

I  hae  a  wish  I  canna  tine. 

The  simple  joys  that  Nature  yields 

'Mang  a'  the  cares  that  grieve  me  0  ; 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 

I  wish  thou  wert  for  ever  mine. 
And  never  mair  to  leave  me  0  : 

1 

Robert  Tannahill.—Born  1774,  Died  1810. 

Then  I  wad  daut  thee  night  and  day. 
Nor  ither  warldly  care  wad  hae. 
Till  life's  warm  stream  forgot  to  play, 
My  only  jo  and  dearie  0. 

i6o2.— GLOOMY  Wn^TEE'S  NOW  AWA. 

Richard  Gall— Born  1776,  Died  1801. 

Gloomy  winter's  now  awa, 
Saft  the  westlin  breezes  blaw : 

'Mang  the  birks  o'  Stanley-shaw 

1604.— FAREWELL  TO  AYRSHIRE. 

The  mavis  sings  fu'  cheerie  0. 

■ 

Sweet  the  craw-flower's  early  bell 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

I 

'            Decks  Gleniffer's  dewy  dell, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew ; 

■ 

Blooming  like  thy  bonnie  sel'. 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 

■ 

My  young,  ray  artless  dearie  0. 

Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu  ! 

I 

Come,  my  lassie,  let  us  stray. 

Bonny  Doon,  sae  sweet  at  gloaming. 

I 

O'er  Glenkilloch's  sunny  brae. 

Fare  thee  weel  before  I  gang — 

I 

!           Blithely  spend  the  gowden  day 

Bonny  Doon,  where,  early  roaming. 

1 

'Midst  joys  that  never  wearie  0. 

First  I  weaved  the  rustic  si  nj- 1 

John  Mayne,] 


LOGAN  BEAES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Bowers,  adieu !  where  love  decoying, 

First  enthrall'd  tliis  heart  o'  mine  ; 
There  the  saftest  sweets  enjoying, 

Sweets  that  memory  ne'er  sliall  tine  ! 
Friends  so  dear  my  bosom  ever. 

Ye  hae  render' d  moments  dear  ; 
But,  alas !  when  forced  to  sever, 

Then  the  stroke,  oh  !  how  severe  ! 

Friends,  that  parting  tear  reserve  it, 

Though  'tis  doubly  dear  to  me  ; 
Could  I  think  I  did  deserve  it, 

How  much  happier  would  I  be  ! 
Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew  ; 
Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu  ! 

Richard  Gail— Bom  1776,  Died  1801. 


1605.— LOGAN  BEAES. 

By  Logan  streams  that  rin  sae  deep, 
Fu'  aft  wi'  glee  I've  herded  sheep ; 
Herded  sheep  and  gather' d  slaes, 
Wi'  my  dear  lad  on  Logan  braes. 
But  wae's  my  heart,  thae  days  are  gane, 
And  I  wi'  grief  may  herd  alane, 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

Nao  mair  at  Logan  kirk  will  he 
Atween  the  preachings  meet  wi'  me  ; 
Meet  wi'  me,  or  when  it's  mirk. 
Convoy  me  hame  frae  Logan  kirk. 
I  weel  may  sing  thae  days  are  gane  : 
Frae  kirk  and  fair  I  come  alane. 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

At  e'en,  when  hope  amaist  is  gane, 
I  datiner  out  and  sit  alane  ; 
Sit  alane  beneath  the  tree 
Where  aft  he  kept  his  ti-yst  wi'  me. 
Oh  !  could  I  see  thae  days  again, 
My  lover  skaithless,  and  my  ain  ! 
Beloved  by  friends,  revered  by  faes, 
We'd  live  in  bliss  on  Logan  braes ! 

John  Mayne.— Bom  1761,  Died  1836. 


1606.— HELEN  OF   KIEKCONNEL. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies. 
For,  night  and  day,  on  me  she  cries  ; 
And,  like  an  angel,  to  the  skies 

Still  seems  to  beckon  me  ! 
For  me  she  lived,  for  me  she  sigh'd. 
For  me  she  wish'd  to  be  a  bride  ; 
For  me  in  life's  sweet  mom  she  died 

On  fair  Kirkconnel-lee ! 

Where  Kirtle-waters  gently  wind, 
As  Helen  on  my  arm  reclined, 
A  rival  with  a  ruthless  mind. 
Took  deadly  aim  at  me  : 


My  love,  to  disappoint  the  foe, 
Eush'd  in  between  me  and  the  blow; 
And  now  her  corse  is  lying  low 
On  fair  Kirkconnel-lee  ! 

Though  Heaven  forbids  my  wrath  to  swell, 
I  curse  the  hand  by  which  she  fell — 
The  fiend  who  made  my  heaven  a  hell 

And  tore  my  love  from  me  ! 
For  if,  where  all  the  graces  shine — 
Oh  !  if  on  earth  there's  aught  divine, 
My  Helen !  all  these  charms  were  thine — 

They  center' d  all  in  thee  ! 

Ah !  what  avails  it  that,  amain, 

I  clove  the  assassin's  head  in  twain  ? 

No  peace  of  mind,  my  Helen  slain, 

No  resting-place  for  me  : 
I  see  her  spirit  in  the  air — 
I  hear  the  shriek  of  wild  despair, 
When  Murder  laid  her  bosom  bare, 

On  fair  Kirkconnel-lee  ! 

Oh  !  when  I'm  sleeping  in  my  grave. 
And  o'er  my  head  the  rank  weeds  wave. 
May  He  who  life  and  spirit  gave 

Unite  my  love  and  me  1 
Then  from  this  world  of  doubts  and  sighs, 
My  soul  on  wings  of  peace  shall  rise ; 
And,  joining  Helen  in  the  skies. 

Forget  Kirkconnel-lee ! 

John  Mayne.— Born  1761,  Died  1836. 


1607.— TO   THE   EIVEE  NITH. 

Hail,  gentle  stream  !  for  ever  dear 
Thy  rudest  murmurs  to  mine  ear  ! 
Tom  from  thy  banks,  though  far  I  rovOj 
The  slave  of  poverty  and  love, 
Ne'er  shall  thy  bard,  where'er  he  be, 
Without  a  sigh  remember  thoe ! 
For  there  my  infant  years  began. 
And  there  my  happiest  minutes  ran  , 
And  there  to  love  and  friendship  true. 
The  blossoms  of  affection  grew. 

Blithe  on  thy  banks,  thou  sweetest  stream 
That  ever  nursed  a  poet's  dream  ! 
Oft  have  I  in  forbidden  time 
(If  youth  could  sanctify  a  crime). 
With  hazel  rod  and  fraudful  fly. 
Ensnared  thy  unsuspecting  fry  ; 
In  pairs  have  dragg'd  them  from  their  den, 
Till,  chased  by  lurking  fishermen. 
Away  I've  flown  as  fleet  as  wind. 
My  lagging  followers  far  behind, 
And  when  the  vain  pursuit  was  o'er, 
Eeturn'd  successful  as  before. 

John  Mayne.— Born  1761,  Died  1836. 


1608.— MUSTEEING  OF  THE  TEADE3  TO 
SHOOT  FOE  THE  SILLEE  GUN. 

The  lift  was  clear,  the  morn  serene, 
The  sun  just  glinting  ovrre  the  scene, 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


JENNY  DANG  THE  WEAVER. 


[Sir  a.  Boswell. 


When  James  M'Noe  began  again 

To  beat  to  arms, 
Rousing  the  heart  o'  man  and  wean 

Wi'  war's  alarms. 

Frae  far  and  near  the  country  lads 
(Their  joes  ahint  them  on  their  yads) 
Flock'd  in  to  see  tht  show  in  squads  ; 

And,  what  was  dafter, 
Their  pawky  mithers  aild  their  dads 

Cam  trotting  after ! 

And  mony  a  beau  and  belle  were  there, 

Doited  wi'  dozing  on  a  chair  ; 

For  lest  they'd,  sleeping,  spoil  their  hair, 

Or  miss  the  sight. 
The  gowks',  like  bairns  before  a  fair, 

Sat  up  a'  night ! 

Wi'  hats  as  black  as  ouy  raven. 

Fresh  as  the  rose,  their  beards  new  shaven, 

And  a'  their  Sunday's  deeding  having 

Sae  trim  and  gay. 
Forth  cam  our  Trades,  some  ora  saving 

To  wair  that  day. 

Fair  fa'  ilk  canny,  caidgy  carl, 
Weel  may  he  bruik  his  new  apparel ! 
And  never  dree  the  bitter  snarl 

O'  scowling  wife  ! 
But,  blest  in  pantry,  barn,  and  barrel. 

Be  blithe  through  life  ! 

Hech,  sirs  !  what  crowds  cam  into  town, 
To  see  them  mustering  up  and  down  ! 
Lasses  and  lads,  sun-burnt  and  brown — 

Women  and  weans, 
Gentle  and  semple,  mingling,  crown 

The  gladsome  scenes ! 

At  first,  forenent  ilk  Deacon's  hallan, 
His  ain  brigade  was  made  to  fall  in ; 
And,  while  the  muster-roll  was  calling, 

And  joybells  jowing, 
Het-pints,  weel  spiced,  to  keep  the  saul  in, 

Around  were  flo\ving  I 

Broil'd  kipper,  cheese,  and  bread,  and  ham. 
Laid  the  foundation  for  a  dram 
O'  whisky,  gin  frae  Rotterdam, 

Or  cherry  brandy  ; 
Wliilk  after,  a'  was  fish  that  cam 

To  Jock  or  Sandy  : 

0  !  weel  ken  they  wha  loe  their  chapin, 
Drink  maks  the  auldest  swack  and  strapping 
Gars  Care  forget  the  ills  that  happen — 

The  blate  look  spruce — 
And  even  the  thowless  cock  their  tappin. 

And  craw  fu'  croose  ! 

The  muster  owre,  the  different  bands 

File  aft'  in  parties  to  the  sands  ; 

■V^^lere,  'mid  loud  laughs  and  clapping  hands, 

Gley'd  Geordy  Smith 
Reviews  them,  and  their  line  expands 

Alang  the  Nith  1 


But  ne'er,  for  uniform  or  air. 

Was  sic  a  group  review' d  elsewhere  ! 

The  short,  the  tall ;  fat  folk,  and  spare  ; 

Syde  coats,  and  dockit ; 
Wigs,  queues,  and  clubs,  and  curly  hair  ; 

Round  hats,  and  cockit !    —    _ 

As  to  their  guns — thae  fell  engines. 
Borrow' d  or  begg'd,  were  of  a'  kinds 
For  bloody  war,  or  bad  designs, 

Or  shooting  cushies — 
Lang  fowling-pieces,  carabines. 

And  blunderbusses  I 

Maist  feck,  though  oil'd  to  mak  them  glimmer, 
Hadna  been  shot  for  mony  a  simmer ; 
And  Fame,  the  story-telling  kimmer, 

Jocosely  hints 
That  some  o'  them  had  bits  o'  timmer 

Instead  o'  flints ! 

Some  guns,  she  threeps  witliin  her  ken. 
Were  spiked,  to  let  nae  priming  ben  ; 
And,  as  in  twenty  there  were  ten 

Worm-eaten  stocks, 
Sae,  here  and  there,  a  rozit-end 

Held  on  their  locks  1 

And  then,  to  show  what  difference  stands 
Atween  the  leaders  and  their  bands, 
Swords  that,  unsheathed  since  Prostonpans 

Neglected  lay. 
Were  furbish'd  up,  to  grace  the  hands 

O'  chiefs  this  day  I 

"  Ohon  !  "  says  George,  and  ga'e  a  grane, 
"  The  age  o'  chivalry  is  gane  !  " 
Syne,  having  ovrre  and  owre  again 

The  hale  survey' d. 
Their  route,  and  a'  things  else,  made  plain. 

He  snuff 'd,  and  said : 

"  Now,  gentlemen  !  now,  mind  the  motion. 
And  dinna,  this  time,  mak  a  botion  : 
Shouther  yol^r  arms  !     O  !  lia'd  them  tosh  on, 

And  not  athraw ! 
Wheel  wi'  your  left  hands  to  the  ocean. 

And  march  awa  I  " 

Wi'  that,  the  dinlin  drums  rebound, 
Fifes,  clarionets,  and  hautboys  sound  ! 
Through  crowds  and  crowds,  collected  round. 

The  Corporations 
Trudge  aff,  while  Echo's  self  is  drown' d 

In  acclamations ! 

John  Moyne. — Born  1761,  DieU  1836. 


1609.— JENNT   DANG  THE   WEAVER. 

At  Willie's  wedding  on  the  green, 

The  lassies,  bonny  witches  ! 
Were  a'  dress'd  out  in  aprons  clean, 

And  braw  white  Sunday  mutches  : 
Auld  Maggie  bade  the  lads  tak'  tent. 

But  Jock  would  not  believe  her  ; 


SIR  A.  BOSWELL.] 


JENNY'S  BAWBEE. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


But  soon  the  fool  his  folly  kent, 
For  Jenny  dang  the  weaver. 
And  Jenny  dang,  Jenny  dang, 

Jenny  dang  the  weaver ; 
But  soon  the  fool  his  folly  kent, 
For  Jenny  dang  the  weaver. 

At  ilka  country  dance  or  reel, 

Wi'  her  he  would  be  bobbing ; 
When  she  sat  down,  he  sat  down. 

And  to  her  would  be  gabbing ; 
Where'er  she  gaed,  baith  butt  and  ben, 

The  coof  would  never  leave  her ; 
Aye  keckling  like  a  clocking  hen, 

But  Jenny  dang  the  weaver 
Jenny  dang,  &c. 

Quo'  he,  My  lass,  to  speak  my  mind, 

I  troth  I  needna  swither ; 
You've  bonny  een,  and  if  you're  kind, 

I'll  never  seek  ahither : 
He  humm'd  and  haw'd,  the  lass  cried,  Peugh, 

And  bade  the  coof  not  deave  her ; 
Syne  snapt  her  fingers,  lap  and  leugh,    - 
And  dang  the  silly  weaver. 
And  Jenny  dang,  Jenny  dang, 

Jenny  dang  the  weaver ; 
Syne  snapt  her  fingers,  lap  and  leugh, 
And  dang  the  silly  weaver. 

Sir  A.  Boswell.—Born  1775,  Died  1822. 


1610.— JENNY'S  BAWBEE. 

I  met  four  chaps  yon  birks  amang, 
Wi'  hingin'  lugs,  and  faces  lang ; 
I  speer'd  at  neibour  Bauldy  Strang, 
Wha's  thae  I  see  ? 

Quo'  he,  ilk  cream-faced,  pawky  chiel, 
Thought  himsel'  cunnin'  as  the  de'il, 
And  here  they  cam,  awa  to  steal 
Jenny's  bawbee. 

The  first,  a  captain  tiU  his  trade, 
Wi'  skull  ill  lined,  and  back  well  clad, 
March'd  round  the  barn,  and  by  the  shed, 
And  pappit  on  his  knee. 

Quo'  he,  "  My  goddess,  nymph,  and  queen, 
Your  beauty 's  dazzled  baith  my  een ; "" 
But  de'il  a  beauty  he  had  seen 
But — Jenny's  bawbee. 

A  lawyer  neist,  wi'  bletherin'  gab, 
Wha  speeches  wove  like  ony  Avab, 
In  ilk  ane's  corn  aye  took  a  dab, 
And  a'  for  a  fee  : 

Accounts  he  had  through  a'  the  town, 

And    tradesmen's    tongues    nao   mair   could 

drown  ; 
Haith  now  he  thought  to  clout  his  gown 
Wi'  Jenny's  bawbee. 


A  Norland  laird  neist  trotted  up, 
Wi'  bawsen'd  naig  and  siller  whup. 
Cried,  "  There's  my  beast,  lad,  haud  the  grup, 
Or  tie't  till  a  tree. 

What's  gowd  to  me  ? — I've  walth  o'  Ian' ; 
Bestow  on  ane  o'  worth  your  han' ;  " 
He  thought  to  pay  what  he  was  awn 
Wi'  Jenny's  bawbee. 

A'  spruce  frae  ban' boxes  and  tubs, 
A  Thing  cam  neist  (but  life  has  rubs), 
Foul  were  the  roads,  and  fou'  the  dubs. 
Ah  !  waes  me ! 

A'  clatty,  squintin'  through  a  glass, 
He  gim'd,  "  I'  faith  a  bonnie  lass  !  " 
He  thought  to  win,  wi'  front  o'  brass, 
Jenny's  bawbee. 

She  bade  the  laird  gang  comb  his  wig, 
The  sodger  not  to  strut  sae  big. 
The  lawyer  not  to  be  a  prig, 

The  fool  cried,  "  Tehee, 

I  kent  that  I  could  never  fail !  " 
She  prined  the  dish-clout  till  his  tail, 
And  cool'd  him  wi'  a  water-pail. 
And  kept  her  bawbee. 

Sir  A,  ■BoswelL—Born  1775,  Died  1822. 


161 1. —GOOD  NIGHT,  AND    JOY  BE 
WI'  YE  A'. 

Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  ye  a' ; 

Your  harmless  mirth  has  charm'd  my  heart ; 
May  life's  fell  blasts  out  owre  ye  blaw  ! 

In  sorrow  may  ye  never  part ! 
My  spirit  lives,  but  strength  is  gone  ; 

The  mountain-fires  now  blaze  in  vain : 
Eemember,  sons,  the  deeds  I've  done, 

And  in  your  deeds  I'll  live  again  I 

When  on  yon  muir  our  gallant  clan 

Frae  boasting  foes  their  banners  tore, 
Wha  show'd  himself  a  better  man. 

Or  fiercer  waved  the  red  claymore  ? 
But  when  in  peace — then  mark  me  there — 

When  through  the  glen  the  wanderer  came, 
I  gave  him  of  our  lordly  fare, 

I  gave  him  here  a  welcome  hame. 

The  auld  will  speak,  the  young  maun  hear ; 

But  cantie,  but  be  good  and  leal ; 
Your  ain  ills  aye  hae  heart  to  bear, 

Anither's  aye  hae  heart  to  feel. 
So,  ere  I  set,  I'll  see  you  shine, 

I'll  see  you  triumph  ere  I  fa'  ; 
My  parting  breath  shall  boast  you  mine — 

Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a'. 

Sir  A.  Boswdl.—Born  1775,  Died  1822. 


From  1780  to  1866.]                  THE  MOON  WAS  A-WANING.                          [James  Hogg 

1612.— WHEM  THE  KYJK  COMES  HAME. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Come  all  ye  jolly  shepherds 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

That  whistle  throngh  the  glen, 

'Tween  the  gloamin  and  the  mirk. 

I'll  tell  ye  of  a  secret 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken  ; 

James  Hogg. — Born  1772,  Bied-1835. 

j              What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

{                  That  the  tongue  0'  man  can  name  ? 
'Tis  to  woo  a  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

1613. — THE   SKTLAEK. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

1                          When  the  kye  comes  hame, 

Bird  of  the  wilderness. 

'Tween  the  gloamin  and  the  mirk, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

'Tis  not  beneath  the  coronet, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

Nor  canopy  of  state, 

0  to  abide  in  the  desert  -with  thee ! 

'Tis  not  on  couch  of  velvet, 

Wild  is  thy  lay  and  loud, 

Nor  arbour  of  the  great — 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 

'Tis  beneath  the  spreading  birk, 

Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth; 

In  the  glen  without  the  name, 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Wi'  a  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie, 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 

^Vhen  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

There  the  blackbird  bigs  his  nest 

O'er  feU  and  fountain  sheen. 

For  the  mate  he  lo'es  to  see. 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 

And  on  the  topmost  bough, 

O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 

0,  a  happy  bird  is  he  ! 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Then  he  pours  his  melting  ditty, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 

And  love  is  a'  the  theme, 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away ! 

And  he'll  woo  his  bonnie  lassie 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 

Sweet  vnR  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be  ! 

When  the  blewart  bears  a  pearl. 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

And  the  daisy  turns  a  pea. 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

And  the  bonnie  lucken  gowan 

0  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Has  fauldit  up  her  ee, 
Then  the  lavrock  frae  the  blue  lift. 

James  Hogg.— Bom  1772,  Died  1835. 

Draps  down,  and  thinks  nae  shame 
To  woo  his  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

1 614.— THE  MOON  WAS  A-WANING. 

See  yonder  pawky  shepherd 

The  moon  was  a- waning. 

That  lingers  on  the  hill— 

The  tempest  was  over  j 

1              His  yowes  are  in  the  fauld, 

Fair  was  the  maiden. 

And  his  lambs  are  lying  still ; 

And  fond  was  the  lover ; 

Yet  he  downa  gang  to  bed, 

But  the  snow  was  so  deep 

For  his  heart  is  in  a  flame 

That  his  heart  it  grew  weary ; 

To  meet  his  bonnie  lassie 

And  he  sunk  down  to  sleep. 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

In  the  moorland  so  dreary. 

When  the  little  wee  bit  heart 

Soft  was  the  bed 

Eises  high  in  the  breast. 

She  had  made  for  her  lover, 

And  the  little  wee  bit  starn 

White  were  the  sheets 

Eises  red  in  the  east, 

And  embroider' d  the  cover  ; 

0  there's  a  joy  sae  dear, 

But  his  sheets  are  more  white, 

That  the  heart  can  hardly  frame, 

And  his  canopy  grander ; 

Wi'  a  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie. 

And  sounder  he  sleeps 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Where  the  hill-foxes  wander. 

Then  since  all  nature  joins 

Alas,  pretty  maiden, 

In  this  love  without  alloy, 

What  sorrows  attend  you  ! 

0,  wha  wad  prove  a  traitor 

I  see  you  sit  shivering, 

To  nature's  dearest  joy  ? 

With  lights  at  your  window ; 

Or  wha  wad  choose  a  crown. 

But  long  may  you  wait 

Wi'  its  perils  and  its  fame, 

Ere  your  arms  shall  enclose  him ; 

And  miss  his  bonnie  lassie 

For  still,  still  he  lies, 

When  the  kye  comes  ha.uie. 

With  a  wreath  on  his  bosom ! 
7i* 

James  Hogg.1 


KILMENY. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


How  painful  the  task 

The  sad  tidings  to  tell  you ! 
An  orphan  you  were 

Ere  this  misery  befell  you  ; 
And  far  in  yon  wild, 

Where  the  dead-tapers  hover, 
So  cold,  cold  and  wan, 

Lies  the  corpse  of  your  lover  ! 

James  Hogg.— Born  1772,  Died  1835. 


1615.— KILMENY. 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen  ; 
But  it  wasnato  meet  Duneira's  men, 
Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
It  was  only  to  hear  the  Yorlin  sing, 
And  pu'  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring — 
The  scarlet  hypp,  and  the  hind  berry. 
And  the  nut  that  hung  frae  the  hazel-tree  ; 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o'er  the  wa', 
And  lang   may  she  seek  i'    the   green-wood 

shaw ; 
Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 
And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  hame. 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled. 
When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead, 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny's  soul  had  been  sung, 
When  the  bedes-man  had  pray'd,  and  the  dead- 
bell  rung. 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin,  when  all  was  still, 
When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin  hiL, 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i'  the  wane. 
The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain — 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane — 
Wlxen  the  ingle  low'd  with  an  eiry  leme, 
Late,  late  in  the  gloamin  Kilmeny  came  hame ! 

"  Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ? 
Lang  hae  we  sought  both  holt  and  den — 
By  linn,  by  ford,  and  green- wood  tree ; 
Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  got  you  that  joup  o'  the  lily  sheen  ? 
That  bonny  snood  of  the  birk  sae  green  ? 
And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever   was 

seen? 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ?  " 

Kilmeny  look'd  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 
But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face: 
As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  e'e, 
As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emcrant  lea. 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  sea. 
For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where, 
And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she   could  not 

declare  ; 
Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew, 
Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never 

blew  ; 
But  it  seem'd  as   the  harp  of   the  sky  had 

rung. 
And   the  airs  of    heayen   play'd    round   her 

tongue. 


When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had 

seen, 
And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been — 
A  land  of  love,  and  a  land  of  light, 
Withouten  sun,  or  moon,  or  night  ; 
Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream, 
And  the  light  a  pure  celestial  beam  : 
The  land  of  vision  it  would  seem, 
A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 

In  yon  green- Avood  there  is  a  waik, 
And  in  that  waik  there  is  a  wene, 

And  in  that  wene  there  is  a  maike, 
That  neither  has  flesh,  blood,  nor  bane  ; 

And  down  in  yon  green- wood  he  walks  his 
lane. 

In  that  green  wene,  Kilmeny  lay, 
Her  bosom  happ'd  wi'  the  flowerets  gay  ; 
But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep, 
And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep  ; 
She  kenn'd  nae  mair,  nor  open'd  her  e'e, 
Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a  far  countrye. 

She  '  waken' d  on  a  couch  of  the  silk  sae  slim, 
All  striped  wi'  the  bars  of  the  rainbow's  rim 
And  lovely  beings  around  were  rife. 
Who  erst  had  traveU'd  mortal  life ; 
And  aye  they  smiled,  and  'gan  to  speer  : 
"  What  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal  here  !  " 

/ 

Ij  ,    "  Lang  have  I  journey' d  the  world  wide," 

[  A  meek  and  reverend  fere  replied  ; 
"  Baith  night  and  day  I  have  watch'd  the  fair 

I   Eident  a  thousand  years  and  mair. 

,'  Yes,  I  have  watch'd  o'er  ilk  degree, 

\   Wherever  blooms  femenitye  ; 

:   But  sinless  virgin,  free  of  stain, 
In  mind  and  body,  fand  I  nane. 
Never,  since  the  banquet  of  time, 
Found  I  a  virgin  in  her  prime. 
Till  late  this  bonny  maiden  I  saw, 
As  spotless  as  the  morning  snaw. 
Full  twenty  years  she  has  lircd  as  free 
As  the  spirits  that  sojourn  in  this  countrye. 
I  have  brought  her  away  frae  the  snares  of 

men. 
That  sin  or  death  she  may  never  ken." 

They  clasp' d  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  fair; 
They  kiss'd  her  cheek,  and  they  kemed  her 

hair  ; 
And  round  came  many  a  blooming  fere, 
Saying,  "  Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye're  welcome  here; 
Women  are  freed  of  the  littand  scorn  ; 
O,  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see. 
Now  shall  it  ken,  what  a  woman  may  be  ! 
Many  a  lang  year  in  sorrow  and  pain, 
Many  a  lang  year  through  the  world  we've 

gane, 
Commission'd  to  watch  fair  womankind, 
For  it's  they  who  nurice  the  immortal  mind. 
We  have  watch'd  their  steps  as  the  dawning 

shone, 
And  deep  in  the  green-wood  walks  alone ; 
By  lily  bower  and  silken  bed 
The  viewless  tears  have  o'er  them  shed ; 


From  1780  to  ISGG.] 


KILMENY. 


[James  Hogo. 


Have  soothed  their  ardent  minds  to  sleep, 

Or  left  the  couch  of  love  to  weep. 

We  have  seen  !  we  have  seen !  but  the  time 

must  come, 
And  the  angels  will  weep  at  the  day  of  doom  I 

"  O,  would  the  fairest  of  mortal  kind 
Aye  keep  the  holy  truths  in  mind. 
That  kindred  spirits  their  motions  see, 
Who  watch  their  ways  with  anxious  e'o, 
And  grieve  for  the  guilt  of  humanitye  ! 
O,  sweet  to  heaven  the  maiden's  prayer, 
And  the  sigh  that  heaves  a  bosom  sae  fair  ! 
And  dear  to  heaven  the  words  of  truth 
And  the  praise  of  virtue  frae  beauty's  mouth  ! 
And  dear  to  the  viewless  forms  of  air. 
The  minds  that  kythe  as  the  body  fair  ! 

"  O,  bonny  Kilmony  1  free  frae  stain, 
If  ever  you  seek  the  world  again — 
That  world  of  sin,  of  sorrow  and  fear — 
O,  tell  of  the  joys  that  are  waiting  here ; 
And  tell  of  the  signs  you  shall  shortly  see ; 
Of  the  times  that  are  now,  and  the  times  that 

shall  be." — 
They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 
And  she  walk'd  in  the  light  of  a  sunless  day  ; 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  crystal  bright, 
The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light ; 
The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow, 
And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 
Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid,       j 
That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade ;    i 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven,  when  they  saw  her   i 

lie  I 

In  the  stream  of  life  that  wander' d  by.  j 

And  she  heard  a  song — she  heard  it  sung, 
She  kenn'd  not  where  ;  but  sae  sweetly  it  rung. 
It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a  dream  of  the  mom — 
"  0  !  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  ' 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see. 
Now  shall  it  ken,  what  a  woman  may  be  ! 
The  sun  that  shines  on  the  world  sae  bright, 
A  borrow 'd  gleid  frae  the  fountain  of  light ; 
And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun, 
Like  a  gouden  bow,  or  a  beamless  sun — 
Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mair ; 
And  the  angels  shall  miss  them,  travelling  the 

air. 
But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day. 
When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  died  away, 
When  the   sinner  has  gane   to   his  waesome 

doom, 
Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom !" — 

They  bore  her  away,  she  wist  not  how. 
For  she  felt  not  arm  nor  rest  below  ; 
But    so   swift  they  wain'd   her   through   the 

Hght, 
'Twas  like  the  motion  of  sound  or  sight ; 
They  seem'd  to  split  the  gales  of  air. 
And  yet  nor  gale  nor  breeze  was  there. 
Unnumber'd  groves  below  them  grew  ; 
They  came,  they  past,  and  backward  fie\\ , 
Like  floods  of  blossoms  gliding  on, 
Li  moment  seen,  in  moment  gone. 


O,  never  vales  to  mortal  view 

Appear' d  like  those  o'er  which  they  flew 

That  land  to  human  spirits  given, 

The  lowermost  vales  of  the  storied  heaven ; 

From  whence  they  can  view  the  world  below. 

And  heaven's  blue  gates  with  sapphires  glow — 

More  glory  yet  unmeet  to  know.       ^     ~ 

They  bore  her  far  to  a  mountain  green. 
To  see  what  mortal  never  had.  seen  ; 
And  they  seated  her  high  on  a  purple  sward. 
And  bade  her  heed  what  she  saw  and  heard. 
And  note  the  changes  the  spirits  "wrought ; 
l'"or  nov/  she  lived  in  the  land  of  thought. 
She  look'd,  and  she  saw  nor  sun  nor  skies. 
But  a  crystal  dome  of  a  thousand  dyes  ; 
She  look'd,  and  she  saw  nae  land  aright. 
But  an  endless  whirl  of  glory  and  light ; 
And  radiant  beings  went  and  came. 
Far  swifter  than  wind,  or  the  linked  flame ; 
She  hid  her  een  frae  the  dazzling  view ; 
She  look'd  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  a  sun  on  a  summer  sky. 
And  clouds  of  amber  sailing  by  ; 
A  lovely  land  beneath  her  lay. 
And  that  land  had  glens  and  mountains  gray ; 
And  that  land  had  valleys  and  hoary  piles. 
And  marled  seas,  and  a  thousand  isles  ; 
Its  fields  were  speckled,  its  forests  green, 
And  its  lakes  were  all  of  the  dazzling  sheen, 
Like  magic  mirrors,  where  slumbering  lay 
The  sun  and  the  sky  and  the  cloudlet  gray. 
Which  heaved  and  trembled,  and  gently  swung; 
On  every  shore  they  seem'd  to  be  hung ; 
For  there  they  were  seen  on  their  downward 

plain 
A  thousand  times  and  a  thousand  again ; 
In  winding  lake  and  placid  firth — 
Little  peaceful  heavens  in  the  bosom  of  earth. 

Kilmeny  sigh'd  and  seem'd  to  grieve. 
For  she  found  her  heart  to  that  land  did  cleave ; 
She  saw  the  corn  wave  on  the  vale ; 
She  saw  the  deer  run  down  the  dale ; 
She  saw  the  plaid  and  the  broad  claymore. 
And  the  brows  that  the  badge  of  freedom  bore  ; 
And  she  thought  she  had  seen  the  land  before. 

She  saw  a  lady  sit  on  a  throne. 
The  fairest  that  ever  the  sun  shone  on ! 
A  lion  lick'd  her  hand  of  milk. 
And  she  held  him  in  a  leish  of  silk, 
And  a  leifu'  maiden  stood  at  her  knee. 
With  a  silver  wand  and  melting  e'e — 
Her  sovereign  shield,  till  Love  stole  in, 
And  poison'd  aU  the  fount  within. 

Then  a  gruff,  untoward  bedes-man  came, 
And  hundit  the  lion  on  his  dame  ; 
And  the  guardian  maid  wi'  the  dauntless  e'e, 
She  dropp'd  a  tear  and  left  her  knee  ; 
And  she  saw  till  the  queen  frae  the  lion  fled. 
Till  the  bonniest  flower  of  the  world  lay  dead ; 
A  coffin  was  set  on  a  distant  plain. 
And  she  saw  the  red  blood  fall  like  rain. 
Then  bonny  Kilmeny' s  heart  grew  sair. 
And  she  turn'd  away,  and  could  look  nae  mair 


James  Hogg. 


TO  THE  COMET  OF  1811. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Then  the  gruff,  grim  carle  girned  amain, 
And  they  trampled  him   down — ^but   he  rose 

again ; 
And  he  baited  the  lion  to  deeds  of  weir, 
Till  he  lapp'd  the  blood  to  the  kingdom  dear  : 
And,  weening  his  head  was  danger-preef 
When  crown'd  with  the  rose  and  clover  leaf, 
He  growl' d  at  the'  carle,  and  chased  him  away 
To  feed  wi'  the  deer  on  the  mountain  gray. 
He  growl'd  at  the  carle,   and  he   geck'd  at 

Heaven ; 
But  his  mark  was  set,  and  his  arles  given. 
Kilmeny  a  while  her  een  withdrew ; 
She  look'd  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  below  her,  fair  unfurl' d, 
One  half  of  all  the  glowing  world, 
Where  oceans  roll'd  and  rivers  ran, 
To  bound  the  aims  of  sinful  man. 
She  saw  a  people  fierce  and  fell. 
Burst  frae  their  bounds  like  fiends  of  hell ; 
There  lilies  grew,  and  the  eagle  flew ; 
And  she  herked  on  her  ravening  crew. 
Till  the  cities  and  towers  were  wrapt  in  a  blaze. 
And  the  thunder  it  roar'd  o'er- the  lands  and 

the  seas. 
The  widows  they  wail'd,  and  the  red  blood  ran, 
And  she  threaten'd  an  end  to  the  race  of  man ; 
She  never  lened,  nor  stood  in  awe, 
Till  caught  by  the  Kon's  deadly  paw 
Oh  !  then  the  eagle  swink'd  for  life, 
And  brainzell'd  up  a  mortal  strife  ; 
But  flew  she  noi-th,  or  flew  she  south, 
She  met  wi'  the  growl  of  the  lion's  moutk. 

With  a  mooted  wing  and  waefu'  maen, 

The  eagle  sought  her  eiry  again ; 

But  lang  may  she  cower  in  her  bloody  nes-, 

And  lang,  lang  sleek  her  wounded  breast. 

Before  she  sey  another  flight, 

To  play  wi'  the  norland  lion's  might. 

But  to  sing  the  sights  Kilmeny  saw, 
So  far  surpassing  Nature's  law. 
The  singer's  voice  wad  sink  away. 
And  the  string  of  his  harp  wad  cease  to  play. 
But  she  saw  till  the  sorrows  of  man  were  by. 
And  all  was  love  and  harmony  ; 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven  fell  calmly  away, 
Like  the  flakes  of  snaw  on  a  winter's  day. 

Then  Kilmeny  begg'd  again  to  see 
The  friends  she  had  loft  in  her  own  countryc. 
To  tell  of  the  place  where  she  had  been, 
And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  unseen ; 
To  warn  the  living  maidens  fair. 
The  loved  of  Heaven,  the  spirits'  care, 
That  all  whose  minds  unmeled  remain 
Shall  bloom  in  beauty  when  Time  is  gano. 

With  distant  music,  soft  and  deep, 
They  lull'd  Kilmeny  sound  asleep  ; 
And  when  she  awaken' d,  she  lay  her  lane, 
All  happ'd  with   flowers    in   the    green- wood 

wene. 
When  seven  long  years  had  come  and  fled  ; 
When  grief  was  calm,  and  hope  was  dead ; 


When  scarce  was  remember'd  Kilmeny 's name, 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin,  Kilmeny  came  hame ! 
And  O,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see. 
But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  e'e ! 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 
For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maidens'  een. 
In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 
Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower. 
And  her  cheek  the  mos3-ro?e  in  the  shower ; 
And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye 
That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 
But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen. 
And  keeped  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing, 
To  suck  the  flowers  and  drink  the  spring. 
But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appear' d, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hills  were  cheer' d  ; 
The  wolf  play'd  blithely  round  the  field, 
The  lordly  bison  low'd  and  kneel'd  ; 
The  dun  deer  woo'd  with  manner  bland, 
And  cower'd  aneath  her  lily  hand. 
And  when  at  even  the  Avoodlands  rung, 
When  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  sung 
In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 
Oh,  then  the  glen  was  aU  in  motion ! 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came. 
Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tame, 
And  goved  around,  charm' d  and  amazed  ; 
Even  the  dull  cattle  oroon'd  and  gazed, 
And  raurmur'd  and  look'd  with  anxious  pain, 
For  something  the  mystery  to  explain, 
'  The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock, 
The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock  ; 
The  blackbird  alang  wi'  the  eagle  flew ; 
The  hind  came  tripping  o'er  the  dew ; 
The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began ; 
And  the  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and  the  leveret  ran  ; 
The  hawk  and  the  hem  attour  them  hung, 
And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  forhooy'd  their 

young ; 
And  all  in  a  peaceful  ring  were  hurl'd : 
It  was  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world  ! 

When  a  month  and  day  had  come  and  gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  green-wood  wene ; 
There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  sae  green. 
And  Kilmeny  on  eai-th  was  never  mair  seen. 
But  oh,  the  words  that  fell  from  her  mouth 
Were  words  of  wonder,  and  words  of  truth ! 
But  all  the  land  were  in  fear  and  dread. 
For  they  kenn'd  na  whether  she  was  living  or 

dead. 
It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldna  remain ; 
She  left  this  world  of  sorrow  and  pain. 
And  return' d  to  the  land  of  thought  again. 

James  Hogg. — Born  1772,  Died  1835. 


i6i6.— TO  THE  COMET  OF  1811. 

How  lovely  is  this  wilder' d  scene, 
As  twilight  from  her  vaults  so  blue 

Steals  soft  o'er  Yarrow's  mountains  green, 
To  sleep  embalm' d  in  midnight  dew ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


MY  NANIE  0 


[Allan  Cunningham. 


All  hail,  ye  hills,  whose  towering  height, 
Like  shadows,  scoops  the  yielding  sky  I 

And  thou,  mysterious  guest  of  night, 
Dread  traveller  of  immensity ! 

Stranger  of  heaven  !  I  bid  thee  hail ! 

Shred  from  the  pall  of  glory  riven, 
That  flashest  in  celestial  gale,  • 

Broad  pennon  of  the  King  of  Heaven  ! 

Art  thou  the  flag  of  woe  and  death, 
From  angel's  ensign-staff  unfurl' d  ? 

Art  thou  the  standard  of  his  wrath 
Waved  o'er  a  sordid  sinful  world  ? 

No,  from  that  pure  pellucid  beam, 

That  erst  o'er  plains  of  Bethlehem  shone. 

No  latent  evil  we  can  deem. 

Bright  herald  of  the  eternal  throne ! 

Whate'er  portends  thy  front  of  fire. 
Thy  streaming  locks  so  lovely  pale — 

Or  peace  to  man,  or  judgments  dire, 
Stranger  of  heaven,  I  bid  thee  hail ! 

Where  hast   thou  roam'd   these  thousand 
years  ? 

Why  sought  these  polar  paths  again, 
From  wilderness  of  glowing  spheres, 

To  fling  thy  vesture  o'er  the  wain  ? 

And  when  thou  scalest  the  Milky  Way, 
And  vanishest  from  human  view, 

A  thousand  worlds  shall  hail  thy  ray 
Through  wilds  of  yon  empyreal  blue ! 

Oh  !  on  thy  rapid  prow  to  glide  ! 

To  sail  the  boundless  skies  with  thee, 
And  plough  the  twinkling  stars  aside. 

Like  foam-bells  on  a  tranquil  sea ! 

To  brush  the  embers  from  the  sun, 

The  icicles  from  off  the  pole  ; 
Then  far  to  other  systems  run. 

Where  other  moons  and  planets  roll ! 

Stranger  of  heaven  !  O  let  thine  eye 
Smile  on  a  rapt  enthusiast's  dream; 

Eccentric  as  thy  course  on  high. 
And  airy  as  thine  ambient  beam ! 

And  long,  long  may  thy  silver  ray 
Our  northern  arch  at  eve  adorn ; 

Then,  wheeling  to  the  east  away. 
Light  the  gray  portals  of  the  morn ! 

James  Hogg.— Born  1772,  Died  1835. 


1617.— HAME,  HAME,  HAME. 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 
When  the  flower  is  i'  the  bud,  and  the  leaf  is 

on  the  tree. 
The    larks    shall   sing   me  hame   in  my  ain 

countrie ; 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 


The  green  leaf  o'  loyalty's  begun  for  to  fa', 
The  bonnie  white  rose  it  is  withering  an'  a' ; 
But  I'll  water't  wi'  the   blude  of    usurping 

tyrannie. 
An'  green  it  will  grow  in  my  ain  countrie. 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countjie ! 

O  there's  naught  frae  ruin  my  country  can 

save. 
But  the  keys   o'  kind  heaven  to   open    the 

grave. 
That    a'   the    noble    martyrs   wha    died  for 

loyaltie, 
May  rise  again  and  fight  for  their  ain  countrie. 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
0  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

The  great  are  now  gane,  a'  wha  ventured  to 

save. 
The  new  grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  o'  their 

grave ; 
But  the  sun  through  the  mirk  blinks  blithe  in 

my  e'e, 
"  I'll  shine  on  ye  yet  in  yere  ain  countrie.'* 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame  fain  wad  I  be, 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie  I 

Allan  Cunningham. — Born  1784,  Died  1842. 


1618.— MY  NANIE  0. 

Red  rows  the  Nith  'tween  bank  and  brae, 

Mirk  is  the  night  and  rainie  O, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  should  mix  in  storm, 

I'll  gang  and  see  my  Nanie  O ; 
My  Nanie  O,  my  Nanie  0 ; 

My  kind  and  winsome  Nanie  O, 
She  holds  my  heart  in  love's  dear  bands, 

And  nane  can  do't  but  Nanie  0. 

In  preaching  time  sae  meek  she  stands, 

Sae  saintly  and  sae  bonnie  O, 
I  cannot  get  ae  glimpse  of  grace. 

For  thieving  looks  at  Nanie  O ; 
My  Nanie  O,  my  Nanie  O ; 

The  world's  in  love  with  Nanie  0 ; 
That  heart  is  hardly  worth  the  wear 

That  wadna  love  my  Nanie  O. 

My  breast  can  scarce  contain  my  heart. 

When  dancing  she  moves  finely  O ; 
I  guess  what  hea\  en  is  by  her  eyes, 

They  sparkle  sae  divinely  0 ; 
My  Nanie  O,  my  Nanie  O ; 

The  flower  o'  Nithsdale  's  Nanie  0  ; 
Love  looks  frae  'neath  her  long  brown  hair, 

And  says,  I  dwell  with  Nanie  O. 

Tell  not,  thou  star  at  gray  daylight. 

O'er  Tinwald-top  so  bonnie  O, 
My  footsteps  'mang  the  morning  dew 

When  coming  frae  my  Nanie  O ; 
My  Nanie  0,  my  Nanie  O ; 

Nane  ken  o'  me  and  Nanie  O  ; 


A.  Cunningham. J 


THE  YOUNG  MAXWELL. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


The  stars  and  moon  may  tell't  aboon, 
They  winna  wrang  my  Nanie  O ! 

Allaji  Cunningham. — Born  1784,  Died  1842. 


1619.— THE  YOUNG  MAXWELL. 

*'  Where  gang  ye,  thou  silly  auld  carle  ? 

And  what  do  ye  carry  there  ? ' ' 
•'  I'm  gaun  to  the  hill-side,  thou  sodger  gentle- 
man, 

To  shift  my  sheep  their  lair." 

Ae  stride  or  twa  took  the  silly  auld  carle, 

An'  a  gude  lang  stride  took  ho  : 
"I  trow  thou  to  be  a  feck  auld  carle, 

Will  ye  shaw  the  way  to  me  ?  " 

And  he  has  gane  Avi'  the  silly  auld  carle, 

Adown  by  the  greenwood  side ; 
"  Light  down  and  gang,  thou  sodger  gentleman, 

For  here  ye  canna  ride." 

He  drew  the  reins  o'  his  bonnie  gray  steed, 

An'  lightly  down  he  sprang : 
Of  the  comeliest  scarlet  was  his  weir  coat, 

Whare  the  gowden  tassels  hang. 

He  has  thrown  aff  his  plaid,  the  silly  auld 
carle, 

An'  his  bonnet  frae  'boon  his  bree ; 
An'  wha  was  it  but  the  young  Maxwell ! 

An'  his  gude  brown  sword  drew  he  ! 

*'  Thou  kill'd  my  father,  thou  vile  Southron 
An'  ye  kill'd  my  brethren  three  ! 

Whilk  brake  the  heart  o'  my  ae  sister, 
I  loved  as  the  light  o'  my  e'e ! 

Draw  out  yere  sword,  thou  vile  Southron  I 

Eed  wat  wi'  blude  o'  my  kin ! 
That  sword  it  crapp'd  the  bonniest  flower 

E'er  lifted  its  head  to  the  sun ! 

There's  ae  sad  stroke  for  my  dear  old  father ! 

There's  twa  for  my  brethren  three  ! 
An'  there's  ane  to  thy  heart  for  my  ae  sister, 

Wham  I  loved  as  the  light  o'  my  ee." 

Allan  Cunningham. — Born  1784,  Died  1842. 


1620.— FEAGMENT. 

Gane  were  but  the  winter-cauld, 
And  gane  were  but  the  snaw, 

I  could  sleep  in  the  wild  woods, 
Where  primroses  blaw. 

Cauld's  the  snaw  at  my  head. 

And  cauld  at  my  feet, 
And  the  finger  o'  death's  at  my  een. 

Closing  them  to  sleep. 


Let  nane  tell  my  father. 

Or  my  mither  sae  dear, 
I'll  meet  them  baith  in  heaven 

At  the  spring  o'  the  year. 

Allan  Cunningham. — Born  1784  Died  1842. 


I         1621.— SHE'S  GANE  TO  DWELL  IN 
,  HEAVEN. 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie, 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven  : 
Ye're  owre  pure,  quo'  the  voice  o'  God, 

For  dwalling  out  o'  heaven ! 

0  what'U  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie  ? 

0  what'll  she  do  in  heaven  ? 

She'll  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi'  angels'  sangs. 
An'  make  them  mair  meet  for  heaven. 

She  was  beloved  by  a',  my  lassie. 

She  was  beloved  by  a' ; 
But  an  angel  fell  in  love  wi'  her. 

An'  took  her  frae  us  a'. 

I   Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie, 
I       Low  there  thou  lies ; 

A  bonnier  form  ne'er  went  to  the  yird, 
}       Nor  frae  it  will  arise ! 

I   Fu'  soon  I'll  follow  thee,  my  lassie, 
'       Fu'  soon  I'U  follow  thee  ; 
Thou  left  me  nought  to  covet  ahin'. 
But  took  gudeness  sel'  wi'  thee. 

1  look'd  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my  lassie, 

1  look'd  on  thy  death-cold  face ; 
Thou  seem'd  a  lily  new  cut  i'  the  bud, 

An'  fading  in  its  place. 

I  look'd  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my  lassie, 

I  look'd  on  thy  death- shut  eye ; 
An'  a  lovelier  light  in  the  brow  of  heaven 

Fell  time  shall  ne'er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my  lassie, 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm  ; 
But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  o'  heaven 

To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There's  naught  but  dust  now  mine,  lassie. 
There's  naught  but  dust  now  mine  ; 

My  saul  's  wi'  thee  i'  the  cauld  grave. 
An'  why  should  I  stay  behin'  ! 

Allan  Cunningham.— Born  1784,  DictZ  1842. 


1622.— THE  POET'S  BEIDAL-DAY  SONG. 

Oh !  my  love  's  like  the  steadfast  sun. 
Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run ; 
Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 
Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears — 
Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  days  of  pain. 
Nor  dreams  of  glory  dream'd  in  vain — 


Ftom  1780  to  1866.]     THE  TOWN  CHILD  AND  COUNTEY  CHILD.       [A.  Cunningham. 


Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  which  flows 

To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes, 

Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee 

One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I  muse,  I  see  thee  sit 

In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit — 

Fair,  gentle  as  when  first  I  sued, 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood ; 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 

As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree. 

We  stay'd  and  woo'd,  and  thought  the  moon 

Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon ; 

Or  linger' d  'mid  the  falling  dew, 

When  looks  were  fond  and  words  were  few. 

Though  I  see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet ; 
And  time,  and  care,  and  birth-time  woes 
Have  dimm'd  thine  eye,  and  touch'd  thy  rose ; 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
All  that  charms  me  of  tale  or  song ; 
When  words  come  down  like  dews  unsought, 
With  gleams  of  deep  enthusiast  thought, 
And  fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free — 
They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  the 

Oh,  when  more  thought  we  gave  of  old 

To  silver  than  some  give  to  gold ; 

'Twas  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o'er 

What  things  should  deck  our  humble  bower ! 

'Twas  sweet  to  pull  in  hope  with  thee 

The  golden  fruit  from  Fortune's  tree  ; 

And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 

A  garland  for  these  locks  of  thine — 

A  song- wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 

While  rivers  flow  and  woods  are  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought — 
When  Fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light ; 
And  Hope,  that  decks  the  peasant's  bower, 
Shines  like  the  rainbow  through  the  shower, 
Oh,  then  I  see,  while  seated  nigh, 
A  mother's  heart  shine  in  thine  eye ; 
And  proud  resolve  and  purpose  meek 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak : 
I  think  the  wedded  wife  of  mine 
The  best  of  all  that's  not  divine. 

Allan  Cuyminghqm. — lioni  1784,  Died  1842. 


[623.— A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING 
SEA. 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast. 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys. 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 
I  heard  a  fair  one  cry ; 


But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 
And  white  waves  heaving  high ; 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my 
The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 

The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 
And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  homed  moon,  ~^ 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners, 

The  wind  is  piping  loud ; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunnmgham. — Born  1784,  Died  1842. 


[624.- 


■THE  TOWN  CHILD  AND 
COUNTRY  CHILD. 


Child  of  the  Country !  free  as  air 

Art  thou,  and  as  the  sunshine  fair ; 

Bom  like  the  lily,  where  the  dew 

Lies  odorous  when  the  day  is  new ; 

Fed  'mid  the  May-flowers  like  the  bee, 

Nursed  to  sweet  music  on  the  knee, 

LuU'd  in  the  breast  to  that  sweet  tune 

Which  winds  make  'mong  the  woods  of  June : 

I  sing  of  thee  : — 'tis  sweet  to  sing 

Of  such  a  fair  and  gladsome  thing. 

Child  of  the  Town  !  for  thee  I  sigh ; 

A  gilded  roof 's  thy  golden  sky, 

A  carpet  is  thy  daisied  sod, 

A  narrow  street  thy  boundless  wood, 

Thy  rushing  deer's  the  clattering  tramp 

Of  watchmen,  thy  best  light 's  a  lamp, — 

Through  smoke,   and   not   through    treUised 

vines 
And  blooming  trees,  thy  sunbeam  shines : 
I  sing  of  thee  in  sadness  ;  where 
Else  is  wreck  wrought  in  aught  so  fair  ? 

Child  of  the  Country  !  thy  small  feet 
Tread  on  strawberries  red  and  sweet : 
With  thee  I  wander  forth  to  see 
The  flowers  which  most  delight  the  bee ; 
The  bush  o'er  which  the  throstle  sung 
In  April  while  she  nursed  her  young ; 
The  dew  beneath  the  sloe-thorn,  where 
She  bred  her  twins  the  timorous  hare  ; 
The  knoll,  wrought  o'er  with  wild  blue-bells, 
Where  brown  bees  build  their  balmy  cells, 
The  greenwood  stream,  the  shady  pool, 
Where  trouts  leap  when  the  day  is  cool ; 
The  shilfa's  nest  that  seems  to  be 
A  portion  of  the  sheltering  tree. 
And  other  marvels  which  my  verse 
Can  flnd  no  language  to  rehearse. 

Child  of  the  Town !  for  thee,  alas  ! 
Glad  Nature  spreads  nor  flowers  nor  grass ; 
Birds  build  no  nests,  nor  in  the  sun 
Glad  streams  come  singing  as  they  run : 


A.  Cunningham.] 


THOU  HAST  VOW'D. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


A  Maypole  is  thy  blossom'd  tree ; 
A  beetle  is  thy  murmuring  bee ; 
Thy  bird  is  caged,  thy  dove  is  where 
The  poulterer  dwells,  beside  the  hare  -. 
Thy  fruit  is  pluck'd,  and  by  the  pound 
Hawk'd,  clamorous,  o'er  the  city  round : 
No  roses,  twin-born  on  the  stalk, 
Perfume  thee  in  thy  evening  walk ; 
No  voice  of  birds, — but  to  thee  comes 
The  mingled  din  of  cars  and  drums, 
And  startling  cries,  such  as  are  rife 
When  wine  and  wassail  waken  strife. 

Child  of  the  Country !  on  the  lawn 
I  see  thee  like  the  bounding  fawn, 
Bhthe  as  the  bird  which  tries  its  wing 
The  first  time  on  the  wings  of  Spring ; 
Bright  as  the  sun  when  from  the  cloud 
He  comes  as  cocks  are  crowing  loud ; 
Now  running,  shouting,  'mid  sunbeams, 
Now  groping  trouts  in  lucid  streams, 
Now  spinning  like  a  mill-wheel  round, 
Now  hunting  Echo's  empty  sound, 
Now  climbing  up  some  old  tall  tree — 
For  climbing' s  sake — 'Tis  sweet  to  thee 
To  sit  where  birds  can  sit  alone, 
Or  share  with  thee  thy  venturous  throne. 

Child  of  the  Town  and  bustling  street. 
What  woes  and  snares  await  thy  feet ! 
Thy  paths  are  paved  for  five  long  miles, 
Thy  groves  and  hills  are  peaks  and  tiles  ; 
Thy  fragrant  air  is  yon  thick  smoke, 
Wliich  shrouds  thee  like  a  mourning  cloak  ; 
And  thou  art  cabin' d  and  confined, 
At  once  from  sun,  and  dew,  and  wind, 
Or  set  thy  tottering  feet  but  on 
Thy  lengthen' d  walks  of  slippery  stone. 
The  coachman  there  careering  reels. 
With  goaded  steeds  and  maddening  wheels ; 
And  Commerce  pours  each  prosing  son 
In  pelf's  pursuit,  and  halloos  "  Run !  " 
While  flush' d  with  wine,  and  stung  at  play, 
Men  rush  from  darkness  into  day. 
The  stream 's  too  strong  for  thy  small  bark ; 
There  nought  can  sail,  save  what  is  stark. 
Fly  from  the  town,  sweet  child !  for  health 
Is  happiness,  and  strength,  and  wealth. 
There  is  a  les.son  in  each  flower ; 
A  story  in  each  stream  and  bower ; 
On  every  herb  o'er  which  you  tread 
Are  written  words  which,  rightly  read, 
WiU  lead  you,  from  earth's  fragrant  sod, 
To  hope  and  holiness,  and  God. 

Allan  Cunningham. — Born  1784,  Died  1842. 


I   And  I  have  sworn  by  my  faith,  my  Jeanie, 
[  And  by  that  kind  heart  o'  thine, 

/  By  all  the  stars  sown  thick  o'er  heaven, 
I  That  thou  shalt  aye  be  mine  ! 

Then  foul  fa'  the  hands  wad  loose  sic  bands, 

And  the  heart  wad  part  sic  love  ; 
But  there's  nae  hand  can  loose  the  band, 

But  the  finger  of  Him  above. 
Tho'  the  wee,  wee  cot  maun  be  my  bield. 

An'  my  clothing  e'er  so  mean, 
I  should  lap  up  rich  in  the  faulds  of  love, 

Heaven's  armfu'  o'  my  Jean. 

Her  white  arm  wad  be  a  pillow  to  me, 

Far  softer  than  the  down ; 
And  Love  wad  winnow  o'er  us,  his  kind,  kind 
wings. 

And  sweetly  we'd  sleep,  an'  soun'. 
Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  whom  I  love. 

Come  here  and  kneel  wi'  me ; 
The  mom  is  full  of  the  presence  of  God, 

And  I  canna  pray  but  thee. 

The  morn- wind  is  sweet  amang  the  new  flowers : 

The  wee  birds  sing  saft  on  the  tree, 
Our  gudeman  sits  in  the  bonnie  sunshine 

And  a  blithe  auld  bodie  is  he. 
The  Beuk  maun  beta' en  whan  he  comes  hame, 

Wi'  the  holy  psalmodie  ; 
And  I  will  speak  of  thee  whan  I  pray. 

And  thou  maun  speak  of  me. 

Allan  Cunningham. — Born  1784,  Died  1842. 


1625.— THOU  HAST  VOW'D  BY  THY 
FAITH,  MY  JEANIE. 

Thou  hast  vow'd  by  thy  faith,  my  Jeanie, 
By  that  pretty  white  hand  o'  thine. 

And  by  all  the  lowing  stars  in  heaven, 
That  thou  wad  aye  be  mine  ! 


1626.— GENTLE  HUGH  HERRIES. 

Go  seek  in  the  wild  glen 

Where  streamlets  are  falling ! 
Go  seek  on  the  lone  hill 

Where  curlews  are  calling  ! 
Go  seek  when  the  clear  stars 

Shine  down  without  number. 
For  there  shall  ye  find  him. 

My  true  love,  in  slumber. 

They  sought  in  the  wild  glen — 

The  glen  was  forsaken  ; 
They  sought  on  the  mountain, 

'Mang  lang  lady-bracken ; 
And  sore,  sore  they  hunted. 

My  true  love  to  find  him. 
With  the  strong  bands  of  iron 

To  fetter  and  bind  him. 

Yon  green  hill  I'U  give  thee, 

Where  the  falcon  is  flying. 
To  show  me  the  den  where 

This  bold  traitor  's  lying  ; 
O  make  me  of  Nithsdale's 

Fair  princedom  the  heiress- 
Is  that  worth  one  smile  of 

My  gentle  Hugh  Herries  ? 

The  white  bread,  the  sweet  milk, 
And  ripe  fruits  I  found  him, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


FEOM  ANSTEE  FAIE. 


[WlLLIAai  Tennant. 


And  safe  in  my  fond  arms 
I  clasp' d  and  I  wound  him  ; 

I  •warn  you  g-o  not  where 
My  true  lover  tarries, 

For  sharp  smites  the  sword  of 
My  gentle  Hugh  Horries. 


They  rein'd  their  proud  war-steeds — 

Away  they  Avent  sweeping  ; 
And  behind  them  dames  wail'd,  and 

Fair  maidens  went  weeping ; 
But  deep  in  yon  wild  glen, 

'Mang  banks  of  blae-berries, 
I  dwell  with  my  loved  one, 

My  gentle  Hugh  Herries. 

Allan  Cunningham. — Born  1784,  Died  1842. 


1627.— THE  SUN  EISES  BEIGHT  IN 
FEANCE. 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 

And  fair  sets  he  ; 
But  he  has  tint  the  blithe  blink  ho  had 

In  my  ain  countrie. 
O  gladness  comes  to  many, 

But  sorrow  comes  to  me, 
As  I  look  o'er  the  wide  ocean 

To  my  ain  countrie. 

O  it's  nae  my  ain  ruin 

That  saddens  aye  my  e'e. 
But  the  love  I  left  in  Galloway, 

Wi'  bonnie  bairnies  three. 
My  hajnely  hearth  burnt  bonnie, 

An'  smiled  my  fair  Marie  : 
I've  left  my  heart  behind  mo 

In  my  ain  countrie. 

The  bud  comes  back  to  summer. 

And  the  blossom  to  the  bee ; 
But  I'll  win  back — 0  never, 

To  my  ain  countrie. 
I'm  leal  to  the  high  Heaven, 

Wliich  will  be  leal  to  me, 
An'  there  I'll  meet  ye  a'  sune 

Frae  my  ain  countrie. 

Allan  Cunningham. — Born  1784,  Died  1842. 


The  saffron-elbow'd  Morning  up  the  slope 
Of  heaven  canaries  in  her  jewell'd  shoes, 

And  throws  o'er  Kelly-law's  sheep-nibbled  top 
Her  golden  apron  dripping  kindly  dews ; 

And  never,  since  she  first  began  to  hop 

Up  heaven's  blue  causev/ay,  of  her  beams 
profuse,  .  __ 

Shone  there  a  dawn  so  glorious  and  su  gay, 

As  shines  the  merry  dawn  of  Anster  market- 
day. 


1628.— FEOM  ANSTEE  FAIE. 

I  wish  I  had  a  cottage  snug  and  neat 

Upon  the  top  of  many-fountain' d  Ide, 
That  I  might  thence,  in  holy  fervour,  greet 
The  bright-gown' d  Morning  tripping  up  her 
side : 
And  when  the  low  Sun's  glory -buskin' d  feet 

Walk  on  the  blue  wave  of  the  iEgean  tide. 
Oh !    I  would  kneel   me    down,   and  worship 

there 
The  God  who  garnish' d  out  a  world  so  bright 
and  fair ! 


Eound  through  the  vast  circumference  of  sky 
One  speck  of  small  cloud  cannot  eye  behold, 

Save  in  the  east  some  fleeces  bright  of  dye, 
That  strike  the  hem  of  heaven  with  woolly 
gold, 

"Whereon  are  happy  angels  wont  to  lie 
Lolling,  in  amaranthine  flowers  enroU'd, 

That  they  may  spy  the  precious  light  of  God, 

Flung  from   the  blessed   East  o'er  the   fair 
Earth  abroad. 

The  fair  Earth  laughs  through  all  her  bound- 
less range. 
Heaving  her  green  hills  high  to  greet  the 
beam ; 
City  and  village,  steeple,  cot,  and  grange, 

Gilt  as  with  Nature's  purest  leaf -gold  seem  ; 
The  heaths   and  upland   muirs,  and  fallows, 
change 
Their  barren  brovv-n  into  a  ruddy  gleam, 
And,  on  ten  thousand  dew-bent  leaves   and 

sprays. 
Twinkle  ten  thousand  suns,  and  fling  their 
petty  rays. 

Up  from  their  nests  and  fields  of  tender  com 

Full  merrily  the  little  skylarks  spring. 
And  on  their  dew-bedabbled  pinions  borne, 
Mount    to    the    heaven's    blue    key-stone 
flickering ; 
They   turn   their   plume-soft   bosoms   to  the 
mom, 
And  hail  the  genial  light,  and  cheer'ly  sing ; 
Echo  the  gladsome  hills  and  valleys  round, 
As  half  the  bells  of  Fife  ring  loud  and  swell 
the  sound. 

For  when  the  first  upsloping  ray  was  flung 
On  Anster- steeple's  swallow-harbouring  top, 

Its  bell  and  all  the  bells  around  were  rung 
Sonorous,  jangling,  loud,  without  a  stop  ; 

For,  toilingly,  each  bitter  beadle  swung. 

Even  till  he  smoked  with  sweat,  his  greasy 
rope, 

And  almost  broke  his  bell-wheel,  ushering  in 

The  mom  of  Anster  Fair  with  tinkle- tankling 
din. 

And,  from  our  steeple's  pinnacle  outspread. 
The  town's  long  colours  flare  and  flap  on 
high, 
Whose  anchor,  blazon' d  fair  in  green  and  rod. 
Curls,  pliant  to  each  breeze  that  whistles 
by; 
Whilst  on  the  boltsprit,  stern,  and  topmast 
head 
Of  brig  and  sloop  that  in  the  harbour  lie, 


William  Tennant.]  THE  HEROINE  OF  ANSTER  FAIR.  [Seventh  Period. — 


Streams  the  red  gaudery  of  flags  in  air, 
All  to  salute  and  grace  the  morn  of  Anster 
Fair. 

William  Tennant— Born  1785,  Died  1848. 


1629.— THE  HEROINE  OF  ANSTER  FAIR. 

Her  form  was  as  the   Morning's   blithesome 
star, 
That,    capp'd    with    lustrous    coronet    of   j 
beams. 
Rides  up  the  dawning  orient  in  her  car. 

New- wash' d,  and  doubly  fulgent  from  the 
streams — 
The  Chaldee  shepherd  eyes  her  light  afar, 

And  on  his  knees  adores  her  as  she  gleams ; 
So  shone  the  stately  form  of  Maggie  Lauder, 
And  so  the  admiring  crowds  pay  homage  and 
applaud  her. 

Each  little  step  her  trampling  i)alfrey  took, 
Shaked  her  majestic  person  into  grace. 

And  as  at  times  his  glossy  sides  she  strook 
Endearingly  with  whip's  green  silken  lace 

(The  prancer  seem'd  to  court  such  kind  rebuke, 
Loitering  with  wilful  tardiness  of  pace), 

By  Jove,  the  very  waving  of  her  arm 

Had  power  a  brutish  lout  to  unbrutify  and 
charm !  j 

Her  face  was  as  the  summer  cloud,  whereon       \ 

The  dawning  sun  delights  to  rest  his  rays ! 
Compared  with   it,  old   Sharon's   vale,    o'er- 
grown 
"With    flaunting    roses,    had    resign' d    its 
praise ; 
For  why  ?     Her  face  with  heaven's  own  roses 
shone, 
Mocking  the  morn,  and  witching  men  to 
•  gaze ; 
And  he  that  gazed  with  cold  unsmitten  soul, 
That  blockhead's  heart  was  ice  thrice  baked   ! 
beneath  the  Pole.  i 

j 

Her  locks,  apparent  tufts  of  wiry  gold,  j 

Lay  on  her  lily  temples,  fairly  Jangling,  \ 

And  on  each  hair,  so  harmless  to  l)ehol<l,  ! 

A  lover's  soul  hung  mercilessly  strangling; 
The  piping  silly  zephyrs  vied  to  unfold 

The    tresses    in    their    arms   so    slim  and 
tangling. 
And  thrid  in  sport  these  lovor-noosing  snares, 
And  play'd  at  hide-and-seek  amid  the  golden 
hairs. 

Her  eye  was  as  an  honour' d  palace,  where 
A  choir  of  lightsome  Graces  frisk  and  dance  ; 

"What  object  drew  her  gaze,  how  mean  soe'cr. 
Got  dignity  and  honour  from  the  glance ; 

Woo  to  the  man  on  wliom  she  unaware 
Did  the  dear  witchery  of  her  eye  elance ! 

'Twas  such  a  thrilling,  killing,  keen  regard — 

May  Heaven  from  such  a  look  preserve  each 
tender  bard ! 


So  on  she  rode  in  virgin  majesty, 

Charming  the  thin  dead  air  to  kiss  her  lips, 
And  with  the  light  and  grandeur  of  her  eye 
Shaming  the  proud  sun  into  dim  eclipse ; 
While  round  her  presence  clustering  far  and 
nigh, 
On  horseback  some,  with  silver  spurs  and 
whips. 
And  some  afoot  with  shoes  of  dazzling  buckles. 
Attended  knights,  and  lairds,  and  clowns  with 
horny  knuckles. 

William  Tennant. — Born  1785,  Died  1848. 


I G30.  — DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COMERS 
TO  THE  FAIR. 

Comes  next  from  Ross-shire  and  from  Suther- 
land 
The  homy-knuckled  kilted  Highlandman  : 
From  where  upon  the  rocky  Caithness  strand 
Breaks   the   long  wave   that   at   the   Polo 
began. 
And  where  Lochfine  from  her  prolific  sand 
Her  herrings  gives  to  feed  each  bordering 
clan, 
Arrive  the  brogue-shod  men  of  generous  eye, 
Plaided  and  breechless  all,  with  Esau's  hairy 
thigh. 

They  come  not  now  to  fire  the  Lowland  stacks. 
Or  foray  on  the  banks  of  Fortha's  firth  ; 

Claymore  and  broadsword,  and  Lochaber  axe. 
Are  left  to  rust  above  the  smoky  hearth  ; 

Their  only  arms  are  bagpipes  now  and  sacks  ; 
Their  teeth    are  set  most   desperately  for 
mirth; 

And  at  their  broad  and  sturdy  backs  are  hung 

Great    wallets,    cramm'd    with     cheese    and 
bannocks  and  cold  tongue. 

Nor  staid  away  the  Islanders,  that  lie 

To  buffet  of  the  Atlantic  surge  exposed ; 
From  Jura,  Arran,  Barra,  XJist,  and  Skye, 
Piping  they   come,   unshaved,   unbreech'd, 
unhosed ; 
And  from  that  Isle,  whose  abbey,  structured 
high. 
Within  its  precincts  holds  dead  kings  en- 
closed. 
Where  St.  Columba  oft  is  seen  to  waddle 
Gown'd  round  with  flaming  fire  upon  the  spire 
astraddle. 

Next  from  the  far-famed  ancient  town  of  Ayr 
(Sweet  Ayr !  with  crops  of  ruddy  damsels 
blest, 
That,  shooting  up,  and  waxing  fat  and  fair, 

Shine  on  thy  braes,  the  lilies  of  the  west !) ; 
And  from   Dumfries,    and   from   Kilmarnock 
(where 
Are  nightcaps  made,  the  cheapest  and  the 
best). 
Blithely  they  ride  on  ass  and  mule,  with  sacks 
In  lieu  of   saddles    placed  upon  their  asses* 
backs. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


JEANIE  MOREISON. 


[Motherwell 


Close  at  their  heels,  bestriding  well-trapp'd 
nag, 
Or  humbly  riding  asses'  backbone  bare, 
Come  Glasgow's  merchants,  each  with  money- 
bag, 
To  purchase  Dutch  lintseed  at  Anster  Fair —    I 
Sagacious  fellows  all,  who  well  may  brag  ' 

Of  virtuous  industry  and  talents  rare  ; 

The  accomplish' d  men  o'  the  counting-room    ' 

confest,  j 

And  fit  to  crack  a  joke  or  argue  with   the   | 

best.  i 

Nor  keep  their  homes  the  Borderers,  that 

stay 
Where   purls   the   Jed,   and   Esk,    and   little 

Liddel, 
Men  that  can  rarely  on  the  bagpipe  play, 

And  wake  the  unsobcr  spirit  of  the  fiddle ; 
Avow'd  freebooters,  that  have  many  a  day  i 

Stolen  sheep  and  cow,  yet  never  own'd  they    i 

did  ill ; 
Great  rogues,  for  sure  that  wight  is  but  a    ' 

rogue  I 

That  blots  the  eighth  command  from  Moses'    , 

decalogue.  | 

And  some  of  them  in  sloop  of  tarry  side. 

Come  from  North-Berwick  harljour  sailing  : 

out ;  ! 

Others,  abhorrent  of  the  sickening  tide,  \ 

Have  ta'en  the  road  by  Stirling  brig  about,  j 

And  eastward  now  from  long  Kirkaldy  ride,  ! 

Slugging  on  their  slow-gaited  asses  stout,  j 

While  dangling  at  their  backs  are  bagpipes  i 

hung. 

And  dangling  hangs  a  tale  on  every  rhymer's  ; 
tongue. 

William  Tcnnant.—Born  1785,  Died  1848. 


1 63 1. —JEANIE  MOEEISON. 

I've  wander'd  east,  I've  wander'd  west. 

Through  many  a  weary  way ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  of  life's  young  day  ! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en, 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jcanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  owre  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  ! 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  tvrn  did  part ; 
Sweet    time  ! — sad    time  I — twa   bairns    at 
schule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 


'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  lear  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remember' d  ever  mair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  lock'd  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  doun  owre  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee. 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  schule-weans,  laughin',  said, 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays 

(The  schule  then  skail't  at  noon), 
When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about. 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea. 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

0'  schule-time  and  o'  thee. 
Oh,  mornin'  life  !  oh,  mornin'  luve  ! 

Oh,  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 
^Vhen  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts, 

Like  simmer  blossoms,  sprang ! 

Oh  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun. 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  water  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  owre  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wud 

The  throssil  Avhusslit  sweet. 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wud. 

The  burn  sung  to  the  trees. 
And  we  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  vera  gladness  grat ! 

Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek. 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 
That  was  a  time^  a  blessed  time. 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gush'd  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung } 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
Oh !  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ; 
Oh  !  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne  ? 


MOTHEKWELL.] 


SWORD  CHANT  OF  THORSTEIN  EAUDI.       [Seventh  Period.— 


I've  wander'd  east,  I've  wander'd  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  tbis  heart. 

Still  travels  on  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins. 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sinder'd  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
,Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dream'd 

O'  bygane  days  and  me ! 

Motlienvcll—Born  1797,  Died  1835. 


1632.— SWOEB  CHANT  OF  THORSTEIN 
EAUDI. 

'Tis  not  the  gray  hawk's  flight  o'er  mountain 

and  mere ; 
'Tis  not  the  fleet  hound's  course,  tracking  the 

deer ; 
'Tis  not  the  light  hoof -print  of  black  steed  or 

gray. 
Though  sweltering  it  gallop  a  long  summer's 

day, 
Which  mete  forth  the  lordships  I  challenge  as 

mine: 

Ha  !  ha  I  'tis  the  good  brand 
I  clutch  in  my  strong  hand. 
That  can  their  broad  marches  and  numbers 

define. 

Land  Givek  I  I  kiss  thee. 

Dull  builders  of  houses,  base  tillers  of  earth, 
Gaping,  ask  me  what  lordships  I  own'd  at  my 

birth; 
But  the  pale  fools  wax  mute  when  I  point 

with  my  sword 
East,  west,  north,  and  south,  shouting,  "  There 

am  I  lord!  " 
Wold  and  waste,  town  and  tower,  hill,  valley, 
and  stream. 

Trembling  bow  to  my  sway, 
In  the  fierce  battle  fray, 
When  the  star  that  rules  fate  is  this  falchion's 
red  gleam. 

Might  Giver  !  I  kiss  thee. 

I've  heard  great  harps  sounding  in  brave  bower 

and  hall ; 
I've  drunk  the  sweet  music  that  bright  lips 

let  f  aU ; 
I've  hunted  in  greenwood,  and  heard  small 

birds  sing ; 
But  away  with  this  idle  and  cold  jargoning ! 
The  music  I  love  is  the  shout  of  the  brave, 

The  yell  of  the  dying,  | 

The  scream  of  the  flying,  I 


When   this   arm  wields   death's   sickle,    and 
gamers  the  grave. 

Joy  Giver  !  I  kiss  thee. 

Far    isles   of   the  ocean  thy  lightning  hath 

known, 
And  wide  o'er  the  mainland  thy  horrors  have 

shone. 
Great  sword  of  my  father,  stem  joy  of  his 

hand! 
Thou    hast    carved  his    name   deep    on    the 

stranger's  red  strand, 
And  won  him  the  glory  of  undying  son. 
Keen  cleaver  of  gay  crests. 
Sharp  piercer  of  broad  breasts. 
Grim  slayer  of  heroes,  and  scourge   of  the 
strong ! 
Fame  Giver  !  I  kiss  thee. 

In  a  love  more  abiding  than  that  the  heart 
knows 

For  maiden  more  lovely  than  summer's  first 
rose. 

My  heart's  knit  to  thine,  and  lives  but  for 
thee ; 

In  dreamings  of  gladness  thou'rt  dancing  with 
me, 

Brave  measures  of  madness,  in  some  battle- 
field, 

Wliere  armour  is  ringing. 
And  noble  blood  springing. 

And  cloven,  yawn  helmet,  stout  hauberk,  and 
shield. 

Death  Giver  !  I  kiss  thee. 

The  smile  of  a  maiden's  eye  soon  may  depart ; 
And  light  is  the  faith  of  fair  woman's  heart ; 
Chsmgeful  as  hght  clouds,  and  wayward  as 

wind. 
Be  the  passions  that  govern  weak  woman's 

mind. 
But  thy  metal 's  as  true  as  its  polish  is  bright : 
When  ills  wax  in  number. 
Thy  love  will  not  slumber ; 
But,  starlike,  bums   fiercer   the   darker  the 
night. 

Heart  Gladdener  !  I  kiss  thee. 

My  kindred  have  perish' d  by  war  or  by  wave  ; 
Now,  childless   and    sireless,  I  long   for  the 

grave. 
^Vhen  the  path  of  our  glory  is  shadow' d  in 

death. 
With  me  thou  wilt  slumber  below  the  brown 

heath  j 
Thou   wilt  rest   on  my  bosom,  and  with  it 
decay ; 

While  harps  shall  be  ringing. 
And  Scalds  shall  be  singing 
The  deeds  we  have  done  in  our  old  fearless 
day. 
Song  Giver  !  I  kiss  thee. 

Motherwell.— Born  1797,  Died  1835. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  WATER !  THE  WATEE ! 


[MOTHEEWELL. 


1633.— THEY  COME  !  THE  MERRY 
SUMMER  MONTHS. 

They   come !    the   merry   summer   months  of 

beauty,  song,  and  flowers ; 
They  come  !  the  gladsome  months  that  bring 

thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 
Up,  up,  my  heart !   and  walk  abroad ;   fling 

cark  and  care  aside ; 
Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful 

waters  glide ; 
Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarobal 

tree. 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in 

rapt  tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful 
to  the  hand ; 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze 
is  sweet  and  bland ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding 
courteously ; 

It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love,  to  Wess 
and  welcome  thee : 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks^ — 
they  now  are  silvery  gray — 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whis- 
pering, "  Be  gay  !  " 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of 

yon  sky. 
But  hath  its  own  wing'd  mariners  to  give  it 

melody : 
Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outspread,  all 

gleaming  like  red  gold  ; 
And   hark !    with    shrill   pipe   musical,  their 

merry  course  they  hold. 
God  bless  them  all,  those  little  ones,  who,  far 

above  this  earth. 
Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent 

a  nobler  ijjirth. 

But  soft !  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound — from 

yonder  wood  it  came  ! 
The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  blade  did  breathe 

his  own  glad  name  ; 
Yes,  it  is  he  !  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart  from 

all  his  kind, 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft 

western  wind ; 
Cuckoo  !  Cuckoo  !  he  sings  again, — ^his  notes 

are  void  of  art ; 
But   simplest  strains   do   soonest   sound   the 

deep  founts  of  the  heart. 

Good  Lord  !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought- 
crazed  wight  like  me. 

To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath 
this  summer  tree  ! 

To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little 
souls  away, 

And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of 
youth's  bright  summer  day, 

When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the 
reckless,  truant  boy 

Wander' d  through  greenwoods  all  day  long,  a 
mighty  heart  of  joy  I 


I'm  sadder  now — I  have  had  cause ;  but  O  ! 

I'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  yore,  I  yet 

deUght  to  drink ; — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the 

calm,  unclouded  sky, 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the 

days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round 

me  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse — a  heart 

that  hath  wax'd  old ! 

Mothenvell.—Bom  1797,  Died  1836. 


1634.— THE  WATER!  THE  WATER! 

The  Water !  the  Water  ! 

The  joyous  brook  for  me, 
That  tuneth  through  the  quiet  night 

Its  ever-living  glee. 
The  Water  !  the  Water ! 

That  sleepless,  merry  heart, 
Which  gurgles  on  unstintedly, 

And  loveth  to  impart. 
To  all  around  it,  some  small  measure 
Of  its  own  most  perfect  pleasure. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  gentle  stream  for  me. 
That  gushes  from  the  old  gray  stone 

Beside  the  alder-tree. 
The  Water  !  the  Waler ! 

That  ever-bubbling  spring 
I  loved  and  look'd  on  while  a  child, 

In  deepest  wondering, — 
And  ask'd  it  whence  it  came  and  went. 
And  when  its  treasures  would  be  spent. 

The  Water  !  the  Water ! 

The  merry,  wanton  brook 
That  bent  itself  to  pleasure  me. 

Like  mine  old  shepherd  crook. 
The  Water !  the  Water ! 

That  sang  so  sweet  at  noon, 
And  sweeter  still  all  night,  to  win 

Smiles  from  the  pale,  proud  moon, 
And  from  the  little  fairy  faces 
That  gleam  in  heaven's  remotest  places. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  dear  and  blessed  thing, 
That  all  day  fed  the  little  flowers 

On  its  banks  blossoming. 
The  Water  1  the  Water  ! 

That  murmur' d  in  my  ear 
Hymns  of  a  saint-like  purity, 

That  angels  well  might  hear. 
And  whisper  in  the  gates  of  heaven. 
How  meek  a  pilgrim  had  been  shriven. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

Where  I  have  shed  palt  tears, 
In  loneliness  and  friendliness, 

A  thing  of  tender  years. 


Motherwell.] 


THE  MIDNIGHT  WIND. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


The  Water !  the  Water  ! 

Where  I  have  happy  been, 
And  shower'd  upon  its  bosom  flowers 

Cull'd  from  each  meadow  green  ; 
And  idly  hoped  my  life  would  be 
So  crown'd  by  love's  idolatry. 

The  Water  !  the  Water  ! 

My  heart  yet  bums  to  think 
How  cool  thy  fountain  sparkled  forth, 

For  parched  lip  to  drink. 
The  Water  !  the  Water  ! 

Of  mine  own  native  glen — 
The  gladsome  tongue  I  oft  have  heard, 

But  ne'er  shall  hear  again, 
Though  fancy  fills  my  ear  for  aye 
With  sounds  that  live  so  far  away ! 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  mild  and  glassy  wave, 
Upon  whose  broomy  banks  I've  long'd 

To  find  my  silent  grave. 
The  Water!  the  Water  ! 

0,  blest  to  me  thou  art ! 
Thus  sounding  in  life's  solitude 

The  music  of  my  heart, 
And  filling  it,  despite  of  sadness, 
With  dreamings  of  departed  gladness. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  mournful,  pensive  tone 
That  whisper' d  to  my  heart  how  soon 

This  weary  life  was  done. 
The  Water  !  the  Water ! 

That  roU'd  so  bright  and  free. 
And  bade  me  mark  how  beautiful 

Was  its  soul's  purity ; 
And  how  it  glanced  to  heaven  its  wave, 
As,  wandering  on,  it  sought  its  grave. 

Motherwell.— Bom  1797,  Died  1836. 


1635.— THE  MIDNIGHT  WIND. 

Mournfully !  O,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh, 
Like  some  sweet,  plaintive  melody 

Of  ages  long  gone  by  ! 
It  speaks  a  tale  of  other  years, 

Of  hopes  that  bloom'd  to  die. 
Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears, 

And  loves  that  mouldering  lie  ! 

Mournfully !  O,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  moan  ! 
It  stirs  some  chord  of  memory 

In  each  dull,  heavy  tone ; 
The  voices  of  the  much-loved  dead 

Seem  floating  thereupon — 
AU,  all  my  fond  heai-t  cherish'd 

Ere  death  had  made  it  lone. 

^Mournfully !  O,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  swell 

With  its  quaint,  pensive  minstrelsy — 
Hope's  passionate  farewell 


To  the  dreamy  joys  of  early  years. 

Ere  yet  grief's  canker  fell 
On  the  heart's  bloom — ay !  well  may  Lear 3 

Start  at  that  parting  knell  I 

Motherivcll.—Born  1797,  Died  1836. 


1636.— THE  CAVALIER'S  SONG. 

A  steed !  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed, 

A  sword  of  metal  keene  ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse, 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 
The  neighyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde. 

The  rowlinge  of  the  drum. 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde. 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come  ; 
And  0  !  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes, 

Whenas  their  war  cryes  swell, 
May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright, 

And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte  !  then  mounte,  brave  gallants  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine  : 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt 's  in  our  hand — 
Heart  whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land ; 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye  ; 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight. 

And  hero-like  to  die  ! 

2Iotherwcn.~Born  1797,  Died  1836. 


1637.--THE  BLOOM  HATH  FLED  THY 
CHEEK,  MARY. 

The  bloom  hath  fled  thy  cheek,  Mary, 
As  spring's  rath  blossoms  die  ; 

And  sadness  hath  o'ershadow'd  now 
Thy  once  bright  eye  ; 

But  look  !  on  me  the  prints  of  grief 
Still  deeper  lie. 
Farewell ! 

Thy  lips  are  pale  and  mute,  Mary ; 

Thy  step  is  sad  and  slow ; 
The  mom  of  gladness  hath  gone  by 

Thou  erst  did  know  : 
I,  too,  am  changed  like  thee,  and  weep 

For  very  woe. 
Farewell 

It  seems  as  'twere  but  j'esterday 

We  were  the  happiest  twain, 
When  murmur'd  sighs  and  joyous  tears, 

Dropping  like  rain, 
Discoursed  my  love,  and  told  how  loved 

I  w^as  again. 

Farewell ! 


From  1780  io  1866.]         THE  COVENANTEES'  BATTLE-CHANT.                 [Motherwell. 

'Twas  not  in  cold  and  measured  plaraso 

0,  dinna  mind  my  words,  WiUie — 

We  gave  our  passion  name ; 

I  downa  seek  to  blame  ; 

Scorning  such  tedious  eloquence, 

But  0,  it's  hard  to  live,  Willie, 

Our  hearts'  fond  flame 

And  dree  a  warld's  shame  ! 

And  long-imprison' d  feelings  fast 

Het  tears  are  hailin'  ower  your  cheek. 

In  deep  sobs  came. 

And  hailin'  ower  your  chin  : 

Farewell ! 

Why  weep  ye  sae  for  worthlessncss, 

For  sorrow,  and  for  sin  ? 

Would  that  our  love  had  been  the  love 

That  merest  worldlings  know, 

I'm  weary  0'  this  warld,  WiUie, 

When  passion's  draught  to  our  doom'd  lips 

And  sick  wi'  a'  I  see, 

Turns  utter  woe, 

I  canna  Uve  as  I  ha'e  Uved, 

And  our  poor  dream  of  happiness 

Or  be  as  I  should  be. 

Vanishes  so  ! 

But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  WiUie, 

Farewell ! 

The  heart  that  stiU  is  thine— 

And  kiss  ance  mair  the  white,  white  cheek 

But  in  the  wreck  of  all  our  hopes 

Ye  said  was  red  langsyne. 

There's  yet  some  touch  of  bliss, 
Since  fate  robs  not  our  wretchedness 

A  stoun'  gaes  through  my  held,  WiUie — 

Of  this  last  kiss  : 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart ; 

Despair,  and  love,  and  madness  meet 

0,  hand  me  up  and  let  me  kiss 

In  this  in  this. 

Thy  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 

Farewell ! 

Anither,  and  anither  yet  ! — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break  ! — 

Motherv:ell~Bom  1797,  Died  1836. 

Fareweel !  fareweel !  through  yon  kirkyard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake  ! 

The  lav'rock  in  the  lift,  WUHe, 

That  lUts  far  ower  our  held. 

1638.— MY  HEID  IS  LIKE  TO  EEND, 

Will  sing  the  morn  as  merrilie 
Abune  the^lay-cauld  deid  ; 

WILLIE. 

And  this  green  turf  we're  sittin'  on. 

My  held  is  like  to  rend,  WiUie — 

Wi'  dew-draps  shimmerin'  sheen, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break  ; 
I'm  wearin'  aff  my  feet,  WiUie — 

WiU  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 
As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

I'm  dyin'  for  your  sake  ! 

But  0,  remember  me,  Willie, 

0,  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be — 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane — 

And  0,  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart, 

0,  say  ye'll  think  on  me,  Willie, 

That  ne'er  luvit  ane  but  thee  ! 

When  I  am  deid  and  gane  ! 

And  0,  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mools 

That  file  my  yeUow  hair — 

It's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie — 

That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin, 

Sair  grief  maun  ha'e  its  wiU ; 

Ye  never  saU  kiss  mair. 

But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest 
To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 

Motherwell— Born  1797,  Died  1836. 

Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie — 
Let  me  shed  by  your  hair. 

And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair ! 

1639.— THE  COVENANTEES'  BATTLE- 

CHANT. 

I'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life — 
A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 

A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart, 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair — 
Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  Strang  is  its  despair. 

To  battle  !  To  battle ! 

To  slaughter  and  strife  ! 
For  a  sad,  broken  covenant 

We  barter  poor  life. 
The  great  God  of  Judah 

Shall  smite  with  our  hand, 
And  break  down  the  idols 

That  cumber  the  land. 

0,  wae's  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

Uplift  every  voice 

When  we  thegither  met — 

In  prayer,  and  in  song  ; 

0,  wae's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

Eemember  the  battle 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set  I 

Is  not  to  the  strong. 

0,  wae's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

Lo,  the  Ammonites  thicken  ! 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae — 

And  onward  they  come. 

And  wae's  me  for  the  destinie 

To  the  vain  noise  of  trumpet, 

That  cart  me  luve  thee  sae ! 

Of  cymbal,  and  drum. 

!7A 

MOTHEEWELL.]     W:HEN  I  BENEATH  THE  COLD  RED  EARTH.     [Seventh  Period.- 


They  haste  to  the  onslaught, 

With  hagbut  and  spear ; 
They  lust  for  a  banquet 

That 's  deathful  and  dear. 
Now  horseman  and  footnaan 

Sweep  down  the  hill-side  ; 
They  come,  like  fierce  Pharaohs, 

To  die  in  their  pride  ! 

See,  long  plume  and  pennon 
Stream  gay  in  the  air  ! 

They  are  given  us  for  slaughter- 
Shall  God's  people  spare  ? 

Nay,  nay ;  lop  them  off — 
Friend,  father,  and  son 

All  earth  is  athirst  till 
The  good  work  be  done. 

Brace  tight  every  buckler, 

And  lift  high  the  sword  I 
For  biting  must  blades  be 

That  fight  for  the  Lord. 
Remember,  remember, 

How  saints'  blood  was  shed, 
As  free  as  the  rain,  and 

Homes  desolate  made ! 

Among  them  ! — among  them  ! 

Unburied  bones  cry : 
Avenge  us — or,  like  us. 

Faith's  true  martyi^  die  I 
Hew,  hew  down  the  spoilers ! 

Slay  on,  and  spare  none ; 
Then  shout  forth  in  gladness. 

Heaven's  battle  is  won  ! 

Motherwell— Bom  1797,  Died  1836. 


1640.— WHEN  I  BENEATH   THE    COLD 
RED  EARTH  AM  SLEEPING. 

When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleep- 
ing, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 
Win  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping 

That  I'm  no  more  ? 
Will  there  be  any  heart  stiU  memory  keeping 

Of  heretofore  ? 

When  the  great  winds,  through  leafless  forests 
rushing, 

Like  full  hearts  break — 
When  the  swoll'n  streams,  o'er  crag  and  guUy 
gushing, 

Sad  music  make — 
Will  there   be  one,  whose  heart   Despair  is 
crushing. 

Mourn  for  my  sake  ? 

When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shining 

With  purest  ray, 
And  the  small  flowers,  their  buds  and  blos- 
soms twining, 

Burst  through  that  clay — 
Will  there  be  one  stiU  on  that  spot  repining 

Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 


When  the    Night   shadows,  with  the  ample 
sweeping 

Of  her  dark  pall, 
The  world  and  all  its  manifold  creation  sleep- 
ing— 

The  great  and  small — 
Will  there  be  one,  even  at  that  dread  hour, 
weeping 

For  me — ^for  all  ? 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye  of  glory 

On  that  low  mound. 
And  wintry  storms  have  with  their  ruins  hoary 

Its  loneness  crown'd, 
Will  there  be  then  one,  versed  in  misery's  story. 

Pacing  it  round  ? 

It  may  be  so — but  this  is  selfish  sorrow 

To  ask  such  meed — 
A  weakness  and  a  wickedness,  to  borrow 

From  hearts  that  bleed 
The  wailings  of  to-day,  for  what  to-morrow 

Shall  never  need. 

Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow  dwelling. 

Thou  gentle  heart ! 
And,  though  thy  bosom  should  with  grief  be 
swelling, 

Let  no  tear  start ; 
It  were    in  vain — for  Time  hath   long   been 
knelling — 

Sad  one,  depart ! 

Motherwell— Bom  1797,  Died  1836. 


1 64 1. —SONG  OF  THE  DANISH  SEA- 
KING. 

Our  bark  is  on  the  waters  deep,  our  bright 

blades  in  our  hand. 
Our  birthright  is  the  ocean  vast — we  scorn  the 

girdled  land ; 
And  the  hollow  wind  is  our  music  brave,  and 

none  can  bolder  be 
Than  the  hoarse-tongued  tempest  raving  o'er 

a  proud  and  swelling  sea ! 

Our  bark  is   dancing  on   the    waves,  its  tall 

masts  quivering  bend 
Before  the  gale,  which  hails  us  now  with  the 

hollo  of  a  friend ; 
And  its  prow  is  sheering  merrily  the  upcurl'd 

billow's  foam, 
While   our  hearts,   with  throbbing  gladness, 

cheer  old  Ocean  as  our  home ! 

Our  eagle- wings  of  might  we  stretch  before 
the  gaUant  wind, 

And  we  leave  the  tame  and  sluggish  earth  a 
dim,  mean  speck  behind  ; 

We  shoot  into  the  untrack'd*  deep,  as  earth- 
freed  spirits  soar. 

Like  stars  of  fire  through  boundless  space — 
through  realms  without  a  shore  ! 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


WE  AEE  BEETHEEN  A'. 


[Egbert  Nicoll* 


Lords  of  this  wide-spread  wilderness  of  waters, 

Ve  bound  free, 
The    haughty    elements    alone    dispute    our 

sovereignty ; 
No  landmark  doth  our  freedom  let,  for  no  law 

of  man  can  mete 
The  sky  which  arches  o'er  cur  head — the  waves 

which  kiss  our  feet ! 

The  warrior  of   the  land  may  back  the  wild 

horse,  in  his  pride ; 
But  a  fiercer  steed  we  dauntless  breast — the 

untamed  ocean  tide ; 
And  a  nobler  tilt  our  bark  careers,  as  it  quells 

the  saucy  wave, 
While  the  Herald  storm  peals  o'er  the  deep 

the  glories  of  the  brave. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah !  the  wind  is  up — it  bloweth 

fresh  and  free. 
And  every  cord,  instinct  with  life,  pipes  loud 

its  fearless  glee ; 
Big  swell  the  bosom'd  sails  with  joy,  and  they 

madly  kiss  the  spray, 
As  proudly,  through  the  foaming  surge,  the 

Sea-King  bears  away  ! 

Motherwell— Born  1797,  IHed  1836. 


1642.— THOUGHTS  OF  HEAVEN 

High  thoughts ! 
They  come  and  go. 

Like  the  soft  breathings  of  a  listening 
maiden. 
While  round  me  flow 

The  winds,  from  woods  and  fields  with 
gladness  laden : 
When  the  corn's  rustle  on  the  ear  doth  come — 
"When  the  eve's  beetle  sounds  its  drowsy  hum — 
When  the  stars,  dewdrops  of  the  summer  sky. 
Watch  over  all  with  soft  and  loving  eye — 
While  the  leaves  quiver 
By  the  lone  river. 
And  the  quiet  heart 
From  depths  doth  call 
And  garners  aU — 
Earth  grows  a  shadow 

Forgotten  whole. 
And  Heaven  lives 
In  the  blessed  soul ! 

High  thoughts ! 
They  are  with  me, 

When,  deep    within  the   bosom    of   the 
forest, 
Thy  morning  melody 

Abroad    into    the    sky,    thou,    throstle, 
pourest. 
When  the  young  sunbeams  glance  among  the 

trees — 
When  on  the  ear  comes  the  soft  song  of  bees — 
When  every   branch   has   its    own  favourite 

bird 
And    songs    of   summer,    from   each    thicket 
heard ! — 


Where  the  owl  flitteth. 
Where  the  roe  sitteth, 
And  hohness 

Seems  sleeping  there ; 
While  Nature's  prayer 
Goes  up  to  heaven 

In  purity. 
Till  aU  is  glory  ^^ 

And  joy  to  me  ! 

High  thoughts ! 
They  are  my  own 

When   I   am   resting   on    a    mountain's 
bosom. 
And  see  below  me  strown 

The  huts  and  homes  where  humble  virtues 
blossom ; 
When  I  can  trace  each  streamlet  through  the 

meadow — 
When  I  can  follow  every  fitful  shadow — 
When  I  can  watch  the  winds  among  the  com. 
And  see  the  waves  along  the  forest  borne  ; 
Where  blue-bell  and  heather 
Are  blooming  together, 
And  far  doth  come 
The  Sabbath  bell, 
O'er  wood  and  fell ; 
I  hear  the  beating 

Of  Nature's  heart ; 
Heaven  is  before  me — 
God  !  Thou  art ! 

High  thoughts ! 
They  visit  us 

In  moments  when  the  soul  is  dim  and 
darken' d ; 
They  come  to  bless. 

After  the  vanities  to  which  we  hearken'd  r 
When  weariness  hath  come  upon  the  spirit — 
(Those    hours    of    darkness    which    we    all 

inherit) — 
Bursts   there   not   through   a  glint    of  warmt 

sunshine 
A  winged  thought,  which  bids  us  not  repine  ? 
In  joy  and  gladness, 
In  mirth  and  sadness. 
Come  signs  and  tokens  ; 
Life's  angel  brings 
Upon  its  wings 
Those  bright  communings 

The  soul  doth  keep — 
Those  thoughts  of  heaven 
So  pure  and  deep  ! 

Bolert  Nicoll.—Born  1814,  Died  1837. 


1643.— WE  AEE  BEETHEEN  A'. 

A  happy  bit  hame  this  auld  world  would  be, 
If  men,  when  they're  here,  could  make  shift  to- 

agree, 
An'  ilk  said  to  his  neighbour,  in  cottage  an'  ha% 
"Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren, 

a'-"  74* 


Robert  Nicoll.] 


WILD  FLOWEES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


I  ken  na  why  ane  vrV  anither  should  fight, 
When  to  'gree  would  make  a  body  cosie  an' 

right, 
When  man  meets  wi'  man,  'tis  the  best  way 

ava. 
To  say,  "  Gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren 


My  coat  is  a  coarse  ane,  an'  yours  may  be  fine. 
And  I  maun  drink  water,  while  you  may  drink 

wine  ; 
But  we  baith  ha'e  a  leal  heart,  unspotted  to 

shaw  : 
Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 

The   knave  ye   would    scorn,   the   unfaithfu' 

deride ; 
Ye  would  stand  like  a  rock,  wi'  the  truth  on 

your  side ; 
Sae  would  I,  an'  nought  else  would  I  value  a 

straw ; 
Then  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 

Ye  would  scorn  to  do  fausely  by  woman  or 

man; 
I  hand  by  the  right  aye,  as  weel  as  I  can ; 
We  are  ane  in  our  joys,  our  affections,  an'  a' ; 
Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 

Your  mother  has  lo'ed  you  as  mithers  canlo'e  ; 
An'  mine  has  done  for  me  what  mithers  can 

do; 
We  are  ane  high  an'  laigh,  an'  we  shouldna  be 

twa : 
Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 

We  love  the  same  simmer  day,  sunny  and  fair ; 
Hame !  oh,  how  we  love  it,  an'  a'   that  are 

there ! 
Frae  the  pure  air  of  heaven  the  same  life  we 

draw — 
Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 

Frail  shakin'  auld  age  will  soon  come  o'er  us 

baith. 
An'  creeping  alang  at  his  back  will  be  death ; 
Syne  into  the  same  mither-yird  we  will  fa'  : 
Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand — we  are  brethren  a'. 

Rolert  Nicoll.—Born  1814,  Died  1837. 


1644.— WILD  FLOWERS. 

Beautiful  children  of  the  woods  and  fields  ! 
That  bloom   by  mountain  streamlets  'mid 

the  heather. 
Or     into      clusters,     'neath      the     hazels, 
gather ; 
Or  where   by  hoary   rocks   you   make   your 
bields. 
And  sweetly   flourish  on   through  summer 
weather : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 


Beautiful  flowers  !  to  me  ye  fresher  seem 
From  the  Almighty  hand  that  fashion'd.all, 
Than  those  that  flourish  by  a  garden-wall ; 
And  I  can  image  you,  as  in  a  dream. 

Fair,  modest   maidens,  nursed   in   hamlets 
small : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 

Beautiful  gems  !  that  on  the  brow  of  earth 
Are  fix'd,  as  in  a  queenly  diadem ; 
Though  lowly  ye,  and  most  without  a  name. 
Young  hearts  rejoice  to  see  your  buds  come 
forth, 
As  light  erewhile  into  the  world  came  : — 
I  love  ye  aU ! 

Beautiful  things  ye  are,  where'er  ye  grow  ! 
The  wild  red  rose — the  speedwell's  peeping 

eyes — 
Our    own    bluebell — the   daisy,  that   doth 
rise 
Wherever  sunbeams  fall  or  winds  do  blow  ; 
And  thousands  more,  of  blessed  forms  and 
dyes  : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 

Beautiful  nurslings  of  the  early  dew  ! 

Fann'd  in  your  loveliness,  by  every  breeze. 
And    shaded    o'er    by  green   and    arching 
trees ; 
I  often  wish  that  I  were  one  of  you, 
DweUing  afar  upon  the  grassy  leas  : — 
I  love  ye  all ! 

Beautiful  watchers  i  day  and  night  ye  wake  ! 
The   evening    star    grows   dim   and  fades 

away. 
And  morning  comes  and  goes,  and  then  the 
day 
Within  the  arms  of  night  its  rest  doth  take  ; 
But     ye     are     watchful     wheresoe'er     we 
stray : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 

Beautiful  objects  of  the  wild-bee's  love  ! 
The  wild-bird  joys  your  opening  bloom  to 

see, 
And  in  your  native  woods  and  wilds  to  be. 
All  hearts,  to  Nature  true,  ye  strangely  move ; 
Ye  are  so  passing  fair — so  passing  free  : — 
I  love  ye  all  I 

Beautiful  children  of  the  glen  and  dell — 
The  dingle  deep — the   moorland  stretching 

wide. 
And  of  the  mossy  fountain's  sedgy  side  ! 
Ye  o'er  my  heart  have   thrown  a  lovesome 
spell ; 
And,  though  the  worldling,  scorning,  may 
deride : — 

I  love  ye  all ! 

Robert  Nicoll.—Bot^  1814,  Died  1837. 


From  1780  to  18C6.] 


THE  EXILE'S  SONG. 


[Egbert  Gilfillan. 


1645.— DEATH. 

The  dew  is  on  the  summer's  greenest  grass, 
Through  which  the  modest  daisy  blushing 
peeps ; 
The  gentle  wind  that  like  a  ghost  doth  pass, 
A  waving  shadow  on  the  corn-field  keeps  ; 
But  I,  who  love  them  all,  shall  never  be 
Again  among  the  woods,  or  on  the  moorland 
leal 

The    sun    shines    sweetly — sweeter    may    it 

shine  ! — 

Bless'd  is  the  brightness  of  a  summer  day  ; 

It  cheers  lone  hearts  ;  and  why  should  I  repine, 

Although  among  green  fields  I  cannot  stray ! 

Woods !  I  have  grown,  since  last  I  heard  you 

wave, 
Familiar  with   death,  and    neighbour   to  the 
grave  ! 

These  words    have     shaken  mighty   human 
souls — 
Like  a  sepulchre's  echo  drear  they  sound — 
E'en  as  the  owl's  wild  whoop  at  midnight  rolls 

The  ivied  remnants  of  old  ruins  round. 
Yet  wherefore  tremble  ?    Can  the  soul  decay  ? 
Or  that  which  thinks  and  feels,  in  aught  e'er 
fade  away  ? 

Are  there  not  aspirations  in  each  heart 

After  a  better,  brighter  world  than  this  ? 
Longings  for  beings  nobler  in  each  part — 
Things    more    exalted — steep'd   in    deeper 
bliss? 
Who  gave  us  these  ?     What  are  they  ?     Soul, 

in  thee 
.  The  bud  is  budding  now  for  immortality  ! 

Death  comes  to  take  me  where  I  long  to  be ; 
One  pang,  and  bright  blooms  the  immortal 
flower ; 
Death  comes  to  lead  me  from  mortality. 

To  lands  which  know  not  one  unhappy  hour; 
I  have  a  hope,  a  faith — from  sorrow  here 
I'm  led  by  Death  away — why  should  I  start 
and  fear  ? 

If  I  have  loved  the  forest  and  the  field. 
Can  I  not  love  them  deeper,  better  there  ? 

If  all  that  Power  hath  made,  to  me  doth  yield 
Something  of  good  and  beauty — something 
fair — 

Freed  from  the  grossness  of  mortality, 

May  I  not  love  them  all,  and  better  ail  enjoy? 

A  change    from  woe  to  joy — from   earth   to 

heaven 
Death    gives  me  this — it  leads   me  calmly 

where 
The  souls  that  long  ago  from  mine  were  riven 
May  meet  again !      Death  answers  many  a 

prayer. 
Bright  day,  shine  on !  be  glad :  days  brighter 

far 
Are  stretch' d  before  my  eyes  than  those   of 

mortals  are  ! 

Robert  NicoU.—Born  1814,  Died  1837. 


1646.— IN  THE  DAYS  0'  LANGSYNE. 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne,  when  we  carles  were 

young, 
An'  nae  foreign  fashions  amang  us  had  sprung ; 
When  we  made  our  ain  bannocks,  gjgd  brew'd 

our  ain  yill. 
An'  were  clad  frae  the  sheep  that  gaed  white 

on  the  hiU ; 
0 !  the  thocht  o'  thae  days  gars  my  auld  heart 

aye  fill! 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne  we  were  happy  and  free, 
Proud  lords  on  the  land,  and  kings  on  the  sea  ! 
To  our  foes  we  were  fierce,  to  our  friends  we 

were  kind. 
An'  where  battle  raged  loudest,  you  ever  did 

find 
Th^  banner  of  Scotland  float  high  in  the  wind ! 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne  we  aye  ranted  and  sang 
By  the  warm   ingle   side,  or   the  wild  braes 

amang ; 
Our  lads  busk'd  braw,  and  our  lasses  look'd 

fine, 
An'  the  sun  on  our  mountains  seem'd  ever  to 

shine ; 
0  !  where  is  the  Scotland  o'  bonnie  langsyne  ? 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne  ilka  glen  had  its  tale. 
Sweet  voices  were  heard  in  ilk  breath  o'  the  gale ; 
An'  ilka  wee  bum  had  a  sang  o'  its  ain. 
As  it  trotted  alang  through  the  valley  or  plain ; 
Shall  we  e'er  hear  the  music  o'  streamlets 
again? 

In  the  days  o'  langsyne  there  were  feasting 
and  glee, 

Wi'  pride  in  ilk  heart,  and  joy  in  ilk  ee ; 

And  the  auld,  'mang  the  nappy,  their  eild 
seem'd  to  tyne, 

It  was  your  stoup  the  nicht,  and  the  mom 
'twas  mine : 

O  !  the  days  o'  langsyne — O  !  the  days  o'  lang- 
syne. 

Robert  Gilfillan.— Born  1814,  IXed  1837. 


1647.— THE  EXILE'S  SONG. 

Oh !  why  left  I  my  hame  ? 

Why  did  I  cross  the  deep  ? 
Oh  !  why  left  I  the  land 

Where  my  forefathers  sleep  ? 
I  sigh  for  Scotia's  shore. 

And  I  gaze  across  the  sea. 
But  I  canna  get  a  blink 

O'  my  ain  countrie  ! 

The  palm-tree  waveth  high. 

And  fair  the  myrtle  springs; 
And,  to  the  Indian  maid, 

The  bulbul  sweetly  sings. 
But  I  dinna  see  the  broom 

Wi'  its  tassels  on  the  lea, 
Nor  hear  the  lintie's  sang 

O'  my  ain  countrie  ! 


Thomas  Cunningham.] 


THE  HILLS  0'  GALLOWA'. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Oh  !  here  no  Sabbath  bell 

Awakes  the  Sabbath  morn, 
Nor  song  of  reapers  heard 

Amang  the  yellow  corn  : 
For  the  tyrant's  voice  is  here, 

And  the  wail  of  slaverie ; 
JBut  the  sun  of  freedom  shines 

Li  my  ain  countrie  ! 

There's  a  hope  for  every  woe, 

And  a  balm  for  every  pain  ; 
But  the  first  joys  o'  our  heart 

Come  never  back  again. 
There's  a  track  upon  the  deep 

And  a  path  across  the  sea ; 
But  the  weary  ne'er  return 

To  their  ain  countrie  ! 
JRoh&rt  Qiljillan.—Born  1814,  Died  1837. 


1648.— THE  HILLS  0'  GALLOWA'. 

Amang  the  birks  sae  blithe  and  gay, 

I  met  my  Julia  hameward  gaun ; 
'The  linties  chantit  on  the  spray, 

The  lammies  loupit  on  the  lawn ; 
On  ilka  howm  the  sward  was  mawn, 

The  braes  wi'  gowans  buskit  braw, 
And  gloamin's  plaid  o'  gray  was  thrawn 

Out  owre  the  hills  o'  Gallowa'. 

Wi'  music  wild  the  woodlands  rang. 

And  fragrance  wing'd  alang  the  lea, 
As  down  we  sat  the  flowers  amang, 

Upon  the  banks  o'  stately  Dee. 
My  Julia's  arms  encircled  me. 

And  saftly  slade  the  hours  awa', 
Till  dawin  coost  a  glimmerin'  ee 

Upon  the  hills  o'  Gallowa'. 

It  isna  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye, 

It  isna  gowd,  it  isna  gear, 
TlTiia  lifted  ee  wad  hae,  quoth  I, 

The  warld's  drumUe  gloom  to  cheer. 
IBnt  gi'e  to  me  my  Julia  dear, 

Ye  powers  wha  row  this  yirthen  ba', 
And  O  !  sae  blithe  through  life  I'll  steer, 

Amang  the  hills  o'  Gallowa'. 

"Whan  gloamin'  dauners  up  the  hill. 

And  our  gudeman  ca's  hame  the  yowes, 
Wi'  her  I'll  trace  the  mossy  rill 

That  owre  the  muir  meandering  rows ; 
Or,  tint  amang  the  scroggy  knowes. 

My  birkin  pipe  I'll  sweetly  blaw. 
And  sing  the  streams,  the  straths,  and  howes. 

The  hiUs  and  dales  o'  Gallowa'. 

And  when  auld  Scotland's  healthy  hills, 

Her  rural  nymphs  and  joyous  swains, 
Her  flowery  wilds  and  wimpling  rilla, 

Awake  nae  mair  my  canty  strains  ; 
Whare  friendship  dwells  and  freedom  reigns, 

Whare  heather  blooms  and  muircocks  craw, 
O !  dig  my  grave,  and  hide  my  banes 

Amang  the  hiUs  o'  Gallowa'. 
Thoma-i  Cunningham. — Bom  18  ?    Died  1834. 


1649.— LUCY'S  FLITTIN'.  ' 

'Twas  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk-tree 
was  fa' in, 
And  Martinmas  dowie   had  wound  up  the 
year. 
That  Lucy  rowed  up  her  wee  kist  wi'  her  a' 
in't, 
And  left  her  auld  maister  and  neibours  sao 
dear: 
For  Lucy  had  served  i'  the  glen  a'  the  simmer  ; 
She  cam  there  afore  the  bloom  cam  on  the 
pea; 
An  orphan  was  she,  and  they  had  been  gude 
till  her, 
Sure  that  was  the  thing  brocht  the  tear  to 
her  ee. 

She   gaed   by   the    stable   where   Jamie   was 
stannin' ; 
Eicht  sair  was  his  kind   heart  her  flittin' 
to  see ; 
"Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy!  "  quo'  Jamie,  and  ran 
in; 
The  gatherin'  tears  trickled  fast  frae  her  ee. 
As  down  the  burn-side  she  gaed  slow  wi'  her 
flittin', 
"Fare   ye  weel,  Lucy!"   was  ilka  bird's 
sang; 
She  heard  the  craw  sayin't,  high  on  the  trees 
sittin', 
And  Eobin  was  chirpin't  the  brown  leaves 


"  Oh !  what  is't  that  pits  my  puir  heart  in  a 
flutter  ? 
And  what  gars  the  tears  come  sae  fast  to 
my  ee? 
If  I  wasna  ettled  to  be  ony  better, 

Then  what  gars  me  wish  ony  better  to  be  ? 
I'm  just  like  a  lammie  that  loses  its  mither ; 
Nae  mither  or  friend  the  puir  lammie  can 
see; 
I  fear  I  hae  tint  my  puir  heart  a'thegither, 
Nae  wonder  the  tear  fa's  sae  fast  frae  my  ee. 

Wi'  the  rest  o'  my  claes  I  hae  rowed  up  the 
ribbon, 
The  bonnie  blue  ribbon  that  Jamie  gae  me ; 
Yestreen,  when  ho  gae  me't,  and  saw  I  was 
sabbin', 
I'll  never  forget  the  wae  blink  o'  his  ee. 
Though  now  he  said  nae  thing  but  "Fare  ye 
weel,  Lucy !  " 
It  made  me  I  neither  could  speak,  hear,  nor 
see : 
He  couldna  say  mair  but  just,  "  Fare  ye  weel, 
Lucy!" 
Yet  that  I  will  mind  till  the  day  that  I  dee. 

The  lamb  likes  the  gowan  wi'  dew  when  it's 
droukit ; 
The  hare  likes  the  brake  and  the  braird  on 
the  lea  ; 
But  Lucy  likea  Jamie; — she  turn'd  and  she 
lookit, 
She  thocht  the  dear  place  she  wad  never 
mair  see. 


From  1780  to  1866. 


THE  BROWNM  OF  BLEDNOCH. 


[W.  Nicholson. 


Ah,  weel  may  young  Jamie  gang  dowie  and  I  But  the  canny  auld  wife  cam  till  her  breath, 

cheerless  !  |  And  she   deem'd  the   Bible   might  ward   aff 

And  weel  may  he  greet  on  the  bank  o'  the  I        scaith, 

burn  !  Be  it  benshee,  bogle,  ghaist,  or  wraith — 


For  bonnie  sweet  Lucy,  sae  gentle  and  peer- 
less, 
Lies   cauld   in  her   grave,    and  will  never 
return  ! 

William  Laidlaw. — Bom  1810. 


1650.— THE  BROWNIE  OF  BLEDNOCH. 

There  cam  a  strange  wight  to  our  town-en', 
An'  the  fient  a  body  did  him  ken  ; 
He  tirled  na  lang,  but  he  glided  ben 
Wi'  a  dreary,  dreary  hum. 

His  face  did  glow  like  the  glow  o'  the  west, 
When  the  drumly  cloud  has  it  half  o'ercast ; 
Or  the  struggling  moon  when  she's  sair  dis- 
trest. 

0,  sirs !  'twas  Aiken-drum. 

T  trow  the  bauldest  stood  aback, 

Wi'  a  gape  an'  a  glower  till  their  lugs  did 

crack, 
As  the  shapeless  phantom  mum' ling  spak — 
Hae  ye  wark  for  Aiken-drum  ? 

O !  had  ye  seen  the  bairns'  fright, 

As  they   stared   at  this  wild  and   unyirthly 

wight ; 
As  they  skulkit  in  'tween  the  dark  and  the 

Hght, 

And  graned  out,  Aiken-drum  ! 

The  black  dog  growling  cower'd  his  tail, 
The  lassie  swart'd,  loot  fa'  the  pail ; 
Rob's  lingle  brak  as  he  men't  the  flail, 
At  the  sight  o'  Aiken-drum. 

his  matted  head  on  his  breast  did  rest, 
A  lang  blue  beard  wan'er'd  down  like  a  vest ; 
But  the  glare  o'  his  ee  hath  nae  bard  exprest, 
Nor  the  skimes  o'  Aiken-drum. 

Roun'  his  hairy  form  there  was  naething  seen 
But  a  philabeg  o'  the  rashes  green. 
An'     his    knotted    knees     piay'd    aye    knoit 
between — 

What  a  sight  was  Aiken-drum  ! 

On  his  wauchie  arms  three  claws  did  meet, 
As  they  trail' d  on  the  grun'  by  his  taeless 

feet ; 
E'en  the  auld  gudeman  himsel'  did  sweat, 
To  look  at  Aiken-drum. 

But  he  drew  a  score,  himsel'  did  sain. 
The  auld  wife  tried,  but  her  tongue  was  gane ; 
While  the  young  ane  closer  clasp' d  her  wean, 
And  turn'd  frae  Aiken-drum. 


But  it  fear'd  na  Aiken-drum. 

"  His  presence  protect  us  !  "  quoth  the  auld 

gudeman ; 
"  What  wad  ye,  whare  won  ye,  by  sea  or  by 

Ian'  ? 
I   conjure   ye — speak — by   the    beuk   in    my 

han' !  " 

What  a  grane  ga'e  Aiken-drum ! 

"  I  lived  in  a  Ian'  where  we  saw  nae  sk}'', 
I  dwalt  in  a  spot  where  a  burn  rins  na  by  ; 
But   I'se   dwall   now   wi'  you  if  ye  like   to 
try — 

Hae  ye  wark  for  Aiken-drum  ? 

I'll  shiel  a'  your  sheep  i'  the  momin'  sune, 
I'll  berry  your  crap  by  the  light  o'  the  moou. 
An'  ba  the  bairns  wi'  an  unkenn'd  tune. 
If  ye'll  keep  puir  Aiken-drum. 

I'll  loup  the  linn  when  ye  canna  wade, 
I'll  kirn  the  kirn,  an'  I'll  turn  the  bread  ; 
An'  the  wildest  filly  that  ever  ran  rede, 
I'se  tame't,"  quoth  Aiken-drum. 

"  To  wear  the  tod  frae  the  flock  on  the  fell, 
To  gather  the  dew  frae  the  heather  bell. 
An'  to  look  at  my  face  in  your  clear  crystal 
well. 

Might  gi'e  pleasure  to  Aiken-drum. 

I'se  seek  nae  guids,  gear,  bond,  nor  mark  ; 
I  use  nae  beddin',  shoon,  nor  sark  ; 
But    a  cogfu'  o'  brose  'tween  the  light    an' 
dark 

Is  the  wage  o'  Aiken-drum." 

Quoth  the  wylie  auld  wife,  "  The  thing  speaks 

weel ; 
Our  workers   are    scant — we    hae   routh   o' 

meal; 
Gif  he'll  do  as  he  says — be  he  man,  be  he 
deil— 

Wow  !  we'll  try  this  Aiken-drum." 

But  the  wenches  skirled,  "  He's  no  be  here  I 
His  eldritch  look  gars  us  swarf  wi'  fear ; 
An'  the  feint  a  ane  will  the  house  come  near. 
If  they  think  but  o*  Aiken-drum," 


j   "  Puir  clipmalabors  !  ye  hae  little  wit ; 
i   Is'tna  hallo wmas  now,  an'  the  crap  out  yet  ?" 
j   Sae  she  silenced  them  a'  wi'  a  stamp  o'  her 
fit— 

"  Sit  yer  wa's  down,  Aiken-drum." 

Roun'  a'  that  side  what  wark  was  dune 

By  the  streamer's  gleam,  or  the  glance  o'  tho 

moon; 
A  word,  or  a  wish,  an'  the  brownie  cam  sune, 
Sae  helpfu'  was  Aiken-drum. 


Joseph  Train.] 


SOXG. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


On  Blednoch  banks,  an'  on  crystal  Cree, 
For  mony  a  day  a  toil'd  wight  was  he  ; 
While  the   bairns  play'd   harmless  roun'  his 
knee, 

Sae  social  was  Aiken-drum. 

But  a  new-made  wife,  fu'  o'  frippish  freaks, 
Fond  o'  a'  things  feat  for  the  five  first  weeks, 
Laid  a  mouldy  pair  o'  her  ain  man's  breeks 
By  the  brose  o'  Aiken-drum. 

Let  the  learned  decide  when  they  convene. 
What  spell  was  him  an'  the  breeks  between  ; 
For  frae  that   day   forth   he  was   nae   mair 
seen, 

An'  sair-missed  was  Aiken-drum. 

He  was  heard  by  a  herd  gaun  by  the  Thrieve, 
Crying,  "Lang,    lang  now    may   I  greet  an' 

grieve ; 
For,  alas  !  I  hae  gotten  baith  fee  an'  leave — 
O  !  luckless  Aiken-drum  !  " 

Awa,  ye  wrangling  sceptic  tribe, 
W^i'  your  pros  an'  your  cons  wad  ye  decide 
'Gain  the  sponsible  voice  o'  a  hale  country 
side. 

On  the  facts  'bout  Aiken-drum  ? 

Though  the  "  Brownie  o'  Blednoch  "  lang  be 

gane. 
The  mark  o'  his  feet's  left  on  mony  a  stane ; 
An'  mony  a  wife  an'  mony  a  wean 
Tell  the  feats  o'  Aiken-drum. 

E'en  now,  light  loons  that  jibe  an'  sneer 
At  spiritual  guests  an'  a'  sic  gear. 
At  the  Glashnoch  mill  hae  swat  wi'  fear. 
An'  look'd  roun*  for  Aiken-drum. 

An'  guidly  folks  hae  gotten  a  fright. 

When  the  moon  was  set,  an'  the  stars  gied 

nae  light. 
At  the  roaring  linn,  in  the  howe  o'  the  night, 

Wi'  sughs  like  Aiken-drum. 

William  Nicholson. — Born  1805. 


165 1. —SONG. 

Wi'  drums  and  pipes  the  clachan  rang, 

I  left  my  goats  to  wander  wide  ; 
And  e'en  as  fast  as  I  could  bang, 

I  bicker' d  down  the  mountain  side. 
My  hazel  rung  and  haslock  plaid 

Awa'  I  flang  wi'  cauld  disdain, 
Eesolved  I  would  nae  langer  bide 

To  do  the  auld  thing  o'er  again. 

Ye  barons  bold,  whose  turrets  rise 

Aboon  the  wild  woods  white  wi'  snaw, 
I  trow  the  laddies  ye  may  prize, 

Wha  fight  your  battles  far  awa'. 
Wi'  them  to  stan',  wi'  them  to  fa'. 

Courageously  I  cross' d  the  main  ; 
To  see,  for  Caledonia, 

The  auld  thing  weel  done  o'er  again. 


Eight  far  a-fiel'  I  freely  fought, 

'Gainst  mony  an  outlandish  loon  ; 
An'  wi'  my  good  claymore  I've  brou 

Mony  a  beardy  birkie  down  : 
While  I  had  pith  to  wield  it  roun', 

In  battle  1  ne'er  met  wi'  ane 
Could  danton  me,  for  Britain's  crown, 

To  do  the  same  thing  o'er  again. 

Although  I'm  marching  life's  last  stage, 

Wi'  sorrow  crowded  roun'  my  brow ; 
An'  though  the  knapsack  o'  auld  age 

Hangs  heavy  on  my  shoulders  now 
Yet  recollection,  ever  new, 

Discharges  a'  my  toil  and  pain, 
When  fancy  figures  in  my  view 

The  pleasant  auld  thing  o'er  again. 

Joseph  Train. — Bom  1810. 


1652.— THE  CAMEEONIAN'S  DEEAM. 

In  a  dream  of  the  night  I  was  wafted  away 
To  the  muirland  of  mist  where  the  martyrs 

lay; 
Where  Cameron's  sword   and  his   Bible   are 

seen. 
Engraved  on   the   stone   where    the   heather 

grows  green. 

'Twas  a  dream  of  those  ages  of  darkness  and 

blood. 
When  the  minister's  home  was  the  mountain 

and  wood ; 
When  in  Wellwood's  dark  valley  the  standard 

of  Zion, 
All  bloody  and  torn,  'mong  the  heather  was 

lying. 

'Twas  morning  ;  and  summer's  young  sun  from 

the  east 
Lay  in  loving  repose  on,  the  green  mountain's 

breast ; 
On  Wardlaw  and  Caimtable  the  clear  shining 

dew 
Glisten'd  there   'mong  the  heath    beUs  and 

mountain  flowers  blue. 

And  far  up  in  heaven,  near  the  white  sunny 

cloud. 
The  song  of  the  lark  was  melodious  and  loud, 
And  in  Glenmuir's  wild   solitude,    lengthen' d 

and  deep. 
Were  the  whistling    of  plovers   and   bleating 

of  sheep. 

And  Wellwood's  sweet  valleys  breathed  music 

and  gladness. 
The  fresh  meadow  blooms  hung  in  beauty  and 

redness  ; 
Its  daughters  were  happy  to  hail  the  returning. 
And    drink     the    delights     of    July's    sweet 

morning. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


MOUNTAIN  CHILDEE:^. 


[Mary  Howitt. 


But,  oh  !  there  were  hearts  cherish' d  far  other 

feelings, 
Illumetl  by  the  light  of  prophetic  revealings, 
"Who  drank  from  the  scenery  of  beauty  but 

sorrow, 
For  they  knew  that  their  blood  would  bedew 

it  to-morrow. 

'Twas  the  few  faithful  ones  who  with  Cameron 

were  lying, 
Conceal' d  'mong  the  mist  where  the  heathfowl 

was  crying, 
For  the  horsemen  of  Earlshall  around  them 

were  hovering^ 
And  their  bridle  reins  rung  through  the  thin 

misty  covering. 

Their  faces  grew  pale,  and  their  swords  were 
unsheathed, 

But  the  vengeance  that  darken'd  their  brow 
was  uubreathed  ; 

With  eyes  turn'd  to  heaven  in  calm  resig- 
nation, 

They  sung  their  last  song  to  the  God  of  Sal- 
vation. 


On  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  the  chariot  is 

gliding, 
Through  the  path  of  the  thunder  the  horsemen 

are  riding ; 
Glide    swiftly,    bright    spirits !     the   prize    is 

before  ye, 
A  crown  never  fading,  a  kingdom  of  glory  ! 

James  Hislop.—Born  1798,  Died  1827. 


I  1653.— MOUNTAIN  CHILDREN. 

}  Dwellers  by  lake  and  hill ! 

I  Merry  companions  of  the  bird  and  bee  ! 

i  Go  gladly  forth  and  drink  of  joy  your  fill, 

I  With  unconstrained  step  and  spirits  free  ! 

i  No  crowd  impedes  your  way, 

I  No  city  v/all  impedes  your  further  bounds  ; 
i  Where  the  wild  flock  can  wonder,  ye  may 

I  stray, 

j  The  long   day  through,  'mid  summer  sights 
and  sounds. 


The  hills  with  the  deep,  mournful  music  were 

ringing. 
The  curlew  and  plover  in  concert  were  singing  ; 
But    the    melody    died    'mid     derision    and 

laughter. 
As  the  host   of  ungodly  rushed  on  to  the 

slaughter. 

Though  in  mist  and  in  darkness  and  fire  they 

were  shrouded, 
Yet  the  souls  of  the  righteous  were  calm  and 

unclouded. 
Their  dark  eyes  flash'd  lightning,  as,  firm  and 

unbending, 
They  stood  like  the  rock  which  the  thunder 

is  rending. 

The  muskets  were  flashing,  the  blue  swords 

were  gleaming. 
The  helmets  were  cleft,  and  the  red  blood  was 

streaming. 
The  heavens  grew  dark,  and  the  thunder  was 

rolling. 
When   in    Well  wood's    dark    muirlands    the 

mighty  were  falling. 

When  the  righteous  had  fallen,  and  the  combat 

was  ended, 
A   chariot   of   fire    through   the    dark   cloud 

descended  ; 
Its  drivers  were  angels  on  horses  of  whiteness, 
And  its   burning  wheels  turn'd  on   axles   of 

brightness. 

A  seraph  unfolded  its  doors  bright  and  shining, 
All  dazzling  like  gold  of  the  seventh  refining, 
And  the  souls  that  came  forth,  out  of  great 

tribulation, 
Have   mounted  the   chariots   and    steeds   of 

salvation. 


I  The  sunshine  and  the  flowers, 

j  And  the  old  trees  that  cast  a  solemn  shade ; 

j  The   pleasant   evening,   the   fresh  dewy 

■  hours, 

j  And    the   green  hills   whereon   your   fathers 

I  play'd. 

The  gray  and  ancient  peaks 
Round  which  the  silent  clouds  hang  day  and 
I  night ; 

j  And  the  low  voice  of  water  as  it  makes, 

I  Like  a  glad  creature,  murmurings  of  delight, 

{  These  are  your  joys  !     Go  forth — 

Give  your  hearts  up  unto  their  mighty  power ; 
For  in  this    spirit   God  has  clothed  the 
earth. 
And  speaketh  solemnly  from  tree  and  flower. 

The  voice  of  hidden  rills 
Its  quiet  way  into  your  spirits  finds  ; 

And  awfully  the  everlasting  hUls 
Address  you  in  their  many-toned  winds. 

Ye  sit  upon  the  earth 
T"wining  its  flowers,  and  shouting  full  of  glee  ; 

And  a  pure  mighty  influence,  'mid  your 
j  mirth, 

;   Moulds  your  unconscious  spirits  silently. 

i  Hence  is  it  that  the  lands 

I   Of  storm     and   mountain     have  the   noblest 

j  sons ; 

Whom  the  world  reverences.     The  patriot 
bands 
Were  of  the  hills  like  you,  ye  little  ones  'I 

Children  of  pleasant  song 
Are  taught  -within  the  mountain  solitudes ; 

For  hoary  legends  to  your  wilds  belong, 
And  yours  are  haunts  where  inspiration  broods. 


Mary  Howitt.] 


THE  FAIRIES  OF  CALDON-LOW. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Then  go  forth — earth  and  sky- 
To  you  are  tributary  ;  joys  are  spread 

Profusely,  like  the  summer  flowers  that 
Ue 
In  the  green  path,  beneath   your   gamesome 
tread ! 

Mary  Hoiuitt. — Born  1804. 


1654.— THE  FAIEIES  OF  THE   CALDON- 
LOW.— A  MIDSUMMER  LEGEND. 

*'  And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me  ?  " 

"  I've  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  Midsummer  night  to  see  !  " 

"  And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Low  ?  " 
*'  I  saw  the  blithe  sunshine  come  down, 

And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow." 

"  And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon-Hill  ?  " 
"  I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made, 

And  the  green  corn  ears  to  fill." 

*'  Oh,  tell  me  all,  my  Mary — 

All,  all  that  ever  you  know  ; 
For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies, 

Last  night  on  the  Caldon-Low." 

"  Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother, 

And  listen,  mother  of  mine  : 
A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine. 

And  merry  was  the  glee  of  the  harp-strings, 
And  their  dancing  feet  so  smaU  ; 

But,  oh,  the  sound  of  their  talking 
Was  merrier  far  than  all !  " 

"  And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 

That  you  did  hear  them  say  ?  " 
"I'll  tell  you  all,  my  mother — 

But  let  me  have  my  way ! 

And  some  they  play'd  with  the  water, 

And  roU'd  it  down  the  hill : 
'  And  this,'  they  said,  '  shall  speedily  turn 

The  poor  old  miller's  mill ; 

For  there  has  been  no  water 

Ever  since  the  first  of  May ; 
And  a  busy  man  shall  the  miller  be 

By  the  dawning  of  the  day ! 

Oh,  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 
When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise  ! 

The  joUy  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh, 
Till  the  tears  fiU  both  his  eyes  !  ' 

And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds, 

That  sounded  over  the  hill, 
And  each  put  a  horn  into  his  mouth, 

And  blew  so  sharp  and  shrill : — 


'  And  there,'  said  they,  '  the  merry  winds  go, 

Away  from  every  horn ; 
And  those  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 

From  the  blind  old  widow's  corn : 

Oh,  the  poor,  blind  old  widow — 
Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 

She'U  be  merry  enough  when  the  mildew's  gone. 
And  the  com  stands  stiff  and  strong  ! ' 

And  some  they  brought  thfe  brown  lintseed. 
And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low — 

'  And  this,'  said  they,  '  by  the  sunrise, 
In  the  weaver's  croft  shaU  grow ! 

Oh,  the  poor,  lame  weaver, 
'        How  will  he  laugh  outright. 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 
All  full  of  flowers  by  night ! ' 

And  then  upspoke  a  brownie. 

With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin — 

'  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow,'  said  he, 
'  And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 

I've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth. 

And  I  want  to  spin  another — 
A  little  sheet  for  Mary's  bed, 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother ! ' 

And  with  that  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I  laugh' d  out  loud  and  free ; 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

And  all,  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 

The  mists  were  cold  and  gray. 
And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 

That  round  about  me  lay. 

But,  as  I  came  down  from  the  hiU-top, 

I  heard,  afar  below. 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  merry  the  wheel  did  go  ! 

And  I  peep'd  into  the  widow's  field ; 

And,  sure  enough,  was  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildew 'd  corn 

All  standing  stiff  and  green. 

And  down  by  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole, 

To  see  if  the  flax  were  high  ; 
But  I  saw  the  weaver  at  his  gate 

With  the  good  news  in  his  eye  ! 

Now,  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother, 

And  all  that  I  did  see  ; 
So,  prithee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I'm  tired  as  I  can  be !  " 

Mary  Hoxoitt.—Bom  180  i 


1655.— THE  MONKEY. 

Monkey,  little  merry  fellow. 
Thou  art  Nature's  Punchinello  : 
Full  of  fun  as  Puck  could  be — 
Harlequin  might  learn  of  theo  ! 


Froyn  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  BROOM  FLOWER. 


[Mary  Howitt. 


In  the  very  ark,  no  doubt, 
You  went  frolicking  about ; 
Never  keeping  in  your  mind 
Drowned  monkeys  left  behind ! 

Have  you  no  traditions — none, 
Of  the  court  of  Solomon  ? 
No  memorial  how  ye  went 
With  Prince  Hiram's  armament  ? 

Look  now  at  him  ! — slyly  peep  j 
He  pretends  he  is  asleep  ! 
Fast  asleep  upon  his  bed. 
With  his  arm  beneath  his  head. 

Now  that  posture  is  not  right, 
And  he  is  not  settled  quite ; 
There  !  that's  better  than  before — 
And  the  knave  pretends  to  snore  ! 

Ha  !  he  is  not  half  asleep  : 
See,  he  slyly  takes  a  peep. 
Monkey,  though  your  eyes  were  shut, 
You  could  see  this  little  nut. 

You  shall  have  it,  pigmy  brother  ! 
What,  another  !  and  another  ! 
Nay,  your  cheeks  are  like  a  sack — 
Sit  down,  and  begin  to  crack. 

There  the  little  ancient  man 
Cracks  as  fast  as  crack  he  can  ! 
Now  good-by,  you  merry  fellow, 
Nature's  primest  Punchinello. 

Mary  Howitt. — Bom  1804. 


1656.— LITTLE  STREAMS. 

Little  streams  are  hght  and  shadow, 
Flowing  tlirough  the  pasture  meadow, 
Flowing  by  the  green  way-side, 
Through  the  forest  dim  and  wide, 
Through  the  hamlet  still  and  small — 
By  the  cottage,  by  the  hall, 
By  the  ruin'd  abbey  still ; 
Turning  here  and  there  a  mill, 
Bearing  tribute  to  the  river — 
Little  streams,  I  love  you  ever. 

Summer  music  is  there  flowing — 
Flowering  plants  in  them  are  grooving ; 
Happy  life  is  in  them  all. 
Creatures  innocent  and  small ; 
Little  birds  come  down  to  drink, 
Fearless  of  their  leafy  brink  ; 
Noble  trees  beside  them  grow. 
Glooming  them  with  branches  low ; 
And  between,  the  sunshine,  glancing, 
In  their"  little  waves,  is  dancing. 

Little  streams  have  flowers  a  many, 
Beautiful  and  fair  as  any  ; 
Typha  strong,  and  green  bur-reed ; 
Willow-herb,  with  cotton-seed ; 
Arrow-head,  with  eye  of  jet ; 
And  the  water- violet. 


There  the  flowering-rush  you  meet, 
And  the  plumy  meadow-sweet ; 
And,  in  places  deep  and  stilly, 
Marble-like,  the  water-lily. 

Little  streams,  their  voices  cheery, 

Sound  forth  welcomes  to  the  weary. 

Flowing  on  from  day  to  day, 

Without  stint  and  without  stay ; 

Here,  upon  their  flowery  bank. 

In  the  old  time  pilgrims  drank — 

Here  have  seen,  as  now,  pass  by, 

King-fisher,  and  dragon-fly ; 

Those  bright  things  that  have  their  dwelling, 

Where  the  little  streams  are  welling. 

Down  in  valleys  green  and  lowly, 
Murmuring  not  and  gliding  slowly ; 
Up  in  mountain -hollows  wild. 
Fretting  like  a  peevish  child ; 
Through  the  hamlet,  where  aU  day 
In  their  waves  the  children  play ; 
Running  west,  or  running  east, 
Doing  good  to  man  and  beast — 
Always  giving,  weary  never, 
Little  streams,  I  loye  you  ever. 

Ma'r-y  Howitt — Bom  1804. 


1657.— THE  BROOM-FLOWER 

0  the  Broom,  the  yellow  Broom, 
The  ancient  poet  sung  it. 

And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 
To  lie  at  rest  among  it. 

1  know  the  realms  where  people  say 
The  flowers  have  not  their  fellow ; 

I  know  where  they  shine  out  like  suns,- 
The  crimson  and  the  yellow. 

I  know  where  ladies  live  enchained 

In  luxury's  silken  fetters. 
And  flowers  as  bright  as  gUttering  gems 

Are  used  for  written  letters. 

But  ne'er  was  flower  so  fair  as  this, 

In  modem  days  or  olden ; 
It  groweth  on  its  nodding  stem 

Like  to  a  garland  golden. 

And  all  about  my  mother's  door 
Shine  out  its  glittering  bushes. 

And  down  the  glen,  where  clear  as  light 
The  mountain-water  gushes. 

Take  all  the  rest ;  but  give  me  this, 
And  the  bird  that  nestles  in  it ; 

I  love  it,  for  it  loves  the  Broom — 
The  green  and  yellow  linnet. 

Well,  call  the  rose  the  queen  of  flowers, 
And  boast  of  that  of  Sharon, 

Of  lilies  like  to  marble  cups. 
And  the  golden  rod  of  Aaron 


Mary  Howitt.] 


SUMMER  WOODS. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


I  care  not  how  these  flowers  may  be 

Beloved  of  man  and  woman  ; 
The  Broom  it  is  the  flower  for  me, 

That  groweth  on  the  common. 

0  the  Broom,  the  yellow  Broom, 

The  ancient  poet  sung  it, 
And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 

To  lie  at  rest  among  it. 

Mary  Howitt — Bom  1804. 


1658.— SUMMER  WOODS. 

Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods ; 

There  entereth  no  annoy ; 
All  greenly  wave  the  chestnut  leaves, 

And  the  earth  is  full  of  joy. 

I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  sights 

Of  beauty  you  may  see, 
The  bursts  of  golden  sunshine, 

And  many  a  shady  tree. 

There,  lightly  swung,  in  bowery  glades. 

The  honey-suckles  twine ; 
There  blooms  the  rose-red  campion, 

And  the  dark-blue  columbine. 

There  grows  the  four-leaved  plant,  "  true- 
love," 

In  some  dusk  woodland  spot ; 
There  grows  the  enchanter's  night-shade. 

And  the  wood  forget-me-not. 

And  many  a  merry  bird  is  there, 

Unscared  by  lawless  men  ; 
The  blue-wing'd  jay,  the  woodpecker. 

And  the  golden-crested  wren. 

Come  down,  and  ye  shall  see  them  all, 

The  timid  and  the  bold ; 
For  their  sweet  life  of  pleasantness, 

It  is  not  to  be  told. 

And  far  within  that  summer  wood, 

Among  the  leaves  so  green. 
There  flows  a  little  gurgling  Ijrook, 

The  brightest  e'er  was  seen. 

There  come  the  Httlo  gentle  birds. 

Without  a  fear  of  ill ; 
Down  to  the  murmuring  water's  edge, 

And  freely  drink  their  fill ! 

And  dash  about  and  splash  about, 

The  merry  little  things ; 
And  look  askance  with  bright  black  eyes, 

And  flirt  their  dripping  wings. 

I've  seen  the  freakish  squirrels  drop 

Down  from  their  leafy  tree, 
The  little  squirrels  with  the  old — 

Great  joy  it  was  to  mo  ! 


And  down  unto  the  running  brook, 

I've  seen  them  nimbly  go  ; 
And  the  bright  water  seemed  to  speak 

A  welcome  kind  and  low. 

The  nodding  plants  they  bowed  their  heads, 

As  if  in  heartsome  cheer  ; 
They  spake  unto  these  little  things, 

"  'Tis  merry  living  here  !  " 

Oh,  how  my  heart  ran  o'er  with  joy  ! 

I  saw  that  all  was  good. 
And  how  we  might  glean  up  delight 

All  round  us,  if  we  would ! 

And  many  a  wood-mouse  dwelleth  there, 

Beneath  the  old  wood  shade, 
And  all  day  long  has  work  to  do, 

Nor  is  of  aught  afraid. 

The  green  shoots  grow  above  their  heads, 

And  roots  so  fresh  and  fine 
Beneath  their  feet ;  nor  is  there  strife 

'Mong  them  for  mine  and  thine. 

There  is  enough  for  every  one. 

And  they  lovingly  agree ; 
We  might  learn  a  lesson,  all  of  us, 

Beneath  the  green-wood  tree. 

Mary  Howitt. — Born  1804 


1659.— LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

Sporting  through  the  forest  wide ; 
Playing  by  the  waterside  ; 
Wandering  o'er  the  heathy  fells; 
Down  within  the  woodland  dells ; 
All  among  the  mountains  wild, 
Dwelleth  many  a  little  child ! 
In  the  baron's  hall  of  pride  ; 
By  the  poor  man's  dull  fireside  : 
'Mid  the  mightj^  'mid  the  mean. 
Little  children  m.ay  be  seen, 
Like  the  flowers  that  spring  up  fair, 
Bright  and  countless  everywhere  1 
In  the  far  isles  of  the  main ; 
In  the  desert's  lone  domain  ; 
In  the  savage  mountain-glen, 
'Mong  the  tribes  of  swarthy  men  ; 
Wheresoe'er  a  foot  hath  gone  ; 
Wheresoe'er  the  sun  hath  shone 
On  a  league  of  peopled  ground. 
Little  children  may  be  found  ! 
Blessings  on  them  !  they  in  me 
Move  a  kindly  sympathy, 
With  their  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears  ; 
With  their  laughter  and  their  tears ; 
With  their  wonder  so  intense, 
And  their  small  experience  ! 
Little  children,  not  alone 
On  the  wide  earth  are  ye  known, 
'Mid  its  labours  and  its  cares, 
'Mid  its  sufferings  and  its  snares  ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


MASSACRE  OF  THE  MACPHERSON. 


[W.  E.  Attoitn. 


Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  strife, 
In  the  world  of  love  and  life, 
Where  no  sinful  thing  hath  trod — 
In  the  presence  of  your  God, 
Spotless,  blameless,  glorified — 
Little  children,  ye  abide  ! 

Manj  Hoivitt. — Born 


1804 


1 66o.— CORNFIELDS. 

When  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze, 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 

Goes  floating  like  an  idle  thought 
The  fair  white  thistle-down, 

0  then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 
Upon  the  golden  harvest  hill ! 

What  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 

Amid  a  field  new  shorn, 
And  see  all  round  on  sun-lit  slopes 

The  piled-up  stacks  of  com ; 
And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o'er 
All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore. 

1  feel  the  day — I  see  the  field, 
The  quivering  of  the  leaves. 

And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 

Binding  the  yellow  sheaves  ; 
And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 
To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream. 

I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 

And  reapers  many  a  one, 
Bending  unto  their  sickles'  stroke — 

And  Boaz  looking  on  ; 
And  Ruth,  the  Moabite  so  fair, 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 

Again  I  see  a  little  child. 

His  mother's  sole  delight, — 
God's  living  gift  unto 

The  kind  good  Shunammite  ; 
To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield, 
And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 

The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills, 

The  fields  of  Gahlee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see; 
And  the  dear  Saviour  takes  his  way 
'Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath  day. 

0  golden  fields  of  bending  com, 

How  beautiful  they  seem  ; 
The  reaper-folk,  the  piled-up  sheaves, 

To  me  are  like  a  dream. 
The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 
Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there. 

Mary  Howitt. — Bom  1804. 


i66i.- 


-THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE 
SWALLOW. 


And  is  thff  swallow  gone  ? 

Who  beheld  it  ? 

Which  way  sailed  it  ? 
Farewell  bade  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go  : — 

But  who  doth  hear 

Its  summer  cheer 
As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro  ? 

So  the  freed  spirit  flies  ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steals  away 
Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

Whither  ?  wherefore  doth  it  go  ? 

'Tis  all  unknown ; 

We  feel  alone 
That  a  void  is  left  below. 

William  Howitt, — Born  1795. 


1662.— MASSACRE  OF  THE 
MACPHERSON. 


Fhairshon  swore  a  feud 

Against  the  clan  M'Tavish- 
Marched  into  their  land 

To  mnrder  and  to  rafish ; 
For  he  did  resolve 

To  extirpate  the  vipers, 
V/ith  four-and-twenty  men, 

And  five-and-thirty  pipers. 


But  when  he  had  gone 

Half-way  down  Strath  Canaan, 
Of  his  fighting  tail 

Just  three  were  remainin'. 
They  were  all  he  had 

To  back  him  in  ta  battle ; 
All  the  rest  had  gone 

Off  to  drive  ta  cattle. 


"  Fery  coot !  "  cried  Fhairshon- 

"  So  my  clan  disgraced  is  ; 
Lads,  we'll  need  to  fight 

Pefore  we  touch  ta  peasties. 
Here's  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh. 

Coming  wi'  his  faseals — 
Gillies  seventy-three. 

And  sixty  Dhuine  wassails  !  " 

IV. 

"  Coot  tay  to  you,  sir ! 

Are  not  you  ta  Fhairshon  ? 
Was  you  coming  here 

To  visit  any  person  ? 


W.  E.  Attoun.]                  the  BUEIAL-MAECH  OF  DUNDEE.        [Seventh  Period.— 

You  are  a  plackguard,  sir  ! 

Good  King  Eobert's  heart — the  priceless — 

It  is  now  six  hundred 

To  our  dear  Eedeemer's  shore  ! 

Coot  long  years,  and  more, 

Lo  !  we  bring  with  us  the  hero — 

Since  my  glen  was  plundered." 

Lo  !  we  bring  the  conquering  Grasm 

Crown' d  as  best  beseems  a  victor 

V. 

From  the  altar  of  his  fame  ; 

"  Fat  is  tat  yon  say  ? 

Fresh  and  bleeding  from  the  battle 

Dar  you  cock  your  peaver  ? 

Whence  his  spirit  took  its  flight. 

I  will  teach  you,  sir, 

Midst  the  crashing  charge  of  squaduona, 

Fat  is  good  pehaviour  ! 

And  the  thunder  of  the  fight ! 

You  shall  not  exist 

Strike,  I  say,  the  notes  of  triumph, 

For  another  day  more  ; 

As  we  march  o'er  moor  and  lea ! 

I  will  shoot  you,  sir. 

Is  there  any  here  will  venture 

Or  stap  you  with  my  claymore  !  " 

To  bewail  our  dead  Dundee  ? 

Let  the  widows  of  the  traitors 

VI. 

Weep  until  their  eyes  are  dim  I 

"  I  am  fery  glad     . 

Wail  ye  may  full  well  for  Scotland — 

To. learn  what  you  mention, 

Let  none  dare  to  mourn  for  him  ! 

Since  I  can  prevent 

See  !  above  his  glorious  body 

Any  such  intention." 

Lies  the  royal  banner's  fold — 

So  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

See  !  his  valiant  blood  is  mingled — 

Gave  some  warlike  howls, 

With  its  crimson  and  its  gold — 

Threw  his  skhian-dhu, 

See  how  calm  he  looks,  and  stately, 

An'  stuck  it  in  his  powels. 

Like  a  warrior  on  his  shield. 

Waiting  till  the  flush  of  morning 

VII. 

Breaks  along  the  battle-field  ! 

In  this  fery  way 

See — Oh,  never  more,  my  comrades. 

Tied  ta  faliant  Fhairshon, 

Shall  we  see  that  falcon  eye 

Who  was  always  thought 

Eedden  with  its  inward  lightning, 

A  superior  person. 

As  the  hour  of  fight  drew  nigh ! 

Fhairshon  had  a  son, 

Never  shall  we  hear  the  voice  that. 

Who  married  Noah's  daughter, 

Clearer  than  the  trumpet's  call, 

And  nearly  spoiled  ta  Flood 

Bade  us  strike  for  King  and  Country, 

By  trinking  up  ta  water — 

Bade  us  win  the  field,  or  fall ! 

VIII. 

Which  he  would  have  done, 

On  the  heights  of  Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn  our  army  lay  : 
SloAvly  rose  the  mist  in  columns 

I  at  least  believe  it, 

From  the  river's  broken  way  ; 

Had  ta  mixture  peen 

Hoarsely  roar'd  the  swollen  torrent, 

Only  half  Glenlivet. 

And  the  Pass  was  wrapt  in  gloom. 

This  is  all  my  tale  : 

When  the  clansmen  rose  together 

Sirs,  I  hope  'tis  new  t'ye  ! 

From  their  lair  amidst  the  broom. 

Here's  your  fery  good  healths, 

Then  we  belted  on  our  tartans, 

And  tamn  ta  whu»Ky  tuty ! 

And  our  bonnets  down  we  drew. 

W.  IE.  Aytoun.—Born  1813,  Died  1865. 

And  we  felt  our  broadswords'  edges, 

And  we  proved  them  to  be  true ; 

And  we  pray'd  the  prayer  of  soldiers. 
And  we  cried  the  gathering-cry. 

And  we  clasped  the  hands  of  kinsmen. 

1663.— THE  BUEIAL-MAECH  OF 

And  we  swore  to  do  or  die  ! 

DUNDEE. 

Then  our  leader  rode  before  us 

On  his  war-horse  black  as  night — 

Sound  the  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan — 

Well  the  Cameronian  rebels 

Let  the  pibroch  shake  the  air 

Knew  that  charger  in  the  fight  !— 

With  its  wild  triumphal  music. 

And  a  cry  of  exultation 

Worthy  of  the  freight  we  bear. 

From  the  bearded  warriors  rose ; 

Let  the  ancient  hills  of  Scotland 

For  we  loved  the  house  of  Claver'se, 

Hear  once  more  the  battle-song 

And  we  thought  of  good  Montrose. 

Swell  within  their  glens  and  valleys 

But  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence — 

As  the  clansmen  march  along  1 

"  Soldiers  !     I  have  sworn  a  vow  : 

Never  from  the  field  pf  combat, 

Ere  the  evening  star  shall  glisten 

Never  from  the  deadly  fray. 

On  Schehallion's  lofty  brow. 

Was  a  nobler  trophy  carried 

Either  we  shall  rest  in  triumph, 

Than  we  bring  with  us  to-day — 

Or  another  of  the  Grimes 

Never,  since  the  valia.nt  Douglas 

Shall  have  died  in  battle-harness 

On  his  dauntless  bosom  bore 

For  his  Country  and  King  James  ! 

From  1780  to  1866.]      SUMMONS  OF  THE  DESTEOYING  ANGEL. 


[H.  H.  MiLMAN. 


Think  upon  the  Eoyal  Martyr — 

Think  of  what  his  race  endure — 
Think  of  him  whom  butchers  murder'd 

On  the  field  of  Magus  Muir  : — 
By  his  sacred  blood  I  charge  ye, 

By  the  ruin'd  hearth  and  shrine — 
By  the  blighted  hopes  of  Scotland, 

By  your  injuries  and  mine — 
Strike  this  day  as  if  the  anvil 

Lay  beneath  your  blows  the  while, 
Be  they  covenanting  traitors, 

Or  the  brood  of  false  Argyle  ! 
Strike  !  and  drive  the  trembling  rebels 

Backwards  o'er  the  stormy  Forth; 
Let  them  tell  their  pale  Convention 

How  they  fared  within  the  North. 
Let  them  tell  that  Highland  honour 

Is  not  to  be  bought  nor  sold, 
That  we  scorn  their  prince's  anger 

As  we  loathe  his  foreign  gold. 
Strike  !  and  when  the  fight  is  over, 

If  ye  look  in  vain  for  me, 
Where  the  dead  are  lying  thickest. 

Search  for  him  that  was  Dundee  !  " 


Loudly  then  the  hills  re-echoed 

With  our  answer  to  his  call, 
But  a  deeper  echo  sounded 

In  the  bosoms  of  us  all. 
For  the  lands  of  wide  Breadalbane, 

Not  a  man  who  heard  him  speak 
Would  that  day  have  left  the  battle. 

Burning  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
Told  the  clansmen's  fierce  emotion. 

And  they  harder  drew  their  breath  ; 
For  their  souls  were  strong  within  them. 

Stronger  than  the  grasp  of  death. 
Soon  we  heard  a  challenge-trumpet 

Sounding  in  the  Pass  below, 
And  the  distant  tramp  of  horses, 

And  the  voices  of  the  foe  : 
Down  we  crouch' d  amid  the  bgcacken, 

Till  the  Lowland  ranks  drew  near, 
Panting  like  the  hounds  in  summer. 

When  they  scent  the  stately  deer. 
From  the  dark  defile  emerging, 

Next  we  saw  the  squadrons  come, 
Leslie's  foot  and  Leven's  troopers 

Marching  to  the  tuck  of  drum ; 
Through  the  scatter'd  wood  of  birches, 

O'er  the  broken  ground  and  heath, 
Wound  the  long  battalion  slowly, 

Till  they  gain'd  the  plain  beneath ; 
Then  we  bounded  from  our  covert. — 

Judge  how  look'd  the  Saxons  then, 
When  they  saw  the  rugged  mountain 

Start  to  life  with  armed  men  ! 
Like  a  tempest  down  the  ridges 

Swept  the  hurricane  of  steel, 
E-ose  the  slogan  of  Macdonald — 

Flash' d  the  broadsword  of  Lochiel ! 
Vainly  sped  the  withering  volley 

'Mongst  the  foremost  of  our  band — 
On  we  pour'd  until  we  met  them. 

Foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand. 


Horse  and  man  went  down  like  drift-wood 

When  the  floods  are  black  at  Yule, 
And  their  carcasses  are  whirling 

In  the  Garry's  deepest  pool. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  before  us — 

Living  foe  there  tarried  none 
On  the  field  of  Killiecrankie, 

When  that  stubborn  fight  was  done ! 

And  the  evening  star  was  shining 

On  Schehallion's  distant  head, 
When  we  wiped  our  bloody  broadswords, 

And  return' d  to  count  the  dead. 
There  we  ^ound  him  gash'd  and  gory, 

Stretch' d  upon  the  cumber' d  plain. 
As  he  told  us  where  to  seek  him. 

In  the  thickest  of  the  slain. 
And  a  smile  was  on  his  visage, 

For  within  his  dying  ear 
Peal'd  the  joyful  note  of  triumph, 

And  the  clansmen's  clamorous  cheer ; 
So,  amidst  the  battle's  thunder, 

Shot,  and  steel,  and  scorching  flame. 
In  the  glory  of  his  manhood 

Pass'd  the  spirit  of  the  Graeme ! 
Open  wide  the  vaults  of  Atholl, 

Where  the  bones  of  heroes  rest — 
Open  wide  the  hallow 'd  portals 

To  receive  another  guest ! 
Last  of  Scots,  and  last  of  freemen — 

Last  of  all  that  dauntless  race, 
Who  would  rather  die  unsulhed 

Than  outlive  the  land's  disgrace ! 
O  thou  lion-hearted  warrior  ! 

Eeck  not  of  the  after-time  : 
Honour  may  be  deem'd  dishonour, 

Loyalty  be  call'd  a  crime. 
Sleep  in  peace  with  kindred  ashes 

Of  the  noble  and  the  true. 
Hands  that  never  fail'd  their  country, 

Hearts  that  never  baseness  knew. 
Sleep  ! — and  till  the  latest  trumpet 

Wakes  the  dead  from  earth  and  sea, 
Scotland  shall  not  boast  a  braver 

Chieftain  than  our  own  Dundee  ! 

W.  E.  Aytoun.—Born  1813,  Died  1865. 


1664.— SUMMONS  OF  THE  DESTEOYING 
ANGEL  TO  THE  CITY  OF  BABYLON. 

The  hour  is  come  !   the  hour  is  come !     With 

voice 
Heard  in  thy  inmost  soul,  I  summon  thee, 
Cyrus,  the  Lord's  anointed  !     And  thou  river, 
That  flowest  exulting  in  thy  proud  approach 
To  Babylon,  beneath  whose  shadowy  walls 
And  brazen  gates,  and  gilded  palaces, 
And  groves,  that  gleam  with  marble  obelisks, 
Thy  azure  bosom  shall  repose,  with  lights 
Fretted  and  chequer' d  like  the  starry  heavens : 
I  do  arrest  thee  in  -thy  stately  course. 
By  Him  that  pour'd  thee  from  thine  ancient 

fountain. 


H.  H.  MiLMAN.] 


THE  FAIR  EECLUSE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


And  sent  thee  forth,  even  at  the  birth  of  time 
One  of  his  holy  streams,  to  lave  the  mounts 
Of  Paradise.  Thou  hear'st  me  :  thou  dost  check 
Abrupt  thy  waters  as  the  Arab  chief 
His    headlong    squadrons.     Where    the    un 

observed 
Yet  toiling  Persian  breaks  the  ruining  mound 
I  see  thee  gather  thy  tumultuous  strength ; 
And,  through  the  deep   and  roaring   Nahar 

malcha, 
Roll  on  as  proudly  conscious  of  fulfilling 
The  omnipotent  command  !     \Vhile,  far  away, 
The  lake,  that  slept  but  now  so  calm,  nor 

moved, 
Save  by  the  rippling  moonshine,  heaves  on 

high 
Its  foaming  surface  Kke  a  whirlpool-gulf. 
And  boils  and  whitens  with  the  unwonted  tide. 

But  silent  as  thy  billows  used  to  flow, 
And  terrible,  the  hosts  of  Elam  move. 
Winding  their  darksome  way  profound,  where 

man 
Ne'er  trod,  nor  light  e'er  shone,  nor  air  from 

heaven 
Breathed.     Oh !    ye   secret    and  unfathom'd 

depths. 
How  are  ye  now  a  smooth  and  royal  way 
For  the  army  of  God's  vengeance  ?     Fellow- 
slaves 
And  ministers  of  the  Eternal  purpose, 
Not  guided  by  the  treacherous,  injured  sons 
Of  Babylon,  but  by  my  mightier  arm. 
Ye  come,  and  spread  your  banners,  and  dis- 
play 
Your  glittering  arms  as  ye  advance,  all  white 
Beneath  the  admiring  moon.     Come  on !  the 

gates 
Are  open — not  for  banqueters  in  blood 
Like  you !     I  see  on  either  side  o'erflow 
The  living  deluge  of  arm'd  men,  and  cry. 
Begin,  begin  !  with  fire  and  sword  begin 
The  work  of  wrath.     Upon  my  shadowy  wings 
I  pause,  and  float  a  little  while,  to  see 
Mine  human  instruments  fulfil  my  task 
Of  final  ruin.     Then  I  mount,  I  fly, 
And  sing  my  proud  song,  as  I  ride  the  clouds, 
That  stars  may  hear,   and   all  the   hosts  of 

worlds, 
That  live  along  the  interminable  space, 
Take  up  Jehovah's  everlasting  triumph  ! 

H.  H.  Milman. — Bom  1791. 


1665.— THE  FAIR  RECLrSE. 

Sunk  was  the  sun,  and  up  the  eastern  heaven. 

Like  maiden  on  a  lonely  pilgrimage, 

Moved  the  meek  star  of  eve ;  the  wandering 

air 
Breathed  odours;   wood,  and  waveless  lake, 

like  man. 
Slept,  weary  of  the  garish,  babbling  day. 

Dove  of  the  wilderness,  thy  snowy  wing 
Droops  not  in  slumber  j  Lilian,  thou  alone, 


'Mid  the  deep  quiet,  wakest.     Dost  thou  rove, 
Idolatrous  of  yon  majestic  moon. 
That  Uke  a  crystal-throned  queen  in  heaven. 
Seems  with  her  present  deity  to  hush 
To  beauteous  adoration  all  the  earth  ? 
Might  seem  the  solemn  silent  mountain  tops 
Stand  up  and  worship  !  the  translucent  streams 
Down  the  hills  glittering,   cherish  the  pure 

light 
Beneath  the  shadowy  foliage  o'er  them  flung 
At  intervals ;  the  lake,  so  silver-white, 
Glistens  ;  aU  indistinct  the  snowy  swans 
Bask  in  the  radiance  cool.     Doth  Lilian  muse 
To  that  apparent  queen  her  vesper  hymn  ? 

Nursling  of  solitude,  her  infant  couch 
Never  did  mother  watch ;  within  the  grave 
She  slept  unwaking  :  scornful  turn'd  aloof 
Caswallon,  of  those  pure  instinctive  joys 
By  fathers  felt,  when  playful  infant  grace, 
Touch' d  with  a  feminine  softness,  round  the 

heart 
Winds  its  light  maze  of  undefined  delight, 
Contemptuous  :  he  with  haughty  joy  behold 
His  boy,  fair  Malwyn  ;  him  in  bossy  shield 
Rock'd  proudly,  him  upbore  to  mountain  steep 
Fierce   and  undaunted,   for  their   dangerous 

nest 
To  battle  with  the  eagle's  clam'rous  brood. 

But  she,  the  while,  from  human  tenderness 
Estranged,  and  gentler  feelings  that  light  up 
The  cheek  of  youth  with  rosy  joyous  smile, 
Like  a  forgotten  lute,  play'd  on  alone 
By  chance-caressing  airs,  amid  the  wild 
Beauteously  pale  and  sadly  playful  grew, 
A  lonely  child,  by  not  one  human  heart 
Beloved,   and  loving   none :    nor   strange    if 

learnt 
Her  native  fond  affections  to  embrace 
Things  senseless  and  inanimate ;  she  loved 
All  flowrets  that  with  rich  embroidery  fair 
Enamel  the  green  earth — the  odorous  thyme, 
Wild  rose,  and  roving  eglantine  ;  nor  spared 
To  mourn  their   fading  forms   with   childish 

tears. 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  light  she  loved,  that 

droop 
Fringing  the    crystal   stream;    the   sportive 

breeze 
That  wanton'd  with  her  brown  and  glossy 

locks ; 
The  sunbeam  chequering  the  fresh  bank ;  ere 

dawn 
Wandering,  and  wandering  still  at  dewy  eve. 
By  Glenderamakin's  flower-empurpled  marge, 
Derwent's  blue  lake,  or  Greta's  wildering  glen. 
Rare  sound  to  her  was  human  voice,  scarce 
heard. 
Save  of  her  aged  nurse  or  shepherd  maid 
Soothing  the  child  with  simple  tale  or  song. 
Hence  all  she  knew  of  earthly  hopes  and  fears, 
Life's   sins  and  sorrows :  better   known  the 

voice 
Beloved  of  lark  from  misty  morning  cloud 
Blithe  carolling,  and  wild  melodious  notes 
Heard  mingling  in  the  summer  wood,  or  plaint 
By  moonlight,  of  the  lone  night-warbling  bird- 


From  1780  to  186G.1 


HYMN. 


[H.  H.  MiLMAN. 


Nor  tliey  of  love  unconscious,  all  around 
Fearless,  familiar  they  tlieir  descants  sweet 
Tuned  emulous ;  her  knew  all  living  shapes 
That  tenant  wood  or  rock,  dun  roe  or  deer, 
Sunning  his  dappled  side,  at  noontide  crouch' d 
Courting  her  fond  caress ;  nor  fled  her  gaze 
The  brooding  dove,  but  murmur' d  sounds  of 
joy. 

IT.  H.  Milman.—Born  1791. 


1666.— THE  DAY  OF  JUDGMENT. 

Even  thus  amid  thy  pride  and  luxury, 
O  Earth !    shall   that  last  coming  burst  on 
thee, 
That  secret  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man, 
When   all  the   cherub -throning   clouds    shall 

shine, 
Irradiate  with  his  bright  advancing  sign : 
When  that   Great   Husbandman   shall   wave 

his  fan. 
Sweeping,  like  chaff,  thy  wealth  and  pomp 

away ; 
Still  to  the  noontide  of  that  nightless  day 
Shalt  thou  thy  wanted  dissolute  course  main- 
tain. 
Along  the  busy  mart  and  crowded  street, 
The  buyer  and  the  seller  still  shall  meet, 
And  marriage-feasts  begin  their  jocund  strain  : 
Still  to  the  pouring  out  the  cup  of  woe  ; 
Till  earth,  a  drunkard,  reeling  to  and  fro. 
And  mountains  molten  by  his  burning  feet. 
And  heaven  his  presence  own,  all  red  with 
furnace  heat. 
The  hundred-gated  cities  then, 
The  towers  and  temples,  named  of  men 
Eternal,  and  the  thrones  "of  kings  ; 
The  gilded  summer  palaces, 
The  courtly  bowers  of  love  and  ease, 
Where  still  the  bird  of  pleasure  sings  : 
Ask  ye  the  destiny  of  them  ? 
Go,  gaze  on  falling  Jerusalem  ! 
Yea,  mightier  names  are  in  the  fatal  roll, 
'Gainst  earth  and  heaven  God's  standard  is 

unfurl' d ; 
The  skies  are  shrivell'd  like  a  burning  scroll. 
And  one  vast  common  doom  ensepulchres  the. 

world. 
Oh  !  who  shall  then  survive  ? 
Oh  !  v*^ho  shall  stand  and  live  ? 
When  all  that  hath  been  is  no  more  ; 
When  for  the  round  earth  hung  in  air, 
With  all  its  constellations  fair 
In  the  sky's  azure  canopy; 
When  for  the  breathing  earth,  and  sparkling 

sea, 
Is  but  a  fiery  deluge  without  shore. 
Heaving  along  the  abyss  profound  and  dark — 
A  fiery  deluge,  and  Avithout  an  ark  ? 
Lord  of  all  power,  when  thou  art  there  alone 
On  thy  eternal  fiery- wheeled  throne, 
That  in  its  high  meridian  moon  : 
Needs  not  the  perish' d  sun  nor  moon : 


When  thou  art  there  in  thy  presiding  state. 
Wide-sceptred    monarch   o'er   the   realm    of 

doom : 
When    from    the    sea-depths,   from    earth's 

darkest  womb, 
The  dead  of  all  the  ages  round  thee  wait, : 
And  when  the  tribes  of  wickedness  are  strewn 
Like  forest-leaves  in  the  autumn  of  thine  ire  : 
Faithful  and  True  !  thou  still  wilt  save  thine 

own  ! 
The  saints  shall  dwell  within  the  unharming 

fire. 
Each   white   robe   spotless,    blooming    every 

palm. 
Even  safe  as  we,  by  this  still  fountain's  side, 
So  shall  the  church,  thy  bright  and  mystic 

bride. 
Sit  on  the  stormy  gulf  a  halcyon  bird  of  calm. 
Yes,  'mid  yon  angry  and  destroying  signs, 
O'er  us  the  rainbow  of  thy  mercy  shines ; 
We  hail,  we  bless  the  covenant  of  its  beam. 
Almighty  to  avenge,  almightiest  to  redeem  ! 

if.  H.  Milman.—Born  1791. 


1667.— BRIDAL  SONG. 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet 
Moving  slow  our  solemn  feet, 
We  have  borne  thee  on  the  road 
To  the  virgin's  blest  abode  ; 
With  thy  yellow  torches  gk-aming. 
And  thy  scarlet  mantle  streaming. 
And  the  canopy  above 
Swaying  as  we  slowly  move. 

Thou  hast  left  the  joyous  feast, 
And  the  mirth  and  wine  have  ceased  ; 
And  now  we  set  thee  down  before 
The  jealously-unclosing  door, 
That  the  favour'd  youth  admits 
Where  the  veiled  virgin  sits 
In  the  bliss  of  maiden  fear. 
Waiting  our  soft  tread  to  hear, 
And  the  music's  brisker  din 
At  the  bridegroom's  entering  in, 
Entering  in,  a  welcome  guest. 
To  the  chamber  of  his  rest. 

H.  H.  Milman.—Born  1791. 


1668.— HYMN 

FOR  SIXTEENTH  SUNDAY   AFTER   TRINITY. 

When  our  heads  are  bow'd  with  woe, 
When  our  bitter  tears  o'erflow. 
When  we  mourn  the  lost,  the  dear  : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

Thou  our  throbbing  flesh  hast  worn, 
Thou  our  mortal  griefs  hast  borne, 
Thou  hast  shed  the  human  tear : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

75 


H.  H.  MiLMAN.] 


BEOTHEE,  THOU  AET  GONE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


When  the  sullen  death-bell  tolls 
For  our  own  departed  souls — 
When  our  final  doom  is  near  : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

Thou  hast  bow'd  the  dying  head, 
Thou  the  blood  of  life  hast  shed, 
Thou  hast  fill'd  a  mortal  bier : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

When  the  heart  is  sad  within 
With  the  thought  of  all  its  sin, 
When  the  spirit  shrinks  with  fear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

Thou  the  shame,  the  grief  hast  known ; 
Though  the  sins  were  not  Thine  own, 
Thou  hast  deign' d  their  load  to  bear : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

H.  H.  Milman. — Born  1791. 


May  each,  like  thee,  depart  in  peace, 

To  be  a  glorious,  happy  guest 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,- 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

H.  H.  Milman.— Born  1791. 


1669.— BEOTHEE,  THOU  AET  GONE. 

Brother,  thou  art  gone  before  us. 

And  thy  saintly  soul  is  flown 
Where  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye, 

And  sorrow  is  unknown — 
From  the  burden  of  the  flesh. 

And  from  care  and  sin  released. 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling. 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

The  toilsome  way  thou'st  travell'd  o'er. 

And  hast  borne  the  heavy  load ; 
But  Christ  hath  taught  thy  wandering  feet 

To  reach  His  blest  abode. 
Thou'rt  sleeping  now,  like  Lazarus, 

On  his  Father's  faithful  breast, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Sin  can  never  taint  thee  now. 

Nor  can  doubt  thy  faith  assail  ; 
Nor  thy  meek  trust  in  Jesus  Christ 

And  the  Holy  Spirit  fail. 
And  there  thou'rt  sure  to  meet  the  good. 

Whom  on  earth  thou  lovest  best, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust," 

Thus  the  solemn  priest  hath  said — 
So  we  lay  the  turf  above  thee  now, 

And  seal  thy  narrow  bed ; 
But  thy  spirit,  brother,  soars  away 

Among  the  faithful  blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

And  when  the  Lord  shall  summon  us 
Whom  thou  now  hast  left  behind, 

May  we,  untainted  by  the  world. 
As  sure  a  welcome  find : 


1670.— CHOEUS. 

King  of  kings  !  and  Lord  of  lords  ! 
Thus  we  move,  our  sad  steps  timing 
To  our  cymbals'  feeblest  chiming, 
Where  Thy  house  its  rest  accords. 
Chased  and  wounded  birds  are  we. 
Through  the  dark  air  fled  to  Thee — 
To  the  shadow  of  Thy  wings, 
Lord  of  lords  !  and  King  of  kings  ! 

Behold,  0  Lord  !  the  heathen  tread 
The  branches  of  Thy  fruitful  vine. 
That  its  luxurious  tendrils  spread 
O'er  all  the  hills  of  Palestine. 
And  now  the  wild  boar  comes  to  waste 
Even  us — the  greenest  boughs  and  last. 
That,  drinking  of  Thy  choicest  dew, 
On  Zion's  hill  in  beauty  grew. 

No !  by  the  marvels  of  Thine  hand, 
Thou  wilt  save  Thy  chosen  land  ! 
By  all  Thine  ancient  mercies  shown, 
By  all  our  fathers'  foes  o'erthrown, 
By  the  Egyptian's  car-borne  host. 
Scatter' d  on  the  Eed  Sea  coast — 
By  that  wide  and  bloodless  slaughter 
Underneath  the  drowning  water. 

Like  us,  in  utter  helplessness, 
In  their  last  and  worst  distress — 
On  the  sand  and  sea- weed  lying — 
Israel  pour'd  her  doleful  sighing ; 
While  before  the  deep  sea  flow'd. 
And  behind  fierce  Egypt  rode — 
To  their  father's  God  they  pr&y'd, 
To  the  Lord  of  hosts  for  aid. 

On  the  margin  of  the  flood 

With  lifted  rod  the  prophet  stood ; 

And  the  summon'd  east  wind  blew, 

And  aside  it  sternly  threw 

The  gather'd  waves  that  took  their  stand, 

Like  crystal  rocks,  on  either  hand. 

Or  walls  of  sea-green  marble  piled 

Eound  some  irregular  city  wild. 

Then  the  light  of  morning  lay 
On  the  wonder-paved  way, 
Wliere  the  treasures  of  the  deep 
In  their  caves  of  coral  sleep. 
The  profound  abysses,  where 
Was  never  sound  from  upper  air, 
Eang  with  Israel's  chanted  words  : 
King  of  kings  !  and  Lord  of  lords  ! 

Then  v/ith  bow  and  banneii  glancing, 
On  exulting  Egypt  came ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


LOVE. 


[P.  J.  Bailet. 


With  her  chosen  horsemeft  prancins', 

And  her  cars  on  wheels  of  flame, 
In  a  rich  and  boastful  ring, 
All  around  her  furious  king. 

But  the  Lord  from  out  His  cloud, 
The  Lord  look'd  down  upon  the  proud  ; 
And  the  host  drave  heavily- 
Down  the  deep  bosom  of  the  sea. 

With  a  quick  and  sudden  swell 

Prone  the  liquid  ramparts  fell ; 

Over  horse,  and  over  car, 

Over  every  man  of  war, 

Over  Pharaoh's  crown  of  gold, 

The  loud  thundering  billows  roll'd, 

As  the  level  waters  spread 

Down  they  sank — they  sank  like  load 

Down  sank  without  a  cry  or  groan. 

And  the  morning  sun,  that  shone 

On  myriads  of  bright-arm'd  men, 

Its  meridian  radiance  then 

Cast  on  a  wide  sea,  heaving,  as  of  yore, 

Against  a  silent,  solitary  shore. 

H.  H.  Milman. — Bom  1791. 


1671.— HOW'S  MY  BOY  ? 

"  Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea ! 

How's  my  hoy — my  boy  ?  " 

"  What's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife. 

And  in  what  ship  sail'd  he  ?  " 

"  My  boy  John — 

He  that  went  to  sea — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

*•  You  come  back  from  sea, 

And  not  know  my  John  ? 

I  might  as  well  have  ask'd  some  landsman, 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 

But  knows  my  John. 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

And  unless  yoxi  let  me  know 

I'll  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  no — 

Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor. 

Anchor  and  crown  or  no — 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  '  Jolly  Briton  '  " — 

"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  !  " 

"  And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 

About  my  own  boy  John  ? 

If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 

I'd  sing  him  over  the  town  ! 

Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor  ?  " — 

"  That  good  ship  went  down." 

'•  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor — 
I  was  never  aboard  her. 
Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground 


Sinking  or  swimming,  I'll  be  bound 

Her  owners  can  afford  her ! 

I  say,  how's  my  John  ?  " — 

"  Every  man  on  board  went  down. 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 
I'm  not  their  mother — 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other  ! 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ?  " 

Sydney  Dohell.—Born  1?24. 


1672.— LOVE. 

Love  is  the  happy  privilege  of  the  mind — 
Love  is  the  reason  of  all  living  things. 
A  Trinity  there  seems  of  principles, 
Which  represent  and  rule  created  life — 
The  love  of  self,  our  fellows,  and  our  God. 
In  all  throughout  one  common  feeling  reigns  : 
Each  doth  maintain,  and  is  maintain' d  by  the 

other : 
All  are  compatible — all  needful ;  one 
To  life, — to  virtue  one, — and  one  to  bliss  : 
Which  thus  together  make  the  power,  the  end, 
And  the  perfection  of  created  Being, 
From  these  three  principles  doth  every  deed, 
Desire,  and  will,  and  reasoning,  good  or  bad, 

come ; 
To     these    they     all    determine — sum    and 

scheme  : 
The  three  are  one  in  centre  and  in  round  ; 
Wrapping  the  world  of  life  as  do  the  skies 
Our  world.     Hail !  air  of  love,  by  which  we 

live  ! 
How   sweet,   how  fragrant !    Spirit,   though 

unseen — 
Void  of  gross  sign — is  scarce  a  simple  essence, 
Immortal,  immaterial,  though  it  be. 
One  only  simple  essence  liveth — God, — 
Creator,  uncreate.     The  brutes  beneath. 
The  angels  high  above  us,  with  ourselves, 
Are  but  compounded  things  of  mind  and  form. 
In  all  things  animate  is  therefore  cored 
An  elemental  sameness  of  existence  ; 
For  God,  being  Love,  in  love  created  all, 
As  he  contains  the  whole  and  penetrates. 
Seraphs  love  God,  and  angels  love  the  good  : 
We  love  each  other ;  and  these  lower  lives, 
Which  walk  the  earth  in   thousand   diverse 

shapes. 
According  to  their  reason,  love  us  too  : 
The  most  intelhgent  affect  us  most. 
Nay,  man's  chief  wisdom's  love — the  love  of 

God. 
The  new  religion — final,  perfect,  pure — 
Was  that  of  Christ  and  love.     His  great  com- 
mand— 
His  all-sufficing  precept — was't  not  love  ? 
Truly  to  love  ourselves  we  must  love  God, — 
To  love  God  we  must  all  his  creatures  love, — 


B.  W.  Procter.  J 


ADDSESS  TO  THE  OCEAN. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


To  love  his  creatures,  both  ourselves  and  Him. 
Thus  love  is  all  that's  vnse,  fair,  good,  and 
happy ! 

PMlijp  James  Bailey. — Born  1816. 


1673.— ADDEESS  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

O  thou  vast  Ocean  !  ever-sounding  Sea ! 

Thou  symbol  of  a  drear  immensity  ! 

Thou    thing   that   -windest    round  the    solid 

world 
Like  a  huge  animal,  which,  downward  hurl'd 
From   the  black   clouds,   lies   weltering  and 

alone. 
Lashing  and  writhing  till  its  strength  be  gone. 
Thy  voice  is  like  the  thunder,  and  thy  sleep 
Is  as  a  giant's  slumber,  loud  and  deep. 
Thou  speakest  in  the  east  and  in  the  west 
At  once,  and  on  thy  heavily-laden  breast 
Fleets  come  and  go,  and  shapes  that  have  no 

Hfe 
Or  motion,  yet  are  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 
The  earth  hath  nought  x>i  this  :  no  chance  or 

change 
Euffles  its  surface,  and  no  spirits  dare 
Give  answer  to  the  tempest-waken'd  air  ; 
But  o'er  its  wastes  the  weakly  tenants  range 
At  will,  and  wound  its  bosom  as  they  go  : 
Ever  the  same,  it  hath  no  ebb,  no  flow  : 
But  in  their  stated  rounds  the  seasons  come, 
And  pass  like  visions  to  their  wonted  home  ; 
And   come    again,    and  vanish ;    the   young 

Spring 
Looks  ever  bright  with  leaves  and  blossoming ; 
And  Winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn. 
When  the  wild  Autumn,  with  a  look  forlorn. 
Dies  in  his  stormy  manhood ;  and  the  skies 
Weep,  and  flowers  sicken,  when  the  summer 

flies. 
Oh  !  wonderful  thou  art,  great  element : 
And  fearful  in  thy  spleeny  humours  bent. 
And  lovely  in  repose  ;  thy  summer  form  . 
Is  beautiful,  and  when  thy  silver  waves 
Make    music   in   earth's    dark  and   winding 


I  love  to  wander  on  thy  pebbled  beach. 
Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour. 
And    hearken    to  the  thoughts  thy   waters 

teach — 
Eternity — Eternity — and  Power. 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  1798. 


1674.— MAECELIA. 

It  was  a  dreary  place.     The  shallow  brook 
That  ran  throughout  the  wood,  there  took  a 

turn 
And  widen' d  :  all  its  music  died  away. 
And  in  the  place  a  silent  eddy  told 
That  there  the  stream  grew  deeper.     There 

dark  trees 


Funereal  (cypress,  yew,  and  shadowy  pine, 
And  spicy  cedar)  cluster' d,  and  at  night 
Shook  from  their  melancholy  branches  sounds 
And    sighs   like    death:    'twas   strange,   for 

through  the  day 
They  stood  quite  motionless,  and  look'd,  me- 

thought. 
Like  monumental  things,  which  the  sad  earth 
From  its  green  bosom  had  cast  out  in  pity, 
To   mark   a  young   girl's   grave.     The   very 

leaves 
Disown'd  their  natural  green,  and  took  black 
And    mournful   hue;    and   the   rough   brier, 

stretching 
His  straggling  arms  across  the  rivulet, 
Lay  like  an  arm'd  sentinel  there,  catching 
With    his    tenacious    leaf    straws,    wither' d 

boughs, 
Moss  that  the  banks  had  lost,  coarse  grasses 

which 
Swam  with  the  current,  and  with  these  it  hid 
The   poor   Marcelia's  deathbed.     Never  may 

net 
Of  venturous  fisher  be  cast  in  with  hope. 
For  not  a  fish  abides  there.     The  slim  deer 
Snorts  as  he  rufiles  with  his  shortened  breath 
The  brook,  and  panting  flies  the  unholy  place, 
And  the  white  heifer  lows,  and  passes  on  ; 
The  foaming  hound  laps  not,  and  winter  birds 
Go  higher  up  the  stream.     And  yet  I  love 
To  loiter  there  :  and  when  the  rising  moon 
Flames  down  the  avenue  of  pines,  and  looks 
Eed  and  dilated  through  the  evening  mists. 
And  chequer' d  as  the  heavy  branches  sway 
To  and  fro  with  the  wind,  I  stay  to  listen. 
And  fancy  to  myself  that  a  sad  voice. 
Praying,  comes  moaning  through  the  leaves, 

as  'twere 
For    some   misdeed.     The    story   goes — that 

some 
Neglected  girl  (an  orphan  whom  the  world 
Frown' d    upon)    once    stray' d    thither,    and 

'twas  thought 
Cast  herself  in  the  stream :    you  may  have 

heard 
Of  one  Maroelia,  poor  Nolina's  daughter,  who 
I'ell  ill   and   came   to  want  ?     No  !  Oh,  she 

loved 
A  wealthy  man,  who  mark'd  her   not.     He 

wed. 
And  then  the  girl  grew  sick,  and  pined  away, 
And  drown' d  herself  for  love. 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  1798. 


1675.— NIGHT. 

Now  to  thy  silent  presence.  Night ! 

Is  this  my  first  song  offer'd  :  oh  !  to  thee 
That  lookest  with  thy  thousand  eyes  of  light — 

To  thee,  and  thy  starry  nobility 
That  float  with  a  delicious  murmuring 

(Though  unheard  here,  about  thy  forehead 
blue; 

And  as  they  ride  along  in  order  due. 


Frojn  1780  to  1866.] 


AN  INVOCATION  TO  BIEDS. 


[B.  W.  Proctek. 


Circling  the  round  globe  in  their  wandering-, 

To  thee  their  ancient  queen  and  mother  sing. 

Mother  of  beauty  I  veil'd  queen ! 

Fear'd  and  sought,  and  never  seen 

Without  a  heart-imposing  feeling. 

Whither  art  thou  gently  stealing  ? 

In  thy  smiling  presence,  I 

Kneel  in  star-struck  idolatry. 

And  turn  me  to  thine  eye  (the  moon). 

Fretting  that  it  must  change  so  soon : 

Toying  -svith  this  idle  rhyme, 

I  scorn  that  bearded  villain  Time, 

Thy  old  remorseless  enemy. 

And  build  my  link'd  verse  to  thee. 

Not  dull  and  cold  and  dark  art  thou  : 

Who  that  beholds  thy  clearer  brow, 

Endiadcm'd  with  gentlest  streaks 

Of  fleecy-silver'd  cloud,  adorning 
Thee,  fair  as  when  the  young  sun  'wakes, 
And  from  his  cloudy  bondage  breaks, 

And  lights  upon  the  breast  of  morning, 
But  must  feel  thy  powers  ; 
Mightier  than  the  storm  that  lours, 
Fairer  than  the  virgin  hours 

That  smile  when  the  young  Aurora  scatters 
Her  rose-leaves  on  the  valleys  low. 
And  bids  her  servant  breezes  blow. 
Not  Apollo,  when  he  dies. 
In  the  wild  October  skies, 

Red  and  stormy ;  or  when  he 
In  his  meridian  beauty  rides 

Over  the  bosom  of  the  waters. 
And  turns  the  blue  and  burning  tides 

To  silver,  is  a  peer  for  thee, 
full  regality. 

B.  W.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 


1676.— THE  SLEEPING  FIGURE  OF 
MODENA. 

Upon  a  couch  of  silk  and  gold 
A  pale  enchanted  lady  lies. 
And  o'er  her  many  a  frowning  fold 
Of  crimson  shades  her  closed  eyes  ; 
And  shadowy  creatures  round  her  rise ; 
And  ghosts  of  women  masqued  in  woe  ; 
And  many  a  phantom  pleasure  flies  : 
And  lovers  slain — ah,  long  ago  ! 

The  lady,  pale  as  now  she  sleeps. 
An  age  upon  that  couch  hath  lain. 
Yet  in  one  spot  a  spirit  keeps 
His  mansion,  like  a  red-rose  stain  ; 
And,  when  lovers'  ghosts  complain. 
Blushes  like  a  new-born  flower. 
Or  as  some  bright  dream  of  pain 
Dawneth  through  the  darkest  hour. 

Once — ^but  many  a  thought  hath  fled, 
Since  the  time  whereof  I  speak — 
Once  the  sleeping  lady  bred 
Beauty  in  her  burning  cheek, 


And  the  lovely  morn  did  break 
Through  the  azure  of  her  eyes, 
And  her  heart  was  warm  and  meek. 
And  her  hope  was  in  the  skies. 

But  the  lady  loved  at  last, 
And  the  passion  pain'd  her  soul, 
And  her  hope  away  was  cast. 
Far  beyond  her  own  control ; 
And  the  clouded  thoughts  that  roll 
Through  the  midnight  of  the  mind. 
O'er  her  eyes  of  azure  stole, 
Till  they  grew  deject  and  blind. 

He  to  whom  her  heart  was  given, 
When  May  music  was  in  tune, 
Dared  forsake  that  amorous  heaven, 
Changed  and  careless  soon ! 
Oh,  what  is  all  beneath  the  moon 
When  his  heart  will  answer  not ! 
What  are  all  the  dreams  of  noon 
With  our  love  forgot ! 

Heedless  of  the  world  she  went, 
Sorrow's  daughter,  meek  and  lone. 
Till  some  spirit  downwards  bent 
And  struck  her  to  this  sleep  of  stone. 
Look  !  Did  old  Pygmalion 
Sculpture  thus,  or  more  prevail. 
When  he  drew  the  living  tone 
From  the  marble  pale  ? 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  1798. 


1677.— AN  INVOCATION  TO  BIEDS. 

Come,  all  ye  feathery  people  of  mid  air, 
Who  sleep  'midst  rocks,  or  on  the  mountain 

summits 
Lie  down  with  the  wild  winds ;  and  ye  who 

build 
Your  homes  amidst  green  leaves  by  grottos 

cool; 
And  ye  who  on  the   flat   sands    hoard  your 

eggs 
For  suns  to  ripen,  come  !  O  phenix  rare  ! 
If  death  hath  spared,  or  philosophic  search 
Permit  thee  still  to  own  thy  haunted  nest. 
Perfect  Arabian — ^lonely  nightingale  ! 
Dusk  creature,  who  art  silent  all  day  long, 
But  when  pale  eve  unseals  thy  clear  throat, 

loosest 
Thy  twiUght  music  on  the  dreaming  boughs 
Until  they  waken  ; — and  thou,  cuckoo  bird, 
Vvlao  art  the  ghost  of  sound,  having  no  shape 
Material,  but  dost  wander  far  and  near, 
Like  untouch' d  echo  whom  the  woods  deny 
Sight    of    her   love  —  come   all   to   my  slow 

charm  ! 
Come   thou,  sky-climbing   bird,   wakener    of 

morn. 
Who  springest  like  a  thought  unto  the  sun. 
And  from  his  golden  floods  dost  gather  wealth 


B.  W.  Procter.] 


TO  THE  SNOWDEOP. 


[Seventh  Period. 


(Epi  ■halamium  and  Pindarique  song), 
And  with  it  enrich  our  ears  ;  come  all  to  me, 
Beneath  the  chamber  where  my  lady  lies, 
And,  in  your  several  musics,  whisper — Love  ! 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  l^DS. 


1678.— TO  THE  SNOWDEOP. 

Pretty  firstling  of  the  year ! 

Herald  of  the  host  of  flowers  ! 
Hast  thou  left  thy  cavern  drear, 

In  the  hope  of  summer  hours  ? 

Back  unto  thy  earthen  bowers  ! 
Back  to  thy  warm  world  below, 

Till  the  strength  of  suns  and  showers 
Quell  the  now  relentless  snow  ! 

Art  still  here  ? — Alive,  and  blythe  ? 

Though  the  stormy  Night  hath  fled, 
And  the  Frost  hath  pass'd  his  scythe 

O'er  thy  small,  unshelter'd  head  ? 

Ah !  some  lie  amidst  the  dead 
(Many  a  giant,  stubborn  tree, — 

Many  a  plant,  its  spirit  shed), 
That  were  better  nursed  than  thee  ! 

What  iiath  saved  thee  ?     Thou  wast  not 

'Gainst  the  arrowy  winter  farr'd, — 
Arm'd  in  scale, — but  all  forgot 

When  the  frozen  winds  were  stirr'd. 

Nature,  who  doth  clothe  the  bird, 
Should  have  hid  thee  in  the  earth, 

Till  the  cuckoo's  song  was  heard, 
And  the  Spring  let  loose  her  mirth. 

Nature, — deep  and  mystic  word  ! 

Mighty  mother,  still  unknown  ! 
Thou  didst  sure  the  snowdrop  gird 

With  an  armour  all  thine  own  ! 

Thou,  who  sent'st  it  forth  alone 
To  the  cold  and  sullen  season 

(Like  a  thought  at  random  thrown), 
Sent  it  thus  for  some  grave  reason  ! 

If  'twere  but  to  pierce  the  mind 

With  a  single,  gentle  thought, 
Who  shall  deem  thee  harsh  or  blind 

Who  that  thou  hast  vainly  wrought  ? 

Hoard  the  gentle  virtue  caught 
From  the  snowdrop, — reader  wise  ! 

Good  is  good,  wherever  taught, 
On  the  ground  or  in  the  skies  ! 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  1798. 


1679.— SONG  OF  WOOD-NTMPHS. 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  dwell 
In  forest  deep  ! 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  tell 
Why  thou  dost  weep  ! 


Is  it  for  love  (sweet  pain  !) 

That  thus  thou  dar'st  complain 

Unto  our  pleasant  shades,  our  summer  leaves, 

Where  nought  else  grieves  ? 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  lie 

By  whispering  stream ! 

Here  no  one  dares  to  die 

For  love's  sweet  dream ; 

But  health  all  seek,  and  joy. 

And  shun  perverse  annoy. 

And  race  along  green  paths  till  close  of  day, 

And  laugh — alway  ! 

Or  else,  through  half  the  year. 

On  rushy  floor. 

We  He  by  waters  clear. 

While  sky-larks  pour 

Their  songs  into  the  sun  ! 

And  when  bright  day  is  done. 

We  hide  'neath  bells  of   flowers  or  nodding 

corn. 
And  dream — till  morn ! 

B.  W.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 


1680.— THE  BLOOD  HOESE. 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed. 

Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 

Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone, 

With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known ; 

Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin. 

But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within ! 

His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing, 

And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 

In  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look, — how  'round  his  straining  throat 

Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float ; 

Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins, 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins, — 

Eicher,  redder,  never  ran 

Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire, —     . 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelp 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself ! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born, 

Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn ; 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 

Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred. 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 

Trod  like  one  of  race  divine  ! 

And  yet, — he  was  but  friend  to  one. 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun. 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green  ; 

With  him  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day), — 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 

Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  1798. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  HUNTEE'S  SONG. 


FB.  W.  Peocter. 


1 68 1. —THE  SEA. 

The  sea  I  the  sea !  the  open  sea  ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round  ; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds  ;  it  mocks  the  skies ; 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea !  I'm  on  the  sea ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  belo^T, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go ; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter  ?  I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  oh,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming-,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon. 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below. 
And  why  the  sou' west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore. 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more. 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast. 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me ; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea  ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  roU'd, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean-child  ! 

I've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life. 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range. 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sigh'd  for  change ; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  sea ! 

B.  W.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 


1682.— THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  wo. 

Tossing  about  on  the  roaring  sea — 

From  biUow  to  bounding  bUlow  cast. 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast. 

The  sails  are  scatter' d  abroad  like  weeds  ; 

The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds  ; 

The  mighty  cables  and  iron  chains  ; 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  dis- 
dains,— 

They  strain  and  they  crack ;  and  hearts  like 
stone 

Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  ! — up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave   to  the  billow's 

crown. 
And  amidst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam, 
The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  home  ,• 


A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and   to   teach  them  to 

spring 
At   once  o'er  the   waves    on   their    stormy 

wing ! 

O'er  the  deep  I — o'er  the  deep  ! 

Where   the   whale,  and   the  shark,  and    the 

sword-fish  sleep — 
Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  petrel  telleth  her  tale — in  vain  ; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Which  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storm  un- 
heard ! 
Ah !  thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still ; 
Yet  he  ne'er  falters — so,  petrel,  spring 
Once  more    o'er  the    waves    on  thy  stormy 
wingl 

B,  W.  Procter.— Born  1798. 


1683.— THE  SEA— IN  CALM. 

Look  what  immortal  floods  the  sunset  pours 
Upon  us — Mark  !    how   stUl    (as   though  in 

dreams 
Bound)   the    once   wild  and   terrible   ocean 

seems ! 
How  silent  are  the  winds  I  no  bUlow  roars  ; 
But  all  is  tranquil  as  Elysian  shores. 
The  silver  margin  which  aye  runneth  round 
The  moon-enchanted  sea,  hath  here  no  sound  ; 
Even    Echo    speaks    not    on    these    radiant 

moors  ! 
What !  is  the  giant  of  the  ocean  dead. 
Whose  strength  was   all  Tonmatch'd  beneath 

the  sun  ? 
No  :  he  reposes !     Now  his  toils  are  done  ; 
More  quiet  than  the  babbling  brook  is  he. 
So  mightiest  powers  by  deepest  calms  are  fed. 
And  sleep,  how  oft,  in  things  that  gentlest 

be! 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  1798    -  • 


1684.— THE  HUNTER'S  SONG. 

Rise  !  Sleep  no  more  !  'Tis  a  noble  mom. 
The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn. 
And  the   frost   shrinks   back,   like  a  beaten 

hound. 
Under  the  steaming,  steaming  ground. 
Behold,  where  the  billowy  clouds  flow  by. 
And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky  ! 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady. — So,  ho  ! 
I'm  gone,  like  a  dart  from  the  Tartar's  bow. 

Hark,  hark  ! — Who  calleth  the  maiden  Morn 
From  her  sleep  in  the  woods  and  the  stubble 
corn? 

The  horn, — the  horn  ! 
The  merry,  sweet  ring  of  the  hunter's  horn. 


B.  W.  Procter.] 


THE  OWL. 


"Seventh  Period. — 


Now,    through   the  copse  where  the  fox   is 

found, 
And  over  the  stream  at  a  mighty  bound, 
And  over  the  high  lands,  and  over  the  low. 
O'er  furrows,  o'er  meadows,  the  hunters  go  ! 
Away  ! — as  a  hawk  flies  full  at  his  prey, 
So  flieth  the  hunter,  away, — away  ! 
From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of  sun, 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and — the  day  is  done  ! 

Hark,  hark  ! — What    sound   on  the  wind  is 

borne? 
'Tis  the    conquering  voice    of    the   hunter's 

horn: 

The  horn, — the  horn  ! 
The  merry,  bold  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn. 

i 
Sound  !  Sound  the  horn  !    To  the  hunter  good 
What's  the  gully  deep  or  the  roaring  flood  ? 
Eight    over    he    bounds,    as    the    wild    stag 

bounds. 
At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 
Oh,  what  delight  can  a  mortal  lack, 
When  he  once  is  firm  on  his  horse's  back. 
With  his  stirrups  short,  and  his  snaffle  strong. 
And   the  blast   of  the  horn  for  his   morning 

song? 

Hark,  hark ! — Now,   home !    and   dream  till 

mom 
Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound  of  the  hunter's  horn ! 

The  horn, — the  horn  ! 
Oh,  the  sound  of  all  sounds   is  the  hunter's 
horn  ! 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  1798. 


1685.— THE  OWL. 

In  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  toAver, 

The  spectral  Owl  doth  dwell ; 
Dull,  hated,  despised  in  the  sunshine  hour, 

But  at  dusk  he's  abroad  and  well ! 
Not  a  bird  of  the  forest  e'er  mates  with  him — 

All  mock  him  outright,  by  day ; 
But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and 
dim, 

The  boldest  will  shrink  away ! 
Oh,  when  the  night  falls,  and  roosts  the  fowl, 
Then,  then,  is  the  reign  of  the  Homed  Owl ! 

And  the  Owl  hath  a  bride  who  is  fond  and 
bold. 
And  loveth  the  wood's  deep  gloom  ; 
And,  with  eyes  like  the  shine  of  the  moon- 
stone cold. 
She  awaiteth  her  ghastly  groom  ; 
Not  a  feather  she  moves,  not  a  carol  she  sings, 

As  she  waits  in  her  tree  so  still. 
But   when    her   heart    heareth   his    flapping 
wings. 
She  hoots  out  her  welcome  shrill ! 
Oh,  when  the  moon  shines,  and  dogs  do  howl. 
Then,  then,  is  the  joy  of  the  Homed  Owl  ! 


Mourn  not  for  the  Owl,  nor  his  gloomy  plight ; 

The  Owl  hath  his  share  of  good : 
If  a  prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight,    - 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood ! 
Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate — 

They  are  each  unto  each  a  pride ; 
Thrice  fonder  perhaps,  since  a  strange,  dark 
fate 
Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside ! 
So,  when  the  night  falls,  and  dogs  do  howl. 
Sing  Ho  !  for  the  the  reign  of  the  Horned  Owl  I 
W^e  knoAV  not  alway 
Who  are  kings  by  day, 
But  the  King  of  the  night  is  the  bold  brown 
Owl! 

^Y.  B.  Frodcr.—Born  1798. 


1686.— A  SONG  FOR  THE  SEASONS. 

When  the  merry  lark  doth  gild 

With  his  song  the  summer  hours, 
And  their  nests  the  swallows  build 

In  the  roofs  and  tops  of  towers. 
And  the  golden  broom-flower  burns 

All  about  the  waste. 
And  the  maiden  May  returns 

With  a  pretty  haste, — 

Then,  how  merry  are  the  times  5 

The  Summer  times  !  the  Spring  times  ! 

Now,  from  off  the  ashy  stone 

The  chilly  midnight  cricket  crieth. 
And  all  merry  birds  are  flown. 

And  our  dream  of  pleasure  dieth ; 
Now  the  once  blue  laughing  sky 

Saddens  into  gray. 
And  the  frozen  rivers  sigh. 

Pining  all  away ! 

Now,  how  solemn  are  the  times  ! 
The  Winter  times  !  the  Night  times  ! 

Yet,  be  merry  :  all  around 

Is  through  one  vast  change  revolving  : 
Even  Night,  who  lately  frown'd, 

Is  in  paler  dawn  dissolving. 
Earth  will  burst  her  fetters  strange, 

And  in  Spring  grow  free  ; 
All  things  in  the  world  will  change, 

Save — my  love  for  thee  ! 

Sing,  then,  hopeful  are  all  times  ! 
Winter,  Summer,  Spring  times  I 

W.  B.  Procter.— Born  1793. 


[687.- 


-THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  HIS 
WIFE. 

How  many  summers,  love. 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
How  many  days,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine? 
Time,  like  the  wing'd  wind 

When  't  bends  the  flowers. 


From  1780  to  1866.]                             A  BEIDAL  DISGE.                                [B.  W.  Procter. 

Hath  left  no  mark  beliind, 

'                But  now  we'll  go 

To  count  the  hours  ! 

Where  the  waters  flow. 

And  make  us  a  bed  where  none  shall  know. 

Some  -weight  of  thought,  though  loth, 

On  thee  he  leaves ; 

The  world  is  cruel — the  world  is  untrue  ; 

Some  lines  of  care  round  both 

Our  foes  are  many,  our  friends  are  few  ; 

Perhaps  he  weaves  : 

No  work,  no  bread,  however  Ave  sue  I 

Some  fears, — a  soft  regret 

What  is  there  loft  for  me  to  do, 

For  joys  scarce  known ; 

But  fly— fxy 

Sweet  looks  we  half  forget ; — 

Prom  the  cruel  sky,                                 • 

All  else  is  flown ! 

And  hide  in  the  deepest  deeps— and  die  ? 

Ah  ! — With  what  thankless  heart 

W.  B.  Procter.— Born  1798. 

I  mourn  and  sing  ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start. 

Like  sudden  Spring ! 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low, 

1690.— PEACE !  WHAT  DO  TEARS 
AVAIL  ? 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 

They  tell  how  much  I  owe 

Peace  i  what  can  tears  avail  ? 

To  thee  and  Time  ! 

She  lies  all  dumb  and  pale. 

W.  B.  Procter. --Born  1798. 

And  from  her  eye 

The  spirit  of  lovely  life  is  fading — 

And  she  must  die  ! 

Why  looks  the  lover   wroth — the  friend  up- 

braiding ? 

1 688.— SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER 

Reply,  reply  ! 

BREATH. 

Hath  she  not  dwelt  too  long 

'Midst  pain,  and  grief,  and  wrong  ? 

Softxy  woo  away  her  breath. 

Then  why  not  die  ? 

Gentle  Death ! 

Why  sufi'er  again  her  doom  of  sorrow. 

Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 

And  hopeless  lie  ? 

Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  Life 

Why   nurse    the  trembling  dream   until   to- 

She hath  seen  her  happy  day — 

morrow  ? 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom ; 

Reply,  reply ! 

Xow  she  pales  and  shrinks  away, 
Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom  ! 

Death  I     Take  her  to  thine  arms, 
In  all  her  stainless  charms  ! 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

And  with  her  fly 

Angels  dear  ! 

To  heavenly  haunts,  where,  clad  in  bright- 

Bear her  perfect  soul  above. 

ness, 

Seraph  of  the  skies — sweet  Love ! 

The  angels  lie ! 

Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth  ; 

Wilt  bear  her  there,    0   Death!    in  all   her 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 

whiteness  ? 

And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth  : 

Reply,  reply  ! 

Take  her,  then,  for  evermore — 

W.  B.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 

For  ever — evermore ! 

W.  B.  Procter.— Born  1798. 

1691.— A  BRIDAL  DIRGE. 
Weave  no  more  the  marriage  chain  ! 

All  unmated  is  the  lover ; 

1689.— THE  MOTHER'S  LAST  SONG. 

Death  has  ta'en  the  place  of  Pain ; 
Love  doth  call  on  love  in  vain ; 

Sleep  ! — The  ghostly  winds  are  blowing  ! 

Life  and  years  of  hope  are  over  ! 

No  moon  abroad — ^no  star  is  glowing ; 

No  more  want  of  marriage  bell ! 

The  river  is  deep,  and  the  tide  is  flowing 

No  more  need  of  bridal  favour  ! 

To  the  land  where  you  and  I  are  going  ! 

Where  is  she  to  wear  them  well  ? 

We  are  going  afar. 

You  beside  the  lover,  tell ! 

Beyond  moon  or  star. 

Gone — ^with  aU  the  love  he  gave  her  I 

To  the  land  where  the  sinless   angel  arc  ! 

Paler  than  the  stone  she  lies — 

I  lost  my  heart  to  your  heartless  sire, 

Colder  than  the  winter's  morning  ! 

('T  was  melted  away  by  his  looks  of  fire) — 

Wherefore  did  she  thus  despise 

Forgot  my  God,  and  my  father's  ire, 

(She  witli  pity  in  her  eyes) 

All  for  the  sake  of  a  man's  desire ; 

Mother's  care,  and  lover's  warning  ? 

B.  W.  Procter.]                                      HERMIONE.                              [Seventh  Period.— 

Youth  and  beauty— shall  they  not 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

Last  beyond  a  brief  to-morrow  ? 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings  : 

•^0 — a  prayer  and  then  forgot ! 

Our  ambition,  our  content, 

This  the  truest  lover's  lot, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 

This  the  sura  of  human  sorrow ! 

Humble  voyagers  are  we. 

J5.  W.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 

O'er  life's  dim,  unsounded  sea. 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  : — 

Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 

B.  W.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 

. 

1692.— HEEMIONE. 
Thou  hast  beauty  bright  and  fair, 

Manner  noble,  aspect  free, 

Eyes  that  are  untouch' d  by  care  : 

1695.— SIT  DOWN,  SAD  SOUL. 

What,  then,  do  we  ask  from  thee, 

Hermione,  Hermione? 

Sit  down,  sad  soul,  and  coun^                            | 
The  moments  flying ;                                       i 

Thou  hast  reason  quick  and  strong, 

Come — tell  the  sweet  amount 

Wit  that  envious  men  admire, 

That's  lost  by  sighing  ! 

And  a  voice,  itself  a  song  ! 

How  many  smiles  ? — a  score  ? 

What  then  can  we  still  desire  ? 

Then  laugh,  and  count  no  more ; 

Hermione,  Hermione. 

For  day  is  dying  ! 

Something  thou  dost  want,  0  queen ! 

Lie  down,  sad  soul,  and  sleep, 

(As  the  gold  doth  ask  alloy). 

And  no  more  measure 

Tears— amid  thy  laughter  seen, 

The  flight  of  Time,  nor  weep 

Pity  mingled  with  thy  joy. 

The  loss  of  leisure  ; 

This  is  all  we  ask  from  thee, 

But  here,  by  this  lone  stream. 

Hermione,  Hermione  ! 

Lie  down  with  us,  and  dream 

B.  W.  Procter.— Born  1798. 

Of  starry  treasure  ! 

We  dream :  do  thou  the  same ; 

We  love — for  ever ; 

We  laugh,  yet  few  we  shame — 

1693.— A  POET'S  THOUGHT. 

The  gentle  never. 

TeU  me,  what  is  a  poet's  thought  ? 

Is  it  on  the  sudden  born  ? 
Is  it  from  the  starlight  caught  ? 

Stay,  then,  till  Sorrow  dies  ; 
Then — hope  and  happy  skies 
Are  thine  for  ever  ! 

Is  it  by  the  tempest  taught  ? 

B.  W.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 

Or  by  whispering  morn  ? 
Was  it  cradled  in  the  brain  ? 

Chain' d  awhile,  or  nursed  in  night  ? 

Was  it  wrought  with  toil  and  pain  ? 

1696,— TJFE. 

Did  it  bloom  and  fade  again, 

Ere  it  burst  to  light  ? 

We  are  born ;  we  laugh ;  we  weep ; 

We  love  ;  we  droop  ;  we  die  ! 

No  more  question  of  its  birth : 

Ah !  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Eather  love  its  better  part ! 

Why  do  we  live  or  die  ? 

'Tis  a  thing  of  sky  and  earth. 

Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 

Gathering  all  its  golden  worth 

Alas  !  not  I. 

From  the  poet's  heart. 

B.  W.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 

hy  doth  the  violet  spring 
Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 

Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 

Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

1694.— A  PETITION  TO  TIME. 

To  things  that  die  ? 

Touch  us  gently.  Time  ! 

We  toil — through  pain  and  wrong ; 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 

We  fight— and  fly  ; 

Gently — as  we  sometimes  glide 

We  love ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long, 

Through  a  quiet  dream. 

Stone-dead  we  He. 

Humble  voyagers  are  we, 

A  life  !  is  all  thy  song  : 

Husband,  wife,  and  children  three— 

"  Endure  and — die  !  " 

(One  is  lost — an  angel,  fled 

To  the  azure  overhead  !) 

B.  W.  Procter.— Bom  1798. 

From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  MOTHER'S  HAND. 


[Charles  Swain, 


1697.— THE  DEATH  OF  THE  WAREIOR 
KING. 

There  are  noble  heads  bow'd  down  and  pale, 

Deep  sounds  of  woe  arise, 
And  tears  flow  fast  around  the  couch 

Where  a  wounded  warrior  Kes  ; 
The  hue  of  death  is  gathering  dark 

Upon  his  lofty  brov.', 
And  the  arm  of  might  and  valour  falls, 

Weak  as  an  infant's  now. 

I  saw  him  'mid  the  battling  hosts, 

Like  a  bright  and  leading  star, 
Where  banner,  helm,  and  falchion  gleam' d, 

And  flew  the  bolts  of  war. 
When,  in  his  plenitude  of  power 

He  trod  the  Holy  Land, 
I  saw  the  routed  Saracens 

Flee  from  his  blood-dark  brand. 

I  saw  him  in  the  banquet  hour 

Forsake  the  festive  throng. 
To  seek  his  favourite  minstrel's  haunt, 

And  give  his  soul  to  song  ; 
For  dearly  as  he  loved  renown. 

He  loved  that  spell- wrought  strain 
Which  bade  the  brave  of  perish' d  days 

Light  conquest's  torch  again. 

Then  seem'd  the  bard  to  cope  with  Time, 

And  triumph  o'er  his  doom — 
Another  world  in  freshness  burst 

Oblivion's  mighty  tomb  ! 
Again  the  hardy  Britons  rush'd 

Like  lions  to  the  fight, 
While  horse  and  foot — helm,  shield,  and  lance, 

Swept  by  his  vision' d  sight ! 

But  battle  shout  and  waving  plume, 

The  drum's  heart- stirring  beat. 
The  glittering  pomp  of  prosperous  war, 

The  rush  of  million  feet, 
The  magic  of  the  minstrel's  song, 

WTiich  told  of  victories  o'er, 
Are  sights  and  sounds  the  dying  king 

Shall  see — shall  hear  no  more  ! 

It  was  the  hour  of  deep  midnight. 

In  the  dim  and  quiet  sky. 
When,  with  sable  cloak  and  'broider'd  paH, 

A  funeral  train  swept  by ; 
Dull  and  sad  fell  the  torches'  glare 

On  many  a  stately  crest — 
They  bore  the  noble  warrior  king 

To  his  last  dark  home  of  rest. 

Charles  Sivain. — Bom  1803. 


1698.— THE  VOICE  OF  THE  MORNING. 

The  voice  of  the  morning  is  calling  to  child- 
hood. 
From  streamlet,  and  vaUey,  and  mountain 
it  calls, 


And  Mary,  the  loveliest   nymph  of  the  wild 
wood, 
Is  crossing  the  brook  where  the  mill  water 
falls. 
Oh !  lovely  is  Mary,  her  face  like  a  vision 
Once  seen  leaves  a  charm  that  will  ever 
endure ; 
From  her  glance  and  her  smile  there  beams 
something  elysian  : 
She  has  but  one  failing — sweet  Mary  is  poor. 

Her  bosom   is   white  as  the  hawthorn,  and 
sweeter, 
Her  form  light   and  lovesome,  as  maiden's 
should  be ; 
Her  foot  like  a  fairy's — yet  softer  and  fleeter — 
Oh  !  Mary,  the  morn  hath  no  lily  like  thee. 
But  narrow  and  low  hangs  the  roof  of  her 
dwelling, 
Her  home  it  is  humble,  her  birth  is  obscure  ; 
And   though   in    aU    beauty   and   sweetness 
excelling. 
She  wanders  neglected — for  Mary  is  poor. 

Yet,   oh !  to  her  heart  mother  Nature  hath 
given 
The    kindest    afi'ections    that    mortal    can 
know; 
She  loves  every  star  that  sheds  radiance  in 
heaven. 
She  worships  the  flowers  as  God's  image 
below. 
Ah  !  sad  'tis  to  think  that  a  being  resembling 
The  fairest  in  beauty,  such  lot  should  endure ; 
But  the  dews  that  like  tears  on  the  lilies  are 
trembling. 
Are  types  but  of  Mary — for  Mary  is  poor. 

0.  Swain.— Bom,  1803. 


1699.— THE  MOTHER'S  HAND. 

A  wand'ring  orphan  child  was  I, — 

But  meanly,  at  the  best,  attired ; 
For  oh !  my  mother  scarce  could  buy 

The  common  food  each  week  required ; 
But  when  the  anxious  day  had  fled, 

It  seem'd  to  be  her  dearest  joy. 
To  press  her  pale  hand  on  my  head, 

And  pray  that  God  would  guide  her  boy. 

But  more,  each  winter,  more  and  more 

Stern  suffering  brought  her  to  decay  ; 
And  then  an  angel  pass'd  her  door, 

And  bore  her  lingering  soul  away  ! 
And  I — ^they  know  not  what  is  grief 

Who  ne'er  knelt  by  a  dying  bed ; 
All  other  woe  on  earth  is  brief, 

Save  that  which  weeps  a  mother  dead. 

A  seaman's  life  was  soon  my  lot, 

'Mid  reckless  deeds,  and  desperate  metij 

But  still  I  never  quite  forgot 

The  prayer  I  ne'er  should  hear  again,- 


Charles  Swain.] 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. — 


And  oft,  when  half  induced  to  tread 

Such  paths  as  unto  sin  decoy, 
I've  felt  her  fond  hand  press  my  head, — 

And  that  soft  touch  hath  saved  her  boy  ! 

Though  hard  their  mockery  to  receive. 
Who   ne'er   themselves   'gainst    sin   had 
striven, 
Her  Avho,  on  earth,  I  dared  not  grieve, 

I  could  not — would  not — grieve  in  heaven : 
And  thus  from  many  an  action  dread, 

Too  dark  for  human  eyes  to  scan, 
The  same  fond  hand  upon  my  head 

That  bless' d  the  boy — hath  saved  the 
man! 

C.  Swain, — Born  1803. 


1700.— THE  ORPHAN  BOY. 

The  room  is  old, — the  night  is  cold, — 

But  night  is  dearer  far  than  day  ; 
For  then,  in  dreams,  to  him  it  seems, 

That  she's  return'd  who's  gone  away  ! 
His  tears  are  pass'd, — he  clasps  her  fast, — 

Again  she  holds  him  on  her  knee  ; 
And, — in  his  sleep, — he  murmurs  deep, 

"  Oh  !  mother,  go  no  more  from  me  !  " 

But  morning  breaks,  the  child  awakes, — 

The  dreamer's  happy  dream  hath  fled  ; 
The  fields  look  sere,  and  cold,  and  drear, — 

Like  orphans,  mourning  summer  dead  ! — 
The  wild  birds  spring,  on  shivering  wing. 

Or,  cheerless,  chirp  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
And  still  he  cries,  with  weeping  eyes, 

"  Oh  !  mother  dear,  come  back  to  me  !  " 

Can  no  one  tell  where  angels  dwell  ? — 

He's  call'd  them  oft  till  day  grew  dim; 
K  they  were  near, — and  they  could  hear, — 

He  thinks  they'd  bring  her  back  to  him  ! — 
"  Oh !  angels  sweet,  conduct  my  feet," 

He  cries,  "  where'er  her  home  may  be  ; 
Oh  !  lead  me  on  to  where  she's  gone, 

Or  bring  my  mother  back  to  me  !  " 

C.  Swain.— Born  1803. 


1 701. —SABBATH  CHIMES. 

There's  music  in  the  morning  air, 

A  holy  voice  and  sweet, 
Far  calling  to  the  house  of  prayer 

The  humblest  peasant's  feet. 
From  hill,  and  vale,  and  distant  moor, 

Long  as  the  chime  is  heard, 
Each  cottage  sends  its  tenants  poor 

For  God's  enriching  word. 

Where' er  the  British  power  hath  trod, 

The  cross  of  faith  ascends. 
And,  like  a  radiant  arch  of  God, 

The  light  of  Scripture  bends  ! 


Deep  in  the  forest  wilderness 

The  wood-built  church  is  known ;    ' 

A  sheltering  wing,  in  man's  distress,  ' 
Spread  like  the  Saviour's  own ! 

The  warrior  from  his  armed  tent, 

The  seaman  from  the  tide. 
Far  as  the  Sabbath  chimes  are  sent 

In  Christian  nations  wide, — 
Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  bring 

Their  sorrows  to  his  shrine, 
And  taste  the  never-failing  spring 

Of  Jesus'  love  divine  ! 

If,  at  an  earthly  chime,  the  tread 

Of  million,  million  feet 
Approach  whene'er  the  Gospel's  read 

In  God's  own  temple-seat, 
How  blest  the  sight,  from  death's  dark  sleep, 

To  see  God's  saints  arise  ; 
And  countless  hosts  of  angels  keep 

The  sabbath  of  the  skies  ! 


C.Si 


-Born  1803. 


1702.— LOVE'S  HISTORY. 

By  sylvan  waves  that  westward  flow 
A  hare-bell  bent  its  beauty  low. 
With  slender  waist  and  modest  brow, 

Amidst  the  shades  descending. 
A  star  look'd  from  the  paler  sky — 
The  hare-bell  gazed,  and  with  a  sigh 
Forgot  that  love  may  look  too  high, 

And  sorrow  without  ending. 

By  casement  hid,  the  flowers  among, 
A  maiden  lean'd  and  listen'd  long ; 
It  was  the  hour  of  love  and  song, 

And  early  night-birds  calling : 
A  barque  across  the  river  drew ; — 
The  rose  was  glowing  through  and  througl 
The  maiden's  cheek  of  trembling  hue. 

Amidst  the  twilight  falling. 

She  saw  no  star,  she  saw  no  flower — 
Her  heart  expanded  to  the  hour  ; 
She  reck'd  not  of  her  lowly  dower 

Amidst  the  shades  descending 
With  love  thus  fix'd  upon  a  height 
That  seem'd  so  beauteous  to  the  sight, 
How  could  she  think  of  wrong  and  blight, 

And  sorrov/  v.'ithout  ending. 

The  hare-bell  droop'd  beneath  the  dew, 
And  closed  its  eye  of  tender  blue  ; 
No  sun  could  e'er  its  life  renew. 

Nor  star,  in  music  calling. 
The  autumn  leaves  were  early  shed ; 
But  earlier  on  her  cottage  bed 
The  maiden's  loving  heart  lay  dead, 

Amidst  the  twilight  falling  ! 

C.  Swain. — Born  1803. 


From  17S0  to  186G.] 


FEOM  "  IN  MEMORIAM. 


[A.  Tennyson. 


1703.— SONG  OF  THE  BEOOK. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hem  ; 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  tlie  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  yalley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges  ; 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town. 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

THl  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles  ; 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles.  • 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  wiUow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out. 
With  here  a  blossom  saiKng, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  hero  and  there  a  grayling  ; 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots ; 

I  sHde  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance. 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses  ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Alfred  Tennyson, — Born  1810. 


1704.— THE  SECONCILIATION. 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went. 

And  pluck' d  the  ripen' d  ears, 
vVe  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, — 
Oh,  we  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave. 
Oh,  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

Alfred  Tennyson. — Born  1810. 


1705.— THE  WIDOW  AND  CHILD. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dexd ; 

She  nor  swoon' d,  nor  utter' d  cry ; 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
CaU'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept. 
Took  a  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Eose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 

"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

Alf7-ed  Tennyson.— Born  1810. 


1706.— FEOM  "IN  MEMOEIAM.' 

I  envy  not,  in  any  moods, 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  words. 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  hcense  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
TIae  heart  that  never  plighted  troth. 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth- 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  v/hate'er  befall — 
I  feel  it,  v/hen  I  sorrow  most — 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth  1 
A  rainy  cloud  possess' d  the  earth 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas  eve. 


A.  Tennyson. 


FEOM  "  m  MEMORIAM. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. 


At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gambol!' d,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused  ;  the  winds  were  in  the  beech — 
We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter  land ; 
And  in  a  circle  hand  in  hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang ; 

We  sang,  though  every  eye  was  dim — 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  :  impetuously  we  sang ; 

We  ceased.     A  gentler  feeling  crept 

Upon  us  ;  surely  rest  is  meet ; 

"  They  rest,"  we  said,    "  their    sleep  is 
sweet." 
And  silence  foUow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range ; 

Once  more  we  sang :  "  They  do  not  die, 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change  : 

Eapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail, 
With  gather'd  power,  yet  the  same. 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil. 

Rise,  happy  mom !  rise,  holy  morn ! 

Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night ! 

O  Father  !  touch  the  east,  and  light 
The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born  ! 


Dost  tho  1  look  back  on  what  hath  been. 
As  £om3  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began, 

And  on  a  simple  village  green  ? 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known, 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys — 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees. 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher. 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slono 
The  pUlar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire  ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream. 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream. 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea. 
And  reaps  the  labour  of  his  hands. 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands  : 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remembe-  me  ?  " 


Witch-elms,  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and  bright ; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height. 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore  ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town ! 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw ; 

He  mix'd  in  all  our  simple  sports  ; 

They   pleased    him,    fresh   from    brawling 
courts 
And  dusky  purlieus  of  the  law. 

0  joy  to  him,  in  this  retreat, 
Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  through  the  heat 

0  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew. 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears ! 

0  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 
About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed. 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  rea ' 

The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn ; 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 
Or  here  she  brought  the  harp,  and  flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon ! 

Nor  less  it  pleased,  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray. 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate. 
Or  touch' d  the  changes  of  the  state. 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream. 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town. 
He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "  ground  in  yonder  social  miU, 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down. 

And  merge,"  he  said,  "  in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 
We  talk'd  ;  the  stream  beneath  us  ran, 

The  wine-flask  lying  couch' d  in  moss. 

Or  cool'd  within  the  glooming  wave ; 

And  last,  returning  from  afar. 

Before  the  crimson-circled  star 
Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave. 

And  brushing  ankle  deep  in  flowers, 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honey'd  hours. 


Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years ; 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears  ; 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


LADY  CLARE. 


[A.  Tennyson. 


On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung-, 

The  proud  was  half  disarm' d  of  pride  ; 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  treble  ton^e. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by  ; 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee  ;  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften' d,  and  he  knew  not  why ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart, 
And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine  ; 
And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were  thine, 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 
And,  bom  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near,  in  woe  and  weal ; 
Oh,  loved  the  most  when  most  I  feel 

There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher ; 

Known  and  unknown,  human,  divine ! 
Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye, 
Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die, 

Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine  ! 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be. 
Loved  deeplier,  darklier  understood ; 
Behold  I  dream  a  dream  of  good 

And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 


Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou,  then  ?  I  cannot  guess  j 
But  though  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee,  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less  : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now ; 

Though  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 
I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice, 
I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice ; 

I  shall  not  lose  thee,  though  I  die. 

Alfred  Tennyson. — Born  1810. 


1707.— LADY  CLAEE. 

Lord  Ronald  courted  Lady  Clare, 
I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn ; 

Lord  Ronald,  her  cousin,  courted  her, 
And  they  will  wed  the  morrow  morn. 


"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth. 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair  ; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth. 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 

Said,   "  Who  was    this   that   went    from 
thee?" 
"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 

"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"  O  God  be  thank'd  !  "  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair : 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my 
nurse?" 

Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so  wild  ?  " 
"  As  God  's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 

The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth  as  I  live  by  bread  ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

*'  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

0  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life. 

And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold. 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 

She  said  "  Not  so ;  but  I  will  know 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay  now,  what  faith  ?"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 

"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 
"  Though  I  should  die  to-night." 

"  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear  ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  mother  !  "  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

Yet  here 's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so ; 
And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head,     ._ 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 
* 
She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  ; 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  do-wn, 

With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

A  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  follow'd  her  all  the  way. 


A.  Tennyson.] 


DOEA. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


Down  stept  Lord  Eonald  from  his  tower  : 
"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth  ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?  " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are  : 
I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  deed  ; 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Eonald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail ; 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Eonald' s  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh' d  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn ; 

He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her  where  she  stood: 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  of  blood — 

If  you  are  not  the  heiress  bom, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 

Alfred  Tennyson. — Born  1610. 


1708.— DOEA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.     William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at  them. 
And   often   thought,  "  I'll    make  them  man 

and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  aU, 
And  yearn' d  towards  William;  but  the  youth, 

because 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan   call'd   his  son,  and  said,  "  My 

son: 
'  I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die  ; 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter  ;  he  and  I 
Had    once  hard   words,  and    parted,  and  he 

died 
In  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora ;  take  her  for  your  wife  ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night  and 

day. 
For    many  years."     But    William    answer'd 

short : 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora ;  by  my  life, 
I  wiU  not  marry  Dora."     Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled   up  his  liands,  and 

said: 


"  You   will   not,  boy !    you  dare   to   answer 

thus! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, ' 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to  't ; 
Consider,  William  :  take  a  month  to  think, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish  ; 
Or,  by  the    Lord   that    made   me,  you  shall 

pack. 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again !  " 
But  William  answer'd  madly ;  bit  his  lips. 
And   broke  away.     The   more   he   look'd  at 

her 
The  less  he   liked    her;    and   his  ways  were 

harsh ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house. 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields ; 
And  half    in  love,  half    spite,  he  woo'd  and 

wed 
A  labourer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan 

call'd 
His  niece  and  said,  "  My  girl,  I  love  you  well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is  law." 
And  Dora  j^romised,  being  meek.    She  thought, 
"  It  cannot  be ;  my  uncle's  mind  will  change  ! " 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a 

boy 
To  William ;  then  distresses  came  on  him ; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's  gate. 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  covld  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they 

know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  look'd   with  tears   upon   her   boy,    and 

thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and  said : 
"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  through  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone. 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose. 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you. 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five 
I  years 

So  full  a  harvest ;  let  me  take  the  boy. 
And  I  wUl  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;    that  when    his  heart    is 

glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 
And   bless   him  for  the  sake  of    him  that 's 

gone." 
And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child  ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him. 
But  her  heart    fail'd    her ;    and   the  reapers 

reap'd. 


From  1780  to  1866.]        TWENTY-EIGHT  AND   TWENTY-NINE. 


[W.  M.  Praed. 


And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and 
took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work. 
And  came  and  said,  "Where  were  you  yes- 
terday .P 
Whose  child  is  that  ?     What  are  you  doing 

here  ?  " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And    answer' d    softly,    "  This    is   William's 

child !  " 
"  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "     Dora  said  again  : 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child 
And    bless    him  for  the  sake  of   him  that 's 

gone! " 
And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 
You   knew  my  word  was   law,  and  yet  you 

dared 
To  slight  it.     Well^for  I  will  take  the  boy ; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.     The  wreath  of  flowers 

fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bow'd  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field. 
More  and  more  distant.     She  bow'd  down  her 

head, 
Eemembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She  bow'd 

down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  aU  the  land  was  dark. 
Then    Dora  went    to    Mary's    house,  and 
stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you ; 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer' d  Mary,  "  This  shall  never  be. 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thy- 
self; 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  harshness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother ;   therefore  thou  and  I  will  go. 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back ; 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again. 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  -« ithin  one  house. 
And  work  for  William's  child  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out  and  reach'd  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch  ;  they  peep'd  and 

saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knee3, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 


And    clapt   him    on   the  hands   and   on   the 

cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him ;  and  the  lad  stretch' d 

out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in  ;  but  when  the  boy  belinld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her ; 
And  Allan  sat  him  down,  and  Mary  said : 

"  O  father  ! — if  you  let  me  call  you  so — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 
Or  William,  or  this  child  ;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora  :  take  her  back ;  she  loves  you  well. 
Oh,  sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he  said. 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me. — 
I  had  been  a  patient  wife  :  but,  sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus  ; 
'  God  bless  him  ! '  he  said,  '  and  may  he  never 

know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  through  ! '     Then 

he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd — unhappy  that  I  am  ! 
But  now,  sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make   him  hard,  and    he  will   learn  to 

slight 
His  father's  memory  ;  and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  -and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.     There  was  silence  in  the  room ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs  : — 
"  I  have  been  to  blame — to  blame !     I  have 

kill'd  my  son  ! 
I  have  kill'd  him — but  I  loved  him — my  dear 

son! 
May  God  forgive  me  ! — I  have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children  !  " 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old    man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many 

times 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse  ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred-fold ; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er  William's 

child. 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together  ;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate  ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 

Alfred'  Tennyson. — Bom  1810. 


1709.— TWENTY-EIGHT  AND    TWENTY- 
NINE. 

I  heard  a  sick  man's  dying  sigh, 

And  an  infant's  idle  laughter  : 
The  Old  Year  went  with  mourning  by — 

The  New  came  dancing  after ! 
Let  Sorrow  shed  her  lonely  tear — 

Let  Eevelry  hold  her  ladle ; 
Bring  boughs  of  cypress  for  the  bier — 

Fling  roses  on  the  cradle 


76 


Hon.  Mrs,  Norton.  1 


PICTUEE  OF  TWILIGHT. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Mutes  to  wait  on  the  funeral  state, 

Pages  to  pour  the  wine  ; 
A  requiem  for  Twenty-eight, 

And  a  health  to  Twenty-nine  I 

Alas  for  human  happiness  ! 

Alas  for  human  sorrow  ! 
Our  yesterday  is  nothingness — 

What  else  will  be  our  morrow  ? 
Still  Beauty  must  be  stealing  hearts, 

And  Knavery  stealing  purses  ; 
StUl  cooks  must  live  by  making  tarts, 

And  wits  by  making  verses  ; 
While  sages  prate,  and  courts  debate, 

The  same  stars  set  and  shine  .: 
And  the  world,  as  it  roU'd  through  Twenty- 
eight, 

Must  roll  through  Twenty-nine. 

Some  king  will  come,  in  heaven's  good  time, 

To  the  tomb  his  father  came  to  ; 
Some  thief  wiU  wade  through  blood  and  crime 

To  a  crown  he  has  no  claim  to  ; 
Some  suffering  land  will  rend  in  twain 

The  manacles  that  bound  her, 
And  gather  the  links  of  the  broken  chain 

To  fasten  them  proudly  round  her  ; 
The  grand  and  great  wiU  love  and  hate. 

And  combat  and  combine  ; 
And  much  where  we  were  in  Twenty-eight, 

We  shall  be  in  Twenty-nine. 

O'Connell  will  toil  to  raise  the  rent, 

And  Kenyon  to  sink  the  Nation  ; 
And  Shiel  will  abuse  the  Parliament, 

And  Peel  the  Association  ; 
And  thought  of  bayonets  and  swords 

Will  make  ex-Chancellors  merry  ; 
And  jokes  will  be  cut  in  the  House  of  Lords 

And  throats  in  the  County  of  Kerry  ; 
And  writers  of  weight  will  speculate 

On  the  Cabinet's  design ; 
And  just  what  it  did  in  Twenty-eight 

It  will  do  in  Twenty-nine. 

And  the  goddess  of  Love  will  keep  her  smiles, 

And  the  god  of  Cups  his  orgies ; 
And  there'U  be  riots  in  St.  Giles, 

And  weddings  in  St.  George's  ; 
And  mendicants  will  sup  like  kings. 

And  lords  will  swear  like  lacqueys  ; 
And  black  eyes  oft  will  lead  to  rings, 

And  rings  will  lead  to  black  eyes ; 
And  pretty  Kate  will  scold  her  mate. 

In  a  dialect  all  divine  ; 
Alas  !  they  married  in  Twenty-eight, 

They  will  part  in  Twenty-nine. 

My  uncle  will  swathe  his  gouty  limbs. 

And  talk  of  his  oils  and  blubbers ; 
My  aunt,  Miss  Dobbs,  will  play  longer  hymns. 

And  rather  longer  rubbers  ; 
My  cousin  in  parliament  will  prove 

How  utterly  ruin'd  trade  is  ; 
My  brother,  at  Eton,  will  fall  in  love 

With  half  a  hundred  ladies ; 


My  patron  wiU  sate  his  pride  from  plate, 
And  his  thirst  from  Bordeaux  wine — 

His  nose  was  red  in  Twenty-eight, 
'Twill  be  redder  in  Twenty-nine. 

And  O  !   I  shall  find  how,  day  by  day, 

All  thoughts  and  things  look  older — 
How  the  laugh  of  Pleasure  grows  less  gay, 

And  the  heart  of  Friendship  colder ; 
But  still  I  shall  be  what  I  have  been, 

Sworn  foe  to  Lady  Reason, 
And  seldom  troubled  with  the  spleen. 

And  fond  of  talking  treason ; 
I  shall  buckle  my  skate,  and  leap  my  gate, 

And  throw  and  write  mj"-  line  ; 
And    the   woman   I   worshipp'd  in   Twenty- 
eight 

I  shall  worship  in  Twenty-nine. 

W.  M.  Praed.—Bom  1802,  Died  1839. 


1 710.— PICTUEE  OF  TWILIGHT. 

Oh,  twilight  !  Spirit  that  dost  render  birth 
To  dim  enchantments  ;    nlfelting  heaven  with 

earth. 
Leaving  on  craggy  hills  and  running  streams 
A  softness  like  the  atmosphere  of  dreams ; 
Thy   hour   to   all    is    welcome !      Faint   and 

sweet 
Thy  light  falls  round  the  peasant's  homeward 

feet, 
Who,  slow  returning  from  his  task  of  toil. 
Sees  the  low  sunset  gUd  the  cultured  soil, 
And,  though  such  radiance  round  him  brightly 

glows, 
Marks  the   small   spark   his  cottage-window 

throws. 
Still  as  his  heart  forestalls  his  weary  pace. 
Fondly  he  dreams  of  each  familiar  face, 
Eecalls  the  treasures  of  his  narrow  life — 
His  rosy  children  and  his  sunburnt  wife, 
To  whom  his  coming  is  the  chief  event 
Of  simple  days  in  cheerful  labour  spent. 
The  rich  man's  chariot  hath  gone  whirling  past, 
And  these  poor  cottagers  have  only  cast 
One  careless  glance  on  aU  that  show  of  pride, 
Then  to  their  tasks  turn'd  quietly  aside  ; 
But  liim  they  wait  for,  him  they  welcome  home, 
Kix'd  sentinels  look  forth  to  see  him  come ; 
The  fagot  sent  for  when  the  fire  grew  dim, 
The  frugal  meal  prepared,  are  all  for  him  ; 
For  him  the  watching  of  that  sturdy  boy, 
For  him  those  smiles  of  tenderness  and  joy, 
For  him — who  plods  his  sauntering  way  along 
Whistling  the  fragment  of  some  village  song  ! 
Dear  art  thou  to  the  lover,  thou  sweetlight, 
Fair  fleeting  sister  of  the  mournful  night ! 
As  in  impatient  hope  he  stands  apart, 
Companion' d  only  by  his  beating  heart, 
And  with  an  eager  fancy  oft  beholds 
The  vision  of  a  white  robe's  fluttering  folds. 

Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. — Bo7-n  1808. 


From  1780  to  ISQG.] 


TO  FEEDINAND  SEYMOUE. 


[Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. 


1 7 n.— THE  MOTHEE'S  HEAET. 

When  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond, 
My   eldest   bom,   first   hope,   and   dearest 
treasure. 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure  ; 

Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 

So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and   true,  with   sense   beyond    thy 
years, 

And  natural  piety  that  lean'd  to  heaven ; 
Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears. 

Yet  patient  of  rebuke  when  justly  given — 
Obedient,  easy  to  be  reconciled. 
And  meeldy  cheerful — such  wert  thou,  my  child. 

Not  willing  to  be  left  :  still  by  my  side 

Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer-day  was 
dying; 
Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn ;  but  pleased  to  glide 
Through  the  dark  room,  where  I  was  sadly 
lying ; 
Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek. 
Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  feverish  cheek. 

O  boy  !  of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 

Earth's  fragile  idols;  Hke  a  tender  flower. 
No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness — prone  to 
fade — 
And     bending     weakly     to     the    thunder 
shower — 
Still  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force 

to  bind, 
And  olmig  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind. 

Then  thou,  my  merry  love,  bold  in  thy  glee 
Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  dancing, 

With  thy  sweet  temper  and  thy  spirit  free. 
Didst   come  as   restless  as  a   bird's  wing 
glancing, 

EuU  of  a  wild  and  irrepressible  mirth, 

Like  a  young  sunbeam  to  the  gladden' d  earth  : 

Thine  was  the  shout !  the  song  !  the  burst  of 

joy! 

Which  sweet  from  childhood's  rosy  lip  re- 

soundeth  ; 

Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  nought  could  cloy. 

And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief  re- 

boundeth  ; 
And  many  a  mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply 
Lurk'd  in  the  laugliter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye ! 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless. 
The  cold   and   stern  to  joy  and   fondness 
warming ; 
The  coaxing  smile — the  frequent  soft  caress — 
The  earnest,  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  dis- 
arming ! 
Again  my  heart  a  new  affection  found. 
But  thought  that  love  with  thee  had  reach'd 
its  bound. 

At   length  thou   earnest — thou,  the  last  and 
least, 
Nicknamed  "  the  emperor  "  by  thy  laughing 
brothers. 


Because  a  haughty  spirit  swell' d  thy  breast. 
And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the 
others ; 
Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A  mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile. 

And  oh  !  most  like  a  regal  child  wert  thou 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming — 
Fair   shoulders,    curling    lip,    and   dauntless 
brow — 
Fit   for   the  world's  strife,  not  for  poet's 
dreaming; 
And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 
And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

DiflTerent  from  both !  yet  each  succeeding  claim, 
I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 

Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same  ; 
Nor  injured  either  by  this  love's  comparing. 

Nor  stole  a  fraction  for  the  newer  call. 

But  in  the  mother's  heart  found  room  for  all. 

Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. — Born  1808. 


1 712.— TO  FEEDINAND  SEYMOUE. 

Eosy  child,  with  forehead  fair. 
Coral  Hp,  and  shining  hair. 
In  whose  mirthful,  clever  eyes 
Such  a  world  of  gladness  lies  ; 
As  thy  loose  curls  idly  straying 
O'er  thy  mother's  cheek,  while  playing, 
]i31end  her  soft  lock's  shadowy  twine 
With  the  glittering  hght  of  thine, — 
^Vho  shall  say,  who  gazes  now. 
Which  is  fairest,  she  or  thou  ? 

In  sweet  contrast  are  ye  met. 
Such  as  heart  could  ne'er  forget : 
Thou  art  brilliant  as  a  flower, 
Crimsoning  in  the  sunny  hour ; 
Merry  as  a  singing-bird, 
In  the  green  wood  sweetly  heard  ; 
Bestless  as  if  fluttering  wings 
Bore  thee  on  thy  wanderings  ; 
Ignorant  of  all  distress, 
Full  of  childhood's  carelessness. 

She  is  gentle  ;  she  hath  known 
Something  of  the  echo'd  tone 
Sorrow  leaves,  where'er  it  goes, 
In  this  world  of  many  woes. 
On  her  brow  such  shadows  are 
As  the  faint  cloud  gives  the  star. 
Veiling  its  most  holy  light. 
Though  it  still  be  pure  and  bright ; 
And  the  colour  in  her  cheek 
To  the  hue  on  thine  is  weak, 
Save  when  flush' d  with  sweet  surprise, 
Sudden  welcomes  hght  her  eyes ; 
And  her  softly  chisell'd  face 
(But  for  living,  moving  grace) 
Looks  like  one  of  those  which  beam 
In  th'  Italian  painter's  dream, — 
Some  beloved  Madonna,  bending 
O'er  the  infant  she  is  tending ; 

7G^ 


Hon.  Mrs.  Norton.]      WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHEE.      [Seventh  Period.— 


Holy,  bright,  and  undefiled 
Mother  of  the  Heaven-born  child ; 
Who,  tho'  painted  strangely  fair, 
Seems  but  made  for  holy  prayer, 
Pity,  tears,  and  sweet  appeal, 
And  fondness  such  as  angels  feel ; 
Baffling  earthly  passion's  sigh 
With  serenest  majesty ! 

Oh  !  may  those  enshrouded  years 
Whose  fair  dawn  alone  appears, — 
May  that  brightly  budding  life. 
Knowing  yet  nor  sin  nor  strife, — 
Bring  its  store  of  hoped-for  joy, 
Mother,  to  thy  laughing  boy  ! 
And  the  good  thou  dost  impart 
Lie  deep-treasured  in  his  heart. 
That,  when  he  at  length  shall  strive 
In  the  bad  world  where  we  live. 
Thy  sweet  name  may  still  be  blest 
As  one  who  taught  his  soul  true  rest ! 

Hon.  Mrs.  Norton.— Bom  1808. 


1713.— WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS 
TOGETHEE. 

We  have  been  friends  together, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade  ; 
Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut  trees 

In  infancy  we  play'd. 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart — 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  friends  together 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together; 

We  have  laugh'd  at  little  jests ; 
For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing, 

Warm  and  joyous,  in  our  breasts. 
But  laughter  now  hath  lied  thy  lip, 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  gay  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together — 

We  have  wept,  with  bitter  tears, 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slum- 
ber'd 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  are  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow ; 
We  have  been  sad  together — 

O  !  what  shall  part  us  now  ? 

Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. — Born  1808. 


1714.— ALLAN  PERCY. 

It  was  a  beauteous  lady  richly  dress'd ; 

Around  her  neck  are  chains  of  jewels  rare ; 
A  velvet  mantle  shrouds  her  snowy  breast, 

And   a   young   child   is    softly    slumbering 
there. 


In  her  own  arms,  beneath  that  glowing  sun. 
She  bears  him  onward  to  the  greenwood 
tree ; 
Is  the  dun  heath,  thou  fair  and  thoughtless 
one. 
The    place    where    an   Earl's    son   should 
cradled  he? 

LuUaby  ! 

Though  a  proud  Earl  be  father  to  my  child, 
Yet   on  the  sward  my  blessed  babe  shall 
lie; 
Let  the  winds  lull  him  with  their  murmurs 
wild, 
And  toss  the  green  boughs  upwards  to  the 
sky. 
Well  knows  that  Earl   how   long  my  spirit 
pined. 
I  loved  a  forester,  glad,  bold,  and  free ; 
And  had  I  wedded  as  my  heart  inclined, 
My  child   were   cradled   'neath  the  green- 
wood tree. 

Lullaby ! 

Slumber  thou  still,  my  innocent — mine  own, 

While  I  call  back  the  dreams  of  other  days. 
In  the  deep  forest  I  feel  less  alone 

Than   when   those  palace  splendors   mock 
my  gaze. 
Fear  not !  my  arm  shall  bare  thee  safely  back  ; 

I  need  no  squire,  no  page  with  bended  knee, 
To  bear  my  baby  through  the  wildwood  track, 

Where  Allan  Percy  used  to  roam  with  me. 
Lullaby ! 

Here  I  can  sit ;   and  while  the  fresh  wind 
blows, 
Waving  the  ringlets  of  thy  shining  hair, 
Giving  thy  cheek  a  deeper  tinge  of  rose, 

I  can  dream  dreams  that  comfort  my  de- 
spair ; 
I  can  make  visions  of  a  different  home. 

Such  as  we  hoped  in  other  days  might  be  ; 
There  no  proud  Earl's  unwelcome  footsteps 
come — 
There,  AUan  Percy,  I  am  safe  with  thee ! 
Lullaby ! 

Thou  art  mine  own — I'll  bear  thee  where  I 
list 
Far  from  the  dull  proud  tower  and  donjon 
keep ; 
From  my  long  hair  the  pearl  chains  I'll  un- 
twist. 
And  with  a  peasant's  heart  sit  down  and 
weep. 
Thy  guttering  broider'd  robe,  my  precious  one. 

Changed  for  a  simpler  covering  shall  be  ; 
And  I  will  dream  thee  Allan  Percy's  son, 
And  think  poor  Allan  guards  thy  sleep  with 
me. 

Lullaby ! 

Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. — Bom  1808. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  BEOOK-SIDE. 


[Lord  Houghton. 


1715.— LOVE  NOT. 

Love  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 
Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly 

flowers — 
Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 
Ere  they  have  blossom'd  for  a  few  short  hours. 
Love  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thing  ye  love  may  change  ; 
The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you, 
The  kindly-beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange, 
The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 
Love  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thing  you  love  may  die — 
May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth  : 
The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, 
Beam  o'er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 
Love  not ! 

Love  not !  oh  warning  vainly  said 
In  present  hours  as  in  years  gone  by  ; 
Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  one's  head, 
Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die. 
Love  not ! 
Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. — Born  1808. 


1716.— THE  KING  OF  DBNMAEK'S  EIDE. 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  King 

(Hurry!) 
That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering. 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would 
bring; 

(O  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying !) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl ; 
And  his  Eose  of  the  Isles  is  dying  I 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed ; 

(Hurry  !) 
Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need  ; 

(O  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flafik ; 
Worn-out  chargers  stagger' d  and  sank  ; 
Bridles  were  slacken'd,  and  girths  were  burst ; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 
For  his  Eose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying  ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one  ; 

(Hurry  !) 
They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  homewara 

gone; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone. 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying ! 
The  king  look'd  back  at  that  faithful  child ; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled ; 
They  pass'd  the  drawbridge  with  clattering 

din, 
Then  ho  dropp'd ;  and  only  the  king  rode  in 
Where  his  Eose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying ; 


The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn. 

(Silence  !) 
No  answer  came ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  return' d  on  the  cold  grey  morn. 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide  ;- 
None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary  ride ; 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay. 
Who  had  yearn' d  for  his  voice  while  dying ! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary. 
The  king  return' d  from  her  chamber  of  rest, 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast ; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eyeing. 
The  tears  gush'd  forth  which  he   strove   tD 

check  ; 
He  bow'd  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck : 
"  O,  steed — that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 
To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying  !  " 

Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. — Bom  1808. 


1717.— THE  BEOOK-SIDE. 

I  wander'd  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wander'd  by  the  mill ; 

I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow — 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird. 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree ; 

I  watch'd  the  long,  long  shade, 

And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid  ; 

For  I  listen' d  for  a  footfall, 

I  listen' d  for  a  word — 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not, — no,  he  came  not — 
The  night  came  on  alone — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 
Each  on  his  golden  throne  ; 
The  evening  wind  pass'd  by  my  cheek. 
The  leaves  above  were  stirr'd — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind  ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder — 
I  knew  its  touch  was  kind  : 
It  drew  me  nearer — nearer, — 
We  did  not  speak  one  word. 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 

Lord  Houghton. — Born  1809 


Lord  Houghton.] 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


1718.— THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old 

Were  better  than  men  now, 
Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold, 

Of  more  ingenuous  brow  : 
I  heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 

A  ghost  of  time  to  raise, 
As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 

Of  these  appointed  days. 

Still  is  it  true  and  over  true, 

That  I  delight  to  close 
This  book  of  life  self- wise  and  new, 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness 

The  world  has  since  foregone — 
The  daylight  of  contentedness 

That  on  those  faces  shone ! 

With  rights,  though  not  too  closely  scann'd, 

Enjoy'd  as  far  as  known — 
With  will,  by  no  reverse  unmann'd — 

With  pulse  of  even  tone — 
They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night  - 

Expected  nothing  more, 
Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 

Had  proffer' d  them  before. 

To  them  was  life  a  simple  art 

Of  duties  to  be  done, 
A  game  where  each  man  took  his  part, 

A  race  where  all  must  run  ; 
A  battle  whose  great  scheme  and  scope 

They  little  cared  to  know. 
Content,  as  men  at  arms,  to  cope 

Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 

Man  now  his  virtue's  diadem 

Puts  on,  and  proudly  wears — 
Great  thoughts,  great  feelings,  came  to  them. 

Like  instincts  unawares  : 
Blending  their  souls'  sublimest  needs 

With  tasks  of  every  day. 
They  went  about  their  gravest  deed:;, 

As  noble  boys  at  play. 


A  man's  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  feet. 
It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 

That  we  are  sick  to  greet  : 
For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 

We  struggle  and  aspire — 
Oar  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 

The  air  of  fresh  desire. 

But,  brothers,  who  up  reason's  hill 

Advance  with  hopeful  cheer — 
0 !   loiter  not,  those  heights  are  chill, 

As  chill  as  they  are  clear  ; 
And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze, 

The  loftier  that  ye  go, 
Eemembering  distance  leaves  a  haze 

On  all  that  lies  below. 

Lord  Houghton. — Bom  1809. 


1719.— THE   LONG-AGO. 

On  that  deep-retiring  shore 

Frequent  pearls  of  beauty  lie. 
Where  the  passion- waves  of  yore 

Fiercely  beat  and  mounted  high  : 
Sorrows  that  are  sorrows  still 

Lose  the  bitter  taste  of  wo ; 
Nothing's  altogether  ill 

In  the  griefs  of  Long-ago. 

Tombs  where  lonely  love  repines, 

Ghastly  tenements  of  tears, 
Where  the  look  of  happy  shrines 

Through  the  golden  mist  of  years  : 
Death,  to  those  who  trust  in  good, 

Vindicates  his  hardest  blow ; 
Oh  !  we  would  not,  if  we  could, 

Wake  the  sleep  of  Long-ago  ! 

Though  the  doom  of  swift  decay 

Shocks  the  soul  where  life  is  strong. 
Though  for  frailer  hearts  the  day 

Lingers  sad  and  overlong — 
Still  the  weight  will  find  a  leaven. 

Still  the  spoiler's  hand  is  slow. 
While  the  future  has  its  heaven, 

And  the  past  its  Long-ago. 

Lord  Houghton. — Born  1809. 


1720.— THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIE. 

I  love  it,  I  love  it ;  and  who  shall  dare 
To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair ; 
I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize  ; 
I've  bedew'd  it  with  tears,  and  embalm'd  it 

with  sighs. 
'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart ; 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 
Would   ye   learn   the    spell  ? — a   mother   sat 

there ; 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  linger  d  near 
The  hallow' d  seat  with  listening  ear ; 
And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give  ; 
To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 
She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide, 
With  truth   for   my  creed  and  God  for  my 

guide  ; 
She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer  ; 
As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-cliair. 

I  sat  and  watch'd  her  many  a  day. 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were 

gray  ; 
And    I   almost    worshipp'd    her    whex    she 

smiled. 
And  turn'd  from  her  Bible,  to  bless  her  child. 
Years  roll'd  on  ;  but  the  last  one  sped — 
My  idol  was  shatter'd  ;  my  earth-star  fled  : 
I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  OLD  FARM-GATE. 


[Eliza  Cook. 


"T  is  past,  't  is  past,  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow  : 
'T  was  there  she  nursed  me,  't  was  there  she 

died : 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly  ;  and  deem  me  weak, 
WhUe    the    scalding   drops    start   down   my 

cheek ;  "" 

But  I  love  it,  I  love  it ;  and  cannot  tear   ■ 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 

Eliza  Cook.— Born  1817. 


t 


i 

I 


17,21.— THE  LAND  OF  MY  BIRTH. 

There's   a   magical   tie   to   the   land   of   our 

home, 
"Which  the  heart  cannot   break,  though  the 

footstep  may  roam : 
Be  that  land  where  it  may,  at  the  Line  or  the 

Pole; 
It  still  holds  the  magnet  that  draws  back  the 

soul. 
'Tis  loved  by  the  freeman,  'tis  loved  by  the 

slave, 
'Tis  dear  to  the  coward,  more  dear  to  the 

brave ! 
Ask  of  any  the  spot  they  like  best  on  the 

earth, 
And  they'll   answer   with   pride,    "  'Tis   the 

land  of  my  birth." 

Oh,  England !  thy  white  cliflfs  are  dearer  to 

me 
Than  all  the  famed  coasts  of  a  far  foreign 

sea; 
What  emerald  can  peer,  or  what  sapphire  can 

vie, 
With  the  grass  of  thy  fields  or  thy  summer- 
day  sky  ? 
Tliej'-  tell,  me  of   regions   where   flowers  are 

found. 
Whose  perfume  and  tints  spread  a  paradise 

round ; 
But  brighter  to  me  cannot  garland  the  earth 
Than   those  that  spring  forth  in  the  land  of 

my  birth. 

Did  I  breathe  in  a  clime  where  the  bulbul  is 

heard, 
Where  the  citron-tree  nestles  the  soft  hum- 
ming-bird : 
Oh!  I'd  covet  the  notes  of  thy  nightingale 

still, 
And   remember  the  robin  that  feeds  at  my 

sill. 
Did  my  soul  find  a  feast  in  the  gay  "land  of 

song," 
In  the   gondolier's    chant,   or  the   carnival's 

throng  : 
Could    I   ever   forget,   'mid  their  music  and 

mirth, 
The  national  strain  of  the  land  of  my  birth  ? 


My  country,  I  love  thee : — though  freely  I'd 

rove 
Throfigh    the    western    savannah,    or   sweet 

orange  grove  ; 
Yet   warmly  my  bosom   would  welcome  the 

gale 
That  bore  me  away  with  a  homeward-bound 

sail. 
My  country,  I  love  thee  I — and  oh,  mayst  thou 

have 
The  last  throb  of  my  heart,  ere  'tis  cold  in 

the  grave ; 
Mayst  thou  yield  me  that  g^ave,  in  thine  own 

daisied  earth, 
And  my  ashes  repose  in  the  land  of  my  birth  ! 

Eliza  Cook. — Born  1817. 


1722.— THE  OLD  FARM-GATE. 

Where,  where  is  the  gate  that  once  served  to 
divide 

The  elm-shaded  lane  from  the  dusty  road- 
side ? 

I  like  not  this  barrier  gaily  bedight, 

With  its  glittering  latch  and  its  trellis  of 
white. 

It  is  seemly,  I  own — yet,  oh  !  dearer  by  far 

Was  the  red-rusted  hinge  and  the  weather- 
warp 'd  bar. 

Here  are  fashion  and  form  of  a  modernized 
date, 

But  I'd  rather  have  look'd  on  the  Old  Farm- 
gate. 

'Twas  here  where  the  urchins  would  gather  to 

play, 
In  the  shadows  of  twilight,  or  sunny  mid-day  ; 
For  the  stream  running  nigh,  and  the  hillocks 

of  sand, 
Were  temptations  no  dirt-loving  rogue  could 

withstand. 
But  to  swing  on  the  gate-rails,  to  clamber  and 

ride, 
Was  the  utmost  of  pleasure,   of  glory,  and 

pride ; 
And   the   car   of  the  victor,  or   carriage   of 

state, 
Never  carried  such  hearts  as  the  Old  Farm- 
gate. 

'Twas  here  where  the  miller's  son  paced  to 

and  fro. 
When  the   moon  was   above  and  the  glow- 
worms below ; 
Now  pensively  leaning,  now  twirling  his  stick, 
While  the  moments  grew  long  and  his  heart- 
throbs grew  quick. 
Why,  why  did  he  linger  so  restlessly  there, 
With  church-going   vestment    and    sprucely- 
comb'd  hair? 
j    He  loved,  oh  !  he  loved,  and  had  promised  to 

wait 
I   For  the  one  he  adored,  at  the  Old  Farm-sate. 


Eliza  Cook.] 


THE  LOVED  ONE  WAS  NOT  THEEE         [Seventh  Period.— 


Twas  here   where  the   ^ey-headed  gossips 

would  meet ; 
And  the  falling  of  markets,  or  goodne'Bs  of 

wheat — 
This    field    lying    fallow — that    heifer    just 

bought — 
Were   favourite   themes   for    discussion   and 

thought. 
The   merits  and  faults  of  a  neighbour  just 

dead — 
The  hopes  of  a  couple  about  to  be  wed — 
The  Parliament  doings  —  the   Bill    and  De- 
bate— 
Were  all  canvass' d  and  weigh' d  at  the  Old 

Farm-gate. 

'Twas  over   that   gate  I  taught  Pincher  to 

bound 
With  the  strength  of  a  steed  and  the  grace  of 

a  hound. 
The  beagle  might  hunt,  and  the  spaniel  might 

swim ; 
But  none  could  leap  over  that  postern  like 

him. 
When  Dobbin  was  saddled  for  mirth-making 

trip, 
And  the  quickly-pull'd  willow-branch  served 

for  a  whip, 
Spite  of  lugging  and  tugging,  he'd  stand  for 

his  freight, 
While  I  climb' d  on  his  back  from  the  Old 

Farm-gate. 

'Tis  well  to  pass  portals  where  pleasure  and 

fame 
May  come  winging  our  moments,  and  gilding 

our  name ; 
But   give   me  the  joy  and  the  freshness  of 

mind. 
When,   away   on   some   sport — the   old  gate 

slamm'd  behind — 
I've  listen'd  to  music,  but  none  that  could 

speak 
In  such  tones  to  my  heart  as  the  teeth-setting 

creak 
That  broke  on  my  ear  when  the  night  had 

worn  late. 
And  the  dear  ones  came  home  through  the 

Old  Farm-gate. 

Oh  !  fair  is  the  barrier  taking  its  place, 

But  I  it  darkens  a  picture  my  soul  long'd  to 
trace. 

I  sigh  to  behold  the  rough  staple  and  hasp, 

And  the  rails  that  my  growing  hand  scarcely 
could  clasp. 

Oh  !  how  strangely  the  warm  spirit  grudges  to 
part 

With  the  commonest  relic  once  link'd  to  the 
heart ; 

And  the  brightest  of  fortune— the  kindliest 
fate — 

Would  not  banish  my  love  for  the  Old  Farm- 
gate. 

Eliza  Cool.— Born  1817. 


1723.— THE  LOVED  ONE   WAS  NOT 
THEEE. 

We  gather'd  round  the  festive  board. 

The  crackling  fagot  blazed  ; 
But  few  would  taste  the  wine  that  pour'd, 

Or  join  the  song  we  raised  : 
For  there  was  now  a  glass  unfill'd — 

A  favour 'd  place  to  spare  ; 
All  eyes  were  dull,  all  hearts  were  chill' d — 

The  loved  one  was  not  there. 

No  happy  laugh  was  heard  to  ring, 

No  form  would  lead  the  dance  ; 
A  smother' d  sorrow  seem'd  to  fling 

A  gloom  in  every  glance. 
The  grave  had  closed  upon  a  brow, 

The  honest,  bright,  and  fair  ; 
We  miss'd  our  mate,  we  mourn' d  the  blow — 

The  loved  one  was  not  there. 

Eliza  Cook.— Born  1817. 


17.24— THE  OLD  WATER-MILL. 

And  is  this  the  old  mill-stream  that  ten  years 

ago 
Was  so  fast  in  its  current,  so  pure  in  its  flow ; 
Whose  musical  waters  would  ripple  and  shiue 
With  the  glory  and  dash  of  a  miniature  Rhine  ? 

Can  this  be  its  bed  ? — I  remember  it  weU 
When  it  sparkled  Hke  silver  through  meauow 

and  dell; 
When   the  pet-lamb  reposed  on  its  emerald 

side. 
And  the  minnow  and  perch  darted  swift  through 

its  tide. 

Yes  !  here  was  the  »Tiiller's  house,   peaceful 

abode ! 
Where  the  flower-twined  porch  drew  all  eyes 

from  the  road ; 
Where  roses  and  jasmine  embower'd  a  door 
That  never  was  closed  to  the  wayworn  or  poor. 

Where  the  miller,  God  bless  him  !  oft  gave  us 

"a  dance," 
And  led  off  the  ball  with  his  soul  in  his  glance ; 
Who,  forgetting  grey  hairs,  was  as  loud  in  his 

mirth 
As  the   veriest   youngsters   that  circled   his 

hearth. 

Blind  Ralph  was  the  only  musician  we  had, 
But  his  tunes — oh,  such  tunes — ^would  make 

any  heart  glad  ! 
"The  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England,"  and  "  Green 

grow  the  Rushes," 
Woke   our   eyes'    brightest   beams,    and   our 

cheeks'  warmest  flushes. 

No  lustre  resplendent  its  brilliancy  shed. 
But  the  wood  fire  blazed  high,  and  the  board 
was  well  spread ; 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


A  EEMEMBEANCE. 


[Dean  Alford. 


Oar  seats  were  undamask'd,  our  partners  were 

rough, 
Yet,  yet  we  were  happy,  and  that  was  enough. 

And  here  was  the  mill  where  we  idled  away 

Our  holiday  hours  on  a  clear  summer  day ; 

Where  Eoger,  the  miller's  boy,  loll'd  on  a 
sack, 

And  chorus' d  his  song  to  the  merry  click- 
clack. 

But  lo !  what  rude  sacrilege  here  hath  been 

done ! 
The  streamlet  no  longer  purls  on  in  the  sun ; 
It's  course  has  been  turn'd.  and  the  desolate 

edge 
Is  now  mournfully  cover' d  with  duckweed  and 


The  mill  is  in  ruins.     No  welcoming  sound 
In  the  mastiff's  gruff  bark  and  the  wheels 

dashing  round  ; 
The  house,  too,  untenanted — left  to  decay — 
And  the  miller,  long  dead :  all  I  loved  pass'd 

away! 

This  play-place  of  childhood  was  graved  on 
my  heart 

In  rare  Paradise  colours  that  now  must  de- 
part ; 

The  old  water-miU's  gone,  the  fair  vision  is 
fled, 

And  I  weep  o'er  its  wreck  as  I  do  for  the 
dead. 

Eliza  Cool. — Bo-i-n  1817. 


1725.— A  HOME  IN  THE  HEART. 

Oh  !  ask  not  a  home  in  the  mansions  of  pride, 
Where  marble  shines  out  in  the  pillars  and 
walls : 
Though  the  roof  be  of  gold,  it  is  brilliantly 
cold. 
And  joy  may  not  be  found  in  its  torch- 
lighted  halls. 
But  seek  for  a  bosom  all  honest  and  true. 
Where  love,  once  awaken' d,  will  never  de- 
part : 
Turn,  turn  to  that  breast  like  the  dove  to  its 
nest. 
And  you'll  find  there's  no  home  like  a  home 
in  the  heart. 

Oh  !  link  but  one  spirit  that's  warmly  sincere, 
That  will  heighten  your  pleasure  and  solace 
your  care  \ 
Find  a  soul  you  may  trust  as  the  kind  and 
the  just, 
And    be   sure   the    wido   world    holds   no 
treasure  so  rare. 
Then  the  frowns  of  Misfortune  may  shadow 
our  lot. 
The  cheek-searing  tear-drops  of  Sorrow  may 
start ; 


13  at  a  star  never  dim  sheds  a  halo  for  him 
Who  can  turn  for  repose  to  a  home  in  the 
heart. 

Eliza  CooJc.—Born  1817. 


1726.— A  EEMEMBEANCE. 

Methinks  I  can  remember,  when  a  shade 
All  soft  and  flow'ry  was  my  couch,  and  I 
A  little  naked  child,  with  fair  white  flesh. 
And   wings   all  gold   bedropt ;    and  o'er   my 

head 
Bright  fruits  were  hanging,  and  tall,  balmy 

shrubs 
Shed  odorous  gums  around  me,  and  I  lay 
Sleeping  and  waking  in  that  wondrous  air. 
Which  seem'd  infused  with  glory — and  each 

breeze 
Bore,  as  it  wander'd  by,  sweet  melodies, 
But   whence   I   knew  not :  one   delight  was 
!  there, 

i   Whether  of  feeling,  or  of  sight,  or  touch, 
!    I  know  not  how — which  is  not  on  this  earth, 
I    Something  all-glorious  and  aU  beautiful, 
j   Of   which   our  language   speaketh   not,    and 
I  which 

Flies  from  the  eager  graspings  of  my  thought, 
I    As  doth  the  shade  of  a  forgotten  dream. 
!   All  knowledge  had  I,  but  I  cared  not  then 
i   To  search  into  my  soul,  and  draw  it  thence  : 
I   The  blessed  creatures  that  around  me  play'd, 
i    I  knew  them  all,  and  where  their  resting  was. 
And  all  their  hidden  symmetries  I  knew. 
And  how  the  form  is  link'd  unto  the  soul ; 
I  knew  it  all ;  but  thought  not  on  it  then ; 
I  was  so  happy. 

And  upon  a  time, 
I  saw  an  army  of  bright,  beamy  shapes. 
Fair-faced,    and    rosy-cinctured,     and    gold- 
wing' d. 
Approach  upon  the  air ;  they  came  to  me ; 
And  from  a  crystal  chalice,  silver-brimm'd, 
Put  sparkhng  potion  to  my  lips  and  stood 
All  around  me,  in  the  many  blooming  shade, 
Shedding  into  the  centre  where  I  lay 
A  mingling  of  soft  light  ;  and  then  they  sung 
Songs  of  the  land  they  dwelt  in ;  and  the  last 
Lingereth  even  till  now  upon  mine  ear. 
Holy  and  blest 
Be  the  calm  of  thy  rest. 
For  thy  chamber  of  sleep 
Shall  be  dark  and  deep  : 
They  will  dig  thee  a  tomb 
In  the  dark,  deep  womb. 
In  the  warm,  dark  womb. 

Spread  ye,   spread  the   dewy   mist   around 
him  ; 
Spread  ye,  spread,  till  the  thick,  dark  night 

surround  him — 
Till  the  dark,  long  night  has  bound  him, 
Which  bindeth  all  before  their  birth 
Down  upon  the  nether  earth. 
The  firsb  cloud  is  beamy  and  bright, 
The  next  cloud  is  mellow' d  in  light. 


Dean  Alpobd.] 


THE  PAST. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


The  third  cloud  is  dim  to  the  sight, 

And  it  stretch' d  away  into  gloomy  night : 

Twine  ye,  twine  the  mystic  threads  around 

him; 
Twine  ye,  twine,  tm  the  fast,  firm  fate  sur- 
round him — 
Till  the  firm,  cold  fate  hath  bound  him, 
Which  bindeth  all  before  their  birth 
Down  upon  the  nether  earth. 
The  first  thread  is  beamy  and  bright, 
The  next  thread  is  mellow^'d  in  light, 
The  third  thread  is  dim  to  the  sight. 
And  it  stretcheth  away  into  gloomy  night. 

Sing  ye,  sing  the  spirit  song  around  him ; 
Sing  ye,  sing,  till  the  dull,  warm  sleep  sur- 
round him — 
Till  the  warm,  damp  sleep  hath  bound  him, 
AVhich  bindeth  all  before  their  birth 
Down  upon  the  nether  earth. 
The  first  dream  is  beamy  and  bright, 
The  next  dream  is  mellow' d  in  light. 
The  third  dream  is  dim  to  the  si;,ht, 
And  it  stretcheth  away  into  gloomy  night. 
■   Holy  and  blest 
Is  the  calm  of  thy  rest, 
For  thy  chamber  of  sleep 
Is  dark  and  deep  ; 
«   They  have  dug  thee  a  tomb 
In  the  dark,  deep  womb. 
The  warm,  dark  womb. 

Then  dimness  pass'd  upon  me;   and  that 
song 
Was  sounding  o'er  me  when  I  woke  again 
To  be  a  pilgrim  on  the  nether  earth. 

Twine  ye,  twine  the  mystic  threads  around 
him; 
Twine  ye,  twine,  tiU  the  fast,  firm  fate  sur- 
round him — 
Till  the  firm,  cold  fate  hath  bound  him, 
Which  bindeth  all  before  their  birth 
Down  upon  the  nether  earth. 

Dean  Alford.—Born  1810. 


1727.— THE  PAST. 

Few  have  lived 
As  we  have  lived,  unsever'd ;  our  young  life 
Was  but  a  summer's  frolic :  we  have  been 
Like  two  babes  passing  hand-in-hand  along 
A  sunny  bank  on  flowers — the  busy  world 
Goes  on  around  us,  and  its  multitudes 
Pass  by  me  and  I  look  them  in  the  face 
But  cannot  read  such  meaning  as  I  read 
In  this  of  thine  ;  and  thou,  too,  dost  but  move 
Among  them  for  a  season,  but  returnest 
With  a  light  step  and  smiles  to  our  old  seats. 
Our  quiet  walks,  our  solitary  bower. 
Some  we  love  well ;  the  early  presences 
That  were  first  round  us,  and  the  silvery  tones 
Of  those  most  far  away,  and  dreary  voices 
That  sounded  all  aborit  us  at  the  dawn 
Of   our   young   life — these,  as   the  world  of 

thinffs 


Sets  in  upon  our  being  like  a  tide, 
Keep  with  us,  and  are  for  ever  uppermost. 
And  some  there  are,  tall,  beautiful,  and  wise. 
Whose  step  is  heavenward,  and  whose  souls 

have  past 
Out  from  the  nether  darkness,  and  been  borne 
Into  a  new  and  glorious  universe. 
Who  speak  of  things  to  come !  but  there  is 

that 
i   In  thy  soft  eye  and  long-accustom' d  voice 
W^ould  win  me  from  them  all. 

For  since  our  birth, 
I   Our  thoughts   have   fiow'd   together   in    one 

stream ; 
All  through  the  seasons  of  our  infancy 
The  same  hills  rose  about  us — the  same  trees, 
Now  bare,  now  sprinkled  with  the  tender  leaf. 
Now  thick  with  full  dark  foliage — the  same 

church, 
Our  own  dear  vUlage  church,  has  seen  us  pray 
In  the  same  seat,  with  hands  clasp'd  side  by 

side, — 
And  we  have  sung  together ;  and  have  walk'd, 
Full   of   one   thought,  along  the   homeward 

lane ; 
And  so  were  we  built  upwards  for  the  storm 
That  on  my  walls  hath  fallen  unsparingly, 
Shattering  their  frail  foundations  ;  and  which 

thou 
Hast  yet  to  look  for,  but  hast  found  the  help 
Which   then   I   knew   not — rest   thee   firmly 

there ! 

When  first  I  issued  forth  into  the  world, 
WeU  I  remember — that  unwelcome  mom 
When  we  rose   long   before   the  accustom' d 

hour. 
By  the  faint  taper-light :  and  by  that  gate 
We  just  now  swung  behind  us  carelessly, 
I  gave  thee  the  last  kiss ;  I  travell'd  on, 
Giving  my  mind  up  to  the  world  without, 
'Which   pour'd  in   strange   ideas   of   strange 

things, — 
New  towns,  new  churches,  new  inhabitants: 
And  ever  and  anon  some  happy  child 
Beneath    a    rose-trail' d    porch   play'd   as    I 

pass'd ; 
And  then  the  thought  of  thee  swept  through 

my  soul, 
And  made  the  hot  drops  stand  in  either  eye. 

Dean  Alford. — Born  1810. 


1728.— ONE  SUMMEE'S  NIGHT. 

I  remember  well,  one  summer's  night, 
A  clear,  soft,  silver  moonlight,  thou  and  I 
Sat  a  full  hour  together,  silently  ; 
Looking  abroad  into  the  pure  pale  heaven. 
Perchance  thou  hast  forgotten  :  but  my  arm 
Was   on   thy    shoulder,    and    thy   clustering 

locks 
Hung  lightly  on  my  hand,  and  my  clear  eye 
Glisten' d  beside  my  forehead  :  and  at  length 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


ENGLAND. 


[Dean  Alpord. 


Thou  saidst — "  'Tis  time  we  went  to  rest ;  " 

and  then 
We  rose  and  parted  for  the  night :  no  words 
But  those  were  spoken,  and  we  never  since 
Have  told  each  other  of  that  moment. 

Dean  Alford.—Born  1810. 


1729.— MOENING  AND  EVENING. 

Evening  and  Morning — those  two  ancient 

names 
So  link'd  with  childish  wonder,  when  with  arm 
Fast  wound  about  the  neck  of  one  we  loved, 
Oft  questioning,  we  heard  Creation's  tale — 
Evening  and  morning  ever  brought  to  me 
Strange  joy  ;  the  birth  and  funeral  of  Hght, 
Whether  in  clear,  unclouded  majesty 
The  large  sun  pour'd  his  effluence  abroad, 
Or  the  grey  clouds  roll'd  silently  along, 
Dropping  their  doubtful  tokens  as  they  pass'd 
Whether  above  the  hills  intensely  glow'd 
Bright  lines  of  parting  glory  in  the  west, 
Or  from  the  veil  of  faintly-redden'd  mist 
The  darkness  slow  descended  on  the  earth  ; 
The  passing  to  a  state  of  things  all  new — 
New  fears  and  new  enjoyments — this  was  all 
Food  for  my  seeking  ?pirit  :     I  would  stand 
Upon  the  jutting  hills  that  overlook 
Our  level  moor,  and  watch  the  daylight  fade 
Along  the  prospect :  now  behind  the  leaves 
The  golden  twinkles  of  the  westering  sun 
Deepen' d  to  richest  crimson  :  now  from  out 
The  solemn  beech-grove,  through  the  natural 

aisles 
Of  pillar' d  trunks,  the  glory  in  the  west 
Shew'd  like  Jehovah's  presence  fire, 'beheld 
In  olden  times  above  the  Mercj'-seat 
Between  the  folded  wings  of  Cherubim  ; — 
I  loved  to  wander,  -with  the  evening  star 
Heading  my  way,  till  from  the  palest  speck 
Of  virgin  silver,  evermore  Ut  up 
With  radiance  as  by  spirits  minister'd, 
She  seem'd  a  living  pool  of  golden  light ; 
I  loved  to  learn  the  strange  array  of  shapes 
That  pass  along  the  circle  of  the  year ; 
Some,  for  the  love  of  ancient  yore,  I  kept : 
And  they  would  call  into  my  fancy's  eye 
Chaldgean  beacons,  over  the  drear  sand  . 
Seen  faintly  from  thick-tower' d  Babylon, 
Against  the  sunset — shepherds  in  the  field, 
Watching  their  flocks  by  night — or  shapes  of 

men 
And  high-neck'd  camels,  passing  leisurely 
Along  the  starr'd  horizon,  where  the  spice 
Swims  in  the  air,  in  Araby  the  Blest ; 
And  some,  as  Fancy  led,  I  figured  forth, 
Misliking  their  old  names ;  one  circlet  bright 
Gladdens  me  often,  near  the  northern  wain. 
Which,  with  a  childish  playfulness  of  choice 
That  hath  not  pass'd  away,  I  loved  to  call 
The  crown  of  glory,  by  the  righteous  judge 
Against  the  day  of  his  appearing,  laid 
In  store  for  him  who  fought  the  fight  of  faith. 

Dean  Alford.—Born  1810. 


1730.— THE  CROSS. 

Methinks  I  could  have  borne  to  live  my  days 
When  by  the  pathway  side,  and  in  the  dells, 
By  shading  resting-place,  or  hollow  bank 
^Vhere   cm-ved  the  streamlet,  or  01;^  peeping 

rock, 
Eose  sweetly  to  the  traveller's  humble  eye 
The  Cross  in  every  corner  of  our  land ; 
^Vhen  from  the  wooded  valleys  morn  and  eve 
Pass'd  the  low  murmur  of  the  angel-bell ; 
Methinks  I  could  have  led  a  peaceful  life 
Daily  beneath  the  triple-vaulted  roof. 
Chanting  glad  matins,  and  amidst  the  glow 
Of  mellow  evening  towards  the  village  tower 
Pacing  my  humble  way. 

Dean  Alford.—Born  1810. 


1731.— GENTLEST  GIEL. 

Gentlest  girl. 
Thou  wert  a  bright  creation  of  my  thought 
In  earliest  childhood — and  my  seeking  soul 
Wander' d  ill-satisfied,  tUl  one  blest  day 
Thine  image  pass'd  athwart  it — thou  wert  then 
A  young  and  happy  child,  sprightly  as  life ; 
Yet  not  so  bright  or  beautiful  as  that 
Mine  inward  vision ; — ^but  a  whispering  voice 
Said   softly — This  is   she   whom   thou    didst 

choose ; 
And  thenceforth  ever,  through  the  mom  of  life, 
Thou  wert  my  playmate — thou  my  only  joy, 
Thou  my  chief  sorrow  when  I  saw  thee  not. — 
And  when  my  daily  consciousness  of  hfe 
Was  born  and  died — thy  name  the  last  went 

up, 
Thy  name  the  first,  before  our  Heavenly  Guide, 
For  favour  and  protection.     All  the  flowers 
Whose  buds  I  cherish' d,  and  in  summer  heats 
Fed  with  mock  showers,  and  proudly  show'd 

their  bloom, 
For  thee  I  rear'd,  because  all  beautiful 
And  gentle  things  reminded  me  of  thee  : 
Yea,  and  the  morning,  and  the  rise  of  sun. 
And  the  fall  of  evening,  and  the  starry  host, 
If  aught  I  loved,  I  loved  beca.use  thy  name 
Sounded  about  me  when  I  look'd  on  them. 

Dean  Alford.—Born  1810. 


1732.— ENGLAND. 

We  have  been  dwellers  in  a  lovely  land, 
A  land  of  lavish  lights  and  floating  shades. 
And   broad  green   flats,  border' d   by   woody 

capes 
That  lessen  ever  as  they  stretch  away 
Into  the  distant  blue ;  a  land  of  hills. 
Cloud-gathering    ranges,    on    whose    ancient 

breast 
The    morning    mists   repose :    each   autumn 

tide 


Dean  Alford.] 


THERE  IS  AN  ANCIENT  MAN. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. — 


Deep  purple  with  the  heath-bloom  ;  from  whose 

brow 
We  might  behold  the  crimson  sun  go  down 
Behind  the  barrier  of  the  western  sea ; 
A  land  of  beautiful  and  stately  fanes. 
Aerial  temples  most  magnificent, 
Rising  with  clusters  of  rich  pinnacles 
And  fretted  battlements ;  a  land  of  towers, 
Where  sleeps  f,he  music  of  deep-voiced  bells, 
Save  when  in  holy  day  time  the  joyous  air 
Ebbs   to    the   welling   sound ;   and   Sabbath 

morn, 
When  from  a  choir  of  hill-side  villages 
The  peaceful  invitation  churchward  chimes. 
So  were   our  souls  brought  up  to   love   this 

earth 
And  feed  on  natural  beauty :  and  the  light 
Of  our  own  sunsets,  and  the  mountains  blue 
That  girt  around  our  home,  were  very  parts 
Of   our   young    being ;    link'd    with   aU   we 

knew, 
Centres  of  interest  for  undying  thoughts 
And  themes    of   mindful   converse.      Happy 

they 
Who  in  the  fresh  and  dawning  time  of  youth 
Have   dwelt   in   such  a  land,  turning   their 

souls 
To  the  deep  melodies  of  Nature's  laws 
Heard  in  the  after-time  of  riper  thought 
Eeflective  on  past  seasons  of  delight. 

Dean  Alford.—Born  1810. 


1733.— THERE  IS  AN  xVNCIENT  MAN. 

There  is  an  ancient  man  who  dwells 
Without  our  parish  bounds. 
Beyond  the  poplar-avenue. 
Across  two  meadow-grounds ; 
And  whensoe'er  our  two  small  beUs 
To  church  call  merrily, 
Leaning  on  our  churchyard  gate. 
This  old  man  ye  may  see. 

He  is  a  man  of  many  thoughts. 
That  long  have  found  their  rest. 
Each  in  its  proper  dwelling-place 
Settled  within  his  breast : 
A  form  erect,  a  stately  brow, 
A  set  and  measured  mien — 
The  satisfied  unroving  look 
Of  one  who  much  hath  seen. 

And  once,  when  young  in  care  of  souls, 
I  watch'd  a  sick  man's  bed. 
And  willing  half,  and  half  ashamed. 
Linger' d,  and  nothing  said  : 
The  ancient  man,  in  accents  mild, 
Removed  my  slaamc  away — 
"  Listen  !  "  he  said ;  "  the  minister 
Prepares  to  kneel  and  pray." 

These  lines  of  humble  thankfulness 
Will  never  meet  his  eye  ; 
Unknown  that  old  man  means  to  live 
And  unrcmember'd  die. 


The  forms  of  life  have  sever' d  us — 
But  v/hen  that  life  shall  end, 
Fain  would  I  hail  that  reverend  man, 
A  father  and  a  friend.^ 

Bean  Alford.—Born  181  a 


1734.— THE  FATHER  AND  CHILD. 

"  Father,  wake — the  storm  is  loud, 
The  rain  is  falling  fast  ; 
Let  me  go  to  my  mother's  grave, 
And  screen  it  from  the  blast. 
She  cannot  sleep,  she  will  not  rest. 
The  wind  is  roaring  so  ; 
We  pray'd  that  she  might  lie  in  peace — 
My  father,  let  us  go  !  " 

"  Thy  mother  sleeps  too  firm  a  sleep 
To  heed  the  wind  that  blows  ; 
There  are  angel-charms  that  hush  the  noise 
From  reaching  her  repose. 
Her  spirit  in  dreams  of  the  blessed  Land 
Is  sitting  at  Jesu's  feet ; 
Child,  nestle  thee  in  mine  arms  and  pray 
Our  rest  may  be  as  sweet  !  " 

Dean  Alford.—Born  1810. 


1735.— AUTUMN. 

How  soothing  is  that  sound  of  far-off  wheels 
Under  the  golden  sheen  of  the  harvest-moon  ! 
In  the  shade-chequer' d  road  it  half  reveals 
A  homeward-wending   group,  with   heart   in 

tune 
To  thankful  merriment ; — father  and  boy, 
And  maiden  with  her  gleanings  on  her  head ; 
And  the  last  waggon's  rumble  heard  with  joy 
In  the  kitchen  with  the  ending-supper  spread. 
But  while  I  listening  stand,  the  sound  hath 


And  hark,  from  many  voices  lustily 
The  harvest  home,  the  prelude  to  the  feast, 
In  measured  bursts  is  pealing  loud  and  high ; 
Soon  all  is  still  again  beneath  the  bright 
Full  moon,  that  guides  me  home  this  autumn 
night. 

Dean  Alford.—Born  1810. 


1736.— MY  OWN  DEAR  COUNTRY. 

My  own  dear  country  ! — thy  remembrance 
comes 
Like  softly-flowing  music  on  my  heart ; 
With  thy  green  sunny  hills,  and  happy  homes. 
And  cots  rose-bower' d,  bosom' d  in  dells  apart ; 
The  merry  pealing  of  our  village-bells 
Gush  ever  and  anon  upon  mine  ear  ; 
And  is  there  not  a  far-off  sound  that  teUs 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  MOUENEES. 


[Charles  Macka.y. 


Of  many- voiced  laughter  shrill  and  clear  ? 
Oh  !  were  I  now  with  thee — to  sit  and  play- 
Under  the  hawthorn  on  the  slope  o'  th'  hiU, 
As  I  was  wont  to  do  ;  or  pluck  all  day 
The  cowslip  and  the  flaunting  daffodil, 
Till  shepherds  whistled  homeward,  and  the 

west 
Folded  the  large  sun  in  crimson  breast ! 

Dean  Alford. — Born  1810. 


1 737-— THE  PASTING  OF  LOVEES. 

Now,  from  his  eastern  couch,  the  sun, 

Erewhile  in  cloud  and  vapour  hidden, 
Eose  in  his  robes  of  glory  dight ; 
And  skywards,  to  salute  his  light, 

Upsprang  a  choir,  unbidden. 
Of  joyous  larks,  that,  as  they  shook 

The  dewdrops  from  their  russet  pinions, 
Peal'd  forth  a  hymn  so  glad  and  clear, 
That  darkness  might  have  paused  to  hear 

(Pale  sentinel  on  mom's  dominions), 
And  envied  her  the  flood  of  song 
Those  happy  minstrels  pour'd  along. 

The  lovers  listen' d.     Earth  and  heaven 

Seem'd  pleased  alike  to  hear  the  strain  ; 
And  Gilbert,  in  that  genial  hour. 

Forgot  his  momentary  pain  : 
"Happy,"  said  he,  "  beloved  maid, 

Our  lives  might  flow  'mid  scenes  like  this ; 
Still  eve  might  bring  us  dreams  of  joy. 

And  mom  awaken  us  to  bHss. 
I  could  forgive  thy  jealous  brother ; 

And  Mora's  quiet  shades  might  be 
Bless'd  with  the  love  of  one  another, 

A  Paradise  to  thee  and  me. 

Yes,  Peace  and  Love  might  build  a  nest 

For  us  amid  these  vales  serene. 
And  Truth  should  be  our  constant  guest 

Among  these  pleasant  wild-woods  green. 
My  heart  should  never  nurse  again 
The  once  fond  dreams  of  young  Ambition, 
And  Glory's  light  should  lure  in  vain, 

Lest  it  should  lead  to  Love's  perdition  ; 
Another  light  should  round  me  shine. 
Beloved,  from  those  eyes  of  thine  !  " 

"  Ah,  Gilbert !  happy  should  I  be 
This  hour  to  die,  lest  fate  reveal 

That  Hfe  can  never  give  a  joy 
Such  as  the  joy  that  now  I  feel. 

Oh !  happy !  happy !  now  to  die. 

And  go  before  thee  to  the  sky ; 

Losing,  maybe,  some  charm  of  life, 

But  yet  escaping  all  its  strife  ; 

And,  watching  for  thy  soul  above, 

There  to  renew  more  perfect  love, 

Without  the  pain  and  tears  of  this — 

Eternal,  never  palling  bliss !  " 

And  more  she  yet  would  say,  and  strives  to 

speak. 
But  warm,  fast  tears  begin  to  course  her  cheek. 


And  sobs  to  choke  her ;  so,  reclining  still 
Her  head  upon  his  breast,  she  weeps  her  fill ; 
And  aU  so  lovely  in  those  joyous  tears 
To  his  impassion'd  eyes  the  maid  appears; 
He  cannot  dry  them,  nor  one  word  essay 
To  soothe  such  sorrow  from  her  heart  away. 

At  last  she  lifts  her  drooping  head, 

And,  with  her  deUcate  fingers,  dashes 
The  tears  away  that  hang  hke  pearls 

Upon  her  soft  eyes'  silken  lashes  . 
Then  hand  in  hand  they  take  their  way 

O'er  the  green  meadows  gemm'd  with  dew. 
And  up  the  hill,  and  through  the  wood, 

And  by  the  streamlet,  bright  and  blue, 
And  sit  them  down  upon  a  stone 
With  mantling  mosses  overgrown. 

That  stands  beside  her  cottage  door. 
And  oft  repeat. 
When  next  they  meet. 

That  time  shall  never  part  them  more. 

He's  gone  !  Ah  no  !  he  lingers  yet, 
And  all  her  sorrow,  who  can  tell  ? 

As  gazing  on  her  face  he  takes 
His  last  and  passionate  farewell. 

"  One  kiss !  "  said  he,  "  and  I  depart. 

With  thy  dear  image  in  my  heart : 

One  more — to  soothe  a  lover's  pain, 

And  think  of  till  I  come  again  ! 

One  more.' '     Their  red  lips  meet  and  trembble* 

And  she,  unskilful  to  dissemble. 

Allows,  deep  blushing,  while  he  presses. 

The  warmest  of  his  fond  caresses. 

Charles  Mackay. — Born  1812. 


1738.— THE  CHILD  AND  THE 

MOUENEES. 

A  little  child,  beneath  a  tree, 

Sat  and  chanted  cheerily 

A  little  song,  a  pleasant  song. 

Which  was — she  sang  it  all  day  long — 

"  When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall ; 

But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all." 

There  pass'd  a  lady  by  the  way, 
Moaning  in  the  face  of  day  : 
There  were  tears  upon  her  cheek, 
Grief  in  her  heart  too  great  to  speak  ; 
Her  husband  died  but  yester-morn, 
And  left  her  in  the  world  forlorn. 

She  stopp'd  and  listen'd  to  the  child 

That  look'd  to  heaven,  and  singing,  smiled  ; 

And  saw  not,  for  her  own  despair, 

Another  lady,  young  and  fair. 

Who  also  passing,  stopp'd  to  hear 

The  infant's  anthem  ringing  clear. 

For  she  but  few  sad  days  before 
Had  lost  the  little  babe  she  bore ; 
And  grief  was  heavy  at  her  soul 
As  that  sweet  memory  o'er  her  stole. 
And  show'd  how  bright  had  been  the  past, 
The  present  drear  and  overcast. 


Chaeles  Mackat.] 


UNDEE  THE  HOLLY  BOUGH. 


[Seventh  Peeiod.- 


And  as  they  stood  beneath  the  tree 
Listening,  soothed  and  placidly, 
A  youth  came  by,  whose  sunken  eyes 
Spake  of  a  load  of  miseries ; 
And  he,  aiTested  like  the  twain, 
Stopp'd  to  listen  to  the  strain. 

Death  had  bow'd  the  youthful  head 
Of  his  bride  beloved,  his  bride  unwed  : 
Her  marriage  robes  were  fitted  on, 
Her  fair  young  face  with  blushes  shone. 
When  the  destroyer  smote  her  low, 
And  changed  the  lover's  bliss  to  woe. 

And  these  three  listen 'd  to  the  song, 
Silver-toned,  and  sweet,  and  strong, 
Which  that  child,  the  livelong  day, 
Chanted  to  itself  in  play  : 
"  When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall ; 
But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all." 

The  -tvidow's  lips  impulsive  moved ; 
The  mother's  grief,  though  unreproved, 
Soften'd,  as  her  trembling  tongue 
Repeated  what  the  infant  sung  ; 
And  the  sad  lover,  with  a  start, 
Conn'd  it  over  to  his  heart. 

And  though  the  child — ^if  child  it  were, 
And  not  a  seraph  sitting  there — 
Was  seen  no  more,  the  sorrowing  three 
Went  on  their  way  resignedly. 
The  song  still  ringing  in  their  ears — 
"Was  it  music  of  the  spheres  ? 

Who  shall  tell  ?     They  did  not  know. 

But  in  the  midst  of  deepest  woe 

The  strain  recurr'd,^  when  sorrow  grew, 

To  warn  them,  and  console  them  too : 

"  When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall ; 

But  a  good  God  reigns  over  all." 

Charles  Mackay. — Born  1812. 


173,9.— TJNDEE  THE  HOLLY  BOUGH. 

A  SONG  FOR  CHRISTMAS. 
I. 

Ye  who  have  scorn' d  each  other, 
Or  injured  friend  or  brother. 
In  this  fast  fading  year ; 
Ye  who,  by  word  or  deed. 
Have  made  a  kind  heart  bleed. 
Come  gather  here ! 
Let  sinn'd  against,  and  sinning. 
Forget  their  strife's  beginning, 
And  join  in  friendship  now — 
Be  links  no  longer  broken  ; — 
Be  sweet  forgiveness  spoken 
Under  the  Holly  Bough. 

II. 
Ye  who  have  loved  each  other, 
Sister,  and  friend,  and  brother, 


In  this  fast  fading  year : 
Mother  and  sire  and  child, 
Young  man,  and  maiden  mild. 
Come  gather  here  ; 
And  let  your  hearts  grow  fonder. 
As  memory  shall  ponder 
Each  past  unbroken  vow. 
Old  loves  and  younger  wooing 
Are  sweet  in  the  renewing. 
Under  the  Holly  Bough. 


Ye  who  have  nourish'd  sadness, 
Estranged  from  hope  and  gladness, 
In  this  fast  fading  year ; 
Ye  with  o'erburden'd  mind 
Made  aliens  from  your  kind, 
Come  gather  here. 
Let  not  the  useless  sorrow 
Pursue  you  night  and  morrow. 
If  e'er  you  hoped,  hope  now — 
Take  heart ; — unclond  your  faces, 
And  join  in  our  embraces 
Under  the  Holly  Bough. 


Charles  Mackay. — Born  1812. 


1740.— WHAT  MIGHT  BE  DONE. 

What  might  be  done  if  men  were  \vise — 
"What  glorious  deeds,  my  suffering  brother, 

Would  they  unite 

In  love  and  right. 
And  cease  their  scorn  of  one  another  ? 

Oppression's  heart  might  be  imbued 

With  kindling  drops  of  loving-kindness ; 

And  knowledge  pour, 

Erom  shore  to  shore. 
Light  on  the  eyes  of  mental  bKndness. 

All  slavery,  warfare,  lies,  and  wrongs. 
All  vice  and  crime,  might  die  together ; 

And  wine  and  corn. 

To  each  man  born, 
Be  free  as  warmth  in  summer  weather. 

The  meanest  wretch  that  ever  trod, 
The  deepest  sunk  in  guilt  and  sorrow. 

Might  stand  erect 

In  self-respect. 
And  share  the  teeming  world  to-morrow. 

What  might  be  done  ?     This  might  be  done. 
And  more  than  this,  my  suffering  brother — -. 

More  than  the  tongue 

E'er  said  or  sung. 
If  men  were  wise  and  loved  each  other. 

Charles  Mackay. — Bom  1812. 


From  1780  to  186G.J                          THE  SAILOE'S  WIFE.                         [Charles  Mackay 

1 7 41.— THE  GOOD  TIME  COMING. 

They  shall  use,  and  not  abuse, 

Tliere's'a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 

And  make  all  virtue  stronger ; 
The  reformation  has  begun ; — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

Of  the  good  time  coming. 

A  good  time  coming  : 

Cannon  balls  may  aid  the  truth, 

Let  us  aid  it  aU  we  can, 

But  thought 's  a  weapon  stronger  ; 

Every  vfoman,  every  man. 

We' 11  win  our  battle  by  its  aid; — 

The  good  time  coming. 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given. 

Makes  the  impulse  stronger ; 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

'Twill  be  strong  enough  one  day ; — 

A  good  time  coming  : 

,   Wait  a  little  longer. 

The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword ; 

And  Eight,  not  Might,  shall  be  the  lord 

Charles  Mackay.— Bom  1812. 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

Worth,  not  Birth,  shall  rule  mankind, 
And  be  acknowledged  stronger  ; 

The  proper  impulse  has  been  given  ;— 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

1742.— THH  SAILOE'S  W^IFE. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys. 

Part  I. 

A  good  time  coming  : 
War  in  all  men's  eyes  shall  be 
A  monster  of  iniquity 

I've  a  letter  from  thy  sire, 

Baby  mine.  Baby  mine . 
I  can  read  and  never  tire, 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

Baby  mine ! 
He  is  sailing  o'er  the  sea — 

Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then, 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger ; 
Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory's  sake  ; — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

He  is  coming  back  to  thee, 
He  is  coming  home  to  me. 

Baby  mine  ! 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

He's  been  parted  from  us  long. 

L             A  good  time  coming  : 

Baby  mine,  Baby  mine  ! 

H         Hateful  rivalries  of  creed 

But  if  hearts  be  true  and  strong. 

^         Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 

Baby  mine ! 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

They  shall  brave  Misfortune's  blast, 

Eoligion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride, 

And  be  overpaid  at  last 

And  flourish  all  the  stronger  ; 

For  all  pain  and  sorrow  pass'd. 

And  Charity  shall  trim  her  lamp ; — 

Baby  mine  I 

W^ait  a  little  longer. 

Oh,  I  long  to  see  his  face. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

Baby  mine,  Baby  mine  ! 

A  good  time  coming  : 

In  his  old  accustom'd  place. 

And  a  poor  man's  family 

Baby  mine  ! 

Shall  not  be  his  misery 

Like  the  rose  of  May  in  bloom. 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

Like  a  star  amid  the  gloom. 

wL         Every  child  shall  be  a  help 

Like  the  sunshine  in  the  room. 

W             To  make  his  right  arm  stronger ; 

Baby  mine  1 

The  happier  he  the  more  he  has  ; — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

Thou  wilt  see  him  and  rejoice, 

1 

Baby  mine.  Baby  mine  ! 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

Thou  wilt  know  him  by  his  voice, 

A  good  time  coming ; 

Baby  mine ! 

i             Little  children  shall  not  toil 

By  his  love-looks  that  endear. 

1             Under,  or  above,  the  soil 

.     By  his  laughter  ringing  clear. 

fc             In  the  good  time  coming  ; 

By  his  eyes  that  know  not  fear. 

P         But  shall  play  in  healthful  fields 

Baby  mine ! 

Till  limbs  and  mind  grow  stronger  ; 

And  every  one  shall  read  and  write ; — 

I'm  so  glad — I  cannot  sleep, 

1                Wait  a  little  longer. 

Baby  mine,  Baby  mine  ! 

I'm  so  happy — I  could  weep, 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

Baby  mine  ! 

A  good  time  coming  : 

He  is  sailing  o'er  the  sea. 

The  people  shall  be  temperate. 

He  is  coming  home  to  me. 

And  shall  love  instead  of  hate. 

He  is  coming  back  to  thee. 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

Baby  mine ! 

Alexander  Smith.] 


LADY  BAEBAEA. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


Pakt  II. 

O'er  the  blue  ocean  g-leaming 
She  sees  a  distant  ship, 

As  small  to  view 

As  the  white  sea-mew 
Whose  wings  in  the  billows  dip. 
"  Blow  favouring  gales,  in  her  answering  sails  ! 
Blow  steadily  and  free  !  , 

Eejoicing,  strong, 

Singing  a  song, 

Her  rigging  and  her  spars  among, 

And  waft  the  vessel  in  pride  along, 
That  bears  my  love  to  me." 

Nearer — still  nearer  driving. 

The  white  sails  grow  and  swell ; 
Clear  to  her  eyes 
The  pennant  flies, 
And  the  flag  she  knows  so  well. 
*'  Blow  favouring    gales,   in    her    answering 
sails  ! 
Waft  him,  O  gentle  sea ! 
And  still,  O  heart ! 
Thy  fluttering  start ! 
Why  throb   and  beat  as  thou  wpuldst 

part. 
When  all  so  happy  and  bless'd  thou  art  ? 
He  comes  again  to  thee !  " 

The  swift  ship  drops  her  anchor — 
A  boat  puts  off  for  shore — 
Against  its  prow 
The  ripples  flow, 
To  tho  music  of  the  oar. 
"  And  art  thou  here,  mine  own,  my  dear, 
Safe  from  the  perilous  sea  ? — 
Safe,  safe  at  home, 
No  more  to  roam ! 

Blow,  tempests  blow — my  love  has  come ! 
And  sprinkle  the  clouds  with  your  dash- 
ing foam ! 
He  shall  part  no  more  from  me !  " 

Charles  Machay. — Bom  1812. 


1743.— LADY  BAEBAEA. 

Earl  Gawain  woo'd  the  Lady  Barbara, — 
High-thoughted  Barbara,  so  white  and  cold  ! 
'Mong  broad-branch' d  beeches  in  the  summer 

shaw, 
In  soft  green  light  his  passion  he  has  told. 
When  rain-beat  winds  did  shriek  across  the 

wold. 
The  Earl  to  take  her  fair  reluctant  ear 
Framed  passion-trembled  ditties  manifold ; 
Silent  she  sat  his  am'rous  breath  to  hear. 
With   calm  and  steady  eyes,  her  heart  was 

otherwhere. 

He   sigh'd  for  her  through  all  the  summer 

weeks ; 
Sitting  beneath  a  tree  whose  fruitful  boughs 
Bore   glorious   apples    with  smooth,   shining 

cheeks. 


Earl   Gawain   came   and   whisper'd,   "  Lady, 

rouse  ! 
Thou  art  no  vestal  held  in  holy  vows ; 
Out  with  our  falcons  to  the  pleasant  heath." 
Her  father's  blood  leapt  up  unto  her  brows — 
He  Avho,  exulting  on  the  trumpet's  breath, 
Came  charging  like  a  star  across  the  lists  of 

death, 

Trembled,  and  pass'd  before  her  high  rebuke: 
And  then  she  sat,  her  hands  clasp' d  round 

her  knee  : 
Like  one  far-thoughted  was  the  lady's  look, 
For  in  a  morning  cold  as  misery 
She  saw  a  lone  ship  sailing  on  the  sea ; 
Before  the  north  'twas  driven  Hke  a  cloud, 
High  on  the  poop  a  man  sat  mournfully  : 
The  wind  was  whistling  through  mast  and 

shroud. 
And  to  the  whistling  wind  thus  did  he  sing 

aloud : — 

"  Didst  look  last  night  upon  my  native  vales. 
Thou  Sun  !  that  from  the  drenching  sea  hast 

clomb  ? 
Ye  demon  winds !  that  glut  my  gaping  sails, 
Upon  the  salt  sea  must  I  ever  roam. 
Wander  for  ever  on  the  barren  foam  ? 
Oh  !  happy  are  ye,  resting  mariners. 

0  Death,  that  thou  wouldst  come  and  take^ 

me  home  ! 
A  hand  unseen  this  vessel  onward  steers, 
And  onward  I  must  float  through  slow  moon- 
measured  years. 

"  Ye  winds  !  when  like  a  curse  ye  drove  us  on. 
Frothing  the  waters,  and  along  our  way, 
Nor  cape  nor  headland  through  red  mornings 

shone. 
One  wept  aloud,  one  shudder' d  down  to  pray, 
One  howl'd,  '  Upon  the  deep  we  are  astray.' 
On    our    wild   hearts   his   words  fell  like   a 

bhght : 
In  one  short  hour  my  hair  was  stricken  gray. 
For  all  the  crew  sank  ghastly  in  my  sight 
As  we  went  driving  on  through  the  cold  staijy 

night. 

"  Madness  fell  on  me  in  my  loneliness. 
The  sea  foam'd  curses,  and  the  reeling  sky 
Became  a  dreadful  face  which  did  oppress 
Me  with  the  weight  of  its  unwinking  eye. 
It  fled,  when  I  burst  forth  into  a  cry — 
A  shoal  of  fiends  came  on  me  from  the  deep  ; 

1  hid,  but  in  all  corners  they  did  pry, 

And  dragg'd  me  forth,  and  round  did  dance 

and  leap ; 
They  mouth' d  on  me  in  dream,  and  tore  me 

from  sweet  sleep. 

"Strange  constellations  burn'd  above  my  head, 
Strange  birds  around  the  vessel  shriek'd  and 

flew. 
Strange   shapes,  like   shadows,  through   the 

clear  sea  fled, 
As  our  lone  ship,  wide- wing' d,  came  rippling 

through. 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY. 


[George  Meredith. 


Angering  to  foam  the  smootli  and  sleeping 

blue." 
The  lady  sigh'd,  '•  Far,  far  upon  the  sea, 
My  own  Sir  Arthur,  could  I  die  with  you  ! 
The  wind  blows  shrill  between  my  lore  and 

me." 
Pond  heart !  the  space  between  was  but  the 

apple-tree. 

There  was  a  cry  of  joy,  with  seeking  hands 
She  fled  to  him,  hke  worn  bird  to  her  nest ; 
Like  washing  water  on  the  figured  sands, 
His  being  came  and  went  in  sweet  unrest. 
As  from  the  mighty  shelter  of  his  breast 
The  Lady  Barbara  her  head  uprears 
With  a  wan  smile,  "  Methinks  I'm  but  half 

blest : 
Now  when  I've  found  thee,  after  weary  years, 
I  cannot  see  thee,  love !  so  blind  I  am  with 

tears." 

Alexander  Smith. — Born  1830. 


1744.— LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  standing  on  the  green 
sward. 

Couch' d  with  her  arms  behind  her  little  head, 

Her  knees  folded  up,  and  her  tresses  on  her 
bosom. 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 

Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  one  arm  beneath  her ! 

Press  her  dreaming  lips  as  her  waist  I  folded 
slow. 

Waking  on  the  instant  she  could  not  but  em- 
brace me — 

Ah  !  would  she  hold  me,  and  never  let  me  go  ? 

Shy  as  the  squirrel,  and  wayward  as  the 
swallow ; 

Swift  as  the  swallow  when  athwart  the  western 
flood 

Circleting  the  surface  he  meets  his  mirror' d 
winglets — 

Is  that  dear  one  in  her  maiden  bud. 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  whose  nest  is  in  the  pine- 
tops  ; 

Gentle— ah  !  that  she  were  jealous — as  the 
dove! 

Eull  of  all  the  wildness  of  the  woodland  crea- 
tiu'es, 

Happy  in  herself  is  the  maiden  that  I  love  ! 

What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  I  tell 
her  ? 

Can  she  truly  doubt  me  when  looking  on  my 
brows  ? 

Nature  never  teaches  distrust  of  tender  love- 
tales — 

What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  my 
vows  ? 

No,  she  does  not  doubt  me  !  on  a  dewy  evetide 

Whispering  together  beneath  the  listening 
moon, 


I  pray'd  till  her  cheek  flush'd,  implored  till 

she  falter' d — 
Flutter' d  to  my  bosom — ah !  to  fly  away  so 

soon ! 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laugh- 
ing mirror, 
Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 
I  should  have  more  love,  and  much  less  care. 
When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  bashful 

mirror. 
Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her  curls, 
Often  she  thinks — were  this  Avild  thing  wedded, 
I  should  lose  but  one  for  so  many  boys  and 
girls. 

Clambering  roses  peep  into  her  chamber ; 
Jasmine  and  woodbine  breathe  sweet,  sweet, 
White-neck'd  swallows,  twittering  of  summer, 
Fill  her  with  balm  and  nested  peace  from  head 

to  feet. 
Ah  !  will  the  rose-bough  see  her  lying  lonely. 
When  the  petals  fall  and  fierce  bloom  is  on  the 

leaves  ? 
Will   the   autumn   garners   see   her  still  un- 

gather'd, 
WTien  the  fickle  swallows  forsake  the  weeping 

eaves  ? 

Comes  a  sudden  question — should  a  strange 

hand  pluck  her ! 
Oh !  what  an  anguish  smites  me  at  the  thought! 
Should  some  idle  lordling  bribe  her  mind  with 

jewels  ! — 
Can  such  beauty  ever  thus  be  bought  ? 
Sometimes  the  huntsmen  prancing  down  the 

valley 
Eye  the  village  lasses,  full  of  sprightly  mirth; 
They  see,  as  I  see,  mine  is  the  fairest ! 
Would  she  were  older   and   could   read   my 

worth  ! 

Are  there  not  sweet  maidens,  if  she  still  deny 

me  ? 
Show  the  bridal  heavens  but  one  bright  star  ? 
Wlaerefore  thus,  then,  do  I  chase  a  shadow, 
Clattering  one  note  like  a  brown  eve-jar  ? 
So  I  rhyme  and  reason  till  she  darts  before 

me — 
Through  the  milky  meadows  from  flower  to 

flower  she  flies,  * 

Sunning  her  sweet  palms  to  shade  her  dazzled 

eyehds 
From  the  golden  love  that  looks  too  eager  in 

her  eyes. 

When  at  dawn  she  wakens,  and  her  fair  face 

gazes 
Out  on  the  weather  through  the  window  panes. 
Beauteous  she  looks  !  like  a  white  water-hly 
Bursting  out  of  bud  on  the  rippled  river  plains. 
When  from  bed  she  rises  clothed  from  neck  to 

ankle 
In  her  long  night  gown,  sweet  as  boughs  of 

May, 
Beauteous  she  looks  !  like  a  tall  garden  lily 

Pure  from  the  night  and  perfect  for  the  day  ! 

I  77 


Gerald  Massey.] 


THE  MEN  OF  FOEXr-EIGHT. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


Happy,   happy    time,   when    the    gray    star 

twinkles 
Over  the  fields  all  fresh  with  bloomy  dew  ; 
When  the  cold-cheek'd  dawn  grows  ruddy  up 

the  twilight, 
And  the  gold  sun  wakes  and  weds  her  in  the 

blue. 
Then   when    my  darling    tempts    the    early 

breezes, 
She   the   only  star   that   dies   not  with   the 

dark; 
Powerless  to  speak  all  the  ardour  of  my  passion, 
I  catch  her   little  hand  as  we  listen  to  the 

lark. 

Shall  the  birds  in  vain  then  valentine  their 

sweethearts  ? 
Season  after  season  tell  a  fruitless  tale  ? 
Will  not  the  virgin  listen  to  their  voices  ? 
Take  the  honey' d  meaning,  wear  the   bridal 

veil? 
Pears  she  frosts  of  winter,  fears  she  the  bare 

branches  ? 
Waits   she   the   garlands   of   Spring  for  her 

dower  ? 
Is  she  a  nightingale  that  will  not  be  nested 
Till  the  April  woodland  has  built  her  bridal 

bower  ? 

Then  come,  merry  April,  with  all  thy  birds 

and  beauties ! 
With   thy   crescent   brows  and  thy  flowery, 

showery  glee ! 
With  thy   budding  leafage  and  fresh  green 

pastures ; 
And  may  thy  lustrous  crescent  grow  a  honey- 
moon for  me  ! 
Come,  merry  month  of  the  cuckoo  and  the 

violet ! 
Come,   weeping    Loveliness   in   all   thy   blue 

delight  ! 
Xo !  the  nest  is  ready,  let  me  not  languish 

longer  ! 
Bring  her  to  my  arms  on  the  first  May  night. 

George  Meredith. — Born  1828. 


1745.— THE  MEN  OF  FOETY-EIGHT. 

They  rose  in  Freedom's  rare  sunrise. 

Like  giants  roused  from  wine  ; 
And  in  their  hearts  and  in  their  eyes 

The  god  leapt  up  divine  ! 
Their  souls  flash'd  out  like  naked  swords, 

Unsheath'd  for  fiery  fate  ; 
Strength  went  like  battle  with  their  words— 
The  men  of  Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah ! 

For  the  men  of  Forty-eight. 

Dark  days  have  fallen,  yet  in  the  strife 

They  bate  no  hope  sublime, 
And  bravely  works  the  exultant  Hfe, 

Their  heart's  pulse  through  the  time ; 


As  grass  is  greenest  trodden  down, 

So  suffering  makes  men  great, 
And  this  dark  tide  shall  richly  crown 

The  work  of  Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah ! 

For  the  men  of  Forty-eight. 

Some  in  a  bloody  burial  sleep, 

Like  Greeks  to  glory  gone, 
But  in  their  steps  avengers  leap 

With  their  proof-armour  on  ; 
And  hearts  beat  high  with  dauntless  trust 

To  triumph  soon  or  late, 
Though  they  be  mouldering  down  in  dust — 

Brave  men  of  Forty-eight ! 

Hurrah ! 

For  the  men  of  Forty-eight. 

Oh  !  when  the  world  wakes  up  to  worst 

The  tyrants  once  again, 
And  Freedom's  summons-shout  shall  burst, 

Eare  music  !  on  the  brain, — 
With  heart  to  heart,  in  many  a  land, 

Ye' 11  find  them  all  elate — 
Brave  remnant  of  that  Spartan  band. 

The  men  of  Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah ! 

For  the  men  of  Forty-eight. 

Gerald  Massey. — Born  1828. 


1746.- 


-NO  JEWELL'D  BEAUTY  IS  MY 
LOVE. 

No  jowell'd  beauty  is  my  love, 

Yet  in  her  earnest  face 
There's  such  a  world  of  tenderness, 

She  needs  no  other  grace. 
Her  smiles  and  voice  around  my  life 

In  light  and  music  twine, 
And  dear,  oh  !  very  dear  to  me 

Is  this  sweet  love  of  mine. 

Oh  joy  !  to  know  there's  one  fond  heart 

Beats  ever  true  to  me  : 
It  sets  mine  leaping  like  a  lyre, 

In  sweetest  melody ; 
My  soul  up-springs,  a  deity  i 

To  hear  her  voice  divine  ; 
And  dear,  oh !  very  dear  to  me 

Is  this  sweet  love  of  mine. 

If  ever  I  have  sigh'd  for  wealth, 

'Twas  aU  for  her,  I  trow ; 
And  if  I  win  Fame's  victor- wreath, 

I'U  twine  it  on  her  brow. 
There  may  be  forms  more  beautiful, 

And  souls  of  sunnier  shine, 
But  none,  oh !  none  so  dear  to  me 

As  this  sweet  love  of  miae. 

Gerald  Massey.— Bom  1828. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SWEET-AND-TWENTY. 


[Gerald  Masset. 


1747.— A  POOE  MAN'S  WIFE. 

Her  dainty  hand  nestled  in  mine,  rich  and 
white, 

And  timid  as  trembling  dove  ; 
And  it  twinkled  about  me,  a  jewel  of  light, 

As  she  garnish' d  our  feast  of  love  : 
'Twas  the  queenliest  hand  in  all  lady -land. 

And  she  was  a  poor  man's  wife  ! 
Oh !  httle  ye'd  think  how  that  wee,  white  hand 

Could  dare  in  the  battle  of  life. 

Her  heart  it  was  lowly  as  maiden's  might  be. 

But  hath  climb'd  to  heroic  height, 
And  buru'd  like  a  shield  in  defence  of  me, 

On  the  sorest  field  of  fight ! 
And  startling  as  fire,  it  has  often  fiash'd  up 

In  her  eyes,  the  good  heart  and  rare  ! 
As  she  drank  down  her  half  of  our  bitterest 
cup, 

And  taught  me  how  "to  bear. 

Her  sweet  eyes  that  seem'd,  with  their  smile 
subhme. 
Made  to  look  me  and  light  me  to  heaven. 
They   have   triumph' d   through    bitter   tears 
many  a  time, 
Since  their  love  to  my  life  was  given ; 
And  the  maiden-meek  voice  of  the  womanly 
wife 
Still  bringeth  the  heavens  nigher : 
For  it  rings  like  the  voice  of  God  over  my 
life. 
Aye  bidding  me  climb  up  higher. 

I  hardly  dared  think  it  was  human,  when 

I  first  look'd  in  her  yearning  face  ; 
For  it  shone  as  the  heavens  had  open'd  then, 

And  clad  it  with  glory  and  grace ! 
But  dearer  its  light  of  healing  grew 

In  our  dark  and  desolate  day, 
As  the  rainbow,  when  heaven  hath  no  break 
of  blue, 

Smileth  the  storm  away. 

Oh  !  her  shape  was  the  lithest  loveliness, — 

Just  an  armful  of  heaven  to  enfold  ! 
But  the  form  that  bends  flower-like  in  love's 
caress. 
With  the  victor's  strength  is  soul'd ! 
In   her   worshipful    presence    transfigured   I 
stand, 
And  the  poor  man's  English  home 
She   lights  with   the   beauty  of  Greece   the 
grand, 
And  the  glory  of  regallest  Eome. 

Gerald  Massey. — Born  1828. 


One  kiss  more,  sweet  I 
Warm  as  a  morning  sunbeam's  dewy  gold 
Slips  in  a  red  rose's  fragrantest  fold, 
Sets  its  green  blood  all  a-blush,  burning  up 
At  the  fresh  feel  of  life,  in  its  crimson  cup ! 

One  kiss  more,  sweet ! 
Full  as  the  flush  of  the  sea- waves  grand 
Flooding  the  sheeny  fire  out  of  the  sand ; 
On  all  the  shores  of  my  being  let  bliss 
Break  with  its  neap-tide  sea  in  a  kiss ! 

Gerald  Massey. — Born  1828. 


1748.— KISSES. 

One  kiss  more,  sweet ! 
Soft  as  voluptuous  wind  of  the  west, 
Or  silkenest  surge  of  thy  purple- vein' d  breast, 
Ripe  lips  all  ruddily  melting  apart, 
Drink  up  the  honey  and  wine  of  my  heart ! 


1 749.— SWEET-AND-TWENTY. 

Oh  !  my  love's  a  winsome  lady ; 

Sweeter  face  ne'er  fed  Love  on! 
In  a  court,  or  forest  shady, 

Queenlier  beauty  never  shone. 

Like  a  ladye  from  a  far  land 

Came  my  true  love,  brave  to  see  ! 

As  to  heaven  its  rainbow  garland, 
Is  her  beauty  rich  to  me. 

In  white  arms  of  love  she  wound  me, 
And  I  look'd  up  in  her  smile  : 

In  warm  arms  of  love  she  bound  me, 
As  the  sea  takes  some  blest  isle. 

As  some  dusky  lake  may  mirror 
One  fair  star  that  shines  above, 

So  my  life — aye  growing  clearer — 
Holds  this  tremulous  star  of  love. 

Oh !  to  see  her  life  in  blossom, 

With  its  bloom  of  bravery  ! 
Pure  the  dew  lies  in  the  bosom 

Of  her  sweet  virginity. 

Nearest  to  my  heart  I  wear  her ; 

As  a  bark  the  waves  above — 
Oh  !  so  proudly  do  I  bear  her 

On  the  bosom  of  my  love  ! 

Look  you,  how  she  cometh,  trilling 
Out  her  gay  heart's  bird-like  bliss  ! 

Merry  as  a  May-morn,  thrilling 
With  the  dew  and  sunshine's  kiss. 

Euddy  gossips  of  her  beauty 

Are  her  twin  cheeks :  and  her  mouth 

In  its  ripe  warmth  smileth,  fruity 
As  a  garden  of  the  south. 

Ha !  my  precious  Sweet-and-Twonty, 
Husband  still  your  virgin  pride  ! 

Just  a  month,  and  this  dear,  dainty 
Thing  shall  be  my  wedded  bride. 

Gerald  Massey. — Bsm  1828. 


77* 


Geeald  Masset.] 


SWEET  SPIEIT  OF  MY  LOVE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


1750.— SWEET  SPIEIT  OF  MY  LOVE. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
Through  all  the  world  we  walk  apart : 

Thou  mayst  not  in  my  bosom  he  : 
I  may  not  press  thee  to  my  heart, 

Nor  see  love-thinkings  hght  thine  eye : 
Yet  art  thou  with  me.     All  my  life 

Orbs  out  in  thy  warm  beauty's  sphere ; 
My  bravest  dreams  of  thee  are  rife, 

And  colour' d  with  thy  presence  dear. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
I  know  how  beautiful  thou  art, 

But  never  tell  the  starry  thought : 
I  only  whisper  to  my  heart, 

"  She  lights  with  heaven  thy  earthhest 
spot." 
And  birds  that  night  and  day  rejoice, 

And  fragrant  winds,  give  back  to  me 
A  music  ringing  of  thy  voice, 

And  surge  my  heart's  love-tide  to  thee. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
The  spring  and  summer,  bloom-bedight, 

That  garland  earth  with  rainbow-sliowers, 
Mom's  kissing  breath,  and  eyes  of  light, 

That  wake  in  smiles  the  winking  flowers, 
The  air  with  honey' d  fragrance  fed, 

The  flashing  waters, — soughing  tree, — 
Noon's  golden  glory, — sundown  red, 

Aye  warble  into  songs  of  thee. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love ! 
When  night's  soft  silence  clothes  the  earth, 

And  wakes  the  passionate  bird  of  love ; 
And  stars  laugh  out  in  golden  mirth, 

And  yearning  souls  divinelier  move  ; 
"When  God's  breath  hallows  every  spot, 

And,  lapp'd  in  feehng's  luxury, 
The  heart's  break-full  of  tender  thought ; 

Then  art  thou  with  me,  still  with  me. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
I  listen  for  thy  footfall,— feel 

Thy  look  is  burning  on  me,  such 
As  reads  my  heart :  I  sometimes  reel 

And  throb,  expectant  for  thy  touch  ! 
For  by  the  voice  of  woods  and  brooks. 

And  flowers  with  virgin-fragrance  wet, 
And  earnest  stars  with  yearning  looks, 

I  know  that  we  shall  mingle  yet. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  my  love  ! 
Strange  places  on  me  smile,  as  thou 

Hadst  pass'd,  and  left  thy  beauty's  tints  : 
The  wild  flowers  even  the  secret  know, 

And  light  and  shade  flash  mystic  hints. 
Meseems,  like  olden  gods,  thou'lt  come] 

In  cloud ;  but  mine  anointed  eyes 
Shall  see  the  glory  burn  through  gloom, 

And  clasp  thee,  Sweet !  with  large  sur- 
prise. 

Gerald  Massey. — Born  1828. 


1 75 1. —OLD  ENGLAND. 

There  she  sits  in  her  Island-home, 

Peerless  among  her  peers  ! 
And  Humanity  oft  to  her  arms  doth  come, 

To  ease  its  poor  heart  of  tears. 
Old  England  still  throbs  with  the  muffled  fire 

Of  a  past  she  can  never  forget ; 
And  again    shall   she  banner   the   world  up 
higher : 

For  there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet. 

They  would   mock  at  her   now,  who  of  old 
look'd  forth 
In  their  fear,  as  they  heard  her  afar  ; 
But  loud  will  your  wail  be,  O  Kings  of  the 
Earth ! 
When  the  Old  Land  goes  down  to  the 
war. 
The   avalanche   trembles,   half-launch'd,    and 
half-riven. 
Her  voice  will  in  motion  set : 
Oh  ring  out  the  tidings,  ye  winds  of  heaven  I 
There's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet. 

The  old  nursing  mother's  not  hoary  yet, 
There  is  sap  in  her  Saxon  tree  ; — 
Lo  !  she  lifteth  a  bosom  of  glory  yet. 

Through  her  mists,  to  the  sun  and  the 
Sea. 
Fair  as  the  Queen  of  Love,  fresh  from  the 
foam, 
Or  a  star  in  a  dark  cloud  set ; 
Ye  may  blazon  her  shame, — ye  may  leap   at 
her  name, — 
But  there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet. 

Let  the  storm  burst,  it  will  find  the  Old  Land 

Eeady-ripe  for  a  rough,  red  fray  ! 
She  will  fight  as  she  fought  when  she  took  her 
stand 
For  the  Eight  in  the  olden  day. 
Ay,  rouse  the  old  royal  soul,  Europe's  best 
hope 
Is  her  sword-edge  by  Victory  set ! 
She  shall  dash  Freedom's  foes  adown  Death's 
gloomy  slope  ; 
For  there's  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet. 

Gerald  Massey. — Born  1828. 


1752.— ENGLAND  GOES  TO  BATTLE. 

Now,  glory  to  our  England, 

As  she  rises,  calm  and  grand, 
With  the  ancient  spirit  in  her  eyes. 

The  good  sword  in  her  hand ! 
Our  royal  right  on  battle  ground 

Was  aye  to  bear  the  brunt : 
Ho !  brave  heart !  for  one  passionate  bound, 

And  take  thy  x^lace  in  front ! 
Now  glory  to  our  England, 

As  she  rises,  calm  and  grand, 
With  the  ancient  spirit  in  her  ej'es, 

The  good  sword  in  her  hand  ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  A  BELOVED  ONE. 


[Gerald  Masset. 


Who  would  not  fight  for  England  ? 

Who  would  not  fling  a  life 
I'  the  ring,  to  meet  a  tyrant's  gage, 

And  glory  in  the  strife  ? 
Her  stem  is  thorny,  but  doth  burst 

A  glorious  rose  a-top  ! 
And  shall  our  dear  rose  wither  ?  First 

We'll  drain  life's  dearest  drop  ! 
Who  would  not  fight  for  England  ? 

Who  would  not  fling  a  life 
1'  the  ring,  to  meet  a  tyrant's  gage, 

And  glory  in  the  strife  ? 

To  battle  goes  our  England, 

All  as  gallant  and  as  gay 
As  lover  to  the  altar,  on 

A  merry  marriage-day. 
A  weary  night  she  stood  to  watch 

The  battle-dawn  up-roU'd  ; 
And  her  spirit  leaps  within,  to  match 

The  noble  deeds  of  old. 
To  battle  goes  our  England, 

All  as  gallant  and  as  gay 
As  lover  to  th(i  altar,  on 

A  merry  marriage-day. 

Now.  fair  befall  our  England, 

On  her  proud  and  perilous  road : 
And  woe  and  wail  to  those  who  make 

Her  footprints  red  with  blood  ! 
Up  with  our  red-cross  banner — roll 

A  thunder-peal  of  drums  ! 
Fight  on  there,  every  valiant  soul, 

And  courage  !  England  comes  ! 
Now,  fair  befall  our  England, 

On  her  i^roud  and  perilous  road  : 
And  woe  and  wail  to  those  who  make 

Her  footprints  red  with  blood  ! 

Now,  victory  to  our  England  ! 

And  where'er  she  lifts  her  hand 
In  Freedom's  fight,  to  rescue  Right, 

God  bless  the  dear  Old  Land ! 
And  when  the  storm  has  pass'd  away, 

In  glory  and  in  calm, 
May  she  sit  down  i'  the  green  o'  the  day, 

And  sing  her  peaceful  psalm  ! 
Now,  victory  to  our  England  ! 

And  where'er  she  lifts  her  hand 
In  Freedom's  fight,  to  rescue  Right, 

God  bless  the  dear  Old  Land  ! 

Gerald  Masscy. — Born  1828. 


1753- 


-THERE'S  NO  DEARTH  OF 
KINDNESS. 


There's  no  dearth  of  kindness 

In  this  world  of  ours  ; 
Only  in  our  blindness 

We  gather  thorns  for  flowers  ! 
Outward,  we  are  spurning — 

Trampling  one  another  ! 
While  we  are  inly  j-earning 

At  the  name  of  "  Brother !  " 


There's  no  dearth  of  kindness 

Or  love  among  mankind. 
But  in  darkling  loneness 

Hooded  hearts  grow  blind ! 
Full  of  kindness  tingling. 

Soul  is  shut  from  soul, 
When  they  might  be  mingling 

In  one  kindred  whole  ! 

There's  no  dearth  of  kindness. 

Though  it  be  unspoken, 
From  the  heart  it  buildeth 

Rainbow-smiles  in  token — 
That  there  be  none  so  lowly, 

But  have  some  angel-touch  : 
Yet,  nursing  loves  unholy, 

We  live  for  self  too  much ! 

As  the  wild-rose  bloweth. 

As  runs  the  happy  river, 
Kindness  freely  floweth 

In  the  heart  for  ever. 
But  if  men  will  hanker 

Ever  for  golden  dust, 
Kingliest  hearts  will  canker, 

Brightest  spirits  rust. 

There's  no  dearth  of  kindness 

In  this  world  of  ours ; 
Only  in  our  blindness 

We  gather  thorns  for  flowers  ! 
Oh,  cherish  God's  best  giving. 

Falling  from  above ! 
Life  were  not  worth  living. 

Were  it  not  for  Love. 

Gerald  Massey.-r-Born  1828. 


1754.— TO  A  BELOVED  ONE. 

Heaven  hath  its  crown  of  stars,  the  Earth 

Her  glory-robe  of  flowers — 
The  Sea  its  gems — the  grand  old  Woods 

Their  songs  and  greening  showers  : 
The   Birds    have    homes,   where   leaves   and 
blooms 

In  beauty  wreathe  above  ; 
High  yearning  hearts,  their  rainbow-dream — 

And  we,  sweet !  we  have  love. 

We  walk  not  with  the  Jewell' d  great, 

"Wliere  Love's  dear  name  is  sold  ; 
Yet  have  we  wealth  we  would  not  give 

For  all  their  world  of  gold ! 
We  revel  not  in  corn  and  wine. 

Yet  have  we  from  above 
Manna  divine,  and  we'U  not  pine. 

While  we  may  live  and  love. 

There's  sorrow  for  the  toiling  poor, 

On  Misery's  bosom  nursed ; 
Rich  robes  for  ragged  souls,  and  crowns 

For  branded  brows  Cain-curst ! 
But  Cherubim,  with  clasping  wings. 

Ever  about  us  be. 
And,  happiest  of  God's  happy  things, 

There's  love  for  you  and  me ! 


Geeald  Masset.] 


A  WAIL. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Thy  lips,  that  kiss  till  death,  have  turn'd 

Life's  water  into  wine  ; 
The  sweet  life  melting  through  thy  looks. 

Hath  made  my  life  divine. 
AU  Love's  dear  promise  hath  been  kept, 

Since  thou  to  me  wert  given ; 
A  ladder  for  my  soul  to  climb, 

And  summer  high  in  heaven. 

I  know,  dear  heart !  that  in  our  lot 

May  mingle  tears  and  sorrow ; 
But,  Love's  rich  rainbow's  built  from  tears 

To-day,  with  smiles  to-morrow. 
The  sunshine  from  our  sky  may  die, 

The  greenness  from  Life's  tree, 
But  ever,  'mid  the  warring  storm, 

Thy  nest  shall  shelter' d  be. 

I  see  thee  !  Ararat  of  my  life, 

Smiling  the  waves  above  ! 
Thou  hail'st  me  victor  in  the  strife. 

And  beacon' st  me  with  love. 
The  world  may  never  know,  dear  heart ! 

What  I  have  found  in  thee  ; 
But,  though  nought  to  the  world,  dear  heart ! 

Thou'rt  all  the  world  to  me. 

Gerald  Massey. — Bo^m  1828. 


1755.— A  WAIL. 

The  day  goeth  down  red  darkling, 

The  moaning  waves  dash  out  the  light, 

And  there  is  not  a  star  of  hope  sparkling. 
On  the  threshold  of  my  night. 

The  wild  winds  of  autumn  go  wailing 

Up  the  valley  and  over  the  hill. 
Like  yearning  ghosts  round  the  world  sailing 

In  search  of  the  old  love  still. 

A  fathomless  sea  is  rolling 

O'er  the  wreck  of  the  bravest  bark ; 
And  my  pain-muffled  heart  is  toiling 

Its  dumb-peal  down  in  the  dark. 

The  waves  of  a  mighty  sorrow 

Have  whelmed  the  pearl  of  my  life : 

And  there  cometh  to  me  no  morrow 
Shall  solace  this  desolate  strife. 

Gone  are  the  last  faint  flashes, 

Set  is  the  sun  of  my  years ; 
And  over  a  few  poor  ashes 

I  sit  in  my  darkness  and  tears.- 

Gerald  Massey. — Born  1828 . 


1756.— OH,  LAY  THY  HAND  IN   MINE, 
DEAE! 

Oh,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear  ! 

We're  growing  old,  we're  growing  old  ; 


But  Time  hath  brought  no  sign,  dear, 

That  hearts  grow  cold,  that   hearts  grow 
cold. 

'Tis  long,  long  since  our  nevs^  love 
Made  life  divine,  made  life  divine ; 

But  age  enricheth  true  love, 

Like  noble  wine,  like  noble  wine. 

And  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine,  dear, 

And  take  thy  rest,  and  take  thy  rest  ; 
Mine  arms  around  thee  twine,  dear. 

And  make  thy  nest,  and  make  thy  nest. 
A  many  cares  are  pressing 

On  this  dear  head,  on  this  dear  head  ; 
But  Sorrow's  hands  in  blessing 

Are  surely  laid,  are  surely  laid. 

Oh,  lean  thy  life  on  mine,  dear ! 

'Twill  shelter  thee,  'twill  shelter  thee. 
Thou  wert  a  winsome  vine,  dear. 

On  my  young  tree,  on  my  young  tree  : 
And  so,  till  boughs  are  leafless. 

And     songbirds      flown,     and      songbirds 
flown,  , 

We'll  twine,  then  lay  us,  griefless. 

Together  down,  together  down. 

Gerald  Massey. — Born  1828. 


1757.— ALM0N3>  BLOSSOM. 

Blossom  of  the  almond-trees, 

April's  gift  to  April's  bees, 

Birthday  ornament  of  spring, 

Flora's  fairest  daughterling ; — 

Coming  when  no  flow' rets  dare 

Trust  the  cruel  outer  air ; 

When  the  royal  king-cup  bold 

Dares  not  don  his  coat  of  gold  ; 

And  the  sturdy  blackthorn  spray 

Keeps  his  silver  for  the  May ; — 

Coming  when  no  flow' rets  would, 

Save  thy  lowly  sisterhood. 

Early  violets,  blue  and  white. 

Dying  for  their  love  of  light. 

Almond  blossom,  sent  to  teach  us 

That  the  spring-days  soon  will  reach  us. 

Lest,  with  longing  over-tried, 

We  die  as  the  violets  died — 

Blossom,  clouding  all  the  tree 

With  thy  crimson  broidery. 

Long  before  a  leaf  of  green 

On  the  bravest  bough  is  seen ; 

Ah  !  when  winter  winds  are  swinging 

All  thy  red  bells  into  ringing. 

With  a  bee  in  every  bell, 

Almond  bloom,  we  greet  thee  well. 

Edwin  Arnold. — Born  183L 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


PHILOMELA. 


[Matthew  Arnold, 


I  ;58.— WOMAN'S  VOICE. 

Not  in  the  swaying  of  the  summer  trees, 
Wlien   evening   breezes   sing  their  vesper 
hymn — 
Not  in  the  minstrel's  mighty  symphonies, 

Nor  ripples  breaking  on  the  river's  brim, 
Is  earth's  best  music  ;  these  may  have  awhile 
High  thoughts  in  happy,  hearts,  and  carking 
cares  beguile. 

But  even  as  the  swallow's  silken  wings. 

Skimming  the  water  of  the  sleeping  lake, 
Stir  the  still  silver  with  a  hundred  rings — 
So   doth    one    sound    the    sleeping    spirit 
wake 
To    brave    the    danger,    and    to    bear    the 

harm — 
A  low  and  gentle  voice — dear  woman's  chief  est 
charm. 

An  excellent  thing  it  is  !  and  ever  lent 

To  truth  and  love,  and  meekness  ;  they  who 
own 
This  gift,  by  the  all-gracious  Giver  sent, 

Ever  by  quiet  step  and  smile  are  known ; 
By  kind  eyes  that   have   wept,  hearts   that 

have  sorrow'd — 
By  patience  never  tired,  from  their  own  trials 
borrow'd. 

An  excellent  thing  it  is — when  first  in  glad- 
ness 
A  mother  looks  into  her  infant's  eyes — 

Smiles  to  its  smiles,  and  saddens  to  its  sad- 
ness— 
Pales  at  its  paleness,  sorrows  at  its  cries  ; 

Its    food   and   sleep,    and    smiles   and   little 
joys — 

All  these  come  ever  blent  with  one  low  gentle 
voice. 

An  excellent  thing  it  is  when  life  is  leaving — 
Leaving  with  gloom  and  gladness,  joys  and 

cares — 
The  strong  heart  failing,  and  the  high  soul 

grieving 
With  strangest  thoughts,  and  wild  unwonted 

fears ; 
Then,  then  a  woman's  low  soft  sympathy 
Comes  like  an  angel's  voice  to  teach  us  how  to 

die. 

But  a  most  excellent  thing  it  is  in  youth, 
When  the  fond  lover  hears  the  loved  one's 
tone. 
That  fears,  but  longs,  to  syllable  the  truth — 
How  their  two  hearts  are  one,  and  she  his 
own ; 
It  makes  sweet  human  music — oh  !  the  spells 
That  haunt  the  trembling  tale  a  bright-eyed 
maiden  tells ! 

Edwin  Arnold. — Born  1831. 


I759-— UEANL^. 

She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh-. 
While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die ; 
Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare, 
Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 
Was  turn'd  upon  the  sons  of  men  ; 
But  light  the  serious  visage  grew — 
She  look'd,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them  through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 
Our  labour' d  puny  passion-fits — 
Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she  ! 

Yet  oh,  that  Fate  would  let  her  see 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  we — 
One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights — 
His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights — ' 
In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe  ! 

And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 
And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand. 
And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee. 
And  cry — Long,  long  I've  look'd  for  thee ! 

Then  will  she  weep — with  smiles,  till  then. 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men. 
Till  then  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  gay,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 

Matthew  Arnold. — Born  1822. 


1760.— PHILOMELA. 

Hark !  ah,  the  Nightingale  ! 
The  tawny -throated ! 

Hark  !  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ! 
What  triumph  !  hark — what  pain  ! 
Oh,  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 
Still — after  many  years,  in  distant  lands^ 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder' d  brain 
That  wild,  unquench'd,  deep-sunken,  old-world 
pain — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn, 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 

Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold. 
Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English: 

grass, 
The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild  ? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse. 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes, 
The  too  clear  web,   and  thy  dumb   sister's 
shame  ? 


Matthew  Aenold.] 


EUPHEOSYNE. 


[Seventh  Pekiod.- 


Dost  thou  once  more  essay 
Thy  flight ;  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change ; 
Once  more ;  and  once  more  make  resound, 
With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis'  and  the  high  Cephisian  vale  ? 

Listen,  Eugenia — 

How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through 

the  leaves ! 
Again — thou  hear  est  I 
Eternal  passion ! 
Eternal  pain ! 

Matthew  A^">iold. — Born  1822. 


1762.— THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM. 

Ho  !  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 

That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear. 
All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win — 
This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains. 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer ; 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains. 
Under  Bonnybell's  window  panes, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 


1761.— EUPHEOSYNE. 

I  must  not  say  that  thou  wert  true, 
Yet  let  me  say  that  thou  wert  fair. 
And  they  that  lovely  face  who  view, 
They  will  not  ask  if  truth  be  there. 

Truth  —  what    is    truth?      Two    bleeding 
hearts 
Wounded  by  men,  by  Fortune  tried, 
Outwearied  with  their  lonely  parts. 
Vow  to  beat  henceforth  side  by  side. 

The  world  to  them  was  stern  and  drear ; 
Their  lot  was  but  to  weep  and  moan. 
Ah,  let  them  keep  their  faith  sincere, 
For  neither  could  subsist  alone  ! 

But  souls  whom  some  benignant  breath 
Has  charm' d  at  birth  from  gloom  and  care, 
These  ask  no  love — these  plight  no  faith, 
For  they  are  happy  as  they  are. 

The  world  to  them  may  homage  make. 
And  garlands  for  their  forehead  weave  ; 
And  what  the  world  can  give,  they  taivc — 
But  they  bring  more  than  they  receive. 

They  smile  upon  the  world ;  their  ears 
To  one  demand  alone  are  coy. 
They  will  not  give  ua  love  and  tears — 
They  bring  us  light,  and  warmth,  and  joy. 

On  one  she  smiled,  and  he  was  blest ! 
She  smiles  elsewhere — we  make  a  din ! 
But  'twas  not  love  that  heaved  his  breast. 
Fair  child !  it  was  the  bliss  within. 

Mattheiv  Arnold— Bom  1822. 


Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass, 

Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear, — »  . 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass. 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 
Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Pledge  me  round,  I  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  grey  ; 

Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  past  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed. 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list. 
Or  look  away,  and  never  be  missed. 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian's  dead — God  rest  her  bier ! 

How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne  ! 
Marian's  married ;  but  I  sit  here. 
Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  vane. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


1763.— DAMAGES,    TWO    HUKDEED 
POUNDS. 

Special   Jurymen    of  England !    who   admire 

your  country's  laws, 
And  proclaim  a  British  Jury  worthy  of  the 

realm's  applause, 
Gaily  compliment  each  other  at  the  issue  of 

a  cause 
Wliich  was  tried  at  Guildford  'sizes,  this  day 

week  as  ever  was. 

Unto  that  august  tribunal  comes  a  gentleman 

in  grief — 
(Special  was  the  British  jury,  and  the  judge 

the  Baron  Chief) — 
Comes  a  British  man  and  husband,  asking  of 

the  law  relief. 
For  his  wife  was  stolen  from  him — he'd  have 

vengeance  on  the  thief. 

Yes ;  his  wife,  the  blessed  treasure  with  the 
which  his  life  was  crowned, 

Wickedly  was  ravished  from  him  by  a  hypo- 
crite profound. 

And  he  comes  before  twelve  Britons,  men  for 
sense  and  truth  renowned, 

To  award  him  for  his  damage  twenty  hundred 
sterling  pound. 

He  by  counsel  and  attorney  there  at  Guildford 

does  appear. 
Asking  damage  of  the  villain  who  seduced  his 

lady  dear : 
But  I  can't  help   asking,  though  the  lady's 

guilt  was  all  too  clear. 
And  though  guilty  the  defendant,  wasn't  the 

plaintiff  rather  queer  ? 

First  the  lady's  mother  spoke,  and  said  she'd 

seen  her  daughter  cry 
But  a  fortnight  after  marriage — early  times 

for  piping  eye. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  A  CEICKET. 


[W,  C.  Bennett. 


Six  months  after,  things  were  worse,  and  the 

piping  eye  was  black, 
And  this  gallant  British  husband  caned  his 

wife  upon  the  back  ! 

Three  months  after  they  were  married,  hus- 
band pushed  her  to  the  door, 

Told  her  to  be  off  and  leave  him,  for  he  wanted 
her  no  more  ; 

As  she  would  not  go,  why  he  went — thrice  he 
left  his  lady  dear  ; 

Left  her,  too,  without  a  penny,  for  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  year. 

Mrs.  Frances  Duncan  knew  the  parties  very 

well  indeed ; 
She  had  seen  him  pull  his  lady's  nose  and 

make  her  lip  to  bleed  ; 
If  he  chanced  to  sit  at  home,  not  a  single  word 

he  said  ; 
Once  she  saw  him  throw  the  cover  of  a  dish 

at  his  lady's  head. 

Sarah  Green,  another  witness,  clear  did  to  the 

jury  note 
How  she  saw  this  honest  fellow  seize  his  lady 

by  the  throat ; 
How  he  cursed  her  and  abused  her,  beating 

her  into  a  fit. 
Till  the  pitying  next-door  neighbours  crossed 

the  wall  and  witnessed  it. 

Next  door  to  this  injured  Briton  Mr.  Owers,  a 

butcher,  dwelt ; 
Mrs.  Owers' s  foolish  heart  towards  this  erring 

dame  did  melt — 
(Not  that  she  had  erred  as  yet ;  crime  was  '^ 

not  developed  in  her) ; 
But,  being  left  without  a  penny,  Mrs.  Owers 

supplied  her  dinner  :  ( 

God  be  merciful  to  Mrs.  Owers,  who  was  | 

merciful  to  this  sinner  !  J 

Caroline  Xaylor  was  their  servant ;  said  they 

led  a  wretched  life, 
Saw  this   most  distinguished  Briton  fling  a 

teacup  at  his  wife  : 
He  went  out  to  balls  and  pleasures,  and  never 

once,  in  ten  months'  space, 
Sate  with  his  wife,  or  spoke  her  kindly.    This 

was  the  defendant's  case. 

Pollock,  C.  B.,   charged   the  jury,    said  the 

woman's  guilt  was  clear  : 
That  was  not  the  point,  however,  which  the 

jury  came  to  hear. 
But  the  damage  to  determine  which,    as  it 

should  true  appear, 
This  most   tender-hearted   husband,  who  so 

used  his  lady  dear ; 

Beat  her,  kicked  her,  caned  her,  cursed  her, 

left  her  starving,  year  by  year, 
Flung  her  from  him,  parted  from  her,  wrung 

her  neck,  and  boxed  her  ear ; — 
What  the   reasonable   damage   this   afflicted 

man  could  claim, 
By  the  loss  of  the  affections  of  this  guilty 

graceless  dame  ? 


Then  the  honest  British  Twelve,  to  each  other 

turning  round. 
Laid  their  clever  heads  together  with  a  wisdom 

most  profound ; 
And  towards  his  Lordship  looking,  spoke  the 

foreman  wise  and  sound,  _ 

"  My  Lord,  we  find   for  this  here  plaintiff, 

damages  two  hundred  pound." 

So  God  bless  the  Special  Jury,  pride  and  joy 

of  English  ground ! 
And  the  happy  land  of  England,  where  true 

justice  does  a^bound ! 
British  jurymen  and  husbands,  let  us  hail  this 

verdict  proper, — 
If  a  British  wife  offends  you,  Britons,  you've 

a  right  to  whop  her. 

Though  you  promised  to  protect  her,  though 

you  promised  to  defend  her, 
You  are  welcome  to  neglect  her,  to  the  devil 

you  may  send  her ; 
You  may  strike .  her,    curse,    abuse  her,  so 

declares  our  law  renowned  ; 
And  if  after  this  you  lose  her — why,  you're 

paid  two  hundred  pound. 

W.  M.  Tliackeray. 


1764. 


-INVOCATION  TO  EAIN  IN 
SUMMER. 


O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain, 

Let  not  the  silver  lily  pine. 
The  drooping-  lily  pine  in  vain 

To  feel  that  dewy  touch  of  thine — 
To  drink  thy  freshness  once  again, 
O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain ! 

In  heat  the  landscape  quivering  lies  ; 

The  cattle  pant  beneath  the  tree ; 
Through  parching  air  and  purple  skies 

The  earth  looks  up,  in  vain,  for  thee ; 
For  thee — for  thee,  it  looks  in  vain, 
O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain. 

Come  thou,  and  brim  the  meadow  streams, 
And  soften  all  the  hills  with  mist, 

O  falling  dew !  from  burning  dreams 
By  thee  shall  herb  and  flower  be  kiss'd. 

And  Earth  shall  bless  thee  yet  again, 

O  gentle,  gentle  summer  rain. 

W  0.  Bennett.— Born  1820, 


1765.— TO  A  CEICKET. 

Voice  of  Summer,  keen  and  shriU, 

Chirping  round  my  winter  fire, 

Of  thy  song  I  never  tire, 

Weary  others  as  they  wiU ; 

For  thy  song  with  summer's  fili'd — • 

Fill'd  with  sunshine,  fiU'd  with  June ; 

FireKght  echo  of  that  noon 

Hears  in  fields  when  aU  is  still' d 


W.  C.  Bennett.] 


BABY  MAT. 


TSeventh  Period. — 


In  the  golden  light  of  May, 
Bringing  scents  of  new-mown  hay, 
Bees,  and  birds,  and  flowers  away  : 
Prithee,  haunt  my  fireside  still. 
Voice  of  Summer,  keen  and  shrill ! 

W.  C.  Bennett— Born  1820. 


1766.— BABY  MAY. 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches ; 
Lips  whose  dewy  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness ;  round,  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise  ; 
Miniites  fill'd  with  shadeless  gladness ; 
Minutes  just  as  brimm'd  with  sadness ; 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries  ; 
Crows  and  laughs  and  tearful  eyes ; 
Lights  and  shadows,  swifter  born 
Than  on  wind-swept  autumn  corn ; 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion,. 
Making  every  limb  all  motion  ; 
Catchings  up  of  legs  and  arms  ; 
Throwings  back  and  small  alarms  ; 
Clutching  fingers  ;  straightening  jerks  ; 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works ; 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings  ; 
Mother's  ever  new  surprisings  ; 
Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under ; 
Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings ; 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness  that  we  prize  such  sinning ; 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses ; 
G  raspings  small  at  all  that  passes ; 
Pullings  off  of  all  that's  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table ; 
Silences — small  meditations 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations. 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches  ; 
All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  woo'd  to  light  by  pressing ; 
Slumbers — such  sweet  angel-seemings 
That  we'd  ever  have  such  dreamings  ; 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  the  breaking. 
And  we'd  always  have  thee  waking ; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure ; 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure  ; 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness  ; 
Joy  in  care ;  delight  in  sadness  ; 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness  ; 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness ; 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be  : — 
That's  May  Bennett — that's  my  baby  ! 

W.  C.  Bennett— Bom  1820. 


1767.— BABY'S  SHOES. 

Oh  those  little,  those  little  blue  shoes ! 
Those  shoes  that  no  little  feet  use. 


Oh  the  price  were  high 
That  those  shoes  would  buy, 
Those  little  blue  unused  shoes  ! 

For  they  hold  the  small  shape  of  feet 
That  no  more  their  mother's  eyes  meet 

That,  by  God's  good  will, 

Years  since,  grew  still, 
And  ceased  from  their  totter  so  svreet. 

And  oh,  since  that  baby  slept, 

So  hush'd,  how  the  mother  has  kept, 

With  a  tearful  pleasure, 

That  little  dear  treasure,  . 
And  o'er  them  thought  and  wept ! 

For  they  mind  her  for  evermore, 
Of  a  patter  along  the  floor ; 

And  blue  eyes  she  sees 

Look  up  from  her  knees 
With  the  look  that  in  life  they  wore. 

As  they  lie  before  her  there. 
There  babbles  from  chair  to  chair 

A  little  sweet  face 

That's  a  gleam  in  the  place. 
With  its  little  gold  curls  of  hair. 

Then  oh,  wonder  not  that  her  heart, 
From  all  else  would  rather  part, 
Than  those  tiny  blue  shoes 
That  no  little  feet  use. 
And   whose  sight   makes   such  fond   tears 
start ! 

W.  C.  Bennett.— Born  1820. 


1768.— THE  WOEN  WEDDING-EING. 

Your  wedding-ring  wears  thin,  dear  wife ;  ah, 

summers  not  a  few, 
Since  I  put  it  on  your  finger  first,  have  pass'd 

o'er  me  and  you ; 
And,  love,  what  changes  we  have  seen — what 

cares  and  pleasures,  too. 
Since  you  became  my  own  dear  wife,  when 

this  old  ring  was  new. 

Oh,  blessings  on  that  happy  day,  the  happiest 

of  my  life, 
When,  thanks  to  God,  your  low,  sweet  "  Yes" 

made  you  my  loving  wife  ; 
Your  heart  will  say  the  same,  I  know;  that 

day's  as  dear  to  you, — 
That  day  that  made  me  yours,  dear  wife,  when 

this  old  ring  was  new. 

How  well  do  I   remember  now  your  young 

sweet  face  that  day  ! 
How  fair  you  were,  how  dear  you  were,  my 

tongue  could  hardly  say ; 
Nor  how  I  doated  on  you ;  ah,  how  proud  I 

was  of  you ! 
But  did  I  love  you  more  than  now,  when  this 

old  ring  was  new  ? 


rom  1780  to  1866.] 


MOTHEE  AND  SON. 


[W.  C.  Bennett, 


No — no ;  no  fairer  were  you  then  than  at  this 

hour  to  me ; 
And,  dear  as  life  to  me  this  day,  how  could 

you  dearer  be  ? 
As  sweet  your  face  might  be  that  day  as  now 

it  is,  'tis  true  ; 
But  did  I  know  your  heart  as  well  when  this 

old  ring  was  new  ? 

Oh,  partner  of  my  gladness,  wife,  what  care, 

what  grief  is  there 
For  me  you  would  not  bravely  face,  with  me 

you  would  not  share  ? 
Oh,  what  a  weary  want   had   every  day,  if 

wanting  you, 
Wanting  the  love  that  God  made  mine  when 

this  old  ring  was  new. 

Years  bring  fresh  links  to   bind  us,  wife — 

young  voices  that  are  here, 
Toung  faces  round  our  fire  that  make  their 

mother's  yet  more  dear, 
Young,  loving  hearts,   your   care   each   day 

makes  yet  more  like  to  you ; 
More  like  the  loving  heart  made  mine  when 

this  old  ring  was  new. 

And,  bless'd  be  God!  all  He  has  given  are 

with  us  yet ;  around 
Our  table  every  precious  life  lent  to  us  still 

is  found ; 
Though   cares    we've    known,    with    hopeful 

hearts  the  worst  we've  struggled  through : 
Bless'd  be  His  name  for  all  His  love  since  this 

old  ring  was  new  ! 

The  past  is  dear ;  its  sweetness  stni  our  me- 
mories treasure  yet ; 

The  griefs  we've  borne,  together  borne,  we 
would  not  now  forget ; 

Whatever,  wife,  the  future  brings,  heart  unto 
heart  still  true. 

We'll  share  as  we  have  shared  all  else  since 
this  old  ring  was  new. 

And  if  God  spare  us  'mongst  our  sons  and 

daughters  to  grow  old. 
We  know  His  goodness  will  not  let  your  heart 

or  mine  grow  cold ; 
Your  aged  eyes  will  see  in  mine  all  they've 

still  shown  to  you, 
And  mine  in  yours  all  they  have  seen  since 

this  old  ring  was  new. 

And  oh,  when  death  shall  come  at  last  to  bid 

me  to  my  rest, 
May  I  die  looking  in  those  eyes,  and  resting 

on  that  breast ; 
Oh,  may  my  parting  gaze  be  bless'd  with  the 

dear  sight  of  you. 
Of  those  fond  eyes — fond  as  they  were  when 

this  old  ring  was  new. 

W.  C.  Bennett— Born  1820. 


1769.— WEDDING  WORDS. 

A  jewel  for  my  lady's  ear, 

A  jewel  for  her  finger  fine, 
A  diamond  for  her  bosom  dear, 

Her  bosom  that  is  mine. 

Dear  glances  for  my  lady's  eyes. 

Dear  looks  around  her  form  to  twine, 

Dear  kisses  for  the  lips  I  prize, 
Her  dear  lips  that  are  mine. 

Dear  breathings  to  her,  soft  and  low, 
Of  how  my  lot  she's  made  divine. 

Dear  silences  my  love  that  show 
For  her  whose  love  is  mine. 

Dear  cares  no  cloud  shall  shade  her  way. 
That  gladness  only  on  her  shine. 

That  she  be  happy  as  the  May 
Whose  lot  is  one  with  mine. 

Dear  wishes  hovering  round  her  life 

And  tending  thoughts,  and  dreams  divine, 

To  feed  with  perfect  joy  the  wife 
Whose  happiness  is  mine. 

W.  C.  Bennett— Born  1820. 


1770.— MOTHER  AND  SON. 

■'  Mother,  the  storm,  how  it  shrieks  without !  " 
■'  Fit  night  for  the  work,  son,  we're  about." 

•'  Mother,  the  razor's  smear'd  with  blood." 
"  Fling  it  far  where  the  river  comes  down  in 
flood." 

■'  Blood  on  these  hands,  blood  will  be  seen." 
"  Water,  my  son,  will  wash  them  clean." 

"  What  will  whiten  the  sheets  and  bed  ?  " 
"  I'll  wash  them  in  peace  now  your  father's 
dead." 

"  They'll  see  where  the  ne.w-turn'd  earth  looks 

brown." 
"  Son,  with  my  feet  I  trampled  it  down." 

"  Oh,  that  dead  face  !  oh,  hide  it,  night !  " 
"  The  quick-lime  I  strew'd  will  soon  eat  that 
sight." 

"  God  !  I  can  see  his  mangled  throat !  " 
"  Silence,  boy !  how  you  drivel  and  dote." 

"  Mother,  his  blood,  it  sears  my  soul !  " 
"  Son,  on  mine  alone  be  the  whole." 

"  Oh,  would  that  my  father  were  here  again  !  " 
"  Thank  God !  that  wish  is  wish'd  in  vain." 

"  Here,  even  to  drive  us  mad  with  blows." 
"Thank  God!  from  his   heart  his  life-blood 
flows !  " 

"  Here,   though    mad-drunk,    to    kill    us    he 

swore  " 
"Thank   God!    such    oaths    he'll   swear   no 

more." 


W.  C.  Bennett.] 


TO  A  LADY  I  KNOW,  AGED  ONE.         [Seventh  Period.— 


"  Here  again,  though  he  starved  us  dead." 
"  Thank  God !  now  my  work  will  bring  us 
bread." 

"  Here  again,  to  repent  his  sin." 

"  Thank  God  !  to  heaven  never  he'U  win." 

"  Oh,  that  he  were  living,  and  dead  were  we  !  " 
"  Sleep,  sleep,  my  son,  and  comfort  me." 

"  How  dare  I  sleep  I  how  dare  I  dream  !  " 
"  Without   him,   our  lives   like   heaven   will 


"  Heaven ! — hell,  hell,  is  for  you  and  me  !  " 
"  God  help  us  !  there  will  your  father  be  !  " 

"  Hell  hereafter  !  hell  here !  "     "  Forgot 

"  Win  be  hell's  pains  if  we're  where  he's  not !  " 

W.  C.  Bennett— Bo^^-n  1820. 


t77i.__TO  A  LADY  I  KNOW,  AGED-ONE. 

Oh,  sunny  curls  !  oh,  eyes  of  blue  ! 

The  hardest  natures  known, 
Baby,  would  softly  speak  to  you, 

With  strangely  tender  tone  ; 
What  marvel,  Mary,  if  from  such 

Your  sweetness  love  would  call  ? 
We  love  you,  baby,  oh  how  much  ! 

Most  dear  of  all  things  small ! 

Unborn,  how,  more  than  all  on  earth, 

Your  mother  yoarn'd  to  meet 
Your  dream' d-of  face  ;  you,  from  your  birth, 

Most  sweet  of  all  things  sweet  1 
Even  now,  for  your  small  hands'  first  press 

Of  her  full  happy  breast, 
How  oft  does  she  God's  goodness  bless, 

And  feel  her  heart  too  blest ! 

You  came,  a  wonder  to  her  eyes. 

That  doated  on  each  grace, 
Each  charm,  that  still  with  new  surprise 

She  show'd  us  in  your  face. 
Small  beauties  ?  ah,  to  her  not  small ! 

How  plain  to  her  blest  mind  ! 
Though,  baby  dear,  I  doubt  if  all 

AU  that  she  found  could  find. 

A  year  has  gone,  and,  mother,  say. 

Through  all  that  year's  blest  round, 
In  her  has  one  sweet  week  or  day 

Not  some  new  beauty  found  ? 
What  moment  has  not  fancied  one, 

Since  first  your  eyes  she  met  ? 
And,  wife,  I  know  you  have  not  done 

With  finding  fresh  ones  yet. 

Nor  I ;  for,  baby,  some  new  charm 

Each  coming  hour  supplies, 
So  sweet,  we  think  change  can  but  harm 

Your  sweetness  in  our  eyes, 


Till  comes  a  newer,  and  we  knovr, 

As  that  fresh  charm  we  see, 
In  you,  sweet  Nature  wills  to  show 

How  fair  a  babe  can  be. 

Kind  God,  that  gave  this  precious  gift. 
More  clung-to  every  day, 

To  Thee  our  ej'-es  we  trembling  lift- 
Take  not  Thy  gift  away  ! 

Looking  on  her,  we  start  in  dread, 
We  stay  our  shuddericg  breath. 

And  shrink  to  feel  the  terror  said 
In  that  one  dark  word — death. 

Oh,  tender  eyes  !  oh,  beauty  strange  ! 

When  childhood  shall  depart, 
Oh,  that  thou,  babe,  through  every  change 

Mayst  keep  that  infant  heart ! 
Oh,  gracious  God  !  oh,  this  make  sure, 

That,  of  no  gi-ace  beguiled. 
The  woman  be  in  soul  as  pure 

As  now  she  is — a  child ! 

W.  C.  Bennett— Born  1820. 


1772.— CEADLE    SONG. 

Lullaby — lullaby,  baby  dear  ! 
Take  thy  rest  without  a  fear  : 
Quiet  sleep,  for  mother  is  here. 
Ever  wakeful,  ever  near, 
I  Lullaby ! 

}  Lullaby — ^lullaby  !  gone  is  the  light, 
!   Yet  let  not  darkness  my  baby  fright ; 
Mother  is  with  her  amid  the  night, 
Then  softly  sleep,  my  heart's  delight, 
LuUaby ! 

JMay  thy  small  dreams  no  ill  things  see, 
Kind  Heaven  keep  watch,  my  baby,  o'er  thee  ; 
Kind  angels  bright  thy  guardians  be. 
And  give  thee  smiling  to  day  and  to  me, 
Lullaby ! 

Sleep,  sleep  on  !  thy  rest  is  deep  ; 
But,  ah  !  what  wild  thoughts  on  me  creep. 
As  by  thy  side  ray  watch  I  keep, 
To  think  how  like  to  death  is  sleep  ! 
Lullaby ! 

But  God  our  Father  will  hear  my  prayer, 
And  have  thee,  dear  one,  in  His  care  ; 
Thee,  httle  one,  soft  breathing  there. 
To  me  the  Lord's  dear  love  will  spare. 
Lullaby ! 

Sleep  on  !  sleep  on  !  till  glad  day  break, 
And  with  the  sunshine  gladly  wake. 
Thy  mother's  day,  how  blest  to  make  ! 
Her  life,  what  joy  !  through  thy  dear  sake, 
LuUaby ! 

W.  C.  Bennett— Born  1820. 


From  1780  to  1866.]      SKETCHES  FROM  A  PAINTEE'S  STUDIO.         [W.  C.  Bennett. 


1773— TO  W.  G.  B. 

Soul,  not  yet  from  heaven  beguiled, 
Soul,  not  yet  by  earth  defiled, 
Dwelling  in  this  littla  child, 

Be,  oh,  to  him  be 

All  we  would  have  thee  ! 

Through  this  hfe  of  joy  and  care, 
If  that  grief  must  be  his  share, 
Make,  oh,  make  him  strong  to  bear 

All  God  wiUeth,  aU 

That  to  him  must  fall. 

Oh,  when  passions  stir  his  heart. 
Tempting  him  from  good  to  part, 
Make  liim  from  the  evil  start, 

That  he  walk  aright. 

Soilless  in  God's  sight ! 

Taint  him  not  with  mortal  sin, 

That  heaven's  palms  his  hands  may  v/in, 

That  heaven's  gates  he  enter  in, 

Of  God's  favour  sure, 

Pure  as  he  is  pure ! 

If  he  wander  from  the  right, 

Oh,  through  error's  darksome  night 

On  to  heaven's  eternal  light. 

Guide,  oh  guide  his  way, 

To  heaven's  perfect  day 

W.  C.  Bennett— Bom  1820. 


1774.— THE  QUEEN. 

A   FIBESIDE    SONG. 

Yes,  wife,  I'd  be  a  throned  king. 
That  you  might  share  my  royal  seat, 
That  titled  beauty  I  might  bring. 
And  princes'  homage  to  your  feet. 
How  quickly,  then,  would  nobles  see 
Your  courtly  grace,  your  regal  mien  ; 
Even  duchesses  all  bhnd  should  be 
To  flaw  or  speck  in  you,  their  queen. 

Poor  wish  !    0  wife,  a  queen  you  are. 
To  whose  feet  many  a  subject  brings 
A  truer  homage,  nobler  far 
Than  bends  before  the  thrones  of  kings. 
You  rule  a  realm,  wife,  in  this  heart, 
Where  not  one  rebel  fancy's  seen. 
Where  hopes  and  smiles,  how  joyous!  start 
To  own  the  sway  of  you,  their  queen. 

How  loyal  are  my  thoughts  by  day  ! 
How  faithful  is  each  dream  of  night ! 
Not  one  but  lives  but  to  obey 
Your  rule — to  serve  you,  its  delight ; 
My  hours — each  instant — every  breath 
Are,  wife,  as  all  have  ever  been, 
Your  slaves,  to  serve  you  unto  death ; 
O  wife,  you  are  indeed  a  queen ! 

W.  C.  Bennett— Bom  1820, 


1775.— SKETCHES  FEOM  A  PAINTER'S 
STUDIO. 

A   TALE   OF    TO-DAY. 

A  broad   stream,  smooth  with    deep-grass' d 

fields. 
Through  rushy  turnings  winding  slow  ; 
A  dam  where  stirless  waters  sleep 
Till  shot  on  the  moss'd  wheel  below 
A  dusty  mill,  whose  shadows  fall 
On  the  stay'd  waters,  white  o'erall. 

A  vine-climb'd  cottage,  redly-tiled, 
Deep-nook'd  within  an  orchard's  green, 
Past  which  a  white  road  -winds  away. 
That  hedgerow  elms  from  summer  screen ; 
A  busy  wheel's  near  sound  that  tells 
Within  the  thriving  miller  dwells. 

A  cottage  parlour,  neatly  gay. 
With  little  comforts  brighten' d  round, 
Where  simple  ornaments,  that  speak 
Of  more  than  country  taste,  abound, 
Where  bookcase  and  piano  well 
Of  more  than  village  polish  tell. 

A  bluff,  blunt  miller,  well  to  do. 

Of  broad,  loud  laugh — not  hard  to  please  ; 

A  kindly  housewife,  keen  and  sage — 

And  busy  as  her  very  bees  ; 

A  bright-eyed  daughter — mirth  and  health. 

Their  pride — their  wealth  above  all  wealth. 

A  tripping,  fair,  light-hearted  girl,  • 

Not  yet  the  ripen'd  woman  quite. 
Whose  cheerful  mirth  and  thoughtful  love 
Light  up  the  cottage  with  delight. 
And  with  a  thousand  gentle  ways 
With  pleasure  brim  her  parents'  days. 

A  titled  slip  of  lordly  bjood, 
A  few  weeks'  lounger  at  the  hall, 
To  gain  new  zest  for  pall'd  delights 
And  squander' d  waste  of  health  recall ; 
An  angler  in  the  milldam's  water  : 
A  chatter  with  the  miller's  daughter. 

A  meeting  'neath  a  summer's  night ; 

Soft  smiles — low  words — impassion'd  sighs  ; 

The  trembling  clasp  of  meeting  hands ; 

The  hot  gaze  met  with  downcast  eyes  ; 

Foul  perjuries  that  pollute  the  air. 

With  burning  hopes  and  doubts  heard  there. 

A  thin,  pale  face,  where  autumn  sees 
No  more  the  smiles  that  lit  the  spring  ; 
A  foot  less  light  upon  the  stair ; 
A  low  voice  heard  no  more  to  sing  ; 
One  now  that  lost  to  all  things  sits. 
Now  starts  to  over-mirth  by  fits. 

Dear  tongues  that  ask  a  gasping  girl 
Of  what  to  utter  were  to  kill ; 
Looks  that  she  feels  upon  her  fix'd  ; 
Eyes  that  with  tears  pursue  her  still ; 
Care  in  the  old  accustom' d  place 
Of  mirth,  upon  her  father's  face. 


W.  C.  Bennett.] 


FROM  INDIA. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


A  dark,  small,  wliitely-curtain'd  room ; 
A  form  flung"  on  the  unopen'd  bed ; 
Quick  sobs  that  quiver  through  the  gloom ; 
Tears  rain'd  from  hot  eyes  swoU'n  and  red, 
And  words  that  through  their  wild  despair 
Still  strive  to  shape  themselves  to  prayer. 

A  winter  midnight's  stany  gloom ; 
A  pausing  tread  so  light,  that  steals 
Across  the  landing — down  the  stairs. 
That  scarce  a  creak  a  step  reveals  j 
A  stifled  sob — a  bolt  undrawn ; 
A  form — low  words — a  daughter  gone. 

A  fresh-turf  d,  narrow,  hoop-bound  grave, 
Heaping  a  country  churchyard's  green, 
On  whose  white  headstone,  newly  carved. 
The  mill's  old  master's  name  is  seen. 
The  wayside  mill's,  that  bears  no  more 
The  well-known  name  so  long  it  bore. 

A  stooping  woman,  scarcely  old, 

Yet  with  the  feeble  walk  of  age, 

The  dull,  faint  sense  of  whose  blank  mind 

No  thing  around  her  can  engage, 

Yet  who,  when  into  speech  beguiled, 

Will  mutter  of  some  absent  child. 

A  costly-furnish'd  west-end  room, 
Whose  mirrors — pictures — all  things  show 
A  stintless  and  abounding  wealth. 
An  easeful  luxury  few  can  know ; 
A  flaunting  thing  its  glare  within ; 
A  thing  of  shame,  remorse,  and  sin. 

j\,  noise  of  quarrel ;  keen  reproach. 
Fronted  with  taunt,  loud  oath  and  curse, 
Heap'd  out  with  such  vile  store  of  scorn 
That  hate  in  vain  might  seek  for  worse ; 
Meek  j)leadings,  stricken  to  a  close 
With,  shame  to  manhood  !  brutal  blows. 

A  thing  that  once  was  woman  ;  white. 
Thin,  haggard,  hollow-eyed,  and  wan  ; 
A  horror  that  the  shuddering  eye 
Starts  back  aghast  from  resting  on  ; 
Whose  only  joy  now  left  is  drink. 
Whose  fire  burns  out  the  power  to  think. 

A  ridge,  all  winter  keen  with  gusts, 

On  whose  cold  pathways  lies  the  night ; 

Stony  and  desolate  and  dark, 

Save  round  the  gas-lamps'  flickering  light, 

And  swept  by  drifts  of  icy  sleet. 

That  numb  each  houseless  wretch  they  meet. 

A  wintry  river,  broad  and  black, 

That  through  dark  arches  slides  along, 

Eing'd,  where  the  gaslights  on  it  play, 

With  coiling  eddies  swirling  strong, 

That  far  below  the  dizzy  height 

Of  the  dark  bridge  swim  through  the  night. 

A  crouching  form  that  through  the  gloom 
Paces  its  stones  a  hundred  times. 
That  pausing — glancing  keenly  round, 
The  dark,  high  balustrade  upclimbs  ; 
A  plunge — a  shriek  : — from  all  its  woes 
A  weary  soul  hath  calm  repose. 


A  long,  bright  suit  of  stately  rooms. 
Where  to  soft  music's  changeful  swell 
Keeps  time  the  beat  of  falling  feet 
And  all  things  but  of  pleasure  tell ; 
Where,  partner  gay  of  noblest  hands. 
The  suicide's  seducer  stands. 

W.  C.  Bennctt.-^Born  1820. 


1776.— FEOM  INDIA. 

*'  Oh,  come  you  from  the  Indies,  and,  soldier, 

can  you  tell 
Aught  of  the  gallant  90th,  and  who  are  safe 

and  well  ? 
0  soldier,  say  my  son  is  safe — for  nothing  else 

I  care. 
And  you  shall  have  a  mother's  thanks — shall 

have  a  widow's  prayer." 

"  Oh,  I've  come  from  the  Indies — I've  just  come 

from  the  war. 
And  well  I  know  the  90th,  and  gallant  lads 

they  are ; 
From  colonel  down  to  rank  and  file,  I  know 

my  comrades  well. 
And  news  I've  brought  for  you,  mother,  your 

Eobert  bade  me  tell." 

"  And  do  you  know  my  Eobert,  now  ?     Oh  tell 

me,  tell  me  true, 
0  soldier,  tell  me  word  for  word  all  that  he 

said  to  you ! 
His  very  words — my  own  boy's  words — Oh  tell 

me  every  one  ! 
You  litttle  know  how  dear  to  his  old  mother  is 

my  son." 

"  Through  Havelock's  fights  and  marches  the 

90th  were  there ; 
In  all  the  gallant  90th  did,  your  Eobert  did 

his  share ; 
Twice  he  went  into  Lucknow,   untouch' d  by 

steel  or  ball, 
And  you  may  bless  your  God,  old  dame,  that 

brought  him  safe  through  all." 

"  Oh,  thanks  unto  the  living  God  that  heard  his 

mother's  prayer. 
The  widow's  cry  that  rose  on  high  her  only  son 

to  spare  ! 
Oh,  bless' d  be  God,  that  turn'd  from  him  the 

sword  and  shot  away  ! 
And  what  to  his  old  mother  did  my  darlinj; 

bid  you  say  .p" 

"Mother,   he    saved   his   colonel's   life,   and 

bravely  it  was  done  ; 
In  the  despatch  they  told  it  all,  and  named  and 

praised  your  son; 
A  medal  and  a  pension's  his;  good  luck  to 

him  I  say. 
And  he  has  not  a  comrade  but  will  wish  him 

weU  to-day." 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  BOAT-EACE. 


[W.  C.  Bennett. 


"  Now,  soldier,  blessing-s  on  your  tongue  :  O 

husband,  that  you  knew 
How  well  our  boy  pays  me  this  day  for  all 

that  I've  gone  through, 
All  I  have  done  and  borne  for  him  the  long 

years  since  you're  dead  ! 
But,  soldier,  tell  me  how  he  look'd,  and  all  my 

Eobert  said." 

"  He's  bronzed,  and  tann'd,  and  bearded,  and 

you'd  hardly  know  him,  dame, 
We've  made  your  boy  into  a  man,  but  still  his 

heart's  the  same  ; 
For  often,  dame,  his  talk's  of  you,  and  always 

to  one  tune — 
But  there,  his  ship  is  nearly  home,  and  he'll 

be  with  you  soon." 

"  Oh  is  he  really  coming  home,  and  shall  I  really 

see 
My  boy  again,  my  own  boy,  home  ?  and  when, 

when  will  it  be  ? 
Did  you  say  soon?" — "Well,  he  is  home; 

keep  cool,  old  da.me  ;  he's  here." 
"O   Eobert,   my   own   blessed   boy!"  —  "0 

mother — mother  dear !  " 

W.  C.  Bennett— Born  1820. 


1777.— THE  BOAT-EACE. 

"  There,  win  the  cup  and  you  shall  have  my 

girl. 
I  won  it,  Ned ;  and  you  shall  win  it  too. 
Or  wait   a   twelvemonth.     Books  —  for   ever 

books  ! 
Nothing  but  talk  of  poets  and  their  rhymes  ! 
I'd   have  you,  boy,  a  man,  with  thews  and 

strength 
To  breast  the  world  with,  and  to  cleave  your 

way, 
No  maudlin  dreamer,  that  will  need  her  care, 
She  needing  yours.    There — there — I  love  you, 

Ned, 
Both   for   your  own,  and  for  your  mother's 

sake ; 
So  vsdn  our  boat-race,  and  the  cup,  next  month. 
And  you  shall  have  her."    With  a  broad,  loud 

laugh, 
A  jolly  triumph  at  his  rare  conceit. 
He  left  the  subject ;  and,  across  the  wine. 
We  talk'd — or  rather,  all  the  talk  was  his — 
Of  the  best  oarsmen  that  his  youth  had  known. 
Both  of  his  set,  and  others — Clare,  the  boast 
Of  Jesus',  and  young  Edmonds,  he  who  fell. 
Cleaving  the  ranks  at  Lucknow  ;  and,  to-day. 
There  was   young   Chester  might  be   named 

with  them, 
**  Why,  boy,  I'm  told  his  room  is  lit  with  cups 
Won  by  his  sculls.     Ned,  if  he  rows,  he  wins  ; 
SmaU  chance  for  you,  boy  ! "     And  again  his 

laugh. 
With  its  broad  thunder,  turn'd  my  thoughts  to 

gall; 
Bat  yet  I  mask'd  my  humour  with  a  mirth 


Moulded  on  his  ;  and,  feigning  haste,  I  went, 
But  left    not.     Through  the  garden-porch  I 

turn'd, 
But,    on  its  sun-fleck' d  seats,  its  Jessamine 

shades 
Trembled  on  no  one.    Down  the  garden's  paths 
Wander' d  my  eye,  in  rapid  quest  of  one 
Sweeter  than  all  its  roses  ;  and  across 
Its  gleaming  lilies  and  its  azure  bells, 
There,     in    the    orchard's    greenness,    down 

beyond 
Its  sweetbriar  hedge-row,  found   her — found 

her  there, 
A  summer  blossom  that  the  peering  sun 
Peep'd  at  through  blossoms, — that  the  summer 

airs 
Waver' d   down    blossoms    on,   and    amorous 

gold. 
Warm  as  that  rain'd  on  Danae.    With  a  step. 
Soft  as  the  sun-light,  down  the  pebbled  path 
I  pass'd;    and,  ere    her    eye  could  cease  to 

count 
The  orchard  daisies,  in  some  summer  mood 
Dreaming  (was  I  her  thought  ?),  my  murmur'd 

"  Kate  " 
Shock' d  up  the  teU-tale  roses  to  her  cheek, 
And  lit  her  eyes  with  starry  lights  of  love 
That  dimm'd  the  daylight.     Then  I  told  her 

all. 
And  told  her  that  her  father's  jovial  jest 
Should  make  her  mine,  and  kiss'd  her  sunlit 

tears 
Away,  and  all  her  little  trembling  doubts. 
Until  hope  won  her  heart  to  happy  dreams, 
And  all  the  future  smiled  with  happy  love. 
Nor,  till  the  still  moon,  in  the  purphng  East, 
Gleam' d  through  the  twilight,  did  we  stay  our 

talk. 
Or  part,  with   kisses,   looks,    and  whisper'd 

words 
Eemember'd  for  a  lifetime.     Home  I  went. 
And  in  my  college  rooms  what  blissful  hopes 
Were  mine! — what  thoughts,   that  still'd  to 

happy  dreams ; 
Where  Kate,  the  fadeless  summer  of  my  life, 
Made  my  years  Eden,  and  lit  up  my  homo 
(The  ivied  rectory  my  sleep  made  mine). 
With  little  faces,  and  the  gleams  of  curls. 
And  baby  crows,  and  voices  twin  to  hers. 
Oh,  happy  night !  Oh,  more  than  happy  dreams !  ^ 
But  with  the  earliest  t"witter  from  the  eaves, 
I  rose,  and,  in  an  hour,  at  Clifford's  yard, 
As  if  but  boating  were  the  crown  of  life. 
Forgetting  Tennyson,  and  books,  and  rhymes, 
Even  my  new  tragedy  upon  the  stocks, 
I  throng'd  my  brain  with  talks  of  lines  and 

curves. 
And  all  that  makes  a  wherry  sure  to  win, 
And  furbish' d  up  the  knowledge  that  I  had, 
Ere  study  put  my  boyhood's  feats  away, 
And  made  me  bookworm ;   all  that  day  my 

hand 
Grew  more  and  more  familiar  with  the  oar. 
And  won  by  slow  degrees,  as  reach  by  reach 
Of  the  green  river  lengthen'd  on  my  sight. 
Its  by-laid  cunning  back  ;  so,  day  by  day. 


W.  C.  Bennett.] 


THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 


[Seventh  Pebiod 


Prom  when  dawntoucli'd  our  elm-tops  till  the 

moon 
Oleam'd  through  the  slumbrous  leafage  of  our 

lawns, 
I  flash' d  the  flowing  Isis  from  my  oars, 
And  dream'd  of  triumph   and   the   prize   to 

come; 
And  breathed  myself,  in  sport,  one  after  one, 
Against  the  men  with  whom  I  was  to  row, 
Until  I  fear'd  but  Chester — him  alone. 
So  June  stole  on  to  July,  sun  by  sun, 
And  the  day  came ;   how  well  I  mind  that 

day! 
Glorious  with  summer,  not  a  cloud  abroad 
To  dim  the  golden  greenness  of  the  fields, 
And  all  a  happy  hush  about  the  earth, 
And  not  a  hum  to  stir  the  drowsing  noon, 
Save  where  along  the  peopled  towing-paths, 
Banking  the  river,  swarm' d  the  city  out, 
Loud  of  the  contest,  bright  as  humming-birds, 
Two  winding  rainbows  by  the  river's  brinks, 
That  flush' d  with  boats  and  barges,  silken- 
awn' d, 
Shading  the  fluttering  beauties  of  our  balls, 
Our  college   toasts,  and   gay  with  jest  and 

laugh. 
Bright   as   their    champagne.      One,    among 

them  all, 
My  eye  saw  only ;  one,  that  morning,  left 
With  smiles  that  hid  the  terrors  of  my  heart. 
And   spoke  of   certain  hope,  and  mock'd  at 

fears — 
One,  that  upon  my  lieck  had  parting  hung 
Arms  white  as  daisies — on  my  bosom  hid 
A  tearful  face  that  sobb'd  against  my  heart, 
Fill'd  with  what  fondness  !  yearning  with  what 

love  ! 
O  hope,  and  would  the   glad  day  make   her 

mine! 
O  hope,  was  hope  a  prophet,  truth  alone  ? 
There  was  a  murmur  in  my  heart  of  "Yes," 
That  sung  to  slumber  every  wakening  fear 
That  still  would  stir  and  shake  me  with  its 

dread. 
And  now  a  hush  was  on  the  wavering  crowd 
That  sway'd  along  the  river,  reach  by  reach, 
A  grassy  mile,  to  where  we  were  to  turn — 
A  barge  moor'd  midstream,  flush' d  with  flut- 
tering flags. 
And  we  were  ranged,   and,   at  the  gun,  we 

went. 
As  in  a  horse-race,  all,  at  first,  a-crowd  ; 
Then,  thinning  slowly,  one  by  one  dropp'd  ofi", 
Till,  rounding  the  moor'd  mark,  Chester  and  I 
Left  the  last  lingerer  with  us  lengths  astern, 
The  victory  hopeless.     Then  I  knew  the  strife 
Was  come,  and  hoped  'gainst  fear,  and,  oar  to 

oar. 
Strain' d    tp  the  work  before  me.     Head  to 

head 
Through    the    wild-cheering    river-banks   we 

clove 
The  swarming  waters,  raining  streams  of  toil; 
But   Chester   gain'd,    so    much    his    tutor' d 

strength 
Held  on  enduring — mine  still  waning  more, 


And  parting  with  the  victory,  inch  by  inch, 
Yet  straining  on,  as  if  I  strove  with  death. 
Until  I  groan'dwith  anguish.     Chester  heard, 
And  turn'd  a  wondering  face  upon  me  quick. 
And  toss'd  a  laugh  across,  with  jesting  words: 
"  What,  Ned,  my  boy,  and  do  you  take  it  so  ? 
The  cup's  not  worth  the  moaning  of  a  man, 
No,   nor  the   triumph.     Tush !   boy,  I  must 

win." 
Then  from  the  anguish  of  my  heart  a  cry 
Burst:  "Kate,  0  dearest  Kate — O  love — we 

lose !  " 
"Ah !  I've  a  Kate,  too,  here  to  see  me  win," 
He  answer'd  ;  "  Faith  !  my  boy,  I  pity  you." 
"  Oh,  if  you  lose,"  I  answered,  "you  but  lose 
A  week's  wild  triumph,  and  ^ts  praise  and 

pride  ; 
I,  losing,  lose  what  priceless  years  of  joy ! 
Perchance  a  Hfe's  whole  sum  of  happiness — 
Wliat  years  with  her  that  I   might  call  my 

wife! 
Winning,  I  win  her  !  "    Oh,  thrice  noble  heart ! 
I  saw  the  mocking  laugh  fade  from  his  face ; 
I  saw  a  nobler  light  light  up  his  eyes ; 
I  saw  the  flush  of  pride  die  into  one 
Of  manly  tenderness  and  sharp  resolve ; 
No  word  he  spoke ;  one  only  look  he  threw, 
That  told  me  aU ;    and,  ere  my  heart  could 

leap 
In  prayers  and  blessings  rain'd  upon  his  name, 
I  was  before  him,  through  the  tracking  eyes 
Of  following  thousands,  heading  to  the  goal. 
The  shouting  goal,  that  hurl'd  my  conquering 

name 
Miles  wide  in  triumph,    "  Chester  foil'd  at 

last !  " 
Oh,  how  I  turn'd  to  him  !  with  what  a  heart ! 
Unheard  the   shouts — unseen   the    crowding 

gaze 
That  ring'd  us.     How  I  wrung  his  answering 

hand 
With  grasps  that  bless'd  him,  and  with  flush 

that  told 
I  shamed  to  hear  my  name  more  loud  than  his, 
And  spurn'd  its  triumph.     So  I  won  my  wife. 
My  own  dear  wife  ;  and  so  I  won  a  friend, 
Chester,  more  dear  than  all  but  only  her, 
And  these,   the    small    ones   of    my   college 

dreams. 

W.  C.  Bennett— Born  1820. 


I778._THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 

Oh  don't  go  in  to-night,  John  ! 

Now,  husband,  don't  go  in  ! 
To  spend  our  only  shilling,  John, 

Would  be  a  cruel  sin. 
There's  not  a  loaf  at  home,  John  ; 

There's  not  a  coal,  you  know; 
Though  with  hunger  I  am  faint,  John, 

And  cold  comes  down  the  snow. 

Then  don't  go  in  to-night ! 


Frovi  1780  to  1866.] 


ALL  WELL. 


[HOEATIUS  BONAB. 


Ah,  John,  you  must  remember, 

And,  John,  I  can't  forget, 
When  never  foot  of  yours,  John, 

Was  in  the  alehouse  set. 
Ah,  those  were  happy  times,  John, 

No  quarrels  then  we  knew, 
And  none  were  happier  in  our  lane, 

Than  I,  dear  John,  and  you. 

Then  don't  go  in  to-night ! 

You  will  not  go  !     John,  John,  I  mind, 

When  we  were  courting,  fcv/ 
Had  arm  as  strong  or  step  as  firm 

Or  cheek  as  red  as  you  : 
But  drink  has  stolen  your  strength,  John, 

And  paled  your  cheek  to  white. 
Has  tottering  made  your  young  firm  tread, 

And  bow'd  your  manly  height. 

You'll  not  go  in  to-night ! 

You'll  not  go  in  ?     Think  on  the  day 

That  made  me,  John,  your  wife. 
What  pleasant  talk  that  day  we  had 

Of  all  our  future  life  ; 
Of  how  your  steady  earnings,  John, 

No  wasting  should  consume, 
But  weekly  some  new  comfort  bring 

To  deck  our  happy  room. 

Then  don't  go  in  to-night  I 

To  see  us,  John,  as  then  we  dress'd, 

So  tidy,  clean,  and  neat. 
Brought  out  all  eyes  to  follow  us 

As  we  went  down  the  street. 
Ah,  little  thought  our  neighbours  then. 

And  we  as  little  thought, 
That  ever,  John,  to  rags  like  these 

By  drink  we  should  be  brought. 

You  won't  go  in  to-night 

And  will  you  go  ?     If  not  for  me. 

Yet  for  your  baby  stay ! 
You  know,  John,  not  a  taste  of  food 

Has  pass'd  my  lips  to-day ; 
And  tell  your  father,  little  one, 

'Tis  mine  your  life  hangs  on ; 
You  will  not  spend  the  shilling,  John  ? 

You'll  give  it  him  ?     Come,  John, 

Come  home  with  us  to-night 

W.  C.  Bennett.—Bom  1820. 


1779.— A  LITTLE  WHILE. 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 

I  shall  be  soon ; 
Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 


Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

I  shall  be  soon; 
Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading. 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 
I  shall  be  soon ; 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting. 
Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strowing- 

I  shall  be  soon ; 
Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing. 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home ! 
Sweet  hope ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  pulse's  fever-beating, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home ! 
Sweet  hope ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  frost-chain  and  the  fever 

I  shall  be  soon ; 
Beyond  the  rock-waste  and  the  river, 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 
I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Horatius  Bonar. — Born  1810. 


1780.— ALL  WELL. 

No  seas  again  shall  sever, 

No  desert  intervene ; 
No  deep,  sad-flowing  river 

Shall  roU  its  tide  between. 

No  bleak  cliffs,  upward  towering. 
Shall  bound  our  eager  sight ; 

No  tempest,  darkly  lowering, 
Shall  wrap  us  in  its  night. 

Love,  and  unsever'd  union 
Of  soul  with  those  we  love. 

Nearness  and  glad  communion 
Shall  be  our  joy  above. 

No  dread  of  wasting  sickness, 
No  thought  of  ache  or  pain. 

No  fretting  hours  of  weakness, 
Shall  mar  our  peace  again. 

78 


Tbances  Browne.] 


IF  THAT  WERE  TRUE  I 


[Seventh  Period. 


No  death,  our  homes  o'ershading, 
Shall  e'er  our  harps  unstring  : 

For  all  is  life  unfading 
In  presence  of  our  King. 

Soratius  Bonar. — Born  1810. 


1781.— IF  THAT  WERE  TRUE! 

*Tis  long  ago — we  have  toil'd  and  traded, 
Have  lost  and  fretted,  have  gain'd  and  grieved, 
Since  last  the  light  of  that  fond  faith  faded  ; 
'B'xt,  friends — in  its  day — what  we  believed  ! 
G.'he  poets'  dreams  and  the  peasants'  stories — 
Oh,  never  will  time  that  trust  renew ! 
Yet  they  were  old  on  the  earth  before  us, 
And  lovely  tales — had  they  been  true  ! 

Some  spake  of  homes  in  the  greenwood  hidden, 
Where  age  was  fearless  and  youth  was  free — 
Where  none   at  life's  board  seem'd  guests 

unbidden. 
But  men  had  years  like  the  forest  tree  : 
Goodly  and  fair  and  full  of  summer,. 
As  lives  went  by  when  the  world  was  new, 
Ere  ever  the  angel  steps  pass'd  from  her — 
Oh,  dreamers  and  bards — if  that  were  true  ! 

Some  told  us  of  a  stainless  standard — 
Of  hearts  that  only  in  death  grew  cold. 
Whose  march  was  ever  in  Freedom's  vanguard, 
And  not  to  be  stay'd  by  steel  or  gold. 
The  world  to  their  very  graves  was  debtor— 
The  tears  of  her  love  fell  there  like  dew  ; 
But  there  had  been  neither  slave  nor  fetter 
This  day  in  her  realms — ^had  that  been  true  ! 

Our  hope  grew  strong  as  the  giant-slayer. 
They  told  that  life  was  an  honest  game. 
Where  fortune  favour' d  the  fairest  player. 
And  only  the  false  found  loss  and  blame — 
That  men  were  honour' d  for  gifts  and  graces, 
And  not  for  the  prizes  folly  drew  ; 
But  there  would  be  many  a  change  of  places. 
In  hovel  and  hall — if  that  were  true  ! 

Some  said  to  our  silent  souls.  What  fear  ye  ? 
And  talk'd  of  a  love  not  based  on  clay — 
Of  faith  that  would  neither  wane  nor  weary, 
With  all  the  dust  of  the  pilgrim's  day  ; 
They    said    that    Fortune    and    Time    were 

changers. 
But  not  by  their  tides  such  friendship  grew ; 
Oh,  we  had  never  been  trustless  strangers 
Among  our  people — if  that  were  true  ! 

And  yet  since  the  fairy  time  hath  perish'd 
With  all  its  freshness,  from  hills  and  hearts, 
The  last  of  its  love,  so  vainly  cherish'd. 
Is  not  for  these  days  of  schools  and  marts. 
Up,  up  !  for  the  heavens  still  circle  o'er  us ; 
There's  wealth  to  win  and  there's  work  to  do, 
There's  a  sky  above,  and  a  grave  before  us — 
And.  brothers,  beyond  them  all  is  true  ! 

Frances  Browne. — Born  1818. 


1782.— IS  IT  COME? 

Is  it  come?  they  said,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Nile, 
Who  look'd  for  the  world's  long-promised 
day. 
And  saw  but  the  strife  of  Egypt's  toil, 

With  the  desert's  sand  and  the  granite  grey. 
From   the   pyramid,    temple,   and  treasured 
dead, 
We  vainly  ask  for  her  wisdom's  plan; 
They  tell  us  of  the  tyrant's  dread — 

Yet  there  was  hope  when  that  day  begun. 

The  Chaldee  came,  with  his  starry  lore. 

And  built  up  Babylon's  crown  and  creed  ; 
And  bricks  were  stamp' d  on  the  Tigris'  shore 

With  signs  which  our  sages  scarce  can  read. 
From  Ninus'  Temple,  and  Nimrod's  Tower, 

The  rule  of  the  old  East's  empire  spread 
Unreasoning  faith  and  unquestion'd  power — 

But  still,  Is  it  come  ?  the  watcher  said. 

The  light  of  the  Persian's  worshipp'd  flame. 

The  ancient  bondage  its  splendour  threw  ; 
And  once,  on  the  West  a  sunrise  came, 

When  Greece  to  her  Freedom's  trust  was 
true ; 
With  dreams  to  the  utmost  ages  dear, 

With  human  gods,  and  with  god-Hke  men. 
No  marvel  the  far-off  day  seem'd  near 

To   eyes  that   look'd   through   her  laurels 
then. 

The  Romans  conquer'd  and  revell'd  too, 

Till  honour,    and  faith,   and  power,  were 
gone; 
And  deeper  old  Europe's  darkness  grew. 

As,  wave  after  wave,  the  Goth  came  on. 
The  gown  was  learning,  the  sword  was  law, 

The  people  served  in  the  oxen's  stead; 
But  ever  some  gleam  the  watcher  saw, 

And  evermore,  Is  it  come  ?  they  said. 

Poet  and  seer  that  question  caught. 

Above  the  din  of  life's  fears  and  frets ; 
It  niarch'd  with  letters,  it  toil'd  with  thought, 

Through  schools  and  creeds  which  the  earth 
forgets. 
And  statesmen  trifle,  and  priests  deceive, 

And  traders  barter  our  world  away — 
Yet  hearts  to  that  golden  promise  cleave. 

And  still,  at  times,  Is  it  come  ?  they  say. 

The  days  of  the  nations  bear  no  trace 

Of  all  the  sunshine  so  far  foretold  ; 
The  caxmon  speaks  in  the  teacher's  place — 

The  age  is  weary  with  work  and  gold  ; 
And  high  hopes  wither,  and  memories  wane 

On  hearths  and  altars  the  fires  are  dead  ; 
But     that  brave   faith    hath   not    lived 
vain — 

And  this  is  all  that  our  watcher  said. 

Frances  Browne. — Born  1818. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE. 


[EoBEKT  Browning. 


17S3.— OH,  THE  PLEASANT  DAYS  OF 
OLD! 

Oh,  the  pleasant  days  of  old.  which  so  often 

people  praise ! 
True,  they  wanted  all  the  luxuries  that  grace 

our  modem  days  : 
Bare   floors  were   strew'd  with   rushes — the 

walls  let  in  the  cold ; 
Oh,  how   they   must  have  shiver'd   in   those 

pleasant  days  of  old  ! 

.  Oh,  those  ancient  lords  of  old,  how  magnifi- 
cent they  were  ! 

They  threw  down  and  imprison'd  kings — to 
thwart  them  who  might  dare  ? 

They  ruled  their  serfs  right  sternly  j  they  took 
from  Jews  their  gold — 

Above  both  law  and  equity  were  those  great 
lords  of  old  ! 

Oh,  the  gallant  knights  of  old,  for  their  valour 

so  renown' d ! 
With  sword  and  lance,  and  armour  strong,  they 

scour' d  the  country  round  ; 
And  whenever  aught  to  tempt  them  they  met 

by  wood  or  wold, 
By   right  of   sword   they   seiz'd  the   prize — 

those  gallant  knights  of  old  ! 

Oh,  the  gentle  dames  of  old !  who,  quite  free 

from  fear  or  pain, 
Could  gaze  on  joust  and  tournament,  and  see 

their  champions  slain  ; 
They  lived  on  good  beefsteaks  and  ale,  which 

made  them  strong  and  bold — 
Oh,  more  like  men    than  women  were  those 

gentle  dames  of  old  ! 

Oh,  those  mighty  towers  of  old !  Avith  their 
turrets,  moat,  and  keep, 

Their  battlements  and  bastions,  their  dun- 
geons dark  and  deep. 

Full  many  a  baron  held  his  court  within  the 

castle  hold  ; 
.  And  many  a  captive  languish'd  there,  in  those 
strong  towers  of  old ! 

'  Oh,  the  troubadours  of  old  !  with  their  gentle 

minstrelsie 
Of  hope  and  joy,  or  deep  despair,  whiche'er 

their  lot  might  be — 
For  years   they   served  their   ladye-love  ore 

they  their  passion  told — 
-Oh,  wondrous  patience  must  have  had  those 

troubadours  of  old  ! 

Oh,  those  blessed  times  of   old !  with   their 

chivalry  and  state  ; 
I  love  to  read  their  chronicles,  which   such 

brave  deeds  relate ; 
I  love  to  sing  their  ancient  rhymes,  to  hear 

their  legends  told — 
But,  Heaven  be  thank' d  !  I  live  not  in  those 

blessed  times  of  old  ! 

Frances  Brovme. — Bom  1818. 


I784.~L0SSES. 

Upon  the  white  sea-sand 
There  sat  a  pilgrim  band. 

Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known : 
While  evening  waned  away 
From  breezy  cliff  and  bay. 

And  the   strong  tides  went  out  with  weary 
moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip, 

Of  a  fair  freighted  ship, 
With  all  his   household  to  the   deep  gone 
down ; 

But  one  had  wilder  woe — 

For  a  fair  face,  long  ago 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 

There  were  who  mourn'd  their  youth 

With  a  most  loving  ruth. 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever  green ; 

And  one  upon  the  West 

Turn'd  an  eye  that  would  not  rest, 
For  far-off  hiUs  whereon  its  joys  had  been. 

Some  talk'd  of  vanish'd  gold. 

Some  of  proud  honours  told, 
Some  spake  of  friends  that  were  their  trust 
no  more  ; 

And  one  of  a  green  grave. 

Beside  a  foreign  wave. 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 

There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free  : 

"  Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  j'^et  ; 
For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from  me." 

"  Alas  !  "  these  pilgrims  said, 
"  For  the  living  and  the  dead — 
For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross, 
For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea  ! 
But,  however  it  came  to  thee. 
Thine,   stranger,   is  life's  last  and  heaviest 
loss." 
Frances  Browne. — Born  1818. 


1785.— ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE. 

I. 
All  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves ; 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves, 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ?     Alas ! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die  ? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

II. 
How  many  a  nfbnth  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute ! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music  ?     So  ! 
Break  the  string — fold  music's  wing. 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing  ! 

78* 


Egbert  Browning.]                               IN  A  YEAE.                              [Seventh  Period.— 

III. 

That  was  all  I  meant. 

My  whole  life  long  I  learn' d  to  love  ; 

—To  be  just, 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 

And  the  passion  I  had  raisea 

And  speak  my  passion. — Heaven  or  hell  ? 

To  content. 

She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ?     'T  is  well ! 

Since  he  chose  to  change 

Lose  who  may — I  still  can  say, 

Gold  for  dust, 

Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  the}'. 

If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised 

Was  it  strange  ? 

Rohert  Browning. — Born  1812. 

Would  he  lov'd  me  yet. 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undream'd 

—Paid  my  debt ! 

1786.— IN  A  YEAE. 

Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Never  any  more, 

Till,  aU  gone, 

WhUe  I  Uve, 

He  should  smile  "  She  never  seem' J 

Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

Mine  before. 

As  before. 

«  What— she  felt  the  while, 

Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Must  I  think  ? 

Mine  may  strive — 

Love's  so  different  with  us  men," 

Bitterly  we  reembrace, 

He  should  smile. 

Single  still. 

"  Dying  for  my  sake — 

Was  it  something  said, 

White  and  pink  ! 

Something  done, 

Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

Vexed  him  ?  was  it  touch  of  hand. 

But  they  break  ?  " 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange  !  that  very  way 

Love  begun. 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure.     How  perplext 

Grows  belief ! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

When  I  sew'd  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  look'd  as  if  I  sang 

Was  man's  heart. 
Crumble  it — and  what  comes  next  ? 
Is  it  God  ? 

— Sweetly  too. 

Rohert  Broioning. — Bom  1812. 

If  I  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 

Up  his  cheek  the  colour  sprang. 

Then  he  heard. 

1787.— SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH 

CLOISTEE. 

Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 

I.                                            i 

So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed, 

(jr.r.r— there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence  ! 

Satisfied ! 

Water  your  damn'd  flower-pots,  do ! 

I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

If  hate  kill'd  men.  Brother  Lawrence, 

Touch' d  the  sweet. 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kiU  you !                   ' 

I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

What  ?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming  ? 

Sweet  to  him. 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims- 

. 

Needs  its  leaden  vase  fiU'd  brimming  ? 

*'  Speak— I  love  thee  best !  " 
He  exclaim' d — 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames ! 

"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell." 

II. 

I  confessed : 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together  : 

"  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Salve  tibi !     I  must  hear 

Now  unblam'd. 

Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year  : 

Hangeth  mine !  " 

Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop  ;  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt : 

Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

What's  the  Latin  name  for  "  parsley  ?  " 

'  Being  truth  ? 

What's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's  Snout  ? 

Why  should  all  the  giviftg  prove 

His  alone  ? 

III. 

I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Whew  !     We'll  have  our  platter  burnish'd. 

Beauty,  youth — 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf  ! 

Since  my  lover  gave  mo  love 

With  a  fire-new  spoon  we're  lurnish'd, 

I  gave  these. 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself , 

From  1780  to  1866.] 


EARLY  FRIENDSHIP. 


[Aubrey  de  Verb 


Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 
Ere  't  is  fit  to  touch  ouv  chaps — 

Mark'd  with  L.  for  our  initial ! 
(He,  he  !     There  his  lily  snaps  !) 


Saint,  forsooth  !     While  brown  Dolores 

Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank, 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick,  like  horsehairs, 

— Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow 
Bright,  as  'twere  a  Barbary  corsair's  ? 

(That  is,  if  he'd  let  it  show  ) 


When  he  finishes  refection. 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesus'  praise. 
I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  water' d  orange-pulp — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate, 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp  ! 


Oh,  those  melons  !     If  he's  able 

We're  to  have  a  feast ;  so  nice  ! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table ; 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers  ?     None  double  ? 

Not  one  fruit- sort  can  you  spy  ? 
Strange ! — And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble, 

Keep  'em  close-nipp'd  on  the  sly  ! 


There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations — 

One  sure,  if  another  fails. 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  Heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  Hell,  a  Manichee  ? 


,0r  my  scrofulous  French  novel, 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type  ! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe  : 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woeful  sixteenth  print. 
When  he  gathers  his  green  gages. 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in  't  ? 


Or,  there's  Satan ! — one  might  venture 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he'd  miss,  till  past  retrieve. 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We're  so  proud  of !     Hy,  Zy,  Hine  .  . 
'St,  there 's  Vespers  !     Plena  gratia 

Ave  Virgo !     Gr-r-r — you  swine ! 

Robert  Browning. — Born  1812. 


1788.— THE   LOST  LEADER. 
I. 
Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us  ; 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 
They,  v/ith  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out 
silver. 
So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allow'd. 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service  ! 
Rags — were    they    purple,    his    heart    had 
been  proud ! 
We  that   had  loved   him    so,   follow'd   him, 
honour'd  him. 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learn'd  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear 
accents. 
Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die  ! 
Shakspeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us. 
Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us — they  Avatch 
from  their  graves  ! 
He  alone  breaks  froni  the  van  and  the  free- 
men ; 
He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 


We  shall  march  prospering — not  through  hia 
presence ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us — not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will    be    done — while    he  boasts    his 
quiescence, 
StiU  bidding  crouch  whom   the  rest  bade 
aspire. 
Blot  out  his  name,  then — record  one  lost  soul 
more. 
One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath 
untrod. 
One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and  sorrov/  for 
angels. 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult 
to  (}od  ! 
Life's  night  begins  ;  lot  him  never  come  back 
to  us ! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise   on  our   part — the  glimmer  of 
twilight. 
Never  glad  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — strike 
gallantly. 
Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce  through  his 
own; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and 
wait  us, 
Pardon'd    in    Heaven,    the    first    by    the 
throne  ! 

Robert  Browning. — Born  1812. 


1789.— EARLY  FRIENDSHIP. 

The  half-seen  memories  of  childish  days. 
When  pains  and  pleasures  lightly  came  and 

went ; 
The  sympathies  of  boyhood  rashly  spent 


AUBBET  DE  VeEE.] 


SONG. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


In    fearful     wanderings    througli    forbidden 

ways; 
The  vague,   but  manly,  wish   to   tread   the 


Of  life  to  noble  ends  ;  whereon  intent, 
Asking  to  know  for  what  man  here  is  sent, 
The  bravest    heart  must  often    pause,   and 

gaze — 
The  firm  resolve  to  seek  the  chosen  end 
Of  manhood's  judgment,  cautious  and  mature  : 
j  Each  of  these  viewless  bonds  binds  friend  to 
I  friend 

I  With  strength  no  selfish  purpose  can  secure. 
My  happy  lot  is  this,  that  all  attend 
That  friendship  which  first  came,  and  which 
shall  last  endure. 

Aubrey  de  Vere. — Bam  1814. 


790.— SONG. 


Sing  the  old  song,  amid  the  sounds  dispersing 
That  burden  treasur'd  in  your  hearts  too 
long; 
Sing    it    with    voice    low-breathed,   but 
never  name  her : 
She  will  not  hear  you,  in  her  turrets  nursing 
High   thoughts — too   high    to   mate   with 
mortal  song — 
Bend  o'er  her,   gentle   Heaven,  but  do 
not  claim  her ! 


Jn  twilight  caves,  and  secret  lonelinesses, 
She  shades  the   bloom  of    her    unearthly 
days  ; 
The  forest  winds  alone  approach  to  woo 
her. 
Far  off  we    catch  the  dark    gleam  of  her 
tresses ; 
And  wild  birds  haunt  the  wood-walks  where 
she  strays, 
Intelligible  music  warbling  to  her. 

III. 

That  spirit  charged  to  follow  and  defend  her, 
He  also  doubtless  suffers  this  love-pain ; 
And   she    perhaps    is   sad,   hearing  his 
sighing. 
And  yet  that  face  is  not  so  sad  as  tender ; 
Like  some  sweet  singer's  when  her  sweet- 
est strain 
From    the    heaved   heart    is    gradually 
dying ! 

Anhrey  de  Vere. — Bo-ni  1814. 


1791.— -SONNET. 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet ; 
Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing 
In  current  unperceived,  because  so  fleet ; 


Sad  are  our  hopes,   for  they  v/ero  sweet  in 

sowing — 
But    tares,    self-sown,   have    overtopp'd  the 

wheat  ; 
Sad  are   our  joys,    for   they  were  sweet  in 

blowing — 
And  still,  0  still,  their  dying  breath  is  sweet ; 
And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft 

us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter 

stiUj 
And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath  left  us 
A  nearer  good  to  cure  an  older  ill ; 
And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to 

prize  them, 
Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  who  grants  them 

or  denies  fchem  ! 

Aubrey  De  Vere. — Born  1814^ 


I792.-~A  CHEISTMAS   HYMN. 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Eome  been  growing  up  to  might. 
And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea. 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars — 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hush'd  domain : 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 

Held  undisturb'd  their  ancient  reign, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago. 
• 
'Twas  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome, 
Impatient,  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  ; 
Triumphal  arches,  gleaming,  swell 

His  breast  Avith  thoughts  of  boundless  sway; 
What  reck'd  the  Roman  what  befell 
A  paltry  province  far  away. 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ? 

Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor ; 
A  streak  of  Ught  before  him  lay. 

Fallen  through  a  half-shut  stable-door 
Across  his  path.     He  pass'd — for  naught 

Told  what  was  going  on  within ; 
How  keen  the  stars,  his  only  thought — 

The  air  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin. 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago ! 

O,  strange  indifference  !  low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares  ; 
The  earth  was  still — but  knew  not  why 

The  world  was  listening,  unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thriU  the  world  for  ever  I 
To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 

Man's  doom  was  link'd  no  more  to  sever- 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 


From  1780  to  1866.]                                     APRIL.                                               [John  Keble. 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still, 

A  thousand  beUs  ring  out,  and  throw 

Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate  ; 

Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

And  true  men,  be  you,  men. 

The  darkness — charm' d  and  holy  now ! 

Like  those  of  Ninety-eight ! 

The  night  that  erst  no  shame  had  worn, 
To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ; 

J.  K.  Ingram.— Born  1820. 

For  in  that  stable  lay,  new-bom. 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago  ! 

1794.—MOONRISE. 

Alfred  DommetL— Bom  1815. 

What  stands  upon  the  highla,Tid  ? 
What  walks  across  the  rise, 

As  though  a  starry  island 

Were  sinking  down  the  skies  ? 

What  makes  the  trees  so  golden  ? 

1793.— THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DF.AP. 

What  decks  the  mountain  side, 

Like  a  veil  of  silver  folden 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-eight  ? 

Round  the  white  brow  of  a  bride  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 

When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 

The  magic  moon  is  breaking, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 

Like  a  conqueror,  from  the  east. 

He's  all  a  knave,  or  half  a  slave, 

The  waiting  world  awaking 

Who  slights  his  country  thus ; 

To  a  golden  fairy  feast. 

But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 

She  works,  with  touch  ethereal. 

WiU  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

By  changes  strange  to  see. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  cypress,  so  funereal. 

The  faithful  and  the  few- 

To  a  lightsome  fairy  tree ; 

Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave — 

Black  rocks  to  marble  turning, 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too  ; 

Like  pa,1a,ces  of  kings ; 

All,  all  are  gone — but  still  lives  on 

On  ruin  windows  burning. 

The  fame  of  those  who  died — 

A  festal  glory  flings ; 

All  true  men,  like  you,  men, 
Remember  them  with  pride. 

The  desert  halls  uplighting, 
While  falling  shadows  glance, 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Like  courtly  crowds  uniting 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 

For  the  banquet  or  the  dance ; 

And  by  the  sti-anger's  heedless  hands 

With  ivory  wand  she  numbers 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made  ; 
But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

The  stars  along  the  sky ; 
And  breaks  the  billows'  slumbers 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam — 

With  a  love  glance  of  her  eye 

In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit's  still  at  home. 

Along  the  cornfields  dances,. 

Brings  bloom  upon  the  sheaf; 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth ; 

From  tree  to  tree  she  glances. 

Among  their  own  they  rest ; 

And  touches  leaf  by  leaf ; 

And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

FuU  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Wakes  birds  that  sleep  in  shadows  ; 

Through  their  half -close'd  eyelids  gleq.m  s; 
With  her  white  torch  through  the  meadowa 

Lights  the  shy  deer  to  the  streams. 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

The  magic  moon  is  breaking. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

Like  a  conqueror,  from  the  east. 
And  the  joyous  world  partaking 
Of  her  golden  fairy  feast. 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 

Ernest  Jones.— Bom  1820,  Died  1869. 

Ala.R  !  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right— 

They  fell  and  pass'd  away ; 

But  true  men,  like  you,  men. 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

1795.— APRIL. 

Then  here's  their  memory — ^may  it  be 

Lessons  sweet  of  Spring  returuiTic, 

For  us  a  guiding  light. 

Welcome  to  the  thoughtful  heart ! 

To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

May  I  call  ye  sense  or  learning. 

And  teach  us  to  unite. 

Instinct  pure,  or  heaven-taught  art  ? 

John  Keble.] 


THE  ELDER  SCRIPTURE, 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Be  your  title  what  it  may, 
Sweet  and  lengthening  April  day, 
While  with  you  the  soul  is  free, 
Ranging  wild  o'er  hill  and  lea ; 

Soft  as  Menmon's  harp  at  morning, 

To  the  inward  ear  devout, 
Touch' d  by  light  with  heavenly  warning, 

Your  transporting  chords  ring  out. 
Every  leaf  in  every  nook, 
Every  wave  in  every  brook, 
Chanting  with  a  solemn  voice, 
Minds  us  of  our  better  choice. 

Needs  no  show  of  mountain  hoary, 
Winding  shore  or  deepening  glen, 

WTiere  the  landscape  in  its  glory, 
Teaches  truth  to  wandering  men. 

Give  true  hearts  but  earth  and  sky, 

And  some  flowers  to  bloom  and  die  ; 

Homely  scenes  and  simple  views 

Lowly  thoughts  may  best  infuse 

See  the  soft  green  willow  springing 
Where  the  waters  gently  pass,     . 

Every  way  her  free  arms  flinging 
O'er  the  moss  and  reedy  grass. 

Long  ere  winter  blasts  are  fled, 

See  her  tipp'd  with  vernal  red, 

And  her  kindly  flower  display'd 

Ere  her  leaf  can  cast  a  shade. 

Though  the  rudest  hand  assail  her, 

Patiently  she  droops  awhile. 
But  when  showers  and  breezes  hail  her. 

Wears  again  her  willing  smile. 
Thus  I  learn  Contentment's  power 
From  the  slighted  willow  bower. 
Ready  to  give  thanks  and  live 
On  the  least  tliat  Heaven  may  give. 

If,  the  quiet  brooklet  leaving, 

Up  the  stormy  vale  I  wind, 
Haply  half  in  fancy  grieving 

For  the  shades  I  leave  behind, 
By  the  dusty  wayside  dear, 
Nightingales  with  joyous  cheer 
Sing,  my  sadness  to  reprove, 
Gladlier  than  in  cultured  grove 

Where  the  thickest  boughs  are  twining 

Of  the  greenest,  darkest  tree. 
There  they  plunge,  the  light  declining — 

All  may  hear,  but  none  may  see. 
Fearless  of  the  passing  hoof. 
Hardly  will  they  fleet  aloof ; 
So  they  live  in  modest  ways, 
Trust  entire,  and  ceaseless  praise. 

Jolm  KeUe.—Iiovn  1800,  Died  1866. 


1796.— THE  ELDER  SCRIPTURE. 

There  is  a  book,  who  runs  may  read. 
Which  heavenly  truth  imparts, 

And  all  the  lore  its  scholars  need — 
Pare  eyes  and  loving  hearts. 


The  works  of  God,  above,  below. 

Within  us,  and  around. 
Are  pages  in  that  book,  to  show 

How  God  himseK  is  found. 

The  glorious  sky,  embracing  all, 

Is  like  the  Father's  love ; 
Wherewith  encompass'd,  great  and  small 

In  peace  and  order  move. 

The  dew  of  heaven  is  like  His  grace : 

It  steals  in  silence  down  ; 
But  where  it  lights,  the  favour'd  place 

By  richest  fruits  is  knowQ. 

Two  worlds  are  ours  :  'tis  only  sin 

Forbids  us  to  descry 
The  mystic  heaven  and  earth  witliin 

Plain  as  the  earth  and  sky. 

Thou  who  hast  given  me  eyes  to  see 

And  love  this  sight  so  fair, 
Give  me  a  heart  to  find  out  Thee 

And  read  Thee  everywhere. 

John  Kehle.—Born  1800,  Died  1866. 


1797.— ST.  PETER'S  DAY. 

Thou  thrice  denied,  yet  thrice  beloved, 
Watch  by  Thine  own  forgiven  friend  ! 

In  sharpest  perils  faithful  proved, 
Let  his  soul  love  Thee  to  the  end. 

The  prayer  is  heard — else  why  so  deep 
His  slumber  on  the  eve  of  death  Y 

And  wherefore  smiles  he  in  his  sleep, 
As  one  who  drew  celestial  breath  ? 

He  loves  and  is  beloved  again — 
Can  his  soul  choose  but  be  at  rest  ? 

Sorrow  hath  fled  away,  and  pain 
Dares  not  invade  the  guarded  nest. 

He  dearly  loves,  and  not  alone ; 

For  his  wing'd  thoughts  are  soaring  high 
Where  never  yet  frail  heart  was  known 

To  breathe  in  vain  afi'ection's  sigh. 

He  loves  and  weeps  ;  but  more  tJian  tears 
Have  seal'd  Thy  welcome  and  his  love — 

One  look  lives  in  him,  and  endears 

Crosses  and  wrongs  where'er  he  rove — 

That  gracious  chiding  look,  Thy  call 
To  win  him  to  himself  and  Thee, 

Sweetening  the  sorrow  of  his  fall 
Wliich  else  were  rued  too  bitterly  ; 

Even  through  the  veil  of  sleep  it  shines, 
The  memory  of  that  kindly  glance  ; — 

The  angel,  watching  by,  divines. 

And  spares  awhile  his  blissful  trance. 

Or  haply  to  his  native  lake 

His  vision  wafts  him  back,  to  talk 

With  Jesus,  ore  his  flijjht  he  take, 
As  in  that  solemn  evening  walk, 


From  1780  to  ISGd.]    O  MARY,  GO  AND  CALL  THE  CATTLE  HOME.        [C.  Kingsley 


When  to  the  bosom  of  his  friend, 

The  Shepherd,  He  whose  name  is  Good, 

Did  His  dear  lambs  and  sheep  commend. 
Both  bought  and  nourish' d  with  His  blood  ; 

Then  laid  on  him  th'  inverted  tree. 

Which,  firm  embraced  with  heart  and  arm, 

Might  cast  o'er  hope  and  memory, 
O'er  life  and  death,  its  awful  charm. 

With  brightening  heart  he  bears  it  on. 
His  passport  through  th'  eternal  gates, 

To  his  sweet  home — so  nearly  won, 
He  seems,  as  by  the  door  he  waits, 

The  unexpressive  notes  to  hear 
Of  angel  song  and  angel  motion, 

Rising  and  falling  on  the  ear 

Like  waves  in  Joy's  unbounded  ocean. 

His  dream  is  changed — the  tyrant's  voice 
Calls  to  that  last  of  glorious  deeds — 

But  as  he  rises  to  rejoice. 

Not  Herod,  but  an  angel  leads. 

He  dreams  he  sees  a  lamp  flash  bright, 
Glancing  around  his  prison  room  ; 

But  'tis  a  gleam  of  heavenly  light 
That  fills  up  all  the  ample  gloom. 

The  flame,  that  in  a  few  short  years 
Deep  through  the  chambers  of  the  dead 

Shall  pierce,  and  dry  the  fount  of  tears, 
Is  waving  o'er  his  dungeon-bed. 

Touch'd,  he  upstarts — his  chains  unbind — 
Through  darksome  vault,  up  massy  stair. 

His  dizzy,  doubting  footsteps  wind 
To  freedom  and  cool,  moonlight  air. 

Thon  all  himself,  all  joy  and  calm. 
Though  for  awhile  his  hand  forego. 

Just  as  it  touch'd,  the  martyr's  palm. 
He  turns  him  to  his  task  below : 

The  pastoral  stafi",  the  keys  of  heaven, 
To  wield  awhile  in  gray-hair' d  might — 

Tlien  from  his  cross  to  spring  forgiven, 
And  follow  Jesus  out  of  sight. 

John  Kehle.-—Born  1800,  Died  1866, 


1798.— "IS  THIS  A  TIME  TO  PLANT 
AND   BUILD?" 

Is  this  a  time  to  plant  and  build. 
Add  house  to  house,  and  field  to  field, 
When  round  our  walls  the  battle  lowers — 
When  mines  are  hid  beneath  our  towers, 
And  watc  hf ul  foes  are  stealing  round 
To  search  and  spoil  the  holy  ground  ? 

Is  this  a  time  for  moonlight  dreams 
Of  love  and  home,  by  mazy  streams — 
For  fancy  with  her  shadowy  toys, 
Aorial  hopes  and  pensive  joys. 
While  souls  are  wandering  far  and  wide, 
And  curses  swarm  on  every  side  ? 


No — ^rather  steel  thy  melting  heart 
To  act  the  martyr's  sternest  part — 
To  watch,  with  firm,  unshrinking  eye. 
Thy  darling  visions  as  they  die, 
Till  all  bright  hopes,  and  hues  of  day, 
Have  faded  into  twilight  gray. 

Yes — let  them  pass  without  a  sigh 

And  if  the  world  seem  dull  and  dry — 

If  long  and  sad  thy  lonely  hours. 

And  winds  have  rent  thy  sheltering  bowers — 

Bethink  thee  what  thou  art,  and  where 

A  sinner  in  a  life  of  care. 

The  fire  of  God  is  soon  to  fall — 
Thou  know'st  it — on  this  earthly  ball 
Full  many  a  soul,  the  j^rice  of  blood 
Mark'd  by  the  Almighty's  hand  for  good, 
To  utter  death  that  hour  shall  sweep — 
And  will  the  saints  in  heaven  dare  weep  ? 

Then  in  His  wrath  shall  God  uproot 
The  trees  He  set,  for  lack  of  fruit ; 
And  drown  in  rude,  tempestuous  blaze 
The  towers  His  hand  had  deign' d  to  raise. 
In  silence,  ere  that  storm  begin, 
Count  o'er  His  mercies  and  thy  sin. 

Pray  only  that  thine  aching  heart — 
From  visions  vain  content  to  part. 
Strong  for  love's  sake  its  woe  to  hide — 
May  cheerful  wait  the  cross  be?ide  : 
Too  happy  if,  that  dreadful  day. 
Thy  life  be  given  thee  for  a  prey. 

Snatch' d  sudden  from  the  avenging  rod, 
Safe  in  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 
How  wilt  thou  then  look  back,  and  smile 
On  thoughts  that  bitterest  seem'd  erewhile. 
And  bless  the  pangs  that  made  thee  see 
This  was  no  world  of  rest  for  thee  ! 

John  KcUe.—Bora  1800 ,  Died  1866. 


i799._0  MARY,  GO  AND  CALL  THE 
CATTLE  HOME. 

"  O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee  !  " 
The  western   wind  was   wild  and  dank  wi* 
foam 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see ; 
The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land : 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  Oh  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
O'    drowned  maiden'e  hair — 
Above  the  nest  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 


Charles  Kingslet.] 


THE  FISHEEMEN. 


[Seventh  Period.-— 


They  row'd  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam — 
The  cruel,  crawling  foain, 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam — 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle 
home 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

Clicudes  Kingsley. — Bomx  1S19. 


iSoo.— THE   FISHERMEN. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West — 

Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him 
the  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out 
of  the  town  ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep  ; 
And  there  's  little  to  earn  and  many  to  keep. 
Though  the  harbour  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower 
And  trimm'd  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went 
down  ; 
And  they  look'd  at  the  squall,  and  they  look'd 
at  the  shower, 
And  the  rack  it  came  rolling  up,  ragged  and 
brown ; 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep. 
And  the  harbour  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  moriung  gleam  as  the  tide   went 
down, 
And  the  women  are  watching  and  wringing 
their  Imnds, 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the 
town  ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep— 
And  the  sooner    it's    over,    the    sooner  to 


And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 
Charles  Kingsley. — Born  1819. 


1801.— THE  THEEE  SONS. 

I  have  a  son.  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five  years 
old. 

With  eyes  of  thoughtful  earnestness,  and 
mind  of  gentle  mould. 

They  tell  me  that  unusual  grace  in  all  his 
ways  appears. 

That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of  heart  be- 
yond his  childish  years. 

I  cannot  say  how  this  may  be ;  I  know  his 
face  is  fair — 

And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweet 
and  serious  air  : 


I  know  his  heart  is  kind  and  fond ;  I  know  he 

loveth  me ; 
But  loveth  yet  his  mother  more  with  grateful 

fervency. 
B  t  that  which  others  most  admire,  is  the 

thought  which  fills  his  mind. 
The  food  for  grave  inquiring  speech  he  everj'- 

where  doth  find. 
Strange  questions  doth  he  ask  of  mo,  when 

we  together  walk  ; 
He  scarcely  thinks  as  children  think,  or  talks 

as  children  talk. 
Nor  cares  he  much  for  chUdish  sports,  dotes 

not  on  bat  or  ball, 
But  looks  on  manhood's  ways  and  works,  and 

aptly  mimics  all. 
His  little  heart  is  busy  stUl,  and  oftentimes 

perplex' d 
With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours,  and 

thoughts  about  the  next. 
He   kneels  at   his   dear   motlier's  knee — she 

teacheth  him  to  pray, — 
And  strange,  and  sweet,  and  solemn  then  are 

the  words  wliich  he  wOl  say. 
Oh,  should  my  gentle  child  be  spared  to  man- 
hood's years  like  me, 
A  holier  and  a  wiser  man  I  trust  that  he  will  be ; 
And  when  I  look  into  his  eyes,  and  stroke  his 

thoughtful  brow, 
I  dare  not  think  what  I  should  feel,  were  I  to 

lose  him  now. 

I  have  a  son,  a  second  son,  a  simple  child  of 

three  ; 
I'll  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his  little 

features  be. 
How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when  he 

prattles  on  my  knee  ; 
I  do  not  think  his  Light-blue  eye  is,  like  his 

brother's,  keen. 
Nor  his  brow  so  full  of  childish  thought  as 

his  hath  ever  been ; 
But  his  little  heart's  a  fountain  pure  of  kind 

and  tender  feeling ; 
And  his  every  look's  a  gleam  of  light,   rich 

depths  of  love  revealing. 
'V\Tien  he  walks  with  me,  the  country  folk, 

who  pass  us  in  the  street. 
Will  shout  for  joy,  and  bless  my  boy,  he  looks 

so  mild  and  sweet. 
A  playfellow  is  he  to  all ;  and  yet,  with  cheer- 
ful tone, 
Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love,  when  left  to 

sport  alone. 
His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  gladden 

home  and  hearth, 
To  comfort  us  in  all  our  gi-icfs,  and  sweeten 

all  our  mirth. 
Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God  grant 

his  heart  may  prove 
As  sweet  a  home  for  heavenly  grace  as  now 

for  earthly  love ; 
And  if,  beside  liis  grave,  the  tears  our  aching 

eyes  must  dim,  • 

God  comfort  us  for  all  the  love  which  we 

shall  lose  in  him  ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BE  PATIENT. 


[R.  C.  Trench. 


I  have  a  son,  a  third  sweet  son;  his  ago  I 

cannot  tell, 
For  they  reckon  not  by  years   and    months 

where  he  is  gone  to  dwell. 
To  us,  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his  infant 

smiles  were  given ; 
And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  Earth,  and  went 

to  live  in  Heaven. 
I  cannot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks  he 

weareth  now, 
Nor  guess   how    bright   a   glory  crowns  his 

shining  seraph  brow. 
The  thoughts   that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the 

bliss  which  he  doth  feel, 
Are   number'd  with  the  secret  things  which 

God  will  not  reveal. 
But  I  know  (for  God  hath  told  me  this)  that 

he  is  now  at  rest, 
Where  other  blessed  infants  be,  on  their  Sa- 
viour's loving  breast. 
I  know  his   spirit  feels  no  more  this  weary 

load  of  flesh. 
But  his  sleep  is  bless'd  with  endless  dreams 

of  joy  for  ever  fresh. 
I   know  the   angels   fold  him  close  beneath 

their  glittering  wings, 
And  soothe  him  with  a  song  that  breathes  of 

Heaven's  divinest  things. 
I  know  that  we   shall   meet   our   babe   (his 

mother  dear  and  I), 
Where  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 

from  every  eye. 
Whate'er  befalls  his  brethren  twain,  his  bliss 

can  never  cease ; 
Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but  his 

is  certain  peace. 
It  may  be  that  the  Tempter's  ^viles  their  souls 

from  bliss  may  sever  ; 
But,  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must 

be  ours  for  ever. 
When  we  think  of  what  our  darling  is,  and 

what  we  still  mvist  be — 
When  we  muse  on  that  world's  perfect  bliss, 

and  this  world's  misery — 
When  we  groan  beneath  this  load  of  sin,  and 

feel  this  grief  and  pain — 
Oh  !  we'd  rather  lose  our  other  two,  than  have 

him  here  again. 

Jo  7(31  Moultrie. — Born  1799. 


i8o2.— HAEMOSAN. 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Per- 
sian throne  was  done, 

And  the  Moslem's  fiery  valour  had  the  crown- 
ing victory  won. 

Harmosan,  the  last  and  boldest  the  invader  to 

defy, 
Captive,   overborne   by   numbers,   they  were 

bringing  forth  to  die. 

Then  exclaim'd  that   noble  captive :  "  Lo,   I 

perish  in  my  thirst ; 
Give  me  but  one  drink  of  water,  and  let  then 

arrive  the  worst !  " 


In  his  hand  he  took  the  goblet ;  hut  a  while 

the  draught  forbore. 
Seeming  doubtfully  the  purpose  of  the  f oemen 

to  explore. 

Well  might  then  have  paused  the  bravest — 

for,  around  him,  angry  foes 
With   a  hedge   of   naked  weapons  did   that 

lonely  man  enclose. 

"  But  what  fearest  thou  ?  "  cried  the  Caliph ; 
"  is  it,  friend,  a  secret  blow  ? 
j   Fear  it  not !    our   gallant  Moslems  no  such 
treacherous  dealing  know. 


"  Thou  may'st  quench  thy  thirst  securely,  for 
thou  shalt  not  die  before 

Thou  hast  drunk  that  cup  of  water  :  this  re- 
prieve is  thine — no  more  !  " 

Quick  the  Satrap  dash'd  the  goblet  down  to 

earth  with  ready  hand. 
And  the  liquid  sunk  for  ever,  lost  amid  the 

burning  sand. 

"  Thou  hast  said  that  mine  mj'  life  is,  till  the 

water  of  that  cup 
I  have  drain' d :  then  bid  thy  servants  that 

spill' d  water  gather  up  !  " 

For  a  moment  stood  the  Caliph  as  by  doubt- 
ful passions  stirr'd — 

Then  exclaimed,  "  For  ever  sacred  must  re- 
main a  monarch's  word. 

"  Bring  another  cup,  and  straightway  to  the 

noble  Persian  give  : 
Drink,  I  said  before,  and  perish — now  I  bid 

thee  drink  and  live  !  " 

Bicliard  Chenevix  Trench. — Bo'iifi  1807. 


1803.— BE  PATIENT. 

Be   patient !  oh,   be  patient !     Put  your  ear 

against  the  earth ; 
Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  germ  o'  the 

seed  has  birth — 
How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  upheaves  its 

little  way, 
Till  it  parts  the  scarcely  broken  ground,  and 

the  blade  stands  up  in  the  day. 

Be  patient !  oh,  be   patient !     The  germs  of 

mighty  thought 
Must   have   their   silent  undergrowth,    must 

underground  be  wrought ; 
But  as  sure  as  there  's  a  power  that  makes 

the  grass  appear. 
Our   land   shall   be   green   with   liberty,  the 

blade-time  shall  be  here. 

Be  patient !    oh,  be  patient ! — go  and  watch 

the  wheat-ears  grow — 
So  imperceptibly  that  ye  can  mark  nor  change 

nor  throe — 


Fkedertck  Tennyson.] 


FIRST  OF  MARCH. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Day  after  day,  day  after  day,  till  the  ear  is 

fully  grown — 
And  then  again  day  after  day,  till  the  ripen' d 

field  is  brown. 

Be  patient !   oh,  be  patient  1 — though  yet  our 

hopes  are  green, 
The  harvest  fields  of  freedom  shall  be  crown'd 

with  sunny  sheen. 
Be    ripening !     be    ripening ! — mature    your 

silent  way, 
Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued  with  fire 

on  freedom's  harvest  day. 

Richard  Chenevb:  Trench. — Born  1807. 


1804.— FIRST  OF  MARCH. 


Through    the    gaunt   woods    the    winds    are 
shrilling  cold, 
Down   from  the  rifted  rack*  the  sunbeam 

pours 
Over  the  cold  gray  slopes,  and  stony  moors; 
The  glimmering  watercourse,  the  eastern  wold, 
And  over  it  the  whirling  sail  o'  the  mill. 
The  lonely  hamlet  with  its  mossy  spire, 
The  piled  city  smoking  like  a  pyre, 
Feteh'd  out  of  shadow  gleam  with  light  as 
chill. 

II. 

The  young  leaves  pine,  their  early  promise 
stay'd ; 
The  hope-deluded  sorrow  at  the  sight 
Of  the  sweet  blossoms  by  the  treacherous 
light 
Flatter'd  to  death,  like  tender  love  betray'd ; 
And    stepdames    frown,     and    aged    virgins 
chide  ; 
Relentless  hearts  put  on  their  iron  mood  ; 
The  hunter's  dog  lies  dreaming  of  the  wood. 
And  dozes  barking  by  the  ingle-side. 


Larks  twitter,  martens  glance,  and  curs  from 
far 
Rage  down  the  wind,  and  straight  are  heard 

no  more ; 
Old  wives  peep  out,  and  scold,  and  bang  the 
door; 
And  clanging  clocks  grow  angry  in  the  air 
Sorrow  and  care,  perplexity  and  pain 

Frown  darker   shadows   on    the   homeless 

one. 
And  the  gray  beggar  buffeting  alone 
Pleads  in  the  howling  storm,  and  pleads  in 
vain. 

IV. 

The   field-fires   smoke   along  the  champaign 
drear. 
And  drive  before  the  north  wind  streaming 
down 


Bleak   hill,  and   furrow   dark,    and  fallow 
brown ; 
Few  living  things  along  the  land  appear 
The  weary  horse  looks  out,  his  mane  astray, 
With  anxious  fetlock,  and  uneasy  eye, 
And  sees  the  market-carts  go  madly  by 
With  sidelong  drivers  reckless  of  the  way. 


The  sere  beech-leaves,  that  trembled  dry  and 
red 
All  the  long  winter  on  the  frosty  bough. 
Or  slept  in  quiet  underneath  the  snow, 

Fly  off,  like  resurrections  of  the  dead ; 

The  horny  ploughman,  and  his  yoked  ox, 
Wink  at  the  icy  blasts  ;  and  beldames  bold. 
Stout,  and  red-hooded,  flee  before  the  cold  : 

And  children's  eyes  are  blinded  by  the  shocks. 


You  cannot  hear  the  waters  for  the  wind ; 
The  brook  that  foams,  and  falls,  .and  bubbles 

Hath  lost  its  voice — but  ancient  steeples 
sigh. 
And  belfries  moan — and  crazy  ghosts,  •?oDfine<l 
In  dark  courts,  weep,  and  shake  the  shuddering 
gates, 
And  cry  from  points  of  windy  pinnacles, 
Howl  through  the  bars,  and  'plain  among 
the  bells, 
And  shriek,  and  wail  like  voioes  of  the  Fates  ! 


And  who  is  IJe,  that  down  the  mountain-side, 
Swift  as  a  shadow  flying  from  the  sun, 
Between  the  wings  of  stormy    winds  doth 
run. 
With  fierce  blue  eyes,  and  eyebrows  knit  with 

l)ride  ; 
Though  now  and  then  I  see  sweet  laughters 
play^ 
Upon  his  lips,  like  moments  of  bright  heaven 
Thrown  'twix    tlie  cruel  blasts  of  morn  and 
even, 
And  golden  locks  beneath  his  hood  of  grey  ? 

VIII. 

Sometimes  he  turns  him  back  to  wave  fare- 
well 
To  his  pale  sire  with  icy  beard  and  hair ; 
Sometimes  he  sends  before  him  through  the  air 
A  cry  of  welcome  down  a  sunny  dell ; 
And  while  the  echoes  are  around  him  ringing. 
Sudden  the   angry  wind  breathes  low  and 

sweet, 
Young  violets   show  their  blue  eyes  at  liif^i 
feet, 
And  the  wild  lark  is  heard  above  him  singing  ! 

Frederick  Tenw/son. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  BRIDAL. 


[Frederick  Tennyson.. 


1805.— THE  BEIDAL. 


Oh,  the  bells  !  the  morning  belh; ! 

Sinking,  swelling,  soft  and  clear, 
Glad  paean,  hark  !  it  tells 
Joy  is  here  ; 
Through  light  ambrosial  dream  of  earliest 
morn, 

The  melody  came  wafted  from  afar, 
Sweet  as  the  harps  of    angels   earthward 
borne 
On  some  descending  star  ! 


I    ro.^e — I   lean'd    through    woodbines    o'er 

the  lawn — 
'Twas  early  day,  right  early — and  the  dawn 
Wax'd  like  the  springtide  of  a  waveless  sea 
Beyond  the  dark  hills  and  the  umber  lea  ; 
And  with  the  breath  of  the  upcoming  day, 
Ten  thousand  spirits  of  the  blissful  May 
From  cowslip  slopes,  green  banks,  and  heathy 

fells, 
Did  come  and  go  like  those  sweet  morning 

bells. 

Oh  welcome,  golden  dawn,  and  summer  clime, 
Wild  bird  and  dewy  flower,  and  tuneful  chime. 
Make   drunk  my  sense,   and  let  me   dream 

that  I 
Am  just  newborn  in  some  lost  isle  of  joy, 
And  that  the  happy  gods  are  hither  winging 
With  blossom  incense  and  the  sound  of  singing. 
Oh  welcome,  Festal  Hours  ;  I  will  away, 
I  too  will  haste  me,  'tis  a  marriage  day ! 

There  on  the  hillside  is  that  home  of  thino 
Curtain'd  in  jasmin- wreaths,  and  curly  vino ; 
And  thou  too  wakest,  Rosa,  and  the  light 
Bathes  in  thy  blue  eyes  searching  for  delight ; 
Thy  welcome  'tis,  thy  jubilee  a- ringing  ! 
Yet  from  the  fount  of  Joy  a  tear  is  springing. 
For  oh !  the  selfsame  Love  that  lights  thine 

eye 
Shows  thee  the  beauty  of  the  days  gone  by. 


The  marriage  bells  are  ringing, 

The  merry  winds  go  by, 
The  summer  birds  are  singing 
In  the  sky ! 
The  bridal  bells,  ah  !  merrily,  hark !  they 
ring, 
Rising  and  falling  like  a  lover's  heart, 
Over  the  hills  their  silver  sounds  they  fling, 
And  valleys  far  apart ! 

And  He  too  wakes  !  the  glory  of  the  prime 
Shines  on  his  brow,  and  in  his  heart  sublime ; 
Through  charmed  light  he  sees  the  illumined 

spring. 
With  his  own  joy  he  hears  the  skylark  sing ; 
And  the  young  airs  that  ripple  the  treetops 
Have   got   their  wings   from   his   enchanted 

hopes ; 
The  dazzling  dews  that  on  the  roses  lie, 
The  sunlit  streams  are  kindled  at  his  eye  I 


With  heedless  heart  he  looks  across  the  land, 
And  far  as  he  can  see  on  either  hand 
Greenwood  and  garden,  and  the  wealth  that 

fills 
The  teeming  vales,   and   robes  the    summer 

hiUs 
Are  his ;  but  from  his  tower  he  only  sees 
One  mossy  roof  half  hid  among  the  trees  ; 
There  is  the  priceless  treasure  that  outweighs 
All  hopes  and  memories,  all  delights  and  praise. 

And  if    his   heart    is  plumed    with    sudden 

pride — 
"  Mine  is  the  noble  race  that  lived  or  died 
For  honour ;  mine  the  name  unstain'd  of  ill, 
Blown  from  the  lips  of  Fame,  with  echoes 

still ; 
Mine  are  the  sires  whom  bards  have  sung— 

who  held 
First  i^lace  in  council,  first  in  battlefield  ; 
Yet  all  is  nought" — he  sigh'd — "  till  thou  art 

mine ;  ^ 

Kings  might  give  (flrowns  for  that  one  ho  art 
of  thine !  " 


The  bridal  bells  are  pealing  ! 

We  will  rejoice  to-day  ! 
The  blissful  sounds  are  stealing 
Hearts  away  ; 
The  jocund  bells  are  pealing  fast  and  sweet. 
Softly  they   come   and  go  like   lovers' 
sighs ; 
In  one  glad  thought  the  young  and  old  are 
met. 
The  simple  and  the  wise. 

They  reach  the  woodman  in  the  morning  air, 
They  reach  the  baron  in  his  carven  chair, 
The  dark-eyed  damsel  bending  o'er  the  spring, 
The  scholar  in  dim  cloister  murmuring ; 
The  dusty  pilgrim  stays  across  the  stile ; 
The  smith  upon  his  anvil  leans  awhile  ; 
Boys    whistle  —  beggars    bustle  —  shepherds 

sing— 
The  marriage  bells  ring  merrily ;  hark,  they 

ring! 

The    sun  is    kissing  off  from  woodnymphs' 

eyes 
Their  evening   tears,   and    dewy   breathings 

rise 
From  wildflower  urns — o'er  waving  fields  of 

wheat 
Swift  shadows  stream  away,  and  woodnotcs 

fleet 
From  frolic  finches  tremble  here  and  there 
'Mid  the  loud  carols  and  the  breezy  air — 
I  hear  blithe  tongues  and  tread  of  rustic  feet. 
The  joyous  bells  are  pealing  fast  and  sweet ! 

Of  life,  and  love,  and  luck  the  countryfolk 
Discourse  by  riverside,  and  hedgerow  oak, 
Of  fairy  gifts,  and  wondrous  fortune  after, 
They  tell  with  faith,  with  antique  songs  and 
laughter ; 


Frederick  Tennyson.] 


THE  BEIDAL. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


If  one  shrewd  tongue  should  jar  and  seek  to 

shame 
The  bride's  new  honours  with  her  humble  name, 
Thou  in  her  place  wouldst  merit  thine  own 

jest," 
They  cry — 'but    she    is    better  than    their 

best!" 


The  happy  bells  are  chiming ; 

Here  comes  the  peerless  bride, 
A  mighty  host  is  climbing 
The  hill  side ; 
Through    briary   byepath  and    o'er  sunny 
down 
They  haste  unto  the  bridal,  for  to-day 
The   lord   of  half    the    country    and    the 
town 
Shall  lead  his  bride  away. 
Who  is  the  bride  ?  a  simple  village  maid — 
Beauty  and  Truth — a  violet  in  the  shade, 
But  she  shall  show   prmid  Sin   and  painted 

Scorn  IP 

That  Truth  and  Beauty  are  to  honour  born ; 
He  teach  proud  h^rts  to  feel,  proud  eyes  to 

see 
How  strong   is    Nature,   winged  Love  how 

free: 
Long  be  their  days,  their  fortunes  glad  and 

sure — 
His  blood  is  noble  and  her  heart  is  pure  ! 

Look  on  her — in  that  aspect  ye  may  spy 
Her  mirror' d  soul  where  all  sweet  pictures 

He; 
Spring,  summer,  with  their  changes  o'er  it 

flit. 
And  morn  and  eve,  twin  sisters,  look  frem 

it; 
While  memories  of  green  woods  and  tuneful 

streams, 
Lone  songs,   and  autumn  sighs,    and  April 

gleams 
In  shadows  of  soft  melancholy  flow 
Up  from  her  heart  across  her  crowned  brow. 

The  little  maidens  gaze  into  her  face, 
And  store  sweet  records  for  the  after-days ; 
And  iron  men  feel  tender  moments  twine 
Their  hearts  of  oak,  like  tendrils  of  the  vine ; 
And  the  faint  lightning  of  an  infant  mirth 
Plays  round  pale  lips — ^the  last  they  feel  on 

earth — 
Of  aged  women  leaning  on  their  staves. 
Like  early  roses  dropp'd  in  open  graves. 


Hark  !  the  loud-voiced  bells 

Stream  on  the  world  around 
With  the  full  wind,  as  it  swells. 
Seas  of  sound ! 
It  is  a  voice  that  calls  to  onward  years — 
'Turn   back,  and  when    delight   is   fled 
away, 
Look  through  the  e  veningmists  of  mortal  tears 
On  this  immortal  day.' 


That  memory,  like  the  deep  light  in  the  west, 
Shall  bathe  your  hearts,  before  ye   sink  to 

rest. 
Not  only  with  the  glow  of  good  things  gone, 
But  with  the  faith,  that,  when  your  days  bo 

done, 
Another  morn  shall  rise,  but  not  to  set. 
And  ye  shall  meet  once  more,  as  once  ye  met, 
Your  beauty  wrought  to  glory  by  the  Giver, 
The  joy  within  ye  perfected  for  ever  : 
Oh !   what  rare  thoughts  are  his,  oh !  v/hat 

delight 
To  gaze  upon  her,  hold  her  in  his  sight, 
To  quaff  her  smiles,  as  thirsty  bees  that  sup. 
Nuzzled  within  a  noonday  lily's  cup, 
The  last  sweets,  lest  a  drop  be  there  in  vain  ; 
And  in  that  rapture  all  remember' d  pain 
Exhales,  and  for  a  moment  he  can  see 
A  lightning  flash  of  what  the  Soul  shall  be  ! 

But  she — dear  heart — her  thoughts  are  fled 

once  more 
To  far-off  morns,  and  summer  nights  of  yore, 
Mayings,  and  nuttings,  and  the  old  folks'  tale, 
Hayfield  and  harvest,  and  the  daoice  i'  the 

dale; 
Home  words  she  loved — quaint  hopes  whereon 

she  fed. 
The  songs  she  sung — the  faithful  words  she 

read — 
Till  she  has  need  to  look  up  to  his  eyes 
For  all  their  warmth  to  sun  her  timeless  sighs. 


Softly  the  sweet  bells  fail ; 

I  hear  a  linnet  sing 
Among  the  blossoms  pale 
Of  the  spring : 
Alone  he  sings  itpon  a  whitethorn  spray 

And  fills  the  gtisty  wind — I  see  between 
The  odorous  branches  of  the  bending  May 
The  bridal  pass  the  green. 

"  Wliat   is  more  full   of  hope   than    infants' 

dreams  ?  " 
He  sang,   "more  blest  than  a  green  valley 

seems 
Mid  herbless  rocks  ?  more  pure  than  mountain 

streams  ? 
Chaster    than  light  ?   warmer    than    imaged 

beams  ? 
More  fall  of  promise  than  the  vernal  heaven  ? 
More  peaceful  than  a  starry  summer's  even  P 
More  sweet  than  moss-rose  odours  after  rain 
With  violets  mix'd  ?  or  a  two-voiced  strain  ? 

"What  is  more  welcome  than  the  dawn  of  day 

To  lone  men  lost  in  darkness  and  dismay  ? 

To  aged  e.yes  than  is  the  hue  of  wine  ? 

To  weary  wanderers  than  the  sound  and  shine 

Of  sudden  waters  in  a  desert  place  ? 

To  a  sad  brother  than  a  sister's  face  ? " 

Oh !    Love,  first  Love,    so  full  of  hope  ana 

truth ; 
A  guileless  maiden  and  a  gentle  youth. 


From  1788  to  18GG.1 


THE  BLACKBIED. 


[Frederick  Tennyson. 


Through  arches  of  wreathed  rose  they  take 

their  way, 
He  the  fresh  Morning,  she  the  better  May, 
'Twixt  jocund  hearts  and  voices  jubilant 
And  unseen  gods  that  guard  on  either  hand, 
And  blissful  tears,  and  tender  smiles  that  fall 
On  her  dear  head — great  summer  over  all ! 
While  Envy,  of  the  triumph  haK  afraid, 
Slinks,  like  a  dazzled  serpent,  to  the  shade. 


Softly  the  loud  peal  dies, 

In  passing  winds  it  drowns. 
But  breathes,  like  perfect  joys,  . 

Tender  tones ; 
But  clearer  comes  the  wildbird's  eager  call, 
.While  the  robed  pomp  is  streaming  out 
of  sight, 
But  a  full  sunburst  showers  the  festival, 
And  crowns  farewell  with  light. 

"  Farewell !  and  while  the  summers  wax  and 

wane. 
In  children's  children  may  ye  live  again  ; 
Oh  !  may  your  beauty  from  its  ashes  rise, 
Yom*  strength  be  theirs,  your  virtues   light 

their  eyes  ! 
Tour   Charity — green  vine   that    clasps   the 

stem 
Of  wither 'd  Sorrow — ^bloom  and  spread  in  them ; 
And  while  soft  mosses  clothe  the  forest  tree, 
May  Might  wed  Mercy  ;  Pride,  Humility. 

"  Farewell !  and  like  the  echoes  of  these  chimes 
May  your  pure  concord  stir  the  aftertimes ; 
Your  story  be  a  signal  lamp  to  guide 
The  generations  from  the  waste  of  pride ; 
Like  the   sun  beam   that   flows  before  your 

path, 
Your  faith  right   onward   scatter  clouds   of 

wrath  ; 
And  live,  oh,  live,  in  songs  that  shall  be  sung. 
The  first  true  hearts  that  made  the  old  world 

young!" 

Farewell !    and  other   tongues   took   up   the 

sound 
As  though  the  long-lost  Golden  Age  were  found : 
That  shout  of  joy  went  up  among  the  hills 
And  reach'd  a  holy  hermit  bow'd  with  ills ; 
And  he  breathed  up  a  solitary  prayer 
From  his  pale  lips  into  the  sunny  air — 
"  Oh  !  that  on  those  young  hearts,  this  day, 

might  rest, 
Father,  thy  blessing" — and  they  shall  be  blest ! 


The  winds  have  hush'd  their  wings, 

The  merry  bells  are  stiU, 
No  more  the  linnet  sings 
On  the  hill ; 
But  tender  maidens  linger  with  soft  eyes 

Under  the  dim  gleam  of  a  throbbing  star. 
Then  close  their  lattices   with  low  sweet 
sighs, 
Light  as  the  dewless  air. 


With    glittering    locks,     like     summer,     he 

descends 
'Mid  courteous  aspects — flatterers,  feers,  and 

friends  ; 
Brothers  and  uncles  on  his  footsteps  wait 
Aunts,    sisters,   cousins,  that   must   bow   to 

Fate  ; 
She  takes   their  forced  v,'elcome,   and  their 

wiles 
For  her  own  Truth,  and  lifts  her  head,  and 

smiles ; 
They  shall  not  change  that  Truth  by  any  art. 
Oh  !  may  her  love   change  them  before   they 

part. 

The  minstrels  wait  them  at  the  palace-gate. 
She  hears  the  flood,   and   sees  the   flash  of 

State ; 
For  all  the  mirth,  the  tumult,  and  the  song. 
Her    fond    thoughts     follow    the    departing 

throng ; 
She  turns  away,  her  eyes  are  dim  with  tears, 
Her  mother's  blessing  lingers  in  her  ears  : 
"Bless  thee,  my  Child" — the  music  is  unheard. 
Her  heart  grows  strong  on  that  remember'd 

word. 

Again  in  dreams  I  heard  the  Marriage  bells 
Waving  from  far  sweet  welcomes   and  fare- 
wells ; 
And  Alleluias  from  the  Deep  I  heard. 
And  songs  of  star-brov/'d  Seraphim  insphcred. 
That  ebb'd  unto  that  Sea  without  a  shore. 
Leaving  vast  awe  and  silence  to  adore ; 
But  still,  methinks,  I  hear  the  dying  strain — 
"  The  crooked  straight,  and  the  rough  places 
plain !  " 

Fredericlc  Tennyson. 


[806.— THE  BLACKBIRD. 


How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  Afternoon ! 

The  Blackbird  sings  along  the  sunny  breeze 

His  ancient  song  of  leaves,  and  Summer  boon ; 

Eich    breath    of    hayfields    streams    thro* 

whispering  trees ; 

And   birds   of  morning  trim    their  bustling 

wings, 
And  listen  fondly — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 


How  soft  the  lovelight  of  the  West  reposes 
On  this  green  valley's  cheery  solitude. 

On  the  trim  cottage  with  its  screen  of  roses, 
On  the  grey  belfry  -with  its  ivy  hood, 

And  murmuring  mill-race,  and  the  wheel  that 
flings 

Its  bubbling  freshness — while  the  Blackbird 


The  very  dial  on  the  village  church 

Seems  as  'twere  dreaming  in  a  dozy  rest ; 


Peter  Spenceb.J 


LINES  TO  FANNY. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


The  scribbled  benches  underneath  the  porch 
Bask  in  the  kindly  welcome  of  the  West ; 
But  the  broad  casements   of  the   old  Throe 

Kings 
Blaze  like  a  furnace — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 


And  there  beneath  the  immemorial  elm 
Three  rosy  revellers  round  a  table  sit, 
And  through  gray  clouds  give  laws  unto  the 
realm, 
Curse  good  and   great,  but  worship   their 
own  wit, 
And  roar  of  fights,  and  fairs,  and  junketings. 
Com,  colts,  and  curs — the  while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

V. 

Before  her  home,  in  her  accustom'd  seat, 
The  tidy  grandam  spins  beneath  the  shade 

Of  the  old  honeysuckle,  at  her  feet 

The  dreaming  pug,  and  purring  tabby  laid ; 

To  her  low  chair  a  little  maiden  clings, 

And    spells    in     silence — while    the    Black- 
bird sings. 

VI. 

Sometimes  the  shadow  of  a  lazy  cloud 

Breathes  o'er  the  hamlet  with  its  gardens 
green, 
While  the  far  fields  with  sunlight  overflow'd 
Like  golden  shores  of  Fairyland  are  seen ; 
Again  the  sunshine  on  the  shadow  springs. 
And  fires  the   thicket — whore  the   Blackbird 
sings. 

VII. 

The  woods,  the  lawn,  the  peaked  manor-house. 
With  its  peach-cover' d  walls,  and  rookery 
loud. 
The  trim,  quaint  garden  alleys,  screen'd  with 
boughs, 
The  lion-headed  gates,  so  grim  and  proud, 
The  mossy  fountain  with  its  murmurings. 
Lie  in  warm  sunshine — while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

VIII. 

The  ring  of  silver  voices,  and  the  sheen 
Of  festal  garments — and  my  lady  streams 

With  her  gay  court  across  the  garden  green ; 
Some  laugh,  and  dance,  some  whisper  their 
love-dreams ; 

And  one  calls  for  a  little  page ;  he  strings 

Her  lute  beside  her — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

IX. 

A  little  while — and  lo  !  the  charm  is  heard  ; 

A  youth,  whose  life  has  been  all  summer, 
steals 
Forth  from  the  noisy  guests  around  the  board, 

Creeps  by  her  softly  ;  at  her  footstool  kneels ; 
And,  when  she  pauses,  murmurs  tender  things 
Into  her  fond  ear — while  the  Blackbird  sings. 

X. 

The  smoke- wreaths  from  the  chimneys  curl  up 
higher, 
And  dizzy  things  of  eve  begin  to  float 
Upon  the  light ;  the  breeze  begins  to  tire. 


Half-way  to  sunset  with  a  drowsy  note 
The  ancient  clock  from  out  the  valley  swings ; 
The  grandam  nods — and   still  the  Blackbird 


Far  shouts  and  laughter  from  the  farmstead 
peal, 

Where  the  great  stack  is  piling  in  the  sun  ; 
Thro'  narrow  gates  o'erladen  waggons  reel. 

And  barking  curs  into  the  tumult  run  ; 
While  the  inconstant  wind  bears  off,  and  brings 
The  merry  tempest — and  the  Blackbird  sings. 


On  the  high  wold  the  last  look  of  the  sun 

Burns,  like  a  beacon,  over  dale  and  stream ; 
The  shouts  have  ceased,  the  laughter  lyid  the 
fun ; 
The  grandam  sleeps,  and  peaceful  be  her 
dream  ; 
Only  a  hammer  on  an  anvil  rings  ; 
The  day  is  dying — still  the  Blackbird  sings. 

XIII. 

Now  the  good  vicar  passes  from  his  gate 

Serene,  with  long  white  hair ;  and  in  his  eye 
Burns  the  clear   spirit   that   hath  conquer 'd 
Fate, 
And  felt  the  wings  of  immortality ; 
His  heart  is  throng' d  with  great  imaginings, 
And    tender    mercies — while    the    Blackbird 
sings. 

XIV. 

Down  by  the  brook  he  bends  his  steps,  and 
through 
A  lowly  wicket ;  and  at  last  he  stands 
Awful  beside  the  bed  of  one  who  grew 

From  boyhood  with  him — who  with  lifted 
hands 
And  eyes  seems  listening  to  far  welcomings 
And  sweeter  music — than  the  Blackbird  siufrs. 


Tv/o  golden  stars,  like  tokens  from  the  blest, 
Strike  on  his  dim  orbs  from  the  setting  sun  ; 
His  sinking  hands  seem  pointing  to  the  west ; 
He  smiles  as  though  he  said  "  Thy  will  bo 
done !" 
His  eyes,  they  see  not  those  illuminings ; 
His  ears,  they  heaj   not — what  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

Frederick  Tennyson. 


1807.— LINES  TO  FANNY, 

WITH    A    BUNCH    OF    WHITE    PINKS. 

Along  the  garden-walk  I  stray'd. 
To  cull  a  fitting  flower  for  thee ; 

And  musing  there  I  long  delay'd. 

Uncertain  which  that  flow'r  should  be. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


MANY,  MANY  YEAES  AGO. 


[T.  LOKER. 


For,  for  the  maid  who  wakes  my  muse, 

In  heart  so  pure,  in  face  so  fair, 
It  needful  was  that  I  should  choose 

The  purest  and  the  fairest  there. 

At  length,  beneath  the  sheltering  shade 

Of  roses,  hiding  from  the  light. 
By  their  own  fragrant  sweets  betray 'd, 

These  white  pinks  caught  my  wandering 
sight. 
So  chastely  delicate  their  mien, 

So  sweetly  rich  their  fragrance  rare — 
"  Bright  flow'rs!  "  I  cried,  "  ye  are,  I  ween, 

The  purest  and  the  fairest  there." 

I  cuU'd  them,  for  'twas  known  to  me. 

Thy  sire  would  hold  a  feast  to-night. 
And  that  I  there  should  meet  with  thee. 

Amid  the  lords  and  ladies  bright. 
And  still,  in  simplest  garb  array'd, 

I  find  thee  here,  as  everywhere ; 
Though  bright  the  throng,' beloved  maid  ! 

The  purest  and  the  fairest  there. 

Take  them  ;  and  may  thy  breast  be  found 

As  free  as  they  from  any  blot, 
And  shed  its  fragrant  virtues  round 

On  those  who  own  a  lowlier  lot. 
So  shalt  thou,  when  from  death's  repose 

Thou  wakest,  heav'nly  joys  to  share. 
Still  shine  amid  the  throng  that  shows 

The  purest  and  the  fairest  there. 

Peter  Spencer. 


1809.— A  THOUGHT   AMONG  THE 
EOSES. 

The  Eoses  grew  so  thickly, 

I  never  saw  the  thorn, 
Nor  deem'd  the  stem  was  prickly, 

Until  my  hand  was  torn. 

Thus,  worldly  joys  invite  us, 

With  rosy-colour'd  hue ; 
But,  ere  they  long  delight  us, 

We  find  they  prick  us  too. 

Peter  Spencer. 


r 


iSoS.— SENT  WITH  A  EOSE  TO  EOSP 

Go,  blushing  flow'r ! 
And  tell  her  this  from  me, 

That  in  the  bow'r. 
From  which  I  gather' d  thee, 
At  evening  I  will  be. 

And  further  tell. 
In  tearing  thee  away, 

A  petal  fell ; 
And,  falling,  seem'd  to  say— 
"  Thy  rose  is  hurt  to-day." 

And,  while  I  stripp'd 
Thy  stem  of  leaves  below, 

A  dew-droi)  slipp'd, 
Slipp'd  on  my  hand,  to  show — 
"And  thou  hast  dealt  the  blow." 

But,  while  I  stand. 
The  tear,  with  subtle  art, 

Dries  on  my  hand  ; 
As  wishing  to  impart — 
"And  thou  canst  heal  the  smart." 

Then  bid  her  fly. 
When  sun- set  skirts  the  West, 

To  me,  that  I, 
Upon  my  happy  breast. 
May  soothe  her  own  to  rest. 

PeUr  Spencer. 


1810.— MANY,  MANY  YEAES  AGO. 

Oh,  my  golden  days  of  childhood, 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 
Ah  !  how  well  do  I  remember 

What  a  pride  it  was  to  know 
When  my  little  playmates  muster'd 

On  this  old  familiar  spot, 
To  select  their  infant  pastimes. 

That  my  name  was  ne'er  forgot ; 
When  with  merry,  rosy  faces. 

They  so  eagerly  would  come. 
Boasting  of  the  longest  top-string. 

Or  a  top  of  loudest  hum  ; 
Or,  as  proud  and  prancing  horses. 

Chase  each  other  to  and  fro,  ^ 
In  my  golden  days  of  childhood. 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 

Oh,  my  balmy  days  of  ^boyhood. 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 
When  I  ranged  at  will  the  wild  woods, 

For  the  berry  or  the  sloe  ; 
Or  the  gentle  blue-eyed  violet. 

Traced  by  its  own  perfume  s-w  eet ; 
Or  with  light  and  cautious  footstep 

Sought  the  linnet's  snug  retreat ; 
Or  with  little  blooming  maidens 

To  the  nutting  groves  repair'd, 
And  in  warmth  of  purest  boy-love, 

The  rich  clusters  with  them  shared ; 
Or  when  hoary-headed  winter 

Brought  his  welcome  frost  and  snow, 
How  we  throng'd  the  frozen  streamlets. 

Many,  many  years  ago ! 

Then  my  days  of  dawning  manhood. 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 
When  the  future  seem'd  all  brightness 

Lit  with  Love's  enchanting  glow  ; 
When  what  hopes  and  blissful  day-dreams 

Would  my  buoyant  bosom  crowd, 
As  I  forth  led  my  beloved  one. 

She  as  fair  as  I  was  proud  ; 
Led  her  forth  with  lightsome  footstep, 

Where  some  happy  rustic  throng 
To  old  Eobin's  merry  music 

Would  so  gaily  dance  along. 
Or  when  round  came  joyous  Christmas 

Oft  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
lave  I  toy'd  with  blushing  maidens. 

Many,  many  years  ago  I 

79. 


T.  J.  OUSELET.] 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  FLOWEES. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. — 


Ah.,  ye  golden  days !  departed, 

Yet  full  oft  on  memory's  wing- 
Ye  return  like  some  bright  vision, 

And  both  joy  and  sorrow  bring. 
Where  are  now  my  boy  companions, 

Those  dear  friends  of  love  and  truth  ? 
Death  hath  seal'd  the  lips  of  many, 

Fair  and  beautiful  in  youth. 
Eobin's  lute  has  long  been  silent, 

And  the  trees  are  old  and  bare  ; 
Silent  too  the  rippling  brooklets. 

The  old  playground  is  not  there ; 
Time  hath  stolen  my  faii;  one's  beauty, 

And  he  soon  will  strike  the  blow 
That  will  break  those  ties  that  bound  us 

Many,  many  years  ago  ! 

r.  Lolcer. 


1811.--THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  FLOWEES. 

She  comes  adown  the   pale  blue   depths  of 

heaven ; 
Above  her  head,  an  undimn'd  wreath  of  light 
Spans  the  deep  ether  dome.     In  either  hand 
A  vase  of  frosted  silver,  whence  arise 
Transparent  clouds  of  incense.     On  her  head 
A  coronal  of  snowdrops,  like  gemm'd  tears 
New  fallen  from  sad  loving  spirits'  eyes. 
Her  spotless  wings,  like  sun-illumined  snow. 
Fan  the  ambrosial  air,  as  seedlings  rise 
In  beauty  infantine,  spreading  their  leaves 
To  catch  the  luscious    sighs.      She    gently 

comes, 

To  kiss  her  sister  May, 
Who,  robed  in  hawthorn,  white. 
Like  a  young  fairy  sprite, 

Sings  her  enchanted  lay. 
The  honeysuckle  bells 
The  air  with  perfume  swells  ; 

And  from  the  woodland  spray 
The  songster's  joy-notes  trill. 
As  the  low  whispering  rill 
Breathes  forth  its  calming  music  till  the  close 
of  day. 

The  beauteous  pansies  rise 
In  purple,  gold,  and  blue, 
With  tints  of  rainbow  hue 

Mocking  the  sunset  skies ; 
The  modest  violets. 
Under  the  hedge-row  sets, 

Lift  up  their  soft  blue  eyes  1 
And  the  meek  daisies  show 
Their  breasts  of  satin  snow, 
Bedeck' d  with  tiny  stars  of  gold  'mid  perfume 
sighs. 

Moon-dyed  primroses  spread 
Their  leaves,  her  path  to  cheer, 
As  her  step  draweth  near ; 

And  the  bronzed  wallflowers  shed 
Eich  incense ;  summer  hours 
Are  by  the  sweet  bell-flowers 

Usher' d  to  life,  and  fed 


By  the  young  zephyrs'  wing, 
Who  elfin  music  ring, 
Luring  the  bees  from  out  their  thyme-wove 
fragrant  bed. 

From  their  calm  limpid  cells 
Fair  Naiades  arise. 
With  laughing,  sunny  eyes ; 

Casting  their  witching  spells 
The  beauteous  one  to  greet, 
And  lave  her  ivory  feet ; 

At  their  bright  crystal  wells 
Young  buds  pout  forth  their  leaves — 
Earth  a  green  garland  weaves — 
Isew  life  and  joy  from  Nature's  lovely  bosom 
swells. 

She    comes  with  smiles  upon  her  blushing 

cheek — 
With  fragrance  breathing  from  her  rosy  lips ; 
A  paragon  of  beauty — a  desire — 
An  angel  she  of  gladness.     *     *    #    * 

Thomas  John  Ouseley. 


1812.— THE  SEASONS  OF  LIFE. 


SPUING. 


The  soft  green  grass  is  growing, 

O'er  meadow  and  o'er  dale ; 
The  silvery  founts  are  flowing 

Upon  the  verdant  vale ; 
The  pale  snowdrop  is  springing, 

To  greet  the  glowing  sun  ; 
The  primrose  sweet  is  flinging 

Perfume  the  fields  among ; 
The  trees  are  in  the  blossom, 

The  birds  are  in  their  song, 
As  spring  upon  the  bosom 

Of  Nature's  bom  along. 

So  the  dawn  of  human  life  doth  green  and 

verdant  spring ; 
It  doth  little  ween  the  strife  that  after  years 

will  bring ; 
Like  the  snowdrop  it  is  fair,  and  like  the 

primrose  sweet ; 
But  its  innocence  can't  scare  the  blight  from. 

its  retreat. 

summer. 
11. 

The  fuU  ripe  corn  is  bending 

In  waves  of  golden  light ; 
The  new-moAvn  hay  is  sending 

Its  sweets  upon  the  night ; 
The  breeze  is  softly  sighing, 

To  cool  the  parched  flowers ; 
The  rain,  to  see  them  dying. 

Weeps  forth  its  gentle  showers ; 


From  1780  to  ISOG.l 


TIME'S  SONG. 


[Anon. 


The  merry  fish  are  playing-, 

Acio^vn  yon  crystal  stream  ; 
And  night  from  day  is  straying-, 

As  twilight  gives  its  gleam. 

And  thus  majihood,  in  its  prime,  is  full  and 

ripe  and  strong ; 
And  it  scarcely  deems  that  time  can  do  its 

beauty  wrong. 
Like  the  merry  fish  we  play  adown  the  stream 

of  life ; 
And  we  reck  not  of  the  day  that  gathers  what 

is  rife. 

AUTUMN 


The  flowers  all  are  fading, 

Their  sweets  are  rifled  now; 
And  night  sends  forth  her  shading 

Along  the  mountain  brow ; 
The  bee  hath  ceased  its  winging 

To  flowers  at  early  mom  ; 
The  birds  have  ceased  their  singing, 

Sheaf'd  is  the  golden  corn  ; 
The  harvest  now  is  gather' d, 

Protected  from  the  clime  ; 
The  leaves  are  sear'd  and  wither' d, 

That  late  shone  in  their  prime. 

Thus  when  fourscore  years  are  gone  o'er  the 

frail  life  of  man, 
Time  sits   heavy  on  his  throne,  as  nfear  his 

brow  we  scan ; 
Like  the  autumn  leaf  that  falls,  when  winds 

the  branches  wave, 
Like  night-shadows  daylight  palls,  like  all,  he 

finds  a  grave. 


WINTEK. 


The  snow  is  on  the  mountain, 

The  frost  is  on  the  vale. 
The  ice  hangs  o'er  the  fountain, 

The  storm  rides  on  the  gale ; 
The  earth  is  bare  and  naked, 

The  air  is  cold — and  drear. 
The  sky  with  snow-clouds  flaked, 

And  dense  foul  fogs  appear ; 
The  sun  shines  not  so  brightly 

Through  the  dark  murky  sides, 
The  nights  grow  longer — nightly, 

And  thus  the  winter  dies. 

Thus  falls  man,  his  season  past,  the  blight 
hath  ta'en  his  bloom ; 

Summer  gone,  the  autumn  blast  consigns  him 
to  the  tomb  ; 

Then  the  winter,  cold  and  drear,  with  pesti- 
lential breath, 

Blows  upon  his  silent  bier,  and  whispers— 
This  ia  Death. 

Thomas  John  Ouseley. 


1813.— YE'EE  A'  THE  WAEL'  TO  ME, 
LASSIE ! 

Oh,  ye're  a'  the  warl'  to  me,  lassie ! 

Ye're  a'  the  warl'  to  me; 
This  heart  shall  cease  to  beat  for  aye, 

E're  it  proves  false  to  thee ! 

Oh,  the  soldier  loves  his  country's  cause, 

And  he  stands  or  falls  for  Fame; 
The  statesman  courts  the  loud  applause 

That  bodes  a  deathless  name  ; 
In  Pleasure's  train  the  thoughtless  sweep ; 

The  miser  loves  his  gold ; 
But  they're  noiight  to  me,  if  I  could  keep 

That  love  that  thou  hast  told. 
For,  Ye're  a'  the  warl',  &c. 

Can  I  forget  that  gloamin'  sweet, 

On  the  banks  o'  bonny  Dee, 
Where  Nature's  wildest  beauties  meet 

To  deck  the  flowery  lea ; 
I  wadna  gie,  I  fondly  vow. 

For  gem  o'  earth  or  sea. 
That  sprig  o'  thyme,  though  wither'd  now, 

Ye  puid  and  gied  to  me ! 

For,  Ye're  a'  the  warl',  &c. 

Blow,  favouring  winds,  and  fill  those  sails 

That  waft  me  from  this  strand. 
To  streams  and  glens  and  heath'ry  hills, 

My  own — my  native  land  ! 
In  foreign  climes  no  more  I'll  rove, 

But,  'neath  our  trysting  tree. 
With  wither'd  flower,  I'll  claim  that  love 

Ye,  trusting,  vow'd  to  me  ! 

For,  Ye're  a'  the  warl',  &c. 

T.  M.  Gemmet 


1814.— TIME'S  SONG. 

O'er  the  level  plain — where  mountains  greet 

me  as  I  go  ; — 
O'er  the  desei-t  waste — where  fountains  at  my 

bidding  flow; 
On  the  boundless  stream  by  day,  on  the  cloud 

by  night— 
I  am  rushing  hence  away  :  who  will  chain  my 

flight  ? 

War  his  weary  vv'atch  was  keeping:  I  liave 

crushed  his  spear ; 
Grief  within  her  bower  was  weeping :  I  have 

dried  her  tear ; 
Pleasure  caught  a  minute-hold,  then  I  hurried 

by, 

Leaving  all  her  banquet  cold,  and  her  goblet 
dry. 

Power  had  won  a  throne  of  glory :  where  is 

now  his  fame  ? 
Genius    said,  "I  live  in   story" — who  hath 

heard  his  name  ? 

79* 


J.  Gbeet.] 


HOUSEHOLD  TEEASUEES. 


[Seventh  Period.' 


Love,   beneath   a  myrtle   bough,   whispered, 

"Why  so  fast?" 
And  the  roses  on  his  browwither'd  as  Ipass'd. 

I  have  heard  the  heifer  lowing  o'er  the  wild 

wave's  bed ; 
I  have  seen  the  billow  flowing  where  the  cattle 

fed. 
Where  began  my  wanderings  ?  Mem'ry  will  not 

say. 
Where  shall  rest  my  weary  wings  ?    Science 

turns  away. 

Anonymous. 


1815.— HOUSEHOLD  TEEASIIBES. 

Household  treasures,  household  treasures, 

Gems  of  worth,  say,  what  are  they  ? 
Walls  of  jasper,  doors  of  cedar, 

Arras  of  superb  array  ? 
Caskets  of  the  costliest  jewels, 

Cabinets  of  ancient  store, 
Shrines  where  Art  her  incense  oflfers, 

Volumes  of  profoundest  lore  ? 

Household  treasures,  home's  true  jewels, 

Deem  I  better  far  than  those  : 
Prattling  children,  blithe  and  ruddy 

As  the  dew-bespangled  rose. 
Tempt  me  not  with  gold  of  Ophir, 

Wreathe  not  gems  to  deck  my  head  ; 
Winsome  hearthlings,  home's  fond  angels, 

Are  the  things  I  crave  instead. 

Sweet  the  song  the  skylark  trilleth, 
Bright  the  hue  the  rose  assumes. 

Pure  the  quiet-wooing  lily 

That  upon  the  lakelet  blooms  ; 

But  more  sweet,  more  bright,  and  purer 
Seem  the  lips  and  heart  of  youth ; 

Blessed  seraphs,  sent  to  utter 

j     Syllables  of  love  and  truth. 

Joyous  creatures,  choice  possessions, 

May-flowers  in  Ufe's  winter  hour ; 
Beams  of  sunshine,  chasing  ever 

Shadows  that  may  cross  the  door ; 
Drops  of  rain,  when  care  or  anguish 

Parch  the  spirit's  genial  springs  ; 
Soothing  minstrels,  when  unkindness 

Snaps  the  heart's  melodious  strings. 

Household  treasures,  household  treasures, 

Gems  of  worth,  say,  what  are  the}'^  ? 
All  that  Vv'ealth  or  grandeur  proffer, 

Soon,  alas  !  must  know  decay ; 
But,  'midst  amaranths  unfading. 

With  the  rose-stain'd  cherubim, 
Happy  children,  gone  before  us, 

Swell  the  everlasting  hymn. 

J.  Greet. 


1816.— TO  THE  FIRST  CUCKOO  OF  THE 
YEAE. 

The  flowers  were  blooming  fresh  and  fair, 

The  air  was  sweet  and  still ; 
A  sense  of  joy  in  all  things  beam'd 

From  woodland,  dale,  and  hill ; 
On  every  spray  had  fairies  hung 

Their  sparkling  lamps  of  dew, 
When  first  across  the  meadows  rung 

Thy  Avelcome  voice,  cuckoo  : 
"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  No  blither  sound 
In  all  the  songs  of  birds  is  found. 

The  early  sun  was  mildly  bright, 

The  woods  were  sleeping  still. 
And  scarce  a  chirp  came  from  the  trees, 

Or  murmur  from  the  rill ; 
It  was  as  Nature  paused  to  hear 

Thy  pleasant  song  again, 
And  in  her  expectation  hush'd 

Each  heart-rejoicing  strain : 
*'  Cuckoo !  cuckoo  !  "  No  blither  sound 
In  aU  the  songs  of  birds  is  found. 

And  as  thy  voice  rung  through  the  air, 

All  Nature  fairer  grew  : 
The  primrose  had  a  brighter  tint, 

The  violet  deeper  blue. 
The  cowslip  hung  a  richer  bloom. 

More  sweetly  breathed  the  May, 
And  greener  seem'd  the  very  grass 

In  listening  to  thy  lay : 
"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  No  blither  sound 
In  all  the  songs  of  birds  is  found. 

And,  wand' ring  through  the  air,  thy  song 

Was  now  afar,  now  near — 
A  song  that  in  its  airiness 

Is  witchery  to  hear. 
And  never  is  the  spring  complete 

Without  thy  changeless  voice. 
And  in  thy  coming  to  our  woods, 

O  cuckoo,  all  rejoice. 
"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  No  blither  sound 
In  all  the  songs  of  birds  is  found. 

J.  A.  Langford. 


1817. —  "EENDER      TO     C^SAE     THE 
THINGS  WHICH  AEE  C^SAE'S. 

"  Eender  to  Cassar  things  which  Caesar's  are. 
But  to  God  God's."     Ah  !  me,  how  eagerly, 
Eushing  to  the  world-Csesar's  feet,  do  we 

Bring  the  red  gold  and  frankincense  from  far, 

To   render  up  !     Gold  of   the  heart's  young 
love 
Bartering  for  Mammon  (prudence,  its  world- 
name)  ; 
Pure  aspirations  for  base,  fleeting  fame ; 

And  for  false  joys  of  earth,  a  heaven  abovo 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  IVY  GEEEN. 


[Charles  Dickens. 


What    do    we    lay    before    "our    Fathers" 

throne  ? 
The  broken  heart  the  world  hath  trampled  on, 
But  could  not  heal ;  the  bruised  hopes  flung 

back 
From  Caesar's 'throne,  when  our  reward  we 

lack ; 
Hyssop  and  vinegar  :  How  oft  they  be 
Our  only  tribute,  Lord,  reserved  for  Thee ! 

Mary  C.  Hwne. 


1818.— THE  IVY  GEEEK 
Oh  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  ! 
On  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  wall  must  be  crumbled,  the  stone  decay'd, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made, 
Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 


Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he  { 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  close  he  clings. 

To  his  friend  the  huge  Oak  Tree  ! 
And  slily  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
As  he  joyously  hugs  and  crawleth  round 

The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 

Creeping  where  grim  Death  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decay'd, 

And  nations  have  scatter'd  been  ; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  on  the  past : 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 

Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  on  where  Time  lias  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green  1 

Charles  Dickens, — Bom  1812, 


POEMS    OMITTED    TO    BE    PRINTED    IN    THEIR 
PROPER    ORDER. 


1819.— FEOM  '^  ENDYMION." 

"Wlio  thus  were  ripe  for  higlx  contemplating, 
r<Iight  turn  their  steps  towards  the  sober  ring 
"Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 
'Mong  shepherds   gone    in  eld,  whose  looks 

increased 
The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 
There  they  discoursed  upon  the  fragile  bar 
That  keeps  us  from  our  homes  ethereal ; 
And  what  our  duties  there :  to  nightly  call 
Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  weather ; 
To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 
For  the  sun's  purple  couch  ;  to  emulate 
In  ministering  the  potent  rule  of  fate 
With  speed  of  frre-tail'd  exhalations  ; 
To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  who  cons 
Sweet  poesy  by  moonlight :  besides  these, 
A  world  of  other  unguess'd  oflfices. 
Anon  they  wander'd,  by  divine  converse. 
Into  Elysium ;  vying  to  rehearse 
Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 
One  felt  heart-certain  that  he  could  not  miss 
His  quick-gone   love,  among  fair  blossom' d 

boughs, 
Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 
Her  lips  with  music  for  the  welcoming. 
Another  wish'd,  'mid  that  eternal  spring, 
To  meet  his  rosy  child,  with  feathery  sails, 
Sweeping,     eye-earnestly,     througli     almond 

vales : 
Who,    suddenly,    should    stoop   through   the 

smooth  wind. 
And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples  bind ; 
And,  ever  after,  through  those  regions  be 
His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 
Some  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  again 
Their  fellow-huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  cham- 
paign 
In  times  long  past ;  to  sit  with  them,  and  talk 
Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk ; 
Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 
Of  happmess,  to  when  iipon  the  moors, 
Benighted,  close  they  huddled  from  the  cold. 
And   shared  their  famish'd  scrips.     Thus  all 

out-told 
Their  tond  imaginations, — saving  him 
Whose  eyehds  curtain'd  up  their  jewels  dim, 
Endymion :  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 
To  hide  the  cankering  venom  that  had  riven 
His  fainting  recollections.     Now  indeed 
His  senses  had  swoon'd  off :  he  did  not  heed 


The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low. 
Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe, 
Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms, 
Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms  : 
But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  ho  kept, 
Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stept. 
Ay,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man, 
Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who  whispers  him  so  pantingly  and  close  ? 
Peona,  his  sweet  sister  :  of  all  tliose. 
His  friends,  the  dearest.     Hushing  signs  she 

made. 
And  breathed  a  sister's  sorrow  to  jDersuade 
A  yielding  up,  a  cradling  on  her  care. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse  : 
She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams, 
Along  a  path  between  tv/o  little  streams, — 
Guarding  his  forehead,  with  her  round  elbow, 
From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  footsteps 

slow 
From   stumbling   over   stumps   and  hillocks 

small  ; 
Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets 

fall. 
With  mingled  bubblings  and  a  gentle  rush. 
Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  flush 

,    With  crj'stal  mocking  of  the  trees  and  sky. 

I   A  little  shallop,  floating  there  hard  by, 

I   Pointed  its  beak  over  the  fringed  bank ; 
And  soon  it  lightly  dipt,  and  rose,  and  sank, 

I   And    dipt   again,    with  the   young   couple's 

I  weight, — 

I   Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straight. 
Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite ; 
Which  gaining  presently,  she  steered  light 
Into  a  shady,  fresh,  and  ripply  cove. 
Where  nested  was  an  arbour,  overwove 
By  many  a  summer's  silent  fingering  ; 
To  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bring 
Her  playmates,  with  their  needle  broidery. 
And  mmstrel  memories  of  times  gone  by. 

So  she  was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 
Under  her  favourite  bower's  quiet  shade, 
On  her  own  couch,  new  made  of  flower  leaves, 
Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When  last  the  sun  his  autumn  tresses  shook, 
And  the  tann'd  harvesters  rich  armfuls  took. 
Soon  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest ; 
But.  ere  it  crept  upon  him,  he  had  prest 


John  Keats.] 


ENDYMION. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips, 
And  still,  a-sleeping,  held  her  fincrer-tips 
In  tender  pressure.     And  as  a  Avillow  keeps 
A  patient  watch  over  the  etream  that  creeps 
Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 
Held  her  in  peace  :  so  that  a  whispering  blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling 
Down  in  the  blue-bells,  or  a  wren  light  rustling 
Among  sere  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be 
heard. 

O  magic  sleep !  0  comfortable  bird, 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth  !    0  unconfined 
Eestraint !  imprison'd  liberty !  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy. 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled 

caves. 
Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And  moonhght ;  ay,  to  all  the  mazy  world 
Gf  silvery  enchantment ! — who,  upfurl'd 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour. 
But  renovates  and  lives  ? — Thus,  in  the  bower, 
Endymion  was  calra'd  to  life  again. 
Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain, 
He  said :  "I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosom  :  thou  art  as  a  dove 
Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 
About  me ;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 
Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 
As  do  those   brighter  drops  that  twinkling 

stray 
From  those  kind  eyes, — the  very  home  and 

haunt 
Of  sisterly  aflection.     Can  I  want 
Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  than  such 

tears  ? 
Yet  dry  them  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 
That,  any  longer,  I  will  pass  my  days 
Alone  and  sad.     No,  I  will  once  more  raise 
My  voice  upon  the  mountain-heights ;    once 

more 
Make  my  horn  parley  from  their  foreheads 

hoar  : 
Again  my  trooping  hounds  theit  tongues  shall 

loll 
Around  the  breathed  boar :  again  I'll  poll 
The  fair-grown  yew-tree,  for  a  chosen  bow  ; 
And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low, 
Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 
To  hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 
Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered,  sweet ! 
And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  entreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course." 

Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source, 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow-drops  with  glad  exclaim, 
And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing 

came 
A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.  'Twas  a  lay 
More  subtle-cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Dry  ope' s  lone  lulling  of  her  child  ; 
And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 
So  mournful  strange.     Surely  some  influence 

rare 


Went,  spiritual,  through  the  damsel's  hand ; 
For  still,  with  Delphic  emphasis,  she  spann'd 
The  quick  invisible  strings,  even  though  she 

saw 
Entlymion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 
Before  the  deep  intoxication. 
But  soon  she  came,  with  sudden  burst,  upon 
Her  self-possession — swung  the  lute  aside. 
And  earnestly  said :  "Brother,  'tis  vain  to  hide 
That  thou  dost  know  of  things  mysterious, 
Immortal,  starry ;  such  alone  could  thus 
Weigh  down  thy  nature.     Hast  thou  sinn'd 

in  aught 
Offensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  ?     Caught 
A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent  ? 
Thy  deathf  ul  bow  against  some  deer-herd  bent, 
Sacred  to  Dian  ?     Haply,  thou  hast  seen 
Her  naked  limbs  among  the  alders  green ; 
And  that,  alas  !  is  death.     No,  I  can  trace 
Something  more  high  perplexing  in  thy  face ! " 

Endymion  look'd  at  her,  and  press' d  her 

hand. 
And  said,  "  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so 

bland 
And  merry  in  our  meadows  ?     How  is  this  ? 
Tell  me  thine  ailment :  tell  me  all  amiss  ! 
Ah  !  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  the  change 
Wrought  suddenly  in  me.    What,  indeed,  more 

strange  ? 
Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise  ? 
Ambition  is  no  sluggard :  'tis  no  prize. 
That  toiling  years  would  put  within  my  grasp 
That  I  have  sigh'd  for  •  with  so  deadly  gasp 
No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 
So  all  have  set  my  heavier  grief  above 
These  things  which  happen.      Eightly  have 

they  done  r 
I,  who  still  sav/  the  horizontal  sun 
Heave  his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the  edge  of  the 

world, 
Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  then  had  hurl'd 
My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  the  chase — 
I,  who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 
With  my  own  steed  from  Araby ;  pluck  down 
A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching ;  frown 
A  lion  into  growling,  loth  retire — 
To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil-breeding  fire, 
And  sink  thus  low  !  but  I  will  ease  my  breast 
Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

"  This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky. 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 
Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood. 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  Avinding  flood 
Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon  : 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 
Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves  ; 
The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 
So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power, 
And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour. 
When  he  doth  tighten  up  the  golden  reins, 
And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 
His  snorting  four.  Now,  when  his  chariot  last 
Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast, 
There  blossom'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 
Of  sacred  dittany,  and  poppies  rod : 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


ENDYMION. 


[John  Keats. 


At  which  I  wonder'd  greatly,  knowing  well 
That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flowery 

spell ; 
And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 
What  it  might  mean.     Perhaps,  thought  I, 

Morpheus, 
In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook  ; 
Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uptook 
Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth, 
Had  dipp'd  his  rod  in  it :  such  garland  wealth 
Came  not  by  common  growth.      Thus  on  I 

thought, 
Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distraught. 
Moreover,  through  the  dancing  poppies  stole 
A  breeze  mosb  softly  lulling  to  my  soul, 
And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 
Of  colours,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly  light ; 
The  which  became  more  strange,  and  strange, 

and  dim. 
And  then  were  gulf'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim  : 
And  then  I  fell  asleep.     AK,  can  I  tell 
The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befel? 
Yet  it  was  but  a  dream  :  yet  such  a  dream 
That  never  tongue,  although  it  overteem 
With  mellow  utterance,  like  a  cavern  spring, 
Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 
All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Methought  I  lay 
Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  Milky  Way 
Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendour  pours  ; 
And  travelling  my  eye,  untii  the  doors 
Of  heaven  appeared  to  open  for  my  flight, 
I  became  loth  and  fearful  to  alight 
From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward  glance: 
So  kept  me  s bedfast  in  that  airy  trance. 
Spreading  Imaginary  pinions  wide. 
When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide, 
And  faint  away,  before  my  eager  view  : 
At  Avhich  I  sigh'd  that  I  could  not  pursue. 
And  dropp'd  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge; 
And  lo  !  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw  emerge 
The  loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 
A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet ;  she  did  soar 
So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul, 
Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres,  did  roll 
Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she  went 
At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapoury  tent — 
Wliereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 
Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 
To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I 

raised 
My  sight  right  upward :  but  it  was  quite  dazed 
B}^  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace. 
Making  me  quickly  veil  my  eyes  and  faoe : 
Aeain  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities. 
Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies ! 
Whence   that    completed    form   of   all   com- 
pleteness ? 
Whence   came    that    high  perfection   of   all 

sweetness  ? 
Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where,  O 

where, 
Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair  ? 
Not  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western  sun  ; 
Not — thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister !  let  me  shun 
Such  follying  before  thee — ^yet  she  had, 
Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad ; 


And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided, 
Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded. 
Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed 

brow; 
The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  hovr, 
With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes, 
Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest 

sighs. 
That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 
And  plays  about  its  fancj'-,  till  the  stings 
Of  human  neighbourhood  envenom  all. 
Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 
To  what  high  fane  ? — Ah  !  see  her  hovering 

feet. 
More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely 

sweet 
Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 
From  out  her  cradle  shell.    The  wind  out-blows 
Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 
'Tis  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 
Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed. 
Over  the  darkest,  lushest  blue-bell  bed, 
Handfuls     of     daisies." — "  Endymion,    .how 

strange ! 
Dream  within  dream  !  " — "  She  took  an  airy 

range, 
And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid. 
Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid. 
And  press'd  me  by  the  hand :  Ah !  'twas  too 

much; 
Methought  I  fainted  at  the  charmed  touch, 
Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 
Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters  run 
Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral :  for  anon 
I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 
Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forth, 
And  eagles  struggle  with  the  buffeting  north 
That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone  ;— 
Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone, 
But  lapp'd  and  luU'd  along  the  dangerous  sky. 
Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journeying  high. 
And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoop'd ; 
Such   as    aye  muster   where   grey  time  has 

scoop'd 
Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's  side : 
There  hollow  sounds  aroused  me,  and  I  sigh'd — 
To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss — 
I  was  distracted ;  madly  did  I  kiss 
The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 
My  eyes  at  once  to  death :  but  'twas  to  live, 
To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold  fount 
Of  kind  and  passionate  looks ;  to  count,  and 

count 
The    moments,   by   some    greedy  help    that 

seem'd 
A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeem'd 
And  plunder'd  of  its  load  of  blessedness. 
Ah,  desperate  mortal !  I  even  dared  to  press 
Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 
And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 
Into  a  warmer  air  t  a  moment  more 
Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.    There  was  store 
Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes 
A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 
Loiter'd  around  us ;  then  of  honey-ceils. 
Made  delicate  from  all  white-fiowsr  beUa 


John  Keats.] 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest, 

An  arch  face  peep'd, — an  Oread  as  I  guess'd. 

•'"Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'er-power'd 

me 
In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  ?     Why  not  see, 
Far  oft,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark, 
And  stare  them  from  me  ?    But  no,  like  a  spark 
That  needs  must  die,  although  its  little  beam 
Eeflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 
Fell  into  nothing — into  stupid  sleep. 
And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 
A  careful  moving  caught  my  waking  ears, 
And  up  I  started  ;  Ah  !  my  sighs,  my  teai-s, 
My  clenched  hands  ; — for  lo  !  the  poppies  hung 
Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 
A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 
Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 
With  leaden  looks  •  the  solitary  breeze 
Bluster'd,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did  tease 
With  wayward  melancholy  ;  and  I  thought, 
Mark  me,  Peona !  that  sometimes  it  brought 
Faint      fare-thee-wells,      and      sigh- shrilled 

ddieus ! — 
Away  1  wander' d — all  the  pleasant  hues 
Ot  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest  shades 
Were   deepest  dungeons :  heaths  and  sunny 

glades 
Were  full  of  pestilent  light ;  our  taintless  rills 
Seem'd  sooty,  and  o'erspread  with  upturn'd 

gills 
Of  dying  fish  ,  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 
In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  outgrown 
Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 
Before    my   heedless    footsteps   stirr'd,    and 

stirr'd 
In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it 
A  disguised  demon,  missioned  to  knit 
My  soul  with  under  darkness  ;  to  entice 
My     stumblings      down      some      monstrous 

precipice : 
Therefore  I  eager  follow'd,  and  did  curse 
The  disappointment.     Time,  that  aged  nurse, 
ilock'd  me  to  patience.     Now,  thank  gentle 

heaven ! 
These  things,  with  all  their  comfortings,  are 

given 
To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with  thee, 
Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 
Of  weary  life." 

John  Keats.^Born  1795,  Lied.  18^0. 


1820.— THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 
I. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve— Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was ! 
The  owl,  for  ail  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The   hare    limp'd  trembling   through    the 

frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while 

he  told 


His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  mthout  a 

death. 
Past    the    sweet  Virgin's  picture,  v.-hile  his 

prayer  he  saith. 


His  prayer  he  saith,  tliis  loatient,  iioly  man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his 

knees. 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees  r 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem  to 

freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and 

mails. 

III. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden 

tongue 
Flatter' d  to  tears  this  a^ed  man  and  poor ; 
But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve  : 
Another  way  he*went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  lie  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinner's  sake  to 

grieve. 

IV. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  tlie  prelude 

soft; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was 

wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice 
rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross- 
wise on  their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The    brain,    new   stuff'd,   in    youth,   with 

triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  soul-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry 

day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times 

declare. 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey' d  middle  of  the  night, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


[John  Keats. 


If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white  ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they 
desire. 


Full  of  this  whinf  was  thoughtful  Madeline ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping 

train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And    back    retired;     not   cool'd   by    high 

disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of 

the  year. 

VIII. 

She  daTiced  along  with    vague,  regardless 

eyes. 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and 

short : 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she 

sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng' d  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink' d  with  faery  fancy  ;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 

She  linger' d  still.     Meantime,   across  the 

moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on 

fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress' d  from  moonlight,  stands  he  and 

implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship,  all  unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth 

such  things  have  been. 


He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will    storm    his    heart.    Love's    feverous 

citadel : 
For    him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 

hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foal, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in 

soul. 


Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 


To  where  he  stood,   hid  from  the  torch's 

flame. 
Behind  a  Ijroad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 
He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from 
this  place ; 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood- 
thirsty race ! 

XII. 

*' Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's  dwarfish 

Hildebrand ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursdd  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 

land : 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a 

whit 
More  tame  for  his  grey  hairs — Alas  me ! 

fiit! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "  Ah,  Gossip  dear, 
We're  safe  enough;  here,  in  this  arm-chair 

sit. 
And  tell  me   how  " — "  Good  Saints !    not 

here,  not  here ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be 

thy  bier." 


He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a — well-a-day  I" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  Avhere  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  ten  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When    they    St.    Agnes'  wool    are    weaving 
piously." 


"  St.  Agnes !  Ah !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !— St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
Tliis  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time  to 
grieve." 


Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon. 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look. 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-bcok. 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes .  grew  brilliant,  when  she 

told 
His  lady's  purpose;  and  he  scarce  could 

brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantmentK 

cold. 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of 'legends  old. 


John  Keats.] 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


[Seventh  Period.— 


Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown 

rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
Sweet  lady,   let    her  pray,  and  sleep  and 

dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !    I 

deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 

didst  seem." 


"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last 

prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face  : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears  ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  f  oemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd 

than  wolves  and  bears  !  " 


"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,   weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard 

thing. 
Whose  passing-beU  may  ere  the  midnight 

toll; 
Whose  prayers   for  thee,  each  mom  and 

evening. 
Were  never  miss'd."     Thus  plaining,  doth 

she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro  ; 
So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or 

woe. 

XIX. 

Which  was  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  their  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous 
debt. 

XX. 

"It  shall   be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the 

Dame : 
*'  All    cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored 

there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour 

frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see :  no  time  to 

spare. 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 


On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  kneel  in 

prayer 
The  while  :  Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady 

wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the 

dead." 

XXI. 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd  ; 
The  dame  retum'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his 

ear 
To  follow  her  ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd  and 

chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her 

brain. 

XXII. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission' d  spirit,  unaware : 
With  sUver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 
fray'd  and  fled. 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in  ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  utter'd  syllable,  or,  woe  betide ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should 
swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in 
her  dell. 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was. 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass. 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
Aa    are    the    tiger-moth's    deep-damask'd 

wings ; 
And   in   the   midst,    'mong   thousand  he- 
raldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of 
queens  and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full   on   this   casement   shone  the  wintry 

moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair 

breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and 

boon ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


[John  Keats. 


Eose-bloom  fell    on  her  hands,    together 

prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest. 
Save  wings,  for   heaven : — Porphyro  grew 
faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal 
taint. 


Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  mstUng  to  her  knees  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  seaweed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm 
is  fled. 


Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex 'd  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress' d 
Her  soothed  hmbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow- 
day ; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims 

pray ; 
BKnded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud 
again. 

XXVIII. 

stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  Jisten'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness  ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he 

bless, 
And  breathed  himself :  then  from  the  closet 

crept. 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wild  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo  ! — 

how  fast  she  slept. 


Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  :— 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is 
gone. 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a 
heap 


Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 

gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  ev^ry  one. 
From  silken  Samarcaud  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 


These   delicates  he   heap'd   with   glowing 

hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake: 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth 

ache." 


Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
j        Sank  in  her  pillow.    Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  : — 'twas  a  midnight        | 
charm  ! 

Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The    lustrous    salvers    in    the    moonlight 

gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never,  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes; 
So  muKcd   awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phan- 
tasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest 

be. 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  called  "La  belle  dame  sans 

mercy." 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith   disturb'd,    she   utter'd   a   soft 

moan : 
He   ceased — she    panted   quick — and   sud- 
denly 
Her  blue  alFrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees   he   sank,   pale   as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 


Her  eyes  wore  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There    was   a  painful   change,   that  nigh 

expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  Avhich  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a 

sigh; 
While  still  her   gaze  on  Porphyro  would 

keep. 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous 

eye. 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,   she    look'd  so 

dreamingly. 


John  Keats.] 


TRUE  BEAUTY  IN  WOMAN. 


[Seventh  Pebiod. — 


"Ah,  Porphyro!"  said  she,  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear: 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill, 

and  drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings 

dear! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where 

to  go." 


Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush' d,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen    'mid    the    sapphire    heaven's    deep 

repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet:    meantime  the  frost- wind 

blows, 
Like  Love's  alarum,  patt'ringthe  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  raoon 
hath  set. 


'Tis  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown 
sleet : 

"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Made- 
line !" 

'Tis  dark :  the  iced  gusts  stiU  rave  and 
beat: 

"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 

Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 
pine. — 

Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither 
bring  ? 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 

Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned 
wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"  My    Madeline  !    sweet   dreamer !    lovely 

bride  ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy    beauty's    shield,     heart-shaped    and' 

vermeil  dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest. 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish' d  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy 

nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;  if  thou  think' st 

well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

XXXIX. 

"  Hark !  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise — arise  1  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed  : — 


Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed  > 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — ^ 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 
Awake  !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home 
for  thee." 

XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 
At    glaring    watch,    perhaps,  with    ready 

spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they 

found, 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each 

door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and 

hound,  • 

Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 

floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide 

hall! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
"Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook 

his  hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns  : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  f  ootwoi-n  stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges 

groans. 

XLII. 

And  they  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  v/arrior-guests,  with  shade  and 

form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old, 
Died     palsy- twitch' d    with     meagre    face 

deform ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes 

cold. 
John  Keats.— Bom  1795,  IHed  1820. 


1 82 1. —TRUE  BEAUTY  IN  WOMAN. 

Woman !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain, 
Inconstant,  childish,  proud,  and  full  of  fan- 
cies; 
Without  that  modest  softening  that  enhances 
The  downcast  eye,  repentant  of  the  pain 
That  its  mild  light  creates  to  heal  again ; 
E'en    then,    elate,    my    spirit     leaps    and 

prances, 
E'en  then  my  soul  with  exultation  dance? 
For  that  to  love,  so  long,  I've  dormant  lain-. 
But  when  I  see  thee   meek,  and   kind,   and 
tender. 
Heavens  I  how  desperately  do  I  adore 


Tror.1 1780  to  1866.] 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 


[John  Keats- 


Thy  ^riImiBg  graces ;  — to  be  thy  defender 
I  hotly  bum — to  be  a  Calidore — 

A  very  Bed  Cross  Knight — a  stout  Leander — 
Might  I  be  loved  by  thee  like  these  of  yore. 

Light  feet,  dark  violet  eyes,  and  parted  hair ; 
Soft  dimpled  hands,  white  neck,  and  creamy 

breast ; 
Are  things  on  which  the   dazzled   senses 
rest 
Till  the  fond,  fixed  eyes,  forget  they  stare. 
From  such  fine  pictures,  Heavens !  I  cannot 
dare 
To  turn  my  admiration,  though  unpossess'd 
They  be  of  what  is  worthy, —  though  not 
drest, 
In  lovely  modesty,  and  virtues  rare. 
Yet  these  I  leave  as  thoughtless  as  a  lark ; 
These  lures  I  straight  forget, — e'en  ere  I 
dine, 
Or  thrice   my  palate  moisten ;   but  when  I 
mark 
Such  charms  with  mild  intelligences  shine, 
My  ear  is  open  like  a  greedy  shark. 
To  catch  the  tunings  of  a  voice  divine. 

Ah !  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  being  ? 
Who  can  forget  her  half -retiring  sweets  ? 
God !    she  is  like  a  milk-white   lamb  that 
bleats 
For  man's  protection.     Surely  the  All-seeing, 
Who  joys  to  see  us  with  his  gifts  agreeing, 
Will  never  give  him  pinions,  who  intreats 
Such  innocence  to  ruin, — who  vilely  cheats 
A  dove-like  bosom.    In  truth  there  is  no  free- 
ing 
One's  thoughts  from  such  a  beauty ;  when  I 
hear 
A  lay  that  once  I  sav/  her  hand  awake, 
Her  form  seems  floating  palpable,  and  near : 

Had  I  e'er  seen  her  from  an  arbour  take 
A  dewy  flower,  oft  would  that  hand  appear. 
And  o'er  my  eyes  the  trembling  moisture 
shake. 

John  Keats.— Bom  1795,  Died  1820. 


1822.— ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 


My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,    as   though  of  hemlock   I  had 
drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One   minute    past,    and    Lethe-wards    had 
sunk: 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That   thou,  light-winged   Dryad  of   the 
trees. 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 


II. 

0  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green. 
Dance,  and  Proven9al  song,  and  sun-burnt 
mirth ! 
0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With   beaded    bubbles    winking   at   the 
brim. 

And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  un- 
seen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest 
dim: 

III. 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the   leaves  hast  nevei- 
known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other 
groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,   sad,  last  grey 
hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin, 
and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sor- 
row 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where    beauty  cannot   keep   her   lustrous 
eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to- 
morrow. 


Away  !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards. 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull    brain  perplexes  and  re- 
tards : 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night, 

And    haply    the    Queen-Moon    is    on    her 
throne. 
Cluster' d  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes 
blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  -winding 
mossy  ways. 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 
Nor  what   soft  incense    hangs   upon   the 
boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild; 
White  hawthorn,  and   the  pastoral  eglan- 
tine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer 
eves. 


John  Keats.] 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  liave  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd    him    soft   names   in   many   a   mused 
rhyme, 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth    thy  soul 
abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in 
vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when  sick 
for  home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  openinsf  on  the 
foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

VIII. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream. 

Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music : — do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 
John  Keats.— Bom  1795,  Died  1820. 


Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness ! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy 
shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?  What  maidens 
loath  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?  What  struggle  to  escape  ? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels?    What  wild 
ecstasy  ? 

II. 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play 
on; 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear' d, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 


Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not 
leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare.; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — ^yet,  do  not 
grieve ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not 
thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

III. 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  ediou; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  nevr ; 
More  happy  love ;  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  bo  enjoy'd, 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves    a  heart  high  sorrowful   and 
cloy'd, 
A  burning    forehead,   and    a  parehing 
tongue. 


Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 
And   all  her    silken  flanks   with  garlands 
drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 


O  Attic  shape !  Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 
Thou,   silent  form  !    dost  tease  ns  out  of 
thought 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou 

say'st, 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 

know. 

John  Keats.— Born  1795,  Died  1820 


1824.— SONNET. 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to    breathe  a 
prayer 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
Who   is    more    happy,    when,    with   heart's 
content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MEECI. 


[John  Keats. 


And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  langiiishment  ? 
Keturning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 

Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 

He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by : 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 

That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 

John  Keats.^Born  1795,  IHsd  1820. 


1825.— LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MEECI. 

A   BALLAD. 


O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 

The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 


0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 


I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 


I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child. 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

V. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head. 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone : 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 


I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed. 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long. 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 


She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet. 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — 
"  I  love  thee  true." 

VIII. 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sigh'd  full  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 


And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd— Ah !  woe  betide 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


I  saw  pale  kmgs  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ) 

They  cried — "  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thraU  !  " 


I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here. 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 


And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake^ 

And  no  birds  sing. 

John  Keats.— Born  1795,  Died  1820. 


80 


LATER   POEMS. 


1826.— FEOM  "LILLIPUT  LEVEE." 

They  seized  the  keys,  they  patrolled  the  street, 
They  drove  the  policeman  off  his  beat, 
They   built   barricades,   they   stationed    sen- 
tries— 
You  must  give  the  word,  when  you  come  to 
the  entries  ! 

They  dressed  themselves  in  the  Eiflemen's 

clothes. 
They  had  pea-shooters,  they  had  arrows  and 

bows, 
So  as  to  put  resistance  down — 
Order  reigns  in  Lilliput-town  ! 

They  made  the  baker  bake  hot  rolls, 
They  made  the  wharfinger  send  in  coals, 
They  made  the  butcher  kill  the  calf. 
They  cut  the  telegraph-wires  in  half. 

They  went  to  the  chemist's,  and  with  their 

feet 
They  kicked  the  physic  all  down  the  street ; 
They  went  to  the  school-room  and  tore  the 

books, 
They  munched  the  puffs  at  the  pastrycook's. 

They  sucked  the  jam,  they  lost  the  spoons. 
They  sent  up  several  fire-balloons, 
They  let  off  crackers,  they  burnt  a  guy, 
They  piled  a  bonfire  ever  so  high. 

They  offered  a  prize  for  the  laziest  boy, 
And  one  for  the  most  Magnificent  toy  ; 
They  split  or  burnt  the  canes  off-hand. 
They  made  new  laws  in  Lilliput-land. 

Never  do  to-day  what  you  can 

Put  off  till  to-morrow,  one  of  them  ran  ; 

Late  to  bed  and  late  to  rise. 

Was  another  law  which  they  did  devise. 

They  passed  a  law  to  have  always  plenty 
Of  beautiful  things;  we  shall  mention  twenty : 
A  magic  lantern  for  all  to  see. 
Rabbits  to  keep,  and  a  Christmas-tree. 

A  boat,  a  house  that  went  on  wheels, 
An  organ  to  grind,  and  sherry  at  meals', 
Drums  and  wheelbarrows,  Roman  candles. 
Whips  with  whistles  let  into  the  handles. 


A  real  live  giant,  a  roc  to  fiy, 

A  goat  to  tease,  a  copper  to  sky, 

A  garret  of  apples,  a  box  of  paints, 

A  saw  and  a  hammer  and  no  complaints. 

Nail  up  the  door,  slide  down  the  stairs. 
Saw  off  the  legs  of  the  parlour- chairs — 
That  was  the  way  in  Lillipnt-land, 
The  children  having  the  upper  hand. 

They  made  the  Old  Folks  come  to  school, 
All  in  pinafores, —  that  was  the  rule, — 
Saying  Eener-deener-diner-duss, 
Kattler-ivheeler-whiler-wuss ; 

They  made  them  learn  all  sorts  of  things 
That  nobody  liked.     They  had  catechisings ; 
They  kept  them  in,  they  sent  them  down 
In  class,  in  school,  in  Lilliput-town. 

O  but  they  gave  them  tit-for-tat ! 
Thick  bread-and-butter,  and  all  that ; 
Stick-jaw  pudding  that  tires  your  chin 
With  the  marmalade  spread  ever  so  thin  ! 

They  governed  the  clock  in  Lilliput-land, 
They  altered  the  hour  or  the  minute-hand, 
They  made  the  day  fast,  they  made  the  day" 

slow, 
Just  as  they  wished  the  time  to  go. 

They  never  waited  for  king  or  for  cat ; 
They  never  wiped  their  shoes  on  the  ma 
Their  joy  was  great ;  their  joy  was  greater ; 
They  rode  in  the  baby's  perambulator  ! 

There  was  a  Levee  in  Lilliput-town, 
At  Pinafore  Palace.     Smith  and  Brown, 
Jones  and  Robinson  had  to  attend — 
All  to  whom  they  cards  did  send. 

Every  one  rode  in  a  cab  to  the  door ; 
Every  one  came  in  a  pinafore ; 
Lady  and  gentleman,  rat-tat-tat, 
Loud  knock,  proud  knock,  opera  hat ! 

The  place  was  covered  with  silver  and  gold, 
The  place  was  as  full  as  it  ever  could  hold  • 
The  ladies  kissed  her  Majesty's  hand; 
Such  was  the  custom  in  LUiput-land. 

W.  B.  Rands, 
80* 


W.  B.  Eands.] 


BABY. 


[Seventh  Period.' 


1827.— BABY. 

O  when  did  Baby  come  ? 
When  half  the  world  was  dumb, 
Babe  was  dressed  in  white, 
In  the  black,  dead  night. 

O  Baby  came  from  where  ? 
That  place  is  very  fair  ; 
The  middle  of  the  skies, 
The  heart  of  Paradise. 

O  who  sent  Baby  here  ? 
It  was  an  angel  dear, 
A  spirit  of  purple  flame ; 
Love  is  that  angel's  name. 

O  who  was  Baby's  shield 
Down  from  the  heavenly  field 
Along  the  pathway  dim  ? 
— One  of  the  cherubim ;  » 
His  sword  he  took  with  him. 

His  golden  head  he  bowed 
To  cleave  the  hindering  cloud : 
A  seraph  shone  behind 
Singing  through  the  wind. 

Singing  and  shining  thus, 
They  brought  the  gift  to  us, 
And  in  the  dead  of  night, 
The  child  was  wrapt  in  white. 

O  God, — who  art  the  Lord 
Of  the  cherub  with  the  sword, 
And  the  seraph  with  the  lamp, — 
Let  both  of  them  encamp 

Beside  the  hushing  tent 
Of  the  creature  that  is  sent 
From  the  middle  of  Thy  sky, — 
To  guard,  to  beautify ; 

To  make  the  inaudible  breath 
More  terrible  than  Death, 
And  light  the  unconscious  face 
As  from  a  heavenly  place 
With  the  wonder  of  Thy  ways  ! 

Oh,  why  are  your  beautiful  eyes  so  red. 

Fair  Lady  ? 

They  have  taken  my  baby  out  of  my  bed, 

My  baby ! 

Speak  sooth,  your  babe  has  gone  up  to  God, 

Fair  Lady. 

His  little  feet,  little  feet  were  not  shod, 

My  Baby. 

But  the  road  that  leads  to  the  heavenly  town 
Is  all  over  clouds  as  soft  as  down, 

Fair  Lady. 
The  way  of  the  clouds  is  long  and  dim, 
I  would  I  were  there  to  carry  him, 

My  Baby. 

He  will  be  holpen  by  cherubs  bright, 
A  fair  new  star  for  a  lamp  they  light, 

Sweet  Lafly ! 


The  way  to  the  heavenly  town  is  long, 
I  would  I  could  sing  him  a  cradle  song, 

My  Baby. 
Our  Lord  stands  waiting  at  heaven's  door, 
And  Mary  Mother  runs  on  before, 

Sweet  Lady. 

0  he  will  feel  strange  in  the  heavenly  street, 

My  Baby. 

But  the  happy  Innocents  he  will  meet, 

Fair  Lady. 

For  the  comely  food  he  will  cry,  and  gays, 

My  Baby. 
They  make  him  a  feast  in  the  heavenly  place, 
Our  Lord  will  be  there  to  speak  the  grace. 
And  Mary  Mother,  with  godly  gays, 

Fair  Lady.. 

The  heavenly  town  will  grow  so  dear, 

He  will  forget  his  mother  here, 

My  Baby. 

He  shall  think  of  his  mother  in  all  the  cheer,^ 

He  shall  not  forget  in  a  thousand  year. 

Fair  Lady, 
W.  B.  Rands. 


1828.-.THE  SECEET  WAY. 
(From  "The  Lost  Tales  of  Miletus.") 

In  haste  he  sent  to  gather  fresh  recruits 
Among  the  fiercest  tribes  his  fathers  ruled. 
They  whom  a  woman  led 

When  to  her  feet  they  tossed  the  head  of 
Cyrus. 

And  the  tribes  answered — "  Let  the  Scythian 

King 
Eeturn  repentant  to  old  Scythian  ways. 
And  laugh  with  us  at  foes. 

Wains  know  no  sieges — Freedom  moves 
her  cities." 

Soon  came  the  Victor  with  his  Persian  guard?, 
And  all  the  rallied  vengeance  of  his  Medes ; 
One  night,  sprang  up  dread  camps 

With  lurid  watch-lights  circling  doomed 
ramparts, 

As  hunters  round  the  wild  beasts  in  their  lair 
Marked  for  the  javelin,  wind  a  belt  of  fire. 
Omartes  scanned  his  walls 

And  said,  "  Ten  years  Troy  baffled  Aga- 
memnon." 

Yet  pile  up  walls,  out-topping  Babylon, 
Manned  foot  by  foot  with  sleepless  sentinels, 
And  to  and  fro  wUl  pass, 

Free  as  the  air  thro'  keyholes.  Love  and 
Treason. 

Be  elsewhere  told  the  horrors  of  that  siege. 
The  desperate  sally,  slaughter,  and  repulse 
Eepelled  in  turn  the  foe. 

With  Titan   ladders   scaling  cloud-capt 
bulwarks, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 


[Egbert  Lytton. 


Hurled  back  and  buried  under  rocks  heaved 

down 
By  wrathful  hands  from   scatheless  battle^ 
ments. 
With  words  of  holy  charm, 

Soothing  despair  and  leaving  resignation. 

Mild  thro'  the  city  moved  Argiope, 
Pale  with  a  sorrow  too  divine  for  fear  ; 
And  when,  at  mom  and  eve, 

She  bowed  her  meek  head  to  her  father's 
blessing, 

Omartes  felt  as  if  the  righteous  gods 
Could   doom    no    altars   at   whoso   foot   she 
prayed. 
Only,  when  all  alone. 

Stole  from  her  lips  a  murmur  like  com- 
plaint, 

Shaped  in  these  words,  "  Wert  thou,  then,  but 

a  dream  ? 
Or  shall  I  see  thee  in  the  Happy  Fields  ?  " 
Now  came  with  stony  eye 

The  livid  vanquisher  of  cities,  Famine  ; 

And  moved  to  pity  now,  the  Persian  sent 
Heralds  with  proffered  peace  on  terms  that 
seem 
Gentle  to  Asian  kings, 
And  unendurable  to  Europe's  Freemen  ; 

*'  I  from  thy  city  will  withdraw  my  hosts. 
And  leave  thy  people  to  their  chiefs  and  laws, 
Taking  from  all  thy  realm 

Nought  save  the  river,  which  I  make  my 
border, 

*'  If  but,  in  homage  to  my  sovereign  throne, 
Thou  pay  this  petty  tribute  once  a  year ; 
Six  grains  of  Scythian  soil, 

One  urn  of  water  spared  from  Scythian 
fountains." 

And  the    Scyth  answered — "  Let  the   Mede 

demand 
That  which  is  mine  to  give,  or  gold  or  life  ; 
The  water  and  the  soil 

Are,  every  grain  and  every  drop,    my 
country's : 

'•  And  no  man  hath  a  country  where  a  King 
Pays  tribute  to  another  for  his  crown." 
And  at  this  stern  reply, 

The  Persian  doomed  to  fire  and  sword  the 
city. 

Lord  Lytton, 


1829.— THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 
(From  "  Chronicles  and  Characters.") 

So  she  rose,  and  went  forth  thro'  the  city. 

And  with  her  the  apple  she  bore 
In  her  bosom  :  and  stood  'mid  the  multitude, 

waiting  therewith  in  the  door 
Of  the  hall  where  the  King,  to  give  judgment, 

ascended  at  morning  his  throne  : 
And,  kneeling   there,  cried,  "Let   the  King 

live  for  ever !  Behold,  I  am  one 


"  Whom   the  vile   of   themselves   count    the 

vilest.      But  great   is   the  grace  of    my 

lord. 
And  now  let  my  lord  on  his  handmaid  look 

down,  and  give  ear  to  her  word." 
Thereat,  in  the  -witness  of  all,  she  drew  forth, 

and,  uplifting  her  head, 
Show'd  the  Apple  of  Life,  which  who  tastes, 

tastes  not  death.    "  And  this  apple,"  she 

said, 
"Last  night  was  deliver' d  to  me,  that  thy 

servant  should  eat,  and  not  die. 
But  I  said  to  the  soul  of  thy  servant,  'Not  so. 

For  behold,  what  am  I  ? 
That  the  King,   in  his  glory  and    gladness, 

should  cease  from  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Whiles  I,  that  am  least  of  his  slaves,  in  my 

shame  and  abasement  live  on.' 
For  not  sweet  is  the  life  of  thy  servant,  unless 

to  thy  servant  my  lord 
Stretch  his  hand,  and  show  favour ;  for  surely 

the  frown  of  a  king  is  a  sword. 
But  the  smile  of  the  King  is  as  honey  that 

flows  from  the  clefts  of  the  rock. 
And   his  grace  is  as  dew  that    from   Horeb 

descends  on  the  heads  of  the  flock : 
In  the  King  is  the  heart  of  a  host:  the  King's 

strength  is  an  army  of  men  : 
And   the  wrath  of  the  King  is  a  lion  that 

roareth  by  night  from  his  den  : 
But  as  grapes  from  the  vines  of  En-Gedi  are 

favours  that  fall  from  his  hands. 
And  as  towers  on  the  hiU-tops  of  Shenir  the 

throne  of  King  Solomon  stands. 
And  for  this,  it  were  weU  that  for  ever  the 

King,  who  is  many  in  one. 
Should  sit,  to  be  seen  thro'  all  time,  on  a 

throne  'twixt  the  moon  and  the  sun ! 
For  how  shall  one  lose  what  he  hath  not  ? 

Who  hath,  let  him  keep  what  he  hath. 
Wherefore  I  to  the  King  give  this  apple." 

Then  great  was  King 

Solomon's  wrath. 
And   he  rose,  rent   his   garment,  and   cried, 

"  Woman,  whence   came   this   apple   to 

thee  ?  " 
But  when  he  was  'ware  of  the  truth,  then  his 

heart  was  awaken' d.     And  he 
Knew  at  once  that  the  man  who,  erewhile, 

unawares  coming  to  him,  had  brought 
That  Apple  of  Life  was,  indeed,  God's  good 

Angel  of  Death.     And  he  thought 

"In  mercy,  I  doubt  not,  when  man's  eyes 
were  open'd  and  made  to  see  plain 

All  the  wrong  in  himself,  and  the  wretched- 
ness, God  sent  to  close  them  again 

For  man's  sake,  his  last  friend  upon  earth — 
Death,  the  servant  of  God,  who  is  just. 

Let  man's  spirit  to  Him  whence  it  cometh 
return,  and  his  dust  to  the  dust !  " 

Then  the  Apple  of  Life  did  King  Solomon  seal 

in  an  urn  that  was  sign'd 
With  the  seal  of  Oblivion :  and  summon' d  the 

Spirits  that  walk  in  the  wind 


Robert  Lytton.] 


EPILOGUE. 


[Seventh  Period. 


Unseen  on  the  summits  of  mountains,  where 

never  the  eagle  yet  flew ; 
And  these  he  commanded  to  bear  far  away, — 

out  of  reach,  out  of  view, 
Out  of  hope,   out  of  memory, — higher  than 

Ararat  buildeth  his  throne, 
In  the  Urn  of  Oblivion  the  Apple  of  Life. 

But  on  green  jaspar-stone 
Did  the  King  write  the  story  thereof  for  in- 
struction.    And  Enoch,  the  seer, 
Coming  afterward,  search'd  out  the  meaning. 
And  he  that  hath  ears,  let  him  hear. 

Robert  Lytton  (Owen  Meredith). 


1830.— EPILOGUE. 
(From  "Chronicles  and  Characters.") 

Long  of  yore,  on  the  mountain,  the  voice 

Of  the  merciful  Master  was  heard 
To  the  mourners  proclaiming  "  Eejoico  "  : 

And,  rejoicing,  they  welcomed  his  word : 
To  the  hand  of  the  rich  man  "  Eestore," 

To  the  heart  of  the  poor  man  "  Be  fed," 
And  "  Be  heal'd,"  to  the  souls  that  were  sore, 

And  to  all  men  "  Be  brothers,"  it  said. 
But,  since  Christ  hath  been  nail'd  to  the  tree, 

Fruits  unripe  have  our  hands  gather'd  of 
it: 
Noisy  worship  of  lip  and  of  knee. 

Niggard  love,  not  of  love,  but  of  profit. 
For  the  poor  is  opprest  as  of  old  : 

And  of  all  men  is  no  man  the  brother : 
And  the  Churches  but  gather  their  gold, 

While  the  nations  destroy  one  another  : 
Only,  all  of  these  things  are  now  done 

In  another  than  Caesar's  name  : 
And  all  wrongs  that  are  Christless  go  on 

Unashamed  of  all  Christian  shame  : 
By  the  white  man  despised  is  the  black  : 

And  the  strong  hath  his  heel  on  the  weak : 
By  the  burthen  still  gall'd  is  the  back : 

And  the  goal  is  yet  distant  to  seek  : 
Tho',  to  guide  us,  its  shining  is  oft, 

Like  a  fire  on  the  midnight,  discern'd  : 
When  the  hope  of  man's  heart  leaps  aloft 

From   the   chain   that    his    anguish   hath 
spurn' d : 
As  in  Germany  once  :  when  a  priest 

Was  changed  into  a  man,  for  man's  sake ; 
And  his  word,  as  the  dawn  fills  the  East, 

Fill'd  the  West,  till  a  world  was  awake  ; 
In  the  letter  a  soul  was  created 

By  the  breaking  the  seals  of  a  book  ; 
And  man's  conscience  in  man  reinstated, 

All  conscienceless  sovereignties  shook. 
Shook  indeed,  but  not  shatter'd !    For  straight- 
way 

When  indignant  and  bold  in  the  breach 
Thought  arose,  and  sped  on  thro'  the  gate- 
way. 

Whence  she  beckon' d  to  all  and  to  each, 


They  that   loosed   her    lost    heart :   and,  as 
onward 

She  explored  her  companionless  track 
To  the  goal  of  her  destiny — sunward, 

They  wrung   hands,  and  shriek'd  to   her, 
"  Come  back  !  " 
So  she  pass'd  from  among  them  for  ever, 

And  hath  left  them  where,  still  in  the  dark,^ 
Blowing  watchfires  spent,  they  shall  never 

Blow  the  ashes  thereof  to  a  spark  : 
Once  in  England:  when  Hampden's  high  will, 

Eliot's  truth  that  was  true  to  the  death, 
Pym's  large  speech,  and  the  sword  that  hath 
still 

*'  Freedom,"  graven  by  Law,  on  its  sheath, 
Won  for  England  what  woe  to  the  day 

When  England  forgets  to  revere. 
Or  uuheedfully  casts  it  away. 

Thro'  Futurity  helmless  to  steer ! 
Once  in  France  :  when  the  storm  of  the  sound 

Of  the  spirits  of  men  rushing  free 
Shook  the  shores  of  the  nations  around. 

As  the  roar  of  a  jubilant  sea ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  feeble  wax'd  strong, 

For  his  friends  were  as  one  flesh  and  blood 
In  the  casting  away  of  time's  wrong 

And  the  gathering  up  of  earth's  good  ; 
But  dull  time  goeth  deafly  since  when 

Those  rejoicings  were  mingled  by  time 
With  the  moans  of  the  murders  of  men, 

And  the  cursings  of  carnage  and  crime  ; 
All  is  silent  and  sullen  again  : 

And  again  the  old  cankering  forms 
Reappear,  as  Vv^hen  after  the  rain 

From  the  earth  reappear  the  earth-worms. 
0  the  infinite  effort  that  seems 

But  in  infinite  failure  to  finish  ! 
Man's  belief  in  the  good  that  he  dreams 

Must  each  fact,  he  awakes  to,  diminish  ? 
God  forbid  !    Whom  thank  thou  for  whatever 

Of  evil  remains — understood 
As  good  cause  for  continued  endeavour 

In  the  battle  'twixt  Evil  and  Good. 
Heed  not  what  may  be  gain'd  or  be  lost 

In  that  battle.     Whatever  the  odds. 
Fight  it  out,  never  counting  the  cost ; 

Man's  the  deed  is,  the  consequence  God's. 

Robert  Lytton  (Owen  Meredith), 


1 83 1.— THE  OWL  AND  THE  BELL. 

"  Ring,  Rim,  Rang,  Rome  ! " 

Sang  the  Bell  to  himself  in  his  house  at  home. 

Up  in  the  tower,  away  and  unseen. 

In  a  twilight  of  ivy,  cool  and  green  ; 

With  his  Ring,  Rim,  Rang,  Rome  ! 

Singing  bass  to  himself  in  his  house  at  home. 

Said  the  Owl  to  himself,  as  he  sat  below 
On  a  window-ledge,  like  a  ball  of  snow, 
"  Pest  on  that  fellow,  sitting  up  there. 
Always  calling  the  people  to  prayer! 
With  his  Ring,  Rim,  Rang,  Rome  ! 
Mighty  big  iji  his  house  at  home  ! 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


EEQTJIESCAT  IN  PACE. 


[Jean  Ingelow. 


"  I  will  move,"  said  tbe  Owl,     "  But  it  suits 

me  well ; 
And  one  may  g^t  used  to  it,  who  can  tell  ?  " 
So  lie  slept  in  the  day  with  all  his  might, 
And  rose  and  flapped  out  in  the  hush  of  night. 
When  the  Bell  was  asleep  in  his  tower  at 

home, 
Dreaming  over  his  Bing,  Bang,  Borne  ! 

For  the  owl  was  born  so  poor  and  genteel, 
He  was  forced  from  the  first  to  pick  and 

steal ; 
He  scorned  to  work  for  honest  bread — 
"Better  have  never  been  hatched  !  "  he  said. 
So  he  slept  all  day  ;  for  he  dared  not  roam 
Till    night    had    silenced  the    Bing,    Bang, 

Borne  1 

When  his  six  little  darlings  had  chipped  the 

He  must  steal  the  more  :  'twas  a  shame  to  beg. 
And  they  ate  the  more  that  they  did  not  sleep 

well : 
"It's   their   gizzards,"    said  Ma ;     said  Pa, 

"It's  the  Bell ! 
For  they  quiver  like  leaves  in  a  wind-blown 

tome. 
When  the   BeU  bellows  out  his  Bing,  Bang, 

Borne ! " 
But  the  Bell  began  to  throb  with  the  fear 
Of  bringing  the-  house  about  his  one  ear  ; 
And  his  people  were  patching  all  day  long. 
And  propping  the  walls  to  make  ^hem  strong. 
So  a  fortnight  he  sat,  and  felt  like  a  mome, 
For  he  dared  not  shout  his  Bing,  Bang,  Borne! 

Said  the  Owl  to  himself,  and  hissed  as  he  said, 

"  I  do  believe  the  old  fool  is  dead. 

Now — now,   I    vow,    I    shall    never    pounce 

twice; 
And  stealing  shall  be  all  sugar  and  spice. 
But  I'll  see  the  corpse,  ere  h'e's  laid  in  the 

loam, 
And    shout    in    his    ear    Bing,   Bim,   Bang, 

Borne  ! — 
Hoo !    hoo ! "    he   cried,   as  he   entered   the 

steeple, 
"  They've  hanged  him  at  last,  the  righteous 

people  ! 
His  swollen  tongue  lolls  out  of  his  head — 
Hoo !  hoo  !  at  last  the  old  brute  is  dead. 
There  let  him  hang,  the  shapeless  gnome  1 
Choked,  with  his  throat  full  of  Bing,  Bang, 

Borne  ! " 

So  he  danced  about  him,  singing  Too-wlioo  ! 
And  flapped  the  poor  Bell,  and  said,  "  Is  that 

you? 
Where  is  your  voice  with  its  wonderful  tone. 
Banging  poor  owls,  and  making  them  groan  ? 
A  fig  for  you  now,  in  your  great  hall-dome  ! 
Too-wlioo  is  better  than  Bing,  Bang,  Borne  !" 

So  brave  was  the  Owl,  the  downy  and  dapper, 
That  he  flew  inside,  and  sat  on  the  clapper ; 
And    he    shouted    Too-whoo !    till   the    echo 

awoke, 
Like  the  sound  of  a  ghostly  clapper-stroke  : 


"Ah,  ha!"  quoth  the  Owl,  "I  am   quite  at 

home — 
I  will  take  your  place  with  my  Bing,  Bang. 

Borne ! " 

The  Owl  was  uplifted  with  pride  and  self- 
wonder  ; 
He  hissed,  and  then  called  the  echo  thunder ; 
And  he  sat  the  monarch  of  feathered  fowl 
Tai — Bang  !  went  the  Bell — and  down  went 

the  Owl, 
Like  an  avalanche  of  feathers  and  foam, 
Loosed  by  the  booming  Bing,  Bang,  Borne ! 

He  sat  where  he  fell,  as  if  nought  was  the 

matter, 
Though  one  of   his  eyebrows  was  certainly 

flatter. 
Said  the  eldest  Owlet,  "  Pa,  you  were  wrong  ; 
He's  at  it  again  with  his  vulgar  song." 
"Be  still,"  said  the  Owl;  "you're  guilty  of 

pride  : 
I  brought  him  to  life  by  perching  inside." 

"  But  why,  my  dear  P  "  said  his  pillowy  wife  ; 
"  You  know  he  was  always  the  plague  of  your 

life." 
"  I  have  given  him  a  lesson  of  good  for  evil ; 
Perhaps  the  old  rufl&an  will  now  be  civil." 
The   Owl    looked   righteous,    and   raised   his 

comb; 
But   the    Bell    bawled   on    his   Bing,   Bang, 

Borne  1 

George  Macdonald. 


1832.— EEQUIESCAT  IN  PACE! 

0  my  heart,  my  heart  is  sick  awishing  and 
awaiting :  , 

The  lad  took  up  his  knapsack,  he  went,  he 
went  his  way ; 
And  I  looked  on  for  his  coming,  as  a  prisoner 
through  the  grating 
Looks  and  longs  and  longs  and  wishes  for 
its  opening  day. 

On  the  wild  purple  mountains,  all  alone  with 
no  other, 
The  strong  terrible  mountains,  he  longed, 
he  longed  to  be ; 
And  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  father,  and  he 
stooped  to  kiss  his  mother. 
And  till  I  said  "  Adieu,  sweet  Sir,"  he  quite 
forgot  me. 

He  wrote  of  their  white  raiment,  the  ghostly 
capes  that  screen  them, 
Of  the  storm  winds  that  beat  them,  their 
thunder-rents  and  scars. 
And  the  paradise  of  purple,  and  the  golden 
slopes  atween  them. 
And  fields,  where  grow  God's  gentian  bells, 
and  His  crocus  stars. 


Jean  iNasLow.] 


EEQUIESCAT  IN  PACE. 


[Seventh  Pekiod.- 


He  wrote  of  frail  gauzy  clouds,  that  drop  on 
them  like  fleeces, 
And  make  green  their  fir  forests,  and  feed 
their  mosses  hoar ; 
Or  come  sailing  up  the  valleys,  and  get  wrecked 
and  go  to  pieces, 
Like  sloops  against  their  cruel  strength :  then 
he  wrote  no  more. 

O  the  silence  that  came  next,  the  patience  and 
long  aching ! 
They  never  said  so  much  as  "He  was  a  dear 
loved  son ; " 
Not  the  father  to  the  mother  moaned,  that 
dreary  stillness  breaking : 
"  Ah !  wherefore  did  he  leave  us  so — this, 
our  only  one?" 

They  sat  within,  as  waiting,  until  the  neigh- 
bours prayed  them. 
At  Cromer,  by  the  sea-coast,  'twere  peace 
and  change  to  be ; 
And   to  Cromer,  in   their  patience,  or  that 
urgency  affrayed  them, 
Or  because  the  tidings  tarried',  they  came, 
and  took  me. 

It  was  three  months  and  over  since  the  dear 
lad  had  started : 
On  the  green  downs  at  Cromer  I  sat  to  see 
the  view ; 
On  an  open  space  of  herbage,  where  the  ling 
and  fern  had  parted, 
Betwixt  the  tall  white  lighthouse  towers, 
the  old  and  the  new. 

Below  me  lay  the  wide  sea,  the  scarlet  sun  was 
stooping ; 
And  he  dyed  the  waste  water,  as  with  a 
scarlet  dye ; 
And  he  dyed  the  lighthouse  towers :  every  bird 
with  white  wing  swooping 
Took*  his  colours,  and  the  cliffs  did,  and  the 
yawning  sky. 

Over  grass  came  that  strange  flush,  and  over 
ling  and  heather. 
Over  flocks  of  sheep  and  lambs,  and  over 
Cromer  town ; 
And  each  filmy  cloudlet  crossing  drifted  like 
a  scarlet  feather 
Tom  from  the  folded  wings  of  clouds,  while 
he  settled  down. 

t 

When  I  looked,  I  dared  not  sigh: — In  the  light 
of  God's  splendour, 
With  His  daily  blue  and  gold,  who  am  I  ? 
what  am  I  ? 
JBut  that  passion  and  outpouring  seemed  an 
awful  sign  and  tender, 
Like  the  blood  of  the  Eedeemer.  shown  on 
earth  and  sky. 

O  for  comfort,  O  the  waste  of  a  long  doubt 
and  trouble ! 
On  that  sultry  August  eve  trouble  had  made 
me  meek : 


I  was  tired  of  my  sorrow — 0  so  faint,  for  it 
was  double 
In  the  weight  of  its  oppression,  that  I  could 
not  speak! 

And  a  little  comfort  grew,  while  the  dimmed 
eyes  were  feeding, 
And  the  dull  ears  with  murmur  of  waters 
satisfied 
But  a  dream  came  slowly  nigh  me,  all  my 
thoughts  and  fancy  leading 
Across  the  bounds  of  waking  life  to  the 
other  side. 

And  I  dreamt  that  I  looked  out,  to  the  waste 
waters  turning, 
And  saw  the  flakes  of  scarlet  from  wave  to 
wave  tossed  on ; 
And  the  scarlet  mix  with  azure,  where  a  heap 
of  gold  lay  burning 
On  the  clear  remote  sea  reaches ;   for  the 
sun  was  gone. 

Then  I  thought  a  far-off  shout  dropped  across 
the  still  water — 
A  question  as  I  took  it,  for  soon  an  answer 
came 
From  the  tall  white  ruined  lighthouse  :  "  If  it 
be  the  old  man's  daughter 
That  we  wot  of,"  ran  the  answer,  "  what 
then — who's  to  blame  ?  " 

I  looked  up  at  the  lighthouse  all  roofless  and 
storm-broken : 
A  great  white  bird  sat  ou  it,  with  neck 
stretched  out  to  sea ; 
Unto  somewhat  which  was  sailing  in  a  skiff 
the  bird  had  spoken. 
And  a  trembling  seized  my  spirit,  for  they 
talked  of  me. 

I  was  the  old  man's  daughter,  the  bii-d  went 
on  to  name  him  ; 
"  He  loved  to  count  the  starlings  as  he  sat 
in  the  sun ! 
Long  ago  he  served  with  Nelson,  and  his  story 
did  not  shame  him : 
Ay,  the  old  man  was  a  good  man — and  his 
work  was  done." 

The  skiff  was  like  a  crescent,  ghost  of  some 
moon  departed, 
Frail,  white,  she  rocked  and  curtseyed  as 
the  red  wave  she  crossed. 
And  the  thing  within  sat  paddling,  and  the 
crescent  dipped  and  darted. 
Flying   on,  again  was   shouting,  but   the 
words  were  lost. 

I  said,  "  That  thing  is  hooded ;  I  could  hear 
but  that  floweth 
The  great  hood  below  its  mouth:"  then  the 
bird  made  reply, 
"  If  they  know  not,  more's  the  pity,  for  the 
little  shrewmouse  knoweth. 
And  the  kite  knows,  and  the  eagle,  and  the 
glead  and  pye." 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  SEA. 


[A.  C.  SWINBUENE. 


And  he  stooped  to  wliet  his  beak  on  tlie  stones 
of  the  coping ; 
And  when  once  more  the  shout  came,  in 
querulous  tones  he  spake, 
"What  I  said  was  ' more's  the  pity; *  "  if  the 
heart  be  long  past  hoping, 
Let  it  say  of  death,  "I  know  it,"  or  doubt 
on  and  break. 

"  Men  must  die — one  dies  by  day,  and  near 
him  moans  his  mother, 
They  dig  his  grave,  tread  it  down,  and  go 
from  it  full  loth ; 
And  one  dies  about  the  midnight,  and  the 
wind  moans,  and  no  other. 
And  the  snows  give  him  a  burial — and  God 
loves  them  both. 

"  The  first  hath  no  advantage — it  shall  not 
soothe  his  slumber 
That  a  lock  of  his  brown  hair  his  father  aye 
shall  keep; 
For  the  last,  he  nothing  grudgeth,  it  shall 
nought  his  quiet  cumber. 
That  in  a  golden  mesh  of  his  callow  eaglets 
sleep. 

"  Men  must  die  when  all  is  said,  e'en  the  kite 
and  glead  know  it. 
And  the  lad's  father  knew  it,  and  the  lad, 
tlie  lad  too ; 
It  was  never  kept  a  secret,  waters  bring  it 
and  winds  blow  it. 
And  he  met  it  on  the  mountain — why  then 
make  ado  ?  " 

With  that  he  spread  his  white  wings,   and 
swept  across  the  water, 
I  Lit  upon  the  hooded  head,  and  it  and  all 

went  down ; 
And  they  laughed  as  they  went  under,  and  I 
woke,  "the  old  man's  daughter," 
And  looked  across  the  slope  of  grass,  and  at 
Cromer  Town. 

And  I  said,  "  Is  that  the  sky,  all  grey  and 
silver  suited?  " 
And  I  thought,  "  Is  that  the  sea  that  lies 
so  white  and  wan  ? 
I  have  dreamed  as  I  remember  ;  give  me  time 
— I  was  reputed 
Once  to  have  a  steady  courage — 0,  I  fear 
'tis  gone  !  " 

And  I  said,  "  Is  this  my  heart  ?     If  it  be,  low 
'tis  beating, 
So  he   lies  on  the  mountain,  hard  by  the 
eagles'  brood ; 
I  have  had  a  dream  this  evening,  while  the 
white  and  gold  were  fleeting. 
But  I  need  not,  need  not  tell  it — where 
would  be  the  good  ? 

'  Where  would  be  the  good  to  them  his  father 
and  his  mother  ? 
For  the  ghost  of  their  dead  hope  appeareth 
to  them  still. 


While  a  lonely  watchfire  smoulders,  who  it? 
dying  red  would  smother, 
That  gives  what  little  light  there  is  to  a 
darksome  hill  ?  " 

I  rose  up,  I  made  no  moan,  I  did  not  cry  nor 
falter, 
But  slowly  in  the  twilight  I  came  to  Cromer 
town. 
What   can  wringing   of   the   hands   do  that 
which  is  ordained  to  alter  ? 
He  had  climbed,  had  climbed  the  mountain, 
he  would  ne'er  come  down. 

But,  O  my  first,  O  my  best,  I  could  not  choose 
but  love  thee : 
0,  to  be  a  wild  white  bird,  and  seek  thy 
rocky  bed ! 
From  my  breast  I'd  give  thee  burial,  pluck 
the  down  and  spread  above  thee  : 
I  would  sit  and    sing  thy  requiem  on  the 
mountain  head. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  love  of  loves  !  would  I  had 
died  before  thee ! 
O,  to  be  at  least  a  cloud,  that  near  thee  I 
might  flow. 
Solemnly  approach  the  mountain,  weep  away 
my  being  o'fer  thee. 
And  veil  thy  breast  with  icicles,  and  thy 
brow  with  snow ! 

Jean  Ingelow. 


1833.— THE  SEA. 
(From  "  The  Triumph  of  Time.") 

I  will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  mother — 
Mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  Sea. 

I  will  go  down  to  her,  I,  and  none  other 
Close  with  her,  kiss  her,  and  mix  her  with 
me ; 

CHng  to  her,  strive  with  her,  hold  her  fast ; 

O  fair  white  mother  in  days  long  past, — 

Bom  without  sister,  bom  without  brother, — 
Let  free  my  soul  as  thy  soul  is  free. 

0  fair,  green-girdled  mother  of  mine. 

Sea,  that  art  clothed  with  the  sun  and  the 
rain. 
Thy  sweet,  hard  kisses  are  strong  like  wine. 

Thy  large  embraces  are  keen  like  pain. 
Save  me  and  hide  me  with  aU  thy  waves. 
Find  me  one  grave  of  thy  thousand  graves, — . 
These  pure  cold,  populous  graves  of  thine, 
Wrought  without  hand  in  a  world  without 
stain. 

1  shall  sleep,  and  move  with  the  moving  ships  ; 

Change  as  the  winds  change,  veer  in  the 
tide  ; 
My  lips  will  feast  on  the  foam  of  thy  lips, 

I  shall  rise  with  thy  rising,  with  thee  sub- 
side : 


A.  C.  Swinburne.] 


MELEAGEE  DYING. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


Sleep,  and  not  know  if  she  be,  if  she  were — 
Filled  full  with  life  to  the  eyes  and  the  hair, 
As  a  rose  is  full  filled  to  the  rose-leaf  tips 
With  splendid  summer,  and  perfume,  and 
pride. 

This  woven  raiment  of  nights  and  days, 
Were  it  once  cast  off  and  unwound  from  me, 

Naked  and  glad  would  I  walk  in  thy  ways — 
Alive  and  aware  of  thy  ways  and  thee  ; 

Clear  of  the  whole  world,  hidden  at  home, 

Clothed  with  the  green  and  crowned  with  the 
foam, — 

A  pulse  of  the  life  of  thy  straits  and  bays, 
A  vein  in  the  heart  of  the  streams  of  the 
Sea. 

Fair  mother,  fed  with  the  lives  of  men, 

Thou  art  subtle  and  cruel  of  heart,  men 
say 
Thou  hast  taken,  and  shalt  not  render  again. 
Thou  art  full  of  thy  dead,  and  cold  as  they. 
But  death  is  the  worst  that  comes  of  thee ; 
Thou  art  fed  with  our  dead,  O  mother,  O  Sea. 
But  when  hast  thou  fed  on  our  hearts  ?  or 
when. 
Having  given  us  love,   hast    thou  taken 
away  ? 

0,  tender-hearted,  0,  perfect  lover, 

Thy  lips  are  bitter  and  sweet  thine  heart. 
The  hopes   that   hurt   and   the  dreams  that 
hover 
Shall  they  not  vanish  away  and  apart  ? 
But  thou,  thou  art  sure,  thou  art  older  than 

earth ; 
Thou   art   strong  for   death  and   fruitful  of 

birth; 
Thy  depths  conceal  and  thy  gulfs  discover 
From  the  first  thou  wert ;  in  the  end  thou 
art. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


1834.— MELEAGEE  (son  of  (Eneus  and 
Althsea)  DYING. 

(From  "  Atalanta  in  Caltdon.") 

Pray  thou  thy  days  be  long  before  thy  death. 
And  fuU   of    ease   and  kingdom;    seeing  in 

death 
There  is  no  comfort  and  no  aftergrowth. 
Nor  shall  one  thence  look  up  and  see  day's 

dawn, 
Nor  light  upon  the  land  whither  I  go. 
Live  thou,  and  take  thy  fill  of  days,  and  die 
When  thy  day  comes ;  and  make  not  much  of 

death. 
Lest  ere  thy  day  thou  reap  an  evil  thing. 
Thou,   too,  the  bitter  mother   and    mother- 
plague 
Of  this  my  weary  body — thou,  too,  queen, 
The  source  and  end,  the  sower  and  the  scythe. 
The  rain  that  ripens  and  the  drought  that 
slays. 


The  sand  that  swallows  and  the  spring  that 

feeds, 
To  make  me  and  unmake  me, — thou,  I  say, 
Althsea,  since  my  father's  ploughshare,  drawn 
Through  fatal  seedland  of  a  female  field. 
Furrowed  thy  body,  whence  a  wheaten  ear 
Strong  from  the  sun  and  fragrant  from  the 

rains 
I  sprang  and  cleft  the  closure  of  thy  womb. 
Mother, — I,  dying,  with  unforgetful  tongue 
Hail  thee  as  holy  and  worship  thee  as  just 
Who  art  unjust  and  unholy;    and  with  my 


Would  worship,  but  thy  fire  and  subtlety 
Dissundering    them,   devour   me ;    for   these 

limbs 
Are  as  light  dust  and  crurablings  from  mine 

urn 
Before  the  fire  has  touched  them ;  and  my 

face 
As  a  dead  leaf  or  dead  foot's  mark  on  snow. 
And  all  this  body  a  broken  barren  tree 
That  was  so  strong;  and  all  this  flower  of 

life 
Disbranched  and  desecrated  miserably. 
And  'minished  all   that  godlike  muscle  and 

might 
And  lesser  than  a  man's  :  for  all  my  veins 
Fail  me,  and  all  my  ashen  life  burns  down. 
I  would  thou   hadst   let  me  live ;  but  gods 

averse. 
But  fortune,  and  the  fiery  feet  of  change, 
And  time,  these  would  not, — these  tread  out 

my  life, — 
These,    and  not  thou;    me,   too,    thou   hast 

loved,  and  I 
Thee  ;  but  this  death  was  mixed  with  all  my 

life. 
Mine  end  with  my  beginning ;  and  this  law. 
This  only,  slays  me,  and  not  my  mother  at 

all. 
And  let  no  brother  or  sister  grieve  too  sore, 
Nor  melt  their  hearts  out  on  me  with  their 

tears, 
Since  ex.trem6  love  and  sorrowing  overmuch 
Vex  the  great  gods,  and  overloving  men 
Slay  and  are  slain  for  love's  sake  ;  and  tins 

house 
Shall  bear  much  better  children.  Why  should 

these 
Weep  ?    But  in  patience  let  them  live  their 

lives, 
And  mine  pass  by  forgotten :  thou  alone 
Mother,  thou  sole  and  only, — thou,  not  these. 
Keep  me  in  mind  a  little  when  I  die. 
Because  I  was  thy  firstborn  ;  let  thy  soul 
Pity  me,  pity  even  me  gone  hence  and  dead. 
Though  thou  wert  wroth,  and  though  thou 

bear  again 
Much  happier  sons,  and  all  men  later  born 
Exceedingly  excel  me  ;  yet  do  thou 
Forget  not,  nor  think  shame  ; — I  was  thy  son. 
Time  was  I  did  not  shame  thee ;  and  time  was 
I  thought  to  live  and  make  thee  honourable 
With  deeds  as  great  as  these  men's ;  but  they 

live, 


From  1780  to  186C.] 


lEIS.  THE  EAINBOW. 


\R.  Buchanan. 


These,  and  I  die ;  and  what  thing  should  have 

been 
Surely  I  know  not ;  yet  I  charge  thee,  seeing 
I  am  dead  already,  not  to  love  me  less, — 
Me,  O  my  mother  j  I  charge  thee  by  these 

gods — 
My  father's,  and  that  holier  breast  of  thine. 
By  these  that  see  me  dying,  and  that  which 

nursed, 
Love  me  not  less,  thy  first-bom :  thou,  grief, 

come, 
Grief  only,  of  me,  and  of  all  these  great  joy, 
And    shall   come   always   to  thee ;    for  thou 

knowest, 
O  mother,  O  breasts  that   bare   me,  for  ye 

know, 

0  sweet  head  of  my  mother,  sacred  eyes, 
Ye  know  my  soul,  albeit  I  sinned ;  ye  know 
Albeit  I  kneel  not,  neither  touch  my  knees. 
But  with  my  lips  I  kneel,  and  with  my  heart 

1  fall  about  thy  feet  and  worship  thee. 
And  ye  farewell  now,  all  my  friends ;  and  ye 
Kinsmen,  much  younger  and  glorious  more 

than  I, 
Sons  of  my  mother's  sister  ;  and  all  farewell 
That  were  in  Colchis  with  me,  and  bare  down 
The  waves  and  wars  that  met  us  :  and  though 

times 
Change,  and  though  now  I  be  not  anything, 
Forget  not  me  among  you  what  I  did 
In  my  good  time  ;  for  even  by  all  those  days, 
Those  days  and  this,  and  your  own  living 

souls. 
And  by  the  light  and  luck  of  you  that  live, 
And  by  this  miserable  spoil,  and  me 
Dying,  I  beseech  you  let  my  name  not  die. 
But  thou,  dear,  touch  me  with  thy  rose-like 

hands. 
And  fasten  up  my  eyelids  with  thy  mouth, 
A  bitter  kiss  ;  and  grasp  me  with  thine  arms. 
Printing  with  heavy  lips  my  light  waste  flesh 
Made  light  and  thin  by  heavy-handed  fate, 
And  with  thine  holy  maiden  eyes  drop  dew. 
Drop  tears  for  dew  upon  me  who  am  dead. 
Me  who  have  loved  thee  ;  seeing  without  sin 

done 
I  am  gone  down  to  the  empty,  weary  house 
Where  no  flesh  is,  nor  beauty,  nor  swift  eyes. 
Nor  sound  of  mouth,  nor  might  of  hands  and 

feet ; 
But  thou,  dear,  hide  my  body  with  thy  veil, 
And  with  thy  raiment  cover  foot  and  head, 
And  stretch  thyself  upon  me,  and  touch  hands 
With  hands,  and  lips  with  lips  :  be  pitiful 
As  thou  art  maiden  perfect ;  let  no  man 
Defile  me  to  despise  me,  saying,  'J'his  man 
Died  woman-wise,  a  woman's  otfering,  slain 
Through  female  fingers  in  his  woof  of  life. 
Dishonourable ;  for  thou  hast  honoured  me. 
And  now,  for  God's  sake,  kiss  me  once  and 

twice 
And  let  me  go  ;  for  the  night  gathers  me. 
And  in  the  night  shall  no  man  gather  fruit. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 


1835.— lEIS,  THE  RAINBOW. 

'Mid  the  cloud-enshrouded  haze 

Of  Olympus  I  arise. 
With  the  full  and  rainy  gaze 

Of  Apollo  in  mine  eyes  ; 
But  I  shade  my  dazzled  glance 

With  my  dripping  pinions  white, 
Where  the  sunlight  sparkles  dance 

In  a  many-tinctured  light : 
My  foot  upon  the  woof 

Of  a  fleecy  cloudlet  small, 
I  glimmer  through  the  roof 

Of  the  paven  banquet  hall. 
And  a  soft,  pink  radiance  dips 

Through  the  floating  mists  divine — 
Touching  eyes  and  cheeks  and  lips 

Of  the  mild- eyed  Gods  supine ; 
And  the  pinky  odour  rolls 

Eound  their  foreheads,  while  I  stain 
With  a  blush  like  wine  the  bowls 

Of  foam-crusted  porcelain : 
Till  the  whole  calm  place  has  caught 

A  deep  gleam  of  rosy  fire — 
When  I  darken  to  the  thought 

In  the  eyes  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 

Then  Zeus,  arising,  stoops 

O'er  the  ledges  of  t;ie  skies, 
Looking  downward  through  the  loops 

Of  the  starry  tapestries  : 
On  the  evident  dark  plain 

Speckled  with  wood  and  hill  and  stream. 
On  the  wrinkled  tawny  main, 

Where  the  ships  like  snowfiakes  gleam , 
And  with  finger  without  swerve 

Slightly  lifted,  swiftly  whirled. 
He  draws  a  magic  curve 

O'er  the  cirrus  of  the  world  ; 
WTien  with  waving  wings  displayed 

On  the  sun-god's  threshold  bright 
I  upleap  and  seem  to  fade 

In  a  humi  1  flash  of  light. 
But  I  plunge  through  vapours  dim 

To  the  dark  low -lying  land, 
And  I  tumble,  float,  and  swim 

On  the  strange  curve  of  the  Hand  : 
From  my  wings  that  drip,  drip,  drip 

With  cool  rains,  short  jets  of  fire, 
As  across  green  Capes  I  slip 

With  the  thought  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 

Thence,  with  drooping  wings  bedewed, 

Folded  close  about  my  form, 
I  alight  with  feet  unviewed 

On  the  ledges  of  the  storm  ; 
For  a  moment,  cloud- enrolled, 

'Mid  the  murmurous  rain  I  stand, 
And  with  meteor  eyes  behold 

Vapoury  ocean,  misty  land : 
Till  the  thought  of  Zeus  outsprings 

From  my  ripe  mouth  with  a  sigh, 
And  unto  my  lips  it  clings 

Like  a  shining  butterfly ; 
When  I  brighten,  gleam,  and  glow 

And  my  glittering  wings  unfurl, 
And  the  melting  colours  flow 

To  my  foot  of  dusky  pearl ; 


A.  H.  Clough.] 


INCITEMENT  TO  PERSEVERANCE.         [Seventh  Period. 


And  the  ocean,  mile  on  mile, 

Gleams  through  capes,  and  straits,  and 
bays, 
And  the  vales  and  mountains  smile. 

And  the  leaves  are  wet  with  rays, — 
While  I  wave  the  humid  Bow 

Of  my  wings  with  flash  of  fire, 
And  the  tempest,  crouched  below, 

Knows  the  thought  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 

B.  Buchanan. — Born  1841. 


1836.- 


-INCITEMENT  TO  PERSE- 
VERANCE. 


Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain ; 

The  enemy  faints  not  nor  faileth. 
As  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes  fears  may  be  Hars, 
It  may  be  in  yon  smoke  concealed  , 

Tour  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  flyers 
And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field.     - 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  powerful  inch  to  gain. 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making. 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light ; 

In  front  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

A.  H,  Clough.— Bom  1819,  Died  1861. 


1837.— TO  A  SLEEPING-  CHILD. 

Lips,  lips,  open ! 

Up  comes  a  little  bird  that  lives  inside, 
Up  comes  a  little  bird  and  peeps,  and  out  he 
flies. 

All  the  day  he  sits  inside,  and  sometimes  he 

sings, 
Up  he  comes  and  out  he  goes  at  night  to  spread 

his  wings. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  whither  will  you  go  ? 
Round  about  the  world  while  nobody  can  know. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  whither  do  you  flee  ? 
Far  away  round  the  world  while  nobody  can 
see. 

Little  bird,  little  bird,  how  long  will  you  roam  ? 
All  round  the  world  and  around  again  home. 

Round  the  round  world,  and  back  thro'  the  air, 
When  the  morning  comes  the  little  bird  is 
there. 

Back  comes  the  little  bird  and  looks,  and  in  he 

flies, 
Up  wakes  the  little  boy,  and  opens  both  his  eyes. 

Sleep,  sleep,  little  boy,  little  bird 's  away, 
Little  bird  will  come  again  by  the  peep  of  day. 


Sleep,  sleep,  little  boy,  little  bird  must  go 
Round  about  the  world,  while  nobody  can  know. 

Sleep,  sleep  sound,  little  bird  goes  round, 
Round  and  round  he  goes,  sleep,  sleep  sound. 

A.  H.  Clough.— Born  1819,  Died  1861. 


1838.— THE  EMIGRANT'S  ADIEU  TO 
BALLYSHANNON. 

Adieu  to  Ballyshannon  !  where  I  was  bred  and 

born ; 
Go  where  I  may,  I'll  think  of  you,  as  sure  as 

night  and  morn, 
The  kindly  spot,  the  friendly  town,   where 

every  one  is  known, 
And  not  a  face  in  all  the  place  but  partly 

seems  my  own ; 
There's  not  a  house  or  window,  there's  not  a 

field  or  hill, 
But,  east  or  west,  in  foreign  lands,  I'll  recol- 
lect them  still. 
I  leave  my  warm  heart  with  you,  though  my 

back  I'm  forced  to  turn — 
So  adieu  to    Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding 

banks  of  Erne ! 

No  more  on  pleasant  evenings  we'll  saunter 

down  the  Mall, 
When  the  trout  is  rising  to  the  fly,  the  salmon 

to  the  fall. 
The  boat  comes  straining  on  her  net,   and 

heavily  she  creeps. 
Cast  off,  cast  off ! — she  feels  the  oars,  and  to 

her  berth  she  sweeps ; 
Now  fore  and  aft  keep  hauling,  and  gathering 

up  the  clue, 
TiU  a  silver  wave  of  salmon  rolls  in  among  the 

crew. 
Then  they  may  sit,  with  pipes  a-lit,  and  many 

a  joke  and  "  yarn  "  ; — 
Adieu  to  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding  banks 

of  Erne! 

The  music  of  the  waterfall,  the  mirror  of  the 

tide, 
When  all  the  green-hill'd  harbour  is  full  from 

side  to  side — 
From  Portnasum  to  Bulliebawns,  and  round 

the  Abbey  Bay, 
From  rocky  Inis  Saimer  to  Coolnargit  sand- 
hills grey ; 
While  far  upon  the  southern  line,  to  guard  it 

like  a  wall. 
The  Leitrim  mountains,  clothed  in  blue,  gaze 

calmly  over  all. 
And  watch  the  ship  sail  up  or  down,  the  red 

flag  at  her  stern ; — 
Adieu  to  these,  adieu  to  aU  the  winding  banks 
of  Erne! 

*  *  *  * 

Farewell  to  every  white  cascade  from  the 
Harbour  to  Belleek, 

And  every  pool  where  fins  may  rest,  and  ivy- 
shaded  creek  j 


From  1780  to  1866.]  FROM  "  THE  LOVES  OF  GUDEUN. 


[William  Mobris. 


The  sloping  fields,  the  lofty  rocks,  where  ash 

and  holly  grow. 
The  one  split  yew-tree  gazing  on  the  curving 

flood  below ; 
The  Lough,  that  winds  through  islands  under 

Turaw  mountain  green  ; 
And  Castle  Caldwell's  stretching  wosds,  with 

tranquil  bays  between ; 
And  Breesie  Hill,  and  many  a  pond  among  the 

heath  and  fern, — 
For  I  must  say  adieu — adieu  to  the  winding 

banks  of  Erne ! 

The  thrush  will  call  through  Camlin  groves 

the  livelong  summer  day  ; 
The  waters  run  by  mossy  cliff,  and  bank  with 

wild  flowers  gay ; 
The  girls  will  bring  their  work  and  sing  be- 
neath a  twisted  thorn. 
Or  stray  with    sweethearts  down   the   path 

among  the  growing  corn  ; 
Along  the  river  side  they  go,  where  I  have 

often  been, — 
O,  never   shall  I  see  again  the  days  that  I 

have  seen ! 
A  thousand  chances  are  to  one  I  never  may 

return, — 
Adieu  to  Ballyshannon,  and  the  winding  banks 

of  Erne  ! 

William  Allingham. 


Who  perchance  loved  not.  Is  Gudrun  too  fair 
To  take  this  thing  a  queen  might  long  to  wear? 
Upon  the  day  when  on  the  bench  ye  sit, 
Hand  held  in  hand,  crown  her  fair  head  with 

it. 
And  tell  her  whence  thou  hadst  it.     Ah,  fa,re- 

well. 
Lest  of  mine  eyes  thou  shouldst  have  worse  to 

tell 
Than  now  thou  hast  !" 

Therewith  she  turned  from  him 
And  took  the  coif,  wherein  the  gold  was  dim 
With  changing  silken  threads,  the  linen  white, 
Scarce  seen  amid  the  silk  and  gold  delight. 
With  hands  that  trembled  little  did  she  fold 
The  precious  thing,  and  set  its  weight  of  gold 
Within  a  silken  bag  ;  and  then  to  his 
She  reached  her  hands,  and  in  one  bitter  kiss 
Tasted  his  tears,  while  a  great  wave  of  thought 
Of  what  sweet  things  the  changed  years  might 

have  brought 
Swept  over  her— and  then  she  knew  him  gone, 
And  yet  for  all  that  scarcely  felt  more  lone 
Than  for  many  days  past  she  had  felt. 
So  with  fixed  eyes  she  drew  into  her  belt 
Her  kirtle,  and  to  this  and  that  thing  turned 
With  heart  that  ever  for  the  long  rest  yearned. 
William  Morris. 


i839._FEOM  "  THE  LOVES  OF 
GUDRUN." 

Alone  she  was,  her  head  against  the  wall 
Had  fallen ;  her  heavy  eyes  were  shut  when  he 
Stood  on  the  threshold  ;  she  rose  quietly. 
Hearing  the  clash  of  arms,  and  took  his  hand, 
And  thus  with  quivering  lips  awhile  did  stand 
Regarding  him ;  but  he  made  little  show 
Of  manliness,  but  let  the  hot  tears  flow 
Fast  o'er  his  cheeks.     At  last  she  spake  : 

"  Weep  then  I 
If  thou  who  art  the  kindest  of  all  men 
Must  sorrow  for  me,  yet  more  glad  were  I 
To  see  thee  leave  my  bower  joyfuUy 
This  last  time;  that  when  o'er  thee  sorrow 

came, 
And  thought  of  me  therewith,  thou  mightst 

not  blame 
My  little  love  for  ever  saddening  thee. 
Love ! — ^let  me  say  love  once — great  shalt  thou 

be, 
Beloved  of  all,  and  dying  ne'er  forgot, 
Farewell !  farewell !  farewell !  and  think  thou 

not 
That  in  my  heart  there  lingers  any  hate 
Of  her  who  through  these  years  for  thee  did 

wait, 
A  weary  waiting — three  long,  long,  long  years, 
Well  over  now ;  nay,  when  of  me  she  hears. 
Fain  were  I  she  should  hate  me  not.    Behold, 
Here  is  a  coif,  well  wrought  of  silk  and  gold 
By  folk  of  Micklegarth,  who  had  no  thought 
Of  thee  or  me,  and  thence  by  merchants  brought 


1840.— -FROM  "THE  LOVES  OF 
GUDRUN." 

Then  Gudrun  turned 
Sick-hearted  from  themj    how  her  longing 

burned 
Within  her  heart !  ah,  if  he  died  not  now. 
How  might  she  tell  whereto  his  hate  would 

grow? 
Yet  a  strange  hope  that  longing  shot  across, 
As  she  got  thinking  what  would  be  the  loss 
If  Bodli  fell  'neath  Kiartan's  hand.    That  day, 
Like  years  long  told,  past  Gudrun  wore  away. 
She  knew  not  how;  but  when  the  next  day 

came 
She  cried  aloud,    "The   same,   ah,    still   the 


Shall  every  day  be,  now  that  he  is  dead  !  " 
She  started  as  she  heard  her  voice,  her  head 
Seemed  filled  with  flame :  she  crawled  into  her 

bower. 
And  at  her  mirrored  face  hour  after  hour 
She   stared,   and  wondered  what  she  really 

was. 
The  once-loved  thing  o'er  which  his  lips  would 

pass. 
Her  feet  grew  heavy  at  the  end  of  day. 
Her  heart  grew  faint,  upon  her  bed  she  lay 
Moveless  for  many  an  hour,  until  the  sun 
Told  her  that  now  the  last  day  was  begun ; 
Then  she  arose,  as  one  might  in  a  dream, 
To  clothe  herself,  till  a  great  cloud  did  seem 
To  draw  away  from  her ;  as  in  bright  hell 
Sunlfess  but  shadowless  she  saw  full  well 
Her  life  that  was  and  would  be,  now  she  knew 
The  deed  unmasked  that  summer  day  should 

do. 


Dante  Gabriel  Eosetti.1     FEOM  "  THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL, 


[Seventh  Pekiod, 


And  then  she  gnashed  her  teeth  and  tore  her 

hair, 
And  beat  her  breast,  nor  lightened  thus  despair, 
As  over  and  over  the  sweet  names  she  told 
Whereby  he  called  her  in  the  days  of  old ; 
And  then  she  thought  of  Refna's  longing  eyes, 
And  to  her  face  a  dreadful  smile  did  rise 
That  died  amidst  its  birth,  as  back  again 
Her  thoughts  went  to  the  tender  longing  pain 
She  once  had  deemed  a  sweet  fair  day  would 

end ; 
And  therewith  such  an  agony  did  rend 
Her  body  and  soul,  that  all  things  she  forgat 
Amidst  of  it;  upon  the  bed  she  sat 
Eigid  and  stark,  and  deemed  she  shrieked,  yet 

made 
"No  sound  indeed ;  but  slowly  now  did  fade 
AH  will  away  from  her,  until  the  sun 
Eisen  higher,  on  her  moveless  body  shone, 
And  as  a  smitten  thing  beneath  its  stroke 
She  shrank  and  started,  and  awhile  awoke 
To  hear  the  tramp  of  men  about  the  hall. 
Then  did  a  hand  upon  the  panel  fall ; 
And  in  her  very  soul  she  heard  the  ring 
Of  weapons  pulled  adown,  and  everything, 
Yea,  even  pain,  was  dead  a  little  space. 

William  Morris. 


[841. 


-FEOM    "THE   BLESSED 
DAMOZEL." 


The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem. 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn  ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back* 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

It  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rosetti 


1842.— FEOM  ♦'  THE  POETEAIT." 

This  is  her  picture  as  she  was  : 
It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on. 

As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 
Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 

I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 

Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

That  now,  even  now,  the  sweet  lips  part 
To  breathe  the  words  of  the  sweet  heart  :- 

And  yet  the  earth  is  over  her. 


Alas  !  even  such  the  thin-drawn  ray 

That  makes  the  prison-depths  more  rude, — 
The  drip  of  water  night  and  day 

Giving  a  tongue  to  solitude. 
Yet  this,  of  all  love's  perfect  prize 
Eemains  ;  save  what  in  mournful  guise 

Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone ; 

Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown. 
Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies, 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossdti. 


[843.— NEVVBOEN  DEATH. 


To-day  Death  seems  to  me  an  infant  child 
Which  her  worn  mother  Life  upon  my  knee 
Has  set  to  grow  my  friend  and  play  with 
me ; 
If  haply  so  my  heart  might  be  beguiled 
To  find  no  terrors  in  a  face  so  mild, — 
If  haply  so  my  weary  heart  might  be 
Unto  the  newborn  milky  eyes  of  thee, 
O  Death,  before  resentment  reconciled. 
How  long,  0  Death  ?     And  shall  thy  feet  de- 
part 
StUl  a  young  child's  with  mine,  or  wilt  thou 
stand 
Fullgrown  the  helpful  daughter  of  my  heart, 
What  time  with  thee  indeed  I  reach  the 
strand 
Of  the  pale  wave  which  knows  thee  what  thou 
art. 
And  drink  it  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand  ? 


And  thou,  0  Life,  the  lady  of  all  bliss. 

With  wj;iom,  when  our  first  heart  beat  full 

and  fast, 
I  wandered  till  the  haunts  of  men  were 
pass'd. 
And  in  fair  places  found  all  bowers  amiss 
Till  only  woods  and  waves  might  hear  our 
kiss. 
While  to  the  winds  all  thought  of  Death 

we  cast : — 
Ah,   Life !  and  must  I  have  from  thee  at 
last 
No  smile  to  greet  me  and  no  babe  but  this  ? 
Lo !  Love,  the  child  once  ours;    and  Son  ••, 
whose  hair 
Blew  like  a  flame    and   blossomed  like  a 
wreath ; 
And  Art,  whose  eyes  were  worlds  by  God  founa 
fair — 
These  o'er  the  book  of  Nature  mixed  their 
breath 
With  neck-twined  arms,  as  oft   we  watched 
them  there  : 
And  did  these  die  that  thou  mightst  bear 
me  Death  ? 

Da7ite  Gabriel  Rossctti. 


AMERICAN  POETS, 


BIOGRAPHICAL    NOTICES, 


PHILIP  FEENEAU. 

A  MAN  of  considerable  genius.  Among  Mr. 
Freneau's  poems  are  illustrations  of  creative 
passion  which  will  preserve  his  name  long  after 
authors  of  more  refinement  and  elegance  are 
forgotten.  His  best  pieces  were  for  the  most 
part  written  in  early  life,  when  he  was  most 
ambitious  of  literary  distinction.  It  is  worthy  of 
notice  that  he  was  the  first  of  our  authors  to  treat 
the  "  ancients  of  these  lands  "  with  a  just  ap- 
preciation, and  in  a  truly  artistical  spirit.  His 
song  of  "Alknomock"  had  long  the  popularity 
of  a  national  air.  Washington  Irving  has 
recorded  that  when  he  was  a  youth  it  was 
familiar  in  every  drawing-room,  and  among 
the  earliest  theatrical  reminiscences  of  Mr. 
William  B.  Wood  is  its  production  in  charac- 
ter upon  the  stage.  The  once  well-known 
satire,  entitled  "A  New  England  Sabbath-day 
Chase,"  was  so  much  in  vogue  when  Mr.  Ir- 
ving was  a  school-boy,  that  he  committed  it 
to  memory  as  an  exercise  in  declamation. 
The  political  odes  and  pasquinades  which  he 
wrote  during  the  revolution  possess  much 
historical  interest,  and,  with  his  other  works, 
they  will  sometime  undoubtedly  be  collected 
and  edited  with  the  care  due  to  unique  and 
curious  souvenirs  of  so  remarkable  an  age. — 
Born  1752,  Died  1832. 


JOHN  TEUMBULL. 
This  poet  was  a  popular  lawyer,  and  ap- 
pointed to  honourable  offices  by  the  people 
and  the  government.  From  1795,  in  con- 
sequence of  ill-health,  he  declined  all  pub- 
lic employment,  and  was  for  several  years 
an  invalid.  At  length,  recovering  his  custo- 
mary vigour,  he  was  in  1800  elected  a  member 
of  the  legislature,  and  in  the  year  following  a 
judge  of  the  Superior  Court.  In  1808  he  was 
appointed  a  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
Errors,  and  held  the  office  until  1819,  when 
he  finally  retired  from  public  life.  His  poema 
were  collected  and  published  in  1820,  and  in 
1825  he  removed  to  Detroit,  where  his 
daughter,  the  wife  of  the  Honourable  William 
Woodbridge,  recently  a  member  of  the  United 
States  Senate  for  Michigan,  was  residing,  and 


died  there  in  May,  1831,  in  the  eiglity-first 
year  of  his  age. — Born  1750,  Died  1831. 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 

The  merits  of  Dr.  D  wight  as  a  poet  are 
eminently  respectable.  Cowper,  who  wroto 
a  criticism  of  his  "  Conquest  of  Canaan  "  in 
the  "  Analytical  Eeview  "  for  1789,  says  : — 
"  His  numbers  imitate  pretty  closely  those  of 
Pope,  and  therefore  cannot  fail  to  be  musical ; 
but  he  is  chiefly  to  be  commended  for  tha 
animation  with  which  he  writes,  and  which 
rather  increases  as  he  proceeds  than  suffers 
any  abatement A  strain  of  fine  enthusi- 
asm runs  through  the  whole  seventh  book, 
and  no  man  who  has  a  soul  impressible  by  a 
bright  display  of  the  grandest  subjects  that 
revelation  furnishes,  will  read  it  without  somo 
emotion." — Born  1752,  Died  1817. 


DAVID  HUMPHEEYS. 
The  principal  poems  of  Colonel  Humpfireya 
are  an  "  Address  to  the  Armies  of  the  United 
States,"  written  in  1772,  while  he  was  in  the 
army;  "A  Poem  on  the  Happiness  of  America," 
written  during  his  residence  in  London  and 
Paris,  as  secretary  of  legation;  "  The  Widow 
of  Malabar,  or  the  Tyranny  of  Custom,  a 
Tragedy,  imitated  from  the  French  of  M.  Le 
Mierre,"  written  at  Mount  Vernon;  and  a 
"  Poem  on  Agriculture,"  written  while  he  was 
minister  at  the  court  of  Lisbon.  The  "Address 
to  the  Armies  of  the  United  States  "  passed 
through  many  editions  in  America  and  Europe, 
and  was  translated  into  the  French  language 
by  the  Marquis  de  Chastellux,  and  favour- 
ably noticed  in  the  Parisian  gazettes.  Tho 
"  Poem  on  the  Happiness  of  America "  waa 
reprinted  nine  times  in  three  years;  and 
the  "Widow  of  Malabar"  is  said,  in  the  dedi- 
cation of  it  to  the  author  of  "McFingal,"  to 
have  met  with  "  extraordinary  success"  on  tho 
stage.  The  "  Miscellaneous  Works  of  Colonel 
Humphreys "  were  published  in  an  octavo 
volume,  in  New  York,  in  1790,  dedicated  to  tho 
Duke   de   Eochefoucauld,  who  had  been  Lis 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period.' 


intimate  friend  in  France.  In  the  Dedication  lie 
says  :  "  In  presenting  for  your  amusement  the 
trifles  which  have  been  composed  during  my 
leisure  hours,  I  assume  nothing  beyond  the 
negative  merit  of  not  having  ever  written  any- 
thing unfavourable  to  the  interests  of  religion, 
humanity,  and  virtue.'*  He  seems  to  have  aimed 
only  at  an  elegant  mediocrity,  and  his  pieces 
are  generally  simple  and  correct  in  thought  and 
language.  '  He  was  one  of  the  "  four  bards 
with  Scripture  names  "  satirized  in  some  verses 
published  in  London,  commencing, 

"  David  and  Jonathan,  Joel  and  Timothy, 
Over  the  water,  set  up  the  hymn  of  the,"  &c. 

and  is  generally  classed  among  the  "  poets  of 
the  Eevolution."  The  popularity  he  enjoyed 
while  he  lived,  and  his  connection  with  Trum- 
bull, Barlow,  and  Dwight,  justify  the  intro- 
duction of  a  sketch  of  his  history  and  writings 
into  this  volume. — Born  1753,  Died  1818. 


JOEL  BAELOW. 

In  the  summer  of  1808  appeared  his 
"Columbiad,"  in  a  splendid  quarto  volume, 
surpassing,  in  the  style  of  its  typography 
and  embellishments,  any  work  before  that 
time  printed  in  America.  From  his  earliest 
years  Barlow  had  been  ambitious  to  raise  the 
epic  song  of  his  nation.  The  "  Vision  of 
Columbus,"  in  which  the  most  brilliant  events 
in  American  history  had  been  described, 
occupied  his  leisure  hours  when  in  college,  and 
afterward,  when,  as  a  chaplain,  he  followed 
the  standard  of  the  liberating  army.  That 
work  was  executed  too  hastily  and  imperfectly, 
and  for  twenty  years  after  its  appearance, 
through  every  variety  of  fortune,  its  enlarge- 
ment and  improvement  engaged  his  attention. 

The  events  of  the  Eevolution  were  so  recent 
and  so  universally  known  as  to  be  inflexible 
to  the  hand  of  fiction ;  and  the  poem  could 
not  therefore  be  modelled  after  the  regular 
epic  form,  which  would  otherwise  have  been 
chosen.  It  is  a  series  of  visions,  presented  by 
Hesper,  the  genius  of  the  western  continent, 
to  Columbus,  while  in  the  prison  at  Valladolid, 
where  he  is  introduced  to  the  reader  uttering 
a  monologue  on  his  ill-requited  services  to 
Spain.  These  visions  embrace  a  vast  variety 
of  scenes,  circumstances,  and  characters. 
Europe  in  the  middle  ages,  with  her  political 
and  religious  reformers;  Mexico  and  the 
South  American  nations,  and  their  imagined 
history ;  the  progress  of  discovery ;  the  settle- 
ment of  the  states  now  composing  the  fede- 
ration ;  the  war  of  the  Eevolution,  and 
establishment  of  republicanism ;  and  the  chief 
actors  in  the  great  dramas*  which  he  attempts 
to  present. 

The  poem,  having  no  unity  of  fable,  no 
regular  succession  of  incidents,  no  strong  ex- 
hibition of  varied  character,  lacks  the  most 


powerful  charms  of  a  narrative;  and  has, 
besides,  many  dull  and  spiritless  passages, 
which  would  make  unpopular  a  work  of  much 
more  faultless  general  design.  The  versifica- 
tion is  generally  harmonious,  but  mechanical 
and  passionless,  the  language  sometimes  in- 
correct, and  the  similes  often  inappropriate 
and  inelegant.  Yet  there  are  in  it  many  bursts 
of  eloquence  and  patriotism,  which  should 
preserve  it  from  oblivion.  The  descriptions 
of  nature  and  of  personal  character  are 
frequently  condensed  and  forceful ;  and  pass- 
ages of  invective,  indignant  and  full  of  energy. 
Barlow  was  much  respected  in  private  life 
for  his  many  excellent  social  qualities.  His 
manners  were  usually  grave  and  dignified, 
though  when  with  his  intimate  friends  he  was 
easy  and  familiar.  He  was  an  honest  and 
patient  investigator,  and  would  doubtless  have 
been  much  more  successful  as  a  metaphysical 
or  historical  writer  than  as  a  poet.  As  an 
author  he  belonged  to  the  first  class  of  his 
time  in  America ;  and  for  his  ardent  patriot- 
ism, his  public  services,  and  the  purity  of  his 
life,  he  deserves  a  distinguished  rank  among 
the  men  of  our  golden  age. — Born  1755,  Died 
1812. 


ST.  JOHN  HONEYWOOD. 

The  poems  embraced  in  the  volume  of  his 
writings  published  in  1801  are  generally 
political,  and  are  distinguished  for  wit  and 
vigour.  The  longest  in  the  collection  was 
addressed  to  M.  Adet,  on  his  leaving  America 
for  France.— JBom  1765,  Died  1812. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

The  merits  of  Mr.  Adams  as  a  poet  are  not 
great,  but  he  wrote  much  in  verse,  and  fre- 
quently with  good  sense,  humour,  and  scho- 
larly polish.  Among  his  earlier  productions 
are  translations  of  the  seventh  and  thirteenth 
satires  of  Juvenal,  written  for  Dennie's  "Port- 
folio," and  Mr.  Griswold  speaks  of  a  transla- 
tion of  Wieland's  "Oberon,"  which  he  made 
while  residing  officially  at  Berlin,  in  1798.  It 
would  have  been  printed  at  the  time,  bad  not 
Wieland  informed  a  friend  of  Mr.  Adams,  who 
exhibited  to  him  the  manuscript,  of  the  English 
version  of  his  poem  then  just  published  by 
Mr.  Sotheby,  of  the  existence  of  which  Mr. 
Adams  had  not  been  aware.  The  longest  of 
Mr.  Adams'  original  poems  is  "  Dermot  Mac 
Morrogh ;  or,  the  Conquest  of  Ireland,  an 
Historical  Tale  of  the  Twelfth  Century,  in 
Four  Cantos,"  which  appeared  in  1832.  It  is 
a  story  of  various  profligacy  and  brutality,  in 
which  it  is  difficult  to  see  any  poetical  ele- 
ments ;  but  Mr.  Adams  deemed  the  subject 
suitable  for  an  historical  tale  ;  and  to  give  it 
"  an  interest  which  might  invite  readers,"  it 
appeared  '*  advisable  to  present  it  in  the  garb 
of  poetry."     "Dermot  Mac  Morrogh"  added 


From  1780  <o  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


very  little  to  Mr.  Adams's  literary  fame. 
Reviewers  of  all  parties  condemned  it  as  an 
utter  failure  in  poetry,  philosophy,  and  wit. 
It  is  probable  that  the  eminent  position  of  the 
author  was  as  injurious  to  him  with  the 
critics,  as  it  was  advantageous  to  his  book- 
sellers with  the  public.  A  collection  of  his 
shorter  effusions  appeared  soon  after  his 
death,  under  the  title  of  "  Poems  of  Eeligion 
and  Society,"  and  the  editor  expresses  an 
opinion  that  many  of  them  "are  informed 
with  wisdom  and  various  learning,"  and  that 
some  of  the  illustrious  writer's  hymns  "  are 
among  the  finest  devotional  lyrics  in  our 
language."  This  praise  is  not  altogether  un- 
deserved, but  perhaps  it  may  be  discovered 
that  they  are  more  remarkable  for  the  quality 
of  piety  than  for  that  of  poetry. — Born  1767, 
Died  1848. 


JOSEPH  HOPKINSON. 

Joseph  Hopkinson,  LL.D.,  son  of  Francis 
Hopkinson,  author  of  "The  Battle  of  the 
Kegs,"  &c.,  was  educated  for  the  bar  in  the 
office  of  his  father.  He  wrote  verses  with 
fluency,  but  had  little  claim  to  be  regarded  as 
a  poet.  His  "  Hail,  Columbia !"  is,  however, 
one  of  the  very  few  national  songs  of  America, 
and  is  likely  to  be  looked  for  in  all  collections 
of  American  poetry.  At  the  time  of  his  death, 
which  occurred  on  the  15th  of  January,  1842, 
the  author  was  President  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts,  one  of  the 
Vice-Presidents  of  the  American  Philosophi- 
cal Society,  and  a  Judge  of  the  District  Court 
of  the  United  States.— JBom  1770,  Died  1842. 


WILLIAM  CLIFTON. 

The  poetry  of  Clifton  has  more  energy  of 
thought  and  diction,  and  is  generally  more 
correct  and  harmonious,  than  any  which  had 
been  previously  written  in  this  country. 
Much  of  it  is  satirical,  and  relates  to  persons 
and  events  of  the  period  in  which  he  lived  ; 
and  the  small  volume  of  his  writings  published 
after  his  death  doubtless  contains  some  pieces 
which  would  have  been  excluded  from  an 
edition  prepared  by  himself,  for  this  reason, 
and  because  they  were  unfinished  and  not 
originally  intended  to  meet  the  eye  of  the 
world.— Boni  1722,  Died  1799. 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

Of  this  artist  and  poet,  Mr.  Griswold  says 
that  although  he  "  owed  his  chief  celebrity  to 
his  paintings,  which  will  preserve  for  his  name 
a  place  in  the  list  of  the  greatest  artists  of  all 
the  nations  and  ages,  his  literary  works  alone 
would  have  given  him  a  high  rank  among  men 


of  genius.  A  great  painter,  indeed,  is  of  neces- 
sity a  poet,  though  he  may  lack  the  power  to 
express  fittingly  his  conceptions  in  language. 
Allston  had  in  remarkable  perfection  all  the 
faculties  required  for  either  art.  '  The  Sylphs 
of  the  Seasons,'  his  longest  poem,  in  which  he 
describes  the  scenery  of  spring,  summer, 
autumn,  and  winter,  and  the  effects  of  each 
season  on  the  mind,  show  that  he  regarded 
nature  with  a  curious  eye,  and  had  power  to 
exhibit  her  beauties  with  wonderful  distinct- 
ness and  fidelity.  'The  Two  Painters'  is  an 
admirable  satire,  intended  to  ridicule  attempts 
to  reach  perfection  in  one  excellency  in  the  art 
of  painting,  to  the  neglect  of  every  other. 
The  *  Paint  King'  is  a  singularly  wild,  ima- 
ginative story  ;  and  nearly  all  his  minor  poems 
are  strikingly  original  and  beautiful.  It  was 
in  his  paintings,  however,  that  the  power  and 
religious  grandeur  of  his  imagination  were 
most  strongly  developed." — Born  1779,  Died 
1843. 


HENEY  EOWE  SCHOOLCEAFT. 

Dr.  Schoolcraft  has  written  voluminously 
upon  the  North  American  Indians,  and  most 
American  writers  are  indebted  to  his  labours 
regarding  these  tribes.  His  principal  work  in 
this  connection  is  *'  Information  respecting 
the  History,  Condition,  and  Prospects  of  the 
Indian   Tribes   of  the  United  States,"  in  five 

!    quarto  volumes,  published  by  the  Government. 

'     -Born  1793. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BEYANT. 

When  but  little  more  than  eighteen  years  of 
age  he  had  written  his  noble  poem  of  "  Thana- 
topsis,"  which  was  published  in  the  "  North 
American  Eeview "  for  1816.  In  1821  he 
delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society 
of  Harvard  College  his  longest  poem,  "  The 
Ages,"  in  which,  from  a  survey  of  the  past 
eras  of  the  world,  and  of  the  successive  ad- 
vances of  mankind  in  knowledge,  virtue,  and 
happiness,  he  endeavours  to  justify  and  conibrm 
the  hopes  of  the  philanthropist  for  the  future 
destinies  of  man.  It  is  in  the  stansa  of 
Spenser's  "Faerie  Queene."  "To  a  Waterfowl," 
"  Inscription  for  an  Entrance  to  a  Wood,"  and 
several  other  pieces,  were  likewise  written 
about  the  same  time.  In  1832  a  collection  of 
all  the  poems  Mr.  Bryant  had  then  written 
was  published  in  New  York ;  it  was  soon  after 
reprinted  in  Boston,  and  a  copy  of  it  reaching 
Washington  Irving,  who  was  then  in  England, 
he  caused  it  to  be  published  in  London,  where 
it  has  since  passed  through  several  editions. 
In  1842  he  published  "  The  Fountain  and 
other  Poems;"  in  1844  "The  White-footed 
Deer  and  other  Poems ; "  in  1846  an  edition 
of  his  complete  Poetical  Works,  illustrated 
with  engravings  from  pictures  by  Leutze ;  and 
in  1855  another  edition,  containing  his  later 

81 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


[Seventh  Period. 


poems,  in  two  volumes.  His  "Letters  of  a 
Traveller "  appeared  in  1852,  and  the  last 
result  of  his  laborious  mind  is  the  translation 
of  the  "  IHad  "  (1810).— Born  1794, 


FITZ-GEEENE  HALLECK.. 

In  1822  and  1823  Mr.  Halleck  visited  Great 
Britain  and  the  continent  of  Europe.  Among 
the  souvenirs  of  his  travels  are  two  poems, 
"Burns,"  and  "Alnwick  Castle,"  which,  with 
a  few  other  pieces,  he  gave  to  the  public  in  a 
small  volume  in  1827.  His  fame  was  established 
by  these,  and  in  New  York,  where  his  per- 
sonal qualities  are  best  known,  and  his  poems, 
from  their  local  allusions,  are  read  by  every- 
body, he  has  enjoyed  a  constant  popularity. — 
Born  1795. 


GEOEGE  P.  MOEEIS. 

General  Morris  has  written  a  number  of 
popidar  songs.  That  one  which  represents 
him  here  is  widely  known,  but  not  everybody 
remembers  who  is  the  author.  For  many 
years  he  has  been  connected  with  Mr.  Willis 
in  journalistic  labours. — Born  1801. 


EALPH  WALDO  EMEESON. 

This  American  essayist,  the  son  of  a  Uni- 
tarian minister  of  Boston,  U.S.,  was  designed 
for  the  same  profession.  The  peculiarity  of 
his  views,  however,  led  him  into  other  studies, 
which  broke  his  connection  with  the  religious 
body  to  which  he  belonged.  After  publishing 
several  essays  or  orations,  he,  in  1840,  started 
a  publication  called  the  "  Dial,"  devoted  to 
the  discussiqji  of  prominent  questions  in 
philosophy,  history,  and  literature.  It  lived 
for  four  years,  during  which  period  Mr.  Emer- 
son kept  himself  before  the  public  by  deliver- 
ing orations  upon  popular  subjects.  In  1844 
he  published  "  Lectures  on  New  England  Ee- 
formers,"  and  subsequently  lectured  on 
Swedenborg,  Napoleon,  and  other  eminent 
men.  In  1846  appeared  a  volume  of  poems, 
and  in  1849  he  visited  England,  where  he  de- 
livered a  series  of  lectures,  and  afterwards 
published  them,  under  the  title  of  "  Eepre- 
sentative  Men."  Soon  after,  he  published 
"English  Traits,"  embodying  some  of  his 
observations  on  English  manners,  customs, 
and  characteristics.  Besides  these  more  special 
labours,  he  contributed  to  various  reviews  and 
other  periodicals. 

Mr.  Emerson's  sympathy  with  nature  is 
evinced  in  everything  he  has  written ;  beauty, 
in  external  objects,  whether  it  be  grandeur, 
sublimity,  splendour,  or  simple  grace,  is  not 
with  him  an  illustration  merely  ;  it  is  an  in- 
Btructing  presence,  to  be  questioned  and  heard 
as  one  of    the    forms    or  manifestations  of 


divinity.  The  old  prayer  of  Ajax  is  translated 
in  his  verse : 

"Give  me  of  tne  true, — 
Whose  ample  leaves  and  tendrils,  curl'd 
Among  the  silver  hills  of  heaven^ 
Draw  everlasting  dew ; 
Wine  of  wine. 
Blood  of  the  world. 
Form  of  forms,  and  mdXild  of  statures, 
That  I,  intoxicated. 
And  by  the  draught  assimilated 
May  float  at  pleasure  through  all  natures ; 
The  bird-language  rightly  spell. 
And  that  which  roses  say  so  well." 

What  to  others  who  have  repeated  the 
words  has  been  an  unmeaning  fable,  has  to 
him  been  a  truth  :  he  has  found 

"Tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing," 

and  this  he  says  for  himself,  in  a  little  poem 
called 

"  THE   APOLOGY. 

"  Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude 

That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen  •- 
I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

"  Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook  ; 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 
Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

"  Chide  me  not,  laborious  band. 
For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought ; 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

"  There  was  never  mystery 

But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers ; 
Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

"  One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong ; 
A  second  crop  thy  acres  yield, 
Which  I  gather  in  a  song." 
Mr.  Emerson  was  born  about  1803. — 

Beeton's  Dictionary  of  Biography, 


CHAELES  FENNO  HOFFMAN.  . 

I  have  endeavoured  to  define  the  sphere  and 
dignity  of  the  song :  but  whatever  may  be 
thought  of  it  as  an  order  of  writing,  I  am 
satisfied  that  Mr.  Hoffman  has  come  as  near 
to  the  highest  standard  or  idea  of  excellence 
which  belongs  to  this  species  of  composition, 
as  any  American  poet  has  done  in  his  own 
department,  whatever  that  department  may 
be.  Many  of  his  productions  have  received 
whatever  testimony  of  merit  is  afforded  by 
great  and  continued  popular  favour;  and 
though  there  are  undoubtedly  some  sorts  of 
composition  respecting  which  the  applause  or 
silence  of  the  multitude  is  right  or  wrong  only 
by  accident,  yet,  as  regards  a  song,  popularity 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


appears  to  me  to  be  the  only  test,  and  lasting 
popularity  to  be  an  infallible  test  of  excellence. 
—Bom  1806. 


HENEY   WADSWOETH    LONGFELLOW. 

The  most  successful  of  all  American  poets ; 
his  name  is  as  familiar  in  English  homes  as  in 
the  Pilgrim  States.  If  his  fame  is  a  little 
exaggerated,  he  is  still  entitled  to  a  very  re- 
spectable position  in  the  poetic  roll.  We  can 
only  briefly  refer  to  his  works.  "  Outre  Mer, 
or  a  Pilgrimage  beyond  the  Sea,"  tales  and 
sketches,  appeared  about  1838 ;  in  1839, 
"Hyperion;"  in  1848,  "Kavanagh."  In 
1845  "  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe  "  was 
published,  which  is  described  by  an  admirer  as 
"  the  most  comprehensive,  complete,  and  ac- 
curate review  of  the  poetry  of  the  continental 
nations  that  has  ever  appeared  in  any  lan- 
guage." The  first  collection  of  his  own  poems 
was  published  in  1839,  under  the  title  of 
"  Voices  of  the  Night."  His  "  Ballads  and 
other  Poems"  followed  in  1841 ;  *'The  Spanish 
Student,  a  Play,"  in  1843;  "Poems  on 
Slavery,"  in  1844 ;  "  The  Belfry  of  Bruges  and 
other  Poems,"  in  1845  ;  "Evangeline,  a  Tale 
of  Acadie,"  in  1847;  "The  Seaside  and  the 
Fireside,"  in  1849  ;  "  The  Golden  Legend,"  in 
1851 ;  and  "  The  Song  of  Hiawatha,"  in  1855. 
Many  editions  of  his  poems  have  been  pub- 
lished both  in  England  and  America.  His 
latest  works  have  been  "  Miles  Standish " 
and  translations  from  Dante. 

From  an  American  critic  we  quote  the  fol- 
lowing : — "  Of  all  our  poets  Longfellow  best 
deserves  the  title  of  artist.  He  has  studied 
the  principles  of  verbal  melody,  and  rendered 
himself  master  of  the  mysterious  afiBnities 
which  exist  between  sound  and  sense,  word 
and  thought,  feeling  and  expression.  His  tact 
in  the  use  of  language  is  probably  the  chief 
cause  of  his  success.  There  is  an  aptitude,  a 
gracefulness,  and  vivid  beauty,  in  many  of  his 
stanzas,  which  at  once  impress  the  memory 
and  win  the  ear  and  heart.  There  is  in  the 
tone  of  his  poetry  little  passion,  but  much 
quiet  earnestness.  It  is  not  so  much  the 
power  of  the  instrument,  as  the  skill  with 
which  it  is  managed,  that  excites  our  sym- 
pathy. His  acquaintance  with  foreign  litera- 
ture has  been  of  great  advantage  by  rendering 
him  familiar  with  all  the  delicate  capacities  of 
language,  from  the  grand  symphonic  roll  of 
Northern  tongues,  to  the  '  soft,  bastard  Latin' 
of  the  South,  His  ideas  and  metaphors  are 
often  very  striking  and  poetical ;  but  there  is 
no  affluence  of  imagery,  or  wonderful  glow  of 
emotion,  such  as  take  us  captive  in  Byron  or 
Shelley  :  the  claim  of  Longfellow  consists 
rather  in  the  wise  and  tasteful  use  of  his 
materials  than  in  their  richness  or  originality. 
He  has  done  much  for  the  Art  of  Poetry  in 
this  country  by  his  example,  and  in  this  re- 
spect  may  claim  the  praise  which  all  good 


critics  of  English  poetry  have  bestowed  on 
Gray  and  Collins.  The  spirit  of  Longfellow's 
muse  is  altogether  unexceptionable  in  a  moral 
point  of  view.  He  illustrates  the  gentler 
themes  of  song,  and  pleads  for  justice,  hu. 
manity,  and  particularly  the  beautiful,  with  a 
poet's  deep  conviction  of  their  eternal  claims 
upon  the  instinctive  recognition  of  the  man." 
Mr.  Longfellow  was  born  in  1807. 


N.  P.  WILLIS. 

Mr.  Willis  is  better  known  as  a  prose  writer 
than  a  poet.  The  one  poem  which  represents 
him  here  is  a  fair  specimen  of  his  powers. — 
Born  1807. 


JOHN  GEEENLEAF  WHITTIEE. 

When  he  was  twenty,  he  began  literary 
work  as  conductor  of  "  The  American  Manu- 
factures," a  "protection"  journal.  After- 
wards he  gave  himself  to  politics  and  agri- 
culture, and  Avrote  but  little.  In  1836, 
however,  he  published  the  poem  of  "Mogg 
Megone."  In  this,  as  in  the  ballad  of  "  Cas- 
sandra Southwick,"  and  in  some  of  his  prose 
writings,  he  has  exhibited  in  a  very  striking 
manner  the  intolerant  spirit  of  the  Puritans, 
In  1838  Mr.  Whittier  published  a  volume  of 
"  Ballads  ; "  "  Lays  of  my  Home,  and  other 
Poems,"  in  1845 ;  a  full  collection  of  his 
"  Poems,"  in  1849 ;  "  Songs  of  Labour,"  in 
1851 ;  and  "  The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits,  and 
other  Poems,"  in  1852.  His  prose  works, 
besides  "Legends  of  New  England,"  before 
mentioned,  are  "  The  Stranger  in  Lowell,"  a 
collection  of  prose  essays,  1845 ;  "  Super- 
naturalism  in  New  England,"  1847  ;  Leaves 
from  Margaret  Smith's  Journal,"  illustrating 
the  age  of  the  Puritans,  1849  ;  "Old  Portraits 
and  Modern  Sketches,"  1850;  and  "Literary 
Eecreations  and  Miscellanies,"  in  1854.  He 
is  thus  criticised  by  Mr.  Griswold  : — "Al- 
though boldness  and  energy  are  Whittier' s 
leading  characteristics,  his  works  are  not 
without  passages  scarcely  less  distinguished 
for  tenderness  and  grace.  He  may  reasonably 
be  styled  a  national  poet.  His  works  breathe 
affection  for  and  faith  in  our  republican  polity 
and  unshackled  religion,  but  an  affection  and 
a  faith  that  do  not  blind  him  to  our  weakness 
or  wickedness.  He  is  of  that  class  of  authors 
whom  we  most  need  in  America  to  build  up  a 
literature  that  shall  elevate  with  itself  the 
national  feeling  and  character." — Born  1808. 


OLIVEE  WENDELL  HOLMES, 

Mr,  Griswold  thus  writes  of  the  author  of 
the  "  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table  .— 
"  The  earlier  poems  of  Dr,  Holmes  appeared 
in  'The  Collegian,'      They  were    little    less 

81* 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


-   [Seventh  Period.— 


distinguislied  for  correct  and  melodious  versifi- 
cation than  his  more  recent  and  most  elaborate 
productions.  They  attracted  attention  by 
their  humour  and  originality,  and  were  widely 
republished  in  the  periodicals.  But  a  small 
portion  of  them  have  been  printed  under  his 
proper  signature.  In  1831  a  small  volume 
appeared  in  Boston,  entitled  '  Illustrations  of 
the  Athenaeum  Gallery  of  Paintings,'  and 
composed  of  metrical  pieces,  chiefly  satirical, 
written  by  Dr.  Holmes  and  Epes  Sargent.  It 
embraced  many  of  our  author's  best  humorous 
verses,  afterwards  printed  among  his  acknow- 
ledged works.  His  '  Poetry,  a  Metrical  Essay,' 
was  delivered  before  a  literary  society  at 
Cambridge.  It  is  in  the  heroic  measure,  and 
in  its  versification  it  is  not  surpassed  by 
any  poem  written  in  America.  It  relates  to 
the  nature  and  offices  of  poetry,  and  is  itself 
a  series  of  brilliant  illustrations  of  the  ideas 
of  which  it  is  an  expression.  In  1843  Dr. 
Holmes  published  '  Terpsichore,'  a  poem  read 
at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society  in  that  year ;  and  in  1846,  '  Urania,  a 
Ehymed  Lesson,'  pronounced  before  the  Mer- 
cantile Library  Association.  The  last  is  a 
collection  of  brilliant  thoughts,  with  many 
local  allusions,  in  compact  but  flowing  and 
harmonious  versification,  and  is  the  longest 
poem  Dr.  Holmes  has  published  since  the 
appearance  of  his  '  Metrical  Essay'  in  1835. 
Dr.  Holmes  is  a  poet  of  wit  and  humour  and 
genial  sentiment,  with  a  style  remarkable  for 
its  purity,  terseness,  and  point,  and  for  an 
exquisite  finish  and  grace.  His  lyrics  ring  and 
sparkle  like  cataracts  of  silver,  and  his  serious 
pieces — as  successful  in  their  way  as  those 
mirthful  frolics  of  his  muse  for  which  he  is 
best  known — arrest  the  attention  by  touches 
of  the  most  genuine  pathos  and  tenderness. 
All  his  poems  illustrate  a  manly  feeling,  and 
have  in  them  a  current  of  good  sense,  the 
more  charming  because  somewhat  out  of 
fashion  now  in  works  of  imagination  and 
fancy."  English  readers  are  best  acquainted 
with  his  "  Autocrat  "  and  "  Professor."  His 
novels  may  be  considered  popular,  and  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  "  Elsie  Venner  "  and 
"  The  Guardian  Angel"  contain  original  and 
characteristic  portraits,  drawn  with  subtlety 
and  delicacy.  As  a  physician  and  writer  of 
physiological  works,  he  is  much  to  be  admired, 
for  he  speaks  plainly  and  seeks  to  rid  the 
world  of  many  an  absurd  theory  cherished 
ignorantly  and  warmly.  His  principal  medical 
writings  are  comprised  in  his  "  Boylston  Prize 
Essays,"  "Lectures  on  Popular  Delusions  in 
Medicine,"  and  "  The  Theory  and  Practice  of 
Medicine." — Born  1809. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

The  wayward  life  of  this  wonderful  writer 
we  have  no  space  to  record.  He  was  at 
a  school  in  England  for  four  or  five  years, 


travelled  through  Great  Britain,  and  returned 
to  the  States  in  1822.  Then  he  went  to  Jeffer- 
son University,  Charlottesville,  Virginia,  and, 
in  1829,  to  West  Point.  Two  years  later  he 
began  his  literary  career,  wrote  magazine 
articles  and  edited  periodicals  at  Richmond  and 
Philadelphia.  In  1841  appeared  his  "Tales 
of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque." 

Near  the  end  of  1844  Mr.  Poe  removed  to 
New  York,  where  he  conducted  for  several 
months  a  literary  miscellany  called  "  The 
Broadway  Journal."  In  1845  he  published  a 
volume  of  "  Tales,"  and  a  collection  of  his 
"  Poems ;  "  in  1846  wrote  a  series  of  literary 
and  personal  sketches  entitled  "  The  Literati 
of  New  York  City,"  which  commanded  much 
attention ;  in  1848  gave  to  the  public,  first  as 
a  lecture,  and  afterwards  in  print,  "  Eureka, 
a  Prose  Poem  ;  "  and  in  the  summer  of  1849 
delivered  several  lectures,  in  Richmond  and 
other  cities,  and  on  the  7th  October,  while  on 
his  way  to  New  York,  died,  suddenly,  at 
Baltimore,  aged  38. 

In  poetry,  as  in  prose,  he  was  most  success- 
ful in  the  metaphysical  treatment  of  the 
passions.  His  poems  are  constructed  with 
marvellous  ingenuity,  and  finished  with  con- 
summate art.  They  illustrate  a  morbid 
sensitiveness  of  feeling,  a  shadowy  and  gloomy 
imagination,  and  a  taste  almost  faultless  in 
the  apprehension  of  that  sort  of  beauty  most 
agreeable  to  his  temper.  His  rank  as  a  poet 
is  with  the  first  class  of  his  times.  "  The 
Raven,"  "  Ulalume,"  "  The  Bells,"  and  several 
of  his  other  pieces,  will  be  remembered  as 
among  the  finest  monuments  of  the  capacities 
of  the  English  language. — Born  1811,  Died 
1849. 


HENRY  THEODORE  TUCKERMAN. 

Mr.  Tuckerman  has  spent  a  considerable 
portion  of  his  time  in  European  travel,  and  in 
1839  published  "  Isabel ;  or,  Sicily,  a  Pilgrim- 
age," which,  in  1846,  was  reprinted  in  London. 
Subsequently  appeared,  "Thoughts  on  the 
Poets,"  "Artist  Life,"  "Characteristics  of 
Literature,"  and  some  biographies  and  criti- 
cisms. A  collection  of  his  "  Poems  "  appeared 
in  1851,  but  it  embraces  only  a  small  propor- 
tion of  those  he  had  published  in  the  magazines 
and  newspapers.  In  his  works  it  has  been 
noted  he  has  occasionally  done  injustice  to 
his  own  fine  powers  by  the  carelessness  with 
which  he  has  adopted  familiar  ideas,  images, 
and  forms  of  expression  from  other  writers. — 
Born  1813. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

The  author  of  the ' '  Biglow  Papers  "  was  born 
at  Boston,  educated  at  Harvard,  and  his  first 
appearance  was  in  1839,  when  he  printed 
a  class  poem  recited  at  Cambridge.  It  was  a 
composition  in  heroic  verse,  which,  though  it 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


BIOGEAPHICAL  NOTICES. 


betrayed  marks  of  haste,  contained  many 
strokes  of  vigorous  satire,  much  sharp  wit, 
and  occasional  bursts  of  feeling.  Two  years 
afterwards  he  published  a  rolume  of  mis- 
cellaneous poems,  under  the  title  of  '-A  Year's 
Life."  This  bore  no  relationship  to  his  first 
production.  It  illustrated  entirely  different 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  habits.  In  1844  Mr. 
Lowell  published  a  new  volume  evincing  very 
decided  advancement  in  thought,  and  feeling, 
and  execution.  The  longest  of  its  contents, 
"A  Legend  of  Brittany,"  is  without  any  of  the 
striking  faults  of  his  previous  compositions, 
and  in  imagination  and  artistic  finish  is  the 
best  poem  he  has  yet  printed.  In  the  same 
volume  appeared  the  author's  "  Prometheus," 
"  EhcBCUs,"  and  some  of  his  most  admired 
shorter  pieces.  He  gave  to  the  public  a  third 
collection  of  his  poems  in  1848.  In  this  there 
is  no  improvement  of  versification,  no  finer 
fancy,  or  braver  imagination,  than  in  the  pre- 
ceding volume;  but  it  illustrates  a  deeper 
interest  in  affairs,  and  a  warm  partisanship 
for  the  philanthropists  and  progressists  of  all 
classes.  Among  his  subjects  are  "  The  Pre- 
sent Crisis,"  "  Anti-Texas,"  "  The  Capture  of 
Fugitive  Slaves,"  "  Hunger  and  Cold,"  "  The 
Landlord,"  &c.  He  gives  here  the  first  ex- 
amples of  a  peculiar  humour,  which  he  has 
since  cultivated  with  success.  In  the  same 
year  Mr.  Lowell  published  "  A  Fable  for 
Critics,  or  a  Glance  at  a  Few  of  our  Literary 
Progenies,"  a  rhymed  essay,  critical  and 
satirical,  upon  the  principal  living  writers  of 
the  country.  Afterwards  came  the  "  Biglow 
Papers,"  a  collection  of  verses  in  the  Xew 
England  dialect,  with  introduction  and  notes 
by  a  supposititious,  pedantic,  but  keen-witted 
and  patriotic  country  parson.  "  The  Vision 
of  Sir  LaunfaJ,  a  Legend  of  the  Holy  Grail," 
was  also  issued  about  the  same  time. — Born 
1819. 


THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH. 

Dr.  English  published  a  collection  of  his 
"  Poems,"  in  New  York,  in  1855.  "  Several 
of  them  are  ^vritten,"  says  his  biographer, 
"in  a  style  of  vigorous  declamation,  upon 
subjects  to  which  such  a  style  is  suitable. 
The  stirring  lyric  of  "  The  Gallows-Goers  "  is 
the  best  of  his  productions,  and  there  are  few 
more  effective  examples  of  partisan  verse.  It 
was  much  quoted  during  the  agitation  of  the 
death-punishment  question  in  several  of  the 
States  between  1845  and  1850.  Of  a  more 
poetical  character  are  various  love  songs, 
written  carelessly,  but  with  freshness  and 
apparent  earnestness.  Of  one  of  these, 
entitled  "Dora  Lee,"  the  concluding  verses 
display  in  a  creditable  manner  his  abilities  for 
description. — Born  1819. 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  EEAD. 

Mr.  Eead  is  a  painter  as  well  as  a  poet,  and 
settled  at  Florence  in  1853.  His  earliest  lite- 
rary work  was  a  series  of  lyrics  published  in 
the  "Boston  Courier"  in  1843  and  1844.  In 
1847  he  printed  in  Boston  the  first  collection 
of  his  "Poems;"  in  1848,  in  Philadelphia, 
"  Lays  and  Ballads ;"  in  1849,  in  the  same 
city,  "  The  Pilgrims  of  the  Great  Saint  Ber- 
nard," a  prose  romance,  in  the  successive 
numbers  of  a  magazine  ;  in  1853  an  illustrated 
edition  of  his  "  Poems,"  comprising,  with  some 
new  pieces,  all  he  wished  to  preserve  of  his 
other  volumes;  and  in  1855  the  longest  of  his 
works,  "  The  New  Pastoral,"  in  thirty-seven 
books.  His  verse,  though  sometimes  irregu- 
lar, is  always  musical.  Indeed,  in  the  easy 
flow  of  his  stanzas  and  in  the  melody  of  their 
cadences,  he  seems  to  follow  some  chimo  of 
sound  within  his  brain.  This  is  the  pervading 
expression  of  his  poems,  many  of  which  might 
more  probably  be  called  songs.  Though  he 
has  written  in  the  dramatic  form  with  freedom 
and  unaffected  feeling,  and  extremely  well  in 
didactic  and  descriptive  blank  verse,  his 
province  is  evidently  the  lyrical.  Like  most 
of  our  poets,  in  his  earlier  poems  Mr.  Eead 
wrote  from  the  inspiration  of  foreign  song  and 
story,  and  he  seems  but  lately  to  have  perceived 
that  the  most  appropriate  field  for  the  exer- 
cise of  .his  powers  is  to  be  found  at  home. — 
Bom  1822. 


CHAELES  G.  LELAND. 

Mr.  Leland  is  best  known  to  English  readers 
as  the  author  of  "  Meister  Karl's  Sketch 
Book,"  and  the  translator  of  Heinrich  Heine's 
poems.  An  American  critic  says  of  him  : 
"  His  poems  are  for  the  most  part  in  a  peculiar 
vein  of  satirical  humour.  He  has  an  invincible 
dislike  of  the  sickly  extravagances  of  small 
sentimentalists,  and  the  absurd  assumptions 
of  small  philanthropists.  He  is  not  altogether 
incredulous  of  progress,  but  does  not  look  for 
it  from  that  boastful  independence,  character- 
izing the  new  generation,  which  rejects  the 
authority  and  derides  the  wisdom  of  the  past. 
He  is  of  that  healthy  intellectual  constitution 
which  promises  in  every  department  the  best 
fruits  to  his  industry."    He  was  born  in  1824. 


BAYAED  TAYLOE. 

Mr.  Taylor  has  travelled  very  largely,  and 
written  excellent  accounts  of  his  wanderings. 
He  has  published  "  The  American  Legend," 
a  poem  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society  of  Harvard  University,  in  1850  ;  and 
"Poems  of  the  Orient,"  which  appeared  in 
1854,  and  embrace  only  such  pieces  as  were 
written  while  he  was  on  his  passage  round  the 


BIOGEAPHICAL  KOTICES. 


Seventh  Period. 


world,  and  present  the  more  poetical  phases 
of  that  portion  of  his  experiences. —  Born 
1825. 


E.  H.  STODDAED. 

He  originally  was  placed  in  an  iron  foundry, 
and  in  1847  some  verses  in  the  "  Union  Maga- 
zine "  gave  evidence  that  his  mind  as  well  as 
his  body  was  toiling.     The-first  was,  however, 


the  stronger  of  the  two,  for  in  1848,  after 
publishing  a  small  volume  entitled  "  Foot- 
prints," his  health  gave  way,  and  he  surren- 
dered his  mechanical  occupation.  He  has 
furnished  a  considerable  number  of  pieces  to 
"  Putnam's  Monthly  ".  and  "  Graham's  Maga- 
zine," and  to  the  last,  two,  "  The  Burden  of 
Unrest  "  and  "  The  Squire  of  Low  Degree,"  in 
the  composition  of  which  he  has  exercised  with 
suitable  care  his  best  abilities. 


SEVENTH     PERIO  'D-Contimed. 


1844.— THE  DYING  INDIAN. 

"  On  yonder  lake  I  spread  the  sail  no  more ! 
yigonr,  and  youth,  and  active  days  are  past — 
Eelentless  demons  urge  me  to  that  shore 
On  whose  black  forests    all    the    dead  are 

cast : — 
Ye  solemn  train,  prepare  the  funeral  song, 
For  I  must  go  to  shades  below, 
Where  all  is  strange  and  all  is  new ; 
Companion  to  the  airy  throng  ! — 

What  solitary  streams, 

In  duU  and  dreary  dreams, 
All  melancholy,  must  I  rove  along  ! 

To  what  strange  lands  must  Chequi  take  his 

way! 
Groves  of  the  dead  departed  mortals  trace  : 
No  deer  along  those  gloomy  forests  stray, 
No  huntsmen  there  take  pleasure  in  the  chase, 
But  all  are  empty,  unsubstantial  shades. 
That  ramble  through  those  visionary  glades  ; 
No  spongy  fruits  from  verdant  trees  depend, 
But  sickly  orchards  there 
Do  fruits  as  sickly  bear, 
And  apples  a  consumptive  visage  show, 
And  wither' d  hangs  the  whortleberry  blue. 

Ah  me  !  what  mischiefs  on  the  dead  attend  ! 
Wandering  a  stranger  to  the  shores  below, 
Where  shall  I  brook  or  real  fountain  find  ! 
Lazy  and  sad  deluding  waters  flow — 
Such  is  the  picture  in  my  boding  mind  ! 

Fine  tales,  indeed,  they  tell 

Of  shades  and  purling  rills, 

Where  our  dead  fathers  dwell 

Beyond  the  western  hills  ; 
But  when  did  ghost  return  his  state  to  show ; 
Or  who  can  promise  half  the  tale  is  true  ! 

I  too  must  be  a  fleeting  ghost ! — no  more — 
None,  none  but  shadows  to  those  mansions  go ; 
I  leave  my  woods,  I  leave  the  Huron  shore, 

For  emptier  groves  below ! 

Ye  charming  solitudes, 

Ye  tall  ascending  woods 
Ye  glassy  lakes  and  purling  streams, 

Whose  aspect  still  was  sweet. 

Whether  the  sun  did  greet, 
Or   the   pale  moon  embraced   you  with   her 


Adieu  to  all 


To  all,  that  charm'd  me  where  I  stray'd. 
The   winding   stream,   the   dark    sequester'd 
shade ; 
Adieu  all  triumphs  here  ! 
Adieu  the  mountain's  lofty  swell, 
Adieu,  thou  little  verdant  hill. 
And  seas,  and  stars,  and  skies — farewell 
For  some  remoter  sphere  ! 

Perplex' d  with  doubts,  and  tortured  with  de- 
spair. 
Why  so  dejected  at  this  hopeless  sleep  ? 
Nature  at  last  these  ruins  may  repair. 
When  fate's  long  dream  is  o'er,  and  she  forgets 

to  weep ; 
Some  real  world  once  more  may  be  assign'd, 
Some   new-born   mansion    for   the   immortal 

mind! 
Farewell,  sweet  lake;   farewell,  surrounding 

woods : 
To  other  groves,  through  midnight  glooms  I 

stray, 
Beyond  the  mountains  and  beyond  the  floods, 

Beyond  the  Huron  bay ! 
Prepare  the  hollow  tomb,  and  place  me  low, 
My  trusty  bow  and  arrows  by  my  side. 
The  cheerful  bottle  and  the  venison  store. 
For  long  the  journey  is  that  I  must  go. 
Without  a  partner,  and  without  a  guide." 

He  spoke,  and  bid  the  attending  mourners 

weep. 
Then  closed   his   eyes,  and    simk   to  endless 

sleep ! 

Philip  Freneau.-^Born  1752,  Died  1832. 


1845— CHAEACTEE  OF  McFINGAL. 

When  Yankees,  skill'd  in  martial  rule. 
First  put  the  British  troops  to  school ; 
Instructed  them  in  warlike  trade. 
And  new  manoeuvres  of  parade  ; 
The  true  war-dance  of  Yankee-reels, 
And  manual  exercise  of  heels  ; 
Made  them  give  up,  like  saints  complete. 
The  arm  of  flesh,  and  trust  the  feet. 
And  work,  like  Christians  undissembling, 
Salvation  out  by  fear  and  trembling ; 
Taught  Percy  fashionable  races. 
And  modern  modes  of  Chevy-Chaces : 


Timothy  Dwight.] 


ENGLAND  AND  AMEEICA. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


From  Boston,  in  hia  best  array, 
Great  Squire  McFingal  took  his  way. 
And,  graced  with  ensigns  of  renown. 
Steer' d  homeward  to  his  native  town. 
His  high  descent  our  heralds  trace 
To  Ossian's  famed  Fingalian  race ; 
For  though  their  name  some  part  may  lack, 
Old  Fingal  spelt  it  with  a  Mac  ; 
Which  great  McPherson,  with  submission. 
We  hope  will  add  to  the  next  edition. 

His  fathers  flourish' d  in  the  Highlands 
Of  Scotia's  fog-benighted  island  ; 
Whence  gain'd  our  squire  two  gifts  by  right, 
Rebellion  and  the  second-sight. 
Of  these  the  first,  in  ancient  days, 
Had  gain'd  the  noblest  palms  of  praise ; 
'Gainst  kings  stood  forth,  and  many  a  crown' d 

head 
With  terror  of  its  might  confounded ; 
Till  rose  a  king  with  potent  charm 
His  foes  by  goodness  to  disarm  ; 
Whom  every  Scot  and  Jacobite 
Straight  fell  in  love  with — at  first  sight ; 
Whose  gracious  speech,  with  aid  of  pensions, 
Hush'd  down  all  murmurs  of  dissensions. 
And  with  the  sound  of  potent  metal, 
Brought  all  their  blust'ring  swarms  to  settle ; 
Who  rain'd  his  ministerial  mannas, 
Till  loud  sedition  sung  hosannas ; 
The  good  lord-bishops  and  the  kirk 
United  in  the  public  work ; 
Eebellion  from  the  northern  regions. 
With  Bute  and  Mansfield  swore  allegiance, 
And  all  combined  to  raze,  as  nuisance. 
Of  church  and  state,  the  constitutions ; 
Pull  down  the  empire,  on  whose  ruins 
They  meant  to  edify  their  new  ones;  % 

Enslave  the  American  wildernesses, 
And  tear  the  provinces  in  pieces. 
For  these  our  squire,  among  the  valiant' st, 
Employ' d  his  time,  and  tools,  and  talents ; 
And  in  their  cause,  with  manly  zeal. 
Used  his  first  virtue — to  rebel ; 
And  found  this  new  rebellion  pleasing 
As  hia  old  king-destroying  treason. 

Nor  less  avail' d  his  optic  sleight, 
And  Scottish  gift  of  second-sight. 
No  ancient  sibyl,  famed  in  rhyme, 
Saw  deeper  in  the  womb  of  time ; 
No  block  in  old  Dodona's  grove 
Could  ever  more  oracular  prove. 
Nor  only  saw  he  all  that  was. 
But  much  that  never  came  to  pass ; 
Whereby  all  prophets  far  outwent  he. 
Though  former  days  produced  a  plenty : 
For  any  man  with  half  an  eye 
What  stands  before  him  may  espy ; 
But  optics  sharp  it  needs,  I  ween, 
To  see  what  is  not  to  be  seen. 
As  in  the  days  of  ancient  fame, 
Prophets  and  poets  were  the  same. 
And  all  the  praise  that  poets  gain 
Is  but  for  what  they  invent  and  feign  : 
So  gain'd  our  squire  his  fame  by  seeing 
Such  things  as  never  would  have  being ; 


Whence  he  for  oracles  was  grown 
The  very  tripod  of  his  town. 
Gazettes  no  sooner  rose  a  lie  in, 
But  straight  he  fell  to  prophesying ; 
Made  dreadful  slaughter  in  his  course, 
O'erthrew  provincials,  foot  and  horse ; 
Brought  armies  o'er  by  sudden  pressings 
Of  Hanoverians,  Swiss,  and  Hessians  ; 
Feasted  with  blood  his  Scottish  clan, 
And  hang'd  all  rebels  to  a  man; 
Divided  their  estates  and  pelf, 
And  took  a  goodly  share  himself. 
All  this,  with  spirit  energetic, 
He  did  by  second-sight  prophetic. 

Thus  stored  with  intellectual  riches, 
Skill'd  was  our  squire  in  making  speeches, 
Where  strength  of  brains  united  centres 
With  strength  of  lungs  surpassing  Stentor's. 
But  as  some  muskets  so  contrive  it, 
As  oft  to  miss  the  mark  they  drive  at, 
And,  though  well  aim'd  at  duck  or  plover, 
Bear  wide  and  kick  their  owners  over  : 
So  fared  our  squire,  whose  reas'ning  toil 
Would  often  on  himself  recoil. 
And  so  much  injured  more  his  side. 
The  stronger  arguments  he  applied ; 
As  old  war-elephants,  dismay'd, 
Trod  down  the  troops  they  came  to  aid. 
And  hurt  their  own  side  more  in  battle 
Than  less  and  ordinary  cattle  : 
Yet  at  town  meetings  ev'ry  chief 
Pinn'd  faith  on  great  McFingal' s  sleeve 
And,  as  he  motion' d,  all  by  rote, 
Eaised  sympathetic  hands  to  vote. 

John  Trumlull.—Born  1750,  Died  1831. 


1846.— ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA. 

Soon   fleets   the   sunbright  form,  by  man 

adored ! — 
Soon  fell  the  head  of  gold  to  Time  a  prey, 
The  arms,  the  trunk,    his  cankering  tooth 

devour' d. 
And  whirlwinds  blew  the  iron  dust  away. 
Where  dwelt  imperial  Timur,  far  astray 
Some  lonely  musing  pilgrim  now  inquires ; 
And,  rack'd  by  storms  and  hastening   te 

decay, 
Mohammed's  mosque  foresees  its  final  fires. 
And  Rome's  more  lordly  temple  day  by  day 

expires. 
As  o'er  proud   Asian  realms  the  traveller 

winds. 
His  manly  spirit,  hush'd  by  terror,  falls 
When  some  forgotten town'slost  site  he  finds 
Where  ruin  wild  his  pondering  eye  appals, 
Where  silence  swims  along  the  moulder' d 

walls. 
And  broods  upon  departed  Grandeur's  tomb, 
Throughthe  lone,  hollow  aisles,  sad  Echocalls 
At  each  slow  step ;  deep  sighs  the  breathing 

gloom. 
And  weeping  fields  around  bewail  their  em- 
press'd  dcom. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


WESTEEN  EMIGEATION. 


[David  Humphreys 


Where  o'er  a  hundred  realms  the  throne 

uprose 
The  screech-owl  nests,  the  panther  builds 

his  home ; 
Sleep  the  dull  newts,  the  lazy  adders  doze 
"Where  pomp  and  luxury  danced  the  golden 

room  ; 
Low  lies  in  dust  the  sky-resembled  dome, 
Tall  grass  around  the  broken  column  waves, 
And    brambles   climb  and  lonely   thistles 

bloom ; 
The   moulder' d  arch  the  weedy  streamlet 


jSTow  Pleasure  sports,  and  Business  want  be- 
guiles, 

And  Commerce  wings  her  flight  to  thousand 
isles ; 

Culture   walks  forth,  gay  laugh  the  loaded 
fields. 

And  jocundLabour  plays  his  harmless  wiles ; 

Glad   Science   brightens,  Art  her  mansion 
builds, 
And  Peace  uplifts  her  wand,  and  Heaven  his 
blessing  yields. 

Timothy  Dwight—Bom  1752,  Died  1817. 


And  low  resound,  beneath,  unnumber'd  sunken 
graves. 

In  thee,  O  Albion  !  queen  of  nations,  live 
Whatever  splendours  earth's  wide  realms 

have  known  ; 
In  thee  proud  Persia  sees  her  pomp  revive. 
And  Greece  her  arts,  and  Eorae  her  lordly 

throne  ; 
By  every  wind  thy  Tyrian  fleets  are  blown  ; 
Supreme,   on  Fame's  dread  roll,  thy  heroes 

stand. 
All  ocean's  realms  thy  naval  sceptre  own  ; 
Of  barda,  of  sages,  how  august  thy  band  I 
And  one  rich  Eden  blooms  around  thy  garden'd 

land. 

But,  0  how  vast  thy  crimes  !  Through  Hea- 
ven's great  year. 

When  few  centurial  suns  have  traced  their 
way; 

When  Southern  Europe,  won  by  feuds 
severe, 

Weak,  doting,  fallen,  has  bow'd  to  Eussian 
sway, 

And  setting  Glory,  beam'd  her  farewell  ray, 

To  wastes,  perchance,  thy  brilliant  fields 
shall  turn; 

In  dust  thy  temples,  towers,  and  towns 
decay ; 

The  forest  howl  where  London  turrets  burn. 
And  all  thy  garlands  deck  thy  sad  funereal  urn. 

Some  land,  scarce  glimmering  in  the  light  of 

fame, 
Sceptred  with  arts  and  arms  (if  I  divine), 
Some  unknown  wild^  some  shore  without  a 

name, 
In  all  thy  pomp  shall  then  majestic  shine. 
As  silver-headed  Time's  slow  years  decline. 
Not  ruins  only  meet  the  inquiring  eye  ; 
Where   round   yon    mouldering   oak    vain 

brambles  twine. 
The  filial  stem,  already  towering  high, 
Ere  long  shall  stretch  his  arms,  and  nod  in 

yonder  sky. 

■"^Vhere  late  resounded  the  wild  woodland 

roar, 
N».w   heaves    the  palace,  now  the  temple 

smiles ; 
Where  f  rown'd  the  rude  rock  and  the  desert 

shore, 


1847.— WESTEEN  EMIGEATION. 

With  all  that's  ours,  together  let  us  rise. 
Seek    brighter  plains,   and    more    indulgent 


Where  fair  Ohio  rolls  his  amber  tide, 
And  nature  blossoms  in  her  virgin  pride ; 
Where  all  that  Beauty's  hand  can  form  to 

please 
Shall  crown  the  toils  of  war  with  rural  ease. 

The  shady  coverts  and  the  sunny  hills, 
The  gentle  lapse  of  ever-murmuring  rills. 
The  soft  repose  amid  the  noontide  bowers, 
The  evening  walk  among  the  blushing  flowers. 
The  fragrant  groves,  that  yield  a  sweet  per- 
fume, 
And  vernal  glories  in  perpetual  bloom 
Await  you  there ;  and  heaven  shall  bless  the 
toil  : 
I   Your  own  the  produce,  and  your  own  the  soil. 

I       There,  free  from  envy,  cankering  care  and 

I  strife, 

!   Flow  the  calm  pleasures  of  domestic  life ; 
There  mutual  friendship  soothes  each  placid 

!  breast : 

'   Blest  in  themselves,  and  in  each  other  blest. 

I   From  house  to  house  the  social  glee  extends, 

I   For  friends  in  war  in  peace  are  doubly  friends. 

j        There  cities  rise,  and  spiry  towns  increase, 

I   With  gilded  domes  and  every  art  of  peace. 
Their  Cultivation  shall  extend  his  power, 
Eear  the  green  blade,  and   nurse  the  tender 

flower ; 
Make  the  fair  villa  in  full  splendour  smile, 
And  robe  with  verdure  all  the  genial  soil. 
There  shall  rich  Commerce  court  the  favouring 


And  wondering  wilds  admire  the  passing  sails, 
Where  the  bold  ships  the  stormy  Huron  brave, 
Where  wild  Ontario  rolls  the  whitening  wave, 
Where  fair  Ohio  his  pure  current  pours, 
And  Mississippi  laves  the  extended  shores. 
And  thou  Supreme  !  whose  hand  sustains  this 

ball, 
Before  whose  nod  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 
Propitious  smile,  and  shed  diviner  charms 
On  this  blest  land,  the  queen  of  arts  and  arms  ; 
Make  the  great  empire  rise  on  wisdom's  plan, 
The  seat  of  bliss,  and  last  retreat  of  man. 
David  Humphreys. — Born  1753,  Died  1818. 


Joel  Barlow.] 


BURNING  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  VILLAGES.     [Seventh  Period.— 


1848.-.BURNING  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 
VILLAGES. 

From  the  "  Columbiad." 

Throngh  solid  curls  of  smoke,  the  bursting 
fires 

Climb  in  tall  pyramids  above  the  spires, 

Concentring  all  the  winds ;  whose  forces, 
driven 

With  equal  rage  from  every  point  of  heaven, 

Whirl  into  conflict,  round  the  scantling  pour 

The  twisting  flames,  and  through  the  rafters 
roar  ; 

Suck  up  the  cinders,  send  them  sailing  far, 

To  warn  the  nations  of  the  raging  war ; 

Bend  high  the  blazing  vortex,  swelFd  and 
curl'd, 

Careering,  brightening  o'er  the  Instred  world : 

Seas  catch  the  splendour,  kindling  skies  re- 
sound. 

And  falling  structures  shake  the  smouldering 
ground. 

Crowds  of  wild  fugitives,  with  frantic  tread, 

Flit  through  the  flames  that  pierce  the  mid- 
night shade. 

Back  on  the  burning  domes  revert  their  eyes, 

Where  some  lost  friend,  some  perish' d  infant 
lies. 

Their  maim'd,  their  sick,  their  age-enfeebled 
sires 

Have  sunk  sad  victims  to  the  sateless  fires ; 

They  greet  with  one  last  look  their  tottering 
walls, 

See  the  blaze  thicken,  as  the  ruin  falls, 

Then  o'er  the  country  train  their  dumb  despair, . 

And  far  behind  them  leave  the  dancing  glare  ; 

Their  own  crush' d  roofs  still  lend  a  trembling 
,   light, 

Point  their  long  shadows  and  direct  their 
flight. 

Till,  wandering  wide,  they  seek  some  cottage 
door, 

Ask  the  vile  pittance  due  the  vagrant  poor  ; 

Or,  faint  and  faltering  on  the  devious  road, 

They  sink  at  last,  and  yield  their  mortal  load. 

Joel  Barlow. — Born  1755,  Died  1812, 


1849.— CRIMES  AND  PUNISHMENTS. 

Of  crimes,   empoison'd   source  of  human 

woes, 
Whence  the  black  flood  of  shame  and  sorrow 

flows, 
How  best  to  check  the   venom's  deadly  force, 
To  stem  its  torrent,  or  direct  its  course, 
To  scan  the  merits  of  vindictive  codes. 
Nor  pass  the  faults  humanity  explodes, 
I  sing — what  theme  more  worthy  to  engage 
The  poet's  song,  the  wisdom  of  the  sage  ? 
Ah  !  were  I  equal  to  the  great  design, 
Were  thy  bold  genius,  blest  Beccaria  I  mine, 
Then  should  my  work,  ennobled  as  my  aim. 
Like    thine,   receive  the  meed  of  deathless 

fame. 


0  Jay !  deserving  of  a  purer  age, 

Pride   of    thy   country,    statesman,    patriot, 

sage. 
Beneath  whose  guardian  care  our   laws  as- 
sume 
A  milder  form,  and  lose  their  Gothic  gloom, 
Read  with  indulgent  eyes,  nor  yet  refuse 
This  humble  tribute  of  an  artless  muse. 

Great   is   the  question  which  the  learn'd 

contest, 
What   grade,    what   mode  of  punishment  is 

best ; 
In  two  famed  sects  the  disputants  decide, 
These  ranged  on  Terror's,  those  on  Reason's 

side ; 
Ancient  as  empire  Terror's  temple  stood, 
Capt  with  black  clouds,  and  founded  deep  in 

blood  ; 
Grim  despots   here  their  trembling  honours 

paid, 
And  guilty  offerings  to  their  idol  made  : 
The  monarch  led — a  servile  crowd  ensued, 
Their  robes  distain'd  in  gore,  in  gore  imbrued ; 
O'er  mangled  limbs  they  held  infernal  feast, 
Moloch  the  god,  and  Draco's  self  the  priest. 
Mild  Reason's  fane,  in  later  ages  rear'd, 
With  sunbeams  crown' d,  in  Attic  grace  ap- 
pear'd  ; 
In  just  proportion  finish'd  every  part. 
With  the  fine  touches  of  enlighten'd  art. 
A  thinking  few,  selected  from  the  crowd. 
At  the  fair  shrine  with  fiKal  rev'rence  bow'd ; 
The  sage  of  Milan  led  the  virtuous  choir. 
To  them  sublime  he  strung  the  tuneful  lyre  : 
Of  laws,  of  crimes,  and  punishments  he  sung, 
And  on  his  glowing  lips  persuasion  hung  : 
From  Reason's  source  each  inference  just  he 

drew, 
While  truths  fresh  polish'd  struck  the  mind 

as  new  : 
Full  in  the  front,  in  vestal  robes  array'd. 
The  holy  form  of  Justice  stood  display' d  : 
Firm  was  her  eye,  not  vengeful,  though  severe, 
And  e'er  she  frown' d  she  check' d  the  starting 

tear. 
A  sister  form,  of  more  benignant  face, 
Celestial  Mercy,  held  the  second  place  ; 
Her  hands  outspread,  in  suppliant  guise  she 

stood, 
And  oft  with  eloquence  resistless  sued  ; 
But  where  'twas  impious  e'en  to  deprecate, 
She  sigh'd  assent,  and  wept  the  wretch's  fate. 

In  savage  times,  fair  Freedom  yet  unknown, 
The  despot,  clad  in  vengeance,  fiU'd  the  throne; 
His  gloomy  caprice  scrawl'd  the  ambiguous 

code, 
And  dyed  each  page  in  characters  of  blood, 
The  laws  transgress'd,    the  prince  in   judg- 
ment eat, 
And  Rage  decided  on  the  culprit's  fate  : 
Nor  stopp'd  he  here,  but,  skill' d  in  murderous 

art, 
The  sceptred  brute  usurp'd  the  liangman'a 
part; 


,From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  WANTS  OP  MAN. 


[JoHj?r  QuiNCT  Adamb. 


Witli   his   own   hands   the  trembling  victim 

hew'd, 
And  basely  wallow' din  a  subject's  blood. 
Pleased  with  the  fatal  game,  the  royal  mind 
On  modes  of  death  and  cruelty  refined : 
Hence  the  dank  caverns  of  the  cheerless  mine, 
"Where,  shut  from  light,  the  famish'd  wretches 

pine  ; 
The  face  divine,  in  seams  unsightly  sear'd, 
The  eyeballs  gouged,  the  wheel  with  gore  be- 
smear'd. 
The  Russian  knout,  the  suffocating  flame, 
And  forms  of  torture  wanting  yet  a  name. 
Nor  was  this  rage  to  savage  times  confined ; 
It  reach'd  to  later  years  and  courts  refined. . 
Blush,    polish' d   France,    nor   let   the   muse 

relate 
The  tragic  story  of  your  Damien's  fate ; 
The  bed  of  steel,  where  long  the  assassin  lay, 
In  the  dark  vault,  secluded  from  the  day : 
The   quivering   flesh   which  burning  pincers 

tore, 
The  pitch,  pour'd  flaming   in  the  recent  sore  ; 
His  carcase,  warm  with  life,  convulsed  with 

pain. 
By  steeds   dismember' d,    dragg'd   along   the 

plain. 

As  daring  quacks,  unskill'd  in  medic  lore, 
Prescribed   the   nostrums  quacks  prescribed 

before  ; 
Careless  of  age  or  sex,  whate'er  befall. 
The  same  dull  recipe  must  serve  for  all : 
Our  senates  thus,  with  reverence  be  it  said, 
Have  been  too  long  by  blind  tradition  led  : 
Our  civil  code,  from  feudal  dross  refined, 
Proclaims  the  liberal  and  enlighten'd  mind; 
But  till  of  late  the  penal  statutes  stood 
In  Gothic  rudeness,  smear'd  with  civic  blood  ; 
What  base  memorials  of  a  barbarous  age 
What  monkish  whimsies  sullied  every  page  ! 
The  clergy's  benefit,  a  trifling  brand, 
Jest  of  the  law,  a  holy  sleight  of  hand : 
Beneath  this  saintly   cloak  what  crimes  ab- 

horr'd. 
Of  sable  dye,  were  shelter'd  from  the  lord ; 
While  the  poor  starveling,  who  a  cent  pur- 

loin'd. 
No  reading  saved,  no  juggling  trick  essoin'd  ; 
His  was  the  servile  lash,  a  foul  disgrace. 
Through  time  transmitted  to  his  hapless  race  ; 
The  fort  and  dure,  the  traitor's  motley  doom. 
Might  blot  the  story  of  imperial  Rome. 
What  late  disgraced  our  laws  yet  stand  to 

stain 
The  splendid  annals  of  a  George's  reign. 

Say,  legislators,  for  what  end  design'd 
This  waste  of  lives,  this  havoc  of  mankind  ? 
Say,  by  what  right  (one  case  exempt  alone) 
Do  ye  prescribe,  that  blood  can  crimes  atone  ? 
If,    when   our   fortunes  frown,   and  dangers 

press. 
To  act  the  Roman's  part  be  to  transgress  j 
For  man  the  use  of  life  alone  commands ; 
The  fee  residing  in  the  grantor's  hands. 


j    Could  man,  what  time  the  social  pact  he  seal'd, 
I    Cede  to  the  state  a  right  he  never  held  ? 

For  all  the  powers  which  in  the  state  reside, 
j    Result  from  cotopact,  actual  or  implied. 
j    Too  well  the  savage  policy  we  trace      * 
I    To  times  remote,  Humanity's  disgrace  ; 
j   E'en  while  I  ask,  the  trite  response  recuas, 
Example  warns,  severity  deters. 
No  milder  means  can  keep  the  vile  in  awe, 
And  state  necessity  compels  the  law. 
But   let   Experience   speak,    she   claims  our 

trust ; 
The  data  false,  the  inference  is  tmjust. 
Ills  at  a  distance,  men  but  slightly  fear ; 
Delusive  Fancy  never  thinks  them  near  : 
With   stronger  force   than   fear  temptations 

draw, 
And  cunning  thinks  to  parry  with  the  law. 
"  My  brother  swung,  poor  novice  in  his  art. 
He  blindly  stumbled  on  a  hangman's  cart ; 
But  wiser  I,  assuming  every  shape. 
As  Proteus  erst,  am  certain  to  escape." 
The  knave,  thus  jeering,  on  his  skiU  relies, 
For  never  villain  deem'd  himself  unwise. 

St.  John  Honeywood. — Born  1765,  Died  1798 


1850.— THE  WANTS  OF  MAN. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
*Tis  not  with  me  exactly  so. 

But  'tis  so  in  the  song. 
My  wants  are  many,  and  if  told, 

Would  muster  many  a  score  ; 
And  were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold, 

I  still  should  long  for  more. 

What  first  I  want  is  daily  bread. 

And  canvas-backs  and  wine  ; 
And  aU  the  realms  of  nature  spread 

Before  me  when  I  dine  ; 
With  four  choice  cooks  from  France,  beside, 

To  dress  my  dinner  well ; 
Four  courses  scarcely  can  provide 

My  appetite  to  quell. 

What  next  I  want,  at  heavy  cost, 

Is  elegant  attire : 
Black  sable  furs  for  winter's  frost. 

And  silks  for  summer's  fire  ; 
And  Cashmere  shawls,  and  Brussels  laco 

My  bosom's  front  to  deck, 
And  diamond  rings  my  hands  to  grace, 

And  rubies  for  my  neck. 

And  then  I  want  a  mansion  fair, 

A  dwelling-house,  in  style, 
Four  stories  high,  for  wholesome  air — 

A  massive  marble  pile ; 
With  halls  for  banquetings  and  balls, 

All  furnish'd  rich  and  fine  ; 
With  high-blood  studs  in  fifty  stalls, 

And  cellars  for  my  wine. 


John  Qtjincy  Adams.]                  THE  WANTS  OF  MAN.                     [Seventh  Period.— 

I  want  a  garden  and  a  park, 

To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life, 

My  dwelling  to  surround — 

And  all  its  joys  to  share  ; 

A  thousand  acres  (bless  the  mark  !) 

Of  temper  sweet,  of  yielding  will. 

With  walls  encompass'd  round — 

Of  firm  yet  placid  mind. 

Whore  flocks  may  range  and  herds  may  low , 

With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still. 

And  kids  and  lambkins  play, 

With  sentiment  refined. 

And  flowers  and  fruits  commingled  grow, 

All  Eden  to  display. 

And  as  time's  car  incessant  runs. 

And  fortune  fills  my  store, 

I  want,  when  summer's  foliage  falls, 

I  want  of  daughters  and  of  sons 

And  autumn  strips  the  trees. 

From  eight  to  half  a  score. 

A  house  within  the  city's  walls. 

I  want  (alas  !  can  mortal  dare 

For  comfort  and  for  ease  ; 

Such  bliss  on  earth  to  crave  ?) 

But  here  as  space  is  somewhat  scant, 

That  all  the  girls  be  chaste  and  fair— 

And  acres  somewhat  rare, 

The  boys  all  wise  and  brave. 

My  house  in  town  I  only  want 

To  occupy — a  square. 

And  when  my  bosom's  darling  sings. 

With  melody  divine. 

I  want  a  steward,  butler,  cooks  ; 

A  pedal  harp  of  many  strings 

A  coachman,  footman,  grooms  ; 

Must  with  her  voice  combine. 

A  library  of  well-bound  books. 

Piano,  exquisitely  wrought, 

And  picture-garnish' d  rooms  ; 

Must  open  stand,  apart. 

Corregio's  Magdalen,  and  Night, 

That  all  my  daughters  may  be  taught 

The  Matron  of  the  Chair ; 

To  win  the  stranger's  heart. 

Guide's  fleet  coursers,  in  their  flight, 

And  Claudes  at  least  a  pair. 

My  wife  and  daughters  will  desire 

Eefreshment  from  perfumes. 

I  want  a  cabinet  profuse 

Cosmetics  for  the  skin  require, 

Of  medals,  coins,  and  gems ; 

And  artificial  blooms. 

A  printing-press  for  private  use, 

The  civet  fragrance  shall  dispense. 

Of  fifty  thousand  ems  ; 

And  treasured  sweets  return  ; 

And  plants,  and  minerals,  and  shells  ; 

Cologne  revive  the  flagging  sense. 

Worms,  insects,  fishes,  birds  ; 

And  smoking  amber  burn. 

And  every  beast  on  earth  that  dwells 

In  solitude  or  herds. 

And  when  at  night  my  weary  head 

Begins  to  droop  and  dose. 

I  want  a  board  of  burnish' d  pla,te, 

A  chamber  south,  to  hold  my  bed. 

Of  silver  and  of  gold ; 

For  nature's  sofe  repose  ; 

Tureens,  of  twenty  pounds  in  weight, 

With  blankets,  counterpanes,  and  sheet, 

And  sculpture's  richest  mould; 

Mattress,  and  sack  of  down. 

Plateaus,  -svith  chandeliers  and  lamps, 

And  comfortables  for  my  feet, 

Plates,  dishes — all  the  same ; 

And  pillows  for  my  crown. 

And  porcelain  vases,  with  the  stamps 

Of  Sevres  and  Angouleme. 

I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend. 

To  cheer  the  adverse  hour, 

And  maples  of  fair  glossy  stain, 

Who  ne'er  to  flatter  wiU  descend, 

Must  form  my  chamber  doors, 

Nor  bend  the  knee  to  power ; 

And  carpets  of  the  Wilton  grain 

A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I'm  wrong, 

Must  cover  all  my  floors  ; 

My  inmost  soul  to  see  ; 

My  walls  with  tapestry  bedeck' d, 

And  that  my  friendship  prove  as  strong 

Must  never  be  outdone ; 

For  him,  as  his  for  me. 

And  damask  curtains  must  protect 

Their  colours  from  the  sun. 

I  want  a  kind  and  tender  heart, 

For  others*  wants  to  feel ; 

And  Diirrors  of  the  largest  pane 

A  soul  secure  from  fortune's  dart, 

From  Venice  must  be  brought ; 

And  bosom  arm'd  with  steel ; 

And  sandal-wood  and  bamboo-cane, 

To  bear  Divine  chastisement's  rod, 

For  chairs  and  tables  bought ; 

And,  mingling  in  my  plan. 

On  all  the  mantel-pieces,  clocks 

Submission  to  the  will  of  God, 

Of  thrice-gilt  bronze  must  stand, 

With  charity  to  man. 

And  screens  of  ebony  and  box 

Invite  the  stranger's  hand. 

I  want  a  keen,  observing  eye. 

I  want  (who  does  not  want  ?)  a  wife, 
Affectionate  and  fair, 

An  ever-listening  ear, 
The  truth  through  all  disguise  to  spy, 
And  wisdom's  voice  to  hear; 

From  1780  to  1866.]                 TO  WILLIAM  GIFFOEB,  ESQ.                [William  Clifton. 

A  tongue,  to  speak  at  virtue's  need, 

And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 

In  heaven's  sublime st  strain  j 

Enjoy'd  the  peace  your  valour  won ! 

And  lips,  the  cause  of  man  to  plead, 

Let  independence  be  our  boast, 

And  never  plead  in  vain. 

Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 

Ever  grateful  for  the  prize. 

I  want  uninterrupted  health, 

Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 

Throughout  my  long  career, 

Firm — united — let  us  be, 

And  streams  of  never-failing  wealth. 

Rallying  round  our  liberty ; 

To  scatter  far  and  near — 

As  a  band  of  brothers  join'd, 

The  destitute  to  clothe  and  feed, 

Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Free  bounty  to  bestow, 

Supply  the  helpless  orphan's  need, 

Immortal  patriots  !  rise  once  more ; 

And  soothe  the  widow's  woe. 

Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore ; 

Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand. 

1       I  want  the  genius  to  conceive. 

Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 

The  talents  to  unfold. 

Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 

Designs,  the  vicious  to  retrieve, 

Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earn'd  prize. 

The  virtuous  to  uphold ; 

While  oflfering  peace  sincere  and  just. 

Inventive  power,  combining  skill, 

In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust, 

A  persevering  soul. 

That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail. 

Of  human  hearts  to  mould  the  will, 

And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 

And  reach  from  pole  to  pole. 

Firm — united,  &c. 

I  want  the  seals  of  power  and  place. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  Fame !                             \ 

The  ensigns  of  command. 

Let  Washington's  great  name 

Charged  by  the  people's  unb ought  grace, 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 

To  rule  my  native  land  ; 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause  : 

Nor  crown,  nor  sceptre  would  I  ask. 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear 

But  from  my  country's  will, 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear. 

By  day,  by  night,  to  ply  the  task 

With  equal  skill  and  godlike  power, 

1           Her  cup  of  bliss  to  fill. 

He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 

Of  horrid  war ;  or  guides  with  ease, 

I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise 

The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 

To  follow  me  behind, 

Firm — united,  &c. 

And  to  be  thought,  in  future  days, 

The  friend  of  human  kind ; 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands 

That  after-ages,  as  they  rise. 

Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands — 

Exulting  may  proclaim, 

The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat, 

In  choral  union  to  the  skies, 

The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat : 

Their  blesRirigs  on  my  name. 

But,  arm'd  in  virtue  firm  and  true, 

His  hopes  are  fix'd  on  heaven  and  you. 

These  are  the  wants  of  mortal  man  ; 

When  Hope  was  sinking  in  dismay. 

I  cannot  need  them  long, 

And  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day, 

For  life  itself  is  but  a  span, 

His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 

And  earthly  bliss  a  song. 

Resolved  on  death  or  liberty. 

My  last  great  want,  absorbing  all, 

Firm — united,  &c. 

Is,  when  beneath  the  sod, 
And  summoned  to  my  final  call — 

Joseph  Hojplcinson.—Born  1770,  Died  1842. 

The  mercy  of  my  God. 
And  oh !  while  circles  in  my  veins 

1852.— TO  WILLIAM  GIFFORD,  ESQ. 

Of  life  the  purple  stream, 

And  yet  a  fragment  small  remains 

In  these  cold  shades,  beneath  these  shifting        [ 

Of  nature's  transient  dream. 

skies, 

My  soul,  in  humble  hope  unscared, 

Where  Fancy  sickens,  and  where  Genius  dies ; 

Forget  not  thou  to  pray. 

Where  few  and  feeble  are  the  muse's  strains. 

That  this  thy  want  may  be  prepared 

And  no  fine  frenzy  riots  in  the  veins. 

To  meet  the  Judgment-Day. 

There  still  are  found  a  few  to  whom  belong             1 

J.  q.  Adams.— Born  1767,  Biedi  1848. 

The  fire  of  virtue  and  the  soul  of  song ; 

Whose  kindling   ardour   still   can   wake  the 



strings, 

185 1. —HAIL,  COLUMBIA. 

When  learning  triumphs,   and  when  GifFord 

sings.                                                                         ' 

Hail,  Columbia !  happy  land ! 

To  thee  the  lowliest  bard  his  tribute  pays, 

Hail,  ye  heroes,  heaven-born  band  ! 

His  little  wild-flower  to  thy  wreath  conveys  ; 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Pleased,  if  permitted  round  thy  name  to  bloom  ^ 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 

To  boast  one  effort  rescued  from  the  tomb. 

i 

William  Clifton.] 


TO  WILLIAM  GIFFOED,  ESQ. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


While  this  delirious  age  enchanted  seems 
With  hectic  Fancy's  desultory  dreams  ; 
While  wearing  fast  away  is*  every  trace 
Of  Grecian  vigour  and  of  Eoman  grace, 
With  fond  delight,  we  yet  one  bard  behold, 
As  Horace  poHsli'd  and  as  Perseus  bold, 
Eeclaim  the  art,  assert  the  muse  divine, 
And  drive  obtrusive  dulness  from  the  shrine. 
Since  that  great  day  which  saw  the  Tablet  rise, 
A  thinking  block,  and  whisper  to  the  eyes. 
No  time  has  been  that  touch' d  the  muse  so 

near, 
No  Age  when  Learning  had  so  much  to  fear. 
As   now,   when  love-lorn  ladies   light  verse 

frame, 
And  every  rebus- weaver  talks  of  Fame. 

When  Truth  in  classic  majesty  appear'd. 
And  Greece,  on  high,  the  dome  of  science 

rear'd, 
Patience  and  perseverance,  care  and  pain 
Alone  the  steep,  the  rough  ascent  could  gain : 
None  but    the    great  the    sun-clad  summit 

found ; 
The  weak  were  baffled,  and  the  strong  were 

crown' d. 
The  tardy  transcript's  high- wrought  page  con- 
fined 
To  one  pursuit  the  undivided  mind. 
No  venal  critic  fatten' d  on  the  trade ; 
Books  for  delight,  and  not  for  sale  were  made  ; 
Then  shone,  superior,  in  the  realms  of  thought. 
The  chief  who  govern' d,  and  the  sage  who 

taught : 
The    drama   then  with   deathless    bays   was 

wreath' d, 
The     statue     quicken' d,     and     the     canvas 

breathed. 
The  poet,  then,  with  unresisted  art, 
SAvay'd  every  impulse  of  the  captive  heart. 
Touch' d  with  a  beam  of  Heaven's  creative 

mind, 
His  spirit  kindled,  and  his  taste  refined  : 
Incessant  toil  inform' d  his  rising  youth  ; 
Thought  grew  to  thought,  and  truth  attracted 

truth. 
Till,  all  complete,  his  perfect  soul  display' d 
Some  bloom  of  genius  which  could  never  fade. 
So  the  sage  oak,  to  Nature's  mandate  true, 
Advanced  but  slow,   and  strengthen' d  as  it 

grew ! 
But  when,  at  length  (full  many  a  season  o'er), 
Its  virile  head,  in  pride,  aloft  it  bore  ; 
When  steadfast  were  its  roots,  and  sound  its 

heart, 
It  bade  defiance  to  the  insect's  art. 
And,  storm  and  time  resisting,  still  remains 
The  never-dying  glory  of  the  plains. 

Then,   if   some   thoughtless   Bavius   dared 
appear. 
Short  was  his  date,  and  limited  his  sphere ; 
He  could  but  please  the  changeling  mob  a  day. 
Then,  like  his  noxious  labours,  pass  away : 
So,  near  a  forest  tall,  some  worthless  flower 
Enjoys  the  triumph  of  its  gaudy  hour. 


Scatters  its  little  poison  through  the  skies, 
Then  droops  its  empty,  hated  head,  and  dies. 

Still,  as  from  famed  Ilyssus'  classic  shore. 
To  Mincius'  banks,  the  muse  her  laurel  bore. 
The  sacred  plant  to  hands  divine  was  given, 
And    deathless    Maro    nursed    the    boon   of 

Heaven. 
Exalted  bard  !  to  hear  thy  gentler  voice. 
The  valleys  listen,  and  their  swains  rejoice ; 
But  when,  on  some   wild  mountain's  awful 

form, 
We  hear  thy  spirit  chanting  to  the  storm, 
Of  battling  chiefs,  and  armies  laid  in  gore. 
We  rage,  we  sigh,  we  wonder,  and  adore. 
Thus   Rome  with  Greece  in  rival  splendour 

shone. 
But  claim' d  immortal  satire  for  her  own  ; 
While    Horace    pierced,  full  oft,  the  wanton 

breast 
With  sportive  censure,  and  resistless  jest  j 
And  that  Etrurian,  whose  indignant  lay 
Thy  kindred  genius  can  so  well  display, 
With  many  a  well-aim' d  thought,  and  pointed 

line. 
Drove  the  bold  villain  from  his  black  design. 
For,  as  those  mighty  masters  of  the  lyre. 
With  temper' d  dignity,  or  quenchless  ire, 
Through  all  the  various  paths  of  science  trod, 
Their   school  was  Nature  and  their  teacher 

God. 
Nor  did  the  muse  decline  till,  o'er  her  head. 
The  savage  tempest  of  the  north  was  spread ; 
Till  arm'd  with  desolation's  bolt  it  came. 
And  wrapp'd  her  temple  in  funereal  flame. 

But  soon  the  arts  once  more  a  dawn  diffuse, 
And  Dante  hail'd  it  with  his  morning  muse ; 
Petrarch  and  Boccace  join'd  the  choral  lay, 
And  Arno  glisten'd  with  returning  day. 
Thus  science  rose ;  and,  all  her  troubles  pass'd, 
She  hoped  a  steady,  tranquil  reign  at  last ; 
But    Faustus    came :     (indulge    the    painful 

thought,) 
Were    not     his     countless     volumes    dearly 

bought  ? 
For,  while  to  every  clime  and  class  they  fiew. 
Their  worth  diminish' d  as  their  numbers  grew. 
Some  pressman,  rich  in  Homer's  glowing  page, 
Could  give  ten  epics  to  one  wondering  age ; 
A  single  thought  supplied  the  great  design, 
And  clouds  of  Iliads  spread  from  every  line. 
Nor  Homer's  glowing  page,  nor  Virgil's  fire 
Could  one  lone  breast  with  equal  flame  inspire. 
But,  lost  in  books,  irregular  and  wild, 
The  poet  wonder'd,  and  the  critic  smiled: 
The  friendly  smile,  a  bulkier  work  repays ; 
For  fools  will  print,  while  greater  fools  will 

praise. 

Touch' d  with  the  mania,  now,  what  millions 
rage 
To  shine  the  laureate  blockheads  of  the  age. 
The  dire  contagion  creeps  through  every  grade ; 
Girls,  coxcombs,  peers,  and  patriots  drive  the 
trade, 


From  1780  to  1866.]  GEEHALE  :  AN  INDIAN  LAMENT.  [H.  E.  Schoolckaft. 


And  e'en  the  hind,  his  fruitful  fields  forgot, 
For  rhyme  and  misery  leaves  his  wife  and  cot. 
Ere  to  his  breast  the  wasteful  mischief  spread, 
Content  and  plenty  cheer' d  his  little  shed  ; 
And,  while  no  thoughts  of  state  perplex' d  his 

mind, 
His  harvests  ripening,  and  Pastora  kind, 
He  .  augh'd  at  toil,  with  health  and  vigour 

bless' d. 
For  days  of  labour  brought  their  nights  of 

rest : 
But  now  in  rags,  ambitious  for  a  name. 
The  fool  of  faction,  and  the  dupe  of  fame. 
His  conscience  haunts  him  with  his  guilty  life. 
His  starving  children,  and  his  ruin'd  wife. 
Thus  swarming  wits,  of  all  materials  made, 
Their  Gothic  hands  on  social  quiet  laid. 
And,  as  they  rave,  unmindful  of  the  storm, 
Call  lust,  refinement ;  anarchy,  reform. 

William  CliJton.-^Born  1772,  Died.  1799. 


1853.— AMERICA  TO  GREAT 
BRITAIN. 

All  hail !  thou  noble  land, 
Oar  father's  native  soil ! 
O  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil. 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore  ; 
For  thou,  with  magic  might, 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 

The  genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  great  sublime  ; 
While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall 
proclaim. 

Then  let  the  world  combine — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line, 
Like  the  milky- way,  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame ! 

Though  ages  long  have  pass'd. 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast. 

O'er  untravell'd  seas  to  roam, — 

Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins  ! 

And  shall  we  not  proclaim 

That  blood  of  honest  fame. 

Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 

By  its  chains  ? 

,  While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung, 

When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host ; 

While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 

Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 

From  rock  to  rock  repeat 

Round  our  coast ; 


While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul. 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, 
Between  let  ocean  roll, 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  sun : 
Yet,  still,  from  either  beach, 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach. 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"  We  are  one  I  " 

Wasliington  Allston.—Bom  1779,  Died  1843. 


1854.— GEEHALE  :  AN  INDIAN 
LAMENT. 

The    blackbird   is   singing   on   Michigan's 

shore 
As  sweetly  and  gaily  as  ever  before  ; 
For  he  knows  to  his  mate  he,  at  pleasure,  can 

hie, 
And  the  dear  little  brood  she  is  teaching  to  fly. 
The  sun  looks  as  ruddy,  and  rises  as  bright. 
And  reflects  o'er  the  mountains  as  beamy  a 

Ught 
As  it  ever  reflected  or  ever  express' d. 
When  my  skies  were  the  bluest,  my  dreams 

were  the  best. 
The  fox  and  the  panther,  both  beasts  of  the 

night. 
Retire  to  their  dens  on  the  gleaming  of  light, 
And  they  spring  with  a  free  and  a  sorrowlesa 

track, 
For  they  know  that  their  mates  are  expecting 

them  back. 
Each  bird  and  each  beast,  it  is   bless'd  in 

degree  : 
All  nature  is  cheerful,  all  happy,  but  me. 

I  wUl  go  to  my  tent  and  lie  down  in  de- 
spair ; 

I  will  paint  me  with  black,  and  will  sever  my 
hair; 

I  will  sit  on  the  shore,  where  the  hurricane 
blows, 

And  reveal  to  the  god  of  the  tempest  my  woes ; 

I  will  weep  for  a  season,  on  bitterness  fed, 

For  my  kindred  are  gone  to  the  hUls  of  the 
dead; 

But  they  died  not  by  hunger^  or  lingering 
decay — 

The  steel  of  the  white  man  hath  swept  them 
away. 

This  snake-skin,  that  once  I  so  sacredly  wore, 
I  will  toss,  with  disdain,  to  the  storm-beaten 

shore : 
Its  charms  I  no  lor.ger  obey  or  invoke. 
Its  spirit  hath  left  me,  its  spell  is  now  broke. 
I  will  raise  up  my  voice  to  the  source  of  the 

light ; 
I  will  dream  on  the  wings  of  the  bluebird  at 

night ; 
I  will  speak  to  the  spirits  that  whisper  in  leaves, 
And  that  minister  balm  to  the  bosom  that 

grieves  ; 


W.  C.  Bryant.] 


THE  PEAIEIES. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


And  will  take  a  new  Manito— such  as  shall 


To  be  kind  and  propitious  in  every  dream. 

0.  then  I  shall  banish  these  cankering  sighs, 
And  tears  snail  no  longer  gush  salt  from  my 

eyes; 
I  shall  wash  from  my  face  every  cloud-colour' d 

stam, 
Red — red  shall,  alone,  on  my  visage  remain  ! 
I  will  dig  up  my  hatchet,  and  bend  my  oak  bow ; 
By  night  and  by  day  I  will  follow  the  foe ; 
Nor  lakes  shall  impede  me,  nor  mountains,  nor 

snows ; 
His  blood  can  alone  give  my  spirit  repose. 

They  came  to  my  cabin  when  heaven  was 

black  : 
X  heard  not   their  coming,  I  knew  not  their 

track. 
But  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  their  blazing  fusees, 
They  were  people  engender' d  beyond  the  big 

seas  : 
My  wife  and  my  children, — 0    spare  me  the 

tale ! 
For  who  is  there  left  that  is  kin  to  Geehale  ? 

Henry  Rowe  Schoolcraft. — Born  1793. 


1 85 5. —THE  PRAIRIES. 

These  are  the  gardens  of  the  desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful. 
For  which   the   speech   of    England   has  no 

name — 
The  prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.     Lo !   they 

stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away. 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  stni,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fix'd. 
And  motionless  for  ever. — Motionless  ? — 
No — they  are  all  unchain' d  again.   The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  south ! 
Who    toss    the    golden    and    the    flame-like 

flowers, 
And  pass   the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on 

high, 
Flaps   his   broad   wings,  yet  moves  not — yc 

have  play'd 
Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisp' d  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fann'd 
A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 
Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work  : 
The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 
And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown 

their  slopes 
With    herbage,    planted    them    with    island 

groves. 


And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.    Fitting 

floor 
For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky — 
With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 
Rival  the  constellations  !     The  great  heavens 
Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love, — 
A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue. 
Than  that  which  bends  above  the  eastern  hills. 

As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed. 
Among  the  high,  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his 


The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.     I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.  Are  they  here — 
The  dead  of  other  days  ? — and  did  the  dust 
Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 
And    burn   with   passion  ?     Let   the   mighty 

mounds 
That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 
In  the  dim  forest,  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.     A  race,  that  long  has  pass'd  away, 
Built  them  ; — a  disciplined  and  populous  race 
Heap'd,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet 

the  Greek 
Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 
Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 
The  glittering  Parthenon.     These  ample  fields 
Nourish'd   their    liarvests ;  here   their   herds 

were  fed, 
When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  low'd, 
And  bow'd  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 
All  day  this  desert  murmur'd  with  their  toils. 
Till  twilight  blush' d,  and  lovers  walk'd,  and 

woo'd 
In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes. 
From  instruments  of  unremember'd  form. 
Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.     The  red  man 

came — 
The  roaming  hunter-tribes,  warUke  and  fierce, 
And   the   mound-builders   vanish' d   from  the 

earth. 
The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 
Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.     The  prairie 

wolf 
Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug 

den 
Yawns  by  my  path.     The  gopher  mines  the 

ground 
Where   stood  their  swarming  cities.     All  is 

gone — 
All — save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their 

bones — 
The  platforms  where  they  worshipp'd  unknown 

gods — 
The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 
To  keep  the  foe  at  bay — till  o'er  the  walls 
The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 
The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced,  and 

heaped 
Vv''ith   corpses.     The   brown  vultures  of   the 

wood 
Flock' d  to  those  vast,  uncover' d  sepulchres, 
And  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 
Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 
Lurkirg  in  ma-.-sh  and  forest,  till  the  sens© 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


FOEEST  HYMN. 


[W.  C.  Bryant. 


Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 
Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 
Man's  better  nature  triumph' d.  Kindly  words 
Welcomed  and  soothed   himj  the  rude  con- 
querors 
Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs ;  he  chose 
A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 
Seem'd  to  forget, — yet  ne'er  forgot, — the  wife 
Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones 
Butcher' d,  amid  their   shrieks,   with   all  his 
race. 

Thus  change  the  forms   of  being.     Thus 

arise 
Eaces  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 
Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.     The  red  man, 

too, 
Has   left  the   blooming  wilds   he  ranged  so 

long. 
And,  nearer  to  the  Eocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wider  hunting-ground.     The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The    white    man's     face — among    Missouri's 

springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregon, 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.     In  these  plains 
The    bison    feeds    no    more.     Twice   twenty 

leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 
Eoams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps — yet  here  I 

meet 
His   ancient    footprints    stamp' d   beside  the 

pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And  birds,  that  scarce  have  learn'd  the  fear 

of  man. 
Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.     The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.  The  bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man. 
With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings. 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.     I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
Vf hich  soon  shall  fill  these  deserts.    From  the 

ground 
Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshippers.     The  low  of  herds 
Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 
Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.     All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps   by,  and  breaks  my 

dream 
And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

W.  C.  Bryant— Born  1794. 


1856.— FOEEST  HYMN. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere 

man  learn'd 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And   spread   the  roof    above   them, — ure   he 

framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 
And  offer' d  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences. 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  grey  old  trunks,  that  high  in 

heaven 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the 

sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath,  that  sway'd  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bow'd 
His    spirit   with   the   thought   of    boundless 

power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 
Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?     Let  me, 

at  least, 
Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood. 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  His  ear. 

Father,  Thy  hand 
Hath  rear'd  these  venerable  columns.  Thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst 

I  ook  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  Thy 

sun. 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  Thy 


And  shot  towards  heaven.    The  century-living 

crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and 

died 
Among    their    branches ;  till,    at    last,   they 

stood. 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion    with     his    Maker.     These    dim 

vaults, 
These  winding  aisles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Eeport  not.     No  fantastic  carvings  show. 
The  boast  of   our  vain  race,  to  change  the 

form 
Of  Thy  fair  works.    But  Thou  art  here — Thou 

fill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds. 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music ; — Thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 
Comes,  scarcely  felt;  the   barky  trunks,  the 

ground. 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  wi^h 

Thee. 
Here  is  continual  worship  ; — nature,  here. 
In  the  tranquillity  that  Thou  dost  love. 


W.  C.  Bryant.] 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Enjoys  Thy  presence.     Noiselessly  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird  ^ 
Passes  ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its 

herbs, 
WeUs  softly  forth,  and  visits  the  strong  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades. 
Of  Thy  perfections.    Grandeur,  strength,  and 

-grace. 
Are  here  to  speak  of  Thee.     This  mighty  oak. 
By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 
Almost  annihilated, — not  a  prince, 
In  aU  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 
E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 
Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 
Thy  hand   has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his 

root 
Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 
Of  the  broad  sun.   That  delicate  forest  flower. 
With  .delicate  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  Thy  creation,  finish'd,  yet  renew'd 
For  ever.     Written  on  Thy  works.  I  read 
The  lesson  of  Thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  aU  grow  old  and  die — but  see,  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth, 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     O,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries. 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies, 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch-enemy,  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came 

forth 
From  Thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  them- 
selves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they 

outlived 
The  generation  bom  with  them,  nor  seem'd 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them; — and  there    have  been  holy 

men 
Who  deem'd  it  were  not  well  to  pass  Hfo  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Betire,  and  in  Thy  presence  reassure 
■My  feeble  virtue.     Here  its  enemies, 
^The  passions,  at  Thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
?And  tremble,  and  are  still.     O,   God !  when 

Thou 
'Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 


The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill. 

With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament,    . 

The  swift,  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the 

woods 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  Thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  Thy  power. 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
O,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  Thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad,  unchain'd  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  Thy  milder  majesty 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  Thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 

TF.  C.  Bryant— Born  1794. 


1857.— THE  ANTIQUITY   OF  FEEEDOM. 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks,  and  gnarled 

pines. 
That  stream  with  grey-green  mosses ;  here  the 

ground 
Was  never  touch'd   by   spade,   and  flowers 

spring  up 
Unsown,  and  die  ungather'd.     It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 
And  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks  and 

winds 
That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter  as  they  pass 
A  fragrance  from  the  cedars  thickly  set 
With  pale  blue  berries.      In  these  peaceful 

shades — 
Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old — 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years 
Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  Liberty. 

O  Freedom  !  thou  art  not  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young   girl,   with   light   and  dehcate 

limbs. 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Eoman  master  crown'dliis 

slave. 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 
Arm'd  to  the  teeth,  art  thou  :  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword 

thy  brow. 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarr'd 
With  tokens  of  old  wars  ;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  and  strugghng.     Power  at  thee  has 

launch'd 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings   smitten 

thee  : 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from 

Heaven. 
Merciless  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
And  his  swart  armourers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain  j  yet  while  he  deems 

thee  bound, 
The  links  are  shiver'd,  and  the  prison  walls 
Fall  outward  ;  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  »  burning  pile, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 


[W.  C.  Bktant. 


And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shouting's,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birthright  was   not  given  by  human 

hands : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  pleasant 

fields. 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with 

him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
To  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf. 
His  only  foes  :  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  Deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
The  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obey'd. 
Is  later  born  than  thou  ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of 

years, 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age  ; 
Feebler,    yet    subtler;    he   shall   weave   his 

snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and 

clap 
His  wither' d  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  forms  of  fair   and  gallant 

mien, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm   thy  ear;  while  his  sly  imps,  by 

stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread 

on  thread. 
That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  conceal'd  in  chaplets.     Oh  !  not 

yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword,  nor  yet,    O  Freedom  !  close  thy 

lids 
In  slumber ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  Earth  and  Heaven.     But  wouldst 

thou  rest 
Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were 

new. 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 

W.  C.  Bryant— Born  1794. 


1858.— OH  MOTHEE  OF  A  MIGHTY 
RACE. 

Oh  mother  of  a  mighty  race. 
Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace  I 


The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers. 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years. 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
I        That  tints  the  morning  hills  with  red ; 
j        Thy  step — the  wild  deer's  rustling  feet 
j       Within  thy  woods,  are  not  more  fleet ; 
I  Thy  hopeful  eye 

j       Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

Ay,  let  them  rail — those  haughty  ones — 
j       WhUe  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons, 
j       They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art — 

How  many  a  fond  and  fearless  heart 
Would  rise  to  throw 

Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe ! 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide  ; 
How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley  shades; 

What  generous  men 
Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen  : 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  the  lone  rivers  of  the  West ; 
How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered. 
And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  fear'd. 

In  woodland  homes, 
And  where  the  solemn  ocean  foams  ! 

There's  freedom  at  thy  gates  and  rest 
For  earth's  down-trodden  and  oppress'd, 
A  shelter  for  the  hunted  head. 
For  the  starved  labourer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds. 
Stops  and  calls  back  his  baflSed  hounds. 

Oh,  fair  young  mother !  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a  nobler  grace  than  now. 
Deep  in  the  brightness  of  thy  skies 
The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise. 

And,  as  they  fleet. 
Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  with  every  coming  hour. 
Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower ; 
'  And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born. 
Would    brand    thy    name    mth   words   of 
scorn. 

Before  thine  eye, 
Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die ! 

W.  C.  Bryomt—Born  1792.. 


1859.— SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

Our  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  green  wood. 

Our  tent  the  cypress  tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 

82* 


F.  Halleck.] 


BURNS. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear  : 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

Thoy  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gather! d 

To  cro-vvn  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles. 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  Barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain  ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night- wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camj; — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs. 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  IrtT^y  ladies  greet  our  band 

Wici)   kindliest  welcoming. 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more. 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

For  ever  from  our  shore, 

W.  C.  Bryant— Born  1792. 


i860.— BUENS. 

To  A  Rose,  biiought  from  near  Allow  at 

KiKK,  IN  Ayrshire,  in  the  Autumn  of 

1822. 

Wild  rose  of  Alio  way  !  ray  thanks, 

Thou  mind'st  me  of  that  autumn  noon, 

When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 
And  braes  o'  bonny  Doon." 


Like  thine,  beneath  the  thorn-tree's  bough, 
My  sunny  hour  was  glad  and  brief, 

We've  cross'd  the  winter  sea,  and  thou 
Art  wither' d — flower  and  leaf. 

And  will  not  thy  death-doom  be  mine — 
The  doom  of  all  things  wrought  of  clay — 

And  wither'd  my  life's  leaf,  like  thine, 
Wild  rose  of  Alloway  ? 

Not  so  his  memory,  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long. 

His,  who  an  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song. 

The  memory  of  Burns — a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimm'd  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory,  and  her  shame, 
In  silent  sadness  up. 

A  nation's  glory — be  the  rest 

Forgot — she's  canonized  his  mind; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  human  kind. 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed. 

Where  the  bard-peasant  first  drew  breath : 
A  stra w- thatch' d  roof  above  his  head, 

A  straw -wrought  couch  beneath.' 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile. 
His  monument — that  tells  to  heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle, 
To  that  bard-j)easant  given. 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming-hour ; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  poet's  pride  and  power. 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  chUd  of  song 

Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth. 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong ; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 
Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 

Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres. 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires  : 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there  j 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  v/hich  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek ; 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 
The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time. 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


ALNWICK  CASTLE. 


[F.  Halleck. 


And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listen'd,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  poet's  mastery. 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm. 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

"Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth ; 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eyes  unshed. 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue. 
When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
.    Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  is  sung ! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise. 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air. 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Bums — though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  ho  trod,- 

Lived — died — in  form  and  soul  a  man. 
The  image  of  his  God. 

Though  care,  and  pain,  and  want,  and  woe. 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures — the  poor  alone  can  know. 
The  proud  alone  can  feel ; 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth. 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen. 

And  moved,  in  manhood  and  in  youth. 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 
A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave  ; 

A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong. 
Of  coward,  and  of  slave. 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye. 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard  !  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower- seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown. 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

Praise  to  the  man  !  a  nation  stood 

Beside  his  coffin  with  wet  eyes. 
Her  brave,  her  beautiful,  her  good, 

As  when  a  loved  one  dies. 


And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day. 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around. 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallow' d  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories. 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  Wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 
Crown' d  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And     warriors    with     their     bright    swords 
sheathed. 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour ; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 
Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star, 
I   Are  there — o'er  wave  and  mountain  come. 
From  countries  near  and  far ; 

Pilgrims,  whose  wandering  feet  have  press'd 
The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand. 

Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 
My  own  green  forest-land ; 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

They  linger  by  the  Boon's  low  trees. 
And  pastoral  Nith,  and  wooded  Ayr, 

And.  round  thy  sepulchres,  Dumfries  ! 
The  poet's  tomb  is  there. 

But  what  to  them  the  sculptor's  art, 

His  funeral  columns,  wreaths,  and  urns  ? 

Wear  they  not  graven  on  the  heart 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns  ? 

Fitz-Greene  Balled.— Born  1795. 


1 86 1  .—ALNWICK  CA>;'!  -E. 

Home  of  the  Percy's  high-born  race. 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial-place. 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave  ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours  ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "  flout  the  sky" 

Above  his  princely  towers. 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines. 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 

To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 
Through  this  romantic  scene 

As  silently  and  sweetly  still, 

As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 


F.  Halleck.] 


MAECO  BOZZAEIS. 


[Seventh  Period.- 


While  summer's  winds  Ulew  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katharine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruin'd  pile  : 

Does  not  the  succouring  ivy,  keeping 

Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 
As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping  ? 

One  solitary  turret  grey 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day. 

The  Percy's  proudest  border  story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum  ; 
And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  song. 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom  : 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  Templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mail'd  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damp'd  with  his  dying 
breath. 
When  blood  ran  free  as  vestal  wine. 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries. 

What  tales,  if  there  be  "  tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here ; 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer. 
Tales  of  the  oridal  and  the  bier. 

The  welcome  and  farewell. 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew -bell.. 

t  wander'd  through  the  lofty  halls 

Trod  by  the  Percies  of  old  fame, 
And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 

Each  high,  heroic  name, 
From  him  who  once  his  standard  set 
Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret. 

Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons  ; 
To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son, 
Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  major  of  dragoons. 


That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dash'd 
From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup ; 

The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flash' d. 
The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up  • 

Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone ; 

And  Alnwick's  but  a  market  town. 

And  this,  alas  !  its  market  day, 

And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way 


Oxen  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line  ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land. 
From  royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand. 
From  Wooler,  Morpeth,  Hexham,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes. 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy  : 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable, 
Of  Knights,  but  not  of  the  Eound  Table, 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Eob  Roy  : 
'Tis  what  "  our  President,"  Monroe, 

Has  call'd  "the  era  of  good  feehng  :'* 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 
To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow. 
Consented  to  be  taxed,  and  vote. 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat. 

And  leave  off  cattle-stealing ; 
Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt. 

The  Douglas  in  red  herrings  : 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land 
Palace  and  park,  and  vassal  band, 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Eothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come :  to-day  the  turban' d  Turk 
(Sleep,  Eichard  of  the  Lion  Heart  ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar  stone  ; 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on. 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek. 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die  ; 
And  not  a  sabre-blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  arm'd  pomp  of  feudal  state  ? 
The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "  gentle  Kate  " 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving  men. 
In  the  drab  coat  of  AVilUam  Penn ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal. 
Who  bow'd  me  through   court,   bower,  and 

haU, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. — Born  1795. 


1862.— MAECO  BOZZAEIS, 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent. 
The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 

When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent. 
Should  tremble  at  his  power ; 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


WOODMAN,  SPAEE  THAT  TEEE. 


[Gr.  P.  Morris. 


In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard  ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring  : 
Then  press'd  that  monarch's  throne — a  king  ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden-bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band. 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood. 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Platcea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquer' d  there, 
"With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  pass'd  on — the  Turk  awoke  ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
*'  To    arms !    they    come !    the   Greek !    the 

Greek  !" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud  ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 
"  Strike — till  the  last  arm'd  foe  expires  : 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

God — and  your  native  land  !  " 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain  ; 
They  conquer' d — but  Bozzaris  fell. 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah. 

And  the  red  field  was  won  : 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber.  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  firstoorn's  breath; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  : 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form. 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean-storm, 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine  j 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear. 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 
Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free. 

Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 

And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 
The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 


Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prison'd  men  : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm. 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Eest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree. 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb  ; 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone  ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed  ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells : 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said, 
At  palace  couch  and  cottage  bed ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears  : 

And  she.  the  mother  of  thy  boys. 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 
For  tnou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names. 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. — Bom  1795. 


1863.— WOODMAN,  SPAEE  THAT  TEEE. 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree  ! 

loucn  not  a  single  bough  ! 
In  youth  it  shelter' d  me. 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  snail  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree. 

Whose  erlorv  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  ana  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 


1 
K.  W.  Emerson.]                  "  GOOD-BYE,  PEOUD  WOELD  !  "            [Seventh  Period.—        | 

Woodman,  forbear  tliy  stroke  !                     i 

1 
1865.— TO  THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties  ; 

Oh  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Fine  humble-bee  !  fine  humble-bee  ! 

Now  towering  to  the  skies  ! 

Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  mo, 

Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Eique,                            j 

When  but  an  idle  boy 

Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek, —                i 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade  ; 

I  will  follow  thee  alone, 

In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Thou  animated  torrid  zone  ! 

Here  too  my  sisters  play'd. 

Zig-zag  steerer,  desert  cheerer,                           , 

My  mother  kiss'd  me  here  ; 

Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines, 

My  father  press'd  my  hand — 

Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 

Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand  ! 

Flower-bells, 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling. 

Honey'd  cells, — 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend  ! 

These  the  tents 

Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

Which  he  frequents. 

And  stUl  thy  branches  bend. 

Old  tree  !  the  storm  still  brave  ! 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot ; 

Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 

While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not, 

Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air. 

George  P.  Morris.— Born  about  1800. 

Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June, 

Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 

Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 

AU  without  is  martyrdom. 

1864.—"  GOOD-BYE,  PEOUD  WOELD  I" 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 

Good-bye,  proud  world  !     I'm  going  home  ; 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze, 

Thou  art  not  my  friend  ;  I  am  not  thine : 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

Too  long  through  weary  crowds  I  roam  : — 

And  with  softness  touching  all, 

A  river  ark  on  the  ocean  brine. 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

Too  long  I  am  toss'd  like  the  driven  foam ; 

With  a  colour  of  romance. 

But  now,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

And  infusing  subtle  heats 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, — • 

Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face; 

Thou  in  sunny  solitudes. 

To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace  ; 

Eover  of  the  underwoods. 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye ; 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

To  supple  office,  low  and  high  j 

With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street, 

To  frozen  hearts,  and  hasting  feet, 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone. 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come. 

Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone. 

Good-bye,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

Telling  of  countless  sunny  hours, 

Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers, 

I  go  to  seek  my  own  hearth-stone 

Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 

Bosom'd  in  yon  green  hills  alone ; 

In  Indian  wildernesses  found. 

A  secret  lodge  in  a  pleasant  land, 

Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure. 

Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  plann'd, 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 

Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay  ; 

Aught  unsavoury  or  unclean 

And  evil  men  have  never  trod . 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen, 

^       A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells. 

Maple  sap,  and  daffodels. 

0,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  mock  at  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Eome ; 

Clover,  catchfly,  adders-tongue, 
And  brier-roses  dwelt  among. 

And  when  I  am  stretch' d  beneath  the  pines 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste. 

Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 

All  was  picture  as  he  pass'd.                              f 

I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  pride  of  man. 

At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan  ; 

Wiser  far  tha,n  human  seer,                               j 

For  what  are  they  all  in  their  high  conceit. 

Yellow-breech' d  philosopher,                             j 

When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ? 

Seeing  only  what  is  fair,                                     j 

Ral:pU  Waldo  Emerson.— Born  about  1803. 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet                             j 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care. 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 

When  the  fierce  north-western  blast 

Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, — 

From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  PEOBLEM. 


[E.  "W.  Emerson 


Thou  already  slumberest  deep, 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsfeep  ; 
Want  and  woe  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. — Born  1803. 


1 866.— THE  SNOW-STOEM. 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 
Arrives  the  snow,  and  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides   hills   and   woods,   the   river  and   the 

heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopp'd,  the  courier's 

feet 
Delay'd,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates 

sit 
Around  the  radiant  fire-place,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come  see  the  north- wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnish' d  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Eound  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  wor^ 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  nought  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths  ; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs,  and  at  the  gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  number' d,  and  the 

world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonish'd  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Baljph  Waldo  Emerson. — Bom  1803. 


1867.— THE  PEOBLEM. 

I  like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl, 
I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul. 
And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains  on  pensive  smiles, 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 
Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure. 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought ; 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle  ; 
Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  roll'd 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old  ; 
The  litanies  of  nations  came, 
Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame. 


Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe. 
The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome. 
And  groin' d  the  aisles  of  Christian  Eome, 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity. 
Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free ; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew. 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew, 

Know'st  thou   what  wove  yon  wood-bird' j 
nest 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast  j 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell. 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell ; 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ? 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles 
Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone ; 
And  morning  opens  with  haste  her  lids 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids  ; 
O'er  England's  Abbeys  bends  the  sky 
As  on  its  friends  with  kindred  eye  ; 
For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere. 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air ; 
And  nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race. 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass. 
Art  might  obey  but  not  surpass. 
The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  Soul  that  o'er  him  plann'd. 
And  the  same  power  that  rear'd  the  shrine. 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  quires. 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken. 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken ; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told 
In  groves  of  oak  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind. 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  Fathers  wise, — 
The  book  itself  before  me  lies, — 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line. 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines 
Taylor,  the  Shakspere  of  divines ; 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear. 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. — Bom  1803. 


E.^W-  Emerson.] 


THE  POET. 


[Seventh  Pekiod.- 


1868.— THE  POET.. 

For  this  present,  hard 

Is  the  fortune  of  the  bard) 

Bom  out  of  time  ;        ,. 
All  his  accomplishment, 
From  nature's  utmost  treasure  spent, 

Booteth  not  him. 
When  the  pine  tosses  its  cone.s 
To  the  song  of  its  waterfall  tones, 
He  speeds  to  the  woodland  walks, 
To  birds  and  trees  he  talks  : 
Caesar  of  his  leafy  Eome, 
There  the  poet  is  at  home. 
He  goes  to  the  river  side, — 

Not  hook  nor  line  hath  he  : 
He  stands  in  the  meadows  wide, — ' 

Nor  gun  nor  scythe  to  see  ; 
With  none  has  he  to  do. 

And  none  to  seek  him, 
Nor  men  below, 

Nor  spirits  dim. 
What  he  knows  nobody  wants  ; 
What  he  knows,  he  hides,  not  vaunts. 
Knowledge  this  man  prizes  best 
Seems  fantastic  to  the  rest ; 
Pondering  shadows,  colours,  clouds, 
Grass  buds,  and  caterpillars'  shrouds, 
Boughs  on  which  the  wild  bees  settle, 
Tints  that  spot  the  violets'  petal. 
Why  nature  loves  the  number  five, 

Ajid  why  the  star-form  she  repeats ; — 
Lover  of  all  things  alive, 

Wonderer  at  all  he  meets, 
Wonderer  chiefly  at  himself, —  "' 

Who  can  tell  him  what  he  is ; 
Or  how  meet  in  human  elf 

Coming  and  past  eternities  ?  .  .  .  . 
And  such  I  knew,  a  forest  seer, 
A  minstrel  of  the  natural  year. 
Foreteller  of  the  vernal  ides, 
Wise  harbinger  of  spheres  and  tides, 
A  lover  true,  who  knew  by  heart 
Each  joy  the  mountain  dales  impart  ; 
It  seem'd  that  nature  could  not  raise 
A  plant  in  any  secret  place, 
In  quaking  bog,  on  snowy  hill, 
Beneath  the  grass  that  shades  the  rill, 
Under  the  snow,  between  the  rocks. 
In  damp  fields  known  to  bird  and  fox, 
But  he  would  come  in  the  very  hour 
It  open'd  in  its  virgin  bower. 
As  if  a  sunbeam  show'd  the  place. 
And  tell  its  long  descended  race. 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  breezes  brought  him. 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  sparrows  taught  him 
As  if  by  secret  sight  he  knew 
Where  in  far  fields  the  orchis  grew. 
There  are  many  events  in  the  field. 

Which  are  not  shown  to  common  eyes, 
But  all  her  shows  did  nature  yield 

To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 
He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods, 

He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn, 
He  found  the  tawny  thrush's  brood, 
And  the  shj  hawk  did  wait  for  him. 


"VVTiat  othprs  did  at  distance  hear 

And  guess'd  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 
Was  shown  to  this  philosopher, 
^  And  at  his  bidding  seem'd  to  come. 
/  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. — Born  1803. 


1869.— DIEGE. 

Knows  he  who  tills  this  lonely  field 

To  reap  its  scanty  corn, 
What  mystic  fruit  his  acres  yield 

At  midnight  and  at  morn  ? 

In  the  long  sunny  afternoon 

The  plain  was  full  of  ghosts, 
I  wander'd  up,  I  wander'd  down, 

Beset  by  pensive  hosts. 

The  winding  Concord  gleam' d  below, 

Pouring  as  wide  a  flood 
As  when  my  brothers,  long  ago. 

Came  with  me  to  the  wood. 
But  they  are  gone — the  holy  ones 

Who  trod  with  me  this  lonely  vale, 
The  strong,  star-bright  companions 

Are  silent,  low  and  pale. 

My  good,  my  noble,  in  their  prime. 
Who  made  this  world  the  feast  it  was. 

Who  learn'd  with  me  the  lore  of  Tims, 
Who  loved  this  dwelling-place  ; 

They  took  this  valley  for  their  toy, 
They  play'd  with  it  in  every  mood, 

A  cell  for  prayer,  a  hall  for  joy, 

They  treated  Nature  as  they  would. 

They  colour'd  the  whole  horizon  round, 
Stars  flamed  and  faded  as  they  bade. 

All  echoes  hearken' d  for  their  sound. 
They  made  the  woodlands  glad  or  mad. 

I  touch  this  flower  of  silken  leaf 
Which  once  our  childhood  knew. 

Its  soft  leaves  wound  me  with  a  grief 
Whose  balsam  never  grew. 

Hearken  to  yon  pine  warbler, 

Singing  aloft  in  the  tree ; 
Hearest  thou,  0  traveller  ! 

What  he  singeth  to  me  ? 

Not  unless  God  made  sharp  thine  ear 

With  sorrow  such  as  mine, 
Out  of  that  delicate  lay  couldst  thou 

Its  heavy  tale  divine. 

"Go,  lonely  man,"  it  saith, 

'•  They  loved  thee  from  their  birth, 

Their  hands  were  pure  and  pure  their  faith. 
There  are  no  such  hearts  on  earth. 

*'  Ye  drew  one  mother's  milk. 

One  chamber  held  ye  all, 
A  very  tender  history 

Did  in  your  childhood  fall. 

"  Ye  cannot  unlock  your  heart, 

The  key  is  gone  with  them  ; 
The  silent  organ  loudest  chants 

The  master's  requiem." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. — Born  1803. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


NUEEMBERG. 


[H.  W.  Longfellow. 


1870.— THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE 
SQUIRREL. 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the  former  called  the  latter,    "  Little 

Prig:" 
Bun  replied — 

"  You  are  doubtless  very  big  ; 
But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 
Must  be  taken  in  together 
To  make  up  a  year, 
And  a  sphere  ; 
And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 
To  occupy  my  place. 
If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 
You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 
And  not  half  so  spry  : 
I'll  not  deny  you  make 
A  very  pretty  squirrel  track. 
Talents  differ  j  all  is  well  and  wisely  put ; 
If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.— Born  1803. 


1 871. —THE  ORIGIN   OF  MINT  JULEPS. 

'Tis  said  that  the  gods,  on  Olympus  of  old, 
(And  who  the  bright  legend  profanes  with  a 
doubt  ?) 
One  night,  'mid  their  revels,  by  Bacchus  were 
told 
That  his  last  butt  of  nectar  had  somehow 
run  out ! 

But  determined  to  send  round  the  goblet  once 
more, 
They  sued  to  the  fairer  immortals  for  aid 
In  composing  a  draught,  which,  till  drinking 
were  o'er, 
Should  cast  every  wine  ever  drunk  in  the 
shade. 

Grave  Ceres  herself  blithely  yielded  her  com. 
And  the  spirit  that  lives  in  each  amber- 
hued  grain, 
And  which  first  had  its  birth  from  the  dews  of 
the  morn, 
"Was  taught  to  steal  out  in  bright  dewdrops 
again. 

Pomona,  whose  choicest  of  fruits  on  the  board 
Were   scatter' d   profusely  in   every   one's 
reach. 
When  call'd  on  a  tribute  to  cull  from   the 
hoard, 
Express'd  the   mild  juice  of  the  delicate 
peach. 

The  liquids  were  mingled,  while  Venus  look'd 
on, 
With  glances  so  fraught  with  sweet  magical 
power. 


That  the  honey  of  Hybla,  e'en  when  they  were 
gone, 
Has  never  been  miss'd  in  the  draught  from 
that  hour. 

Flora  then,   from   her   bosom   of    tragrancy 
shook, 
And  with  roseate  fingers  press' d  down  in 
the  bowl. 
All  dripping  and  fresh  as  it  came  from  the 
brook, 
The  herb  whose  aroma  should  flavour  the 
whole. 

The   draught  was    delicious,   each   god   did 
exclaim, 
Though  something  yet  warting  they  all  did 
bewail ; 
But  juleps  the  drink  of  immortals  became, 
When   Jove  himself  added    a   handful   of 
hail. 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman. — Bom  1S06. 


1872.— NUREMBERG. 

In  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across 
broad  meadow-lands 

Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nurem- 
berg, the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  trafiic,  quaint  old 

town  of  art  and  song. 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  tho 

rooks  that  round  them  throng  ; 

Memories    of    the    Middle   Ages,    when   the 

emperors,  rough  and  bold, 
Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying, 

centuries  old ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted, 

in  their  uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city   stretch'd  its 

hand  through  every  clime. 

In  the  courtyard  of  the  castle,  bound  with 

many  an  iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen 

Cunigunde's  hand; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old 
heroic  days 

Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximi- 
lian's praise. 

Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous 

world  of  Art, — 
Fountains   wrought   with    richest    sculpture 

standing  in  the  common  mart ; 

And   above   cathedral   doorways    saints   and 

bishops  carved  in  stone. 
By  a  former  age  commission' d  as  apostles  to 

our  own. 


H.  W.  Longfellow.]         THE  AESENAL  AT  SPEINGFIELD.  [Seventh  Pebiod.— 


In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  en- 
shrined his  holy  dust, 

And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from 
age  to  age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a 

pix  of  sculpture  rare, 
Like  the  foamy   sheaf   of   fountains,   rising 

through  the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple, 
reverent  heart, 

Lived  and  labour' d  Albrecht  Durer,  the  Evan- 
gelist of  Art  J 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still 

with  busy  hand, 
Like  an  emigrant  he  wander' d,  seeking  for 

the  better  land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tombstone 

where  he  lies ; 
Dead  he  is  not, — but  departed, — for  the  artist 

never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 

seems  more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he 

once  has  breathed  its  air  ! 

Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately, 
these  obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 

Walk'd  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting 
rude  poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs,  came  they 

to  the  friendly  guild. 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  in 

spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too 

the  mystic  rhyme, 
And  the  'smith  his  iron  measures  hammer 'd  to 

the  anvil's  chime ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes 

the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues 

of  the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of 

the  gentle  craft. 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge 

folios  sang  and  laugh'd. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a 

nicely  sanded  floor, 
With  a  garland  in  the  window,   and  his  face 

above  the  door ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,   as  in  Adam 

Puschman's  song, 
As  the  old  man  grey  and  dove-like,  with  his 

great  white  beard  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to 

drown  his  cark  and  care, 
Quaffing   ale   from   pewter  tankards,  in  the 

master's  antique  chair. 


Vanish' d  is  the  ancient  splendour,  and  before 

my  dreamy  eye 
Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like 

a  faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for 

thee  the  world's  regard; 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Durer,   and  Hans 

Sachs,  thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,  O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region 

far  away, 
As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  courtyards,  sang 

in  thought  his  careless  lay  : 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a 

floweret  of  the  soU, 
The  nobility  of  labour, — the  long  pedigree  of 

toil. 

H.  W.  Longfellow.— Born  1807, 


1873.— THE  AESENAL   AT   SPEING- 
FIELD. 

This  is  the  Arsenal.     From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnish'darms. 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing, 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah !  what  a  sound  will  rise,   how  wild   and 
dreary, 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift 
keys  ! 
What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus. 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan. 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before 
us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norse- 
men's song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamour, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels    out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful 
din. 
And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's 
skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sack'd  and  burning  village  ; 

The   shout  that    every   prayer   for    mercy 
drowns ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage  ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguer' d  towns  ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrench' d 
asunder. 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade  ; 
And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  SKELETON  m  AEMOUE. 


[H.  W.  Longfellow, 


la  it,  0  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these. 

Thou  drownest  Nature's   sweet  and   kindly 
voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with 
terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth  bestow' d  on  camps 
and  courts, 
Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts  : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorr'd ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  for    evermore  the  curse   of 
Cain  ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  genera- 
tions. 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then 


And  Hke  a  bail,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say 
"  Peace !" 

Peace  I  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  war's  great  organ  shakes  the 
skies ! 
But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals. 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

H.  W.  Longfellow.— Born  1807. 


1874.— THE  SKELETON  IN  AEMOUE. 

"  Speak  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
WTio,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armour  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretcli'd,  as  if  asking  alms. 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ? " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes, 
Pale  flashes  seem'd  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow. 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old  I 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  theo  I 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse. 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  ! 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 
Tamed  the  ger-falcon ; 


And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimm'd  the  half -frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 

*'  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Track' d  I  the  grizzly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow  ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Follow' d  the  were- wolf's  bark. 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flow 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped. 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

"  Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  winter  out ; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Fill'd  to  o'erflowing. 

*'  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea. 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me. 

Burning  out  tender ; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine. 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendour. 

"  I  woo'd  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosen' d  vest 
Flutter'd  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleam' d  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  ask'd  his  daughter's  hand. 
Mute  did  the  minstrel  stand 

To  hear  my  story, 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaff'd, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laugh' d, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea- foam  brightly. 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn. 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


H.  W.  Longfellow.] 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blush'd  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea. 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me,— 
Fairest  of  all  was  she — 

Among  the  Norsemen ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

*'  Then  launcli'd  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast. 

When  the  wind  fail'd  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hail'd  us. 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veer'd  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter  ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water. 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er. 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward ; 
There  for  my  lady's-bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  sea- ward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years  ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears  ; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies  : 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 
The  sun-light  hateful ! 


In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 
O,  death  was  grateful ! 

**  Thus,  seam'd  with  many  scars, 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 
Skoal !  to  the  Northland  !  skoal ! " 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 

H.  W,  Longfellow.— Born  1807. 


1875.— A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID 
TO  THE  PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Finds  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave- 
Still  like  muffled  drums  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime  ; 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwreck' d  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait. 

II.  W.  Longfellow.— Born  1807. 


From  1780  to  1866.J 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 


[H.  W,  Longfellow. 


1876.— END  YMION. 

Tlie  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars, 
Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver- white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this. 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss. 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dream' d  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unask'd,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassion' d  gaze. 

It  comes — the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 

O,  weary  hearts  !  0,  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O,  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Eesponds  unto  its  own. 

Eesponds — as  if,  with  unseen  wings, 
A  breath  from  heaven  had  touch'd  its 
strings  ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"Where  hast  thou  stay'd  so  long?" 

H.  W.  Longfellow. -^Born  1807. 


1877.— THE  BELEAaUEEED  CITY. 

I  have  read  in  some  old  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguer'd  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream. 
The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound. 
The  spectral  camp  was  seen. 

And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound. 
The  river  flow'd  between. 


No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasp' d  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaim' d  the  morning  prayer, 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star. 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll. 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamp' d  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's  misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 

The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 
And  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound. 

Flows  the  Eiver  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air. 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray. 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away, 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 

E.  W.  Longfellow.— Born  1807. 


1878.— IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

The  sun  is  bright,  the  air  is  clear. 
The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I  hear 
The  blue-bird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows, 
It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky. 

Where,  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows, 
The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  He. 

All  things  are  new — the  buds,  the  leaves. 
That  gild  the  elm-tree's  nodding  crest, 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest. 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love, 
The  fulness  of  their  first  delight, 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 


H.  W.  Longfellow.]    MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOE  THE  DYING  YEAR.   [Seventh  Period.— 

Maiden !  that  read'st  this  simple  rhyme, 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Enjoy  thy  youth— it  will  not  stay ; 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime, 

The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

For,  0  !  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 

Enjoy  the  spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 

The  storm- wind ! 

To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest, 

Howl !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth — 

Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 

There  are  no  birds  in  last  year's  nest. 

Would  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 

H.  W.  Longfellow.— Born  1807* 

0  soul !  could  thus  decay, 

And  be  swept  away  ! 
For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast. 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day  ; 

1879.— MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOE  THE 

And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast. 

DYING  YEAE. 

Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 

Yes,  the  year  is  growing  old, 

Kyrie  Eleison ; 
Christie  Eleison ! 

And  his  eye  is  pale  and  blear' d ! 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 

H.  W.  Longfelloio.—Born  1807. 

Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 

Sorely,— sorely ! 
The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 

Caw  !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling. 

1 880.— M  A  TDENHOOD. 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe  ! 

Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes. 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies, 

Through  woods  and  mountain-passes 

Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies  ! 

The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses. 

Thou,  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun. 

Singing ;  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,— pray ! 

Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

The  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet. 

Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 

Where  the  brook  and  river  meet ! 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers ; — 

Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance. 

On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance. 

There  he  stands,  in  the  foul  weather, 

On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 

Crown'd  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 

Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 

A  king, — a  king ! 

As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day. 

Then,  why  pause  with  indecision. 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 

When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 

His  joy  !  his  last ;     0,  the  old  man  grey 

Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Loveth  her  ever-soft  voice, 

Gentle  and  low. 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 

As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, 

Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly  ? 

And  the  voice  gentle  and  low 

Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore. 

Pray  do  not  mock  me  so  ! 

That  our  ears  perceive  no  more. 

Do  not  laugh  at  me ! 

Deafen' d  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead ; 

0,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies. 

Life  hath  quicksands,— Life  hath  snares ! 

No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 

No  mist  nor  stain  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune. 

Morning  rises  into  noon, 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 

May  glides  onward  into  June. 

And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 

Childhood  is  the  bough  where  slumber'd 

In  the  wilderness  alone, 

Birds  and  blossoms  many-number'd  ; — 

Vex  not  his  ghost ! 

Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumber'd. 

From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  WEECK  OF  THE  HESPEEUS.        [H.  W.  Longfellow. 


Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows, 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear,  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth. 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 

H.  W.  Longfellow — Bom  1807. 


i88i.— THE  CHILDEEN'S  HOUE. 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight. 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lour, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me. 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  open'd 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall-stair. 

Grave  Alice,  and  laug^hing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence  ; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes. 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall, 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded, 
They  enter  my  castle  wall. 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret. 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Ehine ! 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti. 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall. 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 

I  liave  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  I  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 


And  there  will  I  keep  you  for  ever, 

Yes,  for  ever  and  a  day, 
TUl  the  walls  shall  crumble  in  ruin. 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 

H.  W.  Longfellow.— Born  1807- 


1882.— A  SPEING  LANDSCAPE. 

The  green  trees  whisper' d  low  and  mild  : 

It  was  a  sound  of  joy ; 
They  were  my  playmates  when  a  child. 
And  rock'd  me  in  their  arms  so  wild, — 
Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled 

As  if  I  were  a  boy  : 

And  ever  whisper' d,  mild  and  low, 
"  Come,  be  a  child  once  more !  " 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro, 

And  beckon' d  solemnly  and  slow  : 

Oh  !  I  could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar ; 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood — 
Solemn  and  silent  everywhere — 
Nature  with  folded  hands  seem'd  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer — 

Like  one  in  prayer  I  stood. 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 

Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 
Abroad  their  fanlight  branches  grew. 
And  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a  vapour  soft  and  blue 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And  falling  on  my  weary  brain, 

Like  a  fast-falling  shower. 
The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again- 
Low  lispings  of  the  summer  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  ripon'd  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

H.  W.  Longfellow.— Born  1807. 


1883.--THE  WEECK  OF  THE  HESPEEUS. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sail'd  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter. 

To  bear  him  company. 

Bine  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax. 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day ; 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm. 

With  his  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
And  watch'd  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke,  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up,  and  spake  an  old  sailor, 

Had  sail'd  the  Spanish  Main — 
"  I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port. 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

83 


N.  P.  Willis.] 


APETL  VIOLETS. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


"  Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see," 
The  skipper  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laugh' d  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  north-east ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  froth' d  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain, 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shudder'd,  and  paused,  like  a  frighted 


Then  leap'd  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  hither,  come  hither,  my  little  daughter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  Avrapp'd  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat, 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  0  father,  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring ! 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
♦'  'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast," 

And  he  steer' d  for  the  open  sea. 

*'  0  father,  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns  ! 

O  say  what  may  it  be  ?" 
"  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea !  " 

"  0  father,  I  see  a  gleaming  light ! 

O  say ,  what  may  it  be  ? " 
But  the  father  answer' d  never  a  word — 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he  ! 

Lash'd  to  the  helm  aU  stiff  and  stark. 

With  his  face  to  the  skies. 
The  lantern  gleam' d  thro'  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fix'd  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasp' d  her  hands  and  pray'd, 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  still' d  the 


On  the  lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear. 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept, 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever,  the  fitful  gusts  between, 

A  sound  came  from  the  land ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks,  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows. 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck. 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew. 

Like  icicles,  from  her  deck. 

She  struck,  where  the  white  and  £eecy  waves 

Look'd  soft  as  carded  wool ; 
Eut  the  cruel  rocks  they  gored  her  side  . 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 


Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheath'd  in  ice, 
With  the  masts,  went  by  the  board  ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, — 
Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roar'd. 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast. 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

Lash'd  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight,  and  the  snow ; 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 

H.  W.  Longfellow.— Born  1807. 


1884.— APEIL  VIOLETS. 

I  have  found  violets. '  April  hath  come  on, 
And  the  cool  winds  feel  softer,  and  the  rain 
Falls  in  the  beaded  drops  of  summer-time. 
You  may  hear  birds  at  morning,  and  at  eve 
The  tame  dove  lingers  tiU  the  twilight  falls. 
Cooing  upon  the  eaves,  and  drawing  in 
His   beautiful,   bright   neck ;  and,    from   the 

hills, 
A  murmur  like  the  hoarseness  of  the  sea, 
Tells  the  release  of  waters,  and  the  earth 
Sends  up  a  pleasant  smell,  and  the  dry  leaves 
Are  lifted  by  the  grass ;  and  so  I  know 
That  Nature,  with  her  delicate  ear,  hath  heard 
The  dropping  of  the  velvet  foot  of  Spring. 
Take  of  my  violets  !     I  found  them  where 
The  liquid  south  stole  o'er  them,  on  a  bank 
That  lean'd  to  running  water.     There's  to  me 
A  daintiness  about  these  early  flowers. 
That  touches  me  like  poetry.     They  blow 
With  such  a  simple  loveliness  among 
The  common  herbs  of  pasture,  and  breathe 

out 
Their  lives  so  unobtrusively,  like  hearts 
Whose  beatings  are  too  gentle  for  the  world. 
I  love  to  go  in  the  capricious  days 
Of  April  and  hunt  violets,  when  the  rain 
Is  in  the  blue  cups  trembling,  and  they  nod 
So  gracefully  to  the  kisses  of  the  wind. 
It  may  be  deem'd  too  idle,  but  the  young 
Eead  nature  like  the  manuscript  of  Heaven, 
And  call  the  flowers  its  poetry.     Go  out ! 
Ye  spirits  of  habitual  unrest, 
And  read  it,  when  the  "  fever  of  the  world  '' 
Hath  made  your  hearts  impatient,  and,  if  life 
Hath  yet  one  spring  unpoison'd,  it  will  be 
Like  a  beguiling  music  to  its  flow, 
And  you  will  no  more  wonder  that  I  love 
To  hunt  for  violets  in  the  April-time. 

H.  P.  Willis.— Bor^i  1807. 


From  1780  to  1866.]    THE  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDEA  SOUTHWICK       [J.  G.  Whittiee. 


1885.— THE  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDEA 
SOUTHWICK. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  in}'  blessing 

rise  to-day, 
From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  pluck'd 

the  spoil  away, — 
Yea,  He  who  cool'd  the  furnace  around  the 

faithful  three. 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His 

handmaid  free  ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my 

prison  bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the 

pale  gleam  of  stars  ; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through 

the  long  night-time. 
My  grated  casement  whiten'd  with  Autumn's 

early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour 

crept  by ; 
Star   after   star   look'd   palely   in   and  sank 

adown  the  sky ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,   save  that 

which  seem'd  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of 

the  sea; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on 

the  morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me 

in  my  sorrow, 
Dragg'd     to    their     place    of     market,    and 

bargain' d  for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer 

from  the  fold  ! 

Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there — the 

shrinking  and  the  shame  ; 
And    the    low    voice    of    the   Tempter    like 

whispers  to  me  came  : 
"  Why     sit'st    thou    thus    forlornly  ? "    the 

wicked  murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth 

thy  maiden  bed  ? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft 

and  sweet. 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the 

pleasant  street  ? 
Where    be    the    youths,   whose   glances   the 

summer  Sabbath  through 
Turn'd  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's 

pew  ? 

"Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra? — Bethink 
thee  with  what  mirth 

Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the 
warm  bright  hearth ; 

How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble,  on  fore- 
heads white  and  fair, 

On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden 
hair. 


"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not 

for  thee  kind  words  are  spoken. 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by 

laughing  boys  are  broken ; 
No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap 

are  laid. 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  Autumn  the 'youthful 

hunters  braid. 

"  Oh  !    weak,    deluded     maiden  ! — by    crazy 

fancies  led, 
W^ith  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to 

tread ; 
To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching 

pure  and  sound ; 
And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-hair'd 

and  sackcloth-bound. 

"  Mad   scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock 

at  things  divine. 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread 

and  wine  ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from 

the  pillory  lame, 
Eejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying* 

in  their  shame. 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  ! — a  sadly  toil- 
ing slave. 

Dragging  the  slowly  length'ning  chain  of 
bondage  to  the  grave  ! 

Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in 
hopeless  thrall. 

The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of 
all !  " 

Oh ! — ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feebl^ 

Nature's  fears 
Wrung   drop   by  drop  the    scalding  flow  of 

unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove 

in  silent  prayer 
To  feel,  oh.  Helper  of  the  weak  ! — that  Thou, 

indeed,  wert  there  ! 

I  thought  of  Patd  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's 

cell. 
And    how   from   Peter's   sleeping  limbs   the        j 

prison  shackles  fell. 
Till  I  seem'd  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angers 

robe  of  white. 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to 

sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  His  mercies ! — for  the 
peace  and  love  I  felt. 

Like  dew  of  Hermon'g  holy  hill,  upon  my 
spirit  melt : 

When,  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan !  "  was  the  lan- 
guage of  my  heart. 

And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his 
doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  grey  cold  morning ;  again  the 

sunshine  fell. 
Fleck' d  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within 
my  lonely  cell ; 

83* 


J.  G.  Whittier.j      the  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDEA  SOUTHWICK.  [Seventh  Period.— 


The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward 

from  the  street 
Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread 

of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door 

was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long 

street  I  pass'd  ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felfc,  but 

dared  not  see, 
How  from  every  door  and  window  the  people 

gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burn'd 

upon  my  cheek, 
Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling 

limbs  grew  weak  : 
"  0  Lord  !  support  Thy  handmaid ;  and  from 

her  soul  cast  out 
The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare — the 

weakness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scatter' d  like  a  cloud 
in  morning's  breeze. 

And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seem-d  whis- 
pering words  like  these  : 

"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy 
heaven  a  brazen  wall. 

Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power  is 
over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the 
sunlit  waters  broke 

On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly 
wall  of  rock ; 

The  merchant  ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard 
clear  lines  on  high, 

Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  net- 
work on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak- wrapp'd 

and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grim .  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces 

bronzed  and  old, 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk 

at  hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of 

the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's 

ready  ear, 
The  priest  lean'd  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh 

and  scoff  and  jeer  ; 
It  stirr'd  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal 

of  silence  broke. 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning 

spirit  spoke. 

I  cried,  *'  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of 

the  meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of 

the  weak  ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones — go  turn 

the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou 

wolf  amid  the  flock  !" 


Dark  lower'd  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with 

a  deeper  red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine  empurpled  cheek  the  flush 

of  anger  spread ; 
"  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipp'd  priest, 

"  heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  master  speaks  within  her — the  Devil  owns 

his  child  !" 

But  grey  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit, 
the  while  the  sheriff  read 

That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor 
have  made. 

Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priest- 
hood bring 

No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offer- 
ing. 

Then   to   the    stout    sea-captains  the  sheriff 

turning  said  : 
"  Which  of  ye  worthy  seamen  will  take  this 

Quaker  maid  ? 
In   the   Isle  of  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's 

shore. 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian 

girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains  ;  and  when 

again  he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !" — no  voice 

or  sign  replied  ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind 

words  met  my  ear  : 
"  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle 

girl  and  dear !" 

A  weight  seem'd  lifted  from  my  heart, — a 
pitying  friend  was  nigh, 

I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it 
in  his  eye ; 

And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice, 
so  kind  to  me, 

Growl' d  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roar- 
ing of  the  sea : 

"  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver — pack  with 

coins  of  Spanish  gold. 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomago 

of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me  ! — I  would 

sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this 

child  away !" 

"Well  answer'd,   worthy  captain,  shame  on 

their  cruel  laws  !  " 
Ean  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the 

people's  just  applause. 
"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of 

old. 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for 

silver  sold  ?" 

I  look'd  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon 

half-way  drawn. 
Swept   round   the   throng  his   lion   glare  of 

bitter  hate  and  scorn ; 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


PENTUCKET. 


[J.  G.  Whittier. 


Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle  rein,  andturn'din 

silence  back, 
And   sneering  priest,  and  baffled  clerk  rode 

murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  look' d  in  bitterness 

of  soul ; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and 

crush'd  his  parchment  roll. 
"  Good  friends,"   he  said,   "  since  both  have 

fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest. 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not 

well  released." 

Loud  was  the   cheer   which,  full  and  clear, 

swept  round  the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade 

me  go  my  way  ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet 

of  the  glen. 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turn'd  the 

hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seem'd  changed 

beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls 

of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream 

and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters 

of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  ! — to  Him  all 

praises  be. 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  His 

handmaid  free ; 
All  praise  to    Him  before  who&e  power  the 

mighty  are  afraid, 
Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare,  which  for 

the  poor  is  laid  ! 

Sing,  oh,  my  soul,  rejoicingly ;  on  evening's 

twilight  calm 
TJpKft  the  loud  thanksgiving — pour  forth  the 

grateful  psalm ; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the 

saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued 

Peter  told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty 

men  of  wrong. 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud  and  lay  His 

hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers   in   His   avenging 

hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven 

and  devour : 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise, — the  poor  in 

heart  be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes 

of  praise  be  clad, 
For  He  who  cool'd  the  furnace,  and  smooth'd 

the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  sti 

to  save ! 

John  G.  Whittier.— Born  1808. 


1 886.— PEJ^  TUCKET. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast     —     - 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  Heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar  ! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-wall'd  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretch' d  up  and  down  on  either  hand. 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blacken'd  stumps  between ; 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread. 
The  wild,  untravell'd  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 

Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 

The  weary  labourer  left  his  plough — 

The  milkmaid  caroll'd  by  her  cow — 

From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 

Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 

At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 

And  silence  on  that  village  lay. — 

So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall. 

Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallow'd  all, 

Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 

Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate ! 

Hours  pass'd  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood. 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hush'd  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound — 
No  bark  of  fox — no  rabbit's  bound — 
No  stir  of  wings — nor  waters  flowing — 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet. 
Which  downward  from  the  hill-side  beat  ? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 
Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  ? — 
Charr'd  tree- stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 
No — through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glow'd. 
Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  show'd, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness. 
With  painted  iimbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A  yell,  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear. 

Swell' d  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear — 

Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 

On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock — 

Then  rang  the  rifle-shot — and  then 

The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men — 


J.  G.  Whittiek.] 


EANDOLPH  OF  EOANOKE. 


[Seventh  Pesiod.— 


Sunk  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain — 
Bursting  through  roof  and  ■window  came, 
Ered,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame ; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
Over  dead  corse  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  look'd  brightly  through 
The  river-willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  fill'd  the  air, 
No  shout  was  heard, — nor  gun-shot  there  : 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke  ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

E'en  now,  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Eolfe  beside  his  hearth-stone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Eouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  fear'd, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 

John  G.  JV7dUier.—Bom  1808. 


1887.— EANDOLPH  OF  EOANOKE. 

Oh,  Mother  Earth  !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving. 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving — 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken. 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning  ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees 

Saw  Autumn's  sunset  glowing. 
He  sleeps — still  looking  to  the  west. 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  sage,  and  tribune  ! — in  himself 
All  moods  of  mind  contrasting — 

The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 
The  scorn  like  lightning  blasting ; 


The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond- shower. 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all,  romance  and  song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurell'd  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  fear'd  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit,  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  Land 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherish'd, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perish' d. 
While  others  hail'd  in  distant  skies. 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Eack'd  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning  : 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave. 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences  ; 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke. 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning. 
Fell  firelike  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  :  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  human  ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  man  and  woman  ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Eoanoke  valley  enter'd  ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Laid  down  for  his  last  eleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother  man  stood  weeping. 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath. 

To  freedom's  duty  giving. 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  bless' d  the  living. 


;From  1780  to  1866.] 


DEMOCEACY. 


[J.  G.  Whittiep. 


Oh. !  never  bore  his  ancient  state 

-    A  truer  son  or  braver  ; 

None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favour. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stoop' d 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong, 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand,  "  Eemorse  !  " 

And  perish' d  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow. 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  sage  of  JMonticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Eandolph's  lowly  dwelUng, 
Virginia  !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling. 

And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thine  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee — wolves  for  men. 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
Oh  !  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living  ! 

John  G.  Whittier.^Born  1808. 


i888.— DEMOCEACT. 

Oh,  fairest-born  of  love  and  light. 
Yet  bending  brow  and  eye  severe 

On  aU  which  pains  the  holy  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  pure  and  perfect  ear ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown ; 
And  fires,  unkindled  of  the  skies, 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred — though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride ; 

And  garlands,  pluck'd  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  pride. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  suns  of  lust  and  crime 

Had  stain' d  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn. 

For,  through  the  mists  that  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  freedom  burn — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer  ! 


The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  right  of  all  divine — 

The  pitying  heart— the  helping  arm — 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice — are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth  ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true. 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stoop'd  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepell'd,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  see'st  a  man 

In  prince  or  peasant — slave  or  lord — 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place  or  name, 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soil'd,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look  ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took. 

And  veil'd  His  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  cold  and  shallow  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art. 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrill'd,    warm'd   by   turns   the  listener's 
heart. 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  yearn'd  to  know, 
Proclaim'd  thy  message  from  on  high — 

Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain- side. 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs. 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring  ; 
But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offering : 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will — 
His  pledge  to  freedom  and  to  truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  its  generous  youth. 

John  Q.  Whittier.^Born  1808. 


O.  W.  Holmes.] 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 


Seventh  Period. — 


1889.— ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine — it  tells  of 

good  old  times — 
Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,   and  merry 

Christmas  chimes  ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest, 

brave,  and  true, 
That  dipp'd  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this 

old  bowl  was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar, — so  runs 

the  ancient  tale ; 
'Twas  hammer'd  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose 

arm  was  like  a  flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for 

fear  his    strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaff' d  a  cup  of  good 

old  Flemish  ale. 

'Twas   purchased    by   an   English   squire  to 

please  his  loving  dame, 
"Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing 

for  the  same ; 
And  oft,  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig 

was  found, 
'Twas  fill'd  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and 

handed  smoking  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reach'd  at  length  a 
Puritan  divine. 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little 
wine, 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy ;  and  so  it  was, 
perhaps. 

He  went  to  Ley  den,  where  he  found  conven- 
ticles and  schnaps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  wha.t's  next :  it 

left  the  Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  May-Flower  came — a 

hundred  souls  and  more — 
Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new 

abodes — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least  a 

hundred  loads. 

'Twas  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night 

was  closing  dim. 
When  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and 

fiU'd  it  to  the  brim ; 
The  little  captain  stood  and  stirr'd  the  posset 

with  his  sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were  ranged 

about  the  board. 

He  pour'd  the  fiery  Hollands  in — the  man  that 

never  fear'd — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and  wiped 

his  yellow  beard  : 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers — the  men  that 

fought  and  pray'd — 
All  drank  as  'twere  their  mothers'  milk,  and 

not  a  man  afraid. 

That   night,    affrighted   from   his    nest,    the 

screaming  eagle  flew  : 
He   heard   the  Pequot's  ringing  whopp,  the 

soldier's  wild  halloo  : 


And  there   the   sachem   learn'd   the  rule  he 

taught  to  kith  and  kin  : 
"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  ho 

smells  of  Hollands  gin  !" 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread 

their  leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flatten' d  down  each  little 

cherub's  nose ; 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  fill'd,  but  not 

in  mirth  or  joy — 
'Twas  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer 

her  parting  boy. 

"  Drink,  John,"  she  said,  "'twill  do  you  good  ; 

poor  child,  you'll  never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out  in  the 

midnight  air ; 
And    if — God     bless     me — you    were    hurt, 

'twould  keep  away  the  chill." 
So  John  did  drink — and  well  he  wrought  that 

night  at  Bunker's  hill ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in  good 

old  English  cheer ; 
I  tell  you,  'twas  a  pleasant  thought  to  drink 

its  symbol  here. 
'Tis  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess  :  hast  thou 

a  drunken  soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull— not  in  my 

silver  bowl  ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past — its  press'd  yet 

fragrant  flowers — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  the  ivy 

on  its  towers — 
Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeath'd  :  my  eyes 

grow  moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanish' d  joys  that  danced 

around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,   and  bear  it 

straight  to  me ; 
The  goblet  hallows  aU  it  holds,  whate'er  the 

liquor  be; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me 

from  the  sin 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words — "My 

dear,  where  have  you  been  ?  " 

0.  W.  Holmes.— Born  1809, 


1890.— AN  EVENING  THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN   AT    SEA. 

If  sometimes  in  the  dark-blue  eye, 

Or  in  the  deep-red  wine, 
Or  soothed  by  gentlest  melody. 

Still  warms  this  heart  of  mine, 
Yet  something  colder  in  the  blood, 

And  calmer  in  the  brain. 
Have  whisper' d  that  ray  youth's  bright  flood 

Ebbs,  not  to  flow  again. 


]^'rom  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  TREADMILL  SONG. 


[0.  W.  Holmes. 


If  by  Helvetia's  azure  lake, 

Or  Arno's  yellow  stream, 
Each  star  of  memory  could  awake, 

As  in  my  first  young  dream, 
I  know  that  when  mine  eye  shall  greet 

The  hill-sides  bleak  and  bare, 
That  gird  my  home,  it  will  not  meet 

My  childhood's  sunsets  there. 

O,  when  love's  first,  sweet,  stolen  kiss 

Burn'd  on  my  boyish  brow, 
Was  that  young  forehead  worn  as  this  ? 

Was  that  flush' d  cheek  as  now  ? 
Were  that  wild  pulse  and  throbbing  heart 

Like  these,  which  vainly  strive. 
In  thankless  strains  of  soulless  art, 

To  dream  themselves  alive  ? 

Alas  !  the  morning  dew  is  gone, 

Gone  ere  the  full  of  day  ; 
Life's  iron  fetter  still  is  on, 

Its  wreaths  all  torn  away  ; 
Happy  if  still  some  casual  hour 

Can  warm  the  fading  shrine. 
Too  soon  to  chiU  beyond  the  power 
Of  love,  or  song,  or  wine  ! 

Oliver  W.  Holmes.— Bom  1809. 


1891.— LA  GEISETTE.     . 

Ah,  Clemence  !  when  I  saw  thee  last 

Trip  down  the  Rue  de  Seine, 
And  turning,  when  thy  form  had  pass'd, 

I  said,  "  We  meet  again," 
I  dream'd  not  in  that  idle  glance 

Thy  latest  image  came, 
And  only  left  to  memory's  trance 

A  shadow  and  a  name. 

The  few  strange  words  my  lips  had  taught 

Thy  timid  voice  to  speak  ; 
Their  gentler  sighs,  which  often  brought 

Fresh  roses  to  thy  cheek ; 
The  trailing  of  thy  long,  loose  hair 

Bent  o'er  my  couch  of  pain. 
All,  all  return'd,  more  sweet,  more  fair ; 

O,  had  we  met  again  ! 

I  walk'd  where  saint  and  virgin  keep 

The  vigil  lights  of  Heaven, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  woes  to  weep. 

And  sins  to  be  forgiven ; 
I  watch' d  where  Genevieve  was  laid, 

I  knelt  by  Mary's  shrine, 
Beside  me  low,  soft  voices  pray'd ; 

Alas  !  but  where  was  thine  ? 

And  when  the  morning  sun  was  bright. 

When  wind  and  wave  were  calm, 
And  flamed,  in  thousand-tinted  light, 

The  rose  of  Notre  Dame, 
I  wander'd  through  the  haunts  of  men, 

From  Boulevard  to  Quai, 
Till,  frowning  o'er  Saint  Etienne, 

The  Pantheon's  shadow  lay. 


In  vain,  in  vain ;  we  meet  no  more. 

Nor  dream  what  fates  befall  ; 
And  long  upon  the  stranger's  shore 

My  voice  on  thee  may  call. 
When  years  liave  clothed  the  Hne  in  moss 

That  tells  thy  name  and  days, 
And  wither'd,  on  thy  simple  cross, —    — 

The  wreaths  of  Pere-la-Chaise  ! 

Oliver  W.  Holmes. — Bom  1809. 


1S92.— THE  TREADMILL  SONG. 

The  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 

The  earth  roUs  on  below. 
And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 

Revolving  as  we  go. 
Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about 

Like  planets  in  the  sky  ? 

Wake  up,  -wake  up,  my  duck-legg'd  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs  ; 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend. 

And  shake  your  spider  legs  ; 
What  though  you're  awkward  at  the  trade  ? 

There's  time  enough  to  learn, — 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  turn. 

They've  bdilt  us  up  a  noble  wall. 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out ; 
We've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do. 

But  just  to  walk  about ; 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends  : — 
It's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes. 

He  sha'n't  be  lazy  here ; 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs. 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear  ; 
He's  lost  them  both ;  don't  puU  his  hair, 

Because  he  wears  a  scratch. 
But  poke  him  in  the  farther  eye, 

That  isn't  in  the  patch. 

Hark !  fellows,  there's  the  supper-beU, 

And  so  our  work  is  done ; 
It's  pretty  sport, — suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out. 

When  I  have  better  grown. 
Now,  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own  ! 

Oliver  W.  Holmes.— Born  1809. 


O.  W.  Holmes.] 


LATTEE-DAY  WARNINGS. 


lcjeventh  Period.— 


1893.— LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS. 

When  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locka, 
When  berries,  whortle-,  rasp-,  and  straw-, 

Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box, — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,^ 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light, — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean, — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean, — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give. 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take, — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live. 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience'  sake, — 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 

Without  a  he  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof, — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitch' d  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair, — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 

The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 
And  claret-bottles  harbour  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist, — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before, — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Rolls  through  the  Hoosac-tunnel's  bore; — 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away. 

And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe  j 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day. 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe ! 

.  Oliver  W.  Holmes.— Born  1809. 


1894.— THE  OLD  MAN'S  DREAM. 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring ! 

I'd  rather  laugh  a  bright-hair'd  boy 

Than  reign  a  grey-beard  king  ! 

"  Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  ago  ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  Hfe's  wisdom- written  page. 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

"One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reehng  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame  !  " 

— ^My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer. 

And  calmly  smiling,  said, 
"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silver' d  hair, 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 


"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay. 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wish'd-for  day  ?" 

" — Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind! 

Without  thee,  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind  : 

I'll  take — my — precious — wife  ! " 

— The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen, 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
"  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again. 

And  be  a  husband,  too  !" 

— "  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 

Before  the  change  appears  ? 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 

With  these  dissolving  years  !  " 

"  Why,  yes  ;  for  memory  would  X'ecall 

My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all ; 

I'll  take — my — girl — and — boys  !  " 

The  smiling  angel  dropp'd  his  pen, — 

"  Why  this  will  never  do  ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father,  too  1" 

And  so  I  laugh' d, — my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise, — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  grey-hair' d  boys. 

Oliver  W.  Holmes.— Born  18C9. 


1 895  .—WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK. 

That  age  was  older  once  than  now. 
In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed. 

Or  silver'd  on  the  youthful  brow ; 

That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  "  good  old  days,' 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 

That — mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child — 
The  "  best  of  women  "  each  has  known. 

Were  school-boys  ever  half  so  wild  ? 

How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown. 

That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  free. 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest ; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain. 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race, — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain, — 
That  ours  is  "  a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burn'd 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learn'd, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 


Fro7n  1788  to  186G.] 


CONTENTMENT. 


0.  W.  HOLTSCES 


That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 

The  angels  hovering  overhead 
Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows, 

And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eje 
And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door, 

They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 
"  Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more !  " 

That  weakness  smoothed  the  path  of  sin, 
In  half  the  slips  our  youth  has  known ; 

And  whatsoe'er  its  blame  has  been, 

That  Mercy  flowers  on  faults  outgrown. 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 
O'erhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 

Their  tablets  bold  with  what  we  tliink, 
Their  echoes  dumb  to  what  we  know ; 

That  one  unquestion'd  text  we  read, 
All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above, 

Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 
Can  burn  or  blot  it :  God  is  Love ! 

Oliver  W.  Holmes.— Born  1809. 


1896.— THE  LAST  BLOSSOM. 
Though  young  no  more  we  still  would  dream 

Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles  ; 
The  leagues  of  life  to  gi*eybeards  seem 

Shorter  than  boyhood's  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprice? 

It  play'd  with  Goethe's  silver' d  hair. 
And  many  a  Holy  Father's  "  niece" 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 
To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 

We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 

Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 

We  see  the  Patriarch's  wintry  face, 
The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow, 

And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 
As  April  violets  fill  the  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  Lord's  Olympian  smile 
His  lotus-loving  Memphian  Hes, — 

The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile 
With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 
Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall. 

And  earth's  brown  clinging  lips  impress 
The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 
The  morning  of  that  blissful  day 

When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met, 
And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 

A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain, 
Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain-, 


Thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 
Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long ! 

Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet's  cage 
Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song  I 

She  blushes  !     Ah,  reluctant  maid. 

Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told  ! 

O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 
Floats  the  great  Leveller's  crimson  fold  I 

Come  to  my  arms ! — love  heeds  not  years  j 
No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows, — 

Ha !  what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  ? 
A  voice  behind  me  utter'd, — Eose ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile, — ^but  not  for  me  ! 

Alas,  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 
Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see, — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind ! 

Oliver  W.  Holmes.— Born  1809 


1897.— CONTENTMENT. 

Little  I  ask ;  my  wants  are  few  ; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 
That  I  may  call  my  own  ; — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one. 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me  ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten ; — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen  ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice ; — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ; — 

Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there, — 
Some  good  bank-stock, — some  note  of  hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share ; — 
I  only  ask  that  fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honours  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names ; — 
I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo, — 
But  only  near  St.  James  ; 
I'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubemator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  baubles ;  'tis  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ; — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,— - 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings, — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so. 
Will  do  for  me  ; — I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  shall  dress  iu  cheap  attire ; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear  :) — • 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,— 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Lilie  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 


W.  G.  Clark.] 


EUTHANASIA. 


[Seventh  Perioid. — 


I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  ; 
An  easy  gait,  two,  forty-five — 

Suits  me ;  I  do  not  care ; — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Sorae  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four, — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, — 
(A  landscape, — foreground  golden  dirt, — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  sqiiirt.) 

Of  books  but  few, — some  fifty  score 

For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor ; — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam. 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems, — such  things  as  these, 

Which  others  often  show  'for  pride, 
I  value  for  their  power  to  please. 
And  selfish  churls  deride ; 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess. 
Two  meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 

Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ; — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn. 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share, — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch, 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much, — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 

Oliver  W.  Holmes.— Born  1809. 


1 898.— EUTHANASIA. 

Methinks,  when  on  the  languid  eye 

Life's  autumn  scenes  grow  dim  ; 
When  evening's  shadows  veil  the  sky. 

And  Pleasure's  siren  hymn 
Grows  fainter  on  the  tuneless  ear. 
Like  echoes  from  another  sphere. 

Or  dreams  of  seraphim. 
It  were  not  sad  to  cast  away 
This  dull  and  cumbrous  load  of  clay. 

Jt  were  not  sad  to  feel  the  heart 

Grow  passionless  and  cold  ; 
To  feel  those  longings  to  depart 
That  cheer'd  the  good  of  old ; 
To  clasp  the  faith  which  looks  on  high, 
Which  fires  the  Christian's  dying  eye. 

And  makes  the  curtain-fold 
That  falls  upon  his  wasting  breast 
The  door  that  leads  to  endless  rest. 


It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  lie 

On  that  triumphant  bed, 
Till  the  pure  spirit  mounts  on  high, 

By  white-wing'd  seraphs  led  : 
Where  glories  earth  may  never  know 
O'er  "  many  mansions"  lingering  glow, 

In  peerless  lustre  shed  ; 
It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  soar. 
Where  sin  and  grief  can  sting  no  more. 

And,  though  the  way  to  such  a  goal 

Lies  f  hrough  the  clouded  tomb, 
If  on  the  free,  unfetter 'd  soul 

There  rest  no  stains  of  gloom. 
How  should  its  aspirations  rise 
Far  through  the  blue,  unpillar'd  skies, 

Up,  to  its  final  home  ! 
Beyond  the  journeyings  of  the  sun. 
Where  streams  of  living  waters  run. 

Willis  G.  Clarlc.—Born  1810,  DiedlMl. 


1899.— ANNABEL  LEE. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea. 
That    a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may 
know 
By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 
And   this   maiden   she   lived   with   no  other 
thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  mc. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea  ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than 
love — 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee — 
Witii  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea  ; 
A  wind  blew  ovit  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me. 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes  ! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea), 
That  the  Avind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  nighto 

ChilHng  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the 
love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 


From  1780  to  18G6.] 


ULALUME. 


[E.  A.  PoE. 


For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing 
me  dreams 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  briglit 
eyes 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  : 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the 

side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my 
bride. 
In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea — 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Edgar  A.  Foe.— Bom  1811,  Died  1849. 


1900.— ULALUME  :  A  BALLAD. 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober ; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere — 

The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere  ; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic, 
Of  cypress,  I  roam'd  with  my  soul — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll — 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek, 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and 

sere — 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere — 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year — 
(Ab^  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year  !) 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

(Though  once  we  had  journey'd  down  here) — 

Eemember'd  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent, 
And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn — 
As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn — - 

At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 
And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 

Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 
Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn — 

Astarte's  bediam ended  crescent 
Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said — *'  She  is  warmer  than  Dian  : 
She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs — 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs*: 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 
These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 

And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 
To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies — 
To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies — 


Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes- 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger. 

Said — "  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust^:^ 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : 

Oh,  hasten  ! — oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 
Oh,  fly  ! — let  us  fly  ! — for  we  must.'* 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 
Wings  till  they  trail'd  in  the  dust — 

In  agony  sobb'd,  letting  sink  her 
Plumes  till  they  trail'd  in  the  dust — 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trail'd  in  the  dust, 

I  replied — "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 
Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light — 
Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 

Its  sibyllic  splendour  is  beaming 
With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night : 
See,   it  flickers  up  the   sky  through   the 
night. 

Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleamings. 
And  be  sure  it  wiU  lead  us  aright — 

We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 
That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright. 
Since  it  flickers  up  to  heaven  through  the 
night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kiss'd  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom — 
And  conquer'd  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  pass'd  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopp'd  by  the  door  of  a  tomb — 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 

And  I  said,  "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb  ?" 

She  replied,  "  Ulalume — Ulalume— 

'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume!" 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober- 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried,  "  It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journey'd — I  journey'd  down  here 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here— 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year. 
Oh,  what  demon  ha«  tempted  me  here  ? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 

Said  we  then — the  two,  then — "  Ah,  can  it 
Have  been  that  the  woodlandish  ghouls — 
The  pitiful,  the  merciful  ghouls — 

To  bar  up  our  way  and  to  ban  it 

From  the  secret  that  lies  in  these  wolds — 
From  the  thing  that  lies  hidden  in  these 
wolds — 

Have  drawn  up  the  spectre  of  a  planet 
From  the  limbo  of  lunary  souls — 

This  sinfully  scintillant  planet 

U'rom  the  hell  of  the  planetary  souls  ?  " 

Edga/r  A.  Foe.— Bom  1811,  IHed  1849. 


E.  A.  PoE.l 


DEEAM-LAND. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


1901.— DSEAM-LAND. 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  Night, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reach'd  these  lands  but  newly 
From  an  ultimate  dim  Thul^ — 
From  a  wild,  weird  clime  that  lieth,  sublime 
Out  of  space — out  of  time. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms,  and  caves,  and  Titan  wood's, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  dews  that  drip  all  over ; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  without  a  shore ; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire  ; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters — lone  and  dread — 
Their  stUl  waters — still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily. 

By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead — 
Their  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily — 
By  the  mountains,  near  the  river 
Murmuring  lowly,  murmuring  ever — 
By  the  gray  woods — by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp — 
By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools 

Where  dwell  the  ghouls — 
By  each  spot  the  most  unholy. 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy — 
There  the  traveller  meets  aghast 
Sheeted  memories  of  the  past ; 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by  ; 
White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given, 
In  agony,  to  earth —  and  heaven  ! 

For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 

'Tis  a  peaceful,  soothing  region  ; 

For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 

'Tis — oh,  'tis  an  Eldorado  ! 

But  the  traveller,  travelling  through  it. 

May  not,  dare  not  openly  view  it ; 

Never  its  mysteries  are  exposed 

To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed ; 

So  wills  its  King,  who  hath  forbid 

The  upKfting  of  the  fringed  lid ; 

And  thus  the  sad  soul  that  here  passes 

Beholds  it  but  through  darken' d  glasses. 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only. 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  Night, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  wander'd  home  but  newly 
From  this  ultimate  dim  Thul^. 

Edgar  A.  Foe.— Born  1811,  Lied  1849. 


1902.— LENORE. 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl. 

The  spirit  flown  for  ever ! 
Let  the  bell  toll ! 
A  saintly  soul 

Floats  on  the  Stygian  river  j 
And,  Guy  De  Vere, 
Hast  thou  no  tear  ? 

Weep  now  or  nevermore ! 
See,  on  yon  drear 
And  rigid  bier 

Low  lies  thy  love,  Lenore  ! 
Come,  let  the  burial-rite  be  read — 

The  funeral-song  be  sung  ! — 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead, 

That  ever  died  so  young — 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead, 

In  that  she  died  so  young ! 

"  Wretches  !  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth. 

And  hated  her  for  her  pride  ; 
And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health, 

Ye  bless' d  her — that  she  died ! 
How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read  ? 

The  requiem,  how  be  sung 
By  you — by  yours,  the  evil  eye — 

By  yours,  the  slanderous  tongue 
That  did  to  death  the  innocence 

That  died,  and  died  so  young ! ' ' 

Peccavimus : 

But  rave  not  thus  ! 

And  let  a  Sabbath  song 

Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly,  the  dead  may 
feel  no  wrong ! 
The  sweet  Lenore 
Hath  "  gone  before," 

With  Hope,  that  flew  beside. 
Leaving  thee  wild 
For  the  dear  child 

That  should  have  been  thy  bride— 
For  her,  the  fair 
And  debonair,  * 

That  now  so  lowty  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair 

But  not  within  her  eyes — 
The  life  still  there, 
Upon  her  hair — 

The  death  upon  her  eyes. 

"  Avaunt !  to-night 
My  heart  is  light. 

No  dirge  will  I  upraise. 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight 

With  a  paean  of  old  days  ! 
Let  no  bell  toll  !— 
Lest  her  sweet  soul. 

Amid  its  hallow' d  mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note. 
As  it  doth  float — 

Up  from  the  damned  earth. 
To  friends  above,  from  fiends  below, 

The  indignant  ghost  is  riven — 
From  hell  unto  a  high  estate 

Far  up  within  the  heaven— 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  BELLS. 


[E.  A.  PoE. 


From  grief  and  groan, 
To  a  golden  throne, 

Beside  the  King  of  Heaven." 

Edgar  A.  Foe.— Born  1811,  Died  1849. 


1903.— ISEAFEL. 

In  heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

'*  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute ;  " 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 

As  the  angel  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamour'd  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  fhings) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings — 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty— 

Where  Love 's  a  grown-up  god — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. . 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassion'd  song ; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest ! 
Merrily  live,  and  long ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love. 

With  the  fervour  of  thy  lute — 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 
Yes,  heaven  is  thine  ;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours ; 

Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers. 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 

Where  Israfel  « 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody. 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 
,  From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

Edgar  A.  Foe.— Born  1811,  Died  1849. 


1904.— THE  BELLS. 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 
Silver  bells — 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  mslorly  fore- 
tells ! 

How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle  . 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Eunic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  th© 
bells. 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of   happiness  their  harmony 
foretells ! 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes. 

And  all  in  tune. 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she 
gloats 

On  the  moon  ! 
■  Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future!  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  beUs,  bells— 
To   the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the 
bells ! 


Hear  the  loud  alarum  beDs — 
Brazen  bells! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency 
tells! 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak. 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune. 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the 

fire. 
In  a  mad   expostulation  with  the  deaf  and 
frantic  fire. 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour 
Now — now  to  sit  or  rever, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 


E.  A.  PoE.] 


TO  F.  S.  0. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling. 
And  the  wrangling. 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of 
the  bells — 

Of  the  beUs— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
In  the  clamour  and  the  clangour  of  the 
bells ! 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody 
compels  ! 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people-'— 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone. 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Eolls, 
A  paean  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells  ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Eunic  rhyme. 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells. 
In  a  happy  Eunio  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells. 


Of  the  bells,  bells,  beUs,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bella 

Edgar  A.  Foe.— Bom  1811,  Died  1849. 


1 905  .-.-TO  F.  S.  O. 

Thou  wouldst  be  loved  ? — then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not ! 
Being  everything  Avhich  now  thou  art, 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways. 

Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise. 

And  love — a  simple  duty. 

Edgar  A.  Foe.— Born  1811,  Died  1849. 


1906.— FOE  ANNIE. 

Thank  Heaven  !  the  crisis — 

The  danger,  is  past. 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last — 
And  the  fever  call'd  "  Living  " 

Is  conquer'd  at  last. 

Sadly,  I  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length ; 
But  no  matter  ! — I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composedly. 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead — 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 
The  sighing  and  sobbing. 

Are  quieted  now, 

'V;^ith  that  horrible  throbbing 

At  heart : — ah  that  horrible, 
Horrible  throbbing ! 

The  sickness — the  nausea — 

The  pitiless  pain — 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  madden'd  my  brain — 
With  the  fever  call'd  "  Living" 

That  burn'd  in  my  brain. 

And  oh  !  of  all  tortures, 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  napthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst : 
I  have  drunk  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst : — 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  EAVEN. 


[E.  A.  PoE. 


Of  a  Avater  that  flows, 

With  a  lullaby  sound, 
From  the  spring  but  a  few 

Feet  under  ground — 
From  a  cavern  not  very  far 

Down  under  ground. 

And  ah  !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed  ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 

Here  blandly  reposes, 
Forgetting,  or  never 

Eegretting,  its  roses — 
Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses : 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odour 

About  it,  of  pansies — 
A  rosemary  odour. 

Commingled  with  pansies — 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie — 
Drown' d  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kiss'd  me, 

She  fondly  caress'd. 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguish' d, 

She  cover' d  me  warm, 
And  she  pray'd  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love,) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast,) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead : — 

But  ray  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  of  the  sky. 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie — 


It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie — 

With  the  thought  of  the  light 
Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 

Edgar  A.  Foe.— Born  1811,  Died  1849. 


1907.--THE  EAVEN. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
While  I  ponder'd.  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 

Volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping. 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 

Eapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  mutter' d, 

"  Tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember. 
It  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember 

Wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I  wish'd  the  morrow  ;^ 
Vainly  I  had  tried  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — 

Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain 
Eustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrill' d  me — fill'd  me  with  fantastic 

Terrors  never  felt  before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  stiL  the  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; — 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger  ; 

Hesitating  then  no  longer, 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly 

Your  forgiveness  I  implore  ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping, 
And  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping, 

Tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you,"— 

Here  I  open'd  wide  the  door : 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more  ! 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering. 
Long  I  stood  there  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 

Ever  dared  to  dream  before ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken, 
And  the  darkness  gave  no  token, 

84 


E.  A.  PoE.] 


THE  EAVEN. 


[Seventh  Pebiod. — 


And  the  only  word  there  spoken 

Was  the  whisper'd  word,  "  Lenore  !" 

This  I  whisper' d,  and  an  echo 

Murmur' d  back  the  word,  "  Lenore !" 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  into  the  chamber  turning, 
All  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  I  heard  again  a  tapping 

Somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice  ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is, 

And  this  mystery  explore —    - 
Lot  my  heart  be  still  a  moment. 

And  this  mystery  explore  ; — 

'Tis  the  wiad,  and  nothing  more !" 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter, 
When,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepp'd  a  stately  raven 

Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore; 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ; 
Not  an  instant  stopp'd  or  stay'd  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady, 

Perch'd  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perch' d  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door — 

Perch'd,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more- 
Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 
My  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 

Of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
•'  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
Thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no  craven. 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  raven. 

Wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is 

On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ;" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvell'd  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — 

Little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing 
That  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  bless'd  with  seeing 

Bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured 

Bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  raven  sitting  lonely 
On  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 

That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  utter' d — 
Not  a  feather  then  he  flutter' d — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  mutter'd 

"  Other  friends  have  flown  before— 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me. 

As  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  ' '  Nevermore." 


Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 

By  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters 

It  is  only  stock  and  store 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master 
Whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
FoUow'd  fast  and  follow'd  faster. 

Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  the 

Melancholy  burden  bore 

Of  '  Nevermore,' — of  '  Nevermore.'  " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling 
All  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheel' d  a  cushion' d  seat  in 

Front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door  ; 
Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking, 
I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 

What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  ithis  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly. 

Gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing, 

But  no  syllable  expressing 

To  the  fowl  whose  flery  eyes  now 

Burn'd  into  my  bosom's  core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining, 
With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining 

That  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er ; 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  never  more  ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser. 
Perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer. 
Swung  by  angels  whose  faint  foot-falls 

Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"Wretch,"  I  cried,   "thy  God  hath  lent 

thee. 
By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Eespite — respite  and  nepenthe 

From  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff",  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe, 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore  !" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether 

Tempest  toss'd  thee  here  ashore. 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted, 
On  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — 

Tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? 

Tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore  !" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil — 

Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — 

By  that  God  we  both  adore — 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


MARY. 


[H.  T.  TUCKERMAN- 


It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden 
Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden 
Whom  the  ang-els  name  Lenore." 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting, 
Bird  or  fiend  !"  I  shriek'd,  upstarting — ■ 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest 

And  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token 
Of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — 

Quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart, 

And  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door  !" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  ra.ven,  never  flitting, 
Still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door  ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of  a  demon  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming 

Throvrs  his  shadow  on  the  floor  ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow 

That  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted— nevermore ! 

Edgar  A,  Poe.—Born  1811,  Died  1849. 


1908.— THE  CONQUEROR  WORM. 

Lo !  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years  ! 
An  angel  throng,  bewing'd,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drown'd  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears. 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low. 
And  hither  and  thither  fly — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  a,nd  fro. 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe ! 

That  motley  drama ! — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout, 

A  crawling  shape  intrude  ! 
A  blood -red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude ! 


It  writhes  ! — it  writhes  ! — with  mortal  pangs, 

The  mimes  become  its  food. 
And  the  angels  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all ! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form,   ~ 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  a  rush  of  a  storm, 
And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

Its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

Edgar  A.  Foe.— Bom  1811,  Died  1849. 


1909.— MART. 

What    though    the    name    is    old    and    oft 
repeated. 
What  though  a  thousand  beings  bear  it 
now, 
And  true  hearts  oft  the  gentle  word  have 
greeted — 
What    though  'tis   hallo w'd  by  a  poet' a 
vow  ? 
We  ever  lovo  the  rose,  and  yet  its  blooming 

Is  a  familiar  rapture  to  the  eye  ; 
And  yon   bright  star  we   hail,  although  its 
looming 
Age  after  age  has  lit  the  northern  sky. 

As  starry  beams  o'er  troubled  billows  stealing, 

As  garden  odours  to  the  desert  blown. 
In  bosoms  faint  a  gladsome  hope  revealing. 

Like  patriot  music  or  affection's  tone — 
Thus,  thus,  for  aye,  the  name  of  Mary  spoken 

By  lips  or  text,  with  magic-like  control. 
The   course  of  present    thought  has  quickly 
broken. 

And   stirr'd   the   fountains  of  my  inmost 
soul. 

The  sweetest  tales  of  human  weal  and  sorrow, 

The  fairest  trophies  of  the  limner's  fame, 
To  my  fond  fancy,  Mary,  seem  to  borrow 

Celestial  halos  from  thy  gentle  name  : 
The  Grecian  artist  glean' d  from  many  faces, 

And  in  a  perfect  whole  the  parts  combined, 
So  have  I  counted  o'er  dear  woman's  graces 

To  form  the  Mary  of  my  ardent  mind. 

And  marvel  not  I  thus  call  my  ideal — 

We  inly  paint  as  we  would  have  things  be — 
The  fanciful  springs  ever  from  the  real. 

As  Aphrodite  rose  from  out  the  sea. 
W^ho  smiled  upon  me  kindly  day  by  day, 

In  a  far  land  where  I  was  ead  and  lone  ? 
Whose  presence  now  is  my  delight  away  ? 

Both  angels  must  the  same  bless' d  title  own 

What  spirits  round  my  weary  way  are  flying. 

What  fortunes  on  my  future  life  await. 
Like   the   mysterious   hymns   the   winds  are 
sighing. 

Are  all  unknown — in  trust  I  bide  my  fate ; 


B.  T.  TUCKERMAN.] 


FLORENCE. 


[Seventh  Beriod. 


But   if    one    blessing   I    might    crave    from 
Heaven, 
'Twould  be    that   Mary  should    my  being 
cheer, 
Hang  o'er  me  when  the  chord  of  life  is  riven, 
Be  my  dear  household  word,  and  my  last 
accent  here. 

Henry  T.  Tuckerman. — Born  1813. 


igio.—FLORENCE. 

Princes,    when     soften'd     in     thy     sweet 
embrace, 
Yearn  for  no  conquest  but  the  realm  of  grace, 
And  thus  redeem'd,  Lorenzo's  fair  domain 
Smiled  in  the  light  of  Art's  propitious  reign. 
Delightful    Florence!    though    the   northern 

gale 
V\''ill  sometimes  rave  around  thy  lovely  vale. 
Can  I  forget  how  softly  Autumn  threw 
Beneath  thy  skies  her  robes  of  ruddy  hue. 
Through  what   long  days  of  balminess  and 

peace, 
From   wintry    bonds    spring   won   thy  mild 

release  ? 
Along  the  Arno  then  I  loved  to  pass. 
And  watch  the  violets  peeping  from  the  grass, 
Mark    the   grey    kine   each   chestnut    grove 

between, 
Startle  the  pheasants  on  the  lawny  green, 
Or  down  long  vistas  hail  the  mountain  snovf, 
Like  lofty  shrines  the  purple  clouds  below. 
Within  thy  halls,  when  veil'd  the  sunny  rays, 
Marvels  of  art  await  the  ardent  gaze. 
And  liquid  words  from  lips  of  beauty  start. 
With  social  joy  to  warm  the  stranger's  heart. 
How  beautiful  at  moonlight's  hallow' d  hour, 
Thy  graceful  bridges,  and  celestial  tower  ! 
The  girdling  hills  enchanted  seem  to  hang  ^ 
Eound  the  fair  scene  whence  modern  genius 

sprang  ; 
O'er  the  dark  ranges  of  thy  palace  walls 
The  silver  beam  on  dome  and  cornice  falls ; 
The  statues  cluster'd  in  thy  ancient  square, 
Like  mighty  spirits  print  the  solemn  air  ; 
Silence  meets  beauty  with  unbroken  reign, 
Save  when  invaded  by  a  choral  strain, 
Whose  distant  cadence  falls  upon  the  ear, 
To  fill  the  bosom  with  poetic  cheer  ! 

Henry  T.  Tuclcerman. — Born  1813. 


i9ii._T0  THE  DANDELION. 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st   beside 
the  way. 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  up- 
hold, 
High-hearted    buccaneers,    o'erjoy'd    that 
tlioy 


An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found. 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 

May  match  in  wealth — thou  art  more  dera- 
to  me 

Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may 
be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish 
prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Cf  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease  ; 
'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters 
now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offer' d  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  trophies  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime  ; 
!  The  eyes  thou  givest  me 

!   Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time  ■, 
I        Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirass'd  bee 
'   Feels  a  more  summer-hke,  warm  ravishment 
j  In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tint, 

His  conquer'd  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
I        From   the   dark    green   thy   yellow  circles 
burst. 
Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass — 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways — 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass. 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind — of  waters  blue 
I  That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 

I        Some  woodland  gap — and  of  a  sky  above, 
!        Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb 
I  doth  move. 

{       My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  link'd 

I  with  thee ; 

i    The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

I  Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 

'   Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

i        And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 

I   Listen' d  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  did 
bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy 
peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  Nature  seem. 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret 
show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

James  R.  Lowell. — Born  1819. 


From  1 780  to  1866.] 


THE  POET. 


[J.  E.  Lowell. 


19 12.— THE  POET. 

In  the  old  dayo  of  awe  and  keen-eyed  wonder, 

The  Poet's  song  with  blood- warm  truth  was 
rife  ; 
He  saw  the  mysteries  which  circle  under 

The  outward  shell  and  skin  of  daily  life. 
Nothing  to  him  were  fleeting  time  and  fashion, 

His  soul  was  led  by  the  eternal  law  ; 
There  was  in  him  no  hope  of  fame,  no  passion, 

But  with  calm,  godlike  eyes,  he  only  saw. 
He  did  not  sigh  o'er  heroes  dead  and  buried. 

Chief  mourner  at  the  Golden  Age's  hearse, 
Nor  deem  that  souls  whom  Charon  grim  had 
ferried 

Alone  were  fitting  themes  of  epic  verse  : 
He  could  believe  the  promise  of  to-morrow, 

And  feel  the  wondrous  meaning  of  to-day ; 
He  had  a  deeper  faith  in  holy  sorrow 

Than  the  world's   seeming  loss  could  take 
away. 
To  know  the  heart  of  all  things  was  his  duty, 

All  things  did  sing  to  him  to  make  him 
wise. 
And,  with  a  sorrowful  and  conquering  beauty, 

The  soul  of  all  look'd  grandly  from  his  eyes. 
He  gazed  on  all  within  him  and  without  him, 

He  watch' d  the  flowing  of  Time's  steady  tide. 
And  shapes  of  glory  floated  all  about  him,         ! 

And  whisper'd  to  him,  and  he  prophesied.      I 
Than  all  men  he  more  fearless  was  and  freer. 

And  all  his  brethren  cried  with  one  accord, — 
"  Behold  the  holy  man  !     Behold  the  Seer ! 

Him   who    hath   spoken   with  the  unseen 
Lord  !" 
He  to  his  heart  with  large  embrace  had  taken 

The  universal  sorrow  of  mankind, 
And,  from  that  root,  a  shelter  never  shaken, 

The  tree  of  wisdom  grew  with  sturdy  rind. 
He  could  interpret  well  the  wondrous  voices 

Which  to  the  calm  and  silent  spirit  come ; 
He  knew  that  the  One  Soul  no  more  rejoices 

In  the  star's  anthem  than  the  insect's  hum. 
He  in  his  heart  was  ever  meek  and  humble, 

And  yet  with  kindly  pomp  his  numbers  ran. 
As   he  foresaw    how  all  things  false  should 
crumble 

Before  the  free  uplifted  soul  of  man : 
And,  when  he  was  made  full  to  overflowing 

With  all  the  loveliness  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Out  rush'd  his  song,  like  molten  iron  glowing. 

To    show    God   sitting   by    the   humblest 
hearth. 
With  calmest  courage  he  was  ever  ready 

To   teach   that   action   was   the   truth   of 
thought. 
And,  with    strong  arm  and  purpose  firm  and 
steady, 

The    anchor     of     the    drifting    world   he 
wrought. 
So  did  he  make  the  meanest  man  partaker 

Of  all  his  brother-gods  unto  him  gave ; 
All  souls  did  reverence  him  and  name  him 
Makei:, 

And  when  he  died  heap'd  temples  on  his 
grave. 


And  still    his   deathless    words  of  light  are 
swimming 
Serene  throughout  the  great,  deep  infinite 
Of  human  soul,  unwaning  and  undimming, 

To  cheer  and  guide  the  mariner  at  night. 
But  now  the  Poet  is  an  empty  rhymer, 

Who  lies  with  idle  elbow  on  the  grass, 
And  fits  his  singing,  like  a  cunning  timer, 
To   all   men's  prides  and  fancies  as   they 
pass. 
Not  his  the  song,  which,  in  its  metre  holy, 
Chimes   with    the    music    of    the    eternal 
stars, 
Humbling  the  tyrant,  lifting  up  the  lowly, 
And  sending  sun  through  the  soul's  prison- 
bars. 
Maker  no  more, — 0,  no  !  unmaker  rather, 

For  he  unmakes  who  doth  not  all  put  fortii 
The  power  given  by  our  loving  Father 

To   show   the   body's   dross,    the    spirit's 
worth. 
Awake  !  great  spirit  of  the  ages  olden  ! 

Shiver  the  mists  that  hide  thy  starry  lyre, 
And  let  man's  soul  be  yet  again  beholden 
To  thee  for  wings  to  soar  to  her  desire. 
0,  prophesy  no  more  to-morrow's  splendour, 
Be  no  more  shame-faced  to  speak  out  for 
Truth, 
Lay  on  her  altar  all  the  gushings  tender, 

The  hope,  the  fire,  the  loving  faith  of  youth  ! 
0,  prophesy  no  more  the  Maker's  coming, 
Say   not  his  onward  footsteps  thou  canst 
hear 
In  the  dim  void,  like  to  the  awful  humming 
Of  the  great  wings  of   some   new-Hghted 
sphere ! 
O,  prophesy  no  more,  but  be  the  Poet ! 

This  longing  was  but  granted  unto  thee 
That,  when  all  beauty  thou  couldst  feel  and 
know  it. 
That  beauty  in  its  highest  thou  couldst  be. 
0,  thou  who  meanest,  tost  with  sealike  long- 
ings, 
Who  dimly  hearest  voices  call  on  thee. 
Whose  soul  is  overfiU'd  with  mighty  throng- 
ings 
Of  love,  and  fear,  and  glorious  agony, 
Thou  of  the  toil- strung  hands  and  iron  sinews 
And  soul  by  Mother  Earth  with  freedom 
fed, 
In  whom  the  hero- spirit  yet  continues, 

The  old  free  nature  is  not  chain' d  or  dead, 
Arouse  !  let  thy  soul  break  in  music-thunder, 

Let  loose  the  ocean  that  is  in  thee  pent, 
Pour  forth  thy  hope,    thy  fear,  thy  love,  thy 
wonder, 
And  tell  tlie  age  what  all  its    signs  have 
meant. 
Where'er  thy   wilder'd    crowd    of    brethren 
jostles, 
Where'er  there  lingers  but  a  shade  of  wrong. 
There  still  is  need  of  martyrs  and  apostles. 

There  still  are  texts  for  never-dying  song ; 
From  age  to  age  man's  still  aspiring  spirit 
Finds  wider  scope  and  sees  with   clearer 
eyes. 


J.  E.  Lowell,] 


THE  SIRENS. 


[Seventh  Period. 


And  tton  in  larger  measure  dost  inherit 
What  made  thy  great  forerunners  free  and 
wise. 
Sit  thou  enthroned  where  the  Poet'u  moun- 
tain 
Above  the  thunder  lifts  its  silent  peak, 
And  roll  thy  songs  down  like  a  gathering  foun- 
tain, 
That  all  may  drink  and  find  the  rest  they 
seek. 
Sing !  there  shall  silence  grow  in  earth  and 
heaven, 
A  silence  of  deep  awe  and  wondering ; 
For,  listening  gladly,  bend  the  angels,  even 
To  hear  a  mortal  like  an  angel  sing. 

Among  the  toil-worn  poor  my  soul  is  seeking 
For  one  to  bring  the  Maker's  name  to  light, 
To  be  the  voice  of  that  almighty  speaking 
Which  every  age  demands  to  do  it  right. 
Proprieties  our  silken  bards  environ  ; 

He  who  would  be  the  tongue  of  this  wide 
land 
Must  string  his  harp  with  chords  of  sturdy 
iron 
And  strike  it  with  a  toil-embrowned  hand  ; 
One  who  hath  dwelt  with   Nature   well-at- 
tended. 
Who  hath  learnt  wisdom  from  her  mystic 
books. 
Whose  soul  with  all  her  countless  lives  hath 
blended, 
So  that  all  beauty  awes  us  in  his  looks  ; 
Who   not  with  body's   waste  his  soul  hath 
pamper' d,  1 

Who  as  the  clear   north-western   wind   is 
free. 
Who      walks      with      Form's      observances 
unhamper'd, 
And  follows  the  One  Will  obediently  ; 
Whose  eyes,  like  windows  on  a  breezy  summit, 

Control  a  lovely  prospect  every  way ; 
Who  doth  not  sound  God's  sea  with  earthly 
plummet. 
And  find  a  bottom  still  of  worthless  clay ; 
Who  heeds  not  how  the  lower  gusts  are  work- 
ing, 
Knowing  that  one  sure  vidnd  blows  on  above, 
And  sees,  beneath  the  foulest  faces  lurking, 

One  God-built  shrine  of  reverence  and  love ; 
Who  Sees  all  stars   that  wheel  their  shining 
marches 
Around  the  centre  fix'd  of  Destiny, 
Where  the  encircling  soul  serene  o'erarches 
The  moving  globe  of  being,  like  a  sky  ; 
Who  feels  that  God  and  Heaven's  great  deeps 
are  nearer 
Him  to  whose  heart  his  fellow-man  is  nigh, 
Who  doth  not    hold  his  soul's  o^vn  freedom 
dearer 
Than  that  of  all  his  brethren,  low  or  high  ; 
Who  to  the  right  can  feel  himself  the  truer 
For  being  gently  patient  with  the  wrong. 
Who  sees  a  brother  in  the  evildoer. 

And  finds  in  Love  the  heart's  blood  of  his 
song : — 


This,  this  is  he  for  whom  the  world  is  waiting 

To  sing  the  beatings  of  its  mighty  heart. 
Too  long  hath  it  been  patient  with  the  grating 

Of  scrannel-pipes,  and  heard  it  misnamed 
Art. 
To  him  the  smiling  soul  of  man  shall  listen, 

Laying  awhile  its  crown  of  thorns  aside, 
And  once  again  in  every  eye  shall  glisten 

The  glory  of  a  nature  satisfied. 
His  verse    shall   have  a  great,  commanding 
motion, 

Heaving  and  swelling  with  a  melody 
Learnt  of  the  sky,  the  river,  and  the  ocean. 

And  all  the  pure,  majestic  things  that  be. 
Awake,  then,  thou  !    we   pine    for  thy  great 
presence 

To  make  us  feel  the  soul  once  more  sublime, 
We  are  of  far  too  infinite  an  essence 

To  rest  contented  with  the  lies  of  Time. 
Speak  out !  and,  lo  !  a  hush  of  deepest  wonder 

Shall  sink  o'er  all  his  many-voiced  scene, 
As  when  a  sudden  burst  of  rattling  thunder 

Shatters  the  blueness  of  a  sky  serene. 

J.  B.  Lowell— Bom  1819. 


1913.— THE  SIRENS. 

The  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary. 
The  sea  is  restless  and  uneasy  ; 
Thou  seekest  quiet,  thou  art  weary. 
Wandering  thou  knowest  not  whither  ; — 
Our  little  isle  is  green  and  breezy, 
Come  and  rest  thee  !  0  come  hither  ! 
CoDLie  to  this  peaceful  home  of  ours. 

Where  evermore 
The   low   west   wind  creeps  panting  up  the 

shore 
To  be  at  rest  among  the  flowers  ; 
Full  of  rest,  the  green  moss  lifts. 

As  the  dark  waves  of  the  sea 
Draw  in  and  out  of  rocky  rifts. 

Calling  solemnly  to  thee 
With  voices  deep  and  hollow, — 
"  To  the  shore 

Follow  !  O  follow  ! 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore  ! 
For  evermore !  " 

Look  how  the  grey  old  Ocean 
From  the  depth  of  his  heart  rejoices, 
Heaving  with  a  gentle  motion, 
When  he  hears  our  restful  voices  ; 
List  how  he  sings  in  an  undertone, 
Chiming  with  our  melody  ; 
And  all  sweet  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
Melt  into  one  low  voice  alone, 
That  murmurs  over  the  weary  sea, — 
And  seems  to  sing  from  everywhere, — 
"  Here  mayest  thou  harbour  peacefully. 
Here  mayest  thou  rest  from  the  aching  oar ; 

Turn  thy  curved  prow  ashore, 
And  in  our  green  isle  rest  for  evermore  ! 
For  evermore ! " 


From  1780  to  1866.]  AN  INCIDENT  IN  A  EAILROAD  CAR. 


[J.  R.  Lowell. 


And  Echo  half  wakes  in  the  woodel  hill, 
And,  to  her  heart  so  calm  and  deep, 
Murmurs  over  in  her  sleep, 
Doubtfully  pausing  and  murmuring  still, 
"  Evermore  !  " 

Thus,  on  Life's  weary  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  low  and  clear. 
Ever  singing  longingly. 

Is  it  not  better  here  to  be, 
Than  to  be  toiling  late  and  soon  ? 
In  the  dreary  night  to  see 
Nothing  but  the  blood-red  moon 
Go  up  and  down  into  the  sea ; 
Or,  in  the  loneliness  of  day, 

To  see  the  still  seals  only 
Solemnly  lift  their  faces  grey. 

Making  it  yet  more  lonely? 
Is  it  not  better,  than  to  hear 
Only  the  sliding  of  the  wave 
Beneath  the  plank,  and  feel  so  near 
A  cold  and  lonely  grave, 
A  restless  grave,  where  thou  shalt  lie 
Even  in  death  unquietly  ? 
Look  down  beneath  thy  wave- worn  bark, 

Lean  over  the  side  and  see 
The  leaden  eye  of  the  side-long  shark 

Upturned  patiently. 
Ever  waiting  there  for  thee  : 
Look  down  and  see  those  shapeless  forms, 

"Which  ever  keep  their  dreamless  sleep 

Far  do«vn  within  the  gloomy  deep, 
And  only  stir  themselves  in  storms. 
Rising  like  islands  from  beneath, 
And  snorting  through  the  angry  spray. 
As  the  frail  vessel  perisheth 
In  the  whirls  of  their  unwieldy  play  : 

Look  down  !  Look  down  ! 
Upon  the  seaweed,  slimy  and  dark, 
That  waves  its  arms  so  lank  and  brown. 

Beckoning  for  thee ! 
Look  down  beneath  thy  wave- worn  bark  * 

Into  the  cold  depth  of  the  sea  ! 
Look  down  !  Look  down  ! 

Thus,  on  Life's  lonelj'^  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sad,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  full  of  fear. 
Ever  singing  drearfully. 

Here  all  is  pleasant  as  a  dream  ; 
The  wind  scarce  shaketh  down  the  dew. 
The  green  grass  floweth  like  a  stream 
Into  the  ocean's  blue  : 
Listen  !  O  listen  ! 
Here  is  a  gush  of  many  streams, 

A  song  of  many  birds, 
And  every  wish  and  longing  seems 
Lull'd  to  a  number'd  flow  of  words,— 

Listen  !  O  listen  ! 
Here  ever  hum  the  golden  bees 
Underneath  full-blossom'd  trees. 
At    once    with    glowing    fruit    and    flowers 
crown' d  ; — 


The  sand  is  so  smooth,  the  yellow  sand. 
That  thy  keel  will  not  grate,  as  it  touches  the 

land ; 
All  around,  with  a  slumberous  sound, 
The  singing  waves  slide  up  the  strand, 
And  there,  where  the  smooth,  wet  pebbles  be, 
The  waters  gurgle  longingly. 
As  if  they  fain  would  seek  the  shore,~    ~ 
To  be  at  rest  from  the  ceaseless  roar, 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore, — 
For  evermore. 

Thus,  on  Life's  gloomy  sea, 

Heareth  the  marinere 

Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 

Ever  singing  in  his  ear, 

"Here  is  rest  and  peace  for  thee !  " 

James  B.  Lowell. — Born  1819. 


1914. 


-AN  INCIDENT  IN  A  EAILROAD 

CAR.  I 


He  spoke  of  Burns  :  men  rude  and  rough 
Press' d  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 
Whose  heart  was  made  of  manly,  simple  stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  lean'd. 
Drinking,  with  thirsty  hearts  and  ears. 
His     brook-like     songs    whom    glory    never 
wean'd 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sun-Hke,  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard. 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong 
And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A   sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and 
strong 
In  high  humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence 
Promptings  their  former  hfe  above, 
And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love. 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side, 
Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide, 
Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 
Of  a  more  true  and  open  life. 
Which   burst,  unlook'd-for,  into  high-sonl'd 
deeds 
With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth, 
Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bear  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 


J.  E,  Lowell.] 


THE  HEEITAGE. 


[Seventh  Peeiod, — 


Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 
These  promises  of  wider  bliss, 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 
In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 
The  angel  heart  of  man. 

And  thus,  among  the  untaught  poor 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home, 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  and  Rome. 

O  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
O'er-roof  infinity ! 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul, 
And  from  the  many  slowly  upward  -wia 
To  one  who  grasps  the  whole  : 

In  his  broad  breast  the  feeling  deep 
That  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue, 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  thought,  whose  surges  leap 
O'er  the  weak  thrones  of  wrong. 

All  thought  begins  in  feeling, — wide 
In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,  narrowing  up  to  thought,  stands  glorified, 
A  moveless  pyramid. 

Nor  is  he  far  astray  who  deems 
That  every  hope,  which  rises  and  grows 
broad 
In   the   world's    heart,    by   order'd    impulse 
streams 
From  the  great  heart  of  God. 

God  wills,  man  hopes  :  in  common  souls 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined, 
TiU  from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message  rolls 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  Poesy  appear 
So  full  of  heaven  to  mo  as  when 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride  and 
fear 
To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in 
sight 
Once  in  a  century ; — 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art. 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  nntntor'd  heart. 


He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose. 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day. 
But  surely  shall  be  crown'd  at  last  with  those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 

J.  B.  Lowell— Born  1819. 


1915.--THE  HERITAGE. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands. 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares ; 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  bum. 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares. 
And  soft,  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare ; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy  chair ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  feeT 

j   What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
■        Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit ; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 
In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
Wishes  o'erjoy'd  with  humble  things, 

A  rank  adjudged  by  toil -won  merit. 

Content  that  from  employment  springs, 
A  heart  that  in  his  labour  sings; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
A  patience  learn'd  by  being  poor. 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee- 

0,  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil, 
That  with  all  others  level  stands  ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil. 

But  only  whiten,  soft,  white  hands,— 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


TO  THE  FUTUEE. 


[j;  E.  Lowell. 


O,  poor  man's  son,  scorn  not  thy  state  ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 

Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last ; 
Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 

Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 

By  record  of  a  well-fill'd  past ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 

J.  R.  Lowell— Born  1819. 


i9i6.^TO  THE  FUTUEE. 

O,  Land  of  Promise  !  from  what  Pisgah's 
height 
Can   I   behold   thy   stretch   of  peaceful 
bowers  ? 
Thy  golden  harvests  flowing  out  of  sight. 
Thy  nestled    homes   and    sun-illumined 
towers  ? 
Gazing  upon  the  sunset's  high-heap' d  gold. 

Its  crags  of  opal  and  of  chrysolite, 
Its  deeps  on  deeps  of  glory  that  unfold 
Still  brightening  abysses, 
And  blazing  precipices. 
Whence   but   a    scanty   leap   it   seems  to 
heaven. 
Sometimes  a  glimpse  is  given. 
Of   thy  more  gorgeous  realm,  thy  more  un- 
stinted blisses. 

0,  Land  of  Quiet !  to  thy  shore  the  surf 
Of  the  perturbed  Present  rolls  and  sleeps  ; 

Our  storms  breathe  soft  as  June  upon  thy 
turf 
And  lure  out   blossoms :  to  thy  bosom 


As  to  a  mother's,  the  o'erwearied  heart. 
Hearing  far  off  and  dim  the  toiling  mart, 
The   hurrying  feet,  the   curses  without 
number. 
And  circled  with  the  glow  Elysian, 
Of  thine  exulting  vision, 
Out  of  its  very  cares  woos  charms  for  peace 
and  slumber. 

To  thee  the  Earth  lifts  up  her  fetter 'd  hands 
And  cries  for  vengeance ;  with  a  pitying 
smile 
Thou  blessest  her,  and  she  forgets  her  bands. 
And  her  old  woe-worn  face  a  little  while 
Grows  young  and   noble ;   unto   thee    the 
Oppressor 
Looks,  and  is  dumb  with  awe ; 
The  eternal  law 
Which  makes  the  crime  its  own  blindfold 
redresser. 


Shadows   his  heart   with   perilous  fore- 
boding. 
And  he  can  see  the  grim-eyed  Doom 
From  out  the  trembling  gloom 
Its    silent-footed    steeds   toward   his   palace 
goading. 

What  promises  hast  thou  for  Poeta'  eyes, 
Aweary  of  the  turmoil  and  the  wrong ! 
To  all  their  hopes  what  overjoy' d  replies  ! 
What    undream'd   ecstasies  for   blissful 
song ! 
Thy  happy  plains  no  war-trumps  brawling 
clangour 
Disturbs,  and  fools  the  poor  to  hate  the 
poor ; 
The  humble  glares  not  on  the  high  with 
anger ; 
Love  leaves  no  grudge  at  less,  no  greed 
for  more ; 
In  vain  strives  self  the  godlike  sense  to 
smother ; 
From  the  soul's  deeps 
It  throbs  and  leaps  ; 
The  noble  'neath  foul  rags  beholds  his  long- 
lost  brother. 

To  thee  the  Martyr  looketh,  and  his  fires 
Unlock  their  fangs  and  leave  his  spirit 
free; 
To  thee  the  Poet  'mid  his  toil  aspires, 

And  grief  and  hunger  climb  about  his  kneo 
Welcome  as  children  :  thou  upholdest 

The  lone  Inventor  by  his  demon  haunted ; 
The  prophet  cries  to  thee  when  hearts  are 
coldest. 
And   gazing   o'er   the  midnight's    bleak 

abyss. 
Sees  the  drowsed  soul  awaken  at  thy  kiss, 
And  stretch  its  happy  arms  and  leap  up  disen- 
chanted. 

Thou   bringest   vengeance,   but  so  loving- 
kindly 
The  guilty  thinks  it  pity ;  taught  by  thee, 
Fierce  tyrants  drop  the  scourges  wherewith 
blindly 
Their  own  souls  they  were  scarring  ;  con- 
querors see 
With  horror  in  their  hands  the  accursed 
spear 
That  tore  the  meek  One's  side  on  Calvary, 
And  from  their  trophies  shrink  with  ghastly 
fear ; 
Thou,  too,  art  the  Forgiver, 
The  beauty  of  man's  soul  to  man  reveal- 
ing; 
The  arrows  from  thy  quiver 
Pierce  error's  guilty  heart,  but  only  pierce  for 
healing. 

O,  whither,  whither,  glory-winged  dreams, 
From  out  Life's  sweat  and  turmoil  would 
ye  bear  me  ? 

Shut,  gates  of  Fancy,  on  your  golden  gleams, 
This  agony  of  hopeless  contrast  spare  me  ! 


J.  R  Lowell.] 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Fade,  cheating  glow,   and  leave  me  to  my 
night  ! 
He  is  a  coward  who  would  borrow 
A  charm  against  the  present  sorrow 
From  the  vague  Future's  promise  of  delight : 
As  life's  alarums  nearer  roll, 
The  ancestral  buckler  calls, 
Self-clanging,  from  the  walls 
In  the  high  temple  of  the  soul ; 
Where  are  most  sorrows,  there  the   poet's 
sphere  is. 
To  feed  the  soul  with  patience, 
To  heal  its  desolations 
With  words  of  unshorn  truth,  with  love  that 
never  wearies. 

J.  R.  Lowell.— Born  1819. 


igiy.—TKE  FOUNTAIN. 

Into  the  sunshine, 

Full  of  Ught, 
Leaping  and  flashing 

From  morn  to  night  ! 

Into  the  moonlight. 
Whiter  than  snow, 

Waving  so  flower-like 
When  the  winds  blow  ! 

Into  the  starlight, 

Eushing  in  spray, 
Happy  at  midnight, 

Happy  by  day ! 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery. 
Still  climbing  heavenward 

Never  a-weary  ! 

Glad  of  all  weathers. 
Still  seeming  best. 

Upward  or  downward 
Motion  thy  rest ; 

Full  of  a  nature 
Nothing  can  tame, 

Changed  every  moment, 
Ever  the  same  ; — 


aspiring ; 
Ceaseless,  content ; 
Darkness  or  sunshine 
Thy  element. 

Glorious  fountain ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 

Upward,  like  thee ! 

J.  B.  LoweU.-^Born  1819. 


191 8.— BEN  BOLT. 

Don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt  ? 

Sweet  Alice  whose  hair  was  so  brown. 
Who  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a 
smile, 

And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown  ? 


In  the  old  churchyard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a  corner  obscure  and  alone. 
They  have  fitted  a  slab  of  the  granite  so  grey^ 

And  Alice  lies  under  the  stone. 

Under  the  hickory  tree,  Ben  Bolt, 

Which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
Together  we've  lain  in  the  noonday  shade, 

And  listen' d  to  Appleton's  mill : 
The  miU-wheel  has  fallen  to  pieces,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  rafters  have  tumbled  in. 
And  a  quiet  which  crawls  round  the  walls  as 
you  gaze, 

Has  follow'd  the  olden  din. 

Do  you  mind  the  cabin  of  logs,  Ben  Bolt, 

At  the  edge  of  the  pathless  wood. 
And  the  button-ball  tree  with  its  motley  limbs, 

Which  nigh  by  the  door-step  stood  ? 
The  cabin  to  ruin  has  gone,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  tree  you  would  seek  in  vain ; 
And  where  once  the  lords  of  the  forest  waved, 

Grows  grass  and  the  golden  grain. 

And  don't  you  remember  the  school,  Ben  Bolt, 

With  the  master  so  cruel  and  grim. 
And  the  shaded  nook  in  the  running  brook. 

Where  the  children  went  to  swim  ? 
Grass  grows  on  the  master's  grave,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  spring  of  the  brook  is  dry. 
And  of  all  the  boys  who  were  schoolmates 
then. 

There  are  only  you  and  I. 

There  is  change  in  the  things  I  loved,  Ben 
Bolt. 
They  nave   changed  from  the  old  to  the 
new: 
But  I  feel  inthedeeps  of  my  spirit  the  truth, 

There  never  was  change  in  you. 
Twelvemonths  twenty  have  past,  Ben  Bolt, 

Since  first  we  were  friends — yet  I  hail 
Thy   presence   a   blessing,    thy   friendship   a 
truth, 
Ben  Bolt,  of  the  salt- sea  gale. 

Thomas  Dunn  English. — Bom  1819. 


1919.— THE  BEICKMAKER. 


Let  the  blinded  horse  go  round 
Till  the  yellow  olay  be  ground. 
And  no  weary  arms  be  folded 
Till  the  mass  to  brick  be  moulded. 

In  no  stately  structures  skill'd, 
What  the  temple  we  would  build  ? 
Now  the  massive  kiln  is  risen — 
Call  it  palace — call  it  prison ; 
View  it  well :  from  end  to  end 
Narrow  corridors  extend — 
Long,  and  dark,  and  smother' d  aisles 
Choke  its  earthy  vaults  with  piles 
Of  the  resinous  yeUow  pine  ; 


From  1780  to  I860.] 


THE  BEICKMAKER. 


[T.  B.  Bead., 


Now  thrust  in  the  fetter'd  Fire — 
•  Hearken  !  how  he  stamps  with  ire, 

Treading  out  the  pitchy  wine  ; 
Wrought  anon  to  wilder  spells, 

Hear  him  shout  his  loud  alarms  ; 

See  him  thrust  his  glowing  arms 
Through  the  windows  of  his  cells. 

But  his  chains  at  last  shall  sever ; 
Slavery  lives  not  for  ever ; 
And  the  thickest  prison  wall 
Into  ruin  yet  must  fall. 
Whatsoever  falls  away 
Springeth  up  again,  they  say ; 
Then,  when  this  shall  break  asunder, 
And  the  fire  be  freed  from  under. 
Tell  us  what  imperial  thing 
From  the  ruin  shall  upspring  ? 

There  shall  grow  a  stately  building- 
Airy  dome  and  column'd  walls  ; 

Mottoes  writ  in  richest  gilding 
Blazing  through  its  pillar'd  halls. 

In  those  chambers,  stern  and  dreaded, 
They,  the  mighty  ones,  shall  stand ; 

There  shall  sit  the  hoary-headed 
Old  defenders  of  the  land. 

There  shall  mighty  words  be  spoken, 
Which  shall  thrill  a  wondering  world ; 

Then  shall  ancient  bonds  be  broken. 
And  new  banners  be  unfurl' d. 

But  anon  those  glorious  uses 

In  these  chambers  shall  lie  dead. 

And  the  world's  antique  abuses, 
Hydra-headed,  rise  instead. 

But  this  wrong  not  long  shall  linger— 

The  old  capitol  must  fall ; 
For,  behold  !  the  fiery  finger 

Flames  along  the  fated  wall. 


Let  the  blinded  horse  go  round 
Till  the  yellow  clay  be  ground, 
And  no  weary  arms  be  folded 
Till  the  mass  to  brick  be  moulded — 
Till  the  heavy  walls  be  risen. 
And  the  fire  is  in  his  prison  : 
But  when  break  the  walls  asunder. 
And  the  fire  is  freed  from  under. 
Say  again  what  stately  thing 
From  the  ruin  shall  upspring  ? 

There  shall  grow  a  church  whose  steeple 

To  the  heavens  shall  asipire  ; 
And  shall  come  the  mighty  people 

To  the  music  of  the  choir. 

On  the  infant,  robed  in  whiteness. 

Shall  baptismal  waters  fall. 
While  the  child's  angelic  brightness 

Sheds  a  halo  over  all. 

There  shall  stand  enwreath'd  in  marriage 
Forms  that  tremble — hearts  that  thrill — 

To  the  door  Death's  sable  carriage 

Shall  bring  forms  and  hearts  grown  still ! 


Deck'd  in  garments  richly  glistening, 
Bustling  wealth  shall  walk  the  aisle  ; 

And  the  poor  without  stand  listening, 
Praying  in  their  hearts  the  while. 

There  the  veteran  shall  come  weekly 
With  his  cane,  oppress'd  and  poor, 

'Mid  the  horses  standing  meekly,      ~ 
Gazing  through  the  open  door. 

But  these  wrongs  not  long  shall  linger— 
The  presumptuous  pile  must  fall ; 

For,  behold  !  the  fiery  finger 
Flames  along  the  fated  wall. 


Let  the  blinded  horse  go  round 
Till  the  yellow  clay  be  ground, 
And  no  weary  arms  be  folded 
Till  the  mass  to  brick  be  moulded : 
Say  again  what  stately  thing 
From  the  ruin  shall  upspring  ? 

Not  the  hall  with  column'd  chambers, 
Starr'd  with  words  of  liberty. 

Where  the  freedom-canting  members 
Feel  no  impulse  of  the  free  : 

Not  the  pile  where  souls  in  error 

Hear  the  words,  "  Go,  sin  no  more  V* 

But  a  dusky  thing  of  terror. 
With  its  cells  and  grated  door. 

To  its  inmates  each  to-morrow 

Shall  bring  in  no  tide  of  joy. 
Born  in  darkness  and  in  sorrow, 

There  shall  stand  the  fated  boy. 

With  a  grief  too  loud  to  smother, 
With  a  throbbing,  burning  head, 

There  shall  groan  some  desperate  mother, 
Nor  deny  the  stolen  bread  ! 

There  the  veteran,  a  poor  debtor, 
Mark'd  with  honourable  scars, 

Listening  to  some  clanking  fetter, 
Shall  gaze  idly  through  the  bars : 

Shall  gaze  idly  not  demurring. 

Though  with  thick  oppression  bow'd. 

While  the  many,  doubly  erring, 

Shall  walk  honour'd  througli  the  crowd. 

Yet  these  wrongs  not  long  shall  linger- — 

The  benighted  pile  must  fall; 
For,  behold  !  the  fiery  finger 

Flames  along  the  fated  wall. 


Let  the  blinded  horse  go  round 
Till  the  yellow  clay  be  ground, 
And  no  weary  arms  be  folded 
Till  the  mass  to  brick  be  moulded — 
Till  the  heavy  wall  be  risen 
And  the  fire  is  in  his  prison. 
Capitol,  and  church,  and  jail, 
Like  our  kiln  at  last  shall  fail ; 


T.  B.  Eead.] 


MY  HERMITAGE. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Every  shape  of  earth  shall  fade 
But  the  heavenly  temple,  made 
For  the  sorely  tried  and  pure, 
With  its  Builder  shall  endure  ! 


T.  B.  Bead.— Born  1822. 


1920.— MY  HEEMITA.GE. 

Within  a  wood  one  summer's  day, 
And  in  a  hollow,  ancient  trunk, 

I  shut  me  from  the  world  away, 
To  live  as  lives  a  hermit  monk. 

My  cell  was  a  ghostly  sycamore. 

The  roots  and  limbs  were  dead  with  age  ; 

Decay  had  carved  the  Gothic  door 
Which  look'd  into  my  hermitage. 

My  library  was  large  and  full, 

Where,  ever  as  a  hermit  plods, 
I  read  until  my  eyes  are  dull 

With  tears  ;  for  all  those  tomes  were  God's 

The  vine  that  at  my  doorway  swung 

Had  verses  writ  on  every  leaf, 
The  very  songs  the  bright  bees  sung 

In  honey-seeking  visits  brief — 

Not  brief — though  each  stay'd  never  long — 
So  rapidly  they  came  and  went, 

No  pause  was  left  in  all  their  song. 

For  while  they  borrow'd  still  they  lent. 

AU  day  the  woodland  minstrels  sang — 
Small  feet  were  in  the  leaves  astir — 

And  often  o'er  my  doorway  rang 
The  tap  of  a  blue-wing'd  visitor. 

Afar  the  stately  river  sway'd. 
And  pour'd  itself  in  giant  swells. 

While  here  the  brooklet  danced  and  play'd, 
And  gaily  rung  its  liquid  bells. 

The  springs  gave  me  their  crystal  flood, 
And  my  contentment  made  it  wine — 

And  oft  I  found  what  kingly  food 
Grew  on  the  world-forgotten  vine. 

The  moss,  or  weed,  or  running  flower, 
Too  humble  in  their  hope  to  climb, 

Had  in  themselves  the  lovely  power 
To  make  me  happier  for  the  time. 

And  when  the  starry  night  came  by, 
And  stooping  look'd  into  my  cell, 

Then  all  between  the  earth  and  sky 
Was  circled  in  a  holier  spell. 

A  height  and  depth  and  breadth  sublime 
O'erspread  the  scene,  and  reach'd  the  stars, 

Until  Eternity  and  Time 

Seemed  drowning  their  dividing  bars. 

And  voices  which  the  day  ne'er  hears, 
And  visions  which  the  sun  ne'er  sees, 

I  rom  earth  and  from  the  distant  spheres, 
Catnc  on  the  moonlight  and  the  breeze. 


Thus  day  and  night  my  spirit  grew 

In  love  with  that  which  round  me  shone, 

Until  my  calm  heart  fully  knew 
The  joy  it  is  to  be  alone. 

The  time  went  by,  till  one  fair  dawn 

I  saw  against  the  eastern  fires, 
A  visionary  city  drawn 

With  dusky  lines  of  domes  and  spires. 

The  wind  in  sad  and  fitful  spells 

Blew  o'er  it  from  the  gates  of  morn, 

Till  I  could  clearly  hear  the  bells 
That  rung  above  a  world  forlorn. 

And  well  I  listen'd  to  their  voice, 

And  deeply  ponder'd  what  they  said — 

Till  I  arose — there  was  no  choice — 
I  went  while  yet  the  east  was  red. 

My  waken'd  heart  for  utterance  yearn'd — 
The  clamorous  wind  had  broke  the  spell — 

I  needs  must  teach  what  I  had  learn'd 
Within  my  simple  woodland  cell. 

T.  B.  Read.— Born  1822. 


1921.— THELEME. 

I  sat  one  night  on  a  palace  step, 

Wrapp'd  up  in  a  mantle  thin ; 
And  I  gazed  with  a  smile  on  the  world  without. 

With  a  growl  at  my  world  within, — 
Till  I  heard  the  merry  voices  ring 

Of  a  lordly  companie, 
And  straight  to  myself  I  began  to  sing, 

"  It  is  there  that  I  ought  to  be." 

And  long  I  gazed  through  a  lattice  raised 

Which  smiled  from  the  old  grey  wall, 
And  my  glance  went  in,   with   the  evening 
breeze, 

And  ran  o'er  the  revellers  all ; 
And  I  said,  "If  they  saw  me,  'twould  cool 
their  mirth, 

Far  more  than  this  wild  breeze  free, 
But  a  merrier  party  was  ne'er  on  earth. 

And  among  them  I  fain  would  be." 

And  oh  I  but  they  all  were  beautiful. 

Fairer  than  fairy  dreams. 
And  their  words  were  sweet  as  the  wind  harp's 
tone 
When  it  rings  o'er  summer  streams  ; 
i   And  they  pledged  each  other  with  noble  mien, 
I        "  True  heart  with  my  life  to  thee  !" 
I   "  Alack  !"  quoth  I,  "  but  my  soul  is  dry. 
And  among  them  I  fain  would  be  !" 

And  the  gentlemen  were  noble  souls. 

Good  fellows  both  sain  and  sound, 
I  had  not  deem'd  that  a  band  like  this 

Could  over  the  world  be  found ; 
And  they  spoke  of  brave  and  beautiful  things, 

Of  all  that  was  dear  to  me ; 
And  I  thought,  "  Perhaps  they  would  like  me 
well, 

If  among  them  I  once  miffht  be  !" 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


THE  THEEE  FEIENDS. 


[C.  G.  Leland, 


And  lovely  were  the  ladies  too, 

Who  sat  in  the  light  bright  hall, 
And  one  there  was,  oh,  dream  of  life  ! 

The  loveliest  'mid  them  all ; 
She  sat  alone  by  an  empty  chair, 

The  queen  of  the  feast  was  she, 
And  I  said  to  myself,  "  By  that  lady  fair 

I  certainly  ought  to  be." 

And  aloud  she  spoke,  "  We  have  waited  long 

For  one  who,  in  fear  and  doubt, 
Looks  wistfully  into  our  hall  of  song 

As  he  sits  on  the  steps  without  ; 
I  have  sung  to  him  long  in  silent  dreams, 

I  have  led  him  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Go  welcome  him  in  as  his  rank  beseems, 

And  give  him  a  place  by  me  !" 

They  open'd  the  door,  yet  I  shrunk  with  shame, 

As  I  sat  in  my  mantle  thin, 
But  they  hail'd  me  out  with  a  joyous  shout, 

And  merrily  led  me  in — 
And  gave  me  a  place   by  my   bright-hair' d 
love. 

And  she  wept  with  joy  and  glee, 
And  I  said  to  myseK,  "  By  the  stars  above, 

I  am  just  where  I  ought  to  be  !" 

Farewell  to  thee,  life  of  joy  and  grief  ! 

Farewell  to  ye,  care  and  pain  ! 
Farewell,  thou  vulgar  and  selfish  world  ! 

For  I  never  will  know  thee  again. 
I  live  in  aoland  where  good  fellows  abound, 

In  Theleme,  by  the  sea  ; 
They   may   long  for   a  "happier  ""ife"   that 
will,— 

I  am  just  where  I  ought  to  be  ! 

C.  G.  Leland,— Born  1824. 


1922.— A  DEE  AM  OF  LOVE. 

I  dream'd  I  lay  beside  the  dark  blue  Ehine, 

In  that  old  tower  where  once  Sir  Eoland 
dwelt ; 
Methought  his  gentle  lady-love  was  mine, 

And  mine  the  cares  and  pain  which  once  he 
felt. 
Dim,  cloudy  centuries  had  roU'd  away, 

E'en  to  that  minstrel  age — the  olden  time, 
When  Eoland' s  lady  bid  him  woo  no  more, 

And  he,  aweary,  sought  the  eastern  clime. 

Methought  that  I,  like  him,  had  wander'd  long 
In  those  strange  lands  of  v/hich  old  legends 
tell; 
Then   home   I   turn'd   to   my  own   glancing 
Ehine, 
And  found  my  lady  in  a  convent  cell ; 
And  I,  like  him,  had  watch' d  through  weary 
years. 
And  dwelt  unseen  hard  by  her  convent's 
bound, 
Tn  that  old  tower,  which  yet  stands  pitying 
The  cloister-isle,  enclosed  by  water  round. 


I  long  had  watch 'd — for  in  the  early  morn. 

To  ope  her  lattice  came  that  lady  oft ; 
And  earnestly  I  gazed,  yet  naught  I  saw. 

Save  one  small  hand  and  arm,  white,  fair, 
and  soft. 
And  when,  at  eve,  the  long,  dark  shadows  fell 

O'er  rock  and  valley,  vineyard,  town,   and 
tower, 
Again  she  came — again  that  small  white  hand 

Would  close  her  lattice  for  the  vesper  hour. 

I  linger'd  still,  e'en  when  the  silent  night 

Had  cast  its  sable  mantle  o'er  the  shrine. 
To  see  her  lonely  taper's  soften' d  light 

Gleam,  far  reflected,  o'er  the  quiet  Ehine  ! 
But  most  I  loved  to  see  her  form  at  times. 

Obscure  those  beams — for  then  her  shade 
would  fall. 
And  I  beheld  it,  evenly  portray'd — 

A  living  profile,  on  that  mndow  small. 

And  thus   I    lived  in   love — though   not   in 
hope — 
And  thus  I  watch'd  that  maiden  many  a 
year, 
When,  lo  !  I  saw,  one  morn,  a  funeral  train — 

Alas  !  they  bore  my  lady  to  her  bier  I 
And  she  was  dead — yet  grieved  I  not  there- 
fore, 
For  now  in  Heaven   she  knew  the  love  I 
felt. 
Death  could  not  kill  affection  nor  destroy 
The  holy  peace  wherein  I  long  had  dwelt. 

Oh,  gentle  lady  !  this  was  but  a  dream  ; 
And  in  a  dream  I  bore  all  this  for  thee. 
If  thus  in  sleep  love's  pangs  assail  my  soul, 
Think,  lady,  what  my  waking  hours  must 
be! 

C.  G.  Leland.— Born  1824. 


1923.— THE  THEEE  FEIENDS. 

I  have  three  friends,  three  glorious  friends, 

three  dearer  could  not  be  ; 
And  every  night  when  midnight  tolls,  they 

meet  to  laugh  with  me. 
The  first  was  shot  by  Carlist  thieves,  three 

years  ago,  in  Spain ; 
The   second   drown' d,    near  Alicante,    and  I 

alive  remain. 

I  love  to  see  their  thin  white  forms  come  steal- 
ing through  the  night. 

And  grieve  to  see  them  fade  away  in  the  early 
morning  light. 

The  first  with  gnomes  in  the  Under-land  is 
leading  a  lordly  life. 

The  second  has  married  a  mermaiden,  a  beauti- 
ful water- wife. 

And  since  I  have  friends  in  the  earth  and  sea 
— with  a  few,  I  trust,  on  high, 

'Tis  a  matter  of  small  account  to  me,  the  way 
that  I  may  die. 


B.  Taylob.] 


BEDOUIN  SONG. 


[Seventh  Pekiod.— < 


For  whether  I  sink  in  the  foaming  flood,  or 

swing  on  the  triple  tree, 
Or  die  in  my  grave  as  a  Christian  should,  is 

much  the  same  to  me. 

C.  G.  Leland.Som  1824. 


1924.— BEDOUIN  SONG. 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  bnt  thee, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 
With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  res^. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart. 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold. 
And  the  stars  are  old. 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold ! 

JB.  Taylor.— Bom  1825. 


1925.— THE  ABAB  TO  THE  PALM. 

Hext  to  thee,  O  fair  gazelle, 

O  Beddowee,  girl,  beloved  so  well ; 

Next  to  the  fearless  Nedjidee, 

Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to  thee ; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Palm, 

With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of  balm; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Tree 

Whose  fluttering  shadow  vnraps  us  three 

With  love,  and  silence,  and  mystery ! 


Our  tribe  is  many,  our  poets  vie 

With  any  under  the  Arab  sky ; 

Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  Palm  but  I. 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo's  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 

He  lifts  his  leaves  in  the  sunbeam's  glance 
As  the  Almees  lift  their  aims  in  dance — 

A  slumberous  motion,  a  passionate  sign. 
That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood-like  wiue. 

Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he. 
Dreaming  where  the  beloved  may  be. 

And  when  the  warm  south  winds  arise, 
He  breathes  his  longing  in  fervid  sighs — 

Quickening  odours,  kisses  of  balm. 
That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen  palm. 

The  sun  may  flame  and  the  sands  may  stir. 
But  the  breath  of  his  passion  reaches  her. 

O  Tree  of  Love,  by  that  love  of  thine, 
Teach  me  how  I  shall  soften  mine ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  sun, 
Whereby  the  wooed  is  ever  won ! 

If  I  were  a  King,  0  stately  Tree, 
A  Hkeness,  glorious  as  might  be. 
In  the  court  of  my  palace  I'd  build  for  thee! 

With  a  shaft  of  silver  burnish' d  bright, 
And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite. 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  a-blaze. 
And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chrysoprase  : 

And  there  the  poets,  in  thy  praise. 
Should  night  and  morning  frame  new  lays- 
New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine  ; 
But  none,  0  Palm,  should  equal  mine  ! 

B.  Taylor.— Born  1825. 


1926.— KUBLEH; 

A   STORY  or   THE   ASSYRIAN   DESERT. 

The  black-eyed  children  of  the  Desert  drove 

Their  flocks  together  at  the  set  of  sun. 

The  tents  were   pitch'd ;    the   weary  camels 

bent 
Their  suppliant  necks,  and  knelt   upon   the 

sand ; 
The  hunters  quarter' d  by  the  kindled  fires 
The  wild  boars  of  the  Tigris  they  had  slain. 
And  all  the  stir  and  sound  of  evening  ran 
Throughout  the  Shammar  camp.     The  dewy 

air 
Bore  its  full  burden  of  confused  delight 
Across  the  flowery  plain,  and  while,  afar, 
The  snows  of  Koordish  mountains  in  the  ray 
Flash'd    roseate   amber,    Nimroud's    ancient 

mound 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


KUBLEH. 


[B.  Tatloe. 


'        "Eose  broad   and   black  against  the  burning 

West. 
The  shadows  deepen' d,   and  the  stars  came 

out 
Sparkling  in  violet  ether  ;  one  by  one 
Glimmer'd  the  ruddy  camp-jSres  on  the  plain, 
And  shapes  of   steed   and  horseman   moved 

among 
The  dusky  tents  mth  shout  and  jostling  cry, 
And  neigh  and  restless  prancing.     Children 

ran 
To  hold  the  thongs,  while  every  rider  drove 
His  quivering  spear  in  the  earth,  and  by  his 

door 
Tether'd  the  horse  he  loved.     In  midst  of  all 
-Stood   Shammeriyah,    whom  they  dared  not 

touch, — 
The  foal  of  wondrous  Kubleh,  to  the  Sheik 
A  dearer  wealth  than  all  his  Georgian  girls. 
But  when  their  meal  was  o'er, — when  the  red 

fires 
Blazed    brighter,    and  the    dogs    no    longer 

bay'd, — 
When  Shammar  hunters  with  the  boys  sat 

down 
To  cleanse  their  bloody  knives,  came  Alimar, 
The  poet  of  the  tribe,  whose  songs  of  love 
Are  sweeter  than  Bassora's  nightingales, — 
Whose  songs  of  war  can  fire  the  Arab  blood 
Like  war  itself  :  who  knows  not  Alimar  ? 
Then    ask'd    the    men :    "  O   poet,    sing    of 

Kubleh !" 
And  boys  laid  down  the  knives  half  burnish' d, 

saying : 
"  Tell  us  of  Kubleh,  whom  we  never  saw — 
Of  wondrous    Kubleh !"     Closer   flock'd  the 

group 
W^ith  eager  eyes  about  the  flickering  fire, 
While  Alimar,  beneath  the  Assyrian  stars, 
Sang  to  the  listening  Arabs  : 

"  God  is  great ! 
O  Arabs,  never  yet  since  Mahmoud  rode 
The  sands  of  Yemen,  and  by  Mecca's  gate 
The  winged  steed  bestrode,  whose  mane  of  fire 
Blazed  up  the  zenith,  when,  by  Allah  call'd. 
He  bore  the  Prophet  to  the  walls  of  heaven, 
Was  like  to  Kubleh,  Sofuk's  wondrous  mare : 
Not  all   the  milk-white  barbs,    whose   hoofs 

dash'd  flame 
In  Bagdad's  stables  from  the  marble  floor — 
Who,  swathed  in  purple  housings,  pranced  in 

state 
The  gay  bazaars,  by  great  Al-Easchid  back'd  : 
Not  the  wild  charger  of  Mongolian  breed 
*  That  went  o'er  half  the  world  with  Tamerlane  : 
Nor  yet  those  flying  coursers,  long  ago 
From    Ormuz    brought    by    swarthy   Indian 

grooms 
To  Persia's  kings — the  foals  of  sacred  mares, 
Sired  by  the  fiery  stallions  of  the  sea  ! 

"  Who  ever  told,  in  all  the  Desert  Land, 
The  many  deeds  of  Kubleh  ?  Who  can  tell 
Whence  came  she,  whence  her  like  shall  come 

again  ? 
O  Arabs,  like  a  tale  of  Scherezade 


Heard  in  the  camp,  when  javelin   shafts  arc 

tried 
On  the  hot  eve  of  battle,  is  her  story. 

"  Far  in  the  Southern  sands,  the  hunters 

say. 
Did  Sofuk  find  her,  by  a  lonely  pahn.  - 
The  well  had  dried ;  her  fierce,  impatient  eye 
Glared  red  and  sunken,  and  her  slight  young 

limbs 
Were  lean  with  thirst.  He  cheok'd  his  camel's 

pace. 
And  while  it  knelt,  untied  the  water-skin, 
And  when  the  wild  mare  drank,  she  foUow'd 

him. 
Thence  none  but  Sofuk  might  the  saddle  gird 
Upon  her  back,  or  clasp  the  brazen  gear 
About  her  shining  head,  that  brook'd  no  curb 
From  even  him  ;  for  she,  alike,  was  royal. 

"  Her  form  was  lighter,  in  its  shifting  grace. 
Than   some  impassion'd  Almee's,    when   the 

dance 
Unbinds  her  scarf,  and  golden  anklets  gleam 
Through  floating  drapery,  on  the  buoyant  air. 
Her  light,  free  head  was  ever  held  aloft ; 
Between  her  slender  and  transparent  ears 
The  silken  forelock  toss'd ;  her  nostril's  arch, 
Thin-drawn,  in  proud  and  pliant  beauty  spread, 
Snuffing  the  desert  winds.     Her  glossy  neck 
Curved  to  the  shoulder  like  an  eagle's  wing. 
And  all  her  matchless  lines  of  flank  and  limb 
Seem'd  fashion'd  from  the  flying  shapes  of  air 
By  hands  of  lightning.     When  the  war-shouts 

rang 
From  tent  to  tent,  her  keen  and  restless  eye 
Shone  like  a  blood-red  ruby,  and  her  neigh 
Eang  wild  and  sharp  above  the  clash  of  spears. 

"  The  tribes  of  Tigris  and  the  Desert  knew 
her: 
Sofuk  before  the  Shammar  bands  she  bore 
To  meet  the  dread  Jebours,  who  waited  not 
To  bid  her  welcome  ;  and  the  savage  Koord, 
Chased  from  his  bold  irruption  on  the  plain. 
Has  seen  her  hoof  prints  in  his  mountain  snow. 
Lithe  as  the  dark-eyed  Syrian  gazelle. 
O'er  ledge  and  chasm  and  barren  steep,  amid 
The  Sindjar  hills,  she  ran  the  wild  ass  down. 
Through  many  a  battle's  thickest  brunt  she 

storm' d, 
Eeeking   with  sweat  and  dust,  and  fetlock- 
deep 
In  curdling  gore.     When  hot  and  lurid  haze 
Stifled  the  crimson  sun,  she  swept  before 
The  whirling  sand-spout,  till  her  gusty  mano 
Flared  in  its  vortex,  while  the  camels  lay 
Groaning  and  helpless  on  the  fiery  waste. 

"  The  tribes  of  Taurus  and  the  Caspian  knew 
her: 
The  Georgian  chiefs  have  heard  her  trumpet- 
neigh 
Before  the  walls  of  Tiflis.     Pines  that  grow 
On  ancient  Caucasus  have  harbour' d  her. 
Sleeping  by  Sofuk,  in  their  spicy  gloom. 


B.  Taylor.] 


THE  POET  IN  THE  EAST. 


[Seventh  Pekiod. 


The  surf  of  Trebizond  has  bathed  her  flanks, 
When  from  the  shore  she  saw  the  white-sail*  d 

bark 
That    brought    him    home    from    Stamboul. 

Never  yet, 
O  Arabs,  never  yet  was  like  to  Kubleh  ! 

"  And  Sofuk  loved  her.     She  was  more  to 
him 
Than  all  his  snowy-bosom' d  odalisques. 
For  many  years,  beside  his  tent  she  stood. 
The  glory  of  the  tribe. 

"At  last  she  died  : 
Died,  while  the  fire  was  yet  in  all  her  limbs — 
Died  for  the  life  of  Sofuk,  whom  she  loved. 
The    base    Jebours  —  on   whom    be    Allah's 

curse ! — 
Came  on  his  path,  when  far  from  any  camp, 
And  would  have  slain  him,  but  that  Kubleh 

sprang 
Against  the  javelin-points  and  bore  them  down, 
And  gain'd  the  open  desert.     Wounded  sore, 
She   urged  her   light  limbs   into  maddening 

speed 
And  made  the  wind  a  laggard.     On  and  on 
The  red  sand  slid  beneath  her,  and  behind 
Whirl'd  in  a  swift  and  cloudy  turbulence. 
As  when  some  star  of  Eblis,  doAvnward  hurl'd 
By  Allah's  bolt,  sweeps  with  its  burning  hair 
The   waste   of    Darkness.     On   and    on,   the 

bleak, 
Bare  ridges  rose  before  her,  came  and  pass'd  ; 
And  every  flying  lean  with  fresher  blood 
Her  nostril   stain' d,   till    Sofuk' s   brow   and 

breast 
Were  fleck' d  with  crimson  foam.     He  would 

have  turn'd 
To  save  his  treasure,   though   himself  were 

lost, 
But  Kubleh  fiercely  snapp'd  the  brazen  rein. 
At  last,  when  through  her  spent  and  quivering 

frame 
The  sharp  throes  ran,  our  distant  tents  arose, 
And  with  a  neigh,  whose  shrUl  excess  of  joy 
O'ercame  its  agony,  she  stopp'd  and  fell. 
The  Shammar  men  came  round  her  as  she  lay, 
And  Sofuk  raised  her  head  and  held  it  close 
Against  his  breast.     Her  dull  and  glazing  eye 
Met  his,  and  with  a  shuddering  gasp  she  died. 
Then  like  a  child  his  bursting  grief  made  way 
In  passionate  tears,  and  with  him  all  the  tribe 
Wept  for  the  faithful  mare. 

"  They  dug  her  grave 
Amid  Al-Hather's  marbles,  where  she  lies 
Buried  with  ancient  kings ;  and  since  that  time 
Was  never  seen,  and  will  not  be  again, 
0  Arabs,  though  the  world  be  doom'd  to  live 
As  many  moons  as  count  the  desert  sands, 
The  like  of  wondrous  Kubleh.  God  is  great !" 

JB.  Taylor.— Born  1825. 


1927.— THE  POET  IN  THE  EAST. 

The  poet  came  to  the  land  of  the  East, 

When  Spring  was  in  the  air  ; 
The  earth  was  dress' d  for  a  wedding  feast, 

So  young  she  seem'd,  and  fair  ; 
And  the  poet  knew  the  land  of  the  East — 

His  soul  was  native  there. 

All  things  to  him  were  the  visible  forms 

Of  early  and  precious  dreams — 
Familiar  visions  that  mock'd  his  quest 

Beside  the  western  streams, 
Or  gleam'd  in  the  gold  of  the  cloud  unroll' d 

In  the  sunset's  dying  beams. 

He  look'd  above  in  the  cloudless  calm, 

And  the  Sun  sat  on  his  throne  ; 
The  breath  of  gardens  deep  in  balm. 

Was  all  about  him  blown. 
And  a  brother  to  him  was  the  princely  Palm, 

For  he  cannot  live  alone. 

His  feet  went  forth  on  the  myrtled  hills. 
And  the  flowers  their  welcome  shed  j 

The  meads  of  milk-white  asphodel 
They  knew  the  Poet's  tread, 

And  far  and  wide,  in  a  scarlet  tide, 
The  poppy's  bonfire  spread. 

And,  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun, 

The  Rose  sat  in  her  bower. 
With    a    passionate    thrill    in    her    crimson 
heart 

She  had  waited  for  the  hour ! 
And,  like  a  bride's,  the  Poet  kiss'd 

The  lips  of  the  glorious  flower. 

Then  the  Nightingale  who  sat  above  ' 

In  the  boughs  of  the  citron-tree. 

Sang  :  "  We  are  no  rivals,  brother  mine. 
Except  in  minstrelsy ; 

For  the  rose  you  kiss'd  -with  the  kiss  of  love. 
Is  faithful  still  to  me." 

And  further  sang  the  Nightingale  : 

"  Your  bower  not  distant  lies. 
I  heard  the  sound  of  a  Persian  lute 

From  the  jasmined  window  rise. 
And  like  twe  stars  from  the  lattice-bars, 

I  saw  the  Sultana's  eyes." 

The  Poet  said  :  "  I  will  here  abide, 

In  the  Sun's  unclouded  door ; 
Here  are  the  wells  of  all  dehght 

On  the  lost  Arcadian  shore  : 
Here  is  the  light  on  sea  and  land. 

And  the  dream  deceives  no  more." 

E.  Taylor.— Born  1825 


1928.— KILIMANDJAEO. 

Hail  to  thee,  monarch  of  African  mountains, 
Eemote,  inacessible,  silent,  and  lone — 
Who,  from  the  heart  of  the  tropical  fervours, 
Liftest  to  heaven  thine  alien  snows, 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


AN  OEIENTAL  IDYL. 


[B.  Taylob. 


Feeding  for  ever  the  fountains  that  make  thee 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 

The  years  of  the  world  are  engraved  on  thy 

forehead ; 
Time's  morning  blush' d  red  on  thy  firstf alien 

snows ; 
Yet  lost  in  the  wilderness,  nameless,  unnoted, 
Of  Man  unbeholden,  thou  wert  not  till  now. 
Knowledge  alone  is  the  being  of  Nature, 
Giving  a  soul  to  her  manifold  features, 
Lighting    through    paths    of     the    primitive 

darkness 
The  footsteps  of  Truth  and  the  vision  of  Song. 
Knowledge  has  born  thee  anew  to  Creation, 
And  long-baffled  Time  at  thy  baptism  rejoices. 
Take,    then,    a    name,    and    be    fill'd    with 

existence. 
Yea,  be  exultant  in  sovereign  glory. 
While  from  the  hand  of  the  wandering  poet 
Drops  the  first  garland  of  song  at  thy  feet. 

Floating  alone,  on  the  flood  of  thy  making, 
Through  Africa's  mystery,  silence,  and  fire. 
Lo  !  in  my  palm,  like  the  Eastern  enchanter, 
I  dip  from  the  waters  a  magical  mirror. 
And  thou  art  reveal'd  to  my  purified  vision. 
I  see  thee,  supreme  in  the  midst  of  thy  co- 
mates, 
Standing    alone    ^twixt    the  Earth   and  the 

Heavens, 
Heir  of  the  Sunset  and  Herald  of  Mom. 
Zone  above  zone,  to  thy  shoulders  of  granite. 
The  climates  of  Earth  are  display'd,  as  an 

index, 
Giving  the  scope  of  the  Book  of  Creation. 
There,  in  the  gorges  that  widen,  descending 
From  cloud  and  from  cold  into  summer  eternal, 
Gather     the     threads    of     the     ice-gender'd 

fountains — 
Gather  to  riotous  torrents  of  crystal. 
And,  giving  each   shelvy  recess  where  they 

dally 
The  blooms  of  the  North  and  its  evergreen 

turf  age. 
Leap  to  the  land  of  the  lion  and  lotus  ! 
Tlaere,  in  the  wondering  airs  of  the  Tropics 
Shivers  the  Aspen,  still  dreaming  of  cold  : 
There   stretches   the   Oak,  from  the   loftiest 

ledges. 
His  arms  to  the  far-away  lands  of  his  brothers, 
And  the  Pine-tree  looks  down  on  his  rival  the 

Palm. 

Bathed  in  the  tenderest  purple  of  distance, 
Tinted  and  shadow' d  by  pencils  of  air. 
Thy  battlements  hang  o'er  the  slopes  and  the 

forests. 
Seats  of  the  gods  in  the  limitless  ether, 
Looming  sublimely  aloft  and  afar. 
Above  them,  like  folds  of  imperial  ermine, 
Sparkle  the  snow-fields  that  furrow  thy  fore- 
head— 
Desolate  realms,  inaccessible,  silent. 
Chasms  and  caverns  where  Day  is  a  stranger, 


Garners    where    storeth    his    treasures    the 

Thunder, 
The  Lightning  his  falchion,  his  ari'ows  the 

Hail! 

Sovereign  Mountain,  thy  brothers  give  wel- 
come : 
They,  the  baptized  and  the  crowned  of  ~a.ges, 
Watch-towers  of  Continents,  altars  of  Earth, 
Welcome  thee  now  to  their  mighty  assembly. 
Mont  Blanc,  in  the  roar  of  his  mad  avalanches, 
Hails  thy  accession  ;  superb  Orizaba, 
Belted  with  beech  and  ensandall'd  with  palm; 
Chimborazo,  the  lord  of  the  regions  of  noon- 
day,— 
Mingle  their  sounds  in  magnificent  chorus 
With    greeting   august   from   the   Pillars   of 

Heaven, 
Who,  in  the  urns  of  the  Lidian  Ganges, 
Filter  the  snows  of  their  sacred  dominions, 
Unmark'd   with  a   footprint,  unseen   but  of 
God. 

Lo !  unto  each  is  the  seal  of  his  lordship. 
Nor   question'd  the  right  that   his   majesty 

giveth ; 
Each  in  his  awful  supremacy  forces 
Worship  and  reverence,  wonder  and  joy. 
Absolute  all,  yet  in  dignity  varied. 
None  has  a  claim  to  the  honours  of  story, 
Or  the  superior  splendours  of  song. 
Greater  than  thou,  in  thy  mystery  mantled — 
Thou,  the  sole  monarch  of  African  mountains, 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 

B.  Taylor.— Bom  1825. 


1929.— AN  OEIENTAL  IDYL. 

A  silver  javelin  which  the  hills 

Have  hurl'd  upon  the  plain  below. 

The  fleetest  of  the  Pharpar's  rills, 
Beneath  me  shoots  in  flashing  flow. 

I  hear  the  never-ending  laugh 

Of  jostUng  waves  that  come  and  go. 

And  suck  the  bubbling  pipe,  and  quaflF 
The  sherbet  cool'd  in  mountain  snow 

The  flecks  of  sunshine  gleam  like  stars 
Beneath  the  canopy  of  shade ; 

And  in  the  distant,  dim  bazaars 
I  scarcely  hear  the  hum  of  trade. 

No  evil  fear,  no  dream  forlorn, 

Darkens  my  heaven  of  perfect  blue ; 

My  blood  is  temper' d  to  the  mom — 
My  very  heart  is  steep' d  in  dew. 

What  Evil  is,  I  cannot  tell ; 

But  half  I  guess  what  Joy  may  be ; 
And,  as  a  pearl  within  its  shell. 

The  happy  spirit  sleeps  in  me. 

85 


B.  Taylor.] 


HASSAN  TO  HIS  MAEE. 


[Seventh  Pebtoo. — 


I  feel  no  more  the  pulse's  strife, — 
The  tides  of  Passion's  ruddy  sea, 

But  live  the  sweet,  unconscious  life 

That  breathes  from  yonder  jasmine-tree. 

Upon  the  glittering:  pageantries 
Of  gay  Damascus  streets  I  look 

A?  idly  as  a  babe  that  sees 

The  painted  pictures  of  a  book. 

Forgotten  now  are  name  and  race ; 

The  Past  is  blotted  from  my  brain ; 
For  memory  sleeps,  and  will  not  trace 

The  weary  pages  o'er  again. 

I  only  know  the  morning  shines, 
And  sweet  the  dewy  morning  air ; 

But  does  it  play  with  tendrill'd  vines  ? 
Or  does  it  lightly  lift  my  hair  ? 

Deep-sunken  in  the  charm'd  repose, 
This  ignorance  is  bliss  extreme  : 

And  whether  I  be  Man,  or  Rose, 

O,  pluck  me  not  from  out  my  dream  ! 

B.  Taylor.— Born  lS2b. 


1930.— HASSAN  TO  HIS  MARE. 

Come,  my  beauty  !  come,  my  desert  darling ! 

On  my  shoulder  lay  thy  glossy  head ! 
Fear  not,  though  the  barley- sack  be  empty, 

Here's  the  half  of  Hassan's  scanty  bread. 

Thou  shalt  have  thy  share  of  dates,  my  beauty  ! 

And  thou  know'st  my  water-skin  is  free  : 
Drink  and  welcome,  for  the  wells  are  distant, 

And  my  strength  and  safety  lie  in  thee. 

Bend  thy  forehead  now,  to  take  my  kisses  I 
Lift  in  love  thy  dark  and  splendid  eye  : 

Thou    art    glad    when   Hassan   mounts  the 
saddle — 
Thou  art  proud  he  owns  thee  :  so  am  I. 

Let  the  Sultan  bring  his  boasted  horses, 
Prancing  with  their  diamond-studded  reins ; 

They,  my  darling,  shall  not  match  thy  fleetness 
When  they  course  with   thee  the  desert 
plains ! 

Let  the  Sultan  bring  his  famous  horses, 
Let  him  bring  his  golden  swords  to  me — 

Bring  his  slaves,  his  eunuchs,  and  his  harem  ; 
He  would  offer  them  in  vain  for  thee. 

We  have  seen  Damascus,  O  my  beauty  ! 

And  the  splendour  of  the  Pashas  there  ; 
What's  their  pomp  and  riches  ?     Why,  I  would 
not 

Take  them  for  a  handful  of  thy  hair  ! 

Khaled  sings  the  praises  of  his  mistress, 
And  because  I've  none  he  pities  me  : 

What  care  I  if  he  should  have  a  thousand. 
Fairer  than  the  morning  ?     I  have  thee. 


He  wiU  find  his  passion  growing  cooler 
Should  her  glance  on  other  suitors  fall : 

Thou  wilt  ne'er,  my  mistress  and  my  darling, 
Fail  to  answer  at  thy  master's  call. 

By-and-by  some  snow-white  Nedjid  stallion 
Shall  to  thee  his  spring-time  ardour  bring  ; 

And  a  foal,  the  fairest  of  the  Desert, 

To  thy  milky  dugs  shall  crouch  and  cling. 

Then,  when  Khaled  shows  to  me  his  children, 
I  shall  laugh,  and  bid  him  look  at  thine  ; 

Thou  wilt  neigh,  and  lovingly  caress  me, 
With  thy  glossy  neck  laid  close  to  mine. 

B.  Taylor.— Born  1825. 


1931.— THE  PHANTOM. 

Again  I  sit  within  the  mansion, 

In  the  old,  familiar  seat ; 
And  shade  and  sunshine  chase  each  other 

O'er  the  carpet  at  my  feet. 

But  the  sweetbriar's  arms  have  wrestled  up- 
wards 

In  the  summers  that  are  past. 
And  the  willow  trails  its  branches  lower 

Than  when  I  saw  them  last. 

They  strive  to  shut  the  sunshine  wholly 

From  out  the  haunted  room  ; 
To  fill  the  house,  that  once  was  joyful, 

With  silence  and  with  gloom. 

And  many  kind,  remember'd  faces 

Within  the  doorway  come — 
Voices,  that  wake  the  sweeter  music 

Of  one  that  now  is  dumb. 

They  sing,  in  tones  as  glad  as  ever, 

The  songs  she  loved  to  hear ; 
They  braid  the  rose  in  summer  garlands, 

■^Vhose  flowers  to  her  were  dear. 

And  still,  her  footsteps  in  the  passage, 

Her  blushes  at  the  door. 
Her  timid  words  of  maiden  welcome 

Come  back  to  me  once  more. 

And  all  forgetful  of  my  sorrow, 

Unmindful  of  my  pain, 
I  think  she  has  but  newly  left  me, 

And  soon  will  come  again. 

She  stays  without,  perchance,  a  moment. 

To  dress  her  dark-brown  hair  ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  garments — 

Her  light  step  on  the  stair  ! 

0,  fluttering  heart !  control  thy  tumult, 

Lest  eyes  profane  should  see 
My  cheeks  betray  the  rush  of  rapture 

Her  coming  brings  to  me ! 

She  tarries  long :  but  lo,  a  whisper 

Beyond  the  open  door. 
And,  gliding  through  the  quiet  sunshine, 

A  shadow  on  the  floor  I 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


LEONATUS. 


[E.  H.  Stoddard. 


Ah  !  'tis  the  whispering  pine  that  calls  me, 
The  vine,  whose  shadow  strays  ; 

And  my  patient  heart  must  still  await  her, 
Nor  chide  her  long  delays. 

But  my  heart  grows  sick  with  weary  waiting, 

As  many  a  time  before  : 
Her  foot  is  ever  at  the  threshold, 

Yet  never  passes  o'er. 

B.  Taylor.-^Bom  1825. 


1932.— LEONATUS. 

The  fair  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen : 
It  was  his  duty  evermore 

To  tend  the  Lady  Imogen  ; 

By  peep  of  day  he  might  be  seen 
Tapping  against  her  chamber  door, 

To  wake  the  sleepy  waiting-maid ; 

She  woke,  and  when  she  had  array'd 

The  Princess,  and  the  twain  had  pray'd, 
(They  pray'd  with  rosaries  of  yore,) 

They  caJl'd  him,  pacing  to  and  fro ; 

And  cap  in  hand,  and  bowing  low, 

He  enter'd,  and  began  to  feed 

The  singing  birds  \vith  fmit  and  seed. 

The  brave  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen  : 
He  tripp'd  along  the  kingly  haU, 

From  room  to  room,  with  messages  ; 

He  stopp'd  the  butler,  clutch'd  his  keys, 
(Albeit  he  was  broad  and  tall,) 

And  dragg'd  him  down  the  vaults,  where 
wine 

In  bins  lay  beaded  and  divine. 

To  pick  a  flask  of  vintage  fine  ; 
Came  up,  and  clomb  the  garden  wall. 

And  pluck' d  from  out  the  sunny  spots 

Peaches,  and  luscious  apricots. 

And  fill'd  his  golden  salver  there, 

And  hurried  to  his  Lady  fair. 

The  gallant  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen  : 

He  had  a  steed  from  Arab  ground, 
And  when  the  lords  and  ladies  gay 
Went  hawking  in  the  dews  of  May, 

And  hunting  in  the  country  round. 
And  Imogen  did  join  the  band. 
He  rode  him  like  a  hunter  grand, 
A  hooded  hawk  upoi^  his  hand, 

And  by  his  side  a  slender  hound : 
But  when  they  saw  the  deer  go  by, 
He  slipp'd  the  leash,  and  let  him  fly, 
And  gave  his  fiery  barb  the  rein. 
And  scour'd  beside  her  o'er  tha  plain. 

The  strange  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen  : 
Sometimes  he  used  to  stand  for  hours 
Within  her  room,  behind  her  chair ; 
The  soft  wind  blew  his  golden  hair 
Across  his  eyes,  and  bees  from  flowers 


Humm'd  round  him,  but  he  did  not  stir  • 
He  fix'd  his  earnest  eyes  on  her, 
A  pure  and  reverent  worshipper, 
A  dreamer  building  airy  towers  : 

But  when  she  spoke  he  gave  a  start, 
That  sent  the  warm  blood  from  his  heart 
To  flush  his  cheeks,  and  every  word 
The  fountain  of  his  feelings  stirr'd. 

The  sad  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen  : 

He  lost  all  relish  and  delight. 

For  all  things  that  did  please  before ; 
By  day  he  wish'd  the  day  was  o'er, 

By  night  he  wish'd  the  same  of  night : 
He  could  not  mingle  in  the  crowd. 
He  loved  to  be  alone,  and  shroud 
His  tender  thoughts,  and  sigh  aloud, 

And  cherish  in  his  heart  its  blight. 
At  last  his  health  began  to  fail. 
His  fresh  and  glowing  cheeks  to  pale  ; 
And  in  his  eyes  the  tears  unshed 
Did  hang  like  dew  on  violets  dead. 

The  timid  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen  : 
"What  ails  the  boy  !"  said  Imogen  : 

He     stammer'd,     sigh'd,     and     answered 
"Naught." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  then  she  thought 
What  all  his  malady  could  mean  ; 

It  might  be  love  ;  her  maid  wa-s  fair. 

And  Leon  had  a  loving  air ; 

She  watch' d  them  with  a  jealous  care. 
And  play'd  the  spy,  but  naught  was  seen : 

And  then  she  was  aware  at  first. 

That  she,  not  knowing  it,  had  nursed 

His  memory  tUl  it  grew  a  part — 

A  heart  within  her  very  heart ! 

The  dear  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen  : 
She  loved,  but  own'd  it  not  as  yet ; 

When  he  was  absent  she  was  lone, 

She  felt  a  void  before  unknown. 
And  Leon  fiU'd  it  when  they  met ; 

She  call'd  him  twenty  times  a  day, 

She  knew  not  why,  she  could  not  say ; 

She  fretted  when  he  went  away. 
And  lived  in  sorrow  and  regret ; 

Sometimes  she  frown' d  with  stately  mien, 

And  chid  him  like  a  little  queen ; 

And  then  she  soothed  him  meek  and  mild. 

And  grew  as  trustful  as  a  child. 

The  neat  scribe  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen : 
She  wonder' d  that  he  did  not  speak, 
And  own  his  love,  if  love  indeed 
It  was  that  made  his  spirit  bleed ; 
And  she  bethought  her  of  a  freak 
To  test  the  lad  ;  she  bade  him  write 
A  letter  that  a  maiden  might, 
A  biUet  to  her  heart's  delight  ; 
He  took  the  pen  with  fingers  weak. 
Unknowing  what  he  did,  and  wrote. 
And  folded  up  and  sealed  the  note  : 

85*  - 


E.  H.  Stoddard.]                  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HAND.              [Seventh  Pebiod.— 

She  wrote  the  superscription  sage, 

Wave  thy  poppies  round  her.  Sleep  ! 

"For  Leonatus,  Lady's  Page  !" 

Touch  her  eyelids,  flood  her  brain  ; 

Banish  Memory,  Thought,  and  Strife, 

The  happy  Leonatus, 

Bar  the  portals  of  her  life, 

The  page  of  Imogen  : 

Till  the  morning  comes  again  ! 

The  page  of  Imogen  no  more, 

Let  no  enemy  intrude 

But  now  her  love,  her  lord,  her  life, 

On  her  helpless  solitude  : 

For  she  became  his  wedded  wife, 

Fear  and  Pain,  and  all  their  train — 

As  both  had  hoped  and  dream'd  before. 

Keep  the  evil  hounds  at  bay, 

He  used  to  sit  beside  her  feet, 

And  all  evil  dreams  away  ! 

And  read  romances  rare  and  sweet, 

Thou,  thyself,  keep  thou  the  key, 

And,  when  she  touch'd  her  lute,  repeat 

Or  intrust  it  unto  me. 

Impassion'd  madrigals  of  yore. 

Sleep  I  Sleep  !  Sleep  ! 

Uplooking  in  her  face  the  while. 

A  lover's  eyes  are  bright 

Until  she  stoop' d  with  loving  smile. 

In  the  darkest  night ; 

And  press' d  her  melting  mouth  to  his, 

And  jealous  even  of  dreams,  almost  of  thee. 

That  answer' d  in  a  dreamy  bliss — 

dear  Sleep ! 

The  joyful  Leonatus, 

The  lord  of  Imogen ! 

I  must  sit,  and  think,  and  think, 

B.  H.  8todda/rd.—BoTn  1825. 

Till  the  stars  begin  to  wink  : 
(For  the  web  of  song  is  wrought 

Only  in  the  looms  of  Thought !) 

She  must  lie,  and  sleep,  and  sleep, 

(Be  her  slumbers  calm  and  deep  !) 

Till  the  dews  of  morning  weep ; 

i933---'i'Hi!i  SHADOW  OF  THE  HAND. 

Therefore  bind  your  sweetest  sprite 

You  were  very  charming,  Madam, 

To  her  service  and  delight. 

In  your  silks  and  satins  fine ; 

All  the  night. 

And  you  made  your  lovers  drunken, 

Sleep  !  Sleep  !  Sleep  ! 

But  it  was  not  with  your  wine  I 

And  I'll  whisper  in  her  ear, 

There  were  court  gallants  in  dozens. 

(Even  in  dreams  it  will  be  dear !) 

There  were  princes  of  the  land. 

What  she  loveth  so  to  hear, 

And  they  would  have  perish'd  for  yon 

Tiding  sweeter  than  the  flowers. 

As  they  knelt  and  kiss'd  your  hand — 

All  about  this  love  of  ours, 

For  they  saw  no  stain  upon  it. 

And  its  rare  increase  : 

It  was  such  a  snowy  hand  ! 

Singing  in  the  starry  peace, 

Ditties  delicate,  and  free. 

But  for  me — I  knew  you  better. 

Dedicate  to  her,  and  thee, 

And,  while  you  were  flaunting  there, 

Sleep  !  Sleep  !  Sleep  ! 

I  remember'd  some  one  lying, 

For  I  owe  ye  both  a  boon. 

With  the  blood  on  his  white  hair  I 

And  I  mean  to  grant  it  soon. 

He  was  pleading  for  you,  Madam, 

In  my  golden  numbers  that  breathe  of  Love 

Where  the  shriven  spirits  stand  ; 

and  Sleep  ! 

But  the  Book  of  Life  was  darken' d, 

By  the  Shadow  of  a  Hand ! 

B.  H.  Stoddard.— Born  1825. 

It  was  tracing  your  perdition. 

For  the  blood  upon  your  hand ! 

B.  H.  StoddoA-d.—Born  1825. 

1 93 5. —AT  EEST. 
With  folded  hands  the  lady  lies 

1934.— EVOCATION  TO  SLEEP 

In  flowing  robes  of  white, 
A  globed  lamp  beside  her  couch, 

Draw  the  curtains  round  your  bed, 

A  round  of  tender  light. 

And  I'll  shade  the  wakeful  light ; 

'Twill  be  hard  for  you  to  sleep. 

With  such  a  light  above  her  head, 

If  you  have  me  still  in  sight : — 

A  little  year  ago. 

But  you  must  though,  and  without  me, 

She  walk'd  adown  the  shadowy  vale,  • 

For  I  have  a  song  to  write  : 

Where  the  blood-red  roses  grow  !                   1 

Then  sleep,  love,  sleep  ! 

The  flowers  have  gone  to  rest. 

A  shape  or  shadow  join'd  her  there,                  | 

And  the  birds  are  in  the  nest : 

To  pluck  the  royal  flower. 

'Tis  time  for  you  to  join  them  beneath  the 

But  from  her  breast  the  lily  stole, 

wings  of  Sleep ! 

Which  was  her  only  dower. 

From  1730  to  1866.1 


BEOKEN  FAITH. 


[Elizabeth  Akers. 


That  gone,  all  went :  her  false  love  first. 

And  then  her  peace  of  heart ; 
The  hard  world  frown'd,  her  friends  grew  cold. 

She  hid  in  tears  apart : 

And  now  she  lies  upon  her  couch, 

Amid  the  dying  light : 
Nor  wakes  to  hear  the  little  voice 

That  moans  throughout  the  night ! 

B.  H.  Stodda/rd.—Born  1825. 


1936. —THE  WAY  OF  THE  WOELD. 

A  youth  would  marry  a  maiden, 

For  fair  and  fond  was  she  ; 
But  she  was  rich,  and  he  was  poor, 
And  so  it  might  not  be. 
A  lady  never  could  wear — 

Her  mother  held  it  firm — 
A  gown  that  came  of  an  Indian  plant, 
Instead  of  an  Indian  worm  ! 
And  so  the  cruel  word  was  spokan ; 
And  so  it  was  two  hearts  were  broken. 


A  youth  would  marry  a  maiden, 

For  fair  and  fond  was  she ; 
But  he  was  high,  and  she  was  low. 
And  so  it  might  not  be. 

A  man  who  had  worn  a  spur, 

In  ancient  battle  won, 
Had  sent  it  down  with  great  renown. 
To  goad  his  future  son  ! — 
And  so  the  cruel  word  was  spoken ; 
And  so  it  was  two  hearts  were  broken. 

A  youth  would  marry  a  maiden, 

For  fair  and  fond  was  she ; 
But  their  sires  disputed  about  the  Mass, 
And  so  it  might  not  be. 
A  couple  of  wicked  Kings 

Three  hundred  years  agone. 
Had  play'd  at  a  royal  game  of  chess, 
And  the  church  had  been  a  pawn  ! — 
And  so  the  cruel  word  was  spoken ; 
And  BO  it  was  two  hearts  were  broken. 

J,  G.  Saxe. 


And  yet  he  toileth  all  ye  while 

His  merrie  catches  rolle  j 
As  true  unto  ye  needle  as 

Ye  needle  to  ye  pole. 

What  cares  ye  valiant  tailyor-man 
For  all  ye  cowarde  feares  ?    ~     - 

Against  ye  scissors  of  ye  Fates 
He  pointes  his  mightie  sheares. 

He  heedeth  not  ye  anciente  jests 

That  witlesse  sinners  use ; 
What  feareth  ye  bolde  tailyor-man 

Ye  hissinge  of  a  goose  ? 

He  puUeth  at  ye  busie  threade, 

To  feede  his  lovinge  wife 
And  eke  his  childe  ;  for  unto  them 

It  is  ye  threads  of  life. 

He  cutteth  well  ye  riche  man's  coate. 

And  with  unseemlie  pride 
He  sees  ye  little  waistcoate  in 

Ye  cabbage  bye  his  side. 

Meanwhile  ye  tailyor-man  his  wife, 

To  labour  nothinge  loth, 
Sits  bye  with  readie  hands  to  baste 

Ye  urchin  and  ye  cloth. 

Fnll  happie  is  ye  tailyor-man. 

Yet  is  he  often  tried. 
Lest  he,  from  fullnesse  of  ye  dimes, 

Wax  wanton  in  his  pride. 

Full  happie  is  ye  tailyor-man. 

And  yet  he  hath  a  foe, 
A  cunninge  enemie  that  none 

So  well  as  tailyors  knowe. 

It  is  ye  slipperie  customer 
Who  goes  his  wicked  wayes. 

And  weares  ye  tailyor-man  his  coate, 
But  never,  never  payes  ! 

J.  G.  Saxe 


1937.— YE   TAILYOE-MAN. 

A     CONTEMPLATIVE     BALLAD. 

Eight  joUie  is  ye  tailyor-man, 

As  annie  man  may  be  ; 
And  all  ye  daye  upon  ye  benche 

He  worketh  merrilie. 

And  oft  ye  while  in  pleasante  wise 
He  coileth  up  his  lymbes, 

He  singeth  songs  ye  like  whereof 
Are  not  in  Watts  his  hymns. 


1938.— BEOKEN  FAITH. 

Buds  on  the  apple-boughs. 

And  robins  in  every  tree  ; 
Brown  on  the  children's  sun-kiss'd  brows 

A  softer  blue  on  the  tender  sea. 
Ah  me! 
Bees  in  the  maples  murmuring, 
Brooks  on  the  hillsides  ; — and  yet,  0  Spring, 

Thou  hast  broken  thy  faith  with  me  ! 

Broken  thy  faith  with  me, 

Who  have  pined  for  thee  so  long,— 
Waiting  and  waiting  patiently 

Through  all  the  Winter's  cruel  wrong. 
Ah  me ! 
Climbing  the  rugged,  desolate  hills 
To  watch  the  sky  for  the  faintest  thrills 

Of  the  azure  yet  to  be. 


Elizabeth  Akeks.] 


TIME. 


[Seventh  Period. — 


Violets  sweeten  the  woods 

And  purple  the  river-sides, 
While  deep  in  the  shady  solitudes 

The  last  sweet  bud  of  the  arbutus  hides, 
>T  Ah  me ! 

And  the  treacherous  honey-bee  stays  his  wing 
To  wrong  its  sweetness ; — but  yet,  O  Spring, 
^  Thou  hast  broken  thy  faith  with  me  ! 

Never  a  bud  is  seen 

"Within  my  garden  walls, — 
Never  a  touch  of  sprouting  green ; 

And  the  fitful  sunlight  faintly  falls, 
Ah  me  ! 
On  broken  trellis  and  leafless  vine, 
Where  last  year's  tendrils  bleach  and  pine, 

With  blacken'd  stems  between. 

June  will  be  here  anon, 

Flushing  the  smiling  skies, 
Putting  her  bravest  garments  on, 

Flaunting  her  roses  in  homesick  eyes, 
Ah  me ! 
Which  will  not  smile  at  the  thoughts  they 

bring. 
Or  weep  when  they  wither ; — for  thou,   0 
Spring, 
Hast  broken  thy  faith  with  me  f 

Elizabeth  Alcers. 


1939. — TIME. 

Ton  see  the  tree  that  sweeps  my  window- 
pane  ? 
All  the    long  winter-time    it   moans  and 
grieves  ; 
In  the  bleak  night  I  hear  its  boughs  com- 
plain. 
Praying  for  gracious  sunshine  and  warm  rain, 
And  its  withheld  inheritance  of  leaves. 

»But  what  avails  it?     Though  the  sad  tree 
wears 
Its  heart  out  with  its  grief,  what  shall  it 
gain? 
Do  you  believe  the  tardy  summer  cares 
For    all     its    wild    rebukes    and    passionate 
prayers. 
Or  that  the  sun  shines  warmer  for  its  pain  P 

Verily  not.     No  pleader  can  prevail 

Who  prays  against  the  laws  of  Time  or 
Fate: 
No  matter  how  we  murmur  and  bewail. 
The  robins  will  not  build  in  winter  hail, 
•  Nor  lilacs  blow  in  February.    Wait ! 

Have  faith,  my  friend.  And  when  these  stormy 
glooms 
Have   chasten' d   us  for  June,  come  here 
again, 
And  you  shall  see  my  tree  made  glad  with 

blooms, 
Its  branches  all  a-toss  with  purple  plumes 
Sweeping  across  this  selfsame  window-pane ! 
EUaaheth  Alcers. 


1 940.— ENDUEANCE. 

How  much  the  heart  may  bear,  and  yet  not 
break  ! 
How  much  the  flesh  may  suffer,  and  not  die ! 
I  question  much  if  any  pain  or  ache 

Of  soul  or  body  brings  our  end  more  nigh  : 
Death  chooses   his    own   time ;    till    that    is 
sworn. 

All  evils  may  be  borne. 

We  shrink  and  shudder  at  the  surgeon's  knife, 

Each  nerve  recoiling  from  the  cruel  steel 

Whose  edge  seems  searching  for  the  quivering 

life, 

Yet  to  our  sense  the  bitter  pangs  reveal. 

That  still,  although  tlie  trembling    flesh  bO 

torn, 

This  also  can  be  borne. 

We  see  a  sorrow  rising  in  our  way, 

And  try  to  flee  from  the  approaching  ill ; 
We  seek  some  small  escape ;   we  weep  an<3 
,     pray ; 

Eat  when  the  blow  falls,  then  our  hearts 
are  still ; 
Not  that  the  pain  is  of  its  sharpness  shorn, 
But  that  it  can  be  borne. 

We  wind  our  life  about  another  life  ; 

We  hold  it  closer,  dearer  than  our  own : 
Anon  it  faints  and  fails  in  deathly  strife. 

Leaving  us  stunn'd,  and  stricken,  and  alone ; 
But  ah  !  we  do  not  die  with  those  we  mourn,— 
This  also  can  be  borne. 

Behold,  we  live  through  all  things, — famine, 
^     thirst, 

/  Bereavement,  pain  ;  all  grief  and  misery, 
All  woe  and  sorrow  ;  life  inflicts  its  worst 
On  soul  and  body, — but  we  cannot  die. 
Though  we  be  sick,  and  tired,  and  faint,  and. 
worn, — 

Lo,  all  things  can  be  borne  ! 

Elizabeth  Akers^ 


1941.— SINGING  IN  THE  EAIN. 

Where  the  elm-tree  branches  by  the  rain  are 

stirr'd, 
Careless  of  the  shower,  swings  a  little  bird : 
Clouds  may  frown  and  darken,  drops  may 

fall  in  vain  ; — 
Little  heeds  the  warbler  singing  in  the  rain ! 

Silence  soft,  unbroken,  reigneth  everywhere, — 
Save  the  rain's  low  heart-throbs  pulsing  on 
the  air, 
Save  the   song,  which,  pausing,   wins  no 

answering  strain  ; — 
Little  cares  the  robin  singing  in  the  rain ! 

Not  yet  are  the  orchards  rich  with  rosy  snow, 
Nor  with  dandelions  are  the  fields  aglow ; 
Yet  almost  my  fancy  in  his  song's  sweet  flow 
Hears  the   June  leaves  whisper,   and  the 
roses  blow  ! 


From  1780  to  1866.] 


KISSES. 


[Elizabeth  Aker 


Dimmer  fall  the  shadows,  mistier  grows  the 

air, — 
Still  the  thick  clouds  gather,  darkening  here 
and  there. 
From  their  heavy  fringes  pour  their  drops 

amain; 
Still    the   bird   is   singing,  singing  in  the 
rain. 

O  thou  hopeful  singer,  whom  my  faith  per- 
ceives 
To  a  dove  transfigured  bringing  olive-leaves, — 

Ohve-leaves  of  promise,  types  of  joy  to  be ; 

How,  in  doubt  and  trial,  learns  my  heart  of 
"       thee ! 

Cheerful  summer  prophet !   listening  to  thy 


How   my  fainting  spirit  groweth    glad   and 
strong. 
Let  the  black  clouds  gather,  let  the  sun- 
shine wane, 
If  I  may  but  join  thee  singing  in  the  rain  ! 
Elizabeth  Akers. 


1942.--A  DREAM. 

Back  again,  darling  ?     O  day  of  delight ! 
How  I  have  long'd  for  you,   morning  and 

night! 
Watch' d  for  you,  pined  for  you,  aU  the  day 

through. 
Craving  no  boon  and  no  blessing  but  you, — 
Pray'd  for  you,  pled  for  you,  sought  you  in 

vain, 
striving  for  ever  to  find  you  again, — 
Counting  all  anguish  as  naught,  if  I  might 
i  Clasp  you  again  as  I  clasp  you  to-night ! 

'0,  1  have  sorrow'd  and  suffer'd  so  much 
Since  I  last  answer'd  your  lips'  loving  touch, — 
Through    the     night-watches,    in    daylight's 

broad  beams. 
Anguish' d     by    visions     and    tortured     by 

dreams, — 
Dreams  so  replete  with  bewildering  pain, 
Still  it  is  throbbing  in  heart  and  in  brain  : 
O,  for  I  dream'd, — keep  me  close  to  your  side, 
Darling,  O  darling ! — I  dream'd  you  had  died ! 

Dream'd  =that  I  stood  by  your  pillow,  and 

heard 
From  your  pale  lips  love's  last,  half -utter' d 

word; 
And  by  the  light  of  the  May-morning  skies 
Watch' d  your  face  whiten,  and  saw  your  dear 

eyes 
Gazing  far  into  the  Wonderful  Land  ; 
Felt    your  fond  fingers    grow   cold    in    my 

hand ; — 
"  Darling,"   you  whisper'd,    "  My  darling  !  " 

you  said 
Faintly,  so  faintly, — and  then  you  were  dead ! 


0  the  dark  hours  when  I  knelt  by  your  grave, 
Calling  upon  you  to  love  and  to  save, — 
Pleading  in  vain  for  a  sign  or  word 
Only  to  tell  me  you  listen' d  and  heard, — 
Only  to  say  you  remember' d  and  knew 
How  all  my  soul  was  in  anguish  for  you ; 
Bitter,  despairing,  the  tears  that  I  shed, 
Darling,  0  darling,  because  you  were  dead ! 

0  the  black  days  of  your  absence,  my  own  ! 
O  to  be  left  in  the  wide  world  alone ! 
Long,  with  our  little  one  clasp' d  to  my  breast; 
Wander' d  I,  seeking  for  refuge  and  rest ; 
Yet  all  the  world  was  so  careless  and  cold, 
Vainly  I  sought  for  a  sheltering  fold ; — 
There  was  no  roof  and  no  home  for  my  head, 
Darling,  O  darling,  because  you  were  dead  ! 

Tet,  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  and  pain, 
Darling,  I  knew  I  should  find  you  again  ! 
Knew,  as  the  roses  know,  under  the  snow. 
How  the  next  summer  will  set  them  aglow  ; 
So  did  I  always,  the  dreary  days  through, 
Keep  my  heart  single  and  sacred  to  you, 
As  on  the  beautiful  day  we  were  wed. 
Darling,  0  darling,  although  you  were  dead ! 

0  the  great  joy  of  awaking,  to  know 

1  did  but  dream  aU  that  torturing  woe  ! 

0  the  delight,  that  my  searching  can  trace 
Nothing  of  coldness  or  change  in  your  face ! 
Still  is  your  forehead  unfurrow'd  and  fair ; 
None  of  the  gold  is  lost  out  of  your  hair. 
None  of  the   light  from  your  dear  eyes  has 

fled-. 
Darling,  O  how  could  I  dream  you  were  dead  ? 

Now  you  are  here,  you  will  always  remain, 
Never,  0  never  to  leave  me  again ! 
How  it  has  vanish' d,  the  anguish  of  years  ! 
Vanish' d !  nay,  these  are  not  sorrowful  tears, — 
Happiness  only  my  cheek  has  impearl'd, — 
There  is  no  grieving  for  me  in  the  world ; 
Dark  clouds  may  threaten,  but  I  have  no  fear. 
Darling,  0  darling,  because  you  are  here  ! 

Elizabeth  Akers. 


1943.— KISSES. 

The  kiss  of  friendship,  kind  and  calm, 
May  fall  upon  the  brow  like  balm ; 
A  deeper  tenderness  may  speak 
In  precious  pledges  on  the  cheek ; 
Thrice  dear  may  be,  when  young  lips  meet, 
Love's  dewy  pressure,  close  and  sweet ; — 
But  more  than  all  the  rest  I  prize 
The  faithful  lips  that  kiss  my  eyes. 

Smile,  lady,  smile,  when  courtly  lips 

Touch  reverently  your  finger-tips  ; 
Blush,  happy  maiden,  when  you  feel 
The  lips  which  press  love's  glowing  seal; 

But  as  the  slow  years  darklier  roll. 

Grown  wiser,  the  experiejaced  soul 
Will  own  as  dearer  lar  than  they 
The  lips  whicjj  kiss  the  tears  away ! 

Elizabeth  Akers, 


ISlizabeth  Akebb.] 


EOCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 


[Seventh  Period. 


1944.— EOCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 

Backward,  turn  backward,    O  Time,  in  your 

flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night ! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore. 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore  ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth   the   few   silver   threads   out   of  my 

hair; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep  ; — 
Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years ! 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, — 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain, — 
Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  ! 
I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, — 
Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away ; 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap ; — 
Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  0  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossom'd  and  faded,  our  faces  between :   , 
Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain, 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep  ; — 
Bock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone  ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, — 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours  : 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain. 
Slumber's    soft    calms    o'er    my    heavy   lids 

creep ; — 
Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with 

gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old ; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light ; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore  ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep  ; — 
Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listen' d  your  lullaby  song  : 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 


Clasp' d  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace. 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep ; — 
Eock  me  to  sleep,  mother,~rock  me  to  sleep  ! 

Elizabeth  Akers. 


1945.— L  0  S  T. 

The  word  has  come  ; — go  forth 
An  outcast  and  a  blot  upon  the  earth  ; 
Lo,  the  fierce  angel,  with  his  sword  of  flame, 

And  brow  of  bitter  blame, 
Stands  at  the  portal,  and  commands  thee, — 
hark  ! 
"  Go  forth  into  the  dark, 
The  blind  and  pitiless  dark, 
Perdita  ! " 

Go  forth  into  the  storm, 
Wrap  the  rough  sackcloth  round  thy  delicate 
form, 
Since  torn  for  ever  thence 
Are  the  fair  garments  of  thine  innocence, 
Which  not  by  prayer,  nor  penance,  nor  much 
pain, 
Can  be  made  white  again, 
Perdita ! 

Nay,  it  is  vain  to  plead,— 
There  is  no  hand  to  help,  no  ear  to  heed,— 

Not  even  his,  whose  art 
Did  win  and  cast  aside  thy  credulous  heart,— 
Who  from  thy  forehead  gather' d  ruthlessly 
The  luminous  lilies  of  white  Purity, 

And  planted  there  instead 
Shame's  heavy  blossoms,  broad  and  scarlet- 
red, 

Perdita! 

Whom  thou  wouldst  die  to  please  ; 
Whom  thou    hast  foUow'd    on  thy  bleeding 
knees 
Through  wrong  and  woe  and  strife. 
To  kiss  his  footsteps  in  the  dust  of  life, — 

Pleading  with  tears  the  while 
For  the  great  blessing  of  a  word  or  smile, 

As  starvelings  plead  for  bread. 
To  those,  who,  taunting,  fling  a  stone  in- 
stead,— 

Perdita ! 

Lift  not  thy  pleading  eyes 
To  the  calm  scorn  of  the  unpitying  sMes, — 

Hide  thy  dishonour' d  brow,— 
Sweet  Mercy's  smile  is  not  for  each  as  thou, 
Perdita ! 

EUmheth  Akers. 


"WTMAN  AI,-D   SONS,   PEINTBES,   GBBAT  QUEEIT  STEEET,  lOlTDOK',  W.C. 


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